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t', “flyers,” a word that is firmly attested later in the text. 17 See IBHS §8.2; Joüon-Muraoka §93 l–q. 18 IHBS §5.7c.
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munity’s sins. As in the case of the Leukadian scapegoat, his crime is not specified, but it symbolizes impurity akin to that of the goat, except that the latter had to be made impure by a ritual of transference. Like the Hittite woman, he plays the role of a buffer between the high priest and the sin-ridden scapegoat and there is a double dispatch: of the yt%i(i #$y)i by the high priest and of the goat by the yt%i(i #$y)i. Unlike in the parallels, the biblical criminal could eventually return after dispatching the scapegoat and could presumably escape further punishment for his offence.19 The difference is based on impeccable logic. Since the purpose of the biblical ritual is to remove not a plague (or similar divine punishment for sin) but the actual sins of every Israelite, the criminal must have had his sin removed as well. 19 He did, however, have to wash his clothes and bathe before he was allowed to reenter the camp (Lev 16:26). The one who burns the sacrificial bull and goat of the sin offering outside the camp must perform the same cleansing ritual (Lev 16:27–28).
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Warfare and Wanton Destruction: A Reexamination of Deuteronomy 20:19–20 in Relation to Ancient Siegecraft jacob l. wright [email protected] Candler School of Theology, Emory University, Atlanta, GA 30322
To Michael Walzer, with admiration In January 1865, Henry Halleck, chief of staff in Washington, D.C., wrote to Maj. Gen. William T. Sherman in Savannah, Georgia: “Should you capture Charleston, I hope by some accident the place may be destroyed, and if a little salt should be sown upon its site it may prevent the growth of future crops of nullification and secession.” In response Sherman wrote: “I will bear in mind your hint as to Charleston but don’t think salt will be necessary. [. . .] The truth is the whole army is burning with insatiable desire to wreak vengeance upon South Carolina. I almost tremble at her fate.”1 The horrific devastation of a city and its surrounding territory planned in this Civil War correspondence is an atrocity common to the history of warfare. For ethicists and jurists, these strategies of urbicide (wiping out a city’s architectural memory) and ecocide (ravaging an environment) concern ius in bello,2 and by This article is based on a lecture at Emory University on November 13, 2006, and was produced in the process of writing my forthcoming book, War and the Formation of Society in Ancient Israel (Oxford University Press). 1 See E. Milby Burton, The Siege of Charleston 1861–1865 (Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 1970), 312–13. 2 For the term “urbicide,” see Robert Bevan, The Destruction of Memory: Architecture at War
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proscribing the destruction of fruit trees in siege situations, Deut 20:19–20 has made a historic contribution to this area of Just War theory and Laws of Armed Conflict (LOAC). In what follows I examine the Deuteronomic prohibition in the setting of ancient siege warfare. In particular I challenge some current interpretations according to which the law constitutes a polemic against, or subversion of, foreign imperial ideology. After situating the practice forbidden by Deuteronomy in the larger context of military tactics in ancient Western Asia and the eastern Mediterranean, I attempt to show that the law emerged from an intrasocietal discourse on acceptable military conduct rather than an intersocietal response to the warfare of other nations. We begin by looking briefly at the reception of the law in modern jurisprudence.
I. Hugo Grotius, and Neo-Assyrian Siege Techniques More than two hundred years before the American Civil War, the Dutch jurist, philosopher, dramatist, poet, and Christian apologist Hugo Grotius (1583–1645) published De iure belli ac pacis, a three-volume treatise that stands as a formidable monument in the history of international law.3 One particularly influential chapter of this work exhorts military leaders to display Temperamentum circa vastationem et similia.4 Appealing to the universal authority of ius naturae,5 its pages quote a wide range of Greco-Roman authors, demonstrating the frequency with which they condemn the wanton destruction of lands and cities. But it also draws heavily on Jewish authors such as Philo and Josephus, as well as medieval commentators, who censure the gratuitous wasting of property.6 For Grotius, the views (London: Reaktion, 2007), and for “ecocide,” see Aaron Schwabach, “Ecocide and Genocide in Iraq: International Law, the Marsh Arabs and Environmental Damage in Non-International Conflicts,” Colorado Journal of International Environmental Law & Policy 15 (2003/2004): 1–38. 3 Hugo Grotius, The Rights of War and Peace, Edited and with an Introduction by Richard Tuck: From the Edition by Jean Barbeyrac (3 vols.; Indianapolis: Liberty Fund, 2005; first published in 1625). Many legal historians regard this Dutch thinker as the most important figure in the history of international law; see, e.g., Hersh [Hersch] Lauterpacht, “The Grotian Tradition in International Law,” British Year Book of International Law 23 (1946): 1–53. For an overview of Grotian scholarship since Lauterpacht, see Renée Jeffery, “Hersch Lauterpacht, the Realist Challenge and ‘Grotian Tradition’ in 20th-Century International Relations,” European Journal of International Relations 12 (2006): 223–50. 4 “Concerning Moderation in regard to the spoiling the Country of our Enemies, and such other Things,” the title of ch. 12, book 3. 5 For Grotius, ius humanum consisted of ius naturae, ius civile, and ius gentium (naturale, voluntarium); see Rights of War and Peace, 1:150–62, as well as N. Konegen, “Zum Staatsverständnis von Hugo Grotius,” Institut für Staatswissenschaften 7 (1998): 6–30; and Knud Haakonssen, “Hugo Grotius and the History of Political Thought,” Political Theory 13 (1985): 239–65. 6 Grotius, Rights of War and Peace, 3:1459–62. Grotius maintained a lively correspondence
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of this group are imbued with greater authority since they descend directly from “the Law” (i.e., the Torah). The specific biblical passage to which these writers appeal is the Deuteronomic prohibition of destroying fruit trees when one besieges a city, known in Jewish tradition as tyx#t lb/)l: When in your war against a city you have to besiege it a long time in order to capture it, you must not destroy its trees, wielding the ax against them. You may eat of them, but you must not cut them down. Are trees of the field human to withdraw before you into the besieged city? Only trees that you know do not yield food may be destroyed; you may cut them down for constructing siegeworks against the city that is waging war on you, until it has been reduced. (Deut 20:19–20 according to TNK)
On the basis of this scriptural text Grotius admonishes his readers: For if the Creator and supreme LORD of Mankind did not approve, that the Israelites should lay waste without Necessity the Lands of the People, against whom he had armed them in an extraordinary Manner, and had made them as it were the Executors of his terrible Judgments; much more would he not approve our doing so in ordinary Wars, often unjust, and undertaken without much Necessity, and wherein the Party who boasts the most of the Justice of his Cause, is sometimes in the wrong.7
The principles of “proportionality” and “necessity” that Grotius elaborates here, as well as the norms defended throughout the chapter, had a deep impact on Just War theory as well as LOAC that proscribe the ruination of civilian infrastructures.8 In order to measure their influence, one can compare Grotius’s arguments to the wording of the Geneva and Hague Conventions, the Nuremberg Principles, or the United Nations Charter.9 On November 5, 2006, the Supreme Iraqi Criminal Tribunal convicted Saddam Hussein of crimes against humanity on the basis of a special statute informed by these and other international conventions.10 One of the five charges brought against Hussein was significantly the destruction in Dujail of 250,000 acres of fruit trees—precisely the sort of vegetation that the biblical law sought to protect.
with Menasseh ben Israel, and, although often struggling and confused, he read with lively interest medieval Jewish commentators in Hebrew. See Phyllis S. Lachs, “Hugo Grotius’ Use of Jewish Sources in On the Law of War and Peace,” Renaissance Quarterly 30 (1977): 181–200. 7 Grotius, Rights of War and Peace, 3:1459 (italics in original). 8 It was primarily through Grotius that Deut 20:19–20 had its significant impact on modern jurists. De Indis de jure belli by Francisco de Vitoria (1483–1546) refers often to Deuteronomy 20, but never to vv. 19–20. 9 Other chapters also had an impact on these conventions. See Peter Haggenmacher, Grotius et la doctrine de la guerre juste (Paris: Presses universitaires de France, 1983). 10 These include the Iraqi Law Number 7 of 1958, the Iraqi Criminal Code Number 111 of 1969, Iraqi Law Number 10 of 2005, the Statute of the Iraqi Special Tribunal from 2003, as well as articles 6–8 of the Rome Statute of the International Criminal Court.
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By way of De iure belli ac pacis one can thus trace a line of continuity from contemporary international jurisprudence to the Deuteronomic prohibition.11 With respect to this law in Deuteronomy, many scholars claim that the authors of the code framed the law as a direct response to Neo-Assyrian military tactics. The view is not new. Supporting the opinion of Johann Gottfried Eichhorn (1752– 1827), August Dillmann wrote in 1886 that the war laws in Deuteronomy 20 aim to hinder “the wild barbarism and brutality with which many ancient peoples, especially the Assyrians, fought wars,” and to affirm the “the higher moral spirit of Yahwism, namely, the basic principles of leniency and clemency.”12 In recent years this view has won more adherents.13 Thus Eckart Otto avers with respect to vv. 19– 20: “One could not formulate a more explicit protest against Assyrian warfare, 11 It is important to note that the censure of wanton destruction has a long tradition in Iraq. The official gazette of Iraq, Al-Wāq’āi‘ al-‘Irāqiīya, in which the Statute of Iraqi Special Tribunal from 2003 was published, has on its front cover an image of Hammurabi’s Laws, which in §59.4–9 specifies heavy punishments for the destruction of property—in particular fruit trees (date palms). In addition to earlier witnesses to this legal tradition (see, e.g., Jerrold S. Cooper, Sumerian and Akkadian Royal Inscriptions, vol. 1, Presargonic Inscriptions [New Haven: American Oriental Society, 1986] 71–72, cols. v and x), the Qur’an enjoins Muslims to abstain from harming trees in a jihad; see M. I. H. Farooqi, Plants of the Quran (Lucknwo: Sidrah, 1992), 25; Al-Hafiz B. A. Masri, “Islam and Ecology,” in Islam and Ecology (ed. Fazlum Khalid and Joanne O’Brien; New York: Cassel, 1992), 13. Some Muslim armies were accompanied by a special officer whose duties included ensuring that the soldiers abstained from burning trees. In modern Iraq, orchards (owned most often by the local elite) surround cities and villages, and the situation does not seem to have been much different in ancient Babylonia. I thank Nili Wazana for the inspiration to research Hussein’s trial in this context. 12 August Dillmann, Numeri, Deuteronomium und Josua (2nd ed.; EHAT; Leipzig: S. Hirzel, 1886), 334–35 (my translation of “. . . wilde Rohheit u. Grausamkeit, mit welcher von manchen alten Völkern, zumal den Assyrern, die Kriege geführt wurden” and “den höheren sittlichen Geist des Jahvethums, nam. die Grundsätze der Milde u. Schonung”). Unfortunately I could not locate the passage from Eichhorn to which Dillmann refers. 13 See, inter alia, George Adam Smith, The Book of Deuteronomy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1918), 249; Walther Eichrodt, Theologie des Alten Testaments (Leipzig: Hinrichs, 1933), 64; Gottfried Seitz, Redaktionsgeschichtliche Studien zum Deuteronomium (BWANT 13; Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1971), 159; Horst Dietrich Preuss, Deuteronomium (EdF 164; Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1982), 120; Joseph Blenkinsopp, “Deuteronomy” in The Jerome Biblical Commentary (ed. Raymond E. Brown et al.; London: Geoffrey Chapman, 1968), 101–22, here 114; Mark W. Hamilton, “The Past as Destiny: Historical Visions in Sam'al and Judah under Assyrian Hegemony,” HTR 91 (1998): 215–50, here 237; and Jeffrey Stackert, “Rewriting the Torah: Literary Revision in Deuteronomy and the Holiness Legislation” (Ph.D. diss., Brandeis University, 2006), 175–79, 185. Many appeal to both Assyrian and biblical sources; see, e.g., Samuel R. Driver, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on Deuteronomy (3rd ed.; ICC; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1951), 236; Karl Krämer, Numeri und Deuteronomium (Heilige Schrift für das Leben II/1; Freiburg: Herder, 1955); Fritz Stolz, Jahwes und Israels Kriege (ATANT 60; Zurich: Theologischer Verlag, 1972), 27–28; and Israel Eph‘al, “The Assyrian Ramp at Lachish: Military and Lexical Aspects” (in Hebrew), Zion 49 (1984): 343 n. 28.
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which is reflected in their royal inscriptions and palace reliefs.”14 In a finely nuanced essay, Nili Wazana argues similarly to Otto, treating this law as a polemic retort that “sheds light on the way subjugated peoples countered ideological pressure during their contacts with the world’s first empire.”15 Parallels between the law and Assyrian sources have even been cited as external evidence for dating the composition of Deuteronomy, and this in turn prompted a book-length response by Michael G. Hasel.16 Now if it is warranted to claim that the Deuteronomic law originated as a protest against Neo-Assyrian imperial ideology, and if the law, by way of Grotius’s influential treatise, directly informs our modern war conventions that condemn wanton destruction, then the line of continuity traced above would extend from these conventions back to anti-Assyrian imperial polemics! Although this bold thesis may have a certain appeal in a scholarly context governed by postcolonial discourse, it proves upon closer inspection to be untenable. The weak link in the chain of reception history is not the one that connects Deuteronomy 20 to Grotius or Grotius to modern war conventions, but rather the attempt to interpret the ancient law as a polemic against “the empire.” In what follows I endeavor to demonstrate that this approach fails to account adequately for both the Deuteronomic text and the Neo-Assyrian sources. I begin by treating the Deuteronomic law in the broader context of ancient military practices.
II. Intentional and Incidental Destruction in War For both ancient and modern warfare, one can distinguish two general ways of jeopardizing civilian infrastructures, or to use a more felicitous term, Life Sup-
14 “Deutlicher kann man seinen Protest gegen assyrische Kriegspraxis, die sich in neuassyrischen Königsinschriften und Palastreliefs niedergeschlagen hat, nicht zum Ausdruck bringen.” See Eckart Otto, Krieg und Frieden in der Hebräischen Bible und im Alten Orient (Theologie und Frieden 18; Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1999), 100. 15 Nili Wazana, “Are the Trees of the Field Human? A Biblical War Law (Deut. 20:19–20) and Neo-Assyrian Propaganda,” in Treasures on Camels’ Humps: Historical and Literary Studies from the Ancient Near East Presented to Israel Eph‘al (ed. Mordechai Cogan and Dan'el Kahn; Jerusalem: Hebrew University Magnes Press, 2008), 275–95, here 295. 16 Michael G. Hasel, Military Practice and Polemic: Israel’s Laws of Warfare in Near Eastern Perspective (Berrien Springs, MI: Andrews University Press, 2005). Hasel’s argument is based on what I regard as a misunderstanding, namely, that the authors of Deut 20:19–20 were primarily opposed to the use of fruit trees to build siege works. Hasel finds evidence of this practice in one text (the account of the siege of Megiddo by Thutmosis III) and concludes that the law represents a polemic against military practices from the mid-second millennium. I have reviewed his argument elsewhere (see RBL [http://www.bookreviews.org ] and JBL 124 [2005]: 755–58) and thus will not focus on it here.
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port Systems (LSS).17 The first is incidental or unintentional destruction.18 In ancient western Asia and the Eastern Mediterranean, populations were especially hard hit from this side of military conflicts. During lengthy periods of armed conflict, farmers could not attend to the daily chores of plowing and planting, nursing the vineyards and olive orchards, or repairing terraces that facilitate agriculture in hilly terrain.19 This is a case of winning the battle yet losing the war insofar as the population, prohibited from duties of husbandry, faced severe economic depression, if not famine, long after the enemy had desisted from its assault. An illustration of this phenomenon is provided by the corpus of seventy-one letters from Rib-Adda that were found among the Amarna archives (fourteenth century b.c.e.).20 In one of the letters from this corpus, Rib-Adda writes to the king of Egypt complaining that he was beleaguered, trapped in his city of Byblos “like a bird in a cage” (EA 79, 90 et al.). Because of the enemy at his doorstep, planting was impossible: “For lack of cultivation my field is like a woman without a husband” (EA 74, 75, 81).21 This in turn had catastrophic consequences. Rib-Adda’s people had sold not only their household objects but also their children for provisions (ibid.). The escalation of hostilities made fieldwork impossible, and the threat of starvation during the winter led to a depopulation of the region. Even if the inhabitants of Byblos could hold out against their besiegers, famine was inevitable and would continue to inflict losses for many months after the siege had been lifted.22 17 LSS
are “any natural or human-engineered system that furthers the life of the biosphere in a sustainable fashion. The fundamental attribute of LSS is that together they provide all of the sustainable needs required for continuance of life” (The Encyclopaedia of Life Support Systems [EOLSS], Developed under the Auspices of UNESCO [Oxford: EOLSS Publishers, http:// www.eolss.net]; see “Definition of EOLSS”). Although not referring to the EOLSS, Hasel occasionally uses this term in Military Practice. 18 This category includes “collateral damage,” a euphemism used since the Vietnam War for tangential harm caused to civilians and their property; see USAF Intelligence Targeting Guide (Air Force Pamphlet 14-210: Intelligence, 1998), 179–80. 19 For ancient Israelite agricultural practices, see Oded Borowski, Agriculture in Iron Age Israel (Boston: ASOR, 2002); and D. C. Hopkins, The Highlands of Canaan: Agricultural Life in the Early Iron Age (SWBA 3; Sheffield: Almond, 1985). 20 See Mario Liverani, “Rib-Adda, Righteous Sufferer,” in Myth and Politics in Ancient Near Eastern Historiography (ed. Zainab Bahrani and Marc Van de Mieroop; London: Equinox, 2004; orig. publ. in 1974), 97–124; and W. L. Moran, “Rib-Hadda: Job at Byblos?” in Biblical and Related Studies Presented to Samuel Iwry (ed. Ann Kort and Scott N. Morschauser; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1985), 173–81. 21 This line is widely assumed to reformulate a proverb: “A woman without a husband is like a field without a farmer.” 22 As William L. Moran observes for the Amarna letters, “Interference in the basis of agrarian life, flocks and fields, seems to belong to the topos of ‘under siege’” (The Amarna Letters [Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1987], 298). One could argue that this is a case of an enemy army intentionally interfering with LSS. The besieging army accordingly meant only to
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A more obscure, yet nevertheless important, example of incidental destruction of LSS is locust plagues. During a time of extended military conflict, fields cannot be plowed. In western Asia this situation allows grasshopper egg pods, deposited by the female in the topsoil, to survive and reach maturity. As a consequence, there is a high chance that the region will face a locust plague in the following year. Such was the case, for example, in Afghanistan after the war in 2002. For ancient western Asia, locust plagues after lengthy periods of war are evidenced by various letters.23 In them we hear of local rulers declaring that their subjects were on the verge of deserting the region because of locust plagues or of soldiers working in special pest management task forces assigned to treat the pests.24 LSS were imperiled not only inadvertently but also when armies consciously selected them as the targets of their aggression. Examples of such wanton destruction are depicted throughout the Bible. In Judg 9:45 Abimelech quells a revolt in Shechem by razing the city and sowing it with salt. As with regard to Charleston in the letters quoted above, these ecocidal and urbicidal measures were intended to have both a strategic and a symbolic impact.25 An act that corresponds to the destruction of water utilities by modern armies is reported in 2 Kgs 3:19, 25, where the Israelite coalition stops up the wells of the Moabites (see also Gen 26:15, 18). Direct assaults on agricultural subsistence are depicted at least twice in the book of Judges. Every time the Israelites had finished sowing, the Midianites would come up against them to ravage their produce and livestock (Judg 6:3–5).26 Similarly,
weaken the power base of the local ruler by prohibiting agricultural activities. Polyaenus 4.6.20 provides an analogy. This motivation for the siege of Byblos cannot be ruled out, and we must assume that the aggressor did whatever it took to get the job done. But from other letters it seems that the besieging army aimed to conquer the city as quickly as possible and was not always aware of—or at least not satisfied with—the economic effects of the armed conflict. 23 See Karen Radner, “Fressen und gefressen werden: Heuschrecken im Alten Orient,” WO 34 (2004): 7–22. 24 The book of Joel contains prophecies of an impending war that seem to describe various developmental stages of locusts. See, e.g., John A. Thomson, “Joel’s Locusts in the Light of Near Eastern Parallels,” JNES 14 (1955): 52–55. 25 Sowing a land with salt-cress or salt was a common punitive measure in ancient western Asia; see, e.g., Sefire I, A, 35–36 (ANET, 660a); A. K. Grayson, Assyrian Rulers of the Third and Second Millennia BC (to 1115 BC) (RIMA 1; Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1987), 183, II. 47– 53 (Shalmaneser I); A. K. Grayson, Assyrian Rulers of the Early First Millennium BC (2 vols.; RIMA 2, 3; Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1991), Prisma 87.1: V:99–VI:22 (Tiglath-pileser I); and Maximilian Streck, Assurbanipal und die letzten assyrischen Könige bis zum Untergang Nineveh’s (Leipzig: Hinrichs, 1916), 50–58 v 126–vi 103; all the latter examples use zarû (“sow”). See also Stanley Gevirtz, “Jericho and Shechem: A Religio-Literary Aspect of City Destruction,” VT 13 (1963): 52–62; and Moshe Weinfeld, Deuteronomy and the Deuteronomic School (Oxford: Clarendon, 1972), 109–11. 26 The tactic of demoralizing one’s enemies by repeatedly allowing them to plant and then destroying the fields is mentioned also by Frontinus 3.3.1.
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Samson catches three hundred foxes, ties torches to their tails, and sets them free to burn the Philistines’ grain, vineyards, and olive groves (15:4–5). While these stories may not be historically reliable, they demonstrate that their authors were well aware of the tactical potential of LSS destruction. A closer analogy to the law in Deuteronomy is found in another letter from Rib-Adda to the Egyptian court (EA 91). Here the Phoenician ruler reports that his enemy had vanquished all his cities and was striving now to take Byblos. While waiting for the city either to capitulate or deliver a large sum of silver and gold as a payoff for terminating the siege, he plundered the city’s grain and began to cut down its orchards.27 Deuteronomy 20:19–20 bans the kind of warfare that seems to have been waged against Byblos insofar as it forbids Israelite armies to destroy fruit trees when the city they are besieging has not surrendered after an extended period of time. The law envisions a situation of a protracted siege: “If you besiege a city for many days (Mybr Mymy) . . . .”28 Moreover, it refers to gradual tree destruction that occurs before the city capitulates. Taken strictly, the law does not refer to conduct after a siege has been lifted (see v. 20b). Finally, it presupposes that the Israelite armies would be inclined to cut down orchards when besieging a city. In order to understand why an Israelite army or Rib-Adda’s antagonist would have felled fruit trees when investing a city, we must take a brief glance at the repertoire of ancient siege tactics.
III. The Indirect Approach Before the advent of heavy artillery and explosives, most armies of the first millennium b.c.e. lacked the logistical and tactical expertise required to breach fortifications.29 Because one could not always rely on the efficacy of sonic warfare,
27 The condition of the tablet does not permit certainty. See J. A. Knudtzon, Die El-AmarnaTafeln, vol. 1 (Leipzig: Hinrichs, 1915), 430–31; as well as R. F. Youngblood, “The Amarna Correspondence of Rib-Haddi, Prince of Byblos” (Ph.D. diss., Dropsie College, 1961), 351–54. William L. Moran suggests that am-ma-qú-ut may have been contaminated by ammaššah~ in line 16 (The Amarna Letters [Baltimore: John Hopkins University Press, 1992], 165). Anson F. Rainey has confirmed Knudtzon’s reading of line 14, translating it accordingly: “My orchards [and] my [field]s were cut down” (private correspondence from March 19, 2007, based on transcription made on September 22, 2003). 28 The protasis is formulated as expected for a situation before the city has been taken; see, e.g., 1 Kgs 20:1 (hb Mxlyw Nwrm# l( rcyw). 29 The biblical record does recount several cases in which the Israelite armies captured cities by direct assault. The most explicit example is 2 Sam 20:15 (hmwxh lyphl Mytyx#m). This conventional siege warfare consisted of sapping (undermining), ramming, scaling, and tunneling,
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as in the battle of Jericho,30 it was necessary to devise poliorcetic methods with which an aggressor could either penetrate the city by subterfuge or entice its inhabitants to come forth.31 Modern military science refers to this type of warfare as “the indirect approach.”32 Although large professional armies such as that of the Assyrians did employ this method, they also had the option of frontal assault, which involved most often the construction of time-consuming siege ramps.33 This contrasts starkly with Assyria’s weaker competitors in the southern Levant. Because their armies consisted of mostly conscripted soldiers serving short duties, they relied more heavily on alternatives to frontal assaults. When beginning a siege, one usually attempted to reason with the city. Thus the eighth-century b.c.e. Nubian ruler Piye offered his foes an alternative: “‘Look, two ways are before you; choose as you wish. Open [your gates], you live; close, you die. My majesty will not pass by a closed town!’ Then they opened immediately.
which in the first millennium were practiced most effectively by the Assyrians; see the exemplary work of Israel Eph‘al, Siege and Its Ancient Near Eastern Manifestations (in Hebrew; Jerusalem: Magnes, 1996), as well as Erika Bleibtreu, “Five Ways to Conquer a City,” BARev 17 (May/June 1991): 52–61, 75; A. Mierzejewski, “La technique de siège assyrienne aux IX-VII siècles avant notre ère,” Etudes et Travaux 7 (1973): 11–20; Walter Mayer, Politik und Kriegskunst der Assyrer (ALASP 9; Münster: Ugarit, 1995), 470–74. 30 Although the term is used here tongue-in-cheek, sonic and ultrasonic warfare (USW), which employs sound-pressure and -power, represents a heavily researched area in modern military technology and is already employed by many armies in both their lethal and nonlethal arsenals. Additional biblical examples are found in Judg 7:18–22; 2 Chr 13:15; 20:21–23. 31 The book of Proverbs refers several times to battle tactics (see 11:14; 20:18; 21:22; 24:6; as well Jer 49:20, 30), and military officers in ancient Israel would likely have undergone formal training in siegecraft. See Abraham Malamat, “Israelite Conduct of War in the Conquest of Canaan,” in Symposia Celebrating the Seventy-fifth Anniversary of the Founding of the American Schools of Oriental Research (1900–1975) (ed. Frank Moore Cross; Zion Research Foundation Occasional Publications; Cambridge, MA: ASOR 1979), 35–55, here 44–45. Because military knowledge is famously well transmitted through time and space, the Strategemata of Frontinus and Polyaenus may provide insights into siege tactics employed earlier in western Asia. See Eph‘al, Siege; as well as idem, “Ways and Means to Conquer a City,” in Assyria 1995: Proceedings of the 10th Anniversary Symposium of the Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project, Helsinki, September 7–11, 1995 (ed. Simo Parpola and Robert M. Whiting; Helsinki: Helsinki University Press, 1997), 49–53. Eph‘al refers to I. Starr, Queries to the Sungod: Divination and Politics in Sargonid Assyria (SAA 4; Helsinki: Helsinki University Press, 1990), which provides catalogues of stratagems. 32 The concept was introduced by Basil Liddell Hart after World War I; see The Decisive Wars of History (London: G. Bell & Sons, 1929). Malamat draws on this concept for a quite different purpose: to explain the success of the Israelite armies in the conquest of Canaan (“Israelite Conduct of War, 44–47; see also idem, “How Inferior Israelite Forces Conquered Fortified Canaanite Cities,” BARev 8 [1982]: 24–35). 33 For an illustrative example, see Israel Eph‘al, “The Assyrian Siege Ramp at Lachish: Military and Lexical Aspects,” Tel Aviv 11 (1984): 60–70.
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His majesty entered the town” (line 82).34 Significantly, Deuteronomy 20 commands Israel to begin a siege with an offer of peace.35 When a city spurned the offer, it often paid a dear price when it was finally conquered. Thus, 2 Kgs 15:16 reports that Menahem attacked the region surrounding Tiphsah (or Tappuah) and “ripped open all its pregnant women” because it did not “open” to him. The harsh treatment epitomized by this expression would have served to encourage other cities to choose the path of peace, rendering future sieges unnecessary.36 This tactic of psychological warfare seems to have been employed widely.37 A favorite siege tactic in war legends is the ruse. In addition to the popular tale of the Trojan horse,38 an older and less familiar Egyptian account tells how Thoth, a general of Thut-mose III, captured Joppa by hiding armed warriors in two hundred large baskets that another three hundred soldiers carried into the Canaanite city, claiming they contained gifts for the governor.39 While we cannot be sure what is intended, ruses are also mentioned often in the “Queries” from Sargonid Assyria.40 Schemes and ambuscades are also popular motifs in biblical siege stories. Battles involving feigned retreats, decoys, diversionary maneuvers and “liers in wait” (Mybr)) are depicted in the conquest stories of Ai (Joshua 8), Shechem (Judg 34 Miriam Lichtheim, Ancient Egyptian Literature: A Book of Readings (3 vols.; 2nd ed.; Berkeley: University of California Press, 1980), 3:74. See Pnina Galpaz-Feller, “The Victory Stela of King Piye: The Biblical Perspective on War and Peace,” RB 100 (1993): 399–414. His words may be compared to Jer 38:17–18 (see A. Niccacci, “Egitto e Bibbia: Sulla base della stele di Piankhi,” LASBF 32 [1982]: 7–58, here 28); Deut 20:11; 30:15–20; 2 Kgs 18:19–35/Isa 36:4–20. That the Assyrians also negotiated with cities is well documented: In addition to 2 Kings 18, the omen literature refers often to the possibility of taking a city through “kind words” and peaceful negotiations. See Starr, Queries, texts 30, 43, 44, 101, 209, 267 as well as Eph‘al, Siege, 27. See also A. L. Oppenheim, “‘Siege-Documents’ from Nippur,” Iraq 17 (1955): 69–89; Grant Frame, “A Siege Document from Babylon Dating to 649 B.C.,” JCS 51 (1999): 101–6. 35 An alternative to offers of peace as means for enticing the enemy out onto the battlefield is vilification; see 1 Kgs 20:9–12 and (generally in battle) J. J. Glück, “Reviling and Monomachy as Battle-Preludes in Ancient Warfare,” Acta Classica 7 (1964): 25–31; and W. Kendrick Pritchett, The Greek State at War (5 vols.; Berkeley: University of California Press, 1974), 2:153–55; Starr, Queries, texts 29, 43, 44, 102. 36 For the possibility that the expression is a hyperbolic trope, see Mordechai Cogan, “‘Ripping Open Pregnant Women’ in Light of an Assyrian Analogue,” JAOS 103 (1983): 755–57; and Nadav Na’aman, “The Deuteronomist and Voluntary Servitude to Foreign Powers,” JSOT 65 (1995): 37–53. 37 See the classic statements by H. W. F. Saggs, “Assyrian Warfare in the Sargonid Period,” Iraq 25 (1963): 149–50, as well as the discussion below. 38 See the Ἰλίου πέρσις and Odyssey 8.487–520. 39 For the story of Thoth, see ANET, 22b–23b. Hans Goedicke shows the connections between this trick, reminiscent of Ali Baba, and the tale of the Trojan horse (“The Capture of Joppa,” ChrEg 43 [1968]: 219–21). 40 See Starr, Queries, texts for nikiltu in the glossary.
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9:25, 30–45), Gibeah (Judg 20:29–48), the city of the Amalekites (1 Sam 15:5), and Samaria (2 Kgs 7:12). In the story of the conquest of Bethel (Judg 1:24–25), spies from the tribe of Joseph make a pact with an informant in order to learn of a secret ingress into the city.41 Although not mentioning any treachery, the legend of David’s conquest of Jerusalem seems to allude to the penetration of the city via its water shaft (2 Sam 5:8). A water source was not just a vulnerable point of entry; it could also be blocked in order to force a city’s residents to surrender. In preparation for the onslaught of the enemy, Nahum enjoins the Ninevites not only to strengthen their forts but also to “draw water for the siege” (3:14). Without a source from which they could be replenished, reservoirs were ultimately insufficient. Thus, the Rabshakeh, standing next to one of Jerusalem’s water sources, refers to the people sitting on the wall as those who are doomed “to drink their own urine” (2 Kgs 18:27). The tactic of cutting off the municipal water supply was, however, not always practicable, since wartime experiences could be counted on to make an impact on urban planning. Hezekiah is said to have created a conduit to direct the waters of the Gihon into Jerusalem (2 Kgs 20:20; 2 Chr 32:30; see also Isa 22:9–11), presumably in preparation for Sennacherib’s campaign. Many Iron Age IIa cities in the Levant invested their resources in ensuring that the municipal water sources were located within the city walls or at least well protected, making feats like that of David’s army ideal material for the heroic tradition.42 The strategic defense of waterworks stimulated the creativity of tacticians. Thessalos (fifth century b.c.e.) reports that in the “First Sacred War” (595–585 b.c.e.), the amphictyons discovered the water pipe leading into the city after it was broken by a horse hoof. An asclepiad named Nebros advised the leaders of the alliance to poison the water with hellebore roots. The advice was heeded, and the defenders of the city, who had imbibed the infected water and were seized with obstinate diarrhea, deserted their posts.43 Most armies, however, were not as lucky as the Amphictyonic League. When besieging a city, they thus concentrated their attention on other aspects of a city’s 41 This
story of a loyal insider resembles the Rahab account in Joshua 2 and 7. Ronny Reich, “The Excavations at the Gihon Spring and Warren’s Shaft System in the City of David,” in Ancient Jerusalem Revealed (2nd ed.; ed. Hillel Geva; Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 2000), 327–39; Norma Franklin, “Relative and Absolute Chronology of Gallery 629 and the Megiddo Water System: A Reassessment,” in Megiddo III: The 1992–1996 Seasons (ed. Israel Finkelstein et al.; 2 vols.; Monograph Series 18; Tel Aviv: Institute of Archaeology, 2000), 2:515–23; Ronny Reich, “Notes on the Gezer Water System,” PEQ 135 (2003): 22–29; Shlomo Bunimovitz, “The Final Destruction of Beth Shemesh and the ‘pax Assyriaca’ in the Jordan Shephelah,” TA 30 (2003): 3–26; and finally Zecharia Kallai, “Note on J. A. Emerton: Lines 25–6 of the Moabite Stone and a Recently-Discovered Inscription,” VT 56 (2006): 552–53. 43 See also Pausanias (Descr. 10.37.5), Frontinus (Str. 3.2.11) and Polyaenus (Str. I), as well as the discussion in A. Mayor, Greek Fire, Poison Arrows, and Scorpion Bombs: Biological and Chemical Warfare in the Ancient World (Woodstock: Duckworth, 2003), 100–101. 42 See
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LSS, such as the fields and grain reserves. The aforementioned Rib-Adda correspondence from the Amarna archives describes repeatedly how the enemy had robbed the grain of Byblos in an attempt to force its surrender (see esp. EA 85).44 This tactic too was not always feasible: granaries could be situated within the municipal fortifications, and, because of logistical problems, sieges were difficult to conduct during the harvest season.45 One therefore turned to the most vulnerable target of a city: its fruit trees.
IV. Destruction of Fruit Trees in Siege Warfare Fruit trees represented a precious component of LSS in ancient western Asia and the Mediterranean world.46 Not only do they require many years to mature, but they also demand persistent care if they are ever to yield a profitable harvest. A female date palm, for example, does not reach maturity until fourteen to thirtyfive years of age, and it can bear its calorie-rich, easily preservable fruit for more than a century.47 Olive trees, which can live considerably longer than date palms,48 need seven years to bear edible fruit and reach maturity after fifteen to twenty years. In contrast, grapevines require only two years to reach maturity. This shorter time span and their relative lack of nutrients rendered them less valuable and thus less a target of aggression in times of a protracted siege, which may explain why they are not mentioned in our law from Deuteronomy.49 The felling of two grown olive trees meant the permanent loss of 1.5 to 2.2 kilograms of olive oil per year, and this 44 Since arable soil was also valuable, it too became a target of hostility. One could cause lasting damage to it by sowing salt or salt-cress. This punitive measure seems, however, to have been a ritual action performed primarily against inhabited municipal areas and after conquests, not during a siege. See the literature cited in n. 24 above. 45 Because soldiers had to tend their own crops, sieges during the harvest season were rare and confined by and large to professional armies. Eph‘al discusses fortuitous times for sieges; see Siege, 61–63. 46 The role of fruit trees in ancient LSS is easiest to assess by a perusal of the various Babylonian, Akkadian, Assyrian, and Hittite law collections, which treat fruit trees as the most valuable property. 47 See W. H. Barreveld, Date Palm Products (FAO Agricultural Services Bulletin 101; Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations Rome, 1993). Because of the time they require to reach maturity, date palms belonged to the most valuable property in southern Mesopotamia. The penalty for harming a neighbor’s date palm was one mina of silver or a male boy; see, e.g., Georges Contenau, Contrats Néo-Babyloniens I: De Téglath-phalasar III à Nabonide (Musée du Louvre, Textes Cunéiformes 12; Paris: Geuthner, 1927), 89. 48 An olive tree in Bar, Montenegro, is over two thousand years old, and one-thousandyear-old trees throughout the Mediterranean are not unusual. 49 Halakic tradition, however, requires that one allow a vine to mature for four years before harvesting its grapes. As prestige objects, vineyards were nevertheless targets of enemy aggression (see, e.g., Judg 15:4–5; Jer 12:10; Joel 1).
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oil, in contrast to wine, represents a critical component of the diet in western Asia and Mediterranean lands.50 Equally high in caloric value are figs, producing fifteen million kilocalories per hectare, as compared to 1.3 to 2 million for wheat or wheat polycropped with olives.51 Fruit orchards and gardens were also prestige objects and symbols of dominion. In Babylonia the date palm was known as “the tree of wealth.”52 Qohelet boasts of his gardens and parks (Mysdrpw twng), in which he planted all kinds of fruit trees (yrp lk C( [2:5]). Although a late text, it accurately mirrors the role of gardens in displays of power and wealth.53 Finally, gardens and orchards often belonged to temples and cultic complexes,54 or were themselves cultic places.55 For these reasons, fruit trees were prime strategic targets in siege situations. Whereas interference with the water supply and the robbing of grain guaranteed surrender through the immediate physical effect of dehydration and starvation, the practice of gradual fruit tree destruction, as described in Deut 20:19–20 and EA 91, had enduring consequences and was thus more psychological in nature. The 50 See F. R. Riley, “Olive Oil Production on Bronze Age Crete: Nutritional Properties, Processing Methods, and Storage Life of Minoan Olive Oil,” Oxford Journal of Archaeology 21 (2002): 63–75; as well as the articles in History and Technology of Olive Oil in the Holy Land (ed. Etan Ayalon; Arlington, VA: Oléarius, 1994) and Olive Oil in Antiquity: Israel and Neighboring Countries from Neolith to Early Arab Period (ed. Michael Heltzer and David Eitam; Haifa: University of Haifa, 1987). 51 Figs were also the most important wartime food in Attica; see Lin Foxhall, “Farm and Fighting in Ancient Greece,” in War and Society in the Greek World (ed. John Rich and Graham Shipley; London: Routledge, 1993), 134–45, here 141. 52 See, e.g., Wilfred G. Lambert, Babylonian Wisdom Literature (Oxford: Clarendon, 1959), 74:56. The best example in the Bible for gardens, vineyards, and orchards as prestige objects is 1 Kings 21. On the Garden of Uzza and the King’s Garden, see F. Stavrakopoulou, “Exploring the Garden of Uzza: Death, Burial and Ideologies of Kingship,” Bib 87 (2006): 1–21. 53 A discussion of the evidence cannot be provided here. See Terje Stordalen, Echoes of Eden: Genesis 2–3 and Symbolism of the Eden Garden in Biblical Hebrew Literature (CBET 25; Leuven: Peeters, 2000); Lawrence E. Stager, “Jerusalem and the Garden of Eden,” ErIsr 26 (1999): 183–94; R. Bichler and R. Röllinger, “Die Hängenden Gärten zu Ninive: Die Lösung eines Rätsels?” in Von Sumer bis Homer: Festschrift für Manfred Schretter zum 60. Geburtstag am 25. Februar 2004 (ed. Robert Röllinger; AOAT 325; Münster: Ugarit, 2005), 153–218; Stephanie Dalley, “The Hanging Gardens of Babylon at Nineveh,” in Assyrien im Wandel der Zeiten: XXXIXe Rencontre assyriologique internationale, Heidelberg, 6–10 Juli 1992 (ed. Harald Hauptmann and Hartmut Waetzoldt; Heidelberger Studien zum alten Orient 6; Heidelberg: Heidelberger Orientverlag, 1997), 19–24; Bruce Lincoln, “À la recherche du paradis perdu,” HR 43 (2003): 139–54. 54 See the literature cited in the preceding footnote. Gardens belonging to cultic centers would not have been the first targets in siege warfare insofar as they were located intramurally. In the Assyrian sources they are destroyed as a part of punitive measures against cities; see below. 55 Ingo Kottsieper “Bäume als Kultort,” in Das Kleid der Erde: Pflanzen in der Lebenswelt des Alten Testaments (ed. Ute Neumann-Gorsolke and Peter Riede; Stuttgart: Calwer; NeukirchenVluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 2002), 169–87.
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tactic aimed to achieve two related objectives: (1) to elicit a decisive battle on open ground, and (2) to precipitate the city’s capitulation.56 Lengthy sieges were extremely costly for the beleaguerer—even more than for the beleaguered. When one was attacked by a stronger opponent, the best strategy was to withdraw to the safety of one’s city and simply wait out the impending siege. Against large professional armies with well-organized logistical operations like those of the Assyrians and Babylonians, such a plan was less effective. But against small armies employing many conscripted soldiers who neither were adept at siegecraft nor could afford to neglect their farms for any extended time period, this waiting game was usually won by the besieged.57 For a commander it was thus imperative to provoke a quick and decisive battle in the field so that his levied soldiers could return to their duties back home. Some accounts describe the means with which they seduced the besieged into battle,58 whereas most do not. The gradual destruction of fruit trees, however, would have been a superb tactic with which one could draw out the inhabitants of a city into the open where they could be trounced in battle.59 The second objective of orchard destruction in a siege situation was to bring about an early surrender. The army would hold the trees “hostage” as if they were human captives, gradually killing them off when demands were not met. In EA 91 the ransom was either a large amount of silver and gold or Byblos itself. Moreover, 56 See Jeffrey H. Tigay, Deuteronomy = Devarim: The Traditional Hebrew Text with the New JPS Translation (JPS Torah Commentary; Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1996), 190; Israel Eph‘al, “On Warfare and Military Control in the Ancient Near Eastern Empires,” in History, Historiography, and Interpretation: Studies in Biblical and Cuneiform Literatures (ed. Hayim Tadmor and Moshe Weinfeld; Jerusalem: Magnes, 1983), 97; and idem, Siege, 54–55. 57 See Sun Tzu’s Art of War (fifth century c.e.), which argues at length in ch. 3 that the worst possible strategy is to besiege walled cities. One of the reasons given is time: it would require at least six months to breach the walls (three months for logistical preparations and three months to build siege ramps); a skillful leader therefore subdues the enemy by means of a stratagem. One of the earliest Iron Age instances of a major siege is found at Tell es-Safi/Gath. See Oren Ackermann, Hendrik J. Bruins, and Aren M. Maeir, “A Unique Human-Made Trench at Tell esSafi/Gath, Israel: Anthropogenic Impact and Landscape Response,” Geoarchaeology 20 (2005): 303–28. 58 See the examples listed above in section III. 59 Such was a conventional practice of early Greek armies. Foxhall writes in regard to the Peloponnesians’ technique of crop ravaging: “[T]he aim was to crack the city’s unity. The threat perceived by individual households to their own subsistence was the enemy’s most powerful weapon” (“Farm and Fighting,” 143). See also Yvon Garlan, Recherches de poliocrétique grecque (Bibliothèque des Ecoles françaises d’Athènes et de Rome 223; Paris: de Boccard, 1974); as well as J. K. Anderson, Military Theory and Practice in the Age of Xenophon (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1970), 47–48; Josiah Ober, Fortress Attica: Defense of the Athenian Land Frontier, 404–322 B.C. (Mnemosyne 84; Leiden: Brill, 1985), 32–35; and Paul Bentley Kern, Ancient Siege Warfare (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1999), 90–91, 97–98, 104.
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because fruit trees were both lucrative sources of income and prestige objects, they belonged not only to the local ruler but also to other wealthy landowners.60 A characteristic feature of siege stories is the struggle between political factions within the city.61 The Rib-Adda correspondence speaks often of how the enemy pressured political actors within Byblos to depose their ruler and join forces with them.62 After describing how his orchards were ravaged, he remarks: “my own men have become hostile to me.”63 One way of coercing this power base to stage a putsch would have been to chop down fruit trees until the group cooperated. This tactic of systematically razing orchards may be compared to later evidence collected by Steven W. Cole.64 When the Muslim armies laid siege to al-Hīra in the seventh century c.e., they threatened to destroy their fruit trees before the town surrendered.65 Cole quotes the work of Fred Donner: It was normal procedure for nomads wishing to subject an oasis to resort to a process of psychological warfare; they invested the whole settlement, and then gradually cut down palm trees a few at a time until the residents, watching the destruction of the town’s livelihood from the safety of their towers, finally agreed to pay tribute before too much damage was done.66
Early-nineteenth-century accounts refer to similar threats of razing orchards. According to Alois Musil, “If the nomads want to compel the settlers to pay them regular tribute, they encamp before the kasr [stronghold], . . . light a fire under one of the large fruit trees, . . . threaten to burn and break all their trees and bushes, and in this manner force them to surrender.”67 The gradual nature of fruit tree destruction in these accounts corresponds to the situation of a protracted siege depicted in Deut 20:19–20.
60 See, e.g., the schedule of estates with orchards assigned to officials (221) and the survey of large estates sold (222) in F. M. Fales and J. N. Postgate, Imperial Administrative Records, part 2, Provincial and Imperial Administration (SAA 11; Helsinki: Helsinki University Press, 1996). 61 For biblical accounts, see Jeremiah 36–38 (and perhaps Lachish Ostracon 6); 2 Samuel 20; 2 Kings 7; and the insightful observations of Eph‘al, Siege, 55–57, 142–47. 62 See the attempted assassination in EA 81 and 138, as well as 69 and 85. On the theme in general, see Liverani, “Rib-Adda,” 108–11. 63 See Youngblood, “Rib-Haddi,” 352. Liverani translates lines 13–15: “(Abdi-Ashirta) has tried to take Byblos and to cut my gardens down, so that my men have gone away/become hostile . . .” (“Rib-Adda,” 109). 64 Steven W. Cole, “The Destruction of Orchards in Assyrian Warfare,” in Assyria 1995, ed. Parpola and Whiting, 29–40, here 34–35. 65 Alois Musil, The Middle Euphrates: A Topographical Itinerary (Oriental Explorations and Studies 3; New York: AMS, 1927), 288. 66 Fred McGraw Donner, The Early Islamic Conquests (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1981), 30. 67 Musil, Middle Euphrates, 288.
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V. Destruction of Fruit Trees by Neo-Assyrian Armies While the comparative material cited by Cole assists us in understanding the tactic proscribed by Deuteronomic law, its explanatory value for the evidence for the Neo-Assyrian armies is questionable.68 Cole surveys the references to the cutting down of fruit trees in Neo-Assyrian royal inscriptions and notes that in many cases we can be sure that the army did not initially succeed in capturing their enemy.69 From this Cole concludes that references to orchard destruction function in the royal narratives as hyperbolic tropes that veil the use of a siege tactic with which the Assyrians forced cities to surrender. This tactic involved gradually razing fruit trees in order to achieve the city’s capitulation.70 Cole’s reading of the inscriptions raises questions, and a somewhat different interpretation seems preferable: According to a long literary tradition, the demolition of lands, fields, and water sources was the epitome of a decisive victory. By devoting more space to demolition in cases where the Assyrian army ultimately failed to capture the enemy ruler, the scribe strives to remove any doubt that the king had achieved his strategic goals. The late Hayim Tadmor isolated this phenomenon, calling it a “face-saving device.” His interpretation is supported by a subsequent study by Bustenai Oded. Both scholars contend that the apologetic royal inscriptions seek to obscure the king’s failure by reporting that he contained the enemy ruler in his city and denuded his entire land.71 Even the trees next to the city walls are uprooted, while the walls themselves serve to imprison (rather than protect) the ruler “like a pig in a sty” or “a bird in a cage.”72 Now if, as Cole main68 Hasel’s arguments against interpreting Deut 20:19–20 as a response to Neo-Assyrian military practice, while helpful, diverge from my own at critical junctures as a result of his conviction that the text polemicizes against Egyptian siege warfare. 69 Thus, Shalmaneser III reports that “Marduk-bēl-usāte [from Gannanāte], the usurper who was not aware of his own deeds, came out against me to do battle and combat. I defeated him and brought a great slaughter upon him, enclosed him in his own city. I ripped out his harvest, cut down his orchards, damned his river.” See Ernst Michel, “Die Assur-Texte Salmanassars III 858–824,” WO 4 (1967): 29–37, here 30, iv 3–5. However, Gannanāte appears not to have been conquered until a year later; if so, the narrative would describe an uncompleted siege. 70 Cole, “Destruction of Orchards,” 34–36. 71 Hayim Tadmor, The Inscriptions of Tiglath-pileser III, King of Assyria (Jerusalem: Israel Academy of Sciences and Humanities, 1994), 79; Bustenai Oded, “Cutting Down Orchards in Assyrian Royal Inscriptions: The Historiographic Aspect,” JACiv 12 (1997): 93–98. He refers to the “historiographic code” of the royal inscriptions. See also R. J. van der Spek, “The Struggle of King Sargon II of Assyria against the Chaldean Merodach-Baladan (710–707 B.C.),” JEOL 25 (1977–78): 55–66, here 62. 72 Thus, Tiglath-pileser III claims, “I enclosed Mukin-zeri of Bit-Amukkani in Sapiya, his royal city. I inflicted a heavy defeat upon him before his (city) gates. I cut down the orchards and the sissoo-trees around the city walls, and did not leave a single one. I killed the date-palms
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tains, the Assyrian armies gradually destroyed fruit trees as a coercive siegecraft tactic, and if the readers of the royal inscriptions were familiar with this tactic, then the description of orchard destruction next to city walls would have been ineffective as a face-saving device. Cole also offers a questionable reading of the iconographic evidence. He refers to a relief from Sennacherib in Nineveh portraying the siege of Dilbat (fig. 1),
Fig. 1. Destruction of Dilbat’s date palms during the despoliation of the city. Archibald Paterson, Assyrian Sculptures: Palace of Sinacherib. Plates and Ground-plan of the Palace (The Hague: M. Nijhoff, 1915), pl. 13.
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suggesting that we should read this relief as a narrative from top to bottom. Accordingly, the soldiers first cut down the date palms and then the city capitulates (the bottom register depicts despoliation). The suggestion poses several problems: Whereas early reliefs (e.g., from the time of Assurnasirpal II) represent pictorial narratives with a set direction in which they are to be read, this was not always the case in the iconography of the Sargonids. Artists attempted to produce panoramas with landscape illusion, perspective, and background. Hence, one cannot assume that a relief from the time of Sennacherib follows a fixed narrative sequence. Moreover, the top and bottom registers of the relief in question agree insofar as both depict scenes of devastation and demolition. Fighting is not portrayed anywhere, while trees are being felled in both the upper and lower registers.73 Finally, destruction of fruit trees after a siege is evidenced elsewhere in Sennacherib’s reliefs, such as one showing the defeat of a Babylonian city (fig. 2): In the background we can see the city’s inhabitants performing presumably post-conquest rituals while soldiers chop down intramural trees.74
Fig 2. Destruction of date palms during despoliation of a city in southern Mesopotamia. Austen Henry Layard, Nineveh und Babylon nebst Beschreibung seiner Reisen in Armenien, Kurdistan und der Wüste (Leipzig: Dyk, 1856), p. 449, pl. VIII:B.
throughout his land. I stripped off their fruit and filled the meadows” (Tadmor, Tiglath-pileser III, 162:23–24). Support for this understanding of orchard destruction as a face-saving device is provided by Summary Inscription I, in which the king claims to have inflicted a great defeat on Sarduri in front of the gates of Turushpa and then to have finally set up a royal image in front of the city (ibid., 125:23–24). 73 The now lost relief underwent heavy damage already in antiquity so that the portrayal of Sennacherib in the middle was missing when it was found. As in other images of Sennacherib, the damage may have been wrought in revenge (in this case by Babylonians during the conquest of Nineveh). 74 See Irene Winter, “Royal Rhetoric and the Development of Historical Narrative in NeoAssyrian Reliefs,” Studies in Visual Communication 7 (1981): 2–38.
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Surveying the Assyrian reliefs, Hasel points out that in many cases trees are still standing after the city has been captured, while there are no scenes of trees being cut down prior to a conquest. This observation provides a necessary corrective to Cole’s interpretation. Nevertheless, it fails to explain a scene from the Central Palace of Tiglath-pileser III in Nimrud (fig. 3) in which a tree has been felled and the trunk of another one can be seen to the right. Hasel claims that the first tree is
Fig. 3. Scene portraying a city being stormed and two fallen (date) palms (from the reign of Tiglathpileser III). C. J. Gadd, Stones of Assyria: The Surviving Remains of Assyrian Sculpture, Their Recovery, and Their Original Positions (London: Chatto and Windus, 1936), pl. 12.
still standing and attributes its strange angle to the artist’s attempt to portray a different perspective. His reproduction of the relief inexplicably does not include the trunk of the second tree. An alternative interpretation of the scene is thus warranted.75 At the risk of generalizing, the depictions of destruction and demolition in Assyrian writing serve to emphasize the limitless fury of the king when it comes to 75 Hasel,
Military Practice, 67–68, 89–90 n. 121. See also Richard D. Barnett and Margarete Falkner, The Sculptures of Assur-banipal II (883–859 BC) Tiglath-pileser III (745–727 BC) Esarhaddon (681–669 BC) from the Central and Southwest Palaces at Nimrud (London: British Museum, 1962), slab 14a/plate XXXI (probably belonging to the same scene as that depicted in fig. 3), which shows fallen date palms under a siege engine.
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punishing rebels. When he goes to battle against an enemy, the king displays his unfathomable glory and might by destroying everything in his path.76 A city is not just despoiled and burned; its peripheral territory is also thoroughly denuded.77 In keeping with his dual nature, the Assyrian king could “build up” and create life by establishing cities and planting lush, exotic gardens,78 and he could also “tear down” and annihilate life by flattening cities and uprooting orchards.79 In composing propagandistic texts, scribes drew on any image that could effectively communicate the ideology of the empire.80 In the reliefs, the destruction of trees goes hand in hand with other measures of terror the army employed to vanquish resistance to the empire’s expansion.81 These measures are presented as the rightful recompense for a vassal’s rebellious behavior. The ruination of LSS can begin already during an attack on a city, as in fig. 3, yet more often it is executed after the defeat. Enemy leaders are impaled and flayed; divine images and symbols of power are ceremonially deported; the temple and its gardens are desecrated; the rest of the city is sacked and
76 Thus, Sennacherib claims that “the terrifying radiance of my majesty overwhelmed” his enemy; see, e.g., D. Luckenbill, The Annals of Sennacherib (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1924), 29:ii 38 and passim; and the studies by A. L. Oppenheim, “Akkadian pul(u)h(t)u and melammu,” JAOS 63 (1943): 31–34; and Elena Cassin, La splendeur divine: Introduction à l’étude de la mentalité mésopotamienne (Civilisations et sociétés 8; The Hague: Mouton, 1968). 77 See, e.g., Walter Mayer, “Sargons Feldzug gegen Urartu – 714 v.Chr. Text und Übersetzung,” MDOG 115 (1983): 65–132. 78 See the literature cited above in n. 59. 79 These images, which are already heavily imbued with divine associations, are appropriated extensively by the biblical authors when describing the dual character of Israel’s God (see, e.g., the numerous passages in Jeremiah in which a form of #tn occurs). The clearest point of contact is when the Assyrian army serves as the instrument of divine wrath, as in Isa 10:5–19. In this way the power and ideology of Assyrian imperial rhetoric are subverted by one of its subjects. Moreover, the destruction of an enemy is likened, as in Assyrian texts, to the destruction of a cedar, oak, or fruit tree in, e.g., Amos 2:9 and Isa 10:33–34. On the Assyrian evidence, see C. Zaccagnini, “An Urartean Royal Inscription in the Report of Sargon’s Eighth Campaign,” in Assyrian Royal Inscriptions: New Horizons in Literary, Ideological, and Historical Analysis (ed. F. M. Fales; Orientis Antiqui Collectio XVII; Rome: Instituto per L’Oriente, 1981), 259–95, as well as the extensive comments of Wazana, “Trees of the Field.” 80 For example, the actions of Tiglath-pileser I are compared to the flood (abūbu); Literarische Keilschrifttexte aus Assur (ed. Erich Ebeling; Berlin: Akademie, 1953), 63 r. 14–18. See also Victor Horowitz and Joan G. Westenholz, “LKA 63: A Heroic Poem in Celebration of TiglathPileser I’s Musru-Qumanu Campaign,” JCS 42 (1990): 1–49, here 4 r. 14–18. The correlation between flood and orchard destruction is found also much later in an account of Sargon II recounting the punishment of Aramaens; see Andreas Fuchs, Inschriften Sargons II. aus Khorsabad (Göttingen: Cuvillier, 1994), 148–49: 288–91. For Ninurta’s most prominent weapon, abūbu, see Amar Annus, The God Ninurta in the Mythology and Royal Ideology of Ancient Mesopotamia (SAA 14; Helsinki: Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project, 2002), 122–33. 81 See Steven W. Holloway, Aššur Is King! Aššur Is King! Religion in the Exercise of Power in the Neo-Assyrian Empire (Culture and History of the Ancient Near East 10; Leiden: Brill, 2002).
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burned, the population exiled, and the surrounding orchards chopped down. Everyone passing by the region should shudder in horror, and news of the atrocities should spread to other lands far and wide. Such is the rationale of Assyrian psychological warfare. Ubi solitudinem faciunt, pacem appellant (“They devastate an area and call it peace”) to borrow Tacitus’s description of the Roman imperial army (Agricola 30). These depictions of “shock and awe” warfare do not correspond to the conduct forbidden in Deut 20:19–20. The biblical law, as argued above, censures a practice of cutting down fruit trees when a city has still not capitulated after an extended period, a practice representing the “the indirect approach” discussed above. In contrast, the Assyrian reliefs and inscriptions depict orchard destruction as part of a more comprehensive denudation of a land and in reprisal for previous injuries.82 This practice, in keeping with its nature as recompense levied against impervious peoples or rebellious rulers, aimed simultaneously to have a psychological effect by instilling fear in the hearts of both friend and foe. If the king failed to conquer a city, he would adopt a “scorched earth policy,” despoiling, slashing, and burning everything in sight before abandoning the region. By laying waste the LSS, he deprived his enemies of a means of survival, thus rendering them ineffective as a threat to his homeland or the balance of power in the region. It is worth noting that of the numerous depictions of orchard destruction in Assyrian inscriptions and reliefs, none relates to the southern Levant. To the contrary, the Lachish reliefs portray the conquered city surrounded by more than one hundred trees of perhaps five different species, all still standing and laden with fruit.83 Some inscriptions do refer to acts of torture before gates of besieged cities, ostensibly as a method of applying psychological pressure. From this, Israel Eph‘al suggests that the same would have been done with respect to orchards since the felling of fruit trees is explicitly mentioned in several of these contexts. Nevertheless, the evidence is not clear. For example, Ashurnasirpal claims to have impaled live soldiers on posts before the city of Amedu and then to have fought his way inside the city and cut down its orchards.84 The point of the inscription, however, seems to be that the Assyrian king demonstrated his indisputable superiority over his opponent by entering his royal city and tearing down his gardens. The unconquered city of Amedu had therefore to admit its de facto defeat. It is thus unwarranted to surmise that the desolation was gradual and meant to break the defenders’
82 See the examples cited in n. 80 above, as well as the comments of Hasel, Military Practice, 81. 83 See Christoph Uehlinger, “Clio in a World of Pictures,” in “Like a Bird in a Cage”: The Invasion of Sennacherib in 701 BCE (ed. Lester L. Grabbe; JSOTSup 363; London: Sheffield Academic Press, 2003), 221–305, esp. 242–43. 84 See Grayson, Assyrian Rulers of the Early First Millennium, 2:220, as well as the similar case of Hazael of Damascus in ibid., 3:48:14–17.
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resistance slowly.85 The depicted situation does not therefore correspond to Deuteronomy 20.86 One cannot, however, preclude the possibility that the orchard destruction also functioned as a coercive tactic of siegecraft. Although the Assyrians were second to none when it came to conventional siege techniques (sapping, ramming, tunneling, and scaling), such methods cost not only a lot of time but also exorbitant human and financial resources. Therefore Cole may be correct with respect to actual practice. In order to avoid these expenses, field commanders would have resorted to the destruction of orchards as a way of forcing a city to capitulate. However, we face a problem of evidence. Neither inscriptions nor letters, documents, or other non-propagandistic texts—the most reliable sources of information—witness to this practice. Moreover, data from “mass media” witness to a coherent ideology of the Assyrians’ supremacy.87 If the authors of the Deuteronomic law indeed had the Assyrian practice in view, we would expect them to have responded more explicitly to this ideology, rather than focusing on a method of orchard destruction that was employed as a cost-saving tactic and that was more common to smaller armies. To summarize: Although it is quite likely that the Assyrians, as masters of siegecraft, recognized the potential of orchard destruction as a coercive measure, the available evidence presents them as felling fruit trees only in order to punish rebels. One must therefore exercise caution with respect to the suggestion that the Deuteronomic law originated as a reflex of, or even polemic against, Assyrian military practices. If it were intended as protest against this particular empire, one would expect it to have been formulated in a way that corresponds more closely to the Assyrian methods. In the inscriptions and reliefs, destruction of trees is a punitive measure and, rather than being isolated, is consistently part of a larger program of destruction and despoliation. One would expect these aspects to be 85 Pace
Eph‘al, Siege, 50–55.
86 The evidence of 2 Kgs 18:31//Isa 36:16 is suggestive. The Assyrian king’s statements pos-
sibly imply that if the besieged Jerusalemites did not depose Hezekiah and open the city gates, then Assyrian soldiers would destroy their vineyards, orchards, and cisterns (see Wazana, “Are the Trees of the Field Human?” 286). Yet this is probably reading too much into the statement. More likely is that the Jerusalemites are simply being offered the alternative between eating their dung and drinking their urine in the city (v. 27), and eating from their own fruit trees and drinking from their own cisterns if they surrender. The same applies to 2 Kgs 19:29. Destruction is clearly threatened elsewhere (18:25 and 19:11), but it is not implicit in the rhetoric in this verse. Moreover, the destruction referred to elsewhere is to the land in general and is part of a larger program of denudation, in keeping with the royal inscriptions and reliefs. 87 For the use of the expression “mass media” in this context, see Ursula Seidl, “Babylonische und assyrische Kultbilder in den Massenmedien des 1. Jahrtausends v.Chr.,” in Images as Media: Sources for the Cultural History of the Near East and the Eastern Mediterranean (1st Millennium BCE) (ed. Christoph Uehlinger; OBO 175; Fribourg: University Press; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2000), 89–114.
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integrated into the law if it were formulated specifically against the Assyrians. As it is, the reader has no reason to think specifically of these northern aggressors. The following sections consider the two sides of this argument in more detail.
VI. Reasons for Interpreting Deuteronomy 20:19–20 as an Anti-Assyrian Polemic There are several reasons for the popularity of the view that the law responds specifically to Assyrian military conduct. The first has to do with the trajectory of Deuteronomy research since 1805, when Wilhelm M. L. de Wette submitted a dissertation proposing that the origins of Deuteronomy should be traced to the reign of Josiah.88 Although most scholars today insist that the law code contains older and later material as well, they also insist that it must be understood within a geopolitical context dominated by Assyrian expansion.89 In the second half of the twentieth century, two streams of research began to converge in Deuteronomy studies. On the one hand, works appeared arguing against the dependence of Deuteronomy on second-millennium Hittite treaties, and, on the other, these studies increasingly emphasized themes such as imperialism, ideology, and propaganda. The discovery of Esarhaddon’s vassal treaties in 1955 prompted research that endeavored to show a genetic link between this documentary form and Deuteronomy (esp. chs. 13 and 28).90 Simultaneously, it 88 Wilhelm M. L. de Wette, Dissertatio critico-exegetica qua Deuteronomium . . . (Jena: Literis Etzdorfii, 1805). The view was anticipated by Jerome; see Louis Ginzberg, The Legends of the Jews (7 vols.; Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1946), 6:377 n. 116. 89 These claims have not gone uncontested; see, e.g., Reinhard G. Kratz, Die Komposition der erzählenden Bücher des Alten Testaments (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2000), 137–38. 90 William L. Moran, “The Ancient Near Eastern Background of the Love of God in Deuteronomy,” CBQ 25 (1963): 77–87; Dennis J. McCarthy, Treaty and Covenant: A Study in Form in the Ancient Oriental Documents and in the Old Testament (AnBib 21; Rome: Biblical Institute, 1963); Moshe Weinfeld, “Traces of Assyrian Treaty Formulae in Deuteronomy,” Bib 46 (1965): 417–27; and R. Frankena, “The Vassal Treaties of Esarhaddon and the Dating of Deuteronomy,” OtSt 14 (1965): 123–54. For more recent works, see Paul-Eugène Dion, “Deuteronomy 13: The Suppression of Alien Religious Propaganda in Israel during the Late Monarchical Era,” in Law and Ideology in Monarchic Israel (ed. Baruch Halpern and Deborah W. Hobson; JSOTSup 124; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1991), 147–216; Bernard M. Levinson, “‘But You Shall Surely Kill Him!’: The Text-Critical and Neo-Assyrian Evidence for MT Deut 13:10,” in Bundesdokument und Gesetz: Studien zum Deuteronomium (ed. Georg Braulik; Herders Biblische Studien 4; Freiburg: Herder, 1995), 37–63; Hans Ulrich Steymans, “Eine assyrische Vorlage für Deuteronomium 28,20–44: Bundesdokument und Gesetz,” in Studien zum Deuteronomium, ed. Braulik, 119–41; idem, Deuteronomium 28 und die adê zur Thronfolgeregelung Asarhaddons: Segen und Fluch im Alten Orient und in Israel (OBO 145; Freiburg: Universitätsverlag, 1995); Eckart Otto, “Treueid and Gesetz: Die Ursprünge des Deuteronomiums im Horizont neuassyrischen Vertragsrechts,” ZABR
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sparked renewed interest in the reigns of Manasseh and Josiah and the question of Assyria’s imposition of an imperial cult upon its vassals.91 The attention devoted to imperialism was in turn fed by social and political developments of the late 1960s and subsequent years. These changes left their mark on various disciplines in the humanities—not least on Assyriology, which has traditionally had the most direct influence on Deuteronomy research.92 Today interest in the multifaceted Judean responses to Assyria and her imperial successors has grown.93 It should not be surprising, however, that this lively interest has occasionally aroused an eagerness to discover a subversion of, and protests against, the empire in texts that are innocent of such grand political motives.94 Another reason for the popularity of the view that the law addresses Assyrian military conduct is the profusion of Assyrian witnesses to the practice of denuding lands and felling orchards. What seems to have been overlooked, however, is that
2 (1996): 1–52; idem, Das Deuteronomium: Politische Theologie und Rechtsform in Juda und Assyrien (BZAW 284; Berlin: de Gruyter, 1999), esp. 13–56. 91 See J. W. McKay, Religion in Judah under the Assyrians, 732–609 BC (SBT 2/26; London: SCM, 1973); Morton Cogan, Imperialism and Religion: Assyria, Judah and Israel in the Eighth and Seventh Centuries B.C.E. (SBLMS 19; Missoula, MT: Scholars Press, 1974); and Hermann Spieckermann, Juda unter Assur in der Sargonidenzeit (FRLANT 129; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1982). 92 See, e.g., the various papers in Power and Propaganda: A Symposium on Ancient Empires (ed. Mogens Trolle Larsen; Mesopotamia 7; Copenhagen: Akademisk, 1979), esp. 297–317 (Mario Liverani’s contribution, “The Ideology of the Assyrian Empire”). 93 For an example of this development in another book, such as Isaiah, see the fine articles by Peter Machinist (“Assyria and Its Image in the First Isaiah,” JAOS 103 [1983]: 719–37, and “Mesopotamian Imperialism and Israelite Religion: A Case Study from the Second Isaiah,” in Symbiosis, Symbolism, and the Power of the Past [ed. William G. Dever and Seymour Gitin; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2003], 237–64) and Moshe Weinfeld (“The Protest against Imperialism in Ancient Israelite Prophecy,” in The Origins and Diversity of Axial Age Civilizations [ed. S. N. Eisenstadt; Albany: State University of New York Press, 1986], 169–82). 94 Several scholars have criticized the attempts to draw a genetic link between Esarhaddon’s treaties and Deuteronomy. See, e.g., Timo Veijola, “Wahrheit und Intoleranz nach Deuteronomium 13,” ZTK 92 (1995): 287–314; Juha Pakkala, “Der literar- und religionsgeschichtliche Ort von Deuteronomium 13” in Redaktions- und religionsgeschichtliche Perspektiven zur ‘Deuteronomismus’—Diskussion in Tora und Vorderen Propheten (ed. Jan Christian Gertz et al.; BZAW 365; Berlin: de Gruyter; 2006), 125–37; and above all Christoph Koch’s comparison of Deuteronomy, Esarhaddon’s vassal treaties and the Sefire treaties (“Vertrag, Treueid und Bund: Studien zur Rezeption des altorientalischen Vertragsrechts im Deuteronomium und zur Ausbildung der Bundestheologie im Alten Testament” [Dr. theol. diss., University of Heidelberg, 2006]), which builds on ideas of Hayim Tadmor, “Aramaization of Assyria,” in Mesopotamien und seine Nachbarn: Politische und kulturelle Wechselbeziehungen im alten Vorderasien vom 4. bis 1. Jahrtausend v. Chr.: XXV. Rencontre assyriologique internationale Berlin 3. bis 7. Juli 1978 (ed. Hans-Jörg Nissen and Johannes Renger; 2 vols.; Berliner Beiträge zum Vorderen Orient 1; Berlin: Reimer, 1982), 2:449–70.
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the destruction of LSS, and specifically trees, is just as widely witnessed for other imperial armies, such as those of the Hittites and New Kingdom Egypt.95 Sources from the Neo-Babylonian empire and Persia contain admittedly far fewer references to the destruction of orchards. The disparity is nevertheless due to the nature of the material. The Assyrian annals, structured according to military campaigns and boasting great feats in battle, can be traced to Hittite precursors. This inscriptional tradition is, however, foreign to the Babylonian sources. As David Vanderhooft suggests, the fact that the Babylonians do not adopt it, preferring instead consciously to archaize their chronicles according to earlier models, may be due to their long-standing antipathy for their northern neighbors.96 Similarly, they do not seem to have produced narrative reliefs depicting sieges and battles.97 This does not mean, as often claimed, that they were less violent or militant than the Assyrians. To the contrary, archaeological evidence from Ashkelon, for example, supports the statements of the Babylonian Chronicle, graphically illustrating the ferocity with which Babylonian armies could achieve their geopolitical aspirations.98 That also the extramural trees were often targeted for destruction is probable. If so, it would correspond to Jeremiah’s descriptions of Babylon (6:6; 7:20; 22:7; 46:22–23).99 A second point seeming to support the interpretation of Deut 20:19–20 as anti-Assyrian polemic is that a particular aspect of the reliefs appears to match the
95 For
the Hittites, see Ahmet Ünal, “Untersuchungen zur Terminologie der hethitischen Kriegsführung, Teil 1, ‘Verbrennen, in Brand stecken’ als Kriegstechnik,” Or 52 (1983): 164–80; idem, “Studien über das hethitische Kriegswesen, II, Verba Delendi harnink/harganu— ‘vernichten, zugrunde richten,’” Studi Miceni ed Egeo-Anatolica 24 (1984): 71–85; Sylvia HutterBraunsar, “Die Terminologie der Zerstörung eroberten Acker- und Siedlunglandes in hethitischen Königsinschriften,” in Der orientalische Mensch und seine Beziehungen zur Umwelt (ed. Bernhard R. Scholz; Graz Morgenländische Studien 2; Graz: RM-Druck & Verlag, 1989), 201–18. For New Kingdom Egypt, see Michael G. Hasel, Domination and Resistance: Egyptian Military Activity in the Southern Levant 1300–1185 B.C. (Probleme der Ägyptologie 11; Leiden: Brill, 1998), 75–83; idem, “A Textual and Iconographic Note on prt and mnt in Egyptian Military Accounts,” Göttinger Miszellen 168 (1998): 61–72; and idem, Military Practice, 104–13. 96 See David Vanderhooft, The Neo-Babylonian Empire and Babylon in the Latter Prophets (HSM 59; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1999), 22–23. The Babylonian and Esarhaddon chronicles do not even report that the Assyrians destroyed orchards on their campaigns. 97 For reasons why the Assyrians preferred this medium of art, see Irene Winter, “Art as Evidence for Interaction: Relations between the Assyrian Empire and North Syria,” in Mesopotamien und Seine Nachbarn, ed. Nissen and Renger, 2:355–81. One of the very few extant Babylonian reliefs significantly shows the felling of cedar trees; see F. H. Weissbach, Die Inschriften Nebukadnezars II im Wadi Brisa und am Nahr El-Kelb (WVDOG 5; Leipzig: Biblio-Verlag, 1906). 98 Lawrence E. Stager, “Ashkelon and the Archaeology of Destruction: Kislev 604 BCE,” ErIsr 25 (1996): 61–74. 99 The sixteenth-century commentator Moshe Alshich suggests that Jeremiah alludes here to Deut 20:19–20.
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biblical text. The Assyrian soldiers are always depicted felling trees with axes, a tool to which Deut 20:19 explicitly refers (Nzrg wyl( xdnl). This correspondence, however, is less significant than it appears at first. How else could the troops expect to cut down a tree? Saws were not used for this purpose until the eighteenth century c.e. in Europe.100 Not only did burning a tree pose more problems than chopping it down, but also sources from other times and places present armies using this method against their enemies.101 Another reason is the lack of biblical evidence: Whereas the Assyrian sources present orchard destruction in a situation of siege, the biblical accounts do not. This, too, may seem to be a strong argument in favor of the anti-Assyrian interpretation, yet a closer examination reveals critical flaws. Just as in the case of axes, depictions of tree destruction in siege situations are not confined to Assyrian sources. One must also consider the functional differences between biblical war accounts and royal inscriptions. In stark contrast to the latter, biblical accounts serve a pedagogical purpose for generations long after the wars and events described. Their authors seek to find deeper meaning in this history. In recounting and interpreting the past, they shape the identity of a people, especially in a period during which Israel no longer possessed a king and army of its own. As one would expect from such literature, the most basic information regarding warfare and siegecraft, not to mention military and societal structures, is extremely meager. More often than not, its authors depict only unusual events on the battlefield, emphasizing the roles of priests and prophets in the place of tacticians and commanders. The lack of a direct correspondence to the practice forbidden in Deut 20:19–20 should therefore be no more of a surprise than the absence of accounts describing many of the most routine aspects of daily life in ancient Israel.102
VII. Deuteronomy 20:19–20 as a Product of an Intra-Societal Discourse If the Deuteronomic prohibition does not protest against Assyrian martial conduct, then which empire does it have in view? Is it the Neo-Babylonians, or per-
100 See
Herbert Killian, “Vom ‘Schinderblech’ zum Diebswerkzeug: Ein Rückblick auf die 400jährige Geschichte unserer Waldsäge,” Centralblatt für das Gesamte Forstwesen 97 (1980): 65– 101; Peter d’Alroy Jones, Story of the Saw (Manchester: Spear & Jackson, 1961); and Franz Maria Feldhaus, Die Säge: Ein Rückblick auf vier Jahrtausende (Berlin: Dominicus, 1921). 101 See, e.g., Hasel, Domination, 75–82. For use of axes by Israelite besiegers, see Judg 9:48–49. 102 This is in response to Hasel’s question, “[I]f this practice was so widely employed in Israel as to warrant a polemic response, why do we not find any mention of it in the conquest accounts of Joshua and Judges, or in the wars described in Samuel through the rest of Kings?” (Military Practice, 133). Hasel seems to read these books as if they merely recorded Israelite history.
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haps New Kingdom Egypt, as Michael Hasel argues?103 The problem posed by this question is not so much the identity of the perpetrator as the very assumption that the law must condemn the behavior of another people.104 A similar premise seems to be operative in Maimonides’ claim that seething a kid in its mother’s milk was prohibited because it was “somehow connected to idolatry, forming perhaps part of the service, or being used on some festival of the heathen.”105 That even the most mundane practices sanctioned by Deuteronomy betray a foreign cultic-religious provenance is an idea whose origins are in the book itself. Referring to its category of the “indigenous outsiders,” Louis Stulman points out how the authors of Deuteronomy create communal identity and provide Israel with a survival strategy by attributing what they proscribe to non-Israelites.106 Both Maimonides and contemporary commentators carry this project a step forward by discovering foreign origins for practices that the book does not designate as non-Israelite and that were likely common to Israel and Judah. The difference between the medieval and modern biblical scholar is that the latter, in keeping with the trend of postcolonial studies in the humanities, often identifies the target of attack not with the cult of the Canaanites but rather with the propaganda of “the empire.”107 Although there are many biblical texts that reflect the ways Israel and Judah responded to the pressure of foreign empires, Deut 20:19–20 is probably not one of them. Rather than an inter-societal polemic, this law, I propose, constitutes a reflex of an intra-societal exchange on acceptable conduct for Israelite and Judean armies.108 Evidence for this claim is found first in the foregoing laws in Deuteronomy 20. It would be difficult to imagine how the regulations concerning exemptions from 103 See
Hasel, Military Practice.
104 Thus Christopher Wright, while dating Deuteronomy earlier, nevertheless assumes that
the law “was set up in contrast with practices of Israel’s contemporaries” (Deuteronomy [NIBCOT; Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1996], 230). 105 See Maimonides, Guide to the Perplexed 3:48. Modern studies carrying this approach forward include Othmar Keel, Das Böcklein in der Milch seiner Mutter und Verwandtes: im Lichte eines altorientalischen Bildmotivs (OBO 333; Freiburg: Universitätsverlag, 1990); and Ernst Axel Knauf, “Zur Herkunft und Sozialgeschichte Israels: ‘Das Böcklein in der Milch seiner Mutter,’” Bib 69 (1988): 153–69. For more on the interpretation of this law, see below with n. 121. 106 Louis Stulman, “Encroachment in Deuteronomy: An Analysis of the Social World of the D Code,” JBL 109 (1990): 613–32. 107 The religious character of this propaganda nevertheless continues to be emphasized. 108 Rather than being mutually exclusive, intra-societal norm formation and inter-societal boundary drawing are projects that reinforce each other. Both relate to strategies of survival, and both build identity. But whereas the latter functions to demarcate and protect a people’s distinctiveness, the former strengthens the ethical foundation for its longevity. Thus, ethics is the objective of the former, while its formulation is presupposed by and subsumed to the task of the latter. (Contact with other peoples nevertheless necessarily influences and incites intra-societal discourses.) For a somewhat similar understanding of inter- vs. intra-societal dynamics, see Mike Featherstone, Undoing Culture: Globalization, Postmodernism and Identity (2nd ed.; London: Sage, 2000).
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military service (vv. 5–8) or directions for pre-battle negotiations and rules of engagement (vv. 9–18) also represent protests against Neo-Assyrian military practices. Why, then, should the final paragraph (vv. 19–20) be any different? Apparently recognizing this inconsistency, Eckart Otto argues that the entire chapter indeed constitutes anti-Assyrian polemics. For example, he contends that Israel is required always to offer a city conditions of surrender before assailing it (vv. 10–12), whereas the Assyrians did this only rarely.109 Otto’s approach is hardly compelling, and it illustrates the dangers of searching too zealously for anti-imperial polemics in every corner of Deuteronomy. There is no need to pit these laws against the Assyrians when practices they condemn were quite common to the ancient world, including Israel and Judah. The Bible itself witnesses to a bellic ethos that is fundamentally opposed to the principles set forth in Deuteronomy.110 For example, when fighting against Shechem, Abimelech fails to offer the city terms of peace. Not only that, he kills the inhabitants indiscriminately, razes the city, and sows it with salt (Judg 9:45). Thereafter he and his soldiers proceed to cut boughs from trees with axes (twmdrq) and set ablaze the place where survivors had taken refuge (vv. 46–49).111 Similarly, in 2 Kings 3 Elisha prophesies divine aid for the Israelite coalition in its campaign against Mesha of Moab: “[YHWH] will also hand over Moab to you. You shall conquer every fortified city and every choice city; every good tree you shall fell, all springs of water you shall stop up, and every good piece of land you shall pain with stones” (vv. 18–19).112 In telling how the coalition forces do just as Elisha prophesies, this text represents one of the clearest biblical witnesses to ecocidal and urbicidal aspects of ancient Israelite warfare. The applicability of the Deuteronomic law to the situation depicted in 2 Kings 3 has been disputed. Michael Hasel and Nili Wazana argue that the law is said to refer specifically to a situation of siege, while 2 Kings 3 describes how an entire land was laid waste.113 Yet if the law forbids the destruction of fruit trees even 109 Otto,
Krieg und Frieden, 101–3. Otto argues that the Assyrians most often first applied military pressure and then negotiated. As evidence, he refers to 2 Kings 18–19 and a relief from Sargon II that shows an Assyrian officer reading a scroll while facing the walls of a besieged city (see Yigael Yadin, The Art of Warfare in Biblical Lands [New York: McGraw-Hill, 1963], 320, 425). 110 In contrast to later books, Joshua depicts warfare in keeping with these rules. The eradication of the Canaanites follows Deut 20:15–18. Joshua 9 plays on the distinction made by these laws between distant peoples and the Seven Nations; see the comments of Michael Fishbane, Biblical Interpretation in Ancient Israel (Oxford: Clarendon, 1985), 206. 111 His actions directly violate not only vv. 19–20 but above all vv. 10–14. 112 The use of the word “pain” (by)khl) to describe the ecocidal actions against the land resembles the use of “kill” (tymhl) to describe the urbicidal actions against Abel-Beth-Maacah in 2 Sam 20:19. See also hd#h C( Md)h yk in Deut 20:19. 113 Hasel, Military Practice; and Wazana, “Are the Trees of the Field Human?” 285–86, 294. One could attempt to harmonize Elisha’s prophecy with Deuteronomy 20 by arguing that Moab lay beyond the borders of Israel and thus would not come within the purview of the law. Such an
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when a surrender was not forthcoming after “many days,” then how much more does it preclude beginning a campaign by ruining “every good tree” along with all the LSS (every choice city, fertile field, and water source)?114 The operative juridical principle here is a fortiori or rmwxw lq. That 2 Kings 3 depicts a violation of the law could not be more patent.115 Wazana contends, however, that Deut 20:19–20 is more applicable to the Assyrian sources, since both refer to situations of protracted sieges. Yet reading the story in 2 Kings 3 with its conclusion in view, we can better appreciate why the author emphasizes the demolition of the Moabite lands. After a lengthy siege, the coalition forces had failed to capture the city Kir-hareseth and above all Mesha, who had rebelled against Israelite control (see 3:5 and 1:1). One may compare the narrative to the aforementioned “face-saving device” in the Assyrian royal inscriptions employed by scribes when the king failed to capture an insurgent ruler. The demolition is highlighted in order to remove all doubt that the imperial army had vanquished and punished the king’s enemy. This device parallels a similar convention in omen texts. Thus, YOS 10 41:74–75 reads: “the city, which you are going to besiege—you will cut down its (grove of) date palm(s) (then) you will go away (from it) . . . .”116 As in the Assyrian royal inscriptions, the lack of success in taking the city is compensated by the destruction of the orchards, and in this respect
approach is taken by Hasel with regard to vv. 19–20 (“The Destruction of Trees in the Moabite Campaign of 2 Kings 3:4–27: A Study in the Laws of Warfare,” AUSS 40 [2002]: 197–206; and idem, Military Practice, 129–37). The interpretation fails, however, to appreciate the redactional character of vv. 15–18, which was cogently demonstrated by Alexander Rofé (Introduction to Deuteronomy [in Hebrew; Jerusalem: Akademon, 1982], 17–28) and has been accepted by most commentators since. Yet even after this insertion it is not at all clear that vv. 19–20 pertain only to wars against the Seven Nations. A second argument Hasel offers is that 2 Kings 3 does not refer to fruit trees. But does not “every good tree” include by definition trees that bear fruit? 114 The same point was made already by Grotius, Rights of War and Peace, 1461–63. 115 Since the texts may have originated in much different times and places, this violation emerges only with the placement of the law in its present narrative context. Most commentators, both ancient and modern, agree that the actions of the coalition are in fundamental opposition to the norms in Deuteronomy 20. To account for the contradiction, various solutions are proposed. See the individual studies of Raymond Westbrook, “Elisha’s True Prophecy in 2 Kings 3,” JBL 124 (2005): 530–32; Jesse C. Long, Jr., and Mark Sneed, “‘Yahweh Has Given These Three Kings into the Hand of Moab’: A Socio-Literary Reading of 2 Kings 3,” in Inspired Speech: Prophecy in the Ancient Near East: Essays in Honor of Herbert B. Huffmon (ed. John Kaltner and Louis Stulman; JSOTSup 378; London: T&T Clark, 2004), 253–75; Joe M. Sprinkle, “Deuteronomic ‘Just War’ (Deut 20,10-20) and 2 Kings 3,27,” ZABR 6 (2000): 285–301; Philip D. Stern, “Of Kings and Moabites: History and Theology in 2 Kings 3 and the Mesha Inscription,” HUCA 64 (1993): 1–14; and John Barclay Burns, “Why Did the Besieging Army Withdraw? (II Reg 3,27),” ZAW 102 (1990): 187–94. 116 A. Goetze, Old Babylonian Omen Texts (YOS 10; New Haven: Yale University Press, 1947). Other omina in this series relate to military failures and successes.
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it may be compared to Elisha’s prophecy. From these observations, the two aspects of the story—siege and the felling of fruit trees—belong together just as much as in the Assyrian sources.117 But another look at the structure of Deuteronomy 20 reveals that this compendium of war laws uses specific scenarios to illustrate more general points and thus should not be confined to siege warfare. Verses 2–8 treat the priest’s address to the troops before the battle. Verse 9 transitions to the appointment of commanders. The next paragraph sets forth rules of engagement, beginning with cities that surrender prior to battle (vv. 10–11) and then turning to those which do not (vv. 12– 14). This progressive unfolding of a battle scenario continues in vv. 19–20, which concerns a tactic for forcing cities to capitulate. Since siegecraft was the predominant form of warfare for all armies of ancient Western Asia and the Eastern Mediterranean, it is not surprising that the author chooses to begin with this scenario in vv. 10–11. That siege is still the focus of vv. 19–20 seems therefore to be governed by the legal logic of the chapter, not a concern to formulate a protest against Assyrian imperial ideology. Just as the rules of engagement in vv. 10–18 are not to be limited to siegecraft, even though they refer only to cities, the law forbidding fruit tree destruction should also not be unduly confined to a situation of a prolonged siege. These are merely typical cases requiring the interpreter to employ principles of casuistry and analogic reasoning to elicit the full scope of their application.118 Finally, we have observed that in both the Assyrian sources and the biblical texts, trees are consistently destroyed with other components of LSS. Why, then, does the law focus solely on fruit trees? One explanation was offered in the discussion of siege tactics in sections III–IV above. Another reason is provided by a comparison of the law to others in Deuteronomy. Calum M. Carmichael and J. G. McConville point to the correspondences between it and the prohibition regarding the bird’s nest in 22:6–7.119 According to this law, one must abstain from taking a mother bird with her eggs or fledglings “in order that you may fare well and have a long life” (see also 5:16). If everyone were to take the dam and her young together, soon the land would suffer from a severe wildlife shortage; this is the first principle of conservation ethics.120 Carmichael relates this law to the prohibition of
117 Wazana’s further claim (“Are the Trees of the Field Human?” 294) that the Assyrian texts focus solely on trees (as in Deut 20:19–20), while 2 Kings 3 mentions trees only in passing, does not agree with the evidence: trees are mentioned most often along with grain or others objects of despoliation. 118 For a brilliant treatment of these principles, see Albert R. Jonsen and Stephen Edelston Toulmin in The Abuse of Casuistry: A History of Moral Reasoning (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1988). 119 Calum M. Carmichael, The Laws of Deuteronomy (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1974), 151–56; and J. G. McConville, Law and Theology in Deuteronomy (JSOTSup 33; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1984), 17–18. 120 For the development of this principle of conservation biology, see Raymond F. Dasmann,
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seething a kid in its mother’s milk in 14:21 (see also Exod 23:19 and 34:26). His comparison is all the more insightful if the word “milk” (blfx)f should be repointed to read “fat” (blE x').121 As in the case of the dam, this law may forbid destruction of the bearer of life also out of interest for the longevity of Israel’s LSS. A similar rationale underlies the tree law in 20:19–20. One may partake of the fruit but is forbidden to cut down its source.122 If an army destroys fruit trees when a city resists, then the trees will not be there when the city surrenders and its subsistence will be severely jeopardized.123 Moreover, if the tactic does not work, the trees would be of use neither to the attackers nor to the residents of the city. Either way, everyone loses.124 In all three cases, the law formulates a more abstract point by way of a practical example. This use of analogia is a typical pedagogical tool that can be found throughout wisdom literature. Rofé has drawn attention to the influence of the wisdom tradition on the entire collection of war laws, but especially Deut 20:19–20.125
“Conservation of Natural Resources,” Dictionary of the History of Ideas, vol. 1 (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1973), 470–77. 121 Raik Heckl, “Helaeb oder Hālāb? Ein möglicher Einfluss der frühjüdischen Halacha auf die Vokalisation des MT in Ex 23,19b; Ex 34,26b; Dtn 14,21b,“ ZAH 14 (2001): 144–58. The same argument is made by Jack M. Sasson, “Ritual Wisdom? On ‘Seething a Kid in its Mother’s Milk,’” in Kein Land für sich allein: Studien zum Kulturkontakt in Canaan, Israel/ Palästina und Ebirnari für Manfred Weippert zum 65. Geburtstag (ed. Ulrich Hübner and Ernst Axel Knauf; OBO 186; Freiburg: Universitätsverlag, 2002), 294–308. Alternatively, the law could represent a prohibition of butchering the calf while it is still suckling, as argued by Stefan Schorch (“ ‘A Young Goat in Its Mother’s Milk’? Understanding an Ancient Prohibition,” Paper delivered at the SBL International Meeting in Vienna, 2007). Support for this interpretation is found in On Abstinence 4.14, where Porphyry claims that “the legislator” forbade Jews to slaughter animals that were parents together with their young. 122 This ethos underlies the Torah’s first dietary ethos. Referring to Gen 1:29-30, Leon Kass writes: “Eating seeds and fruits does not harm the parent plants; eating fruit and discarding the seeds does not even interfere with the next generation” (The Hungry Soul: Eating and the Perfecting of Our Nature [Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1999], 206). 123 Notice the emphasis on enjoyment of house, vineyard, and wife (and eating of spoils) in vv. 5–14. 124 The law’s motivation may indeed be utilitarian; yet following Alexander Rofé we should note that it is concerned for the LSS of both groups of belligerents, not just the aggressors (see Rofé, Introduction to Deuteronomy, 28–29). In one of his discussions of Deut 20:19–20, Philo quotes the maxim that one should provide in peace the things necessary for war, and in war the things desirable in peace (De humanitate 29.153). By felling trees, one gives the conquered reasons for unrelenting rancor and has destroyed the very thing for which the war was undertaken. This point is made often in Greco-Roman literature; see, e.g., Alexander’s speech in Polybius 18.3 (the same speech ends in Livy 32.33 by observing the ludicrousness of destroying the very lands for which the war was waged and thereby leaving in the end nothing but war). 125 Rofé, Introduction to Deuteronomy. Moshe Weinfeld has demonstrated the extent to which Deuter-onomy appropriates wisdom sayings within a legal framework which in turn is
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Wazana follows Rofé in this regard and even observes the similarities to the dam and kid laws. She does not, however, address the problem it poses. Although Maimonides, as noted above, interpreted the kid law as a prohibition of nonIsraelite culinary practices, one has yet to claim that it and the dam law constitute anti-Assyrian polemics. Why, then, should the closely related tree law be any different? True, a relief from Assurbanipal’s lion-hunting series portrays hunters in procession carrying two nests full of fledglings and (presumably) one of the dams (see fig. 4), yet should one postulate on the basis of this evidence that the dam law represents a protest against Assyrian hunting practice?
Fig. 4. Eunuchs carrying two nests and bird in procession after a lion hunt. Photograph of original relief in British Museum (BM 124889) taken by author.
ascribed to divine revelation; see “The Dependence of Deuteronomy upon Wisdom,” in Yehezkel Kaufmann Jubilee Volume (ed. Menahem Haran: Jerusalem: Magnes, 1960), hq–+p (Hebrew); and idem, Deuteronomy and the Deuteronomic School, 244–80. For a wisdom background to other legal corpora in the Bible, see Bernard S. Jackson, Wisdom-Laws: A Study of the Mishpatim of Exodus 21:1–22:16 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006), 35–39 et passim.
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Given the multitude of problems with the anti-Assyrian approach, it seems more prudent to follow Rofé’s lead. Accordingly, the law may stem from wisdom circles whose martial ethos was fundamentally opposed to a popular bellic ideal.126 Valued in some Israelite and Judean circles, this ideal was disparaged in others. In 2 Kgs 8:11–13 the same prophet who once promoted a campaign of terror against Moab now weeps in anticipation of Hazael’s ruthless actions of slaughtering children and ripping open pregnant women in Israel.127 Hazael himself claims that only a reprobate (lit., “a dog,”) could do such a thing (2 Kgs 8:11–13). The practice, ascribed to both Israel and her neighbors (2 Kgs 15:16; Hos 14:1), is condemned elsewhere (Amos 1:13) and rendered illicit by Deut 20:13–14.128 A contiguity of such criticism to wisdom traditions is suggested by 2 Samuel 20, which treats, inter alia, the urbicide of an Israelite city. In this account, a “wise woman” declares to Joab and those destroying (Mtyx#m) the wall of Abel: “You seek to kill (tymhl) a city and mother [or: a city that is mother] in Israel. Why will you swallow up the possession of Yhwh?” (v. 19). Joab responds, “Far be it, far be it from me that I should swallow up or destroy (tyx#) [v. 20]).”129 Thanks to this woman’s “wisdom,” the city is saved from demolition at the hands of David’s soldiers (v. 22).130 One may compare this story to the account in Eccl 9:13–18 of a “poor wise man” who through “his wisdom” saved his city when it was besieged by a great king.
126 The biblical book of Proverbs also refers to siege tactics several times (see n. 36 above); see also Eccl 7:19; 9:18; and Isa 10:13. This evidence corresponds to references to military tactics throughout Egyptian and Akkadian wisdom literature, the most famous example of which is the Ahiqar traditions. It is likely that officers, both Assyrian and Israelite, would have been trained not just in clever stratagems but also in acceptable tactics. See, e.g., the critique of wanton destruction implicit in the Akkadian proverb: “You went and plundered enemy territory. The enemy came and plundered your territory” (K.4347+16161; Lambert, Babylonian Wisdom Literature, 239–50, here lines 14–17). The witness of Greco-Roman literature is suggestive. Of the innumerable protests against the practice of destroying lands, trees, crops, and houses, most are placed on the lips of respected philosophers or personalities famous for their wisdom. In addition, see the literature cited in n. 124. 127 In both chs. 3 and 8, Elisha refers, inter alia, to the destruction of “fortifications” (Myrcbm). 128 Many biblical texts (above all, the flood story and the Latter Prophets) portray a transformation in the deity: from destroying the earth or Israel’s lands (often explicitly trees) to promising never again to do so. 129 In 2 Kings 3 the felling of trees goes hand in hand with the destruction of cities. For other texts with tx#, see Josh 22:23; 1 Sam 23:10; and 2 Sam 11:1 (1 Chr 20:1). 130 Through the statements of the wise woman and Joab, the text may also intend to affirm that the border city of Abel belonged to Israel against territorial claims by Arameans (BethMaacah) and later Assyrians (after Tiglath-pileser III); see Hayim Tadmor, “The Southern Border of Aram,” IEJ 12 (1962): 114–22.
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VIII. Summary and Conclusions Our aim has been to reexamine the origins of Deut 20:19-20, a law that, thanks to Hugo Grotius, has had a lasting impact on modern military conventions. We began by distinguishing between two types of wartime destruction (unintentional and deliberate). The law, which forbids a form of the second type, was then studied in the context of ancient siegecraft. We noted that primitive warfare was largely ineffective against well-fortified cities. Many small armies, consisting of a majority of levied soldiers, therefore were often forced to adopt an “indirect approach,” which included the use of subterfuge and various ruses. One of these tactics was the gradual destruction of orchards, a practice forbidden by the Deuteronomic law. In interrogating the widely accepted premise that this law represents a protest against Neo-Assyrian imperial ideology, we observed that the text fails to provide necessary signals that would have alerted the reader to think specifically of the Assyrian practice of felling orchards. Moreover, many biblical writers depict ancient Israelite and Judean armies ravaging enemy LSS, acts categorically banned by the law. Thus, if the Assyrian method of denudation is condemned by the law, then the Israelite and Judean methods are too. In both biblical texts and Assyrian inscriptions/reliefs, fruit-tree destruction is never isolated but always part of larger programs of ecocide and urbicide. One must therefore explain why the law singles out fruit trees. We offered two reasons: (1) Fruit trees belonged to the most valuable components of LSS and thus were often felled by besiegers in order to force a city to capitulate and as an alternative to direct assault. (2) The law parallels two others in Deuteronomy that condemn the destruction of the source of life with its “fruit” (the dam and her fledglings/eggs in 22:6–7 and the mother goat with her kid in 14:21). Rather than polemics against the Assyrians or any other empire, these laws seem to have emerged from an innerbiblical or intra-societal discourse, perhaps in wisdom circles, on sustainable strategies for treating one’s LSS.131 We may conclude by taking a step back and considering the general nature of the war laws in Deuteronomy 20. Each treats the most critical points of combat: before a city is attacked, when a city surrenders, when it resists, and so on. The same applies for vv. 19-20, which treats a scenario in which the besiegers cannot expect a city’s imminent capitulation. For a field commander, this situation consistently poses the most challenging dilemma. When in want of an effective stratagem or ruse, should one wait out the siege and run the risk of soldiers deserting in order to tend to their farms? Or should one resort to a tactic that, while prom131 For the historic debate between Meyer and Wellhausen on the intra- versus inter-societal dynamics that led to the emergence of Judaism, see Reinhard G. Kratz, “Die Entstehung des Judentums: Zur Kontroverse zwischen E. Meyer und J. Wellhausen,” ZTK 95 (1998): 167–84.
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ising to deliver instant results, would have long-term detrimental effects on one’s own or the enemy’s LSS?132 In wartime these questions are even more onerous, and thus most modern armies realize the importance of manuals of military conduct.133 Similarly, the international community has codified military conventions for nations at war. One of the first steps in the direction of these written war laws and military codes of conduct was taken by Deuteronomy.134 This first step, however, may seem small. Instead of focusing on fruit trees, the law could have proscribed much more extreme cases of ecocide, not to mention practices of slaughtering children or raping women. But precisely in its seeming triviality resides its juridical potential. Rather than mentioning all the possible scenarios, the law censures the less drastic practice in order to include everything more extreme in its purview.135 Now if it is forbidden to resort to a tactic that severely jeopardizes a region’s LSS in order to precipitate an enemy’s capitulation, then it is by all means unacceptable to resort to mass destruction for the same purpose. Verses 10–14 already define when it is permissible to take human life, drawing clear lines between adult males, on the one hand, and women and children, on the other.136 Having addressed the licit use of lethal force, the chapter then continues to spell out restrictions on Israelite armies in vv. 19–20. The reason for this final prohibition seems to be that humans need these trees to survive (C( Md)h yk hd#h).137 This explains why the law allows only non-fruit trees (or trees no longer
132 It
is in this situation that armies have historically committed the most war atrocities, either against captives or against LSS. The question is still debated: Is mass killing justified if it eventually might save more lives by bringing the war to an earlier end? See most recently A. C. Grayling, Among the Dead Cities: Was the Allied Bombing of Civilians in WWII a Necessity or a Crime? (London: Bloomsbury, 2006); and Michael Walzer, Arguing about War (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2004). 133 See, e.g., “Guidelines for Military Manuals and Instructions on the Protection of the Environment in Times of Armed Conflict,” International Review of the Red Cross 311 (1996): 230–37. 134 As commonly acknowledged, written laws of war in ancient western Asia are unique to Deuteronomy. 135 As demonstrated in section III, fruit tree destruction nevertheless meant a radical impairment of LSS. Deciding what is more extreme is the task of the interpreter. In Jewish tradition, this law has, in keeping with its underlying principle, been expanded to include all forms of wanton destruction and waste. See, e.g., b. Šabb. 140b; b. Qidd. 32a; b. B. Qam. 91b; Maimonides, Shemita veYovel 5:3. 136 If Israelite armies are required to fight (and die) in order to conquer a city, then they may “put all the males to the sword.” Women, children, and animals, however, can only be taken as spoil. If the city accepts terms of surrender and opens its gates, absolutely no blood is to be shed; the inhabitants may, however, be subjected to forced labor. 137 Notice that the reason refers to “humans” (Md)h), which includes both groups of belligerents. The translation of this clause has attracted the most attention from commentators on these verses. Suffice it to quote Ibn Ezra’s interpretation: “In my opinion . . . this is the correct meaning: that from (the trees) you get food, therefore do not cut them down, ‘for man is a tree of
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bearing fruit) to be chopped down, although it places severe restrictions on even this action. In formulating these restrictions, v. 20 argues according to “necessity,” a principle central to Just War doctrine.138 The framers of these laws not only recommend restraint but also recognize the need for written rules to guide military conduct in the heat of battle. We began this paper by citing a letter from General Halleck to Sherman, a military commander who symbolizes unbridled destruction of LSS in modern warfare.139 Just two years before he sent this letter and in the same city where he wrote it, Abraham Lincoln introduced a military code that demanded the humane, ethical treatment of populations in occupied areas and specifically banned the wanton destruction of property urged by Halleck and executed by Sherman.140 Such disregard of military conventions illustrates an abiding tension between law and praxis in times of war. One is reminded of Cicero’s observation: silent enim leges inter arma (“In the face of arms laws fall silent”) (Pro T. Annio Milone 4.11). As the earliest surviving attempt to codify rules of war, and as a text that has inspired renewed attempts both to formulate and apply military conventions, Deuteronomy and its long history of interpretation witness to the struggle to break this silence.141
the field,’ that is, our lives as human beings depend on trees. [. . .] And the evidence that this interpretation is correct is that it says ‘You shall cut them down and build siegeworks’” (ad loc.). See also the rabbinic dictum quoted in Sifre 203: Nly)h Nm )l) Nny) Md) l# wyyx (“Human life is not possible without trees”). 138 Of course an intra-societal exchange on acceptable military conduct was carried on also in many other ancient societies: “Auch den Palmengärten gebührt nach gemeinsemitischem ‘Völkerrecht’ besonderer Schutz; ein Feind, der ‘die Gärten niederhaut’, übertritt dessen ungeschriebene Gesetze” (Leo Oppenheim, “Zur keilschriftlichen Omenliteratur,” Or 5 [1936]: 199–228, here 208). Diodorus (2.2) reports that it is commonly accepted among armies in India that one must not harm farmers or cut down trees in war. For ancient Greece there are innumerable witnesses, such as the fifth book of Plato’s Republic, where Socrates demonstrates the necessity of a law sanctioning Hellenic armies that lay arable land to waste. 139 For Sherman, “War is cruelty, and you cannot refine it; and those who brought war . . . deserve all the curses and maledictions a people can pour out” (Letter from Maj. Gen. William T. Sherman, USA, to the Mayor and City Council of Atlanta, Sept. 12, 1864). Precisely this way of thinking and behaving reveals the necessity of written enforceable laws like those in Deuteronomy. 140 This so-called Lieber Code is named after the jurist and political philosopher Francis Lieber. 141 Michael Walzer eloquently sums up the dilemma faced by war laws: “War is so awful that it makes us cynical about the possibility of restraint, and then it is so much worse that it makes us indignant at the absence of restraint. Our cynicism testifies to the defectiveness of the war convention, and our indignation to its reality and strength” (Just and Unjust Wars, 46).
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Reconstructing Meaning in Deuteronomy 22:5: Gender, Society, and Transvestitism in Israel and the Ancient Near East harold torger vedeler [email protected] Yale University, New Haven CT 06520 Southern Connecticut State University, New Haven, CT 06515
Deuteronomy 22:5, the Hebrew Bible’s anti-transvestitism clause, has long presented translators and scholars with difficulty.1 The verse reads as follows:
hwhy tb(wt yk h#) tlm# rbg #bly-)lw h#)-l( rbg-ylk hyhy-)l hl) h#(-lk Kyhl) Although scholars are in general agreement on the translation (if not the exact meaning) of hwhy tb(wt, the struggle to understand rbg-ylk is evident in the vagueness of our translations,2 a sampling of which follow (the renderings of rbg-ylk appear in italics): A woman must not put on man’s apparel, nor shall a man wear woman’s clothing; for whoever does these things is abhorrent to the Lord your God. (NJPS) No woman shall wear an article of man’s clothing, nor shall a man put on woman’s dress; for those who do these things are abominable to the Lord your God. (NEB) The woman shall not wear that which pertaineth unto a man, neither shall a man put on a woman’s garment: for all that do so are abomination to the Lord thy God. (KJV) A woman shall not wear anything that pertains to a man, nor shall a man put on a woman’s garment; for whoever does these things is an abomination to the Lord your God. (RSV) 1 Samuel R. Driver, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on Deuteronomy (ICC; New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1895), 250–51. 2 Ibid., 251.
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Journal of Biblical Literature 127, no. 3 (2008) A woman must not wear a man’s apparel, nor may a man put on a woman’s garment; for whoever does these things is repugnant to Yahweh your God.3
The broader context of the verse is of little help. While it is common in ancient Near Eastern law codes for the laws to be arranged topically, sometimes providing insight into the meaning of a particular provision, Deut 22:5 lacks such a clear context.4 It occurs between a set of commands to assist one’s neighbor in matters of animal husbandry and other property (22:1–4) and rules governing the treatment of birds and the use of their eggs for food (22:6–7), followed by a law requiring the construction of a parapet on a house to prevent an accidental fall and the bloodguilt that this might bring (22:8). Only in Deut 22:9–10 are there prohibitions against mixing (of agricultural seed, the types of animals used in plowing, and mixed-fiber garments) that might be considered similar to 22:5. Another approach is clearly required. In this study I argue that the meaning of Deut 22:5 can be better determined by first understanding the social nature of transvestitism itself (both in the ancient Near East and in other areas and periods), and then by examining the specific meanings of the words chosen by the biblical author for this verse, particularly the terms hwhy tb(wt and rbg-ylk. The evidence indicates that Deut 22:5 prohibits a particular type of cultic activity found in other cultures of the ancient Near East, and that the use of rbg rather than #y) for “man” illustrates an important nuance in the Israelite conception of masculinity.5 A reading of the verse in relation to transvestitism in cultures outside of ancient Israel or the ancient Near East is not supported.
I. The Structure of Deuteronomy 22:5 Deuteronomy 22:5 can be broken down into three parts. Two of these are primary, divided by the Masoretes with an atnakh, which are designated in the following table with the numbers 1 and 2. The first section can then be further divided into two parallel sections, divided by a conjunctive w, designated 1a and 1b:
3 Richard
D. Nelson, Deuteronomy: A Commentary (OTL; Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2002), 262. 4 For a discussion of the organizing principles of biblical and Mesopotamian law codes, see Raymond Westbrook, Studies in Biblical and Cuneiform Law (CahRB 26; Paris: Gabalda, 1988), 1–8. 5 The cultic comparison has been made by several scholars; see the discussions in Harry A. Hoffner, “Symbols for Masculinity and Femininity: Their Use in Ancient Near Eastern Sympathetic Magic Rituals,” JBL 85 (1966): 326–34; W. H. P. Römer, “Randbemerkungen zur Travestie von Deut. 22, 5,” in Travels in the World of the Old Testament: Studies Presented to Professor M. A. Beek (ed. M. S. H. G. Heerma van Voss et al.; SSN 16; Assen: Van Gorcum, 1974), 217–22; William W. Hallo, “Biblical Abominations and Sumerian Taboos,” JQR n.s. 76 (1985): 21–40; and idem, The Book of the People (BJS 225; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1991), 98.
Vedeler: Deuteronomy 22:5
1a
h#)-l( rbg-ylk hyhy-)l
1b
h#) tlm# rbg #bly-)lw hl) h#(-lk Kyhl) hwhy tb(wt yk
2
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There shall not be a kĕlî-geber upon an 'iššâ and a geber shall not wear a garment for an 'iššâ for whoever does this is an abomination to Yahweh your God.
The basic meaning of the text is as follows: two categories of person are given, each prohibited from contact with an item associated with the other (part 1). Violating this separation is regarded as offensive in some way to Yahweh (part 2). The text of section 1b is anchored by two well-understood words: the verb #bly (“he will wear”) and the noun hlm# (“cloak, wrapper, mantle, garment”). A hlm# is literally a “cover,” and it is noteworthy that the word can refer not just to clothing but also a cloth that covers a sleeping person (Gen 9:23) or an inanimate object (Exod 12:34).6 A translation of “garment” in Deut 22:5 is justified, however, because of the verb; the root /LBŠ/ is common in Semitic languages, with the meaning “to put on, wear, be clothed.”7 The fact that the words h#) and rbg unquestionably refer to some type of person of each gender (which I will consider in more detail below) further supports a conclusion that section 1b prohibits some form of transvestitism. Section 1a clearly parallels section 1b, but can we conclude that, like 1b, it bans the wearing of clothing of the opposite gender, as has generally been supposed? Traditionally, the two categories described in 1a and 1b have been defined simply as “man” (rbg) and “woman” (h#)), but if simple garment-related cross-dressing was all that the text intended to address, why use the word ylk instead of hlm# in association with rbg? Why use two different verbs to describe what is not to be done (1a: hyhy-)l; 1b: #bly-)l) if the actions being banned are identical for both the rbg and the h#)? Obviously something more is going on. Section 2 explains why the activities in sections 1a and 1b are prohibited. This part of the text presents no real difficulties in basic word meanings but rather problems of interpretation, notably the term hwhy tb(wt.
II. Transvestitism as a Social Phenomenon Transvestitism is often simply defined as the practice of one gender wearing clothing specifically designated as exclusive to the other. Gender-specific objects or 6 HALOT,
1337–38; BDB, 971. HALOT, 519–20; BDB, 527. Cognates for the root /LBŠ/ appear in Akkadian, Arabic, Aramaic, Ethiopic and Ugaritic. 7
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garments are part of the larger concept of gender roles, which form a basic feature of one’s place in society. While it is not difficult to imagine someone wearing the garments of a different gender for purely practical reasons (a man wearing a woman’s coat to survive in a blizzard, for example), such circumstances are not likely to be viewed as transvestitism. The etymology of the term “transvestite” itself implies some sort of crossing between categories, and, in most cases, the decision to wear an article of clothing or use an object specific to another gender is done with the intention of mimicking that gender in some way.8 In his study of the sociology of transvestites and transsexuals, Dave King remarks that many scholars and physicians view transgender behaviors as psychological conditions existing apart from cultural and historical contexts, and that in their view “science has simply discovered what is given in nature.” He adds, however, that this approach is problematic: But it is also possible to view the categories of transvestite and transsexual and their respective “isms” as historically and culturally specific constructions. Thus the meanings which cross-dressing and sex-changing have in our culture are rendered problematic and contingent rather than being taken for granted as representing “reality.” Apparently similar phenomena in other cultures and at other times cannot simply be subsumed under our own categories but must be viewed within their own cultural contexts; contexts which do not simply provide different settings for the same phenomenon but which actually form part of the phenomenon itself. In this view science is not simply discovering the phenomenon but is involved in its creation.9
In other words, like gender roles in general, transvestitism is a cultural construct built atop a biological reality. The physical existence of male and female is assigned meaning by society, and this meaning will manifest itself in both objects and activities. These can vary widely and have a direct and important impact on both the decision to cross-dress and how it is done. King provides three examples of transvestite behavior from three different cultures to illustrate his point: the homosexual “Mollies Clubs” from London in the seventeenth century, the “Nadle” of the Native American Navajo of New Mexico, and the modern Western transvestite.10 In each case the transvestites act according to a social script that varies widely between examples. The cross-dressers 8 The origin of the related word “travesty” also lies in cross-dressing. See the discussion in Römer, “Randbemerkungen zur Travestie,” 219–22; and Hallo, Book of the People, 98. 9 Dave King, The Transvestite and the Transsexual: Public Categories and Private Identities (Aldershot: Avebury, 1993), 3 (emphasis in original). 10 Ibid., 7–9. For the “Mollies Clubs,” see E. Ward, The Secret History of the London Clubs (London: J. Dutton, 1709; repr., 1896), 5; and Alan Bray, Homosexuality in Renaissance England (2nd ed.; London: Gay Men’s Press, 1995), 86–88. For the Nadle, see W. W. Hill, “The Status of the Hermaphrodite and Transvestite in Navaho Culture,” American Anthropologist n.s. 37 (1935): 273– 79. For the modern Western transvestite, see Richard F. Docter, Transvestites and Transsexuals: Toward a Theory of Cross-Gender Behavior (New York: Plenum, 1988).
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of the Mollies Clubs mimicked what they believed to be typical female behavior, with a focus on such things as gossip about (in this case imaginary) husbands and children, trying to bring English customs of the day into their subculture.11 The Navajo Nadle actually refers to two types of people: hermaphrodites (which probably refers to people born with ambiguous genitalia), who are regarded as the “true” Nadle, and transvestites of both genders, who are said to be pretending to be a Nadle. Indeterminate gender is respected in Navajo culture, and the Nadle are regarded as bringers of good fortune who in the mythic past supported the supremacy of men. This high status is sought by the transvestite Nadle.12 The modern Western transvestite presents an interesting distribution of data. Males dressing as females have been widely studied in psychological literature, but females dressing as males much less so.13 Western men who cross-dress include homosexual drag queens and female impersonators, both primary and secondary transsexuals, and fetishistic heterosexual transvestites.14 Except for primary transsexuals (whose interest is not in dressing as the opposite sex but in physically being the opposite sex), a strong cultural element is central to the behavior. Richard F. Docter traces the development of male heterosexual transvestitism from an early childhood fetish to partial cross-dressing reinforced by sexual pleasure in adolescence, which then, in adulthood, often moves into complete cross-dressing and the assumption of a female “cross-gender identity” that either stabilizes as subordinate to the transvestite’s male identity or in rare cases progresses to secondary transsexualism.15 Docter hypothesizes the causes of this behavior as follows: First, is learning about one’s gender, including the rules and behaviors demanded within a given society and social group. Second, is learning to be envious of the opposite gender. This is the view that women have a life easier and better than men. While gender envy cannot explain all cross dressing behavior, it has been extensively cited as a factor in the development of cross-gender behavior. Third, is learning that women’s clothing, especially intimate apparel, is “forbidden fruit” for males in our culture. Our socialization may somehow contribute to making such clothing especially erotic in the eyes of young boys.16
Culture, in other words, is a primary factor in the psychological development of the fetishistic male transvestite, but what is equally important for our purposes is that the “cross-gender identity” that emerges with this phenomenon is manifested through Western cultural ideas about gender roles. Social factors also explain why women cross-dress as men. Female transvestitism is usually focused on the desire to gain male opportunity and status in 11
Bray, Renaissance England, 88. Hill, “Navaho Culture,” 273–76. 13 Docter, Transvestites and Transsexuals, 12–13. 14 See ibid., 9–38, for a more detailed discussion of these categories. 15 Ibid., 201–15. 16 Ibid., 222–23. 12
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cultures where roles for women are restricted (I term this phenomenon “opportunistic female transvestitism”). For this reason female transvestitism is often seen as an effort by women to “improve” themselves by becoming more like men, and it lacks the social stigma attached to male cross-dressing, which is considered a deliberate and irrational willingness to reduce one’s social status.17 During the Middle Ages women who disguised themselves as men were generally tolerated and even encouraged, particularly when they sought to cross-dress for religious reasons and provided they did not impose themselves too much on male roles (as Joan of Arc did, which resulted in her execution).18 In other periods the same pattern remains, with examples of women passing as men in such traditionally masculine roles as soldier and sailor.19 As modern women are more and more able to assume these roles without having to disguise their female gender, along with an increased tolerance of women wearing types of clothing previously reserved for men, the prevalence of female transvestitism in the West has declined, leaving primary transsexuals and certain homosexuals as the most common groups of female crossdressers. Indeed, in modern Western culture it is only with effort that a woman can be viewed as a cross-dresser at all. Like opportunistic female transvestites, neither transsexual women nor homosexual women generally find male clothing particularly erotic, and this lack of a sexual motive for female transvestitism is an added reason for the greater tolerance of it in Western society, which has a difficult and often hostile attitude toward sexual matters in general.20
III. Transvestitism in the Ancient Near East To understand Deut 22:5, we must therefore understand the social meanings of transvestitism and gender roles in ancient Israel and the ancient Near East. Since our section 1b does prohibit cross-dressing of some kind, and since our section 2 describes it as a hwhy tb(wt, establishing the precise meaning of this latter term provides a good starting point for such an understanding. In general, both the word hb(wt and the term hwhy tb(wt can refer to either an ethical offense or a cultic offense, so it is important to determine which sort is 17 Vern L. Bullough, “Transvestites in the Middle Ages,” American Journal of Sociology 79 (1974): 1381–94; Charlotte Suthrell, Unzipping Gender: Sex, Cross-dressing and Culture (Oxford: Berg, 2004), 26. 18 Bullough, “Middle Ages,” 1390. 19 See the cases in C. J. S. Thompson, The Mysteries of Sex: Women Who Posed as Men and Men Who Impersonated Women (New York: Causeway Books, 1974). 20 For the rare examples of fetishistic cross-dressing in women, see Robert J. Stoller, “Transvestism in Women,” Archives of Sexual Behavior 11 (1982): 99–115, esp. 111–12, on the question of the erotic value of male clothing among female homosexuals. On the hostility of Western society toward sexuality, see Suthrell, Unzipping Gender, 124.
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being described here.21 As a rule we may describe an ethical violation as one in which the action of the perpetrator harms another person, while a cultic violation breaks a rule of purity or ritual specific to the practice of the cult. In the ancient Near East both were considered offensive to the gods.22 There is little evidence of transvestitism elsewhere in the Hebrew Bible or in other material from ancient Israel,23 but evidence of both transgender behavior and/or mythology does exist in the neighboring cultures of Canaan, Mesopotamia, and Egypt. From Egypt the most famous example is the Pharaoh Hatshepsut (ca. 1478/72–1458 b.c.e.), who, after seizing power, had herself depicted with such male (and pharaonic) features as a beard, male kilt, and crown. Representations of her body show that of a man, lacking female breasts.24 Although there was no specific reason why a woman could not be pharaoh—and Hatshepsut was not the first woman to take the throne (the last ruler of the Twelfth Dynasty, Sobeknofru, was a woman), Hatshepsut’s assumption of masculine traits and iconography was exceptional.25 In addition to Hatshepsut, there is evidence that transgender behavior occurred at the court of Akhenaten (1353–1336 b.c.e.), where the king is often depicted with feminine hips and his wife Nefertiti with the crown normally reserved for the pharaoh; the meaning of this iconography is still unclear.26 We have more references to the actual practice of cross-dressing from Canaan and Mesopotamia, virtually all of it in cultic settings, and there are numerous terms for individuals whose gender does not appear to have been specifically male or female, including assinnu, kulu 'u, and kurgarrû in Akkadian and sag-ur-sag, gala, and pi-li-pi-li in Sumerian.27 Much of the activity of these individuals revolved around the worship of Ashtarte and Inanna/Ištar, and one of the better-known epithets for Ištar was “the one who can change woman into man and man into 21 HALOT, 1702–4; BDB, 1072–73. The term hwhy tb(wt first appears in Deuteronomy (HALOT, 1703), and most of the references to this expression are clearly cultic, e.g., Deut 12:31; 17:1; 23:19; 27:25. A few are ethical, however, e.g., 25:15–16. Further appearances of this term are discussed in Otto Bächli, Israel und die Völker: Eine Studie zum Deuteronomium (ATANT 41; Zurich: Zwingli, 1962), 53–55. 22 See the discussion of this distinction in Hallo, “Biblical Abominations,” 21–40; and idem, Book of the People, 97–99. 23 Suthrell, Unzipping Gender, 126. 24 Joyce Tyldesley, Egypt’s Golden Empire: The Age of the New Kingdom (London: Headline, 2001), 59. 25 Ibid., 63. 26 Lise Manniche, Sexual Life in Ancient Egypt (London: Kegan Paul, 2002), 25–27. 27 Transgender behavior often appears in ritual contexts in the ancient world; see Will Roscoe, “Priests of the Goddess: Gender Transgression in Ancient Religion,” HR 35 (1996): 195– 230. For a discussion of the numerous titles for individuals with unusual sexual roles in the Mesopotamian cult, see Richard A. Henshaw, Female and Male: The Cultic Personnel: The Bible and the Rest of the Ancient Near East (Princeton Theological Monograph Series 31; Allison Park, PA: Pickwick, 1994), 284–311.
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woman.”28 This gender ambiguity appears in numerous ritual texts of Inanna/Ištar: a hymn to Inanna from the reign of Iddin-Dagan of Isin (1974–1954 b.c.e.), for example, describes a procession that includes the sag-ur-sag, whom Daniel Reisman describes as male prostitutes.29 Gwendolyn Leick, however, contends that these are individuals with ambiguous genitalia who were accepted into Mesopotamian society by assigning them an unusual gender role.30 The sag-ur-sag carry symbols of both genders and dress as both as well (lines 60–63a): a2-zi-da-bi-a tug2-nita2 bi2-in-mu4 ku3-dInanna-ra igi-ni-še3 i3-dib-be2 nin-gal-an-na dInanna-ra silim-ma ga-na-ab-be2-en a2-gub3-bu-bi-a tug2-nam-mi2 mu-ni-si-ig ku3-dInanna-ra igi-ni-še3 i3-dib-be2 They adorn their right side with the clothing of women. They walk before pure Inanna. I would cry “Hail!” to Inanna, the great lady. They place the clothing of men on their left side. They walk before pure Inanna.31
It is difficult to call the sag-ur-sag transvestites, since their original sex is nowhere clearly stated in this text. Rather than the transition from one gender to the other, perhaps they embody the duality of gender that Inanna/Ištar represents. However, the sag-ur-sag are followed by what to the Mesopotamians would probably have been true transvestites: young men carrying hoops (a female symbol), and young women who seem to be carrying weapons (a male symbol).32 Apart from their challenge to traditional Mesopotamian gender roles, the precise meaning of this and similar activities remains unclear. Richard A. Henshaw concludes that these rituals are acting out in dramatic form the power of Inanna to change a 28 For the activities of transgendered individuals, see Römer, “Randbemerkungen zur Travestie,” 217–22. Ištar’s power to change a person’s gender is discussed in Gwendolyn Leick, Sex and Eroticism in Mesopotamian Literature (London: Routledge, 1994), 159. 29 For a detailed discussion of ritual texts relating to Ištar, see Brigitte R. M. Groneberg, Lob der Ištar: Gebet und Ritual an die altbabylonische Venusgöttin: Tanatti Ištar (Cuneiform Monographs 8; Groningen: Styx, 1997). The ritual that includes the sag-ur-sag is discussed in Daniel Reisman, “Iddin-Dagan’s Sacred Marriage Hymn,” JCS 25 (1973): 185–202; the full text was published by W. H. P. Römer, Sumerische ‘Königshymnen’ der Isin-Zeit (Documenta et monumenta Orientis antiqui 13; Leiden: Brill, 1965). 30 Leick, Sex and Eroticism, 158–59. 31 Text from Römer, Sumerische ‘Königshymnen,’ 130; and Daniel Reisman, “Two NeoSumerian Royal Hymns” (Ph.D. diss., University of Pennsylvania, 1969), 151–52. 32 Lines 68–73 (Leick, Sex and Eroticism, 159). The significance of symbols in relation to gender in the ancient Near East has been described by Hoffner (“Symbols,” 326–34). I will consider his conclusions below.
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person’s gender, while S. M. Maul has argued that those with uncertain gender were thought to be able to enter trancelike states and serve as a conduit between the living and the dead; he pays particular attention to this role in the composition The Descent of Ištar.33 For our purposes, what is most noteworthy is the fact that the cross-dressing described in these texts occurs specifically in the context of the cult, although the titles of these individuals also appear in economic texts in association with names, which means that they must have also had a noncultic social meaning much like any profession.34 We have no evidence, however, that any of these individuals crossdressed or otherwise exhibited transgender behavior in noncultic contexts. It is clear that in the normal gender ideology of ancient Near Eastern cultures, male and female roles were sharply defined and fixed.35 The idea that Mesopotamian transvestitism was institutionalized for only a limited number of cultic functionaries and contexts, and not in the broader society, is supported by the anthropology of transvestitism itself. Anthropologists originally hypothesized that societies with rigid gender distinctions would be more likely to create transvestite gender roles as a way for males in particular to escape the sometimes difficult and demanding criteria of their gender role (as seems to have been the case with the Berdache of the highly militarized Native American tribes of North America), but Robert L. Munroe et al. have shown that more often the opposite is true, that societies with rigid gender roles are less likely to have institutionalized transvestitism than those where the cultural difference between male and female is less distinct.36 So while transvestites exist in societies with a strict division of gender, their behavior is generally taboo. We must therefore consider the question of whether transvestitism in the ancient Near East was acceptable in some circumstances but not in others, just as male transvestitism is tolerated at Halloween but not at other times in our own culture. The small amount of evidence that does exist for nonritual types of crossdressing in Mesopotamia may bear this out: the Babylonian adage about the man and his wife switching roles, for example, seems to have no cultic meaning and may
33 Henshaw, Female and Male, 294. S. M. Maul, “kurgarrû und assinnu und ihr Stand in der babylonischen Gesellschaft,” in Außenseiter und Randgruppen (ed. V. Haas; Konstanzer Althistorische Vorträge und Forschungen 32; Konstanz: Universitätsverlag, 1992), 159–71. 34 Henshaw, Female and Male, 306. 35 See Marten Stol, “Private Life in Mesopotamia,” in CANE 1: 485–501, esp. 490–91. 36 For the Berdache, see E. A. Hoebel, Man in the Primitive World (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1949), 459; and Donald G. Forgey, “The Institution of Berdache Among the North American Plains Indians,” Journal of Sex Research 11 (1975): 1–15, esp. 9–14. The appearance of transvestitism relative to the rigidity of gender roles has been studied by Robert L. Munroe, John W. M. Whiting, and David J. Hally, “Institutionalized Male Transvestism and Sex Distinctions,” American Anthropologist n.s. 71 (1969): 87–91.
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instead be presenting marital sex play.37 The first four lines have been restored as follows: [a]-h~ ur-ru-u2 [a-n]a DAM-šu i-qab-bi [at]-ti lu et-lu i [a-na-k]u lu ar-da-tu The [coarse] man said to his wife: “May [you] be the young man! May [I] be the young woman!”38
The first line of the text has been treated as either [a]-h~ ur-ru-u2 (“a coarse, boorish man”) or [a]-mur-ru-u2 (“Amorite”).39 Given that the text has a Middle Assyrian date, a reference to an Amorite seems less likely, since that ethnic group appears mostly in texts from the Ur III and Old Babylonian periods.40 If, on the other hand, the text is describing a coarse person, this may indicate that purely sexual transvestitism was regarded as unsavory in Mesopotamia. This is crucial: if only cultic transvestitism was socially acceptable in the broader culture of the ancient Near East, it would indicate that the hwhy tb(wt from Deut 22:5 describes a cultic abomination rather than an ethical one. William W. Hallo has noted that Deuteronomy condemns more practices as abhorrent to Yahweh than any other book in the Hebrew Bible, and that many of the abominations listed in Deuteronomy are “precisely those cultic practices most sacred to foreign deities.”41 Deuteronomy is consciously trying, in other words, to make Israel different from its neighbors, particularly in regard to the official religion, which was a central feature of national culture throughout the Near East during the first millennium b.c.e. In the seventh century b.c.e., when Deuteronomy was written, political and cultural pressure on Israel from Mesopotamia was intense, and many of the laws found in Deuteronomy reflect resistance to this pressure.42 In the ideology of the authors of Deuteronomy, if transvestitism was a part of the religion of Israel’s neighbors, it had to be excluded from the cult of Yahweh. Noncultic transvestitism would probably not have been of interest to the Deuteronomic authors, since in all 37
Benno Landsberger, cited in Wilfred G. Lambert, Babylonian Wisdom Literature (Oxford: Clarendon, 1960), 225. 38 Text from Lambert, Babylonian Wisdom Literature, 226. 39 Ibid., 226; Römer prefers “Amorite” (“Randbemerkungen zur Travestie,” 222). 40 For the dating of this text, see Lambert, Babylonian Wisdom Literature, 225. The situation of the Amorites has been discussed by Paul-Alain Beaulieu, “The God Amurru as Emblem of Ethnic and Cultural Identity,” in Ethnicity in Ancient Mesopotamia: Papers Read at the 48th Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale, Leiden, 1–4 July 2002 (ed. W. H. van Soldt; Leiden: Nederlands Instituut Voor Het Nabije Oosten, 2005), 31–46, esp. 41–42. 41 Hallo, Book of the People, 98; idem, “Biblical Abominations,” 37. 42 Ronald E. Clements, “Deuteronomy, The Book of,” in The Oxford Companion to the Bible (ed. Bruce M. Metzger and Michael D. Coogan; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993), 164–68.
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likelihood they already shared a negative opinion of it with their non-Israelite neighbors and so could not use it as a basis for contrasting their beliefs.
IV. The Meanings of ylk and rbg Looking at our translations again, we see that each attempts to distinguish between the two nouns for the prohibited items in sections 1a and 1b, as well as the two verbs, even though the verbs are translated in much the same way, if we regard “to wear” and “to put on” as being effectively synonymous. Note how the NJPS translation uses “to put on” for the first verb and “to wear” for the second, while the other examples use these same English verbs in the opposite order. This presents a problem in that translating these two different verbs with the same English meaning masks what might be an important distinction between the difficult ylk of section 1a and the unambiguous hlm# of section 1b. The use of the verb hyh in section 1a is interesting; perhaps one cannot “put on” or “wear” a ylk. The general meaning of ylk is “article, utensil, vessel,” based on the root /KLH/, meaning “to stop, come to an end, be complete.”43 A related root, /KL'/, has the meaning “to shut up, restrain, withhold,” and the root /KLL/ has the meaning “to complete, perfect.” The sense of most other Hebrew words assigned to the biconsonantal root /KL-/ is generally one of completion and enclosure: )lk, “confinement, enclosure”; hlkm, “enclosure, fold”; hlk, “completion”; hlkm and hlkt, “completeness, perfection”; hylkt, “end, completeness”; lk, “all”; lylk, “entire, whole.”44 In other Semitic languages, we find kl' listed as a personal name in Ugaritic, along with klat, “both” (note klat ydh, “both his hands,” in vnt:I:11), which is cognate to the Hebrew My)lk, “twofold.”45 In Akkadian, we have the common verb kalû, meaning “to withhold, retain, hold back,” with a number of words based on the same root: kallu, “bowl”; kālû, “dam”; kīlâtu, “barrage”; kīlu, “enclosure”; maklûtu, “anchorage, berth.” The additional Akkadian meaning of “completeness” can be found in the words kališ, “everywhere, anywhere,” and kalu, “whole, entirety, all.”46
43
HALOT, 478–79; BDB, 479. See the entries in HALOT, 476–80, and BDB, 476–83. Gesenius noted these three roots in relation to ylk (Wilhelm Gesenius, Thesaurus philologicus criticus linguae hebraeae et chaldaeae, Veteris Testamenti [3 vols.; Leipzig: F. C. G. Vogelii, 1829–42], 685), and the initial /KL-/ common to them demonstrates a well-established phenomenon in the Semitic root system: a basic meaning found in a biconsonantal base which is then modified by a third consonant (Sabatino Moscati, et al., An Introduction to the Comparative Grammar of the Semitic Languages: Phonology and Morphology [Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1969], 72–75). 45 UT, 419. 46 See the entries in CAD: vol. 8, K, 73–74, 83, 87–91, 95–105, 359–61; vol. 10, M/1, 137. 44
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On this basis, a translation of ylk as “container” makes sense based on the roots /KLH/, /KL'/, and /KLL/, and we find this meaning in texts such as 1 Sam 17:40. We could extrapolate a meaning of “garment” based on the idea that clothes go over and around the body (much as we did with hlm#), but as noted above, the use of the verb hyh instead of #bl in Deut 22:5 would seem to discount this reading, and there is no unambiguous reading of ylk for “garment” elsewhere in the Hebrew Bible. Further, there are no cognates with this meaning attested in other Semitic languages. The translation of “apparel” or “garment” for ylk is usually based on its appearance in the plural as “garment” in Rabbinic Hebrew.47 This raises the question, however: Was the rabbinic translation actually based on an accurate understanding of the word, or was it based only on the context of the word in Deut 22:5, in which case we have a problem of circular reasoning? A second approach to understanding rbg-ylk appears in Harry A. Hoffner’s study of the symbols of gender in the ancient Near East. Hoffner argues that the idea of masculinity in ancient Near Eastern culture was based ultimately on a man’s strength in battle and his success in fathering children. This was reflected in a variety of symbols, as was the corresponding female ideal, which was based on sexual allure and motherhood. Just as the roles of male and female were distinct and complementary, so too were their symbols, which in ancient Israel included the bow and arrow for masculinity (2 Sam 1:22; 22:35; 2 Kgs 13:15–19; Hos 1:5; and Ps 127:4– 5). For femininity, the symbols included the spindle (Prov 31:19; 2 Sam 3:29) and, based on Deut 22:5, female garments.48 Hoffner’s comparative evidence for these symbols includes the Ugaritic stories of the hero Aqhat, who reproaches the goddess Anat for wanting to use a bow (2 Aqhat VI 39–40); the appearance of the bow as a precursor to sex in the Baal and Anat cycle (UT, 76:II and 132), and the West Semitic story of Asherah and Elkunirša, in which the power of the feminine symbol of the spindle is used as a threat. Hoffner also provides several Hittite texts to demonstrate that the same symbols operated in that culture, often in the context of magic, and he even finds these symbols in Homer’s Odyssey, where Odysseus alone is able to string his bow and Penelope works her loom while she waits for her husband’s return.49 In addition to Hoffner’s examples, there is a story from Egypt in which the goddess Anat is chastised for dressing as a man and acting as a warrior when she is attacked by the god Seth.50 The equating of the penis with a weapon (a mašgašu, or battle mace) also appears in the ŠA3.ZI.GA potency ritual KAR 236, lines 10–12:51 47
Jeffrey H. Tigay, Deuteronomy = [Devarim]: The Traditional Hebrew Text with the New JPS Translation (JPS Torah Commentary; Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1996), 200. 48 Hoffner, “Symbols,” 328–29. 49 Ibid., 329–32. The story of Asherah and Elkunirša is known from a Hittite translation (Harry A. Hoffner, “The Elkunirsa Myth Reconsidered,” RHA 23 [1965]: 5–16). 50 P. Chester Beatty VII, verso I, 5–II,3, cited in Manniche, Sexual Life, 22 and 54. 51 The CAD defines mašgašu as either a “tool” or a “part of a chariot” (CAD M/1, 364). Its
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GIM u2-ru SAL.UR isi-ba-tu2 u2-šar UR.GIR15 GIŠ3-ka li-ri-ka ma-la maš-ga-šu2 aš2-ba-ka ina bu-un-zer-ri ša2 sii-h} a-a-te As the pudenda of a bitch seized the penis of a dog, may your penis be as long as a battle mace! I am seated in a web of pleasures!52
Reaching an understanding of the male gender being symbolically associated with weapons in the ancient Near East, Hoffner concludes that rbg-ylk refers not to clothing but to a weapon, most likely a bow, arguing for a semantic relationship between ylk and the Akkadian word unūtu, “tools, equipment, utensils.” He concludes that Deut 22:5 was meant to prevent women from usurping masculine symbols and the power that went with them, but since clothing was not specifically identified with masculinity the way it was with femininity, the prevention of women taking on a male role was achieved not through a clothing ban but rather through a tool or weapon ban. Similarly, he argues that the ban on men wearing female clothing was designed not to prevent men from usurping female power, but to prevent that power from weakening them.53 It is worth noting that virtually all uses of the word ylk as “weapon” in the Hebrew Bible refer to military weapons (the sole exception is Gen 27:3),54 which means that a ban on women handling such weapons would include by implication a ban on women serving as soldiers. But is there any further evidence that ylk is a weapon, as Hoffner suggests? An answer to this question can be found by considering the choice of words for the two opposing categories in sections 1a and 1b of Deut 22:5: h#) for woman and rbg for man. h#) is a general word in Hebrew that refers to women; its masculine equivalent, #y), is likewise a general word that refers to men, and #y) would have been the logical choice if the author of this text had wanted to prohibit simple cross-dressing. The word used, however, was rbg, and since Deut 22:5 is the only place in the book of Deuteronomy where this word occurs, we must conclude that the choice of the word was intentional. The distinction between #y) and rbg is not made clear in our translations, which treat rbg as synonymous with #y), translating both as “man.” But the root /GBR/ has a very specific meaning: save for its appearance as “to do, make” in Ethiopic, it is associated with strength and power in every Semitic association with a weapon is based on the underlying verbal root /ŠGŠ/, which means “to slay in battle” or “murder” (CAD Š/1, 66–69). See Robert D. Biggs, ŠÀ.ZI.GA: Ancient Mesopotamian Potency Incantations (TCS 2; Locust Valley, NY: J. J. Augustin, 1967), 35 n. 11. 52 Text from Biggs, Potency Incantations, 33. 53 Hoffner, “Symbols,” 331–34. Hoffner argues that David’s curse on the house of Joab in 2 Sam 3:28–29, which includes a reference to Joab’s descendants forever holding “the spindle,” represents just such a symbolic attack on their masculinity. 54 K.-M. Beyse, “kelî,” TDOT 7:169–75.
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language in which it is attested (Hebrew, Aramaic, Arabic, and as gapāru in Akkadian).55 The word rbg itself occurs sixty-five times in the Hebrew Bible, and in his study of the word, Hans Kosmala defines it as follows: “a male person who distinguishes himself from others by his strength, or courage, or uprightness, or some other quality.” Kosmala divides the biblical appearance of rbg into three broad categories: reflecting physical strength and virility, reflecting an obedient relationship to Yahweh, and the way the word is used in the book of Job. Physical strength is reflected in both military prowess and access to females; 1 Chr 23:3 refers to the Levites over thirty years of age serving under David; and Jer 41:16 refers to the rbg as men of war. In addition, in Jer 31:22, rbg is associated with hbqn, for which Kosmala argues a purely sexual and procreative meaning, also referring to the statement from the Song of Deborah promising “one or two wombs (Mytmxr Mxr) for every rbg” (Judg 5:30).56 The rbg, as a man in close relationship with Yahweh, reflects a common ideological perspective from the ancient Near East, where success was based in no small part on divine favor. A rbg, therefore, must by definition be supported by Yahweh, and must act according to his command. This meaning of the word is especially common in the book of Psalms, which at one point berates a rbg who trusts only in his material wealth (Ps 52:8–9). Proverbs 30 describes a rbg who admits his ignorance of the divine and the humility this knowledge brings.57 The most interesting use of rbg is in the book of Job, for here the word is basic to the very theme of the book: Yahweh’s test of a righteous man. Job argues that he was born a rbg (Job 3:3), which marks the only time in the Hebrew Bible that the word rbg is used to refer to anyone other than an adult male.58 One finds in Mesopotamia the idea that one’s fate (šīmtu) was determined at birth,59 which Job initially seems to share, adding to the emotional stress his misfortunes cause him. As the narrative develops, it is clear that the meaning of the word rbg is being discussed throughout it; can one be born a rbg, as Job claims, or is the status earned? And must the rbg be continually upright if he is to retain his superior status? The vanity of the rbg, as symbolized by Job, will be brought low by Yahweh (Job 33). In the end, Job, and thereby the rbg, discovers humility before the divine, and in this way the text has a strong parallel with the Babylonian composition Ludlul Bel Nemeqi, in which a superior man is brought low and then restored by Marduk.60 The message in Job also serves to refute any idea of predestination, for it is 55
Hans Kosmala, “gābhar, gebhûrāh, gebhîr, gibbôr, gebher,” TDOT 2:367–82. Kosmala, “The Term Geber in the Old Testament and in the Scrolls,” in Congress Volume: Rome 1968 (VTSup 17; Leiden: Brill, 1969), 159–69. 57 Ibid., 162. 58 Ibid., 164. 59 A. Leo Oppenheim, Ancient Mesopotamia: Portrait of a Dead Civilization (rev. ed. completed by Erica Reiner; Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1977), 202. 60 Kosmala, “Term Geber,” 166. For the texts and translation of Ludlul Bel Nemeqi, see 56 Hans
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only when Job discovers humility that he truly earns his status as a rbg, beginning with Yahweh’s statement in 40:7:
yn(ydwhw Kl)#) Kyclx rbgk )n-rz) Now gird your loins like a geber; I will question you, and you explain to me.
This is followed by Yahweh’s justification of his authority, and then Job’s repentance.61 It is with this definition of rbg in mind that we must evaluate the meaning of Deut 22:5.
V. Conclusions Women and men cross-dress for very different reasons, to the point that in many cases what a particular society considers transvestitism will be different for each gender. This explains the variation of both the nouns and the verbs in sections 1a and 1b of Deut 22:5. The verse is much more than a simple prohibition of particular wardrobes, and indeed in no way addresses the issue of women wearing masculine garments, since in the culture of ancient Israel the clothing of men was less associated with gender than was the clothing of women. Rather, the verse reflects the most basic ideology of gender in Israelite society, and to this end it distinguishes not simply between male and female but also between different qualities of men. The ideals of manhood and masculinity were not considered either simple or innate; one had to achieve them through action, behavior, and a good relationship with Yahweh. Contrary to Job’s initial claim, one could be born a male, an #y), but not a rbg.62 Further, to maintain one’s status as a rbg required effort, and there was the constant danger that such a man might slip from this superior state by displaying weakness, doubt in Yahweh, or even by inappropriate contact with the wrong items. Being exalted, a rbg had farther to fall than a mere #y). Building on Hoffner’s conclusion that in the ancient Near East it was believed that feminine symbols had the power to weaken masculinity, we can therefore see the provisions of Deut 22:5, at least in part, as an effort to protect the rbg.63 In section 1a, by prohibiting all women from accessing a weapon or any other symbol of power not of men in general but of the most masculine and religiously upright of men, the verse sets the rbg clearly apart from women and the danger they represent. In section 1b, Lambert, Babylonian Wisdom Literature, 21–62; a more recent translation is in Benjamin R. Foster, Before the Muses: An Anthology of Akkadian Literature (3rd ed.; Bethesda, MD: CDL, 2005), 392– 409. 61 The process of Job discovering what it is to be a rbg is discussed in detail by Kosmala (“Term Geber,” 164–67). 62 Ibid., 165. 63 See n. 53 above. Hoffner’s analysis makes no distinction between the #y) and the rbg.
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the prohibition of active contact with a potent symbol of all women (wearing a h#) tlm#), sets up the warning in part 2 for the rbg not to fall from his exalted place by engaging in practices similar to the religious rituals of Israel’s polytheistic neighbors and thereby offending Yahweh. It is equally important to remember, however, that not every man could be a rbg, and the existence of both the words #y) and rbg in Biblical Hebrew shows a degree of social flexibility in the Israelite conception of manhood that in other male-dominated societies, such as the Native American tribes of the Great Plains, was handled by the creation of a transvestite class (the Berdache).64 By distinguishing between the #y) and the rbg, Israelite society allowed men who did not meet the difficult expectations of the masculine ideal to remain culturally male (since transvestitism was frowned upon and therefore could not serve as an outlet), while at the same time providing them with a goal of superior manhood to which they might aspire. Seen in this light, the text of Jer 30:6, in which Yahweh chastises Israel and Judah for doubting that he will restore them, includes a second, more veiled condemnation of transgender behavior by a rbg:
hdlwyk wyclx-l( wydy rbg-lk yty)r (wdm Why do I see every geber (with) his hands on his loins like a woman in labor?
Even the best of men, Jeremiah argues, have become like a woman in her most vulnerable and feminine condition, which for the Israelite concept of masculinity is a clear insult, since the image of labor pain and the cries associated with it is a common motif for women in anguish in the ancient Near East. Note the cries of the goddess Bēlet-ilī as she laments the flood in the Gilgamesh Epic (tablet 11:117– 18): i-šas-si diš-tar [k]i-ma a-lit-ti u2-nam-bi Bēlet-ilī (DINGIR.MAH~ ) tai -bat rig-ma The goddess, screaming like a woman in childbirth, Bēlet-ilī, the sweet-voiced, wailed aloud.65
By implication through Deut 22:5, a rbg who behaves like a woman has not merely shown himself to be weak but has also committed an abomination. For the h#), Deut 22:5 maintains her gender role as both a sexual ornament and a mother, and it is noteworthy that when women do participate in war in the Hebrew Bible, they do not employ traditional weapons or tactics (Jael killing Sisera with guile and a tent peg in Judg 4:17–21, for example).66 In turn, the use of the fem64
See n. 36 above. Text from Andrew R. George, The Babylonian Gilgamesh Epic: Introduction, Critical Edition and Cuneiform Texts (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 710–11. 66 The apocryphal book of Judith presents an exception to this, since Judith kills the Assyrian general Holofernes with his own sword (13:6–10). It is noteworthy that Judith’s relative free65
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inine equivalents of rbg, hrybg and trbg, is rare in the Hebrew Bible.67 Like rbg, these terms can reflect either power or other authority: hrybg is used for “queen” (1 Kgs 11:19), or “queen-mother” (1 Kgs 15:13; 2 Chr 15:16), and trbg for “mistress” (Gen 16:8; Prov 30:23), or a vain female who has fallen (Isa 47:5 and 7), paralleling the similar use of rbg in Job. It is noteworthy that neither hrybg nor trbg is used in Proverbs 31, which describes the ideal wife as an h#) (31:10 and 31:30). While this is limited evidence, it does seem to indicate that the feminine forms of the root /GBR/ reflected political power alone and rarely displayed the additional sexual, military, or religious nuances found in the masculine. In ancient Israel, such subtle distinctions within a gender were less marked for women, probably reflecting their lower status in the patriarchal society common to the entire ancient Near East. Rabbinic commentary on Deut 22:5 shows that the problems presented by this verse were already being debated in late antiquity. In Sifre on Deuteronomy 226, the discussion focuses first on the intermingling of the sexes, as follows:
My#n)h Nybl Kltw #bwl #y)h# Krdk h#) #blt )l# rbd l# wllk whz My#nh Nybl Klyw My#n y+y#ktb +#qty )l #y)hw This is the basic meaning of the matter: that a woman shall not dress in the way that a man dresses, and go among the men, and the man will not ornament himself in the ornaments of women, and go out among the women.68
Note that in this passage, the terms #y) and h#) are used, indicating an understanding of rbg as synonymous with the more general word for “man.” The text continues with the following:
hmxlml )ctw Nyyz ylk h#) #blt )l# Nynm rmw) bq(y Nb rz(yl) ybr Rabbi Eliezer ben Jacob says, “How do we know that a woman must not put on the weapon of a man and go out to war?”69
Here we see the use of the root /LBŠ/ in association with ylk, which, as noted above, could be defined as a garment by the rabbinic period, and which therefore
dom and assumption of what in the ancient Near East were traditional male behaviors may well have been a major reason for the exclusion of the book of Judith from the canonical Hebrew Bible (Toni Craven, Artistry and Faith in the Book of Judith [SBLDS 70; Chico, CA: Scholars Press, 1983], 117–18). 67 HALOT, 173, 176; BDB, 150. 68 Text from Louis Finkelstein, Sifre on Deuteronomy (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1969), 258. For translations of this passage, see also Reuven Hammer, Sifre: A Tannaitic Commentary on the Book of Deuteronomy (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1986); and Jacob Neusner, Sifre to Deuteronomy (BJS 124; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1987). 69 Text from Finkelstein, Sifre on Deuteronomy, 258.
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could be worn. More interesting for our purposes, however, is the reference to war, because Eliezer ben Jacob’s speculation makes no reference to cultic activities at all. This view was taken up by Maimonides, who translated ylk as “armor,” and Jeffrey Tigay argues that this verifies the interpretation of ylk as “weapon.”70 It appears that Eliezer ben Jacob saw the use of rbg rather than #y) for “man” and regarded the distinction between the two as important. War was an activity properly restricted to males, but, more than this, it represented an important expression of masculine activity; not all men were warriors, but the rbg usually was. This represents a logical expansion of the statement that precedes it, that men and women not mix in their activities, but also shows a more nuanced understanding of the different words for “man.” It is worth noting that by the period of the tannaitic sages, the particular cultic activities of the neighbors of Israel that had been in practice when Deuteronomy was written had long since vanished with those neighbors, and so a complete understanding of them would probably have been alien to the authors of Sifre on Deuteronomy. Our own difficulty in understanding the meaning of Deut 22:5 is likewise partly cultural, since we lack the understanding of the symbols of gender in the ancient Near East that a native would have had. The Israelite conception of transvestitism was not the same as transvestitism in modern Western culture; it was based on a cultic tradition absent today, and there is no evidence that the terms hlm#, h#) tlm#, or for that matter any other Biblical Hebrew words related to clothing, had the erotic connotations of the modern English word “lingerie” (modern Hebrew uses Mynbl). That no form of women’s clothing was specifically eroticized in ancient Israel rendered a basic cause of male fetishistic transvestitism inoperative in that culture. The Israelites did restrict opportunistic female transvestitism, at least in matters of war, much like the societies of the pre-modern west. Our difficulty with interpretation and translation is also partly linguistic: the Hebrew source language has different words for different qualities of men, while English tends to group them together under the general term “man,” using adjectives to be more specific. An understanding of the cultural nature of transvestitism, as well as the use of comparative material from other cultures of the ancient Near East, has helped determine the meaning of ylk in Deut 22:5, and a willingness to add an adjective in the English where none exists in the Hebrew can help with the question of #y) versus rbg, allowing us more clearly to distinguish between the precise type of “man” being referred to and the general category of “woman” that is being contrasted with it. Our translation, therefore, should read something like this: A woman shall not be associated with the instrument of a superior man, and a superior man shall not wear the garment of a woman, for whoever does these things is a cultic abomination to Yahweh your God. 70 Moses Maimonides, The Guide of the Perplexed (trans. Shlomo Pines; Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1963), 544. Tigay, Deuteronomy, 200.
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In Search of the Narrator’s Voice: A Discourse Analysis of 2 Kings 18:13–16 yoo-ki kim [email protected] Seoul Women’s University, Seoul 139-774, Republic of Korea
The accounts of Sennacherib’s invasion of Judah in 2 Kgs 18:13–19:37 have been the subject of much scholarly debate.1 We can discern at least two distinct accounts in the story of Sennacherib’s invasion. In the first, shorter account (account A; 18:13–16), Hezekiah surrenders to Sennacherib’s demands by paying him silver and gold. In the second, longer account (account B; 18:17–19:37), Sennacherib sends his envoys to persuade Hezekiah, who seems to be resistant this time. Ultimately Jerusalem miraculously survives the Assyrian campaign, thus fulfilling the prophet Isaiah’s oracle of salvation. Brevard S. Childs further distinguishes two layers in account B: B1 covers 18:17–19:9a, 36–37, and B2, 19:9b–35.2 His suggestions are generally followed with minor variations.3 In this article, I use the term “account B” to refer to both the accounts B1 and B2. Scholars have taken different avenues to account for these apparently contradictory accounts (account A and account B). Most approaches have been historical This work was supported by a special research grant from Seoul Women’s University (2008). 1 For a sample of scholarly works on Sennacherib’s invasion of Judah, see the bibliography section of the volume recently edited by Lester L. Grabbe: ‘Like a Bird in a Cage’: The Invasion of Sennacherib in 701 BCE (JSOTSup 363; European Seminar in Historical Methodology 4; London: Sheffield Academic Press, 2003), 324–46. 2 Brevard S. Childs, Isaiah and the Assyrian Crisis (SBT 2/3; Naperville, IL: Allenson, 1967), 73–74. 3 See, e.g., Francolino J. Gonçalves, L’expédition de Sennachérib en Palestine dans la littérature hébraïque ancienne (Publications de l’Institut orientaliste de Louvain 34; Paris: Gabalda, 1986), 354; Iain W. Provan, Hezekiah and the Books of Kings: A Contribution to the Debate about the Composition of the Deuteronomistic History (BZAW 172; Berlin/New York: de Gruyter, 1988), 120–30.
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or critical.4 The accounts are further complemented by the parallel narratives in 2 Chronicles 32 and Isaiah 36–37 as well as the extrabiblical sources such as the annals of Sennacherib and the relief describing the siege of Lachish discovered in Sennacherib’s palace at Nineveh.5 These biblical and extrabiblical sources allow us to look at the historical reality from different angles. However, these sources do not report the campaign in one voice. For example, while the annals of Sennacherib boast of Sennacherib’s successful Palestinian campaign, the Hebrew Bible mentions the deliverance of Jerusalem and the defeat of the Assyrians. These contradictory accounts keep students of today from drawing a decisive conclusion about what really happened. Some scholars have even tried to explain the two accounts in Kings as reflecting two campaigns by Sennacherib.6 However, in a literary approach that follows the lead of Donald J. Wiseman, who observed that 2 Kgs 18:17–37 is parallel to 18:13–16, Richard S. Hess asserts that account B is an elaboration of account A.7 He further argues that accounts A and B follow the “techniques of resumption and expansion” often found in the OT, where the first, shorter summary of the narrative is followed by a second, longer account, offering details of the same event as the first.8 In this article, I will not delve into the question of the historicity of different sources or trace the textual development. Rather, I will focus on the linguistic features of the first, short account in 2 Kgs 18:13–16. This is deemed “an accurate statement of what had happened” by many scholars, according to Lester L. Grabbe, 4 For
a historical survey of Sennacherib study, see Lester L. Grabbe, “Introduction,” in Like a Bird, ed. Grabbe, 20–36. 5 For the relationship of the texts of the story in 2 Kings and Isaiah, see, e.g., August H. Konkel, “The Sources of the Story of Hezekiah in the Book of Isaiah,” VT 43 (1993): 462–82. John Bright argues that 2 Kgs 18:14–16 is “remarkably corroborated and supplemented by” the annals of Sennacherib (A History of Israel [4th ed.; Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2000], 299). However, John B. Geyer refutes such a correspondence, mainly because 2 Kgs 18:14–16 does not mention a siege of Jerusalem (“2 Kings XVIII 14–16 and the Annals of Sennacherib,” VT 21 [1971]: 604–6). For a recent study of the Assyrian sources of the Sennacherib’s campaign, see Walter Mayer, “Sennacherib’s Campaign of 701 BCE: The Assyrian View,” in Like a Bird, ed. Grabbe, 168–200. On the reliefs that portray the capture of Lachish, see Ruth Jacoby, “The Representation and Identification of Cities on Assyrian Reliefs,” IEJ 41 (1991): 130–31; Christoph Uehlinger, “Clio in a World of Pictures—Another Look at the Lachish Reliefs from Sennacherib’s Southwest Palace at Nineveh,” in Like a Bird, ed. Grabbe, 221–305. 6 See, e.g., Bright, History, 298–309; and William H. Shea, “Sennacherib’s Second Palestinian Campaign,” JBL 104 (1985): 401–18. 7 Donald J. Wiseman, 1 and 2 Kings: An Introduction and Commentary (TOTC 9; Leicester: InterVarsity, 1993), 274–76; Richard S. Hess, “Hezekiah and Sennacherib in 2 Kings 18–20,” in Zion, City of Our God (ed. Richard S. Hess and Gordon J. Wenham; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1999), 36. 8 Hess, “Hezekiah and Sennacherib,” 37.
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but is missing from the parallel narratives in Chronicles and Isaiah.9 The passage in question is clearly delimited by its stylistic features, as I will show below. James A. Montgomery and Henry Snyder Gehman think that it “stands apart as of annalistic character with its curt detail, without moral judgment.”10 According to Hess, too, this passage is “concise with no theology or moral judgment.”11 P. Kyle McCarter further characterizes this passage as follows: The opening section (2 Kings 18:13–16) is a straightforward summary of the events, describing the devastation of the Judahite countryside by the Assyrian army and Hezekiah’s payment of tribute to Sennacherib. The businesslike tone of this passage and the absence of ideological or even interpretive expansion suggest that it is a quotation from an early annalistic source.12
The passage is indeed a summary of events, and the narrative flows quite fast in this small number of verses. However, the representation of events is inevitably selective, in both quantity and quality, as may be expected in any historical statement. In quantity, the author can write only limited information out of the historical continuum, and in quality, only the information deemed most important and relevant is selected. Moreover, according to Childs, the presumed author of the passage has “expressed himself in his own style,” while using older sources.13 John Gray also sees in this passage not only “close reliance on an annalistic source” but also “adaptation by the Deuteronomistic compiler.”14 For example, how Hezekiah could meet Sennacherib’s demand is described in some detail (vv. 15–16). Furthermore, the author expresses his judgment on and evaluation of the events or the people involved using a variety of devices that I will examine below.
I. An Overview of 2 Kings 18:13–16 Translation of the Passage Presented below are the Hebrew text of 2 Kgs 18:13–16 (according to BHS) and an English translation. Each unit marked by a letter (a–j) represents a clause; 9 Lester L. Grabbe, “Reflections on the Discussion,” in Like a Bird, ed. Grabbe, 308–9. Isaiah 36:1 corresponds to 2 Kgs 18:13, but 2 Kgs 18:14–16 has no corresponding material in Isaiah. 10 James A. Montgomery and Henry Snyder Gehman, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Books of Kings (ICC; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1951), 482. 11 Hess, “Hezekiah and Sennacherib,” 26. 12 P. Kyle McCarter, Jr., “The Divided Monarchy: The Kingdoms of Judah and Israel,” in Ancient Israel: From Abraham to the Roman Destruction of the Temple (ed. Hershel Shanks; rev. ed.; Washington, DC: Biblical Archaeology Society, 1999), 179. 13 Childs, Assyrian Crisis, 70. 14 John Gray, I & II Kings: A Commentary (OTL; 3rd ed.; London: SCM, 1977), 660.
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however, the relative clause embedded in i is not given an independent letter since it simply modifies a noun phrase of the main clause. Division by Clause of 2 Kings 18:13–16 hyqzx Klml hn# hr#( (br)bw twrcbh hdwhy yr(-lk-l( rw#)-Klm byrxns hl( M#ptyw rm)l h#ykl rw#)-Klm-l) hdwhy-Klm hyqzx xl#yw yt)+x yl(m bw# )#) yl( Ntt-r#) t) Psk-rkk tw)m #l# hdwhy-Klm hyqzx-l( rw#)-Klm M#yw bhz rkk My#l#w Klmh tyb twrc)bw hwhy-tyb )cmnh Pskh-lk-t) hyqzx Ntyw twnm)h-t)w hwhy lkyh twtld-t) hyqzx Ccq )yhh t(b hdwhy Klm hyqzx hpc r#) rw#) Klml Mntyw
a 13 b c 14 d e f g h 15 i 16 j
13 a In the fourteenth year of King Hezekiah, Sennacherib, king of Assyria, came up against all the fortified cities of Judah. b He seized them. 14 c Hezekiah sent (messengers) to the king of Assyria to Lachish (with the following words), d “I have sinned.” e “Turn away from me.” f “What you will give me (to do) I will carry out.” g The king of Assyria imposed on Hezekiah, king of Judah, three hundred talents of silver and thirty talents of gold. 15 h Hezekiah gave all the silver found in the house of Yahweh and in the storehouses of the house of the king. 16 i At that time, Hezekiah cut up the doors of the temple of Yahweh and the doorposts that Hezekiah, king of Judah, had overlaid. j He gave them to the king of Assyria.
The Passage as a Literary Unit It is Childs’s “account A” (2 Kgs 18:13–16) that we are mainly concerned with here. Critics have often seen more than one source for this passage. Already in the nineteenth century, B. Stade assumed that vv. 14–16 are an insertion from a different source, while vv. 13 and 17 belong together.15 Moreover, vv. 14–16 are not 15 B.
172.
Stade, “Miscellen: 16. Anmerkungen zu 2 Kö. 15–21: Zu 18,13–19,37,” ZAW 6 (1886):
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always taken as originating in a single source. For example, Mordechai Cogan and Hayim Tadmor consider v. 16 to be from one source, called “Temple chronicle,” and vv. 13b–15 to be from another, called “Judahite chronicle.”16 In the passage immediately preceding (18:9–12), the narrator recounts the events that occurred in the earlier years of King Hezekiah, that is, the fall of Samaria and the deportation of the Israelites, with comments attributing the disastrous events to disobedience to and breach of the covenant on the part of the Israelites. In account B (18:17–19:37), different threats by the Assyrians are presented, and the reported speech between the participants occupies the majority of the account, thus slowing down or interrupting the flow of the narrative. In account B, only thirteen of the fifty-eight verses consist purely of narrative frame without reported speech.17 The statistics contrast with our passage (18:13–16), which mainly consists of narrative frame with an interruption of reported speech only in v. 14. Regardless of whether the juxtaposition of accounts A and B constitutes the “techniques of resumption and expansion,”18 account A describes the events that are distinct both in content and in literary style from those in account B, at least in its present form. Thus, the former can be considered a self-contained literary unit. This is supported also by the analyses that follow. As a literary unit, the passage can be summarized as follows. An Outline of 2 Kings 18:13–16 a–b c–f g h i–j
Sennacherib’s attack and capture of the fortified cities of Judah Hezekiah’s initiative to appease Sennacherib Sennacherib’s demand for tribute Hezekiah’s submissive response Details of the measures that Hezekiah took to pay the tribute
II. Narrative and Dialogue Verbal Forms and Coherence of the Discourse The boundaries of the passage are clearly marked by the clauses that begin with prepositional phrases (clauses a and i), each followed by a clause (b and j, respectively) that describes an action that is naturally expected to result from the preceding action.
16 Mordechai Cogan and Hayim Tadmor, II Kings: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB 11; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1988), 228. According to their division, v. 13b begins with the verb hl(. 17 The thirteen verses are 18:17, 18, 36, 37; 19:1, 2, 5, 8, 9, 14, 35, 36, 37. 18 Hess, “Hezekiah and Sennacherib,” 37.
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Although preverbal elements in Biblical Hebrew often mark a focus or a topic,19 in clauses a and i, this is not the case.20 The prepositional phrases rather set the temporal background in which the events described in this passage take place. As temporal settings that delimit the initial and final events of this passage, these expressions help the discourse cohere in a more effective way, while serving as devices that make the passage distinct from those that follow. The other clauses (b, c, g, h, and j) are introduced by the wayyiqtōl verbal form, if we exclude those found in reported speeches (d, e, and f). This grammatical form is very often used in the narrative sequence for “the storyline or the backbone of a discourse.”21 Unlike the qātal form (as in a and i), the wayyiqtōl form is seldom preceded by a phrase.22 In terms of information structure, this means that in wayyiqtōl clauses a focus, a topical referent, or a temporal setting that can otherwise precede the verb is lacking. Rather, the main interest in the narrative is the flow of the story line. In qātal clauses, the action is anchored to a certain point in time, as explicitly shown by the phrases “the fourteenth year of King Hezekiah” in a and “at that time” in i, the latter of which overlaps with the former. In our passage, the narrator begins at the point in time in which he recounts the story (qātal) and moves into the time of event (wayyiqtōl), only briefly returning later to the initial point of narration (qātal) near the end of the passage to offer additional information. Therefore, a and i form background information to the main events of this passage, and v. 16, of which the beginning part is i, functions as an integral part of the passage. It describes background information related to the preceding verse (v. 15), regardless of whether it originated from a source different from that of the other parts of this passage (vv. 13–15).
The Reported Speech The reported speech attributed to Hezekiah is fully incorporated into the narrative by the quotation marker rm)l. According to Galia Hatav, rm)l marks 19 There are different definitions of “focus” and “topic” in the literature. We define “topic” as the information, whether new or old, shared by the participants of the communication, and “focus” as the information that is “the most important or salient in the given communicative setting,” following the communication-oriented definition proposed by Simon C. Dik (The Theory of Functional Grammar [ed. Kees Hengeveld; 2 vols; 2nd rev. ed.; Functional Grammar Series 20–21; Berlin: Mouton de Gruyter, 1997], 1:313–15, 326–28). 20 Following Lénart J. de Regt, we may call these prepositional phrases “topical referents” or “bases” (“Hebrew Syntactic Inversions and Their Literary Equivalence in English: Robert Alter’s Translations of Genesis and 1 and 2 Samuel,” JSOT 30 [2006]: 301–10). 21 Robert E. Longacre, Joseph: A Story of Divine Providence: A Text Theoretical and Textlinguistic Analysis of Genesis 37 and 39–48 (2nd ed; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2003), 63. See also GKC §111a. 22 For the examples of the wayyiqtōl form immediately following a circumstantial phrase, see IBHS, 553.
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“free direct discourse,” which, unlike direct discourse, does not record the communication exactly but functions as “an adjunct, interpreting the event reported by the matrix clause.”23 If this is the case, the three clauses d, e, and f are not intended to be verbatim records of Hezekiah’s words. Through “free direct discourse” the narrator summarizes Hezekiah’s message to his Assyrian overlord without quoting a presumable lengthy letter. In this case, the reported speech itself, not the thirdperson narration, is the primary element in the development of the narrative, as is often the case in the narrative of the Hebrew Bible.24 The speech consists of three concise clauses that respectively consist of Hezekiah’s admission of rebellious behavior against his overlord (“I have sinned”), his plea for Sennacherib’s retreat (“Turn away from me”), and his promise to do everything to obviate Sennacherib’s punitive action against his city Jerusalem (“What you will give me [to do] I will carry out”). It shows Hezekiah in unconditional submission to Sennacherib: he is portrayed as being ready to accept any condition that the Assyrian king would impose on him to avert his own dethronement and the fall of Jerusalem. With his cities lost to the Assyrians, Hezekiah must have been in a difficult situation. Taking the initiative in the interaction, he sends his messengers to negotiate a peaceful solution. Sennacherib’s threat to Hezekiah has been amply manifested by the capture of the fortified Judean cities; however, there is no explicit verbal threat quoted in our narrative. Sennacherib’s activity in Judah was in itself a serious threat even without any oral or written message. According to the narrator, only Hezekiah talks (i.e., sends messages), while Sennacherib is silent throughout. Even after Sennacherib receives Hezekiah’s message, he is not reported as saying anything. Instead, he “imposed” (M#yw) tribute on the Judean king. Hezekiah prepares the tribute by resorting to excessive measures. The narrator describes what happened to the temple to meet Sennacherib’s demands. Silence on the part of the Assyrian king is significant; only the words of the Judean king are reported—though these may better be taken as the gist of the message summarized by the narrator, as we have argued above, rather than the word-for-word quotation of the full message. Hezekiah’s speech, which employs the first person, gets a response in the form of a third-person recounting of Sennacherib’s reaction. The “technique of contrastive dialogue,” by which the narrator differentiates characters featured in dialogues, is a well-known literary tool in biblical narrative.25 Here, however, the narrator goes to the extreme of eliminating completely the expected speech of Sennacherib and substituting the third-person narrative. After the intervening condensed speech of Hezekiah, the 23 Galia
Hatav, “(Free) Direct Discourse in Biblical Hebrew,” HS 41 (2000): 30. Alter implies that it is “a general trait of biblical narrative” that “the primacy of dialogue is so pronounced that many pieces of third-person narration prove on inspection to be dialogue-bound . . .” (The Art of Biblical Narrative [New York: Basic Books, 1981], 65). 25 Ibid., 72. 24 Robert
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narrator jumps back to the main narrative. In this way, the reported speech of Hezekiah comes to prominence in the passage.
III. Participant Reference Hezekiah and Sennacherib There are two main participants in this passage: Hezekiah and Sennacherib.26 Both men are referred to in different ways. The name of Hezekiah is mentioned six times. He is referred to as hyqzx Klmh in a, as hdwhy-Klm hyqzx in c, g, and i, and simply as hyqzx in h and i. References to him also take the form of agreement in person and number of the finite verb (third person in j and first person in d and f) or pronominal suffixes (first person suffix in e and f). Sennacherib appears four times. He is first introduced as rw#)-Klm byrxns in a, and then referred to simply as rw#) Klm in c, g, and j. Also in “account B” (2 Kgs 18:17–19:37), which follows our passage, he is referred to in most cases as rw#) Klm without his name (2 Kgs 18:17, 19, 23, 28, 30, 31, 33; 19:4, 6, 8, 10, 32). He is also the referent of the third person verb in b and the second person verb in e and f . In sum, in this relatively short passage, we find different strategies used to refer to the two major participants. They can be summarized as follows: Table 1. Means of Participant Reference in 2 Kings 18:13–16 Hezekiah Lexical Reference
Three-word Two-word One-word
Grammatical Reference
hdwhy-Klm hyqzx hyqzx Klmh hyqzx Verbal Inflection Pronominal Suffix
Sennacherib c, g, i a h, i
rw#)-Klm byrxns rw#) Klm
a c, g, j
N/A
d, f, j Verbal Inflection
b, e, f
e, f
Sennacherib is endowed with a three-word reference when he is introduced, as expected in such a case. After the introductory reference, he is simply referred to as the “king of Assyria.” The absence of the name “Sennacherib” is worth noting, though the reader could easily have identified “the king of Assyria” as Sennacherib in account B as well as in account A. The first reference to Hezekiah that we find in this passage is not a three-word reference, “Hezekiah king of Judah,” but a two26 For the various forms of participant reference and their function in the Joseph narrative, see Longacre, Joseph, 139–54.
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word identification, “(the) King Hezekiah.” Since Hezekiah is introduced and mentioned in previous passages, there is no need to reintroduce him with the longer title. However, it is interesting to note that Hezekiah gets the three-word reference three times in this short passage. Hezekiah is referred to as such only four times in Kings, the only other case outside of our passage occurring in 2 Kgs 19:10. The distribution may be explained by the fact that he is described as the central figure in our passage in his interaction with Sennacherib. The most striking of the threeword references to Hezekiah occurs in a relative clause beginning with r#) (in i), while its main clause contains a reference to the same king in a one-word form.27 We should also note the difference in the form of references to Hezekiah and Sennacherib. The former is sometimes mentioned solely by name, while the latter is usually referred to by the general term “the king of Assyria” here and in account B, as we mentioned above. The frequent use of the title “the king of Assyria” instead of his name is notable. This expression is quite often used by the author of Kings to refer to other Assyrian kings (e.g., 2 Kgs 15:20; 16:8, 9, 18; 17:4, 5, 6, 24, 26, 27; 18:11; 23:29). The author may have been reluctant to mention the name of the archenemy of Israel and/or Judah by name. The conspicuous absence of the name and the frequent use of the title “the king of Assyria” in account B may also be explained in this vein. In a literary analysis of 2 Kgs 18:17–35, Dominic Rudman concludes that “the narrator of the siege account depicts a confrontation between the Assyrian king as false god and Yahweh as true God, mediated by their respective ‘prophets,’ the Rabshakeh and Isaiah.”28 Probably because Sennacherib is a blasphemous enemy who not only defiles the name of Yahweh but also challenges his position as the God of the Judeans, the author refrains from mentioning his name. The same may be given as the reason the king’s name is conspicuously absent from 1 Kings 20 and 22 and from the Elisha stories, being replaced by l)r#y Klm (“the king of Israel”).29 One thing to note is that the two major participants of our passage are never referred to by means of third person pronominal suffixes, although such forms are normally expected. For example, in c the narrator could have said “Hezekiah sent (messengers) to him (*wyl)) . . .” instead of “Hezekiah sent (messengers) to the king of Assyria (rw#)-Klm-l)) . . . .” Also in g, the narrator could have said, “The king of Assyria placed on him (*wyl() . . .” instead of “The king of Assyria placed on 27 Cogan
and Tadmor argue that this expression, “while a bit awkward, may indicate the original wording of this datum as recorded in its sources” (II Kings, 229). However, there is no such evidence. This may better be taken, at least in its present form, as a discourse device for the author to underline the agent of the action. 28 Dominic Rudman, “Is the Rabshakeh Also among the Prophets? A Rhetorical Study of 2 Kings XVIII 17–35,” VT 50 (2000): 110. 29 According to Wayne Thomas Pitard, however, the few occurrences of the name “Ahab” are additions (Ancient Damascus: A Historical Study of the Syrian City-State from Earliest Times until Its Fall to the Assyrians in 732 B.C.E. [Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1987], 117–18).
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Hezekiah king of Judah (hdwhy-Klm hyqzx-l() . . . .” There is nothing that could obscure the identity of the referents or amount to ungrammatical sentences if the nominal phrases were to be replaced by pronominal suffixes combined with prepositions. The avoidance of pronominal suffixes to this extent may be due to the narrator’s deliberate effort to place these two participants on the same standing in the narration, though in reality Hezekiah is a vassal to Sennacherib.
Assyrian Records The fact that the participant reference sometimes reflects the author’s attitudes toward the participant in the narrative can also be seen vividly in references to Hezekiah in Assyrian records written in Akkadian.30 In the annals of Sennacherib, Hezekiah is introduced as “Hezekiah, the Judean” (m.H}a-za-qi-a-ú KUR.Ia-ú-da-aa) (Chicago Prism III 18; Taylor Prism III 11–12). Later in the same text, he is referred to simply as “Hezekiah” (m.H}a-za-qi-a-ú) (Chicago III 37; Taylor III 29). Other kings in the neighboring countries are consistently referred to in the form of “PN the king of GN” such as “Luli, king of Sidon” (m.Lu-li-i LUGAL URU.S[i-du-unni) (Chicago II 38; Taylor II 35) unless they occur in the list, where the expression “PN of GN” is used but followed by the summary “the kings of Amurru” (LUGAL.MEŠ KUR MAR.TU.KI) (Chicago II 50–58; Taylor II 47–55). According to Antti Laato, these “disparaging and bitter terms used to describe Hezekiah” are “stylistic devices” to veil some military setback in the Sennacherib’s campaign.31 Laato’s argument gains more weight when we note that Hezekiah is even referred to as “the notorious rebel Hezekiah, its king” in the Bull Inscriptions.32
The Orthography of the Name Hezekiah In 2 Kings, the king’s personal name “Hezekiah” appears thirty-four times as whyqzx, as against eight in the form of hyqzx and one in the form of whyqzxy with the prefixed yod in 2 Kgs 20:10. In Chronicles, the latter form occurs thirty-eight times while the form whyqzx appears only five times. As shown above, in account A
30 Sennacherib’s
records quoted in this paper follow the transliteration and translation of Mayer, “Sennacherib’s Campaign,” 186–200. 31 Antti Laato, “Assyrian Propaganda and the Falsification of History in the Royal Inscriptions of Sennacherib,” VT 45 (1995): 219–20. B. Oded refutes Laato’s argument on the basis that the adjective “Jew” in Laato’s translation is postexilic (“History vis-à-vis Propaganda in the Assyrian Royal Inscriptions,” VT 48 [1998]: 423). But Laato’s main point is that Sennacherib deliberately omitted the title “king” when mentioning Hezekiah. 32 Mayer, “Sennacherib’s Campaign,” 194. Hezekiah is also mentioned as “Hezekiah, its king” (m. H}a-za-qi-a-ú LUGAL-šu) in the Thompson Prism. See Mayer, “Sennacherib’s Campaign,” 193.
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of Sennacherib’s invasion, the name of Hezekiah occurs six times either with or without a nominal phrase in apposition. Interestingly, all these cases show the form hyqzx without the final waw.33 The latter form appears thirteen times in the Hebrew Bible, six of which cluster in our passage. The occurrences of the forms in Kings and Chronicles can be summed up as follows:34 Table 2. The Orthography of the Name Hezekiah in Kings and Chronicles Kings (2 Kgs 18:13–16)
hyqzx whyqzx whyqzxy
8 (6) 34 (0) 1 (0)
Chronicles 0 5 38
This corroborates the assumption that our passage forms a coherent unit in its present form. According to Ziony Zevit, “A cluster of six occurrences in 18:13–16 distinguishes these verses linguistically within the complex of siege narratives 18:13–19:37.”35 Outside of our passage, the two occurrences are found in 2 Kgs 18:1 and 10. Besides the attestations in Kings, five instances of the orthography hyqzx are encountered in the Hebrew Bible (1 Chr 3:23; Neh 7:21; 10:18; Prov 25:1; and Zeph 1:1). Of these instances, those in 1 Chr 3:23 and Neh 7:21; 10:18 do not point to King Hezekiah, nor can the person referred to in Zeph 1:1 as the greatgreat-grandfather of Zephaniah be identified with King Hezekiah. The orthography of Prov 25:1 might be attributed to a northern influence on Proverbs.36 The alternation between hy- and why- in the personal name is not unusual in the Hebrew Bible,37 but the concentration of the hy- ending on Hezekiah’s name in this small corpus is intriguing. According to Zevit’s analysis, hy- names developed in the northern kingdom by the end of the ninth or the beginning of the eighth century b.c.e., and in Judah by the second half of the eighth century b.c.e., and
9
33 We follow BHS, but according to Childs, in the Ben Hayim text, v. 13 contains the longer
form (Assyrian Crisis, 70 n. 3). 34 The statistics are from Abraham Even-Shoshan, ed., A New Concordance of the Bible: Thesaurus of the Language of the Bible; Hebrew and Aramaic; Roots, Words, Proper Names; Phrases and Synonyms (Jerusalem: Kiryat Sepher, 1993). Only those instances that refer to the Judean king Hezekiah are included. 35 Ziony Zevit, “A Chapter in the History of Israelite Personal Names,” BASOR 250 (1983): 13. 36 The form with the prefixed yod but without the final waw (hyqzxy) occurs only in Hos 1:1 and Mic 1:1, the superscriptions of the books named after the two prophets who are associated somehow with the northern kingdom. 37 For example, the orthography of the names of the Judean monarchs, e.g., Abijah, Ahaziah, Athaliah, Amaziah, Azariah, Uzziah, and Zedekiah, often alternate between hy- and why- endings. An exception is the name Josiah, which is consistently (fifty-two times) spelled why#)y in the Hebrew Bible.
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became dominant in the post-exilic period.38 Names ending in hy- may have increased in popularity in later periods, almost entirely replacing why- names. This seems to be supported by the fact that why- names are rare in the Elephantine papyri and the Samaria papyri, which date to the fifth and the fourth centuries b.c.e. respectively.39 Thus, we may associate names ending in hy- with the geographical or temporal environment in which the author of our passage was located. However, since the passage may have experienced textual revisions through generations, it is difficult to determine its origin. The only place where King Hezekiah’s name appears outside of the Hebrew Bible is in Sennacherib’s records, where the name is written in Akkadian as m.H}a-za-qi-a-ú or m.H}a-za-qí-a-a-ú, both reflecting the longer Hebrew form.40 At any rate, there is no persuasive evidence that the biblical passage examined here is quoted from an annalistic source.41 Whatever the reason for the shorter ending, it functions as a discourse device that marks this passage as a unit distinct from the following passages, that is, account B.
IV. Conclusions 2 Kings 18:13–16 can be viewed as a self-contained literary unit that is distinct from other material in the context. Though succinct, it is well organized as a discourse that recounts historical events. The narrative utilizes verbal forms that befit such a narrative. For a short summary of what happened, the narrator cites the words of Hezekiah but incorporates them in the narrative frame, quoting the speech in summary form marked by the quotation marker rm)l. Two major participants, Hezekiah and Sennacherib, are on center stage in the narrative. They are referred to in various ways in this short narrative, which reveals some attitudes of the narrator to these participants. The use of the distinct orthography for the name of the Judean king Hezekiah demonstrates the narrator’s strategy to secure the coherence of the discourse. 38 Zevit,
“Personal Names,” 13–14. Moore Cross, “Personal Names in the Samaria Papyri,” BASOR 344 (2006): 82. 40 Mayer, “Sennacherib’s Campaign,” 186–200. This spelling in the Assyrian records points to the why- ending, not the hy- ending conspicuously attested in 2 Kgs 18:13–16. Zevit points out that one attestation of the orthography H}a-za-qi-ia in the annals of Sennacherib is an indication that the hy- ending reached beyond the boundaries of Judah (“Personal Names,” 14). However, the longer ending of the name Hezekiah, reflecting the Hebrew why-, predominates in the Assyrian records. 41 Simon B. Parker concludes that “the evidence to date does not support claims that the authors of Kings used royal epigraphic monuments as sources for their history” (“Did the Author of the Books of Kings Make Use of Royal Inscriptions?” VT 50 [2000]: 375). 39 Frank
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Our passage is unique in the biblical narrative in that the events described in this narrative are recorded also in the Assyrian annalistic records. Thus, it is tempting to think that this material originates from an annalistic source equivalent to its Assyrian counterpart. However, the passage shows narrative skills that reveal the author’s attitude toward the two kings and the events involving them. Linguistically and stylistically, it shows typical Hebrew narrative features. Even if the passage had come from an annalistic source, the “copyist” was not faithful to the original source but allowed his or her own agenda to influence the wording of this short narrative. The strategy of participant reference also reveals that the narrator was not indifferent to the participants in the story. This analysis has shown that the passage without much literary artistry nevertheless betrays certain intentions of its author. Future studies in this vein may further illuminate ways to discern the ancient authors’ intentions in structuring the biblical narrative.
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JBL 127, no. 3 (2008): 491–499
Dismantling the Deconstruction of Job philippe guillaume [email protected] Stelserstrasse 478A, CH-7220 Schiers, Switzerland
In a recent article, André LaCocque argues that the “divine discourse in Job 38–41 does as much to reveal flaws in the created universe as to celebrate the wisdom of the Creator.”1 In a previous article on the same subject, LaCocque considered that the restoration of Job’s fortune in the epilogue adds perhaps little to the book. It merely returns to popular lore and builds a nice inclusio with the prologue.2 In the recent article, LaCocque is less dismissive and refers to the epilogue in the body of the article. The epilogue is now deemed “post-tragic,” valuable because it is regarding God as much as Job. Both articles are built around the notion that chs. 38–41 are a rejection of divine omnipotence and a break with the sapiential frame. LaCocque’s reading strategy is straightforward: it contests divine omnipotence and Job’s innocence. God must be less than omnipotent in order to be innocent of Job’s sufferings. The theophany is an admission of weakness that clears Yhwh of any taint of injustice. Consequently, Job must be guilty in order to repent when Yhwh faces him. The entire plot is resolved by Job’s repentant answer to Yhwh. At that point, Job realizes how wrong he was in blaming a God whom he thought omnipotent and understands that the moment God became creator he divested himself of his omnipotence. Divine weakness then serves several purposes. A weak Yhwh is not liable for Job’s suffering. Divine weakness allows evil to persist and invites Job to step in, engage evil, and participate in perfecting creation. LaCocque redeems Job’s restoration by shifting the focus away from Job and reading 42:7–17 as God’s triumph, which reaffirms experiential reality by four times mentioning his servant Job. LaCocque’s ability to wrap up many loose ends into one coherent reading of Job is impressive. It is more satisfying than presenting the book of Job as an anthol1
André LaCocque, “The Deconstruction of Job’s Fundamentalism,” JBL 126 (2007): 83–97. My thanks to Georges Mills for improving the English of my essay. 2 André LaCocque, “Job and Religion at its Best,” BibInt 4 (1996): 131–53.
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ogy of a variety of perspectives that does not resolve the tensions among them.3 The problem is that LaCocque’s reading is too good to be true. The reader’s pain is indeed alleviated, but at the cost of the betrayal of the text of Job at several key points.4 In the following, I challenge three elements of LaCocque’s demonstration: divine weakness, Job’s repentance, and his restoration.
I. Glorious Restoration? In his 1996 article, LaCocque concluded that the book of Job closes with the curtain, once raised on human tragedy, falling on comedy. All is accomplished; all is well for the just.5 LaCocque’s new article concludes that Job’s glorious restoration is also God’s triumph (p. 97).6 The idea behind the divine triumph is that Yhwh desperately needs Job as viceroy since Yhwh is afraid that upon discovering that Yhwh’s weakness implies the persistence of evil, Job may refuse to get involved in engaging evil alongside of God (p. 88). “If God is not the pantocrator of religious ideology, the question arises: Is it still worthwhile to fear God?” (p. 93). Quoting his earlier article, LaCocque goes so far as to depict God as being unsure of his covenantal partner, making God insecure. Since Yhwh would be the first one to lose if Job refused to become a partner to defeat evil, Yhwh will find himself alone with his unfinished creational task (p. 92). It is certainly nice to be needed—all the better if it is God who needs mortals and if people are able to reassure even God. Yet, for all the beauty of synergism, the whole notion has little textual support, apart from the four mentions of “my servant Job” (42:7–8). Yhwh indeed orders Job to intercede on behalf of his friends (42:8), but that does not turn Job into a partner in creatio continua or put God in a begging position (p. 93). Job’s position as intercessor is considered below, but first I focus on Job’s restoration. With twice as many animals (compare Job 1:3 and 42:12) and twice as many sons, surrounded by family and acquaintances, Job could indeed consider himself a happy man.7 Yet a recent monograph claims that Job’s end is less than happy inso-
3 Against Yair Hoffmann, A Blemished Perfection: The Book of Job in Context (JSOTSup 213; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1996), 109–14. 4 Hugh S. Pyper, “The Reader in Pain: Job as Text and Pretext,” in Text as Pretext: Essays in Honour of Robert Davidson (ed. Robert P. Carroll; JSOTSup 138; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1992), 234–55. 5 LaCocque, “Job and Religion,” 151. 6 Page references to “The Deconstruction of Job’s Fundamentalism” are given in parentheses in the text. 7 hn(b# is a dual form of seven; see Edouard Dhorme, A Commentary on the Book of Job (London: Nelson, 1967), 651–52; Alfred Guillaume, Studies in the Book of Job (ALUOS Supplement 2; Leiden: Brill, 1968), 140; HALOT, 1401.
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far as the protagonist is not restored to the status quo ante but rather emerges scarred and transformed.8 Job 42:12 reports that “Yhwh blessed Job’s ‘after’ more than his ‘before,’” yet his loathsome sores are never said to have healed. Is Job’s healing included in the blanket expression “The Lord restored the fortunes of Job” (Job 42:10)?9 The detailed listing of the assets recovered by Job makes the failure to mention Job’s healing all the more conspicuous. Material damage (including loss of offspring) incurred during the satan’s first onslaught of tribulations is properly compensated as stipulated in Exod 22:1–9.10 Herds and sons are doubled. Job is wealthy enough to provide inheritance for his daughters,11 but the number of daughters remains the same since they are more a liability than an asset.12 Contrary to wealth, health is not so easily recovered. As it stands, the text does not explicitly reverse the effects of the satan’s second assault. Ancient readers were aware of the problem, and some filled in the blank with descriptions of the circumstances of Job’s healing.13 Job’s loathsome sores did not prevent him from living another 140 years, but the narrator was not aiming at presenting a glorious restoration. Job kept a thorn in his flesh. 8
Kenneth Numfor Ngwa, The Hermeneutics of the ‘Happy’ Ending in Job 42:7–17 (BZAW 354; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2005). 9 As claimed by Samuel L. Terrien, Job (CAT 13; Neuchâtel: Delachaux & Niestlé, 1963), 272–73. 10 Francis I. Andersen, Job: An Introduction and Commentary (Leicester: InterVarsity, 1976), 293; M. Geevarughese, “The Role of the Epilogue in the Book of Job” (Ph.D. diss., University of Wisconsin, Madison, 1995), 37–54; Jack Miles, God: A Biography (New York: Knopf, 1995), 327. Dirk Geeraerts finds a hint of overcompensation (“Caught in a Web of Irony,” in Job 28: Cognition in Context [ed. Ellen van Wolde; Biblical Interpretation Series 64; Leiden: Brill, 2003], 53). 11 There is a similar motif in the Ugaritic epic of Keret, whose marriage is blessed so that the very youngest child will receive a measure of wealth equal to that of the firstborn. See N. Wyatt, “Word of Tree and Whisper of Stone: El’s Oracle to King Keret (Kirta), and the Problems of the Mechanics of its Utterance,” VT 57 (2007): 483–510, here 489. 12 The non-doubling of the number of daughters reflects their legal status. While the fruits of a woman’s labor benefited her husband, the marriage usually did not sever her ties to her agnatic group, who remained obliged to pay compensation for any misdeeds the woman may commit even after her marriage (Frank H. Steward, “Customary Law among the Bedouin of the Middle East and North Africa,” Nomadic Societies in the Middle East and North Africa [ed. Dawn Chatty; HdO 81; Leiden: Brill, 2006], 259). 13 The Testament of Job is conscious of the problem and mentions the healing at the beginning of Yhwh’s answer to Job (T. Job 47:5–6, quoting Job 38:3; 40:7). As he challenged Job to gird himself like a man, God supplies magic girdles that heal Job immediately. Job then bestows the girdles on his daughters as an inheritance (Peter Machinist, “Job’s Daughters and Their Inheritance in the Testament of Job and Its Biblical Congeners,” in The Echoes of Many Texts: Reflections on Jewish and Christian Traditions [ed. William G. Dever and J. Edward Wright; BJS 313; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1997], 76). The Qur 'an does not state that Job was healed (38:41–43). In later tradition, Job is cured in the river that flowed where he stomped his foot. See J.-F. Legrain, “Variations musulmanes sur le thème de Job,” Bulletin d’études orientales 37–38 (1985–86): 51–114.
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II. Repentant Job? There is no room in LaCocque’s reading strategy for divine responsibility. God is too weak to be blamed. LaCocque seeks a scapegoat and finds several. First, Job was wrong and his repentance proves it. Hence, LaCocque puts heavy stress on Job’s repentance, arguing against the grain of the text that Job’s contrition (hmxn) is a real repentance (hbw#t) in the sense of a total reversal in spite of the fact that the term hbw#t is avoided (p. 91). In fact, Job’s replies are a masterpiece of ambiguity, and their translation requires much interpretation. The nature of Job’s response to the theophany falls into one of four categories: repentance, retraction, rejoicing, or rejection.14 Aware that insisting on Job’s repentance contradicts Yhwh’s claim that Job spoke rightly (hnwkn [42:8]), LaCocque shores up the hero’s “repentance” by pointing out Job’s change of perspective. From hearsay about God, Job now sees Yhwh (42:5b). “The hearing stresses the distance between the protagonists; the seeing emphasizes the immediacy of the dialogue. To hear about God is “religion at its best”; it deals with Elohim. But to see God is to come face to face with YHWH” (p. 83). In contrast to his previous article, LaCocque now notes that Job saw God with only one eye (yny( [42:5]), but he does not elaborate. Seeing Yhwh with one eye closed or with a squint underlines the dazzling effect of the theophany more than Job’s full and complete conversion. In fact, it has long been recognized that in 42:1–6 Job confesses his ignorance but nowhere relents, repents, repudiates his words, or shows any remorse.15 Even if the one who spoke without knowledge is identified with Job (38:2; 42:3), it does not necessarily turn Job into a sinner, since words spoken “without knowledge” (42:8) may nevertheless be correct.16 The ketib/qere in 42:2 shows the difficulty of deciding who knows what, and the readers of Job 42:1–6 are soon entangled in a web of possibilities that leaves them as ignorant as Job himself.17 The consonantal text lkwt lk-yk t(dy (“you know that you can all”) is noncommittal compared to the MT vocalization “I know . . . .” If Job repents at all in 42:6, is he repenting on dust and ashes (although he has been there since 2:8) or is he repenting of dust and ashes and thus putting an end to his mourning? And what is he repenting about?18 Job’s answers to YHWH are far too ambiguous to sustain the notion of repentance and far too lame to overturn the force of the divine stamp of approval in favor of Job. One may try to limit God’s commendation to Job’s final 14 N. F. Schmidt and P. J. Nel, “The Rhetoric of the Theophany of Job,” OTE 16 (2003): 79– 95, here 87. 15 Dale A. Patrick, “Job’s Address of God,” ZAW 91 (1979): 268–81. 16 Carol A. Newsom, The Book of Job: A Contest of Moral Imaginations (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 257. 17 See Ellen van Wolde, “Job 42,1–6: the Reversal of Job,” in Book of Job, ed. Beuken, 223–50. 18 Walter L. Michel, “Confidence and Despair: Job 19,25–27 in Light of Northwest Semitic Studies,” in Book of Job, ed. Beuken, 176–77.
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response in order to maintain that Job did not speak correctly about God in his tirades before the theophany.19 However, anyone insisting that Job repented because he was guilty ends up in the precarious position of Job’s friends, whom Yhwh declares guilty (42:7–8). To sustain Job’s repentance, LaCocque also needs to downplay the violence of the divine discourse and its irrelevance to Job’s situation, but he does so in a footnote rather than with arguments, since it is hard to deny that ch. 42 leaves Job out of breath and his readers out of their depth (p. 89 n. 23).20 “Job is more awed than reformed” by the divine onslaught.21 Violence is a necessary ingredient to the sublime (as opposed to the beautiful) of the theophany, which leaves Job overwhelmed by a stupor.22 LaCocque’s argumentation is also based on divine weakness.
III. Divine Weakness? Blaming Job and proving his guilt by reading his answers to Yhwh as repentance are but one aspect of the strategy to clear Yhwh of any liability in Job’s predicament. The second chapter of the strategy is the rejection of divine omnipotence as anachronistic. “God before the creation was omnipotent; but once there is a creation beside God, the divine attribute shifts to the relational” (p. 96). Job’s words “you know that you can all” (lkwt lk-yk t(dy [42:2]) are at loggerheads with LaCocque’s claim that creation has limited Yhwh’s might. The theophany rather suggests that creative power is not limited. Omnipotence is not rejected; to the contrary, it is seen as threatening. LaCocque has little more than a vehement footnote to oppose readings of Job 38–41 as an irrelevant and insensitive display of absurd might (p. 89 n. 23). Two pages later, LaCocque adds that Job is “confounded not by a vain and arrogant inventory of created items but by his own shortsightedness in blaming a god he believed omnipotent and whimsical” (p. 91). If, however, God congratulates Job for his farsightedness, assuming that Job does not repent because he was right all along, the case for divine weakness falls through. The text can be taken at face value. Job’s answer to Yhwh can remain ambiguous. The violence of the theophany can be seen as essential, since the issue is not divine power but divine justice. But in this case, LaCocque is right. The display of divine
19 Norman Whybray limits God’s commendation to Job’s retraction in 42:1–6 (Job [Readings; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1998], 172–73). 20 LaCocque dismisses David Penchansky, The Betrayal of God: Ideological Conflict in Job (Literary Currents in Biblical Interpretation; Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1990), 54; James L. Crenshaw, “When Form and Content Clash,” in Creation in the Biblical Traditions (ed. Richard J. Clifford and John J. Collins; CBQMS 24; Washington, DC: Catholic Biblical Association of America, 1992), 70; John B. Curtis, “On Job’s Response to Yhwh,” JBL 98 (1979): 497–511, here 511. 21 Paul R. Goldin, “Job’s Transgressions,” ZAW 108 (1996): 378–90, here 389. 22 Tod Linafelt, “The Undecidability of Krb in the Prologue to Job and Beyond,” BibInt 4 (1996): 154–72.
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power is not vain. It is brutal and indiscriminate and thus reveals that its working out on the micro-level of individual human destinies excludes the notion of justice.23 Having pointed out that weakness pertains more to LaCocque’s interpretation than to the Yhwh of Job 38–41, I now intend to trace a way out of the dilemma represented by two irreconcilable reading traditions. Let it be noted that the text validates each tradition up to a point, but prevents each one from prevailing, owing to the redoubtable ambiguity of the key passages. The narrator encourages pious readers to see God and repentant Job come out victorious and the satan utterly defeated. On the other hand, the narrator also lets scholars get a kick out of the impertinence of a Job who screams at God and is vindicated by the same God who condemns the inadequacy of the friends’ theology. However, the triumph over obvious caricatures is facile and thus unrewarding. There is something deeper in Job if the epilogue, often considered irrelevant, is taken seriously. LaCocque comes close when he claims that “harnessing the dinosaur is a token of God’s partial victory over the ‘dark side’” (p. 91). LaCocque speaks correctly about God when he mentions God’s dark side but errs when he seeks a purpose for it and claims that Job had to discover that his suffering is not meaningless (pp. 88–89). This comes precariously close to the argument of the friends, who try to find a rational explanation for evil. In fact, the only lesson Job learns is to put his hand over his mouth. He saw God (with one eye!), but, contrary to Moses, Job did not hear God’s still small voice because there was far too much racket. In this, Job was again correct when in ch. 26 he simply anticipates everything that Yhwh will “reveal” in the theophany and thus renders the divine discourse utterly irrelevant. Trying to explain the inexplicable, LaCocque ends up claiming that Job realizes that God was from the beginning on the side of the victim rather than of the victimizers. This moving Girardian statement covers up the fact that the same God allows the satan to torture Job, who is held blameless, from 1:1 to 42:8.24 This position is irreconcilable with the God of the prologue, who plainly states that the only thing Yhwh does for the victim is ask the torturer to make sure the victim does not die. Any regime practicing torture justifies the practice with claims that it is for the good of its citizens or even for the good of the tortured individual. But the book of Job does not enter such precarious argumentation. From Yhwh’s admission that he allowed the satan to swallow Job for nothing (2:3) to Job’s acquaintances, who console Job after the evil that Yhwh brought upon him (42:11), the book consistently upholds Yhwh’s full responsibility for the evil that befalls Job. Rather than seeking excuses, the wise narrator has Yhwh assume full responsibility for the consequences of his acts, with the last part of the 23 “Yhwh never set out to police the universe” (David J. A. Clines, “Does the Book of Job Suggest That Suffering Is Not a Problem?” in Weisheit in Israel: Beiträge des Symposiums “Das Alte Testament und die Kultur der Moderne” anlässlich des 100. Geburtstags Gerhard von Rads (1901–1971), Heidelberg, 18–21 Oktober 2001 [ed. David J. A. Clines, Hermann Lichtenberger and Hans-Peter Müller; Münster: Lit, 2003], 107). 24 Hector Avalos, Fighting Words: The Origins of Religious Violence (New York: Prometheus Books, 2005), 77.
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epilogue being strictly devoted to economics, carefully taking stock of how Yhwh doubles Job’s possessions to confirm the full payment of legal compensation for the damage incurred. Yhwh remains sovereign throughout: there is no place for divine weakness. There is room for something that preserves Yhwh’s might and Job’s innocence, a something that LaCocque just missed when he wrote that “Job needs to discover who exactly God is, in order for the friends’ malicious folly to be exposed and redressed (42:8)” and that “Job has become an actual collaborator with God in correcting the wrongs committed by foolish people against whom God’s wrath is kindled (42:7)” (pp. 93–94). The Hebrew text does not attribute any folly to the friends. Yhwh warns Eliphaz that, unless he and his friends offer holocausts while Job intercedes for them, Yhwh will commit a folly against them (42:8). The long v. 8 holds some difficulties, but the meaning of hlbn Mkm( tw#( ytlbl is all too clear. Yhwh warns that in his anger he will commit a folly with Eliphaz and his friends unless they offer holocausts and Job intercedes in their favor. Divine folly and divine culpability are not easy theological points to swallow. By presenting Yhwh as assuming full responsibility for the divine folly, the narrator appears to be a very courageous theologian, or an utterly reckless one. His translators were never ready to follow him and thus did much smoothing of angles. For instance, the translator of Job for the LXX lengthened the text of 42:7–10 in spite of the fact that he cut out a sixth of the overall Hebrew text.25 In the rest of the book, no particular theological pattern has been identified to explain the omissions, but here the translator clearly felt an urgent need to charge the friends with folly to exculpate Yhwh.26 According to Origen, the original LXX omitted a large part of v. 8.27 Modern editions of the LXX compensate for the lacuna with a text that nevertheless remains shorter than the Hebrew, condensing the reference to divine folly into ἀπώλεσα ἂν ὑμᾶς, “I would have destroyed you.”28 The Greek text transmutes divine anger into human sin (v. 7), softens folly into destruction (v. 8). If the translator’s Vorlage differed from the MT, theological reasons prevented the alignment of the translation with the MT or proto-MT model. Perceiving that the Hebrew hardly bothers justifying the divine anger against the friends, the translator avoided implying that Yhwh brought evil upon Job. In v. 11a, instead of com25 Natalio
Fernández Marcos (“The Septuagint Reading of the Book of Job,” in Book of Job, ed. Beuken, 251–52 n. 3) reports Dhorme’s estimate of the proportion of omissions by the translator: 4 percent until ch. 15; 16 percent in chs. 15–21; 25 percent in chs. 22–31; 35 percent in chs. 32–37; 16 percent chs. 38–42. See also Maria Gorea, “Job 7,8: une contribution à la problématique des versets portant astérisque dans la Septante,” in Book of Job, ed. Beuken, 430–34. 26 Fernández Marcos, “Septuagint Reading,” 254–55. 27 Maria Gorea, Job repensé ou trahi? (Paris: Gabalda, 2007), 220; Peter John Gentry, The Asterisked Materials in the Greek Job (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1995). 28 NETS: A New English Translation of the Septuagint, ©2004 by the International Organization for the Septuagint and Cognate studies Inc. Used by permission of Oxford University Press. All rights reserved.
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forting Job from all the evil that Yhwh brought upon him, the family is amazed by all “the things the Lord Yhwh had brought to him”29 marveling at the good things Job received back in compensation, rather than being shocked by the violence of the blow. Still, the lethal potential of Yhwh’s anger is better preserved in the LXX than in modern translations which transfer the foolishness directly to the friends: “I will accept his prayer not to deal with you according to your folly” (NRSV).30 This praiseworthy device shields the audience from the brunt of a tough verse, since the other occurrences of the expression “commit a folly” (hlbn h#() all refer to outrageous acts.31 Attributing the folly in question to the friends avoids the suggestion that God may be potentially capable of such acts, but remains a clear case of translational betrayal. Aware of the problem, some exegetes downgrade foolishness into rashness.32 The narrator has made it easy for readers to brush aside the import of this single occurrence in the Hebrew Scriptures where God is said to be the one doing nĕbālâ, since it is mentioned only as a potential.33 Hence, exegetes marvel at the nĕkônâ of Job’s speech but are oblivious to the nĕbālâ of Yhwh’s potential deed five words earlier. Blaming the friends is one aspect of the strategy aimed at defending God, a most natural urge among exegetes working in theological seminaries. Yet trying to cover up theopathism is exegetically foolish and misses the key to the entire book.
IV. Synergism Indeed! LaCocque puts much stress on Yhwh’s need to involve Job in a divine–human synergism fighting against persistent evil (p. 84). Such synergism presents Job’s sufferings not as a display of injustice but as an opportunity to manifest power through weakness and thus open a two-way communication with creatures (pp. 93–94). The recognition that some divine deeds may be the consequence of bouts of divine 29 Donald
H. Gard, The Exegetical Method of the Greek Translator of the Book of Job (JBL Monograph Series 8; Philadelphia: Society of Biblical Literature, 1952), 69. 30 For modern translations, see Ngwa, Ending, 29–42. 31 The rape of Dinah (Gen 34:7), premarital sex (Deut 22:21), stealing devoted things (Josh 7:15), gang rape (Judg 19:23; 20:6), the rape of a sister (2 Sam 13:12), or adultery with a neighbor’s wife (Jer 29:23). 32 Daniel J. O’Connor, “The Cunning Hand,” ITQ 57 (1991): 21; and Marvin H. Pope, Job: Introduction, Translation, and Notes (AB 15; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1965), 288: “Let my servant Job intercede for you; because I will accept him so that I deal not rashly with you.” Norman C. Habel, The Book of Job: A Commentary (OTL; Philadelphia: Westminster, 1985), 575: “I will show favor and not shame you.” N. H. Tur-Sinai (The Book of Job: A New Commentary [Jerusalem: Kiryath Sepher, 1957], 580) rejects the emendation of hlbn to hlk but renders M( hlbn h#( as “to do ill to.” 33 Samuel E. Balentine, Job (Smyth & Helwys Bible Commentary 10; Macon, GA: Smyth & Helwys, 2006), 713.
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folly opens another domain of synergy. When Yhwh asks for Job’s intercession and for holocausts, he introduces a new mode of interaction whereby sacrifices and prayer may soothe some of the unfortunate consequences of divine folly. Yhwh needs help against his folly rather than against his weakness. Retribution and justice, notions commonly considered the central issues of the book, fade away. Theodicy may even become irrelevant. There is more than the persistence of evil in creation; there is a dark potential in the divine. Yhwh recruits Job as intercessor, not to have the dubious privilege of collaborating with God in the perfecting of creation but to help fellow humans before or after they are struck by the left hand of God. Job is partner with God in the sense of being a shield against divine folly. God only indirectly sides with the victims of his foolish deeds by asking Job to intercede for his friends. Having successfully withstood the fearful consequences of divine folly, Job qualifies as intercessor in favor of potential victims of the same folly. This is no glorious restoration. The fourfold mention of “my servant Job” is no triumphal announcement (p. 97). It hardly disproves the satan’s innuendo: “Is it for nothing that Job fears God?,” but it clearly reveals that God needs Job’s intercession and his friends’ holocausts. The recognition of the potential for divine folly renders irrelevant the satan, who does not reappear in the epilogue. The satan is integrated within the divine nature as the dark side of the divinity. In the framework of Moses’ commandments and the Sinai covenant conditioned by human obedience, intelligence agencies are vital for the system to work. Yhwh needs to find out whether the people heeded the statutes, observed the ordinances, and obeyed each commandment in order to decide whether to bless or to curse (Deut 11:26). The prologue of Job stages the God of Moses somewhere above Sinai, hearing the report of the head informant, the collector of rumors, the snooper-in-chief without whom he might distribute curses and blessings unfairly. Something, however, soon goes wrong and Yhwh, in a bout of divine folly, swallows Job for naught. Taking stock of the failure of the Deuteronomistic system, the epilogue transfers responsibility from the satan to Job, who, instead of reporting human misbehavior, intercedes in favor of fellow victims of divine folly (also Prov 16:4). Job stands on the side of Qohelet, the Song of Songs, and Jonah, the biblical deconstructionists. The book’s main purpose is indeed to destroy a “fundamentalist and close-minded worldview” (p. 96), not so much the theology of the friends as the fearful religion of Deuteronomy34 and of the prophets. Potential divine folly retains divine sovereignty while preserving humanity from constant references to covenant violations or the original sin in order to justify evil as punishment. 34 See David H. Aaron, Biblical Ambiguities: Metaphor, Semantics, and Divine Imagery (Brill Reference Library of Ancient Judaism 4; Leiden: Brill, 2001), 197–98.
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Turban and Crown Lost and Regained: Ezekiel 21:29–32 and Zechariah’s Zemah marko jauhiainen [email protected] Atanväylä 7 E, FI-33580 Tampere, Finland
The visions and prophecies recorded in the book of Zechariah have long puzzled scholars.1 Among the more challenging ones are the prophetic sign-acts connected to the appearance of xmc in Zechariah 3 and 6:9–15. Who is this enigmatic figure? What is his relationship to Joshua and the priesthood? In this essay, I will first offer a brief summary of earlier attempts to answer these questions and then proceed to suggest a new interpretation of the data. I will argue that, among other texts, Ezek 21:29–32 (Eng. 21:24–27) presents us with an interpretative key to these two passages from Zechariah. I. Past Interpretation As is the case with most exegetical puzzles, there are a number of variations also among the solutions offered to the puzzle of xmc (hereafter Zemah),2 Joshua, This paper was originally presented at the Second International Conference on Studies in Rewritten Bible in Koblenz, Germany, in August 2007. 1 See Ralph L. Smith (Micah–Malachi [WBC 32; Waco: Word Books, 1984], 167), who cites the Jewish scholar Abrabanel (d. 1508): “The prophecies of Zechariah are so obscure that no expositors however skilled have found their hands in the explanation.” 2 Translations usually use “Branch,” “Sprout,” “Shoot” or some such name in order to bring out the wordplay between xmacE and xmfc:yI in Zech 6:12. In adopting a simple transcription instead, I am following Wolter H. Rose (Zemah and Zerubbabel: Messianic Expectations in the Early Postexilic Period [JSOTSup 304; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2000], 91–120 and passim); similarly Mark J. Boda (“Oil, Crowns and Thrones: Prophet, Priest and King in Zechariah 1:7–6:15,” JHS 3, no. 10 [2001]; reprinted in Perspectives on Biblical Hebrew: Comprising the Contents of Journal of Hebrew Scriptures, Volumes 1–4 [ed. Ehud Ben Zvi; Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias, 2006], 379–404). I agree with Rose that one should not confuse xmc of Zechariah 3 and 6 with the “shoot” (r+x)
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and Zerubbabel (who appears only in Zechariah 4). However, it is nevertheless possible to identify a majority view.3 According to this view, Zechariah 3 and 6 envisage a form of diarchy, a shared rule of the high priest and a Davidic king, and these chapters thus testify to the rise of the Zadokite priesthood as a political power in the postexilic Jewish community.4 As for Zemah, the original oracles referred to Zerubbabel—or even Joshua—instead, but for one reason or another, this was changed in the process of redaction. This traditional reading of the data has recently been challenged by more than one interpreter. A major contribution has been offered by Wolter H. Rose, whose monograph focuses on Zemah and Zerubbabel.5 Some of his main conclusions are as follows:6 (1) Zemah is a future messianic figure and not to be identified with Zerubbabel (or Joshua); (2) attempts to consider parts of the oracles in ch. 3 and 6:9–15 as secondary may appear to solve some problems but are based on “dubious grounds”;7 (3) although the high priest’s influence in the temple is expanding (ch. 3)
or “branch” (rcn) of Isa 11:1. However, I am not sure about his claim that there is a clear contrast between the Davidic dynasty’s making its own contribution to its future (Isa 11:1) and its future being guaranteed only by a divine intervention (Jer 23:5; Zechariah 3; 6) (Rose, Zemah and Zerubbabel, 120). 3 See, e.g., David L. Petersen, Haggai and Zechariah 1–8: A Commentary (OTL; Philadelphia: Westminster, 1984); Carol L. Meyers and Eric M. Meyers, Haggai, Zechariah 1–8: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB 25B; New York: Doubleday, 1987); Janet E. Tollington, Tradition and Innovation in Haggai and Zechariah 1–8 (JSOTSup 150; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1993); Paul L. Redditt, Haggai, Zechariah and Malachi: Based on the Revised Standard Version (NCB; London: Marshall Pickering; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1995); Antti Laato, A Star Is Rising: The Historical Development of the Old Testament Royal Ideology and the Rise of the Jewish Messianic Expectations (South Florida Studies in Formative Christianity and Judaism 5; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1997); Rex Mason, “The Messiah in the Postexilic Old Testament Literature,” in King and Messiah in Israel and the Ancient Near East: Proceedings of the Oxford Old Testament Seminar (ed. J. Day; JSOTSup 270; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1998), 338–64; Marvin A. Sweeney, The Twelve Prophets, vol. 2 (Berit Olam; Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 2000); and John J. Collins, “The Eschatology of Zechariah,” in Knowing the End from the Beginning: The Prophetic, the Apocalyptic, and Their Relationship (ed. Lester L. Grabbe and Robert D. Haak; JSPSup 46; London/New York: T&T Clark, 2003), 74–84. 4 The two olive trees of Zechariah 4, usually also listed in support of this view, are outside the focus of this essay. For three different nontraditional readings of ch. 4, see Rose, Zemah and Zerubbabel, 177–207; Boda, “Oil, Crowns and Thrones,” 392–94; and Marko Jauhiainen, The Use of Zechariah in Revelation (WUNT 2/199; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2005), 46–49. 5 Rose, Zemah and Zerubbabel. 6 For a convenient summary of his conclusions, see ibid., 248–51. 7 Ibid., 249; cf. Lena-Sofia Tiemeyer (“The Guilty Priesthood [Zech 3],” in The Book of Zechariah and Its Influence [ed. Christopher Tuckett; Aldershot: Ashgate, 2003], 1–19), esp. 1–2; and Collins (“Eschatology of Zechariah,” 77–80), both of whom disagree with Rose yet do not refute his arguments. While I do not deny that (some or even all of) the visions and oracles recorded in Zechariah 1–6 may have had a prehistory, I am attempting to make sense of the shape
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and he may possibly function as a counselor to the coming ruler (ch. 6), there is no evidence in the book of Zechariah for diarchy or the emergence of the priesthood as a political power. Another nontraditional reading has been proposed by Mark J. Boda, who agrees with Rose on most issues but sees Zechariah as emphasizing the continuing influence of prophetic and royal streams in texts traditionally interpreted as promoting the extension of priestly prerogatives.8 According to Boda, Zechariah has been influenced by—and clearly alludes to—the Jeremianic tradition of enduring but separate royal and priestly lines.9 Zechariah’s agenda vis-à-vis the leadership is thus to restrain priestly aspirations rather than endorse them as has been argued in the past.10 It is beyond the scope of this essay to offer a detailed response to these three readings, but I will interact with them where appropriate. My own interpretation follows in many ways the freshly beaten path of Rose and Boda, yet departs from it at certain key points.11
II. A New Proposal Zechariah’s wide knowledge and use of earlier books and traditions is well known.12 Indeed, many details and motifs of Zechariah can be fully appreciated and meaning of the present form of the text (similarly Sweeney, Twelve Prophets; and Rose, Zemah and Zerubbabel). In case of any remaining uncertainties, I would rather confess my present inadequate understanding of the text than posit a well-meaning but clumsy redactor—a figure that is often too quickly called to the aid of a puzzled interpreter. My approach thus differs greatly from that of Redditt (Haggai, Zechariah and Malachi), for example, who sees Zechariah as a collection of very different and often contradictory materials arising from many different hands and possibly at different times, assembled in several stages by two or more redactors representing different groups within postexilic Judaism. For two very different attempts to reconstruct the postexilic social setting partly on the basis of the book of Zechariah, see Stephen L. Cook, Prophecy and Apocalypticism: The Postexilic Social Setting (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1995); and Paul D. Hanson, The Dawn of Apocalyptic (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1975). 8 Boda, “Oil, Crowns and Thrones.” 9 Ibid., 389–91, 398–99. 10 Ibid., 404. 11 The reading I am proposing here was adumbrated in my doctoral dissertation, later published as The Use of Zechariah in Revelation (2005). 12 See, e.g., M. Mathias Delcor, “Les sources du Deutéro–Zacharie et ses procédés d’emprunt,” RB 59 (1952) 385–411; Meyers and Meyers (Haggai, Zechariah 1–8, 35), who even claim that Zechariah 9–14 “surpasses any other biblical work in the way it draws from existing tradition”; Tollington, Tradition and Innovation; Konrad R. Schaefer, “Zechariah 14: A Study in Allusion,” CBQ 57 (1995) 66–91; Risto Nurmela, Prophets in Dialogue: Inner-Biblical Allusions in Zechariah 1–8 and 9–14 (Åbo: Åbo University, 1996); Rose, Zemah and Zerubbabel; Sweeney, Twelve Prophets; Boda, “Oil, Crowns and Thrones”; and Rex Mason, “The Use of Earlier Biblical Material in
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only when seen in light of their treatment by earlier prophets, and the present pericopae are no exceptions. While this is not the occasion for an extended survey of Zechariah’s employment of existing traditions, a couple of comments are nevertheless appropriate, given the topic of the essay. First, the very opening “word of Yahweh” (1:1) coming to Zechariah refers three times (vv. 4–6) to the earlier prophets and their words.13 These (and later references, 7:7, 12) suggest both Zechariah’s familiarity with earlier prophetic traditions and their importance to the interpretation of his own message. As Michael Fishbane has noted, “a learned preoccupation with older prophetic language is characteristic of late biblical prophecy,” and Zechariah is no exception.14 Second, while some of Zechariah’s prophetic language is clearly stereotypical and it is possible to discern “simple allusions” and “echoes” in the text, there are also allusions that evoke a specific earlier text or tradition that can shed light on the text containing the allusion.15 These allusions seem to range from quite obvious to very subtle, and they can function in different ways. For example, Paul Hanson has pointed out how Zech 11:7–17 clearly seems to reverse many of the promises of Ezek 34:1–31 and 37:15–28.16 Boda, on the other hand, has identified a far subtler allusion in Zech 6:13:17 Zemah is Zechariah’s answer to the disaster of the Davidic line announced in Jeremiah 22. He will regain the “majesty” (dwh) lost by King Jehoiakim (v. 18) and “sit on the throne” and “rule,” unlike the descendants of Jehoiachin, Jehoiakim’s son (v. 30). The usage of Jeremiah pointed out by Boda is not the only example of Zechariah showing how the coming king will be the very opposite of the last king(s) of Judah before the destruction of Jerusalem. A similar reversal of an earlier Zechariah 9–14: A Study in Inner Biblical Exegesis,” in Bringing Out the Treasure: Inner Biblical Allusion in Zechariah 9–14 (ed. Mark J. Boda and Michael H. Floyd; JSOTSup 370; London: Sheffield Academic Press, 2003), 1–208. 13 The reference to the “former prophets” in 1:4 does not refer only (or even primarily) to the earlier Minor Prophets (Hosea through Zephaniah or Haggai), as some have suggested (see, e.g., Edgar W. Conrad, Zechariah [Readings; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1999], 49–54). Isaiah, Jeremiah, and Ezekiel are especially influential, although Zechariah seems to be drawing from a wide range of texts and traditions. 14 Michael Fishbane, Biblical Interpretation in Ancient Israel (Oxford: Clarendon, 1985), 498. 15 I am using “simple allusion” to denote “a hint to a known fact”; that is, there is no specific text that is being alluded to. An “echo” may be traceable to a single text, but the identification of this text does not lead to an activation of extra elements between the two contexts. For further discussion of these and related terms, see Jauhiainen, Use of Zechariah, 18–36. 16 Hanson, Dawn of Apocalyptic, 343–45. Thus, instead of the ideal shepherd (34:23; 37:24), the people will have a worthless shepherd (11:15–17); instead of Yahweh saving and gathering the sheep (34:9–16), he will not have pity on them but will let them be scattered (11:6; 13:7); instead of peace and prosperity (34:26–31), there will be desolation (11:16; 13:8); cf. the classic case of prophetic reversal, Mic 4:3//Isa 2:4 vs. Joel 3:10 (MT 4:10). 17 Boda, “Oil, Crowns and Thrones,” 399 n. 55.
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prophecy of judgment takes place in Zechariah’s use of Ezek 21:29–32. We will first take a brief look at the passage and then examine its significance for the interpretation of Zechariah 3 and 6:9–15.
Ezekiel 21:29–32 The oracle of the sword in Ezek 21:23–32 (Eng. 21:18–27) is not dated but gives the impression that the fall of Jerusalem is not very far away.18 Zedekiah has rebelled against Nebuchadnezzar,19 and the Babylonians are ready to move against the city. All the people are guilty (v. 29), but the “prince” of the people is singled out as especially wicked (v. 30). The attacking enemy will terminate both his vile behavior and his kingship, the latter action being symbolized by the removal of his turban (tpncm) and crown (hr+() (v. 31).20 As for the concluding words of the oracle,21 commentators seem to agree that it draws on Gen 49:10,22 but there is some debate concerning the way Ezekiel is using this ancient prophecy. Are the turban and the crown—that is, kingship—withdrawn temporarily and given later to the coming righteous king, “my servant David” (Ezekiel 34),23 or is Ezekiel giving the sacred patriarchal word a cruel twist by announcing that Nebuchadnezzar will be Yahweh’s agent of judgment?24 The latter possibility would seem to fit the context well. On the other hand, the long history of the messianic interpretation of v. 32 (Eng. 27), possibly reflected already in the LXX rendering,25 testifies to the ambiguous nature of the text itself. Moreover, even if Ezekiel has given the original prophecy an ironic twist, it is always possible that Zechariah either misinterpreted him or chose to transform his oracle 18 Daniel I. Block suggests that the oracle reflects the situation in late 588 or early 587 b.c.e. (The Book of Ezekiel: Chapters 1–24 [NICOT; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1997], 685 n. 167). 19 MT rc)rdkwbn in Ezekiel. 20 MT Ezek 21:31 (Eng. 21:26): hr+(h Myrhw tpncmh rysh hwhy ynd) rm) hk. This verse is the only place where tpncm does not denote the high-priestly turban. Interestingly, the Targum removes the turban from Seraiah the high priest, and only the crown is taken from Zedekiah the king. 21 MT Ezek 21:32 (Eng. 21:27): wyttnw +p#mh wl-r#) )b-d( hyh )l t)z-Mg. 22 The interpretation of this verse in itself is much debated; see the discussion in Gordon J. Wenham, Genesis 16–50 (WBC 2; Dallas: Word Books, 1994), 477–78. 23 On the messianic interpretation of Ezek 21:32 (Eng. 21:27), see the discussion in Block, Book of Ezekiel, 692 n. 192, and the references cited therein. 24 So, e.g., Leslie C. Allen, Ezekiel 20–48 (WBC 29; Dallas: Word Books, 1990), 20; Block, Book of Ezekiel, 692–93; ESV (English Standard Version); and NET (New English Translation). 25 Block, Book of Ezekiel, 692 n. 192, referring to Laurent Monsengwo-Pasinya, “Deux textes messianiques de la Septante: Gen 49,10 et Ez 21,32,” Bib 61 (1980): 357–76; and Johannes Lust, “Messianism and Septuagint: Ez 21,30–32,” in Congress Volume: Salamanca 1983 (ed. J. Emerton; VTSup 36; Leiden: Brill, 1985), 174–91.
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of judgment into a prediction of hope. To be sure, it is impossible to access Zechariah’s mind and thus tell the difference between these two options; we must examine the texts he left us and try to come up with a plausible explanation of how he is using the turban and crown motif from the book of Ezekiel.
Zechariah 3 The fourth of Zechariah’s night visions shares three important features with Zech 6:9–15 that need to be highlighted at the outset: (1) Joshua and Zemah appear only here in the whole book. (2) As to their form, both passages consist of a prophetic sign-act and an accompanying oracular utterance. (3) While the recipient of the sign-act is Joshua, the sign-act is closely connected to, and interpreted in terms of, Zemah and the events that will take place when he comes. If we lose sight of these features, we may either fail to appreciate the close relationship between these two pericopae or miss their internal integrity. Zechariah 3 begins with a heavenly courtroom scene, in which Joshua, the high priest and representative of the people, stands accused by the satan (v. 1). He is clothed with filthy garments (v. 3)—symbolizing his iniquity (v. 4)—but instead of being condemned, his iniquity is taken away and he is clothed with a festal robe (v. 4). There is a general consensus that all this speaks of the cleansing of the (high) priesthood that is necessary for the temple ceremonies to recommence once the temple rebuilding process has been completed. If being cleansed from iniquity is symbolized by being clothed with pure vestments, why does Joshua also receive a clean turban?26 Assuming that Zechariah 3 is portraying something like the ordination rite of the high priest, the inclusion of the turban perhaps has a natural explanation.27 But even in that case it may be serving a double duty, for what happens to Joshua is closely connected to the coming 26 As
v. 4 indicates, the turban is not part of the cleansing process; cf. the list of fine things to wear in Isa 3:18–23, which shows that “turban” (Pync) is not part of the “festal robe” (twclxm) either. In Job 29:14, Pync symbolizes Job’s justice, in parallel with his righteousness. The fourth and last occurrence of the word in the Hebrew Bible is in Isa 62:3, where Jerusalem is a royal Pync in God’s hand at the time when righteousness shall “sprout up” (xmc) (v. 1) and the nations shall see its righteousness (v. 2). 27 So, e.g., Sweeney (Twelve Prophets, 593–98), though he himself acknowledges that the vocabulary used (Pync, twclxm) appears neither in Exodus 29 nor in Leviticus 8, which describe such ceremonies, including how the high priest is dressed. True, my proposal suffers from the same weakness as Sweeney’s because Ezek 21:31 uses the high-priestly tpncm for turban—though Zechariah’s choice of words is probably more embarrassing for those who argue that the highpriestly connotations exhaust the symbolism in the reception of the turban in Zech 3:5. I agree with Meyers and Meyers (Haggai, Zechariah 1–8, 192) that the shift from tpncm to Pync is intentional but would suggest the prophetic expectation of Isa 62:1–3 as the primary influence (cf. n. 26 above).
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of Zemah, as commentators usually point out. If Zemah is Zechariah’s answer to the disaster of the Davidic line announced in Jeremiah 22, as Boda has argued, why not also to a similar disaster announced in Ezekiel 21? Thus, Joshua is not only cleansed and prepared for the temple service as a high priest, but he also receives the turban as a token of the coming servant of Yahweh—Zemah, “to whom it28 belongs.”29 According to this view, just as the removal of the turban (and crown) from the wicked king represented the fate of the last king of Judah and the destruction of Jerusalem, so the giving of the clean turban (and the fashioning of the new crown [6:9–15]) symbolizes the coming of the messianic king and the associated restoration of the fortunes of God’s people. The exact nature of some of the details in the prophetic utterance following the sign-act is not entirely obvious, but the overall picture is clear enough. Joshua is given a conditional promise30 and then told that his associates31 are “men of portent,” living signs32 of things to come: Zemah, a Davidic king and a servant of Yahweh;33 28 That
is, kingship and the turban (and crown) symbolizing it. 49:10bα (so, e.g., NET, NIV, NLT [New Living Translation], and RSV); similarly Ezek 21:32 (ASV, CJB [Complete Jewish Bible], JPS, KJV, NASB, NIV, NJB, NKJV, NRSV, and RSV). 30 There is some debate over whether v. 7 contains two or four conditions. Most scholars consider only the first two clauses as part of the protasis (e.g., Hinckley G. Mitchell in idem, John Merlin Powis Smith, and Julius A. Bewer, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on Haggai, Zechariah, Malachi and Jonah [ICC; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1912], 154; Peter R. Ackroyd, Exile and Restoration [OTL; London: SCM, 1968], 186–87; Wilhelm Rudolph, Haggai – Sacharja 1–8 – Sacharja 9–14 – Maleachi [KAT 13.4; Gütersloh: Gerd Mohn, 1976], 93 n. 6; Smith, Micah– Malachi, 198 n. 7a; Meyers and Meyers, Haggai, Zechariah 1–8, 194); contra Boda, “Oil, Crowns and Thrones,” 385 n. 21; see the recent discussion in Tiemeyer, “Guilty Priesthood,” 12. I follow Meyers and Meyers (Haggai, Zechariah 1–8, 194) in reading the third and fourth statement as denoting the scope of Joshua’s authority, which will be dependent on his obedience, that is, the first two statements. 31 The majority of scholars see these men as Joshua’s fellow priests (Tiemeyer, “Guilty Priesthood,” 4 n. 25). The text would seem to identify only the associates as tpwm y#n), but some (e.g., Rose, Zemah and Zerubbabel, 44) consider Joshua included as well. 32 It is not explained in what sense these men are “portents,” but on the basis of other “human portent” passages we may assume that it is the priests’ behavior and actions that function as a sign to others (cf. Isa 20:2–6 and 8:1–20; Ezek 12:3–15; 24:15–27). The context here would suggest that the priests will be positive signs, but in the other passages the portents are ominous; cf. Mal 1:6–14; 2:7–8. 33 In referring to Zemah, Zechariah is drawing from Jeremiah 23 and 33, where Zemah/xmc is the righteous Davidic king whom Yahweh will send to the people when he restores Jerusalem, Judah, and Israel. The designation “my servant” recalls Yahweh’s “servant” in Isaiah 40–55 and “my servant David” in Ezekiel 34 and 37; cf. Boda (“Oil, Crown and Thrones,” 389–90), who emphasizes its Davidic connotations in 2 Samuel, 1 Kings, and 2 Kings instead. Some take ydb( as a reference to Zerubbabel in Hag 2:23; so, e.g., Tiemeyer (“Guilty Priesthood,” 1–2), who recognizes the problem of identifying the coming servant with Zerubbabel, who has arrived already, and therefore concludes that Zech 3:8b must be secondary. 29 Genesis
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the removal of the iniquity of the whole land in a single day;34 and conditions reminiscent of the golden days of King Solomon (1 Kgs 4:25). The reference to Zemah is very brief, however, and the picture must be complemented by Zech 6:9–15.
Zechariah 6:9–15 The word of Yahweh completing the night visions features the same main characters as Zechariah 3 but provides us with a little more information on Zemah and his role. Zechariah is instructed to take silver and gold from some of the returned exiles and to fashion them into a crown.35 He is to set the crown on the head of Joshua and to deliver Yahweh’s message to him. The precise content of this message, especially the phrase Mhyn# Nyb hyht Mwl# tc(w w)sk-l( Nhk hyhw (v. 13), is the focus of much debate. What is the relationship between the priest and Zemah, identified in v. 12 as one who will build the temple of Yahweh?36 The two most common interpretations are (a) that this passage envisions a diarchic leadership (the high priest and the Davidic governor/king) in Judah, and (b) that the coming ruler Zemah also functions as a priest, and there is harmony37 between the two offices that Zemah holds.38 The biggest lexical/syntactical problem with the latter proposal is that Mhyn# and the context seem to suggest two persons rather than offices.39 The former view, on the other hand, suffers from a number of other problems, as Rose has demonstrated.40 34
The removal of iniquity in v. 9b seems to be somehow closely connected to the mysterious stone in v. 9a. According to Meyers and Meyers, the two primary lines of interpretation see it either as part of Joshua’s high-priestly garb (cf. Exodus 28) or as a stone used in the construction of the temple (cf. Zech 4:7, 10; Haggai, Zechariah 1–8, 204–5). Agreement is also lacking with regard to the seven Myny( and the sense in which they are “on” the stone, that is, whether they are eyes focused on, or engraved in, the stone, or facets of the stone. The emphasis on the temple(re)building project in Zechariah and the important antecedent “single stone” texts (e.g., Gen 28:22; Ps 118:22; Isa 8:14; 28:16) probably tip the balance in favor of associating the stone with the future temple that Zemah will build (6:12–13), the eyes being focused on the stone rather than being part of it. 35 On the number of crowns and other related issues, see Meyers and Meyers, Haggai, Zechariah 1–8, 349–53; contra Rose, Zemah and Zerubbabel, 46–55. I agree with Rose (Zemah and Zerubbabel, 46–48) that the simplest explanation for the present shape of the text is to read twr+( in v. 11 and tr+( in v. 14 as singular forms. 36 On the “man” Zemah in Zech 6:12, and on “man” as a term with messianic associations, see William Horbury, Messianism among Jews and Christians: Twelve Biblical and Historical Studies (London: T&T Clark, 2003), 144–51. 37 Mwl# tc(, “peaceful understanding,” lit., “counsel of peace.” 38 See the extended discussion in Rose, Zemah and Zerubbabel, 59–68, and the references cited therein. 39 Meyers and Meyers, Haggai, Zechariah 1–8, 362; Rose, Zemah and Zerubbabel, 60; Boda, “Oil, Crowns and Thrones,” 396–97. 40 Rose, Zemah and Zerubbabel, 46–68; see also Boda, “Oil, Crowns and Thrones,” 395–403.
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Rose’s own proposal is that there are two persons, but the priest is there only to offer counsel to the king (rather than to co-rule with him).41 However, this is merely another variant of the same “diarchic” view that he rejects.42 Yet the fact that vv. 12–13 first mention Zemah and then go on to tell what he will do (hnbw . . . hnby . . . )#y . . . b#yw . . . l#mw; a total of five third masculine singular imperfective verbs whose subject is Zemah) would lead one to think that the immediately following verb in the same form (hyhw) also has Zemah as its subject.43 Thus, rather than first assuming that the subject abruptly changes, and then asking about the relationship between the two subjects, we should ask a completely different question: To whom does Mhyn# refer, if not to two offices or to a priest and Zemah? The simplest solution is to translate the problematic phrase (6:13b) straightforwardly, “and he will be a priest on his throne, and a counsel of peace shall be between the two of them,”44 but to take the other person to be Yahweh, who is not only mentioned twice in the list of things that Zemah will do but also is the only other person mentioned in vv. 12b–13 and therefore the nearest possible candidate for the second party of Mhyn#. Of course, the original puzzle—that is, the precise import of v. 13b—still remains, but it can now be approached from a completely different angle. I suggest that the same interpretive key we applied earlier to Zechariah 3, the loss of both the turban and the crown in Ezek 21:29–32, also helps to unlock Zech 6:9–15. Zemah is the one who will ultimately regain the kingship represented by the turban and crown. In the restoration of God’s people—which is the main focus of the book of Zechariah45—the cause and effects of the exile will be undone. Yet there is also development: Zemah will not only be the king; he will also be a priest on his throne.46 The Mwl# tc( is between Yahweh and Zemah and is thus set in stark con41 Rose,
Zemah and Zerubbabel, 68; similarly Boda, “Oil, Crowns and Thrones,” 398. What Rose has effectively demonstrated is that, when considered alone, 6:13 does not require to be interpreted as evidence for diarchy. Yet if one is already convinced that the overall picture in Zechariah 3; 4; and 6 is about the rise of the Zadokite priesthood as a political power, then it is entirely possible to read 6:13 as supporting one’s view. In other words, once the possibility of Zemah functioning as a priest is excluded, it is difficult to differentiate between the traditional reading and Rose’s reading on the basis of v. 13. 43 That is, Nhk does not have to be the subject of hyhw; it can also be its predicate. 44 A similar translation has been adopted by several English translations (e.g., RSV, NIV, NASB, NLT, and NKJV) and a number of scholars (see the list in Rose, Zemah and Zerubbabel, 59 n. 42). 45 See Jauhiainen, Use of Zechariah, 37–61. 46 Rose draws attention to the absence of the article (Nhk hyhw), concluding that the priest cannot be Joshua, who, after all, is the (high) priest (cf. Zech 3:8) (Zemah and Zerubbabel, 60–64). Boda, on the other hand, suggests that the oracle does not refer to “high priest” because it responds to the tradition in Jer 33:15–26 (which does not mention the high priest), according to which the fortunes of the priestly and royal lines are intertwined. As one is reinstated, so also the other will be reestablished (“Oil, Crown and Thrones,” 399 n. 57). The problem with this proposal is that, 42
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trast to the relationship between Yahweh and the wicked king, who brought about the exile.47 The symbolic crowning of Joshua in Zech 6:9–15, therefore looks forward to the coming messianic priest-king, rather than reflects an elevation of the high priesthood or other such concern. On one hand, Joshua thus merely stands in for Zemah,48 but on the other hand, his faithfulness—and the faithfulness of those he represents as high priest—is tied to the coming of Zemah. The crown is not worn by Joshua but is to be kept in the temple49 as a reminder of the promise, which “shall come to pass, if you [pl.] will diligently obey the voice of the Yahweh your God” (6:15b). This charge, which is a partial quotation of Moses’ warning to the people of Israel to choose blessing rather than curse,50 both ends Zech 6:9–15 and functions as a frame to the series of night visions, complementing the call to repentance at the beginning of the book.51
while Jeremiah 33 expects David’s descendant to sit on the throne, the Levitical priests are expected to minister in the temple. Zechariah 3 may play off of the latter expectation, but 6:13b does not quite look like a fulfillment (or restatement) of this Jeremianic tradition. There is another tradition, however, that provides a better explanation for the lack of specificity in the mention of the priest: in v. 4 of Psalm 110 (entitled rwmzm dwdl), Yahweh addresses the anointed king, “You are a priest forever” (Mlw(l Nhk-ht)). The idea of a messianic priest-king is thus neither unique nor novel in Zechariah. Moreover, Zemah’s priestly role may also partly explain his appearance in Zechariah 3 and his connection to the cleansing of the land. 47 The phrase may also be further illuminated by Ezek 34:24–25 and 37:25–26, both of which predict that when “my [i.e., Yahweh’s] servant David” becomes king, Yahweh will establish a Mwl# tyrb with his people. 48 So also Rose, Zemah and Zerubbabel, 58. 49 There are basically two solutions to the problem of apparently conflicting references throughout Zechariah to the temple and the process of building it: (1) all the references are to the same temple, but the redactor has been rather inept; or (2) some of the references are to the temple that is in the process of being built (and for which Zerubbabel, the governor, is responsible), and some are to a more glorious, future temple—or at least a significant expansion of the present temple (see Rose, Zemah and Zerubbabel, 136–9)—which will be built by Zemah, the coming king. The latter explanation is supported by the facts that the building of the temple was usually seen as an activity of kings in the ancient Near East (see Meyers and Meyers, Haggai, Zechariah 1–8, 250–51, 356–57) and that the present temple did not seem to have met expectations (cf. Ezra 3:12–13: Zech 4:10; Ezekiel 40–48). 50 Cf. Deut 28:1; similarly Ackroyd, Exile and Restoration, 205. 51 Later the books of Malachi and Ezra–Nehemiah testify to the presence of problems both within the priesthood and in the returned community at large. If the message of Zechariah is taken seriously, then these could be interpreted as reasons for the nonrealization of Zechariah’s hopes of restoration (see further Jauhiainen, Use of Zechariah, 58–60). Historically, then, the rise of the Zadokite priesthood as a political power took place somewhat later and despite Zechariah, not because his visions imagined it (or even reflected a process already well under way).
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III. Conclusion The majority of scholars have seen Zechariah 3 and 6:9–15 as evidence for the expansion of the authority of the Zadokite priesthood at the expense of the Davidic dynasty. This has recently been called into question by Rose and Boda, both of whom argue for a far more moderate role for the priestly line. In this essay, I have gone a step further in the same direction by proposing that the prophetic sign-acts and their close connection to Zemah in these two chapters should be interpreted in light of Ezek 21:29–32 (Eng. 21:24–27). Joshua’s role is both to stand in for Zemah and, together with his fellow priests, to be a living sign of the coming restoration by walking in the ways of Yahweh and keeping his charge. Zemah is the coming Davidic king who will regain the kingship—symbolized by the turban and crown—lost by the wicked king when Jerusalem fell. If there is any expansion of authority in Zech 6:13, it is not Joshua sharing the rule of Zemah but rather the latter also being a priest on his throne. Ezekiel 21 prophesied judgment on Jerusalem and the wicked king, but the relationship between Zemah and Yahweh will instead be characterized by Mwl#.
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Marcion’s Gospel and Luke: The History of Research in Current Debate dieter t. roth [email protected] 8/4 Blacket Avenue, Edinburgh EH9 1RS, United Kingdom
The issue of the relationship between Luke and Marcion’s Gospel has been revived recently in several discussions of Marcion and Luke-Acts.1 Although this renewed interest is to be welcomed because of the importance of the question for the study of the canon, the fourfold Gospel collection, the Synoptic Problem, and text-critical issues pertaining to the Gospels in the second century, it is curious that numerous, including the most recent, summaries of the veritable flurry of work in Germany in the 1840s and 1850s have been marred by inaccuracies. These erroneous views have then, at times, been employed to develop a connection to and draw support from the purported consensus of German scholarship by the mid1850s on the relationship between Luke and Marcion’s Gospel, when no such consensus actually existed. Thus, the incorrect impression has arisen that recent advocates of the position that Luke was the product of a significant redactional revision after the time of Marcion are renewing a supposed consensus that resulted from the intense discussion of the issue in Germany 150 years ago. In the light of this besetting problem, the purpose of this article is to revisit the scholarly debates concerning Marcion’s Gospel in the mid-nineteenth century in order both to 1 Whenever “Luke” is used in this article without qualification it refers to the text of canonical Luke as we know it. Recent discussions of the relationship between Marcion’s Gospel and Luke include Andrew Gregory, The Reception of Luke and Acts in the Period before Irenaeus (WUNT 2/169; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2003), 173–210; Matthias Klinghardt, “‘Gesetz’ bei Markion und Lukas,” in Das Gesetz im frühen Judentum und im Neuen Testament: Festschrift für Christoph Burchard zum 75. Geburtstag (ed. Dieter Sänger and Matthias Konradt; NTOA 57; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2006), 99–128; idem, “Markion vs. Lukas: Plädoyer für die Wiederaufnahme eines alten Falles,” NTS 52 (2006): 484–513; idem, “The Marcionite Gospel and the Synoptic Problem: A New Suggestion,” NovT 50 (2008): 1–27; and Joseph B. Tyson, Marcion and Luke-Acts: A Defining Struggle (Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 2006).
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provide an accurate presentation of the history of scholarship in this period and to address the claims found in recent discussions.
I. The Prolific (and Problematic) Period of the 1840s and 1850s The primary figures involved in the lively debate of this period were F. C. Baur, Albrecht Ritschl, Adolf Hilgenfeld, and Gustav Volckmar.2 However, it was a long and critical review article by F. C. Albert Schwegler that marked the beginning of this period of investigation.3 Schwegler contended that the critical study of Marcion’s Gospel had regressed since the work of J. G. Eichhorn, who had provided an extended summary and discussion of the challenges that had arisen to the traditional view, universally recognized to have been held by the church fathers, that Marcion had mutilated a copy of Luke.4 In Schwegler’s estimation, the theory that 2 The contribution of D. Harting, Quaestionem de Marcione Lucani Evangelii, ut fertur, adulteratore, collatis Hahnii, Ritschelii aliorumque sententiis, novo examini submisit (Utrecht: Paddenburg, 1849), advocating the traditional view of the relationship between Marcion’s Gospel and Luke as described below, did not figure prominently in the debate at the time nor in later scholarly discussions and therefore will not be considered further here. 3 F. C. Albert Schwegler, review of W. M. L. de Wette, Lehrbuch der historisch-kritischen Einleitung in die kanonischen Bücher des Neuen Testaments, 4th ed., Theologische Jahrbücher 2 (1843): 544–90. Three years later Schwegler restated his views in an only slightly edited repetition of the arguments presented in this review (see his Das nachapostolische Zeitalter in den Hauptmomenten seiner Entwicklung [2 vols.; Tübingen: Ludwig Friedrich Fues, 1846], 1:260–84). The 5th edition of de Wette’s Einleitung was published in 1848; it was critical of the views that Schwegler, Ritschl, and Baur had advanced since the appearance of the 4th edition in 1842 (de Wette’s views can be found in English translation in An Historico-Critical Introduction to the Canonical Books of the New Testament [trans. Frederick Frothingham from the 5th ed.; Boston: Crosby, Nichols, 1858], 108–22). Baur included remarks critical of de Wette’s 5th edition in “Zur neutestamentlichen Kritik: Uebersicht über die neuesten Erscheinungen auf ihrem Gebiete,” Theologische Jahrbücher 8 (1949): 299–370, 455–543. 4 See Schwegler, “Review of de Wette Lehrbuch,” 575. Schwegler was referring to Johann Gottfried Eichhorn, Einleitung in das Neue Testament (Leipzig: Weidmann, 1804), 40–78, in which Eichhorn summarized and advanced the challenges to the traditional viewpoint first set forth by Johann Salomo Semler in Paraphrasis Epistolae ad Galatas cum prolegomenis, notis, et varietate lectionis latinae (Halle: C. H. Hemmerde, 1779) and particularly in the preface to Thomas Townson, Abhandlungen über die vier Evangelien: Mit vielen Zusätzen und einer Vorrede über Markions Evangelium von D. Joh. Salomo Semler (trans. Joh. Salomo Semler; 2 vols.; Leipzig: Weygandschen Buchhandlung, 1783). Semler’s views were embraced and furthered by Heinrich Corrodi, Versuch einer Beleuchtung der Geschichte des jüdischen und christlichen Bibelkanons (2 vols.; Halle: Curts Witwe, 1792), esp. 2:169; Josias F. C. Löffler, “Marcionem Pauli epistolas et Lucae Evangelium adulterasse dubitaturi,” Commentationes Theologicae 1 (1794): 180–218; Johann Adrian Bolton, Der Bericht des Lukas von Jesu dem Messia: Uebersetzt und mit Anmerkungen begleitet
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Marcion had edited Luke based on his theological proclivities was entirely untenable, and therefore the traditional view finds itself entangled in “multiple, irresolvable contradictions and difficulties.”5 Albrecht Ritschl pressed forward in this line of thought in 1846, when, in the preface to his monograph, he set forth this thesis: “Marcion’s Gospel is not a mutilation of the Gospel of Luke, but rather its basic root [Grundstamm].”6 Since he considered the verdicts of Tertullian and Epiphanius concerning the relationship between Marcion’s Gospel and Luke to be historically worthless, Ritschl sought to evaluate the relationship between the attested elements of Marcion’s text and Luke based upon a criterion of connection [Zusammenhang].7 This criterion assumed that redactional activity, because it introduces foreign material, can be recognized as destructive of the original connection in or between pericopes.8 Ritschl devoted almost sixty pages of his monograph to setting forth the text of Marcion’s Gospel on the basis of this criterion and to arguing that Marcion’s Gospel reveals the better connection of pericopes. Therefore, one should conclude that Luke has added that which was missing from Marcion’s Gospel rather than conclude that Marcion excised anything from Luke.9 Shortly after Ritschl’s work appeared, Baur built on Ritschl’s thesis in identical comments appearing in two publications, an article and a book.10 Despite occa(Altona: Johann Heinrich Kaven, 1796), XXII–XL; Johann E. C. Schmidt, “Ueber das ächte Evangelium des Lucas, eine Vermuthung,” Magazin für Religionsphilosophie, Exegese und Kirchengeschichte 5 (1796): 468–520 (in which Schmidt advocated that Marcion’s Gospel was the original Luke); and idem, Handbuch der christlichen Kirchengeschichte (7 vols.; 2nd ed.; Giessen: Georg Friedrich Heyer, 1824–34), 1:257–63, 383 (where Schmidt changed his position to contend that Marcion’s Gospel and Luke were redactionally related [p. 262] or perhaps that Marcion’s Gospel was based on Matthew [p. 383]). 5 Schwegler, “Review of de Wette Lehrbuch,” 590. (Translations throughout this article are my own.) To illustrate the problem with the “theological editing” view, Schwegler, on pp. 577–82 of his review, offered a comparison of fifteen sets of verses in which the first element noted verses supposedly changed or missing from Marcion’s Gospel, and the second element verses remaining in it. In every example Schwegler refuted the reason August Hahn gave for the first element having been deleted or changed by citing the analogous second verse(s) where the given reason for the alteration seemed to be contradicted by the verse remaining unchanged (Schwegler was responding to the views in Hahn, Das Evangelium Marcions in seiner ursprünglichen Gestalt, nebst dem vollständigsten Beweise dargestellt, daß es nicht selbstständig, sondern ein verstümmeltes und verfälschtes Lukas-Evangelium war, den Freunden des Neuen Testaments und den Kritikern insbesondere, namentlich Herrn Hofrath, Ritter und Professor Dr. Eichhorn zur strengen Prüfung vorgelegt [Königsberg: Universitäts Buchhandlung, 1823]). 6 Albrecht Ritschl, Das Evangelium Marcions und das kanonische Evangelium des Lucas (Tübingen: Osiander’sche Buchhandlung, 1846), v. 7 See ibid., 37. 8 See ibid., 56. 9 See ibid., 73–130. 10 See F. C. Baur, “Der Ursprung und Charakter des Lukas-Evangeliums,” Theologische
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sionally criticizing how Ritschl applied his methodology, Baur agreed that there was “striking evidence for the originality of Marcion’s text.”11 As he continued with his argument, Baur contended that based on the data one must, without doubt, view Marcion’s text as original and Luke as secondary. In fact, Baur concluded that Marcion’s Gospel was merely the text Marcion had at hand and that all the differences between it and Luke can only be seen as interpolations by a later hand.12 The position of Ritschl and Baur was challenged in 1850 by Gustav Volckmar and Adolf Hilgenfeld in two works that appeared nearly simultaneously.13 The thesis of Volckmar’s article was that Baur, Schwegler, and Ritschl, despite rightly criticizing the erroneous and prejudicial elements in earlier studies, were wrong in their view that Luke is “an aggrandized and corrupted, or rather ‘Catholicized’ version” of Marcion’s Gospel.14 In part 1 of his article, Volckmar focused on the opening sections of Marcion’s Gospel and came to the conclusion that “the text of Marcion, far from being the basis [Grundlage] of our Gospel of Luke, is even dependent on its particularity [Eigenthümlichkeit].”15 Though Volckmar believed that, based on the opening alone, the fundamental relationship between Marcion’s Gospel and Luke had been established, he continued in the second part of his article to discuss several more passages that essentially served to confirm his point.16 Jahrbücher 5 (1846): 413–615; and idem, Kritische Untersuchungen über die kanonischen Evangelien, ihr Verhältnis zu einander, ihren Charakter und Ursprung (Tübingen: Ludw. Fr. Fues, 1847). 11 Baur, Kritische Untersuchungen, 403; for examples of weak points in Ritschl’s arguments see 398–401. Further criticisms of Ritschl’s methodology were leveled by G. Fr. Franck, “Ueber das Evangelium Marcion’s und sein Verhältnis zum Lukas-Evangelium,” TSK 28 (1855): 296–364. 12 See Baur, Kritische Untersuchungen, 404. Baur concluded, “Von diesem Gesichtspunkt aus kann das naturgemäße Verhältnis des marcionitischen Evangeliums und unseres kanonischen nur darin erkannt werden, daß das letztere als eine weitere Fortbildung desselben geschichtlichen Stoffs aus dem erstern hervorgegangen ist” (Kritische Untersuchungen, 424). Consonant with Baur’s view of early Christianity, he argued that this reworking of Marcion’s Gospel was not an anti-Marcionite endeavor, but rather a Jewish-Christian redaction of the “Pauline” Gospel used by Marcion (see Baur, “Der Ursprung und Charakter,” 595). Ritschl responded to that claim and defended his view that Luke arose from a specifically anti-Marcionite redaction in “Das Verhältnis der Schriften des Lukas zu der Zeit ihrer Entstehung,” Theologische Jahrbücher 6 (1847): 293304. 13See Gustav Volckmar, “Ueber das Lukas-Evangelium nach seinem Verhältnis zu Marcion und seinem dogmatischen Charakter, mit besonderer Beziehung auf die kritischen Untersuchungen F. Ch. Baur’s und A. Ritschl’s,” Theologische Jahrbücher 9 (1850): 110–38, 185–235; and Adolf Hilgenfeld, Kritische Untersuchungen über die Evangelien Justin’s, der Clementinischen Homilien und Marcion’s: Ein Beitrag zur Geschichte der ältesten Evangelien-Literatur (Halle: C. A. Schwetschke, 1850). 14 Volckmar, “Ueber das Lukas-Evangelium,” 116. 15 Ibid., 138. The numerous points in Volckmar’s argument are found on pp. 125–38 of his article. 16 See ibid., 138, for his conclusion concerning the sufficiency of the opening of the Gospels to establish their relationship to each other. In part 2 of his article Volckmar discussed Luke 11:29–
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At the same time, however, Volckmar also considered Luke 13:1–9 to have been added after Marcion; 12:6–7 and 21:18 possibly to be later additions; and the reading in Marcion’s Gospel in 8:20 potentially to preserve an original reading.17 As for Hilgenfeld, he began the section of his work concerning Marcion’s Gospel by offering a new reconstruction of Marcion’s text, since he was dissatisfied with the, in his estimation, far too subjective prior efforts of both August Hahn and Ritschl.18 Having worked through Marcion’s Gospel text, Hilgenfeld came to the conclusion that Marcion did edit and omit elements of Luke, and that in general, therefore, Luke is to be seen as the original document; nevertheless, there are several original elements in Marcion’s Gospel.19 Hilgenfeld thus summarized his position as contending that Marcion “knew and revised the Gospel according to Luke, but that this [text of Luke] in its present state also went through an additional, though minimal, redaction.”20 The impact of the work of Hilgenfeld and Volckmar was felt immediately, as both Baur and Ritschl promptly revisited the issue of Marcion’s Gospel in 1851.21 More importantly, however, in their new publications both scholars altered their previous position, Baur through revision and Ritschl through retraction. As Baur revisited the question, he now admitted that Marcion, because of his theological system, had altered numerous passages in his source text to create his Gospel.22 Baur was also convinced, however, that this reality could not account for all the 35; 11:49–51; 12:6–7; 13:28–30; 13:31–35; 16:16–18; 20:1–19; 21:18; 20:27–39; 19:28–44; 8:19–21 (N.B.: the citation is incorrectly given as “XIII, 19 ff.” on p. 195 of the article); 24:25–27; 10:22; 4:38–39; 7:29–35; and 19:9. 17 See Volckmar, “Ueber das Lukas-Evangelium,” 187, 191–92, 200, 208. 18 See Hilgenfeld, Kritische Untersuchungen, 398–442. Ritschl’s reconstruction was mentioned above and Hahn’s reconstruction is found in Das Evangelium Marcions, 132–223. Hahn also offered a continuous Greek text of Marcion’s Gospel in Ioannis Caroli Thilo, Codex apocryphus Novi Testamenti: E libris editis et manuscriptis, maxime gallicanis, germanicis et italicis, collectus, recensitus notisque et prolegomenis illustratus (Leipzig: Frid. Christ. Guilielmi Vogel, 1832), 1:401–86 (the book is indicated as vol. 1, though as far as I know it was the only volume published). 19 Hilgenfeld, Kritische Untersuchungen, 456, 471–74. Hilgenfeld argued that verses or pericopes whose absence is original include Luke 5:39; 13:1–5; and 19:18. In addition, verses in Marcion’s text that contain original readings include Luke 10:22; 11:2; 13:28; 16:17; and 18:19 (see ibid., 469–71). 20 Ibid., 474. 21 F. C. Baur, Das Markusevangelium nach seinem Ursprung und Charakter, nebst einem Anhang über das Evangelium Marcion’s (Tübingen: Ludw. Fr. Fues, 1851); and Albrecht Ritschl, “Über den gegenwärtigen Stand der Kritik der synoptischen Evangelien,” Theologische Jahrbücher 10 (1851): 480–538, esp. 528–33. 22 Baur listed these passages as Luke 8:19; 10:21, 25; 12:8–9; 11:29, 32, 49–52; 13:31–35; 18:31–34; 20:37–38; 21:21–22; 22:30; 22:35–38; 24:25, 27, 32, 44, 45; 22:16; 15:11–32; 20:9–18; 18:37; and 19:9 (Das Markusevangelium, 192–95).
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differences between Marcion’s Gospel and Luke and that at numerous points Marcion’s Gospel preserved original readings, either in the absence of or wording in certain verses.23 Most significant among these original elements was Baur’s contention that Luke 4:16–30 and the entirety of chs. 1 and 2 were not originally part of Luke but were added only after Marcion.24 Thus, Baur’s new conclusion was that Marcion’s Gospel was based on an Ur-Lukas from which Marcion excised and to which Luke added.25 Ritschl’s reaction to the works of Hilgenfeld and Volckmar took a rather different direction, for Ritschl wrote that he viewed his previous hypothesis, that Marcion did not alter Luke but that his Gospel was a previous stage [Vorstufe] of Luke, as refuted by Volckmar and Hilgenfeld.26 Ritschl observed that Hilgenfeld’s arguments had not returned the discussion to the traditional view, since Hilgenfeld had argued that Luke received its present form after Marcion. Ritschl also noted that Baur’s arguments carried Hilgenfeld’s work further by positing a more radical revision by the same author who wrote the book of Acts.27 Ritschl, however, revealed his own view in the statement, I [consider] it quite bold [gewagt] to share the claims concerning Marcion’s Gospel, and on the one hand to recognize that Marcion altered the Gospel according to Luke before him in accordance with his system, but on the other hand to claim that he had a more original text than the one shaped through a final redaction in the present canonical Luke.28
In fact, Ritschl asserted that “with certainty one can count only the variant in the Lord’s prayer [Luke 11:2]” as an original reading in Marcion’s text.29 He was also adamant in stating that other views seeing more readings as original in Marcion’s Gospel may be legitimate “only if one does not, as Baur does, link to them the view that an intentional redaction had obliterated [verwischt] these characteristics of an 23 Baur listed these passages as Luke 1–2; 4:16–30; 5:39; 10:22; 12:6, 7; 13:1–5; 16:17; 19:28– 46; 21:18; and possibly 11:30–32, 49–51; 13:28–35; and 22:30 (Das Markusevangelium, 224). 24 See Baur, Das Markusevangelium, 212–14, 219. 25 See ibid., 225. Baur continued to emphasize both original and theologically edited elements in Marcion’s Gospel in Das Christenthum und die christliche Kirche der drei ersten Jahrhunderte (2nd ed.; Tübingen: Ludw. Fr. Fues, 1860), 77–78. 26 See Ritschl, “Über den gegenwärtigen Stand,” 529. 27 See ibid. 28 Ibid., 530. Ritschl goes on to criticize this “bold” view in that it “doch nicht alle Widersprüche und Unklarheiten in der Darstellung der Geschichte und der Reden von der Grundanlage des Evangeliums entfernt, und dann glaube ich in diesem Verfahren eine Abhängigkeit von dem Urtheile der Kirchenväter über die ganze Sache bemerken zu müssen, welche kritisch nicht gerechtfertigt ist” (ibid.). 29 Ibid., 530. Ritschl adds (p. 531) that one also may be able to include the readings in Luke 10:22; 13:28; and 18:19 in this category, but for the other verses set forth by Hilgenfeld “möchte ich diese Exception nicht geltend machen.”
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original text preserved by Marcion.”30 Thus, it is not surprising that Ritschl did not agree with Baur’s new analysis of Luke 4 in Marcion’s Gospel and that he could not agree with Baur that the first two chapters of Luke were added to Luke after Marcion by the final redactor of the canonical Gospel.31 The irony of these now divergent opinions was highlighted in a letter from Baur to Ritschl dated February 1, 1851, in which Baur wrote, “I am, as you see, a far more faithful adherent of your [1846] view, than you yourself.”32 With Baur and Ritschl having altered their previous views, albeit in different ways, Volckmar decided to devote a longer study to Marcion’s Gospel, and his booklength contribution to the discussion appeared in 1852.33 In the preface Volckmar indicated that his views had in no small way diverged from earlier perspectives, including his own.34 After 255 pages of dense and somewhat repetitive analysis and reconstruction of Marcion’s text, Volckmar came to the conclusion that both the earlier views of Ritschl and Baur, as well as Hilgenfeld’s and his own “mediating position,” were to be rejected.35 In fact, Volckmar concluded that not only is “our” Luke historically to be seen as the one used by Marcion and only shortened and changed by his particular Tendenz,36 but also that concerning the integrity or completeness of Luke “the older view, that of the church fathers and apologetics [die Apologetik] [can] be declared as completely confirmed [emphasis original].”37 30 Ibid.,
531. ibid., 532–33. 32 Quoted in Otto Ritschl, Albrecht Ritschls Leben (2 vols.; Freiburg: Mohr [Siebeck], 1892), 1:181. 33 Gustav Volckmar, Das Evangelium Marcions: Text und Kritik mit Rücksicht auf die Evangelien des Märtyrers Justin, der Clementinen und der apostolischen Väter: Eine Revision der neuern Untersuchungen nach den Quellen selbst zur Textesbestimmung und Erklärung des Lucas-Evangeliums (Leipzig: Weidmann’sche Buchhandlung, 1852). 34 See ibid., vi. 35 See ibid., 255–56. 36 Volckmar reaffirmed this view in Die Evangelien: Oder Marcus und die Synopsis der kanonischen und ausserkanonischen Evangelien nach dem ältesten Text, mit historisch-exegetischem Commentar (Leipzig: Fues [R. Reisland], 1870) (N.B.: this work appeared under the alternate spelling of his last name, Volkmar.) In this work he dated Luke to 95–105 c.e. and explicitly stated, “Dem Markion von 138 ist er vorangegangen” (ibid., 653). In addition, he made direct reference to the Marcionites excising chs. 1 and 2 from Luke because these chapters were deemed to be unacceptable (see ibid., 8–9). 37 Volckmar, Das Evangelium Marcions, 256. Volckmar went on to explain that he believed that corrupt readings are present in the codices of Luke and that from a text-critical standpoint Marcion’s text provides original readings in Luke 10:21, 22; 11:2; 12:38; 17:2; and 18:18. It is also possible that Marcion’s text contained variant readings in Luke 6:17; 12:32; 17:12; and 23:2 (see ibid., 256–57). It is crucial to note, however, that Volckmar explained these variants as harmonizing moves toward Matthew or the OT and stated, “Eine specifisch anti-marcionitische Tendenz zeigt sich dabei nirgends ausschliesslich” (ibid., 257 [emphasis original]). 31 See
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In 1853 Hilgenfeld offered a second contribution to the discussion in an article motivated primarily, though not exclusively, by Volckmar’s 1852 work.38 The opening pages of this article may very well have contributed to later misunderstandings as it, on occasion, glossed over significant differences in the conclusions of previous works.39 Even as Hilgenfeld sought to highlight his agreement with Baur that Marcion’s Gospel was the product of Marcion’s redaction and that Luke underwent anti-Marcionite editing, it is readily apparent that the source text for Marcion’s Gospel and the extent of post-Marcion editing in their respective views were significantly different.40 Therefore, as Hilgenfeld once again covered the by now well-trodden ground of the readings in or missing from Marcion’s Gospel, his significantly more minimal conception of originality in Marcion’s Gospel pointed to a quite different understanding of the source text of Marcion’s Gospel than the perspective held by Baur, where, for example, the entirety of Luke 1 and 2 was believed to have been missing. At this point it clearly can be seen that the flurry of publications and regularly shifting viewpoints created a challenging picture to encapsulate and understand, even for those involved in the debate themselves.41 Nevertheless, despite the den38 See Adolf Hilgenfeld, “Das Marcionitische Evangelium und seine neueste Bearbeitung,” Theologische Jahrbücher 12 (1853): 192–244. 39 Even the opening line reveals the effort to minimize the differences between the views of the various scholars involved in the debate: “Es konnte scheinen, als sei die Untersuchung über das marcionitische Evangelium in neuester Zeit bereits zu einem solchen Abschluss fortgeführt, dass eine wesentliche Uebereinstimmung erreicht war” (Hilgenfeld, “Das Marcionitische Evangelium,” 192). That the effort is superficial can be seen in the fact that Hilgenfeld recognized that Ritschl rejected Baur’s 1851 “Vermittelung,” but also stated that in doing so “es sich . . . nur um Einzelheiten handelte” rather than a fundamental difference concerning the relationship between Marcion’s Gospel and Luke (see Hilgenfeld, “Das Marcionitische Evangelium,” 194). In addition, contrary to Volckmar’s own assessment, Hilgenfeld sought to downplay the difference between Volckmar’s 1850 and 1852 positions, as well as the divergence between Volckmar’s 1852 view and the views of the other scholars involved in the debate (see Hilgenfeld, “Das Marcionitische Evangelium,” 194–96). 40 Hilgenfeld concluded that only the absence of Luke 5:39; 13:1–9; 21:18; and some readings (often of only a single word or phrase) in Luke 10:21–22; 11:2; 12:38; 13:28; 16:17; 17:2; 18:19; and 23:2 were original or possibly original. However, he later qualified his view, stating, “Mit voller Sicherheit rechne ich hierher das fehlen von V, 39., die Textform X, 21. 22. in allem Wesentlichen, ferner XIII, 28. XVI, 17., auch trage ich kein Bedenken, XVIII, 19. unter diesen Gesichtspunkt zu stellen. . . . Möglich ist es, dass hierher auch XXIII, 2. zu rechnen ist. Ausserdem hat uns das marcionitische Evangelium den ächt lukanischen Text noch XI, 2., ohne die Korrektur nach Matthäus, und XXI, 18. (durch das Fehlen dieser störenden Einschaltung) bewahrt” (“Das Marcionitische Evangelium,” 242). 41 Though perhaps slightly overstated, there is some truth to Klinghardt’s observation that the exchanges became an “auch für sie [the participants] selbst unübersichtlich werdende Auseinandersetzung,” though I would disagree with his conclusion that in them “die Positionen nicht mehr wirklich identifizierbar waren” (“Markion vs. Lukas,” 489).
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sity of argumentation, a reasonably clear picture of the views of the major figures in the discussion emerged by the mid-1850s: (1) Baur viewed Marcion’s Gospel and Luke as two differently motivated redactions of an Ur-Lukas; (2) Hilgenfeld viewed Marcion’s Gospel as a redaction of a text that was essentially Luke, though Luke as we know it does contain a few readings generated by the church’s controversy with Marcion; and (3) Ritschl and Volckmar, both explicitly rejecting the views of Baur and of Hilgenfeld, viewed Marcion’s Gospel as an alteration of Luke in a form different from our Luke only in a very few variant readings unrelated to the conflict with Marcionism.
II. The Beginnings of the Erroneous Conception The present misconception of the status quaestionis at the end of the 1850s concerning the relationship between Marcion’s Gospel and Luke seems to be due most directly to John Knox’s monograph Marcion and the New Testament: An Essay in the Early History of the Canon.42 Although Knox had already mentioned the debates of the previous century in his 1939 article in JBL, it was not until his monograph that Knox offered a detailed summary of this German scholarly debate and its outcome.43 His several-paragraph discussion, because of its importance, is here cited in its entirety: The contrary position [to the traditional view], however, was vigorously reaffirmed by Schwegler and by Ritschl, who after a detailed analysis of the evidence (giving particular attention to the question of the use of canonical Luke by 42 John Knox, Marcion and the New Testament: An Essay in the Early History of the Canon (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1942). Although Knox’s views seem to have become the most influential in recent discussions, he was not the first to misunderstand the debates of this period. Three prior examples, perhaps influenced by Hilgenfeld’s 1853 comments (see n. 39), are illustrative. First, in 1855 Franck already seems to have misunderstood several positions as evidenced by his referring to Volckmar’s 1852 position as “eine vermittelnde,” a view that Volckmar actually explicitly rejected (see Franck, “Ueber das Evangelium Marcion’s,” 352). Second, Walter Richard Cassels edited and reedited his chapter on Marcion in the various editions of his originally anonymous Supernatural Religion. This editorial work betrays the difficulty he had with understanding the works of this period (editions 1–6 and the complete edition were printed by Longmans, Green, and Co. in London, 1874–79 and a popular edition was printed by Watts and Co. in London, 1903 and 1905). One illustration of these difficulties can be seen in the discussion of Volckmar’s 1850 and 1852 works, where in the editions he had varying descriptions of Volckmar’s conclusions in 1850, but always asserted that Volckmar confirmed his previous results with greater emphasis in 1852, which was obviously an incorrect assessment of Volckmar’s position. Finally, Hajo Uden Meyboom (Marcion en de Marcionieten [Leiden: P. Engels & Zoon, 1888], 147–48) also overlooked key differences between Volckmar’s views in 1850 and 1852. 43 The article is John Knox, “On the Vocabulary of Marcion’s Gospel,” JBL 58 (1939): 193201.
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Undoubtedly, there are several helpful elements in Knox’s presentation of this intense time of discussion concerning the nature of Marcion’s Gospel. At the same time, however, two important observations concerning Knox’s summary must be made. First, Ulrich Schmid rightly pointed out an immediate problem with Knox’s view of how the debate supposedly “ended” by noting that nowhere in his summary did Knox mention Volckmar’s 1852 work, with its retraction of his previously held view.45 This omission is particularly difficult to understand given the fact that Knox referenced Hilgenfeld’s 1853 article, which, as already noted above, was largely motivated by and in response to Volckmar’s 1852 monograph.46 Nevertheless, the unfortunate reality remains that, since Knox failed to take account of Volckmar’s major 1852 work, his summary is hardly an accurate representation of how the debate “ended.” It may therefore be observed that, since Volckmar ultimately did believe that Marcion’s Gospel was derived from Luke, he clearly cannot be said to have advocated the “new view” as Knox described it. 44 Knox,
Marcion and the New Testament, 79–81.
45 See Ulrich Schmid, “Marcions Evangelium und die neutestamentlichen Evangelien: Rück-
fragen zur Geschichte und Kanonisierung der Evangelienüberlieferung,” in Marcion und seine kirchengeschichtliche Wirkung: Marcion and His Impact on Church History (ed. Gerhard May, Katharina Greschat, and Martin Meiser; TU 150; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2002), 68–69 n. 9. 46 Knox’s reference to Hilgenfeld is found in Marcion and the New Testament, 80 n. 13 (continued from previous page). Hilgenfeld mentions Volckmar’s 1852 work as largely responsible for his once again addressing the issue of Marcion’s Gospel in “Das marcionitische Evangelium,” 194–96.
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Second, even apart from the omission of Volckmar’s 1852 work, it should be questioned whether either Hilgenfeld or Ritschl legitimately can be listed as advocates of this “new view.” Hilgenfeld did argue that some post-Marcion redaction occurred in Luke, though, as was seen, his conception of the extent of that redaction was very minimal. Concerning Ritschl, Knox stated that when Ritschl retracted his previous position he “was careful to point out that this did not mean a return to the traditional position, since neither Volkmar nor Hilgenfeld held that Marcion’s Gospel was derived from the canonical Luke.”47 It is quite curious, however, that Knox did not note that Ritschl disagreed with that assessment.48 As was seen above, Ritschl believed Marcion altered a text that, except for only one certain textual variant, was Luke. Therefore, far from reviving a new “consensus position” in his work, Knox actually reaffirmed a position that only Baur held.49 The influence of Knox’s summary of previous research on Marcion’s Gospel can readily be seen by the fact that it, most recently, is explicitly invoked in the works by Andrew Gregory and Joseph Tyson, and appears to have shaped the views found in the NTS article by Matthias Klinghardt.50 Gregory, whose larger work on Luke-Acts contains a chapter on Marcion, sets forth a clear position on his view of
47 Knox,
Marcion and the New Testament, 80–81.
48 In a note, Knox provided a lengthy citation from pp. 528–29 of Ritschl’s work (the section
includes his retraction of his previous position and the summaries of the works of Hilgenfeld and Baur) and concluded, “This point is of the greatest importance and is constantly ignored” (Knox, Marcion and the New Testament, 81 n. 17). It is difficult to understand how Knox believed Ritschl to be agreeing with the views of Hilgenfeld and Baur as summarized. This belief seems to be possible only if one “ignored” the following four pages of Ritschl’s discussion. 49 Despite minimal discussion of this issue and sparse bibliographic references to the debate, E. Earle Ellis correctly recognizes this point, writing, “Baur’s view was revived in the present century by the American scholar, John Knox [emphasis added]” (The Making of the New Testament Documents [Biblical Interpretation Series 39; Leiden: Brill, 1999], 383). Martin Hengel, in a brief note to a short discussion of Marcion, also correctly connects Knox’s view with Baur, though he offers no discussion of the debate surrounding Marcion’s Gospel during Baur’s time (see The Four Gospels and the One Gospel of Jesus Christ: An Investigation of the Collection and Origin of the Canonical Gospels [trans. John Bowden; Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International, 2000], 230 n. 131). 50 Reference to the works of Gregory, Tyson, and Klinghardt was made in n. 1 above. Although Klinghardt explicitly states that he is renewing Knox’s thesis in his article in NTS (see “Markion vs. Lukas,” 491) and his history of research has problems similar to those of Knox, he does not overtly invoke Knox’s summary. Prior to Gregory’s work, Knox’s summary was explicitly cited by H. Philip West Jr., “A Primitive Version of Luke in the Composition of Matthew,” NTS 14 (1967–68): 75–95. Knox’s influence can also be seen clearly in history-of-research errors by David S. Williams, “Marcion’s Gospel: Reconsidered” (M.A. thesis, University of Georgia, 1982), 6, 78, and probably in misstatements by R. Joseph Hoffmann, Marcion: On the Restitution of Christianity: An Essay on the Development of Radical Paulinist Theology in the Second Century (AAR Academy Series 46; Chico, CA: Scholars Press, 1984), xi–xii.
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the nature of Marcion’s Gospel text by overtly relying on the work of Knox.51 He quotes Knox’s proposal that “the relation between Marcion’s Gospel and the canonical Gospel of Luke is not accurately described either by the simple statement that Marcion abridged Luke or by the assertion that Luke enlarged Marcion,” arguing that in this view “Knox stands with the developing German position which questioned the patristic consensus that claimed that Marcion had mutilated Luke.”52 Gregory goes on to quote the last paragraph from the Knox citation given above, and then states his own view, writing, “It is this middle view, I shall argue, that Marcion neither drew on canonical Luke as we would recognise it in a modern eclectic text, nor that Luke was derived from Marcion’s Gospel, which best fits the evidence that we have for the relationship between Marcion’s Gospel and that known to us as Luke.”53 Although it seems to me that there is some ambiguity as to how significant changes would have to be for someone not to recognize Luke as it appears in a modern eclectic text, it is clear that only Baur’s final position could possibly be marshaled as support for this “middle view” representing a supposed “developing German position.”54 Volckmar’s and Ritschl’s view definitely excluded a “middle view,” and Hilgenfeld’s remaining textual questions surely would not rise to the level of someone no longer being able to refer to the text as Luke. Joseph Tyson, whose recent work on Marcion and Luke-Acts is dedicated to Knox, also cites the final paragraph of the Knox citation given above (omitting only the last sentence) and uses it to summarize his own brief survey of the research on the relationship between Marcion’s Gospel and Luke.55 However, as was the case with Knox’s summary, some significant missteps have occurred. First, perhaps under the influence of Knox’s discussion, Volckmar’s 1852 work once again has been overlooked. Therefore, a statement such as “Volckmar maintained that both canonical Luke and Marcion’s Gospel were derivative,” could only possibly be true for Volckmar before he published his definitive views on the issue.56 Second, Tyson 51 See
Gregory, Reception of Luke and Acts, 192–96. 193. The Knox quotation is from Marcion and the New Testament, 110. 53 Gregory, Reception of Luke and Acts, 193. The quotation he provides from Knox is the one referenced by n. 44 above. 54 An eclectic text, of course, by its very definition does not exist in any single manuscript, though one would seemingly have to posit fairly radical differences for a manuscript of Luke no longer to be recognized as essentially a copy of Luke, or no longer with integrity to be able to be called Luke. 55 The dedication page in Tyson’s Marcion and Luke-Acts reads, “Dedicated to the memory of John Knox (1900–1990), my esteemed teacher, whose ground-breaking work inspired this study.” Again, the quotation he provides from Knox is the one referenced by n. 44 above. Tyson had previously offered an analysis of F. C. Baur’s views on Luke and its relation to Marcion’s Gospel in Luke, Judaism, and the Scholars: Critical Approaches to Luke-Acts (Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 1999), 21–27. 56 Tyson, Marcion and Luke-Acts, 85. 52 Ibid.,
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rightly notes that Ritschl “retracted his views about the direct relationship between the Gospel of Marcion and canonical Luke,” but then concludes the sentence with “and he finally came to a view similar to Baur’s.”57 Since Ritschl specifically rejected Baur’s view more or less in its entirety, including the notion that Luke took its present form as a result of a final redaction after Marcion, it does not appear to be particularly helpful to characterize Ritschl as coming “to a view similar to Baur’s.” Therefore, it is difficult to avoid the conclusion that Tyson wrongly invokes a “formidable scholarly tradition, which includes Baur, Ritschl, and Knox [and through the Knox citation apparently, by implication, Volckmar and Hilgenfeld]” to make the claim that this tradition “has established grounds for serious doubts about the claims of the church fathers and has encouraged an alternative theory, namely that canonical Luke, although not based directly on Marcion’s Gospel, was composed, among other factors, in reaction to the preaching of Marcion.”58 Finally, to come to the article by Klinghardt that appeared in NTS. He is to be commended for the fact that, in providing a fairly extensive and often helpful history of research, he does not overlook any of the major works of Baur, Hilgenfeld, Ritschl, or Volckmar relating to Marcion in the period under review.59 For that reason, however, it is even more difficult to understand the two points Klinghardt wishes to emphasize concerning their discussions: (1) These scholars agreed that redactional activity could be identified in both Marcion’s Gospel and Luke and that, since both texts reworked a common original in different ways, they essentially debated only whether that original more closely resembled Marcion’s or Luke’s text; and (2) with this compromise they lost sight of the clear-cut alternative between the priority of either Marcion’s Gospel or Luke.60 This analysis is puzzling for, as was 57 Ibid. 58
Ibid. Klinghardt, “Markion vs. Lukas,” 489 n. 1. I will focus on this article because it contains the most expansive discussion of the history of research on Marcion’s Gospel. However, in the article appearing in the Festschrift for Christoph Burchard, Klinghardt references Ritschl (1846), Baur (1847), and Schwegler (1846) as mid-nineteenth-century scholars, following Semler and preceding Knox, in support of Klinghardt’s summary statement: “Statt Markion als Bearbeitung des Lk zu verstehen, deutete man Lk als redaktionelle Erweiterung des von Markion benutzten Evangeliums” (“‘Gesetz,’” 101). Since there is no mention of the revision and retraction of their views by Baur and Ritschl, it is difficult to avoid the impression that here Klinghardt is describing a view that is envisioned as having been advanced by Semler, the mid-nineteenthcentury scholars, and Knox, when, in fact, important qualifications are in order. 60 See Klinghardt, “Markion vs. Lukas,” 489. It is worth noting that, unlike Gregory and Tyson, Klinghardt is critical of this “compromise,” as he appears to be advocating not this supposed consensus view but rather a position similar to the original thesis of Ritschl and Baur that Luke redacted and expanded Marcion’s Gospel (see the concluding comments in Klinghardt, “Markion vs. Lukas,” 512–13). Curiously, in Klinghardt’s most recent article on Marcion’s Gospel, he provides a slightly different summary statement of these debates: “European scholarship agreed 59 See
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seen above, the issue of the priority of Marcion’s Gospel or Luke was and remained a major consideration in the conclusions of the studies on Marcion during this era. It seems that Klinghardt’s second point is largely dependent on whether the first accurately assesses the outcome of the debates. Unfortunately, once again, several inaccuracies are present. First, the type of redactional activity seen in Marcion’s Gospel and Luke (subsequent to Marcion)—if it may even accurately be described as such—posited by Ritschl and Volckmar is of a nature vastly different from that set forth by Hilgenfeld, whose view is rather far from Baur’s. Second, even if one wished to argue that redactional activity of some sort was identified by all four scholars, Ritschl and Volckmar certainly did not conclude that both texts reworked a common original. Finally, not only was there therefore no agreed-upon position or compromise, but it is bewildering that Klinghardt references Ritschl as a proponent of the “original text more closely resembling Marcion’s Gospel” position and Volckmar for the “original text more closely resembling Luke” position, when both clearly had concluded that Luke, apart from a very few original readings preserved by Marcion, had been edited by Marcion.61
III. Conclusion In sum, as encouraging as it is to find renewed discussion concerning Marcion’s Gospel in the scholarly literature, there has been a surprising lack of precision in the presentation of previous scholarship on this Gospel. It is particularly the discussion surrounding the question of the relationship between Marcion’s Gospel and Luke that has been misinterpreted, and it is time that Knox’s—and others’—erroneous summary of the conclusions of the debates in the middle of the nineteenth century is recognized as such. Nevertheless, the reappearance of the Baur/Knox view concerning the relationship between these two texts once again helpfully brings attention to an issue of primary importance for scholarship on the
on Mcn’s [the gospel which was used by Marcion and the Marcionites] posteriority to Luke after a few years of fierce debate, the final stage of which is often considered to be Georg [sic] Volckmar’s book on Marcion” (“Marcionite Gospel,” 5). Though the purported consensus view is now described differently, it should be clear that it remains inaccurate. In addition, even though Klinghardt, in n. 15 of his article, mentions that the major contributors to the debate between 1846 and 1853 were “forced to correct their older views,” in the main text he lists Albrecht Ritschl as one of the “exegetical heavyweights” who proposed that Luke was an enlarged version of Marcion’s Gospel (“Marcionite Gospel,” 6). Klinghardt goes on to state, “More important than their names is the fact that their critique of the traditional view has never really been disproved” (ibid.). However, Ritschl considered his own arguments to have been disproved, which is precisely why he abandoned his original view. 61 See Klinghardt, “Markion vs. Lukas,” 489.
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Gospels in the second century. At the same time, it should also be recognized that this view had, in the end, perhaps received some minor support from Hilgenfeld, but had been rejected by Ritschl and Volckmar, not to mention the major figures in the next generation of German Marcion scholarship, Theodor Zahn and Adolf von Harnack.62 Whether this position can become broadly persuasive in the twenty-first century remains to be seen; however, it appears that in previous eras, far from being a consensus position, it convinced only a few. 62 For Zahn’s discussion of Marcion’s Gospel, see Geschichte des neutestamentlichen Kanons (2 vols.; Erlangen: Andreas Deichert, 1888–92), 1:585–718, 2:409–529, esp. 1:681, where he stated “daß es nicht irgend ein dem katholischen Lukas verwandter Evangelientext, sondern der katholische Lucas selbst war, welchen Mrc. vorfand und bearbeitete” (the identical sentiment is expressed slightly more expansively on p. 713). For Harnack’s discussion, see Marcion: Das Evangelium vom Fremden Gott (TU 45; 2nd ed.; Leipzig: Hinrichs, 1924; repr., Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1996), esp. 240*, where he stated, “Daß das Evangelium Marcions nichts anderes ist als was das altkirchliche Urteil von ihm behauptet hat, nämlich ein verfälschter Lukas, darüber braucht kein Wort mehr verloren zu werden.”
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Three More Fish Stories (John 21:11) mark kiley [email protected] St. John’s University, Staten Island, NY 10301
The perennially interesting conundrum of the 153 fish finds its most complete recent treatment in the commentary of Craig Keener.1 Of the approximately dozen suggestions that are highlighted there, it is probably fair to say that the one holding sway at this moment sees the number as a gematrical sum alluding to the Hebrew for children of God. In this critical note, I wish to add three suggestions to the hopper. 1. Peter when old. This is perhaps the simplest of the three suggestions, based on an inter-Greek exercise of gematria. The number 153 is the sum of the digits of the following Greek letters: gamma, rho, nu. γ=3 ρ = 100 ν = 50 These letters form the consonantal spine of the word for old, in verbal form applied by Jesus to Peter in John 21:18.2 2. Justice. As described by the neo-Pythagorean Iamblichus, justice is “a power of rendering what is equal and fitting comprehended by the mean of an odd square number.”3 This fourth-century c.e. definition, preserving earlier tradition, 1 Craig S. Keener The Gospel of John: A Commentary (2 vols.; Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2003), 2:1231–33. 2 The full table of equivalents is available in H. W. Smyth Greek Grammar (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1976) 103, 104. 3 Iamblichus, In Nicom. 16.15–18 and in Theol. Arithm. 37.1–4. Cited in Hayden Ausland
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is relevant to the Fourth Gospel in the following way: The first odd number is 3; its square is 9.4 The mean of 9 is 5. Five is the “mean” of the number of fish 1, 5, 3. There are also five places in the farewell discourse, each buffered by a different theme, where the disciples are commanded to ask (αἰτεῖν).5 Further, according to one recent commentator, five provides the numerical substructure of the whole text.6 By his having returned to the Father, Jesus has demonstrated the justice of God (16:10), and that justice is here adumbrated in the 153 fish. 3. Providence. The sum of the digits in 153 is 9,7 and it occurs following a portion of the text in which eight people are present at the cross of Jesus.8 This 8, 9 sequence is used as a structuring principle in Sirach’s panegyric in honor of Simeon the high priest, according to a recent article by Jeremy Corley.9 He links this pattern to statements in Sir 18:6 and 42:21 and Qoh 3:14 and suggests that the numerical pattern alludes to the exact providence of God’s action in history, where nothing needs to be added and nothing subtracted.10 John’s attention to 8 and 9 may have a similar intention of praising God’s providence in the history of its preeminent high priest, Jesus. Moreover, the sum of 8 and 9 is 17,11 and 153 is the result of multiplying 9 × 17. This “increase and multiply” dynamic may be playing with Gen 1:28 LXX, whose αὐξάνεσθε καὶ πληθύνεσθε is directed to the man and woman. The double command echoes the identical command to the sea creatures in Gen 1:22, though 1:28 goes on to give the couple dominion over the fish of the sea. Therefore,
“The Mathematics of Justice,” in Reading Plato in Antiquity (ed. Harold Tarrant and Dirk Baltzly; London: Duckworth, 2006), 107–23, esp. 113. 4 The 3–9 dynamic is present in the threefold use of φανεροῦν in this chapter; the verb occurs nine times altogether in John. 5 These five clusters with buffering themes are John 14:13 (Jesus’ works); 15:7 (bearing fruit); 15:16 (love); 16:23, 24b (joy); 16:26 (hearing Jesus speak plainly). 6 John J. Gerhard, S.J.,The Miraculous Parallelisms of John: A Golden Model of Symmetric Patterns (Tangerine, FL: Orlando Truth, 2006). 7 There are nine designated characters in this chapter: Simon Peter, Thomas, Nathanael, the (two) sons of Zebedee, two unnamed disciples, the Beloved Disciple, and Jesus. I do not assume that the Beloved Disciple is one of the seven persons previously listed, because he is not so designated there. Rather, I suggest that his appearance here at the end of the text should primarily elicit the same question as it did at his first appearance in ch. 13: Where did he come from? 8 Jesus, the Beloved Disciple, two others crucified, the mother of Jesus, her sister, Mary of Clopas, Mary Magdalene (John 19:18, 25, 26). 9 Jeremy Corley, “A Numerical Structure in Sirach 44:1–50:24,” CBQ 69 (2007): 43–63. 10 Ibid., 63. 11 Seventeen is also the number of occurrences of σημεῖον in John. The texture of the pericope supports this remote association in that the Latin for σημεῖα is signa, and the numerical equivalent of the Greek letter sigma is 200. Two hundred is the designated number of cubits in John 21:8. This 17 is an allusive indicator of Jesus the sign-maker.
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the providential reading of 153 is grounded in the lifting up of Jesus as well as in the initial creative and sustaining will of God. Conclusion. Each of these three options presents itself against a horizon-ofnine. Nine is present in option 2’s square of 3, as well as in the sum of the digits and use of 9 as a multiple in option 3. Nine is a remote horizon for option 1 as well: The high point of Peter’s confession, that which acts as immediate pretext for the Peter-as-old saying, contains nine words in the Greek: κύριε, πάντα σὺ οἶδας, σὺ γινώσκεις ὅτι φιλῶ σε, “Lord, you know everything, you know that I love you” (21:17). We cannot be certain about the evangelist’s motivation in utilizing 9 as a background horizon. Perhaps the fact that the last items in the Hebrew lexicon build on the nine stem, (#t, suggested the root as a fitting one for the conclusion of the text. We know, after all, that Daniel’s 1,290 days (Dan 12:11) constitute the penultimate statement of that apocalyptic presentation. The Johannine editor may have chosen this numerical frame as a suitable one for the text’s final reflection on Jesus’ coming (21:23). Whatever the rationale for the agenda, I suggest that the case for the existence of the agenda itself is persuasive and constitutes an advance in appreciation of the contours of the pericope. All three options within this circumference-of-nine derive from it a certain unity for their respective refractions of Jesus’ self-presentation. Having said that, however, I do have a preference among the three, one supported by evidence internal to John. Adding is characteristic of the first option; multiplying is reflected in option 2; and the high priestly option 3 is predicated on an increase. But it is only with the final part of option 3 that we attain to both the operators increase and multiply. That is noteworthy because the great multitude, πλῆθος, of 21:6 constitutes a natural complement to the prophecy of the Baptizer that Jesus will increase, αὐξάνειν (3:30), and supplies the properly Johannine justification for turning to the αὐξάνεσθε καὶ πληθύνεσθε of the creation accounts. Finally, it would be, perhaps, pusillanimous to insist on a choice between the option of the children of God and this equally well-hidden increase and multiply. For ch. 20 as a whole, as explicitly elaborated in 20:17–29, has chronicled the increase in the number of Jesus’ siblings.12 And ch. 21 depicts the multiplier-effect thereto. These fish are swimming in different sections of the same school. 12 And is it too much to surmise that Latin summa, numerical sum, is one of the formative influences on 20:24–29, in which Thomas is added to the group, even as he confesses the circumlocution Lord for the divine Name (Latin Sum)?
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The Acts of the Apostles, Greek Cities, and Hadrian’s Panhellenion laura nasrallah [email protected] Harvard Divinity School, Cambridge, MA 02138
“This was not done in a corner,” asserts Paul in the Acts of the Apostles about the ideas and origins of his movement (Acts 26:26).1 In this brief sentence Luke’s geographical imagination spills from Paul’s mouth. Paul has just explained his own travel from Damascus to Jerusalem and throughout Judea and to the Gentiles, echoing Luke’s understanding that “the Way” moves through the entire oikoumenē, or inhabited world, eclipsing Jerusalem. And as he utters these words, Paul himself stands on the cusp of his final journey; after this he will be sent from Caesarea (where he had arrived from his Jerusalem imprisonment) to Rome. “This was not done in a corner.” Luke’s economical assertion, placed in Paul’s mouth, leads us to wonder: In the midst of Roman power and claims to possess the oikoumenē—claims manifest literarily and in the built environment2—how did some early Christian communities imagine the space of the world? What kind of geographical thinking did they engage? Scholars have long noted that there is something peculiarly geographical about Luke-Acts. Luke refers to Christianity as “the Way” (ἡ ὁδός), and the canonical Many scholars have helped me in this project. Special thanks to Denise Kimber Buell and Shelly Matthews for sharing their research and insights, and to François Bovon, Christopher Frilingos, Michal Beth Dinkler, and Cavan Concannon among others for reading the manuscript. 1 All NT translations are from the RSV unless otherwise noted. Sometimes I have modified them slightly. The Greek is from the twenty-sixth edition of Nestle-Aland’s Novum Testamentum Graece. 2 On geography in the Roman period, see Claude Nicolet, Space, Geography, and Politics in the Early Roman Empire (Jerome Lectures 19; Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1991); François Hartog, Memories of Odysseus: Frontier Tales from Ancient Greece (trans. Janet Lloyd; Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2001), esp. chap. 5; and Laura Nasrallah, “Mapping the World: Justin, Tatian, Lucian, and the Second Sophistic,” HTR 98 (2005): 283–314.
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Acts’ story of Christianity is restless and urban.3 Christianity is propelled from the margins of empire and the center of Judaism, Jerusalem, to the center of the empire, Rome.4 The characters in Acts constantly make their way between cities, moving throughout the oikoumenē and producing a kind of Christian empire parallel to Roman rule. This article argues that Paul’s travels to Greek cities in the latter half of Acts, and the geography of Acts more generally, are best understood in light of contemporaneous political and cultural discourses about Greek cities under Rome. Moreover, through Paul’s deeds and speeches in key sites like Lystra, Thessalonikē, Philippi, and Athens, Acts articulates a theological vision of how Christianity and its notion of one, true God can fit within a “pluralistic” empire and its notions of ethnic difference. To use the terminology of postcolonial criticism, it mimics the logic of empire without shading into mockery; it seeks to find a place for “the Way” within a system of Roman domination.5 It does so, however, with a Greek twist of the sort that the Roman Empire sanctioned and even fostered and invented. In the midst of the Second Sophistic, that movement that cherished all things classically Greek, the philhellenic emperor Hadrian founded the Panhellenion, a Greek ethnic coalition centered in Athens that fostered diplomacy among city-states. The Panhellenion encouraged various cities’ inventions of genealogies and myths that established their cities as solidly Greek in race as well as unified in piety, cult, and political outlook under Athens and Rome. In Acts, Paul’s travels, especially to cities in the Greek East, resonate with the logic and functions associated with the creation and promotion of city leagues.6 The author of Luke-Acts, likely writing in a 3 Loveday Alexander, “Mapping Early Christianity: Acts and the Shape of Early Church History,” Int 57 (2003): 163–75; eadem, “‘In Journeyings Often’: Voyaging in the Acts of the Apostles and in Greek Romance,” in Luke’s Literary Achievement: Collected Essays (ed. C. M. Tuckett; JSNTSup 116; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1995), 17–49. See also James M. Scott, “Luke’s Geographical Horizon,” in The Book of Acts in Its First Century Setting, vol. 2, The Book of Acts in Its Graeco-Roman Setting (ed. David W. J. Gill and Conrad Gempf; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1994), 483–544. Hans Conzelmann brings together the topic of geography with Luke-Acts: The Theology of St. Luke (1961; trans. Geoffrey Buswell; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1982). 4 Conzelmann, Theology; see also Alexander, “Mapping Early Christianity,” 166. This reading of Acts is true even if Luke and Acts were early transmitted separately (see Andrew F. Gregory, The Reception of Luke and Acts in the Period before Irenaeus [WUNT 2/169; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2003], 353), since Acts, too, moves from Jerusalem to Rome. On the eclipsing of Jerusalem, see Richard I. Pervo, “My Happy Home: The Role of Jerusalem in Acts 1–7,” in Forum n.s. 3.1 (2000): esp. 38. 5 Homi K. Bhabha, The Location of Culture (New York: Routledge, 1994), esp. 86–101. On reading Luke-Acts’ theology within the sociopolitics of the Roman Empire, see Philip Esler, Community and Gospel in Luke-Acts: The Social and Political Motivations of Lucan Theology (SNTSMS 57; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987), esp. 1–2. 6 Other resonances include the Diaspora and the ingathering of God’s people in Second Isaiah; see David Pao, Acts and the Isaianic New Exodus (WUNT 2/130; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2000).
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city of the Greek East such as Antioch or Ephesus, configures a Christianity that fits within the superior aspects of Greek culture and cities under the Roman Empire. The discourse of Greek cities under Rome in which Hadrian’s Panhellenion partakes intertwines with Acts—especially Acts’ depiction of Paul—in four principal ways. First, Hadrian and emperors before him traveled the Mediterranean basin, making benefactions and binding cities with Greek identity more closely into the Roman Empire, sometimes by encouraging them to create links of homonoia (harmony or concord) with each other. Moreover, embassies moved between key cities in the second century, whether the ambassadors were orators of the Second Sophistic or officers of the Panhellenion. So also the cities to which Paul traveled in the canonical Acts can be seen as a kind of Christian civic league, produced by Paul’s gospel and his ambassadorial role. Second, Acts, as well as figures like Hadrian and the orator Aelius Aristides, deployed commonly available discourses about civic identity, ethnicity, kinship, and correct religion. They did so in order to ask their audiences to consider their place within the geography of the Roman Empire and in order to unify their audiences. This second-century phenomenon relied on a long history of the use of rhetoric of race, myths of origins, concerns about civic leagues, and homonoia. This is a form of “ethnic reasoning,” Denise Buell’s term for the deploying of arguments about fixed and fluid identity in the service of constructing peoplehood.7 With its idea of being part of “God’s race” or offspring (Acts 17:28–29) and with its development of a Christian geographical imagination that embraces the entire oikoumenē, Acts engages similar ways of thinking. Third, Greek cities under Rome in the first and second centuries often served as “memory theaters,” to borrow archaeologist Susan Alcock’s phrase. Greek cityscapes changed under Rome, but cities were not usually razed or completely transformed. Rather, in the cultural movement of the Second Sophistic, the recent stood next to the ancient, giving the appearance of mutually affirming religious values, ethnic identity, and certain ideas of aesthetics and paideia. So also LukeActs produces a Christian memory theater by juxtaposing materials ancient (such as the Septuagint) and recent (Christian oral and written traditions), locations exotic (Malta and Lystra) and central (Athens, with all its culture). Finally, the cities to which Paul travels in Acts produce a Christian parallel to the twenty-eight cities that comprised the Panhellenion. Luke’s depiction of Paul’s 7 Acts does not describe Christians as a new or third “race” or people (genos, ethnos, or laos), language found elsewhere in the second century, the implications of which Denise Kimber Buell skillfully treats in Why This New Race? Ethnic Reasoning in Early Christianity (Gender, Theory, and Religion; New York: Columbia University Press, 2005), esp. 2–4. Nonetheless, these texts highlight “the rhetorical situations in which early Christian texts use ideas about peoplehood to communicate and persuade readers about Christianness” (p. 2). By crafting Christian communities as a league of cities unified by common (divine) origins, kinship, and worship, Acts offers an example of Christian ethnic reasoning.
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travels emerges from this discursive setting and similarly constructs in narrative a kind of pan-Christian alliance, tying cities to one of Acts’ key founders of Christianity. Just as the Panhellenion links together cities that recall or create archaic Greek origins, so Luke uses the same cities or locations near them to provide a foundation myth for Christianity. Placing Luke’s depictions of Paul’s travels within the context of Greek cities struggling to articulate their subject identity and superior paideia, on the one hand, and the establishment of city leagues under the Roman Empire, on the other, does not explain all of Luke’s theology and ideology. Nor do I here seek to uncover Lukan intent. Rather, exploring Lukan depictions of Paul underscores an extremely influential early Christian “political theology,” to borrow Allen Brent’s term.8 I argue that Acts, embedded in a world negotiating Greek–Roman–“barbarian” relations, creates a story of the origins of a Christian city league that might be comprehensible and attractive to Rome, and in its logic offers seeds for a Christian empire that resembles the Roman Empire.9
I. Placing Acts: The Second Sophistic in an Empire of Cities Acts presents a Christian geography that conforms to the geographical thinking of the Roman Empire, but it does so via the prestige of Greek paideia and of second-century Greek city leagues. To understand Luke’s approach to space and politics, we must place Luke-Acts in the context of the so-called Second Sophistic, the archaizing movement, often Roman-sponsored, that celebrated Greekness. To put it another way: first- and second-century Rome produced Greek identity. Philostratus coined the term “Second Sophistic” in the third century as he compiled important figures of prior centuries who had been interested in rhetoric, as had been the ancient Greek sophists. Those involved in this later “movement” were interested in rhetoric as persuasion, and thus also in the concrete power— 8 Allen Brent, The Imperial Cult and the Development of Church Order: Concepts and Images
of Authority in Paganism and Early Christianity before the Age of Cyprian (VCSup 45; Leiden/ Boston: Brill, 1999), 76. Paul’s travels in Acts, when viewed through the lens of Lukan “political theology,” need not coordinate with evidence from Paul’s own letters (see, e.g., Hans-Martin Schenke, “Four Problems in the Life of Paul Reconsidered,” in The Future of Early Christianity: Essays in Honor of Helmut Koester [ed. Birger Pearson et al.; Minneapolis: Fortress, 1991], 319–28). 9 Of course, at the time of the writing of Luke-Acts, Christianity had negligible political and cultural powers compared with the Roman Empire. On Roman universalism, see, e.g., François Bovon, “Israel, the Church and the Gentiles in the Twofold Work of Luke,” in idem, New Testament Traditions and Apocryphal Narratives (trans. Jane Haapiseva-Hunter; Princeton Theological Monograph Series 36; Allison Park, PA: Pickwick, 1995), 82–87, concluding that “Lucan universalism was neither accommodation to Rome nor a polemic against Rome. But it could become either of these” (p. 87).
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patronage, wealth, and status—that Greek paideia offered to masters of such rhetoric and knowledge. Both attempts to be Greek and to critique Greekness are a response to the fact that Greek identity was a hot item on the Roman market. Like postmodernism, the Second Sophistic was part of a culture war.10 It was in this environment that Luke strove to represent a new “Way.” Within the same onehundred-year span, others also engaged these issues: before a Roman audience, Josephus emphasized Jewish similarity to Greek philosophy; Plutarch brought Roman and Greek side by side in his Parallel Lives; Lucian mocked the vagaries of Roman purchase of Greek identity and subordination of the “barbarian.” Many writers in the first and second centuries bolstered their discussions of similar topics with sophisticated vocabulary, good atticizing writing, and allusions to Greek classical writers and ancient myths. They frequently offered eyewitness travel accounts in order to authenticate their insights into paideia, empire, civic and ethnic identity, and correct religiosity.11 Take Pausanias: although writing in the second century, he records his travels as a kind of Blue Guide to a classicizing Hellenic identity that celebrates ancient cult, ritual, tradition, and myth and erases recent Roman foundations. Claudius Ptolemy explained “scientific” geography in his Geography, but his Tetrabiblos posits that Italy’s geographic placement means that this region produces people of the perfect ethnicity. Strabo wrote ethnography and geography on behalf of the empire, helping its generals to know the everexpanding oikoumenē.12
10 Simon Swain, Hellenism and Empire: Language, Classicism, and Power in the Greek World, AD 50–250 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996), esp. 2. On the Panhellenion and the Second Sophistic, see Ilaria Romeo, “The Panhellenion and Ethnic Identity in Hadrianic Greece,” CP 97 (2002): 21–40. Regarding other second-century Christian apologists and the Second Sophistic, see Nasrallah, “Mapping the World,” 283–314; Rebecca Lyman, “2002 NAPS Presidential Address: Hellenism and Heresy,” JECS 11 (2003): 209–22, esp. 212–16; Tim Whitmarsh, Greek Literature and the Roman Empire: The Politics of Imitation (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), esp. ch. 2; G. W. Bowersock, Greek Sophists in the Roman Empire (Oxford: Clarendon, 1969). 11 On ekphrasis (narrative description) and autopsy, see Simon Goldhill, “The Erotic Eye: Visual Stimulation and Cultural Conflict,” in Being Greek under Rome: Cultural Identity, the Second Sophistic and the Development of Empire (ed. Simon Goldhill; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), 154–94; J. L. Lightfoot, “Pilgrims and Ethnographers: In Search of the Syrian Goddess,” in Pilgrimage in Graeco-Roman and Early Christian Antiquity: Seeing the Gods (ed. Jaś Elsner and Ian Rutherford; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 333–52. Loveday Alexander explores Luke’s use of the unusual word autopsis, which is often used for “medical and geographical” information (The Preface to Luke’s Gospel: Literary Convention and Social Context in Luke 1.1– 4 and Acts 1.1 [SNTSMS 78; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993], 34–39). 12 See Susan E. Alcock et al., eds., Pausanias: Travel and Memory in Roman Greece (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), and esp. Ian Rutherford’s chapter (“Tourism and the Sacred: Pausanias and the Traditions of Greek Pilgrimage,” 40–52); Claudius Ptolemy, Tetrabiblios, 2.63– 65; Strabo, Geog. 1.1.16–17. See also Lucian, Nigrinus and A True Story; Dio of Prusa, Or. 7 (“Euboean”) and Or. 36 (“Borysthentic”).
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Visual manifestations of such discussions of space and ethnicity are evidenced in the Aphrodisias’s Sebasteion, with its depictions of subject ethnē around the inhabited world, or the Portico of the Nations in Rome itself, or the map of Agrippa nearby, publicly displayed in the Porticus Vispania—a map that depicted both the oikoumenē and the regions that Rome had conquered (Pliny, Nat. hist. 3.2.17). Nearby stood the Res Gestae, which included geography in the form of a list of the areas Augustus had subdued.13 Luke-Acts is not the only evidence of a text concerned with geography, the spaces of empire, the status of cities and nations under Rome, and the role of Greek language and culture under Rome. But does Luke-Acts really belong in this crowd, even if it does engage in geographical thinking? Loveday Alexander challenges those who equate Luke with the famous writers of the Second Sophistic. The Greek of Luke-Acts, while smoother than the koinē of other NT documents, still does not attain to the prose of Dio of Prusa or Aelius Aristides, key figures in the Second Sophistic.14 But we do not need such a rhetorically sophisticated Luke-Acts to say that the text is a product of the Second Sophistic. The topics Luke-Acts wrestles with and Christianizes indicate a deep involvement in the main crises and themes of the Second Sophistic.15 Moreover, Luke-Acts differs from a text such as Mark, in terms of sophistication of writing style and its approach to the Roman Empire.16 Since before the days of Ferdinand Christian Baur, it has been clear that the author was a unifier, seeking to bring together what Baur, for example, considered to be the Petrine and Pauline sides of Christianity.17 Luke-Acts crafts a universalizing narrative of Christian iden13 This map is described in two literary sources and perhaps depicted in a third, the Hereford world map (Scott, “Luke’s Geographical Horizon,” 488). On the Sebasteion, see R. R. R. Smith, “The Imperial Reliefs of the Sebasteion at Aphrodisias,” JRS 77 (1987): 88–138; and idem, “Simulacra Gentium: The Ethnē from the Sebasteion at Aphrodisias,” JRS 78 (1988): 50–77; on the Portico ad Nationes, see Servius, Ad Aen. 8.271; for mention of images of ethnē being carried at Augustus’s funeral, see Dio Cassius 56.34.3; see also Tacitus Ann. 1.8.4. 14 Thus, Alexander concludes that rather than Thucydidean-style historiography, the preface is the kind of preface that “scientific” or technical handbooks had (Preface to Luke’s Gospel, 102; for her critique of Luke’s Greek, see ch. 8). See also Henry J. Cadbury, The Making of Luke-Acts (2nd ed.; London: SPCK, 1958), 114, 213–38. 15 Hans Conzelmann, Acts of the Apostles: A Commentary on the Acts of the Apostles (trans. James Limburg et al.; Hermeneia; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1987), xxxv; Alexander, “In Journeyings Often,” 38–39. See David Balch, “Comparing Literary Patterns in Luke and Lucian,” PSTJ 40 (1987): 39–42. 16 Even if Tat-siong Benny Liew sees in Mark both critiques of the “existing colonial (dis)order” and “traces of ‘colonial mimicry’ that reinscribe colonial domination” (“Tyranny, Boundary, and Might: Colonial Mimicry in Mark’s Gospel,” reprinted in The Postcolonial Biblical Reader [ed. R. S. Sugirtharajah; Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2006], 206–23; quotation from 215). 17 Ferdinand Christian Baur, Paul the Apostle of Jesus Christ: His Life and Works, His Epistles and Teachings (1873; repr., 2 vols. in 1, Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2003). See also Joseph B. Tyson, “From History to Rhetoric and Back: Assessing New Trends in Acts Studies,” in idem, Luke, Judaism, and the Scholars: Critical Approaches to Luke-Acts (Columbia: University of South
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tity that would be attractive or at least comprehensible to philosophical and political minds of the time. Acts (if not the Gospel of Luke) has long been labeled a “history,” as by Henry Cadbury in the early twentieth century and Martin Dibelius in the mid-twentieth century.18 The stakes of this classification are high. Even if scholars who argue that Luke produced historiography recognize the extent to which history involved the fabrication of speeches, the classification of “history” often brings hopes of an objective, true account.19 Others, recognizing Luke-Acts’ theological and perhaps even political stakes, have returned to the tradition from the 1700s on of labeling Luke-Acts as “apologetic” literature.20 Thus, Luke-Acts is often understood as an appeal to Roman authorities for tolerance,21 or even, as Marianne Bonz argues, as an imitation of Roman epic, offering a foundational story for the early Christian church along the lines of Virgil’s Aeneid.22 Even the brief discussion above shows that the genre of Luke-Acts is controversial; scholars’ conclusions are informed by their views of Lukan theology in relation to the Roman Empire, on the one hand, and of Judaism, on the other. What is important here is that Luke-Acts, unlike its sources in Mark and Q, emerges from and engages the trends of the Second Sophistic: it is a second-century document23 Carolina Press, 1993), ch. 2, esp. 27; idem, “The Legacy of F. C. Baur and Recent Studies of Acts,” Forum n.s. 4.1 (2001): 125–44; and Todd Penner, In Praise of Christian Origins: Stephen and the Hellenists in Lukan Apologetic Historiography (Emory Studies in Early Christianity; New York: T&T Clark, 2004), 8–14. 18 Cadbury, Making of Luke-Acts, 132–39; Martin Dibelius, The Book of Acts: Form, Style, and Theology (ed. K. C. Hanson; Fortress Classics in Biblical Studies; Minneapolis: Fortress, 2004), 1–86, who says, “It is distinguished from the New Testament and many other early Christian writings by its literary character, and from the work of the historians by what we may call a theological purpose” (p. 3). Marianne Palmer Bonz discusses both in The Past as Legacy: Luke-Acts and Ancient Epic (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2000), 1–5. Most scholars read the preface and Luke-Acts as something like history. See, e.g., David Balch, who disagrees with Alexander: “ΜΕΤΑΒΟΛΗ ΠΟΛΙΤΕΙΩΝ: Jesus as Founder of the Church in Luke-Acts: Form and Function,” in Contextualizing Acts: Lukan Narrative and Greco-Roman Discourse (ed. Todd Penner and Caroline Vander Stichele; SBLSymS 20; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2003), 140–42; see also Penner, In Praise of Christian Origins, esp. 260–61, for whom Acts adheres to the model of (Jewish apologetic) historiography. 19 See, e.g., Bonz’s assessment of Cadbury in Past as Legacy, 2. 20 Esler’s elegant, brief survey of scholarship from 1720 characterizes it in this way (Community and Gospel, 205–7). 21 Gregory Sterling (Historiography and Self-Definition: Josephos, Luke-Acts, and Apologetic Historiography [NovTSup 64; Leiden: Brill, 1992], 393). Penner employs the term “apologetic historiography” in In Praise of Christian Origins. Esler (Community and Gospel, 16) dubs Luke-Acts a literature of “legitimization” rather than “apologetic.” 22 Bonz, Past as Legacy. I do not treat the entire debate over the genre of Luke-Acts, such as its relation to the Greek novel. See Richard I. Pervo, Profit with Delight : The Literary Genre of the Acts of the Apostles (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1987). 23 Among others, Conzelmann (Acts, xxxiii) argues: “Luke’s theology . . . is of a much ear-
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that strives toward a literary Greek, shows knowledge of Greek historiographical practices, and may even hint at epic aims for Christianity. Acts retrospectively portrays a community that shared its goods in a philosophical way and whose leaders, although agrammatoi, or uneducated, offered lengthy and sophisticated speeches. Such speeches drew on the exotic (to Roman eyes) past of the people of Israel yet also spoke to the philosophical themes of the one God and true piety, key topics at the time of the Second Sophistic. To understand more deeply issues regarding Greek ethnicity and Roman power in this period, it is helpful to turn to a famous, sophisticated, if perpetually ill rhetor.24 Aelius Aristides’ geographical rhetoric shifts gracefully between Greek cities and the Roman Empire.25 It reflects the influence of policies such as Hadrian’s, on the one hand, and provides a useful comparand to Acts, on the other. Aristides is from the Greek East, as Luke probably is. Like Luke he celebrates Greekness but also fits it neatly into Roman imperial geography. Exploring his thought allows us to see an aspect of Roman “geographical thinking” that illumines Luke’s geographical imagination. lier type than that of Justin.” Such assertions are imprecise. On the controversial question of Justin’s use of Acts, see Gregory’s meticulous work in Reception of Luke and Acts, 317–21; he concludes that it is impossible to confirm that Justin knew Acts. Luke and Acts are not well attested until Irenaeus and the Muratorian Canon (François Bovon, “The Reception and Use of the Gospel of Luke in the Second Century,” in Reading Luke: Interpretation, Reflection, Formation [ed. Craig Bartholomew et al.; Scripture & Hermeneutics; Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 2005], 379–400; see also Conzelmann, Acts, xxx–xxxii). Gregory is cautious to insist that this does not mean that Luke or Acts was not circulating previously (Gregory, Reception of Luke and Acts, 4–5 n. 11). Still, there is no firm evidence for others’ knowledge of Acts until ca. 185 c.e. While our current data remain inconclusive, many recent scholars argue that Luke-Acts in its present form emerged in the second century to resist Marcion’s appropriation of Luke and Paul. See John Knox, Marcion and the New Testament: An Essay in the Early History of the Canon (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1942), 114–39; earlier, Baur (Paul, 1:5– 14) argued that Acts was an apologia for Paul and should not be considered “historical truth” (p. 5). J. C. O’Neill in the early 1960s dated Luke-Acts to approximately 115–130 c.e. (The Theology of Acts in Its Historical Setting [London: SPCK, 1961], 1–63), as have more recent scholars such as Shelly Matthews (Perfect Martyr: The Stoning of Stephen and the Making of Gentile Christianity in Acts [forthcoming; thanks to the author for generously sharing her writing and knowledge]), Christopher Mount (Pauline Christianity: Luke-Acts and the Legacy of Paul [NovTSup 104; Leiden: Brill, 2002]), Richard Pervo (Dating Acts: Between the Evangelists and the Apologists [Santa Rosa, CA: Polebridge, 2006]), as well as Joseph Tyson and Todd Penner. 24 On Aelius Aristides’ rhetoric of illness, see Judith Perkins, The Suffering Self: Pain and Narrative Representation in the Early Christian Era (New York: Routledge, 1995), esp. ch. 7. 25 Greg Woolf’s discussion applies to Greek cities as well: “Culture could thus offer Gauls a chance to enter the empire of friends. What of the empire of cities? That aspect of the empire can be thought of as a complex hierarchy of privileges and statuses, communal as well as individual. . . . The key question then is how far was cultural capital convertible into privileged places in that hierarchy?” (Becoming Roman: The Origins of Provincial Civilization in Gaul [New York: Cambridge University Press, 1998], 63–64).
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In his famous “Roman Oration,” perhaps given in the city itself in 155 c.e.,26 Aelius Aristides uses several strategies to present Rome. First, he celebrates Rome’s geographical extent. Rome surpasses all previous empires in size and in knowledge of its own spaces. The empire is not only extensive but also harmonious, perfect, unmarred by incursions from other lands; it is “the chorus of the civilized world.”27 When were there so many cities on continents or on the seas, or when have they been so thoroughly adorned? Who then ever made such a journey, numbering the cities by the days of his trip, or sometimes passing through two or three cities on the same day, as it were through avenues? Therefore those former men are not only greatly inferior in the total extent of their empires, but also where they ruled the same lands as you, each people did not enjoy equal and similar conditions under their rule, but to the tribe which then existed there can be counterpoised the city which now exists among them (ἀλλ' ἔνεστι τῷ τότε ἔθνει πόλιν ἀντιστῆσαι τὴν ἐν αὐτῷ νῦν). And one would say that those had been kings, as it were, of deserts and garrisons, but that you alone are rulers of cities. (Aristides, “Roman Oration” 93)28
This brief exclamation makes remarkable claims: under Roman rule there were more and better-organized cities; the roads and seaways were like a grand, new, broad avenue allowing quick travel through cities; the Romans brought isonomia (equal rights) to each city, allowed for each ethnos to express itself with true civic status, and disregarded the preferential treatment offered by previous empires. According to Aristides, Rome is not only superior with regard to geography and justice; it is also the meta-city to which the entire oikoumenē is a suburb.29 In this role Rome erases traditional ethnic, geographical, and linguistic boundaries: 26 See P. Aelius Aristides, The Complete Works (trans. Charles Behr; 2 vols.; Leiden: Brill, 1981),
2:373–74 n. 1 for an introduction to the Roman Oration or, as Behr titles it, “Regarding Rome.” 27 “The present empire has been extended to boundaries of no mean distance, to such, in fact, that one cannot even measure the area within them.” For Aelius Aristides’ Roman Oration I use the study by James H. Oliver, which includes a general discussion, Greek text, English translation, and commentary (The Ruling Power: A Study of the Roman Empire in the Second Century after Christ through the Roman Oration of Aelius Aristides [1953; repr., Philadelphia: American Philosophical Society, 1980]); for this quotation, see Aristides, Rom. Or. 28; for that cited in the text above, “Roman Oration,” 29–31 (quotation from 31); English translation, Oliver, 898. Richard L. Rohrbaugh’s “The Pre-industrial City in Luke-Acts: Urban Social Relations” unfortunately does not treat archaeological evidence regarding first-century cities (in The Social World of Luke-Acts: Models for Interpretation [ed. Jerome H. Neyrey; Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1991]). 28 English translation is modified from Behr, 2:94. 29 “What another city is to its own boundaries and territory, this city is to the boundaries and territory of the entire civilized world” (“Roman Oration” 61; English translation Oliver, 901). Compare Commodus’s configuration of Rome as ἀθάνατον εὐτυχῆ κολωνίαν τῆς οἰκουμένης in 192 c.e. Olivier Hekster explains the title this way: “making Rome the ‘immortal, fortunate colony of the whole earth’ also implied that . . . all the inhabitants of the realm could take symbolic ‘possession’ of the civilized world” (Commodus: An Emperor at the Crossroads [Dutch Monographs on Ancient History and Archaeology 23; Amsterdam: J. C. Gieben, 2002], 95).
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In a speech directed to Romans, Aristides shifts the ethnic and geographical map from Greek/barbarian to Roman/non-Roman.31 Rome is a postmetropolis, swallowing up previous identities and expanding its name to all.32 Not only does Aristides note Rome’s geographical extension or the city’s role as an urban center to the entire oikoumenē; he also conceives of the Roman Empire as a kind of league of cities, in the ancient Greek mode, with Rome as its leader or hēgemōn:33 Now all the Greek cities rise up under your leadership, and the monuments which are dedicated in them and all their embellishments and comforts redound to your honor like beautiful suburbs. . . . Taking good care of the Hellenes as of your foster parents, you constantly hold your hand over them, and when they are prostrate, you raise them up. You release free and autonomous those of them who were the noblest and the leaders of yore. . . . (Aristides, “Roman Oration” 94, 96)34
30 English
translation Oliver, 902.
31 Admittedly, such writers often seek to trouble the Greek/barbarian binary, elevating “bar-
barian” wisdom. See, e.g., Dio of Prusa, Or. 36; Lucian, Demonax or The Scythian; and esp. Aelius Aristides, “Panathenaic Oration.” On this topic, see also Arnaldo Momigliano, Alien Wisdom: The Limits of Hellenization (Cambridge/New York: Cambridge University Press, 1975); Guy Stroumsa, Barbarian Philosophy: The Religious Revolution of Early Christianity (WUNT 112; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1999). 32 This claim chafes against contemporary writers who employ the Greek/barbarian binary, as even Aristides himself does elsewhere. See Edward Soja, Postmetropolis: Critical Studies of Cities and Regions (Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2000). Aristides presents the Roman Empire as an innocent synekism: in Soja’s definition, “the economic and ecological interdependencies and the creative— as well as occasionally destructive—synergisms that arise from the purposeful clustering and collective cohabitation of people in space” (p. 12). Aristides celebrates that all have united to help Smyrna after the earthquake of the late 170s c.e., including Rome, the Greek ethnos, and “all the races, which comprise our Asia” (Oration 20: “A Palinode for Smyrna,” 18; English translation Behr, 2:17). See also Aristides, Oration 23: “Concerning Concord.” 33 Oliver, Ruling Power, 879–84. This is no surprise, given Aristides’ ideology of concord and rhetoric elsewhere; see S. R. F. Price’s treatment of Or. 23.5–7, a speech key to Price’s interpretation of cities and competition for imperial cult temples in Asia Minor (Rituals and Power: Roman Imperial Cult in Asia Minor [New York: Cambridge University Press, 1984]). 34 English translation Oliver, 905. The language of foster parenting is found also in the “Panathenaic Oration” (1), where the “men of Athens” are the “common foster fathers” of all who claim Greek identity.
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Earlier in the speech (43–57), Aristides had explicitly linked the Roman Empire to the prestigious if internecine Greek past by arguing that its empire surpasses even Athenian, Spartan, and Theban attempts at hegemony. Aristides makes Rome homologous and superior to Greek city-states, which became quasi-empires, and borrows their long tradition of kinship language. He also cleverly configures the relationship between the Roman Empire and Greek cities as one of adoptive kinship. One might expect such adoption to benefit the “child”—here, Rome—but Aristides focuses on how the child aids its parents, hinting at the decrepitude and exhaustion of a Greek world that is passing away, its genes to be carried on by the Romans.35 Rome was thus an empire of cities, for Aristides. Cities, however, were also possible sites of resistance to empire.36 To state the obvious, the polis and discourses of the polis were intimately connected with the rhetoric of Greek democracy; they revived traditions and memories of the power and prestige of the city-state, and stories of free debates and free speech (parrhēsia) in these cities’ ekklēsiai, or assemblies. Thus, the polis contained the possibility of resistance to empire or at least of changing allegiances depending on the fortunes of a given claimant to the imperium. At times the early Roman Empire did restrict the powers of cities perhaps precisely for this reason.37 Rome exercised its influence over independent and non-independent cities, all potentially rebellious, in explicit and subtle ways. The Roman Empire held cities spread out like small, diverse jewels, faceted with memories of past great deeds, with famed cultural objects—buildings, sculpture, well-known festivals. The cities’ systems of civic engagement, boulēteria (council houses) and ekklēsiai (places of assembly), were knotted into the grid of the streets. Rome chained and clustered these cities together into empire, in the words of Aristides.38 The memories of cities’
35 On the topos of a succession of empires or of aging in ancient historiography, see Arnaldo Momigliano, Essays in Ancient and Modern Historiography (Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press, 1977), 189. 36 Aristides may hint at this in Oration 23: “Concerning Concord,” which discusses the time of Persian rule: “They reduced the king, who equated his empire with that of Zeus, to such fear and humility that he leaped from his throne and went off in flight from land to land” (my emphasis; Or. 23.46; English translation Behr, 2:35). This seems to be a pointed comment about Roman emperors who equate themselves with the highest god. 37 Christopher Jones, Kinship Diplomacy in the Ancient World (Revealing Antiquity 12; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1999), 106–7. My understanding has been enriched by Anna Miller’s ongoing research: “The Body of Christ as Demos: Democratic Discourse of the Ekklesia in 1 Corinthians” (Ph.D. diss., Harvard University, Committee on the Study of Religion). 38 Aristides uses a variety of metaphors for connections between cities; for the image of bats clustering like beads or links, see “Roman Oration” 68. See also Oration 17: “Smyrnean Oration” 10: “Proceeding from west to east, you go from temple to temple and from hill to hill, along a single avenue which is fairer than its name. . . . The city itself . . . takes one’s breath away through three
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past greatness were mobilized on behalf of both Rome and individual cities. Cities also served as key arenas in which native elites could attract the attention of the empire, and in which empire, especially in the creation and performance of imperial cult, could be manifest.39 Such cities could be honored with imperial benefactions, such as the right to build a temple for the imperial cult (neokorate or “temple warden” status), or the status of “free and autonomous,” an all-important change in tax status.40 All this was analogous to an act of god; in the “Roman Oration” (103), Aristides connects Rome’s rule over the preexisting chaos with Zeus’s rule after the “strife, confusion, and disorder” of the Titans.41
II. The Panhellenion The rule of Hadrian, among other emperors, stimulated the processes that Aelius Aristides celebrates two decades later: the power of the Roman Empire made the oikoumenē safe and navigable for the celebration and spread of Greekness and its paideia. Aristides deliberately blurred the line between the Roman Empire’s piety and its godlike powers; so city leagues, the power of empire, and religion come together in the Panhellenion as they will also in Luke-Acts. Although the precise origins of the Panhellenion are unclear, Hadrian himself in 131/132 seems to have founded this league of cities headed by Athens. This is the same year that he made his third visit to Athens and presided over the dedication of the Olympieion, or Temple of Zeus Olympios there.42 In the precinct of the Olympieion, Hadrian was
spectacles most fair, nor can one find a place where he might rest his eyes. Each object attracts him, like the stones in a variegated necklace” (English translation Behr, 2:3). 39 After Price’s Rituals of Power it is impossible to ignore the mutually affirming back-andforth of the imperial family with urban elites in the Greek East (see, e.g., pp. 247–48). See also C. Jones, Kinship Diplomacy; Ursula Kampmann, “Homonoia Politics in Asia Minor: The Example of Pergamon,” in Pergamon: Citadel of the Gods (ed. Helmut Koester; HTS 46; Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International, 1998), 387–93. 40 On city status under Rome, see Maud W. Gleason, “Greek Cities under Roman Rule,” in A Companion to the Roman Empire (ed. David S. Potter; Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2006), 228–49; A. H. M. Jones, The Greek City from Alexander to Justinian (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1940). C. Jones (Kinship Diplomacy, 106) states that while the Augustan monarchy may have resulted from slow processes, its effects were immediate: “Greek observers of the new era noticed that cities could no longer conduct their own foreign policy. ‘Formerly,’ says Strabo early in the principate, ‘they used to deliberate about war, peace, and alliance, but that is not likely now; these things inevitably depend on the Romans.’” On cities and neokorate status, see Price, Rituals and Power; and Steven Friesen, Twice Neokoros: Ephesus, Asia, and the Cult of the Flavian Imperial Family (Religions in the Graeco-Roman World 116; Leiden: Brill, 1993). 41 Roman rule rendered the empire a garden and left cities aglow with “charming spectacle and . . . festal games” rather than fires of strife (Aristides, “Roman Oration” 99). 42 A. S. Spawforth and Susan Walker, “The World of the Panhellenion: I, Athens and Eleusis,” JRS 75 (1985): 79.
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closely associated with Zeus.43 Nearly one hundred altars have been found in Athens that name Hadrian as “savior and founder.” Throughout the precinct of the Olympieion were found bases that once held statues of Hadrian, dedicated by a vast range of cities.44 Surviving inscriptions suggest that Athens thrived especially under him and his successor, Antoninus Pius.45 The scale of the Panhellenion is surprising. While it was formerly thought that the Panhellenion may have met in the Olympieion’s precinct, most scholars now think that it occupied a large building of Hadrianic date.46 This basilica had interior measurements of ca. 64 × 30 m; perhaps accommodating seven hundred or more, it was two and one-third times larger than the Curia at Rome, which accommodated approximately three hundred senators.47 The Panhellenic league consisted of at least twenty-eight cities: eleven in Achaia, ten in Asia, five in Crete and Cyrene, one each in Macedonia (Thessalonikē) and Thrace (see fig. 1).48 The second century was distinguished by sharp rivalries 43 On inscriptions to Hadrian Olympios, see Helmut Koester, ed., Cities of Paul: Images and Interpretations from the Harvard New Testament Archaeology Project (CD-Rom; Minneapolis: Fortress, 2005), under “Athens: Inscription to Hadrian Olympios.” On the association of Trajan with Zeus Eleutherios, see Antony E. Raubitscheck, “Hadrian as the Son of Zeus Eleutherios,” AJA 49 (1945): 128–33. 44 Anna Benjamin, “The Altars of Hadrian in Athens and Hadrian’s Panhellenic Program,” Hesperia 32 (1963): 57–86. 45 The Panhellenion is known only from a few literary sources: see Cassius Dio 69.16 (epitome). Pausanias (Descr. 18.9) refers to a temple of Hera and Zeus Panhellenios but not to a Panhellenion. Our main information for the Panhellenion is epigraphic. Fifty-four inscriptions are known; most are from Greece, but some are from Asia Minor, Italy, and Libya (Spawforth and Walker, “Panhellenion: I,” 79). James H. Oliver (Marcus Aurelius: Aspects of Civic and Cultural Policy in the East [Hesperia Supp. 13; Princeton, NJ: American School of Classical Studies at Athens, 1970]) originally collected the inscriptions; Spawforth and Walker in “Panhellenion: I” and a subsequent article (“The World of the Panhellenion: II, Three Dorian Cities,” JRS 76 [1986]: 88–105) add a few more. Because with inscriptions what has been found and where are to some extent matters of chance, assertions about the Panhellenion are always provisional. 46 Located to the east of the Roman agora and Hadrian’s library, this building is usually identified as the “temple of all the gods” mentioned by Pausanias. See Spawforth and Walker, “Panhellenion: I,” 92–98, esp. fig. 2. See also Archaeological Resources for New Testament Studies: A Collection of Slides on Culture and Religion in Antiquity (ed. Helmut Koester and Holland L. Hendrix; 2 vols.; 2nd rev. ed.; Valley Forge, PA: Trinity Press International, 1994), under “Athens: The Plan of the Panhellenion.” Christopher Jones hypothesizes that the sanctuary may have been at Eleusis, since suburbs of sacred importance were often considered part of the city itself (“The Panhellenion,” Chiron 26 [1996]: 36). Alternatively, it may have been located in an as yet partially unexcavated building just northwest of the Stoa of Attalos. 47 Spawforth and Walker, “Panhellenion: I,” 70. The Panhellenion’s officeholders seem mostly to have been wealthy Roman citizens, some of equestrian or senatorial rank (pp. 84–87). Those called Panhellenes—not leaders, but regular participants—seem to have been more of a social mix, and not necessarily Roman citizens, although enrolled among them was Herodes Atticus, the fabulously wealthy Athenian sophist (p. 88). 48 Mary Boatwright, Hadrian and the Cities of the Roman Empire (Princeton: Princeton
Figure 1. Paul’s Travels and the Cities of the Panhellenion. My thanks to Nan Hutton, Mikael Haxby, and the staff of Information Technology Services at Harvard Divinity School for making this figure.
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between cities, but also by alliances forged by cult, festivals, gifts, culture, and political strategizing. The Panhellenion was like those ancient leagues that still in the second century carried some power, psychic or real, such as the Delphic Amphictyony, which Hadrian also supported, or the koinōn of cities of Asia.49 Hadrian likely established or accepted the Panhellenion for manifold reasons, including the practical desire to reduce the number of embassies seeking his attention by encouraging cities to send joint embassies.50 The Panhellenion gathered various cities’ representatives to Athens to engage in cultic, cultural, and diplomatic activities; it also may have acted as a court.51 Panhellenic impulses overtook cities as near Athens as Corinth and as far as Laodicea and Cyrene. Two inscriptions in particular tell us what was required to join the Panhellenion. An inscription regarding the acceptance of Magnesia on the Maeander and a dedicatory inscription from the Phrygian city of Kibyra refer to three elements: their cities’ Greek ancestry, their histories of good relations with Rome, and Hadrian’s benefactions.52 The Kibyrian inscription references Zeus Soter, an unusual epithet that is linked to Hadrian elsewhere.53 Beginning on line 3 of the inscription, Kibyra defines itself as University Press, 2000), 147. Seminal in the study of Hadrian in Athens and the Panhellenion is Paul Graindor, Athènes sous Hadrien (Cairo: Imprimerie Nationale, Boulac, 1934). We do not know whether Hadrian assigned involvements in the Panhellenion or whether cities appealed to be participants. On the question of who proposed the Panhelleion, see Romeo, “Panhellenion,” 21– 40; and James Oliver, “Hadrian’s Reform of the Appeal Procedure in Greece,” Hesperia 39 (1970): 332–36. On Cyrene, hellenization, and Hadrian’s Panhellenion, see P. M. Fraser, “Hadrian and Cyrene,” JRS 40 (1950): 77–90; James Oliver, “New Evidence on the Attic Panhellenion,” Hesperia 20 (1951): 31–33; J. A. O. Larsen, “Cyrene and the Panhellenion,” CP 47 (1952): 7–16; and esp. Joyce Reynolds, “Hadrian, Antoninus Pius and the Cyrenaican Cities,” JRS 68 (1978): 111–21. 49 Hadrian may have developed the Panhellenion because he could not do what he wished with the Delphic Amphictiony (Romeo, “Panhellenion,” 24–25). See Oliver, Marcus Aurelius, 92–93. 50 Price’s analysis in Rituals and Power shows how provincial elites represent themselves to the empire; organizations such as the Panhellenion were to the mutual benefit of both sets of elites. On overwhelming embassies, see Spawforth and Walker, “The Panhellenion: I,” 83; and see esp. Fergus Millar, Emperor in the Roman World (31 B.C. to A.D. 337) (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992). On cities jockeying for new civic status under the Roman Empire and on humanitas (that is, civilization in contrast to past wild barbarity) as a criterion of inclusion, see Woolf, Becoming Roman, esp. 64-67. 51 Spawforth and Walker, “Panhellenion: I,” 83–84. The associations with the imperial cult are evident from a statue base set up in Thessalonikē in honor of the emperor Pius; for the Panhellenion’s function as a court, see Eusebius, Hist. eccl. 4.26.10. 52 Spawforth and Walker, “Panhellenion: I,” 82. 53 This epithet is found at a round temple mimicking the Pantheon at the Asklepios cult site at Pergamon; Hadrian was the benefactor of this temple. Christian Habicht, Altertümer von Pergamon: III.3, Die Inscriften des Asklepieions (Deutsches Archäologisches Institut; Berlin: de Gruyter, 1969), 11–14. An inscription refers to Hadrian with many epithets, including Olympios
548
Journal of Biblical Literature 127, no. 3 (2008) Ἡ Κιβυρατῶν πόλις ἄποικος Λ[υδῶν οὖσα καὶ] συγγενὶς Ἀθηναίων καὶ φι[λ . . . . . . . . . . καὶ] αὐτὴ τοῦ κοινοῦ τῆς Ἑλλἀδος [ἐν ταῖς μάλιστα] ἐνδόξοις οὖσα καὶ μεγάλαις [τῆς Ἀσίας πόλε] σιν διά τε τὸ γένος Ἑλληνι[κόν] . . .54 The city of the Kibyratians, being a colony of Lydians and kin and friend of the Athenians, . . . and the same city (belongs to) the koinōn of Greece, being among those cities of Asia quite highly reputed and great on account of their Greek race. . . .
The inscription from Magnesia on the Maeander, a fine piece on marble with regularly carved letters (but a break on its left side), is more elaborate in its genealogical rhetoric: [- - - - - - ψήφισ]μα τὸ γένομενον ὑπὸ τῶν Πανελλήνων [ἐπειδὴ Μάγνητες οἱ] πρὸς τῷ Μαιάνδρῳ ποταμῷ ἄποικοι [μὲν ὄντες Μαγνήτων] τῶν ἐν Θεσσαλίᾳ, πρῶτοι Ἑλλήνων [δὲ καὶ διαβάντες εἰ]ς τὴν Ἀσίαν καὶ κατοικήσαντες, συνα [γωνισάμενοι ἐκτενῶς] πολλάκις Ἴωσι καὶ Δωριεῦσι καὶ τοῖς ἐ [πὶ τῆς Ἀσίας ταὐτοῦ γ]ένους Αἰολεῦσι, τιμηθέντες καὶ ὑπὸ [τῆς συγκλήτου τῆς Ῥω]μαίων . . . . . . a measure passed by the members of the Panhellenion. When the Magnesians were settlers by the Maeander River, they were of the Magnesians in Thessaly, the first of the Greeks who also crossed over into Asia and colonized it, often eagerly fighting alongside the Ionians and Dorians and those Aiolians of this race in Asia, honored also by the Senate of the Romans . . .55
As Spawforth and Walker write, the idea of “fabricat[ing] Greek pedigrees” is known as early as the Hellenistic period in the eastern Mediterranean.56 In the second century, as Buell’s work shows, both fixed and fluid explanations of race were and Panhellenios (pp. 30–31). On second-century control of cult space at Pergamon, see Alexia Petsalis-Diomidis, “The Body in Space: Visual Dynamics in Graeco-Roman Healing Pilgrimage,” in Pilgrimage, ed. Elsner and Rutherford, 183–218. 54 Oliver, Marcus Aurelius, 95–96 and plate 7. I start my translation on line 2 of the inscription, which continues for four to five more lines, discusses relations with Rome, and refers to the “God Hadrian.” 55 See Oliver, Marcus Aurelius, 94–95 and plate 7. I begin my translation on line 3 of the inscription, which continues in four more lines to discuss further Magnesian relations with Rome and the imperial family. 56 Spawforth and Walker, “Panhellenion: I,” 82; eidem, “Panhellenion: II,” 95. See also Romeo, “Panhellenion,” 26, on the Hadrianic Panhellenion returning to a fourth-century b.c.e. concept of genos. See also C. Jones, Kinship Diplomacy, esp. 110–11.
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employed. Sometimes race (genos), peoplehood (laos), and ethnicity/nationality (ethnos) were defined in terms of blood and genealogy; at other times, in terms of the acquisition of Greek paideia.57 We find hints of such thinking in Aristides, who in his “Panathenaic Oration” links Athens with the cities opposite in Asia Minor, but also proclaims: For no one would be proud to have Pella or Aegae as his country; there is no Greek who would not wish to have been born an Athenian rather than a citizen of his own city. Not only do private citizens prefer Athens in this way, but also in the case of cities, those which have been actually founded from here and by you would rather boast that they descend from you than possess power equal to yours; and the others go about seeking somehow to trace themselves back to you. (334)58
Though Panhellenic identity was founded on ancient mythic links to Hellenic (particularly Athenian) identity, having strong civic links to Rome was also important. In the Roman period and in the most ancient past, the coast of Achaia drew near to Asia Minor; distant communities were ethnically linked at the earliest, most mythical of stages. It did not matter if connections were fabricated.59 These participants were oriented through the Panhellenion not only to the traditions of Athenian paideia and toward Hellenic identity, however invented, but also toward Rome. Christopher Jones has argued that scholars have for too long seen the Panhellenion as a diplomatic United Nations, ignoring its cultic focus. He asserts that “the most certainly attested activity of the Panhellenes is the cult of the emperors,” since inscriptions which describe the archōn or leader give him the title of “archōn of the Panhellenion, priest of the god Hadrian Panhellenios, and agōnothetēs [master of the games] of the Great Panhellenia.”60 An inscription in Pergamon depicts Hadrian as “Emperor Caesar Trajan Hadrian Sebastos Olympios Panhellenios, savior and benefactor of all of his own oikoumenē,”61 not only declar57 See Buell, Why This New Race? On Greekness, see, e.g., Jonathan Hall, Hellenicity: Between
Ethnicity and Culture (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2002); Benjamin Isaac, The Invention of Racism in Classical Antiquity (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2004); on Romanness, see Emma Dench, Romulus’ Asylum: On Roman Identities from the Age of Alexander to the Age of Hadrian (New York: Oxford University Press, 2005). On shifting definitions of race with regard to the Panhellenion, see Romeo, “Panhellenion,” esp. 32–37. On the ancient rhetoric of paideia as erasing ethnic difference, see Nasrallah, “Mapping the World,” 291–93. 58 English translation Behr, 1:68. For other examples of such “ethnic reasoning” (Buell’s term), see Oration 24: “To the Rhodians: Concerning Concord” 45; and Oration 17: “The Smyrnaean Oration (I)” 5. 59 As in the case of a Panhellenic city like Aizanoi in Phrygia, or Sardis; see Romeo, “Panhellenion,” 29–31. 60 C. Jones, “Panhellenion,” 32. 61 My translation. See Habicht, Die Inscriften des Asklepieions, 30–31, regarding the statue base for Lucius Verus, Hadrian’s adopted son (Inv. 1932, 26).
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ing Hadrian’s political power, but conflating him with Zeus Olympios, the ultimate savior and benefactor. Collective definitions of ethnicity and race are often grounded in civic ties, real or imagined, forged through a history of colonization as well as through inventions of myths, claims to kinship, and especially religious practice.62 Hadrian’s Panhellenion encouraged Greek cities to continue producing these political, religious, and mythical stories in the service of producing a cultivated, cultured Roman Empire. At the same time, Greeks actively used Roman appeals to Greekness in order to secure their own position within the empire. As we shall see more clearly in part III of this essay, there is a homology between the Panhellenion and LukeActs. Luke-Acts produces a Christianity rooted in the civic ties forged through Paul’s travels. It is interested not necessarily in establishing links between cities— it offers no exhortations that those in Philippi should help those in Derbe, for instance. Rather, it is interested in the larger geographical imagining of Christian etiological myths for various cities, using contact with Paul to establish Christian origins in a town, at the same time as it tells a geographical tale of Christianity’s movement from Jerusalem to Rome via Greece and its paideia.
Hadrian, Ethnicity, and True Religion The emperor Hadrian (117–138 c.e.) was a prodigious traveler who linked the cities of his empire by the monuments he left there and by the monuments left to him, dedicated because of his visits.63 His reign is characterized by concerns about the cities of his empire, Greek identity, and proper (archaizing) religion,64 themes he shares with the writer of Acts. For his philhellenism, Hadrian was mockingly called Graeculus, “little Greekling” (HA, Vit. Hadr. 1.5; Epit. de Caes. 14.2). Hadrian purchased and reconfigured Greek identity, marrying Romanitas and Greek paideia whether in his initiation into the Eleusinian mysteries and his gifts to that cult,65 in his vast benefactions to Athens, or in his own villa in Tivoli, in 62 See
Buell, Why This New Race? a good introduction to ancient sources about Hadrian’s travels, see William L. MacDonald and John A. Pinto, Hadrian’s Villa and Its Legacy (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1995), 13–23. Regarding the impact of imperial journeys on provincial populations, see Millar, Emperor in the Roman World, 28–40. Boatwright demonstrates that “during Hadrian’s twentyone-year reign more than 130 cities received, in all, more than 210 marks of his favor” (Hadrian, 15). 64 As Boatwright puts it, “Hadrian was famed for almost perversely archaistic predilections” (Hadrian, 13). 65 Eleusis, linked to Athens by tradition and by the sacred way, was the famous home of the mysteries of Demeter and Persephone, into which Hadrian was inducted perhaps in 124/125 (Boatwright, Hadrian, 100); see C. Jones, “Panhellenion,” 29–56. Regarding Eleusis’s importance, see Aelius Aristides’ Oration 22: “The Eleusinian Oration.” 63 For
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which he collected art and reproduced architecture, especially Greek, from around the empire.66 In uniting Greek practice and Roman power, Hadrian sought to define proper religion and piety.67 Hadrian’s interest in religion extended past the cult practices that were the purview of the Panhellenion and past Athens. Religious sites made up “his most frequent single type” of benefaction; one-third of all known Hadrianic architectural and engineering donations were to temples, shrines, or (cultassociated) tombs; at least eleven temples or shrines associated with the imperial cult also received Hadrian’s benefactions.68 Boatwright concludes that Hadrian contributed to a “wide spectrum of religious structures, appealing to many different people.”69 This was at a time when Christian and non-Christian intellectuals debated what exactly constituted right religion. “Pagan monotheism” was on the rise, and some even suggested it might be best to set aside traditional religious practices and the embarrassing notions of gods who engaged in questionable moral activities.70 Before and after Hadrian’s reign, Christians and pagans alike—think only of Justin, Athenagoras, Lucian, or Maximus of Tyre—challenged traditional sacrificial practices and making images of the gods. Lucian, writing a few decades after Hadrian’s great benefactions, mocks sacrifices (and the idea that true gods would need bloody, smoky offerings).71 Luke, as we shall see, distills perfect narrative scenes, like that at Lystra, which engage in a similar critique of a certain kind of deisidaimonia, “religion” or “superstition,” that impels the inhabitants to want to honor and to sacrifice to Paul and Barnabas. In the midst of this second-century debate over what constituted true religion and religious practice, Hadrian promoted 66 See MacDonald and Pinto, Hadrian’s Villa: Tivoli became the best of the empire in nuce, with key sculptures and buildings from around the oikoumenē reproduced there. 67 Oliver (Ruling Power, 892) argues that Aristides’ “Roman Oration” envisions Hadrian’s Panhellenion, celebrating the “exhilaration felt by the Greek cities . . . upon the establishment of the Panhellenion and upon the announcement of its program and of the aspirations of that basileus euergetes and citizen of Athens, the emperor Hadrian, restitutor libertatis.” Behr (e.g., Complete Works, 1:447 n. 548) critiques Oliver for this association of the “Panathenaic Oration” with Hadrian and the Panhellenion. 68 Boatwright, Hadrian, 127–40; quotation from 28; Benjamin, “Altars of Hadrian,” 57. 69 Boatwright, Hadrian, 142. 70 E.g., Plutarch, De superstitione; Varro, Of Divine and Human Antiquities, which no longer exists but Augustine discusses in City of God; Cicero, De natura deorum. Some texts argue that stories of the gods are better understood as allegories for the forces of nature, and that one true God rules over all things, but one should still practice ancestral religions. See Harold W. Attridge’s meticulous “The Philosophical Critique of Religion under the Early Empire,” ANRW 2.1 (1978): 45–78; Robert M. Grant, Gods and the One God (LEC 1; Philadelphia: Westminster, 1986), 75-83; and esp. Polymnia Athanassiadi and Michael Frede, “Introduction,” in Pagan Monotheism in Late Antiquity (ed. Polymnia Athanassiadi and Michael Frede; Oxford: Clarendon, 1999), 7–10; and in the same volume Frede, “Monotheism and Pagan Philosophy in Later Antiquity,” 46–57. 71 See, e.g., Lucian, Zeus, Performer of Tragedy 3; The Double Indictment, 2; On Sacrifices, On Funerals, The Passing of Peregrinus, Zeus Accused.
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religion on multiple and contradictory levels, honoring the interest some elites had in restoring ancient glories, even as others were offended by ancient glories and their bloody, embarrassing forms of sacrificial cult.72 Except for Rome, Athens was the city where Hadrian spent the most time.73 His lavish benefactions in Athens, including those surrounding the creation of the Panhellenion, made second-century Athens more “classically” Greek than it had been in the first century. Hadrian thereby created a strong context for his Panhellenion to meet regularly and celebrate ritually once every four years. His benefactions toward cults that he considered proper to Greek and Roman identity also helped to define true religion and proper ethnicity. Indeed, with Hadrian, we can speak about “Greco-Roman” identity.
What Has Athens to Do with Rome? The Athenians responded to Hadrian’s presence and attentions; he had been a citizen there and had even held its archonship before he assumed the imperium of Rome. At the time of his first visit in 124/125, Hadrian was honored by a statue on the Altar of the Eponymous Heroes in the Athenian agora and an addition of a tribe named Hadrianis.74 These interactions between Hadrian and Athenians crystallize a particular moment in Roman–Greek relations. The idea of Romans as barbarians75 was publicly effaced as Rome bought into Greece’s capital in and traditions of paideia. The reality of Athenian and Greek subordination to Rome was veneered with new buildings and benefactions, most of which quote from Greece’s classical period in their architectural form and decoration. Even before Hadrian, Athens was familiar with building projects sponsored by Roman emperors and Roman citizens, although the scale of Hadrian’s building projects was unprecedented. From the second century b.c.e. to the second century c.e., Romans reconfigured significant spaces in Athens, including parts of the ancient agora. To build in the agora, where Socrates had walked, where Athenian democracy took its course, through which Athena was processed in festival, was to insert oneself into this theater of cultural and political memories. Susan Alcock puts it this way: “The Agora has been taken as a superb architectural equivalent to the antiquarian tendencies of the Second Sophistic.”76 That is, the impulses of the 72 Perhaps for this reason we find contradictory comments about Hadrian in Sib. Or. 8. Hadrian, in my view, was a kind of Julian-before-the-fact, reviving an archaizing form of religion that many elites found distasteful. 73 Boatwright, Hadrian, 144. 74 James Oliver, “Athenian Citizenship of Roman Emperors,” Hesperia 20 (1951): 346–49; Boatwright, Hadrian, 144–45, esp. n. 3. 75 See, e.g., Vitruvius De architectura; see Hartog, Memories of Odysseus, 163–97; Dench, Romulus’ Asylum, 93–151. 76 Much of the information here is derived from Alcock’s chapter “Old Greece within the Empire,” in Archaeologies of the Greek Past, 36–98 (quotation from 51); see also John Camp, The
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Second Sophistic are not limited to literary texts; in the Athenian agora, the Romans inscribed themselves materially, quoting from and engaging with its ancient “texts.” During this time, the almost empty triangular region marked by the Stoa of Zeus and the Metroon on one side, the Middle Stoa to the south, and the Panathenaic Street on the west became busy with buildings. Probably from the time of Augustus into the second century, a fifth-century b.c.e. “itinerant temple” of Ares—that is, a Greek temple from the classical period—was moved from an unknown location and (re)built in the center of the agora, as we learn from Roman builders’ marks. Since Ares was not an especially popular god, “specifically Roman interests” may have spurred the choice of this temple and its relocation77—namely, that because Gaius Caesar associated himself with Ares, the Athenians made Ares a focus of the agora. Various locations in Athens came to serve as “memory theaters”: “spaces which conjured up specific and controlled memories of the past through the use of monuments, images, and symbols, spaces which served to remind communities at large of just who they were by drawing on who they had been.”78 These spaces juxtaposed ancient monuments with new benefactions in order to affect those who walked through and engaged these locations. This effect would have something to do with relations between Rome and Greece, with the nature of true religion, with the proper acting out of cult. So also we can think of Acts as a space filled with objects ancient and new, with stories of Greeks, Romans, and barbarian others jostling for place on its pages.
III. Traveling Back to Acts In the example of the changed cityscape of Athens under Rome we see an abundant recollection of the past and a deliberate sense of architectural citation displayed, as Romans imitated ancient building techniques and details. Similarly, Luke-Acts collects extant sources and creates its own literary memory theater for early Christianity, where past stories are newly used, transformed, and embedded in the narrative.79 This is true, too, in a way for a text such as Matthew, which uses Q, Mark, and other materials, and with a redactor’s strong hand creates its own literary architecture. But Luke is more explicitly a bricoleur of sources, from places Archaeology of Athens (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2001). Price shows that this can be read as “a system of exchange” in the “relationship between subject and ruler,” no matter who requested the innovations (Rituals and Power, 53–77). 77 Alcock, Archaeologies of the Greek Past, 55. 78 Susan E. Alcock, “The Reconfiguration of Memory in the Eastern Roman Empire,” in Empires: Perspectives from Archaeology and History (ed. Susan E. Alcock et al.; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), 334–35. 79 On Acts’ use of sources and “rewriting the past,” see Penner, In Praise of Christian Origins, 247–61; and esp. Cadbury, Making of Luke-Acts, e.g., 139, 155–93.
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known and unknown, as was the tradition of Hellenistic and Roman historians. The preface that serves both the Gospel and Acts (Luke 1:1–4) and Acts’ brief recapitulation (Acts 1:1–2) authorize Luke-Acts precisely by positioning it in relation to past narratives: 1 Inasmuch as many have undertaken to compile a narrative (διήγησιν) of the things which have been accomplished among us, 2 just as they were delivered to us by those who from the beginning were eyewitnesses and ministers of the word, 3 it seemed good to me also, having followed all things closely for some time past, to write an orderly account for you, most excellent Theophilus, 4 that you may know the truth concerning the things of which you have been informed.
Luke’s narrative supersedes these, the text implies, because of its power to collect and arrange; his style incorporates and paraphrases works from the past.80 Moreover, the worth of Luke’s sources is guaranteed by their connection to tradition (signaled by the verb παρέδοσαν) and by the eyewitness quality (αὐτόπται) of the accounts.81 We can picture the text of Luke-Acts like the city of Athens. The long text is studded with the architectures of earlier materials—“itinerant temples,” fit into the landscape. The language of Luke-Acts in places mimics the Septuagint, giving it an archaizing and authoritative patina.82 One wanders Acts’ stories, sensing but not clearly seeing the seams of the narrative.83 The “we” narrative, for example, which suddenly appears and disappears,84 stands up like an architectural wonder in the narrative setting; its style matches the neighborhood, but one can also tell that it is something different along the architectural tour that is Acts. Luke is also interested in unity, in juxtaposing his diverse sources and narratives, as well as his own redactional activities, into a coherent memory theater, on the one hand, and into a coherent geography, on the other. As Aristides does, Luke uses universalizing rhetoric to draw diverse members into concordia or homonoia, even if these terms are never used. There are specific references to this idea 80 Cadbury, Making of Luke-Acts, 155–209; Bonz, Past as Legacy, 87, on Luke’s “hint of dissatisfaction with the work of his predecessors.” 81 Cadbury, Making of Luke-Acts, 22–23. 82 There are many studies of “Septuagintalisms” in Luke-Acts, e.g., Pervo, Dating Acts, 31– 35; Cadbury, Making of Luke-Acts, 122–26; on Luke’s language and its more detailed treatment, see idem, The Style and Literary Method of Luke (HTS 6; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1920), 1–72; J. de Zwaan, “The Use of the Greek Language in Acts,” and William Clarke, “The Use of the Septuagint in Acts,” in F. J. Foakes-Jackson and Kirsopp Lake, eds., The Beginnings of Christianity: Acts of the Apostles (5 vols.; London: Macmillan, 1920–33), 2:30–65, 66–105; for a philological comparison of Luke-Acts with Second Sophistic writers, see de Zwaan, “Use of the Greek Language,” 37–38. 83 See, e.g., Jacques Dupont, The Sources of the Acts: The Present Position (trans. K. Pond; London: Darton, Longman & Todd, 1964), 166–67; Cadbury, Making of Luke-Acts, 49–75. 84 Stanley Porter, “Excursus: The ‘We’ Passages,” in Acts in Its Graeco-Roman Setting, ed. Gill and Gempf, 562.
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throughout Acts. We find this harmony in Acts 2:44 and 4:32 as well as in the smoothing over of the conflict between “Hebrews” and “Hellenists” in Acts 16. Acts 10–11 presents the inclusion of Gentiles with a great emphasis on the term koinos: on discerning correctly what is “common” and permissible food, thus creating the grounds for a larger community (Acts 10:14, 15, 28; 11:8-9).85 Acts 15’s story of the council held in Jerusalem gently smoothes over the controversies, instead presenting an easily accomplished unity on issues of Gentile inclusion and apostolic authority.86 The Panhellenion linked Greek cities together in part through imagined links to mythic Greek identity. Acts 15:21 offers a similar logic. The passage addresses the question of what legal requirements those “Gentiles who turn to God” are required to keep. It concludes: “For from early generations Moses has had in every city (ἐκ γενεῶν ἀρχαίων κατὰ πόλιν) those who preach him, for he is read every Sabbath in the synagogues.” The minimal requirements for Gentile inclusion—abstaining from the pollution of idols (τῶν ἀλισγημάτων τῶν εἰδώλων), porneia, what is strangled, and blood—are bolstered by a claim that Moses was available to cities for generations; Gentiles dwelling in cities must merely restore the ancient connection to become part of the city league of “the Way.” This section is immediately followed by an official embassy: men from the council repair with Paul and Barnabas to Antioch with a letter: “To the brothers and sisters from the nations, greeting” (Acts 15:23). In the aftermath of the council in Jerusalem, we are assured of the unity of the program. Even as Paul and Barnabas split from each other, even as Paul takes on Timothy as a travel companion, the hearer is reassured that “as they went through the cities, they handed on to them (παρεδίδοσαν) the teachings to guard, which had been adjudicated by the apostles and elders in Jerusalem. And so the assemblies were strengthened in the faith and increased in number each day” (Acts 16:4–5). The tradition—παρεδίδωμι signals the handing down of authoritative knowledge and is the same term used to authorize Luke’s own work (Luke 1:2)—and the teachings continue safely from generation to generation and from place to place. Acts depicts the leaders of the Way wending around the Mediterranean basin with no fracture or division.87
85 Acts 21:28 engages in a deliberate irony: Paul, having brought Greeks into the Jerusalem temple, is accused by “the Jews from Asia,” “crying out, ‘Men of Israel, help! This is the man who is teaching people everywhere against the nation and the law and this place; moreover he also brought Greeks into the temple, and he has defiled (κεκοίνωκεν, literally, “made common”) this holy place.’” 86 Paul himself presented things otherwise, referring, for instance, acrimoniously to “false brothers and sisters” (Gal 2:4) who participated in this council. 87 Αcts early on gathers together the varieties of Jesus-followers into a unified narrative and a unified vision, the sort that easily accommodated those early scholars Irenaeus and Eusebius as they manufactured Christian unity in the late second and early fourth centuries. See Brent, Imperial Cult, 138–39.
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Acts 2 In Acts, Jerusalem appears as already the superseded (it competes with Antioch for importance88) but still mythical central city of the league. Just as Athens at the center of the Panhellenion was eclipsed by the reality of the true power of Rome, Jerusalem for Luke is eclipsed and insignificant compared to Rome, toward which Paul is headed. Yet Acts begins in Jerusalem. Acts 2:1-13 has been a passage of key importance in scholars’ theories of Luke’s relations to empire. This passage offers a vision of Pentecost in which tongues descend upon each of the disciples and all present hear them speaking in disparate languages. Embedded within the story of these tongues is a list of regions of the world. Now there were dwelling in Jerusalem Jews, devout men from every nation under heaven (ἀπὸ παντὸς ἔθνους τῶν ὑπὸ τὸν οὐρανόν). And at this sound the multitude came together, and they were bewildered, because each one heard them speaking in his own language. And they were amazed and wondered, saying, “Are not all these who are speaking Galileans? And how is it that we hear, each of us in our very own language, that into which we were begotten? Parthians and Medes and Elamites and residents of Mesopotamia,89 Judea and Cappadocia, Pontus and Asia, Phrygia and Pamphylia, Egypt and the parts of Libya belonging to Cyrene, and visitors from Rome, both Jews and proselytes, Cretans and Arabians, we hear them telling in our own tongues the mighty works of God.” (Acts 2:5–11)
In the story we find the dream of instant translation, the hope that myriads can come together and understand simultaneously and effortlessly the “mighty works of God.” Acts presents us with this international list of Jews, a Diaspora called back home for Shavuot. But why these particular peoples? What is the importance of this story, coming as it does roughly in the middle of Luke-Acts, a fulcrum from the ministry in Judea, the Galilee, and environs to the edges of the earth? Gary Gilbert has usefully organized scholarly opinions of this episode in Acts 2 into four camps. Some scholars say the passage derives from ancient astrological lists;90 others that it derives from lists of locations of Jews in the Diaspora; others that it draws from the table of nations and the story of the tower of Babel in Genesis 10–11 (a story with its own message about language and unity); and still others that Luke draws from Jewish prophecies about the eschatological ingathering of Diaspora Jews.91 88 See
discussion in Balch, “ΜΕΤΑΒΟΛΗ,” 164, 185–86. Trajan’s reign Mesopotamia was made a province; see The Cambridge Ancient History, vol. 11, The High Empire, A.D. 70–92 (ed. Alan Bowman et al.; 2nd ed.; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 125. Thanks to Rangar Cline for this information. 90 See Stefan Weinstock, “The Geographical Catalogue in Acts II, 9–11,” JRS 38 (1948): 43–46. 91 Gary Gilbert, “The List of Nations in Acts 2: Roman Propaganda and the Lukan 89 During
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The geographical vision in Acts 2 is also temporal: it offers an image of kingdoms of the world that were great at different historical periods. Listing these disparate empires together produces a movement not only through space but also through time, from the Parthians to the Romans. Moreover, it echoes and corrects the disaster of Babel: in Acts 2, languages are miraculously different yet comprehensible. It also reverses the scattering of the Babel episode: the Jews of the Diaspora, the devout of the world, are gathered together. Thus, Acts from its very beginning inscribes some idea of the entire oikoumenē, whether that idea is derived primarily from antiquarian geographical-astrological texts or from a text such as the table of nations in Genesis 10—or some mix of the two. Nearly everyone agrees that Acts’ geographical thinking has something to do with the Roman Empire.92 Many conclude that Acts’ geography mimics but subverts the Roman idea of basileia or kingdom. Gilbert argues that Luke-Acts “offers . . . the tools to dismantle the ideological foundation upon which Rome has built its empire. Christians might live in the Roman Empire, but they should not accept its claims to universal domination.”93 Alexander concludes: “It is precisely this itinerant role that defines the apostles (and Paul) in Acts, and I would suggest that this provides a vital key to understanding Luke’s cartography of early Christianity,” which offers a “loose-knit dynamic network rather than either a centralized hierarchy or a congeries of disconnected congregations.”94 David Balch argues that Luke’s Asian historiography “acculturates and Romanizes early Christianity,” but he also asserts that “the Christian missionaries from the East subverted Western, European, Roman values.”95 Bonz concludes that the catalogue reconfigures Judea
Response,” JBL 121 (2002): 497–529, here 500–501. For a comprehensive treatment of interpretations of Acts 2, see Scott, “Luke’s Geographical Horizon,” 483–544; see also Bonz, Past as Legacy, 99–101, on those who read Acts 2 as Luke’s reworking of the Sinai epiphany. 92 See, e.g., Conzelmann, Acts, xlvii; idem, Theology of Saint Luke, 137–38. 93 Gilbert, “List of Nations,” 529. See also Allen, Imperial Cult, 101–23, who understands Luke-Acts not as revolutionary but as “contra-culture”—that is, it borrows from the political propaganda of the Roman Empire in order to correct its terms. See also Penner, “Civilizing Discourse,” 102. 94 Alexander, “Mapping Early Christianity,” 171. 95 Balch, “ΜΕΤΑΒΟΛΗ,” 187; he goes on: “God speaks Septuagintal Greek (not Attic) and Jesus teaches leaders to serve as slaves (i.e., a radical reorientation of traditional Greco-Roman values). God does not favor one ethnic group. . . . [Τ]he geographical movement in Luke’s story (from Asia to Europe, from east to west) is thus indicative of larger ideological agendas: the Jordan River muddies the imperial Tiber” (pp. 186–87). Acts 2 is much discussed in missiological and Pentecostal circles: e.g., H. Wagenaar, “Babel, Jerusalem, and Kumba: Missiological Reflections on Genesis 11:1–9 and Acts 2:1–13,” International Review of Mission 92 (2003): 406–32; G. J. Leeper, “The Nature of the Pentecostal Gift with Special Reference to Numbers 11 and Acts 2,” Asian Journal of Pentecostal Studies 6 (2003): 23–38; Amos Yong, “As the Spirit Gives Utterance: Pentecost, IntraChristian Ecumenism, and the Wider Oikoumenē,” International Review of Mission 92 (2003): 299–314.
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on the theological world map: the inclusion of various nations denies “Judea’s pride of place. It is henceforth just one among the nations.”96 The topic of geography begun in Acts 2 and the question of its ideological positioning continue through Paul’s travels in Acts. Henry Cadbury in the 1950s put it this way: “What mixed names and backgrounds have the people that Paul meets! . . . Such a world needed a universal religion and a missionary who could be ‘all things to all men.’”97 Paul, then, becomes for Luke and for Cadbury the quintessential servant of the “great commission” to “go into all the world and preach the gospel.” Paul is the universal man, binding together the Roman Empire under a Christian sign. We see here that scholars tend to understand that Luke-Acts depicts a Christian basileia that is unlike Rome’s: a Christian oikoumenē is peaceful and unified, characterized by universal acceptance, with no trace of hegemony. Even in earliest Christianity, however, such rhetoric of universalism was carefully and strategically employed, often to argue for Christian inclusivity over and against Jewish particularity.98 In order to make Christianity more appealing in light of Jewish uprisings against Rome, Acts sacrifices Jews, molding the community of “the Way” into a form of religion that looks less foreign and more pious to a philosophical, Hellenized Rome.99 Present-day Jews become the angry mob, such as that which stones Stephen, while the epic Jews of the past are made into the forerunners of the Way, as Shelly Matthews argues.100 While Jerusalem is the city of the origins of the Way (if not of the term “Christian,” a privilege given to Antioch [11:26]), Stephen declares its obsolescence early on: false witnesses before the Sanhedrin argue that Jesus had claimed he would destroy the temple and the law; still Stephen argues thereafter, using Jewish Scripture itself (Isa 66:1), that despite the temple of Solomon, the highest God does not live in houses made with human hands (Acts 7:47–50). For philosophical reasons Luke can erase the significance of the temple in Jerusalem in his narrative of the years before the temple’s destruction; this conveniently allows him to erase Jerusalem as well. At the same time, Luke-Acts drains its sources of clues of Christian conflict with Rome, such as the arrest and execu96 Bonz,
Past as Legacy, 106, 111; quotation from 106.
97 Henry J. Cadbury, The Book of Acts in History (New York: Harper &
Brothers, 1955), 28– 29; regarding Acts 2 he writes, “In many ways his was already ‘one world’” (p. 14). See also Robert C. Tannehill, “Paul Outside the Christian Ghetto: Stories of Intercultural Conflict and Cooperation in Acts,” in Text and Logos: The Humanistic Interpretation of the New Testament (ed. Theodore W. Jennings; Homage Series; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1990), 247. 98 Buell, Why This New Race, esp. 44–47, 59–62, 78–93, 138–65. 99 For a similar, perhaps contemporaneous, strategy, see Justin’s Dialogue with Trypho. 100 Shelly Matthews, “The Need for the Stoning of Stephen,” in Violence in the New Testament (ed. Shelly Matthews and E. Leigh Gibson; New York: T&T Clark, 2005), 124–39; Lawrence Wills, “The Depiction of the Jews in Acts,” JBL 110 (1991): 631–54; Richard Pervo, “Meet Right—and Our Bounden Duty,” Forum n.s. 4.1 (2001): 57–60. Bonz underscores the competition between Lukan communities and communities of the Jewish Diaspora (Past as Legacy, 94, 128).
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tion of John the Baptist, and leaves Paul at the end enjoying what sounds like a comfortable and safe house arrest (long puzzling to scholars) under Roman care.
Paul in Lystra and Athens: Confusing Humans and Gods The issue of space and geography continues to be addressed throughout Acts. The term ekklēsia, found as a self-designation for community even in Paul’s earliest letter, is the same one used for political assemblies in Greek cities and recalls all the rich debates and struggles of such assemblies. Yet Luke-Acts retains the plural ekklēsiai in only one place; otherwise, the “assemblies” are reduced to a singular.101 In crafting this unity Acts reminds us of the league of cities under Rome that Aristides celebrates. Aristides, frequently using the term koinos, had described Rome as a lead city to an empire that looked more like a civic league than a conquering force;102 he celebrated the ease of moving throughout empire, city to city, “as on an avenue.” Rome’s influence was “literally woven through the city like a thread” by the cardo or decumanus, and this tie to the center was again marked by milestones which “reminded the traveler of the center of the empire.”103 Travelers were guided by the routes into the nodes of cities and knotted into the system of the Roman Empire. Luke-Acts represents Paul as such a traveler. The cities to which Paul travels repeatedly are in the same regions where many of the cities of the Panhellenion were, not to mention cities with statues and altars of Hadrian (see again fig. 1).104 Having emerged from their days in the east, Paul and his companions head to the heartland of ancient Greece and its colonies in Asia Minor, powerful cities of the second century c.e. and of the mythic Greek past. They return again and again, as if on political embassies, to these cities.105 Even before the council in Jerusalem, Saul and Barnabas had been commissioned in Antioch to travel, and covered the territory of Seleucia, Cyprus (Salamis and Paphos), Perga (in Pamphylia), Pisidian Antioch, Iconium, Lystra, Derbe, Lystra again, Iconium, Pisidian Antioch, Pamphylia again, Attalia, and Antioch. A pattern is developed throughout Acts: Acts 13 describes this back and forth of travel, and after the council of Acts 15 the story is repeated, as if to affirm the linking of these and other cities under the care of Paul and his companions. 101 Acts
16:5 is the only plural amid twenty-three uses of the term ekklēsia. the discussion in Oliver, Ruling Power, 889. 103 Paul Zanker, “The City as Symbol: Rome and the Creation of an Urban Image,” in Romanization and the City: Creation, Transformations, and Failures: Proceedings of a Conference Held at the American Academy in Rome to Celebrate the 50th Anniversary of the Excavations at Cosa, 14–16 May, 1998 (ed. Elizabeth Fentress; Journal of Roman Archaeology Supplementary series 38; Portsmouth, RI: Journal of Roman Archaeology, 2000), 27; the quotation is from 29. 104 The figure is based on Spawforth and Walker, “Panhellenion: I,” 80 (fig. 1). For locations of Hadrian’s altars and statues, see Benjamin, “Altars of Hadrian,” 57–86. 105 Bovon reads this as pastoral “fortifying” (“Israel, the Church and the Gentiles,” 92–95). 102 See
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Many of Luke’s scenes of Paul’s travels serve as narrative distillations of issues of ethnicity, proper practice of religion, paideia, and relations with Rome—that is, some of the precise issues raised in the Second Sophistic. In the midst of Paul’s travels, several locations stand out because they are the settings of longer narratives about Paul’s interactions with “natives.” These stories are narrative forms of theorizing religion and politics. Luke takes part in a debate over what is proper religion and what practices are efficacious, at a time when Hadrian and others also discuss religion explicitly, with words, and implicitly, with benefactions for festivals and cultic practice. The account of Paul and Barnabas at Lystra spoofs tendencies to misapprehend humans as gods: “And when the crowds saw what Paul had done, they lifted up their voices, saying in Lykaonian, ‘The gods have come down to us in human form!’ (οἱ θεοὶ ὁμοιωθέντες ἀνθρώποις κατέβησαν πρὸς ἡμᾶς).” In their native tongue, in their backwater town, the joke is that the Lystrans ignorantly manifest a confusion between gods and humans that many would say was rampant throughout the empire. The cities that Luke and his first readers traveled were crowded with the imperial cult, with statuary of humans representing themselves as gods, gods in human form whose faces sometimes resembled members of the imperial family, and with executions where criminals were made to represent the gods.106 So-called apologists like Justin and Athenagoras take up the theme raised here in more philosophical tones, arguing about the nature of the creator versus the created or mocking (alongside their pagan contemporaries) the myths of gods busying themselves among humans in more or less admirable and sexually avaricious ways. Luke instead makes a similar, briefer argument about true piety and correct religion in sparkling narrative form. The scene commences with Paul’s healing miracle (14:8–18) and includes a priest of Zeus who wants to make sacrifice for the incarnate Zeus and Hermes.107 As the priest of Zeus offers animals for sacrifice and garlands for celebration, marching out of the city toward the temple of Zeus, Paul and Barnabas weep at this pious misunderstanding. “‘We ourselves are humans, similar and subject to the same laws as you!’ . . . and saying these things they barely stopped the mobs from sacrificing to them” (Acts 14:15, 18). Here we find another joke: the ignorant mobs for once are not violent but over-adulatory, like the crowds 106 For two examples of ancient debates over theomorphy and statuary of the gods, see Cicero, De natura deorum and Clement of Alexandria, Protreptikos (esp. book 4). See also Christopher Hallett, The Roman Nude: Heroic Portrait Statuary 200 BC–AD 300 (New York: Oxford University Press, 2005), 223–70; Yaron Eliav, “Roman Statues, Rabbis, and Graeco-Roman Culture,” in Jewish Literatures and Cultures: Context and Intertext (ed. Yaron Eliav and A. Norich; BJS 349; Providence, RI: Brown Judaic Studies, 2008), 99–115. On the execution of criminals as if they were gods in mythological stories, see Kathleen Coleman, “Fatal Charades: Roman Executions Staged as Mythological Enactments,” JRS 80 (1990): 44–73. 107 Dean Philip Béchard, Paul Outside the Walls: A Study of Luke’s Socio-Geographical Universalism in Acts 14:8–20 (AnBib 143; Rome: Pontificio Istituto Biblico, 2000), 376.
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Lucian depicts happily gathered for Peregrinus’s praise and immolation, as he becomes a god.108 Dean Béchard argues that Paul’s speech to the people of Lystra matches his speech to the Athenians. The story of Lystra marks Paul’s interaction with rustics, not urban sophisticates.109 Paul’s speech to the Athenians, as Dibelius and others have argued, marks his interaction with Greek culture.110 Acts 14 and 17 contrast rural and native, barbarian and the most Greek of all. But in both, the line between human and divine and the nature of true religion are misapprehended and critiqued. Luke’s depiction of Paul in Athens is the “climax of the book.”111 Athens symbolizes philosophical significance even under Rome, and Paul’s speech from the Areopagus takes place not just on a high place in the city topographically, but a high place of cultural values. Standing on the Areopagus, the ancient site of the Athenian ekklēsia, or assembly, of ancient judgment and knowledge, Paul thoroughly critiques Greek deisidaimonia: “I see that you are in every way very deisidaimonesterous” (κατὰ πάντα ὡς δεισιδαιμονεστέρους ὑμᾶς). The RSV translates “very religious,” but “very superstitious”—fearing the gods in a way that completely misapprehends the divine—is also legitimate. Plutarch discusses deisidaimonia as a dangerous inclination to conduct cultic rites out of fear of the gods.112 In Athens, Luke-Acts foregrounds issues of religion and its truly philosophical practice. Here Paul acts as a philosopher to address other philosophers. Even before the time of Hadrian’s great benefactions, and certainly thereafter, we can imagine an Athens crowded with statuary, temples, altars, and buildings—even more crowded than the agora alone, where Acts 17:3 places Paul.113 Paul’s horror at Lystran religiosity was linked to the people’s confusion between human and 108 Lucian, Passing of Peregrinus; on mobs and Acts, see Wills, “Depiction of the Jews”; and Matthews, “Need for the Stoning.” Although they are not “wolflike” as the etymology of their name suggests, they too will turn violent at the instigation of the Jews who come from Antioch and Iconium and persuade the people to stone Paul. See Amy Wordelman, “Cultural Divides and Dual Realities: A Greco-Roman Context for Acts 14,” in Contextualizing Acts, ed. Penner and Vander Stichele, 205–32, esp. 228–29. There is a play on the word lykos (“wolf ”) in this passage; elsewhere too Luke alludes to Jews being like wolves (Luke 10:3; Acts 20:29) (p. 228). 109 So also Alexander, “In Journeyings Often,” 35. 110 Dibelius, Book of Acts, 95–133; Bechard, Paul Outside the Walls, 255–53. Lucian too uses the Areopagus as a setting of judgment (The Double Indictment). 111 Dibelius, Book of Acts, 95. 112 E.g., Plutarch, De superstitione; see also Dale Martin, Inventing Superstition: From the Hippocratics to the Christians (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2004). 113 Acts 17:17 depicts Paul as “in the synagogue with the Jews and the devout persons and in the market place (agora) every day.” Since Acts draws broad painterly strokes, and since Epicureans and Stoics haunt this particular agora (see v. 18), which seems to be near the Areopagus, I think Acts 17:17 conjures the philosophically engaged ancient agora. On Paul in Athens, see Halvor Moxnes, “‘He Saw That the City Was Full of Idols’ (Acts 17:16): Visualizing the World of the First Christians,” in Mighty Minorities? Minorities in Early Christianity: Positions and Strategies (ed. Halvor Moxnes et al.; Oslo: Scandinavian University Press, 1995), 107–31.
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divine: “The gods have come down to us in the likeness of humans (ὁμοιωθέντες ἀνθρώποις)!” cried the people when they saw Paul’s miracle. Homoiōthentes (the passive of the verb ὁμοιόω is defined as “to be made like, to become like”) recalls terms that are often used for statuary and image making that imitate real life, on the one hand, and the language of human creation in Genesis 1, on the other, where God decides to make humans in God’s “image and likeness.”114 So also in Athens, Paul is described as provoked in his spirit when he sees “the city full of idols (κατείδωλον)” (17:16). In the cultural context of the ancient Mediterranean, where gods look like humans and humans like gods in the statuary of cities and temples, Acts presents a Paul who is offended because neither Lystra nor Athens draws proper lines between god and humans. Paul’s speech insists that God does not “dwell in shrines made by human hands, nor is God served by human hands, as though in need of something” (Acts 17:24b–25a). The frantic restoration and building efforts of someone like Hadrian are misdirected: they miss the true nature of the divine. Acts uses Athens as a stage setting115 for Paul’s philosophical critique of Greek religion. Conzelmann’s commentary notes that Paul’s speech is not unusual in light of past and present Greek philosophical thought.116 Acts sets this speech on the Areopagus, that ancient site of judgment and community deliberation. Pushed there by the crowd that surrounds him, Paul states: 26 [God] made117 from one every nation of humans to dwell upon all the face of the earth, having delimited the prescribed times and the fixed boundaries of their dwelling place, 27 to seek God, if indeed they should touch him and find him. And yet [God] is not far from each one of us, 28 for “In God we live and move and have our being”; as even some of your poets have said, “For we are indeed his offspring (γένος).” 29 Being then God’s offspring, we ought not to think that the divine is like gold, or silver, or stone, a representation by art and human conception.118 114 LSJ s.v. ὁμοιόω. For other terms for statuary, see Peter Stewart, Statues in Roman Society (New York: Oxford University Press, 2003), 19–45. See Gen 1:26–27, and, e.g., J. Maxwell Miller, “In the ‘Image’ and ‘Likeness’ of God,” JBL 91 (1972): 289–304. 115 On Athens and the Areopagos as a stage background, see Conzelmann, Acts, 146–48. 116 Plutarch cites the Stoic Zeno’s argument that one should not build temples of the gods; Seneca and Pseudo-Heraclitus also argued that the divine is to be consecrated within each human (according to the first) or in all the world (according to the second). Plutarch Mor. 1034b: “It is a doctrine of Zeno’s ‘not to build temples of the gods’”; all the above are cited in Conzelmann, Acts, 141. See also, e.g., Lucian, Sacr. 11. Philo and Josephus too contain injunctions against images, although these are frequently launched in a particular rhetorical context, especially the memory of Gaius’s (Caligula’s) attempt to hang banners and mount a statue of Zeus in the Jerusalem temple. 117 I follow Conzelmann’s argument that ἐποίησεν governs both κατοικεῖν and ζητεῖν (Acts, 142). Ernst Haenchen emphasizes that ἐποίησεν echoes the ποιήσας of v. 24 and thus is a “recapitulation of the creation account” (The Acts of the Apostles: A Commentary [trans. Bernard Noble and Gerald Shinn; trans. rev. and ed. R. McL. Wilson; Philadelphia: Westminster, 1971], 523). 118 The term χάραγμα has connotations of an impression, inscription, or stamp.
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26 ἐποίησέν τε ἐξ ἑνὸς πᾶν ἔθνος ἀνθρώπων κατοικεῖν ἐπὶ παντὸς προσώπου τῆς γῆς, ὁρίσας προστεταγμένους καιροὺς καὶ τὰς ὁροθεσίας τῆς κατοικίας αὐτῶν 27 ζητεῖν τὸν θεόν, εἰ ἄρα γε ψηλαφήσειαν αὐτὸν καὶ εὕροιεν, καί γε οὐ μακρὰν ἀπὸ ἑνὸς ἑκάστου ἡμῶν ὑπάρχοντα. 28 ἐν αὐτῷ γὰρ ζῶμεν καὶ κινούμεθα καὶ ἐσμέν, ὡς καί τινες τῶν καθ᾿ ὑμᾶς ποιητῶν εἰρήκασιν˙ τοῦ γὰρ καὶ γένος ἐσμέν. 29 γένος οὖν ὑπάρχοντες τοῦ θεοῦ οὐκ ὀφείλομεν νομίζειν χρυσῷ ἢ ἀργύρῳ ἢ λίθῳ, χαράγματι τέχνης καὶ ἐνθυμήσεως ἀνθρώπου, τὸ θεῖον εἶναι ὅμοιον.
The passage is a tour de force, combining allusions to Greek poets with the story of creation in Genesis 1–2, and weaving together abstract geographical and temporal thinking with the reality of the built environment of statues of gold, silver, and stone. In v. 28, the phrase “in God we live and move and have our being” borrows from Cleanthes’ third-century b.c.e. Hymn to Zeus (lines 3b–5): “For it is right for all mortals to address you: / for we have our origin in you, bearing a likeness to God, / we, alone of all that live and move as mortal creatures on earth.”119 In the phrase “for we are also his offspring,” scholars have long seen the influence of Aratus’s Phaenomena.120 In this speech, Luke’s Paul also combines the topic of creation—how God “made from one every nation of humans”—with the question of “what the divine is like” (τὸ θεῖον εἶναι ὅμοιον), or not: the divine is not like the images produced by humans. In doing so the speech articulates one primary and one secondary theological point: first, it tries to establish proper human relations with the divine, and, second(arily), proper human relations with each other. I use the term “relations” deliberately, since Acts employs the terminology of genos, which can also be translated “race” and which, as we have seen, is a key term in establishing kinship.121 Humans and the divine are indeed alike: the Septuagint version of Gen 1:26 states, “God said, ‘Let us make a human according to our image (εἰκόνα) and likeness (ὁμοίωσιν).’” But the Areopagus speech hints that the nature of that similarity does not extend to creating gods in the image of humans. In the Lystran episode, we saw the theme that humans are not to be confused with gods; Paul and Barnabas are not Hermes and Zeus. In the speech in Athens, we see the inverse arguments: god is not like humans; humans cannot make images of the divine or build homes/shrines for it.122 119 Johan
C. Thom, Cleanthes’ Hymn to Zeus: Text, Translation, and Commentary (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2005), 52. 120 Line 5: τοῦ γὰρ καὶ γένος εἰμέν. For the Greek see Aratos, Phénomènes (2 vols.; text, trans., comm. Jean Martin; Paris: Les belles lettres, 1998), 1:1. Aratus was also cited by the Hellenistic Jewish writer Aristobulus before Luke-Acts (Eusebius, Praep. evang. 13.12); Clement, Strom. 14.101 also cites Aratus. See Cadbury, Making of Luke-Acts, 122 n. 10. 121 See Buell, Why This New Race? The language of genos reminds us of the same terminology in the Kibyran Panhellenion inscription (τὸ γένος Ἑλληνι[κόν]). 122 The passage repeats a logic already legitimized twice by Peter in Acts 10–11: “Truly I
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What is the “one” from which this impartial God “made the world,” in the terms of Acts 17? Conzelmann suggests Adam; we can go further and suggest that from Adam until Babel, all peoples were one, united at least by language (ἐξ ἑνὸς πᾶν ἔθνος ἀνθρώπων).123 From this one proliferate many nations. Terminology of boundary making (horizō, horothesia, prostassō) fills the passage. Kairoi (“fixed times”) and horothesiai (“prescribed boundaries”) refer “to the epochs in the histories of the nations and to their national boundaries” and mean “‘periods and boundaries.’”124 Each human ethnos, derived from an original “one,” moves outward to its proper place in time and space. Thus, in Acts 17 we see a God who is Panhellenios and more. Although the Roman Empire allowed (to some extent) the worship of multiple gods—the shrines and representations to which Paul refers—Luke through Paul communicates a vision of the world where one God commands all, everywhere (17:30b; τὰ νῦν παραγγέλλει τοῖς ἀνθρώποις πάντας πανταχοῦ μετανοεῖν). Thus, the God Paul describes in Athens as the one true God repeats and expands the God of Acts 2. In Acts 2, Jews of “every nation” are able to hear in their own language; in Acts 17, Luke’s imperial God, communicating through Paul’s always threatened but invulnerable body, commands all people, of all nations, to repent and submit, even as he insists that all are ultimately one in origin, mythically and primordially linked. In Athens, the heart of Hadrian’s projects, Paul offers a religious option that draws on the rhetoric, traditions, and literature of ancient Greece. He recalls the glories of ancient Greece but also announces God’s command and impending judgment on the oikoumenē. Clearly, Roman imperial command, judgment, and reign over the world, as well as Roman imperial claims to be and to represent the divine, are paltry in the face of Paul’s God.
Paul in Thessalonikē and Philippi: Roman Sedition? But does this mean that Acts presents a vision of a kingdom of God that stands over and against the Roman Empire? No. In its depiction of Paul in Thessalonikē and Philippi, Acts both preserves and denies traces of an idea that Christianity is politically seditious—an idea promulgated by Romans and even Christians at the time. Acts instead appeals to the logic of Greek cities under Rome, on the one hand, and to the logic of philosophical conversations about the nature of true worshiping, on the other, in order to construct a Christianity that hybridizes neatly with Rome. understand that God is not partial, but in every nation (ἔθνος) one who fears God and practices justice is acceptable to God” (Acts 10:34–35). It also echoes Acts 2, where the list of nations seemed to function simultaneously as a chronological and geographical succession of empires and spread of nations. Here, too, God made from one every nation for one purpose: to dwell on the earth even as they seek God. 123 Buell, Why This New Race? 78–84, 138–65. 124 Conzelmann, Acts, 142–44, discussing the views of others, including Dibelius, for whom kairoi refer to seasons and a “philosophy of nature” (Book of Acts, 97–101).
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Paul has already traveled through the eastern rim of the Mediterranean, shifting from Antioch to Cyprus to Jerusalem and back. Paul then travels extensively in various parts of Asia Minor; being prevented by the “Spirit of Jesus” (Acts 16:7) from travel in the province of Asia proper, he is called to Macedonia in a dream. There, in the heartland of Alexander the Great’s empire, where Rome exerted its influence through means such as the Panhellenion, Paul and his cohort are labeled “the ones who have stirred up the inhabited world” (17:7; οἱ τὴν οἰκουμένην ἀναστατώσαντες). Specifically, they stir up the oikoumenē by “acting against the decrees of Caesar, saying that there is another king, Jesus.” In other words, Paul and company are accused (even in absentia, as is the case in Thessalonikē), of political sedition. What comes of these accusations of treason? Nothing, in the end, because Acts carefully constructs a Way that is not seditious toward Rome.125 In Philippi, Paul and Silas encounter a girl with a Pythian spirit, who declares that the two are servants of the Most High God. Thus, even a “pagan” slave, economically and pneumatically exploited by human and divine, proclaims the truth of monotheism and proclaims Paul and Silas as that one God’s representatives (Acts 16:16–40). When Paul and Silas are thrown into prison for exorcising the girl (and thus, according to her owners, destroying their tool for money-making), Paul refuses an offer of quiet release: with their Roman citizenship, he insists, they should not be so humiliated, and thus Rome comes to the rescue of these cultured travelers. In the episode just before this, it is in fact Paul’s strident claim to Roman citizenship that gets Silas and him shown Philippi’s city gate (Acts 16:35–40). Acts thus retains traces of ongoing interpretations of Paul as a political seditionary who stands against Rome while overwriting these traditions. Paul is a master of escape and acquiescence, whose nearly invulnerable body uses imperial roadways and seaways in no way especially offensive to the empire. Paul slips off safely, under threat of Jewish violence, not Roman judicial proceedings.
IV. Conclusions: Empire and Acts’ Theological Vision As the Romans embellished ancient buildings in the Athenian agora and inserted their own, so also Luke-Acts produces a “memory theater,” invoking the language of the Septuagint, monumental traditions regarding the earliest Jesus movement, and retelling again and again the epic of the people of Israel, reconfiguring its literary spaces for a new (Christian) Israel.126 Luke’s narrative sources and his map of the oikoumenē are significant shards of the past. Acts is a product of the Second Sophistic: it crafts a story of a city league formed by the ambassadorial presence of Paul; it looks back to the first generation of the Jesus movement and to the ancient traditions of Israel. 125 Esler, 126 See
Community and Gospel, 202–5. Bonz, Past as Legacy, 26.
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Many of Acts’ speeches can be read as redundant mini-epics, short recountings of the mythos of the people of Israel. As Philip Esler has argued, Luke-Acts draws on this ancestral religion in order to “assuage doubts which Roman members of Luke’s community might have entertained as to the political implications of Christianity”:127 a religion that has such deep ancient ties, as did so many other religions under the Roman Empire, must be a proud and legitimate community. Christianity is constructed as the new Israel, as the rightful inheritor of these stories of salvation and of God’s activity in the world. In placing these genealogies in the mouths of figures like Peter and Paul, Luke does something analogous to the cities of the Panhellenion, which were encouraged to invent complex genealogies to establish their metropoleis as solidly Greek in race.128 Moreover, Luke-Acts maps Paul’s movement through the Roman oikoumenē and produces a Christian one in turn. Paul’s travels in particular build up a list of cities—an ancient Christian coalition. The Panhellenion, a Roman-sponsored Greek ethnic coalition, fostered diplomacy among Greek city-states. It also called for pious practice that bound diverse cities to the Roman Empire and the imperial family. Similarly, Acts tells the story of a Christianity that is comprehensible to and even in ways imitative of the Roman Empire; it produces a Paul whose travels trace regions and ideas trod by Hadrian himself, and Paul’s travels produce a kind of Pan-Christian league echoed in the Panhellenion. Reading Acts in this way provides a fresh vantage point from which to address sites of interpretive contention, particularly concerning Acts’ “apologetic” stance and Roman ideology. Scholarly attention to geography in Luke-Acts has been tied to concerns about the character and scope of earliest Christianity. Prevailing explanations for Luke’s geographical vision have moved toward the magnetic poles of these questions: Did Luke’s geographical vision imitate Roman geography to support or to undermine it? Or was Luke’s geographical vision a quotation of Jewish eschatological traditions, and if so, did it move toward the inclusion of all peoples into the people of God? Acts presents a vision of a new Christian identity. This Christian identity is moored in prestigious ancient Israelite traditions, but moves easily nonetheless through the Greek cities that begged connection with and protection from the Roman Empire. Luke hybridizes Christianity to the Greekness that was so prestigious and marketable in the Roman Empire and seeks to make of “one race” many peoples, using available discourses, including those available to Aelius Aristides and Hadrian. What is at stake in these questions about Acts and the Roman Empire is clear: When did Christianity ever become an inclusive, embracing, universal religion, expanding to the boundaries of the oikoumenē? Or did it? And we can push these questions further: Universal in whose terms? At what cost? 127 Esler,
Community and Gospel, 216; see also ch. 5, in which he argues that Luke presents Christians, not Jews, as the inheritors of Moses. 128 On similar ethnic reasoning, see Buell, Why This New Race? 4, 85–90.
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Paul’s “Partisan ἐκ” and the Question of Justification in Galatians don garlington [email protected] 59 Shoredale Drive, Toronto, ON M1G 3T1, Canada
In pursuing a final revision of my commentary on Galatians,1 while concurrently lecturing once more on the letter, I was forced to tackle again the issue of whether Paul depicts his opponents in Galatia as “legalists” rather than “reacting nomists,” nowadays better known as “covenantal nomists” (à la E. P. Sanders’s famous “covenantal nomism”).2 In mulling the question over yet another time, I had to concede that if Paul’s use of ἐκ retains a strict and exclusive sense of “origin,” then the traditional rendering of justification “by (means of) the works of the law” might just have some merit. If, in fact, justification originates in “the works of the law,” then said “works” could be construed as the “legal basis” of right standing before God. By conviction, I assume a stance within the camp of the so-called New Perspective on Paul. But still, I had to ponder matters afresh. In making my way through the relevant texts, it occurred to me that “origin” can entail the notion of position within or participation; that is, to be “from” (ἐκ) a realm means to “belong” to it. Such being the case, ἐκ is not so far removed from ἐν in its locative sense. Having arrived at that tentative conclusion, I returned to BDAG (296) and read this: “In these cases the idea of belonging, the partisan use, often completely overshadows that of origin.” The “cases” in question will be examined below. Suffice it to say for the moment that Paul’s partisan ἐκ, customarily overlooked in the justification debate, has a considerable amount to say about his take on the views of the other missionaries in Galatia and his response to them.3 If for no other reason, it 1 Don Garlington, An Exposition of Galatians: A Reading from the New Perspective (3rd ed.; Eugene, OR: Wipf & Stock, 2007). 2 “Reacting nomists” is a moniker derived from Richard N. Longenecker’s coinage of “reacting nomism” (Paul: Apostle of Liberty [New York: Harper & Row, 1964], 78). Longenecker sets “reacting nomism” over against “acting legalism.” 3 I am proceeding according to the traditional view that Paul’s antagonists were “Jewish
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is surely telling, as Udo Schnelle informs us, that ἐκ occurs no less than twenty times in Gal 2:16–3:24.4 A more extensive study of ἐκ throughout Paul’s letters, including its Hebrew equivalent Nm in various Jewish texts, would doubtless provide a useful backup and confirmation of these findings in Galatians. But because that would entail an enterprise of its own, I submit the following as a heuristic exercise for the purpose of stimulating further discussion, both linguistic and theological.
I. The Hebrew Background: Partitive Nm A perusal of LSJ conveys the impression that Paul’s employment of ἐκ finds no particular parallels in nonbiblical Greek. A priori, this would stand to reason, given the factors of group identity and community solidarity so pronounced in the ancient East.5 In this setting, the preposition understandably takes on a sense of
Christian missionaries,” whose conception of the place of the law in the messianic age deviated from that of Paul. On the designation “Jewish Christian,” see Stephen A. Cummins, Paul and the Crucified Christ in Antioch: Maccabean Martyrdom and Galatians 1 and 2 (SNTSMS 114; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), 94 n. 1. The thesis of Mark D. Nanos (The Irony of Galatians: Paul’s Letter in First-Century Context [Minneapolis: Fortress, 2002]) that the “influencers,” as he calls them, were representatives of local synagogues attempting to win the Gentile Galatians to non-Christian Judaism is intriguing but hardly convincing. While respecting Nanos’s position, A. Andrew Das rightly concludes that the “they group” in the letter comprises Jewish Christians in the Galatians’ midst, not non-Christian Jews (Paul and the Jews [Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2003], 17–29). Understood along these more traditional avenues, Paul’s antagonists in Galatia conceived of themselves as Jewish Christian missionaries, whose goal was to bring the nations into captive obedience to Israel’s king, in fulfillment of such OT passages as Gen 49:10; Num 24:17–19; Deut 33:5 (LXX); Psalms 2; 110. In their view, they were only attempting to promote the promise to Abraham of a multitude of descendants by bringing Gentiles under the dominion of the law, as supported prima facie by such prophetic texts as Isa 2:2–4; Mic 4:1–3; Zech 14:16–19. The Galatian letter, therefore, is Paul’s response to the efforts of the rival missionaries to bring Gentiles who have turned to Christ under the dominion of the law, in order to “complete” their conversion to the God of Israel. Martinus C. de Boer prefers to speak of this company as “Christian-Jewish” rather than “Jewish-Christian,” because they took their theological point of departure from the Mosaic Law rather than from Christ (“Paul’s Quotation of Isaiah 54.1 in Galatians 4.27,” NTS 50 [2004]: 383 n. 53). Whatever we call them, de Boer is certainly correct in this regard. See further Garlington, Galatians, 19–21; J. Louis Martyn, Galatians: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB 33A; New York: Doubleday, 1997), 124–25; In-Gyu Hong, The Law in Galatians (JSNTSup 81; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1993), 97–120. 4 Udo Schnelle, Apostle Paul: His Life and Theology (Grand Rapids: Baker, 2005), 279. 5 Still relevant is the classic statement of H. Wheeler Robinson, Corporate Personality in Ancient Israel (2nd ed.; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1981), as accompanied by Aubrey R. Johnson, The One and the Many in the Israelite Conception of God (Cardiff: University of Wales Press, 1961); Joel S. Kaminsky, Corporate Responsibility in the Hebrew Bible (JSOTSup 196; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1995). Corporate identity and belonging, however, are not to be turned into
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“belonging” perhaps not so evident in other cultures. As expected, LSJ (498) indicate that ἐκ can denote position outside of; but, as we will see, the Pauline (Semitic) “partisan” usage is to the opposite effect: position within (= ἐν). The Hebrew partitive use of Nm is well established and requires no particular elaboration.6 A few obvious examples should suffice. Gen 28:11: Mwqmh ynb)m xqyw (“he took one of the stones from the place”) LXX: καὶ ἔλαβεν ἀπὸ τῶν λίθων τοῦ τόπου Exod 6:25: twnbm wl-xql (“he took for himself one of the daughters”) LXX: ἔλαβεν τῶν θυγατέρων Exod 16:27: M(h-Nm w)cy (“some of the people went out”) LXX: ἐξήλθοσάν τινες ἐκ τοῦ λαοῦ Exod 17:5: l)r#y ynqzm (“some of the elders of Israel”) LXX: ἀπὸ τῶν πρεσβυτέρων τοῦ λαοῦ Exod 18:25: l)r#y-lkm (“from the whole of Israel”) LXX: ἀπὸ παντὸς Ισραηλ Lev 4:2: hnhm tx)m h#(w (“if he does any one of these things”) LXX: ποιήσῃ ἕν τι ἀπ' αὐτῶν Deut 15:7: Kyx) dx)m (“any one of your brothers”) LXX: τῶν ἀδελφῶν σου Ruth 2:20: )wh wnl)gm (“he is one of our kinsmen”) LXX: ἐκ τῶν ἀγχιστευόντων ἡμᾶς ἐστιν 1 Sam 9:3: Myr(nhm dx)-t) Kt) )n-xq (“take with you one of the servants”) LXX: Λαβὲ μετὰ σεαυτοῦ ἕν τῶν παιδαρίων 1 Sam 14:45: hcr) w#)r tr(#m lpy-M) (“there shall not one hair of his head fall to the ground”) LXX: εἰ πεσεῖται τῆς τριχὸς τῆς κεφαλῆς αὐτοῦ ἐπὶ τὴν γῆν 2 Kgs 10:3: Mkynd) ynbm r#yhw bw+h (“the best and brightest of your Lord’s sons”) LXX: τὸν ἀγαθὸν καὶ τὸν εὐθῆ ἐν τοῖς υἱοῖς τοῦ κυρίου ὑμῶν absolutes, à la Aubrey R. Johnson, The Vitality of the Individual in the Thought of Ancient Israel (2nd ed.; Cardiff: University of Wales Press, 1964); and Stephen J. L. Croft, The Identity of the Individual in the Psalms (JSOTSup 44; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1987). 6 BDB, 580–81; HALOT (2001), 1:598; IBHS, 70, 155, 213–14.
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Partitive Nm, as classified by BDB, breaks down into at least five separate categories, but they all have one thing in common: the person or thing with whom/which the preposition is construed belongs to a larger entity and finds identification with that group. It is equally evident that there is no uniform way in which the LXX translates these Nm texts. In the examples selected, Nm is rendered once by ἐν, twice by ἐκ, four times by ἀπό, and four times with no preposition at all (the “partitive genitive”).7 The variation between ἐκ and ἀπό is not unexpected, given the general equivalence of the two. But ἐν is particularly telling, as its presence tends to confirm that ἐκ and ἐν can amount to more or less the same thing. Likewise impressive is the “partitive genitive,” which will prove to be of relevance in a couple of the passages considered below. That there should be such variation in the LXX dress of Nm simply reflects the nature of language, and no monolithic rendering could have been expected. In any event, partitive Nm, it can be fairly deduced, provides a precedent for the partisan usage of ἐκ that occurs in Galatians, especially as Paul’s own Greek exhibits parallels to the LXX.
II. Partisan ἐκ in Galatians: An Examination of Texts Galatians 2:15–16 The natural starting point for Paul’s use of partisan ἐκ in Galatians is 2:15–16, his central assertion respecting his outlook on justification vis-à-vis that of his opponents. As such, it serves as the paradigm for all the subsequent occurrences of ἐκ that have a bearing on the subject at hand. Ἡμεῖς φύσει Ἰουδαῖοι καὶ οὐκ ἐξ ἐθνῶν ἁμαρτωλοί· εἰδότες [δὲ] ὅτι οὐ δικαιοῦται ἄνθρωπος ἐξ ἔργων νόμου ἐὰν μὴ διὰ πίστεως Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ, καὶ ἡμεῖς εἰς Χριστὸν Ἰησοῦν ἐπιστεύσαμεν, ἵνα δικαιωθῶμεν ἐκ πίστεως Χριστοῦ καὶ οὐκ ἐξ ἔργων νόμου, ὅτι ἐξ ἔργων νόμου οὐ δικαιωθήσετι πᾶσα σάρξ.
The following paraphrase endeavors to convey my understanding of Paul’s intentions. Note that I have called upon various English synonyms to draw out the impact of ἐκ. We who are Jews by birth and not sinners belonging to the ranks of the Gentiles; we know that a person is not justified by belonging to the arena of Torah-works, but through faith in Jesus Christ. Even we have believed in Christ Jesus in order to be justified within the realm of Christic faith and not within the orb of Torahworks, because no person will be justified by remaining within the sphere of Torahworks. 7 On
the partitive genitive, see BDF §164.
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To descend to particulars, in v. 15 Paul is very much concerned to emphasize that he and like-minded Jewish believers are “Jews by birth.” The English phrase “by birth” (φύσει) appears in Rom 11:21, 24 in the sense of Israel being the “natural” branches, while the Gentiles are the “unnatural” (παρὰ φύσιν) branches. The Jews are marked out as the aboriginal people, by virtue of physical descent from Abraham, whereas the Gentiles are latecomers to the covenant. Jewishness, in other words, is determined by φύσις, “birth.” The same connotations are present in this verse. Paul speaks as any Jew of the period would have: there are Jews “by birth” as opposed to “sinners of the Gentiles.” Birth and lineage separate Jew from Gentile, and the covenant with Israel distinguishes “saint” from “sinner.”8 For the first time in the letter, Paul uses the first person plural to denote Jewish Christians. In this particular case, he probably includes Peter and Barnabas (and, in principle, James), notwithstanding their wavering in Antioch. He draws on the experience of Jewish believers, those who had been nurtured in Judaism and taught the word of God. The impact of vv. 15–16 is just this: καὶ ἡμεῖς—“even we”—know that justification is not by “works of the law” but by “faith in Jesus Christ.” In v. 16b, it is stated just this way: “even we have believed. . . .” By identifying himself and his associates as thoroughly Jewish believers, Paul disavows that “the people from James” are the legitimate heirs of Israel’s hope. He would have us think very much in terms of “them and us.” One might say: “As distinct from them (the Judaizers and their followers), we, notwithstanding our Jewish heritage, know that a person is not justified from [in the arena of] works of Torah but through faith in Christ; even we, who share the same historic biblical values as our opponents, have trusted in Christ for justification.” In so writing, it is true enough that Paul does not treat his rivals kindly (as per “false brothers” [2:4], and all the rest). Nor does he attempt to win them to his point of view. Given that the Galatian situation was teetering on the brink of apostasy, he responds very much in black-andwhite terms.9 He may have hailed from the same background as his competitors, but he and they were irreconcilably at odds on the issue of “Christ alone” versus “Christ plus something else,” that is, the law, as it was meant to “complete” the Galatians’ conversion experience. Paul’s description of himself and his fellow Jewish Christians as οὐκ ἐξ ἐθνῶν ἁμαρτωλοί draws on a phrase that would have resonated in Jewish ears.10 As James D. G. Dunn points out, in Jewish thought “sinners” meant preeminently 8 For a more detailed exposition of vv. 15–16, see my In Defense of the New Perspective on Paul: Essays and Reviews (Eugene, OR: Wipf & Stock, 2005), 29–58. The thesis of that study is that Paul plays on and challenges the traditional Jewish distinction between “saints” and “sinners.” This is in keeping with the phenomenon of role reversal in Galatians, especially in 3:10–13 and 4:21–31. 9 On the apostasy factor, see Todd A. Wilson, “Wilderness Apostasy and Paul’s Portrayal of the Crisis in Galatia,” NTS 50 (2004): 550–71. 10 The phrase ἐξ ἐθνῶν crops up also in Rom 9:24; 2 Cor 11:26.
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“those whose lawless conduct marked them out as outside the covenant, destined for destruction and so not to be consorted with” (1 Sam 15:18; 24:28; Pss 1:1; 9:15– 17; 37:34–36; 58:10; Prov 12:12–13; Sir 7:16; 9:11; 41:5–11). The term was synonymous with “Gentiles,” who by definition were outside the covenant or “lawless” (Ps 9:15–17; 1 Macc 1:34; 2:44, 48; Tob 13:6; Jub. 23:23–24; 24:28 [cf. Jub. 22:16: “do not eat with them”]; Pss. Sol. 1:1; 2:1–2; 17:22–25; 4 Ezra 3:28–36; 4:23; cf. Matt 5:47; Luke 6:33). Still more striking, Dunn notes, is the way in which the same term was used among the various Jewish factions: members of one group would call themselves the “righteous,” while outsiders were “sinners” (1 Macc 1:34; 2:44, 48; 1 En. 5:4–7; 82:4–5; 1QH 2:8–12; 1QpHab 4:4–8; Pss. Sol. 4:8; 13:6–12). Synonymous with “sinners” were terms such as “lawless” (ἄνομοι and παράνομοι) and “ungodly” (ἀσεβεῖς).11 By invoking such phraseology, Paul, for rhetorical purposes, reckons himself among the company of the rank-and-file Jews who looked upon the rest of the world as outside the realm of God’s covenant righteousness and “sinful” by definition. As Dunn puts it, Paul looked out from that perspective at the rest of humankind, echoing the dismissive attitude of the faithful member of the covenant people toward the non-Jews—“Gentile sinners.”12 The “Gentile sinner,” from such a vantage point, was without hope (cf. Eph 2:12).13 In so writing, he is probably adopting the very words of the Jerusalem delegation (2:11–14), who were summoning the word “sinners” to pressure the Galatians into becoming really “righteous” by coming under the yoke of the Torah. Our particular interest is in Paul’s distancing of himself from those who are ἐξ ἐθνῶν ἁμαρτωλοί. There is the obvious equation of “Gentiles” and “sinners,” as just noted. But beyond identifying one group with another, ἐξ functions partitively to say that the sinners come from the Gentiles or belong to them. This is as much a statement of origin as of qualitative character. Yet apart from Ernest De Witt Burton, who translates, “We though Jews by nature and not sinners of Gentile origin,”14 11 James D. G. Dunn, The Epistle to the Galatians (BNTC 9; Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1993), 133. On “lawless” and “ungodly,” see Don Garlington, ‘The Obedience of Faith’: A Pauline Phrase in Historical Context (WUNT 2/38; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1991), 53–55, 84–86, 91– 102. 12 Dunn, Galatians, 133. On the “sinners,” see idem, Jesus, Paul, and the Law: Studies in Mark and Galatians (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1990), 71–77, 150–51; idem, The Partings of the Ways: Between Christianity and Judaism and Their Significance for the Character of Christianity (London: SCM; Philadelphia: Trinity Press International, 1991), 102–7; idem, Jesus Remembered (Christianity in the Making 1; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2003), 526–32; Garlington, Obedience of Faith, 49–55, 95–98; and at length Mikael Winninge, Sinners and the Righteous: A Comparative Study of the Psalms of Solomon and Paul’s Letters (ConBNT 26; Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell, 1995). 13 2 Maccabees 6:12–17 states the normal Jewish position regarding the sinfulness of Jews in contrast to Gentiles: the sins of the nations are punished with a view to destruction, while Jewish sinners are merely disciplined. The same would appear to be true of 1QpHab 5:10–11. 14 Ernest De Witt Burton, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Epistle to the Galatians (ICC; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1921), 119.
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the commentators are conspicuously silent about the construction. This may be because their interests lie mainly in the question of justification that follows in v. 16. But, I submit, it is ἐξ ἐθνῶν ἁμαρτωλοί that sets up the antithesis of a justification ἐξ ἔργων νόμου versus one ἐκ πίστεως Χριστοῦ, the follow-up to διὰ πίστεως Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ. With the entrée provided by v. 15, the central assertion of v. 16 is the denial that one is justified ἐξ ἔργων νόμου, but rather (ἐὰν μὴ) διὰ πίστεως Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ and, consequently, ἐκ πίστεως Χριστοῦ. That justification is διὰ πίστεως Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ is straightforward enough: it comes through the instrumentality of faith. The disputed component in this phrase and in ἐκ πίστεως Χριστοῦ pertains to the hotly debated question of how the genitive case is to be understood. Resolution of the problem is not of primary importance to this undertaking, though its findings do have some bearing on the question. Suffice it to say that I take the genitive to be adjectival, meaning that Paul has in view “Christic faith”—faith directed specifically to Jesus, Israel’s Messiah.15 In evaluating Paul’s assertion that justification is not ἐξ ἔργων νόμου, scholars such as Hans Dieter Betz and Scot McKnight translate the phrase as “on the basis of works of the Torah.”16 Betz’s particular rationale is that Paul’s Greek phrase is a “theological abbreviation” for the longer proposition that the works of the law form the “basis” of salvation in the “Jewish schema.” The problem, however, is twofold. First, a certain amount of presuppositional work goes into this reading, namely, whether the law was ever meant to be the “basis” of salvation in “the Jewish schema.” Second, such a paraphrase is linguistically unnecessary. In my opinion, Paul’s Greek is not an abbreviation for something longer but a replete statement that makes perfectly good sense as it stands. In point of fact, Paul uses prepositions carefully. Characteristically, he employs διά, ἐν, and ἐκ. The first (διά) speaks of means: one is justified by the instrumentality of faith in Christ. The second (ἐν) denotes locality or sphere: Paul avows that justification is to not be located or found within the parameters of the ancient covenant people. Inherent in the third (ἐκ) is the notion of source or origin. But in this vicinity of the letter, to be demonstrated presently, ἐκ takes on the nuance of belonging: to be “from” a realm means to belong to it—the partisan use.17 J. Hultgren, “The Πίστις Χριστοῦ Formulation in Paul,” NovT 22 (1980): 257, 259–60. At more length, see my discussion in Galatians, 154–55, 173–74 (with further literature). For all practical purposes, the adjectival genitive is akin to the traditional objective genitive reading of Paul’s phrase. A recent dissenting voice to the current consensus that the genitive is to be taken as subjective is Gordon D. Fee, Pauline Christology: An Exegetical-Theological Study (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2007), 223–26. 16 Hans Dieter Betz, Galatians: A Commentary on Paul’s Letter to the Churches in Galatia (Hermeneia; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1979), 116; Scot McKnight, Galatians (NIV Application Commentary; Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1995), 119. 17 In 2:16, note the way Paul sticks with ἐκ—using it three times as he denies that justification is from the law, and once as he affirms that justification is from faith in Christ. But, as in 15 Arland
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Consequently, by drawing on this particular preposition, Paul, at the very least, is implying that justification is not to be had by belonging to the old community as walled about by the Torah (“the works of the law”).18 Ἐκ πίστεως Χριστοῦ thus finds its complement and equivalent in οἱ ἐκ πίστεως, those who belong to the company of faith (3:7, 9), who seek to be justified “in Christ” (2:17), in the realm and era of Christ-faith. Paul’s convictions stand in sharp relief to those of his opponents, who are ἐκ περιτομῆς (2:12) and ἐξ ἔργων νόμου (2:16; 3:10; cf. Rom 4:14). These are they who remain within and belong to the community of the Mosaic covenant; they are ἐν νόμῳ (3:11; 5:4; cf. Rom 2:12; 3:19; Phil 3:6) and desire to be ὑπὸ νόμον (4:21; cf. 3:23; 4:4; 5:18; 1 Cor 9:20). It is they who seek to be justified ἐξ ἔργων νόμου and ἐν νόμῳ (3:11; 5:4).19 For variations on the theme, see Phil 3:5, 6, 9. Charles H. Cosgrove confirms that Paul characteristically construes δικαιόω with prepositions indicating locality, not evidential basis.20 Cosgrove then correctly remarks: “The question never becomes whether one can be justified on the basis of the law or works but remains always whether one can be justified in the sphere of the law.”21 The only possible exception to the rule is Phil 3:9: τὴν ἐκ θεοῦ δικαιοσύνην ἐπὶ τῇ πίστει (“the righteousness of God based on faith”). Yet it is noteworthy that even here faith is construed with the noun δικαιοσύνη, not the verb δικαιόω. For righteousness to be based on faith is a way of saying that Paul’s newfound conformity to Christ has faith in him as its foundation. Such a faith-based righteousness stands in stark opposition to his former righteousness κατὰ νόμον (Phil 3:5), ἐν νόμῳ (Phil 3:6), and ἐκ νόμου (Phil 3:9; Gal 3:18, 21). Here, too, Paul has moved from the realm of the law to that of Christic faith.
Galatians 2:19–20 We consider 2:19–20 not because it contains ἐκ, partisan or otherwise, but because it confirms that when Paul uses the preposition throughout this segment of Galatians he is thinking in partitive or corporate terms. These two verses in tanRom 3:30, he also pens διά as an alternative way of affirming the role of faith. BDAG (296) translates οἱ ἐκ νόμου in Rom 4:14 as “partisans of the law.” Likewise, Rom 9:6: οἱ ἐξ Ἰσραήλ are “Israelites.” Cf. Rom 2:8; 16:10. See further Martyn, Galatians, 299. 18 The notions of source and belonging are likewise present in Rom 3:30 (ἐξ ἔργων νόμου); 4:14 (οἱ ἐκ νόμου); 4:16 (τῷ ἐκ νόμου); 10:5 (ἡ δὲ ἐκ πίστεως δικαιοσύνη). To the same effect is ἐμὴν δικαιοσύνην τὴν ἐκ νόμου in Phil 3:9. 19 In the extant letters, Paul never construes the verb δικαιόω with διά plus νόμου. At least once (Gal 2:21), he conceives of a righteousness that might come διὰ νόμου. This stands to reason given texts such as Lev 18:5; Deut 4:1, 10, 40; 5:29–33; 6:1–2, 18, 24; 7:12–13. 20 Charles H. Cosgrove, “Justification in Paul: A Linguistic and Theological Reflection,” JBL 106 (1987): 653–70, esp. 654–62. 21 Ibid., 662.
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dem articulate the termination of his old life under the law and the inception of his new existence in Christ: ἐγὼ γὰρ διὰ νόμου νόμῳ ἀπέθανον, ἵνα θεῷ ζήσω. Χριστῷ συνεσταύρωμαι. ζῶ δὲ οὐκέτι ἐγώ, ζῇ δὲ ἐν ἐμοὶ Χριστός . ὃ δὲ νῦν ζῶ ἐν σαρκί, ἐν πίστει ζῶ τῇ τοῦ υἱοῦ τοῦ θεοῦ τοῦ ἀγαπήσαντός με καὶ παραδόντος ἑαυτὸν ὑπὲρ ἐμοῦ. To build up to these verses briefly, v. 18 provides the rationale as to why Paul’s quest to be justified ἐν Χριστῷ (v. 17) does not make Christ a promoter of “sin” = “apostasy” (ἁμαρτίας διάκονος). The truth is the opposite way around: if Paul were to re-erect what he previously “dismantled” (κατέλυσα), the law, then he would be a transgressor with respect to God’s eschatological purposes in Christ.22 At that point, v. 19 comes into play as additional confirmation of the previous verse. If Paul has “undone” the law, it is because in his experience he has died to it; indeed, it was the law itself that brought about his demise.23 The law, as it were, became the instrument of its own cessation in his experience: “I through the law died to the law.” To “die” in this metaphorical sense means to depart one realm and take up residence in another (Rom 6:6, 10–11; 7:4). The parallel is Rom 7:7–13. The logic of that passage is that even though the law per se is not sin, it was by the law’s instrumentality that Paul came to recognize his own idolatry, that is, his violation of the tenth commandment, which, in his own words elsewhere, is tantamount to idolatry (Col 3:5).24 T. L. Carter has seen clearly that the law’s sentence on Paul as a transgressor has eschatological significance. According to Carter, it is by dying through the law as a transgressor of the law that Paul participates in the eschatological life of Christ. As he did in vv. 15–16, Paul here places himself firmly outside the ethnic boundary of the law, but inside the eschatological boundary between the righteous and the wicked instigated by the coming of Christ. Indeed, by saying that he died through the law so that he might live to God, Paul suggests that it is only by being placed outside the law that it is possible to share in the life of Christ. In the social context of Galatians, this claim has an important double function. First, Paul identifies him22 See Cummins, Paul, 214–15; Don Garlington, “Role Reversal and Paul’s Use of Scripture in Galatians 3.10–13,” JSNT 65 (1997): 87–92. Jan Lambrecht points to Rom 2:23, 25, 27; 4:15; Gal 3:19, where the verb παραβαίνω and the noun παραβάτης mean “transgressing the law” (“Paul’s Reasoning in Galatians 2:11–21,” in Paul and the Mosaic Law [ed. James D. G. Dunn; 1996; repr., Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2001], 64). His observation confirms, for me anyway, that here in Gal 2:18 Paul has in mind, in Lambrecht’s words, “a transgression of God’s new initiative in Christ” (p. 66). 23 The various interpretations are summarized by Cummins, Paul, 217–18. The view taken here most closely corresponds to Cummins’s own: the law had a provisional role in preparing for and pointing toward the advent of Christ. 24 Richard B. Hays proposes that, since the law played an active role in the death of Jesus, Paul’s death to the law came about through his being crucified with Christ (“Galatians,” NIB 11:243). This is plausible enough on its own terms, but Hays is too quick to dismiss Romans 7 from consideration.
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self with his Galatian converts and signals that those who are outside the law nevertheless participate in the eschatological life of the age to come, a point he reinforces by asking in 3:6 how they received the Spirit. Second, by saying that he died to the law to live to God, Paul implies that those who are not outside the law do not share in the eschatological life, a claim developed in 3:7–14.25 Accordingly, if Paul died “to the law,” he is no longer ἐκ νόμου, ἐξ ἔργων νόμου, or ἐν νόμῳ, but rather ἐν Χριστῷ and ἐκ πίστεως Χριστοῦ. It was only when he left the arena of the law that he came alive to God: “Through the law I died to the law, so that I might live to God.” This implies that, while he thought he was alive by virtue of his possession of the Torah, he was actually dead with regard to God—a powerful irony indeed. Again, the parallel is Rom 7:7–13.26 Verse 20 adds that Paul’s death to the law corresponds to his crucifixion “with Christ.” The verb συνεσταύρωμαι underlines the factor of participation. He is now identified with the outcast one of Israel, the reprobate of Deut 21:23, who endured the death of the cross (3:10).27 Once more a powerful irony is in evidence: Paul’s identification with the one crucified “outside the camp” (Lev 4:12, 21; 6:11; 8:17, etc.; Heb 13:13) brought his actual apostasy from God to an end. Christ, then, far from being an agent of sin is precisely the opposite. And yet the crucifixion of Christ also entails his resurrection. If Paul has been crucified with Christ, then he has also been raised with him: “I no longer live, but Christ lives in me.” In these two verses, Paul clearly enunciates a “participationist soteriology” (E. P. Sanders). Following upon his endeavor to be justified “in Christ,” this statement of death to the law and consequent life to God entails nothing less than his living in Christ and Christ living in him. Having been crucified “with Christ,” he now lives ἐν πίστει . . . τῇ τοῦ υἱοῦ τοῦ θεοῦ.28 If, according to 2:15–16, justification originates from and is to be had only within the arena of Christ-existence, rather than that of Torah-existence, then 2:19–20 maps out the logical consequences
25 T.
L. Carter, Paul and the Power of Sin: Redefining ‘Beyond the Pale’ (SNTSMS 115; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 109–10. 26 Hays points to 4 Macc 16:24–25: “By these words the mother of the seven encouraged and persuaded each of her sons to die rather than violate God’s commandment. They knew also that those who die for the sake of God live to God, as do Abraham and Isaac and Jacob and all the patriarchs.” Hays then comments: “Unlike the Maccabean martyrs, Paul has died not for the Law but to it, and he claims thereby to have found life before God. This new life includes, of course, the fellowship of Jews and Gentiles together in a single worshiping congregation gathered in the name of Jesus. Those who are calling for a retreat from this radical new form of community are simply, in Paul’s view, living on the wrong side of the cross, in the old age” (“Galatians,” 243). 27 See further my “Role Reversal,” 95–99, 104–6. On Paul’s identification with Christ’s crucifixion, see Martyn’s extended note (Galatians, 277–80). 28 A statement to be pondered more carefully by the advocates of the subjective genitive take on πίστις Χριστοῦ, along with 3:26: πάντες γὰρ υἱοὶ θεοῦ ἐστε διὰ τῆς πίστεως ἐν Χριστῷ Ἰησοῦ.
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of δικαιωθῆναι ἐν Χριστῷ and paves the way for the upcoming discussion of 3:1–24. In a nutshell, Paul’s justification ἐκ πίστεως Χριστοῦ (not ἐξ ἔργων νόμου) has resulted in a life ἐν Χριστῷ, whereby ζῇ . . . ἐν ἐμοὶ Χριστός and ὃ . . . νῦν ζῶ ἐν σαρκί, ἐν πίστει ζῶ τῇ τοῦ υἱοῦ τοῦ θεοῦ τοῦ ἀγαπήσαντός με καὶ παραδόντος ἑαυτὸν ὑπὲρ ἐμοῦ.
Galatians 3:2–5 The first two chapters of the letter are chiefly a narrative, setting forth the most relevant events of the course of Paul’s life, both as a “zealot” for the law (1:14) and afterward as an apostle of Christ. In his “autobiography as paradigm,”29 everything hinged on the proposition that his conversion to Christ entailed a break with the law and a new vision of God’s purposes for the nations. From this point onward, every former loyalty and allegiance had to be set aside for the sake of knowing Christ and the power of his resurrection (Phil 3:4–11).30 Chapters 3–4 are frequently reckoned as the probatio section of the letter. However, the classification tends to be artificial, because from the outset Paul has been engaging in various arguments. In 2:15-21, he appeals, as part of his proof, to the experience of Jewish believers. Now he turns to the whole church and appeals to their experience of the Spirit. In a nutshell, they received the Spirit not in the old era of the “flesh” (= “works of the law”) but in the new, eschatological age by “the hearing of faith.” This watershed experience should have been enough to convince anyone of the character of Paul’s gospel. But because of the “spell” cast over them by the opponents (3:1),31 he must start from square one again and make the gift of the Spirit the foundation of his elaborate argument derived from salvation history. The Spirit thus occupies the forefront of the argument of the letter and provides the decisive clue as to the problem in Galatia. In plain terms, Who possesses the Spirit: is it the lawpeople or the faith-in-Christ-people? In turning to address the readers directly, Paul plays his “trump card” (Dunn), namely, their own experience of the Holy Spirit when they first believed. The crux of 3:1–5, therefore, is that “the Spirit renders the law obsolete.”32 The appeal to experience is one to which Paul will return more than once as he pens the remainder of this letter. 29 Beverly
Roberts Gaventa, “Galatians 1 and 2: Autobiography as Paradigm,” NovT 28 (1986): 309–26. 30 Beverly Roberts Gaventa, “The Singularity of the Gospel: A Reading of Galatians,” in Pauline Theology, vol. 1, Thessalonians, Philippians, Galatians, Philemon (ed. Jouette M. Bassler; Minneapolis: Fortress, 1991), 147–59. 31 See in particular Susan Eastman, “The Evil Eye and the Curse of the Law: Galatians 3.1 Revisited,” JSNT 83 (2001): 69–87. 32 Moyer V. Hubbard, New Creation in Paul’s Letters and Thought (SNTSMS 119; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 201.
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In order to appreciate the partisan character of ἐκ in 3:2–5, it will be advantageous to step out of sequence and first consider v. 3, as it sets the frame not only for these particular verses but for the entire ensuing discussion. The operative words of v. 3 are the eschatological verbs ἐνάρχομαι and ἐπιτελέω. Ἐναρξάμενοι marks the inception of the Galatians’ Christianity ἐν πνεύματι at the turning of the ages,33 and ἐπιτελεῖσθε is eschatological in the forward-looking sense, inasmuch as it contemplates the consummation of the process of perfection begun with the advent of Christ and the Spirit.34 The problem, however, is that the readers want to be “perfected” ἐν σαρκί. “Flesh,” in this place, by way of contrast with “Spirit,” is not “the sinful nature” or “human effort” (as per NIV); it is, rather, the era of the flesh, that is, the old covenant/old creation. If it be asked why the former aeon is called “flesh,” the answer may reside in the fact that the Torah ministered largely to that dimension of human nature. Consequently, “flesh” was high on the Judaizers’ agenda.35 This is so particularly as regards circumcision, “the covenant in the flesh” (Gen 17:13; Sir 44:20). In this respect, 6:12–13, the good showing “in the flesh,” summarizes the entire message of the opponents. Thus, the question of v. 3 is pointedly historical in thrust. No wonder, the Galatians are ἀνόητοι. Their quest for perfection is anachronistic: they are going in the wrong direction; they want to reverse the plan of the ages; theirs is “a futile attempt to swim against the current of salvation history!”36 It is Paul’s insistence on a chronologically consistent eschatology that accounts for the addition of Abraham to the equation in vv. 6–9. The patriarch is invoked as one who was characterized by “the hearing of faith,” not “the works of the law” (καθὼς Ἀβραάμ, κτλ.). Simply put, Abraham belongs to “us,” οἱ ἐκ πίστεως (vv. 7, 9), not to “them,” οἱ ἐκ νόμου. In principle, the progenitor of the Jewish race, to whom the gospel was “preached beforehand” (v. 8), finds his proper identification in the age of the Spirit, not the age of the flesh, even though he lived in the pre-eschatological era. To adapt an observation of Terence L. Donaldson, the link between Abraham and “those of faith” seems to have been constructed with33 In v. 3b, νῦν, in all probability, is to be construed with ἐναρξάμενοι πνεύματι rather than with what follows. The reason for thinking so is that νῦν in Paul is characteristically eschatological, signifying the onset of the new age (e.g., Rom 3:31; 5:10; 6:22; 7:6, 17; 8:1). Thus, the Galatians have begun now, in the era of the end-time manifestation of God’s “grace” (5:5; cf. John 1:17). 34 The same combination of words reappears in Phil 1:6: ὁ ἐναρξάμενος ἐν ὑμῖν ἔργον ἀγαθὸν ἐπιτελέσει ἄχρι ἡμέρας Χριστοῦ Ἰησοῦ (cf. Heb 6:1). 35 Jerome H. Neyrey, Paul, in Other Words: A Cultural Reading of His Letters (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1990), 159. 36 Frank Thielman, Theology of the New Testament: A Canonical and Synthetic Approach (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 2005), 268. Lurking in the background is perhaps also the notion of the Spirit as divine power, as contrasted with the weakness of the law (4:9; 5:16–26).
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out any reference to Israel at all.37 Therefore, Abraham is in the same arena as the Gentiles, of whom righteousness can be predicated in spite of their uncircumcision and nonobservance of the Torah. This becomes all the more ironic as one considers that Abraham, prima facie, was the perfect model for the other missionaries: it was he who converted from paganism to the true God and his law.38 It is just the un-Jewishness of Paul’s use of Abraham that provides the bridge into his cursing of his opponents in vv. 10–13; that is, in the salvation-historical purposes of God, the paradigm of eschatological justification is provided not by the Torah but by Abraham, who had nothing to do with the Torah. Thus, the Judaizers are actually at variance with the experience of their hero and model. In their endeavor to maintain the law as the standard of righteousness, they have chosen to remain on the wrong side of the eschatological divide, so that instead of being like Abraham, they have become very unlike him. Since righteousness, in Paul’s view, is now defined by his gospel (Rom 2:16; 16:25), these people have disqualified themselves from being the seed of Abraham because they are aligned with the “flesh.”39 And as vv. 10–13 will argue, they have actually become God’s enemies (cf. Rom 11:28) and are for that reason subject to the law’s curse. With v. 3 supplying the salvation-historical underpinning of Paul’s intentions, vv. 2 and 5 pose the question, Did the readers receive the Spirit ἐξ ἔργων νόμου or ἐξ ἀκοῆς πίστεως? These respective phrases, “from works of the law” and “from the hearing of faith,” have frequently been understood as though they were in the dative (instrumental) case; that is, “by works of the law” and “by the hearing of faith.” However, the preposition again is ἐκ, with stress placed on origin but also embracing its “partisan” sense. Thus, Paul points to “the hearing of faith” rather than “works of the law” as the matrix of the Galatians’ experience of the Spirit. It is those who thus experience the Spirit who form the “faith-party”—οἱ ἐκ πίστεως. The particular phrase “the hearing of faith” is open to interpretation. It possibly echoes Isa 53:1: “Who has believed our report” (ἀκοή)? If so, then the Gentile Galatians have in fact responded to Isaiah’s “report” concerning the Servant of Yahweh. But there is another possibility: given that in the OT hearing is tantamount to faith, 37 Terence
L. Donaldson, “The ‘Curse of the Law’ and the Inclusion of the Gentiles: Galatians 3.13–14,” NTS 32 (1986): 101. 38 See in particular George W. E. Nickelsburg, “Abraham the Convert: A Jewish Tradition and Its Use by the Apostle Paul,” in Biblical Figures Outside the Bible (ed. Michael E. Stone and Theodore A. Bergen; Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International, 1998), 151–75; Nancy CalvertKoyzis, Paul, Monotheism and the People of God: The Significance of Abraham Traditions for Early Judaism and Christianity (JSNTSup 273; London: T&T Clark International, 2005), 6–84. 39 In this letter, to be ὑπὸ κατάραν is synonymous with being in the old age. It is equivalent to ὑπὸ ἁμαρτίαν (3:22), ὑπὸ νόμον (3:23), ὑπὸ ἐπιτρόπους καὶ οἰκονόμους (4:2), and ὑπὸ τὰ στοιχεῖα τοῦ κόσμου (4:3). See further Linda Belleville, “‘Under Law’: Structural Analysis and the Pauline Concept of Law in Galatians 3.21–4.11,” JSNT 26 (1986): 53–78.
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Paul’s meaning can be captured by rendering: “the response of faith,” that is, the response which is faith. Consequently, “the hearing of faith” and “the obedience of faith” (Rom 1:5 [16:26]) would depict the same activity: believing reception of the gospel. In this case, faith would be depicted as right hearing. Either way (or both), Paul’s focus is not on the instrumentality of “works” versus “faith” (as in 2:16a); it is, rather, ἔργα and πίστις as marking the source of one’s reception and ongoing supply of the Spirit. Therefore, it does matter to which sphere or orb one belongs and to which one gives one’s allegiance. One must decide: Is it ἐξ ἔργων νόμου or ἐξ ἀκοῆς πίστεως?
Galatians 3:7–9 This segment of ch. 3 carries on with the example of Abraham introduced in v. 6. In view of the way Abraham was actually declared to be a covenant keeper (Gen 15:6), Paul writes: Γινώσκετε ἄρα οἱ ἐκ πίστεως, οὗτοι υἱοί εἰσιν Ἀβραάμ (v. 7). It is because Abraham really belongs to the era of the Spirit that Paul can claim that “they of faith” and they alone are Abraham’s true sons and daughters. Once more, in keeping with the way Paul tends to use ἐκ in Galatians, οἱ ἐκ πίστεως are the people who belong to the new community of faith identified with Jesus the crucified Messiah. In contrast to them are τοὺς ἐκ περιτομῆς (2:12) and ὅσοι . . . ἐξ ἔργων νόμου (3:10; cf. Rom 4:14). These are the individuals who insist on clinging to the community of the old creation as regulated by the Torah. Richard B. Hays is right that in both cases ἐκ serves to suggest that the object of the preposition is the source of being or the key identity marker for the persons in question: they are either the “faith people” or the “circumcision people.” Their identity derives respectively from “faith” versus “works of the law.”40 In so formulating these phrases, Paul seeks to shift the focus of covenant identity away from preoccupation with the law and back to Christic faith as characterizing God’s people. As ironic as it is, the “sons of Abraham” no longer have to be Jewish! That Abraham, in principle, belongs to the company of faith who occupy the age of the Spirit is confirmed by the statement of v. 8 that the Scriptures themselves foresaw the justification of the Gentiles and thus preached the gospel beforehand to the patriarch: they prophetically anticipated that God would rectify the nations ἐκ πίστεως, in precisely the same manner as Abraham. Thereafter, v. 9 reiterates the basic point of v. 7 by drawing a conclusion: οἱ ἐκ πίστεως εὐλογοῦνται σὺν τῷ πιστῷ Ἀβραάμ. These persons alone are the fulfillment of Gen 12:3. As Dunn notes, the link provided by the first text (Gen 15:6)—that is, promise, seed, faith— when added to the link provided by the second text (Gen 12:3)—that is, promise, blessing, Gentiles—points clearly to the conclusion that the blessing of Abraham 40 Hays,
“Galatians,” 256, 257.
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came to the faith of Abraham and thus to those who share that faith.41 Furthermore, the present tense verb “are blessed” is deliberate: “it is not simply that the way had now become open for Gentiles of faith to share the promised blessing in the future; it is rather they were already sharing that blessing.”42 It is striking that Paul speaks of “faithful (πιστός) Abraham,” the most natural translation, rather than “Abraham who had faith” or “believing Abraham” (the majority rendering).43 Of course, Abraham was characterized by his faith, but it was a faith against all odds; Abraham was “faithful” in the comprehensive sense. The combination of Gen 12:3; 15:6; 22:1–14 suggests as much, as drawn out by Rom 4:18–22, which plays up the persevering quality of Abraham’s faith. The polemical impact of the verse is that fidelity to God does not depend on law observance. This, in turn, implies that the Judaizers and their followers cannot be the sons of Abraham, because they refuse to “walk in his footsteps” (Rom 4:12). By the nature of the case, then, their program of converting the nations to the law in order to become the seed of Abraham is illegitimate and contradicts the very example of the patriarch himself, who was believing and faithful before circumcision and the advent of the Torah onto the stage of human history. J. Louis Martyn is right that the Teachers would have paraphrased Gen 12:3 to read: “Those who faithfully observe the law are blessed with faithfully observant Abraham.”44 For Paul, however, “Abraham who in Judaism is the prototype of ‘righteousness through obedience to the Torah’ now has become the prototype of the ‘men of faith.’”45 Therefore, οἱ ἐκ πίστεως is for Paul a virtual slogan as it stands for the “faithparty” modeled on Abraham and constituted in Christ and the Spirit. Its antipode is the “works-of-the-law-party,” which for Paul not only is behind the times but is in determined opposition to God’s eschatological plan for the “ends of the ages” (1 Cor 10:11). It is just this latter consideration that is the lead-in to 3:10–14.
Galatians 3:10–12 As Paul, in 3:10–14, turns to the “curse of the law,” the “curse” is placed conspicuously in contrast to the “blessing” of Abraham. In this schema, “blessing” belongs to the eras of Abraham and the Spirit, while the age of the Torah is epitomized as “curse.” As Betz puts it, the logic behind Paul’s words is simply that exclusion from blessing equals curse; and the “people of the Torah” are excluded from blessing because they regard the observance of the law as a condition for salvation.46 My particular understanding of the passage is that Paul is engaging in role 41 Dunn,
Galatians, 166. 166–67. 43 See Hays, “Galatians,” 256; Dunn, Galatians, 163, 167. 44 Martyn, Galatians, 302. 45 Betz, Galatians, 143. 46 Ibid., 144. 42 Ibid.,
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reversal, whereby the curse texts from the Torah are applied to the other missionaries as latter-day apostates from God’s purposes in Christ.47 Be that as it may, what is glaringly obvious is that Paul will not let go of ἐκ as he continues to contrast οἱ ἐκ πίστεως with ὅσοι ἐξ ἔργων νόμου and τοὺς ἐκ περιτομῆς. As the agenda begins to unfold, v. 10a is connected with the foregoing verses by means of its first γάρ. Strictly speaking, the conjunction is causal: those who are ἐξ ἔργων νόμου or, according to v. 11, ἐν νόμῳ, are not “blessed with Abraham”; they are ὑπὸ κατάραν just because they have severed their connections with the patriarch by virtue of their preference for the Mosaic period. The second γάρ of the verse (v. 10b) introduces the first of the selected OT quotations, Deut 27:26, which is intended to prop up the allegation that ὅσοι ἐξ ἔργων νόμου are under a curse. In other words, the “law people” are cursed by none other than the law itself, the very law to which they are unswervingly loyal and to which they look as the paradigm of Jesus’ messiahship and God’s will for his covenant partners. One cannot help but wonder if, in nomenclature, ὅσοι ἐξ ἔργων νόμου corresponds to dxyh y#n) of 1QS 5:1 and hrwth y#n) of 4QS 1:1. If so, the identity of the group is the more readily discernible: they are the people devoted to the standards of the Sinai covenant. Having confronted his opponents with this text threatening apostasy with the wrath of God, in v. 11 Paul turns to the other side of the coin, to a prophetic passage calling to mind Yahweh’s vindication of his faithful people, who are “blessed” rather than “cursed.” Habakkuk 2:4 is introduced as providing the reason why it is obvious (δῆλον) that ἐν νόμῳ οὐδεὶς δικαιοῦται παρὰ θεῷ. Ἐν νόμῳ is the functional equivalent of ὅσοι ἐξ ἔργων νόμου in the previous verse. Accordingly, for Paul it is evident that those who remain ἐν νόμῳ, the circumcisers and those like them, cannot be “justified before God,” simply because ὁ δίκαιος ἐκ πίστεως ζήσεται. That is to say, the righteous person will continue to live as he/she remains within the realm of πίστις (hnwm)). The implication is that Paul’s detractors do not belong to this company of the righteous who will live because of faith(fulness). Habakkuk 2:4 represents an outstanding instance of God’s intervention to save his people (his “righteousness”). In context, the prophet is confronted with the impending invasion of the Holy Land by the Chaldeans. The fact that a nation far more sinful than Israel should be the instrument of her judgment occasions a crisis of faith on Habakkuk’s part. In the face of his pleas, God answers that in time he will punish the Chaldeans for their iniquity. In the meantime, however, the righteous of Israel will “live”; that is, by their fidelity to the covenant they will survive the enemy invasion and return to their own land. Such is the original meaning of hyxy wtnwm)b qydcw, “the righteous will live by his faith(fulness).” The focus is not 47 Garlington, “Role Reversal.” See also Calvert-Koyzis, Paul, 97–99; Jeffrey R. Wisdom, Blessing for the Nations and the Curse of the Law: Paul’s Citation of Genesis and Deuteronomy in Galatians 3.8–10 (WUNT 2/133; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2001), 43–62, 154–82.
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on how one becomes righteous; rather, the righteousness of the covenant is presupposed.48 And Yahweh’s assurance to the prophet is just that the righteous person will live through the judgment and ultimately be vindicated (“justified”) wtnwm)b. The basic and really simple point, then, is that in the original setting it is the faith(fulness) of the righteous Israelite that will ensure his/her deliverance: when the judgment falls, it is reliance on the Lord that will see him/her through. Hence, Paul’s ὁ δίκαιος ἐκ πίστεως ζήσεται ought to be rendered quite literally: “The righteous shall live out of faith(fulness).”49 However, faith(fulness) directed toward God could never be abstracted from the Israelite’s commitment to the Torah. Thus, to live “out of faith(fulness)” is to remain within the boundaries set by the law, as it was the benchmark of fidelity to the God of the covenant. The ensuing context affirms this. After the assurance that the righteous shall live wtnwm)b, Hab 2:5–17 immediately lodges a bitter complaint against the unrighteous, who have forsaken the law in various regards. This rehearsal of vices eventuates in the root cause of all ungodliness—idolatry (vv. 18-19).50 Instead of giving heed to the idol, a “dumb stone,” the whole earth is to keep silence in the presence of Yahweh, who is exalted in his holy temple (v. 20). In v. 12, Paul returns to the books of Moses, again to shore up a thesis. This 48 As acknowledged by Herman N. Ridderbos: “The question is not how a man shall become righteous, but how the righteous (the pious) shall live, in the full and deep sense of an unafraid and unthreatened life” (The Epistle of Paul to the Churches of Galatia [NICNT; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1953], 124). Ridderbos, in fact, consistently recognizes the original thrust of each of the OT passages placed in service by Paul. By contrast, Ridderbos’s successor in commenting on Galatians, Ronald Y. K. Fung, argues that the most appropriate sense of the Hebrew and Greek versions of Hab 2:4 is that of faith as initiating the believing life (The Epistle to the Galatians [NICNT; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1988], 143–45). However, Ridderbos is right: the prophet has in view the behavior of the already righteous person. The same was conceded by J. B. Lightfoot (St. Paul’s Epistle to the Galatians [London: Macmillan, 1865], 138). 49 The LXX’s ὁ δίκαιος ἐκ πίστεώς μου ζήσεται is normally taken to be a reference to Yahweh’s own fidelity, by which the righteous person will live. Ιn Greek terms, however, μου could just as well be an “objective genitive,” that is, the faith(fulness) of ὁ δίκαιος has God as its object. Either way, there is no reason to believe that Paul has departed from the original sense of the text: “das Sichhalten an das Wort Gottes und seine Tat” (Heinrich Schlier, Der Brief an die Galater [KEK; 5th ed.; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1971], 133). Why Paul omits μου is adequately explained by Franz Mußner. According to Mußner, Paul is not interested in μου because of his christological interpretation of Habakkuk; that is, whereas μου concentrates on Yahweh, Paul wishes to shift attention to Jesus. It is in his christological application of the prophet that the life of Hab 2:4 has special reference to “life in Christ” (Gal 2:2). And, in like manner: “πίστις ist für Paulus in der Tat noch mehr als 'emuna im atl.- jüdischen Verstand. Glaube ist für ihn vor allem nun Glaube an Jesus Christus und Eintritt in die Christusgemeinschaft, ist geradezu ein ‘Sein in Christus’” (Der Galaterbrief [HTKNT 9; Freiburg: Herder, 1981], 227). In any event, only the Greek is problematic. The Hebrew unambiguously reads wtnwm)b, designating the person’s own faith(fulness). 50 Cf. how 1QS 4:9–11 attributes all kinds of vices to “the spirit of perversity,” which corresponds to the idolatrous frame of mind decried by 1QS 2:11–12; 2:26–3:2.
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time the thesis is: ὁ δὲ νόμος οὐκ ἐκ πίστεως; rather ὁ ποιήσας αὐτὰ ζήσεται ἐν αὐτοῖς. The link with Hab 2:4 is provided by “life,” as signaled by ζήσεται in both verses. The choice of words, ὁ νόμος οὐκ ἐκ πίστεως, is certainly terse, but is explicable given Paul’s propensity for prepositions of origin and sphere (ἐκ and ἐν). To say that the law is “not of faith” is to affirm that the law and faith belong to distinctly different historical realms: the former does not occupy the same turf in the salvation-historical continuum as the latter. The majority of Christian scholars seem to assume that “law” and “faith” are mutually exclusive by the nature of the case. However, in historical perspective, any dichotomy between believing and doing in Second Temple Jewish theology is simply off base: Judaism was and is as much a “faith-system” as Christianity. In attempting to untangle the inner workings of Paul’s reasoning, we are helped by the recognition that he purposely distinguishes entities that are indistinguishable in the Hebrew Scriptures. Nevertheless, his procedure is understandable, just because he is thinking of “law” and “faith” not topically but historically: the two belong to distinct eras, as it were, to different worlds altogether. Here the partisan use of ἐκ is conspicuous and serves to cut the Gordian knot of a difficult passage.
Galatians 3:18 This contrary-to-fact conditional sentence is supportive of the statement of the previous verse and serves to summarize the argument of 3:15–17. According to Martyn: “Because the inheritance was something God gave to Abraham by speaking a promise to him, the source of that inheritance cannot be the later-arriving law.”51 Consequently, continued membership in the community of the “later-arriving law” cannot ensure the fulfillment of said promise; such is an exercise in futility. Here, Paul clearly sets promise over against law, that is, the entire Mosaic system. In light of 3:21a, the contrast cannot be absolute. Indeed, the giving of the law, it could be argued, was to the end that the promise be realized after all (v. 19b). But the opponents’ mistake was that of retaining the law after it had served its purpose, thereby making it the sine qua non of receiving the inheritance. For all practical purposes, the law, for them, was the source of the inheritance (ἐκ νόμου), since it could be had by no other means.52 As ever in this letter, Paul reasons historically 51 Martyn,
Galatians, 342. with the inheritance is the matter of the “good news” (εὐαγγέλιον) as perceived by the opponents. Martyn raises the possibility that they may have rooted their conception of the good news in the LXX of Ps 67:12: “The Lord gives the word [that is, the Law]; great is the company of those who bore the tidings” (. . . hoi euaggelizomenoi). He notes that in the late rabbinic Midrash on Psalms the text is interpreted in such a way as to combine the several elements: “The Law itself constitutes the glad tidings; the evangelists who conveyed the tidings of the Law are numerous; and they brought the nomistic tidings to the Gentiles.” In a similar way, the Teach52 Consonant
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and eschatologically: the promise was prior to law and, therefore, takes precedence over it. The inheritance cannot be ἐκ νόμου because it was the salvation-historical function of the promise to Abraham, not the Torah, to vouch it safe to latterday people. Once more, Paul’s logic is seen to be 180 degrees away from that of his opponents. Bluntly put, for him Abraham takes priority over Moses (as further intimated by the word order of v. 18b: “to Abraham” is placed forward in the emphatic position). In point of fact, Paul is dispensing with Moses altogether.
Galatians 3:20 This is probably the most difficult sentence in the letter to interpret: ὁ δὲ μεσίτης ἑνὸς οὐκ ἔστιν, ὁ δὲ θεὸς εἷς ἐστιν. Most commentators tend to reason in terms of a mediator generically considered. That is to say, a mediator functions as a go-between for at least two principal parties of an agreement. The NEB approximates this sense by rendering: “An intermediary is not needed for one party acting alone.” It is thought that Paul, thus interpreted, argues for the inferiority of the law to the Abrahamic promise, because the issue is one of immediacy and intimacy, as lacking in the former and present in the latter. According to Richard N. Longenecker, for example, “Its point has to do with the inferiority of the Law because of its indirect introduction into the people’s existence.”53 Ben Witherington agrees: “That the Law was given through a mediator certainly suggests a certain separation or distance between the Holy God and the people God has chosen. Intimacy such as Abraham experienced comes only through faith and by grace.”54 The problem with this tack is that it fails to perceive the specific point at which Paul is driving. Rather than a mediator, Paul has in mind the mediator of the covenant—Moses (v. 19).55 As Sam Tsang rightly observes, Moses goes unnamed not because he is unimportant but because he is so well known.56 Once this is understood, the problems of v. 20 mainly disappear. As N. T. Wright calls to mind, throughout this context Paul places a premium on the unity of the one family of God.57 Consequently, ἑνός comprehends the unified people as now comprising all ers may have told the Galatians that they were bringing the glad tidings of the covenantal law to the nations (Galatians, 134). 53 Longenecker, Galatians (WBC 41; Dallas: Word Books, 1990), 142. 54 Ben Witherington, Grace in Galatia: A Commentary on Paul’s Letter to the Galatians (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1998), 259. 55 Hays (“Galatians,” 267) points to Philo, Mos. 2.166, where Moses is given the title of “mediator and reconciler.” 56 Sam Tsang, From Slaves to Sons: A New Rhetoric Analysis on Paul’s Slave Metaphors in His Letter to the Galatians (Studies in Biblical Literature 81; New York: Peter Lang, 2005), 108. 57 N. T. Wright, The Climax of the Covenant: Christ and the Law in Pauline Theology (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1991), 157–74; idem, Paul: In Fresh Perspective (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2005), 113–14.
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nations—and it is for just this reason that Moses the mediator cannot be “of one” or “belong to one” simply because he mediated on behalf of Israel alone, excluding the nations. Moses, therefore, represents a people separated to itself rather than one united with the rest of humanity in Christ.58 For good reason, then, Wright advises that we can simply cut out the manifold theories about mediatorship implying parties on one side or the other. “That is not the point. Paul is saying that Moses, to whom the Galatians are being tempted to look for membership in the true people of God, is not the one through whom that single family is brought about.”59 Over against the division implied by the mediatorship of Moses, Paul places the oneness or the unity of God, no doubt alluding to the Shema of Deut 6:4 (as also in Rom 3:30 and 1 Cor 8:6). The theological impact of the contrast is easy enough to understand. Reading Gal 3:20 similarly to Rom 3:30, Wright inevitably concludes: “Monotheism demands as its corollary a single united family; the Torah, unable to produce this, cannot therefore be the final and permanent expression of the will of the One God.”60 I have included this verse not because it contains ἐκ, which obviously is not the case, but because the partitive genitive ἑνός functions synonymously with ἐξ ἑνός.61 For ὁ μεσίτης not to be ἑνός means that he does not belong to or take his place among the new and unified people of God.
Galatians 3:22, 24 In articulating the confining function of the law, 3:22 maintains that “the scripture consigned all things to sin.” Witherington suggests that it is possible to take this statement apocalyptically: “Paul would mean that all of the created order, including humans, was under the power of sin and feeling the effects of the fall.”62 Yet such a consignment of the creation to sin was for a specific purpose: ἵνα ἡ ἐπαγγελία ἐκ πίστεως Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ δοθῇ τοῖς πιστεύουσιν, “in order that the promise might be given to those who believe, with faith in Jesus Christ as its source.” Ἐκ πίστεως Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ reiterates what has gone before: Christic faith is the source and reason for the reception of the promise on the part of those who believe, as they belong to the company of Jesus the Christ, to whom their 58 In
this light, Num 23:9 is striking indeed: For from the top of the mountains I see him, from the hills I behold him; lo, a people dwelling alone, and not reckoning itself among the nations! 59 Wright, Climax, 169. 60 Ibid., 170. 61 Again, BDF §164. 62 Witherington, Grace, 260.
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faith(fulness) is directed. In v. 24, the same picture emerges. Here the metaphor switches from a prison house to that of the παιδαγωγός, the “disciplinarian.” As Paul reads the Scriptures, the Torah acted in this capacity εἰς Χριστόν, ἵνα ἐκ πίστεως δικαιωθῶμεν.
Galatians 3:29 In redefining and reshaping Abraham’s seed, Paul employs a peculiar turn of phrase: εἰ δὲ ὑμεῖς Χριστοῦ. Lars Hartman writes that Paul’s genitive Χριστοῦ is common in Greek and indicates not only possession but also membership in a group, kinship, or close fellowship. He further notes that the usage can be illustrated by a phenomenon in many religions, in which a god is represented as the lord of his adherents, inasmuch as he reigns over them and takes them under his protection (e.g., Isa 44:5). “This is how in Gal 3.29 the Galatians belong to Christ: he determines their identity and their life-conditions.”63 This is called by Hartman “Christ-communion.”64 It is such “Christ-communion” that has turned the erstwhile pagan Galatians, as well as “Jews by birth” (2:15), into the “seed of Abraham.” As in 3:20, here too the genitive is partitive, the functional equivalent of ἐκ Χριστοῦ, as Paul could have written, and even ἐν Χριστῷ.
III. Conclusions and Reflections This study has endeavored to explore a much underestimated usage of the preposition ἐκ on Paul’s part. While on the surface it may seem innocuous, a closer examination reveals that ἐκ, like many prepositions, contains a theology in nuce. Rather than a variation on the theme of instrumentality, ἐκ so often in Galatians serves to articulate the notions of source and belonging. But again to quote BDAG (296): “In these cases the idea of belonging, the partisan use, often completely overshadows that of origin.” As noted in the introduction of this essay, ἐκ is not so far removed from ἐν in its locative sense. Such being the case, a goodly amount of light is shed on justification as it comes to the fore in the Galatian letter.
63 Lars Hartman, ‘Into the Name of the Lord Jesus’: Baptism in the Early Church (Studies of the New Testament and Its World; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1997), 57–58. 64 Ibid., 56. As background, Hartman cites the OT and Jewish concepts of the covenant between God and the people (ibid., 58 n. 17). A typical feature occurs in Exod 19:5: “You shall be my possession among all peoples” (cf. Deut 29:12). The same holds true for the new covenant: “At that time I will be the God of all the families of Israel and they shall be my people” (Jer 31:1). See also Deut 27:9; Jer 32:38; 1 En. 1:8 (“they will belong to God”). In addition, from Qumran: 1Q22 13:9 (“you bought us to be an eternal people to you”); 2:1 (“today you will be a people to God, your God”); 1Q34bis 3:2:5 (“you have elected for you a people at the time of your pleasure”). Cf. 1QS 4:18–23; Jub. 1:22–25.
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Without engaging the justification debate as such,65 I would submit that Paul’s partisan ἐκ disfavors the “old perspective” and encourages the “New Perspective” understanding of the message of his opponents and his reply to them. That is to say, the actual issue under dispute was not “grace” versus “legalism,” with τὰ ἔργα τοῦ νόμου standing for a system of “self-salvation” or “achievement.” On the contrary, ἐκ, as construed principally with ἔργων νόμου, is to be compared with synonymous expressions such as ἐν νόμῳ (Gal 3:11; 5:4; Rom 2:12; Phil 3:6), ὑπὸ νόμον (Gal 4:21), ἐκ νόμου (Gal 3:18, 21; Phil 3:9), τοὺς ἐκ περιτομῆς (Gal 2:12), ὅσοι . . . ἐξ ἔργων νόμου (Gal 3:10), ὑπὸ ἐπιτρόπους καὶ οἰκονόμους (Gal 4:2), ὑπὸ τὰ στοιχεῖα τοῦ κόσμου (Gal 4:3), and κατὰ νόμον (Phil 3:5). The bottom line is that for the other missionaries there was a “justification by privilege,” the privilege of belonging to the right group, that is, the eschatological Israel of their conception. To be sure, the opponents’ vision of a renewed Israel was predicated on their acceptance of Jesus as Messiah and (implicitly) their belief in his resurrection. Yet as Paul saw things, they believed too much. For him, all the above designations of Torah identity and fidelity are equivalent to being ὑπὸ κατάραν (Gal 3:10, along with 1:8–9), because those who value the law above the Messiah have failed to view the former through the lens of the latter. Christ does not need to be supplemented by the Torah or anything else. For Paul, a supplemented Christ is a supplanted Christ. On the positive side, ἐκ πίστεως Χριστοῦ, for Paul, gives voice to his conviction that τὰ ἔργα τοῦ νόμου have now become irrelevant as regards righteousness/justification. To belong to the company whose faith is directed toward Christ is, ipso facto, to abandon the law as the “Jewish gateway” to eschatological salvation and to enter the new world heralded by his advent.66 Witherington puts it well: Paul’s most basic problem with the Law is that it is obsolete and therefore following it is no longer appropriate. It is not the rule of the eschatological age and it is not to be imposed in the new creation which is already coming to be. . . . The Law had an important function and role to play in the divine economy, but the rule of the Mosaic Law has had its day and ceased to be.67
David deSilva writes to similar effect: Paul’s polemic against “works of the law” is not a polemic against “good works,” as this is commonly but erroneously understood. Rather, Paul opposes the continued observance of a boundary-maintaining code, not only in the observance 65 In keeping with Wright and other scholars, I take “justification” to be “the vindication of
the people of God when they return from exile.” See my Galatians, 142–49. 66 “The Jewish gateway to salvation” is Heikki Räisänen’s phrase (Paul and the Law [WUNT 29; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1983], 177–91). Comments Räisänen: “One has to choose between God’s grace in Christ and the Torah. Only one of the two can be the true way to eschatological salvation. To opt for grace means automatically to opt against the law” (ibid., 178). 67 Witherington, Grace, 354.
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of the more obvious differentiators like circumcision, kosher laws and sabbath, but also as an entire body of laws given to Israel as a mark of her distinctiveness and separation from the Gentiles. . . . 68
While πίστις (Ἰησοῦ) Χριστοῦ in Paul can function in other than a partisan/partitive sense, ἐκ πίστεως (Ἰησοῦ) Χριστοῦ in Galatians is of a piece with the synonymous phrases οἱ ἐκ πίστεως (Gal 3:7, 9) and ἐν Χριστῷ (Gal 1:22; 2:4, 16; 3:14, 26, 28, to which could be added τὸν ἐκ πίστεως Ἰησοῦ in Rom 3:26).69 These two in conjunction are especially striking, inasmuch as ἐκ and ἐν are virtually tantamount to one another, in keeping with the genius of partisan ἐκ. Therefore, while it is arguable that Paul too believed in a “justification by privilege,” for him the privilege is that of being in Christ and knowing the power of his resurrection (Phil 3:4-11). It is those who “walk by this rule” who are “the Israel of God” (Gal 6:16).70 All in all, christology is the deciding factor between Paul and the other missionaries in their respective visions of the Messiah in his relation to the Torah. As Martyn explains so ably, the Teachers view God’s Christ in the light of God’s law, rather than the law in the light of Christ. In their christology, Christ is secondary to the law; for them, the Messiah is the Messiah of the law, deriving his identity from the fact that he confirms and may even normatively interpret the law.71 It is not that Paul introduced another “boundary-maintaining code” (even with baptism and the Eucharist) in the place of the “entire body of laws given to Israel as a mark of her distinctiveness and separation from the Gentiles.”72 Rather, he substituted a person who, in his conviction, has rendered the law obsolete by demolishing “the dividing wall of hostility” that once so radically bifurcated the two formerly alienated segments of the human family (Eph 2:14–15). 68 David A. deSilva, An Introduction to the New Testament: Contexts, Methods and Ministry Formation (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity, 2004), 505 (emphasis added). 69 In the case of οἱ ἐκ πίστεως, the full expression is: οἱ ἐκ πίστεως εὐλογοῦνται σὺν τῷ πιστῷ Ἀβραάμ (Gal 3:7). Those who belong to the “faith-party” are in a kind of “union” with Abraham. 70 The “rule” (κανών) is the “measuring rod,” “chalk line,” or “standard” by which individuals should evaluate the genuineness of their Christianity. For Paul himself, “rule” articulates the norm by which he lives and judges the “other gospel” of the opponents (1:7–9), a “gospel” that requires circumcision and allegiance to Moses’ law. It is certainly eye-catching that Josephus, by contrast, identifies the Torah as the “rule” of the Jewish faithful: “For all this our leader made the Law the standard and rule (κανόνα τὸν νόμον), that we might live under it as under this father and master and be guilty of no sin through willfulness or ignorance” (Ag. Ap. 2.174). On Gal 6:16 (in context), see G. K. Beale, “Peace and Mercy Upon the Israel of God: The Old Testament Background of Galatians 6,16b,” Bib 80 (1999): 204–23; Jeffrey A. D. Weima, “Gal. 6:11–18: A Hermeneutical Key to the Galatian Letter,” CTJ 28 (1993): 90–107; idem, Neglected Endings: The Significance of the Pauline Letter Closings (JSNTSup 101; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1994), 157–74. 71 Martyn, Galatians, 124–25. Likewise, de Boer, “Quotation,” 383 n. 53. See further my Galatians, 19–21. 72 DeSilva, Introduction, 505.
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JBL 127, no. 3 (2008): 591–614
The Christology of Early Christian Practice
thomas kazen [email protected] Stockholm School of Theology, SE-168 39 Bromma, Sweden
This article suggests that an early view of Jesus as an eschatological prophet could serve as a “root model” to which most other christological conceptions may be related. It explores the possibility of confirming an early “prophet typology”1 through examining the practice of early groups of Christ-believers2 as reflected in NT texts. It is suggested that the practice of early followers of Jesus to a large extent could be viewed as a “christopraxy”3 and that such a christopraxy is based on experience; believers related their own social and religious experiences to historical (primary) experiences of the earliest Jesus movement, through narrative (secondary) experiences, mediated by the Jesus tradition, whether orally or as texts. While a developing “high” christology is frequently associated with liturgical expressions and doxological language, traces of social action in imitation of Jesus’ own practice point in a different direction, reflecting Jesus’ actions as an eschatological prophet of the kingdom. As we will see, such traces are found both in Pauline letters and in later texts. 1
To avoid obvious anachronisms in referring to early conceptions of Jesus, I use “prophet typology” rather than “prophet christology.” There are nevertheless trajectories from early conceptions to later confessions, and I do not want to convey the idea of early conceptions as “protochristologies” in the sense of being somehow insufficient or by necessity temporary in comparison with later developments. 2 It is a contested issue at what point it becomes appropriate to talk of “early/iest Christians.” This depends to a large extent on definitions. In the present context, discussing early followers of Jesus as portrayed in the first chapters of Acts, the people associated with the Q document, or even Pauline congregations, I prefer using “Christ-believers.” 3 I find this neologism useful for discussing the role of dogma (in the sense of more theoretical ideas) versus practice in the development of early views on Jesus. Cf. the usage of orthodoxy versus orthopraxy, which has now become commonplace.
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In the shadow of the history-of-religions school, christological developments were often seen as results of syncretism; ideas of Jesus’ divinity developed as the Palestinian Jesus movement met Hellenism and paganism. Honorific titles of various kinds were ascribed to Jesus in a manner similar to the apotheosis of Greek and Roman heroes.4 From the mid-twentieth century onward, however, we find several studies of “titles,” tracing historical impulses to christological development from various types of both Hellenistic and Jewish environments.5 As a result, a number of expressions used to identify Jesus have been shown to originate in Palestinian Jewish traditions, with no ontological connotations of divinity attached to them.6 As research on the historical Jesus took a new orientation—the so-called third quest—focusing on the Jewish environment, there was an increased interest in studying not only the words but also the acts of Jesus for clues to the type or role with which he was identified.7 A number of studies have explored the eschatological prophet as such a model, and there is also evidence of this model carrying messianic connotations.8 I find the model of Jesus as an eschatological prophet of God’s kingdom convincing, not least because it is grounded in experience—the historical experience of first-century Jews as well as religious expectation based on then current interpretations of Scripture.9 4 Most prominently represented by Wilhelm Bousset, Kyrios Christos: A History of the Belief in Christ from the Beginnings of Christianity to Irenaeus (1913; rev. ed., 1921; repr., Nashville: Abingdon, 1970). Cf. Larry Hurtado, Lord Jesus Christ: Devotion to Jesus in Earliest Christianity (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2003), 5–18; Gerd Theissen and Annette Merz, The Historical Jesus: A Comprehensive Guide (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1998), 514–23. 5 E.g., Oscar Cullmann, Die Christologie des Neuen Testaments (Tübingen: Mohr, 1957); Ferdinand Hahn, Christologische Hoheitstitel: Ihre Geschichte im frühen Christentum (FRLANT 83; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1963); Reginald Fuller, The Foundations of New Testament Christology (New York: Scribner, 1965). 6 This is the case in particular with the expression “Son of God.” For overviews, see James D. G. Dunn, Christology in the Making: A New Testament Inquiry into the Origins of the Doctrine of the Incarnation (London: SCM, 1980), 12–64; Hurtado, Lord Jesus Christ, 101–8. 7 See Theissen and Merz, Historical Jesus, 523–31, on “implicit christology.” A turning toward the acts of Jesus was anticipated already by Ernst Fuchs (“Die Frage nach dem historischen Jesus,” ZTK 53 [1956]: 210–29), but it took the Jesus Seminar some time to catch on; see Robert W. Funk, The Acts of Jesus: The Search for the Authentic Deeds of Jesus (New York: HarperSanFrancisco, 1998); cf. Bruce Chilton and Craig Evans, eds., Authenticating the Activities of Jesus (NTTS 28; Leiden: Brill, 1999). 8 See Thomas Kazen, “Tidiga Jesusbilder: om erfarenheten bakom och framför kristologin,” STK 81 (2005): 49–66, and further n. 15 below. 9 For definitions of “prophet” and “prophecy,” see Helmut Krämer, Rolf Rendtorff, Rudolf Meyer, and Gerhard Friedrich, “προφήτης κτλ.,” TDNT 6:781–861; Gerard T. Sheppard and William E. Herbrechtsmeier, “Prophecy: An Overview,” in Encyclopedia of Religion (2nd ed.; ed. Lindsay Jones; 15 vols.; Farmington Hills, MI: Thomson Gale, 2005), 11:7423–29; Robert R. Wilson, “Prophecy: Biblical Prophecy,” in ibid., 7429–38. Cf. Markus Öhler, “Jesus as Prophet: Remarks on Terminology,” in Jesus, Mark and Q: The Teaching of Jesus and Its Earliest Records (ed. Michael Labahn and Andreas Schmidt; JSNTSup 214; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2001), 125–42.
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This interest in experience is shared by many scholars, such as Edward Schillebeeckx, Marinus de Jonge, James D. G. Dunn, and Larry Hurtado.10 In 1980, when Dunn described early christological development in Christology in the Making, he drew a picture of a relatively slow process, in which a clear theology of incarnation did not appear until the end of the first century, as in the Gospel of John. Although Jesus is given a crucial role in Paul’s christology, not even Phil 2:6–11 is considered to reflect a “high christology” in an ontological sense.11 Although Dunn was still basically working from titles, the role of experience is emphasized and it becomes more obvious in later publications.12 Hurtado’s focus is explicitly on experience, in particular on worship, and he enlarges the idea of early christology to incorporate devotion to Jesus in a broad sense. In contrast to Dunn, he regards christological development as a quick explosion, taking place within a few years or even months, finding evidence for this in early Christian prayer, confession, baptism, Eucharist, hymns, and prophecy.13 Although including devotional or “liturgical” experience, I want to focus in the present article on early Christian practice as christopraxy, with an emphasis on its social and ethical aspects. However quickly or slowly the veneration of Jesus as a divine being developed, I think there is evidence from early Christian practice for an underlying root model being constitutive for various strands of early Christbelief. In what follows, I will give a brief outline and arguments for the concept of an eschatological prophet as an early root model for christological development, based primarily on traditions from the Synoptic Gospels. I will then attempt to demonstrate how the main components of this root model are reflected in the christopraxy of early Christ-believers, by discussing evidence from Paul, Acts, Q, and Mark respectively.14 10 Edward
Schillebeeckx, Jesus: An Experiment in Christology (London: Collins, 1979), 52– 59; idem, Interim Report on the Books Jesus and Christ (London: SCM, 1980), 10; Christ: The Christian Experience in the Modern World (London: SCM, 1980), 62–64, 71–79; Marinus de Jonge, Christology in Context: The Earliest Christian Response to Jesus (Philadelphia: Westminster, 1988); idem, God’s Final Envoy: Early Christology and Jesus’ Own View of His Mission (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1998); Dunn, Christology, 258–63; idem, Jesus Remembered (Christianity in the Making, 1; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2003), 127–34, 882–84; Hurtado, Lord Jesus Christ, 64–74. 11 Dunn, Christology. For the development of incarnational theology in Johannine thought, see esp. 261–65. For a discussion of Philippians 2, see 113–28. 12 See James D. G. Dunn, The Theology of Paul the Apostle (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1998); idem, Jesus Remembered. 13 Larry Hurtado, “The Binitarian Shape of Early Christian Worship,” in The Jewish Roots of Christological Monotheism: Papers from the St. Andrews Conference on the Historical Origins of the Worship of Jesus (ed. Carey C. Newman, James R. Davila, and Gladys S. Lewis; JSJSup 63; Leiden: Brill, 1999), 187–213, here 192–211; cf. Lord Jesus Christ, 137–51. 14 The choice of these four sources is motivated by our quest for early christopraxy. A fuller study could also include Lukan, Matthean, Johannine, and Thomasine material, as well as the Didache. I do recognize the early nature of the strata underlying the Coptic Gospel of Thomas,
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I. An Eschatological Prophet as Root Model A number of scholars have chosen an eschatological prophet typology as their frame of reference for discussing the historical Jesus. Among these are E. P. Sanders, Maurice Casey, Dale C. Allison, and Bart D. Ehrman, to mention a few.15 The advantage of this model is that it may incorporate a number of other “titles,” rather than arguing for or against various designations as if they were somehow competitors.16 Several important conditions make such reasoning possible and plausible. First, there are well-attested expectations for an eschatological prophet like Moses and Elijah, originating from and nourished by Deut 18:18 and Mal 4:4–6. Reflections of Moses are found already in the Hebrew canon, for example, in Jeremiah, Ezekiel, and Deutero-Isaiah,17 while Elijah is explicitly referred to by Jesus Sirach (Sir 48:1, 10). The Samaritans included the prophet-like-Moses prediction twice in their version of the Torah,18 and it is alluded to in Philo (Spec. 1.65). Both Deut 18:18 and Mal 4:4–6 are quoted and alluded to in Qumran fragments (see 4Q175; 4Q375; 4Q558; cf. 4Q521 2 II, 2). Second, there were a number of contemporary eschatological prophets, exemplifying the currency of this typological figure, mentioned primarily by Josephus but some also by Luke (e.g., Judas from Galilee, Theudas, the “Egyptian,” and the but while I would allow for a first-century dating of a Greek original (cf. Ismo Dunderberg, “Thomas’ I-sayings and the Gospel of John,” in Thomas at the Crossroads: Essays on the Gospel of Thomas [ed. Risto Uro; Studies of the New Testament and Its World; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1998], 33–64, who suggests a common setting for Thomas and John between 70 and 100 [p. 64], with Richard Valantasis, The Gospel of Thomas [New Testament Readings; London/New York: Routledge, 1997], 12–21, who dates a Greek original between 100 and 110 c.e.), I am not prepared to juxtapose the Coptic Gospel to Q (in contrast to Q, reconstructing a Greek original of Thomas is not even possible). The Didache certainly has ancient roots, too (see, e.g., Alan J. P. Garrow, The Gospel of Matthew’s Dependence on the Didache [JSNTSup 254; London/New York: T&T Clark, 2004]), but should, in my mind, nevertheless be considered along with Matthew rather than with Q. The inclusion of Acts in this article can be contested, but see below under the heading “Reflections in Acts.” 15 E. P. Sanders, Jesus and Judaism (London: SCM, 1985); idem, The Historical Figure of Jesus (London: Penguin, 1993); Maurice Casey, From Jewish Prophet to Gentile God: The Origins and Development of New Testament Christology (Cambridge: James Clarke, 1991); Dale C. Allison, Jesus of Nazareth: Millenarian Prophet (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1998); Bart D. Ehrman, Jesus: Apocalyptic Prophet of the New Millennium (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999). 16 See Öhler, “Jesus as Prophet,” 141. 17 E.g., Jeremiah’s calling, Ezekiel’s temple instructions, and Deutero-Isaiah’s Suffering Servant. See Dale C. Allison, The New Moses: A Matthean Typology (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1993), 11– 134. 18 It also concludes the Ten Commandments in their version. See Marie-Émile Boismard, Moses or Jesus: An Essay in Johannine Christology (BETL 84A; Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1993), 3–4, 30–41; Wayne A. Meeks, The Prophet-King: Moses Traditions and the Johannine Christology (NovTSup 14; Leiden: Brill, 1967), 216–57.
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Samaritan leader at Gerizim).19 These figures are primarily prophets of action rather than oracles, leaders of popular movements, reenacting foundational tales and symbolic events in an eschatological context.20 Third, there are numerous attestations of Jesus being regarded as a prophet by his contemporaries, and even his self-identification as a prophet, in spite of the explicit wishes of most Gospel authors to confirm him as something more. He is variously identified as a prophet, the prophet, Elijah, Jeremiah, John the Baptizer, or some other prophet.21 Although Jesus is not explicitly identified with Moses, some of the Gospel authors provide clear allusions.22 Early tradition is shaped so as to portray Jesus with traits of Elijah and of the first Elijah redivivus, Elisha.23 Fourth, it is now generally recognized that Jewish messianic expectations during the Second Temple period were varied, to say the least. A māšîahi need not be royal or Davidic or overtly “political” in the sense that was often presupposed in the past.24 The double messianic expression found in Zechariah is confirmed by a number of Qumran fragments and extended into a threefold conception. In 1QS 9:10– 11, the anointed of Aaron and Israel are complemented by “the prophet”—which is not contradictory, since kings, priests, and prophets alike were anointed in Jewish tradition.25 Threefold expectations (prophetic, royal, and priestly) are supported 19 Josephus,
Ant. 18.4–10, 85–87; 20.97–98, 169–72; J.W. 2.261–63; Acts 5:36–37. For a full list, see Theissen and Merz, Historical Jesus, 141–46. 20 Richard A. Horsley, “‘Like One of the Prophets of Old’: Two Types of Popular Prophets at the Time of Jesus,” CBQ 47 (1985): 435–63; cf. Richard A. Horsley with John S. Hanson, Bandits, Prophets, and Messiahs: Popular Movements in the Time of Jesus (1985; repr., Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International, 1999). 21 Mark 6:4//Matt 13:57; Mark 6:14–16//Luke 9:7–9 and Matt 14:1–2; Mark 8:27–30//Matt 16:13–16, 20; Luke 9:18–21; and John 6:66–69; also Matt 13:57; 21:46; Luke 7:16; 13:33; 24:19; John 4:19, 44; 9:17. 22 Particularly Matthew (Jesus on the mountain, five speeches, teacher of the law) and John (allusions to Deuteronomy 18 in John 1:45; 7:14–18; 12:48–50; signs, law symbolism, portraying Jesus as superior to Moses). See also Meeks, Prophet-King; Boismard, Moses or Jesus. 23 Jesus lives like Elijah in the desert, being served by wild animals (Mark 1:13); he raises a dead child (Mark 5:21–24, 35–43). Luke adds to Mark’s Elijah/Elisha-like portrait by explicitly employing Elijah/Elisha traditions as commentary on Jesus’ rejection as prophet in Nazareth (Luke 4:24–27), by quoting directly from LXX 1 Kgdms 17:23 in the narrative of the widow at Nain (Luke 7:15), and by calling Jesus’ death an ἀναλήμψις in a context involving fire from heaven (Luke 9:51 and the following narrative). See Joseph G. Kelly, “Lucan Christology and the JewishChristian Dialogue,” JES 21 (1984): 688–708. 24 There have been several decisive studies of Jewish messianic expectations during the last years, notably John J. Collins, The Scepter and the Star: The Messiahs of the Dead Sea Scrolls and Other Ancient Literature (ABRL; New York: Doubleday, 1995); Johannes Zimmermann, Messianische Texte aus Qumran (WUNT 2/104; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1998); cf. James H. Charlesworth, ed., The Messiah: Developments in Earliest Judaism and Christianity (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1992). 25 For prophetic anointing, see 1 Kgs 19:16; cf. Isa 61:1. Psalm 105:15 (= 1 Chr 16:22) mentions prophets and anointed in a parallelism. See also Sir 48:8; CD 2:12; 6:1; John J. Collins, “Jesus
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by the testimonia of 4Q175.26 Prophetic figures are described as anointed in a number of texts, and in 4Q521 God’s anointed one, his māšîahi, is described in the prophetic language of Isaiah 61, which we find also in Jesus’ message to the Baptizer, as well as in his sermon in Nazareth (Luke 7:22//Matt 11:4–5; Luke 4:18–19). An eschatological prophet may thus be regarded as one of several possible messianic figures at the time of Jesus, but this model suits the Gospels’ general picture of Jesus better than royal or priestly figures. The preference for a prophetic messiah, rather than a royal one, may also explain in part Jesus’ reluctance to be identified as the messiah, as well as his unprovoked (?) dispute with the scribes concerning the Davidic lineage of the messiah, a conception that he emphatically denies with the help of scriptural interpretation (Mark 12:35–36).27 Fifth, the sonship assigned to Jesus by the Gospel authors may be understood in the context of Jewish religion and culture as having roots in the earliest Jesus traditions rather than as a Hellenistic construct. “Son of God” in a Jewish context should be understood as a relational metaphor; it is used as a designation for the people of Israel in general, for the king in particular, and, during the Second Temple period, for righteous individuals.28 The Qumran fragment 4Q246 may indicate the use of “Son of God” for a messianic royal figure. Considering what we know today of Second Temple Judaism, it is reasonable to think that Jesus himself appropriated a particular father–son relationship with God, as indicated by the Gospels’ and the Messiahs of Israel,” in Geschichte – Tradition – Reflexion: Festschrift für Martin Hengel zum 70. Geburtstag (ed. Hubert Cancik, Hermann Lichtenberger, and Peter Schäfer; 3 vols.; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1996), 3:287–302, here 296–97; Zimmermann, Messianische Texte, 312–14. 26 Zimmermann, Messianische Texte, 428–36. See also Zimmermann’s discussion of the combination of royal, priestly, and prophetic conceptions in 4Q174 and CD 7 in reference to the Interpreter of the Law (pp. 436–41); and Collins, Scepter and the Star, 115. 27 See Christoph Burger, Jesus als Davidssohn: Eine traditionsgeschichtliche Untersuchung (FRLANT, 98; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1970), 42–71, 165–78. Burger’s idea is that historically, Jesus was not of Davidic descent, and that the genealogies of Matthew and Luke are late constructions. For a different interpretation on the level of Mark, see Joel Marcus, The Way of the Lord: Christological Exegesis of the Old Testament in the Gospel of Mark (Louisville: Westminster/John Knox, 1992), 130–52. 28 Texts such as Psalms 82; 89:6–8; and Job 1:6; 2:1 may rightly be understood as reflecting the general idea in Near Eastern mythology of a pantheon being regarded as sons of God, although monotheism reshaped them into angelic beings. See, e.g., the Canaanite texts from Ugarit (Baal and Yamm, KTU 1.2 i.20–21) or the watcher tradition in 1 Enoch 1–36 and the interpretation of Gen 6:1–5 in Jub. 5:1–2; see Frederick J. Murphy, Early Judaism: The Exile to the Time of Jesus (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2002), 140–42. The designation of Jesus as Son of God seems, however, to be part of another trajectory—the use of sonship terminology for human beings, such as Israelites in general, the king in particular, or righteous individuals (Exod 4:22; 2 Sam 7:14; Pss 2:7; 89:26–27; Jer 31:9, 20; Hos 11:1; Wis 2:18; Pss. Sol. 17:28–30; 4Q246). Evidence for righteous individuals as “sons of God,” roughly contemporary with Jesus (Honi and Hanina ben Dosa; m. Ta van. 3:8; b. Ta van. 24b; b. Hi ag. 15b), has been championed by Geza Vermes, Jesus the Jew: A Historian’s Reading of the Gospel (1973; 2nd ed.; London: SCM, 1994), 206–10.
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portrayal of his prayer practice. Such “divine sonship” is best understood in a prophetic context, as designating the relationship between God and a “man of God.” Sixth, the peculiar expression that many would regard as Jesus’ own selfdesignation, “Son of Man,” although to some a scholarly cul-de-sac, may also be subsumed into the typology of an eschatological prophet. Following the overgrown tracks of T. W. Manson, C. F. D. Moule, and Lloyd Gaston, who advocated a collective interpretation of the expression, in line with Daniel’s use of the image as a symbol of the kingdom of God and its faithful remnant,29 we may understand the Son of Man as Jesus’ primary metaphor of the kingdom—a kingdom that he himself, together with his disciples, represented and enacted. There is not space to pursue this line of interpretation here, but it would suggest that Jesus, as an eschatological prophet, should be regarded not as an isolated individual but as a leading representative, at one with his people.30 Finally, even the ambiguous “Servant of the Lord” could possibly be viewed within the paradigm of an eschatological, messianic prophet. Although fraught with many pitfalls, not least because of the theological preconceptions of vicarious suffering and atonement associated with it,31 this symbol of remnant Israel is 29 Thomas W. Manson, The Teaching of Jesus: Studies of Its Form and Content (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1931), 211–36; C. F. D. Moule, The Phenomenon of the New Testament: An Inquiry into the Implications of Certain Features of the New Testament (SBT 2/1; London: SCM, 1967), 21–42; idem, Essays in New Testament Interpretation (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1982), 75–90; Lloyd Gaston, No Stone on Another: Studies in the Significance of the Fall of Jerusalem in the Synoptic Gospels (NovTSup 23; Leiden: Brill, 1970), 370–409. 30 I have made a new case for a collective or “corporate” interpretation of “Son of Man” in “Son of Man as Kingdom Imagery: Jesus between Corporate Symbol and Individual Redeemer Figure,” in Jesus from Judaism to Christianity: Continuum Approaches to the Historical Jesus (ed. Tom Holmén; Library of New Testament Studies 352; European Studies on Christian Origins; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 2007), 87–108. See also idem, “The Coming Son of Man Revisited,” Journal for the Study of the Historical Jesus 5 (2007): 157–76. A “functional similarity and rhetorical affinity” between the kingdom and Son of Man symbols are highlighted by Arto Järvinen, “Jesus as a Community Symbol in Q,” in The Sayings Source Q and the Historical Jesus (ed. Andreas Lindemann; BETL 158; Leuven: University Press, 2001), 515–21; quotation from 517. 31 The older view that Jesus saw himself as a combined Son of Man and Isaianic Servant, suffering vicariously, was decisively challenged by Morna Hooker, Jesus and the Servant: The Influence of the Servant Concept in Deutero-Isaiah in the New Testament (London: SPCK, 1959); cf. C. K. Barrett, “The Background of Mark 10:45,” in New Testament Essays: Studies in Memory of T. W. Manson (ed. Angus J. B. Higgins; Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1959), and others. It has been maintained by some, however, usually with a dogmatic flavor. See Peter Stuhlmacher, “Der Messianische Gottesknecht,” in Der Messias (Jahrbuch für Biblische Theologie; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1993), 131–54. Although admitting the absence of firm evidence, Martin Hengel nevertheless suggests that pre-Christian Judaism entertained an idea of a messianic individual suffering vicariously (“Zur Wirkungsgeschichte von Jes 53 in vorchristlicher Zeit,” in Der leidende Gottesknecht: Jesaja 53 und seine Wirkungsgeschichte (ed. Bernd Janowski and Peter Stuhlmacher; FAT 14; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1996), 49–91, here 90–91. Cf. Dunn, Jesus Remembered, 806–18.
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described in language typical of the calling, fear, suffering, vocation, and vindication of the prophets.32 Arguments for the “Suffering Servant” of Isaiah 50 and 52– 53 as paradigmatic in Second Temple messianic expectations are extremely weak. The most we can say is that there are possible allusions in a few Qumran texts, of which one probably mentions a māšîah.i 33 However, the idea of a remnant playing a prophetic, and through suffering somehow decisive, role may be gathered both from the Isaianic image of the Servant and from the Danielic image of the Son of Man.34 In both cases the images may be taken as representing collective entities with the potential to become objects of identification for eschatological prophetic movements and their leaders.35 Viewed from this perspective, the typology of an eschatological prophet could be regarded as a “root model” to which most other christological conceptions can be related. It is plausible as an explanation for historical expectations concerning Jesus, as well as for literary and theological developments of the picture of Jesus found in various gospel traditions. It may be regarded as constitutive in subsequent christological elaborations. Considered in the role of an eschatological prophet, Jesus exhibits a number of characteristic traits. His message is one of judgment and restoration: judgment on oppression, social injustice, and hypocrisy; restoration of the people, especially 32 Persecution and suffering were intimately associated with the prophetic role and the anointed prophet’s vocation to bring the people to conversion and restoration. His task is that of a “servant”; see 2 Kgs 17:13, 23; 21:10; 24:2; Ezra 9:11; Jer 7:25; 25:4; 26:5; 29:19; 35:15; 44:4; Dan 9:6, 10; Amos 3:7; Zech 1:6. The two model servant prophets, Moses and Elijah, both offered their lives or invited death (Exod 32:32; Deut 34:5; 1 Kgs 19:4). 33 4Q491 frag. 11, line 1 [4Q491c]; 4Q541; Zimmermann, Messianische Texte, 276, 306–7; Israel Knohl, The Messiah before Jesus: The Suffering Servant of the Dead Sea Scrolls (S. Mark Taper Foundation Imprint in Jewish Studies; Berkeley/Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2000), 75–86, is far too speculative. Cf. the skepticism of Collins (“Jesus and the Messiahs,” 290–92). 34 See Dunn, Jesus Remembered, 805–18. 35 As subsequent Christian interpretation shows, it became impossible to avoid associating the Isaianic Servant imagery with a contested and persecuted prophetic figure like Jesus. The impetus may have come from Jesus himself, even if he did not identify himself with the Servant as an individual redeemer figure. Almost fifty years ago, Morna Hooker, in her influential study, pointed to the lack of evidence to support the assertion that the Isaianic Servant provided the early Christian movement with a messianic paradigm for Jesus or an interpretation of Jesus’ death as vicarious atonement. She did, however, distinguish between the meaning and the fact of suffering, seeing the Servant symbol of faithful Israel as “one element in the whole pattern of suffering and exaltation which marks all Deutero-Isaiah’s thought.” Hence, as a representative of Israel, Jesus “may well have seen in Deutero-Isaiah’s oracles the description of Israel’s sufferings, of which his own were a part,” although the pattern of suffering against which Jesus’ own understanding must be studied “is much wider in its scope” (Jesus and the Servant, xi, 147–63). For a recent interpretation of Jesus and his followers as a “servant community,” see Sean Freyne, Jesus, A Jewish Galilean: A New Reading of the Jesus-Story (London: T&T Clark, 2004), in particular ch. 4 (pp. 92– 121); idem, “Jesus and the ‘Servant’ Community in Zion: Continuity in Context,” in Jesus from Judaism to Christianity, ed. Holmén, 109–24.
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the poor, the marginalized, and the maltreated.36 He is portrayed as a charismatic and messianic prophet of action, reenacting past history,37 alluding to covenant myths,38 and inaugurating God’s kingdom by defeating evil through healings and exorcisms,39 and by his exceptional table fellowship,40 both clearly restorative in character. Jesus is further understood as anticipating the possibility of prophetic martyrdom for himself as well as for his followers. This is inherent in the prophetic role itself—past and present history would have alerted any Jewish prophet to martyrdom as a real risk—but at some stage this has been further reinforced by the imagery of the Son of Man and the Servant of the Lord. The idea that such martyrdom could have positive results for others is not far away.41 Finally, the prophetic vocation involves a close relationship to the divine, which is exemplified by Jesus’ “sonship awareness,” exhibited in his particular prayer practice, for which he was remembered. The father–child relationship and the relational language were apparently taken over and treasured by his early followers.42 As is clear from this list of characteristics, “eschatological” need not necessar36 This double focus on judgment and restoration is typical in most of the biblical prophets
and conspicuous in expectations of coming prophetic figures. In Deuteronomy 18 the context is primarily one of judgment (on sorcery and disobedience), but in subsequent interpretation restoration plays an important role. In Malachi 3 and 4, judgment is likewise prominent, but the theme of restoration is made explicit (3:3–4, 10–12, 17–18; 4:2, 6). 37 Acting like Moses, Elijah, Elisha (see nn. 22 and 23 above), David (Mark 2:23–8), and Jonah (but better, Mark 4:35–41). 38 Mark 9:2–8 parr.; 14:22–25 parr. Cf. the frequent allusions to the exodus tradition found in several biblical prophets. For examples of roughly contemporary eschatological prophetic figures reenacting past history and alluding to covenant myths, see, e.g., Horsley (n. 20 above), as well as Theissen and Merz, Historical Jesus. 39 While healing has little precedence in the scribal prophets of the Hebrew Bible, it does occur as part of prophetic expectation of future judgment and restoration (e.g., Isaiah 35), particularly in subsequent eschatological interpretation (cf. 4Q521 2 II, 1–14). Perhaps more important, healings belong to the constitutive elements of the Elijah-Elisha tradition, which is one crucial root of an eschatological prophet typology. 40 At this particular point, it is uncertain whether clear precedents can be found in eschatological prophet typologies of the Second Temple period. Table fellowship, however, certainly belongs to eschatological prophetic imagery (the banquet of the Lord) and is applied with eschatological connotations by the Qumran sectarians. (It is uncertain whether any eschatological meaning should be ascribed to other table fellowships, such as the hăi bûrôt.) The manner in which Jesus appropriated this theme in his own practice and with eschatological connotations thus has parallels, although his particular “inversion” may be unique. 41 See 1 Macc 2:50; 6:44; 2 Macc 7:37 for a “positive” role of martyrdom. 42 See Joachim Jeremias, The Prayers of Jesus (SBT 2/6; London: SPCK, 1965), 11–65; idem, New Testament Theology (London: SCM, 1971), 61–68. The exceptional character of Jesus’ prayer practice has been questioned, and it is true that the image of God as father was not a new idea but an integral part of Second Temple Judaism. Nor is Abba equal to “Daddy.” Descriptions of Jesus’ father imagery and manner of prayer nevertheless convey a peculiar “charismatic” intimacy, found even in Pauline churches. See below.
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ily mean an end-of-the-world perspective. As I have argued elsewhere,43 we need to allow for evocative and ideological uses of apocalyptic language and imagery that do not necessarily imply fixed eschatological schemes.44 While I do not follow, for example, Marcus Borg’s “temperate case for a non-eschatological Jesus” in all respects,45 I think that Jesus’ kingdom vision had more to do with present practice or ethics than with some Weltuntergang sort of millennialism. To deny the presence of “apocalyptic eschatology” in the earliest Jesus tradition is going too far46— the kingdom must be understood as an eschatological utopia47—but there is still much wisdom in G. B. Caird’s pertinent observations on the meaning of eschatological language.48 In what follows, I will argue that an eschatological prophet as root model for evolving christologies can be confirmed by the christopraxy of early Christ-believers. By examining their social and religious practice, as it apparently reflected what they viewed as Jesus’ own attitudes and behaviors, we find evidence that their conception of Jesus was of an eschatological prophetic type. The traits listed above as signifying an eschatological prophet typology will be traced through early textual evidence.49 43 Kazen,
“Coming Son of Man.” prefers not to use the term “eschatology” in a broad sense; he reserves it for imminent end-of-the-world expectations that he does not ascribe to Jesus. See Marcus Borg, Jesus in Contemporary Scholarship (Valley Forge, PA: Trinity Press International, 1994), 70–74. This makes sense from an etymological point of view, but does it correspond to the current use of the term? There is a similar but opposite problem with employing the word “apocalyptic” as a qualifier for Jesus. In a Semitic context, neither “apocalypticism” nor “eschatology” need imply an end of the world in a Western or modern sense. Without this terminology, however, it is difficult to discuss how Jesus deviated from and yet came out of the movement of the Baptizer, and how his kingdom terminology was interpreted in support of specific types of “eschatologies” by subsequent followers. For discussions on terminology, see John Dominic Crossan, “Eschatology, Apocalypticism, and the Historical Jesus,” in Jesus Then and Now: Images of Jesus in History and Christology (ed. Marvin Meyer and Charles Hughes; Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International, 2001), 91–112; Dunn, Jesus Remembered, 398–401. On Q in particular, see John S. Kloppenborg, “Symbolic Eschatology and the Apocalypticism of Q,” HTR 80 (1987): 287–306; Risto Uro, “Apocalyptic Symbolism and Social Identity in Q,” in Symbols and Strata: Essays on the Sayings Gospel Q (ed. Risto Uro; Publications of the Finnish Exegetical Society 65; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1996), 67–118. 45 This is the title of the third chapter in Borg, Jesus in Contemporary Scholarship, 47–68. 46 See John Dominic Crossan, The Historical Jesus: The Life of a Mediterranean Jewish Peasant (New York: HarperSanFrancisco, 1991), 284–93; idem, The Birth of Christianity: Discovering What Happened in the Years Immediately after the Execution of Jesus (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1998), 305–16. Note, however, Crossan’s qualifying discussion on terminology in “Eschatology,” in Jesus Then and Now, ed. Meyer and Hughes. 47 See Mary Ann Beavis, Jesus and Utopia: Looking for the Kingdom of God in the Roman World (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2006). 48 George. B. Caird, The Language and Imagery of the Bible (London: Duckworth, 1980), 243–71. 49 Most of these traits are commonly mentioned as characteristics of Jesus’ role figure, for 44 Borg
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II. Reflections in Paul Reliable evidence for early community practice among Christ-believers is really found only in Paul’s undisputed letters, and even there we are nowadays aware of the difficulties of having access to the voice of only one party, in addition to the question of the extent to which a number of passages should be understood as primarily descriptive or prescriptive. Nevertheless, Paul’s writings are closer in time to Jesus than any others. We may also be confident that Paul is not painting rosy pictures to feed future readers’ romantic ideas of a golden age. Rather, he describes very concrete problems, misbehaviors, and abuses in those early communities that were dependent on him. In spite of not rehearsing Jesus traditions, except in an irregular and fragmentary way, Paul’s letters open a window onto an early christopraxy that corresponds to our picture of Jesus as an eschatological prophet. For example, we find in Paul the particular combination of judgment on oppressive and socially unjust behavior with serious warnings against judging others that we know from the Jesus tradition (Rom 2:1–11; 14:1–13; 1 Cor 6:1–8). We also find an emphasis on table fellowship, which recalls Jesus’ actions, in spite of differing contexts. As a self-evident part of practice among early Christbelievers, communal meals, including the Lord’s Supper, enacted an integrative covenant, embracing Jews and Gentiles, poor and rich, men and women, slaves and free. People of various ethnic and social backgrounds were eating together, thus reflecting in a way Jesus’ own table fellowship (1 Cor 11:17–34; 12:12–13; Gal 2:11– 14; 3:26–28).50 This communal eating is discussed by Paul several times: in Galatians relating to the issue of the relationship between Jews and Gentiles and in 1 Corinthians in the context of social conflicts. Whether from an ethnic or social perspective, or even both, communal eating also caused conflicts about sacrificial meat (Romans 14; 1 Corinthians 8). The indignation with which Paul discusses various kinds of abuses in the context of meals shows how important they were in his thinking. These abuses, he says, make communal eating cause damage rather
example, “the combination of free healing and common eating, a religious and economic egalitarianism that negated alike and at once the hierarchical and patronal normalcies of Jewish religion and Roman power” (Crossan, Historical Jesus, 422; cf. 303–53; Birth of Christianity, 293–304, 419– 44). Crossan’s reconstruction in Birth of Christianity is an attempt to outline the nature of the earliest Jesus movement during the 30s and 40s. The method, with which I agree in principle, is one of bringing context and text into conjunction, but it depends on a detailed stratigraphy of texts, retrieving the earliest layer (Birth of Christianity, 139–49; see appendixes 1–7, pp. 587–605). Cf. the similar method in Historical Jesus, xxvii–xxxiv, and appendixes 1–7, pp. 427–66. The results have not remained uncontested. In part, Crossan discusses similar material and similar themes (characteristics) but with a different focus. My underlying question differs: To what extent is an early view or interpretation of Jesus corroborated by evidence from early practice? 50 Cf. the ban on table fellowship within the community in 1 Cor 5:11.
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than bring gain, but he tries to correct the damage by referring to the narrative of Jesus’ last meal as an ideal for worthy table fellowship (1 Cor 11:17, 23–25). It is in a discussion on eating that we find the injunction “Become my imitators as I am Christ’s” (1 Cor 11:1). The table fellowship of Paul’s communities is thus understood as imitating or reenacting Jesus’ behavior. In addition, when discussing meals, Paul refers not only to the covenant myth particular to the Jesus tradition but also to the exodus story (1 Cor 10:1–13). Meals involve sharing, but Paul also appeals explicitly to Jesus’ own example in other contexts where sharing is in focus. This is particularly the case with the Jerusalem collection, which is motivated by the poverty of Jesus (2 Cor 8:1–15).51 Turning our attention to suffering, here too Paul refers to Jesus as motivation and example for his own pains. Indeed, in Paul’s mind Jesus’ role figure becomes an argument for followers in general to be prepared for persecution, hardships, and severe suffering. This motif recurs a number of times (e.g., Rom 8:17; 2 Cor 1:3–7; Phil 3:10; cf. 3:17), and the character of martyrdom as christopraxy is perhaps most evident in 1 Thess 1:6: “And you became my imitators, and the Lord’s, receiving the word through much suffering, in the joy of the holy spirit.” In the case of Paul himself, we even find the idea of personal suffering becoming somehow advantageous for others (2 Cor 1:6; 4:10–12; cf. Col 1:24). Finally, Paul’s letters provide evidence that Jesus’ particular sonship consciousness and manner of prayer had become paradigmatic even for more westerly Greek-speaking believers. The sense of sonship inherited from the Jesus tradition is appropriated by members of Pauline communities, whether Jews or Gentiles, and attached to the gift of the spirit, thus signifying the kind of close relationship to the divine that was normally associated with prophets in Jewish tradition. In both Galatians and Romans, which contain elaborate discussions on divine sonship, the Aramaic Abba occurs as a self-evident expression of the prayer practice found in Pauline churches. This relational language conforms to Jesus’ own prophetic behavior (Gal 4:6; Rom 8:15). In sum, in the letters of Paul we find evidence for a number of social and religious practices focused on justice, integration, and restoration among early Christbelievers. There are traces of the reenactment of past history and foundational myths and a strong emphasis on table fellowship. We note a readiness for suffering and martyrdom, for the sake of what is good. Finally, there is a spirituality in which a spirit-filled close relationship to the divine is understood as sonship, expressing itself in particular manners of prayer. Many of these practices are associated with Jesus’ own example, thus motivating the use of the term christopraxy to define them. They represent typical traits of Jesus’ own practice as understood by early followers within the paradigm of an eschatological prophet.
51 2
Corinthians 8:9 appeals to Jesus’ poverty as an argument.
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III. Reflections in Acts When dealing with Luke’s descriptions of practice in the early Jesus movement in the first chapters of Acts, we find ourselves both earlier and later in time than with Paul. Earlier, because the narrative concerns the earliest post-Easter followers of Jesus in Jerusalem; later, because the narrative is shaped toward the end of the first century. While it would be naïve to take Acts as a historical report of early Christ-believers in Jerusalem, it would be equally simplistic to read Luke’s narratives as representing general Christian practice and belief in his own time and environment. Rather, we should regard these descriptions as revealing what some late-first-century Christians, such as the author of Acts, thought about practice and belief in the earliest Jerusalem community of Christ-believers during the thirties.52 Foolproof methods for separating one level from another do not exist. Relating to the quest for the historical Jesus, I have argued elsewhere against conceptions of historical inquiry as a peeling away of the husk in order to retrieve a historical kernel, and similar considerations apply here too.53 In general, redaction in narrative texts, such as Acts or the Gospels, is often more of a “dye” than a layer.54 How, then, can we decide whether community practice or eschatological prophet and messianic typologies as described in the early chapters of Acts reflect anything but Luke’s own late-first-century context? Arguments have to rely on comparison and plausibility. It is true that Luke in his Gospel as well as in Acts exhibits a concern for the poor and a passion for justice (although moderns readily detect a patronizing and patriarchal flavor).55 It is also clear that Luke often enhances Jesus’ prophetic traits, including allusions to
52 See
Rudolf Pesch’s discussion of the first two Sammelberichte in Acts (Acts 2:42–47 and 4:32–35) (Die Apostelgeschichte [EKKNT 5; 2 vols.; Zurich: Benziger; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1986], 1:128–33, 179–88). These are not to be taken solely as Lukan creations, but as pre-Lukan traditions reworked by the author. While the language may lead to associations with “antiken Urzeitdarstellungen und Staatsutopien,” the traditions behind these summaries belong rather to a trajectory of biblical eschatological expectation. 53 See Thomas Kazen, Jesus and Purity Halakhah: Was Jesus Indifferent to Impurity? (ConBNT 38; Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell, 2002), 12–41, 95–98. 54 See John R. Donahue’s comment on Mark: “Most of it is ‘tradition’ . . . all of it is composition” (“Redaction Criticism: Has the Hauptstrasse Become a Sackgasse?” in The New Literary Criticism and the New Testament [ed. Edgar V. McKnight and Elizabeth Struthers Malbon; JSNTSup 109; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1994], 27–57, here 40). This denies neither the possibility of faithful transmissions of traditional material nor the presence of obviously redactional or secondary material, including free compositions by the author. 55 See Mikael Winninge, “Värnade Lukas om de fattiga—eller är det bara kristet önsketänkande?” in Människa är ditt namn: om mänskliga rättigheter, mänsklig värdighet och teologi (ed. Göran Gunner; Stockholm: Verbum, 2007), 200–246.
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the Elijah-Elisha cycle.56 To conclude that communal ownership and “primitive christology” define Luke’s own context is, however, quite implausible. Luke also gives evidence for a “higher” christology (cf. Luke 10:21–24) and the latter parts of Acts provide possible hints for a patron–client system that is more likely to be expected in Luke’s own late-first-century environment.57 The early descriptions in Acts are rather construed to convey the image of a golden age. We should also consider the fact that Luke’s own eschatology, for example, in his redaction of Jesus’ eschatological discourse, seems much less imminent and far more realized than the eschatological picture provided in the early chapters of Acts, which suggests that the material in Acts is an attempt to portray conditions in the early Jerusalem community, while the eschatological discourse is crafted to be of relevance for Luke’s readers. We could, of course, suggest that Luke pictures something that never existed. This is true, insofar as the early chapters of Acts provide an idealization and a narrative construct, and it may be argued also when Luke is compared to Paul in other respects. For good reasons Luke is usually deemed the less trustworthy of the two, in particular when Paul must be taken as a firsthand witness. Apart from minor details, there are crucial issues where the discrepancy between them is obvious. Luke provides a much more ordered picture of Christian expansion, with the idea of early mission activity being systematically organized and implemented through subsequent stages.58 Furthermore, his description is consistently harmonizing, toning down personal conflicts, especially tensions between Jews and Gentiles.59 In view of all this, however, the close points of contact between Luke and Paul in the particular areas that we are here discussing must be considered conspicuous and should alert our sensitivity. In Luke’s construction of Peter’s first speech (Acts 2:14–40), Jesus is described as an heir of David, raised by God and exalted by (or to) his right hand, thereby receiving the spirit, which he pours out on his followers. Although Jesus was crucified by the people, God has made him both Lord and Messiah. This is very similar to what Paul says in Rom 1:3–4: Jesus is an heir of David, appointed Son of God at his resurrection from the dead, and although Christ has become more or less a surname, Jesus is defined as Lord and Messiah. Later in the same letter, and also in Galatians, Paul associates the gift of the spirit with the resurrected Christ. Although the emphasis on sonship in Paul has no exact corre56 See
Kelly, “Lucan Christology.” Lydia in Acts 16:11–15; Jason (and the wealthy women) in 17:1–9. 58 Note Luke’s idea of stages (Jerusalem, Samaria, and beyond to Antioch), including making Peter responsible for the first Gentile mission, subsequently approved by the Jerusalem collegium, and then the Pauline mission in the form of organized journeys. See Pesch, Apostelgeschichte, 1:51. 59 Compare Luke’s descriptions of the incident at Antioch, the Jerusalem meeting, Paul’s relationship to Jerusalem, and Paul’s character in general with the picture relayed by Paul’s own letters. For a list of discrepancies between Paul and Luke, see, e.g., Jacob Jervell, Die Apostelgeschichte (KEK 3; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1998), 81. 57 Cf.
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spondence in Acts, the similarities are obvious. We find a developing Davidic messianic christology, but in Acts it clearly builds on traits of an early eschatological prophet typology. Jesus is commissioned, and he is confirmed by God through his signs and mighty deeds. In Peter’s speech the context is one of eschatological judgment and restoration, and Jesus is described as a prophetic martyr, with a particularly close relationship to God. These traits become even clearer in Peter’s second speech in Acts 3, which could be taken as reflecting a “proto-christology” of a “preDavidic” prophetic type.60 Jesus is repeatedly designated as “servant” and described as the holy and righteous one whose sufferings were predicted by Scripture. He appears as an anointed, eschatological prophet, the messianic prophet of Deuteronomy 18, which is explicitly quoted as part of the argument (3:22–23). His task is associated with God’s covenant with Abraham and consists of turning the people from their wicked ways. He will return as Messiah from heaven when everything is to be restored. While many of these traits are certainly dependent on Easter faith, the general tenor reflects a primitive eschatological prophet typology. Rather than taking this to reflect a late-first-century christology propagated by Luke, I assume that the interpretation of Jesus’ role in Peter’s two speeches represents Luke’s (and other late-first-century Christians’) ideas of how Jesus’ role might have been understood by early post-Easter Christ-believers.61 And rather than regarding such an idea as a mere construct, I take it as a reflection of early ideas. This is the most reasonable explanation of the conspicuous similarities with Pauline expressions that we have observed. It is all the more plausible when we look at how Luke depicts early practice in the Jerusalem church. Here too, similarities with what we find in Paul are striking, in spite of discrepancies in other areas. The early chapters of Acts describe an integrative community of “Hebrews” and “Hellenists,” where people are physically restored and where the rich share their possessions and social justice is furthered, while hypocritical behavior in this respect is condemned. The communal aspects of early practice among believers are emphasized, particularly table fellowship and communal ownership, and it is precisely in these two areas that, in spite of Luke’s general idealization, abuse is noted.62 Similarities to the picture retrieved from Paul are obvious63 and the practice is clearly imitative of the Jesus tradition: justice and judgment, healing and eating, sharing and integration belong to the characterization of Jesus within an eschatological prophet paradigm. 60 See
John A. T. Robinson, “Elijah, John and Jesus: An Essay in Detection,” NTS 4 (1958):
263–81. 61 See
Hans Conzelmann, Acts of the Apostles: A Commentary on the Acts of the Apostles (Hermeneia; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1987), xliv; Jervell, Apostelgeschichte, 162–73. 62 For example, the “fraud” by Ananias and Sapphira (Acts 5:1–11) and the mismanagement of meal distribution to “hellenic” widows (Acts 6:1–6). 63 See above and particularly the references to Romans, 1 Corinthians, and Galatians on pp. 601–2 above.
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In addition to koinōnia and diakonia, Luke also describes a readiness for suffering, humiliation, and martyrdom, to the point of “rejoicing . . . that they had been counted worthy of being dishonored for the sake of the name” (Acts 5:41; cf. 4:19–20; 7:54–60). As we have seen above, the character of martyrdom as christopraxy is conspicuous in Paul. For Luke, in Acts, this goes back to the Jesus tradition, with its expectations of prophetic martyrdom to be shared by Jesus and his disciples alike (e.g., Luke 6:20–26; 13:31–35).64 Finally, just as in Paul, early community practice includes intensive prayer, associated with the gift of the spirit, and in imitation of Jesus’ own practice (Acts 1:14; 2:1–4, 42; 4:23–31).65 As we have seen, the early chapters of Acts contain traits that very much correspond to what we find in Paul and associate social and religious practice among early Christ-believers, as imagined by Luke, with an early eschatological prophet typology. This is probably Luke’s express intent, as he makes Gamaliel compare the new movement with earlier ones, known from Josephus, and likewise led by messianic, eschatological prophets (Acts 5:33–39). While Luke often gets historical and chronological details wrong and provides a rosier picture than does Paul, there is no reason to disregard or deny his general picture of practice among early followers of Jesus, imitating Jesus’ prophetic traits. Although certainly a narrative construct, it suggests that Pauline communities were not the only ones that exhibited a basic dependence on an eschatological prophet typology for their practices and beliefs.
IV. Reflections in Q Turning to Q involves even more difficulties than Acts, the most obvious being the simple fact that the source we discuss is a construction. Furthermore, we have to “mirror-read” to some extent if we are to draw any conclusions about the practice of a hypothetical “Q community” (or, more loosely, a “Q people”). The latter objection is valid with respect to Mark as well. The problem of mirror reading has been much discussed and should be taken seriously. While I agree with those who criticize an exaggeratedly allegorical reading of the Gospel texts, I do think there are clues to the general outlook and practice of the early groups of people that shaped such texts.66 Although overly detailed 64 See Thomas Kazen, “Son of Man and Early Christian Identity Formation,” in Identity Formation in the New Testament (ed. Bengt Holmberg and Mikael Winninge; WUNT 227; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2008), 97–122. 65 In addition to general and commonplace observations about Jesus’ manner of prayer and use of “father” in the Jesus tradition, note the relationship between Luke’s special tradition in Luke 10:21–24 and descriptions of the early Jerusalem community in ecstatic joy and prayer (Acts 2:4, 46–47; 4:31). 66 See Richard Bauckham, “For Whom Were Gospels Written?” in The Gospels for All Christians: Rethinking the Gospel Audiences (ed. Richard Bauckham; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1998),
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constructions of hypothetical communities should be avoided, it is still possible to argue that Jesus partly functions as a kind of community symbol in Q.67 Several scholars understand Q as a prophetic book, emphasizing Jesus’ prophetic character.68 Q’s organizing principle is seen as “judgment to this generation” according to a Deuteronomistic paradigm in which Israel’s disobedience and persecution of the prophets are seen to come to a climax with the eschatological figures of the Baptizer and Jesus.69 Q could thus be taken to reflect an early prophet typology of the kind that we are discussing. The latest decades have seen a number of attempts to stratify Q, most notably by John Kloppenborg Verbin,70 and prophetic elements have been assigned to the Q2 stratum, which emphasizes judgment, in distinction to an earlier stratum intent on wisdom teaching.71 A stratified Q has not been accepted by everyone,72 but this 9–48; Stephen C. Barton, “Can We Identify the Gospel Audiences?” in ibid., 173–94. I find Bauckham’s criticism exaggerated, however. Cf. Philip F. Esler, “Community and Gospel in Early Christianity: A Response to Richard Bauckham’s Gospels for All Christians,” SJT 51 (1998): 235–48; David C. Sim, “The Gospels for All Christians? A Response to Richard Bauckham,” JSNT 84 (2001): 3–27; Thomas Kazen, “Sectarian Gospels for Some Christians? Intention and Mirror Reading in the Light of Extra-Canonical Texts,” NTS 51 (2005): 561–78. For an example of a fairly balanced approach, see Graham N. Stanton, “Revisiting Matthew’s Communities,” in SBL 1994 Seminar Papers (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1994), 9–23; idem, “The Communities of Matthew,” in Gospel Interpretation: Narrative-Critical & Social-Scientific Approaches (ed. Jack Dean Kingsbury; Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International, 1997), 49–62. 67 Järvinen, “Community Symbol,” 515–21. Järvinen is, however, less confident about utilizing Q in the quest for the historical Jesus. Cf. also Kazen, “Identity Formation.” 68 See Migaku Sato, Q und Prophetie: Studien zur Gattungs- und Traditionsgeschichte der Quelle Q (WUNT 2/29; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1988); Richard A. Horsley with Jonathan A. Draper, Whoever Hears You Hears Me: Prophets, Performance and Tradition in Q (Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International, 1999); Richard A. Horsley, “Introduction—Jesus, Paul, and the ‘Arts of Resistance’: Leaves from the Notebook of James C. Scott,” in Hidden Transcripts and the Arts of Resistance: Applying the Work of James C. Scott to Jesus and Paul (ed. Richard A. Horsley; SemeiaSt; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2004), 1–26; idem, “The Politics of Disguise and Public Declaration of the Hidden Transcript: Broadening Our Approach to the Historical Jesus with Scott’s ‘Arts of Resistance’ Theory,” in Hidden Transcripts, ed. Horsley, 61–80. 69 John S. Kloppenborg Verbin, Excavating Q: The History and Setting of the Sayings Gospel (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 2000), 118–28, 143; Arto Järvinen, “The Son of Man and His Followers,” in Characterization in the Gospels: Reconceiving Narrative Criticism (ed. David Rhoads and Kari Syreeni; JSNTSup 184: Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1999), 180–222; Uro, “Apocalyptic Symbolism,” 67–118. 70 John S. Kloppenborg, The Formation of Q: Trajectories in Ancient Wisdom Collections (SAC; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1987); cf. Sato, Q und Prophetie; Burton L. Mack, The Lost Gospel: The Book of Q and Christian Origins (San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 1993); Leif E. Vaage, Galilean Upstarts: Jesus’ First Followers according to Q (Valley Forge, PA: Trinity Press International, 1994). 71 For a convenient summary, see Kloppenborg, Formation, 317–28. 72 Richard A. Horsley, “The Contours of Q,” in Horsley with Draper, Whoever Hears You, 61–93 (based on previous articles; for references, see p. 63 n. 10); Christopher M. Tuckett, “On the
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debate need not detain us, since it is not decisive for our present argument.73 As Kloppenborg himself points out “[s]tratigraphical analysis has nothing to do with the presumed age or provenance of either set of materials, or their claim to authenticity. It is sheerly a literary issue.” In line with my view on an eschatological prophet typology as constitutive for the Jesus tradition, I thus regard the prophetic stratum of Q as essentially “original,” whether or not it is deemed secondary from the perspective of literary redaction. Q abounds with judgment on hypocrisy, injustice, and wealth.74 It describes the kingdom as a blessing for the poor and hungry, defeating evil and bringing restoration to the sick and to outcasts, even to Gentiles.75 It portrays Jesus as a prophetic fulfillment of messianic expectations.76 A most interesting passage for our purpose is the Q version of Jesus’ sending of his disciples (Q 10:2–12). Luke presents this after the variant tradition of the sending of the Twelve, which he inherited from Mark (Luke 9:1–6//Mark 6:6–13), and he presents it as another sending of seventy-two disciples, to prepare for Jesus’ subsequent arrival. Matthew has rather chosen to fuse the two accounts into one (Matt 10:1–15).77 Despite the risks involved in mirror reading, we should ask ourselves whether this piece of Jesus tradition may somehow reflect the practice of the early communities transmitting it.78 In Luke it may be read as a blueprint for a broader group of disciples than the Twelve, corresponding to what he conceives of Stratification of Q,” Semeia 55 (1991): 213–22; Dunn, Jesus Remembered, 152–58. Cf. also Järvinen, “Son of Man,” 180–222; Jens Schröter, “The Son of Man as Representative of God’s Kingdom: On the Interpretation of Jesus in Mark and Q,” in Jesus, Mark and Q, ed. Labahn and Schmidt, 34–68; Christopher M. Tuckett, “The Son of Man and Daniel 7: Q and Jesus,” in Sayings Source, ed. Lindemann, 371–34. 73 My own position on Q is that I acknowledge it as the most plausible hypothesis for explaining the Synoptic problem and consider it possible to reconstruct in general outline. At the same time, I am somewhat reluctant to adopt too detailed a stratification. In addition, the idea that some parallel material with a low degree of literal correspondence between Luke and Matthew may be better explained by an oral rather than a literary relationship makes sense to me. For a discussion of oral Q material, see Dunn, Jesus Remembered, 224–38. 74 Q 3:7–9; (6:24–26); 6:39–45; 11:39–44, 46–52; (12:13–14, 16–21); 13:27–28; 16:13. 75 Q 6:20–23; 7:1b–2, 6b–10, 22–23; 11:14–20; 13:29–30; 14:16–24; 15:4–7. 76 Q 7:18–19, 22–23; 10:23b–24; 22:28–30. See Jacques Schlosser, “Q et la christologie implicite,” in Sayings Source, ed. Lindemann, 289–316, here 313. 77 Francis W. Beare, “The Mission of the Disciples and the Mission Charge: Matthew 10 and Parallels,” JBL 89 (1970): 1–13; W. D. Davies and Dale C. Allison, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Gospel according to Saint Matthew (ICC; 3 vols.; London: T&T Clark, 1991–2004), 2:163–64; Risto Uro, Sheep among the Wolves: A Study on the Mission Instructions of Q (AASF, Dissertationes Humanarum Litterarum 47; Helsinki: Suomalainen Tiedeakatemia, 1987), 39–50; Crossan, Birth of Christianity, 328–29. 78 See Richard A. Horsley, “Prophetic Envoys for the Renewal of Israel: Q 9:57–10:16,” in Horsley with Draper, Whoever Hears You, 228–49. Horsley’s identification of “a prophetic extension of Jesus’ own prophetic mission by a prophetic movement” (p. 248) is part of an argument against the idea of “itinerant charismatics,” in favor of a movement based on village communities.
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and describes as early Christian missionary activity in Acts. The idea of a second sending of a larger group (seventy or seventy-two—manuscripts are evenly divided) is probably Lukan redaction.79 In Q, however, this tradition corresponds to Mark’s narrative of Jesus’ sending of his disciples.80 We may thus argue that the differences between this version and the Markan one may reveal something about the communities living with the Q tradition. First, I take the Q version to be lacking references to exorcisms by the disciples.81 The mention in Matt 10:8 may be taken as influence from the Markan version, and it is doubtful whether any part of Luke 10:17–20 derives from Q.82 Second, there is an emphasis on table fellowship in the Q version (Q 10:8); I take Matthew’s omission of this as resulting from his reservations against possible interpretations of such a saying, similar to the interpretation of Gos. Thom. 14.83 Q would then reflect the fact that Jesus’ exorcistic activity was not necessarily imitated by all of his subsequent followers, but open meal practice was and took on new dimensions, repeatedly causing conflicts. Less speculative is the Q injunction to disciples to expect suffering and martyrdom (Q 14:27). This saying has a Markan version, too, repeated elsewhere by Matthew and Luke. It is, however, clearly a separate Q tradition, associating martyrdom with christopraxy; discipleship is conditional on imitating Jesus’ suffering. This corresponds to Jesus’ blessings in Q on the persecuted (Q 6:22–23) and fits with the expectations of prophetic martyrdom so evident in Q, in spite of the absence of a passion story (Q 11:49–51; 13:34).84 Finally, in Q, followers of Jesus are also depicted as sharing Jesus’ intimate relationship to the divine. In the instructions for righteous living, used by Matthew and Luke for the Sermons on the Mount and the Plain respectively, nonretributive practice is understood as resulting in divine sonship (Q 6:35–36). Jesus’ sonship is understood as both relationship and revelation, which he shares with his disciples, and it is associated with the spirit (Q 10:21–24). His sonship is expressed in his 79 Beare, “Mission Charge,” 2–3; Uro, Sheep, 56–72; The strong Lukan flavor of the passage is admitted even by Howard Marshall, although he prefers to regard it as based on tradition (The Gospel of Luke: A Commentary on the Greek Text [NIGTC; Exeter: Paternoster, 1978], 414). 80 Whether it is appropriate to speak of a sending event in Q may be discussed. Without Lukan redaction, the section contains missionary instructions that certainly reflect Jesus’ own practice, but not necessarily any single-event sending. See Markus Tiwald, “Der Wanderradikalismus als Brücke zum historischen Jesus,” in Sayings Source, ed. Lindemann, 523–34, here 532–33. 81 This is pointed out by Crossan, too, together with two other items in which Mark differs from Q: a demand for repentance and the allowance of staff and sandals (Birth of Christianity, 328–30). 82 The section is not included (not even as “doubtful”) in the content list of Kloppenborg Verbin, Excavating Q, 100. Even Sato, allowing for Luke 10:18–19 in an expanded Qlk, does not include the crucial vv. 17 and 20 (Q und Prophetie, 55–56). 83 See Davies and Allison, Matthew, 2:174. Furthermore, Matthew’s ἄξιος γὰρ ὁ ἐργάτης τῆς τροφῆς αὐτοῦ hardly suits the preceding phrase. 84 Kloppenborg Verbin, Excavating Q, 369–74; Christopher M. Tuckett, Q and the History of Early Christianity: Studies on Q (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1996), 296–322.
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manner of prayer, which he teaches his disciples (Q 11:2–4), and he explains the consequences of this relationship, which he expects them to share, in a parable about father–son interaction (Q 11:11–13).85 Although Q is a hypothetical document that does not directly describe the behavior of early followers of Jesus, it seems to contain the same basic elements of christopraxy that are found in Paul and Acts, confirming the eschatological and prophetic character of an early “root typology.” Whether this typology belongs to the earliest literary stratum of Q is not crucial to the argument. In any case, Q provides early evidence for an early community practice in imitation of most of the traits that we listed above as characteristic of Jesus as an eschatological prophet.
V. Reflections in Mark When dealing with Mark, we are returning to a text that provides us with much of the evidence for Jesus as an eschatological prophet. As in the case of Q, there is always a risk of circular reasoning when we mirror-read to find evidence for early community practice in order to confirm the interpretation of Jesus’ role drawn from these very texts. The situation is, however, neither as simple, nor as bad as that. While clearly at the root of the Gospel, a prophet christology is not Mark’s message. The author rather guides his readers or hearers into a “fuller” understanding of Jesus as a messianic Son of God.86 Nevertheless, the typology of an eschatological prophet is found barely below the surface, often with nostrils above. And it is this model that shapes Markan instructions on discipleship and expectations concerning Jesus’ followers. While acknowledging the problems involved in attempting to separate “husk” from “kernel” (see above under “Reflections in Acts”), we may at least conclude that the impression given by the Markan text of believers’ behavior as relating to an eschatological prophet typology is not a result of Markan redactional activity. Mark has a somewhat different agenda. The christopraxy that is reflected must be in some sense “pre-Markan.” Whether we can trace it beyond Mark’s community/ies or his reception of the Jesus tradition is not of crucial importance. The point is that here we have another source corroborating the evidence for an early interpretation of Jesus as an eschatological prophet, continuing to influence the practice of early Christ-believers. Limiting ourselves to material that the readers or hearers of Mark would rea85 See Tuckett, who associates Jesus’ sonship language with wisdom texts, but also notes its application to the disciples (Q and the History, 276–82). 86 William R. Telford, The Theology of the Gospel of Mark (NTT; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 30–41. For a thorough discussion of the importance and meaning of “Son of God” for Mark and his readers, see Adela Yarbro Collins, “Mark and His Readers: The Son of God among Jews,” HTR 92 (1999): 393–408; eadem, “Mark and His Readers: The Son of God among Greeks and Romans,” HTR 93 (2000): 85–100.
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sonably have appropriated for themselves as guidelines for their own practice, we encounter a correspondence similar to that found in Paul, Acts, and Q. While I am hesitant to suggest that Mark’s narratives of Jesus sending out his disciples would have been paradigmatic for the communities to which his Gospel first belonged, there are other clues. First, we find judgment on oppression and abuse, paired with care for the small and weak, in Jesus’ teaching to his disciples (Mark 9:42–48). It is generally agreed that the words about the mikroi are understood by Mark as directed to disciples in a broad sense, and the section as a whole seems to be adapted in order to function as church instruction.87 Second, in the numerous narratives highlighting Jesus’ restorative kingdom activities, such as healing and table fellowship, the disciples are often challenged or charged, either because of Jesus’ behavior or their own. In the house of Levi, Jesus’ followers are held responsible for his table fellowship, but he answers his adversaries (Mark 2:16–17). In the following passage, Jesus has to defend his disciples for not fasting (2:19), and later for picking corn on the Sabbath (2:23–28). In the (in)famous hand-washing incident, the disciples are again accused of not conforming to expected norms, this time purity halakah, and Jesus defends their behavior (7:1–13). In all cases, Jesus’ defense is fully in line with Israelite prophetic tradition, emphasizing justice, mercy, and inner disposition. In all cases, Jesus’ attitude can be interpreted as expressing his giving the kingdom and its purpose ultimate priority. And in all cases, the narrative disciples behave in ways that later become important for the practice of Markan communities in areas of table fellowship, Sabbath keeping, and purity law.88 Hence, there are good reasons to believe that these passages do not just coincidentally suit Markan Christ-believers but that they are shaped to give possibilities for identification; thus in a sense they reflect early christopraxy. Third, the importance of a servant attitude is emphasized in Mark (9:35–37). Instructions to the disciples in this respect end on a general note. This is the case, too, with the issue of homelessness and giving up possessions. Jesus’ instructions to his followers are framed so as to be understood as generally applicable (10:29–30). These issues are intimately linked to the prophetic expectation of suffering and martyrdom that is expressed in the three Markan predictions and concern not only Jesus himself but also his disciples (cf. 8:34–37; 10:35–45). Just as in Q, this expectation is associated with the idea of following or imitating Jesus. It suggests a readiness for prophetic martyrdom not only among Jesus’ immediate followers but also
87 Morna
D. Hooker, The Gospel according to Saint Mark (BNTC; Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1991), 230–31; cf. Joachim Gnilka, Das Evangelium nach Markus (Mk 8,27–16,20) (EKKNT 2.2; Zurich: Benziger; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1979), 63–67. 88 In addition, the disciples also figure in the feeding miracle (Mark 6:30–44), where they are challenged by Jesus (v. 37): δότε αὐτοῖς ὑμεῖς φαγεῖν, in a manner suggesting that this injunction is paradigmatic for the social practice of Markan believers.
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in Mark’s context, and the discourse in Mark 13 emphasizes the eschatological character of the perspective (cf. Q 14:26–27; 17:33).89 Finally, just as Mark portrays Jesus in close relationship with God, as praying (1:35) and pleading with God, using the Aramaic Abba (14:36), he makes this attitude applicable to believers through Jesus’ teaching on prayer (11:22–25). Prayer is linked with faith or confidence (πίστις) and forgiveness. While Mark uses “father” for God only twice—it seems not to be a typical trait of his own outlook—these two occasions are Jesus’ Abba-prayer in Gethsemane and his teaching on prayer in which God is described as “your father.” Although we have recognized the risks of mirror reading, instructions to disciples that may reasonably be taken as framed to be more generally applicable, that is, to believers’ behavior in a Markan context, contain the same or similar traits as the rest of the material discussed. Not only Mark’s picture of Jesus, but also early christopraxy as traced in Mark, display those eschatological and prophetic traits that we have listed repeatedly, in spite of Mark’s own christology having a slightly different main point. The practice envisaged reflects the kingdom with its dual message of judgment and restoration. It focuses on servant attitudes, suffering, and martyrdom. It relates to the divine with a conspicuous nearness and trust, manifested in prayer to God as father. In all this, social and religious practices of early Christ-believers confirm the eschatological and messianic prophet as the primary model, a “root typology” that is constitutive of further christological development.
VI. Christopraxy and Experience It is often asserted that early christology is based on experience and response. This is usually applied to the post-Easter development of Christian faith, in which resurrection appearances, experiences of the spirit, and communal worship caused early followers of Jesus to develop an exceptional understanding of his spiritual authority and lordship, which triggered christological development.90 As already mentioned, some regard this development as a fairly slow process, requiring a good part of a century, while others see it as taking place very quickly, within a few months or years.91 While revelatory as well as devotional or “liturgical” post-Easter experiences were certainly influential, I am not at all convinced that christological development 89 Tuckett concludes that also in Q discipleship is a matter of realized eschatology rather than Cynic-like freedom (Q and the History, 390–91). 90 Edvin Larsson, “Jesu uppståndelse och kristologins framväxt,” in Jesustolkningar idag: Tio teologer om kristologi (Stockholm: Verbum, 1995), 88–118. Cf. the title of Petr Pokorný’s main chapter “The Decisive Impulse,” in The Genesis of Christology: Foundations for a Theology of the New Testament (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1987), 63. 91 Hurtado, Lord Jesus Christ, 118. Hurtado’s claim for “Christ-devotion” being born more or less full-grown seems to me exaggerated.
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was that rapid.92 I would rather suggest that pre-Easter experiences played a crucial role for the “root typology” focused on Jesus as an eschatological prophet, which is constitutive in early belief and practice. We may, of course, speak of pre-Easter experiences in a strict sense only when we talk about the historical (primary) experiences of Jesus’ immediate followers. But these historical experiences were mediated through the Jesus tradition as narrative (secondary) experiences, whether orally or as written text, to early Christ-believers. While in no way uninfluenced by Easter faith, these narrative experiences nevertheless mediate traits of an eschatological prophet, a pre-Easter Jesus—certainly blended, since history is no resurrection of the past, but rétrodiction—to post-Easter believers, shaping their beliefs and practices. The effect of this process is the christopraxy for which we have found evidence in a number of sources. Such practice is basically imitative, based at first on historical and very soon on narrative experiences of Jesus’ own attitudes and behavior, repeating, continuing, and applying them in new contexts. A prerequisite for this is a basic correspondence between the general life experiences of early believers and their historical or narrative experiences of Jesus as an eschatological prophet. Such correspondence existed. Every early Christ-believing community was rooted in Jewish tradition. A messianic and prophetic typology was part of their historical, religious, and political framework. Jesus’ prophetic practice related to known categories. His message of kingdom and restorative actions had precedents. His table fellowship was controversial but made sense, whether approved of or not. His servant ethics and preparedness for suffering and martyrdom were part of history as well as contemporary life. His intimate type of spirituality, manifested in his mode of prayer, suggesting the nearness of humans to the divine, may have been exceptional in part, but had precedents in Jewish piety and apparently appealed to people, giving room for their own experiences of life’s conditions and hopes for the future. While these early followers of Jesus definitely had a post-Easter faith, their social and ethical practice—their christopraxy—was based not primarily on revelations and devotional or “liturgical” experiences, but on narrative experiences going back to historical experiences of Jesus as an eschatological prophet. This is the stuff from which their christopraxy was built. Does this mean that devotional or “liturgical” experiences play no role for early christopraxy, but only for subsequent doctrinal development? Such a dichotomy between faith and practice would be highly implausible. We should rather consider that much of what we would call devotional or “liturgical” expressions are practices inherited from the Jesus tradition. Of the six devotional expressions mentioned by Hurtado as arguments for an exploding high christology, 92 Thomas Kazen, “Response to Larry Hurtado: ‘To Live and Die for Jesus . . . ,’” SEÅ 70 (2005): 333–38.
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several represent Jesus’ own practice, which became paradigmatic for his followers. Like him, they baptized, shared bread, and prayed to God as father.93 The difference is that prayer, baptism, and table fellowship were now practiced in Jesus’ name. This experience provided a step on the way to his developed ontological status, but in themselves, early devotional or “liturgical” practices emanated, just like the social and ethical practices, from historical and narrative experiences of Jesus as an eschatological prophet. Devotional or “liturgical” practices are thus part of early christopraxy, too, and the experiences they generate function to confirm the validity of historical and narrative experiences of Jesus, motivating a continued christopraxy by his followers.
VII. Conclusions How did early Christ-believers view Jesus? We have argued for an eschatological and messianic prophet as the most plausible model for the historical figure of Jesus, grounded in first-century Jewish experience and expectation. It may be understood as a “root typology,” constitutive of various types of early Christ-belief, and a model in which most, if not all, other early literary and theological developments of the picture of Jesus have a foothold. This is further confirmed by the social and ethical practices—and at least in part by the “liturgical” practices, too—of various early Christ-believing communities, as far as we can trace them. Looking for reflections in Paul, Acts, Q, and Mark, we have found early christopraxy as basically imitative, depending on some degree of correspondence between believers’ own life experiences and historical experiences of Jesus from Nazareth, mediated by narrative experiences, in oral and written forms. Although devotional or “liturgical” experiences may be crucial for subsequent christological development, they are not formative for early christopraxy. They have, however, the function of motivating it by confirming the validity of those historical and narrative experiences that underlie the practice of early believers. 93 The
issue of whether Jesus (following John) baptized is debated; see Kazen, Jesus and Purity Halakhah, 243–48.
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Introducing the Catholic Commentary on Sacred Scripture The Gospel of Mark Mary Healy 9780801035869 • 384 pp. • $19.99p Available November 2008
First and Second Timothy, Titus George T. Montague, SM 9780801035814 • 288 pp. • $17.99p Available November 2008
GENERAL EDITORS: Peter S. Williamson (Sacred Heart Major Seminary) Mary Healy (Sacred Heart Major Seminary)
ASSOCIATE EDITOR: Kevin Perrotta (award-winning Catholic journalist)
CONSULTING EDITORS: Scott Hahn (Franciscan University of Steubenville) Daniel J. Harrington, SJ (Weston Jesuit School of Theology) William S. Kurz, SJ (Marquette University) Francis Martin (Dominican House of Studies) Frank J. Matera (Catholic University of America) George T. Montague, SM (St. Mary’s University) Terrence Prendergast (Archbishop of Ottawa)
T Catholic Commentary on Sacred Scripture The (CCSS) responds to the desire of Catholics to study the Bible in depth and in a way that integrates Scripture with Catholic doctrine, worship, and daily life. Written by respected Catholic biblical scholars, these readable, informative commentaries draw on the best of contemporary Catholic scholarship. The authors implement the theological principles for interpreting Scripture taught by Vatican II, reading Scripture in its canonical context and interpreting it in the light of Catholic tradition.
Also New from Baker Academic TThe Architecture of Herod, the Great Builder Ehud Netzer Eh 9780801036125 • 464 pp. • $69.99p 97 “No one knows Herod’s buildings as well as Netzer; he distills what he “N kknows about him in this readable book. He neither talks down to nonarcchitects nor uses highly technical vocabulary. . . . Since he has excavated many of the sites himself and has worked extensively with the excavators m of most of the others, the study is based on intimate familiarity with Herod aand his world. . . . There is still more to learn about this remarkable ruler aand the products of his fertile imagination; Netzer is now the indispensable sstarting point.”—Peter Richardson, Review of Biblical Literature
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Available at local bookstores, www.bakeracademic.com, or by calling 1-800-877-2665 Subscribe to Baker Academic’s electronic newsletter (E-Notes) at www.bakeracademic.com
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I. Howard Marshall This condensed version of I. Howard MarshallÔs celebrated New Testament Theology distills the essential conclusions of one of todayÔs most respected evangelical New Testament scholars. Its author-by-author format also makes it an attractive supplement for courses in New Testament survey or introduction.
630.734.4000 . ivpacademic.com
JBL 1 Fall 08 Ad #4294 1
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DRSGDQ (TOTC Volume 13) Debra Reid Replacing the previous volume by Joyce Baldwin, Debra Reid has written a contemporary introduction to the major critical questions and themes of Esther. ReidÔs commentary adopts the concise, passage-by-passage interpretation that has become the hallmark of the Tyndale commentaries. ÑThe Tyndale volumes have long been the premier shorter-length commentary series on both Testaments throughout the English-speaking world.Ò ÐCraig Blomberg, Denver Seminary
630.734.4000 . ivpacademic.com
JBL 2 Fall 08 Ad #4295 1
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New and Recent Titles “they shaLL Purify themseLves” essays on Purity in early Judaism susan Haber Adele Reinhartz, editor Recent decades have witnessed numerous studies of the role of purity in early Judaism, from ancient Israel to the rabbinic period, covering a variety of topics and approaches. The essays in this volume address three less-studied areas of this broader field: the connection, if any, between purity and the synagogue; Jesus’ observance of purity laws; and women’s relationships with purity in the first century. By providing a new perspective on the role of purity in firstcentury Judaism, this collection illuminates ancient practice and informs our understanding of the role of purity in the contemporary world. Paper $31.95 978-1-58983-355-5 256 pages, 2008 Code: 063524 early Judaism and its Literature 24 hardback edition www.brill.nl
John rufus: the LivEs of Peter the iBerian, theodosius of JerusaLem, and the monk romanus Translated with an introduction and Notes by Cornelia B. Horn and Robert R. Phenix Jr. This book makes available important works by the antiChalcedonian historian and biographer John Rufus on Peter the Iberian, Theodosius of Jerusalem, and Abba Romanus, three key figures of the Christian history of Palestine in the fifth and early sixth centuries c.e. The work offers a new critical edition of the Syriac text; the first-ever published English translation; an introduction to Palestinian monasticism, the christological controversies of the time, and the life and writings of John Rufus; and annotations to a Syriac text whose Greek original is no longer available. Paper $51.95 978-1-58983-200-8 464 pages, 2008 Code: 061624 Writings from the Greco-roman World hardback edition www.brill.nl
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 Order online at www.sbl-site.org
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New and Recent Titles Lamentations in anCient and ContemPorary CuLturaL Contexts Nancy C. Lee and Carleen Mandolfo, editors This volume gathers an international collection of essays on biblical lament and Lamentations, illuminating their genres, artistry, purposes, and significant place in the history and theologies of ancient Israel. It explores lament across cultures as the practices of composition, performance, and interpretation of life’s suffering continue to shed light on our knowledge of biblical lament. The contributors are Borislav Arapović, Wilma Ann Bailey, Adele Berlin, Mark J. Boda, Walter Brueggemann, Amy C. Cottrill, F. W. Dobbs-Allsopp, Clyde Fant, Erhard S. Gerstenberger, Archie Chi Chung Lee, Nancy C. Lee, Tod Linafelt, Carleen Mandolfo, William Morrow, Kathleen O’Connor, Kimberly Wedeven Segall, Gerald West, and Robert Williamson Jr. Paper $34.95 978-1-58983-357-9 288 pages, 2008 Code: 060743 symposium 43 hardback edition www.brill.nl
the soCiaL sCienCes and BiBLiCaL transLation Dietmar Neufeld, editor The Bible is an ancient book, written in a language other than English, describing social and cultural situations incongruent with modern sensibilities. To help readers bridge these gaps, this work examines the translation and interpretation of a set of biblical texts from the perspectives of cultural anthropology and the social sciences, showing the importance of their insights in an age of ever-increasing manipulation of the biblical text. The contributors are Alicia Batten, Zeba A. Crook, Richard E. DeMaris, John H. Elliott, Rob Kugler, Carolyn Leeb, Dietmar Neufeld, John J. Pilch, Richard L. Rohrbaugh, and John Sandys-Wunsch. Paper $24.95 978-1-58983-347-0 200 pages, 2008 Code: 060741 symposium 41 hardback edition www.brill.nl
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 Order online at www.sbl-site.org
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Law and wisdom in the Bible Mining a complicated and profound biblical text
Daube’s Gifford lectures embrace the study of law and wisdom in the Bible and enrich the elds of biblical criticism, biblical history, ethics, and the history of law with respect to its roots in Old Testament traditions.
THE DEED AND THE DOER IN THE BIBLE DAVID DAUBE’S GIFFORD LECTURES, VOL. 1 David Daube Edited and Compiled by Calum Carmichael 978-1-59947-134-1 312 pp $34.95 www.templetonpress.org
1-800-621-2736
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JOURNAL OF BIBLICAL LITERATURE PUBLISHED QUARTERLY BY THE
SOCIETY OF BIBLICAL LITERATURE (Constituent Member of the American Council of Learned Societies) EDITOR OF THE JOURNAL General Editor: JAMES C. VANDERKAM, University of Notre Dame, Notre Dame, IN 46556
NEW RESOURCE FOR TEACHING AND STUDY
EDITORIAL BOARD Term Expiring 2008: ELLEN B. AITKEN, McGill University, Montreal, Quebec H3A 2T5 Canada MICHAEL JOSEPH BROWN, Emory University, Atlanta, GA 30322 TERENCE L. DONALDSON, Wycliffe College, Toronto, ON M5S 1H7 Canada STEVEN FRIESEN, University of Texas at Austin, Austin, TX 78712 JENNIFER GLANCY, Le Moyne College, Syracuse, New York 13214 A. KATHERINE GRIEB, Virginia Theological Seminary, Alexandria, VA 22304 ARCHIE C. C. LEE, The Chinese University of Hong Kong, Shatin New Territories, Hong Kong SAR DANIEL MARGUERAT, Université de Lausanne, CH-1015 Lausanne, Switzerland RICHARD D. NELSON, Perkins School of Theology, So. Methodist Univ., Dallas, TX 75275 DAVID L. PETERSEN, Candler School of Theology, Emory University, Atlanta, GA 30322 YVONNE SHERWOOD, University of Glasgow, Glasgow, Scotland, G12 8QQ, United Kingdom LOREN T. STUCKENBRUCK, University of Durham, Durham, England, DH1 3RS, United Kingdom PATRICIA K. TULL, Louisville Presbyterian Theological Seminary, Louisville, KY 40205 2009: DAVID L. BARR, Wright State University, Dayton, OH 45435 THOMAS B. DOZEMAN, United Theological Seminary, Dayton, OH 45406 ELIZABETH STRUTHERS MALBON, Virginia Polytechnic Institute and State University, Blacksburg, VA 24061-0135 MARTTI NISSINEN, University of Helsinki, FIN-00014 Finland EUNG CHUN PARK, San Francisco Theological Seminary, San Anselmo, CA 94960 TURID KARLSEN SEIM, University of Oslo, N-0315 Oslo, Norway BENJAMIN D. SOMMER, Northwestern University, Evanston, IL 60645 LOUIS STULMAN, University of Findlay, Findlay, OH 45840 2010: BRIAN BRITT, Virginia Polytechnic Institute and State University, Blacksburg, VA 24061-0135 JOHN ENDRES, Jesuit School of Theology at Berkeley, Berkeley, CA 94709 MICHAEL FOX, University of Wisconsin, Madison, WI 53706 STEVEN FRAADE, Yale University, New Haven, CT 06520-8287 MATTHIAS HENZE, Rice University, Houston, TX 77251 STEPHEN MOORE, Drew University, Madison, NJ 07940 CATHERINE MURPHY, Santa Clara University, Santa Clara, CA 95053 EMERSON POWERY, Lee University, Cleveland, TN 37312 ADELE REINHARTZ, University of Ottawa, Ottawa, ON K1N 6N5 Canada RICHARD STEINER, Yeshiva University, New York, NY 10033-3201 SIDNIE WHITE CRAWFORD, University of Nebraska-Lincoln, Lincoln, NE 68588-0337
WHAT THE NEW TESTAMENT AUTHORS REALLY CARED ABOUT Kenneth Berding and Matt Williams, editors
What the New Testament Authors Really Cared About is a fresh approach to understanding what is really important in the New Testament. This introductory survey concentrates on the most important themes of each book and letter in the New Testament. By asking what Matthew (or any other New Testament author) really cared about when he wrote, we discover what to pay attention to when we read, and why it makes a difference to us today. t $IBQUFSTBSFPSHBOJ[FEBSPVOEFBDI of the nine New Testament authors and focus on what each author really DBSFEBCPVUJOPSEFSUPFNQIBTJ[F their concerns—not ours. t .PSFUIBOPOFIVOESFETJEFCBST explore how New Testament authors might apply their writings to $ISJTUJBOTUPEBZ t 0OFQBHFTOBQTIPUTFYBNJOF introductory issues (who, when, where, why), providing essential information in condensed form. t 'JWFNBQTBOENPSFUIBOGJGUZDPMPS photographs bring biblical sites and culture to life.
Editorial Assistant: Monica Brady, University of Notre Dame, Notre Dame, IN 46556 President of the Society: Jonathan Z. Smith, University of Chicago, Chicago, IL 60637; Vice President: David Clines, University of Sheffield, Sheffield S10 2TN England; Chair, Research and Publications Committee: Benjamin G. Wright III, Lehigh University, Bethlehem, PA 18015; 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$35.00 for members and US$165.00 for nonmembers. Institutional rates are also available. For information regarding subscriptions and membership, contact: Society of Biblical Literature, Customer Service Department, P.O. Box 133158, Atlanta, GA 30333. Phone: 866-727-9955 (toll free) or 404-727-9498. FAX: 404-727-2419. E-mail: [email protected]. For information concerning permission to quote, editorial and business matters, please see the Spring issue, p. 2.
$24.99 | paperback | 240 pp. ISBN 978-0-8254-2539-4
What the New Testament Authors Really Cared About is a collaborative project involving fifteen New Testament scholars who teach undergraduate students and understand their learning styles. The resulting resource is intentionally shorter than other surveys and designed for quick comprehension.
The Hebrew font used in JBL is SBL Hebrew and is available from www.sbl-site.org/Resources/default.aspx. The JOURNAL OF BIBLICAL LITERATURE (ISSN 0021–9231) is published quarterly by the Society of Biblical Literature, 825 Houston Mill Road, Suite 350, Atlanta, GA 30329. Periodical postage paid at Atlanta, Georgia, and at additional mailing offices. POSTMASTER: Send address changes to Society of Biblical Literature, P.O. Box 133158, Atlanta, GA 30333. PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
800.733.2607
Available from your favorite online or local bookstore or from Kregel directly at 800-733-2607. Professors can request examination copies by e-mailing [email protected].
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B AY L O R U N I V E R S I T Y P R E S S
127 3 2008
New from
JOURNAL OF
BIBLICAL LITERATURE FALL 2008
Amos
VOLUME 127, NO. 3
A Handbook on the Hebrew Text
Duane A. Garrett
Genesis 1-11 A Handbook on the Hebrew Text
Barry Bandstra $24.95 | 5 ½ x 7 ½, 600 pages Paper | ISBN 978-1-932792-70-6
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JOURNAL OF BIBLICAL LITERATURE
$24.95 | 5 ½ x 7 ½, 300 pages Paper | ISBN 978-1-932792-69-0
Who Led the Scapegoat in Leviticus 16:21? Raymond Westbrook and Theodore J. Lewis
417–422
Warfare and Wanton Destruction: A Reexamination of Deuteronomy 20:19–20 in Relation to Ancient Siegecraft Jacob L. Wright
423–458
Reconstructing Meaning in Deuteronomy 22:5: Gender, Society, and Transvestitism in Israel and the Ancient Near East Harold Torger Vedeler
459–476
In Search of the Narrator’s Voice: A Discourse Analysis of 2 Kings 18:13–16 Yoo-ki Kim
477–489
Dismantling the Deconstruction of Job Philippe Guillaume
491–499
Turban and Crown Lost and Regained: Ezekiel 21:29–32 and Zechariah’s Zemah Marko Jauhiainen
501–511
Marcion’s Gospel and Luke: The History of Research in Current Debate Dieter T. Roth
513–527
Three More Fish Stories (John 21:11) Mark Kiley
529–531
The Acts of the Apostles, Greek Cities, and Hadrian’s Panhellenion Laura Nasrallah
533–566
Paul’s “Partisan ἐκ” and the Question of Justification in Galatians Don Garlington
567–589
The Christology of Early Christian Practice Thomas Kazen
591–614 US ISSN 0021-9231
