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

JOURNAL FOR THE STUDY OF THE OLD TESTAMENT SUPPLEMENT SERIES

200

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

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

Sheffield Academic Press

The Bible in Human Society Essays in Honour of John Rogerson

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

Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Supplement Series 200

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

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

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

ISBN 1-85075-568-X

CONTENTS Preface Abbreviations List of Contributors

9 12 14

LOVEDAY ALEXANDER Narrative Maps: Reflections on the Toponymy of Acts

17

C.K. BARRETT The First Christian Moral Legislation

58

MARK G. BRETT The Political Ethics of Postmodern Allegory

67

WALTER BRUEGGEMANN Five Strong Rereadings of the Book of Isaiah

87

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

105

BRUCE CHILTON The Hungry Knife: Towards a Sense of Sacrifice

122

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

139

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

158

JOHN M. COURT A Future for Eschatology?

186

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

205

MARGARET DAVIES On Prostitution

225

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

249

JOHN ELWOLDE

Bne Brit? Hebrew, English, and the English

257

J. CHERYL EXUM Michal at the Movies

273

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

293

JOHN JARICK Theodore of Mopsuestia and the Interpretation of Ecclesiastes

306

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

317

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

335

HANS-PETER MÜLLER Schöpfung, Zivilisation und Befreiung

355

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

366

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

393

Contents

7

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

411

WOLFGANG RICHTER Zum Verhältnis von Literaturwissenschaft, Linguistik und Theologie

422

CHRISTOPHER ROWLAND The 'Interested' Interpreter

429

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

445

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

459 462 472

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

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

Preface

11

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

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

HAT HBT

HSM HTR HUCA ICC IDB Int ISBE JBL JJS

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

Abbreviations

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

WUNT WW ZAW ZTK

13

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

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

List of Contributors

15

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

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NARRATIVE MAPS: REFLECTIONS ON THE TOPONYMY OF ACTS Loveday Alexander

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

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

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

ALEXANDER Narrative Maps

19

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

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

ALEXANDER Narrative Maps

21

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

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

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

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

ALEXANDER Narrative Maps

23

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

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

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

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

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

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

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used to provide a terminus post quern for the author, as in 2.13.3, where Perilaus is identified as 'eirenarch' of Cilicia, a post-Trajanic office, but Xenophon's phraseology here seems an unconscious betrayal of his own period, reflecting a naive lack of chronological sensitivity, rather than a conscious attempt to provide a temporal location for the narrative.35 Primary Toponyms The distinction between primary and secondary toponyms is less obvious in Xenophon's work. The total number of geographical names in the two novels is almost identical, but in Xenophon most of them occur in the primary narrative as locations for adventures. Thus where Chariton concentrates his dramatic action into three major settings, Xenophon (in a shorter text36) spreads his in a more episodic fashion across a much wider range of locations. The story begins and ends in Ephesus, which is doubly anchored in Ionia and in Asia.37 After their capture by pirates somewhere on the 'Egyptian sea' (1.12.3), the protagonists are taken first east (Phoenicia, Syria and Cilicia, with a detour to Cappadocia and Pontus), then south to Egypt and Ethiopia, then west to Italy and Sicily before making their way back to Rhodes for a tearful reunion. Within this framework, the sense of journeying is achieved for the most part in the simplest possible fashion, by naming destinations: Phoenicia, Cappadocia, Ethiopia, India, Italy.38 In the novel's final scene, Anthia catalogues the various attempts on her virtue by geographical region: 'No one persuaded me to go astray: not Moeris in Syria, Perilaus 35. Perilaus is described not as eipr|V(xpxT)<; but as 6 tfjc; eipf|vr|<; IT\C, ev KiA,iida Ttpoeaiax;. Ha'gg's assertion that 'the novel takes place in the same Near East, governed by the Romans, as the New Testament' (The Novel in Antiquity [Oxford: Blackwell, 1983], p. 30) seems overstated: the 'prefect of Egypt' which appears in translations at the point cited (4.2.1) is simply an apxcov, a much more inclusive title, and the use of a cross (crcaupoc;) as a means of execution appears also in Chariton's carefully Rome-free narrative (though the method of attachment is different, 3.4.18). In both cases it may well be an unconscious reflection of the timeframe of the author—but that is very different from the chronological setting of the narrative. 36. It is possible that the text as we have it may be (at least partly) epitomized; cf. Reardon, Collected Novels, p. 126; T. Hagg, 'Die Ephesiaka des Xenophon Ephesius: Original oder Epitome?', Classica etMediaevalia 27 (1966), pp. 118-61. 37. 1.1.1, 3. Asia seems to denote the continent, in the Ionian sense; cf. also 3.2.11. 38. E.g. 1.13.2; 2.14.3; 3.1.1; 4.3.1; 4.3.3; 5.1.1.

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in Cilicia, Psammis or Polyidus in Egypt, not Anchialus in Ethiopia, not my master in Tarentum' (5.14.2). The accumulation of these names allows the author to create a general sense of location in east, south or west without attempting any very precise topography. Regions are generally characterized by naming one major city: Tyre in Phoenicia (1.14.6); Antioch in Syria (2.9.1); Xanthus in Lycia (2.10.4); Tarsus in Cilicia (2.13.5); Mazacus in Cappadocia (3.1.1).39 Travel between one location and another is generally accomplished in the minimum of narrative time, with little attention to travel detail, nautical or otherwise (see Map 5).40 There are, however, two areas which show up on Xenophon's mental map as clusters of 'redundant' place-names. The first of these, naturally enough, is around the author's home ground of Ephesus: It cannot be doubted, then, that Xenophon speaks to us here of 'things seen' and of a land which he knows well. He volunteers precise geographical information which his narrative does not require: he will tell us, for example, that Xanthos is not on the coast but 'inland' [2.10.4]; that the processional route which leads from the city to Artemision is seven stades [1.2.2]; that, by sea, it is no more than 80 stades from Ephesus to the sanctuary of Apollo at Colophon [1.6.1]. These details hold all the more interest for us in that our author does not always display the same exactitude: outside Asia Minor, with which he appears to be tolerably well acquainted, his itineraries can be strange and disconcerting.41

As so often, the depth of information available on the 'home' locality has a distorting effect on the mental map. Thus we are told that 'the temple of Apollo in Colophon is...ten miles' sail from Ephesus' (1.6.1), and the honeymoon voyage between Ephesus and Rhodes seems long in 39. Sicily and Italy, unusually, muster four city names (Syracuse, Tarentum, Tauromenium, Nuceria), perhaps as the simplest means to allow for the separate destinations of the three protagonists. 40. Cf. e.g. the brief voyages to the west at 5.1.1; 5.3.3; 5.5.4; 7; 5.6.1. 41. Dalmeyda, Xenophon, pp. xi-xii: 'II n'est done pas douteux que Xenophon nous parle ici de "choses vues" et d'un pays qu'il connait bien. II donne volontiers des precisions geographiques que son recit n'exigeait pas: il nous dira, par exemple, que Xanthos n'est pas sur le littoral, mais "dans les terres" [2.10.4], que le trajet de la procession qui va de la ville a 1'Artemision est de sept stades [1.2.2]; que, par mer, il n'y a pas plus de quatre-vingts stades d'Ephese au sanctuaire d'Apollon a Colophon [1.6.1]. Ces details ont pour nous d'autant plus d'interet que notre auteur n'a pas toujours la meme exactitude: hors de 1'Asie-Mineure, dont il parait avoir quelque connaissance, ses itineraires sont, parfois, etranges et deconcertants.'

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proportion to other narrative journeys because of the listing of intermediate stages on the route: Samos, Cos, Cnidus (1.11.1-6). A proliferation of nautical business increases the sense of journeying which is so prominent at this stage of the narrative, and so lacking elsewhere. Similarly the banishment of Leucon and Rhode to Xanthus in Lycia, 'a town some distance from the sea' (2.10.4), sounds like one of the longest journeys in the book; yet the distance covered is relatively small in comparison with the narrative map as a whole (see Map 5A). The same technique of creating an itinerary by the use of redundant place-names is used in Egypt to enrich the sense of travel in an exotic location, but here Xenophon's local knowledge fails him. 'Egyptian' names are fired at the narrative in a scatter-gun effect which looks impressive but fails to make geographical sense (4.1.1-5); to quote Dalmeyda again, 'This itinerary of Hippothous is a kind of amiable fantasy'.42 A comparison with Strabo shows by contrast the weakness of Xenophon's conception of this area: certain features of the standard merchant route to India appear, but on the whole Xenophon's picture of the Nile Delta is thin on detail and—quite simply—confused (see Map 5B).43 Secondary Toponyms Secondary narrative in Xenophon is limited, but it does have the effect of increasing the text's geographical scope. Hippothous's lachrymose reminiscences provide a brief excursion to the northern end of the Aegean (Perinthus, Byzantium, Thrace; Lesbos, Phrygia Magna, Pamphylia, 3.2). The implied travels of Psammis, the Indian merchant prince, provide a southern dimension to the novel (Anthia is 'rescued' by the bandits en route to India, but gets no further than a cave in Ethiopia, 4.3). And several names from the Greek heartland (Sparta, Argos, Corinth) are entered on the narrative map through the autobiography of Aegialeus (5.1.4-13), the poor fisherman whom Habrocomes encounters in Syracuse and who turns out to be a 'Lacedaemonian 42. Dalmeyda, Xenophon, p. 49, my trans.: 'Get itineraire d'Hippothoos est d'une aimable fantaisie'; cf. Reardon, Collected Novels, p. 155. 43. Strabo mentions (going eastwards along the mouth of the Delta from Alexandria) Schedia (C800/17.1.16), Hermupolis, Mendes, Leontopolis (C802/ 17.1.19), and Pelusium (C803/17.1.21). For Memphis and the temple of Apis, cf. C807/17.1.31. There is another Hermopolis ('the Hermopolitic garrison, a kind of toll-station for goods brought down from the Thebais') above Memphis: C813/17.1.41. For Coptus, cf. C815/17.1.44-5.

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Spartan' exiled for love—a thoroughly classical provenance for this model of faithfulness to love in adverse circumstances. Decorative Toponyms These are relatively few, given Xenophon's rather two-dimensional narrative style. Xenophon shares to the full Chariton's 'Greek' disdain for 'barbarians',44 but he shows no interest in creating a cultural hinterland to the novel in the way that Chariton does through literary and historical allusion (above pp. 26-27). Only the opening description of the nuptial bedchamber (1.8.2) is rich enough to allow for decorative detail: 'Babylonian tapestry' and 'Nabatean ostriches'45 seem to be used as an indicator of luxury (cf. 2.7.3). But there is a sense in which the whole Egyptian narrative is overshadowed by the implied travels of the merchants who made Egypt, as Strabo tells us, 'the greatest emporium of the oikoumene",46 The constant stream of traffic up and down the Nile, from the commercial ports of Alexandria, past the duty-station at Schedia to Coptus and ultimately via the Red Sea ports to India,47 is the motive force that brings Psammis to Alexandria and attracts Hippothous to Coptus as a likely spot for a bit of banditry (4.1.5) (see Map 6). Acts The toponymy of the Paul narrative in Acts need not be described here in detail; see the Appendix for a summary. It is one of the most striking features of this narrative that the reader is suddenly swamped with geographical information, much of it presented with a prolixity of redundant detail (names underlined in the Appendix) that is surprising after the sparse and imprecise geography of the Gospels.48 This .cartographic complexity has suggested to more than one reader a parallel with the more fantastic realms of Greek prose narrative. Tomas Hagg's classic study of The Novel in Antiquity notes in passing that 'a map of the Mediterranean region showing the routes of the hero and heroine of a 44. Cf. Alexander, 'Voyaging', p. 35. 45. See Reardon's note adloc. 46. Strabo, Geography C798 (17.1.13). 47. Schedia: 4.1.3; cf. Strabo, Geog. C800 (17.1.16). Coptus: 4.1.4; cf. Strabo, Geog.CSIS (17.1.45). 48. M.A. Powell, What is Narrative Criticism? (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1990), p. 71.

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novel inevitably brings to mind the school-bible's map of the travels of St Paul'.49 Conzelmann makes a similar comparison with Xenophon of Ephesus: The addition of unimportant stopping-places along the way can be explained on literary grounds...[C]f. the extended description in Xen.Eph. 1.11-12. '50 We are now in a position to pursue this comparison in more detail by setting the familiar mental map of Acts alongside those of Paul, on the one hand, and the two novels on the other. In this final section I shall suggest some ways in which the insights of cognitive geography may be used to sharpen our perceptions of these narrative landscapes, and the similarities and differences between them. 1. The Geographical Horizon For the purposes of this paper, I have largely limited the comparison with Acts to the Pauline narratives, that is, chs. 13-28. This clearly excludes a number of Palestinian names (Galilee, Samaria, Gaza, Joppa, Lydda, Sharon), as well as the Diaspora centres named in the Pentecost narrative at 2.9-11. All of these are significant for the contours of the total narrative map of Acts, especially as adding to the information density on its eastern side.51 But the limitation provides a more straightforward comparison, in that from ch. 13 onwards Acts becomes more obviously a narrative of Mediterranean travel—a fact which is itself of some significance within the context of biblical geography, marking a decisive shift from the Jerusalem-centred perspective of the earlier part of Acts. Paul the traveller moves in an area bounded by Syria-Palestine in the east and Sicily-Italy in the west—which is very much the same geographical arena as the novels. But this central Mediterranean arena, which represents the primary location for action in all four mental maps, should not be conceived as a closed system comprising the sum of these texts' geographical horizons. For all of them, the immediate horizon of the known and familiar is breached by the implied narratives of travellers from more distant regions—pilgrims or merchants, or destinations planned but never reached. These implied narratives form 'information corridors' like those observed in twentieth-century mental maps linking home territory to vacation destinations—though ideas of the actual location of these desti49. 50. Press, 51.

Hagg, The Novel in Antiquity, endpapers. H. Conzelman, The Acts of the Apostles (Hermeneia; Philadelphia: Fortress 1987, trans, from 2nd German edn of 1972), p. xl and n. 88. Alexander, 'Voyaging', p. 30.

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nations may be hazy.52 Paul's own mental map, interestingly enough, is the only one of the four to extend its horizons westward beyond Italy— the planned trip to Spain would have have taken him into territory unexplored in the novels. Xenophon's map is breached at its southern extremity, with Anthia's threatened abduction to India via Ethiopia.53 Chariton's map opens out towards the east, with a major scene set in Babylon ('Beyond the River') and further horizons implied through the use of eastern names—Bactra, Susa and Ecbatana, with a glimpse of China in the distance. For Acts, it is the implied narratives of the pilgrims which most obviously open up the narrative map: Parthia, Media, Mesopotamia and Elam to the east (2.9), Arabia, Egypt and Ethiopia to the south (2.10-11; 8.27-39). Westwards, however, Luke's geographical horizon, like that of the novels, reaches no further than Sicily and Italy. 2. Invisible Landscapes and Spatial Biases It is the Mediterranean basin, then, that all four narratives have in common—or, more accurately, its eastern half. But within that common geographical framework there is room for enormous variation, both in the areas explored and in the details of their toponymy. Out of a total of 141 names, the combined mental map contains only four—an astonishingly low total—in common between all four narratives (Corinth, Asia, Cilicia, Syria). If we extend this to include names held in common by any three, we can add a further nine: Ephesus, Antioch, Athens, Syracuse, Crete, Lycia, Cyprus, Phoenicia and Tyre. Thus the common mental map of the Mediterranean area, taken from four broadly comparable travel accounts written no more than a century apart, reveals a surprisingly small degree of compatibility: 13 toponyms out of a total of 141. The lack of overlap here cannot be accounted for by the relative paucity of names in Paul. Paul's map contains only 21 names, but this includes two not shared by any of the other narratives (Spain, Illyricum) and a further eleven shared only with Acts (Rome, Macedonia, Thessalonica, Philippi, Achaea, Cenchreae, Troas, Galatia, Judaea, Jerusalem, Damascus, [Arabia54]). This means that over half of the 52. 'On information corridors', see Gould and White, Mental Maps, p. 103. On 'location', cf. their comment that many travellers (especially by air) are content 'to be transported through a tube of ignorance' (ibid., p. 83). Cf. further Alexander, 'Voyaging', pp. 27-28. 53. Alexander, 'Voyaging', pp. 28-29 with Figure 8. 54. Arabia: Acts 2.10.

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names on Paul's map (13 out of 21) do not correspond at all with the toponymy of the novels, despite the fact that they are talking about travels within the same geographical area. Acts has a greater degree of overlap, with a total of 17 names in common with one or both novelists—but of these only six overlap with both (Syracuse, Crete, Lycia, Cyprus, Phoenicia, Tyre).55 And these common lists are completely overshadowed by the long lists of toponyms unique to each narrative: 23 in Xenophon, 28 in Chariton and 38 in Acts.56 These statistics already underline the stark contrasts in the implied maps that different narratives can construct for the same geographical location. This implied map may well be much less extensive—and more schematic—than the actual geographical knowledge of the actual author and readers. Narrative, like cartography, involves selection from a bewilderingly large and inchoate mass of data in order to construct a two-dimensional account on paper. Nevertheless, the limitations of the implied map are an important feature of the total rhetorical effect of the narrative, an effective part of the filter by which the narrator controls the reader's perception of the narrative world. In cases where that world is—or purports to be—also a report of the readers' real world, these limitations may have a significant effect on readers' perceptions of the world outside the text. They may also reflect, in a more obvious fashion, the perceptual filter that governs the author's own view of the world: Human behaviour is affected only by that portion of the environment that is actually perceived. We cannot absorb and retain the virtually infinite amount of information that impinges upon us daily. Rather, we devise perceptual filters that screen out most information in a highly selective fashion... Our views of the world, and about people and places in it, are formed from a highly filtered set of impressions, and our images are strongly affected by the information we receive through our filters.57

Analysing the differences between the narrative maps in our study may give us some clues as to the perceptual filters which have created them—and which they create.

55. Overlap with Xenophon only: Chios, Cos, Cnidos, Rhodes, Phrygia, Pamphylia, Tarsus, Alexandria and Pontus. Overlap with Chariton only: Rhegium, Miletus, Paphos. 56. These figures do not include overlapping names from Acts 2 and 8: Cappadocia and Ethiopia (Xenophon), Media and Libya (Chariton). 57. Gould and White, Mental Maps, p. 28.

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3. The Political Landscape One of the filters most obviously at work here is political. The novelists select their toponyms in such a way as to create a Rome-free landscape which must (in the second century CE) be deliberate. Chariton does this by constructing a dramatic chronology anchored at a point in the historical past; Xenophon, less precise but equally resolute, by painting a timeless Hellenistic landscape. Acts, by contrast, shares Paul's commitment to the realistic political landscape of the first century. There are 13 names unique to Paul and Acts: Spain, Illyricum, Arabia, Rome, Macedonia, Thessalonica, Philippi, Achaea, Cenchreae, the Troas, Galatia, Judaea, Damascus, Jerusalem. Of these, the majority are Roman or are used in a distinctively Roman fashion.58 This is particularly evident in Sicily and Italy, where both the novelists studiously avoid mentioning Rome and focus on the old Greek colonies of Magna Graecia. Acts, by contrast, includes not only Rome itself but also three local staging-posts with disinctively Latin names (Puteoli, Appii Forum and Tres Tabernae59). It is no part of my purpose here to enter into the lengthy debate over the accuracy of Luke's political map for the precise date of the events he records. The point is a more general one: whether Acts was written in the first century or the second, its mental map exhibits a realism about the Roman dimension of the Mediterranean environment that is not mirrored in the romantic Hellenism of the second-century novelists. Where Acts differs from Paul, clearly, is in the addition of extra geographical detail which gives the toponymy of Acts a depth and variety lacking in Paul's much briefer travel notes. This makes Luke's map less starkly Roman than Paul's, but it remains firmly rooted in the contemporary political world. Thus Acts includes some of the older Greek regional names (Lycia, Pamphylia, Phrygia), which persisted in use throughout the Roman period and which are also reflected in the novels—though neither Xenophon nor Chariton shares Acts' knowledge of the inland regions of Galatia and Lycaonia. 'Asia' appears to be used broadly in the Roman sense to denote the province which included within its borders Chariton's more archaic 'Ionia' and 'Caria'.60 Luke 58. Cf. above, pp. 13-14, for Paul's use of Roman names. 59. Strabo, writing at the beginning of the first century, still uses the older Greek name for Puteoli, Dicaearchia: cf. C793 (17.1.7). 60. P. Trebilco, 'Asia', in Gill and Gempf (eds.), The Book of Acts in its GraecoRoman Setting, pp. 291-362 (292, 300-302).

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shows no compunction in following Paul's usage of 'Achaea' (18.12,27; 19.21), though he does once replace it with the less offensive 'Hellas' (20.2). But neither of the novelists refers to Greece in this way: they prefer in more classical fashion to talk of 'Attica', 'Lacedaemonia', and 'the Peloponnese' (much as the inhabitants of the political territory known to the world as 'Great Britain' tend to refer to their homeland as 'England', 'Wales' or 'Scotland'). 4. The Emotional Landscape Another filter that affects the construction of a mental map is emotional attachment and its inverse, emotional stress or hostility. The distribution of names on a map may be a good way of judging which areas represent 'home' and which are 'foreign territory', with blanks often providing unconscious evidence of stress patterns in the perceived environment.61 For most people, the known territory around the 'home' area looms disproportionately large on the mental map, in a way that can be rendered graphically by the 'information bump' caused by the larger number of local place-names to be fitted in. The effect is well illustrated in the Wallingford maps of the New Yorker's and the Bostonian's ideas of the United States. In the former, 'the northern borough of the Bronx is so far away that to all intents and purposes it is close to Albany and Lake George in the Adirondacks', while 'Connecticut is somewhere to the east, but it is mentally blurred with a place called Boston—obviously a mere village in the crook of Cape Cod'. For the Bostonian, on the other hand, 'brash, somewhat nouveau, towns like New York and Washington are put in their proper places in the hinterland, for it is clear that they are merely stopping points on the fringe of the West Prairies, where presumably other towns exist'.62 In general, common sense would lead us to expect a simple correlation between information and distance from home, so that the more distant areas of the map appear as 61. Gould and White, Mental Maps, pp. 12-17, 108: 'In cities of the United States people's spatial behaviour is shaped by the hills and valleys of the invisible information and environmental stress surfaces over them. One French newspaper... published a map of Manhattan in New York City, indicating what areas were safe to walk in day and night. The New York Times immediately responded with a similar cartographic guide to Paris, but both were making the same point: invisible stress surfaces lie over both cities, and influence people's paths and movements to a considerable extent.' 62. Gould and White, Mental Maps, pp. 17-25.

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blanks, ready to be peopled with the monsters of the imagination: 'Here Be Dragons'. Xenophon, as we have observed, exhibits a classic 'information bump' around his home territory of Ephesus, and the amount of geographical information shades off perceptibly as the narrative moves eastwards. Syria and Phoenicia, from this perspective, appear as virtual blanks, populated almost entirely by pirates and bandits. For Acts, by contrast, this is home territory, with a good distribution of local names (even more if we include Acts 1-12) and a chain of secure hospitality bases. Incidentally, the bandits are not entirely a figment of the novelistic imagination; there were bandits both in Syria and in Cilicia. Paul mentions them, in passing, as a hazard of his travels (though he does not say where: 2 Cor. 11.26), but there is no sign of them in Acts. This feature of the novelistic worldview is paralleled in the narratives' perception of where 'barbarians' are to be found. Both Chariton and Xenophon share a strongly Greek-centred perception of the Mediterranean world, in which the sea is 'the Greek sea',63 and the exotic lands to east and south of its borders are full of 'barbarians'. This is a classic instance of 'the stifling parochialism, the boundary thinking, the UsThemism' 6 4 that lies behind many mental maps, and which is unconsciously reflected even in the twentieth century in the North Atlantic attitude to 'the Oriental': In the ancient as in the modern world cultures and ideas have no frontiers. There were in the setting of Luke's stories many features that can be classified as neither Greek, Roman, Jewish, nor Christian. Some of these may be described as universally human, some as specifically ancient, while others belong to quite definite strands inside or outside the Roman Empire—Ethiopian, Arabian, Phoenician, Anatolian. For some of them we may apply the collective name oriental, but in doing so we should recall that it but imperfectly sums up them all, that they go back to very ancient migrations to the West and to indigenous cultures. In that melting pot it was not true that East is East and West is West And never the twain shall meet. In the time of Acts there was no oriental frontier either at the Euphrates or at the Bosporus. Even an imaginary frontier would have to place most of

63. Chariton: 4.7.8; 5.1.3. Cf. Alexander, 'Voyaging', pp. 34-35. 64. Gould and White, Mental Maps, p. 151.

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The Bible in Human Society the Eastern Mediterranean on the oriental side. Scratch beneath the skin of the other cultures and you will find the Oriental still there.65

Despite his caution, Cadbury's words, written in 1955, betray an alarming disposition to what Edward Said calls 'Orientalism' ,66 More to the point, they display the way in which the mental maps of the novels may provide a window into worldviews less frankly displayed in other ancient texts. Chariton, in fact, does draw a clear frontier on his map at the Euphrates, beyond which lies the Persian Empire ('Asia' in its fullest sense), peopled by barbarians who are 'slaves' to the Great King and given to un-Greek habits like proskunesis.61 West of this line are the Greeks, who are correspondingly free, noble and democratic. But even among the Greeks there are degrees of nobility, matched by their position to east or west on the map. The whole area from Babylon up to and including the Ionian coast is (for the dramatic purposes of the story) subject to Persia (which is why Dionysius of Miletus has to take his case to Babylon to submit it to the arbitration of the Great King). These Ionian Greeks are therefore several degrees less free than the Athenians, who play an important role in the political geography of the story (though they play none at all in its action). The Athenians, as Chariton frequently reminds his readers, had defeated the Persians at Salamis. The Syracusans, however, have just defeated the Athenians, which places them in the paradoxical position of being at one and the same time allies of the Persians in hatred of Athens, and supermen of the Mediterranean world as conquerors of the conquerors of the Great King.68 Thus for Chariton the area which scores highest on his map in terms of Graecitas (especially seen in its democratic institutions) is not the author's own homeland in Caria but Sicily in the farthest west. This background makes it easier to appreciate the force of Cadbury's observation. It is not true that 'in the time of Acts there was no oriental frontier either at the Euphrates or at the Bosporus', but it is true of Acts itself. Luke's worldview, as I have argued elsewhere, entails a reversal of the usual Greek perspective on the world; for Luke's hero, Syria and Phoenicia are home ground, while the Aegean is 65. H.J. Cadbury, The Book of Acts in History (London: Adam & Charles Black, 1955), pp. 27-28. 66. E. Said, Orientalism (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1978) 67. Euphrates: 5.1. Slaves: 6.4, 6.7, 7.1. Proskynesis: 5.3; cf. Reardon's note ad loc., and Arrian, Anabasis of Alexander 4.9.9; 4.10.5ff. 68. 5.8; 6.7; 7.5.

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unexplored territory. The reversal is highlighted by occasional touches of regional characterization. The only 'barbarians' in Acts are in the West, not in the East (28.2); and it is the Athenians, in the heartland of Greek culture, who are described as 'superstitious' (SeiaiSocijioveaTepoix;, 17.22).69

Chariton, with his ambivalent attitude towards Athens, actually shares Luke's slightly ironic characterization of the Athenians as 'busybodies'—compare Acts 17.21 with 1.11.6-7: But Theron did not like the inquisitive ways of the town. 'Look, are you the only people who don't know what busybodies they are in Athens? They're a nation of gossips, and they love lawsuits. There'll be hundreds of nosey parkers in the harbor wanting to know who we are and where we got this cargo we're carrying. Nasty suspicions will seize hold of their malicious minds—and it's the Areopagus straightaway, in Athens, and magistrates who are more severe than tyrants.'

But Paul's perception that the city is 'full of idols' (17.16) expresses a viewpoint which no pagan Greek writer would share: this is the outsider looking in, the representative of an eastern religion coming to the centre of classical culture and finding it wanting.70 This outside-in perspective on the Greek cities is reflected also in Acts' characterization of locality: where the novelists see temples, Luke foregrounds the meeting-places of the local Jewish community. These contrasting views of the urban landscape parallel the mental maps observed in a Los Angeles study, in which the maps of white, upper class respondents differed markedly from those other of ethnic groups. 'Most distressing of all was the viewpoint of a small Spanish-speaking minority in the neighbourhood of Boyle Heights...[which] includes only the immediate area, the City Hall and, pathetically, the bus depot—the major entrance and exit to their tiny urban world'.71 The Jewish community in fact creates both the social networks which support Paul and his associates and the location for their principal areas of environmental stress: for Acts, the boundary between 'us' and 'them' is to be found within the cities, not on the fringes of the map.

69. Alexander, 'Voyaging', p. 36. 70. Cf. also Acts' disparaging portrayal of the revered Greek cult of Artemis in Ephesus (19.23-41). 71. Gould and White, Mental Maps, p. 17.

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5. Narrative Functions Finally, what of the narrative functions of the place-names in Acts? Narrative choice represents a further significant factor in the filtering of information for the implied map of any given text. The novels clearly provide a number of useful parallels here, but it is also important to notice significant differences. First, geographical names have resonances of their own, and these can be exploited to build up the character of a distant locality. One result may be an inversion of the expected correlation between information and distance. In a literary text, the exotic may attract more place-names than the description of the homely and familiar. Chariton, as we have seen, uses 'secondary toponyms' in this way to give added topographical depth to his eastern and western locations, while the Ionian seaboard which he himself (presumably) knows best has a comparatively meagre ration of names. Xenophon's less sophisticated technique has a more even spread of place-names in the primary narrative. Here an 'information bump' of redundant toponyms around the Ionian seaboard seems to betray local knowledge of the 'home' region, but a second 'bump', in Egypt, is clearly used to evoke a sense of travel in a more exotic location. The names, though they do not appear to create a coherent itinerary, are real Egyptian names, some of them shared with Chariton's brief evocation of Egyptian topography: They gathered a large band of robbers and made for Pelusium; sailing on the Nile to the Egyptian Hermopolis and Schedia, they put in to Menelaus's canal and missed Alexandria. They arrived at Memphis, the shrine of Isis, and from there traveled to Mendes.. .Going through Tawa, they reached Leontopolis, and passing a number of towns, most of them of little note, they came to Coptus, which is close to Ethiopia. There they decided to do their robbing, for there was a great crowd of merchants passing through for Ethiopia and India...And when they had taken the heights of Ethiopia and got their caves ready, they decided to rob the passing travellers (4.1.2-5).

The brief description of the shrine of Apis (5.4.8-11) increases the sense of Egypt as an exotic location. If we look for the same techniques in Acts, it is the Aegean area, and the final voyage to Rome, which display the most striking use of redundant place-names (see the Appendix)— further confirmation of the observation made elsewhere, that, from the Jerusalem-centred perspective of Acts, it is the Aegean, rather than the

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eastern Mediterranean, which is terra incognita.12 Place-names may also be used in a narrative to create an impression of geographical verisimilitude—the sense that the narrator (and hence the reader) was 'really there'. Here our study has shown that, despite the importance of travel for the novels, it is not really the case (as is so often assumed) that topographical verisimilitude is a major preoccupation in romance. Chariton is extremely sparing in his use of geographical names, with the action focused overwhelmingly on three major locations. Even if we add in the names used in 'secondary' narrative, Acts has a far higher proportion of names to narrative.73 Xenophon has a greater variety of locations than Chariton, with a correspondingly greater variety of names, and in general provides a better parallel to Acts.74 But Xenophon's place-names are distributed more thinly over the Mediterranean area as a whole; despite the 'clusters' we noted in Ionia and Egypt, he cannot match the density of names that Acts displays for the relatively small area covered in Paul's mission (see Map 7). When we add to this our earlier observation that Luke's narrative world is a contemporary one, we are left with a level of topographical factuality which recalls the periplous literature, with its pragmatic attention to detail, rather than the novels.75 And the realism of this topography is enhanced by the noticeable use of redundant names which combine with the we-narration to create an impression of eyewitness participation: in fact, precisely of the autopsia which Luke promised his readers in the Gospel preface (see Map 8).76 And, finally, geographical names may play a significant role in a travel narrative in enhancing the sense of travel itself: they allow the reader to

72. Alexander, 'Voyaging', pp. 30-31. 73. Reckoning a page of Greek in the Bude edition as roughly equivalent to a page in NA26, Chariton has 76 pages with 56 different names; of these 28 occur in the primary narrative (19 regional names, 9 city or local names). Acts 13-28 has 51 pages with 70 different names, of which 65 occur in the primary narrative (16 regional, 54 city/local in all). 74. On the same reckoning, Xenophon has 37 pages of text with 54 different names, of which 47 occur in the primary narrative (18 regional, 29 city/local). 75. The Periplus Mans Erythraei provides a good example: cf. L. Casson, The Periplus Marts Erythraei (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1989). 76. I have argued elsewhere that autoptai are particularly associated with geographical information: cf. L.C.A. Alexander, The Preface to Luke's Gospel (SNTSMS, 78; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), pp. 34-41, 120-23.

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become a traveller by creating an illusion of movement in space (reading railway timetables can have the same effect). Here again, there is an immense variation in the narrative techniques of the novelists. For Chariton, as we have seen, most of the action is concentrated in major dramatic scenes in a limited number of locations. The process of travel between those locations, though itself part of the pathos of the hero (8.1.3), takes up a minimal amount of narrative space. Redundant names to mark the passage are few, and nautical 'business'—another way of foregrounding the travel process—seems to be deliberately eschewed. Callirhoe's first voyage is described in these terms: The ship put to sea and ran splendidly, since they were not struggling against sea and wind—they had no special course to follow; to their mind any wind was favorable, was a stem wind (1.11.1).

All the attention is focussed on the emotions of the heroine, expressed in a touching soliloquy (1.11.2-3). The passage of the Ionian Sea passes almost unnoticed: 'While she was bewailing her lot in this fashion, the brigands were sailing past small islands and towns' (1.11.4). Chaereas's pursuit is treated even more brusquely: after the emotion and rhetoric of the embarkation scene (3.5.1-9), the description of the voyage itself takes no more than a couple of lines: A following wind caught the trireme, and it ran as if in the tracks of the cutter; they reached Ionia in the same number of days and moored at the same beach (3.6.1).

The return crossing, despite Callirhoe's rhetorically heightened fears, is treated with equal insouciance: Meanwhile, Chaereas completed the journey to Syracuse successfully; he had a following wind all the time. Since he had big ships, he took the route across the open sea, terrified as he was of once more being a target for some cruel deity's attack (8.6.1).

Xenophon also presents most of his journeys in summary form; even the heroine's shipwreck (which occurs, oddly, on one of the book's shortest voyages, between Antioch and Tarsus) is decidedly short on nautical detail: They were caught by an adverse wind and the ship broke up; some of the crew survived with great difficulty and came ashore on planks with Anthia among them (2.11.10).

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Habrocomes' voyage to Italy is equally curtly described: Meanwhile Habrocomes completed his voyage from Egypt but did not reach Italy itself; for the wind drove the ship back, blew it off course, and brought it to Sicily, and they disembarked at the large and splendid port of Syracuse (5.1.1).

Acts 27 achieves a very different effect, establishing a sense of journeying not only through the nautical details of the shipwreck but with the whole coastal voyage anchored in the contemporary world by the skilful use of geographical names—names of trading ports and the ships that ply between them, names of harbours and anchorages, names of winds. Not only does this create a sense of realism lacking (by and large) in the novels; it also makes it clear that, for this narrator, the journey itself is story. Conclusions The comparison between Paul, Acts and the novels, then, reveals both similarities and differences. Both may be illustrated from Xenophon's description of his lovers' honeymoon voyage, the passage cited by Conzelmann as a parallel to Acts.77 And that day they had a favourable wind; they finished this stage and reached Samos, the sacred island of Hera. There they sacrificed and took a meal, and after offering many prayers they put out to sea the next night. Once more the sailing was easy, and they talked a great deal to each other. 'Will we be allowed to to spend our whole lives together?' At this Habrocomes gave a loud groan, at the thought of what was in store for him. 'Anthia', he said, 'more dear to me than my own soul, my fondest hope is that we live happily and survive together; but if it is fated that we suffer some disaster and be separated, let us swear to one another, my dearest, that you will remain faithful to me and not submit to any other man, and that I should never live with another woman'. When she heard this, Anthia gave a loud cry. 'Habrocomes', she said, 'why are you convinced that if I am separated from you, I will still think about a husband and marriage, when I will not even live at all without you? I swear to you by the goddess of our fathers, the great Artemis of the Ephesians, and this sea we are crossing, and the god who has driven us mad with this exquisite passion for each other, that I will not live or look upon the sun if I am separated from you even for a short time.' That was Anthia's oath; Habrocomes swore too, and the occasion made their oaths still more 77. Cf. n. 50 above.

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The Bible in Human Society awesome. Meanwhile the ship passed by Cos and Cnidus, and already the great and beautiful island of Rhodes was coming into view; here they all had to disembark, for the sailors said that they had to take on water and rest in preparation for the long voyage ahead (1.11.2-6).

Acts does not share the 'luxury cruise' atmosphere of this description, nor its preoccupation with the thoughts and emotions of the protagonists. The religious underpinning is reversed: Artemis of Ephesus is supportive to this pair, hostile to the emissaries of the gospel. But what Acts and Xenophon do share is equally significant for our appreciation of the communication strategies of these texts. In this passage Xenophon displays, unusually for him, a relish for the details of travel (especially travel by sea) which we find in a rather more developed form in Acts 27, together with a narrative ability to turn the process of voyaging itself into story. In both cases the slow-motion filming of the travel process has the effect of highlighting the narrative significance of this particular journey within the story as a whole. But we should also note that in geographical terms, the selection of names gives this voyage a distinctively coastal perspective, controlled by the view from the sea: it is the viewpoint of the periplous, of merchant and explorer, but also (as Chariton reminds us) as old as Homer himself.78 As we have seen, a high proportion of the redundant place-names in the Acts narrative are coastal, as are over half of the toponyms unique to Acts (20 out of 39). But of the 17 names shared by Acts and one or other of the novels but not with Paul, 12 are coastal, three being the Aegean islands and promontories named in this passage. This is one of the features that makes the mental map of Acts look so different from that of Paul, despite the fact that almost all Paul's toponyms are included in Acts, and it is a clear point of overlap with the mental maps of the novels. It is an unusual perspective for a biblical writer, and one which links Acts, surprisingly, with a rather different geographical tradition: For some unaccountable reason, says his friend, R.L. Stevenson's favourite line of Virgil from boyhood was lam medio apparet fluctu nemorosa Zacynthos. Was it unaccountable? Look at the last words; think of the sea and seafaring; and there is Homer behind and Samoa to come; from Sertorius to Sancho it is in the Isle that men look for happiness.79 78. 4.1.5, citing Odyssey 24.83. 79. T.R. Glover, in The Cambridge Ancient History (first edn, ed. S.A. Cook, F.E.

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It is a tradition, we may suggest, that allows Luke, without losing his story's rootedness in the real contemporary world of the Roman empire, to link it in with the 'parallel epic' of romance: Generations of men, throughout recorded time, have always told and retold two stories—that of a lost ship which searches the Mediterranean seas for a dearly loved island, and that of a god who is crucified on Golgotha.80

Averil Cameron has observed that the creation of narrative is central to the early Christian enterprise of communicating with the Graeco-Roman world: Christianity was a religion with a story... [It] built up its own symbolic universe by exploiting the kind of stories that people liked to hear.. .The better these stories were constructed, the better they functioned as structure-maintaining narratives and the more their audiences were disposed to accept them as true.81

The Greek novels provide one of the best means available to us of discovering what were 'the kind of stories that people liked to hear': they clearly liked adventures (as Richard Pervo has shown), and they liked them to occur within the framework of a travel narrative. But it is hard to believe that anyone was ever disposed to accept these stories as true; and we may note it as significant in this regard that Luke's presentation of the travel element in detail is closer to the factual, pragmatic periplous tradition than to the novels, at least to Chariton and Xenophon. Paul's adventures, unlike those of Callirhoe or Anthia, happen in a realistic, contemporary landscape, a world of trading ships not of triremes. The hinted combination of romance and veracity is a seductive one.82

Adcock and M.P. Charlesworth; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1934), X, p. 542. The line is from Virgil, Aeneid 3.270: 'Now amid the waves appear[s] wooded Zacynthus' [Loeb translation]. 80. N. Frye, The Secular Scripture, p. 15, citing Borges, The Gospel according to Mark'. 81. A. Cameron, Christianity and the Rhetoric of Empire: The Development of Christian Discourse (Sather Classical Lectures; Berkeley: University of California Press, 1991), pp. 89-93. 82. J.R.R. Tolkien, Tree and Leaf (London: Unwin Books, 1964), pp. 62-63.

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APPENDIX TOPONYMS IN THE PAULINE TRAVEL NARRATIVES Note: W — we-passages S = sea-voyages Underlining indicates redundant toponyms CAPITALS indicate regional toponyms (Brackets) indicate secondary or decorative toponyms Scene 1: Antioch Barnabas & Saul set apart, sent out on mission

S

S

S

Voyage A: 'First missionary journey': Seleucia CYPRUS Salamis Paphos Perga in PAMPHYLIA Antioch of PISIDIA Iconium LYCAONIA: Lystra & Derbe & perichoron Lystra (Antioch, Iconium) Derbe Lystra Iconium Antioch PISIDIA PAMPHYLIA Perga Attalia Antioch

13. 1-3

13.4-14.28

13.6-12 13.14-50 13.51-14.5 14.6 14.8-20 14.20 14.21

14.24 14.25 14.26-28

Scene 2: Antioch & Jerusalem Jerusalem conference; return to Antioch

15.1-40

Voyage B: 'Second missionary journey' SYRIA & CILICIA Derbe Lystra (Iconium) PHRYGIA & GALATIA (ASIA) MYSIA (BITHYNIA) W Troas (MACEDONIA) WS Samothrace

15.41-18.22 15.41 16.1 16:1-3 16.6-10

16.11

ALEXANDER Narrative Maps WS W

S S

S S

S

W WS WS WS WS WS WS WS WS WS

Neapolis Philippi, city of MACEDONIA, colony (Thyatira (Rome Amphipolis Apollonia Thessalonica Beroea (Thessalonica) to the sea Athens; Areopagus Corinth (PONTUS; ITALY; Rome (MACEDONIA (ACHAIA SYRIA Cenchreae Ephesus Caesarea "up to the church" Antioch Voyage C: Aegean ministry GALATIA & PHRYGIA (Alexandria, Ephesus, ACHAIA (Corinth upper country Ephesus ASIA (MACEDONIA (ACHAIA, Jerusalem, Rome MACEDONIA GREECE (SYRIA MACEDONIA ASIA (Beroea, Thessalonica, Derbe, ASIA) (Troas) Philippi Troas Assos Mitvlene Chios Samos Miletus (Ephesus, ASIA, Jerusalem) Cos Rhodes Patara

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16:12-40 16.14) 16.21,37-8) 17.1 17.1-10 17.10-13 17.14 17.15-34 18.1-18 18.2) 18.5) 18.12) 18.18 18.19-21 18.22

18:23-21:16 18.23 18.24-28) 19.1) 19.1-41 19.21-2,29) 19.21) 20.1 20.2 20.3) 20.3-6

20.6-12 20.13-16

20.17-38 21.1-3

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ws ws ws ws ws w w

(PHOENICIA) CYPRUS SYRIA Tyre Ptolemais Caesarea Jerusalem

(Jerusalem) (JUDAEA, Jerusalem) (Caesarea, CYPRUS)

Scene 3: Jerusalem & Caesarea Paul's arrest and trials

WS WS WS WS WS WS WS WS WS

ws ws

ws ws ws ws ws ws ws ws w w w

Voyage D: Jerusalem to Rome (ITALY (Adramyttium, ASIA, Thessalonica Sidon under the lee of CYPRUS sea off CELICIA & PAMPHYLIA Myra.citvofLYCIA (ship of Alexandria for ITALY against Cnidus under the lee of CRETE off Salmone Fair Havens near Lasea (Phoenix) under lee of Cauda fSyrtis up & down in ADRIA Malta (ship of Alexandria Syracuse Rhegium Puteoli Rome Appii Forum Tfes Tabernae

Scene 4: Rome Paul's address to Jewish leaders

21.3-6 21.7 21.8-14 21.15-16

21:17-26:32

27.1-28.15 27.1) 27.2) 27.3 27.4 27.5 27.6) 27.7

27.8 27.12 27.16 27.17) 27.27 28.1-10 28.11) 28.12 28.13 28.14 28.15

28:16-31

Map 1. Regional Names in the Pauline Epistles

Map 2. City Names in the Pauline Epistles

Map 3. Chariton: Primary Toponyms Note: Small scale of map inevitably causes distortion in the placing of individual place-names

Map 4. Chariton: Secondary and Decorative Toponyms

Map 5. Xenophon: Primary Toponyms

Map 5a. Xenophon's Toponymy of Asia Minor

Map 5b. Xenophon's Egyptian Toponymy

Map 6. Xenophon: Secondary and Decorative Toponyms

Map 7. Total Toponymy of Acts 13-28

Figure 8. Redundant Place-Names in Acts 13-28

THE FIRST CHRISTIAN MORAL LEGISLATION1 C.K. Barrett The Acts of the Apostles is a strange book. The early church found it so, and for some time was, it seems, uncertain how to use it. Christians soon discovered what to do with gospels and with apostolic letters: the words and actions of the Lord himself and the writings of his chief representatives had an authority that could not be questioned even if it was not easy to define. But Acts was neither fish nor flesh and seems eventually to have come in as what it certainly was not, the Acts of All the Apostles,2 a demonstration of the unity which it was convenient to believe had existed between Paul and those who were apostles before him (Gal. 1.17). Modern students of the New Testament have also had difficulty in knowing how to define Acts and its author's purpose—or rather, they have found it difficult to hit upon an agreed definition. As far as I know, however, it has not occurred to anyone to describe Acts as a handbook of early Christian ethics. I once promised a paper under the title 'Acts: The Missing Pauline Sociology', thinking—hoping—that Acts would provide a system of social ethics to supplement the theology of the Pauline letters. I was embarrassed to discover that there were more data of social history in the letters than there are in Acts. On the whole Luke does not describe how Christians do, or ought to, behave. He knows of course that one should share one's resources so that no one is in need, that one should not practise magic, and that cheating and 1. This brief note must seem marginal to the book of which it forms part, but the invitation to contribute to the Festschrift designed to honour one of my closest friends, a colleague over many years in Durham, was one I had to accept if I could, even though the theme of the book was one in which I had little or no competence and the invitation came when I was more heavily pressed than usual by a variety of commitments. There are at least some respects in which it may recall years of shared activity in Durham and give thereby some pleasure. 2. So the Muratorian Canon, line 34: Acta autem omnium apostolorum.

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lying are to be avoided. This does not go very far. There is however one famous verse that sets out a code of behaviour, part ceremonial, part ethical. This is the so-called Apostolic Decree of Acts 15.29. As printed in NA26 it reads:

There are similar words in the proposal made by James in 15.20 (with TCOV dXiayruidTcov TCQV ei8cbX,cov for eiScoXoGuicov) and in 21.25, where James reminds (or informs) Paul of the Decree. This Decree is (according to Acts 15) the conclusion of the debate in which the terms on which Gentiles may be admitted to the saved people of God are discussed. This 'Apostolic Council' is rightly described as the centre of Acts. In the earlier chapters some unplanned and unpremeditated advances into the Gentile world have been made, and the question is raised whether Gentiles who would become Christians must also become Jews by being circumcised and thereafter obeying the Mosaic Law (Acts 15.1, 5). At the Council it is decided that this is not necessary but that for those who would be saved it is necessary3 to observe the abstentions laid down in the Decree. In the later chapters the Gentile mission goes forward under Paul's leadership. There is also a formal sense in which this chapter may be described as the centre of Acts. A characteristic narrative form in Acts describes a problem, or difficulty; gives the response; and then asserts that the result is an even wider expansion of the Christian movement. This however is not only a form that appears from time to time on a small scale; it is the form of the whole book, and it turns on ch. 15. Chapters 1-14 set the question: What are we to do with the Gentiles? Chapter 15 answers the question. Chapters 16-28 describe the further advance of the Christian mission. The account of the Council itself is superficially straightforward, though it also provokes a number of difficult questions, few of which need be considered here. The dispute arises in Antioch, where visitors from Judaea tell Gentile converts, 'Unless you are circumcised in accordance with Mosaic custom you cannot be saved'. Paul, Barnabas and others are sent to Jerusalem to discuss the matter with the apostles and elders. In the assembly Peter speaks, recalling the conversion of Cornelius (Acts 10); he asserts that salvation is by faith only and that 3. endvayKeq, in 15.28. The construction is awkward but the meaning of the word is clear.

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even Jews could not bear the yoke of the Law. Barnabas and Paul recount the signs and portents that had accompanied their mission (Acts 13; 14). James quotes Amos and suggests the provisions that stand in the Decree. If we read the chapter as it stands the Decree sets out necessary conditions for salvation. The question is about salvation (15.1, 5); the abstentions are necessary.4 It is sometimes said that the Decree is intended rather to suggest guidelines that will make it possible for Jewish Christians and Gentile Christians to eat together. There are some features of the chapter that suggest this, but whatever the historical truth of the matter may be this is not what Luke says. He is not so much offering guidance for members of the Christian church as laying down conditions for entry into it. At this point a fresh question must be asked. The Decree was quoted above in the form in which it appears in the text of NA26. Is this what Luke wrote? It is well known that there are important textual variations, of which only an outline can be given here. ei8*coA,60\)taand ep0poi<;]stand without variants. epetepoi<;]the singular TwiKTOt) is read by a large number of MSS, probably assimilating to 15.20. The word is omitted by D 1, the Latin version of Irenaeus, Tertullian, and some MSS of Jerome;5 we may say, by the Western text, though without claiming that there was one definitive Western text. epcp&oi<;]is omitted by one MS of the Vulgate. This variant need not be taken into account; it is probably an accidental error. After Ttopveiaq the Western text6 adds KCCI OCTCC uf] Qekeie. kaviolc, yweaOai, etepcp [etepoi<;] UTJ rcoieiv [TCOIEITE].

It is often said that these variations have the effect of turning a cultic decree into an ethical one; and there is truth in the observation, though it needs a good deal of refinement. There is no ethics in the avoidance of what is strangled (except the avoidance of causing offence to the 4. See n. 3. 5. For many details of the Latin versions see J. Wordsworth and H.J. White, with H.F.D. Sparks and A.W. Adams, Novum Testamentum... latine secundum editionem Sancti Hieronymi, III (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1954), pp. 139-40. 6. Including D 614 1 p w syh** sa; the Latin version of Irenaeus, and Cyprian.

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sensitive),7 so that the disappearance of TIVIKTCGV tilts the balance towards ethics, including an ethical interpretation of ai'u.<xToq, which may refer to blood in slaughtered animals or to the shedding of blood. And the ethical emphasis is strengthened by the addition of the negative form of the Golden Rule. This observation has been used to settle the textual problem. We have two forms of the Decree, both supported by early MSS, one predominantly cultic, the other predominantly ethical. Which is the likelier account of the early textual tradition? Was a primitive ethical decree turned into a cultic one, or was a cultic decree made ethical? Almost all have chosen the latter alternative, probably rightly, but the grounds for the decision are not so clear cut. Both forms are both cultic and ethical. The reference to ei8coA,60\)ta (in both forms) is a cultic defence against the sin of idolatry: whether eating meat that has been sacrificed to an idol does or does not constitute idolatry is a cultic question, as idolatry itself is not. The reference to fornication, even though it may refer to temple prostitution, is an ethical question. The reference to blood is ambiguous. It seems to be true that the Decree (which Luke knew to have been in existence so long that he could attribute it to an apostolic Council) was given different interpretations and emphases at different times and in different places.8 What may be said with confidence is that some time in the second century the Golden Rule was added to the Decree in the churches (or some of them) as additional guidance for the ethical life of Christians, perhaps with the intention and certainly with the effect of tilting the Decree in the ethical direction. It is well known that the Rule was not a Christian invention; Luke had a habit of borrowing ethical maxims.9 The attestation of the Rule is not as wide as might be expected; the wording is variable, and it exists in a negative form (as here) and a positive (as at Mt. 7.12; Lk. 6.31). There is a familiar story in b. Sab. 3la. A would-be proselyte (perhaps not sincere in his intention) approached Shammai and asked him to teach him the whole Torah while he (the inquirer) stood on one foot. Shammai 7. Called for by Paul in the interests of Christian love, though he shows no awareness of the Decree; see 1 Cor. 8.13. 8. For some evidence regarding variable interpretation, see my 'The Apostolic Decree of Acts 15.29', AusBR 35 (Special Issue in Honour of E.F. Osborn) (1987), pp. 50-59. 9. 'We must obey God rather than men' (5.29; cf. 4.19) is a famous Socratic saying (Plato, Apology 29d); and 'It is more blessed to give than to receive' (20.35) has a long history.

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drove him away, and the man approached Hillel with the same request. Hillel's reply was, What is hateful to you do to no other; that is the whole Torah and the rest is commentary; go and learn. The same point is made less entertainingly but more concisely in Tob. 4.15: o (Aiaeig, uT|8evi Jtovr|crn<;. There is a similar formulation in Philo, Hypothetica (given in Eusebius, Praeparatio Evangelica 8.7.5)10: "A 115 JiccOew exOodpei, UTI itoiew axxcov. Targum Yerushalmi on Lev. 19.18 again is similar: What is unwelcome to yourself, do not do to him [your neighbour]. Cf. Aristeas 207; 2 Enoch 61.2. In addition to the Jewish there are also Greek and Latin parallels. A large number are given by Wettstein,11 but Creed12 rightly describes them as partial and picks out as the best Isocrates, Nicocles 61: a Ttdaxovte*; txp' eiepcov opyi^eaGe, tawa Toiq a'k'koiq ufi Jtoieue. Creed adds, however, that this is to be qualified by the fact that Nicocles is addressing his subordinate officials, and is to be understood in the light of §49, Toiowo'oq eivai XP"H tepi tovq aXAxwi; oiov ?cep ejie rcepl •ouac; d^urike y{Yvea9cu. Creed does perhaps less than justice to some non-Jewish passages such as Herodotus 3.142.3 (eycb 8e id TG> rceAx ejurcA/ncaci), autoq Kma 8\>vauiv o\) Ttovnaar, cf. 7.136.2) and Lampridius's statement about Alexander Severus (Vita A.S. 51), whether historical or not, is worth observing: ...imperatorem clamasse saepius, quod a quibusdam sive ludaeis sive Christianis audisset et teneret, idque per praeconem, cum aliquem emendaret, dici iussisse: Quod tibi fieri non vis, alteri ne feceris; quam sententiam usque adeo eum dilexisse, ut et in palatio et in publicis operibus earn perscribi iuberet.

The Golden Rule is so self-evident a piece of moral direction that it is not surprising to find it represented in both Jewish and non-Jewish fields; but, especially in proverbial formulation, it is so Jewish that it is difficult to assent to the view that its addition to the Apostolic Decree is a mark of anti-Judaism in the Western text.13 If it is not a piece of antiJewish polemic, what is its purpose? Does it have a purpose beyond that

10. 7.6 in the Loeb edition of Philo. 11. J.J. Wetstenii, Novum Testamentum Graecum, I (Amsterdam, 1751), pp. 34142. 12. The Gospel according to St Luke (London: Macmillan, 1930), p. 94. 13. E.J. Epp, The Theological Tendency of Codex Bezae Cantabrigiensis (SNTSMS, 3; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1966), pp. 108-11.

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of emphasizing a theme already present in Acts?14 It is in fact the only piece of moral instruction in any text of Acts—in addition, that is, to the prohibition of murder15 and fornication, also in the Decree. It is of course clear that generosity is praised (e.g. in the reference to Barnabas, 4.36-37), meanness and deceit condemned (in the story of Ananias and Sapphira, 5.1-11). The courage and constancy of those who maintain the faith are described with evident admiration, but not even the story of Stephen evokes the exhortation to be faithful unto death, and there is nothing corresponding to the household rules that are characteristic of other Deutero-Pauline and post-Pauline works.16 The lack of specific interest in Christian ethics is one of the most striking negative features of Acts; and the Western form of the Decree calls attention to itself as an exception to this. The Golden Rule is used surprisingly little in early Christian literature generally—surprisingly especially when it is recalled that it is used, in the positive form, in the tradition of the teaching of Jesus (Mt. 7.12; Lk. 6.31). It is not used in connection with the household rules, referred to above; it is not used by Paul (but cf. Rom. 13.10). When it is used it is used mainly in the negative form. The important early passages are the following. It is used in the Two Ways section of the Didache—not, we may note, in the corresponding section of the Epistle of Barnabas. The description of the Way of Life in the Didache begins (1.2) with the double rule of love for God and for the neighbour and continues immediately: All the things that you do not wish to happen to you, do not you do to another. Whether the Didache is dependent on any of the gospels is a disputed question. Probably we cannot claim more than dependence on the gospel tradition; direct dependence on either Matthew or Luke would probably have led to use of the positive form. After the Didache the next reference is that in the Epistula Apostolorum 18: Love your enemies, and what you do not want done to you, that do to no one else.17 14. See my 'Is There a Theological Tendency in Codex Bezae?', in E. Best and R.McL. Wilson (eds.), Text and Interpretation: Studies Presented to Matthew Black (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1979), pp. 15-27. 15. This is at least one possible interpretation of the reference to blood; see Barrett, 'Apostolic Decree', p. 52. 16. Eph. 5.21-6.9; Col. 3.18-4.1; 1 Pet. 2.11-3.7. 17. The Apocryphal New Testament (ed. J.K. Elliott; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993), p. 567.

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Somewhat later in the second century (c. 180) comes Theophilus, Ad Autolycum 2.34. In a passage reminiscent of the Apostolic Decree Theophilus writes that the law and the prophets instruct us 'to refrain (ajtexeoGai) from unlawful idolatry (ei8aX,oA,cxtpe{a<;), and adultery and murder, fornication (rcopveiaq), theft, avarice, false swearing, wrath and all wantonness and uncleanness; and that whatever a man would not wish to happen to himself, that he should not do to another (Tcdvta oca av H.TI Poutanai avGpcoTtoq eautco -yweaQai, woe ur|Se aA,Xq> rcoifj)'. Clementine Homilies 7.4.2, 3 is even closer to the Decree as it stands in Acts, but has the Golden Rule in its positive form: '...one should avoid the table of demons, eat no dead flesh, touch no blood, keep himself clean from all defilement...Whatever good anyone wishes for himself, that should he render also to his neighbour.' Cf. also the Clementine Recognitions 8.56, where however the Rule is negative, and its purport is worked out in examples: 'Almost the whole rule of our actions is summed up in this, that what we are unwilling to suffer we should not do to others. For as you would not be killed, you must beware of killing another; and as you would not have your own marriage violated, you must not defile another's bed; you would not be stolen from, neither must you steal...' To these passages we may add Justin, Dial. Tryph. 93, but this looks less like the quotation of a recognized maxim, more like an ad hoc elucidation of the command to love one's neighbour. 'He who loves his neighbour as himself will wish to do to him the good things that he himself desires; and no one wishes evil things for himself.' What may be deduced from these miscellaneous observations? With certainty, nothing; but a few possibilities are worth consideration. The evidence for the Western reading at Acts 15.29 comes from various geographical locations, most of them in fact from the geographical west. This is certainly true of the Old Latin MSS (d 1 p w) and of Cyprian; also perhaps of Codex Bezae. The relevant part of Irenaeus's Adversus Haereses is known to us only in Latin but it is well to remember that Irenaeus's roots were in the East and it was no doubt there that he first read his Greek New Testament. In addition to these we have the Harclean Syriac and the Sahidic, which are enough to demonstrate very early currency of the western reading in the East. Where then did this reading—where did the Western text in general—originate? We do not know. We do know, however, that in Acts 15.29 we are dealing with

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one of the most striking Western readings, a variant which took an ambiguous Decree and moved it in a specific, ethical rather than cultic, direction. Where may this have happened? The Golden Rule, often taken as an epitome of Jewish and Christian ethics,18 is, as we have seen, less frequently cited than might be expected. Its use (where independent of Acts) is predominantly eastern. The Didache is usually supposed to have originated in Syria; Theophilus was Bishop of Antioch; the Clementine literature, or at least the Kerygmata of Peter that lie behind it, probably comes from Syria. The origin of the Epistula Apostolorum is a matter of conjecture; Egypt and Asia Minor are probably the most popular guesses. The scene of Justin's Dialogue with Trypho is Asia. The Jewish material, in which the

Christian is rooted, is of course based upon Palestine and Syria, though the literary sources include Egypt and Babylonia.19 Does this hint at (a stronger expression could not be used) an eastern origin for the Western text, by whatever strange route it may have reached North Africa, Italy and Gaul—or at least of one strand in the Western text?20 This would agree with some other Western readings, such as Acts 3.11 and 12.10 (which may show knowledge of the topography of Jerusalem). Finally—and to bring this aberrant paper somewhat nearer to the main, and very important, theme of this volume—there has been a good deal of dispute about the relative value of the positive form of the Golden Rule (found in the Sermon on the Mount and the Sermon on the Plain) and the negative (found in the Western text of Acts 15.29). It is the negative form that is found in the Jewish material that we have surveyed; and on the whole Christian writers have maintained the superiority of the positive form,21 forgetting perhaps that it is the negative form that predominates in early Christian literature, while Jewish scholars have defended the negative.22 There is a perceptive and fair18. Brought out by a number of writers. 19. Shammai and Hillel, though the story is in the Babylonian Talmud, are of course Palestinian figures. 20. For Professor B. Aland may not be right in her belief in one basic Western recension; see C.K. Barrett, The Acts of the Apostles (ICC; Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark), I, pp. 25-29. 21. E.g. A.H. McNeile, The Gospel according to St Matthew (London: Macmillan, 1938), p. 93: 'The positive form is immeasurably higher'. 22. On the whole asserting equality rather than superiority; e.g. S. Sandmel, A Jewish Understanding of the New Testament (London: SPCK, 1977), pp. 151-52: That greater profundity lies either in the positive formulation or in the negative is, in

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minded discussion by Israel Abrahams23; and it is reasonable to assert that each form implies the other. It is however a striking fact that in the Christian centuries both Jews and Christians (though the latter had the positive form in the tradition of the sayings of Jesus) seem to have preferred the negative. Perhaps the explanation is that it is the negative form that is better fitted to the situation of a small, persecuted, minority group. It means, Don't retaliate. Don't do to them the unkind things that you don't like when they are done to you. As the minority group grows into a majority, acquires power, and is able to take the initiative, the positive form becomes applicable and is preferred as a mark of superiority and authority. How are we to treat those who live in our environment? It is in our power to treat them well or badly. You should treat them as you would like them to treat you if the positions were reversed.

my judgment, not to be discerned; the formulations mean precisely the same thing'. 23. I. Abrahams, Studies in Pharisaism and the Gospels (First Series; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1917), pp. 21-22.

THE POLITICAL ETHICS OF POSTMODERN ALLEGORY Mark G. Brett The time is apparently ripe for the return of allegory.1 The majority of biblical scholars will probably regard this prospect with dread, but the factors contributing to the current hermeneutical ferment have been long in the making.2 Perhaps the most significant ingredient in the current situation is the decline of objectivism. In the hermeneutical literature, and especially in the various versions of reader-oriented literary theory, we find the thesis that the meaning of a text is generated more by readers than by authors. In the most extreme postmodern versions of this view, there is no way of resolving the plurality of interpretative stances that are generated by readers' prior ideological commitments. Even Frances Young, who draws back from the relativist wing of reader theory, wants to concede that the reading experience 'inevitably involves a kind of allegory', a practice 'of reading "ourselves" into the text'.3 The purpose of this paper is not to replay the arguments concerning historicity, typology or objectivity, nor to provide a detailed taxonomy 1. See, for example, F. Young, 'Allegory and the Ethics of Reading', in F. Watson (ed.), The Open Text: New Directions for Biblical Study? (London: SCM Press, 1993), pp. 103-20; A. Louth, Discerning the Mystery (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1983), ch. 5; D. Dawson, Allegorical Readers and Cultural Revision in Ancient Alexandria (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1992), Afterword. 2. It is perhaps ironic to note that while biblical critics were absorbing the influence of 'text-immanent' or 'intrinsic' hermeneutics (especially New Criticism), literary theory was reacting against them. One feature of the attack on New Criticism was the recovery of allegory as an 'extrinsic' strategy of reading. See further, P. de Man, Allegories of Reading (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1979); S.J. Greenblatt (ed.), Allegory and Representation (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1981). 3. Young, 'Allegory', p. 110; idem, The Art of Performance (London: Darton, Longman & Todd, 1990), p. 136.

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of allegories. The term 'allegory' will be used as an umbrella category to cover the variety of interpretative practices that construe texts in some way other than their surface sense. My purpose is to examine the ethical implications of 'reading one thing in terms of another'.4 We will begin by looking at a defence of allegory that is based on a principle of respect for authors. The question which then arises is whether there are any conditions under which an interpreter might be justified in using allegory against an author's motive or intention. I will argue that certain kinds of political allegory fall into this category. Thirdly, we will examine the implications of postmodern defences of Christological allegory, raising the question, in particular, whether such neo-conservatism has an adequate ethic. Finally, the theoretical issues will be discussed in relation to an exegetical case study—the development of the Melchizedek tradition. Allegory and Respect for Authors The literary critic E.D. Hirsch has consistently advocated that authorial intention should be a regulative ideal for interpretation. This thesis has always been connected with notions of determinate meaning, but Hirsch has been careful to note that such determinacy is not a 'given' of the text; it is at least in part the product of an ethical choice. Thus, Hirsch argues that 'The choice of an interpretive norm is not required by the "nature of the text", but, being a choice, belongs to the domain of ethics rather than the domain of ontology'.5 Hirsch's ethics have always been Kantian: authors are said to deserve respect as ends in themselves, and they are not to be manipulated for a reader's own purposes.6 It might be thought that this ethical principle should be logically wedded to the sternest warnings against anachronism, but in Hirsch's more recent work, this is explicitly not the case. On the contrary, he 4. Frances Young defines allegoria in the broadest sense as 'reading one thing in terms of another' in Art of Performance, p. 155; cf. Dawson, Allegorical Readers, p. 243 n. 9, who cites Trypho (first century BCE): 'Allegoria is speech (logos) which makes precisely clear some one thing but which presents the conception of another according to likeness to the greatest extent'. 5. E.D. Hirsch, Aims of Interpretation (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1976), p. 7; cf. E.D. Hirsch, Validity in Interpretation (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1967), pp. 24-25. 6. Cf., e.g., K. Ward, The Development of Kant's View of Ethics (Oxford: Blackwell, 1972), pp. 113-24.

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now insists that authors usually (especially in the fields of law, literature and religion) intend to address future readers, and this has the consequence that fidelity to an author's intention may entail anachronistic interpretation. I have analysed this argument elsewhere,7 but it goes roughly like this: (1) past authors refer to their subject matter using concepts or descriptions that are inevitably limited to the author's own historical context, but (2) even if these concepts or descriptions are subsequently proven to be wrong, it is still possible for later readers to identify the original referent; (3) it is incumbent upon later interpreters charitably to explain the original authorial reference, and this may entail using anachronistic concepts. Thus, for example, any reference in older scientific literature to 'dephlogistinated air' is actually a reference to what we now call oxygen, and a historian of science should say so. The older science was intending to refer to the same reality, and the explanatory use of an anachronism like 'oxygen' respects the original intention. Hirsch now describes this process as allegory, arguing that 'Originalists need to realize that allegory is a necessary tool for interpreting all transoccasional writings, and that pure originalism risks turning our written inheritance into a dead letter'.8 The immediate antecedents for Hirsch's view are to be found in recent philosophy of science, but, strikingly, he describes his view as 'Augustinian'. He argues, for example, that Augustine's justification for Christianizing the Old Testament was based on a 'cognitively progressing demand' to correlate the original circumstances of the Old Testament with the interpreter's own time.9 This correlation was, nevertheless, a disciplined process, and Augustinian allegorists would never suggest (as anti-originalists like the New Critics did) that an interpretation could directly contravene an author's historical intent. Thus, the new Hirsch is still policing the proliferation of potential meanings; he is concerned to distinguish between valid and invalid correlations of 'original referential intent' and 'currently accepted truth'. 7. See M.G. Brett, Biblical Criticism in Crisis? (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991), pp. 24-25, 123-27, suggesting that Hirsch's argument rests on an equivocation between two different concepts of intention. 8. E.D. Hirsch, 'Transhistorical Intentions and the Persistence of Allegory', New Literary History 25/3 (1994), pp. 562, 566. This article reformulates the position set out earlier in his, 'Meaning and Significance Reinterpreted', Critical Inquiry 11 (1984), pp. 202-25. 9. Hirsch, 'Allegory', p. 562.

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But it is precisely this idea of 'currently accepted truth' that begs the question for Augustine's own interpretation of the Hebrew Bible: by whom, exactly, was this 'current truth' accepted? On the one hand, Hirsch says that 'current ethical consensus is just as determinative of present interpretive truth as is the current scientific consensus regarding oxygen and phlogiston'. On the other hand, 'Allegory can be legitimate only within the context of a community that agrees upon the nature of the referent'.10 Hirsch omits the obvious step of observing that the Christianizing of the 'Old Testament' never enjoyed a consensus among Jews. Thus, we could conclude that Augustine's own interpretative practice was unethical by Hirschian standards. There are, however, some more recent cases of Christianizing allegory which have been defended as ethical, if not on Hirschian grounds. Writing in the 1930s, Dietrich Bonhoeffer was deeply concerned to resist the anti-Semitic aspects of the German Christian movement, and his detailed attention to the Hebrew Bible was born out of this specific apologetic purpose; his most basic argument was that 'the God who appears in Jesus Christ is the God of the Old Testament'.11 His strategy was as old as the New Testament—Christological allegory. For example, at the beginning of Creation and Fall, he asserts, 'The creation story should be read in the church in the first place only from Christ'. Accordingly, in the darkness of fhdm in Gen. 1.1 we anachronistically discover the passion of Christ.12 In their recent work on scripture and ethics, Stephen Fowl and Gregory Jones have defended Bonhoeffer's Christological 'performance of scripture' on the basis of his apologetic concerns in the face of the German Christian movement, and they may be correct in suggesting that Bonheoffer had no other strategy open to him in the Germany of his day. They may also be correct in drawing attention to the focus of his work within the context of the Christian community: he was insisting on the importance of the Old Testament for Christians.n But they are surely wrong to conclude that recent criticisms of Bonhoeffer's strategy

10. Hirsch, 'Allegory', p. 564. 11. M. Kuske, The Old Testament as the Book of Christ: An Appraisal of Bonhoeffer's Interpretation (Philadelphia: Westminster, 1976), p. 49. 12. D. Bonhoeffer, Creation and Fall (New York: Macmillan, 1959), pp. 12, 21. 13. S.E. Fowl and L.G. Jones, Reading in Communion (London: SPCK, 1991), p. 146.

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reflect presuppositions that give hegemony to historical-critical exegesis and thereby deem other readings, including those that are Christological and/or those concerned not simply with the past but with action in the present, as somehow deficient.

The key motivations of such criticisms have been both historical and ethical. Walter Harrelson, for example, points out the irony in the fact that Bonhoeffer did not use the Hebrew Bible in a way that would further conversation with Jews; if the Bible has no real meaning apart from Jesus Christ, then, at least from a Christian perspective, Jews are left without a scripture.14 Thus, if we concede to Fowl and Jones that in Bonhoeffer's situation there was no other realistic option, we are still left with a question concerning the political ethics of allegory in our own situation; the critiques of Bonhoeffer's hermeneutics concern not just historical criticism but Christian dialogue with Jewish communities. We will return to this point after we have discussed the significance of the more recent uses of allegory that have explicitly turned against the ethical principle of respect for authors. Political Allegory and the Ethics of Resistance There is a growing trend within biblical studies to use an interpretative strategy which might be called political allegory.15 A notable example is the work of Itumeleng Mosala, which is quite explicitly driven by ethical commitments within the South African context. He consistently uses political allegory to illuminate the social realities behind particular biblical texts. For example, his reading of the Cain and Abel story (Gen. 4) moves beyond the conventional theory that this text is contained within a J document produced by Solomon's scribes to argue that these scribes distorted the social realities of their day in the service of the ruling ideology: Cain the tiller of the soil must be seen to represent the freeholding peasantry who become locked in a life-and-death struggle with the emergent royal and latifundiary classes, represented in this story by Abel. Obviously, the text favors Abel and enlists divine pleasure on his side.16 14. W. Harrelson, 'Bonhoeffer and the Bible', in M. Marty (ed.), The Place of Bonhoeffer (London: SCM Press, 1963), pp. 130-32; cf. S. Rosenbaum, 'Dietrich Bonhoeffer: A Jewish View', Journal of Ecumenical Studies (April, 1981), p. 306. 15. This term is used by J.M. Kennedy, 'Peasants in Revolt: Political Allegory in Genesis 2-3', JSOT41 (1990), pp. 3-14. 16. I. Mosala, Biblical Hermeneutics and Black Theology in South Africa (Grand

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On this view, the death of Abel represents a successful peasant revolt, but the author has obscured the social dynamics and drawn the readers' sympathy towards the ruling classes. We shall see below that this kind of political allegory, which still has chronological scruples, has long been a feature of historical criticism, albeit in a fragmentary way. But Mosala also wants to make hermeneutical connections between the history of the black struggle in South Africa and the struggle of the oppressed in ancient Israel who suffered under the socio-economic domination of the Israelite state and under the ideological domination of the Davidic-Zion covenant.17 This second kind of political allegory, which is not troubled by chronological scruples, constructs an 'analogy of struggle which links the present South African situation of struggle with a past situation of struggle, a situation of struggle which is located behind the text'.1* The concern here is to construct a hermeneutic that never takes the biblical text at face value but rather seeks to discern a correspondence between our own social world and the ancient social world within which the text was embedded. Mosala's hermeneutic, it should be noted, does not rest on a modernist or objectivist epistemology. On the contrary, his epistemology is postmodernist insofar as it emphasizes the necessity of a modern reader's ideological commitments: 'the ideological condition and commitment of the reader, issuing out of the class circumstances of such a reader, are of immense hermeneutical significance'.19 (The logic of this hermeneutic is directly parallel to feminist arguments which eschew any claims on objectivity on the grounds that there is a reciprocal relationship between the capacity to recognize patriarchal oppression in the Bible and the capacity to resist patriarchal institutions of interpretation.) Thus there arises a tight connection between epistemology and ethics, on this view, and exegesis is driven by emancipatory interests. Given an example like Mosala's reading of Genesis 4, a reader would be ethically Rapids: Eerdmans, 1989), pp. 35-36. See further J. Rogerson, Genesis 1-11 (OTG; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1991), pp. 34-35,45-52. 17. I. Mosala, Biblical Hermeneutics, p. 17. 18. G. West, Biblical Hermeneutics of Liberation (Pietermaritzburg: Cluster, 1991), pp. 54-55. 19. I. Mosala, 'The Use of the Bible in Black Theology', in I. Mosala and B. Tlhagale (eds.), The Unquestionable Right to be Free (Johannesburg: Skotaville, 1986), pp. 196-67 (quoted by West, Biblical Hermeneutics of Liberation, p. 54).

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justified in resisting the motives of the author. Such political allegory might seem to be entirely unrelated to any mediaeval antecedent, but there are in fact some clear analogies. Mosala's version of postmodern allegory is, one could argue, a sociological reconstruction of allegoria facti, as opposed to allegoria verbi.20 Allegoria facti is advanced, for example, by Aquinas's argument that the spiritual senses cannot be derived directly from the text of scripture (which would be the case if a spiritual res were the immediate referent of the text); rather, the spiritual senses for Thomas were constituted by a relation between the thing designated by the text (res I) and some other thing in later history (res II). This is a relationship between realia, not a direct relationship between scripture and world (Summa 1.1.10).21 In this respect at least, Mosala's hermeneutic stands in the Thomistic tradition. Moreover, I would argue that there are contemporary styles of allegory, also driven by emancipatory interests, which have more debts to allegoria verbi than to allegoria facti. The influential hermeneutics of Paul Ricoeur can, for example, be construed as a kind of allegoria verbi that arcs between the reader's social world and the ancient text rather than between the reader and the social world behind the text.22 Ricoeur's argument in Interpretation Theory is well known: he claims that textual meaning, unlike spoken discourse, has a kind of 'semantic autonomy' that is carved out by 'severing itself from the mental intention of its author' and by suspending its original reference.23 20. See H. de Lubac, Exegese medieval: Les quatre senses de I'ecriture, II/2 (Paris: Aubier, 1964), pp. 131-40. Cf. Louth, Discerning, p. 119; Young, 'Allegory', p. 117. 21. P. Preus has suggested that this theory actually derives from Hugh of St Victor. See From Shadow to Promise (Cambridge, MA: Belknap, 1969), p. 29. Leonardo Boff similarly describes this approach as a 'correspondence of relationships' rather than a 'correspondence of terms'. See Boff, Theology and Praxis: Epistemological Foundations (Maryknoll: Orbis, 1987), pp. 145-47. 22. See further K. Vanhoozer, Biblical Narrative in the Philosophy of Paul Ricoeur (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990), ch. 7. 23. P. Ricoeur, Interpretation Theory: Discourse and the Surplus of Meaning (Fort Worth: Texas Christian University Press, 1976), esp. pp. 29, 75-76, 88-92. It would be nonsense, of course, to say that texts possess 'semantic autonomy' from the linguistic systems within which they were produced; the point is, rather, that the original pragmatic situation of discourse need not limit the semantic possibilities of the text.

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Against the historicist presumption that literary works are only intelligible in the light of the social conditions that produced them, Ricoeur proposes that texts have an 'ideality' which needs to be appropriated as a 'new mode of being' by all successive readers. Thanks to writing, the 'world' of the text may explode the world of the author. What is true of the psychological conditions holds also for the sociological conditions of the production of the text.24

Without going into the details of Ricoeur's hermeneutics, it is important to recognize that his model of textuality shares some common ground with New Criticism insofar as it places much less emphasis on the text as product of an actual social world (the emphasis of Mosala) than on the text as producer of potential social world. Ricoeur differs, however, from New Criticism precisely in his detailed attempt to reconstruct the connection between texts and their social effects.25 Ricoeur's theory has been taken up by several authors in attempts to address the problem of ideology. Sandra Schneiders has argued, for example, that precisely because the text has a surplus of meaning which makes it susceptible to multiple interpretations beyond those imagined by its authors, it is able to elude the grasp of the social prejudices that produced it.26 The dynamic interaction between text and reader has the potential for undermining, for example, the patriarchy of the biblical world. Thus the hermeneutical choice to emphasize textuality is once again driven by an ethic of resistance. 24. Ricoeur, Hermeneutics and the Human Sciences (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1981), p. 139; cf. p. 91. Cf. H.G. Gadamer's emphasis on written traditions which possess an autonomy quite separate from the complexities of an author's psychology: 'What is stated in the text must be detached from all contingent factors and grasped in its full ideality, in which alone it has validity' (Gadamer, Truth and Method [New York: Crossroad, 1982], pp. 354-56 = Wahrheit und Methode [Tubingen: Mohr/Siebeck, 2nd edn, 1965], pp. 370-72). 25. See L.M. Poland, Literary Criticism and Biblical Hermeneutics: A Critique of Formalist Approaches (Chico, CA: Scholars Press, 1985). 26. S.M. Schneiders, 'Feminist Ideology Criticism and Biblical Hermeneutics', BTB 19 (1989), pp. 7-9. For Karl Popper's similar approach to the problem of ideology, see Brett, Biblical Criticism in Crisis?, pp. 123-27. The thesis of textual 'ideality' cannot be put down to the idiosyncrasies of the German philosophical tradition; working out of quite different traditions, Ricoeur, Gadamer, Popper and Schneiders move in a similar direction, at least on this one point concerning the key role that textuality plays in undermining any priority given to authors and their ideologies.

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We should note, at this point, that it would be possible to formulate such an ethic precisely on the Kantian grounds that have motivated E.D. Hirsch: if all persons (and not just authors) are to be respected as ends in themselves and not simply manipulated for one's own purposes, then it would be important to discover whether ancient authors have sought to suppress or to distort the views of others, who should equally be regarded as ends in themselves. A historical question arising would be whether authors have suppressed other voices deliberately or unconsciously (and this issue could be related to legal judgments concerning crimes that are premeditated or accidental). Or, to put it another way, would the original actors have recognized all cases of oppression as such, or does some ideological criticism represent a kind of political allegory? Clearly, this question cannot be answered without discussing particular cases, but whether the ideology is deliberate or 'accidental', a hermeneutical problem remains: as Francis Watson has dryly observed concerning Mosala's reading of Genesis 4, Even if this highly speculative reading were convincing, it is not clear what it would mean to take sides, three thousand years too late, in the struggles of Judean peasants. Analysing the text in such a way as to shed light on the current workings of the rhetoric of oppression seems a preferable procedure.27

Watson rightly suggests that it is more meaningful to take sides on the continuing effects of the biblical texts. Would a political hermeneutic be best served, then, by focusing on the interaction between the reader's world and the text? Watson is careful to stress that any emphasis on biblical 'textuality' does not, ipso facto, escape the problems of ideology which trouble the social worlds behind the texts. On the contrary, it is precisely literary feminist approaches which have taught us that this is not the case; whether by 'accident' or by design, patriarchal ideology is as much a feature of biblical texts as of

27. F. Watson, Text, Church and World: Biblical Interpretation in Theological Perspective (Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1994), p. 305. For a detailed discussion of the ethical difficulties in using sociological reconstructions 'behind the text', see M. Daniel Carroll R., Contexts for Amos: Prophetic Poetics in Latin American Perspective (JSOTSup, 132; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1992), ch. 2. See further, M.G. Cartwright, 'Ideology and the Interpretation of the Bible in the AfricanAmerican Christian Tradition', Modern Theology 9/2 (1993), pp. 141-58; S.E. Fowl, Texts Don't Have Ideologies', Biblnt 3 (1995), pp. 15-34.

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the worlds which produced them. Given that it is meaningful to take sides on the continuing effects of the Bible, literary feminism (however anachronistic) probably has a stronger ethical justification for resisting patriarchy than any historical-critical work.28 The same would be true, mutatis mutandis, for any kind of liberation hermeneutic. Thus, we could conclude that, in demonstrable cases of ideological distortion, a Kantian ethic can and should be turned against the principle of respect for authors. Allegory, anachronistic or not, can cut both ways—for authors and against them. Hermeneutical Support for Christological Allegory? Having examined the ethical support for some kinds of anachronistic allegory, we now turn to a case developed, in particular, by Andrew Louth.29 Louth argues that the philosophical hermeneutics of HansGeorg Gadamer gives licence for a conscious assimilation of traditional Christian allegory. Gadamer's work does indeed represent an attempt to rehabilitate the concept of tradition. There is no great virtue, he argues, in historical research that attempts to isolate particular historical phenomena from their later history of effects.30 The passage of time allows 'those prejudices that are of a particular and limited nature to die away, but causes those that bring about genuine understanding to emerge clearly as such'.31 Gadamer also emphasizes that the determinateness of historical effects in our understanding of these [biblical] texts also includes higher units of meaning, such as the unity of faith represented by the early community.. .which led to the formation of the canon.32

28. See Watson, Text, Church and World, p. 188: 'To argue that the biblical texts have been unfairly treated through subjection to a modern [feminist] perspective unavailable to their authors is simply to reinforce the familiar historical-critical inability to recognize the hermeneutical significance of these texts' continuing impact on the present'. 29. See Louth, Discerning the Mystery, ch. 5, esp. p. 107. 30. Truth and Method, p. 268 = Wahrheit und Methode, p. 284. 31. Truth and Method, p. 265 = Wahrheit und Methode, p. 282. Like Ricoeur, he argues that this process of liberating the text from the contingent details of its origin is assisted precisely by the peculiar features of textuality. See above, n. 24. 32. H.G. Gadamer, 'The Problem of Language in Schleiermacher's Hermeneutics', JTC7 (1970), pp. 68-95, 81.

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This suggests that Christians stand within a tradition which cannot ignore the higher units of meaning which include the Christologies of the New Testament as developments of Israelite tradition. Instead of pursuing these issues in a purely theoretical way, we will take a different tack at this point and discuss a particular example that might illustrate Gadamer's theory. It seems to me that the critical scholarship on Melchizedek in Genesis 14 offers an interesting case study in how historical criticism has apparently excavated 'prejudices that are of a particular and limited nature'; the later developments of the Melchizedek tradition bear very little relation to the reconstructions of an original setting. This example will also serve to point up some of the wider hermeneutical issues raised by sociological and ideological studies. In Gen. 14.18-24 we are told that Abram, after defeating a coalition of kings, comes and offers tithes to Melchizedek, the king of Salem. The king of Salem also blesses the patriarch in the name of El Elyon. The meaning of this text is obscure, but there is a widespread view that the divine name El Elyon is in some way related to the pre-Israelite worship in the city that was to become David's capital. Ron Clements suggested the following explanation of the text: The patriarch is said to have been blessed by Melchizedek in the name of El Elyon, lord of sky and land. In Gen. 14.22 this El Elyon is identified with Yahweh, and as Salem is Jerusalem it is clear that the present form of the story comes from after David's conquest of the city, when the worship of Yahweh was introduced there. It is in fact in every way probable that the story itself is an adaptation of traditional material used to explain and legitimize certain developments in David's reign.33

Clements continues in a footnote: It also affirms David's right, as heir and successor of the Jebusite kings 'after the order of Melchizedek' to receive tithes and homage from Israel (cf. Ps. 110.4).

Another approach to the text, set in motion by S. Mowinckel in 1916, was taken up by several other scholars, including H.H. Rowley and A.R. Johnson. On this view, the figure of Melchizedek is taken to be a covert reference to Zadok, who suddenly conies to the fore in the time of David. In the words of Johnson, Zadok

33. R.E. Clements, God and Temple (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1965), p. 42.

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In other words, the honour accorded Melchizedek is an indirect reference to the honour accorded Zadok, who performed an important political role in David's new capital. It is not my purpose, in this discussion, to resolve the differences between the various interpretations of Genesis 14. The main point is that these mainstream scholars have been concerned with the political motives that shaped the text, and the resulting interpretations could be called political allegory. What the text itself says is relatively clear: Abram offers tithes to the king of Salem who had blessed him in the name of El Elyon. Why the text says this is not at all clear, but these scholars see no impropriety in suggesting motives such as legitimating the appropriation of Jerusalem and its cult.35 This style of argument admirably supports James Barr's recent claim that 'Allegorical interpretation of scripture, then, is not only something permissible within

34. A.R. Johnson, Sacral Kingship in Ancient Israel (Cardiff: University of Wales Press, 1967 [1955]), pp. 52-53; H.H. Rowley, 'Melchizedek and Nehushtan', JBL 58 (1939), pp. 113-41. 35. This is equally true of the kind of arguments advanced by Saul Olyan in his refutation of Rowley in 'Zadok's Origins and the Tribal Politics of David', JBL 101 (1982), pp. 177-93. Olyan reads Zadok and Abiathar as representative of tribal interests. The Melchizedek tradition is considered a separate issue, but Gen. 14 'could just as easily establish a tradition of friendly ties with Jerusalem going back to the time of Abraham, in an attempt to justify Davidic hegemony over the city' (p. 180). The theme of legitimation is also to be found in John Emerton's view that Gen. 14.18-20 helps to justify David's adoption of the Jebusite cult and his occupying of the throne in a Jebusite city (Emerton, 'Some Problems in Gen xiv', in J.A. Emerton [ed.], Studies in the Pentateuch [VTSup, 41; Leiden: Brill, 1990], pp. 73-102, esp. 100-101). John Van Seters proposes an alternative date and allegory without changing the motives of the text: 'I think scholars are correct in seeing in the addition of vv. 18-20 the purpose of legitimation, but for quite a different period'. Melchizedek is said to represent the priesthood of the second temple, and the purpose of the text is to legitimate the syncretism of the late Persian or early Hellenistic period (Van Seters, Abraham in History and Tradition [New Haven: Yale University Press, 1975], pp. 307-308). A diffident Westermann is unclear on details but concludes nonetheless that 'Its function is to legitimate something' (C. Westermann, Genesis 12-36 [Minneapolis: Augsburg, 1985], p. 192).

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modern scholarship, but it is something that is already going on'.36 Moreover, these mainstream scholars, long before the rise of an overt socio-political criticism, apparently recognized that texts like Genesis 14 masked or mediated social tensions. They had already assumed a position like that of Terry Eagleton in Criticism and Ideology, who argued that although texts might appear to be cut loose from any particular socioeconomic conditions, the function of criticism is to 'make the real determinants appear'.37 But the logical consequences of their approach was never carried through in any systematic way; this was left to the more consistent socio-political critics like Norman Gottwald in North America and Itumeleng Mosala in South Africa. Mosala's approach to hermeneutics seems to be driven by the claim that 'oppressive texts cannot be totally tamed or subverted into liberating texts'.38 Consequently, research should be aimed at identifying that original oppression and finding contemporary analogies of struggle. Both Mosala and Gottwald are heading in an entirely different direction to the one advocated by Gadamer and other exponents of what I have called allegoria verbi. Gadamer's view would seem to affirm, for example, the process of tradition which allowed Genesis 14 and Psalm 110 to appear as autonomous, detached from all contingent factors, and ready to be appropriated in a new 'event of tradition' that would read Christ as the exemplary priest 'in the order of Melchizedek' (Heb. 5.410; 7.1-28). The advocates of allegoria verbi all agree that the origins of a text will be marked by particular prejudices, but precisely for that reason, they argue that a text should be seen as relatively autonomous of its original background. How are we to evaluate this conflict between the two kinds of allegory? It seems to me that any attempt to adjudicate this hermeneutical conflict needs to proceed from a broader base: ethical reflection needs to proceed from the diversity of theologies represented by, in this case, the Zion and Davidic traditions. Even if it is true that the origin of the 36. J. Barr, 'The Literal, the Allegorical, and Modern Biblical Scholarship', JSOT 44 ([1989]), pp. 3-17(15). 37. T. Eagleton, Criticism and Ideology (London: Verso, 1977), pp. 73, 101; cf. N.K. Gottwald, 'Social Class as an Analytic and Hermeneutical Category in Biblical Studies', JBL 112 (1993), p. 21: 'Some of these [textual] voices may not want us to know anything about their social conditioning, and we shall have to insist until their identity is revealed'. See further, Gottwald, The Hebrew Bible in its Social World and in Ours (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1993). 38. Mosala, Biblical Hermeneutics and Black Theology, p. 30.

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Jerusalem theology lies in Davidic propaganda, and even if we concede that the Melchizedek traditions in Genesis 14 and Psalm 110 are part of this propaganda, I think Mosala is mistaken in his claim that 'oppressive texts cannot be totally tamed'. Isaiah, for example, turned Zion theology against the Davidic kings, Ahaz and Hezekiah: instead of supporting militarism and foreign alliances, Isaiah urged a radical trust in the protection of Yahweh (see Isa. 30.15-16; 31.1). Walter Brueggemann has perceptively characterized the preaching of First Isaiah as 'the critique of ideology'.39 The prophet redescribes the world created by monarchic ideology, and then shows that the Davidic kings do not really trust in promises Yahweh made to Zion; they trust instead in weapons and treaties with foreign kings. There is only one treaty of any value, and that is the treaty with Yahweh. As Ben Ollenburger has recently shown, the monarchical language of Zion symbolism does not legitimate the abuse of political power; on the contrary, it prohibits such a use of power.40 In short, the royal theology has been hoisted on its own petard. The Isaiah tradition, then, provides an important contribution to Zion and Davidic theologies, and we would be mistaken to build our ethical critique only on sociological accounts of Genesis 14, or Psalm 110, or the dynastic promise in 2 Samuel 7. One would also need to note the widely held view that Isa. 55.3 effectively democratized the Davidic covenant by transferring it to the people of God (and messianism, one should note, disappears from Isa. 40-66). This, and other traditions, might be regarded as resistant to Davidic claims. It is arguable, to mention just two more examples, that the whole appendix of 2 Samuel 2124 deconstructs the pretensions of the Davidic monarchy41 and that Deuteronomy's theology of election is cast in conscious opposition to the election of the Davidic monarchy.42 To put the point in more general terms, the sociological origins of a tradition are no guide to its later development. 39. W. Brueggemann, 'Unity and Dynamic in the Isaiah Tradition', JSOT 29 (1984), pp. 89-107 40. See Ollenburger, Zion the City of the Great King (JSOTSup, 41; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1987), pp. 158-62. It may be possible to read the Zion symbolism as a mask of political interests, but the point here would be that First Isaiah has itself practised a kind of allegoria verbi that resists any such motives behind the symbolism. 41. W. Brueggemann, '2 Sam 21-24: An Appendix of Deconstruction?', CBQ 50 (1988), pp. 383-97. 42. See R. Clements, God's Chosen People (London: SCM Press, 1968), pp. 45-49.

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If this is true for the development of traditions within the Hebrew Bible, it is even more true of the continuation of those traditions in the Second Temple period and beyond. For example, there may appear to be several points of contact between the various Melchizedek traditions in early Jewish and Christian sources, but the similarities are misleading. In his Legum Allegoriae (3.79-82), Philo sees Melchizedek, the selftutored priest king who has no antecedents, as a thoroughly historical representation of the Logos.43 The Epistle to the Hebrews, however, uses Melchizedek's lack of genealogy only to emphasize the permanent nature of his priesthood (Heb. 7.3,16, 24) and does not explore a connection with Logos theology. Similarly, in the Qumran material, we find one text (HQMelchizedek) envisaging Melchizedek as a heavenly high priest and eschatological judge.44 Yet, if Horton is correct, then Melchizedek is not conceived to be a heavenly figure in Hebrews; the argument in Hebrews requires that Melchizedek be an earthly figure, and with the possible exception of Origen, it is only certain later texts (ironically condemned as heretical) that saw Melchizedek as a heavenly power.45 Justin Martyr, among others, saw Melchizedek as a 'priest of the uncircumcision',46 a theme that apparently resonates with the discussions of R. Ishmael and R. Akiba about how the first priest of the Torah, the uncircumcised Melchizedek, passed the priesthood on to the circumcised Abraham.47 But, of course, Justin Martyr only wants to emphasize that Melchizedek was uncircumcised in order to illustrate, as Hebrews does, how inferior and how much less inclusive the Levitical priesthood was. R. Isaac the Babylonian later argued that Melchizedek was circumcised after all. The notion of tradition as an homogenous 'trajectory' too easily falls into quasi-ontological understandings of continuity. A tradition is a

43. See F.L. Horton, The Melchizedek Tradition (SNTSMS, 30; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1976), pp. 54-60, 85. 44. See M. de Jonge and A.S. van der Woude, '1 IQMelchizedek and the New Testament', NTS 12 (1965-66), pp. 301-26. 45. Horton, Melchizedek Tradition, pp. 87-101, 155-56, 160-64. For discussions of the subsequent literature, see further L.D. Hurst, The Epistle to the Hebrews (SNTSMS, 65; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990), pp. 52-61; H.W. Attridge, Hebrews (Hermeneia; Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1989), esp. pp. 186-97. 46. Dial. Tryph. 33; see Horton, Melchizedek Tradition, p. 89. 47. Lev. R. (Qedoshim) 25.6; Gen. R. (Lech Lechd) 66.5; see Horton, Melchizedek Tradition, pp. 118-20.

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socially embodied and historically extended argument.4* In this respect, 'tradition'—in the singular—is always open to deconstruction. Royal theology in the Hebrew Bible, for example, is a series of tensions rather than an easy continuity. The same is true of Melchizedek traditions in later sources. What constitutes Jewish and Christian identity is an intertwined series of socially embodied arguments, and a properly ethical hermeneutic needs to be open to the diverse constructs formulated within and across both traditions. Neither tradition presents a homogeneous continuity. Rather than conceiving of hermeneutics as the critical correlation of ancient and modern texts, or ancient and modern situations, Walter Benjamin's images of collage and constellation seem more appropriate to the task at hand.49 If this line of argument is accepted, then what is required at this point is some reflection on the ethics of argument. Epistemology and Ethics Biblical study is guided by a plurality of interpretative interests. Synagogue, church and university need to decide what kind of study is most useful, not only on epistemological grounds but also on ethical grounds. In particular, I would suggest that epistemological arguments are not the central issue for the Christian use of the Hebrew Bible. If Gadamer's hermeneutic rehabilitates allegory, it does so in a way which is more complex than is acknowledged by Louth. Gadamer's project is ambiguous between epistemological and ethical issues, and I would argue that any reception of Gadamer should highlight this ethical content. In Truth and Method, Gadamer argues that unless individuals can be drawn into genuine hermeneutical conversations, they will remain at the mercy of their individual prejudices; they over-value their immediate horizon.50 In short, he promotes an ethic for education which, initially at least, we might state negatively: one should not over-value one's own initial understanding. The truth value of a classic text may only become 48. Cf. A. Maclntyre, After Virtue (Notre Dame: Notre Dame University Press, 1981), p. 207. 49. See J. Ebach, ' Vergangene Zeit und Jetztzeit: Walter Benjamins Reflexionen als Anfragen an die biblische Exegese und Hermeneutik', EvT 52 (1993), pp. 288309. 50. Truth and Method, p. 269 = Wahrheit und Methode, p. 286.

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evident when the critic has entered into a genuine dialogue with the past and has indeed been transformed by this conversation.51 If the task of interpretation is restricted to reconstructing the original horizon of the text then historical thinking 'makes an end of what is only a means. The text that is understood historically is forced to abandon its claim that it is uttering something true.'52 Transformative understanding is not the empathy of one individual for another, nor is it the subjection of the other to our own criteria, but it always involves the attainment of a higher generality that overcomes, not only our own particularity, but also that of the other.53

This ideal form of conversation is put forward by Gadamer as a general theory of hermeneutics, that is, it is said to apply as much to understanding a different culture in the present as it does to understanding a culture of the past. Transformative conversation might, however, be rarer than Gadamer suggests; more common, perhaps, is the species of hermeneutics that is 'the subjection of the other to our own criteria' (and this is programmatically true of etic social science). But as one perspicuous commentator on Gadamer has noted, There has been a great deal of alteration in self-understanding [over the centuries] through meeting with others. Only it has been very unevenly distributed. It was the societies who were less powerful who felt the full force of the constraint to alter their traditional terms of understanding.54

But precisely because of this problem of monological power, among other considerations, Charles Taylor still regards transformative conversation as an ideal. The other major alternative, relativism, he rightly regards as self-defeating.55 51. Truth and Method, p. 341 = Wahrheit und Methode, p. 360. Georgia Warnke concludes her lucid book on hermeneutics by arguing that Gadamer's image of the 'fusion of horizons' relates directly to his concept of 'education': Bildung is conceived of as an ever-broadening horizon that can both appropriate, and be transformed by, forms of life quite distant from one's own. See Warnke, Gadamer: Hermeneutics, Tradition and Reason (Oxford: Polity Press, 1987), ch. 6. 52. Truth and Method, p. 270 = Wahrheit und Methode, p. 287. 53. Truth and Method, p. 272 = Wahrheit und Methode, p. 288. 54. C. Taylor, 'Understanding and Ethnocentricity', in Philosophy and the Human Sciences (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985), p. 130. 55. The view that all cultures are equally valuable is both condescending, in that it offers pre-emptive judgment of worth without actually engaging with the other, and paradoxically it is ethnocentric, in suggesting that we already have the standards to

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Even the notorious pragmatist Richard Rorty has, on occasion, come perilously close to the Kantian principle we have explored above (persons as ends and not means). Rorty has argued that there is a useful distinction between knowing in advance what you want to get out of a text and hoping that a text will help to 'change your purposes and thus to change your life'. Rorty complains about his recent experience of slogging through a volume of readings on Joseph Conrad's novel Heart of Darkness— one psychoanalytic reading, one reader-response reading, one feminist reading, one deconstructionist reading, one new historicist reading. None of the readers had, as far as I could see, been enraptured or destabilized by Heart of Darkness. I got no sense that the book had made a big difference to them...[it] had no more changed these reader's purposes than the specimen under the microscope changes the purpose of the histologist.56

So what does all this mean for Christological interpretation of the Hebrew Bible? Christians (even exemplary figures like Bonhoeffer) are wont to read the Hebrew Bible through the eyes of the New Testament, but is this not another case of subjecting a text to our own criteria? Especially when we reflect on how often the church has been co-opted in anti-Semitic violence through the centuries, there should surely arise an ethical reserve about using anachronisms that undermine the selfdescriptions of Jewish communities.57 In Kantian terms, the great irony in Bonhoeffer's practice is that he used the Old Testament as a means to serve pro-Jewish ends. He did so, it may be argued, without sufficient respect for Israelite self-descriptions and for the Jewish self-descriptions built on them. But as Jon Levenson has recently stressed, we cannot allow research to be reduced to purely historical questions about the biblical period. Part of our identities as Christians and Jews depend, for example, on the make such judgments. Authentic judgments of value allow the possibility that in actually engaging with the other, our original standards may be transformed. Cf. C. Taylor, The Politics of Recognition', in A. Gutman (ed.), Multiculturalism and "The Politics of Recognition' (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1992), pp. 67, 70. 56. R. Rorty, The Pragmatist's Progress', in U. Eco et a/., Interpretation and Overinterpretation (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), pp. 106-107. Cf. Hirsch's complaint about the 'easy constructivism' that produces readings with a 'sophisticated predictability' ('Allegory', p. 566). 57. For a recent review of the issues, see S.R. Haynes, Prospects for PostHolocaust Theology (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1991).

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later histories of interpretation, and a living Jewish-Christian dialogue needs to encompass our attitudes to these later developments.58 As our case study on Melchizedek illustrates, the Bible has shown a remarkable capacity to conform itself to the theologies and practices of diverse socio-cultural formations, and an ethical heraieneutic will need to be able to criticize the history of the Bible's influence. As Charles Taylor has argued, even an actor-oriented, or 'interpretative', social science will need to include the possibility of critique; it is not simply a matter of adopting the agent's point of view. The interpretive view... avoids the two equal and opposite mistakes: on the one hand, of ignoring self-descriptions altogether, and attempting to operate in some neutral 'scientific' language; on the other hand, of taking these descriptions with ultimate seriousness, so that they become incorrigible.59

I have suggested above that any appropriation of the Melchizedek traditions needs to view them in the wider constellations of royal and priestly theology which are themselves historically extended arguments in no strong sense 'determined' by the sociology of their origins. But a Christian should not refrain from observing that the use of the Melchizedek tradition in Hebrews may in fact be no less an example of ideology than what we find in Gen. 14.18-20 and Ps. 110.4. Just as, in the Hebrew Bible, scholars suspect that the Jebusites have been incorporated and subordinated, so also we find in Hebrews that the Levitical priesthood has been incorporated and subordinated. This observation illustrates that the ideological conflicts at work in the Melchizedek tradition have not been determined by its supposed origins, but a question still remains: how should a Christian evaluate the ideological strategy in Hebrews? Conclusion With the eclipse of modernist epistemology, the ethics of interpretation may be one of the most important issues for future reflection; it is precisely ethical considerations that have the potential to stop some schools of postmodernism sliding into an indifference towards the stories

58. See the trenchant criticisms of historical criticism in J.D. Levenson, The Hebrew Bible, the Old Testament and Historical Criticism (Louisville: Westminster/ John Knox, 1993). 59. Taylor, 'Understanding and Ethnocentricity', pp. 123-24.

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and practices of our neighbours.60 David Dawson's work argues that allegory in Alexandria was not so much a process of domestication as a process of cultural revision. The question before us now is whether political allegory can achieve the same ends. As Frances Young has concluded, the revival of allegory will become 'unethical if it simply permits domestication of the text to the reader's perspectives so that the text merely reinforces identities already achieved or authorizes positions already held. But if it allows the right kind of engagement and response, it has potential for creative cultural challenge.'61 In short, we should celebrate the return of allegory if it means a fresh sense of contemporary engagement, but we should be wary of it if it turns out to be yet one more strategy to domesticate the voice of the other. In this essay, I have used a broad Kantian principle (persons as ends and not means) in order to illustrate the range of ethical issues at stake—respecting and resisting authors, respecting and resisting other readers. Such a broad principle can only serve a heuristic function: what counts as responsible allegory cannot be determined in isolation from particular contexts of conversation and praxis.62

60. Cf. the nuanced discussion in Z. Bauman, Postmodern Ethics (Oxford: Blackwell, 1993), ch. 6. 61. Young, 'Allegory', p. 118. 62. This essay is dedicated to John Rogerson, whose professional career has combined specialist scholarship with risky interdisciplinary conversations and particular social commitments. In short, he is not just a scholar but an intellectual, and I am grateful for the example he has set.

FIVE STRONG REREADINGS OF THE BOOK OF ISAIAH Walter Brueggemann In his rich and suggestive studies of the history of modern criticism, John Rogerson has traced the primary intellectual and theological currents which have shaped our study. These include rationalism, pietism, and orthodoxy. Along with tracing these complex currents, Rogerson has inevitably cited specific instances and cases of the ways in which emerging criticism has shaped our understanding of the texts. Among others, he has exhibited the way in which the unity and single authorship of Isaiah has been critically undermined, until we have arrived at a newer critical consensus concerning the tripart structure of the book of Isaiah and the role of the so-called Servant Songs in interpretation. Because Rogerson's research has not reached into the later twentieth century in any sustained way, his report on critical developments in the book of Isaiah does not reach as far as the recent discussion of 'canonical' Isaiah. A number of scholars, but especially Brevard Childs and Ronald Clements, have been preoccupied with showing how the critically divided book of Isaiah can be understood with canonical coherence.1 Indeed, scholarly work on the book of Isaiah at the present time concerns the tension and relatedness between the established critical consensus and emerging attention to canonical claims. The subject of this collection, 'The Bible in Human Society', however, sets our thinking in a quite different direction. The phrase 'in human society' considers the Bible not as an object of considered reflective scholarship, but rather the use of texts in an intentional but not critically knowing way. Such use of texts may or may not be informed by 1. Brevard S. Childs, Introduction to the Old Testament as Scripture (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1979), ch. 17; Ronald Clements, The Unity of the Book of Isaiah', Int 36 (1982), pp. 117-29, and 'Beyond Tradition-History: DeuteroIsaianic Development of First Isaiah's Themes', JSOT 31 (1985), pp. 95-113.

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scholarly opinion, but tends to use specific texts in life-contexts, without attention either to critical consensus or canonical shape. Such texts are regularly taken up seriatim and freshly situated in a quite different interpretive occasions, so that the text claims for itself new meanings.2 Here I will identify and consider briefly five such uses. I refer to these as 'strong rereadings'. Readers will recognize my allusion to Harold Bloom's notion of 'strong misreadings'.3 By the phrase Bloom, as I understand him, did not mean 'wrong' readings, but only courageous acts of interpretation which read texts in new directions without subservience to any established or even 'clear' meaning. I use the term 'reread' to refer to what Bloom intends, but to suggest that the new readings, given the readers' situations, offer credible readings. I do not suggest that such ad hoc readings, which may violate critical consensus or canonical intentionality, constitute any correction of or protest against more 'normative' readings. But they may give us pause. They may give us pause because the more biblical texts are utilized 'in human society', the less the texts are under scholarly or 'canonical' constraints. If or when the use of the Bible is no longer 'in human society' but only in scholarship, we shall have arrived, I suspect, at a situation when the text no longer functions with vitality. Its vitality is at the same time a measure of its public use and of the limits of scholarly or 'canonical' restraints. Such a phenomenon may give us pause when we ponder the fact that the scholarly and 'canonical' enterprises do not in any comprehensive way inform readings that are serious, even if divergent.

I The first text I cite is an early text of Martin Luther. Early in his move toward his settled 'Reformation' convictions, Luther participated in a 'Heidelberg Dispute' on April 26, 1518, in which he first articulated his definitive 'Theology of the Cross'.4 In his argument presented at the 2. Concerning a seriatim approach to the texts, see David R. Blumenthal, Facing the Abusing God: A Theology of Protest (Louisville: Westminster/John Knox, 1993), pp. 47-54 and passim. 3. Harold Bloom, A Map of Misreading (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1975). 4. Among the more important discussions of 'the theology of the cross', see Alister E. McGrath, Luther's Theology of the Cross: Martin Luther's Theological

BRUEGGEMANN Five Strong Rereadings of the Book of Isaiah 89 disputation, he offered forty theses, for which he then offered 'proofs'. From that debate conducted in the community of the Augustianians in Heidelberg, we will cite three theses of Luther: 19.

20.

21.

That person does not deserve to be called a theologian who looks upon the invisible things of God as though they were clearly perceptible in those things which have actually happened (Rom. 1.20). He deserves to be called a theologian, however, who comprehends the visible and manifest things of God seen through suffering and the cross. A theology of glory calls evil good and good evil. A theology of the cross calls the thing what it actually is.5

We cite theses 19 and 20 because in these central claims Luther enunciates his conviction that the 'invisible things of God' are indeed hidden and not 'clearly perceptible' and that the 'manifest and visible things of God' are seen through 'suffering and the cross'.6 In these claims, Luther's 'theology of the cross' moves radically against 'reason' to depend upon revelation and against 'glory' to suffering as the medium and measure of God's disclosure. But it is thesis 21 which directly concerns us. Luther here continues the sharp and dramatic antithesis in which he has begun, contrasting glory-cross, strength-weakness, wisdom-folly, good-evil. Our direct interest is that the thesis itself is an unacknowledged reference to Isa. 5.20: Ah, you who call evil good and good evil, who put darkness for light and light for darkness, who put bitter for sweet and sweet for bitter!

In his commentary, where he is more disciplined and attentive to the text, Luther takes this 'woe' to refer to the 'pestilent teachers'.7 'They Breakthrough (Oxford: Blackwell, 1985); Douglas John Hall, Lighten our Darkness: Toward an Indigenous Theology of the Cross (Philadelphia: Westminster Press, 1976); Jiirgen Moltmann, The Crucified God: The Cross of Christ as the Foundation and Criticism of Christian Theology (San Francisco: Harper & Row, 1974). 5. Harold J. Grimm (ed.), Luther's Works. XXXI. Career of the Reformer, I (Philadelphia: Muhlenberg Press, 1957), pp. 52-53. 6. Ibid., pp. 52-53,68-69. 7. Jaroslav Pelikan (ed.), Luther's Works. XVI. Lectures on Isaiah, Chapters 1-39 (St Louis: Concordia Publishing House, 1969), p. 65.

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blaspheme and rail at it (the Word of God) but proclaim their own ungodly ideas and wisdom of the flesh, things which are never good.'8 In his commentary, Luther draws the series of woe-sayings away from the practical ordering of life to theological teaching. In his Heidelberg theses, however, he goes much further. Now the simple contrast between 'good and evil' is drawn into Luther's programmatic contrast of 'glory and cross', the former being the way of the world, the latter the demanding, scandalous way of the gospel. Thus calling things by their right names is not simply faithful discernment, as an Israelite sage might have taught, but it is the submission of all discernment to the singular rule of the cross.9 Luther demonstrates how a particular text is by theological conviction profoundly transposed to serve an 'evangelical' program. This is not to say that Luther takes the text away from Isaiah, but that he requires a rereading of Isaiah as 'a theologian of the cross'. The series of woes in Isa. 5.8-22 and 10.1-4 now become conclusions drawn about the hiddenness of God (on which see Isa. 45.15), and the judgment that the discerning eye of 'natural man', that is, those not under the suffering of the cross, cannot see clearly at all. Except for the cruciality of the cross (a big exception!), this is not so far removed from Isaiah's apparent claim that the kings in Jerusalem, without faith, do not see and do not trust what God is doing in their common life. II

At the very beginning of his publishing career, Karl Marx wrote polemical comments on political items in the Rheinische Zeitung.10 On October 25, 1842, he responded to an action of the Diet of the Rhineland which prohibited stealing firewood from enclosed land.11 The 8.

Ibid.

9. For a discussion of this text in what is likely its 'original' sapiential intention, see J. William Whedbee, Isaiah and Wisdom (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1971), pp. 80-110; Hans Walter Wolff, Amos the Prophet: The Man and his Background (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1973), pp. 17-34. 10. Karl Marx, Texte aus der rheinischen Zeitung von 1842/43 mit Friedrich Engels' Artikeln im Anhang (ed. Hans Pelger; Trier: Karl-Marx-Haus, 1984). I am grateful to Elizabeth Morgan for helping me find this text. 11. Karl Marx, 'Verhandlungen des 6. rheinischen Landtags. Von einem Rheinlander. Dritter Artikel: Debatten iiber das Holzdiebstahlsgesetz', Texte aus der rheinischen Zeitung, pp. 78-109.

BRUEGGEMANN Five Strong Rereadings of the Book of Isaiah 91 practice of the peasants was roundly condemned by the Diet, which was of course composed of property owners who enclosed land and who granted the poor no right to take much needed wood from their property. The one-sided and predictable action of the Diet provided an early occasion for Marx in his critique of private property and in his analysis of the law as a tool of private property. In his analysis, Marx considers the way in which an economy dominated by the propertied is separated from the realities of the social fabric in ways that are inevitably destructive. In addition to his critique of private property and partisan law, which remained constant in his social analysis, Marx explicated a practical understanding of the poor who need wood in order to survive, and who must violate 'law' in order to have wood. Marx asks, On what grounds are they authorized to steal? His answer is on the basis of the law or right of 'custom'. That is, there are old, well established social practices, long before the imposed laws of private property, which were accepted as legitimating the gathering of wood on open land. Marx's positive concern is to show that this 'law of custom' is still valid, still 'grounded in reason' and is the customary 'right of poverty' for those who have no other recourse. Moreover, he insists that this ancient and timehonored practise belongs to the 'rightful nature of things', because nonowners have rights, that is, protection accorded to the powerless.12 In the very life and conduct of the propertyless class, one can see a correlation between nature and poverty, which creates a liveable order which cannot be violated because it is manifestly human.13 Against the 'control of the propertyless' Marx juxtaposes 'the justice of the poor'. In his second major move, Marx argues that this natural right has become in fact the 'law of the state' which the Diet is not free to contradict. Thus in what strikes one as the reification of the state, Marx takes the true and proper function of the state as something more elemental and ultimate that these propertied law-makers cannot change when they vote merely by their own interest. 12. I am grateful to Arend T. van Leeuwen, Critique of Earth: The Second Series of the Gifford Lectures Entitled 'Critique of Heaven and Earth' (London: Lutterworth Press, 1974), pp. 33-65, for his suggestive discussion of Marx's discussion of the legislation of wood. On these points, see van Leeuwen, Critique of Earth, pp. 43-50. 13. Van Leeuwen, Critique of Earth, p. 53.

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This peculiar, but characteristic, analysis of Marx brings us to the specific point of our concern. In a climactic judgment against the Diet, Marx contrasts the true concerns of the state with the frivolous and illegitimate actions of the Diet: deine Wege sind nicht meine Wege, und deine Gedanken sind nicht meine Gedanken!14

It is a common interpretive judgment that these words in Isa. 55.8 are addressed to Jewish exiles in Babylon, asserting that repentance is the way out of exile. Informed by the study of Norman Gottwald, I have recently suggested that this assertion is a summons to embrace an intentional Jewish identity and to resist 'assimilation' into the ideology of Babylonian power and Babylonian religious legitimacy.15 Marx of course has no interest in such historicizing. As a polemicist, he brings the text to his own urgent argument, and uses what must have been powerful religious rhetoric (without acknowledging his citation of the text) to form an absolute contrast between two thoughts and two ways. The contrast is between the legitimation of what Nicholas Lash terms 'reprobate materialists' and the natural right of the poor that is the law of the state. Marx will not, of course, identify this alternative way (of the State) with the 'way of Yahweh', for his opponents have already preempted theological legitimacy. The alternative way is rooted in the reality of the society, based upon reason, a mandate entrusted to the state. Thus the true state stands as a counter to this Rhineland Diet that violates right and reason, and disobeys the true mandate of the state. As in the words of Isaiah 55 against Babylon, Marx intends to legitimate those who have interests, thoughts, ways, and intentions of their own which violate this 'more excellent way'. Arend van Leeuwen regards Marx's use of Isa. 55.8 as altogether appropriate to the argument and not tacked on. He observes that 'the spirit of the torah' is palpably evident throughout this article.16 Thus we have a powerful rereading in Isaiah which turns the text against those 14. Marx, 'Debatte iiber das Holzdiebstahlsgesetz', p. 92. 15. Norman K. Gottwald, 'Social Class and Ideology in Isaiah 40-55: An Eagletonian Reading', in Norman K. Gottwald and Richard S. Horsley (eds.), The Bible and Liberation: Political and Social Hermeneutics (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, rev. edn, 1993), pp. 329-42; Walter Brueggemann, 'Planned People/Planned Book?', in Craig C. Broyles and Craig A. Evans (eds.), Writing and Reading the Scroll of Isaiah: Studies of an Interpretive Tradition (forthcoming). 16. Van Leeuwen, Critique of Earth, p. 58.

BRUEGGEMANN Five Strong Rereadings of the Book of Isaiah 93 who imagine they enjoy theological legitimacy for their own interests. Three comments by way of extrapolation from Marx occur to me. First, E.P. Thompson has analyzed in some detail the practice of plebeian discourse and activity in eighteenth-century England.17 He notes, as Marx did, that the dominant socio-economic forces have established social hegemony, and that the peasants have no court of appeal beyond 'custom'. Thompson comments on the interface between, on the one hand, law and ruling ideologies, and, on the other, common right usages and 'customary consciousness'.18 Thompson concludes that the older custom constitutes 'a moral economy' which was in profound conflict with the new 'political economy'.19 It is 'moral' for the same reason Marx gives. And though Thompson concludes with no such scriptural reference, his argument for England closely parallels that of Marx on the Rhineland situation. Secondly, in his programmatic study of economic history, Karl Polyani probes the enclosure laws of Speenhamland in eighteenthcentury England, whereby the old peasant right of land use began to be legally prohibited.20 Thus Marx's argument does not concern a specific Diet action only, but a massive, systemic shift of people and land that haunts the modern world. The practice of enclosure, now legally justified, prepares the way for modern, rapacious individualism. Thirdly, the argument of Marx is not far distant from the programmatic notion of 'God's preferential option for the poor'. Of course such liberation theology is often dismissed as too much indebted to Marx. It is worth noticing that Marx's argument is a substantive one and not simply a rhetorical flourish. The sum of the argument is that, as Isaiah 55 asserts, there is more to which folk are summoned than the benefit of immediate advantage given through hegemonic control. Marx manages to make such a critical theological claim without 'naming the name'. Nonetheless, the words of Isaiah continue to haunt the entire social settlement upon which he reflects and which now becomes increasingly void of credibility.

17. E.P. Thompson, Customs in Common (New York: The New Press, 1991). 18. Thompson, Customs, p. 175. 19. Thompson, Customs, p. 258 and passim. 20. Karl Polanyi, The Great Transformation (Boston: Beacon Press, 1957).

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III

The emergence of a 'feminine' hermeneutic has caused a new kind of attention to the text that raises issues related to sexual imagery and metaphor.21 A variety of texts have been found to be pertinent to the problem of patriarchal imagery and to less exclusivist alternatives. The text that I consider, though others might be cited, is Isa. 49.15-16: Can a woman forget her nursing child, or show no compassion for the child of her womb? Even these may forget, yet I will not forget you. See, I have inscribed you on the palms of my hands; your walls are continually before me.

These verses are preceded by two verses which provide a literary setting for them. In v. 13, the poet has a characteristic summons to praise, in recognition of a newness for Israel wrought by Yahweh. The reason for praise is given in the last two clauses, utilizing the term 'comfort' (nhrri) and the verb 'have compassion' (rhm). This verse, however, is followed by the quotation of a communal lament, governed by the negating verbs 'forsake' ('zb) and 'forget' (shk). The stylized complaint seems to echo Lam. 5.20 and was perhaps recited regularly in exile. Its function here appears to be to reject the announcement of v. 13, and to insist upon the unrelieved exilic situation of abandonment. In vv. 15-16, as is characteristic in Israel's liturgical texts, the complaint of v. 14 receives a response in the form of a divine utterance. The oracle intends to overcome the complaint, and to provide sure ground for the credibility of the assertion of v. 13. It has much interested feminist readers that in order to provide ground for the assurance, the poet must resort to maternal imagery. Here God is said to be a 'mother'. It is characteristic of mothers that they do not forget a suckling child, or fail to 'show compassion' for an infant which is their own. Of course they do not! But in an extreme case, they might! The mother who will not forget but might, and not show compassion is presented in the verses as a foil for Yahweh, who is a mother who 21. Extensive bibliography is offered by Peggy L. Day (ed.), Gender and Difference in Ancient Israel (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1989), and, more recently, Alice Ogden Bellis, Helpmates, Harlots, and Heroes: Women's Stories in the Hebrew Bible (Louisville: Westminster/John Knox Press, 1994).

BRUEGGEMANN Five Strong Rereadings of the Book of Isaiah 95 transcends the conventional mother, who will never forget or fail to show compassion. The imagery of 'mother God' is powerful and subtle. In order to make sense of the imagery, the 'mother God' must be like every mother. The imagery has power because this mother God is unlike other mothers, for this mother God is absolute and without exception in remembering and caring for the beloved child Israel. The metaphor functions to witness to Yahweh's inexhaustible fidelity, even to an exiled Israel which imagines itself to be forgotten and forsaken. So much is a common reading of the Isaiah texts. We may, however, notice three dimensions of feminist reading that have intensified and deepened our discernment of this text. First, early in the articulation of a feminist hermeneutic, Phyllis Trible explored, with particular attention, the uses of the term rhm ('womb') in the Old Testament/Hebrew Scriptures.22 In our text, Trible observed that the term 'compassion' (rhm) in vv. 13, 15, 16 makes a connection between 'womb' and 'compassion', and so articulates a new presence of Yahweh among the Israelites. Following Trible, this linkage has now become commonplace. But we must recognize that it was precisely the posing of a feminist question, that is, an enquiry about sexual imagery and intentionality, that evokes awareness of the rhetorical connection. Trible has daringly called attention to the 'bodily reality' of Yahweh, who acts in a 'womb-like' way toward beloved children who can never be forgotten. Secondly, my former student Linda Chenowith one day in class, without excessive critical awareness but with great attentiveness to feminist issues, helped me see this text differently. She observed that if the child of v. 15 is a 'suckling', the nursing mother must nurse, or she will experience the pain of a full breast left unsucked.23 That is, the mother remembers and shows 'compassion' because the mother needs the child to suck. Thus the binding of mother and child, in the metaphor, is a bodily one giving us another dimension of bodily reality, which Trible had already seen in rhm. Thirdly, Mayer I. Gruber has taken feminist concern in a different

22. Phyllis Trible, God and the Rhetoric of Sexuality (OBT; Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1978), pp. 31-59. 23. Mayer I. Gruber, 'The Motherhood of God in Second Isaiah', RB 90 (1983), p. 355 n. 15, refers to Derrick B. Jelliffe and E.F. Patrick Jelliffe, Human Milk in the Modern World (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1978) with reference to the physiological issues that are pertinent.

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direction.24 He observes that II Isaiah is especially drawn to mother images for God, and cites 42.14,45.10 and 66.13 as well as other verses. Gruber is attentive to the contrast made here between mothers who forget and Yahweh who never forgets: The Lord, who is the Mother of Israel, is not like these wicked mothers but like the good mothers.25

Gruber's final observation, however, moves away from the intensity of the image to suggest that appeal to a mother God is a radical appeal against idolatry. He concludes: The lesson would seem to be that a religion which seeks to convey the Teaching of God who is above and beyond both sexes cannot succeed in conveying that Teaching if it seeks to do so in a manner which implies that a positive-divine value is attached to only the one of the two sexes. fyf

Now it may be that the general intention of these observations is transparent enough in these verses, under the general rubric of 'radical fidelity'. If, however, we seek to go below the concept to the symbol, we must admit that the specificity and density of this particular articulation of the fidelity on God's part is uncovered for us by feminist ways of reading.27 What feminist readers have done is to set this text in a metanarrative of feminism that is attentive to the use of images that subvert ideology and enter into density of the metaphor mostly missed in conventional reading. The notice of the 'bodily' here makes us attentive to Yahweh's active, pained engagement with the child, Israel. Yahweh's stance thus is not only one of generosity or charity, but Yahweh is indeed at risk. It is then possible to return the text to the metanarrative of scripture (and so away from any feminist metanarrative), but our reading will have been decisively transformed in the process of rereading. Finally, we may mention the remarkable reading of this text by Mary Gordon. Whereas current feminist reading has stressed that in this text God is like a mother, only more so, in her novel Men and Angels Gordon exploits the text to establish that mothers, unlike God, are quite 24. Gruber, The Motherhood of God in Second Isaiah', pp. 351-59. 25. Gruber, 'Motherhood', p. 356. Mention of 'good mothers' suggests reference to the defining work of D.W. Winnicott. 26. Gruber, 'The Motherhood of God', p. 359. 27. Such a procedure of course appeals to the dense understanding of symbol in the work of Paul Ricoeur.

BRUEGGEMANN Five Strong Rereadings of the Book of Isaiah 97 unreliable.28 The novel tells a tale of a series of persons, each of whom had an unreliable, if not destructive mother. This includes Anne's mother, Stephen's mother, Michael's mother, and especially Laura's mother. Indeed Laura, because of a failed family, had been driven to religion, to trust in God who is so unlike mother. Twice, Laura refers explicitly to our passage.29 Out of this verse, she becomes an alienated, driven, almost demonic person, and in the end self-destructs. The story is saturated with perplexed or hostile comments about mothers. Thus Jane comments: Mother love. I haven't the vaguest idea what it means. All these children claiming their mothers didn't love them, and all these mothers saying they'd die for their children. Even women who beat their children may they love them, they can't live without them, they wouldn't dream of giving them up. 'What does it mean "I love my child"?'30

Anne and Adrian have this conversation about Laura: Adrian: What happened to her? Anne: I don't know exactly, but I just feel it. She seems to unloved, so unmothered. So tremendously unhappy. Adrian: It's not your responsibility to make her happy. Anne: But she lives in my house. She takes care of my children. And if I can make her happy, I should try. Adrian: What makes you think you can? Anne: I don't know. Vanity, maybe. Adrian: Listen, you're not her mother. You're her employer. Your responsibility is to pay her a fair wage and not to overwork her. You don't have to save her life... You don't have to take in strays.31

In the end, Anne and Jane draw the conversation back to the text of Isaiah: Anne: of Laura's mother: That woman had said she had hated her daughter since the moment she was born. Anne thought of holding her babies, of her cheeks against their cheeks, their mouths on her breast. The woman was a monster. Motherhood was a place where hate could not enter. That was what you said, holding your baby: No one will hurt you, I will keep you from the terrible world. But

28. 29. 30. 31.

Mary Gordon, Men and Angels (New York: Random House, 1985). Gordon, Men and Angels, pp. 1,209. Gordon, Men and Angels, p. 98. Gordon, Men and Angels, p. 113.

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Jane:

that women had brought hate with her, put a knife between her o-^ breasts, pierced her child's flesh and poured in poison. Of course it is never enough, the love of God. It is always insufficient for the human heart. It can't keep us from despair as well as the most ordinary kindness from a stranger. The love of God means nothing to a heart that is starved of human love. O-5

I cite Gordon's novel to indicate the broad range of interpretive possibilities in the text of Isaiah. Gordon has not evaded or distorted the text, but has read it from another experience, with a quite different accent. She has stayed in the field of the poem, facing the terrible issue of God being like and unlike, but finally seeing that if not loved by those we see, being loved by one we do not see is most problematic (Un4.20). IV

The poem of Isa. 65.17-25 is among the most sweeping and remarkable promissory oracles of the Old Testament. Paul Hanson and Otto Ploger have suggested that it is the voice of expectant Judaism in its period of rehabilitation after the exile which protests against a narrow, fearful Judaism.34 This text of course has often been taken out of the narrative of Judaism and situated in other narratives. I cite one poignant case of such rereading. In the Canadian province of Manitoba, there was important labor unrest culminating the General Strike of 1919.35 At issue in the building and metal trades were matters of collective bargaining, better wages, and lamentable working conditions. Increasing pressure was mounted about these issues through a labor movement organized as the Winnipeg Traders and Labor Council. The labor movement in western Canada was constituted in part by the import of British Socialism and included some romanticism, and an important strand of Christian militarism. On May 15, 1919 a strike called by the Traders and Labor Council 32. Gordon, Men and Angels, p. 228. 33. Gordon, Men and Angels, p. 231. 34. Paul D. Hanson, The Dawn of Apocalyptic: The Historical and Sociological Roots of Jewish Apocalyptic (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1975); Otto Ploger, Theocracy and Eschatology (Richmond: John Knox Press, 1968). 35. See David Jay Bercuson, Confrontation at Winnipeg: Labour, Industrial Relations, and the General Strike (Montreal: McGill-Queen's University Press, 1974).

BRUEGGEMANN Five Strong Rereadings of the Book of Isaiah 99 prompted 30,000 workers to leave their jobs. The strikers were opposed by the 'Citizens Committee of 1000', composed of the monied power structure, which charged the strike was instigated by Bolsheviks and which undertook a campaign to resist any conciliation. Our particular concern in this social emergency is the role played by James Shaver Woodsworth.36 He had been a Christian pastor, but had left his pastorate to become directly and actively involved with the labor issues and the possibility of socialist resolutions to the political conflict and its underlying economic causes. At the pivot point of the strike, Woodsworth, among several other prominent leaders, was arrested in a vigorous police assault. Three charges of seditious libel were brought against Woodsworth. The second was: That J.S. Woodsworth in or about the month of June in the year of our Lord One Thousand and Nine Hundred and Nineteen at the City of Winnipeg, in the Province of Manitoba, unlawfully and seditiously published libels in the words and figures following: Woe unto them that decree unrighteous decrees, and that write grievousness which they have prescribed, to turn aside the needy from judgment, and to take away the right from the poor of my people that widows may be their prey and that they may rob the fatherless. And they shall build houses and inhabit them, and they shall plant vineyards, and eat the fruit of them. They shall not build and another inhabit; they shall not plant and another eat, for as the days of a tree are the days of my people, and mine elect shall long enjoy the work of their hands.37

The charge against Woodsworth was subsequently dropped as the monied interests prevailed and crushed the strike. For our purposes, however, it is remarkable in context that this religious-political leader of what was seen to be a social revolution is placed under arrest for, among other things, citing this ancient poetic promise from Isa. 65.21-22. 36. See Kenneth McNaught, A Prophet in Politics: A Biography of J.S. Woodsworth (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1959) and A. Ross McCormack, Reformers, Rebels, and Revolutionaries: The Western Canadian Radical Movement 1899-1919 (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1977), pp. 77-97 sod passim. 37. Arthur J. Griffin, 'The Influence of the Old Testament Prophets upon the Life and Work of James Shaver Woodsworth' (PhD thesis, Union Theological College, Vancouver, BC, 1951), pp. 31-32.1 am grateful to R. Gerald Hobbs for calling my attention to the case of Woodsworth, whose report to me was prompted by James Manley.

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That poem, in its scriptural context, of course had nothing to do with a Canadian labor conflict. It required no great interpretive ingenuity, however, to resituate those verses in the dispute between labor and monied interests, thus a usage not unlike that of Marx mentioned above. The verses of Isa. 65.21-22 concern property, and assert that the possession and enjoyment of property shall be safe against any usurpatious seizure. The rereading by Woodsworth was telling. It was made more so by the reaction of the anti-strike forces who in their context saw the biblical promise as a threat, because it witnessed against their rapacious economic activity. The phrasing is a libelous assertion, in the ears of those who valued an inequitable status quo and intended to protect it at all costs. A week after the arrest of Woodsworth, on June 25, the strikers returned to work. For the moment, the Isaiah text was defeated.

V Isaiah 43.15-21 has become in important ways a pivotal text for the book of Isaiah, and indeed for the entire Old Testament/Hebrew Bible. Gerhard von Rad has made it the hinge whereby he programmatically links the faith of Israel's torah and the prophetic literature.38 Brevard Childs has proposed that the accent on 'new things' provides a large clue to the canonical structure of the book of Isaiah, so that 'old things' refers to Isaiah 1-39 and 'new things' to Isaiah 40-66.39 38. Gerhard von Rad, Old Testament Theology. II. The Theology of Israel's Prophetic Traditions (San Francisco: Harper & Row, 1965), takes Isa. 43.18-19 as the opening motto for the volume. In the body of the volume he makes a great deal of the way in which II Isaiah opens a 'new epoch' in the faith of Israel. 39. Childs, Introduction, pp. 328-30.1 regard Childs's suggestion, now followed by a number of scholars, as a brilliant interpretive move. It is my judgment, however, that the older interpretation which regards the 'former things' as the Mosaic events is not as easily disposed of as Childs seems to suggest. See, for example, Jer. 23.7-8 as well as the allusion to Exodus in Isa. 43.18-19, on which see Bernhard W. Anderson, 'Exodus Typology in Second Isaiah', in Bernhard W. Anderson and Walter Harrelson (eds.), Israel's Prophetic Heritage: Essays in Honor of James Muilenburg (New York: Harper & Brothers, 1962), pp. 177-95, and 'Exodus and Covenant in Second Isaiah and Prophetic Tradition', in Frank Moore Cross et al. (eds.), Magnolia Dei, The Mighty Acts of God: Essays on the Bible and Archaeology in Memory ofG. Ernest Wright (Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1976), pp. 339-60. See also the articles by A. Bentzen and C. North referenced by Childs.

BRUEGGEMANN Five Strong Rereadings of the Book of Isaiah 101 Our interest in this particular text, however, is of another order. The assertion of liberation rooted in God's resolve for the historical process, the governing theme of Isaiah 40-55, makes this literature peculiarly important for African-Americans who must deal theologically with the pervasive Western problem of white tyranny and specifically with the aggrieved reality of slavery in the United States. Brian Blount has reviewed in helpful detail the use of Scripture in black preaching and the way in which texts have been found to serve this distinctive and urgent agenda.40 It would be easiest to cite the remarkable work of Martin Luther King, Jr, who made rich and imaginative use of Scripture in his cadences of liberation.41 The problem in citing King, of course, is that to cite his work may be to engage in a kind of 'exceptionalism' about King as a most peculiar and unparalleled voice in the African-American community. In fact, however, King's appropriation of Scripture with reference to African-American freedom is not at all exceptional but is characteristic. And therefore I cite a sermon by Beverly J. Shamana, 'Letting Go', preaching on Isa. 43.15-21, though in fact she focuses upon vv. 18-19: Remember not the former things, nor consider the things of old. Behold, I am doing a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?42

In referring to 'former things', Shamana does not follow Childs in understanding this as Isaiah 1-39 (judgment), but follows the more conventional understanding that 'former things' are the Exodus events, a point, against Childs, seeming clear in this text.43 More specifically, Shamana understands the 'former things' to be 'let go' as the 'old 40. Brian K. Blount, 'Beyond the Boundaries: Cultural Perspective and the Interpretation of the New Testament' (PhD dissertation, Emory University, 1993). See also Theophus H. Smith, Conjuring Culture: Biblical Formations of Black America (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1994). Smith proposes that the Bible was incessantly performative for the Black Church community in conjuring an alternative culture. 41. Cf. James M. Washington (ed.), Testament of Hope: The Essential Speeches and Writings of Martin Luther King, Jr (San Francisco: Harper, 1986). More generally see James H. Smylie, 'On Jesus, Pharaohs, and the Chosen People: Martin Luther King as Biblical Interpreter and Humanist', Int 24 (1970), pp. 74-91. 42. Beverly J. Shamana, 'Letting Go', in Ella Pearson Mitchell (ed.), Those Preachin' Women: Sermons by Black Women Preachers (Valley Forge: Judson Press, 1985), pp. 101-105. I am grateful to Marcia Riggs for leading me to this sermon. 43. See n. 39 above.

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baggage of slavery', or more precisely 'a slave mentality'.44 The sermon is broadly based, so that it might address and appeal to many different listeners. Thus in her inventory of old things, she lists parents who failed to keep promises, a college education which promised a job, children who fail to be grateful, an attack of cancer, even though one is promised good health, a failed marriage.45

All of this is promised and has not been delivered, and so there is developed a sense of debit, of 'being owed', and an accumulation of resentment. The preacher urges that 'old things are to be forgotten'. For all of this generalization, however, there runs through the sermon the primary motif of the slave mentality of ancient Israel, and the parallel slave mentality of present day African-Americans who either are free and do not accept that freedom, or who refuse the summons and effort to move toward freedom not yet in hand. Midway through the sermon, Shamana speaks of being chained to the past, and then breaks out in, O freedom, O freedom, O freedom over me.

She asserts, 'The indomitable human and divine alliance authored by God will not stay captive, will not be fettered'. And then she moves to the fuller lyric: And before I'd be a slave I'd be buried in my grave; And go home to my Lord and be free.46

The sermon is concluded with the same phrasing. Admittedly, the sermon treats freedom in a large and complex way. At the same time, however, we cannot doubt that the central issue and main current of the text is freedom for African-Americans in a residue of slavery which still continues its economic, political and emotional power to define. Shamana has taken this text from Isaiah's (and Israel's) narrative of Jerusalem and has resituated it in the African-American narrative of slavery and freedom. To be sure, the two narratives are intimately paralleled, so that this is not a surprising connection to make. 44. Shamana, 'Letting Go', p. 102. 45. Shamana, 'Letting Go', p. 104. 46. Shamana, 'Letting Go', p. 103.

BRUEGGEMANN Five Strong Rereadings of the Book of Isaiah 103 Yet the two larger narratives are not the same. The current tension between Jews and African-Americans in the United States may signal an important difference between the narratives, or at least a tension about who shall provide the governing interpretation, that is, 'Who owns the text?'47 Shamana, in any case, shows a compelling capacity to move the text from one narrative to another narrative without distortion, so that the ancient poem is concretely available for a new reading, and for its fresh defining power in a quite different circumstance. VI

The several usages of Isaiah I have cited evidence the ways in which Isaiah texts have been utilized in a wide variety of contexts. It is clear that these 'text users' have permitted their own situations to determine the locus and intention of the text.48 In each case, the text has been reread by being taken from the narrative of Israel's faith and its locus in 47. Jon D. Levenson, 'Exodus and Liberation', in The Hebrew Bible, the Old Testament, and Historical Criticism: Jews and Christians in Biblical Studies (Louisville: Westminster/John Knox Press, 1993), pp. 127-59, vigorously opposes 'liberationist supersessionism' (p. 157) whereby other groups, including AfricanAmericans, preempt the Jews as the subject of Exodus liberation. He does, however, allow that Martin Luther King, Jr responsibly made use of the Israelite tradition of liberation. See the different sort of comments by Paul M. van Buren, A Theology of the Jewish-Christian Reality. Pan 2: A Christian Theology of the People Israel (San Francisco: Harper & Row, 1983), pp. 179-83. 48. Paul Ricoeur, 'The Hermeneutical Function of Distanciation', in From Text to Action: Essays in Hermeneutics, II (Evanston: Northwestern University Press, 1991), p. 83, observes that when the text becomes writing, it 'opens itself to an unlimited series of readings, themselves situated in different sociocultural conditions'. He asserts that 'the text must be able, from the sociological as well as the psychological point of view, to 'decontextualize' itself in such a way that it can be "recontextualized"'. It is this 'recontextualization' that is the subject of our study. See also J.P.M. Walsh, ' "Leave out the Poetry": Reflections on the Teaching of Scripture', in William M. Shea (ed.), The Struggle over the Past: Fundamentalism in the Modern World (The Annual Publication of the College Theology Society, 35, 1989), pp. 31726. For other cases of the 'recontextualization' of Isaiah, see Philip Wheaton and Duane Shank, Empire and the Word: Prophetic Parallels between the Exilic Experience and Central America's Crisis (EPICA Task Force, 1988). See the reference to Isa. 40.1-3 on p. 180 and to Isa. 25.8-9 on p. 262. See also Kornelis H. Miskotte, When the Gods are Silent (New York: Harper & Row, 1967), pp. 405-409, 415-22. Miskotte does not explicitly articulate a new context, but it is clearly implied in his eloquent testimony.

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the book of Isaiah, and recontextualized in a new interpretive situation of conflict. Beyond a shared readiness to cite Isaiah, I can identify only one constant in these varied uses. In one form or another, all of these uses are in the service of protest on the side of transformation, against a status quo which resists truth 'from below'. Thus, Luther against the church's 'theology of glory', Marx against the political economy of the Rhineland Diet, Feminist readers against a patriarchal reductionism that produces despair, or with Mary Gordon, against an abusive reality of distorted motherhood, Woodsworth against an exploitative labor system, and Shamana against the residue of slavery.

Perhaps all of these rereaders have rightly sensed something about the radical quality of the book of Isaiah, rooted in the holiness of God and addressed to those who live 'in human society'. I am pleased to offer this essay to John Rogerson, in thanks for the large ways in which he has helped us to understand ourselves more fully in the scholarly community, by attending to where we have been and how we have arrived where we are. I do so with some diffidence, for I am not sure he will regard what I have done as a legitimate enterprise. To be sure, my approach is somewhat subjective, depending upon the happenstance of specific cases I am able to cite. My hope is to suggest in a convincing way that along with our ongoing critical work and the emerging claim of 'canon criticism', we must pay attention to a third enterprise, practical usage which reflects upon the intuitive ways in which texts are understood to perform 'in human society'. I suggest that a study of these usages is not in conflict with more intentional critical study, but is complementary. This third enterprise, reflecting the continuing authority of the Bible as 'social code', from time to time suggests hermeneutical access points to which scholarly attention must be paid.49 The uses I have cited reflect not only a 'high view' of Scripture, but also a continued valuing of the cadences and rhetoric of the text, such usage asserts the ongoing pertinence for 'human society' of the One to whom these texts bear witness and through which that One becomes present. 49. I make reference, of course, to Northrop Frye, The Great Code: The Bible and Literature (New York: Harcourt, Brace, 1982).

REFLECTING ON WAR AND UTOPIA IN THE BOOK OF AMOS: THE RELEVANCE OF A LITERARY READING OF THE PROPHETIC TEXT FOR CENTRALAMERICA*

M. Daniel Carroll R.

A Personal Word It is a privilege to be able to offer this essay in honor of Professor John Rogerson, who was the advisor for my doctoral studies at the University of Sheffield. The Professor's interest in probing how best to interface the Bible and pressing contemporary ethical issues made a lasting impression on me, and his commitment to peace in no small way served as a seed for my own reflections in this essay. Living and working in Central America can have a profound effect on how one looks at the Christian life and the task of doing theology. For many years the isthmus has been racked by armed conflict between guerrilla groups and government forces, but within the last few years several peace initiatives have achieved a measure of success. Substantial strides have been made in El Salvador, where the United Nations has taken an active role in uncovering violations of human rights and in helping to set up new civil structures for a post-war society. Discontent continues to surface, however, as different groups demand reparations and concessions.1 Nicaragua has witnessed labor protests and the occasional resurgence of fighting between disgruntled recontras and recompas. My own experience lies in Guatemala. Here the negotiation process between the guerrilla coalition (the URNG: la Union Revolucionaria Nacional Guatemalteca) and the government has been affected by the * This essay is a revised version of a paper presented at the annual meeting of the Society of Biblical Literature in Washington, DC in November, 1993, for the Study of Peace in Scripture Group. 1. Note the review essay by C.D. Brockett, 'El Salvador: The Long Journey from Violence to Reconciliation', IARR 29/3 (1994), pp. 174-87.

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political chaos of the last few years and has repeatedly stalled because of the refusal of both parties to give much ground. At the same time, however, the tentative moves in Guatemala toward a democratic society are opening up some space for a more open and frank discussion of the violence. Evidence of this new atmosphere is that materials dealing with earlier conflicts such as the 'Revolution of 1944' that was frustrated by the military coup of 1954, contemporary leftist literature that offers testimony of life in opposition and a different perspective on social realities, and descriptions of the horrible toll on civilians—especially among the indigenous—are now available in bookstores.2 Young national authors, like Rodrigo Rey Rosa, publish short stories and novels dealing with the experiences of thirty years of conflict. Yet the issues of violence and peace go deeper than the wars and recent negotiations. On the one hand, actual life on the ground is more complex. Drug-related violence, for instance, is growing, as Central America has become a storage and shipping point for drugs destined for the U.S. Political uncertainty has resulted in increased crime and gang activity. Increasingly we live, as one of my students recently observed in my Old Testament Ethics class, within a culture of death. Violence is now a way of life, and life itself is becoming cheap. The social fabric is tearing, as unrest simmers and confrontations multiply; people have gotten used to resorting to violence as a means of resolving grievances and promoting their cause.3 On the other hand, even as violence involves more than the armed struggle, so too peace cannot be reduced to simply a. formal negotiation process for resolving structural injustice and condemning past atrocities. 2. For the events of 1944-1954, see, e.g., Luis Cardoza y Aragon, La revolution guatemalteca (Guatemala City: Editorial del Pensativo, 1994) and Marco Antonio Flores, Fortuny: Un comunista guatemalteco (Guatemala City: Oscar de Leon Palacios, Palo de Hormigo, Editorial Universitaria, 1994). Testimonies of guerrilla war include works by the recently deceased Mario Payeras, such as El trueno en la ciudad: Episodios de la lucha armada urbana de 1981 en Guatemala (Mexico City: Juan Pablos, 1987) and Los fusiles de octubre: Ensayos y articulos militares sobre la revolution guatemalteca 1985-1988 (Mexico City: Juan Pablos, 1991). For the impact on the life of the indigenous, note, e.g., Rigoberta Menchu, Me llamo Rigoberta Menchu y asime nacio la conciencia (ed. Elizabeth Burgos; Mexico City: Siglo XXI, 1985); Ricardo Falla, Masacres en la selva: Ixcdn, Guatemala (19751982) (Guatemala City: Editorial Universitaria, 1992). 3. See Tina Rosenberg, Children of Cain: Violence and the Violent in Latin America (New York: William Morrow, 1991).

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It must also become a social reality within the public consciousness and practice. Accordingly, it is important to probe both how Latin American culture has helped shape and how it has been influenced by the violence and to try to grasp how ordinary people have sought to handle the terror in their jokes, stories and daily activities.4 Moreover, militarism has long been part of the warp and woof of national politics and daily life. The logistics of demobilizing armies, as well as the redirecting of a cultural pattern that has venerated military leaders of both Left and Right, will require perseverance and time.5 Ultimately, what lies ahead is the remaking of a social world and ethos. This socio-political and cultural context has driven me to consider pacifism as a political, theological and communal option. I must confess that mine is a pilgrimage to sort out my own confusion and questions. As I read and listen to what others have been saying and suggesting, I am left with doubts and disquiet. This paper will focus on one particular aspect of the violence and peace issues, the problem of war and national reconstruction. These initial personal reflections in no way pretend to be definitive, though I hope they might provoke others to wrestle with these pressing issues. War and Utopia in Latin American Liberation Theology The tension between the cruelties of war and the establishment of a new world is not a new theological crux in Latin America. 1992 marked the commemoration of the 500th anniversary of the arrival of the Spanish. 4. For a cultural anthropology perspective, see Kay B. Warren, 'Introduction: Revealing Conflicts across Cultures and Disciplines', and 'Interpreting La Violencia in Guatemala: Shapes of Mayan Silence and Resistance', in Kay B. Warren (ed.), The Violence Within: Cultural and Political Opposition in Divided Nations (Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 1993), pp. 1-23 and 25-56, respectively. See my comments regarding the importance of understanding Latin American culture in order to better comprehend the context in M. Daniel Carroll R., Contexts for Amos: Prophetic Poetics in Latin American Perspective (JSOTSup, 132; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1992), pp. 91-122. 5. Any informed discussion about the future of democracy in Latin America must consider the particular history and nature of the military in that context. Note, e.g., B. Loveman and T.M. Davies, Jr (eds.), The Politics ofAntipolitics: The Military in Latin America (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, rev. edn, 1989); D. Kruijt and E. Torres-Rivas (eds.), America Latina: militares y sociedad (2 vols.; San Jose, Costa Rica: FLACSO, 1991).

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This event sparked renewed interest in works of the sixteenth century, such as the reasoned defense of the conquest by the jurist Juan Gines de Sepulveda, and the treatises of Bartolome de las Casas, who toiled for decades to give a more human face to the colonial effort.6 During the last couple of decades the various revolutions on the Central American isthmus have given rise to quite a bit of theologizing on the problems of armed resistance, counter insurgency, and the resolution of violence. Groups from across the denominational spectrum have wrestled with key theological issues and in various degrees have participated in the peace process. However, the most thoughtful theological reflection, I believe, has been done primarily by liberation theologians. Some liberationists have made careful distinctions between different kinds of violence: the institutional and structural violence of unjust regimes, which they consider to be the originating violence of today's conflicts; revolutionary violence, that is designed to liberate the poor and change this oppressive situation; and terrorism, which moves beyond self-defense into indiscriminate killing and destruction.7 Utilizing this differentiation, some liberation literature in the past justified (not necessarily promoted) revolutionary violence. Gutierrez and Miguez Bonino saw the struggle as humanized if the violence done to the oppressor was understood as part of the project of love;8 Dussel defended revolutionary violence within the parameters of the just war theory;9 Berryman explained the criteria for determining who were

6. Juan Gines de Sepulveda, Tratado sobre las justas causas de la guerra contra los indios (Mexico City: Fondo de Cultura Economica, 1986). An example of Bartolome de las Casas's work is The Only Way (New York: Paulist Press, 1992). 7. For recent discussions, see Ignacio Ellacuria, Trabajo no-violento por la paz y violencia liberadora', Concilium 25/1 (1988), pp. 85-94; Jon Sobrino, 'Apuntes para una espiritualidad en tiempos de violencia. Reflexiones deside la experiencia salvadorena', RLT29 (1993), pp. 189-208. 8. Gustavo Gutierrez, A Theology of Liberation: History, Politics and Salvation (trans. C. Inda and J. Eagleson; Maryknoll: Orbis, 1973), pp. 272-79; Jose Miguez Bonino, Towards a Christian Political Ethics (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1983), pp. 106-13. In the new edition of his book (1988), Gutierrez describes how his views have changed (pp. xvii-xlvi). 9. Enrique Dussel, Ethics and Community (trans. R.R. Barr; Tunbridge Wells: Burns & Gates, 1988), ch. 16. Cf. Sobrino, 'Apuntes para una espiritualidad', pp. 192-93.

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legitimate targets in a revolutionary situation.10 Still others considered the relationship between Jesus and the zealots and proposed that Jesus' non-violent stance was more a tactical decision than an ethical conviction.11 The actual taking of sides by different sectors of the Christian Church (such as the sympathy expressed for the guerrilla causes in Central America and the enthusiastic support of the Sandinista regime in Nicaragua by Protestant ecumenical groups and a sector of the Roman Catholic Church, and the endorsement by certain evangelicals of the Contra efforts)12 raised the stakes in theologizing beyond the merely academic and theoretical. God was declared in some way to support specific governments and groups, which had utilized violence to achieve political power or defend a particular socio-economic model. But sanctioned violence has its price. Commitment to social change often led to violent actions by the authorities and paramilitary groups, and thus arose the concept of martyrdom (with Bishop Oscar Romero and the six assassinated Jesuits in El Salvador as the best known examples) and an attempt to define the essence of Christian spirituality within such situations.13 At the same time, the tremendous toll on human life and the national infrastructure exacted by decades of guerrilla-army confrontation forced some to reconsider the legitimacy and efficacy of armed conflict. Segundo lamented the destruction of what he labels the 'social ecology'.14 Recently social scientists Martin 10. Phillip Berryman, The Religious Roots of Rebellion: Christians in Central American Revolutions (Maryknoll: Orbis, 1984), pp. 309-30. His most recent book is more circumspect regarding the success and long-term impact of revolutionary efforts: Stubborn Hope: Religion, Politics, and Revolution in Central America (Maryknoll: Orbis; New York: The New Press, 1994). 11. Jon Sobrino, Christology at the Crossroads (Maryknoll: Orbis, 1978), pp. 209-15; remarks by Jorge Pixley in D.S. Schipani (ed.), Freedom and Discipleship: Liberation Theology in an Anabaptist Perspective (Maryknoll: Orbis, 1989), pp. 143-45. 12. For examples of sympathy for the Left, note the discussion and bibliographies in Berryman, The Religious Roots of Rebellion and Stubborn Hope (cf. Carroll R., Contexts for Amos, pp. 289-306). For the evangelical Right, see David Stoll, Is Latin America Turning Protestant? The Politics of Evangelical Growth (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1990), pp. 218-65. 13. E.g. Sobrino, 'Apuntes para una espiritualidad', pp. 202-207; Ricardo Falla, 'Saliendo de la noche oscura. Experiencia religiosa de los refugiados guatemaltecos', RLT 5 (1985), pp. 171-83. 14. Juan Luis Segundo, Faith and Ideologies: Jesus of Nazareth Yesterday and

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and Stoll have pointed out that one reason for the growth of evangelical churches in the region is that these provide alternative moral communities of peace and create the space in which people can preserve a measure of civil society amid the violence.15 These reflections, generated in the crucible of Central America over the last thirty years, provide a variety of theological and ethical insights. Some I find helpful, others disturbing, still others challenging. Yet, they all have also pushed me to a pacifist position. I agree with Segundo's observation about the social ecology. Revolutionary violence triggered a vicious spiral of violence, which in turn created the climate and habit of violence. With the possible end of armed conflict in sight, our people must try to rebuild their everyday lives and their everyday worlds; we must relearn to sensitize our souls and consider the prospect of another kind of social reality. What of the future? Several liberation theologians have considered the theme of Utopia.16 By 'utopia' is meant a society very different from what actually exists in Latin America; it is a negation of the present based upon a sharp critique of the status quo. But Utopia also entails the vision of a possible future, a future whose realism is grounded in the righting of the injustices and oppression of today. This vision, they believe, should motivate the poor, as the active subjects of history, to participate in a liberating praxis and to establish mediations of the future within the present. For most liberationists, these mediations of Utopia were thought to be most evident in some sort of socialist state. Nevertheless, the dismantling of communism in the Soviet Union and Eastern Europe, the electoral defeat of the Sandinistas in 1990, the poor showing of political parties of the Left in El Salvador in 1994, and the Today, I (trans. J. Drury; Maryknoll: Orbis, 1984), pp. 282-301. 15. David Martin, Tongues of Fire: The Explosion of Protestantism in Latin America (Cambridge: Basil Blackwell, 1990); Stoll, Is Latin America Turning Protestant?, especially pp. 310-31. Regarding the indigenous population in Guatemala, see Stoll, Between Two Armies: In The Ixil Towns of Guatemala (New York: Columbia University Press, 1993), and Linda Green, 'Shifting Affiliations: Mayan Widows and Evangelicos in Guatemala', in Virginia Garrard-Burnett and David Stoll (eds.), Rethinking Protestantism in Latin America (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1993), pp. 159-79. 16. E.g. Gutierrez, A Theology of Liberation, pp. 215-50; R. Vidales and Luis Rivera Pagan (eds.), La esperanza en elpresente de America Latina (San Jose, Costa Rica: DEI, 1983); I. Ellacuria, 'Utopia y profetismo desde America Latina. Un ensayo concreto de soteriologia historica', RLT17 (1989), pp. 141-84.

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uncertain fate of Cuba have severely tempered earlier optimism.17 Whatever the socio-political option that individual Christians or Christian groups might take in regard to war and national reconstruction in Central America, a fundamental theological challenge that we face is to attempt to understand the nature of God and religion in our context. We must search our theological and biblical resources for greater clarity about God's person and activity in situations of militarism and death; we must look for powerful images of peace in these days of initial steps toward establishing authentic democracy. The Prophets and the Issues of Peace and War As I sensed the stirrings of my heart over the last several years, I began to read pacifist literature. My area of interest and teaching lies particularly in the Old Testament. I will not rehearse here the attempts by pacifists to offer an overarching solution to the perceived tension between the data within the Old Testament and the declarations of the New and the model of the life of Jesus.18 My attention in this paper will be directed at the prophetic literature. As I understand it, pacifist scholars have pointed out at least two ways in which the prophetic literature can contribute to a pacifist position. On the one hand, the prophets condemn military pretense and selfsufficiency. Millard Lind, for instance, has underscored the monarchy's reliance on its own military power. Israel's kings and people forsook Yahweh, their mighty redeemer of the Exodus, and thus also abandoned the socio-political structure that would have mirrored divine peace and justice. Instead, they imitated the oppressive and violent royal ideologies of the surrounding nations. The prophets felt compelled to pronounce a theology of defeat in which Yahweh causes the demise of the rebellious state.19 17. An example of a change in tone and perspective is Berryman's Stubborn Hope. An important work that demonstrates the recent serious self-evaluation by the Left in Latin America is Jorge G. Castaneda, La Utopia desarmada: Intrigas, dilemas y promesa de la izquierda en America Latina (Mexico City: Joaqum Mortiz/Planeta, 1993). 18. Note the survey in W.M. Swartley, Slavery, Sabbath, War and Women: Case Issues in Biblical Hermeneutics (Scottdale: Herald, 1983), pp. 112-49. 19. Millard Lind, Yahweh is a Warrior: The Theology of Warfare in Ancient Israel (Scottdale: Herald, 1980), and Monotheism, Power, Justice: Collected Old Testament Essays (Elkhart: Institute of Mennonite Studies, 1990).

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Secondly, the prophetic literature presents visions of peace that contrast a future era of harmony with the reigning violence and the coming judgment. For some scholars, these passages can serve to offset others that might suggest support of war or of a warlike deity. These peace passages are considered to constitute a rival stream of tradition that comes to full fruition with the New Testament revelation.20 Other scholars of dissimilar persuasions, however, would not grant the prophets such a positive role in the criticism of war nor allow for a disinterested hope of future peace. Hobbs, for example, claims that the prophets were not against war per se, but rather opposed its manipulation for political ends by the monarchy. In addition, Hobbs says, the passages of peace, when studied in their context, reveal an imperialistic image of the exaltation of Zion founded on the subjugation and humiliation of national enemies.21 Clines would question the very god of the prophets. In a piece criticizing what he feels to be the blindness of most commentators of the book of Amos, who do not question its ideology, Clines says, But once they [the commentators] start commentating on Amos they accede to Amos's simple moral defeatism. Not one of them has the courage—or the intellectual capacity—to extract himself (they are all males) from the ideology of the text and to pronounce a moral judgment upon the prophecy. To be sure, the future was very much as the prophecy says—whether it predicted it or wrote it up in hindsight. Things were terrible, for rich and poor alike. But it is even more terrible to ascribe the destruction of the state and the forcible deportation of its citizens to an avenging God. If that is how a believer finds himself or herself impelled to conclude, that it is a terrible thing to fall into the hands of the living God, the metacommentator can respect that. But to affirm it casually, to pretend that it is unproblematic—that is not scholarly, it is not even human.22 20. Juan Driver, El mensaje de paz (Guatemala City: SEMILLA, 1987), pp. 46-82. 21. T.R. Hobbs, 'An Experiment in Militarism', in L. Eslinger and G. Taylor (eds.), Ascribe to the Lord: Biblical and other Essays in Memory of Peter C. Craigie (JSOTSup, 67; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1988), pp. 479-80; A Time for War: A Study of Warfare in the Old Testament (Wilmington: Michael Glazier, 1989), pp. 193-98, 217-27. Cf. Niditch, War in the Hebrew Bible: A Study of the Ethics of Violence (New York: Oxford University Press, 1993), pp. 134-49. 22. David J.A. Clines, 'Metacommentating Amos', in H.A. McKay and David J.A. Clines (eds.), Of Prophets' Visions and the Wisdom of Sages: Essays in Honour of R. Norman Whybray (JSOTSup, 162; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1993), pp. 158-59. Niditch attempts to sort out the different ideologies of war within the Old

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How should one respond to these conflicting perceptions of the prophetic material? Can the biblical material be contextualized within Central America in such a way that the prophetic books contribute to an understanding of God that might lead to peacemaking and not to a continuation and legitimating of the violence? The next section will propose a reading of the text of Amos as a possible means both to grapple with present Central American realities and to point to a new society beyond the violence. Peace and War within the Book of Amos I would like to suggest an alternative approach to what I have read thus far in the pacifist literature. Instead of a perspective that would, for instance, postulate that an evaluation of the Old Testament views regarding war be placed within a chronological framework vis-a-vis the New Testament or that would juxtapose the competing theological traditions of war and peace and opt for the latter, I would like to offer a literary approach. The book of Amos will serve as the test case. By a literary approach I mean a reading of the final form of the text of Amos, which would have as its purpose to permit the received text to give us clues for handling the war-peace tension within its own world and for contextualization today.23 Space will not permit a very detailed reading here, but it is hoped that what follows might prove suggestive of another manner of appreciating the prophetic text. Religion and War in the Book of Amos24 The picture of religion in the world of this prophetic text is complex. One can distinguish different, yet overlapping, religious expressions. The Testament and their social origins (War in the Hebrew Bible). 23. For the theoretical discussion regarding a final form option and a contextualization into Latin America, see Carroll R., Contexts for Amos, pp. 140-75 and 278-306, respectively. Others seeking to underscore the relevance of the canonical form of the Old Testament for the Church include Bruce C. Birch, Let Justice Roll Down: The Old Testament, Ethics, and Christian Life (Louisville: Westminster/John Knox, 1991), and Francis Watson, Text, Church and World: Biblical Interpretation in Theological Perspective (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1994). Our final form reading will not probe other studies that link military concerns with possible prehistories of some of the book's genres, such as the oracles against the nations and the concept of the Day of Yahweh. 24. The literary, exegetical and archaeological data for this section of the essay are

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confrontation at Bethel between Amaziah and Amos in 7.10-17 presents the chief priest as the defender of 'the king's sanctuary' and 'the temple of the kingdom' (7.13). This is clearly the official religion that supports the monarchy. The prophet, by criticizing the status quo and predicting the demise of Jeroboam and the exile of the people, is denounced as conspiring against the king (7.10). The people crowd Bethel and the other sanctuaries (4.4-5; 5.4-6, 2124; 9.1), apparently joining in the observances of the official cult. These are rituals of celebration, since there is no mention of sacrifices for sin; apparently this cult is for the worship of a benevolent national deity. At the same time, certain vocabulary hints at non-Yahwistic elements to the popular religion (2.8, 'upon every altar', 'the house of their god(s)'; 4.13 and 7.9, the high places; 5.26, astral deities; 8.14, oaths in other deities' names). The people also go on pilgrimage to sites beyond Israel's borders (Beersheba, 5.5). The religion of the masses, therefore, embraces both the official faith and other components from a variety of sources. In addition, the text alludes to a religion of the well-to-do. Recent archaeological finds suggest that 6.4-6 describes a marzeah feast, a bacchanalian religious rite within the reach of only the wealthy (cf. 3.14; 4.1). These religious phenomena would help make up what sociologists often call the 'sacred canopy', that religious framework that is part and parcel of everyday life and which sanctions the social construction of reality.25 The ways 'things are' seem to be natural and a divine given, with religion never questioning the status quo. The prophet, however, makes the cult, the religious leaders and the sanctuaries of this textual world the objects of a blistering attack. Amos announces the end of religion as Israel knows it, because it is mere ritual and does not demand justice for the oppressed. The prophetic condemnation also highlights the relationship between found in Carroll R., Contexts for Amos, pp. 176-277 (on Amos, chs. 3-6); Tor que lave" despreza o culto em seu nome? O livro de Amos fala ao christianismo latinoamericano de nossos dias' (Portugese), in Alan B. Pieratt (ed.), Chamado para servir: Ensaios em honra de Russell P. Shedd (Sao Paolo: Vida Nova, 1994), pp. 223-37; 'The Prophetic Text and the Literature of Dissent in Latin America: Amos, Garcia Marquez, and Cabrera Infante Dismantle Militarism', Biblnt, forthcoming. 25. See Carroll R., Contexts for Amos, pp. 63-76, 122-26 (for the world of the book of Amos, pp. 273-77). Cf. J. Andrew Dearman, Religion and Culture in Ancient Israel (Peabody: Hendrickson, 1992), pp. 153-98; Gary V. Smith, An Introduction to the Hebrew Prophets: The Prophets as Preachers (Nashville: Broadman & Holman, 1994), pp. 25-65.

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religion and war, and this in at least two ways. First, each of these religious expressions would claim in some way to worship a deity called Yahweh, who protects and grants the nation victory over its foes (e.g. 5.18; 6.1-3, 13; 9.10). But the book subverts Israel's military pride and exposes the emptiness of the confidence in its own strength and in the deity of its own making. Secondly, Israel's Yahweh(s) legitimates structures and policies that will bring judgment in the form of an imminent invasion. The text repeatedly emphasizes that Amos and his god reject Israel's portrayals of Yahweh and the nation's religion. The condemnation of religion in the book is constantly linked to military defeat, corpses, and the announcement of exile. It is Yahweh who orders Israel's downfall and ruin (2.13-16; 3.6,14-15; 4.10; 5.4-6,9, 17-20, 27; 6.8-11; 7.7-9; 8.9-11; 9.1-4, 9-10). Even the invader remains anonymous (3.11; 6.14; 9.4)—there must be no mistake: it is Yahweh who fights against Israel. Amos 7.10-17 begins with Amaziah mentioning the prophetic conspiracy of death by sword and exile (v. 10) and ends with Amos heralding the awful destiny of the priest and his family and the exile of the nation (v. 17). The passages that decry the jamming of the sanctuaries are also poetically linked to death in war: 4.4-5 is connected to the five-fold judgments of 4.6-11 that include the death of the young and the stench of those fallen in battle (v. 10) with the 'but I' of 4.6, thus contrasting the worshippers' seeking and Yahwen's dealing with Israel; 5.4-6 is sandwiched between a lament for a decimated Israel (5.1-3) and a hymnic fragment that culminates in the exaltation of the one who destroys military might (5.8-9). The Day of the Lord of 5.1820 is related, on the one hand, by a wordplay to the lament for the dead in 5.16-17 (v. 18: "in; v. 16: in), and, on the other, is revealed to be the exile described in 5.26-27. The expose of the marzeah feast in 6.3-7 ends with another declaration of exile (v. 7), followed by Yahweh's declaring his abhorrence of Israel's strongholds (6.8) and by the terrible picture of the dead in 6.9-10. Two other passages that mention altars (3.14; 9.1) are imbedded in sections that speak of the destruction of buildings in war (3.13-4.3) and death by the sword by divine decree (9.1-4), respectively. The Yahweh whom the nation must confront is repeatedly called the Lord of Hosts, a title which is central to the theology of the final form of the book. Some form of the title with combinations of the elements Yahweh, God, Lord and Hosts appears in 3.13; 4.13; 5.14, 15, 16, 27; 6.8, 14; 9.5. Israel's military pride will prove to be a self-deluding and

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self-destructive vanity when forced to face this divine Warrior. What is more, the three hymnic passages that extol the 'name' also underscore the devastating military power of the Creator in different ways. Amos 4.13 describes the awesome strength of the 'Lord, the God of Hosts' with a series of five participles; 5.8-9 closes by saying the deity destroys human strength and fortresses; 9.5-6 comes as the climax of a pericope (9.1-4) that asserts Yahweh's active pursuing of Israel and that is framed by phrases speaking of death by the sword (9.1,4). The incomparable power of Yahweh in judgment upon Israel, which is manifested in the defeat of its armies and the devastation of walls, homes and sanctuaries, brings the remarks by Clines to the fore. Even if it is the 'true' Yahweh of the prophet who takes the field as over against the Yahweh(s) whom the nation has constructed in its various religious expressions, this Yahweh apparently is, at the end of the day, a violent deity who is simply stronger than his counterpart(s). The militaristic tension can be compounded by political considerations as well.26 At first glance, the ending of the book of Amos, which predicts the lifting up of the 'booth of David', might appear to support the view that the prophet is lobbying for a restoration to an ideal of the reunification of North and South under the Davidic monarchy (hence the accusation of conspiracy in 7.10). Other textual data could strengthen the same impression. The lion's roar conies from Zion (1.2); the prophet might be understood to denounce treaty violations by former members of the Davidic empire (1.3-2.3); Amos declares that true worship is not possible at Israel's cult centers (and this is presumably only performed in Jerusalem); even the 'Yahweh, Lord God of Hosts' can be linked to the cherubim throne within the Solomonic temple. In other words, the prophetic message would not only be underscoring the disastrous consequences of the policies of the Israelite monarchy, but also offering an alternative government and dynasty as part of the future hope. The prophetic message concerning Yahweh and military defeat, therefore, also would have an ideological foundation. Does the prophetic text, however, actually leave us only with this dilemma of a militaristic god and a biased Davidic politics?

26. For this paragraph, see especially M.E. Policy, Amos and the Davidic Empire: A Socio-Historical Approach (New York: Oxford University Press, 1989), and the bibliography cited there.

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Peace and Utopia in Amos 9.11-1521 The closing passage of Amos is a word about life beyond the inescapable devastation. There is no eluding the coming wrath. Nevertheless, what had earlier been just a 'perhaps' (5.15) is now declared by Yahweh to be a certain Utopia after the destruction. These lines speak of the dramatic reversal of the earlier losses. Note the following list of some of the contrasts: The phrases 'in that day' (9.11) and 'behold days are coming' (9.13) announce blessing, not judgment as in 2.16; 8.3,9,13 and 4.2; 8.11, respectively. Ruins are to be rebuilt (9.11, 14)28 in place of buildings destroyed (3.144.3; 6.11; 9.1; note 'breaches' in 4.3 and 9.11). There will be plenty of food and drink and bountiful vineyards and gardens (9.13-14), no longer the lack of sustenance for the majority (4.6-9) and the selfish indulgence of the powerful (2.6-8; 5.11-13; 6.4-6; 8.4-6). The people will be planted within the land (9.15). There will be no more exile from the land (4.3; 5.27; 6.7; 7.11, 17; 9.9), no falling upon the ground in defeat (5.2), and no presence of a foreign invader on national soil (3.11; 6.14; 9.4).

Within the political sphere, the change in the fortune of the nation is indeed connected to David (9.11). There can be no denying that the mere mention of that king would carry political overtones. Surely, since the North and its leadership were to be soundly defeated there had to be a better way! Yet, there is no celebration of the actual Davidic monarchy. The book mentions the sins of Judah within the oracles against the nations (2.4-5) and associates the complacent rulers of Zion with those of Samaria (6.1). David himself is referred to in 6.5, but as a psalmist (note also the play on the singing of 5.23) and in contrast to the reveling rich, not in relationship to the Southern monarchy. 27. Many scholars consider all or parts of this passage as secondary. For recent surveys of different interpretive positions, see R. Martin-Achard, Amos: L'homme, le message, I'influence (Geneva: Labor & Fides, 1984), pp. 63-70, and G.F. Hasel, Understanding the Book of Amos: Basic Issues in Current Interpretation (Grand Rapids: Baker, 1991), pp. 105-20. Although many recent commentators defend its authenticity on the basis of historical and linguistic data, the focus here is on the literary connections with the rest of the book. 28. The suffixes of 9.11 have been interpreted in a variety of ways. For a recent survey, see J.D. Nogalski, 'The Problematic Suffixes of Amos ix 11', VT43 (1993), pp. 411-18.

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The use of the term 'booth' also serves to work against any aggrandizement of the Davidic monarchy.29 The reader would have expected the phrase 'house of David' as an allusion to the Southern dynasty, since 'house of had been utilized of the ruling houses of other nations in earlier passages (1.4; 7.9).30 Moreover, this is a 'fallen' (or 'falling') booth. There is almost a concerted effort to emphasize the limitations of the future Davidic rule. Whatever that reign might look like, it will not be of the arrogant style and oppressive nature of Jeroboam's Israel. This will be a new social order, with abundance and security for all alike.31 This is provision for life; there will be no more want, no more mourning. It is Yahweh who will change the present conditions in the future: it is Yahweh who 'does this' (9.12). This phrase, which is used earlier in 4.12 in a judgment passage, is, as so many other terms in these closing verses, turned on its head and is now related to blessing and restoration.32 In addition, the 'name' is mentioned once more (9.12) but, in contrast to the hymnic passages which focus on the 'name' in the context of chastisement, Israel will not have to face the terrible wrath of the Creator. The role and fate of the nations will be radically different. The mention of the nations in 9.12 recalls the oracles against the nations in 1.3-2.3, which detail atrocities in warfare as well as the harsh judgment for each nation decreed by Yahweh. Particularly striking in 9.12 is the singling 29. Though 'booth' is usually taken by commentators to refer to the Davidic monarchy, some see a reference to Jerusalem or the Temple. For other connections with Davidic notions, one can also compare the use of 'booth' here with Isa. 1.8, the utilization of the verbs nn and *?a: in 9.11 with 2 Sam. 7, and the phrase 'as in the days of old' with Mic. 7.14 (cf. Mic. 5.2 [Heb. 5.1]). H.N. Richardson translates the term as 'Succoth', the place name of a military outpost of the early United Monarchy; cf. his 'SAT (Amos 9.11): "Booth" or "Succoth"?', JBL 92 (1973), pp. 375-81. He is followed by D. Stuart, Hosea-Jonah (WBC, 31; Waco: Word, 1987), p. 398, and Policy, Amos and the Davidic Empire, pp. 70-74. F.I. Andersen and D.N. Freedman, Amos (AB, 24A; New York: Doubleday, 1989), pp. 912-18, also understand a military reference but not a specific place name. Either military interpretation, of course, would be very different from the reading offered here. 30. 'House of...', in 3.13; 5.1, 3,4, 6; 6.1, 14; 7.10, 13, 16; and 9.8, 9 refers to the nation. 31. Cf. the comments by R.B. Coote, Amos among the Prophets: Composition and Theology (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1981), pp. 120-29; D.A. Hubbard, Joel and Amos (TOTC; Downers Grove, EL: InterVarsity, 1989), pp. 239-40. 32. The verb nfci> is also used of Yahweh in 3.6, 7; 4.13; 5.8—all judgment contexts.

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

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

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

THE HUNGRY KNIFE: TOWARDS A SENSE OF SACRIFICE Bruce Chilton

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

BZAW, 134; Berlin: Topelmann, 1974.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

REBOUNDING VITALITY: RESURRECTION AND SPIRIT IN LUKE-ACTS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cambridge

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MAKING IT: CREATION AND CONTRADICTION IN GENESIS

Philip R. Davies

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

BIBLIOGRAPHY Blau, J.L. 1944

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

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

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

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

MICHAL AT THE MOVIES J. Cheryl Exum

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SOME ANCIENT JEWISH REFLECTIONS ON ISRAEL'S IMMINENT REDEMPTION

Robert Hayward

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THEODORE OF MOPSUESTIA AND THE INTERPRETATION OF ECCLESIASTES*

John Jarick

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Judith M. Lieu

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

LIBERATION FROM THE POWERS:

SUPERNATURAL SPIRITS OR SOCIETAL STRUCTURES?

Andrew T. Lincoln

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Cullmann appeals to the 'abundantly attested late Jewish belief that all peoples are ruled through angels'16 in order to claim that this belief informed Paul's thinking to such an extent that the use both of otp%ovTe<; in 1 Cor. 2.8 and of e^ouaiai in Rom. 13.1 takes on a double meaning referring both to the invisible spiritual powers and to their human instruments in the world. He takes for granted this meaning for 1 Cor. 2.6, 8 and argues for it at some length in regard to Rom. 13.1, where the relationship of the powers to Christ elsewhere in Paul then allows him to develop a 'Christological foundation' for the state in the service of Christ's rule, which is missing on other interpretations of Romans 13. Cullmann's views on Rom. 13.1 have been decisively rejected by the overwhelming consensus of modern scholars, for reasons that need not be repeated here,17 and his interpretation of 1 Cor. 2.6, 8, while slightly more plausible, remains too dubious to provide the exegetical basis he was seeking.18 It should be noted, however, that Cullmann's hypothesis of a double meaning in these two instances did not result in his identifying the powers and human institutions. He clearly distinguishes the two referents—on the one hand, the spiritual powers and, on the other, the human instruments behind which they stand. There is no hint that the link means that Paul has begun to reinterpret the powers themselves. It was the Dutch theologian H. Berkhof, in Christ and the Powers (1953; ET 1962),19 who, while referring to some earlier discussion in German (including Cullmann's) of the relevance of the powers in connection with the state and the interpretation of Romans 13 in the late pre- and early post-war years, was the first to attempt to root an identification of the powers and social structures in Pauline thought itself. Berkhof claims that Paul gave the powers terminology, which he inherited from Jewish apocalypic writings, a content different from that which it currently had. Now if Paul was to be understood by his contemporaries, this new content would have to be overwhelmingly 16. Christ and Time, p. 193. 17. J.D.G. Dunn, in his Romans (WBC, 38B; Dallas: Word, 1988), p. 760, could even say this interpretation had 'now become something of a historical curiosity'. 18. Indeed G.D. Fee in the most recent full-scale commentary on this letter (The First Epistle to the Corinthians [NICNT; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1987], pp. 103104) goes so far as to assert that this interpretation 'needs finally to be laid to rest since the linguistic evidence, the context, and Pauline theology all argue against it'. Arnold, Powers, pp. 101-104, however, disputes this. 19. Scottdale: Herald Press.

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clear from the way in which the terminology functions in his letters, but, unfortunately, Berkhof's main piece of evidence for his claim is extremely weak. It is the use of TOC oioixeia TO\> KOOJIOD in Colossians. He plausibly holds that this phrase indicates the basic elements of which the world is put together,20 but links these elements closely to the powers as a 'collective term for the earthly beings within which the Powers work' and sees them as 'definite religious and ethical rules, the solid structures within which the pagan and Jewish societies of the day lived and moved'.21 His key interpretative move comes in the following sentence: 'In verse 14 [of Col. 2] these structures are spoken of as the way in which the principalities and powers rule over men; or rather the powers are the structures'.22 Without any explanation for his logic, he shifts from the elements being the means by which the powers rule to an identification of the means with their users. A similar sleight of hand can be seen in Berkhof's treatment of Col. 1.16, where he rightly takes the powers to be part of the invisible, heavenly aspect of creation, but then immediately goes on to describe them as 'divers human traditions, the course of earthly life as conditioned by the heavenly bodies, morality, fixed religious and ethical rules, the administration of justice and the ordering of the state',23 most of which are scarcely invisible and heavenly, but concrete, visible and earthly. From such flimsy argumentation Berkhof derives far-reaching conclusions. A certain demythologizing has taken place within Paul's thought: 'In short, the apocalypses think primarily of the principalities and powers as heavenly angels, Paul as structures of earthly existence. This new burden of meaning is, so far as we can see, Paul's own creation.'24 From this assertion of a significant change of emphasis Berkhof then progresses even further. 'One can even doubt whether Paul conceived of the powers as personal beings. In any case this aspect is so secondary that it makes little difference whether he did or not.'25 G.B. Caird, in Principalities and Power,26 based on lectures delivered in 1954, used similar argumentation to that of Cullmann, including 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26.

Berkhof, Christ and the Powers, pp. 58-59. Berkhof, Christ and the Powers, p. 15. Berkhof, Christ and the Powers, p. 15. Berkhof, Christ and the Powers, p. 22. Berkhof, Christ and the Powers, p. 18. Berkhof, Christ and the Powers, p. 18. Oxford: Clarendon, 1956.

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Jewish notions of angelic guardians of the nations and a double meaning for 1 Cor. 2.6, 8 and Rom. 13.1, but rejected Cullmann's theory of the state's relation to the rule of Christ. Yet he failed to maintain the latter's clear distinction between the powers and human institutions and instead, while writing independently of Berkhof, makes similarly confused jumps in logic. Since Paul 'was imbued with the Jewish idea of angelic powers behind the pagan world order', Caird argues that 'there can be little doubt that his "principalities and powers" included the powers of state'.27 So, whereas in Jewish writings the powers are behind the state, now we are told without explanation that in Paul they include the state. Yet Caird correctly sees that, although Paul could personify law, sin and death as powers, they are not the same as the principalities and powers, and 'the powers of Colossians...must be regarded as angelic beings'.28 When Caird allows himself a note of application, the confusion again arises. On the one hand, there is an analogy, with its recognition of difference: If the angelic beings who preside over the pagan world order are capable of being reconciled to God, does not this require us to believe that institutions such as the state, in which human sin is organized in what Tillich has called 'a structure of evil', are also capable of redemption?29

But later, on the other hand, we find the difference eroded, again without elucidation, in the assertion that the powers in Paul 'represent organized evil, evil embedded in the structure of society or woven into the fabric of the universe.'30 It seems remarkable, given its slim exegetical evidence and confused hermeneutical analysis, that when J.H. Yoder, who had translated Berkhof's work into English, popularized this view in The Politics of Jesus (1972),31 he could claim that, based primarily on the work of Berkhof and Caird, 'biblical scholarship in the last generation has come to a rather striking degree of clarity at this point' and 'this renewed understanding has the sympathy of a whole generation of scholars working in the mood of "biblical realism'".32 Clearly the identification of the powers with social structures 'took off then in scholarship and 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32.

Caird, Principalities and Powers, p. 16. Caird, Principalities and Powers, pp. 46-47. Caird, Principalities and Powers, p. 29. Caird, Principalities and Powers, p. 84. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2nd edn, 1994. Yoder, Politics, p. 136.

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now in popular theological culture33 because it met a felt need and filled 'a gap in theological ethics';34 and this led many to overlook the weaknesses in the claims that were being made for it. The revised edition of Yoder's work in particular draws attention to the writings of Jacques Ellul, which are often neglected in discussions of this topic.35 Ellul's penetrating sociological critiques of such phenomena as technology, violence, money and propaganda are implicitly very much informed by his view of the cosmic powers, which is discussed explicitly in places in his theological writings. The two main places in his translated works, in which the biblical material and its application are the focus, suggest a significant shift in his thinking. In The Ethics of Freedom (ET 1976)36 Ellul takes an ambiguous and dialectical position on the Pauline powers. On the one hand, he aligns himself firmly with Cullmann's view that the powers have an independent and objective spiritual existence, and yet, on the other, he wants to insist that they do not simply act from outside but are constituted by human decisions and actions.37 So again, on the one hand, he can say that the oioixeia are the social structures, including the law, 'which are transposed into force, activity, and seduction by the intervention of a power which is superior to man but which man accepts'38 and, on the other, on the basis of Col. 2.14, 15, can simply equate the law with the principalities and powers.39 In his later The Subversion of Christianity (ET 1986),40 however, the dialectic has collapsed and it is simply the second part that informs the exposition. The evil powers can now be characterized by and equated with their functions such as power, deception, accusation, division and destruction. These concrete powers 'have no other reality or mystery' and there is 'nothing behind' them.41 Eph. 6.12 still holds true, however, because the Pauline language of the powers points us to a 'plus' factor, a residue that escapes all analysis. In the case of the state, for example, 33. Cf. Yoder, Politics, p. 158. 34. Yoder, Politics, p. 139. 35. Though see now M.J.S. Dawn, 'The Concept of the "Principalities and Powers" in the Work of Jacques Ellul' (unpublished PhD dissertation, University of Notre Dame, 1992). 36. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, pp. 144-60. 37. Ellul, Ethics of Freedom, pp. 151-52. 38. Ellul, Ethics of Freedom, p. 154. 39. Ellul, Ethics of Freedom, p. 147 n. 6. 40. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, pp. 174-90. 41. Ellul, Subversion, p. 76.

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'the residue is a spiritual power, an exousia, that inhabits the body of the state'.42 So, for the later Ellul and his present day phenomenology of evil, Pauline belief in the actual independent existence of cosmic powers has become beside the point, except in so far as its language serves as a safeguard against reductionism and points to a spiritual dimension within the historical phenomena. This view has strong affinities with Wink's discussion of the inner and outer aspects of the powers. It is Wink who has recently provided the most comprehensive and sophisticated analysis of the powers in the trilogy referred to at the beginning of this essay. The few remarks made here cannot possibly do his work justice and will focus primarily on the exegetical and hermeneutical foundations laid in the first volume. Wink does not deny that in the New Testament the powers frequently refer to what were believed to be actual spiritual agencies, but he wishes to make room from within the New Testament itself for a modern reinterpretation whereby the cosmic powers are both the inner and outer aspects of any given manifestation of power. As the inner aspect they are the spirituality of institutions, the 'within' of corporate structures and systems, the inner essence of outer organizations of power. As the outer aspect they are political systems, appointed officials, the 'chair' of an organization, laws—in short, all the tangible manifestations which power takes.43

To accomplish this Wink makes a number of interpretative moves. The first is to point out that in some places elsewhere in the New Testament some of the Pauline terms for the cosmic powers are also used of human or earthly powers. This is quite right, and a strength of Wink's analysis is that he looks at a whole range of terminology for power, not just principalities and authorities. But he then deduces wrongly from this that not only in 1 Cor. 2.6-8 but also in many passages, especially in Colossians and Ephesians, we should see both meanings involved, claiming, for example, that in Col. 1.16 the powers include both things visible and things invisible. This understanding of Col. 1.16, which he makes his paradigm, is highly unlikely. The verse speaks of 'things visible and invisible, whether thrones or dominions or rulers or principalities', where the list of powers elaborates on the latter, the things invisible, not the former, for the benefit of those so concerned with the heavenly realm. 42. Ellul, Subversion, p. 175. 43. Wink, Naming, p. 5.

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This move is also linguistically flawed. From the fact that a word can mean one thing in one context and another thing in another context it concludes that in most of its usages both meanings should be assumed, unless a specific context indicates otherwise.44 The procedure should, in fact, be the reverse. One should assume that one or other meaning is likely to be in view in most contexts, unless the specifics of the context indicate that a deliberate ambiguity or double entendre is intended.45 Even on Wink's own faulty principle, the context of the passages in Ephesians, where he sees a double or comprehensive meaning, contain a specific qualifier that would appear to rule out such a meaning, namely the phrase 'in the heavenly realms'. The second main move is to say that Paul had already begun to demythologize or at least to depersonalize the spiritual powers by means of such categories as sin, the flesh, the law, and death, the forces of this present evil age.46 But no clear evidence for such an assertion has been presented.47 Where does Paul speak of an angel or spirit in terms of the flesh or death? The evidence is precisely the opposite.48 In 1 Cor. 15.2427 Paul talks of death alongside, not instead of, these other supernatural powers, and rather than depersonalizing the spiritual powers Paul personifies forces like death, law and sin. Eph. 2.1-3 is particularly relevant to this discussion, since Wink again claims here a certain degree of demythologization49 and, whereas elsewhere in the letter the devil can be linked with the powers, here the devil is also lined up with human sin, the world and the flesh as part of the phenomenon of evil. The readers are reminded that their pre-Christian past involved a state of spiritual death brought about and characterized by their individual acts of transgression and sin (2.1). But evil is seen as going beyond individual acts. Their past lives were also under the control of the sphere of the flesh (2.3), the powerful sphere of humanity living in pursuit of its own ends and in independence of God. What is more, their lives were moulded by the age of this world (2.2), this world-age, the norms and 44. Cf. Wink, Naming, pp. 39, 100. 45. Despite Wink's plea of 'not guilty' (Engaging, pp. 350-51 n. 44), one must agree with Arnold (Powers, p. 200) that he commits the error that James Barr (Semantics of Biblical Language [Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1961], pp. 21718) labelled 'illegitimate totality transfer'. 46. Wink, Naming, p. 104; cf. pp. 61-62. 47. Indeed Engaging, p. 326 n. 8, may indicate a partial retreat from this position. 48. Cf. also Arnold, Ephesians, pp. 129-34. 49. Wink, Naming, p. 83.

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values of this age and this world, fallen society in opposition to God. And behind these evil social structures is held to be an ultimate personal centre of evil, this time called "the ruler of the realm of the air" and the ruler of the rebellious spirit at work in disobedient humanity. So for Ephesians evil does not simply reside in the heart of the individual but in the very order of human society and such evil has a real but invisible spiritual source. But what is particularly significant is that the writer keeps his categories distinct. He does not employ the language of the powers for this structural evil but reserves it and the reference to the devil for the spiritual forces behind individual and societal sin. A third major basis of Wink's reinterpretation is his treatment of 'the elements of the universe',50 where, with greater detail and complexity, he makes a move similar to that which we saw in Berkhof. The first principles of the physical universe, to which the elements are held to refer in Col. 2.8, are seen as linked with ccp%T|, as the search for the first principles of creation, and e^otxria, as the authority attached to such principles, in 2.10, instead of the latter being interpreted in terms of the spiritual powers in 1.16, which I have insisted is their force in that verse. Then the elements of Col. 2.20, held to be the basic constituents of religious existence (cf. also Gal. 4.3, 9), are said to be manifestations of and therefore interchangeable with the principalities and authorities of Col. 2.15. Again, entities that the writer relates but keeps distinct, are merged by Wink into a comprehensive definition of the powers. At the end of the first volume Wink makes clear that his chief goal is 'juxtaposing the ancient myth with the emerging postmodern (mythic) worldview and asking how they might mutually illuminate each other'.51 This is fine. The problem is with the claim that in so doing we are following the lead already set by Paul in reinterpreting the mythic language of the powers and that the basis for the newer worldview is already there in the Pauline materials.52 It is worth underlining Wink's clear statement at the end of the second volume: 'People then were as far from perceiving these Powers as the interiority or spirituality of an epoch or institution or nation as most of us are from regarding them as actual personal beings'.53 Given the inherent unlikelihood that Paul 50. Wink, Naming, pp. 67-82. 51. Wink, Naming, p. 104. The new integrated worldview is set out at the beginning of the third volume (Engaging, pp. 4-9). 52. Wink, Naming, p. 104. 53. Wink, Unmasking, p. 172.

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perceived these powers any differently from his contemporaries and the grave difficulties in Wink's attempt to show otherwise, why not simply allow the two worldviews to be different? Why try so hard to find the elements of the new cosmology in the ancient cosmology, when this inevitably, even against his best intentions,54 to some degree imposes them on the ancient cosmology? Why not be content to claim that in the dialogue between ancient and postmodern worldviews the language about the spiritual powers in the former provides a convenient tool which, in the gospel's interaction with present society, enables the analysis of evil not to be materialistically reductionist? The excellent discussions of Wink's second and third volumes could for the most part stand on their own without the less than convincing exegetical material of the first volume. One is inclined to say something similar of Wink to the evaluation he himself makes of Girard: 'the real value of Girard's hypothesis lies not in its theory of origins, but in its analytic power to unmask the nature of human violence today'.55 The real value of Wink's work, and the same holds true of Ellul's, lies not in its basis in exegesis of the Pauline principalities and powers, but in its ability to provide a penetrating and profound phenomenology of present powers of evil in the light of the gospel and an inspiring vision of the spirituality needed to engage such powers. So exegetical discussion is one thing, but critical theological appropriation of the language about the cosmic powers for our own time is another. On the basis of his more accurate exegesis of the material in the Pauline Corpus,56 Arnold in a second more popular work, goes on to assert that 'If the realm of spirits and angels is a dominant part of the biblical world view, it should thus be a dominant part of a Christian world view in our age',57 and, because Paul is an authoritative apostle, contemporary Christians should take into their worldview the same demonic cosmology as appears in Colossians and Ephesians.58 Now it may be one thing to be prepared to see some personal spiritual centre of 54. Wink, Understanding, p. 103. 55. Wink, Engaging, pp. 154-55. 56. Cf. Ephesians, pp. 41-69,129-34. 57. Powers of Darkness, p. 17. 58. Cf. also Powers of Darkness, pp. 169-82, where, however, discussion of demon possession and the powers are lumped together. Arnold does not wish to neglect the notion of structural evil and rightly notes that Paul's notions of 'the world' and 'this age' have been neglected in this regard (pp. 203-205).

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evil behind occult manifestations or to question whether an Enlightenment and western worldview has said the last word about the nature of reality, but it is quite another to require a straightforward appropriation for contemporary theology of a cosmology whose upper world is inhabited by hosts of evil spirit powers. Our cosmology is irreversibly different from that of the first-century world. As Wink says, 'We cannot simply revive that ancient worldview without jettisoning much of what humanity has gained in the interval since',59 and at this point the views of the later Ellul and Wink's own reinterpretation from within the emerging contemporary worldview appear to be far more helpful. 3. Choosing among the Hermeneutical Alternatives In terms of the appropriation of the language of the principalities and powers, three main alternatives have emerged, (a) The relevant texts were referring to supernatural forces in their original communicative situation and this worldview is to be accepted or reasserted now. (b) The texts were referring to supernatural forces then but are best appropriated in terms of ideologies and societal structures now. (c) The texts were referring to both supernatural and human or earthly forces then and so can be appropriated in terms of the latter now in continuity with the original meaning of the texts. There is clearly room for variation within these alternatives. For example, in its reassertion of Pauline cosmology (a) can still hold that there are visible manifestations of evil in societal structures but insist that supernatural forces are behind or work through these. Position (b) can make its hermeneutical move simply in terms of parallels or analogies between then and now or in terms of demythologization and/or remythologization. Representatives of (c) differ in their claims about how the Pauline texts referred to both supernatural and earthly powers and therefore where the continuity between then and now is to be located. There are also interesting relationships among the alternatives. Positions (a) and (b) broadly agree on ancient meanings and exegetical issues but disagree on the relation of the Bible and theology in critical appropriation of texts. Alternatives (b) and (c) basically agree about the practical pay-off for critical appropriation, while (a) and (c) both involve a certain 'biblicism' in wanting to have the original meaning of the text able to support their appropriation. Positions (b) and (c) may, but do not 59. Wink, Unmasking, p. 172.

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necessarily, involve a rejection of belief in supernatural intermediaries. On either view it is possible to remain agnostic about this belief, to be open to it as a backdrop for the new appropriation, or to prefer to discuss the issue in relation specifically to the figure of Satan or to demons in the Synoptic Gospels and Acts rather than in relation to the cosmic powers of the Pauline Corpus. It will have become clear that it is my view that option (a)—a straightforward reassertion of Pauline cosmology—is untenable and that so far the advocates of option (c) have failed to make their case. The position being taken in this essay is a variation of (b).60 In line with Rupp's early brief treatment, this simply involves seeing an analogy between the function of the powers then and of ideologies and institutions now.61 Analogy, of course, stresses significant similarities but also allows for differences. It is certainly not claiming any one-to-one correspondence between the original and the appropriation. But making this analogy could also be seen in terms of remythologization. Those who wish to go further, however, by saying that what in their experience Paul and his followers called principalities and powers is the same as what in our experience we encounter as ideologies and social structures, are more clearly involved in demythologizing and claiming some one-to-one correspondence in experience between the original and the appropriation. When it comes to critical appropriation, our earlier observation that talk about the cosmic powers is but a part of talk about the power of evil in the world becomes pertinent. This broader context is in turn part of the more general storyline within the Bible, in which the key elements are creation, sin or evil, Israel, Christ, salvation, the Church and consummation. It is the witness of the biblical writers to that story, not specific aspects of the cosmologies in which their witness was expressed, that is important for contemporary appropriation. It should be observed that, in regard to sin or evil, the way in which this was viewed could vary at different stages, as reflection within Israel developed and interacted with other worldviews and cosmologies. There was in fact a shift 60. This was first set out in a brief paragraph in A.T. Lincoln and A.J.M. Wedderburn, The Theology of the Later Pauline Letters (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), pp. 157-58. 61. Interestingly, despite his different hermeneutical stance, Yoder, in his interpretation of Berkhof, can also use the language of analogy: 'let us follow Berkhof in suggesting some concrete modern phenomena which he considers to be structurally analogous to the Powers' (Politics, p. 142).

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in worldviews within Judaism in regard to the representation of evil in the figure of Satan.62 To put it all too briefly and crudely, there was no room for an evil Satan in the faith of early Israel, and the notion of conflict between good and evil angels only comes very late in the Old Testament, in Daniel, and as a result of the experience of the exile and of trying to make sense of Israel's experience of evil in a context in contact with Persian and Babylonian worldviews. Originally in Israel's thought Yahweh alone was Lord and therefore whatever happened for good or ill was ultimately to be ascribed to him. Satan makes only three appearances in the Old Testament and in none of these is he defined as a cosmic adversary who defies divine sovereignty. Instead in each he is a servant of God, a divine agent provocateur. 1 Chron. 21.1 revises 2 Sam. 24.1 and attributes what was an action of Yahweh to Satan, and in Job 1-2 and Zech. 3.1-5 'the satan' is a member of the divine counsel and has a role as prosecuting attorney. But gradually it became too difficult to attribute Israel's misfortunes solely to Yahweh or purely to human sin, and there were elements in surrounding worldviews that proved helpful in the dilemma. Yahweh could be differentiated into a 'light' and 'dark' side but still be seen as transcending both, as the unity that embraces multiplicity. Then the light side came to be represented also by angelic intermediaries and the dark side by Satan and fallen angels. It is in Daniel that we find for the first time in the Old Testament a picture of powerful intermediary forces that are interposed between Yahweh's will and the cries of humans for justice; there is war in heaven between the angels of the nations which has its counterpart in events on earth. This worldview becomes dominant in the attempts to account for the phenomenon of evil in the apocalypses, testaments and Dead Sea Scrolls of Second Temple Judaism. The story in Genesis 6 about the sons of God was now interpreted as the fall of angels through intercourse with women. Satan moves clearly from divine agent provocateur to a false accuser and to the epitome of evil as the ruler of this evil age. The myth of Satan's fall and the fall of angels becomes the backdrop to the understandings of the powers of evil present in the New Testament. We might also note that whereas in the Synoptic Gospels and Acts the power of evil could be expressed in terms of demons who invaded and possessed human lives, this notion is absent from the portrayal of the principalities and authorities in the Pauline Corpus, where these powers are cosmic entities which influence human destiny and can oppose 62. On what follows, see e.g. Wink, Unmasking, pp. 11-14.

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God's purposes for human wellbeing but are not depicted as taking over aspects of human personality or causing physical illness. What was important for Paul and the writers of Colossians and Ephesians was bringing the gospel about Christ's death and resurrection to bear on the perceptions of evil in their time and setting, and cosmic spiritual agencies played a major role in those perceptions. What is of course important for contemporary interpreters is to take the same gospel and bring it to bear on the powers of evil and perceptions of them that hold people in bondage in their own time and location. The task will be to tell the story of reconciliation and liberation through Christ's death and resurrection in relation to the destructive powers that produce alienation and oppression in the present. There is no dispute when this is done with a notion such as idolatry. Just because people in our culture do not make actual idols out of wood or stone and worship them, this does not prevent Christians from finding it helpful to interpret idolatry as the placing of anything other than God at the centre of one's life and ascribing to it ultimate worth. Similarly in our time, when the majority of people do not believe in actual evil spirits in the air or heavens called thrones or dominions, the most helpful interpretation of cosmic powers may well be in terms of the systems, structures and institutions that, within and beyond them, have a driving force for good or evil that is more than the sum of the effects of any individuals who may represent them or of any of their tangible manifestations. One of the benefits of the views of Ellul and Wink, in comparison with that of some others, is that they do not simply reduce evil to the structures but hold that such structures have a real spiritual aspect. It is a perspective which is still able to maintain that the struggle against unjust institutions involves a spiritual dimension for which spiritual resources are necessary. The concept of the cosmic powers is valuable for any phenomenology of evil in our time in that it can help to ensure that included in it are those forces of evil that go beyond individual acts of sin. Such a phenomenology of evil powers will be wide-ranging. It will include some elements that have a counterpart in the first-century world of which cosmic powers were a part, such as the hold of astrology or of the occult, but it will also include unjust social, political and economic structures. It will include ideologies that hold people in bondage, frequently without their being conscious of it, such as the ideology of redemptive violence that believes peace and security can only be obtained through the violent

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use of power,63 materialism, consumerism, sexism, patriarchalism, rationalism, nationalism, and the postmodernism that denies any reality to truth and justice and asserts that the only realities are preference and desire. It will include nuclear and chemical armament, rampant epidemic disease, ecological disaster and other consequences of human finitude and sin that have become destructive threatening forces. Whether one 'believes' in a personal centre of evil that is the source of such powers is not nearly as important as realizing that there are concentrations of evil, which pull people and societies in a direction counter to the will of God for human wellbeing (and from which Christ is able to liberate people), and being able to recognize and resist such spiritual forces of evil. Supporters of position (a) have denigrated recent attempts to reinterpret the powers as a reprehensible misreading of the New Testament texts. While their concern for accurate exegesis is to be applauded, their own confusion about the relation of exegesis and contemporary appropriation may be as great as that of those they criticize. Once reading the powers as structures or ideologies is seen clearly as a reinterpretation of the New Testament texts, there should be no problem with this, since contemporary Christians are surely in the business of reapplying the tradition, of retelling the story for their own time and place. In fact, if the Church has found a reinterpretation that is theologically useful and has practical payoffs for its mission, as long as this is recognized to be a reinterpretation, this should be more a cause for gratitude than for concern. 4. Respect for the Text and Critical Appropriation Is it simply pedantic, after all, to end up approving the reinterpretation of the powers as structures while denying that this is what the terms originally meant? Why bother to make such a point? Certainly our earlier observation that this topic is part of the broader issue of the problem of human life in the face of evil should serve as a reminder that the biblical writers are not so much interested in explaining the riddle of evil or the mystery of its source as in offering solutions to its reality. Likewise, for Christian interpreters the exegetical and hermeneutical reflection entailed in discussion of the cosmic powers is meant to enable people to see more clearly the forces of evil they are up against and to appreciate better how the gospel of the death and resurrection of Christ provides a resource for engaging them effectively. Wink rightly warns of 63. See Wink, Engaging, pp. 13-31.

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the danger of becoming absorbed in debates about 'exousiology' without any 'actual opposition to real structures of injustice and contact with those who are most oppressed'.64 Nevertheless, the exercise in which we have indulged, if it is part of reflection on praxis, is necessary if we are not to become lazy about the dialectic between exegesis and interpretation, if we are not to opt for a too easy fusion of horizons in which present concerns simply determine our reading of ancient texts, and if we are not to miss out the essential step of distantiation which must take place before there can be a genuine fusion of horizons. If this is pedantic, so be it. But another way of putting it would be to say that it is the task of biblical scholarship to keep interpretation honest by requiring that it stay open to the alien elements in its subject matter. The temptation to have the Bible unequivocally and directly on our side is great, and perhaps it is not resisted firmly enough even by Wink when approaching the passages about the powers from the perspective of his experience of poverty and injustice in Latin America. Exegesis, analysis and debate can help to ensure that critical theological appropriation entails a genuine dialogue in which there is both a respect for the otherness of the text and a recognition of the contemporary concerns of the interpreter. This brief exercise in exploring both the differences and the overlaps in the horizons of the biblical text and the horizons of the contemporary interpreter might, whatever he thinks of its specifics, just appeal to the honoree of this volume, who, as part of his concern for the Bible's role in human society, has attempted to introduce biblical scholars in the English-speaking world to the work of Habermas.65 One of Habermas's emphases is that claims to the validity of interpretations arise out of interests, actions and experience, from engagement in communicative action. Yet when such claims are disputed or become problematic, and in any case, in order to prevent self-deception, they need to be tested on the level of discourse and argumentation. Although the claim to truthfulness can only be redeemed in the context of action, the issue of legitimacy requires a temporary breaking off from the original 64. Wink, Naming, p. 126. 65. Cf. J.W. Rogerson, '"What does it Mean to be Human?" The Central Question of Old Testament Theology?', in D.J.A. Clines, S.E. Fowl and S.E. Porter (eds.), The Bible in Three Dimensions: Essays in Celebration of Forty Years of Biblical Studies in the University of Sheffield (JSOTSup, 87; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1990), pp. 285-98.

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communicative interaction and the attempt to some extent to get outside the contexts of action and experience.66 In such discourse, Habermas holds, the truth of a proposition or validity of an interpretation will involve the possibility that everybody can be persuaded by reasons to recognize the truth claim as justified. This is what he originally called 'the ideal speech situation' and then reformulated as 'communicative rationality'. He makes clear that the conditions for such discourse can only occur in a social setting characterized by freedom and justice. There are, of course, problems with this perspective and the priority it gives to propositional knowledge, and with whether the sharp distinction it makes between communication in action-contexts and in discourse can hold and in the end really do justice to the original grounding of meaningful speech in action-contexts.67 But some version of this dialectic between action and discourse must be pursued if there is to be any ability to dispute and persuade in the enterprise of experiencing and interpreting the liberating potential of the gospel in Pauline texts about the powers.

66. Cf. e.g. 'A Postscript to Knowledge and Human Interests', Knowledge and Human Interests (London: Heinemann, 2nd edn, 1978), p. 363. 67. For a sympathetic critique along these lines, see R. Campbell, Truth and Historicity (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1992), pp. 353-54.

SCHOPFUNG, ZIVILISATION UND BEFREIUNG Hans-Peter Miiller Zu den erregendsten Entdeckungen alttestamentlicher Exegese in den letzten Jahren gehort die Einsicht, da6 die Welt nicht in ihrem Naturzustand, sondern erst in zivilisatorischer Uberformung, nach kultureller Korrektur als Schopfung zustimmenswert ist. Indem er eine Tendenz in der Diskussion zu Genesis If. auf eine giiltige Formel bringt, betont M. Welker1 'die Eigenaktivitat, Eigenproduktivitat des Geschopf lichen'—und zwar in Abwehr des herkommlichen Verstandnisses von Schopfung 'als unhintergehbare(r) Hervorbringung durch eine transzendente Realitat und absolute(r) Dependenz von dieser'. Die 'differenzierte Eigenaktivitat des Geschopflichen wird ... mit Gottes Schaffen wiederholt geradezu parallelisiert'; sie 'ist konstitutiv eingebunden in den Schopfungsvorgang ...Schopfung heifit Aufbau und Erhalt eines Zusammenhangs von Interdependenzverhaltnissen verschiedener Lebensbereiche. Gott schafft, indem Gott verschiedene Lebensbereiche in fruchtbare, lebensforderliche Interdependenzzusammenhange bringt.' Eine solche Interdependenz ist dann auch zwischen Schopfung und Erlosung, dabei aber insbesondere zwischen gottlichem Erlosungshandeln und menschlichen Befreiungsaktivitaten vorauszusetzen. I

1. Sowohl als Akt des Erzahlens als auch nach seinem Inhalt ist schon der Mythos, dessen Rolle im Alten Testament und in der Geschichte seiner Erforschung Gegenstand eines wichtigen Werks des Jubilars ist, eine kulturelle Korrektur der Realitat. Indem der Mythos die Zufalligkeiten des gegenwartigen Daseins auf ein stiftend-normatives Geschehen am Anfang und damit auf so etwas 1. 'Was ist "Schopfung"? Genesis 1 und 2 neu gelesen', EvT 51 (1991), S. 208-24, Zitate 212.214.216 (Hervorhebung im Original).

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wie eine urzeitliche Notwendigkeit zuriickfiihrt, weiB er zurechtzuerzahlen, was ohne ihn als bedeutungsarm, wenn nicht als sinnlos erschiene. Wenn er dabei die Frage, warum Seiendes sein darf,2 mit einer Auskunft iiber dessen Bestimmung beantwortet, versteht er das Seiende von einem Sollen her: was 1st, erweist seine Daseinsberechtigung dadurch, daB es einem Sollen entspricht, etwa weil es die Gottheit so vorsieht.—Darin liegt freilich nicht einmal ein proprium religiosum: auch im auBerreligiosen Bereich sind Uberzeugungen, weil sie selbst Teile von Praxis sind, zugleich Anweisungen fur die Praxis, oft genug sogar einfach Ermunterungen fur bestimmte Praktiken; Ideologieanfalligkeit ist denn auch hier oftmals dadurch begriindet, daB sich die Suche nach der Wahrheit zu eng mit einem GewiBheitsbediirfnis verbindet, das seinerseits Handlungsanweisungen sucht. Es kann darum im Mythos nicht ausbleiben, daB die Realitat von Idealvorstellungen iibermalt wird, wie es z.B. in den Weltschopfungsmotiven der Gottesreden des Hiobbuches (Kap. 38-41) geschieht. Auch in Gen 1 ist das Ziel der Aussagenreihe die refrainartige Versicherung, daB, was Gott geschaffen hat, gut ist; ist etwas, wie es nach 2,18 der Fall ist, nicht gut, so liegt fur den Erzahler darin lediglich ein AnlaB, es durch Gott besser werden zu lassen. Nur die so am MaBstab eines Prototyps korrigierte, sublimere Realitat ist zustimmenswert. Im Extremfall wird der Mythos dariiber zum Produkt eines Spiels mit metaphorischen Vorstellungen, die, obwohl sie sich stets auf die Realitat zu beziehen suchen, von der Realitat nichts mehr aussagen und darum von den auf sie bezogenen Begriffen auch nicht widerlegt werden konnen: die Metaphernsprache des Mythos verliert ihre Verweisfunktion fur die Wirklichkeit; sie besteht geradezu nur noch aus Signifikaten ihrer selbst, einem selbstreferentiellen System von Bedeutungen aus sonst unbefriedigtem Sinnbedarf, deren Wahrheit allenfalls in ihrer Systemkoharenz liegt. Obwohl die mythisch-religiosen Signifikate im Blick auf die Realitat motiviert sind, lieBe sich am Ende nicht einmal sagen, wovon sie die Bedeutungen sind.3 Der Schritt in die Ironic, der schon die 2. Zu dieser Funktion des Mythos vgl. Vf., 'Mythos und Kerygma. Anthropologische und theologische Aspekte', in Mythos—Kerygma—Wahrheit. Gesammelte Aufsdtze zum Alien Testament in seiner Umwelt und zur Biblischen Theologie (BZAW, 200; Berlin—New York: de Gruyter, 1991), S. 175-88. 3. In dem MaBe freilich, wie die Signifikate eines religib'sen Systems vieldeutig (polysem) bleiben, insbesondere wenn sie sich in der vorbegrifflichen, narrativen Gattung Mythos realisieren, geben sie erst ihrem Empfanger (Horer, Leser) die

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Griechen veranlaBte, iiber ihre Gotter auch zu lachen,41st dann kurz: er erleichtert nicht nur die Last, die das Gottliche mit seinen Anspriichen allemal fiir den Menschen bedeutet; er macht auch mit dem metaphorischen Charakter mythischer Sprache, der Auswechselbarkeit ihrer Zeichen ernst, insbesondere wenn die Zeichen eine realitatsinkonforme Sonderwelt konstituieren, die Metaphern nach MaBgabe einer Realitatsadaquanz also eigentlich nicht auflosbar sind. 2. Wenn das Metaphernsystem Mythos insofern eher einem Sollen als einem Sein entspricht, so scheint nicht nur die Wunschbestimmtheit vieler mythischer Problemlosungsmuster gerechtfertigt, sondern auch ein Pragmatismus, der diese Modelle auf ihre Lebensdienlichkeit priift: die Wahrheitsfahigkeit mythischer Normativitat ist zwar dadurch noch einmal eingeschrankt, da6 die Lebensdienlichkeit geschichtlich variablen Bedingungen unterliegt; gleichzeitig aber gewinnt sie dadurch an Boden, daB das Leben sonst fiir das, was ihm dient, keine allgemein einsichtigen MaBstabe bereitstellt.5 Was unserer Vermmft und unserem Empfinden an Erkenntnis im Lebensinteresse zumutbar oder unzumutbar zu sein scheint, filtert bereits jede unserer Wahrnehmungen, erst recht aber die Organisation des Wahrgenommenen in der Reflexion und emotionalen Verarbeitung. Die mythisch-religiose Wahrheit als adaequatio rei ad intellectwn,6 als geistige (und spater dingliche) Wirklichkeitsassimilation im Lebensinteresse ist insofern noch einmal nur ein Sonderfall desjenigen Funktionalismus, der unser gesamtes Erkennen beherrscht— selbst wo dieses auf sein eigenes Funktionieren kritisch zuriickwirkt. Gelegenheit, ihnen Eindeutigkeit zu unterlegen. Auf Wahrheit oder Unwahrheit befragbar aber sind nur die Texte als solche—also weder der mentale Hintergrund des Autors, der sich in den Texten ebenso verbirgt wie offenbart, noch der des Horers bzw. Lesers, der sich von den Texten in eine unvorhersehbare Ftille von Richtungen fiihren lassen kann. 4. Vgl. A. Lesky, 'Griechen lachen iiber ihre Gotter', Wiener humanistische Blatter (1961), S. 30-40. 5. Positiv und negativ findet so nicht nur die Subjektzentriertheit der mythischen Wkklichkeitswahrnahme, sondern auch die religiose Zentralvorstellung eines personhaften, darin dem Menschen entsprechenden Gottes seine Berechtigung, der die Welt menschgemaB an den Menschen vermittelt und so ihren Wirkungszusammenhang zugleich als einen Sinnzusammenhang kenntlich macht. 6. Zu dieser Variation der bekannten thomistischen Wahrheitsdefinition vgl. E. Jiingel, 'Metaphorische Wahrheit', in Entsprechungen: Gott—Wahrheit—Mensch (Tubingen: J.C.B. Mohr, 1980), S. 103-57, hier 104f. u.6.; sie wurde vom Vf. in mehreren friiheren Arbeiten aufgenommen.

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Man mag die Autoritat mythisch-religioser Wahrheit—mit W.M.L. de Wette, J.F. Fries u.a., denen der Jubilar mit seiner De-Wette-Biographie ein Denkmal gesetzt hat—eine asthetische nennen: der Mythos bleibt gerade dann die nicht-iiberholbare Ausdrucksform einer 'Ahn(d)ung', die die Gegenstande der Wahrnehmung auf Ideen eines Vernunftglaubens bezieht, so daB ihre Funktion der Dienst am menschlichen und auBermenschlichen Leben ist.7 Was die Wirklichkeit selbst ist, wissen wir ohnehin nicht, wie man im Blick auf die Diskussion iiber die evolutionare Erkenntnistheorie wieder bei I. Kant lernen kann;8 der Abstand zwischen Wahrem und Schonem, zwischen Wissenschaft und Kunst wird kleiner. Die Interessiertheit einer assimilatorischen Wahrnehmung laBt skeptischen Zweifel schon am Wahrgenommenen aufkommen: eine Welt, in die man sich einnisten will, legen sich Vemunft und Empfinden noch einmal im Dienste dieses Sich-Einnistens zurecht; ihm dient, nach ihm qualifiziert sich auch das Asthetische. Das Bewertungskriterium ist dann freilich, welche Mythen u.a. heute eine Uberlebenshilfe bieten. Das mogliche Gegenargument, daB nach einer solchen Theorie mythischer Religion jeder ohnehin willkurlich gewahlte Begriff des Sollens noch einmal jede mogliche Vorstellung vom Seienden legitimieren konnte, verfangt deshalb nicht, weil das gleiche von jedem anderen Versuch, das Wirklichkeitsganze einer Erkenntnis zuzufiihren, eben auch ga'lte. Ein entsprechendes Sprach- und Denkverhalten beherrscht auch ohne theoretische Begriindung unsere Praxis und Praktiken. Zumindest eine kollektive Subjektivitat bleibt im MaB des sie leitenden Lebensinteresses jeder Erkenntnis beigegeben. Selbst theorieorientierte Wissenschafl ist in diesem MaBe Mac/ienschaft, schon weil jede Alternative lebensgefahrlich ware, was natiirlich nicht ausschliefit, daB auch w/^^enschaftliche Biblical Studies in the University of Sheffield (JSOTSup, 87; Sheffield: JSOT Press, interessierte, darin rein-objektive Erkenntnis ist auch fur Wissenschaft, wenn man einmal von den Popperschen Beobachtungs oder Basissatzen insbesondere bei apparativer Wahrnehmung absieht, nicht zu haben; je allgemeiner eine Theorie ist, um so aussichtsloser ist fiir sie der Versuch einer Verifikation der sie tragenden kognitiven Elemente.9 7. Vgl. Vf. 'Mythos, Ironic und der Standpunkt des Glaubens', in Mythos (Anm. 2), S. 175-87, hier 184-87. 8. Vgl. K. Lorenz, 'Kants Lehre vom Apriorischen im Lichte gegenwartiger Biologic', Blatter fur Deutsche Philosophic 15 (1941), S. 94-125 = K. Lorenz—P.M. Wuketits, Die Evolution des Denkens (Munchen-Zurich: R. Piper, 1983), S. 95-124. 9. Vgl. etwa K. Popper, Objective Knowledge. An Evolutionary Approach, (rev. edn; Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1979), S. 7f.l 1 u.6.

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So mag man urteilen, daB der funktionale Pragmatismus aus der skeptischen Not eine Tugend macht. In der Tat wird seine Tugend—auch in Religionswissenschaft und Theologie, hier vor allem im Interesse eines Dialogs unter den Religionen—die Ehrlichkeit einer Zuriickhaltung gegentiber endgultigen Wahrheitsanspruchen sein, die wiederum K. Popper, diesmal mit seinem Fallibilismus, fur sich in Anspruch nehmen kann, auch wenn daruber das klassische Ideal eines 'reinen Erkenntnisstrebens' zumindest in bezug auf Objektwahrheiten verschwinden sollte. Wenn er von der Realitat nicht widerlegt werden kann, so muB der Mythos bzw. das Mythische, wenn notig, allerdings durch einen syllogismus practicus falsifiziert werden, der grundsatzlich in der Denkstruktur des Pragmatismus verbleibt.10 Eine Asthetik des Mythos liegt aber gleichzeitig in der Richtung dessen, was E. Morike in seinem Gedicht 'Auf eine Lampe' ein wenig schwermutig-distanziert formuliert hat: 'Was aber schon ist, selig scheint es in ihm selbst'; es irritiert 'das sinnliche "Scheinen" der Idee' nicht einmal, wenn der asthetisch Unempfangliche es als Anschein abqualifiziert.11 Der syllogismus practicus ha'tte lediglich die Lebensdienlichkeit dieses "Scheinens" zu priifen. II

Doch nun zur Textinterpretation! la. Schon die altbabylonische Menschenschopfungserzahlung im Urzeitmythos von Atramhasis12 geht davon aus, daB die Gb'tter am Anfang zivilisatorische Arbeiten auf sich nahmen: 'sie trugen die Miihsal, schleppten den Tragkorb' (I 2)' offenbar ist an den Erdtragkorb gedacht, der bei Arbeiten fur den Kanalbau verwendet wurde, die spater 10. Zu H. Albert, 'Das GewiBheitsbediirfnis und die Suche nach der Wahrheit', in F. Schneider—R. Strasser—K. Vodrazka (edd.), Pragmatismus versus Fundamentalismus (Wien: Orac, 1993), S. 11-30. 11. Vgl. zu der Bezugnahme auf Hegel den bekannten Briefwechsel zwischen E. Staiger und M. Heidegger in E. Staiger, Die Kunst der Interpretation (Miinchen: Deutscher Taschenbuchverlag, 3rd edn, 1974), S. 28-42. 12. Texte, Transkription und englische Ubersetzung mit philologischem Kommentar: W.G. Lambert—A.R. Millard, Atra-hasTs. The Babylonian Story of the Flood (Oxford: Clarendon, 1969); Neubearbeitung der 1. Tafel, u.a. mit deutscher Ubersetzung: W. von Soden, 'Die erste Tafel des altbabylonischen AtramhasisMythus', ZA 68 (1978), S. 50-74, wonach im folgenden zitiert wird; vgl. von Soden, ' "Als die Goiter (auch noch) Mensch waren". Einige Grundgedanken des altbabylonischen Atramhasis-Mythos', Or 38 (1969), S. 415-32 = L. Cagni—H.-P. Miiller (edd.), Aus Sprache, Geschichte und Religion Babyloniens (Neapel: Institute universitario orientale, 1969), S. 147-64.

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die Menschen von den Gottern iibernehmen. So wird vorausgesetzt, daB die Gotter nicht nur die Fliisse (Z.21.23), Tigris (und Ephrat, Z.25f.), schufen, sondern auch die Kanale (Z.22.24 cj.), die ein zivilisiertes Leben in Mesopotamien erst moglich machen. Als dann aber die Ungleichheit in der Verteilung der Lasten zu einem Konflikt unter den Gottern fiihrt, soil der Mensch geschaffen werden, 'daB er das Joch auf sich nehme; er nehme auf sich das Joch, das Werk Ellils, den Tragkorb des Gottes trage der Mensch' (195-97). Das 'Gottliche' im Menschen, das ihm durch das Blut eines dazu geschlachteten Gottes zuteil wird, ist dementsprechend der Verstand, der zu planenden Zivilisationsleistungen befahigt. Ware die Gottergesellschaft ohne den Menschen, wie sich spa'ter auch im Zussamenhang mit der Sintflut zeigt, an ihren Spannungen nachgerade zugrunde gegangen, so werden die Menschen mit solchen Zivilisationsleistungen zu nichts weniger als Gottesnachfolgern, die auch die Verstandesmerkmale eines Gottes iibernehmen. b. Eher im religiosen Bereich liegt die kulturelle Uberformung der Realitat im friihjungbabylonischen Weltschopfungsmythos EnUma elis:13 danach ist die Welt erst vollendet, wenn die Gotter fur den Weltschopfer Marduk auch einen Tempel, E-sag-ila 'das Haus der Haupterhebung', gebaut haben; hier kann der Mensch durch den Kult jeweils Segensmacht und Ordnung des Kosmos im eigenen Interesse restituieren und lenken. 2a. Der Weltschopfungsmythos Genesis 214 gibt dem Menschen die Bestimmung, den Garten als seinen Versorgungsraum zu bebauen und zu bewahren (V. 15b(3); so setzt er gleichsam das Pflanzen fort, durch das Gott den Garten begriindete (8). DaB es am Anfang noch keinen Menschen gab, der die Erde ha'tte bebauen konnen (5b(3), gehort zu den Zustanden vor der Schopfung: die 'Welt', die Gott nach Genesis 2 schafft, wird durch den Menschen ebenso wie etwa durch den Regen (5ba) konstituiert; es ist eben die 'Welt' des Menschen—subjektzentriert, wie es einer mythischen Wirklichkeitswahrnahme entspricht. Vielleicht kann man noch einen Schritt weitergehen: da der Mensch in einer sinnlosen Welt psychisch ebensowenig iiberleben konnte, wie er sich in einer Welt ohne Nahrungsressourcen physisch zu behaupten 13. Die verla'Blichste Edition, u.a. mit Transkription und franzosischer Ubersetzung, ist immer noch R. Labat, Le poeme babylonien de la creation (Paris 1935). 14. Vgl. zum folgenden H.-P. Muller, 'Bauen—Bewahren—Mit-Sinn-Erfullen. Von der Bestimmung des Menschen', ZTK90 (1993), S. 231-50.

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vermochte, gehort zum Bauen und Bewahren ein Mit-Sinn-Erfullen, wie es eben das Erzahlen eines Menschenschopfungsmythos leistet. So wird die 'Welt' von Genesis 2 auf doppelte Weise erst durch den Menschen zustimmenswert: dutch die Arbeit, von der erzahlt wird, und durch das Erzahlen, das seinerseits eine Arbeit an der 'Welt' des Menschen ist. Zwischen dem Erzahlten und dem Erzahlen herrscht also Selbstruckbeziiglichkeit: einerseits empfangt die Arbeit, von der erzahlt wird, erst durch das Erzahlen des Mythos einen Sinn; andererseits geschieht das sinnspendende Erzahlen, weil der erzahlte Mythos sinnstiftende Normativitat beansprucht. Allerdings kann man nicht wissen, ob das Erzahlte tatsachlich den Sinn des Erzahlens oder nicht vielmehr das Erzahlen den Sinn des Erzahlten stiftet; wir wissen nicht einmal, ob die Frage nach dem Sinn selbst sinnvoll ist. b. Die Wechselbeziehung von Aktivitaten des Schopfers und des Geschopfs, insbesondere des Menschen, aber auch von Erzahltem und Erzahlen, Erkanntem und Erkennen ist in dem Weltschopfungsmythos Genesis 1 so komplex, daB sie hier nur in einigen Andeutungen erortert werden kann. Das Licht wird nach V. 3-5 als erstes von alien Kreaturen geschaffen. Natiirlich wuBte der Verfasser, daB das Licht von den Himmelskorpern ausgeht. Wenn dennoch erzahlt wird, daB das als feine Materie vorgestellte Licht vor den Himmelskorpern geschaffen wird, so kommt es dem Erzahler darauf an, daB die Welt, die werden soil, von vornherein ins Licht gestellt wird, damit in ihr Orientierung moglich ist. Man kann allerdings einwenden, daB die Ebene des Erzahlten von der des Erzahlens, die Ebene des Erkannten von der des Erkennens nicht sorgfaltig geschieden wird. DaB die Welt ins Licht gestellt wird, gilt ja im Blick auf das Erzahlen, das dadurch moglich wird; in Genesis 1 aber wird es zum Element des Erzahlten, das somit mythisch einem Bedurfnis des Erkennens entspricht. Was allererst durch die Erzahlung am Horer bzw. Leser geschieht, wird selbst zu einem Erzahlinhalt. Entsprechend wissen wir nicht, was dem 'Licht', das unser Erkennen sucht, in der sogennanten objektiven Welt entspricht; die Zirkelstruktur des mythischen Verstehens motiviert eine Skepsis, die sich leicht auf jedes andere Erkennen iibertragen la'Bt. Der Umgang Gottes mit dem anfanglichen Chaos und der Finsternis besteht wie in babylonischen Schopfungsmythen15 in einem Trennen 15. Vgl. von Soden, 'Als die Gotter' (Anm. 12), S. 418f. = Aus Sprache (Anm. 12), S. 150f.

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und einem Integrieren des Getrennten in eine neue Einheit, was wiederum die Voraussetzung dafiir ist, daB diese mit Gestalten gefiillt wird. Dem trennenden Handeln Gottes bei der Schopfung entspricht auf der Seite menschlicher Erkenntnis das Differenzieren der 'Arten', das in die Schopfungserzahlung eingeht, darin aber moglicherweise in enger Beziehung zum Gesetz, etwa der Unterscheidung von rein und unrein, steht.16 So versetzt offenbar erst das Differenzieren den Menschen in die Lage, die Welt als 'gut' zu akzeptieren, wiederum ohne daB wir gewiB waren, wie viele von den betreffenden Oktrois unseres Geistes an der 'objektiven' Realitat einen Anhalt haben. So sehr es auf der Ebene des Erzahlten eine mythische Sublimation der Wirklichkeit ist, die diese allererst zustimmenswert macht, so sehr ist es auf der Ebene des Erzahlens das Loben des Schopfers, das die mythische Wirklichkeitssublimation als berechtigt erscheinen laBt. Wie das Differenzieren der Arten, von dem erzahlt wird, so ist es noch einmal das darauf bezogene Erzahlen, was das Urteil von Gen 1,31 begriindet. Eben das, was das mythische Erzahlen allererst schafft, wird dem Gott, von dem mythisch erzahlt wird, in den Mund gelegt. Auf hoherer Integrationsebene wird so endgiiltig deutlich, wie stark unser kollektiver Weltbezug sprachlich vermittelt ist: was auf niederer Ebene der Wortschatz einer Sprache, ihre Grammatik, vor allem aber die Syntax an Vor-Urteilen vermitteln,17 leistet hier entsprechend die Gattung Mythos; die Gattungsfunktionen determinieren die Inhalte, woraus sich gegeniiber der Realitat so etwas wie eine Unfehlbarkeit des Spiels ergibt.18 Die Sprache preist, was eigentlich sie erst schafft; darin konnen hermeneutische und sprachanalytische Ansatze ubereinkommen, wenn sie verhaltenswissenschaftlich hinterfragt werden. Wir haben es also in vielfacher Weise mit Spielen der Selbstriickbeziiglichkeit zu tun, die man im Nachhinein noch einmal umkehren kann: 16. Vgl. P. Beauchamp, 'Art ]'p mm\ TWAT, IV (Stuttgart u.a.: W. Kohlhammer 1984), Sp. 867-69, hier 867f. (Lit.). 17. Schon F. Nietzsche, nicht erst L. Wittgenstein, hat Metaphysisches als 'Verfuhrung von Seiten der Grammatik' bezeichnet (Jenseits von Gut und Bo'se, in G. Colli—M. Montinari [edd.], Nietzsche. Werke. Kritische Gesamtausgabe, VI/2 [Berlin: de Gruyter, 1968], S. 3f., vgl. 25). 18. Eine solche Infallibilitat scheint—mehr oder weniger bewuBt—auch die Transzendentalpragmatik K.O. Apels fur sich in Anspruch zu nehmen; anders W. Kuhlmann, '1st die Transzendentalpragmatik eine philosophische Form des Fundamentalismus? in Th. Meyer (ed.), Fundamentalismus in der modernen Welt (Frankfurt, a.M., 1989), S. 33-49.

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so sind es die mit dem Gottesbegriff gegebenen Verabsolutierungen solcher Begriffe wie Gtite, Gerechtigkeit und Macht, die zuerst das Kosmodizeeproblem, dann das Theodizeeproblem wecken; Theodizee wiirde end-lich gelingen, wenn man auf den Begriff des Un-endlichen, da er mit der begrenzten Realitat in jedem Fall inkompatibel ist, verzichten konnte. Insofern lost sich auch das Theodizeeproblem in Selbstruckbeziiglichkeit auf; die Einsicht in die Zirkelstruktur des Denkens stellt nicht nur Probleme, sie eliminiert sie auch.

Die Wechselbeziehung zwischen den Aktivitaten des Schopfers und denen des Geschopfs ist auch dadurch gekennzeichnet, daB die Erde (Gen. 1,1 If.24) und das Wasser (V. 20), offenbar sogar aufgrund ihrer Chaosherkunft (6-10) iiber eine autogene Kraft verfiigen, die Gott durch sein Schopferwort (tadse' ha'ards 11, jis^su hammajim 20, tose' ha'ards 24) lediglich zu entbinden braucht.19 Vor allem aber ist auch hier der Mensch durch seine zivilisatorische Arbeit an so etwas wie einer Fortfuhrung der Schopfung beteiligt. Sowohl die Gottabbildlichkeit des Menschen (26), als auch der fruchtbarkeitsschaffende Segen des Schopfers (28) begriinden die Herrschaft des Menschen iiber die Tiere (26b) bzw. die Erde (28a|3).20 Was immer das in bezug auf die Tiere gebrauchte Verb rdh in l,26b-28b; 9,7cj. bedeutet:21 das in bezug auf die Erde verwendete kbs in l,28ap scheint nach Analogic von Num 23,22.29; Jos 8,1 (vgl. 1 Chr 22,18) so etwas wie eine universale Landnahme im Auge zu haben.22 Der sich zahlreich ausbreitenden Menschheit wird nach 1,28 durch kbs, nach 9,7 cj. durch rdh ein dominium terrae zugesprochen, das zugleich seiner Gottabbildlichkeit entspricht. Ohne dieses dominium terrae ware die Welt von Genesis 1 nicht als Schopfung zustimmenswert. SchlieBlich hat der Bau des Marduktempels in Enuma elis an der 19. Vgl. Welker, 'Schopfung' (Anm. 1), S. 213-15. 20. Da in V. 26b statt ubekol-ha'aras mit Pe$. besser ubekol-hajjat ha'ards zu lesen sein wird, ist von einer eigentlichen Herrschaft iiber die Erde erst in V. 28 die Rede. 21. Vgl. jetzt H. Hirth, 'Die Arbeit als ursprungliche und bleibende Aufgabe des Menschen', BZ 33 (1989), S. 210-21; U. Rutersworden, Dominium terrae. Studien zur Genese einer alttestamentlichen Vorstellung (BZAW, 215; Berlin—New York: Walter de Gruyter, 1993), bes. S. 92-107.115; B. Janowski, 'Herrschaft iiber die Tiere. Gen. 1,26-28 und die Semantik von rdh, in G. Braulik—W. GroB—S. McEvenue (edd.), Biblische Theologie und gesellschaftlicher Wandel. Festschrift fur N. Lohfink (Freiburg/ Breisgau: Herder, 1993), S. 183-98. 22. Vgl. N. Lohfink, 'Die Priesterschrift und die Geschichte', Congress Volume Gdttingen 1977 (VTSup, 29; Leiden: Brill, 1979), S. 189-225, hier 218-20.

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Begriindung des Sabbats Genesis 2,1-3 eine Parallele: die Schopfung ist im Sinne beider Weltschopfungsmythen vollendet, wenn es eine Kultinstitution gibt, durch deren Bedienung der Mensch in die Lage kommt, Segensmacht und Ordnung des Kosmos standig zu restituieren und zu lenken. Durch die Sabbatheiligung schafft sich Israel nicht nur eine 'nota synagogue' in der Diaspora, sondern entspricht auch als einziges Volk der Erde einer Kosmogonie, die uranfanglich eine Interaktion von gottlichem und menschlichem Handeln begrundet. Ill

Die nun mehrfach erorterte Wechselbeziehung von Schopfer und Geschopf, dazu der circulus virtuosus (nicht: vitiosus) von Erkanntem und Erkennen, von Inhalt und Funktion riickt den Menschen mit seinem Aktivitatspotential, insbesondere in seinen noetischen Funktionen, in den Aktionskreis Gottes; in der Christologie und der Trinitatslehre konnte dieser Zusammenhang weiter reflektiert werden.23 Befreiendes Handeln des Menschen wird zu einem Teil der Soteriologie: der erlosende Gott ra'umt dem sich selbst und andere befreienden Menschen Betatigungsfelder ein; der 'metaphysische Karfreitag' mag den Menschen zum Gottesnachfolger machen, bis er, seiner Uberforderung miide, in abermaliger Selbstriickbezuglichkeit zu seinem Ursprung zuriickkehrt. Ein anderer Standpunkt ist auch erkenntnistheoretisch nicht moglich, solange man von einem funktionalen Pragmatismus ausgeht, wie er in der Bibelexegese bereits mit der Frage nach dem Sitz im Leben gegeben ist: in dem MaBe, wie das Uberlebensinteresse an der Erkenntnis des Menschen mitwirkt, wirkt der Mensch auch am befreienden Handeln Gottes mit, den er zu erkennen meint; freilich stehen Erkanntes und Erkennen auch hier in jenem Verhaltnis der Selbstriickbezuglichkeit, das wir schon an den biblischen Schopfungsmythen wahrnahmen. Die 23. Man kann dazu etwa auch an die mystische, von M. Luther herausgegebene 'Deutsche Theologie' erinnern, nach der erst im Menschen und in der Kreatur der ewige Wille, der urspriinglich und wesentlich in Gott ist, wirklich und wollend werde, womit 'der Franckforter' erklart, warum Gott den eigenen Willen des Menschen geschaffen hat, obwohl er dadurch die Siinde Adams moglich machte: 'Der ewige wille, der yn got orsprunglich vnd weBenlich ist vnd an alle werck und wircklikeit, der selb wille ist yn dem menschen ader yn der creatur wircklich, und wollende...' (W. von Hinten, 'Der Franckforter' ['Theologia Deutsch'] Kritische Textausgabe [Miinchen-Zurich: Artemis, 1982], S. 144 [cap. 51]).

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Zirkelstruktur ist unvermeidlich, solange man auf die In-AnspruchNahme von Erkenntnisprivilegien—etwa durch Berufung auf den Heiligen Geist und/oder ein unfehlbares Lehramt—verzichtet.

A NEWER PERSPECTIVE ON PAUL: ROMANS 1-8 THROUGH THE EYES OF LITERARY ANALYSIS

Stanley E. Porter 1. Introduction The professional and personal careers of Professor John Rogerson have been characterized by concern for reconciliation. This can be seen in his near-legendary abilities to reconcile various and not always apparently compatible interpretative stances, as well as their advocates, within a single department of biblical studies. Whereas many other departments may well have fragmented under the competing pressures of historical and literary criticism, to name only the two major forces, John negotiated a productive and fruitful peace that allowed the department to flourish. I am sure that his conciliatory guidance will be sorely missed as the department pushes forward under new direction. His reconciling influence can also be seen in his churchmanship, in which he has reconciled academic theology with activism, public ecclesial service with personal piety, and a sincere Christian faith with respect for those who believe differently or not at all. It is in the spirit of enquiry inspired by Professor Rogerson, from whom I have benefited on so many occasions, including his serving as my doctoral supervisor, as department head when I was a Greek tutor, visiting research fellow, visiting lecturer and an honorary lecturer in the Sheffield department, and as referee for more than one academic position, that I offer this essay. The essay is itself an exercise in reconciliation, since it explores in a strictly preliminary way the importance of the concept of reconciliation in Paul's thought structure in Romans 1-8. More than that, it attempts to reconcile literary analysis with epistolary and theological exposition of a Pauline letter. That I am using a model from the great nineteenth-century German scholar Gustav Freytag will not go unnoticed, I am sure. Although my title alludes to the well-known article by J.D.G. Dunn, who along with several other scholars, such as E.P. Sanders, has

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announced a new perspective on Paul,11 wish to argue by example for an even newer perspective in Pauline studies. The recently revised and expanded volume edited by K.P. Donfried, The Romans Debate, illustrates the direction of much recent discussion regarding the book.2 This collection includes essays on purpose, organization, major themes, destination, social structures, and the like. There are a number of essays on epistolary features, with reference to Romans as a letter written according to the conventions of the ancient world. But one category that is noticeably absent is any attempt at a modern literary analysis of the book. The Pauline letters have been a significant last bastion to which literary analysis has been applied in New Testament studies.3 This absence might come as a bit of a disappointment but probably not as a surprise. The disappointment is related to the fact that literary analyses of the Bible are a topic of great current interest and productivity. Studies of the Old Testament from various literary perspectives have caught on in significant ways over the last twenty years, with Sheffield playing a significant role in this development. Studies of the New Testament from literary perspectives have lagged behind studies of the Old Testament but are showing significant increase in numbers and quality.4 This is especially true of the Gospels, which have become the major centre for literary critics of the New Testament, with some of the 'neglected' books, such as Jude, being shown some interest as well. This does not eliminate the impression that literary critics of the Bible have for the most part studiously avoided Paul's letters. Whereas a variety of other 1. See J.D.G. Dunn, 'The New Perspective on Paul', BJRL 65 (1983), pp. 95122; reprinted and revised in idem, Jesus, Paul and the Law: Studies in Mark and Galatians (London: SPCK, 1990), pp. 183-214; E.P. Sanders, Paul and Palestinian Judaism: A Comparison of Patterns of Religion (London: SCM Press, 1977); idem, Paul, the Law and the Jewish People (London: SCM Press, 1983). 2. Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1991 (1977). 3. One of the few efforts that does appreciate the literary dimension of Paul's letters is N.R. Petersen, Rediscovering Paul: Philemon and the Sociology of Paul's Narrative World (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1985), esp. pp. 43-88. As confirmation, see the large and expansive bibliography by M. Minor (Literary-Critical Approaches to the Bible: An Annotated Bibliography [West Cornwall, CT: Locust Hill, 1992]). Even with a very broad definition of 'literary approaches' the modern literary-critical treatments of Paul are few. 4. For a survey of this field, see S.E. Porter, 'Literary Approaches to the New Testament: From Formalism to Deconstruction and Back', in S.E. Porter and D. Tombs (eds.), Approaches to New Testament Study (JSNTSup, 120; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1995).

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methods have been applied to the Pauline letters—such as structuralism, sociological-anthropological criticism and rhetorical criticism—modern literary criticism has been conspicuously absent. The question of why Paul's letters have been avoided could be answered in several different ways. Perhaps it is a remnant of G.A. Deissmann's false dichotomy between epistles and genuine letters, into which Paul's letters do not comfortably fit.5 Perhaps it is because the letters are seen to be too occasional or contingent to warrant serious analysis.6 Perhaps it is because the Gospels have proved to be too fertile a ground to pass up, with much still to be done and the ease with which it can be done too inviting to miss. Perhaps the epistolary form itself as a genre or type of literature has proved too predictable to excite the interest of literary critics, who find the form constraining, inhibiting and lacking the kinds of plot-structure and characterization to which they are accustomed.7 Perhaps it is because what are sometimes perceived to be similar methods of exposition—epistolary analysis and rhetorical criticism—have already been applied to the letters, with the result that it is thought that the limits of what they have to offer have been or will be reached through these means.8 But perhaps it is because of a tendency to define too narrowly what constitutes literature. I take a very broad view of both literature and literary criticism. One of the most likely reasons that biblical scholars have devoted more time to literary interpretation of the Old Testament is the (I believe) mistaken idea that the Old Testament has 'genuine' literature in it, for example psalms and proverbs, history and fiction, epic and poetry. The New Testament, apart possibly from the Gospels and Acts, consists for the most part of occasional letters. But literature must certainly be defined much more broadly than simply what has traditionally been considered the most elegantly written pieces in a language, a presupposition that has 5. See G.A Deissmann, Bible Studies (trans. A. Grieve; Edinburgh; T. & T. Clark, 1923), pp. 1-59. 6. See, for example, J.C. Beker, Paul the Apostle: The Triumph of God in Life and Thought (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1980), pp. 11-12, and many who have followed him. 7. See J.L. White, 'New Testament Epistolary Literature in the Framework of Ancient Epistolography', ANRW, H.25.2 (1984), pp. 1730-56. 8. For a survey of what has been done in this area, see D.F. Watson and A.J. Hauser, Rhetorical Criticism of the Bible: A Comprehensive Bibliography with Notes on History and Method (Biblical Interpretation Series, 4; Leiden: Brill, 1994), esp. pp. 178-202.

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provided one of the firm foundations for significant linguistic textual analysis.9 Paul's letters may be contingent upon his experience, but since, according to J. Culler, 'literature takes as its subject all human experience, and particularly the ordering, interpreting and articulating of experience',10 they comprise a body of documents as susceptible of literary analysis as any other. Only an examination of them from various literary perspectives will indicate whether they yield up significant literary insights.11 There is no profit in prejudging the issue. There are a number of different literary and related models being employed in today's biblical literary climate,12 such as structuralism (which fails to excite much interest any more), formalism or the so-called New Criticism (still the apparent favourite of the majority of critics), what some are calling narrative criticism (looking more like a version of formalism applied to narrative), reader-response criticism (interesting but not always convincingly executed), various ideological criticisms (such as feminist and liberation criticism), and deconstruction (now increasingly passe in literary studies, unbeknownst to many biblical critics), to name only a few. In this essay, I do not intend to offer a full-fledged model of literary analysis, nor do I wish to make a comprehensive analysis of the Pauline letters, or any single letter in particular. What I do wish to do is to offer one example of a literary reading of a portion of a Pauline letter, Romans 1-8. Using a particular literary model—Gustav Freytag's fivepart tragic pyramid—I wish to illustrate how this literary model helps to 9. Exploration of the relationship between literary analysis and linguistics is much to be desired. Discourse analysis is perhaps one of the ways forward, since there is an attempt to quantify observations regarding texts. See S.E. Porter, 'Discourse Analysis and New Testament Studies: An Introductory Survey', in S.E. Porter and D.A. Carson (eds.), Discourse Analysis and other Topics in Biblical Greek (JSNTSup, 113; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1995), pp. 14-35. Cf. also P. Danove, The End of Mark's Story: A Methodological Study (Biblical Interpretation Series, 3; Leiden: Brill, 1993), who uses C. Fillmore's Construction Grammar; R. Fowler, Linguistics and the Novel (London: Methuen, 1977); and E. Schauber and E. Spolsky, The Bounds of Interpretation: Linguistic Theory and Literary Text (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1986), who take a transformational approach. 10. J. Culler, On Deconstruction: Theory and Criticism after Structuralism (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1982), p. 10. 11. Cf. K.K. Ruthven, Critical Assumptions (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1979), p. 197. 12. For a recent though not entirely representative survey, see E.S. Malbon and E.V. McKnight (eds.), The New Literary Criticism and the New Testament (JSNTSup, 109; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1994).

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solve two problems: the first is how to understand the flow of the argument of Romans 1-8 and the second is how to understand the difficult and problematic ch. 5. 2. Freytag's Five-Part Tragic Pyramid In the nineteenth century the German scholar Gustav Freytag published his classic work regarding the five-part 'tragic pyramid'.13 Formulated on the basis of examination of a significant number of dramas, both ancient and modern, he posited that many of them (and by extension much other literature as well) follow a definable five-part structure. Although Freytag and his work is not as well known as it deserves to be even in the field of literary criticism (and what is known of his theory is often not associated with his name), his ideas have had a profound effect upon the analysis of plot structure, especially the structure of drama. The received tradition in criticism and analysis of drama, in particular though not exclusively tragedy, is that the plot follows a dynamic five-part format. This structure consists of three main points and two lines of connection. The dramatic action begins from an inciting moment or set of circumstances in which some problem is suggested, creates a rising action through complication of the circumstances or concepts involved, results in a climax or high point that focuses the interests of author and reader as a crucial turn is made in the argument, leading to a falling action or reversal as the difficulties are resolved by a working out of the implications of the climax, and then concluding appropriately and logically with a final moment of resolution (or catastrophe in tragedy). The complication and resolution of the difficulties often involve similar language, although they are treated in different ways in the light of their symmetrical relation on either side of the climax. In other words, the climax is the most important place in the line of argument, since it is the viewpoint that gives perspective to all of the actions or ideas preceding and following. 13. G. Freytag, Technik des Dramas (Leipzig: Hirzel, 3rd edn, 1876 [1863]), pp. 100-20. Although formulated on the basis of tragedy, Freytag's theory has been applied to other literary forms. This application will be reflected in elucidation of his theory. That Freytag's theory can be applied to the New Testament was perhaps foreshadowed by Freytag himself in his translation of and commentary on the Gospels: Die Symphonic der Evangelien: Eine Zusammenstellung der achten Bestandtheile der vier evangelischen Urkunden (Neu-Ruppin: Dehmigte, 1863).

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The book of Romans, I believe, can be profitably analysed using Freytag's pyramid. Some may be surprised that I have selected a critical model that is not itself particularly modern or contemporary. Modern literary criticism as a discipline does not mean to my mind that one must be confined to 'modern' literary models, especially if these are simply faddish or—worse yet—merely politically correct. The invocation of a model derived from the study of drama, in particular tragedy, may also cause questions to be asked. I am not implying that Paul knew, read or attended performances of Greek or Roman drama, or that Romans is a tragedy, Greek or otherwise, even though some of the concepts Paul discusses are worthy of the best Aeschylus, Sophocles and Euripides had to offer.14 It was fairly common a few decades ago to posit that the Gospels were in some way related to Greek tragedy, with one scholar even positing that Mark's Gospel was a Christian tragedy, written by an author who had learned his drama by attending the theatre in Rome.15 The major problem with such arguments is that they are diachronic, in other words, concerned more with the historical development, background or provenance of the text than with its literary shape and structure. There are many important issues connected with the historical and sociological backgrounds of Romans, the composition of its church as Gentile and Jewish, the relation of the book to other dialogical texts of the ancient philosophical traditions, and the like.16 But I am using Freytag's pyramid as a heuristic device, as an aid to discovering something about the developing argument of Romans 1-8, and in particular the function of ch. 5, that we did not know before.

14. In fact, some of them are concepts that the tragedians dealt with. See Sophocles, Ajax 743-44, and Euripides, Iphigenia atAulis 1157-58, where the concept of reconciliation is invoked. For discussion of similarities and differences in their usage, see S.E. Porter, KaraAAdaaco in Ancient Greek Literature, with Reference to the Pauline Writings (Estudios de Filologia Neotestamentaria, 5; Cordoba: Ediciones El Almendro, 1994), pp. 23-24,25,125-62 and below. 15. See G.G. Bilezikian, The Liberated Gospel: A Comparison of the Gospel of Mark and Greek Tragedy (Grand Rapids: Baker, 1977). 16. For a recent attempt to integrate many of these issues by means of rhetorical theory, see D.A. Campbell, 'Determining the Gospel through Rhetorical Analysis in Paul's Letter to the Roman Christians', in L.A. Jervis and P. Richardson (eds.), Gospel in Paul: Studies in Corinthians, Galatians and Romans for R.N. Longenecker (JSNTSup, 108; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1994), pp. 315-36.

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The book of Romans is divided into three parts. Much discussion of the structure of Romans revolves around various theories regarding placement of the doxology usually located at 16.25-27, and whether ch. 16 should be considered a part of the original letter or some later addition.17 The textual transmission of Romans is fascinating, and I have some opinions on it, but it is not of concern here. The three parts of Romans are, to speak in broad terms, chs. 1-8, 9-11 and 12-16.1 am sure that there is some larger, overarching model that can account for what Paul is doing,18 but I am going to concentrate on chs. 1-8, in particular on 1.16-8.39, which, as virtually all commentators agree, can legitimately be seen to comprise a major unit of the letter. Within chs. 18, there is no chapter that has caused more problems regarding its place in Paul's argument than ch. 5. To this day, scholars are undecided whether ch. 5 belongs with chs. 1-4 or with chs. 6-8, or whether it is to be divided, with vv. 1-11 going with the first part and vv. 12-21 going with the second. For example, two recent commentators argue differently, with C.E.B. Cranfield analysing it as chs. 1-4, 5-8, while Dunn outlines it as chs. 1-5,6-8.19 The debate is unresolved. The arguments for the several positions regarding Romans 5 are many and varied.20 Some of them are based upon vocabulary connections. For example (in simplistic summary), chs. 1-5 have various forms of 6iK- words (words translated with 'justify, righteousness', etc.) and Ka\)%- words (words translated with 'boast'), words which are not found in comparably significant number in chs. 6-8. On the other hand, chs. 5-8 have £cot| (translated 'life'), found only once in chs. 1-4, 17. For a summary of the issues, as well as a sane conclusion to them, see H. Gamble, Jr, The Textual History of the Letter to the Romans: A Study in Textual and Literary Criticism (Studies and Documents, 42; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1977). 18. I have tried to show that the use of the diatribe is one of the unifying features in S.E. Porter, 'The Argument of Romans 5: Can a Rhetorical Question Make a Difference?', JBL 110 (1991), pp. 655-77. 19. C.E.B. Cranfield, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Epistle to the Romans (2 vols.; ICC; Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1975, 1979), I, p. xi; J.D.G. Dunn Romans (2 vols.; WBC, 38; Dallas: Word, 1988), pp. vii-ix. 20. See Cranfield, Romans, I, pp. 253-54; D. Moo, Romans 1-8 (Chicago Moody, 1991), pp. 300-303; Porter, KaraU.daa(o, pp. 145-48.

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while TCIOT- words (words translated with 'faith, belief,' etc.) occur predominantly in chs. 1-4. In effect, arguments based upon vocabulary statistics are inconclusive either way. Nevertheless, some of these vocabulary items have been related to conceptual arguments. One of the traditional ways of dividing up Romans is to say that chs. 1-5 are concerned with justification and chs. 6-8 with sanctification or life in the Spirit. More recent scholars advocate a division between chs. 1-4 and chs. 5-8, sensing a shift from a less to a more personal tone in the second part. If anything, these attempts are all flawed by a selective attention to the evidence of word statistics, the desire to force a conclusion upon their analysis of the letter by insisting that ch. 5 be linked with either the first or second half of chs. 1-8, and a lack of attention to a number of other important factors. The result is that Romans 5 is in effect marginalized by being forced to the extremes, seen as some sort of a bridge or link between more important bodies of material. In contrast to this, one scholar, B.N. Kaye, has called ch. 5 a convergence point for many of the themes in the book, especially as these are represented through particular vocabulary items.21 Not only this, but Romans 5 uses some vocabulary not regularly found in Romans or in the other Pauline letters, namely, language of reconciliation.22 The question is raised whether this introduction of the language of reconciliation is merely fortuitous or whether it is, in keeping with the confluence of other vocabulary, intentional and hence purposeful. These vocabulary and conceptual issues become clear when Freytag's model is applied to the whole of chs. 1-8. By various analytical means, including simply counting numbers of verses, ch. 5 falls in the centre of Romans 1-8, and thus by placement forms the centrepoint of chs. 1-8 of Romans. But it is more than this; it is the conceptual climax or turning point of the argument as well, focusing upon its discussion of reconciliation. This may seem a surprising assertion, especially in terms of the major concepts often discussed in Romans 1-8, such as justification or sanctification. Apart from R.P. Martin, who argues that reconciliation is the centre of Pauline

21. B.N. Kaye, The Thought Structure of Romans with Special Reference to Chapter 6 (Austin: Schola, 1979), pp. 7,150. 22. KOCT<xA,A,(xaaco or KataA,X,ayf| appear in Paul in a religious sense only in Rom. 5.10, 11; 11.15; 2 Cor. 5.18, 19, 20, and in a secular use in 1 Cor. 7.11. ei8A,60\)etepoi<;]appears in Col. 1.20, 22; Eph. 2.16.

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theology,23 few other scholars have argued for reconciliation as the centre of Pauline thought. I am not prepared to argue that reconciliation forms the centre of the entirety of Pauline theology, but it appears that the concept of reconciliation forms the climax of the argument of chs. 1-8 of Romans. a. Inciting Moment: Romans 1.16-17 The first stage of the action of a literary work, according to Freytag, is the inciting moment or motivating event, words or situation.24 Such a motivating statement is found in Rom. 1.16-17. I am overlooking the material that constitutes the epistolary framework of the letter, including the epistolary opening (1.1-15).25 Paul's letters are worth examining as instances of the epistolary practices of the ancient world, since he seems to combine many of the standard conventions of the familiar letter with several unique features of his own.26 But my task here is to examine the 'body' of the letter, as found in 1.16-8.39. It is traditional for commentators of virtually every stripe to see 1.16-17 as constituting some sort of a programmatic or 'theme' statement.27 A theme statement should include, if even in a broad sense, what is asserted about the major subjects discussed under it. This is true of undergraduate essays, postgraduate research projects, scholarly articles, and, I would contend, even of biblical books where an argument is being created, if the concept of 'theme statement' is to be useful for discussion. The major subjects of Romans 1-8 are mentioned or at least alluded to in 1.16-17, including the content of the gospel, salvation, faith and belief, the righteousness of God, life, the relation of Jews and Greeks, and the role of proofs (i.e. the function of Old Testament quotations). The nature of such initial events or statements, according to Freytag, is not that they simply state their propositions, as if nothing more need be 23. R.P. Martin, Reconciliation: A Study of Paul's Theology (Atlanta: John Knox, 1981; repr. Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1990), esp. pp. 1-6; idem, 'Center of Paul's Theology', in G.F. Hawthorne, R.P. Martin and D. Reid (eds.), Dictionary of Paul and his Letters (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press, 1993), pp. 92-95. 24. Freytag, Technik, pp. 105-108. 25. One could well examine this material under what Freytag calls the 'introduction' (Freytag, Technik, pp. 101-105). 26. See S.K. Stowers, Letter Writing in Greco-Roman Antiquity (Philadelphia: Westminster Press, 1986). 27. See, for example, J.A. Fitzmyer, Romans (AB, 33; New York: Doubleday, 1993), p. 253.

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said. To the contrary, the motivating statement serves to motivate a further exemplification and working out of what is presented in the opening scene. Whereas most commentators would recognize the several individual components mentioned above, fitting them together so as to create an argument is even more important. In Rom. 1.16-17, there is a rudimentary progression to Paul's thought regarding the gospel, of which, as he states, using litotes, he is not ashamed. Verses 16-17, and hence Romans 1-8, are in essence an exposition of Paul's gospel. The progression begins with Paul's recognition of the reciprocality of salvation, including God's capability of effecting salvation and the human response of faith, faith that includes that of all peoples, beginning with the Jews (rcpcQiov) and extending to the Gentiles. Paul specifies further, although the connective word is not as precise as one would like (yap),28 that God reveals his righteous character (subjective genitive or genitive of origin) in the revelation of faith, which affirmation is supported by a climactic and summative quotation of Hab. 2.4:29 it is the one who is righteous or of legal right-standing before God by this faith who can expect to live, that is, have salvation in its fullest sense. Although many of the terms involved here could be exposited further, two warrant special attention. The first is 8{ioxio<;, denoting the one who is justified or made righteous by God (see also SIKCUOCTDVTI TO\) Geou). Despite much recent debate, it appears once more firmly established that whether or not Paul has an apocalyptic dimension in mind when he uses wording of righteousness or justification (and the concepts of salvation and revelation echoing Old Testament passages may well indicate this), the forensic sense of the term is still predominant (cf. 2.13; 3.20).30 This is confirmed by exposition of 3.21-31 (see below). The second issue is what is meant by ^Tjaeiai and its relation to salvation. For Paul, salvation seems to be an inclusive term (1.16b), encompassing life here and in the hereafter. Hence, on the basis of the parallelism of the theme statement, it is appropriate to refer to salvation by use of 28. BDF§452. 29. On Paul's use of Hab. 2.4, and related questions, see C.D. Stanley, Paul and the Language of Scripture: Citation Technique in the Pauline Epistles and Contemporary Literature (SNTSMS, 69; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), esp. pp. 83-84; and R.B. Hays, Echoes of Scripture in the Letters of Paul (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1989), pp. 36-41. 30. See Moo, Romans 1-8, pp. 77-84. For a brief history of discussion, see M.T. Brauch, 'Perspectives on "God's Righteousness" in Recent German Discussion', in Sanders, Paul and Palestinian Judaism, pp. 523-42.

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'live', choosing to focus upon the personal or lived-out dimension, that is, 'the whole life of the redeemed'.31 The major grammatical problem of the quotation is whether the prepositional phrase EK TCICTTEOX; ('by faith')32 modifies the subject, 'the righteous person', or the verb of living. The conceptual problem is that Paul mixes his metaphors regarding the Christian life, using language from several different conceptual spheres. The language of justification or righteousness in vv. 16, 17, as confirmed in 3.21-31, seems to be forensic, concerned with the believer's right standing before a just God. The language of 'life' suggests a personal dimension culminating in ultimate salvation. Due to such summative parallels as Rom. 3.30 and 5.1, as well as the Old Testament context (although that is less important to how Paul appears to use the Old Testament), the prepositional phrase is better taken as modifying the substantival adjective ddccuoq. Nygren is on the right track when he argues that the first part of the quotation, 'the righteous by faith', is the topic of chs. 1-4 and the second part of the quotation, 'can expect to live',33 of chs. 6-8.34 But nowhere does Paul here find or use a metaphor or term that includes both dimensions—the forensic (justification, righteousness) and the personal (life, salvation)—under a single rubric, even though they are closely linked in the text. Thus in this opening statement, Paul has if only briefly laid down an agenda regarding the gospel. Paul begins with the capability of God to effect salvation and defines it in terms of God revealing his righteous character in faith, and he supports this by quotation of Hab. 2.4, which states that 'the one who is righteous by faith can expect to live', that is, can expect to live in the sense of divine acceptance and final salvation. It is my contention that Paul's reconciliation language is that crowning 31. J. Ziesler, Paul's Letter to the Romans (Philadelphia: Trinity Press International, 1989), p. 73; cf. L. Morris, 'Salvation', in Hawthorne, Martin and Reid (eds.), Dictionary of Paul, p. 861. 32. See S.E. Porter, Idioms of the Greek New Testament (Biblical Languages: Greek, 2; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1994 [1992]), pp. 155-56, on instrumental use of the preposition. 33. On this understanding of the meaning of the future tense, see S.E. Porter, Verbal Aspect in the Greek of the New Testament, with Reference to Tense and Mood (Studies in Biblical Greek, 1; New York: Lang, 1993 [1989]), pp. 403-39. 34. A. Nygren, Commentary on Romans (trans. C.C. Rasmussen; London: SCM Press, 1952), pp. 86-90, although he argues that the second part of the quotation is answered in Rom. 5-8. See also Ziesler, Romans, p. 69, who equates the concept of salvation with chs. 5-8.

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term that unites the forensic or legal dimension of justification with the personal dimension of living the Christian life. b. Rising Action: Romans 1.18-4.25 According to Freytag, the next stage in the development, the rising action, requires a heightening of tension through the increasing complication of the plot or argument.35 This Paul ably provides in the next major section, Rom. 1.18-4.25,36 which constitutes a major unit of text, with several distinctive subsections. Notable here is Paul's concentration upon legal issues, especially regarding the violation of 'law' by all humans,37 with this violation seen in the light of the impartial divine character.38 One of the major techniques Paul uses in communicating his increasingly condemnatory prose regarding human behaviour is the diatribe. There has been much discussion recently regarding the diatribe, especially whether it can qualify as a literary genre in its own right or whether it is simply a useful term to describe a number of literary features.39 Diatribe often creates a rhetorical pattern consisting of the interplay between assertions and questions. One speaker makes an assertion, which frequently suggests various questions in the mind of a 35. Freytag, Technik, pp. 108-11. 36. On the unity of this section, see N. A. Dahl, Studies in Paul: Theology for the Early Christian Mission (Minneapolis: Augsburg, 1977), esp. p. 81. For exegetical issues in Rom. 1—4, although from a distinctive Reformed position, see G.N. Davies, Faith and Obedience in Romans: A Study in Romans 1-4 (JSNTSup, 39; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1990). 37. See especially now M. Winger, By What Law? The Meaning ofNo^ot; in the Letters of Paul (SBLDS, 128; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1992); cf. H. Hubner, Law in Paul's Thought (trans. J.C.G. Greig; Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1984); H. Raisanen, Paul and the Law (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1986); S. Westerholm, Israel's Law and the Church's Faith: Paul and his Recent Interpreters (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1988); P.J. Tomson, Paul and the Jewish Law: Halakha in the Letters of the Apostle to the Gentiles (CRINT, 3.1; Assen: van Gorcum; Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1990); T.R. Schreiner, The Law and its Fulfillment: A Pauline Theology of Law (Grand Rapids: Baker, 1993); F. Thielman, Paul and the Law: A Contextual Approach (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press, 1994), esp. pp. 160-213; and idem, From Plight to Solution: A Jewish Framework for Understanding Paul's View of the Law in Romans and Galatians (NovTSup, 61; Leiden: Brill, 1989), esp. pp. 87-116. 38. On divine impartiality, see J.M. Bassler, Divine Impartiality: Paul and a Theological Axiom (SBLDS, 59; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1982), esp. pp. 121-70. 39. See Porter, 'Argument of Romans 5', pp. 656-61.

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dialogue partner, either real or imagined. Paul uses this rhetorical posture throughout Romans, even in ch. 5. The first issue raised is regarding the universal sinfulness of humanity and divine impartiality (1.18-2. II).40 The argument is united with the theme statement by the repeated phrasing in 2.9, 10 of 'the Jew first and the Greek'. This section begins abruptly with the statement that 'the wrath of God is revealed from heaven against all ungodliness and unrighteousness of humans' (1.18; cf. 2.5, 8; 3.5; 4.15). This section is concerned with how, from Paul's perspective, humanity from its earliest times got to the condition it is in now. Since the time of creation, despite some knowledge of God revealed through the created order, Paul states, humans have failed to honour God. The result has been that God has given them over to all sorts of idolatrous practices and beliefs. The condemnation is a general and universal one, with humanity seen as rejecting knowledge of God in all realms of existence. This descriptive portion begins in the third person, used frequently by Paul when he is laying out historical precedent or describing a juridical context. But it does not continue in the third person, with Paul switching to the second person in a subsection in the overt diatribal style (2.1-5).41 Paul uses the second person singular to point a finger at his listeners ('you'): 'You are without excuse, every person who passes judgment [probably including moral Jews and Gentiles], for in that you judge another, you condemn yourself; for you who judge practice the same thing' (2.1).42 This assertion is followed on shortly by a series of rhetorical questions, using the vocative case, the case often used in Greek for direct address: 'Do you suppose this, human, ...that you will escape the judgment of God?' (2.3). The assumed answer is 'absolutely not' (UTJ yevovro elsewhere).43 What has begun as a blanket condemnation of humanity is now brought into clear and penetrating focus in the light of Paul's knowledge of his audience, which includes both Jews and Gentiles. The righteousness of God, the basis in Paul's mind for God's condemnation of humanity, 40. On the unity of this section with 2.12-3.20, see Porter, Idioms, p. 306. 41. On the shift in person at Rom. 2.1, see Porter, Idioms, p. 301. 42. On the various options regarding those who judge, see Moo, Romans 1-8, p. 127, although most commentators argue for the typical Jew. I follow C.K. Barrett, A Commentary on the Epistle to the Romans (BNTC; London: A. & C. Black, 2nd edn, 1991 [1957]), p. 42. 43. On |iTi yevoiTo, see A.J. Malherbe, 'Me Genoito in the Diatribe and Paul', HTR 73 (1980), pp. 231-40; repr. in Paul and the Popular Philosophers (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1989), pp. 25-33.

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leads Paul back to the third person, specifying that it is God who will render fair judgment on all humanity, both Jew and Greek (2.6-11). In the second subsection, 2.12-3.20, Paul introduces the issue of law (the word for law is used some 23 times in chs. 1-4). He makes clear that anyone who is disobedient to the law stands condemned by it. Several verses in this subsection have been the centre of much scholarly discussion,44 especially since Paul appears to entertain the idea that some who do not have the law, possibly referring to some manifestation of the Old Testament, may follow a law written on their hearts (2.14-15). Does Paul entertain the idea of some fulfilling God's requirements apart from the work of Christ (cf. 2.7, 10)? There are far too many issues to discuss here.45 But let me mention three factors that must be considered. The first is that Paul is thinking dichotomously (i.e. in either-or oppositions) throughout this first major section: he distinguishes God from humanity, obedient from disobedient humans, humans with law from those without—so it is not surprising that he might draw some conclusions about each of these groups. Second is that Paul is given to intentional hyperbole. One might note his radical consequences for sin (2.12 and elsewhere), and his blanket statements of blame (2.21-24). Thirdly, one must be careful regarding what Paul does and does not say. Regarding those who have no law, he says that they are a law to themselves and that they show the work of the law written in their hearts, with their consciences bearing witness (2.14-15). This does not go so far as to say that such persons substitute their conscience for the work of Christ, but it seems to reflect a Greek literary convention something like the more modern stock literary character of the 'noble savage'.46 Such a statement, nevertheless, raises the question of the place of the Jews. In 2.17-29, Paul uses the diatribal conventions of the second person address and rhetorical question to single out the Jew, addressed as Paul's discussion partner. Paul attacks Judaism at the point where (at least in Paul's eyes) Jews thought that they were most highly favoured, in having the law and consequently being able to lead others. Paul says that their breaking of this law makes them blasphemers. One of their most distinguishing practices was circumcision, a practice that Paul 44. See especially Sanders, Paul, the Law and the Jewish People, pp. 123-35. 45. For recent summaries, see Moo, Romans 1-8, pp. 144-45. 46. Thus I am in closest agreement with those who see unbelieving Gentiles being addressed. Besides Moo (Romans 1-8, pp. 144-45), see Schreiner, Law and its Fulfillment, esp. pp. 193-96.

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dismisses for its 'superficiality': 'one is a Jew who is one inwardly; and circumcision is that which is of the heart, by the spirit, not by the letter' (2.29). In 3.1-18, Paul's conversational partner poses another logical series of questions: 'Then what advantage has the Jew? Or what is the benefit of circumcision?' (3.1). By this point one might well expect Paul to respond clearly: 'none'. So have said several commentators.47 Paul, however, uses this section to correct several misunderstandings regarding the Jews but also regarding the character of God. He begins to list the advantages of the Jew, but he never gets past the first reason, a historical one regarding the Jews having been entrusted with the oracles of God (3.2). Their unbelief does not in any way reflect on God's righteousness, Paul says. In fact, human unrighteousness demonstrates God's righteousness. Paul goes so far as to illustrate this by extensive quotations of the Old Testament (3.10-18).48 At several points Paul's discussion partner, representing the position of the Jew, especially the disobedient one, asks several questions that might well cast some doubt on God's behaviour (3.2, 5). At these two points, Paul responds with his (and the first-century philosopher Epictetus's) strong negative words uri yevovco. The last two verses of the section (3.19-20) conclude that justification or right standing before God as judge cannot be attained by obedience to the law. In this section, Paul tries to establish the 'legal' situation of all of humanity before God as giving no excuse to any party, in particular the Jew who believes that having the law establishes a position of privilege. Instead Paul is determined to protect the legality of God's actions at every point. The plot, to use Freytag's model, certainly cannot get much more complex and involved than this. In the third and final subsection of chs. 1-4, 3.21-4.25,49 Paul establishes what he sees as the legal solution to the human dilemma. All are sinners and have in some way defaced the image of God that they might have carried (3.23). One's proper legal standing before God, Paul asserts, can only be established through faith in Jesus Christ (taking the genitive as objective; 3.22),50 something given as a gift by God's 47. The most notable perhaps has been C.H. Dodd, The Epistle of Paul to the Romans (London: Hodder & Stoughton, 1932), p. 43. 48. See Stanley, Paul and the Language of Scripture, pp. 87-99. 49. On the ties between Rom. 3.27-31 and ch. 4, see Moo, Romans 1-8, esp. p. 258. 50. For recent discussion with bibliography, see R.B. Hays, 'niZTIZ and Pauline Christology: What is at Stake?', pp. 714-29, and J.D.G. Dunn, 'Once More, niZTIE XPIZTOY', pp. 730-44, both in E.H. Levering, Jr (ed.), SBL 1991 Seminar Papers

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graciousness (3.24). The word for faith is introduced in this section and is found some 18 times in ens. 3-4. Rom. 3.21-26 is frequently characterized as a passage of 'purple prose',51 a passage that is overwritten or at least far more literarily embellished than its surrounding context. I am not sure that this is an accurate description, since this assessment may fail to appreciate Paul's language elsewhere, as well as failing to examine the substance of what he says here. It is also possible that this section may have been a preformed unit that Paul incorporated into his own material. In any case, the passage is elegantly constructed, consisting of a number of prepositional phrases (such as 8id, ev, etq, rcpot;, etc, several of them more than once). Paul uses irony effectively here. He states that right standing with God is made known apart from the law, something to which the law and the prophets bore witness (3.21). Paul's imaginary discussion partner once more pursues Paul to clarify his line of argument (3.27-4.2).52 In response to the question of whether this establishes a new grounds of boasting (3.27), Paul reiterates his assertion that justification is by faith (3.30), which makes God the God of Jews and Gentiles, something which does not nullify but in fact establishes or confirms the law (3.31).53 To clarify the legal situation, Paul invokes an Old Testament personage of much repute, Abraham (4.3-25).54 The use of a venerated figure from the past in order to make a moral or ethical point (or in this instance, a theological point) was a standard convention of much Greek rhetoric (called an exemplum or paradigm). This one conforms very closely to the use of the exemplum in Greek literature, with the use of multiple individuals more characteristic of Jewish writing (see Heb. 11).55 Paul uses Abraham to establish the idea that there is good precedent for his statements about justification and its relation to faith, because Abraham himself, the paradigmatic (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1991). Dunn's arguments for the objective genitive seem well founded. 51. See D.A. Campbell, The Rhetoric of Righteousness in Romans 3.21-26 (JSNTSup, 65; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1992), esp. pp. 11-12. 52. On this division of the text, see S.K. Stowers, The Diatribe and Paul's Letter to the Romans (SBLDS, 57; Chico, CA: Scholars Press, 1981), pp. 164-67. 53. See C.T. Rhyne, Faith Establishes the Law (SBLDS, 55; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1981), esp. pp. 25-74. 54. On the exemplum with Abraham, see Stowers, Diatribe, pp. 168-74. 55. M.R. Cosby, Rhetorical Composition and Function of Hebrews 11 in Light of Example Lists in Antiquity (Macon, GA: Mercer University Press, 1988), esp. pp. 93-104.

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example of the promised faithful Jew,56 was in fact justified by God even before he was obedient to God's law, according to Paul's understanding of Gen. 15.6.57 In other words, his legal standing before God as justified or righteous preceded his legal obedience, as significant as that obedience might have been. This encapsulation of justification might do much for satisfying our interest in Paul's beliefs about the legal standing of humans before God—and has certainly been the focus of discussion of Paul in the postReformation period—and we may never have thought to ask if there was anything further to consider, were it not for the fact that Paul himself is apparently not satisfied that he has resolved all of the issues first suggested in his assessment of the condition of the human race by invoking the concept of justification. He certainly has not spoken to all of the issues raised in his theme statement in 1.16-17. c. The Climax: Romans 5 The climax or high point to the development of plot, according to Freytag, indicates the place where the significant turning point in the action occurs. What is meant by the climax is not that full and complete resolution is accomplished (this final tying together is reserved for the final stage), but that something highly significant is said or done that causes a decisive shift—or crisis—that brings the reader's attention to the point of highest interest and involvement, and enables the author to begin to undo the complications created and to proceed toward resolution. It is the climax that gives the dramatic pyramid its conceptual shape, and consequently it requires a large enough 'scene' to make this work.58 As Elliott states (although for different reasons), 'Romans 5 is the pivot on which the letter's argument turns'.59 In his opening theme statement of 1.16-17, Paul suggests that he intends to deal with a 56. On Abraham, see Rhyne, Faith Establishes the Law, pp. 75-93; and G.W. Hansen, Abraham in Galatians; Epistolary and Rhetorical Contexts (JSNTSup, 29; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1989), pp. 175-99. 57. Cf. Jas 2.23, where it can be argued that the author takes a different view of Abraham in relation to Gen. 15.6, apparently interpreting Abraham's faith as his first work. 58. Freytag, Technik, pp. 111-14. 59. N. Elliott, The Rhetoric of Romans: Argumentative Constraint and Strategy and Paul's Dialogue with Judaism (JSNTSup, 45; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1990), p. 226, although Elliott argues for this on the basis of a rhetorical analysis and finding 'boasting' as the theme of the chapter.

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number of subjects, including the complex relationship between God and all humanity, both Jews and Greeks, along with their legal and personal standings. Paul's definition of the human condition involves a number of statements about personal and legal position, and whereas he makes some attempts at resolving the legal issues (1.18-4.25), they are not sufficient to untangle all of the complications, including clarifying how one is now to live in this new 'justified' state. In Romans 5, Paul finds and develops a metaphor—reconciliation—to provide such an answer, and exemplifies it in a set of parallel statements. Reconciliation goes beyond mere legal standing to invoke language of legal and personal spheres. It is inclusive of legal status, but also incorporates a personal element that, at least in Paul's eyes, provides the basis for life in the Spirit. Before returning to discuss in more detail what Paul says about reconciliation (see section 4 below), I wish to trace briefly the rest of Paul's argument in chs. 1-8. d. Falling Action: Romans 6-7 According to Freytag, the falling action is concerned with what happens after the climax and before the resolution, in other words, with how the course of events falls into place in the light of the significance of the climax.60 Once one has been reconciled to God, one moves into a new sphere of existence. This sphere of existence is detailed in Romans 6-8. Traditional commentators have labeled this section as concerned with 'sanctification'.61 If by that one means the life of the Christian in the light of having been reconciled and in the sphere of the Spirit's control,62 then Paul would probably agree, so far as the interpretation offered here is concerned. But it does not seem to mean what many have meant by it, that Paul believed that the Christian is now destined to a life of sinlessness. In chs. 6-7, Paul addresses the conflict inherent in the life of reconciled believers who find themselves still subject to the powers of sin. Whereas in chs. 1-4 Paul used the third person predominantly, with 60. Freytag, Technik, pp. 114-16. 61. On sanctification and its relationship to other Pauline descriptions of the work of Christ, see S.E. Porter, 'Holiness, Sanctification', in Hawthorne, Martin and Reid (eds.), Dictionary of Paul, pp. 397-402. 62. On the Spirit passages in Rom. 6-8, see G.D. Fee, God's Empowering Presence: The Holy Spirit in the Letters of Paul (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1994), pp. 499-594.

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occasional though significant use of the second person when confronting his interlocutor, in chs. 6-7 Paul frequently uses the first person, both singular and plural. This is in conjunction with his continued, frequent use of diatribe, in which his rhetorical questions are asked using both the first and second persons. Chapters 6-7 can be divided into four smaller subsections. In the first, 6.1-14, Paul disputes that believers can continue to live in sin, because they have been identified with Christ. Or, as he says, 'What shall we say then? Are we to continue in sin that grace might increase? May it never be' (6.1, 2). He uses several different experiences from Christ's life as emblematic of shared Christian experience, including baptism (6.3), death (6.4, 5, 8,11), burial (6.4), crucifixion (6.6) and resurrection (6.5). But he uses them to say that Christians now 'live' with him (6.8, 11), harking back to Rom. 1.17: 'the one who is righteous by faith can expect to live'. Whereas in establishing the human condition Paul makes repeated reference to the law and the Jews, essentially human existence before the advent of Christ, in this section Paul looks back at the significant events in Christ's life as guidelines for Christian life. In the second subsection, 6.15-7.6,63 Paul returns to the idea mentioned in 3.7-8, regarding sinning that good may come about. Whereas the discussion in ch. 3 had implications regarding God's character as judge over sinful humanity, in ch. 6 the context is in terms of the reconciled Christian life. Here the interlocutor asks, 'Shall we sin because we are not under law but under grace?' (6.15). Paul's response begins with his typical words of emphatic negation, 'May it never be' (6.16), but this time his reasons are different. Whereas in ch. 3 the sinner still lives in the realm of sin, in ch. 6 the sinner lives in the realm of grace, having been liberated from slavery to sin. Paul enhances his imagery by use of slave terminology, presenting the paradoxical situation that one freed from sin is now enslaved to God (6.22). Paul uses the analogy of marriage to exemplify this further (7.1-3). In the third subsection, 7.7-12, Paul returns to the question of the place of the law: 'Is the law sin? May it never be' (7.7). Whereas the law in chs. 2-3 has the function of condemning all and thus constituting humanity as sinful, Paul sees for the Christian a different function of the law: 'I would not have come to know sin except through the law' (7.7).64 In the final subsection, 7.13-25, a notoriously problematic set of 63. On the unity of this section, see Porter, Idioms, p. 299. 64. On understanding this verse, see Moo, Romans 1-8, pp. 457-60.

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verses, Paul switches to a series of first person statements. It is impossible to discuss all of the many issues raised by these verses. Interpretations include debate whether Paul is speaking as a Christian or as a non-Christian, for himself or for others, as a representative of contemporary humanity or of the Jews.65 A striking feature of these verses is their dualism. There has been a tendency in recent Pauline studies to reject the idea that Paul thought dualistically regarding some sort of mind-body dualism. This dualism reflects a common thread in Greek thinking of the time (even among the Stoics, who were ontological monists but practical dualists). Paul's expressed dilemma is the realization that his earthly outward existence is still in the world of the flesh, which is subject to the influence of evil and sin, while his spiritual (and mental) inward existence is in the world of the spirit, which is not subject to the influence of evil but is subject to God. As he states in 7.25, 'on the one hand I myself with my mind am serving the law of God but on the other, with my flesh the law of sin'. The shift from use of the background tense-form (aorist) in 7.7-13 to the foreground tenseform (present) in 7.14-25 helps to signal not a temporal shift but a shift in focus and immediacy, although the tense usage is compatible with a present time-frame for the description in vv. 14-25.66 This is also compatible with these verses representing the Christian's ongoing struggle, with Paul offering his own experience as representative. e. Resolution: Romans 8 In the final resolution, according to Freytag, the major threads of the sequence of thought and events are tied together. It is the goal of the writer, so Freytag posits, to create a suitable resolution in keeping with the profundity of the preceding action.67 Paul creates such a conclusion in ch. 8. Verse 1 sets the stage for his concluding remarks: "Therefore, there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus'. The concluding statement is emphatic and inclusive (a pa vuv), and brings what is being said to the immediate forefront. 65. See Moo, Romans 1-8, pp. 448-56, for discussion of the options. 66. Cf. M. Seifrid, Justification by Faith: The Origin and Development of a Central Pauline Theme (NovTSup, 68; Leiden: Brill, 1992), esp. pp. 233-34, although he takes the passage as speaking of the person apart from Christ (p. 232). 67. Freytag, Technik, pp. 118-20. He calls this the catastrophe, in the light of the outcome of tragedy. The sense of finality can be the same for other kinds of literature as well.

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Paul makes two statements regarding the rewards of one's life in Christ. In the first subsection, 8.1-17, Paul recapitulates in the third person by saying that, what the law could not do, God did by sending his son. Paul does not explicitly state what it is that the law could not do, but by this time in his argument we surely are meant to understand the inclusiveness of the statement: re-establishment of one's relationship with God in all its fulness. This is what Paul apparently means by life in the Spirit. It is more than simply one's legal standing before God; it is all that the relationship implies. As Paul concludes, 'for all who are being led by the spirit of God, these are sons of God' (8.14).68 In the second subsection, 8.18-39, Paul takes a quick forward glance, drawing a line of continuity between the Christian's present condition and future eschatological hope: 'I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory that is to be revealed to us' (8.18). This does not so much reveal a whole new agenda for discussion, but places Christian existence within a wider context of what it means to have 'life'. In a section that first harks back to 1.18-32, Paul recalls the situation that established the human condition, the subjection of creation, of which humans are a part (8.19-25). He then traces the course of Christian existence from predestination to calling to justification to glorification (8.30). This passage and its subsequent amplification in vv. 31-39, reminiscent of the language of 5.1-11,69 serves as a suitable recapitulatory conclusion to the major thrust of Paul's argument regarding reconciliation being the capstone descriptive term of Christian experience. Paul makes clear that he is speaking in intimate terms of a relationship between humans and God that is modeled on the relationship between God and his son, a loving relationship. 4. Reconciliation and Romans 5 This concept of relationship in Romans 8 is part of what is meant by Paul's use of the term reconciliation. It is true that the word for reconciliation itself is not used in ch. 8, but that can be accounted for by Paul's climactic use of it in ch. 5. As for words for 'reconciliation' (taking this word in its theological sense) there are actually several words

68. See Fee, God's Empowering Presence, p. 560. 69. As pointed out by Dahl in 'Appendix I: A Synopsis of Romans 5:1-11 and 8:1-39', in Studies in Paul, pp. 88-89.

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in the Greek of the New Testament,70 including the verbei8coA,60\)ete (Rom. 5.10 twice; 2 Cor. 5.18, 19, 20)71 and the noun ei8coA,60\)e (Rom. 5.11; 11.15; 2 Cor. 5.19) and the prefixed verb ocrco ei8coA,60 taxaaa) (Col. 1.20, 22; Eph. 2.16). Thus despite the theological prominence of the concept, the passages where vocabulary items translated with 'reconciliation' language appear are few. Since the word KaiaXXdcaaco and its cognates do not appear in significant numbers in Paul or in the rest of the New Testament, this may cause some concern for placing so much emphasis upon the concepts which it suggests. But counting vocabulary statistics in order to establish the importance of vocabulary-related concepts is very tricky. Context and argument are far more important, and ultimately my case, I believe, is established on that basis. But the word KaTaAAdaacG is interesting in its own right, especially as the history of its usage, so far as can be reconstructed from the extant Greek evidence, relates to Pauline usage. One's ability to make statements about word usage is circumscribed by the fact that only a small portion of the literature of the ancient world—and of course no evidence of oral practice—has survived. As a theological term, apart possibly from Sophocles, Ajax 743-744, KccTaAAdoocfl does not have much importance in Greek literature before Paul, including the LXX, although it appears a few times in 2 Maccabees (1.5; 7.33; 8.29) in contexts similar to the ones in the New Testament. But it appears that Pauline usage proved to be an inciting force for subsequent theological usage, which is widespread in the early church writers. Although KcxTaXXdaacG is a word for exchange—whether of simple material exchange, or of the exchange of money for goods— its more important usage, at least so far as study of the New Testament is concerned, is its usage as treaty language. As treaty language, KocTaXXdaaco is used of legal-personal relationships where one party has hostility toward another party, and that hostility is overcome and 70. Much of what follows is dependent upon Porter, KataXkaaaco, passim, which contains a thorough study of the extra-biblical sources (Part I, pp. 21-116), and then detailed treatments of the biblical passages (Part n, pp. 117-89). The perspective reflected in this article develops some rudimentary insights into the relation between justification and reconciliation, however (pp. 154-56). 71. On 2 Cor. 5.18-21, see Porter, Karakhdaaa), pp. 125-44; and idem, 'Reconciliation and 2 Corinthians 5.18-21', in R. Bieringer (ed.), The Corinthian Correspondence (BETL; Leuven: Leuven University Press/Peeters [in press]).

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peaceful relations are re-established. In these contexts there is an offending party and an offended party, and often some means by which the reconciliation is effected. The hostility can be on the level of individual persons, groups of persons, and even nations. So far as the ancient evidence indicates, there is no instance in the extant ancient literature before the New Testament of the offended party actively taking the initiative (in other words using the active voice form of the verb KaTaXXdcaao)) to effect reconciliation with the offending party. It is the offender who is expected to seek reconciliation. This usage is apparently found for the first time in Paul, in 2 Cor. 5.18, and in the noteworthy periphrastic construction in 2 Cor. 5.19, which may be rendered 'in/by Christ, God was reconciling the world to himself. In all the instances in which this word is used in the New Testament, there is an instrumental phrase indicating Paul's belief that reconciliation is performed by God through the work of Jesus Christ. These patterns of usage are also to be found in Romans. In Rom. 5.1, Paul well illustrates the transition from justification to the broader and more inclusive theological category of reconciliation. He says, 'therefore, having been justified by faith (6iKaico0evTe<;s...eK Tiiaieax;), let us enjoy peace (eipr|vr|v e'xoofiev) with God through our Lord Jesus Christ (5m TOU Tcupuru TJUXOV 'rnao\) Xpicran))'. Paul lays down his assumption regarding justification with the background (aorist participle) tense-form, before giving his exhortation with the foreground (present subjunctive) tense-form.72 Although most recent translations read 'we have peace with God', with the indicative verb form exojiev, the subjunctive reading probably should be adopted for both internal and external reasons.73 Virtually every textual critic agrees that the subjunctive mood is more likely on the basis of the manuscript evidence. But most commentators hesitate to adopt this reading because they think that it introduces a note of uncertainty to Paul's argument. However, this does not necessarily follow. The subjunctive is commonly found in diatribe as a means of rallying (exhorting) one's listeners to accept the teaching that is being put forward. The context here fits that perfectly. Paul has illustrated the sinful human condition (1.18-3.20) and argued that justification goes some of the way toward solving this problem (3.21-4.25). But he is not finished yet. He says further that 72. Porter, Idioms, p. 303. 73. Cf. Seifrid, Justification by Faith, p. 223, who argues that even though he retains the indicative reading the context is hortatory.

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having been justified by faith, we should possess, take advantage of, or enjoy peace with God. There is nothing uncertain or tentative about Paul's belief in the peace of God; he is using the subjunctive to prod his readers to accept its implications as well.74 Peace with God is another way of referring to reconciliation, the word eipTjvTi in Greek denoting the ceasing of hostilities between warring parties.75 Reconciliation is a condition that assumes justification, but it is a larger category still, encompassing both legal and relational dimensions. The largeness of this category is reflected in the progression Paul gives in 5.3-5, which begins with tribulations and ends with eschatological hope; in other words, it spans the distance from the dire human condition (1.18-3.20) through to glorification (8.18-39). Paul mentions twice the love of God in this process. Whereas justification refers to the legal sphere of God's working, Paul now uses relational terminology. Once one's legal problems are sorted out, the personal ties can be re-established. In v. 5 Paul refers to the love of God having been poured out in believers' hearts through the Holy Spirit; in v. 8 he refers to God demonstrating his own love toward believers by Christ dying while humans were still sinners. The development of Paul's thought to this point is preparatory to his most explicit statements regarding reconciliation in 5.9-11: Much more then, having now been justified by his blood, we can expect to be saved through it from the wrath. For if while we were enemies, we were reconciled to God through the death of his son, much more, having been reconciled, we can expect to be saved by his life. And not only this, but we also exult in God through our Lord Jesus Christ, through whom we have now received reconciliation.

Here in a set of intricate parallels is the climax of Paul's argument, the place where the various strands he has been weaving come together.76 Several commentators come close to saying this very thing, recognizing the significance of this passage,77 but they shy away from it, many of 74. See Porter, 'Argument of Romans 5', pp. 662-65, for further explication of this position. 75. See Porter, KarakkaaaG), p. 154; cf. J.P. Louw and E.A. Nida (eds.), Greek-English Lexicon of the New Testament Based on Semantic Domains (2 vols.; New York: United Bible Societies, 1988), pp. 502-503, regarding relevant semantic domains. 76. On the parallelism, see Porter, XaTaAAaamo, pp. 152-54. 77. See J. Dupont, La reconciliation dans la theologie de Saint Paul (Paris: Brouwer, 1953), pp. 50-52; P. Althaus, Der Brief an die Romer (NTD; Gottingen:

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them because they are uncertain how ch. 5 fits in with Paul's larger argument. But Freytag's pyramid gives us the interpretative tool that has been lacking. Four factors are worth noticing. First, Paul exploits the full force of the language of reconciliation, in other words, that it creates a conceptual sphere of hostility exchanged for peaceful relations. In establishing the human condition Paul begins 1.18-4.25 by referring to the wrath of God being revealed (cf. 1.18). He now says in 5.9 that reconciliation overcomes divine wrath. Wrath, contrary to some scholars, is a highly personal term, referring to not merely an 'objective principle and process in the moral order', but out and out divine hostility.78 But Paul goes further and refers directly to the relation between humans and God as one of being enemies. Whereas Paul previously has referred to the human condition in law-related terms, seeing it as ungodliness and unrighteousness (although mutual antagonism is never far below the surface), here he uses terms of personal involvement: humans are enemies of God because of their sin, which renders God their enemy as well. God is the offended party, and humans are the offenders (5.10). Secondly, one cannot help but notice the four phrases that emphasize the work of Jesus Christ in the reconciling process (5.9 'by his blood'; 5.9 'through it [his blood]'; 5.10 'through the death of his son'; 5.10 'by his life'; cf. also 5.1 'through our Lord Jesus Christ'). For Paul the work of Christ, appearing here as a sacrificial death ('by his blood, through the death of his son'; cf. 3.25, the only other place in Romans where 'blood' is spoken of in a sacrificial sense),79 was the instrument or means by which God performed his dealings with humanity. The verb that is used is both times in the passive voice. The context is a little tricky, since the first usage says that 'we were reconciled to God' (5.9), but it probably implies that God is both the object and the instigator of reconciliation. In other words, Paul is saying, God has reconciled to himself human beings. Thirdly, the climactic nature of this section is illustrated by how Paul links justification and glorification or salvation by Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1970), p. 52; and P. Stuhlmacher, Paul's Letter to the Romans: A Commentary (trans. S.J. Hafemann; Louisville: Westminster/John Knox Press, 1994), pp. 82-83. 78. The language cited is Dodd's (Romans, p. 77; cf. pp. 20-24), now rightly disputed by many commentators, such as Cranfield, Romans, I, pp. 108-10; Dunn, Romans, pp. 54-55. 79. Moo, Romans 1-8, p. 319.

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means of reconciliation (5.9 'having now been justified by his blood we can expect to be saved through it from the wrath'; 5.10 'having been reconciled we can expect to be saved by his life'). Justification overcomes the legal situation laid out in the first four chapters, and it is now subsumed, in that reconciliation presupposes legal harmony. Salvation, first introduced in the theme statement (1.16), and developed in chs. 6-8, is anticipated. It is reconciliation that links the two together and transforms the terminology from the legal to the personal, from the forensic to the eschatological. As Elliott says, 'Two statements a fortiori (5.9,10) relocate the soteriological fulcrum in the apocalyptic future; the gracious justification and reconciliation of the impious is made the basis for sure hope in the salvation to come'.80 Once Paul has introduced the metaphor of reconciliation, the language has crossed a fundamental barrier, reflected at least in part by the switch from a predominant usage of the second and third persons in chs. 1-4 to a predominant use of the first person in chs. 6-8. Fourthly, reconciliation not only overcomes hostility and restores a peaceful relation between humans and God but, for Paul, it provides grounds for confidence or exultation (5.II), 81 a theme developed in the closing remarks of ch. 8 (e.g. vv. 31, 33, 35, 37, 38-39). Although several scholars have recognized the importance of Rom. 5.9-11 in Paul's argument, they have failed to see its structural significance as the apex of Freytag's pyramid. Just as difficult for their interpretation has been 5.12-21, which makes a series of concise parallel statements about two people, Adam and Jesus Christ. Perhaps Freytag can help us to understand how this section works as well. Paul switches to the third person in these verses, a feature typical of Pauline expository material, but the discussion of the work of Christ in 5.12-21 cannot be far removed from the four distinctive references to his work in vv. 9-11. But this time the work of Christ is shown at every point to counter and overcome the work, not of Abraham in his relation to the law, but of Adam, the original human who, according to Paul, put humanity into its condition of sin and death. For Paul, whereas Abraham served as a useful exemplum for the question of law, Adam and Christ serve as crucial exempla to illustrate reconciliation, the one responsible for severing the Edenic personal relation between God and humanity, and 80. Elliott, Rhetoric of Romans, p. 229. 81. On the textual difficulties with Ka-uxcbuevoi, see Porter, Karahhacraco, pp. 161-62.

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the other providing the means for overcoming the mutual hostility and restoring peace between God and humanity. The comparison is disproportionate, in that whatever Adam did, Christ more than undid through his life and death.82 5. Conclusion By way of conclusion, let me simply state that I believe that epistolary material is as susceptible to literary analysis as other material in the New Testament.83 Freytag's pyramid structure provides a useful tool for solving a variety of problems, including those of structure, organization and concept. Freytag's model is not a new one, but it has proved itself to be a useful one, in examining a range of literature including now a portion of the book of Romans. Literary criticism of the Bible is not a thing but many things. This model has proved useful this time. Next time it may not prove so useful, or another model might prove equally useful in analysing the same passage. This examination has also attempted to be sensitive to the literary conventions of the ancient world, including appreciation of the literary genre diatribe, clearly utilized by Paul throughout this section of Romans. Most important is the realization that the language of Romans is full of many suggestive passages with significant metaphorical language. Justification is the one that is often discussed, but it may not in fact be the most important one in this literary context. Reconciliation language was well known to the ancient world, including the world of Paul, and forms the centre of his thought in Romans 1-8.

82. On Rom. 5.12-21 and the Adam and Christ parallels, see Porter, 'Argument of Romans 5', pp. 674-76; and now A.J. Guerra, Romans and the Apologetic Tradition: The Purpose, Genre and Audience of Paul's Letter (SNTSMS, 81; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), pp. 129-31. 83. This will be explored further in S.E. Porter, Romans (Readings: A New Biblical Commentary; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press [in preparation for 1996]).

PSALM 95: IF ONLY YOU WILL LISTEN TO HIS VOICE!1 W.S. Prinsloo

1

2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 1. Introductory

A few issues have tended to dominate the research history of Psalm 95.2 The unusual phenomenon of praise and exhortation occurring side by side in this psalm has led some exegetes to believe that originally the psalm must have consisted of two separate parts, namely, vv. l-7b and vv. 7c-ll. Nowack (1888: 395; cf. also Duhm 1922: 352-54) says that it is unlikely that the two parts of the psalm originally formed a whole.3 It 1. This article on Psalm 95 is dedicated to John Rogerson in acknowledgement of the enormous contribution that he has made in the field of Psalm exegesis. The title of this article has therefore been derived from the title of Psalm 95 in Rogerson's Psalm commentary (cf. Rogerson and McKay 1977: 216). 2. Cf. Davies (1973: 183-95) and Loretz (1988: 304-305) for an overview of the research history of Ps. 95. 3. Based on a colometrical analysis, Loretz (1974: 201 ; 1979: 49-54; 1988: 30417) conies to the conclusion that the hymn on the kingship of Yahweh is the original part of the psalm. The hymn was expanded in later times by various editorial additions and associated with historical motifs to acquire its current form. Briggs and

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is claimed that the discrepancy between the two parts of the psalm is so great that they could only have been placed together accidentally. However, in contrast to this, there are also those who plead for the original unity of the psalm on divergent grounds (cf. Kirkpatrick 1957: 572; Anderson 1981: 676 etc.). Dahood (1986: 355), for example, uses the shepherd metaphor to motivate the unity of the psalm.4 Auffret (1983: 47-69) characteristically shows by means of a literary analysis that Psalm 95 is constructed symmetrically down to the smallest component and consequently forms a unit.5 Some exegetes try to explain the unity of the psalm by way of a cultic situation. Gunkel (1986: 418-19; 1917: 130; see also Gunkel and Begrich 1933: 406, 413; Schmidt 1934: 177), for instance, attributes the contrast between the two parts of the psalm to alternating voices in a liturgy. Deissler (1966: 374) says that these two parts do not indicate two originally independent psalms, but can be explained on the grounds of a cultic ritual. Schilling (1961: 107) says, 'Die Verkniipfung der beiden so verschiedenen Teilen diirfte beweisen, daB wir es bei unserem Psalm nicht mit "Literatur" zu tun haben, sondern mit einem Lied, das im Gottesdienst tatsachlich gesungen wurde...' Gunkel (1986: 418; cf. also Booij 1994: 148) uses the similarities between Psalm 95 and the analogous Psalm 81 to show that the two parts of Psalm 95 were not just accidentally joined together. Although Psalm 95 has been divided in different ways (cf. Davies 1973: 183-87 for an overview of the most important attempts), most exegetes actually prefer the twofold division mentioned above. Recently, considerable attention has been paid to the relation of Psalm 95 to other psalms. Primarily the relation of Psalm 95 to the psalms immediately preceding and following is studied (cf. Wilson 1985: 177-79; Briggs (1960: 293) claim that the original psalm consisted of vv. 1-6: To it was added by a seam v.7 from 1003, another originally independent Ps., probably a fragment of a historical Ps., giving a warning based on the experience of Israel in the wilderness, especially at Meribah v.7c"n'. Spieckermann (1989: 160 n. 4) regards Ps. 95 as an anthological poem, which originally consisted of vv. l-7a and to which an exhortative section was added later. 4. He puts it as follows: The resumption of the flock metaphor in the second part of the Psalm indicates a unity of authorship for both the hymn and the prophetic oracle'. However, Dahood's attempt to base the unity of the psalm on these grounds is not convincing (cf. my remarks in n. 13). 5. Although Auffret (1983) and Girard (1981) gave detailed analyses, I agree with Jeremias (1987: 108 n. 2) when he refers to their contributions as 'kiinstlich iiberscharfen und methodisch wenig kontrollierten Aufbauanalysen'.

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Howard 1986; Hossfeld 1994: 40-42, etc.). However, Psalm 95 is also compared with psalms such as Psalm 50 and 81 (cf. Hossfeld and Zenger 1993: 309-10). As far as the Gattung is concerned, most exegetes agree that the first part of the psalm is a hymn and the second part is an oracle or a prophetic exhortation (cf. Westermann 1977: 98, etc.). The determination of the Gattung and the cultic Sitz are sometimes also combined.6 However, there is little in the research on the rhetorical function of the psalm as a whole. There are also divergent opinions on the psalm's dating and period of origin. On the one hand there are those such as Rogerson and McKay (1977: 217) who believe that it is 'impossible to fix a date or original setting for the psalm'. Dahood (1986: 353) also identifies with this group: 'From the text itself there are few clues as to its date of composition'. On the other hand there are those who are of the opinion that it is in fact possible to date the psalm. Some exegetes date it in the pre-exilic period: Johnson (1979: 18-19) says that Psalm 95 was used in Solomon's temple during his monarchy but claims that the origin of the psalm is to be traced back to the years of the settlement. Howard (1986: 80) says that Psalm 95 goes back to the early monarchical period or earlier. Davies (1973: 195) says that the polytheistic reference in v. 3 and the Massah-Meribah illustration predispose him to regard the psalm as pre-exilic. Buttenwieser (1938: 799) thinks of the time of King Asa (cf. 2 Chron. 15) as a possible period of origin for the psalm. Although Notscher (1953: 192) says that the psalm's period of origin is not known, he believes that Psalm 95, just like Psalm 81, might possibly have originated in the late monarchical period (Kraus 1966: 661 also ascribes it to this period; see also Konig 1927: 111). Most exegetes actually date the psalm in either the exilic or the postexilic period. Gunkel (1986: 419-20; cf. also Tate 1990: 500) says that the psalm makes one think of the period of the return from the Babylonian exile—roughly in the Trito-Isaian period—when pitiful conditions prevailed and the people begged anew for God's intervention. Vosberg (1975: 103) believes that Psalm 95 refers to the Persian period when there was stability in the province of Judah. Kirkpatrick (1957: 572) says of this psalm that it was composed for the dedication of the Second Temple in 516 BCE. For this reason we find an admonishment in Psalm 95 because the danger of syncretism then predominated. 6.

Hossfeld (1994: 32) calls Ps. 95 a Trozessionshymnus'.

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Oesterley (1939: 421; cf. also Leslie 1949: 212) thinks of the middle of the fifth century BCE, or possibly a little later, as the date of origin. Olshausen (1853: 381) believes that the psalm must have originated when the people thought back on the past with gratitude from a period of stability. Although it is difficult to establish the period, Olshausen says, the later Maccabaean period does show particular points of resemblance. Loretz (1988: 314) believes, on grounds of his colometrical analysis, that there are pre-exilic and post-exilic elements in Psalm 95 that are woven into a new unit. While there is relative unanimity that Psalm 95 was used in the cult, there is no certainty on its precise cultic Sitz im Leben. Mowinckel (1962b: 243-44; cf. also Mowinckel 1962a: 121-22; Ringgren 1963: 18; Johnson 1967: 68-69) is convinced that although Psalm 95 does not contain the usual -[*» mrr expression, the first part is unmistakably an enthronement psalm and can consequently be linked to an enthronement situation.7 As opposed to this, Gunkel (cf. Gunkel and Begrich 1933: 94108) disputes Mowinckel's enthronement hypothesis and instead interprets the psalms that Mowinckel regards as enthronement songs as eschatological,8 and describes Psalm 95 (cf. Gunkel 1986: 417; Kraus 1966: 660) as a prophetic liturgy. Exegetes have also given divergent evaluations of Psalm 95. Gunkel (1986: 418) notes, for example, that the poem is 'wenig urspriinglich oder geistreich'. Massouh (1983: 84), at the other extreme, calls Psalm 95 a small literary masterpiece in which both structure and content harmoniously combine to reveal a marvellous design. After this brief overview of the research history and the most prominent problems of interpretation concerning Psalm 95, I now proceed with a personal independent analysis of the psalm. The approach that I follow here could be broadly described as a text-immanent approach. The accent is on poetic conventions used in the psalm and attention is paid to morphological, syntactic, stylistic and semantic aspects. Obviously, this 7. Weiser (1955: 428) thinks of Ps. 95 as a portion of a liturgy of the autumn festival in which Yahweh renews the covenant. 8. Mowinckel (19625: 243) actually reacts as follows to Gunkel's standpoint: 'It is not difficult to understand why Gunkel felt obliged to exclude Ps 95; for it does not contain—as Gunkel in his commentary tacitly admits—the least trace of the eschatological aspect, which at all costs, so to say ex definitione, he wants to find in the enthronement psalms'. The question is, however, whether Mowinckel himself is not guilty of the same offence in reading the enthronement festival into everything.

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style of approach cannot provide a solution for all the problems of interpretation. At best it will simply serve as commentary on a few of them. 2. An Analysis of Psalm 95 In v. 1, the psalm opens with a prominent and emphatic imperative, ID1?. The remainder of the stich shows a parallel structure: b

a

b

a

The parallelism is accomplished through two cohortatives in the first person plural; through the accompanying end rhyme with its a-sounds and the preposition *p that occurs in both hemistichs. The two cohortatives are basically synonymous. In addition there is also alliteration of the consonants 3 and i in the verbs naana and ruma. Assonance is also introduced by the numerous u-sounds. In the b-section of the second hemistich a metaphor is used to describe Yahweh. This metaphor brings out the safety and security that is to be found in Yahweh. The word 'rock' as used here does not refer primarily to the rock on which the temple has been built9 or the rock in the desert,10 since the immediate context gives no indication of this. It would therefore appear that the word 'rock' is used here to say that Yahweh, the Redeemer, is the true refuge in which one can trust. Verse 2 shows a chiastic structure: a

b

b

a

In both syntax and content, v. 2 is closely linked with the previous verse. The cohortatives of v. 1 are continued. The fact that there are no less than four similar sets of verbs gives an emphatic effect, namely, that Yahweh should be enthusiastically praised and thanked. The connection with the previous stich is strengthened still further by using the same verb stem (inn) again in v. 2. The two third-person suffixes in v. 2 ('his presence'; 'for him') strengthen the link with v. 1 still further, because it is yet another reference to Yahweh. The b-element of the abovementioned chiasm accentuates the way in which Yahweh should be praised. The 9. Cf. Davies (1973: 189-90) for the standpoint. 10. See Dahood (1986: 353) who says of this: 'A probable allusion to the rock that yielded water in the desert...'

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repetition of the preposition 3 emphasizes this still further. Verses 1-2 should be regarded as a strophe. Verse 3 is completely different from the previous two verses because the cohortatives are replaced by nominal sentences. Nevertheless, the motivating -D at the beginning of v. 3 links this verse to the previous two verses. The -D is also presupposed in vv. 4 and 5 (an ellipse is therefore used here) so that vv. 3-5 should be regarded as a motivation for the imperative and the cohortatives for why Yahweh should be praised (vv. 1-2). Verses 3-5 also form a strophe. The following comments can be made on v. 3 as such:

The two hemistichs are structured in parallel. The magnitude of Yahweh is particularly emphasized by the repetition of 'TITL The contrast between Yahweh and other gods is heightened by positioning the actants at the ends of the respective hemistichs. This emphasizes this expression's polemic nature still further. This expression most probably comes from a polytheistic background and is used to indicate the powerlessness of the gods (Hossfeld 1994: 34). Another characteristic of v. 3 is the alliteration by way of the consonant *?. This consonant occurs no less than seven times in this verse. As already indicated, vv. 4 and 5, together with v. 3, form the motivation for vv. 1-2. However, there is more than enough reason to say that vv. 4 and 5 are even more closely linked together (cf. Braulik 1986: 36-37): first, the two verses stand in an anaphoric relation to each other because both are introduced by the particle im. In conjunction with this is the fact that we are concerned with relative subordinate clauses. In both relative clauses the focus clearly falls on Yahweh. This fact is expressed, inter alia, by the fact that there are no less than four third-person singular suffixes in the verses that refer to Yahweh ('in his hand', 'for him', v. 4; 'for him', 'his hands', v. 5). These suffixes naturally also refer back to v. 3. Verses 4 and 5 stand in a chiastic relation to each other as far as the preposition *p and the word T are concerned: 4 5

These two verses are also closely related in content since both deal with

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the tradition of creation. Coupled with this, there are also polar expressions in both verses. In v. 4 the 'depths of the earth'11 stand opposed to the 'tops of the mountains' and in v. 5 the fixed dry land stands opposed to the sea. While v. 4 is a vertical view of the world, v. 5 gives a horizontal view (Massouh 1983: 85). This polar parity of words emphasizes the all-encompassing sovereignty of the creator God who has made everything with 'his hand'. Verses 4 and 5 therefore prescribe the area of sovereignty of the king (cf. v. 3). In vv. 3, 4 and 5 expressions are used that remind one of terminology from the mythology of the ancient Near East and that could possibly have a polemic function here. Verse 4 as such also has a chiastic structure if we disregard the relative particle: a

b

b

a

This chiasm emphasizes still further the polarity mentioned earlier. The rhyming a-elements place still further emphasis on Yahweh. The following comments can be made on v. 5: a c

b

a

c b

This verse is structured in parallel in terms of the elements verb (a), object (b), and Yahweh (c). The position of the personal pronoun Kin in the sentence construction and the word 'his hands' accentuates that Yahweh is the creator. Another characteristic of the verse is the alliteration that is contrived between the s-consonants. Braulik (1986: 39) justifiably draws attention to the inclusio that is created by the wordplay between ms (v. 1) and Tiir (v. 5). This creates a connection between Yahweh the saviour and Yahweh the creator. All these arguments indicate that vv. 1-5 is a complete stanza in which Yahweh is praised as saviour, universal king and creator. The fact that v. 6, like v. 1, is introduced by a leading imperative (IKS) is a further indication that v. 6 introduces a new stanza. There are also many other parallels between this and the previous stanza. Here in v. 6, just as in v. 1, the imperative is also followed by cohortatives. No less than three successive cohortatives ('let us fall down'; 'let us bow'; 'let us kneel down') that are basically synonymous emphasize the respect 11. Cf. Booij (1994: 151-52 n. 10) for a comprehensive discussion of the problematics concerning this expression.

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and homage due to Yahweh (Anderson 1981: 678).12 Another similarity between v. 6 and v. 1 is that the worship must take place in the presence of Yahweh (V3S, v. 2; mrr"1^, v. 6). One of the most important similarities is that v. 6, like v. 1, is followed by o with a motivation for the call to worship (see vv. 3 and 7). There are also similarities of word use between the two parts: compare, for instance 'his hand' (v. 7) with 'in his hand' (v. 4) and 'his hands' (v. 5). In this way a connection is made between Yahweh as creator and Yahweh as shepherd. The creation motif that is found in v. 5 ('He made it/her'), is taken up again in v. 6 by way of the verb stem. The intrinsic relationship between Yahweh and his people emerges in the word 'our creator' (v. 6). Just as the personal pronoun ('he') is used in the previous strophe to accentuate Yahweh's act of creation (cf. v. 5), so it is used here in v. 7 to accentuate that Yahweh really is 'our God'. It has already been noted that the hymnic call in the previous stanza is followed by a motivation in the form of nominal sentences (cf. v. 3). In v. 7 exactly the same thing happens when three nominal sentences are used ('He is our God'; 'and we are the people of his pasture'; 'and the flock of his hand'.13 From the close association between vv. 6 and 7 it appears that the creator God (v. 6) is also the God of the covenant (v. 7). One could say that this stanza (vv. 6-7) contains in microcosm the same elements as the previous stanza (vv. 1-5) and therefore also attempts to say basically the same thing.14 The end of v. 7 creates one of the greatest problems for the interpretation of the psalm. The question is whether the end of v. 7 (•iratfn il?pa~n» or) should be seen as joined to the first part of the verse or whether it should rather be joined to v. 8 and the subsequent verses. 12. Watson (1986: 174) believes that the triple synonyms express a progression. 13. Dahood (1986: 354)—in accordance with Finkel (1933: 37)—translates this phrase with 'the flock of his grazing plot'. He also traces the shepherd metaphor in v. 10 in the expression '... who do not know my ways'. In the light of the repetition of the word 'hand' (cf. also vv. 4 and 5), it is unlikely that the word IT can be translated with 'his grazing plot' as is done by Dahood. From this it appears that Dahood reads the shepherd metaphor into more of the psalm than the psalm itself allows. His attempt to use the shepherd metaphor to give unity to the psalm is forced and therefore unconvincing. 14. Riding's (1976: 418) petition that Ps. 95.1-7c should be regarded as a 'large chiasm' appears structuralistic and, consequently, forced. To support his theory, Riding paraphrases v. 7 as 'For he is our Saviour'. He actually uses other texts, namely Lev. 26.12,18 andJer. 11.4, in his attempt to support his hypothesis for Ps. 95.

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In order to attempt to solve this problem, we must first look at the first part of v. 7. We first note the u-sounds. They coincide with the first person suffixes and the personal pronouns ('our Maker', v. 6; 'our God', v. 7; 'us', v. 7). This assonance stresses the relation between Yahweh and his people. While the first motivation (v. 3) accentuates Yahweh's relationship with the world, the accent here is on his relationship with Israel. Another prominent issue is the third person singular suffixes ('his pasture'; 'his hand'). The expression 'his hand' here in v. 7 goes back to vv. 4 and 5 where this word is used in connection with Yahweh's act of creation. In this way a link is created between the work of creation and the act of choosing Israel, between Yahweh as king and Yahweh as shepherd. The suffixes that refer to Yahweh, together with the motivating "D at the beginning of v. 7, form the main argument for seeing v. 7 as very closely linked to the preceding v. 6. Similarly to the third-person suffixes, the shepherd metaphor in v. 7 is used to express the close relation between Yahweh and his people. All this indicates that the first part of v. 7 is closely linked with the previous part. The third-person suffixes also effect end rhyme for the respective hemistichs in v. 7. In this respect the problematic verse section (ii?atz5n i^prrDK DV) is closely linked with the preceding part of v. 7 since the third-person suffix also occurs in 'his voice'. It is also sometimes suggested that the last part of v. 7 should be connected with the previous part. Schmid (1972: 94-96) represents this standpoint. He regards DN as a conditional particle15 and consequently translates the whole of v. 7 as 'Because he is our God and we are the people of his pasture, the sheep of his hand—if today you listen to his voice' (or—'today, if you listen to his voice'). Schmid (1972: 95) says that the transfer from the first to the second person plural is not unusual, and he attributes it to a liturgical situation where the speaker wants to give those present a definite choice. Schmid (1972: 92) says that this part of v. 7 closes off the first part of the psalm and also provides the transition to what he calls the prophetic exhortation. Although Schmid's standpoint seems convincing, the following arguments can still be levelled against it. When it is taken into account that v. 7 is introduced by a motivating "O and that it is part of the motivation why Yahweh should be worshipped, it would seem strange if this motivation—and that is what Schmid's argument amounts to— 15. Schmid (1972: 94-95) is of the opinion that, as a conditional sentence, v. 7c cannot join onto v. 8 as, for instance the LXX does.

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should contain a conditional element. Although the change of person in v. 7 is not uncommon in Hebrew, its occurrence in the same syntactic construction—as Schmid argues—would be unusual. In addition, Schmid uses an extratextual argument, namely a hypothetical liturgical situation, to solve a textual problem. Related to this it can be reiterated that a change of subject does occur in the last section of v. 7. While in the first part of the verse there is talk of Yahweh and 'us', in the last part of v. 7 there is mention of 'you' (second person plural, luatfn). The nominal sentences of the first part of the verse are also interrupted by a verbal sentence. However, convincing arguments are also given for the connection of the last part of v. 7 with v. 8 and subsequent verses. One could say that vv. 8-11 are the direct reason following 'listen to his voice' at the end of v. 7. A strong argument is that the second person plural verb form at the end of v. 7 (itfoeri) is followed by another second person plural verb form (lEiprr^K) and that it correlates further with second person plural suffixes in vv. 8-9 (cf. 'your hearts', v. 8; 'your fathers', v. 9). In terms of repetition of words there is also a connection between the last part of v. 7 and what follows in that the word 'day' is used again in v. 8. Similarly, the particle DK occurs again in v. 11. On the basis of these arguments it appears that this part of v. 7 is more closely linked with what follows16 than with what went before. Most exegetes also opt for this probability and interpret the phrase as a wish, translating it with 'Today if you will listen to his voice'.17 Verse 8 and following consequently repeat the substance of the 'voice'.18 16. Although Booij (1994: 150) says that the final part of v. 7 is an independent element, his remark that this section of v. 7 is an introduction to the subsequent oracle means that he relates it more to what follows. 17. Cf., among others, Olshausen (1853: 150); Michel (1960: 190); Deissler (1964: 374). The particle therefore has an optative meaning and expresses a desire. There are also, however, those who opt for an optative meaning, but propose a textcritical change: Gunkel (1986: 420; cf. also Kraus 1966: 660; BHS; Rogerson and McKay 1977: 216-17), for example, proposes the reading irrma JNUI IQD ('his people and the flock of his pasture'). IT ('his hand') is transferred to the following stich and the plural imperative IT is also introduced because it would have been omitted on grounds of haplogrophy. The translation therefore runs: 'Acknowledge today his power [literally "his hand"]...' However, there is no real textual proof for this hypothesis. 18. Dahood (1986: 354) changes the text on the basis of Num. 12.6 to read: 'Hear the words of the Awesome One, Yahweh will be your prophet'. However, no

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To summarize the problem concerning the end of v. 7, this part of the verse should be regarded as an introduction to the subsequent part (vv. 8-11) and therefore as primarily connected to what follows. Nevertheless, the last part of v. 7 does not stand totally separate from what precedes it and therefore van der Ploeg (1974: 144-45) is correct when he says that this section of the verse joins the two parts of the Psalm and that it should be seen as simultaneously concluding v. 7 and introducing v. 8. In this way the 'us' usage changes virtually unnoticed into a godly exhortation or an oracle (cf. Jeremias 1987: 1 1 1). Verse 8 also has a few interesting points: first, an ellipse is encountered in that the verb ('harden not your hearts'), which occurs in the first part of the stich, is omitted from the second part. In combination with this a ballast variant is encountered, in that an element of the first part ('as in Meribah') is repeated in the second part and expanded to become the only element ('as on the day of Massah, in the wilderness'). In this way full emphasis is placed on the disobedience of the people at that time. By using the words Massah and Meribah, the poet encompasses the entire wilderness period (Braulik 1986: 37). History is reinterpreted and actualized here to address the people of the day. One could therefore say that history is used didactically here (cf. Herkenne 1936: 315). The alliteration that is effected by the repetition of the consonants D, a and ~i puts even more emphasis on this issue. By reintroducing the word 'day' here in v. 8 from the previous verse more of a contrast is effected between 'today' when they must listen to the Lord and the past when they had hardened their hearts and would not listen to the Lord. The deliberate position of the word 'day' in v. 7 emphasizes this contrast still further and the current generation is confronted directly (cf. Fohrer 1993: 42). Verse 9 is closely linked to the previous verse by the particle ~iEK19 and v. 9 is consequently also syntactically dependent on v. 8. The reintroduction of the particle io« (cf. vv. 4 and 5) strengthens the contrast with the previous stanza still further because the leading particle in vv. 4 and 5 did in fact refer to Yahweh 's mighty works of creation. In this verse, however, it concerns the fathers who do not want to recognize the works of Yahweh. The dominant characteristic of v. 9 is that no less than three verbs —with 'your fathers' as subject CIIDI, ^ora and ito) convincing arguments can actually be traced in Ps. 95 itself for this textual change. 19. Here the particle can have the meaning of 'as' (cf. Michel 1960: 197), 'when' or 'where... even' (Gunkel 1986: 420, 'woselbst').

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occur here. The three verbs that are strung together here emphasize the disobedience to Yahweh in the past and stand in sharp contrast to the three verbs in v. 6 (cf. full details there) where it is emphasized that Yahweh should be worshipped. Also characteristic of this stich are the first-person suffixes referring to Yahweh as object (-310], 'they tried me'; "]i]m, 'they tested me'; "bus, 'my works'). This gives end rhyme and emphasizes the disobedience to Yahweh still further. The accusation of the Lord's people is strengthened by the expression "^ss WITH. The emphatic particle D: contributes to this because here it has the meaning of 'even/although'. The 'my works' here would refer to Yahweh' s acts of salvation during the sojourn in the desert, but could also refer to the exodus. In spite of this they still hardened their hearts. Verses 8 and 9 form such a unit in both syntax and content that it can be regarded as a strophe. Verse 10 is a tripartite stich:

Verse 10 differs from the previous verses in the sense that 'your fathers' is no longer the subject of the verbs, but Yahweh in the form of two first-person verbs, namely oip« ('I was disgusted'20) and lORi. 21 Yahwen's dissatisfaction with his people is expressed in different ways. Apart from the verb 'disgust',22 the extent of the discontent is accentuated by the expression 'forty years' and by the neutral word "in ('generation'). Yahweh's direct speech consists of two parts: They were a people with a false heart They did not know my ways.

20. Finkel (1933: 33) translates tsipw on the grounds of an Arabic parallel with 'shepherded': 'For forty years I shepherded the generation'. Finkel's standpoint is that the psalmist does not intend to refer here to God's loathing for his people during their travels in the desert, but to his sheltering care for them during that period. But Finkel's view is based on extra-textual arguments and cannot be maintained on grounds of the immediate context. 21. The imperfectum consecutivum must be translated here with 'so that I said' or 'so that I came to the conclusion' (cf. Michel 1960: 30). 22. The imperfect form of the verb probably has a durative function here (Briggs and Briggs 1960: 295; Leupold 1977: 680).

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This double accusation aggravates their position. This is further emphasized because the two parts of the verse form an anadiplosis as the first part ends on 'they' (an) and the next begins with 'they'. The accusation comes further to the fore through the readmission of the word 'people' from v. 7. In v. 7 the people said in their own words, 'we are the people of his pasture'. Here (v. 10) Yahweh himself says of their fathers that they are a 'people' with a false heart. The word 'heart' too, which is a readmission from v. 8 (cf. there), stresses the falseness of the people. The leading particle IBJK in v. 11, which has the meaning of 'so that' (Gunkel 1986: 420; Booij 1994: 152) joins this verse very closely to the preceding v. 10. Verse 11 is therefore syntactically dependent on v. 10. Another characteristic of v. 11 is that the first-person verb forms and first-person suffixes—referring to Yahweh—of v. 10 are continued here ('I swore in my wrath'; 'my resting place'). Verses 10 and 11 are so closely joined together that we can speak of these stichs as a strophe. If we note here the total dependence of v. 11 on v. 10 and if the immediate context is taken into account, then it is clear that -nmaa ('my resting place') primarily refers to the entry and the dwelling in the promised land.23 In v. 11 too there is a deliberate contrast with the previous stanza through the reintroduction of the verb stem Kin from v. 6. In v. 6 it is used as an imperative to summon the people to worship Yahweh. Here in v. 11, however, it is used as part of an oath of Yahweh that the people cannot enter 'my resting place'. The particle DR, which also occurs in v. 7, functions in v. 11 as an emphatic negative (Howard 1986: 79) with the meaning 'really...not'. Psalm 95 ends so abruptly that we can talk of an open ending where the readers/listeners must decide for themselves what else is going to happen. 23. Cf. also Preuss (1985: 305). Vosberg (1975: 102) goes on to show that there is a close connection between nm:o and rftm in the Deuteronomistic theology. Buttenwieser (1938: 799) even speaks of an 'ellipsis' since he believes that the word F~IK has been left out here. Hossfeld (1994: 39) aptly points out that 'my resting place' should be seen as genitivus subjectivus and that it therefore indicates the resting place that Yahweh would provide for Israel. Braulik (1986: 39-43), however, believes that here nrma refers to the temple (see too Johnson [1979: 21], who translates it as 'my home') particularly to Yahweh's presence in the temple. See also Braulik (1986: 35-44) for an overview of the most important views on this matter. Kittel (1922: 314) interprets the word eschatologically by speaking of a 'verheissene Vollendung'. Kraus (1966: 662) spiritualizes it by speaking of 'ein Heilgut, das nicht material, sondern personal, namlich in Gott selbst seinen Grand und seine Mitte hat'.

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The two final strophes (vv. 8-9 and vv. 10-11) are close in content. Both strophes deal with the wilderness tradition as the reason for Yah wen's wrath and both strophes are Yahweh's direct speech, that is, an oracle. Obviously the first-person verb forms and the first-person suffixes dominate the section. Verses 8-9 and vv. 10-11 are also parallel to each other in the sense that the two stichs of each strophe are introduced by the particle ntfK. All these arguments therefore provide sufficient reason to speak of vv. 8-11 as a stanza. The fact that the whole stanza takes the form of an oracle, or Yahweh's direct speech, gives the judgmental words even more impetus. 3. Conclusion This analysis has shown that, in its present form, the psalm forms a coherent whole. It consists of three stanzas, namely vv. 1-5, vv. 6-7b and 7c-l 1. The first two stanzas are more closely linked, as has been shown. Verse 7c functions as a meaningful transition between the first two and the third stanzas. Whether this is an original unit or whether it was created through an editorial process is impossible to establish. In terms of my own approach this question should not be so relevant. What is important is that the psalm in its current form comprises a meaningful whole. This unity is expressed, inter alia, by the numerous word repetitions that are distributed throughout the psalm. The psalm reaches its actual climax and high point in the final stanza. In this light I would describe the text as a text of criticism or exhortation. The content of the first two stanzas, namely the call to worship and the motivation for the call (Yahweh is the one God and the Almighty; he has made everything, including his people; he is the God who is bound in covenant to his people) does form the basis for the exhortative and condemnatory words in the final stanza. In a certain sense the first and second stanzas stand in an antithetic relation to the third stanza: in opposition to all the praiseworthy things that Yahweh has done (stanzas 1 and 2) we have the contemptible behaviour of Yah wen's people. The rhetorical function of this contrast and consequently of the whole psalm is to warn the readers/listeners and convince them that their association with Yahweh should not be taken for granted. Yahweh's greatness and the people's own history is appealed to in order to do this. The initial recipients, but also all future readers of the psalm, are warned on grounds of the past to be obedient to Yahweh.

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Although the psalm itself provides no direct clue to its origins, the similarities and points of contact with Deuteronomy and the Deuteronomistic theology, Deutero-Isaiah, Ezekiel and Jeremiah make it seem probable that we are concerned with a post-exilic period of origin here (cf. Hossfeld 1994: 39). In those uncertain times the psalm would serve as a comfort, but particularly also as a warning for the people. It could also serve to explain to the post-exilic generation why the exile and loss of land took place. When we take a careful look at the first two stanzas in particular, the cultic nature of the psalm emerges clearly, a facet of the psalm that has also been mentioned by many researchers. It is a virtually impossible task to try to reconstruct the exact original cultic situation of the psalm on grounds of the psalm itself. And to interpret the whole psalm by way of this hypothetical situation would mean trying to read too much into the psalm. Moreover it is logical to expect that the psalm did not simply remain restricted to the original cultic situation, but through the course of time also functioned in other situations. The function of the psalm, however, remains the same, namely to warn: 'If only you will listen to his voice'. It is in fact this phrase that forms the transition from the hymnic section to the exhortative section.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Anderson, A.A. 1981 Auffret, P. 1983 Booij, T. 1994 Braulik, G. 1986

The Book of Psalms (NCB; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans). 'Essai sur la structure litteraire du Psaume 95', BN 22: 47-69. Psalmen. III. 81-110 (POT; Nijkerk: Callenbach).

'Gottes Ruhe—Das Land oder der Tempel? Zu Psalm 95,11', in E. Haag and F.L. Hossfeld (eds.), Freude an der Weisung des Herrn: Beitrdge zur Theologie der Psalmen (SBB, 13; Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk): 33-44. Briggs, C.A. and E.G. Briggs 1960 The Book of Psalms, II (ICC; Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark). Buttenwieser, M. 1938 The Psalms (Chicago: University of Chicago Press). Dahood, M. 1986 Psalms, II (AB; Garden City, NY: Doubleday). Davies, G.H. 1973 'Psalm 95', ZAW 85: 181-95.

408 Deissler, A. 1964 Duhm, B. 1922 Finkel, J. 1933 Fohrer, G. 1993 Girard, M. 1981 Gunkel, H. 1917 1986 Gunkel, H. and 1933

The Bible in Human Society Die Psalmen (Dusseldorf: Patmos Verlag). Die Psalmen (KHAT, 14; Tubingen: Mohr, 2nd edn). 'Some Problems Relating to Psalm 95', American Journal of Semitic Languages and Literature 45: 32-40. Psalmen (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter). 'Analyse structurelle du Psaume 95', Science et Esprit 33: 179-89. Ausgewdhlte Psalmen (Gottingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht). Die Psalmen (Gottingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 6th edn). J. Begrich Einleitung in die Psalmen: Die Gattungen der religiosen Lyrik Israels (HAT; Gottingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht).

Herkenne, H. 1936

Das Buch der Psalmen (Die Heilige Schrift des AT; Bonn: Peter Hanstein). Hossfeld, F.-L. and E. Zenger 1993 Die Psalmen 1-50 (NEB, 29; Wiirzburg: Echter Verlag). Hossfeld, F.-L. 1994 'Psalm 95: Gattungsgeschichte, Kompositionskritische und bibeltheologische Anfragen', in K. Seybold and E. Zenger (eds.), Neue Wege der Psalmforschung (Herders Biblische Studien, 1; Freiburg: Herder Verlag): 29-44. Howard, D.M. 1986 The Structure of Psalms 93-100 (Ann Arbor, MI: University Microfilms International). Jeremias, J. 1987 Das Konigtum Gottes in den Psalmen. Israels Begegnung mit den kanaandischen Mythos in den Jahwe-Konig-Psalmen (FRLANT, 141; Gottingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht). Johnson, A.R. 1967 Sacral Kingship in Ancient Israel (Cardiff: University of Wales Press, 2nd edn). 1979 The Cultic Prophet and Israel's Psalmody (Cardiff: University of Wales Press). Kirkpatrick, A.F. 1957 The Book of Psalms (Cambridge: University Press). Kittel, R. 1922 Die Psalmen (KAT; Leipzig: A. Deichert, 2nd and 3rd edn). Leupold, H.C. 1977 The Psalms (Welwyn, Herts: Evangelical Press). Konig, E. 1927 Die Psalmen (Gutersloh: Bertelsmann).

PRINSLOO Psalm 95: If Only you Will Listen to his Voice Kraus, H.-J. 1966 Leslie, E.A. 1949 Loretz, O. 1974 1979

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Massouh, S. 1983 Michel, D. 1960

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Psalmen, II (BKAT; Neukirchen: Neukirchener Verlag,). The Psalms (New York: Abingdon Press). 'Psalmenstudien III', Ugarit Forschungen 6: 198-201. Die Psalmen. II. Beitrag der Ugarit-Texte zum Verstdndnis von Kolometrie und Textologie der Psalmen: Psalm 90-150 (NeukirchenVluyn: Neukirchener Verlag). Ugarit-Texte und Thronbesteigungspsalmen: Die Metamorphose des Regenspenders Baal-Jahwe (Ugaritisch-Biblische Literatur, 7; Miinster: Ugarit-Verlag). 'Exegetical Notes. Psalm 95', Trinity Journal 4: 85-88. Tempora und Satzstellung in den Psalmen (Abhandlungen zur Evangelische Theologie; Bonn: Bouvier).

Mowinckel, S. 1962a The Psalms in Israel's Worship, I (Oxford: Basil Blackwell). 1962b The Psalms in Israel's Worship, II (Oxford: Basil Blackwell). Notscher, F. 1953 Die Psalmen (Echter-Bibel; Wiirzburg: Echter Verlag). Nowack, W. 1888 Die Psalmen, II (Gotha: Friedrich Andreas Perthes, 3rd edn). Oesterley, W.O.E. 1939 The Psalms, II (London: SPCK). Olshausen, J. 1853 Die Psalmen (Leipzig: Hirzel). Preuss, H.D. 1986 'ma,' ThWAT, V (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer Verlag): 297-307. Riding, C.B. 1976 'Psalm 95 l-7c as a Large Chiasm', ZAW 88: 418. Ringgren, H. 1963 The Faith of the Psalmists (London: SCM Press). Rogerson, J.W., and J.W. McKay 1977 Psalm 51-100 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). Schilling, O. 1961 'Die Anbetung Gottes—Wurzel und Konsequenz. Auslegung von Psalm 95 (94)', Bib 2: 105-20. Schmid, R. 1972 'Heute, wenn ihr auf seine Stimme hort (Ps 95,7)', in J. Schreiner (ed.), Wort, Lied und Gottesspruch: Beitrdge zu Psalmen und Propheten. Festschrift fur Joseph Ziegler (Forschung zur Bibel, 2; Wurzburg: Echter Verlag): 91-96. Schmidt, H. 1934 Die Psalmen (HAT; Tubingen: Mohr).

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Spieckermann, H. 1989 Heilsgegenwart. Eine Theologie der Psalmen (FRLANT, 148; Gottingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht). Tate, M.E. 1990 Psalms 51-100 (WBC, 20; Dallas: Word). Ploeg, J.P.M. van der 1974 Psalmen, II (De Boeken van het Oude Testament; Roermond: Romen & Zonen). Vosberg, L. 1975 Studien zum Reden vom Schopfer in den Psalmen (BEvT; Munich: Kaiser Verlag). Watson, W.G.E. 1986 Classical Hebrew Poetry: A Guide to its Techniques (JSOTSup, 26; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 2nd edn). Weiser, A. 1955 Die Psalmen, II (ATD, 15; Gottingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 4th edn). Westermann, C. 1977 Lob und Klage in den Psalmen (Gottingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 5th edn). Wilson, G.H. 1985 The Editing of the Hebrew Psalter (SBLDS, 76; Chico, CA: Scholars Press).

COMPUTING TIMES, AGES AND THE MILLENNIUM: AN ASTRONOMER DEFENDS THE BIBLE. WILLIAM WHISTON (1667-1752) ANDBIBLICAL CHRONOLOGY

Henning Graf Reventlow

One of the most interesting scholars of the early eighteenth century is William Whiston (1667-1752). His fascinating, if sometimes whimsical personality is nearly forgotten; no modern biography describing his adventurous life has as yet been written. But he played an important role in the religious and scientific discussions of his time. As a faithful follower of the famous Isaac Newton (1642-1727), he was one of the most successful popularizers of his epoch-making theory of the universe, using it for the defence of Christianity and the Bible against the criticism of the deistical and freethinking opposition. But by venturing as far as to propagate openly the Arianism that Newton fostered only in his private papers, he lost at an early date (1710) his position as Newton's successor in the chair of Mathematics in Cambridge (1703), and had to maintain his family thenceforth by public lectures and publications. John Rogerson, who himself has contributed by several important publications to a better understanding of the history of biblical exegesis, might be interested in the following look into a period in England nearly three hundred years ago. How did a famous scientist such as Whiston deal with the Bible, how did he regard its authority? As a mathematician, he used the Bible above all as source of a reliable chronology. Nowadays, nobody but staunch fundamentalists would do that. Modern western people are used to believing instead in the results of historical research when it comes to ancient documents and material remains of all sorts, an exact chronology being but one of the topics of interest in the manifold picture of the past to be gained by the historians. Obviously, William Whiston did not hesitate to use the historical

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sources he could dispose of in his time. But one look at his works and the publications of his contemporaries makes visible how much the situation has changed since the early eighteenth century. In Whiston's times all available knowledge of the ancient Near East was indirect: it was transmitted by the authors of classical antiquity. All information about ancient Egypt came from Manetho (c. 280 BCE), a Hellenistic author who wrote down in Greek what priestly tradition had transmitted from earlier periods. What one knew from ancient Babylonia came from Berossos, who wrote in about the same period. Herodotus was the only ancient history-writer who was able to report many details about the countries of the Orient as an eyewitness who had visited them on his journeys. But he accepted as historical facts a lot of narratives whose fabulous character is obvious to every critical eye. The archives of cuneiform tables were not yet excavated and deciphered, neither could the hieroglyphs yet be read and translated. In those times the Bible was accepted by most people as the only trustworthy ancient historical document. This source value was confirmed for Christian believers by their faith in the Bible as the word of God, written down by inspired authors and therefore an unfailing witness and as such to be defended against the conceits of freethinkers who put their fingers on the contradictions in the Scriptures, their historical weaknesses and unlikelihoods. Whiston was on the side of the believers, at least in the defence of the Bible against men like Antony Collins (1676-1722), as a defender of biblical authority in his Boyle lectures of 1707 on 'The Accomplishment of Scripture Prophecies' in Jesus Christ,1 his Arianism being a private rationalistic trait not uncommon in the Enlightenment period. To his creed belonged also a firm belief in the chronological correctness of the Bible which he defended against all doubts, even those of scholars who objected to the comparative shortness of time that would have to have passed since the creation according to the biblical records when compared with the enormous periods mentioned in the traditions of some ancient cultures in connection with their earliest history. To maintain the correctness of the biblical numbers seemed to him still possible, though the first findings of prehistoric fossils had roused suspicions about their trustworthiness in critical minds. It is possible to assess the importance of the scientific outlook of Whiston for his endeavours to support the biblical time-reckoning by comparing two of his works in which he treats the chronology of the 1.

Published in London in 1708.

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Old Testament. The first was published comparatively early in his life in 1702 and bears the combined title, A Short View of the Chronology of the Old Testament and of the Harmony of the Four Evangelists. To show that the four evangelists do not contradict one another was likewise an important apologetic enterprise. Therefore the second part of the study is dedicated to this issue. The shorter first part deals with the chronological questions in the Old Testament. This sort of study was not new then. The Annales Veteris Testamenti (1650) of Archbishop James Ussher (1581-1656) and the Canon chronicus Aegyptiacus, Ebraicus, Graecus (1672) of Sir John Marsham (1602-1685) are the best known examples of chronological handbooks which were widely used in the second half of the seventeenth century and are also cited in Whiston's dissertation. Methodologically, Whiston's essay does not differ very much from the earlier handbooks. In the dedication to Bishop John Moore of Norwich (1646-1714) he fully acknowledges the importance of Ussher's work,2 and Marsham also, 'a most Judicious and Learned Chronologer',3 is mentioned in the essay several times. As regards his own attempt, he does not assert more than that 'I mean to have adjusted the several Accounts so agreeably to all the Notes and Characters of Time thereto relating, that I am not aware of any authentick Evidence that is to be opposed to them'.4 It is not his intention to invent completely new methods but rather to correct some details in the results already gained by earlier specialists. Given that the system of chronology itself that Whiston develops has not retained any current importance, it would not be useful to go into special topics he treats. But it is informative to read the axioms that Whiston formulates at the beginning of his considerations. The first is that the literal sense of Scripture 'is the true and real one, where no evident Reason can be given to the contrary' .5 In this point Whiston is a modern exegete, following humanistic principles of understanding. The second axiom is a traditional one: 'Of two or more senses of any Text, equally suitable to the Original, that is ever to be preferr'd which agrees with the rest of the Holy Scripture, and with the Testimonies of Ancient

2. 3. 4. 5.

Short View, 'Epistle Dedicatory,' no pagination. Short View, p. 42. 'Epistle Dedicatory', no pagination. Short View, p. 1.

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Authors'.6 This is the well-known analogia Scripturae, combined with the humanist's interest in the authors of classical antiquity. Axiom five copes with the problem of the extremely long lives of the first patriarchs in the Bible. Whiston accepts these numbers as true and remarks that also the ability for procreation must have endured longer in early times depending on the stronger health of our first ancestors. Axiom six is especially remarkable since Whiston later changed his opinion in this matter: he regards the Hebrew text of the Old Testament as 'our most authentic Guide in the Chronology of the Old Testament'7 and expressly declines to accept the Septuagint as the more reliable version. For the rest the research uses the traditional methods of referring to the chronological remarks in the biblical texts, developing whole systems of dates from the creation to the times of the later kings, using the Pentateuch and the earlier historical books and explaining the apparent inconsistencies in the post-exilic works of Chronicles, Ezra and Nehemiah as no more than copyists' mistakes in the present text of those books.8 By certain measures the chronogical problems in the books of Kings can also be solved, so that Whiston comes to the conclusion: The Chronology of the Kingdoms of Israel and Judah is abundantly establish'd and secur'd'.9 It has to be remarked that even the modern endeavours to harmonize these data have not led to a consensus in this intricate field. One chapter deserves special attention, and this above all because it comes so late in the arrangement of the whole. It is ch. XVI, bearing the superscription: 'The Chinese Chronology, when rightly understood, is exactly agreeable to that which we have drawn from the Hebrew Text of the Old Testament'.10 It was important to the apologetic chronologers of the seventeenth century to prove that the data contained in the traditions of foreign countries could be harmonized with biblical chronology, in this way confirming the truth of the Bible also on historical issues. China was the archetype of a vast country of very ancient traditions, totally separated from the influence of the Bible and known to Europe only for a comparatively short period, and therefore preserving a special aura of strangeness attracting the imaginations of 6. 7. 8. 9. 10.

Short View, p. 1. Short View, p. 2. Short View, pp. 20f. Short View, p. 52 (superscription to ch. XIV). Short View, p. 60.

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many intellectuals. If the early historical traditions preserved in the pagan empire of China did confirm the biblical chronology, this was an unmistakable victory for Christianity. The most important aspect was to show that the earliest kingdoms in China and the first period of the united empire were not earlier than the Flood as computed by the biblical numbers in Genesis. To the contrary, one needed a longer period of procreation and extension of humankind to gain a sufficient number of people for founding such a big empire. Whiston was able to display a table comparing the dates of the reigns from Fohi,11 the founder of the empire, as living in the same period with Noah and the much later emperor Chum Cam11 as a contemporary of David.12 In the concluding chapter13 Whiston dares to propose a complete computation of the whole number of present inhabitants of the earth, which he estimates about 'four thousand Millions'14 from a calculated growth-rate of the population (humankind will be doubled in about 400 years) back to the date of the deluge, which according to biblical chronology was the beginning of procreation of the new humanity from one family, and reaches exactly the times the Bible indicates in its chronological notices.15 A similar manner of argumentation can perhaps be detected in some examples of present fundamentalist popular literature, being believed by people not too much infected by modern historical knowledge. It is remarkable that a famous mathematician living in the first half of the eighteenth century, and obviously belonging to the intellectuals of the period, could be convinced by the same arguments, which could defend the Bible just as long as their foundations—a complete ignorance of the real history of the world—did not collapse. But one had to wait until the nineteenth century before the scientific progress in different fields led to this inevitable result. Good intentions—the devotion of pious naturalists—led along this path to disastrous results. The second essay of Whiston to be examined here was written by the author in a later period of his life (it closes with the date 'December 5, 1733' and was published in a collection of articles in the following year), and it shows already in its title the altered method by which the deposed 11. 12. 13. 14. 15.

It is not possible to identify these names with known historical persons today. Short View, p. 65. Ch. XVH, Short View, pp. 65ff. Short View, p. 65. Cf. the table on p. 67.

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professor of mathematics now tried to prove the reliability of biblical chronology: The Chronology of the Sacred Scriptures, and the Truth of their Predictions Confirmed by Eclipses and Astronomical Observations.16 The total revolution of the world-view by the astronomical discoveries of Nicolaus Copernicus (1473-1543), Galileo Galilei (1564—1642) and others had been completed by Newton's calculations about the laws of gravitation and the orbits of the celestial bodies. A rational apologetics that had freed itself from the inveterate hostility of the church authorities against scientific progress could and did use these new insights for an apologetic defence of the creator of the universe. Whiston as Newton's student and adherent now even went a step back in his apology for the biblical chronological system by using the astronomical observations of solar and lunar eclipses contained in the testimonies of antiquity, beginning with ancient Egypt and Babylon as the inventors of astronomy and astrology, which had come down to posterity in the form of occasional remarks by Manetho, Berossus and the classical authors. The intention of his essay is to show, as he declares in his opening words,17 that 'none of them reach earlier than about 500 Years after the Flood, in the genuine Sacred Chronology'.18 Thus the historical priority of the biblical primaeval history and the exactness of its chronological system is secured. He arrives at this goal in the following reflections by a careful comparison between the notices contained in the Bible mentioning a solar or lunar eclipse and in ancient sources respectively. He uses for this purpose the existing astronomical tables (going back to Ptolemy) showing the normal eclipses of sun and moon caused by the interposition of the other celestial body and the notices about eclipses contained in diverse ancient reports. Also in this dissertation it is his intention to include the traditions of distant peoples and territories; therefore a separate chapter19 is dedicated to the Chinese annals. Methodologically, however, Whiston now has altered his tactics: he now tries to confirm the Chinese chronological dates by astronomical observations on eclipses contained in the lists, at the same time reducing the enormous numbers contained in the annals for the fabulous prehistorical reigns of the first kings to normal periods within the frame postulated originally, with a period of 500 years after the deluge as the 16. 17. 18. 19.

In Six Dissertations (London, 1734), pp. 186-267. Astronomical and Chronological Propositions, p. 186. Astronomical and Chronological Propositions, p. 186. Propositionn,Astronomical...Propositions,pp. 195-211.

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starting point for the national history of each nation. The same procedure can be observed regarding the beginnings of the ancient Babylonian kingdom and the early history of Egypt, which are treated together in the first chapter.20 Everywhere the biblical chronology is confirmed insofar as the primordial history of the respective country and culture is fixed by the astronomical and other observations into the framework of a period not earlier than 500 years after the Flood. This interest of Whiston's is combined with another design that can be best evaluated in connection with the author's most famous enterprise: his Boyle lectures of 1707 on 'The Accomplishment of Scripture Prophecies'. In these sermons preached, or better, read according to the last will of Robert Boyle (1627-1691) with the intention of defending the Christian religion against the assaults of atheists and infidels, Whiston had tried to show that the prophecies contained in the Old Testament were true, either because they were fulfilled literally during the period of the Old Testament itself, or because they were directed toward Christianity, the Messiah and the church. In the first case they are open and use the term 'year' for a natural year; in the second case they are enigmatic and use the term 'day' for a year. By this arithmetic method Whiston believes he can show that each number mentioned in prophetic utterances (including the apocalyptic book of Daniel, which he regards as prophecy) can be taken literally. A double sense of prophecy, which would render the meaning of the Bible uncertain, is excluded, because it is not needed. Whiston, however, had met with unsurmountable difficulties in his attempt to fit in all dates mentioned in the Masoretic text into this scheme. Therefore he later21 hit upon the adventurous idea of maintaining that the Jews had altered part of the relevant prophecies that originally announced the coming and second coming of Jesus Christ; the Samaritan Pentateuch, the Septuagint and Josephus had preserved the original version in these cases and should therefore be preferred. In the essay on Astronomical and Chronological Propositions Whiston reverses his earlier thesis, now maintaining that these versions should be favoured.22 The three versions allow, by counting 600 years more between the Flood and the birth of Abraham, more space to account for the returns of the comet that Whiston regards as the 20. Proposition I, Astronomical... Propositions, pp. 186-95. 21. In his Essay towards Restoring the True Text of the Old Testament (1722). 22. Proposition IV, Astronomical... Propositions, pp. 213-19.

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instrument of God in causing the deluge. It is interesting in regard to this detail once again to observe the way in which Whiston at the same moment seeks, like a modern naturalist, for a rational explanation of a phenomenon of primaeval history mentioned in the Bible and, like an old-fashioned theologian, for a defence of the biblical narrative as an authoritative text. In the following propositions,23 Whiston enters into the Old Testament prophecies in which eclipses are announced. He first speaks about the superscription of the book of Amos (Am. 1.1), in which an earthquake is mentioned, the same as in Zech. 14.5.24 The next quotation comes from Am. 8.7-10, in which the prophet speaks in the same context about an earthquake and a coming eclipse of the sun. This utterance seems to Whiston especially well attested, since some words are also cited in the book of Tobit (2.5). Whiston believes himself able to give an exact date for the prophecies of Amos: since they were delivered two years before the earthquake (1.1), in the reigns of Uzziah and Jeroboam (II)—this notice seems to indicate the 36th or 37th year of Uzziah and the 52nd or 53rd (the last) year of Jeroboam—and as this earthquake was nearly contemporary with the eclipses foretold by the prophet, the exact date can be fixed on the 773rd year before the Christian era.25 In the following considerations Whiston reflects on the possible dates of three eclipses that Ussher had mentioned and also on the places where they could be observed with different degrees of obscuration of the sun. Given that the second eclipse had been visible in Samaria with no more than seven digits at the highest—according to the astronomical calculation—only the third seems to be the one that Amos had announced. Whereas the eclipse prophesied by Amos was a phenomenon belonging to the lifetime of the prophet himself, Jeremiah26 in Zech. 14.5 obviously had in mind the distant future, characterized by the coming of the Messiah. This is the time when the Roman armies came to wreak destruction on the Jews and on Jerusalem. Besides, after having cited some passages from Josephus, Whiston sees some parallels between the earthquake and eclipse in the time of Amos and those that took place 'at 23. Propositions V to YE, Astronomical... Propositions, pp. 219-32. 24. Whiston regards this part of the book of Zechariah as written by the prophet Jeremiah (following Mt. 27.9). 25. Astronomical... Propositions, p. 233. 26. Which means: Deutero-Zechariah; cf. above.

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our Saviour's Passion':27 the biblical notice that the veil of the temple was torn (Mk 15.38 // Mt. 27.51) and the sun was darkened (Lk. 23.45) has according to Josephus (Ant. 10.10) its parallel with the former earthquake: when the temple was rent, King Uzziah who was making an offering in the temple was hit by sunbeams on his forehead and struck with leprosy. The endeavour to calculate exact dates for historical events and the inclination to believe in the 'historical' value of stories like this go hand in hand! There is one feature in Whiston's treatment that is remarkable in a special way: the eclipse of the sun mentioned in the passion story of the evangelists is not contained in the astronomical lists of eclipses Whiston consults for his usual calculations. He therefore calls it a supernatural one. He has convincing reasons for doing so: I always call the Eclipse of the Sun at our Saviour's Passion, a supernatural One: as not caused by the Interposition of the Moon; and that for two substantial Reasons: I mean that Christ was crucified at the Jewish Passover, which was always at the full Moon; while all natural Eclipses of the Sun are at the new: and that it continued for three28 Hours, whereas no Eclipse of the Sun by the Moon can last so long.29

On the other hand he also has a natural explanation for this phenomenon: the four eclipses that he regards as supernatural,30 because they cannot be caused by the interposition of the moon, can be explained by the intervention of a comet— provided withal the divine Providence did originally adjust the Orbits and Motions of those Comets so, that at certain proper Times, and on certain important Occasions, they should interpose between the Sun and the Earth, and cause such prodigiously uncommon, and highly providential, tho' not strictly miraculous Eclipses of the Sun!31

Once again these remarks are revealing for Whiston's approach: he is credulous in accepting the stories not only of the Bible but also of classical authors at their face value, and is prepared to believe that the aforementioned eclipses really did take place. It is also more typical that 27. Astronomical... Propositions, p. 237. 28. In the text misprinted:'there'. 29. Astronomical... Propositions, p. 238. 30. He mentions an eclipse at Xerxes' invasion of Greece, one at Augustus's death (14 CE), one that Aurelius Victor and Plutarch know of and the one at Christ's passion. 31. Astronomical... Propositions, p. 264.

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he seems to place the biblical stories and the references of the classical authors as sources on the same level. Obviously this is the result of the classical education the members of the higher classes had experienced everywhere, including the study of the liberal arts in the universities. Therefore people like Richard Bentley (1662-1742), one of the most famous Boyle lecturers, were to a much higher degree classical scholars than theologians. The world of classical antiquity is to them nearly as alive as the present time, and they know the authors of Greece and Rome by heart. On the other side Whiston is naturalist and pupil of Newton enough to seek for a cosmological explanation that does not interrupt the normal course of the universe. There is place for God's providence, but not for miracles which would disturb the order of the world. God's providence was interventionist only at the beginning; he constructed the building of the cosmos in such a way that it could function without later supernatural interventions. In truth, the use of the word 'supernatural' is in this context no more than a relic of a terminology belonging to an older school of thinking. The regular returns of the comet can be explained on the same basis as other phenomena of the sky. Nevertheless, Whiston is prepared to regard the Bible as a source that has to be respected in its special dignity. Its quality depends to a large degree on the prophetic voice that can be heard in it: Amos therefore, Isaiah, and Jeremiah; whose predictions of such future Events as in their days were no Way discoverable by natural Knowledge, and which were exactly fulfilled in their proper Seasons, were for certain, true Prophets: and those future Events were, for certain, discovered to them by supernatural Revelation.32

As a believing Christian, Whiston also prolongs this line as far as Jesus of Nazareth, who 'was himself a true Prophet sent by God: and is accordingly no other than that Lord God who was to come and has come into the World...He is also no other than that Messiah, who is still to come...'33 The scheme 'prophecy and fulfilment' is independent of the arguments taken from the order of the world as God's creation. The aspect that seems to be the most fascinating in Whiston's later essay is his attempt to use objective dates, gleaned from astronomical observations and chronological calculations, as proofs for the historical 32. Astronomical... Propositions, p. 266. 33. Astronomical... Propositions, pp. 266-67.

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exactness of biblical dates. This methodological approach is usually regarded as much later in the development of the study of the Bible and postponed to the late eighteenth or even into the nineteenth century. Nor is it without connection to the present time. Even in the recent past there have been those like W.F. Albright and his school who tried, in a rather similar way to Whiston, by external evidence (archaeological remains) to show 'that the Bible is correct' as a historical source. The methods were modern ones, the way of 'proof was parallel. Perhaps these attempts will never totally disappear. But it is useful to remember how little 300 years of research could alter in basic positions.

ZUM VERHALTNIS VON LITERATURWISSENSCHAFT, LINGUISTIK UND THEOLOGIE

Wolfgang Richter

Wilhelm Busch hat einmal gesagt: '1st der Ruf erst ruiniert, lebt's welter sich ganz ungeniert.' Nach diesem Motto kann einer, der seinen Ruf als Theologe durch miihevolle Kleinarbeit griindlich ruiniert hat, sich aus seiner Sicht zur Theologie auBern und diese Gedanken—frei von wissenschaftlichem Ballast—dem bewahrten Theologiegeschichtler und Freund in England zu seiner Emeritierung widmen. Es sei begonnen mit ein paar Beobachtungen zu heutiger Theologenpraxis. Das Wort Theologie' fu'hrt heutzutage nahezu jeder Vertreter einer theologischen Fakultat selbstverstandlich im Munde, welches Fach oder welche Richtung in ihr er auch immer vertritt. Wahrend sich aber die Autoren in Patristik und Scholastik Gedanken iiber den Inhalt des Wortes machten, scheint das gegenwartig weniger der Fall zu sein. Man verbindet es eher mit einem Anspruch an eine Haltung: Wer an einer theologischen Fakultat lehrt, muB ein Theologe sein. Wer eine Dissertation oder Habilitation schreiben oder gar einen Lehrstuhl erlangen will, kann natiirlich nicht nur historisch-kritisch oder gar nur sprach- und literaturwissenschaftlich arbeiten, er mufi vielmehr Kapitel oder Veroffentlichungen beisteuera, die ihn als Theologen erweisen. Niemand sagt ihm aber genau, was das sachlich und methodisch meint. Am theologischsten scheinen sich die praktischen Facher Recht und Pastoral zu gebarden, obwohl sie sich allenfalls abgeleitet theologisch nennen konnen, wohl weil sie am ehesten glauben dariiber befinden zu konnen, welche Haltung fur einen Theologen angemessen ist. Man spricht gar von der 'Einheit der Theologie' iiber alle Einzeldisziplinen und uberla'Bt den Kandidaten der Theologie bei der Priifung dem

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bitteren Erlebnis, wie verschiedenartig er bei ein- und demselben Gegenstand antworten mufi gegemiber einem Kanonisten, Dogmatiker, Fundamentaltheologen, Historiker oder einem eigentlich schon gar nicht mehr zu dieser Theologenzunft gehorenden Exegeten. Es drangt sich der Eindruck auf: Dieser Gebrauch des Wortes Theologie ist nicht sachlich und methodisch begriindet; er ist daher keine Wissenschaft. Da hilft keine Flucht in die Tagesfragen (alle zehn Jahre eine neue Theologie), ins Fernsehen, in die kirchliche Beratertatigkeit, in den Wissenschafts-, Fakultats- und Rektoratstourismus zu Kongressen, Gremien und Akademien. Da hilft leider nur solide Auseinandersetzung mit der ungefugen Materie. Dem Nicht-Theologen fallt auf, dafi ganze Fachgebiete steril geworden sind: etwa die Trinitats- und Gnadenlehre; in ihnen wird nicht weitergedacht, wenn doch einmal, dann mit kirchlichen Korrekturen, um es milde zu formulieren. Ihm fallt auf, da6 die alte platonischscholastische Grundlage der systematischen Theologie nicht mehr diskutiert, aber auch nicht durch eine neue Grundlage ersetzt wird; der Systemaspekt kommt nicht so sehr im Rahmen von wissenschaftlichen Fragestellungen zur Geltung, als vielmehr bei der Verteilung des Stoffes auf Semester. Ferner arbeitet man zwar in alien Disziplinen an Texten. Hat man aber eine Methode, dann allenfalls eine historisch-kritische. Diese verwendet man in unterschiedlichem Grade, am wenigsten in den systematischen und praktischen, zunehmend ausgedehnter in den theologiegeschichtlichen, liturgiegeschichtlichen, historischen und exegetischen Fachern. Ein weiteres Problem: Man hort zwei Vorstellungen iiber das, was einen Theologen ausmacht: Ein Theologe ist Theologe, weil er einer Fakultat mit Namen 'theologisch' angehort; diese differenziert sich nach dem Glaubensbekenntnis. Aus ihr wird dann (fundamentalistisch, weil ohne Begrundung) ein Appell an eine entsprechende Haltung abgeleitet. Sodann: Ein Theologe ist Theologe, weil er sich mit Sachverhalten befafit, die auf Gott bezogen sind. Beide Vorstellungen sind nicht deckungsgleich; denn man kann Theologe sein, ohne einer theologischen Fakultat anzugehoren. Auf jeden Fall: Beide Vorstellungen begriinden kein Verhaltnis zur Wissenschaft: Ein Theologe ist nur dann Wissenschaftler, wenn sein Denken logischen Ablaufen entspricht und er die seinem Gegenstand angemessenen Methoden entwickelt und mit ihnen arbeitet. Insofern unterscheidet er sich nicht von seinen Kollegen in entsprechenden Nachbardisziplinen. Sollte einer meinen, die Mitglieder

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einer theologischen Fakultat hatten sich einer theologischen Methode zu befleiBigen, die ein Spezifikum nur dieser Fakultat ware, so hat er wissenschaftlich nachpriifbar darzulegen, worin die Besonderheit dieser theologischen Methode liegt. Solange ihm das nicht gelingt, steht er unter dem Verdacht, das Wort 'Theologie' als ideologische Keule zu schwingen gegen Gegner, die seinen Vorstellungen nicht entsprechen. Noch problematischer wird es, wenn 'theologisch' als 'konfessionelltheologisch' verstanden wird, etwa als katholisch (nur oberflachlich eine Einheit, vielmehr lassen sich trotz aller politischen Vereinheitlichungstendenzen der Regierungszentralen Unterschiede nicht nur in Formulierungen ausmachen zwischen papstlicher oder bischoflicher Hoftheologie und zwischen AuBerungen an Fakultaten oder in Orden), als evangelisch in einer seiner verschiedenen Auspragungen oder auch als orthodox in unterschiedlichen (nationalen) Richtungen. Man braucht sich damn nicht mehr dariiber zu wundern, da6 viele Bereiche der Geschichte und Geistesgeschichte als nicht theologisch eingestuft und infolgedessen nicht mehr oder nicht mehr griindlich in theologischen Fakultaten behandelt werden, sondern anderswo, etwa die Literatur der Mystik und der Visionen in der Altgermanistik. Aus alien nur kurz angerissenen und sicherlich vergrobernden Eindriicken legt sich der SchluB nahe: Die heute so ha'ufig besprochene Krise der Theologie liegt in der Flucht aus der Wissenschaft, und sei es nur aus Angst, bei der Kirchenleitung und dem Kirchenvolk den Anschein der Orthodoxie einzubiiBen. Im folgenden sei auf zwei Desiderate einer wissenschaftlich begriindeten Theologie eingegangen: die Pradikatenlogik als Fundament einer Methodenvielfalt und die Textwissenschaft als Methodenfacher zur Interpretation von Texten. Die mit Theologie befaBten Gebiete sind heute in verschiedene Facher aufgeteilt oder zergliedert, die sich nach altem Verstandnis-in systematische, historische, exegetische und praktische Facher zusammenfassen lassen. Alle diese Facher, auch die praktischen, verhalten sich weithin so, als seien ihre Gegenstande Literaturen, nicht Sachverhalte. (Man werfe nur einen Blick auf seriose 'theologische' Publikationen, vorab Dissertationen und Habilitationen! Ihre Gegenstande sind meist Handschriften und Biicher). Das fallt bei den zu den praktischen gehorenden pastoralen Fachern besonders auf, denn bei ihnen konnte man sich vorstellen, ha'ufig auf padagogische, psychologische, soziologische oder kommunikationswissenschaftliche oder gar statistische Untersuchungsreihen mit

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deren Instrumentarium zu treffen. Alle Facher haben zwei gemeinsame methodische Ziige: Sie haben es mit Texten zu tun; sie arbeiten analytisch und in unterschiedlichem Grade systematisch. Die Grundlage beider Bereiche, der Textarbeit und des analytisch-systematischen Vorgehens, aber auch die der praktischen Facher, die mit Methoden arbeiten, die auf Sachverhalte, nicht auf Texte ausgerichtet sind, liegt in der Pradikatenlogik, die die Facher als wissenschaftlich arbeitend ausweist und mit laizistischen Disziplinen vergleichbar macht. Sie wird in theologischen Fakultaten kaum gepflegt. Obwohl alle Facher an Texten arbeiten, seien diese Quellen oder Sekundarliteratur, hat man sich nur im Alten Testament bemiiht, eine Textwissenschaft zu entwickeln, mit der die Arbeit der Exegeten nachpriifbar gemacht wird. Die iibrigen Facher stehen hier vor einem Berg von Arbeit, den sie angehen miissen, soil ihr Vorgehen weiterhin als wissenschaftlich gelten. Sie konnen sich nur von der Textmethodik dispensieren, wenn sie nachweisen, da6 ihre Argumentationen nicht von Texten ausgehen. Die Ergebnisse der Textwissenschaft liefern dann das Material, das systematisch, aber nicht nur innerhalb der mehr oder weniger engen Grenzen eines konventionellen Faches, zu durchleuchten ware. Die methodische Arbeit dafur ist nirgends geleistet. Es ist noch nicht einmal klar, was 'systematisch' meint, ein Anfang ware schon die Wiederbelebung der aristotelischen Kategorie der Relation (der Einzelaussagen zueinander), wie sie in der Sprachwissenschaft zur Beschreibung des Baues einer Sprache herangezogen wird. Wiirde sie geleistet, ga'be es wieder eine lebendige, d.h. nicht von vorneherein festgelegte Auseinandersetzung an den theologischen Fakultaten. Man mu6 auch erkennen, wie unzureichend zur Beschreibung von Textinhalten deren Paraphrase in der Muttersprache des Gelehrten ist. Sie verdeckt nur zu leicht die kontrastiven Elemente zwischen verschiedenartigen Sprachen und Literaturen. Sie laBt es ferner viel zu leicht zu, da6 von Besonderem, am Ort nicht Interessierendem unkontrolliert abgesehen wird, auf das dann nie mehr zuriickgegriffen wird, obwohl es unter anderem Aspekt wichtig ware. An die Stelle inhaltlicher Paraphrase sind eindeutige Termini zur exakten Beschreibung zu setzen. Diese kann man aus der Grammatik und Semantik, also der Sprachwissenschaft, zunachst der relevanten Einzelsprache, schopfen. Andere mb'gliche Wege sind noch nicht bekannt geworden. Alle Disziplinen, die an Quellen und Sekundarliteratur arbeiten, folgen mindestens implizit den Methoden der Textwissenschaft. Insofern nimmt

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diese eine zentrale Stellung auch in theologischen Fakultaten ein. Sie griindet auf den historisch-kritischen Methoden, die schon lange, wenn auch in unterschiedlichem Grad, in verschiedenen Disziplinen der Theologie angewendet werden, hat aber eine wesentlich hohere wissenschaftliche Ebene erreicht. Sie unterscheidet sich darin von ihnen, daB sie alle bisher bekannten und erprobten Vorgehensweisen in eine Anzahl von Koordinatensysteme integriert, die es ermoglichen, jedem Argumentationsmuster seinen Ort zuzuweisen. Die Methode tritt als Ganzes auf, bestehend aus einer Fiille von Einzelschritten, die ebenenbezogene Regeln und Klassen iiber ungezahlte zahlbare Mengen setzt. Zentrale Gro'Be ist der Satz. Ihm sind neben dem Ausdruck von Zeitfunktionen so gewichtige Funktionen wie Modalitat und Sprechakt zugewiesen. tibergeht man sie, wie es in theologischen Worterbiichern gern geschieht, so unterschlagt man das Urteil der Autoren iiber den Sachverhalt, d.h. man deutet auch das als reale theologische Aussage, was der Autor etwa als hypothetisch oder als Illusion darstellt. Das auBere Charakteristikum dieser Methode ist die Vermeidung von iiberwiegend inhaltlichen Paraphrasen in der Muttersprache des Wissenschaftlers, die zu einem Teil nur noch in der Gattung des Vortrages oder der Vorlesung zugelassen werden. An ihre Stelle tritt eine immer praziser werdende Beschreibung, die auf der sprachwissenschaftlichen Dichotomic von Ausdrucks- und Inhaltsseite basiert. Sie gilt auch fur die Sprachen, in denen noch Informanten zuganglich sind, und hilft in diesem Bereich zum Aufspiiren unbewuBt mitgetragener Vorurteile, die im Text nicht begriindet sind. Die Beschreibungselemente werden der bisher prazisesten Disziplin in den Geisteswissenschaften entnommen, der Grammatik und Syntax der Textsprache. Allerdings dienen ihre konventionellen Formen nur als—wenn auch wertvoller— Ausgangspunkt; deren sprachwissenschaftliche Aufarbeitung steht auch in den meisten 'toten' Sprachen erst in den Anfangen (das gilt besonders fur Griechisch—auch des NT—und Latein). Sie sind in kategorialen Koordinatensystemen geordnet, die jedem Vorgehen seinen Platz zuweisen. Sie werden definiert als Regeln, die auf Ebenen gelten; sie beziehen sich auf unterschiedliche Mengen von Fallen. Solche Ebenen sind etwa die Phonologic, die Morphologic, die Morphosyntax, der Satz und die Satzsyntax. Ihnen entsprechen die semantischen Beschreibungskategorien. Sie beriicksichtigen das Wort, seine Fiigung mit grammatischen Morphemen, seine Fiigung mit weiteren Wortern nach den verschiedenen Wortgruppenarten in der Wortsemantik, die

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semantischen Funktionen der verschiedenen Zeitkategorien, die Einstellung des Sprechers zu den Sachverhalten in den Modalitaten und im Sprechakt in der Satzsemantik. Die Kategorien der Inhaltsseite entsprechen nicht ganz denen der Ausdrucksseite. Grammatik und Semantik sind also nicht etwa eine Art Hilfswissenschaft der Literaturwissenschaft, sondern ein integrierter Bestandteil mit definiertem Bereich in ihr, wie auch die Literaturwissenschaft keine Hilfswissenschaft der 'Theologie' ist, sondern ein definierter Bereich in ihr, der letzterer allerdings erst zu einer Struktur verhilft. Die Literaturwissenschaft hat zum Gegenstand den Text als hohere Einheit iiber Wort und Satz und hat entsprechend spezifische Regelsysteme, deren Koordinatensysteme gattungsbezogen sind: fur Prosa (Erzahlung, Geschichte, aber auch Traktat) und Poesie. Sprach- und Literaturwissenschaft ermoglichen auch Analyse und Beschreibung von Metaphern, Symbolsprache und Themen und deren Vergleich iiber verschiedene Texte und Literaturen. Ein wesentlicher Aspekt ist die Integration von Referenzsystemen unter den Kategorien von Ort und Zeit und auch in Bezug auf Abstrakte, die konventionelle Frage nach dem 'Sitz im Leben' von Formeln, Gattungen, Schemata und Motiven oder Themen in Institutionen und Vorstellungen. So werden soziologische und ideologische Wirkgrb'Ben innerhalb der 'Welt' in die Literaturwissenschaft integriert, man denke nur an die Wirkung von Prophetenfunktionen und der Hoftheologie im Tempel und Palast in Jerusalem auf die Darstellung von Patriarchen und Mose im Jahwisten. Derartiges ereignet sich aber auch in anderen Textsorten; als Beispiel diene die Wirkung, die Dogmen auf verschiedene Textgattungen ausiiben konnen, etwa die Neufassung des CIC aufgrund papalistischer Dogmen oder die Spannung, die eine nach dem Vorbild der Uhr gebaute mechanistische Transsubstantiationslehre mit Festlegung der Wandlung am bekannten Ort und deren Ingangsetzung durch einen privilegierten Stand auf die Epiklese im Kanon der Messe mit anderer, alterer Vorstellung der Wandlung hat (mit den bekannten politischen Folgen in Unions-Verhandlungen). Der Vergleich von einzelnen, dann mehreren Texten und von Textgruppen fiihrt auf der Inhaltsseite bei EinschluG der Relationen von Aussagen in Texten und der Referenzen zu WirkgroBen in der 'Welt' zu dem methodischen Vakuum der sogenannten theologischen Argumentation, namlich zum Problem, wie aus der Fiille verschiedenartigster Aussagen in unterschiedlichen Texten mit divergierenden WirkgroBen aus der 'Welt' eine neue Ganzheit in Form eines Systems entsteht unter

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Erkennung aller ideologischen Voraussetzungen und Erklarungskonstrukte wie auch politischer Setzungen (Dogmen). Als Hilfe konnte ein philosophisches Modell akzeptiert werden, dem es gelungen 1st, eine Zahl von subjektiven philosophischen Stromungen in ein transsubjektiv einsichtiges System zu integrieren. Ein solches Modell liegt in der geisteswissenschaftlichen Philosophic nicht vor. Es muB also entwickelt werden, es sei denn die Relationen einzelner Aussagen, dann ganzer Themengruppen fiihren ohne philosophische Voraussetzung zu einem inhaltlich betonten Geriist, das die Merkmale fur eine Systematik erkennen laBt. Ihr Ausgangspunkt bleibt die griindliche und nachprufbare Analyse und Beschreibung von Texten und der Vergleich ihrer Aussagen. Dieser Vergleich hat primar synchron zu erfolgen und gestaffelt nach Verwandtschaftsgraden. Ihm folgt der diachrone Vergleich. Auch hierfur fehlen weithin die methodischen Vorarbeiten. Das Ziehen von geistesgeschichtlichen Entwicklungslinien iiber erkannte Punkte hinweg (etwa bei 'ex nihilo' von vorgeblichen Ansatzen in der Genesis u'ber interpretierbare Aussagen in 2 Makk 7 zum Lateranum) ist nur ein erster, noch primitiver Annaherungsversuch an diachrones Arbeiten, der das Problem der Rezeption, der Aufnahme und Anpassung alterer Texte und Aussagen in jiingeren mit anderem geistesgeschichtlichen Horizont unbeachtet laBt. Es zeigt sich: Geht man nicht von modischen Schlagwortbildungen aus, sondern sucht man nach einem methodischen Instrumentarium mit nachpriifbaren Arbeitsschritten und Ergebnissen, so bietet sich auch in theologischen Fakultaten die Textwissenschaft als eine Grundlage an, die wie andere, nicht auf Texte bezogene Methoden auf der Pradikatenlogik griindet. Ihre—der Textwissenschaft—Ausgrenzung ist deshalb ganz unverstandlich. Die Entwicklung der sie fortfiihrenden methodischen Schritte ist ein wissenschaftliches Desiderat. Die Klassifikation als 'theologisch' dient im gegenwartigen Stadium der Methodik nicht der Klarheit.

THE 'INTERESTED' INTERPRETER Christopher Rowland

I recall on several occasions in conversation with John Rogerson his recollection of an international Old Testament conference at which an exegete based in Brazil addressed the distinguished gathering about exegesis in a Third World country and the rather bemused, even hostile, reception he received. It is typical of John that this should have formed the introduction of his presidential address to the British Society for Old Testament Study in 1989.1 Typical because John Rogerson is utterly committed to a study of the Old Testament that is both rigorous and critical and because of that is sensitive to the bearing of the social and political context on its interpretation. In giving expression to these concerns in his lecture John attempted to explore the significance of the critical theory of Jiirgen Habermas for theology. He concentrated on Habermas's most recent work, but I want to start from his earlier work and use it as a basis for some reflections on the practice of biblical interpretation. In Knowledge and Human Interests2 Habermas suggests a connection between the psychological condition and the nature of texts: 'the...framework of psychoanalysis is tied to the presuppositions of the interpretation of muted and distorted texts by means of which their authors deceive themselves...'3 In other words, there is a parallel 1. '"What does it mean to be human?" The Central Question of Old Testament Theology?', in D.J.A. Clines, S.E. Fowl and S.E. Porter (eds.) The Bible in Three Dimensions: Essays in Celebration of Forty Years of Biblical Studies in the University of Sheffield (JSOTSup, 87; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1990). 2. J. Habermas, Knowledge and Human Interests (ET; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1987), pp. 214ff. 3. Habermas, Knowledge, p. 252.

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between the situation that confronts the psychotherapist and the exegete.4 For the former there are presenting symptoms and an increasingly obvious manifestation of those symptoms in the way in which the relationship between client and professional works itself out. A crucial part of the understanding of those symptoms is the retrieval, exploration and testing of the diachronic account, the construction of a personal narrative, and in the course of the therapy comprehending its relationship to the symptoms manifested in the therapeutic relationship. Similarly the way in which the critical interpreter is confronted by a particular text and its effects lead him or her to explore the antecedents of the text. There is clearly a need to take care lest concentration on the 'surface' leads to an avoidance of engagement with all that contributed to its present form and imposes its way of looking at the world on the reader.5 The development of critical awareness in the therapeutic relationship is essential in a situation where absolute objectivity is not possible. In the transaction between therapist and client the basis of the relationship is that one partner (the therapist) has a sufficient knowledge of self and personal story to allow the possibility of a process of attentiveness and exploration to go on which is focused on the client. It is not that listening will be entirely without distortion (and indeed such distortion and its interpretation will be an important part of the process of understanding). Rather, that self-awareness that the therapist possesses contributes to an ability to distinguish his or her own agenda, so that the latter does not unnecessarily distort the conversation. There is no suggestion that the therapist ignores that material, particularly the feelings induced by the interaction with the client. Indeed, attention to the feelings engendered is an important part of the assessment that goes on and may contribute to the process of interpretation. Rather it is the case that gratuitous, spontaneous interventions deriving from the therapist's own business are to be avoided. In a similar vein a fruitful exegesis involves acknowledgment of the importance of the two poles (text and reader). Or, following the kind of hermeneutical model adopted by Clodovis Boff (which he describes as 4. There is a carefully worked out proposal for the interrelationship between exegesis and psychotherapy in I. Rashkow, The Phallacy of Genesis: A FeministPsychoanalytic Approach (Louisville, 1993). 5. I.J. Mosala, Biblical Hermeneutics and Black Theology in South Africa (Exeter: Paternoster, 1988).

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'correspondence of relationships'),6 there is an interaction between reader(s) and their context and the text and its context, so that the witness of the latter to the struggles and explorations of the past can be in a creative dialectic with the attempts at appropriate patterns of Christian response in the contemporary world. The interaction will demand in the interpreter the highest level of awareness of self and circumstances in the process of reading. A critical reading will involve the ability to acknowledge prejudice and so enable the peculiarities and 'otherness' of the text to become fully apparent and for the text to 'speak', if not precisely on its own terms, at least with sufficient respect for its own integrity that it does not merely mirror the prejudice of the reader. Even the most rigorous process of distancing, in which a hypothetical ancient historical context is suggested and the text firmly placed within it, is part and parcel of a complex modern set of prejudices which condition the way in which the text is understood. Of central importance in the therapeutic relationship is the process of transference, whereby feelings and ways of relating reflecting experiences of the past are displaced onto the therapist by the client. Transference is the experience of impulses, feelings, fantasies, attitudes and defences towards a person in the present that are not appropriate for that person but are a repetition of responses originating in early childhood. The process in therapy or in everyday life is a repetition of the past that distorts reality and is inappropriate to a proper, undistorted understanding of the present. Involvement in that process enables the coming to consciousness of repressed thoughts and feelings and thereby allows some disentangling of past and present. So a distance can be established from the original experiences, and hidden assumptions and fears may be examined. The therapist will refuse to be seen as the object of those emotions and will enable the client to look at them and perhaps make connections with previous occasions of hurt. Thereby a certain resistance can be established to the hegemony of the past so that the unconscious feelings no longer debilitate or paralyse the client. That kind of process of distancing is necessary in interpretation of any kind, so that facile assumptions and credence to a text or tradition may be avoided and attention may be given to the reasons behind resistance to a text or too ready acceptance of its contents on the part of the reader. In the construction of understanding in the therapeutic relationship there will be two dimensions: diachronic and synchronic. The former will 6.

C. Boff, Theology and Praxis (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 1987), pp. 137ff.

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involve the discovery of a story that will enable some sense to be made of how an individual got to the present state of affairs and how it relates to present attitudes and feelings. Of equal importance, particularly where the experience of transference is concerned, is going to be the dynamics of the present interaction. Ways of relating with the therapist enable the hidden past to become apparent in the present. In biblical interpretation the diachronic approach has been refined and tested over the years and has been the foundation of critical study of the Bible. There has been much more uncertainty about the critical value of a synchronic approach, however, and the way in which prejudice conditions and even distorts reading (though the criteria for what counts as a distorted reading are almost always vague). It is here that contextual theology in all its various forms has stimulated discussion and emphasized the need for attention to where reading is done and the effect of text on interpreter and vice versa. So the use made of texts demands a critical assessment in terms of contemporary debate and practice as well as the perspective of their origin and history. The critical awareness of the therapist can facilitate the refusal to collude with the demands of the client (e.g. by not being drawn into a role of fulfilling deep-seated needs) or the overcoming of resistance (whether that be to empathize with the client or the determination to keep the client's concerns at the centre of the therapy). These two reactions are common enough in the reading of Scripture: why do we allow ourselves to be carried along by a text or a particular way of reading? has the development of resistance to a text more to say about us? is it necessary to resist co-opting the text in order to allow space for it or the concerns of the interpreter? For example, post-Enlightenment readings have refused to be 'taken in' by the text or, in the case of contextual theologies, have demanded that present experience (of oppression, doubt, etc.) set the interpretative agenda. There are, of course, limits to the usefulness of the analogy of the therapeutic relationship. The interpersonal character of psychotherapy is different from the interpreter-text relationship. So far the focus has been on the interpreter as critic and possessor of self-awareness. Care must be taken not to treat Scripture as 'a client' with presenting problems which the enlightened interpreter can solve. Part of the process of reading is that critical self-awareness and attentiveness may mean a reversal of roles in which the interpreter becomes 'the client'. Just as in the therapeutic setting space is created to reflect, so in reading one needs to

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create an environment that will encourage the interpreter to explore the extent to which she or he projects onto the text or is resistant to it. Biblical scholarship in the last two hundred years has invested an enormous amount of time and energy in the pursuit of one pole of the hermeneutical process: the diachronic elucidation of the text. The text's 'pathology' and contradictions have meant that it has been the object or critical concern. That is not to deny the role of the interpreter and reflection on what has gone on, but it is the text that is regarded as 'pathological' and the interpreter 'enlightened'. Of course, this kind of pattern is endemic in the psychotherapeutic relationship also. And yet there is always the caveat that the 'aware' interpreter of the client's problems is at the same time someone who recognizes problems within. If it is the case of the blind leading the blind, it is also the case that one of them knows where some at least of the ditches are. The demand that we take seriously the diachronic perspective when it comes to the 'interpreter' pole is long overdue. Some recognition of it is now becoming evident. For example, in a little noticed book John O'Neill7 set the biblical interpretation of the giants of biblical scholarship of the last hundred years in their historical and philosophical context (something that John Rogerson himself alludes to briefly in his presidential address when he discusses his work on de Wette). Alongside this there is need for attention to the synchronic approach to the text. By that I mean not only that kind of holistic reading which has been typical of what are loosely termed narrative approaches but the kind of understanding of the interaction between text and reader that has taken place at different periods of history. The whole discipline of 'Wirkungsgeschichte' helps here. Studying the effects of a text will of necessity demand that one engages in a contextual approach as the particular moment of engagement with the text is explored. In believing that we have much to learn from Third World liberationist exegesis I do not want to assert that everything about it is to be slavishly followed. There is much in it that I find problematic: for example, the reliance on historical reconstruction, whether it be the origins of Israel or the historical Jesus (I think John too has severe reservations about their method). Despite the impression that they make the Bible conform to twentieth-century concerns, liberation exegetes have in common with the mainstream of biblical study a concern to be critical. Indeed, Western exegesis can thank the liberationist perspective for the incessant 7.

J.C. O'Neill, The Bible's Authority (Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1990).

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reminder of its own partiality. We need to be reminded of the ideological character of our study, in particular imagining that we are 'drawing from the text simply what it contains'.8 Ideology is not something which belongs to the overtly committed readings.9 Indeed, it is part of the insidious character of ideology that those who are in control of the way in which the text is interpreted deny that their readings are in any way ideological and claim instead that they are the product of 'scientific' methods.10 It is a mark of critical interpretation that it manifests an awareness of its own approach to the text but also the understandable constraints that this method imposes and the necessity of openness to other interpretative methods as both checks and stimuli for change. Critical interpretation should, therefore, be a model of the communicative interaction that, Rogerson stresses, is at the heart of Habermas's philosophy. In so far as interpretation eschews proper dialogue with the contextual theologies that are such an important component of modern theology it ignores what Rogerson sees as a fundamental component of the Old Testament. One may say the same for the New Testament also. The God who spoke through the Son demonstrates that kind of communicative interaction. But that communication is not merely confined to words, even if the memory of it is primarily enshrined in the words and witness of the New Testament writings. The Christian church in its common life of worship and service attests to the ongoing character of that communication, however partial and fragmentary it might be in the specific ecclesial embodiments of it. At present it may be a distorted communication but its horizon of hope looks forward to that 'ideal speech situation' when humans will see and address God face to face.11 Theologians look back to a story of communication in Christ in the gospel narratives. Those narratives have been subjected to a way of reading in the last two hundred years in which a particular Christian 8. Leslie Houiden, 'Schools of Thought', Theology 93 (1990). 9. See e.g. T. Eagleton, Criticism and Ideology (London, 1976) and F. Jameson The Political Unconscious (London, 1988). 10. Such espousal of 'science' as a description of biblical interpretation has pervaded even the in many ways commendable summary of biblical interpretation published by the Pontifical Biblical Commission in Briefing 24; 4, 5 (the periodical of the Bishops' Conferences of Great Britain). 11. See the brief comments on Habermas's theory when applied to eschatology in the discussion of N. Lash's essay 'Conversation in Gethsemane' in my essay in D. Brown and A. Loades (eds.), The Sense of the Sacramental (London, 1995).

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community's struggle for identity hidden in each gospel narrative has been used as a determining factor for understanding the texts. That has brought great benefit as readers have had some inkling of the way in which text and (ancient) context subtly interplayed. But often that has been at the expense of themes in the text as a whole and any resonances with the contemporary readers' experience. So, if one asks students today what the gospel of Matthew is about, one is unlikely to hear a reference to the literal meaning of the text. It is much more likely to be 'the struggle between church and synagogue and the emergence of a Jewish Christian group over against emerging rabbinic Judaism at the end of the first century CE'. In the interests of history, and exegetical 'science' it either ignores or subordinates to (at best) a secondary position both the meaning for today and the literal meaning of the text to the concern for the other story, that of author and community originally addressed. Liberation theology has been in the van of the criticism of a narrowly ancient historical concern (for there is, inevitably, a contemporary historical concern whether overt or not). As Carlos Mesters puts it, the emphasis is placed [in liberation exegesis] not on the text itself but rather on the meaning the text has for the people reading it... [It is a matter of] understanding life by means of the Bible.. .The discovery of meaning is not the product of scholarship alone, of human reasoning, but is also a gift of God through the Spirit ,12

I think Earth is a herald of the sentiments of many liberation theologians when he says in his preface to Romans, 'Why should parallels drawn from the ancient world be of more value for our understanding of the epistle than the situation in which we ourselves actually are and to which we can therefore bear witness?'13 The two dimensions of interpretation, the text and its context, and the readers and their context, are both necessary. As in therapy, the 'here and now' of the interaction offers data for interpretation which must take priority over that tentative reconstruction of the past that led to the 'here and now'—though the importance of the latter is that it facilitates the understanding of the dynamics of the interaction. To do justice to texts and to their effects necessitates that both poles should be taken seriously. In my reading of 12. C. Mesters, Defenseless Flower (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 1989). 13. The Epistle to the Romans (ET; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1933), p. 11. See also now F. Watson, Text, Church and World (Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1994).

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the Gospel of Matthew I recognize that it is shot through with ambiguities. It is carried out in the midst of 'comfortable Britain' yet with a commitment to the intuition of liberation theology that in the act of divine grace in the incarnation there is the classic expression of 'the option for the poor' that is borne out by the gospel narrative.14 n

I want to stress the importance (perhaps even indispensability) of consideration of the 'ancient' pole in the interpretative process (while recognizing that this is an artificially constructed ancient environment that is itself the product of the 'modern pole'). This development is necessary in order to understand and not to be beholden to the vehemence of the anti-Pharisaic rhetoric as a context-related phenomenon that cannot and need not lead to anti-Semitism. Although there have been dissenting voices, there is a widespread assumption that Matthew is dependent on Mark and was written in the wake of the devastating upheaval which struck the Jewish polity in 70 (see 21.41, 21.43; 22.7; 23.7-8; 24.15).15 Whether the Gospel was written as a reaction to birkath ha-minim has been keenly debated and the consensus is moving away from the view that there had been a uniform and widespread exclusion of Christians from the synagogues.16 The situation in Matthew's church seems to be a close but tense relationship between church and synagogue (8.12; 17.26; 27.25), though the frequent use of 'their synagogues' (4.23; 9.35; 10.17; 12.9; 13.54; 23.34) suggests an already existing distance. There is a strident opposition to the Pharisees, though, unlike John, there is little sign of anti-Jewish sentiment (28.15 is the only possible polemical use of .'the Jews', and that is an editorial gloss). The conflict is still an internal Jewish dispute. Like Stephen's speech in Acts 7 it reflects the tone of the persecuted minority or remnant who believe that they have the key to the truth. The curious addition to Mark's narrative in 17.24 might give us a clue 14. There are interesting similarities and contrasts with Meg Davies's reading of the gospel in Matthew (Readings; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1993). 15. Outline in G. Stanton, Gospel for a New People (Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1992). 16. Text in E. Schiirer, History of the Jewish People in the Age of Jesus Christ (rev. edn,), II, p. 454 and see further Kimelman in Sanders's Jewish and Christian Self-Definition, II (London: SCM Press, 1982) and Horbury, 'The Benediction of the Minim and Early Jewish Christian Controversy', JTS 33.

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to the situation. It is possible that it could have been read in the late firstcentury situation as a recommendation to pay the payment of Temple Tax/fiscus Judaicus (we know that it was a problem at the end of Domitian's reign when Jews and supposed Jews were put under pressure to pay the tax.17 It is worth reflecting that the advice offered by the Matthaean Jesus would have the effect of making it very difficult to distinguish between Jews and Christians in the eyes of the Roman authorities as both paid the tax (though for different reasons). There is acceptance of the Gentile mission (but with reservations—5.19; 22.11?), polemic against antinomians (5.19; 7.15; 24.11-12); the close relationship with the Didache and Ignatius's letters suggest that relations with Judaism and true and false prophecy were issues at the period (the latter inveighs against 'judaizing'; see Phil 6.1; 8.2 and Magn. 9.1); and connections with themes in the Pauline corpus may suggest some kind of relationship with that tradition (Mt. 5.19; 22.37-38; cf. Gal. 5.14; Rom. 13.9; Mt. 1.1; 3.9; cf. Gal. 3.6ff. and Rom. 4). The heightened eschatology in Matthew may have served several purposes. First of all, it affirms the necessity of an appropriate decision in the face of the final consummation. Secondly, it serves as a setting for the story as a whole which is 'earth-shaking' in its effects. It is the 'end of the world' (in the sense of the imminent demise of the political order based on the Temple) even if its climax is still awaited. It is arguable as to whether the delay of the Parousia was a problem faced by Matthew's community (24.43ff. are often taken to indicate evidence that this was a 'problem').18 So much by way of a summary along conventional diachronic lines, an approach, I have suggested, which is necessary to guard against absolutizing sets of attitudes determined solely by the contemporary context. But what of that context? What shape will a synchronic exposition take in which the dialectic between text and contemporary reader is moved to the fore? First, Schiissler Fiorenza would have us recognize that our scholarship is to be situated within the rhetoric of political discourse in the contemporary world.19 I have with much uncertainty engaged in an exercise in exegetical exploration since my 17. See M. Goodman, 'Nerva, the Fiscus Judaicus and Jewish Identity', Journal of Roman Studies 79 (1989), pp. 40ff. 18. See C. Rowland, Christian Origins (London: SPCK, 1985), pp. 285ff. 19. Elisabeth Schussler Fiorenza, 'The Ethics of Biblical Interpretation: Decentering Biblical Scholarship', JBL 107 (1988).

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return from my first trip to Brazil eleven years ago, when I was aware that my interpretative work could never be the same again. Being of a rather conservative bent, I could not leave behind the theological formation of twenty years, yet neither could I regard what I had learnt in Brazil as something merely faddish and ephemeral. Most of us are engaged in one form or another in the experience of oscillating between different sorts of interpretative worlds, trying to make sense of them, trying to inhabit both and be heard by the inhabitants of both and trying to interpret one to the other. The chances are that one will never feel entirely at home in either. One never stays long enough in one place to achieve that sense of place which familiarity and routine bring about. My commitments demanded attention to the traditional theology course at Oxford, and my part-time concerns with a major British development agency (Christian Aid) brought a continuing challenge of liberation theology to my biblical study. What follows is an exercise in interpretation in which the option for the poor is supported by reference to a scriptural text. To that extent the hermeneutical circle starts 'outside' the text with an interpretative principle which the rule of faith leads us to suppose is an adequate summary of the text. Matthew's Gospel, it is suggested, is the story of the Son of God whose activity and message end up being a challenge to the strong who are suspicious of the means whereby the weak and marginal are restored. Jesus' work starts on the margins of his society and favours the insignificant and disadvantaged. It extends also to those who manage the political systems (tax collectors, soldiers). The Son of God ends up as a victim of systems which do not practise justice. Nevertheless his career shakes the foundation of the world and its values: from start to finish Jerusalem turns out to be a city that is disturbed by the change brought by the messiah (2.3; cf. 21.10). In the very first chapter where we have a genealogy, legitimation is offered of the true child of Abraham and David (cf. 3.9; 22.41ff.); in the course of that genealogy reference is made to four women, Tamar, Ruth, Bathsheba and Rahab, who are part of this particular story though they hardly seem to be conventional links in the messianic genealogy possibly paralleling Mary's extraordinary pregnancy. In the face of this Joseph could have rid himself of Mary (cf. Deut. 22.20), but he shows himself to be a true son of David (1.20), a worthy 'father' of the messiah, in contrast with Herod. Herod forms no part of the genealogy and is therefore concerned about the report of the birth of one who is the true

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king of Jews (2.2; cf. 21.11; 27.37). A starkly unfavourable comparison is offered between the true king's attitude to children (18.2; 19.14; 20.31) and that of Herod (2.16ff.). Herod is linked with priests and scribes (2.4) who will be opponents of Jesus the true king later in the Gospel. Although there are hints of a more positive attitude towards scribes and their activity in 8.19, 13.52 and 23.34, they do oppose Jesus, accusing him of blasphemy (9.3; cf. 26.65). The scribes together with the Pharisees are the subject of Jesus' denunciation in ch. 23 and in 21.45, though their authority is recognized (23.2; cf. 9.11-12). The Magi manifest a different kind of wisdom, however. In addition to scriptural proof the way of God comes through dreams: 1.20; 2.13; 2.19 (cf. 27.19). Peter's Confession (16.13ff.) is a reminder that perception comes through divine revelation (16.17) and that insight given to the insignificant is stressed in the important 11.25-26. The themes of the first two chapters, the surprising character of Jesus' birth in obscurity and his persecution by the powerful, are continued as the narrative begins its account of Jesus' mission (3. Iff.). It starts with the message (Isa. 40.3) of an eccentric prophet (cf. 11.9) in the desert. The metropolitan population go out to him (3.5), only for their leading representatives to be upbraided by John (3.7). Jesus identifies himself with John (3.14-15), and in the desert is proclaimed as Son of God (3.16-17). Here he is tested by the Devil as Son of God, rejecting selfsatisfaction (4.4), self-preservation (4.6) and self-aggrandizement (4.10). It is not in Jerusalem that he settles but on the margins of Israel's life (4.16; cf. Isa. 8.23-9.1). It is here that the proclamation of the imminence of God's reign begins (4.17) with the healing of every kind of disease (4.23-24). Jesus is presented in Matthew as engaged in acts of compassion (9.30; 9.35; 8.10; 14.14) and healing (4.23-24; 9.35, 12.13, 15; 15.30; 19.2) which affect crowds (9.36; 14.14; 15.32) rather than leaders. It is the disabled (9.27; 11.5; 20.29-30; 21.14), women (9.20; 15.27), tax collectors (9.9,10-11; 11.19; 21.31-32), and children (18.1; 19.14;21.15) who are the recipients of his attention. Jesus is depicted as a humble king20 (21.5; 20.24-25; cf. 2.2; 5.5; 11.27; 27.11, 37, 42) yet one who brings division (21.14-15; cf. 10.34 and 12.23-24). That humility characterizes those who receive divine approval in the Beatitudes (5.311). These blessings indicate the kinds of people who enjoy privileges in 20. D. Verseput, The Rejection of the Humble Messianic King (1986) and K. Wengst, Humility (1987).

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the Kingdom and the themes are picked up later in the Gospel when the character of Jesus is portrayed (5.3; cf. 11.5; 5.5; cf. 11.29; 5.6; cf. 3.15 and 5.20; 5.7; cf. 9.13; 12.7; 5.8; cf. 5.28; 6.21; 15.18f.; 22.37; 5.10; cf. 10.21). The reaction of the crowds is to follow (4.25; 12.15; 19.1; 20.29) in amazement (7.28-29; 9.33; 13.54), regarding him as a prophet (21.11, 46) or as Son of David (12.23; 21.9). Being one of the crowd means remaining without full understanding (13.14) and prey to influences that distort perception (27.20). Those who become disciples understand the words and works of Jesus and see them for what they are: the fulfilment longed for by prophets and righteous (13.16-17; cf. 23.34-35). That privilege should mean a greater degree of understanding (16.17-18). Often disciples fail to see (16.8-9), and the men end up forsaking Jesus (26.56; cf. 27.55, 61). Jesus has compassion on the crowds and their needs are responded to (e.g. 14.14). Nevertheless members of these amorphous bodies must move from sympathy for Jesus as prophet (21.11, 46), son of David (12.23; 21.9) or amazement at his teaching (22.33). Mere admiration is insufficient. There is a price to pay for being a disciple (8.19-20; 19.27-28), something pointed out uncompromisingly by Jesus (19.21-22; cf. 6.24). Final judgment (25.3 Iff.) is based on response to the hidden Son of Man in the destitute lot of his brethren (cf. 7.2Iff.; 10.42-43). Critique of Pharisees is that they do not practise what they preach. That must be the key to the new righteousness (5.20) with its particular concern for the little ones who may be ignored or silenced (21.15-16). These are the last who will be first (20.16). Concern for one's final destiny is a present response to those who like the earthly Son of Man have nowhere to lay their head (8.20). Meeting the eschatological Son of Man at the Last Judgment is anticipated (25.3Iff.; cf. 10.40ff.). Speaking a word out of place has eternal consequences (12.32, 36; 10.32-33; cf. 5.22ff.). The healing of the demon-possessed is an anticipation of the final struggle (8.29; cf. the torment caused by eschatological agents in the Apocalypse, especially 11.10). A confession of faith is the foundation for resisting super-human forces (16.18-19). The death of a failed Messiah has extraordinary consequences (27.51-52). The little ones are in a sense closest to God and vouchsafed an apocalyptic vision (18.10 and 17.2ff.). At the heart of Matthew's Gospel is the ordinary carpenter's son (13.55) who is also Son of God (3.17) and who is seen as he really is on the mount of transfiguration (17.2ff.).

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Despite the air of conventionality at its opening Matthew presents a story of God's messiah whose coming, from the very start, is greeted with suspicion, dismay and persecution by those in power. Born in an apparently insignificant place, identifying with those regarded as sinners, taking children as examples of the attitude of humility appropriate for the kingdom, Jesus has an unconventional message. It is exemplified in the character of those who are blessed at the beginning of the Sermon on the Mount. Jesus' link with John the Baptist and his privileged place in salvation history confirms the impression of a story where the reversal of values and priorities and the undermining of conventional hierarchy are central. It is the rulers who misunderstand and mislead the crowd. The demon-possessed and outsiders rather than the 'normal' are the ones who glimpse Jesus' true character. In this respect Matthew closely resembles Mark's theme of the subversion of the established order. In the new age the persecuted Son of Man will reign as the humble king. That rule will be according to criteria very different from those of the kings of the nations (20.23). That forms the heart of what the nations need to be taught (28.20; 7.21-22; 10.42-43; 25.40). The story of Jesus demands a rearrangement of that constellation of ideas that constituted the received wisdom as to the meaning of God's dealings with Israel. That rearrangement takes place according to different principles and concerns. It is no novelty but neither does it replicate the received view of the tradition. It reflects the unexpectedness of God's acts, the way they challenge conventional assumptions and social stratification, so that the negative reaction of the politically powerful comes as no surprise. The Gospel involves a definition of divine kingship amplified by Jesus' activity, the persons to whom he ministered and the commentary on that activity in the discourses. This kingship does not involve force of arms (26.52-53; cf. Jn 18.36). It is exemplified particularly by humility and compassion. But in one important respect this reading of Matthew's Gospel may seem to be naively oblivious of a problematic strain where one group are vilified in the text: the Jews. A particular difficulty centres on the climactic moment in the Passion narrative when the Jewish crowd seemingly constituted for the purpose as the people of God take upon themselves and subsequent generations responsibility for the death of Jesus. It is a verse which has played its part in the most virulent bouts of anti-Semitism throughout history. As we have seen, the diachronic perspective may help us to understand its role in the Gospel narrative

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even if it is difficult to ameliorate its effects. The problematic verse, however, conies in the context of the climax of this story when the separation between Jesus and priestly elite is complete. They are portrayed as being implicated in opposition to Jesus from the very start (2.3). Their plan to kill Jesus is facilitated by the defection of Judas (26.3, 14-15) in handing over Jesus for money (26.15). So Judas serves mammon and not God (6.24). Every means is used to get Jesus put to death including deceit (26.59). At last the crowds are persuaded by priests and elders to ask for Barabbas. On this the latter show themselves to be false shepherds (cf. Ezek. 34.2ff. and Mt. 26.31) who lead astray. They are frequently described as being 'of the people' (2.4; 21.23; 26.3, 47; 27.1) and it is they who are misled (27.25). So the crowds are now presented not just as a mob but as the people (laos) and accept responsibility: 'his blood be upon us and our children'. Here is a verse whose effects have been catastrophic in serving the interests of virulent and inhuman anti-Semitic attitude and behaviour. Is the way in which this verse is used as a peg on which to hang such anti-Semitism justified? Does attention to the literal sense of the text suggest this? It would appear that full responsibility is taken by the people, a term being used here that is widely used in the LXX for the people of Israel. That might seem to conclude the matter. But surely such a statement, however apparently uncompromising in its assertion, still needs to be set in the context of the narrative as a whole and in particular the overall theme and its christological portrayal? In the Gospel the central character is not portrayed as laying the blame upon the Jewish people (unlike the Gospel of John, the phrase 'Jews' is hardly ever used of the opponents of Jesus) and to use this verse as a basis for the followers of Christ simply accepting that responsibility flies in the face of the drift of the message of Jesus as it is presented in the Gospel. Why is it that a later Christian readership has acquiesced in giving authority to that laos to speak for the whole people of God, whether at that point in history or on behalf of children yet unborn? Can that crowd take to themselves the right to speak for their children when it is 'this generation' that is held accountable by Jesus (23.36)? Or, to put it another way, does that assertion of the crowds take precedence over the point made by Jesus, the central character and 'normative teacher of the narrative', that responsibility is not something which attaches to Jews and Judaism as a whole but with 'this generation'. Rather, within Matthew's narrative the people's statement should be seen as part of the

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pattern of shifting of responsibility which goes on all through the passion story. The priests persuade the crowd and so put pressure on Pilate; Pilate gives responsibility to the crowd (27.24). The people now include their children in their claim to responsibility—children are here again victims as they have been in 2.16-17, and the concern for the children manifested by the messiah which is a dominant theme in the Gospel is temporarily rejected, but that cannot be the last word since it is the way and words of the messiah that have the last word (28.19).

It is incumbent upon the interested interpreter to reflect on the approach taken to the text. Not only is there a question of whether the interpretation 'fits' the text, or, to put it in other terms, whether exegesis rather than eisegesis has been undertaken—but also there must be as frank an assessment as possible to locate the interpretation within the quests for meaning and significance that exist within contemporary society. My location in an academic environment demands certain canons of critical application partly in order to gain a hearing and partly to gain credibility for the enterprise. Theologians have an interest in maintaining not only the existence of their subject but also their own livelihoods. There is also an assumption that this kind of theoretical activity is worthwhile and that mere practice is insufficient. For me, therefore, there is oscillation between different sorts of worlds, trying to make sense of them, trying to inhabit both and be heard by the inhabitants of both and trying to interpret one to the other. But the canons of Christian theology cannot in the last resort be shaped by the academy. The strange encounter between Jesus and Nicodemus remains a salutary lesson. The Johannine Jesus confronts the leader of the Jews with the uncompromising statement that he needs to be born over again or from above. For Nicodemus to see the Kingdom of God there is need for a complete transformation to be made which can only be likened to a birth. The transformation which Jesus speaks of here is directed to one who is part of 'the opposition'. Jesus bids him move from that position as a 'leader' of the Jews to one where he can share that transformation of perspective that is essential in order to be able to 'see the Kingdom of God'. His social, political and religious position have to be put on the line. Nicodemus appears not to have been able to take the plunge of baptism. That would have been a public act

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that would have required him to change sides. He would have had to leave behind the political power of the national leadership and identified himself with one whose baptism meant initiation into a community with a very different, marginal, perspective on the world. As long as he remains part of the leadership, however hard he tries to distance himself from it he is looking at the world from the point of view of the ruling class. Just as the synoptic Jesus had talked of solidarity with the child as the necessary condition for understanding the Kingdom and being truly great, so Nicodemus has to see that however old one may be there is a necessity to go through that process of gestation and growth that will enable a new perception. For the Fourth Gospel the true perspective is not that of the political leadership or even their Roman allies but the minority group who followed the Son who has come down from heaven. When the EATWOT Conference of 197621 spoke of the need for an 'epistemological rupture' that makes commitment the first act, followed by critical reflection on praxis amidst the reality of a suffering and unjust world, it was a similar kind of challenge posed to First World theology to that made by the Johannine Jesus to Nicodemus. There is a legitimate question whether that kind of rupture is possible in Britain. Armchair radicals do well to explore their own interpretative interests as honestly as they can. What I have admired most about John Rogerson (and it is evident in his recent work) is the recognition both of this and of the need to act as well as write, so turning theological institutions towards the service of the vulnerable and marginal. Without this theology can easily end up serving its own needs or those of its expositors rather than the service of almighty God who hears the cries of the poor and who in Christ is identified with them.

21. See S. Torres and V. Fabella (eds.), The Emergent Gospel: Theology from the Underside of History (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 1978), p. 269.

READING THE BIBLE AND DOING THEOLOGY IN THE NEW SOUTH AFRICA

Gerald West

The Bible, theology and Christian faith have constituted South Africa. They have been used to support apartheid and the struggle for liberation and life. But what is their place in 'the new South Africa' ? This essay offers some preliminary reflection on what it might mean to read the Bible and do theology in the new South Africa. I begin by charting four movements that have had a marked effect on biblical studies, theology and Christian faith in South Africa: liberation hermeneutics, postmodernism, reader-response criticism, and enculturation hermeneutics. While there are multiple tensions among and between these movements, together they constitute a move towards plurality, ambiguity, partiality and particularity. The Bible and its readers, and the Christian faith, have become unstable. Liberation hermeneutics, with its privileging of the epistemological point of view of the poor and marginalized,1 is perhaps the most easily recognized of the four movements mentioned. This is true in South Africa and further afield. We recognize that Christian faith is no longer the property of the North, to be exported to the South. The Third World now has its own Christian voices, and these voices are also beginning to be heard in the First World. Liberation theologies, particularly Latin American liberation theology, North American black theology and South African black theology, have played a significant role in this shift. Theological publications, religious and theological university departments, seminaries, and even ordinary middle-class believers in the North, bear the marks of this shift. However, while liberation theologies that have focused on class and race have had some influence on Christian faith, liberation theologies 1. P. Frostin, Liberation Theology in Tanzania and South Africa: A First World Interpretation (Lund: Lund University Press, 1988).

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'closer to home' have had an even more profound effect.2 Feminist theologies in their various forms pose questions that probe the very essence of Christian faith—and find it fractured. This is my point. Liberation theologies cannot be accommodated, appropriated and co-opted as 'interest theologies'. They challenge the very notion of an essence to Christian faith. The primary interlocutors of liberation theologies are the poor and marginalized, and their experiences, needs, questions and resources produce theologies that are not simply additions to theology proper—they are a proclamation that all theology is interested. Their very presence destabilizes Christian faith. Reader-response criticism, or reception hermeneutics,3 in the discipline of biblical studies brings us to a similar situation, although via a different and less strident path. Biblical studies, like literary studies more generally, has undergone a number of shifts in emphasis over the last century. The early and still dominant emphasis is on the origins of texts, on the world that produced the text. More recently, attention has shifted to the text itself as a locus of meaning. And even more recently, the reader has become the focus of interpretative interest. A reader who is no longer perceived as a passive receiver of authorial or textual meaning, but who is now recognized as an active creator of meaning, destabilizes the reading process and the product. Further, while real ordinary readers of the Bible have never been fully admitted to the guild of 'proper' readers, once we acknowledge their presence the reading process and product become even more uncertain.4 If scholarly readers and their allied 'implied' readers raise questions which destabilize the center, then so do the readings of ordinary readers. Perhaps the most significant decentering movement is postmodernism. Although post-modernism under this term is not easily recognized except by sectors of the academic community, its various impulses have a profound effect on theology and Christian faith. With the theologian David Tracy, 2. Feminist theologies are 'closer to home' in the sense that they have a closer relationship to the dominant theologies of the First World than do other liberation theologies. 3. See B.C. Lategan, 'Current Issues in the Hermeneutic Debate', Neot 18 (1984), pp. 1-17. 4. G.O. West, Biblical Hermeneutics of Liberation: Modes of Reading the Bible in the South African Context (Maryknoll: Orbis; Pietermaritzburg: Cluster Publications, 2nd edn, 1995).

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We find ourselves historically distanced from the classics of our traditions. We find ourselves culturally distanced from those 'others' we have chosen both to ignore and oppress. We find ourselves distanced even from ourselves, suspicious of all our former ways of understanding, interpreting, and acting.5

'There is no innocent interpretation, no innocent interpreter, no innocent text'.6 All is uncertain; all is unstable; presence proclaims absence and absence presence; all is not as it has seemed. Difference and deconstruction foreground the particular and the partial. A more recent, and potentially significant, destabilizing influence on Christian faith is enculturation hermeneutics. Enculturation has always had a secondary place in a number of contexts where liberation hermeneutics have held the primary position. Whereas race, class and gender have been the focal concerns of liberation theologies, culture is the focus of enculturation theologies. However, their effect is similar to that of liberation theologies. They are a constant reminder that all theology is cultural. In different ways, then, these movements have decentered, deconstructed and destabilized theology and Christian faith. And yet Christian faith continues to grow in Africa, particularly among the poor and marginalized. So the instability of the text, the tradition and the believer does not signal the death of Christian faith. Rather, there is now space for the birth of Christianities. But just as we have witnessed the demise of the objective observer and the objective object, we are witnessing the demise of Christendom in Africa. That this is so should not surprise us. Cornel West, the African-American philospher and theologian, who also recognizes the fragility of Christian faith, argues that, for example, postmodern points of view can serve as a useful springboard for a more engaged, even subversive, philosophical perspective. This is so primarily because it encourages the cultivation of critical attitudes toward all philosophical traditions. This crucial shift in the subject matter of philosophers from the grounding of beliefs to the scrutiny of groundless traditions—from epistemology to ethics, truth to practices, foundations to consequences—can lend itself to emancipatory ends in that it proposes the tenuous self-images and provisional vocabularies that undergird past and present social orders as central objects of criticism.7 5. D. Tracy, Plurality and Ambiguity: Hermeneutics, Religion, Hope (San Francisco: Harper & Row, 1987), p. 8. 6. Tracy, Plurality and Ambiguity, p. 79. 7. C. West, 'Afterword: The Politics of American Neo-Pragmatism', in

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And, West continues, this shift is particularly significant for 'those on the underside of history' because 'oppressed people have more at stake than others in focusing on the tenuous and provisional vocabularies which have had and do have hegemonic status in past and present societies'.8 This is my argument. The four movements I have sketched deconstruct, in their various ways, Christendom. The Church Imperial is no more, though some refuse to accept and others mourn its passing. And those who were most often its victims, and yet who have also embraced it—the poor and marginalized—have benefitted most from its demise. And while many of the communities of the poor and marginalized may still search for certainty, their yearning for liberation and life is stronger and can now be articulated in a variety of forms. Not that they have been silent until now; they have not. But much of what brings liberation and life has been spoken behind the back of the dominant forms of Christian faith. People belong to the mainline churches by day and to African Independent churches by night. Incense is imphepho and amadlozi are saints.9 So it is not surprising that Christian faith—in the form of various Christianities—is growing in South Africa. But the old is not fully gone and the new is still becoming. This can be seen quite clearly in the South African context, where the struggle against (and for) apartheid has shaped Christian faith decisively. Christian churches, like mosques, synagogues and temples, were sites of struggle. Christian faith was seen to be plural, and not just along denominational lines, but in a far deeper sense. The Kairos Document spoke of three theologies within one church: State Theology, Church Theology, and Prophetic Theology.10 The Road to Damascus document called on status quo Christians to repent and be converted.11 Ordinary believers on different sides of the struggle began to wonder if they worshipped the same God: was it true that some worshipped the God of life and

J. Rajchman and C. West (eds.), Post-Analytic Philosophy (New York: Columbia University Press, 1985), pp. 259-75. 8. West, 'Afterword', pp. 270-71. 9. Imphepho is the smoke of a herb which is used to drive off bad spirits and welcome the ancestors. The amadlozi are the ancestors. 10. The Kairos Document: Challenge to the Church (Braamfontein: Skotaville, 1986). 11. The Road to Damascus: Kairos and Conversion (Johannesburg: Skotaville, 1986).

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others the God of death?12 Could it be that 'orthodox' Christian faith no longer made sense? And these questions were not the only ones. Christians, Muslims, Hindus and those of other faiths and no faith prayed together in stadiums as they buried the dead, they worshipped together in prison, and they sang songs of praise and resistance as they marched together in the streets. Plurality, ambiguity, partiality and particularity abounded in the days and nights of struggle. But the nature of that struggle is changing. I would argue that there are two lines of response to an emerging plurality, ambiguity, partiality, and particularity in Christian faith. Already there are calls for a return to 'orthodoxy' and certainty from a variety of sectors of and traditions within Christian faith. Alliances are forming around 'orthodox' beliefs and values. Forms of fundamentalism are finding fresh ground. And even those who walked with plurality, ambiguity, partiality and particularity for a while are now settling for the old comfortable certainties of traditional differences between denominations. Ecumenical meetings have returned to worn discussions as to whether Anglicans can take communion from Methodists. A second line of response accepts the challenges of plurality, ambiguity, partiality and particularity. Here particular local forms of Christian faith have space and a place. Here the new South African constitution offers possibilities for freedom of religion in the fullest sense. However, there is a complication in this picture of reading the Bible and doing theology in the new South Africa. While plurality, ambiguity, partiality and particularity have created space for the poor and marginalized to articulate and practice their own christianties, these same impulses have often led biblical scholars, theologians and other Christian intellectuals into postmodern play or postmodern nihilism. But this does not have to be our only response. I would argue that postmodernism, through an interface with liberation (and enculturation and reception) hermeneutics, provides an opportunity for socially engaged intellectuals 'to do theology with' the poor and marginalized. Just why this is important for reading the Bible and doing theology in Africa, including South Africa, is discussed below. As I have indicated, there are cracks in 'orthodox' hegemony. Longing for 'the good old days' will not be enough to keep the movements I have outlined at bay. Yet for those who welcome these 12. See P. Richard, The Idols of Death and the God of Life: A Theology (Maryknoll: Orbis, 1983).

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new possibilities there are at least three areas of concern facing reading the Bible and doing theology in the new South Africa. I have alluded to them already. First, there is the danger of a revival of Christian fundamentalism. The quest for certainty is not easily abandoned, and understandably so. Ambiguity and plurality are not readily embraced and so sectors of Christain faith are barricading and fortifying their lines. A second related risk concerns the emerging reality of Christian groups accepting partiality and particularity. While some insist on unity in an attempt to sustain the Church Militant, others more easily embrace partiality and particularity, but in an isolationist way, with no attempt to be partially constituted by work with other groups, in, for example, a more diverse ecumenical forum. Such withdrawal would leave the public face of Christian faith in South Africa unchanged, and this has consequences for the recognition, recovery and revival of neglected, suppressed, subjugated and hidden discourses of Christian tradition, both past and present. It also has consequences for the role of Christian faith in the Reconstruction and Development Programme and the Truth Commission, where some form of ecumenical dialogue and cooperation is vital. Thirdly, there is the problem of the role of the intellectual of faith. I believe there is a role for intellectuals of faith. But I also believe that it cannot be fulfilled through postmodernism alone. Postmodernism provides the negative moment, but it does not know how to dream.13 The play of pluralism or the abyss of meaninglessness are the constant companions of most postmodern intellectuals.14 But they are not the only choices. Liberation hermeneutics provides the social commitment and vision for a positive moment. And, I would argue, enculturation and reader response hermeneutics have much to contribute, provided they work 'from below' and not 'from above'. The culture and readings of the poor and marginalized must be foregrounded. The discourse of this paper, therefore, inhabits the tension between the skepticism of postmodernism and the particular commitments of liberation hermeneutics. The skeptical moment is rooted in an awareness of the power and peril of discourse, an encounter with the transitory nature of 'the order of things', and an acknowledgment of the effects of truth resident within forms of discourse, the continued operation of

13. West, Biblical Hermeneutics, p. 36. 14. West, Biblical Hermeneutics, p. 152.

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power as intrinsic to all discourse, including my own.15 But the committed moment requires that this skepticism does not mean that involvement in power and particularity is to be avoided: rather it is to be embraced. Like Sharon Welch, 'I realize that the very possibility of critique and of resistance is rooted not in a universal sense of justice, but in concrete, varied, tenuous experiences of resistance and liberation, that is, in my participation in different forms of power /knowledge'.16 My emphasis on the term 'different' provides the key to inhabiting this tension. Having said that there is a role for intellectuals of faith, I must qualify this. Intellectuals of faith too must be born, not only again or from above (Jn 3.3), but also from below. They have to be thoroughly persuaded by their postmodernism that their resources, concepts and questions are different from, but not better than, those they work with. Their postmodernism also has to enable them to be partially consituted by their work with other groups. This is difficult. Intellectuals are not used to serving, to being of use, to others, particularly those from poor and marginalized communities. So difference and dialogue are important concepts for the conversion of intellectuals of faith. Difference enables me to inhabit the tension between skepticism and commitment, drawing as it does on the postmodern understanding that individual and communal selves are always in the process of being constructed and negotiated, and that therefore we must consider more carefully and exactly those forces in which people shape themselves and by which they are shaped.17 But, as Kathleen Weiler also reminds us, the challenge not only consists of the need 'to articulate and claim a particular historical and social identity, to locate ourselves', but also of the need 'to build coalitions from a recognition of the partial knowledges of our own constructed identities'.18 So dialogue, in this sense, is also important. With Welch, I would agree with Jiirgen Habermas that there is an imperative to enter into dialogue with others, but for Michel Foucault's reasons. While 'Habermas grounds dialogue and the search for 15. S.D. Welch, Communities of Resistance and Solidarity: A Feminist Theology of Liberation (New York: Orbis, 1985), p. 74. 16. Welch, Communities, p. 74, my emphasis. 17. K. Weiler, Treire and a Feminist Pedagogy of Difference', Harvard Educational Review 61 (1991), pp. 449-74 (467). 18. Weiler, Feminist Pedagogy, p. 470.

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consensus in the imperatives of the speech act itself, I find Foucault's reasons for dialogue more compelling. Foucault argues that we can see a system of logic as a particular system and not as truth itself only when we are partially constituted by different systems of producing truth. We can transcend the blinders of our own social location, not through becoming objective, but by recognizing the differences by which we ourselves are constituted and, I would add to Foucault, by actively seeking to be partially constituted by work with different groups.19

For me, a white, middle-class, South African male intellectual of faith, difference and dialogue provide some parameters for inhabiting the 'ongoing tension between avoiding the indignity of speaking for the oppressed and attempting to respond to their voices by engaging in social and political critique'.20 But I can do theology with the poor and marginalized only by moving beyond 'speaking for', and beyond 'listening to' them, towards 'speaking to/with' the poor and oppressed.21 'Listening to' presupposes the speaking voice of a wholly selfknowing subject free from ideology, while 'speaking for' denies the subject status of the poor and oppressed altogether.22 In other words, the danger of 'listening to' is that we romanticize and idealize the contribution of the poor, while the danger of 'speaking for' is that we minimize and rationalize the contribution of the poor. I use the phrase 'speaking to/with', following Jill Arnott and Gayatri Spivak, to point to 'the need to occupy the dialectical space between two subject-positions, without ever allowing either to become transparent'. By remaining constantly alert to, and interrogative of, our own positionality and that of the objects-become-subjects we work with, and 19. S.D. Welch, A Feminist Ethic of Risk (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1990), p. 151. 20. Welch, Communities, p. 44. See also M. Foucault, Language, CounterMemory, Practice: Selected Essays and Interviews (ed. D.F. Bouchard; trans. S. Simon and D.F. Bouchard; Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1977), p. 209. 21. See G. Spivak, 'Can the Subaltern Speak?', in G. Nelson and L. Grossberg (eds.), Marxism and the Interpretation of Culture (London: Macmillan, 1988), pp. 271-313; and J. Arnott, 'French Feminism in a South African Frame? Gayatri Spivak and the Problem of "Representation" in South African Feminism', Pretexts 3 (1991), pp. 118-28. Arnott and Spivak use the phrase 'speaking to', but I prefer the preposition 'with'. 22. Amott, 'French Feminism', p. 125.

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ensuring that the mediating process of representation remains visible, intellectuals of faith 'may succeed in enabling a dialogue in which the "testimony of the [subaltern] woman's voice-consciousness" can be heard'.23 Clearly 'such a testimony would not be ideology-transcendent or "fully" subjective', 'but it would not be misrecognized as such, and it would, at least, be heard'.24 In other words, Arnott and Spivak are arguing that 'speaking to/with' takes seriously the subjectivity of both the intellectual and the ordinary poor and marginalized person, together with all that this entails for their respective categories and contributions.25 However, the power relations in the interface between the subaltern (or what I, drawing on reception hermeneutics,26 call the 'ordinary reader') and the intellectual (or what I call the 'trained reader') cannot be obliterated, and they must not be ignored. They must be foregrounded. Postmodern feminists like Arnott, Spivak, Elizabeth Ellsworth and Audre Lorde emphasize the creative and constructive potential of 'a genuinely dialectical interaction between two vigilantly foregrounded subject-positions'.27 So, 'Difference must be not merely tolerated, but seen as a fund of necessary polarities between which our creativity can spark like a dialectic. Only then does the necessity for interdependency become unthreatening.'28 These elements of postmodern and liberation discourse provide me 23. Arnott, 'French Feminism', p. 125. 24. Spivak, 'Can the Subaltern Speak?', p. 297, and Arnott, 'French Feminism', p. 125. 25. See also T. Mofokeng, 'Black Christians, the Bible and Liberation', Journal of Black Theology 2 (1988), pp. 34-42. 26. I use the term 'reader' in the phrase 'ordinary reader' to allude to the shift in hermeneutics towards the reader. However, my use of the term 'reader' is metaphoric in that it includes the many who are illiterate, but who listen to, discuss, and retell the Bible. The term 'ordinary' is used in a general and specific sense. The general usage includes all readers who read the Bible pre-critically. I also use the term 'ordinary' to designate a particular sector of pre-critical readers, those readers who are poor and oppressed (including, of course, women). Because I am working within a liberation paradigm, the particular usage takes precedence over the general. 27. Arnott, 'French Feminism', p. 127. 28. A. Lorde, Sister Outsider (New York: The Crossing Press, 1984), p. 112. See also E. Ellsworth, 'Why Doesn't This Feel Empowering? Working Through the Repressive Myths of Critical Pedagogy', Harvard Educational Review 59 (1989), pp. 297-324(319).

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with a useful framework for reading the Bible in South Africa by constructing a place to read within this relationship between difference and dialogue—a place to 'read with'. Provided the unequal power relations between ordinary and trained readers are acknowledged and foregrounded, provided the trained reader is willing to learn 'from below', and provided the poor and marginalized continue to empower and be empowered,29 there is hope for something truly transformative emerging from the interface between trained and ordinary readers of the Bible. But what is the usefulness of the socially engaged biblical scholar? Why is it that ordinary poor and marginalized readers of the Bible find their participation in the Bible reading process useful? While it is not easy to obtain a response to these questions, intellectuals of faith have articulated their perception of their contribution to reading the Bible and doing theology with people from poor and marginalized communities. Socially engaged biblical scholars involved in various liberation theologies agree in at least four crucial areas. They agree that the Bible must be read from the perspective of the poor and marginalized, that the Bible must be read with the poor and marginalized, that the Bible reading is related to social transformation, and that the Bible must be read critically. It is the last of these areas that offers, I will argue, clues as to the usefulness of the socially engaged biblical scholar. While biblical scholars do differ on the nature of this critical reading, some favouring historical-sociological perspectives, others literary points of view, and still others a symbolic, thematic and metaphoric approaches,30 all these modes of reading offer a critical reading of the bib29. I do not think Spivak and Arnott take full cognizance of the practical effects of power inequalities. The only real guarrantee of a genuine 'speaking to' is the empowerment of the poor and oppressed. The changes taking place in South Africa are no reason for making empowerment of the poor and oppressed any less of a priority. In fact, if we are to learn anything from the experience of the Philippines, where liberation came 'too early', before the poor and oppressed were fully empowered (E. de la Torre, 'Prophetic Church and Theology in the Third World' (TEP National Workshop; Kimberley: unpublished paper, 1991), then we must recognize that in our South African context the empowering of the base is even more important now than ever before. Just what this means in the South African context at this particular historical and political moment must be clarified if we are to heed Elizabeth Ellsworth's warning that concepts like 'empowerment' can and do become 'repressive myths' if they are used in an abstract, ahistorical and depoliticized way (Ellsworth, 'Why Doesn't This Feel Empowering?', pp. 306-308). 30. West, Biblical Hermeneutics, pp. 131 -73.

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lical text, although their respective emphases differ. Another important related similarity is that the appropriation of biblical elements, whether behind the text, in the text, or in front of the text, is a critical appropriation. A critical reading and appropriation of the biblical text is the primary concern from the side of (organic) intellectuals involved in the interface between an engaged biblical studies with its socially committed trained readers of the Bible and ordinary poor readers of the Bible. The historical and cultural struggles of the poor and marginalized must be the starting point of biblical interpretation in liberation hermeneutics. But, as I have argued, their readings of the Bible must also be critical. Why? So that, Frostin argues, the poor can 'create their own language'.31 In his critique of black theology in South Africa, Itumeleng Mosala makes a similar point when he argues that black theology has not been able to develop organic links with the popular struggles of especially the black working class people who are the most exploited section of the black community. In the meantime the oppressed black masses relentlessly continue their struggle against apartheid and capitalism—with or without the leadership and cultural equipment of black theology. As one might expect, however, many forms of resistance that the oppressed create for themselves remain open to co-optation and undermining by the dominant classes. The latter are able to co-opt and undermine the discourses of the oppressed on the grounds of intellectual and theoretical superiority. Needless to say, the oppressed are very often unable to contest this claimed intellectual and theoretical superiority. In the realm of religious practice, this state of affairs underscores the absolute necessity of a theoretically well-grounded and culturally autonomous black theology of liberation.32

James Cochrane argues incisively that Mosala's concerns for a critical reading of the Bible raise the practical matter of facilitating a critical consciousness among oppressed people in order that they may be assisted in taking up the chains of the[ir] oppression and breaking them. This is crucial because—as in the best work of the independent black-led trade unions—it concerns the empowerment of people who have been dispossessed and dehumanized. Moreover, it contributes to the process of building the communicative competence necessary for a democratic society free from domination and [the] maximizing of the participation of its citizens. Mosala recognizes that 31. Frostin, Liberation Theology, p. 10. 32. I.J. Mosala, Biblical Hermeneutics and Black Theology in South Africa (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1989), pp. 2-3.

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The Bible in Human Society critical consciousness and democratic activity are not spontaneous (though always potential), but are learned.33

Now all of this makes sense if we accept either a thick or a thin version of hegemony. But, what if James Scott is right,34 and the poor and marginalized already have a finely honed critical consciousness which they use behind the backs of the dominant discourses? What if that which appears to be ideological captivity is really only a public transcript that enables survival under dominantion? What if there are hidden transcripts of resistance to domination that are spoken and acted out in disguise behind the backs of the dominant? Is there still a need for a specifically critical reading of the Bible, or do subordinate groups already read the Bible critically? Bible study work in Brazil and South Africa has shown that while poor and marginalized ordinary readers do have a general critical consciousness towards society and texts, they do not have the historical, sociological, literary or symbolic tools to be critical of the biblical text in the same way as biblical scholars.35 What Scott's analysis does help us to understand, however, is the remarkable readiness of ordinary readers in poor and marginalized communities to use the critical resources of biblical studies in addition to their own critical resources. They seem to recognize a need for a more critical and nuanced reading of the Bible and their traditions of interpretation. Just why this is so requires more careful analysis, but indications are that critical resources enable an articulation of what is often said or done in a disguise. The key contribution of critical resources to the Bible reading process seems to be that it enables ordinary readers themselves to articulate incipient readings of the Bible and their own traditions of interpretation. The additional critical tools and skills of biblical scholarship seem, therefore, to provide ordinary readers with a means for articulating what

33. J.R. Cochrane, 'Struggle and the Christian Story: The Exploration of Truth as a Challenge to Tradition' (unpublished paper, 1989), p. 30. 34. J.C. Scott, Domination and the Arts of Resistance: Hidden Transcripts (New Haven: Yale Univesiry Press, 1990). 35. West, Biblical Hermeneutics of Liberation, pp. 198-200. See also Scott, Hidden Transcripts, p. 116, and V.L. Wimbush, The Bible and African Americans: An Outline of an Interpretative History', in C.H. Felder (ed.), Stony the Road we Trod: African American Biblical Interpretation (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1991), pp. 81-97.

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is incipient and subjugated. While the first response in many Bible study groups is often the 'missionary response' or the dogmatically 'correct' response—the public transcript—critical modes of reading enable ordinary people from poor and marginalized communities to begin to articulate readings and theologies that are incipient and even perhaps elements of readings and theologies that are deliberately hidden from public view. The latter is clearly dangerous; what is hidden from the dominant is hidden for good reason, and can and should be openly spoken only in a context of trust and accountability. But within such a context, the intersection of contextual and critical resources enables the recognizing, recovering and arousing of dangerous memories, subjugated knowledges, hidden transcripts. What is particularly exciting and challenging about reading the Bible with ordinary readers is that it is quite legitimate for ordinary readers and trained readers to emerge from the reading process with different elements of interest. The readings produced in this interface affect ordinary and trained readers differently, and this is not surprising because we come to the text from different places and after the reading encounter return to our different places. Our subjectivities as trained and ordinary readers are differently constituted, and so the effect that the corporate reading has on our subjectivities will be different. However, and this is extremely important, we will have been partially constituted by each other's subjectivities.36 And this should always be a constituent element of intellectuals of faith reading the Bible with ordinary people: a desire to be partially constituted by those from other communities. For me, this means choosing to be partially constituted by working with poor and marginalized communities. This, then, is my hope for the reading of the Bible and the doing of theology in the new South Africa: that intellectuals of faith would offer their resources to those from poor and marginalized communities and in turn learn to appreciate and appropriate their rich and vital resources, so that together we can articulate and act out theologies that bring liberation and life. Christendom is dying, but Christian faith is alive and well and largely located on the margins. Plurality, ambiguity, partiality and particularity are the terrain in which we must now choose to work, not

36. G.O. West, 'No Integrity without Contextuality: The Presence of Particularity in Biblical Hermeneutics and Pedagogy', Scriptura SI 1 (1993), pp. 131-46. See also Welch, Feminist Ethic, p. 151.

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giving in to the temptations of play or nihilism, but deeply committed to the God of life, who is always found on the boundaries. This is where I choose to read the Bible—on the boundaries.37

37. This essay is dedicated to John Rogerson, an intellectual of faith and a socially engaged biblical scholar.

PUBLICATIONS OF JOHN w. ROGERSON Books Myth in Old Testament Interpretation (BZAW, 134; Berlin: de Gruyter, 1974), 207pp. The Supernatural in the Old Testament (Guildford: Lutterworth Press, 1976), 66pp. (with J.W. McKay) Psalms (3 vols.; Cambridge Bible Commentary; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1977), 243pp, 236pp, 193pp. (translation into Japanese: Shihen I: 1-72, Shihehn II: 73-150 [Tokyo: Shinkyo-shuppan-sha, 1984], 366pp, 314pp). Anthropology and the Old Testament (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1978), 128pp (reprinted, Sheffield Academic Press, 1984; translation into Italian: Antropologia e antico testamento [Studi biblici e giudaistici, 2; Milan: Marrietti, 1984], 128pp). Beginning Old Testament Study (ed. J.W. Rogerson; London: SPCK, 1983), 158pp. Old Testament Criticism in the Nineteenth Century: England and Germany (London: SPCK, 1984), xiii + 320pp. (New) Atlas of the Bible (London: Macdonald, 1985), 228pp (2nd edition, Oxford: Phaidon, 1989) (translations into French, German, Dutch, Portugese, Japanese and Italian), (with Christopher Rowland and Barnabas Lindars) The Study and Use of the Bible (The History of Christian Theology, 2; Basingstoke: Marshall Pickering, 1988), pp. 1150. (with Philip Davies) The Old Testament World (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 384pp. Genesis 1-11 (OTG; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1991), 88pp. William Barclay introduces the Bible (edited and with an introduction by J.W. Rogerson; London: Bible Reading Fellowship, 1991), 153pp. W.M.L. de Wette, Founder of Modern Biblical Criticism: An Intellectual Biography, (JSOTSup, 120; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1992), 328pp. The Society for Old Testament Study. A Short History 1917-1992 (Leeds: W.S. Maney, 1992), 16pp. Cultural Atlas for Young People: The Bible (New York: Facts on File, 1993), 98pp (translations into French, German, Swedish). The Bible and Criticism in Victorian Britain: Profiles of F.D. Maurice and W.R. Smith (JSOTSup, 201; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1995), 188pp.

Articles 'The Hebrew Conception of Corporate Personality: A Reexamination', JTS ns 21 (1970), pp. 1-16 (reprinted in Anthropological Approaches to the Old Testament

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[ed. B. Lang; Issues in Religion and Theology, 8; London: SPCK, 1985], pp. 4359). 'Structural Anthropology and the Old Testament', Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies 33 (1970), pp. 490-500. 'Social Anthropology and the Old Testament—Present, Past and Future', Journal of the Anthropological Society of Oxford 4 (1973), pp. 42-50. 'Recent Literary Structuralist Approaches to Biblical Interpretation', The Churchman 90 (1976), pp. 165-77. "The Old Testament View of Nature: Some Preliminary Questions', in Language and Meaning: Studies in Hebrew Language and Biblical Exegesis (Oudtestamentische Studien, 20; Leiden: Brill, 1977), pp. 67-84. 'Slippery Words: Myth', ExpTim 90 (1979), pp. 10-14 (reprinted in Sacred Narrative: Readings in the Theory of Myth [ed. A. Dundes; Berkeley: University of California Press, 1984], pp. 62-71). 'W.R. Smith: Religion of the Semites', ExpTim 90 (1979), pp. 228-33. 'Herders Biickeburger "Bekehrung"', in Buckeburger Gesprdche fiber Johann Gottfried Herder 1979 (Rinteln: Verlag C. Bosendahl, 1980), pp. 17-30. 'The Changing Context of Old Testament Studies', in D. Pailin (ed.), University of Manchester Faculty of Theology: Seventy-fifth Anniversary Papers 1979 (Manchester: University of Manchester Faculty of Theology, 1980), pp. 55-76. 'Sacrifice in the Old Testament: Problems of Method and Approach', in M. Fortes and M. Bourdillon (eds.), Sacrifice (London: Academic Press, 1980), pp. 45-59. 'Anthropological and Theological Approaches to the Old Testament: A Rejoinder', Journal of the Anthropological Society of Oxford 12 (1981), pp. 16-20. 'William Temple as Philosopher and Theologian', Theology 84 (1981), pp. 324-34. 'Progressive Revelation: Its History and its Value as a Key to Old Testament Interpretation' (A.S. Peake Memorial Lecture 1981), Epworth Review 9 (1982), pp. 73-86. 'The Old Testament and Social and Moral Questions', Modern Churchman 25 (1982), pp. 28-35. 'Geschichte und Altes Testament im 19. Jahrhundert', BN 22 (1983), pp. 126-38. 'The Use of the Bible in the Debate about Abortion', in J.H. Channer (ed.), Abortion and the Sanctity of Human Life (Exeter: Paternoster, 1985), pp. 77-92. 'The Use of Sociology in Old Testament Studies', in Congress Volume, Salamanca 1983 (VTSup, 36; Leiden: Brill, 1985), pp. 245-56. 'Anthropology and the Old Testament', Proceedings of the Irish Biblical Association 10 (1986), pp. 90-102. 'Was Early Israel a Segmentary Society?', JSOT 36 (1986), pp. 17-26. 'Exegesis and World Order', Epworth Review 14 (1987), pp. 54-61. 'Herders "Gott. Einige Gesprache" im Lichte seiner Predigten', in G. Sauder (ed.), Johann Gottfried Herder 1744-1803 (Studien zum Achtzehnten Jahrhundert, 9; Hamburg: Felix Meiner Verlag, 1987), pp. 35-42. 'The Old Testament', in P. Avis (ed.), The Threshold of Theology (Basingstoke: Marshall Pickering, 1988), pp. 16-35. 'Can a Doctrine of Providence be Based on the Old Testament?', in L. Eslinger et al. (eds.), Ascribe to the Lord: Biblical & Other Studies in Memory of Peter C. Craigie (JSOTSup, 67; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1988), pp. 529-43. 'Anthropology and the Old Testament', in R.E. Clements (ed.), The World of Ancient

Publications

461

Israel: Sociological, Anthropological and Political Perspectives (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), pp. 17-37. 'On the Revised English Bible', Theology 93 (1990), pp. 38-41. 'Biblical Studies at Sheffield', in D.J.A. Clines et al. (eds.), The Bible in Three Dimensions. Essays in Celebration of Forty Years of Biblical Studies in the University of Sheffield (JSOTSup, 87; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1990), pp. 19-23. 'What Does it Mean to Be Human? The Central Question of Old Testament Theology?', in D.J.A. Clines et al. (eds.), The Bible in Three Dimensions. Essays in Celebration of Forty Years of Biblical Studies in the University of Sheffield (JSOTSup, 87; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1990), pp. 285-98. 'Anthropology', 'Biblical Criticism', 'De Wette', 'Holy, The', 'Myth', in R.J. Coggins et al. (eds.), A Dictionary of Biblical Interpretation (London: SCM Press, 1990). 'Exegese als Literaturwissenschaft: Revisited', in W. Gross et al. (eds.), Text, Methode und Grammatik. Wolfgang Richter zum 65. Geburtstag (St Ottilien: EOS Verlag, 1991), pp. 378-86. 'Wrestling with the Angel: A Study in Historical and Literary Interpretation', in A. Loades (ed.), Hermeneutics, the Bible and Literary Criticism (Basingstoke: Macmillan, 1992), pp. 131-44. 'Anthropology and the OT', 'Corporate Personality', 'History of OT Interpretation', in D.N. Freedman (ed.), The Anchor Bible Dictionary (New York: Doubleday, 1992). 'Creation in Genesis 1-11', The New Theologian 2 (1992), pp. 7-9. 'Writing the History of Israel in the 17th and 18th Century', in F.G. Martinez, A. Hilhorst and C.J. Labuschagne (eds.), The Scriptures and Scrolls: Studies in Honour ofA.S. van der Woude on the Occasion of his 65th Birthday (VTSup, 49; Leiden: Brill), pp. 217-27. 'British Responses to Kuenen's Pentateuchal Criticism', in P.B. Dirksen and A. van der Kooij (eds.), Abraham Kuenen (1828-1891). His Major Contributions to the Study of the Old Testament (Oudtestamentische Studien, 29; Leiden: Brill, 1993), pp. 91-104. "The Enemy in the Old Testament', in A. Graeme Auld (ed.), Understanding Poets and Prophets: Essays in Honour of George Wishart Anderson (JSOTSup, 152; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1993), pp. 284-93. 'The Text in Modern Scholarship: The Impact of Historical Criticism in the Nineteenth Century', Epworth Review 20 (1993), pp. 56-65. 'The Use of the Bible in Sexual Ethics', ISCS Bulletin 9 (1993), pp. 1-3. 'Ancestors, The', 'Mesopotamia', in B.M. Metzger et al. (eds.), The Oxford Companion to the Bible (New York: Oxford University Press, 1993), pp. 26-27, 513. 'Jeremiah', 'Jonah', 'Micah', in Prophets and Poets: A Companion to the Prophetic Books of the Old Testament (London: Bible Reading Fellowship, 1994), pp. 94129, 239-57. 'Old Testament Studies Today and the Teacher', Resource 17 (1995), pp. 2-5. 'J.W. Colenso's Correspondence with Abraham Kuenen', in W.P. Stephens (ed.), The Bible, the Reformation and the Church: Essays in Honour of James Atkinson (JSNTSup, 105; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1995), pp. 190-223.

INDEXES INDEX OF REFERENCES

OLD TESTAMENT

Genesis 1-3 1

1.1 1.3-5 1.6-10 1.11-24 1.11-12 1.20 1.24 1.26-28 1.26-27 1.26 1.28 1.29 1.30-2.1 1.31 2-11 2-3

2 2.1-3 2.4 2.5 2.15 2.18 2.23 2.24 3 4 4.11-15

250, 255 249, 250, 252-55, 356, 361 70, 252 361 363 363 363 363 363 363 251 148, 363 363 253 252 253, 362 253 249, 250, 252-55, 326 253, 255, 360, 361 363 252 360 360 356 152 240 253, 327 71, 72, 75 148

6 6.14 9.7 10 11 12.7 14 14.18-24 14.18-20 14.22 15.6 16 17.8 20 22 22.6 22.13 24 26 29 30 38.11 38.13-18 38.14-18 38.14 38.20-23 38.24 38.25-26

350 259 363 250 250, 252 301 77-80 77 78, 85 77 382 226 301 226 122, 138, 326 326 326 226 226 226 226 228 228 228 229 228 228 228

Exodus 3.8 4.15-16 12.10

181 230 326

13.4 14 14.11-14 14.11-12 14.12 14.13-14 14.13 15.3 15.8 17.2 20.14 21.7-11 22.16-17 33.23

259 301 299 293 304 293, 294, 304 295 295, 296 300 328 226 226 226 251

Leviticus 5.20-26 6.1-7 11.22 17.7 18.5 18.6-18 19.29 20.10 20.17-21 21.7 21.9 26 26.12 26.18

133 133 259 230 322, 323 227 229 226 227 229 229 230 400 400

Numbers 5.11-28

228

Index of References 12.6 15.32 21.8-9 23.1 23.22 23.29 Deuteronomy 5.18 5.28-33 6.5 12 12.5-7 12.7 13.1-18 14.21 14.29 16.11-12 16.18-20 21.10-14 21.15-17 21.17 21.22-23

21.22 21.23 22.13-21 22.20 22.21 22.23-27 22.28-29 22.30 23.2 23.17-19 23.18 24.1-4 25.5-10 25.20 27.20-23 27.26 27.30 28 28.66 30.10 31.6 31.9-13

402 147 327 230 363 363

226 142 299 134 134 134 146 145 229 147 145 227 228 226 322, 325, 326, 329, 331-33 325 322, 32428, 330, 331 228, 237 438 230 227 227 227, 238 227, 262 230 230 228 228 229 227 322, 324-27 238 134, 230 326 324 230 227

Joshua 2 6 6.23 8.1 8.29

228, 235 228, 235 229 363 326, 330

Judges 1 10.11 11 15.2 16.1 19

252 181 229 283 228 226

1 Samuel 18.20-29 18.20-28 18.20 19 19.11-17 20.33 22.22-24 23.17 25.42-43 25.44

2 Samuel 3.12-16 3.13-16 3.16 6

6.16

6.20-23 7 11 13-18 13 16.20-22 21-24 21.8-9 24.1 25

290 226 275 275, 288 226 276 230 280 276 226, 277, 290

290 226, 277 277 276, 277, 279, 280, 285, 289, 291 227, 275, 277 227, 277 80, 118 227 227 227 227 80 285, 290 350 227

463 1 Kings 3 3.16-18 8.47 11.3 14.24 15.12 22.47

308 228 300 227 230 230 230

2 Kings 9.2 23.7

230 230

1 Chronicles 350 21.1 22.18 363 2 Chronicles 5.25 230 6.37 300 15 395 Nehemiah 9.28 13.15-22

181 147

Esther 7.10 10.2

144 144

Job 1-2 36.14 38-41

350 230 356

Psalms 1 2

2.1-3 2.1

2.2 2.8

172 158, 163, 164, 168, 173-77, 179-85 177 159, 161, 165, 167, 171, 178 159, 178 178

The Bible in Human Society

464 2.9 2.10-12 2.10 2.11 2.12

8.4-5 17.16 18 18.16 24.1 44.2 45 45.1 50 68.28 69.18 72 73.27 78.13 81 95

95.1-7 95.1-6 95.1-5 95.1-2 95.1

95.2 95.3-5 95.3 95.4-5 95.4

95.5 95.6-7 95.6 95.7-11 95.7

167, 171, 177, 178 171 159, 171 164 161, 164, 165, 171 148 300 299 300, 301 166 181 173 178 395 304 181 173 230 300 395 393-97, 400, 403, 405 393, 394, 400 394 399, 400, 406 398 397, 399, 400 397, 400 398 395, 398401 398 398-401, 403 398-401, 403 400, 406 399-401, 404, 405 393, 406 400-403, 405, 406

106.9 106.39 110 110.4 137

402, 403, 406 402, 406 401-405 403, 404 406 404, 405 402, 405 299-301 300, 302, 303 300, 301 230 79, 80, 173 77, 85 19

Proverbs 1.7 1.20-33 2.16 4.14-19 4.24 5.3 6.6-8 6.24-25 6.26 7.10-27 7.10 7.12 8 9.10 9.14-18 9.14 10.13 10.18 10.31 12.6 12.18 13.20 15.33 19.13 22.2 23.21 25.8-10 25.15 27.15 29.3

153 141 230 141 151 230, 237 151 230 229 230 229 229 255 153 229 229 151 151 151 151 151 141 153 142, 151 149 230, 237 142 151 151 230, 237

95.8-11 95.8-9 95.8 95.9 95.10-11 95.10 95.11 106 106.6-9

29.9 29.12 30.24-28

142 151 151

Ecclesiastes 1.3 5.1-6 7.29 12.1-7 12.1 12.2 12.3 12.4 12.5 12.6 12.7

141 142 152 311 312, 313 312, 314 311-13 312 312-14 313, 314 313, 314

Isaiah 1-39 1.8 1.21 5.8-22 5.20 8.23-9.1 10.1-4 23.16 25.8-9 27.1 30.15-16 31.1 40-66 40-55 40.1-3 40.3 41.19 42.1 42.6 42.14 43.15-21 43.18-19 45.10 45.15 49.6 49.13 49.14 49.15-16 51.4 52.14-15

100, 101 118 230 90 89 439 90 229 103 327 80 80 80, 100 101 103 439 259 172 172 96 100, 101 100, 101 96 90 172 94 94 94 172 173

Index of References 55 55.3 55.8 55.13 55.15 55.16 61.1 65.17-25 65.21-22 66.13

92, 93 80 92 95 95 95 181 98 99, 100 96

Jeremiah 2.20 3.2-9 11.4 14.20 23.7-8 28 48.11

230 230 400 300 100 202 159

Lamentations 5.20 94 Ezekiel 1 6.9 16.15-43 16.24-25 23.1-49 27.17 34.2 41.15 41.16 43.2 43.5 43.7-9

251 230 230 229 230 259 442 259 259 259 259 230

Daniel 7 7.13 9.5

201, 251 200 300

Hosea 1.2 4.10-18 4.14 5.4

230 230 230 230

Joel 3.3 3.19

228 119

Amos 1.1 1.2 1.3-2.3 1.4 1.12-13 2.4-5 2.6-8 2.8 2.10 2.13-16 2.16 3.6 3.7 3.11 3.13-4.3 3.13 3.14-4.3 3.14-15 3.14 4.1 4.2 4.3 4.4-5 4.6-11 4.6-9 4.6 4.10 4.12 4.13 5.1-3 5.1 5.2 5.3 5.4-6 5.4 5.5 5.6 5.8-9 5.8 5.9 5.11-13 5.14 5.15

418 116 116, 118 118 119 117 117 114 119 115 117 115, 118 118 115, 117 115 115, 118 117 115 114, 115 114 117 117 114, 115 115 117 115 115 118, 119 114-16, 118 115 118 117 118 114, 115 118 114 118 115, 116 118 115 117 115 115, 117

465 5.16-17 5.16 5.17-20 5.18-20 5.18 5.21-24 5.23 5.24 5.26-27 5.26 5.27 6.1-3 6.1 6.3-7 6.4-6 6.5 6.7 6.8-11 6.8 6.9-10 6.11 6.13 6.14

7.7-9 7.9 7.10-17 7.10 7.11 7.13 7.16 7.17 8.3 8.4-6 8.5 8.7-10 8.9-11 8.9 8.11 8.13 8.14 9.1-14 9.1-4 9.1 9.4 9.5-6

115 115 115 115 115 114 117 145 115 114 115, 117 115 117, 118 115 117 117 115, 117 115 115 115 117 115 115, 117, 118 115 114, 118 114, 115 114, 116, 118 117 114, 118 118 115, 117, 228 117 117 147 418 115 117 117 117 114, 119 119 115, 116 114-17 115-17 116

466 9.5 9.7 9.8 9.9-10 9.9 9.10 9.11-15 9.11 9.12 9.13-14 9.13 9.14 9.15 9.17-20

Obadiah 20 Micah 1.7 5.2

The Bible in Human Society 115 119 118 115 117, 115 119, 117 118, 117 117 117 117, 119

7.14

118

Wisdom of Solomon 14.12 230

Nahum 3.3-4

230

Ecclesiasticus 9.6 19.2 23.16-21 23.22-26 41.17 41.20

230, 237 230, 237 230 226 230 230

Baruch 2.12

300

2 Maccabees 1.5 7 7.33 8.29

387 428 387 387

7.15 7.21-22 7.21 7.28-29 8.10 8.12 8.19-20 8.19 8.20 8.29 9.3 9.9 9.10-11 9.11-12 9.13 9.20 9.27-28 9.27 9.30 9.33 9.35 9.36 10.17 10.21

437 441 440 440 439 436 440 439 440 440 439 439 439 439 440 439 440 439 439 440 436, 439 439 436 440

118 121

Habakkuk 2.4

119

11

322, 323, 375, 376 381

119

Zechariah 3.1-5 14.5

350 418

Malachi 1.11

328

Tobit 2.5 4.15

418 62

269

230 118

NEW TESTAMENT Matthew

1.1 1.2-16 1.19 1.20 2.2 2.3 2.4 2.13 2.16-17 2.19 3 3.1 3.5 3.7 3.9 3.14-15 3.15 3.16-17 3.17 4.4 4.6 4.10 4.16

437 235 238 438, 439 438, 439, 439 443 439 236 439 439 439 437, 439 440 439 440 439 439 439 439

439 442 442

438

4.17 4.23-24 4.23 4.25 5.3-11 5.3 5.5 5.6 5.7 5.8 5.10 5.19 5.20 5.22 5.27-30 5.28 5.32 5.42 6.12 6.14-15 6.21 6.24 7.12 7.15-23

439 439 436 440 439 440 439, 440 440 440 440 440 437 440 440 238 440 237, 238 237 238 238 440 440, 442 61,63 202

Index of References 10.32-33 10.34 10.40 10.42-43 11.5 11.9 11.10 11.19 11.25-26 11.27 11.29 12.7 12.9 12.13 12.15 12.23-24 12.23 12.29 12.32 12.36 13.14 13.16-17 13.52 13.54 13.55 14.14 15.18 15.19 15.27 15.30 15.32 16.8-9 16.13 16.17-18 16.17 16.18-19 17.2 17.26 18.1 18.2 18.10 18.15-25 19.1 19.2 19.3-12 19.9 19.10 19.14

440 439 440 440, 441 439, 440 439 440 439 439 439 440 440 436 439 439, 440 439 440 241 440 440 440 440 439 436, 440 440 439, 440 440 237-39 439 439 439 440 439 440 439 440 440 436 439 439 440 238 440 439 237 238 237 439

19.21-22 20.16 20.23 20.24-25 20.29-30 20.29 20.31 21.5 21.9 21.10 21.11 21.14-15 21.14 21.15-16 21.15 21.23 21.31-32 21.41 21.43 21.45 21.46 22.7 22.11 22.33 22.37-38 22.37 22.41 23 23.2 23.7-8 23.33-35 23.34-35 23.34 23.36 24.11-12 24.15 24.43 25.31 25.40 25.45 26.3 26.14-15 26.15 26.31 26.47 26.52-53 26.56 26.59

440 440 441 439 439 440 439 439 440 438 439, 440 439 439 440 439 442 236, 439 436 436 439 440 436 437 440 437 440 438 439 439 436 202 440 436, 439 442 437 436 437 440 202, 441 202 442 442 442 442 442 441 440 442

467 26.65 27.1 27.6 27.9 27.11 27.19 27.20 27.24 27.25 27.37 27.42 27.51-52 27.51 27.55 27.61 28.15 28.19 28.20

439 442 259 418 439 439 440 443 436, 442 439 439 440 419 440 440 436 443 441

Mark 3.27 7.21-22 7.21 8.38 9.1 11.16 13 13.10 13.23 13.28 13.30 13.37 14.62 15.38 17.24

241 237 239 203 202, 203 241 201 197 202 202 202 202 200 419 436

Luke 1.7 1.27 1.34 3.12-13 4 4.18 6.28 6.30 6.31 6.35-36 7.29-30

218 218 218 236 218 218 328 237 61, 63 328 236

468

The Bible in Human Society

7.36-50 7.36 7.48 7.50 8.9 8.16 15.13 15.30 17.31 19.8 22.54 22.63 23.11 23.33 23.45 24.11 24.13-35 24.25 24.30 24.35 24.38 24.41

236 236 236 236 219 241 237 237 241 237 212 212 212 212 419 212 212 212 216 216 212 212

John 3.3 3.6 5.39 8.41 18.36 19.29 19.31 19.36

451 222 317 235 441 241 325 326

Acts 1-14 1-12 2 2.9-11 2.9 2.10-11 2.10 2.13 2.38 2.42 2.46 2.47 3.11 4.19

59 37 18, 34, 218 32 33 33 33 216 213 216 216 216 65 61

4.36-37 5.1-11 5.3 5.9 5.29 5.30-32 5.30 7.56 8 8.1 8.9 8.20 8.27-39 9.15 9.17 10 10.11 10.39 10.44-48 11.5 11.19 12.10 13-28 13 13.1-3 13.4-14.28 13.6-12 13.14-50 13.28-30 13.51-14.5 14 14.6 14.8-20 14.20 14.21 14.24 14.25 14.26-28 15 15.1-40 15.1 15.5 15.20 15.28 15.29

63 63 217 217 61 213 325 214 34 214 217 217 33 241 215 59 241 325 213 241 213 65 32,41 32,60 46 46 46 46 325 46 60 46 46 46 46 46 46 46 59 46 59,60 59,60 59, 60, 235 59 59, 64, 65, 235 15.41-18.22 46 15.41 46

16-28 16.1-3 16.1 16.6-10 16.11 16.12-40 16.14 16.21 16.37-38 17.1-10 17.1 17.10-13 17.14 17.15-34 17.16 17.21 17.22 18.1-18 18.2 18.5 18.12 18.18 18.19-21 18.22 18.23-21.16 18.23 18.24-28 18.27 19.1-41 19.1 19.21-22 19.21 19.23-41 19.24-27 19.24 19.26 19.27 19.29 20.1 20.2 20.3-6 20.3 20.6-12 20.13-16 20.17-38 20.35 21.1-3 21.3-6

59 46 46 46 46 47 47 47 47 47 47 47 47 47 39 39 39 47 47 47 36,47 47 47 47 47 47 47 36 47 47 47 36,47 39 133 133 133 133 47 47 36 47 47 47 47 47 61 47 48

Index of References 21.7 21.8-14 21.15-16 21.17-26.32 21.25 27 27.1-28.15 27.1 27.2 27.3 27.4 27.5 27.6 27.7 27.8 27.12 27.16 27.17 27.27 28.1-10 28.11 28.12 28.13 28.14 28.15 28.16-31

Romans 1-8 1-5 1-4

1.1-15 1.15 1.16-17 1.16 1.17 1.18-4.25

1.18-3.20 1.18-2.11 1.18-32 1.18

48 48 48 48 59, 235 43,44 48 48 48 48 48 48 48 48 48 48 48 48, 241 48 48 48 48 48 48 48 48

370-75, 383, 392 372, 373 372, 373, 376, 377, 379, 380, 383, 391 374 21 374, 375, 382 375, 376, 391 376, 384 377, 383, 390 388, 389 378 386 378, 390

1.20 1.29-31 2-3 2.1-5 2.1 2.3 2.5 2.6-11 2.7 2.8 2.9 2.10 2.12-3.20 2.12 2.13 2.14-15 2.17-29 2.21-24 2.29 3-4 3 3.1-18 3.1 3.2 3.5 3.7-8 3.10-18 3.19-20 3.20 3.21-4.25 3.21-4.2 3.21-31 3.21-26 3.21 3.22 3.23 3.24 3.25 3.27-31 3.27 3.30 3.31 4 4.3-25 4.15 5-8

5

89 242 384 378 378 378 378 379 379 378 378 378, 379 378, 379 379 375 379 379 379 380 381 384 380 380 380 378, 380 384 380 380 375 380, 388 381 375, 376 381 381 380 380 381 390 380 381 376, 381 381 380, 437 381 378 372, 373, 376 370-73,

469

5.1-11 5.1

5.3-5 5.5 5.8 5.9-11 5.9 5.10 5.11 5.12-21

6-8

6-7 6 6.1-14 6.1 6.2 6.3 6.4 6.5 6.6 6.8 6.11 6.15-7.6 6.15 6.16 6.22 7.1-3 7.7-13 7.7-12 7.7 7.13-25 7.14-25 7.25 8 8.1-17 8.9 8.14 8.18-39

378, 382, 383, 386, 390 372, 386 376, 388, 390 389 389 389 389, 391 390, 391 373, 387, 390, 391 373, 387, 391 372, 391, 392 372, 373, 376, 383, 391 383, 384 384 384 384 384 384 384 384 384 384 384 384 384 384 384 384 385 384 384 384 385 385 189, 385, 386, 391 386 219, 222 386 386, 389

The Bible in Human Society

470 8.18 8.19-25 8.30 8.31-39 8.31 8.33 8.35 8.37 8.38-39 8.38 9-11 9.21-23 9.21 11.15 12-16 13 13.1 13.9 13.10 15.19 15.24 15.25 15.26 15.28 15.31 16 16.1 16.5 16.20 16.25-27

386 386 386 386 391 391 391 391 391 337 372 241 241 373, 387 372 340 340, 342 437 63 21, 22 21 22 21, 22 21 22 372 21 21 338 372

1 Corinthians 1.16 21 2.6-8 344 2.6 337, 340, 342 2.8 337, 340, 342 3.16 222 5 238, 239 5.1-8 238 5.5 338 5.9-13 239 5.9 238 5.10-11 239 6 242 6.12-20 240 6.13 240

6.16 6.17 7 7.2-4 7.2 7.4 7.5 7.10-11 7.11 7.12-15 8.13 9.5 10.8 12 15.24-27 15.32 16.1 16.3 16.5 16.8 16.15 16.19 2 Corinthians 1.8 1.16 1.23 2.11 2.12 2.13 4.7 4.8-12 5.18-21 5.18

5.19 5.20 7.5 8.1 9.2 9.4 11.9 11.10 11.14 11.26 11.32

240 240 238, 239 238 239, 240 241 338 237 373 240 61 239 235 308 337, 345 22 21 22 21 22 21 21

21 21 22 338 22 21 241 241 387 373, 387, 388 373, 387 388 373, 387 21 21 21 21 21 21 338 22, 37 22

12.7 12.21

Galatians 1.1 1.17 1.18 1.21 1.22 2.1 3 3.1 3.3 3.6 3.10-14 3.10 3.13

338 238, 239

4.3 4.9 4.25-26 5.2 5.14 5.19

21 21, 22, 58 22 21 21 22 332 21 323 437 322 324 327, 330, 333 338, 346 338, 346 22 323 437 239

Ephesians 1.21 2.1-3 2.1 2.2 2.3 2.16 3.10 4.13 4.27 5.3 5.5 5.21-6.9 6.11 6.12 6.16

337 345 345 338, 345 345 373, 387 337 190 338 239 239 63 338 337, 343 338

Philippians 4.15 4.16

21 22

Colossians 1.13

338

Index of References 1.16 1.20 1.22 2 2.8 2.10 2.14 2.15 2.20 3.5 3.18-4.1

337, 344, 337, 387 373, 341 338, 337, 341, 337, 346 338, 239 63

1 Thessalonians 1.7 21 21 1.8 2.14 21 2.18 338 4.3-7 240 4.3 242 4.4 241 4.10 21 4.13-18 197 4.15-17 203 4.15 198 4.18 198

341, 346 373, 387 346 346 343 343, 346

2 Thessalonians 2.9 338

471 2.26

235

63 241

193 98

1 Timothy 1.10

239

1 Peter 2.11-3.7 3.7

2 Timothy 2.20-21 2.20

241 241

1 John 4.2-3 4.20

Hebrews 4.19 5.1 5.4-10 7.1-28 7.3 7.16 7.24 9.21 11.1 11.31 12.16 13.4

119 118 79 79 81 81 81 241 235 235 239 239

James 2.14 2.23 2.25

235 382 235

Revelation 2.14 2.20 2.27 10.7 14.6-7 14.8 17-18 18.12 19.2 21.8 22.15

235 235

178, 241 197 197 235 235 241 235 235 235

INDEX OF AUTHORS Abrahams, I. 66 Adams, A.W. 60 Addison, J. 257, 264, 265 Ahlstrom, G.W. 146, 421 Aland, B. 65 Albert, Zu H. 359 Albertz, R. 146 Alemany, J.J. 165 Alexander, L.C.A. 18, 22, 23, 25-27, 31-33, 37, 39, 41 Alexander, P. 247 Allison, D.C. 237 Althaus, P. 389 Andersen, F.I. 118 Anderson, A.A. 162, 164, 166, 170, 171, 394 Anderson, B.W. 100 Anfuso, J. 121 Apels, K.O. 362 Arag6n, L.C. y 106 Arazy, A. 320 Arendt, H. 152 Arnold, C.E. 335, 338, 340, 345, 347 Arnott, I. 452-54 Attridge, H.W. 81 Auffret, P. 394 Aune, D. 198, 199 Babington, B. 281 Bailey, L.R. 150 Barbour, R.S. 194 Barr, J. 78, 79, 148, 345 Barrett, C.K. 61, 63, 65, 238, 240, 378 Earth, K. 435 Bashear, S. 123 Bassler, J.M. 377 Bauman, Z. 86, 209

Baumgarten, I. 330, 332 Beauchamp, P. 362 Becking, B. 167 Begrich, J. 394, 396 Beker, J.C. 368 Bell, S. 232 Bellarmine, R. 170, 171 Bellis, A.O. 94 Bennet, G. 247 Benson, R.M. 172 Bentzen, A. 100 Bercuson, D.J. 98 Berkhof, H. 340-42, 346, 349 Bernstein, M.J. 330-32 Berryman, P. 109, 111, 121 Best, E. 241 Beyerlin, W. 147 Bilezikian, G.G. 371 Birch, B.C. 113 Blau, J.L. 269 Blenkinsopp, J. 255 Bloch, E. 147, 149 Bloch, M. 205-12, 214, 216, 218, 219, 222 Bloom, H. 88 Blount, B. 101 Blumenthal, D.R. 88 Boff, C. 430, 431 Boff, L. 73 Bogaert, M. 298, 304 Bonhoeffer, D. 70, 71 Bonino, J.M. 108 Booij, T. 394, 399, 402, 405 Booth, W.C. 177 Boring, M.E. 198, 199, 203 Bornkamm, H. 147 Brauch, M.T. 375

Index of Authors Braulik, G. 399, 403, 405 Brett, M.G. 69, 74 Briggs, C.A. 166, 178, 394, 404 Briggs, E.G. 166, 178, 394, 404 Brockett, C.D. 105 Brown, R.E. 326, 330 Bruce, F.F. 181, 242, 331 Brueggemann, W. 80, 92, 278, 286 Bull, M. 196 Bultmann, R. 188 Buren, P.M. van 103 Buttenwieser, M. 395, 405 Cadbury, H.J. 38 Cagni, L. 359 Caird, G.B. 341, 342 Cairns, I. 332 Cameron, A. 45 Camp, C.V. 151 Campbell, D.A. 371, 381 Campbell, R. 354 Carlson, R.A. 278 Carr.W. 337,338 Carroll R., M.D. 75, 109, 113, 114, 120 Cartwright, M.G. 75 Casas, B. de las 108 Casey, M. 205 Casson, L. 41 Castaneda, J.G. 111 Cazeaux, J. 298 Chadwick, H. 139 Chenowith, L. 95 Chevreau, G. 221 Cheyne, T.K. 167, 169 Childs, B.S. 87, 100, 101, 139, 321 Chilton, B. 138 Clements, R.E. 77, 80, 87, 140, 141, 145, 150 Clines, D.J.A. 112, 116, 161, 166, 274, 275, 278, 287, 292 Cochrane, J. 455, 456 Cohn, N. 195 Collins,!. 119 Conrad, J. 84 Conzelmann, H. 32, 43, 238 Coote, R.B. 118 Cosby, M.R. 381

473

Court, J.M. 191, 195, 196, 202 Craigie, P.C. 167, 177 Cranfield, C.E.B. 325, 372, 390 Creed, J.M. 62 Crenshaw, J.L. 152 Culler, J. 291, 369 Cullmann, O. 339-43 Cunningham, V. 336 Cupitt, D. 193, 194 Dahl, N.A. 377, 386 Dahood, M. 394, 395, 397, 400, 402 Daiches, D. 268 Dalmeyda, G. 27, 29, 30 Dandamayev, A. 181 Daniell, D. 257, 259, 261, 264, 267 Danove, P. 369 Davies, D.J. 205, 206, 222 Davies, G.H. 393-95, 397 Davies, G.N. 377 Davies, M. 225, 436 Davies, P.R. 143 Davies, T.M. Jr 107 Davies, W.D. 237,332 Davison, W.T. 177 Dawn, M.J.S. 343 Dawson, D. 67, 68, 86 Day, P.L. 94 Dearman, J.A. 114 Deissler, A. 182, 394, 402 Deissmann, G.A. 368 Deist, F.E. 144 Delacoste, F. 247 Detienne, M. 125 Deurloo, K.A. 146 Dibelius, M. 335 Dilke, O.A.W. 18 Dodd, C.H. 186-88, 380, 390 Doll, P. 149 Donfried, K.P. 367 Dover, K. 234 Driver,!. 112 Duhm, B. 158, 167, 168, 177, 393 Dunn, J.D.G. 323, 325, 340, 367, 372, 380, 390 Dupont, J. 389 Durham, J.I. 165, 166 Dussel, E. 108

474

The Bible in Human Society

Deaut, R. le 304 Eagleton, T. 79, 184, 434 Eaton, J. 165, 166 Ebach, J. 82 Eichrodt, W. 144 Eliade, M. 206, 208 Ellacuria, I. 108, 110 Elliott, N. 382, 391 Ellsworth, E. 453, 454 Ellul, J. 343, 344, 347, 348, 351 Elias, S. 121 Emerton, J.A. 78, 171, 178,167 Epp, E.J. 62 Eskenazi, T.C. 275, 292 Esler, P.P. 205, 216, 217 Evans, P.W. 281 Evans-Pritchard, E.E. 127 Everling. O. 335 Ewald, H.A. von 160, 177 Exum, J.C. 159, 275, 280, 290, 291 Fabella, V. 444 Falla, R. 106, 109 Fee, G.D. 340, 383, 386 Fillmore, C. 369 Finkel, J. 400, 404 Fiorenza, E.S. 337, 437 Firestone, R. 123 Fitzmyer, J.A. 374 Flores, M.A. 106 Fohrer, G. 403 Fokkelman, J. 279, 289 Foucault, M. 451, 452 Fowl, S.E. 70,75 Fowler, R. 369 Frame, I.E. 241 Frazer, J.G. 125, 126, 138 Fredericks, D.C. 141 Freedman, D.N. 118 Freytag, G. 369-71, 373, 374, 377, 382, 383, 385, 390, 392 Fries, J.F. 358 Frostin, P. 445, 455 Frye, N. 45, 104 Gadamer, H.G. 74, 76, 82, 83 Gager, J.G. 205

Gamble, H. Jr 372 Gardner, J.E. 231-33, 235 Gaster, T.H. 126 Gennep, A. van 207, 209, 210, 214 Gerstenberger, E.S. 168, 169 Gese, H. 321 Ginzberg, L. 304 Girard, M. 394 Girard, R. 128-32, 134, 135, 138, 195, 208, 347 Glover, T.R. 44 Goodfriend, E.A. 230 Goodman, M. 437 Gordon, M. 96-98 Gosse, B. 160, 182 Gottwald, N.K. 79, 92, 144 Gould, P. 19, 33, 34, 36, 37, 39 Gray, G.B. 125 Green, L. 110 Greenblatt, S.J. 67 Grelot, P. 297 Griffin, A.J. 99 Grimm, H.J. 89 Gruber, M.I. 95, 96 Grundmann, W. 335 Guerra, A.J. 392 Gunkel, H. 158, 175, 177, 394-96, 402, 403, 405 Gutierrez, G. 108, 110, 120 H0genhaven, J. 139 Habel, N.C. 150 Habermas, J. 353, 354, 429, 451 Hall, D.J. 89 Hall, S. 326 Halperin, D. 332 Hansen, G.W. 382 Hanson, P.O. 98, 144 Harnack, A. 319, 334 Harrelson, W. 71, 147 Harrington, D.J. 298, 304 Hasel, G.F. 117, 139 Hauser, A.J. 368 Haynes, S.R. 84 Hays, R.B. 375, 380 Hayward, C.T.R. 302, 303 Heidegger, M. 359 Heinemann, J. 304

Index of Authors Hengel, M. 332, 334 Herford, R.T. 331 Herkenne, H. 403 Herrenbruck, F. 236 Hertz, J. 332 Heusch, L. de 137 Hinten, W. von 364 Hirch, E.D. 68-70, 75, 84 Hirth, H. 363 Hobbs, T.R. 112 Horbury, W. 328, 436 Horgan, M.P. 332 Horton, F.L. 81 Hossfeld, F.-L. 395, 398, 405, 407 Houlden, L. 434 House, P.R. 119 Houten, C. van 145 Howard, D.M. 395 Howard, P. 264 Hubbard, D.A. 118, 127 Hubbard, R.L. 139 Hubert, H. 126 Hulst, A.R. 148 Hurst, L.D. 81 Hiibner, H. 319, 324, 377 Hagg, T. 28, 31, 32 Jacobson, D.L. 173 Jacquet, L. 170 Jaget, C. 247 Jameson, F. 434 Janowski, B. 363 Jeffrey, D.L. 258, 265 Jelliffe, D.B. 95 Jelliffe, E.F.P. 95 Jeremias, J. 394, 403 Johnson, A.R. 77, 78, 142, 395, 405 Jones, F.S. 181 Jones, L.G. 70 Jonge, M. de 81 Judge, E. 21 Jiingel, E. 357 Kaiser, O. 139 Kant, I. 358 Katz, D.S. 268 Kaye, B.N. 373 Kennedy, J.M. 71

475

Kermode, F. 195 Kidner, D. 171 Kierkegaard, S. 122 Kimelman, R. 328, 436 Kirkpatrick, A.F. 164, 394, 395 Kittel, R. 405 Kleber, A. 175 Klein, H. 158, 176 Klein, M.L. 295-97 Kraus, H.-J. 169, 170, 176, 395, 396, 402 Kreitzer, L.J. 273 Kruijt.D. 107 Kugel, J.L. 268 Kuske, M. 70 Kohler, L. 142 Konig, E. 395 Labat, R. 360 Lacocque, A. 320, 334 Lambert, W.G. 359 Lang, B. 128, 146 Lash, N. 92, 434 Lategan, B.C. 446 Leach, T. 268 Lee, J.Y. 339 Leeuwen, A.T. van 91, 92 Lemeche, N.P. 146 Leppard, D. 193 Lesky, A. 357 Leslie, E.A. 396 Leupold, H.C. 404 Levenson, J. 84, 85, 103, 321 Levine, E. 332 Lincoln, A.T. 349 Lind, M. I l l Lindars, B. 168, 325 Lloyd Jones, G. 257 Lohfink, N. 119, 363 Lokotsch, K. 266 Lopez-Jones, N. 244, 247 Lorde, A. 453 Lorenz, K. 358 Loretz, O. 393, 396 Louth, A. 67, 73, 76 Louw, J.P. 389 Loveman, B. 107 Lovering, E.H. 380

476

The Bible in Human Society

Lubac, H. de 73 Lurie, A. 203 Luther, M. 174, 175, 364 MacGregor, G.H.C. 338 Maclntyre, A. 82 Mackintosh, A.A. 179 Maclaren, A. 161, 170, 171, 176, 177 Magonet, J. 273 Maier, J. 331, 332 Malbon, E.S. 369 Malherbe, A.J. 378 Man, P. de 67 Marsh, J. 181 Marshall, I.H. 242 Marsham, J. 413 Martin, D. 110 Martin, R.P. 373, 374 Martin-Archard, R. 117 Marx, K. 90-93 Massouh, S. 396 Maugham, S. 265 Mauss, M. 126, 127,210,211 Mayes, A.D.H. 330 Mays, J.L. 172 McCarthy, D.J. 144 McCormack, A.R. 99 McGrath, A.E. 88 McKay, H.A. 168 McKay, J.W. 393, 395, 402 McKenna, A.J. 208 McKnight, E.V. 369 McLeod, H. 217 McNaught, K. 99 McNeile, A.H. 65 Meeks, W.A. 205 Menchu, R. 106 Mendelsohn, I. 181 Mendenhall, G.E. 145 Mesters, C. 435 Michel, D. 402-404 Midgley, M. 142, 150 Migne, J.-P. 307 Millard, A.R. 359 Millett, K. 247 Minor, M. 367 Miskotte, K.H. 103 Mofokeng, T. 453

Molina, U. 121 Moltmann, J. 89, 190 Moo, D. 372, 375, 378-80, 384, 385, 390 Morgan, J.R. 19 Morris, L. 242, 376 Morrison, C. 338 Mosala, I. 71, 72, 75, 79 Mosala, I.J. 430, 455 Mowinckel, S. 77, 396 Mulvey, L. 281 Murphy, R.E. 152 Murray, R. 148 Miiller, H.-P. 359, 360 Mechoulan, H. 268 Nahon, G. 268 Nemorensis, D. 125 Newsom, C. 296, 298 Nicholson, E.W. 144 Nicolet, C. 18,21 Nida, E.A. 389 Niditch, S. 112 Nietzsche, F. 362 Nogalski, J.D. 117 North, C. 100 Nowack,W. 393 Nygren, A. 376 Notscher, F. 395 O'Brien, P.T. 338, 339 O'Neill, J.C. 433 Obeyesekere, G. 210 Oeming, M. 139 Oesterly, W.O.E. 396 Ollenburger, B. 80, 139 Olshausen, J. 396, 402 Olyan, S. 78, 298, 299, 301-303 Pagan, L.R. 110 Payeras, M. 106 Pearsall Smith, L. 264, 265 Pelikan, J. 89 Perdue, L.G. 139, 148 Perkins, R. 247 Perlitt, L. 144 Perrot, C. 298, 304 Pervo, R.I. 19

Index of Authors Petersen, N.R. 367 Philips, A. 147 Plepelits, K. 25 Ploeb, J.P.M. van der 403 Ploger, O. 98 Poland, L.M. 74 Polanyi, K. 93 Policy, M.E. 116, 118 Poole, R. 180 Popper, K. 74, 358 Porter, S.E. 367, 369, 371, 372, 376, 378, 383, 384, 387-89, 391, 392 Powell, M.A. 17,31 Preus, P. 73 Preuss, H.D. 405 Quevedo y Villages, F. de 269

Rad, G. von 100, 175, 332 Ramsey, A.M. 193 Rashkow, I. 430 Reardon, B.P. 18, 23, 25, 26, 28, 30, 31,38 Reif, S. 269 Reventlow, H.G. 139 Rhyne, C.T. 381, 382 Richard, P. 449 Richardson, H.N. 118 Ricoeur, P. 73, 74, 76, 96, 103 Riding, C.B. 400 Ringgren, H. 396 Robert, A. 172 Roberts, D. 221 Roberts, N. 247 Robinson, H.W. 142, 143 Rogerson, J.W. 17, 72, 120, 125, 128, 143, 186, 205, 317, 318, 320, 353, 393, 395, 402, 429 Rorty, R. 84 Rosa, R.R. 106 Rosenbaum, S. 71 Rosenberg, T. 106 Rowland, C. 434, 437 Rowley, H.H. 77, 78 Rupp, G.E. 338, 339, 349 Ruthven, K.K. 369 Ruthven, M. 192 Rutersworden, U. 363

Raisanen, H. 331, 377 Said, E. 38 Salvesen, A. 324, 331 Sanders, E.P. 325, 367, 379 Sanders, J.A. 318 Sandmel, S. 65 Sartre, J.-P. 180 Sasson, V. 175 Sawyer, J.F.A. 315,319 Schauber, E. 369 Schilling, O. 394 Schlier, H. 338 Schmid, R. 401, 402 Schmidt, H. 177 Schnackenburg, R. 326 Schneiders, S.M. 74 Schreiner, T.R. 377, 379 Schweitzer, A. 187 Schilrer, E. 298, 303, 436 Schafer, P. 297 Scott, B.B. 274 Scott, J.C. 456 Scott, J.M. 18 Sczepanski, D. 121 Segal, A. 232 Segundo, J.L. 109, 110 Seifrid, M. 385, 388 Seow, C.L. 278 Sepiilveda, J.G. de 108 Shamana, B.J. 101-103 Shank, D. 103 Shell, A. 264 Sivan, G. 264 Skarsaune, O. 327 Smith, D. 174 Smith, G.V. 114 Smith, T.H. 101 Smith, W.R. 124-26 Smylie, J.H. 101 Sobrino, J. 108, 109 Soden, W. von 359, 361 Soggin, J.A. 178 Sparks, H.F.D. 60 Spieckermann, H. 394 Spiegel, S. 123 Spivak, G. 452-54 Spolsky, E. 369

477

478

The Bible in Human Society

Staiger, E. 359 Stanley, C. 324, 375, 380 Stanton, G. 436 Steinsaltz, A. 278, 280 Stendal, K. 189 Sternberg, M. 256 Stewart, J.S. 338 Stoll.D. 109, 110 Stoneman, R. 19 Stott,J.R.W. 339 Stowers, S.K. 374, 381 Stringfellow, W. 339 Strothmann, W. 307, 308 Stuart, D. 118 Stuhlmacher, P. 332, 390 Suleiman, S.R. 120 Swartley, W.M. Ill Talmon, S. 196 Tambiah, SJ. 205, 206, 210, 211 Tate, M.E. 395 Taylor, C. 83-85 Taylor, W.F. Jr 139 Theissen, G. 199 Thiel, W. 165, 175, 176 Thielman, F. 377 Thiselton, A. 120 Thompson, E.P. 93 Thompson, T.L. 249 Tolkien, J.R.R. 45 Tomson, P.J. 377 Toorn, K. van der 230 Torre, E. de la 454 Torres, S. 444 Torres-Rivas, E. 107 Towner, W.S. 294, 298, 299, 304 Tracy, D. 446, 447 Trebilco, P. 35 Trench, D. 257, 258, 264 Treves, M. 168 Trible, P. 95 Tylor, E.B. 124 Unnik, W.C. van 327, 331 Ussher, J. 413, 418 Van Seters, J. 78 Vanhoozer, K. 73

Vernant, J.-P. 125 Verseput, D. 439 Vidales, R. 110 Vincent, J. 194, 195 Vosberg, L. 395, 405 Wadsworth, M. 302 Wagner, S. 163 Walsh, J.P.M. 103 Ward, K. 68 Warnke, G. 83 Warren, K.B. 107 Washington, J.M. 101 Watson, D.F. 368 Watson, F. 75, 76, 113, 320, 435 Watson, W.G.E. 400 Watts, J.W. 166 Wedderburn, A.J.M. 349 Weiler, K. 451 Weiser, A. 162, 163, 175-77, 396 Welch, S.D. 451,452,457 Welker, M. 355, 363 Wellhausen, J. 159 Wengst, K. 439 West, C. 447,448 West, G.O. 72, 446, 450, 454, 456, 457 Westermann, C. 78, 140, 148, 395 Wetstenii, J.J. 62 Wette, W.M.L. de 358 Wheatley, P. 133 Wheaton, P. 103 Whedbee, J.W. 90 Whiston, W. 411,412,414-21 White, H.J. 60 White, J.L. 368 White, R. 19, 33, 34, 36, 37, 39 Whybray, R.N. 141, 249 Whyte, A. 275 Wilcox, M. 325, 326 Wilhelmi, G. 178 Wilkens, U. 331 Williams, J.G. 208 Willis, J.T. 168 Wilson, G.H. 394 Wimbush, V.L. 456 Winger, M. 377 Wink, W. 335, 338, 344-48, 350-53 Winnicott, D.W. 96

Index of Authors Wise, M.O. 332 Wolfenson, L.B. 321 Wolff, H.W. 90, 142 Wordsworth,!. 60 Woude, A.S. van der 81 Wright, N.T. 200 Yoder, J.H. 335, 342, 343

479

Young, F. 67, 68, 73, 86 Young, P. 183 Zaharopoulos, D.Z. 315 Zeisler, J. 376 Zenger, E. 165, 166, 168, 170, 172, 175, 177, 182, 395