Académique Documents
Professionnel Documents
Culture Documents
SUPPLEMENT SERIES
292
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
Vol. 1
Vol. 2
ISBN 1-85075-901-4
ISBN 1-85075-983-9
CONTENTS
Volume 1
Abbreviations
Introduction
x
xv
METHOD
1
23
46
Beyond Synchronic/Diachronic
68
Varieties of Indeterminacy
126
138
158
194
95
vi
LITERATURE
11 Story and Poem:
The Old Testament as Literature and as Scripture
225
12 X,XbenY,benY:
Personal Names in Hebrew Narrative Style
240
263
285
293
314
351
HISTORY
19 The Evidence for an Autumnal New Year in
Pre-exilic Israel Reconsidered
371
395
21 New Year
426
436
Contents
vii
Volume 2
Abbreviations
x
THEOLOGY
447
498
508
524
542
555
LANGUAGE
577
585
31 Krtlll-114(Iiii7-10):
Gatherers of Wood and Drawers of Water
595
602
613
631
viii
PSALMS
639
665
687
701
708
JOB
719
735
745
748
752
762
770
792
801
Contents
ix
DIVERTIMENTI
823
830
841
855
873
884
ABBREVIATIONS
AB
ABD
AcOr
AfO
AHw
AJBA
ALBO
ANET
AnOr
AOS
APOT
ASTI
AID
AUSS
AV
BA
BASOR
BASORSup
BDB
BeO
BETL
BEvT
BH
BHS
BHT
Bib
BibLeb
BibOr
BJRL
BKAT
BM
BNTC
BO
Anchor Bible
David Noel Freedman (ed.), The Anchor Bible Dictionary (New
York: Doubleday, 1992)
Acta orientalia
Archivfiir Orientforschung
Wolfram von Soden, Akkadisches Handworterbuch (Wiesbaden:
Harrassowitz, 1959-81)
Australian Journal of Biblical Archaeology
Analecta lovaniensia biblica et orientalia
James B. Pritchard (ed.), Ancient Near Eastern Texts Relating to
the Old Testament (Princeton: Princeton University Press,
1950)
Analecta orientalia
American Oriental Series
R.H. Charles (ed.), Apocrypha and Pseudepigrapha of the Old
Testament in English (2 vols.; Oxford: Clarendon Press,
1913)
Annual of the Swedish Theological Institute
Das Alte Testament Deutsch
Andrews University Seminary Studies
Authorized Version
Biblical Archaeologist
Bulletin of the American Schools of Oriental Research
Bulletin of the American Schools of Oriental Research, Supplements
Francis Brown, S.R. Driver and Charles A. Briggs, A Hebrew and
English Lexicon of the Old Testament (Oxford: Clarendon
Press, 1907)
Bibbia e oriente
Bibliotheca ephemeridum theologicarum lovaniensium
Beitrage zur evangelischen Theologie
Biblica hebraica
Biblia hebraica stuttgartensia
Beitrage zur historischen Theologie
Biblica
Bibel und Leben
Biblica et orientalia
Bulletin of the John Rylands University Library of Manchester
Biblischer Kommentar: Altes Testament
British Museum
Black's New Testament Commentaries
Bibliotheca orientalis
Abbreviations
BibRes
BSac
BTB
BWANT
BZ
BZAW
BZNW
CAD
CAT
CBQ
CQR
DCH
DBSup
DID
DOTT
DTT
EBib
ETL
EvT
ExpTim
FOIL
FRLANT
HALAT
HAT
HibJ
HR
HSM
HUCA
IB
ICC
IDE
IEJ
Int
ISBE
JAAR
JANES
JAOS
XI
Biblical Research
Bibliotheca Sacra
Biblical Theology Bulletin
Beitrage zur Wissenschaft vom Alien und Neuen Testament
Biblische Zeitschrift
BeiheftezurZAW
Beihefte zur ZNW
Ignace I. Gelb et al. (eds.), The Assyrian Dictionary of the
Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago (Chicago:
Oriental Institute, 1964-)
Commentaire de 1' Ancien Testament
Catholic Biblical Quarterly
Church Quarterly Review
David J.A. Clines (ed.), The Dictionary of Classical Hebrew
(Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1993-)
Dictionnaire de la Bible, Supplement
Discoveries in the Judaean Desert
D. Winton Thomas (ed.), Documents from Old Testament Times
(London: Nelson, 1958)
Dansk teologisk tidsskrift
Etudes bibliques
Ephemerides theologicae lovanienses
Evangelische Theologie
Expository Times
The Forms of the Old Testament Literature
Forschungen zur Religion und Literatur des Alten und Neuen
Testaments
Ludwig Koehler et al. (eds.), Hebrdisches und aramdisches
Lexikon zum Alten Testament (5 vols.; Leiden: E.J. Brill,
1967-95)
Handbuch zum Alten Testament
Hibbert Journal
History of Religions
Harvard Semitic Monographs
Hebrew Union College Annual
Interpreter's Bible
International Critical Commentary
George Arthur Buttrick (ed.), The Interpreter's Dictionary of the
Bible (4 vols.; Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1962)
Israel Exploration Journal
Interpretation
Geoffrey Bromiley (ed.), The International Standard Bible
Encyclopedia(4 vols.; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, rev. edn,
1979-88)
Journal of the American Academy of Religion
Journal of the Ancient Near Eastern Society (Columbia University)
Journal of the American Oriental Society
Xll
JB
JBL
JBR
JEOL
JHS
JJS
JNES
JNSL
JQR
JQRSup
JR
JSOT
JSOTSup
JSS
JTC
JTS
KAT
KB
KHAT
KJV
LD
NAB
NCB
NEB
NICOT
NIV
NJB
NJPS
NorTT
NovT
NRSV
NRT
NIL
NTS
Numen
Or
OTL
OTS
PEQ
PTMS
RB
REB
RGG
RHPR
RSR
RSV
RTR
Abbreviations
SBL
SBLDS
SBOT
SET
SJT
SNTSMS
SR
ST
TBii
TDNT
TDOT
TGI
THAT
ThWAT
TLZ
TNTC
TOB
TOTC
TQ
TRu
TS
TSK
TT
TTZ
TWNT
TWOT
TynBul
TNTC
TOTC
7Z
UF
UT
VCaro
VD
Xlll
xiv
VF
VT
VTSup
WBC
WMANT
WTJ
ZAW
ZDMG
ZDPV
ZKT
ZNW
ZTK
INTRODUCTION
Humans are myth-making animals. We like to tell stories, especially
the ones we make up for ourselves, and especially those we invent
about ourselves. Most of us have been creating a mythos, or story,
about our lives for years, so for me it was rather inevitable that when I
came to look back over my career (so far) as a scholar and teacher of
the Old Testament across more than thirty years I found myself shaping
a story along lines that seem very familiar to me now, even though the
story is only one of several that might be told. I decided that my story
had better be told as the story of a journey, a progress. I preferred that
greatly to a story of rather non-purposive wandering, led from one sidetrack to another, following what had taken my fancy and what had
excited my enthusiasm at one moment after anotherthough there
would be quite a lot of truth in such a story too. I preferred, I must say,
a story that made it look as if I had got somewhere in the end, even a
story that gave the impression that I knew where I had been going all
the timethough I could not truthfully claim that.
I created this myth of a journey also because I am very conscious that
I have changed quite a lot over these years. Because the changes have
usually been gradual and incremental it seemed that the metaphor of a
path was what I wanted. Putting one foot after another is a pleasant
enough way of spending an afternoon and not a very dramatic undertaking. But even if you are not conscious of walking in any particular
direction, in the course of an afternoon you can easily find yourself in a
completely new landscape or at a new vantage point over your old
familiar landscapeas if some rather serious and profound change had
come over you. You look back down the path you had followed, and
realize that it was of course bound to come out where you are now,
though you never quite realized it while you were on the way.
Now I would not be telling this story if I had not at some time in the
last decade come to the (belated) realization that many of the ideas that
were falling into place for me were known outside the world of Hebrew
Bible studies under the name of the postmodern. I had never been much
of a theoretician, but I had always wanted to know the name for what I
was doingso that I would not just be busy doing but also be watching
xvi
myself at work. Now I felt I knew what it was that had been intriguing
me; it was not just that I learned a new word, it was that postmodernism
networked together a whole range of ideas I could not previously
connect, especially about meaning.
So the postmodern is where I am at now, whatever that means, and
whatever postmodern means. In the essay called 'The Pyramid and the
Net: The Postmodern Adventure in Biblical Studies' (pp. 138-57 below), I have developed the image of the net as symbol of the postmodern, decentred and flexible and polymorphous and multifunctional.
It is different in so many ways from the pyramid, which for me has
been the symbol of the modern, stable and unitary and totalizing and
impressive, like the structure of Western intellectual thought. I try to
stress in that essay that I do not see the postmodern as displacing the
modern, nor yet as being only a supplement to it. I see the postmodern
as a quizzical re-evaluation of the values of the modern, and I suggest
how the practice of biblical studies in the coming century could be
transformed by a series of postmodern reappraisals.
In another paper, 'Varieties of Indeterminacy' (pp. 126-37), I fasten
upon a central issue for postmodernismthe indeterminacy of texts
and the plurality of meaningsand worry over my own practice across
a variety of scholarly enterprises I am engaged in, testing the strength
of my adherence to the vision of postmodernism. Readers of that essay
will see why I keep stressing that the postmodern includes the modern,
for I cannot, truth to tell, easily give up all the habits of mind, not to
speak of the projects I am embarked upon, that must still mark me as a
practising modernist.
A third key paper for the postmodernism I now avow is 'Ethics as
Deconstruction, and, The Ethics of Deconstruction' (pp. 95-125). Recognizing that discourse in general, and our biblical texts in particular,
are open to deconstruction, which means to say that they never wholly
succeed in maintaining the fundamental sets of oppositions on which
they rely, is another way in which I can bring to the surface as a practical exegete the effect of a postmodern approach to biblical interpretation. In that paper I take four biblical passages on ethical subjects and
suggest that their force may lie in how they suggest deconstructive
reading. I argue, for example, that the text in Genesis 9 that authorizes
capital punishment for the crime of murder shoots itself in the foot, so
to speak, by referring to the avenger of blood in the same terms as the
murderer, thus deconstructing the opposition between legal and illegal
Introduction
xvii
killing and thereby implicitly calling into question the ethics of capital
punishment.
Now the fact that I have been, across these three decadesas my
story has it'on the way to the postmodern' implies that I have not
always been where I am now. And the reader will find very much in
these volumes that could not be called postmodern by any stretch of the
imagination. What interests me, however, and it probably interests me
much more than it will interest anyone else, is how and where the
postmodern was foreshadowed in these papers, some of them from a
period long before most of us had become familiar with the word. I
mention just three examples.
I find, for example, in the essay 'Story and Poem: The Old Testament
as Literature and as Scripture', which I wrote for the journal Interpretation in 1980, that I was suggesting that the search for a single message in the book of Jonah might be incompatible with a 'literary' view
of the book, that the story might be thought of as a field not so much for
conflicting arguments but for interpenetrating visions (p. 230 below). I
was writing too of the poem of Hosea 2 that it 'does not allow us to
choose definitively between [the] various readings' that I had sketched,
and had urged that we 'be alert to all reasonable readings' of it (p. 238).
That was hardly a programmatic postmodernist utterance, but it showed
what was beginning to become important to me.
Even in 1969,1 am surprised to discover, in a survey article on recent
research on the Psalms, I was expressing interest in the new movement
that went under the banner of 'reinterpretation', highlighting how the
Psalms had been altered, expanded and newly understood in the course
of their transmission. I commented that 'An earlier age of criticism, in
its quest for chimerical "originals" of the biblical texts, tended to dismiss such alterations of an earlier text as mere "glosses" of secondary
importance, if not entirely worthless' (p. 681), and was plainly very
attracted to an approach that was attributing significance to the work of
the editors, glossators and redactors to whom we owe the biblical text. I
find now that it was much the same point that I was making in 1996
about a programme for a postmodern textual criticism, as I wrote that
'the quest for an author's original can be an utter chimaera', even
invoking the same mythological image without realizing it.
Definitionally, I am saying now that 'an interest in originals is a
modern interest; an interest in copies [and glosses, reinterpretations and
secondary usages] is a postmodern interest. Or rather, it is a post-
xviii
Introduction
xix
xx
METHOD
1
READING ESTHER FROM LEFT TO RIGHT
CONTEMPORARY STRATEGIES FOR READING A BIBLICAL TEXT
The first episode of the biblical book of Esther concerns Vashti, the
Persian queen who (to speak briefly) refused to come to the king's banquet when bidden, and was subsequently deposed. Those are the barest
bones of her story, and there are no two ways about reading it. But
when the bone structure is fleshed out with the language, focalization,
characterization and pacing of the biblical narrative, varieties of readings become possible, and readers have to begin adopting strategies for
how they will read, that is, how they will approach, grasp, and handle
the episode as a whole.
Reading the story of Vashti from right to left, reading in classical
Hebrew, that is to say, and reading according to the social and sexual
conventions of the time, we are likely to read Vashti's story as a whole
as a satire on the Persian king. He is, in Vashti's story, a monarch of
absolute power, a showy entertainer, and a sovereign in masterful controlon every front but the domestic. To be unable to command his
queen's obedience makes him an object of fun to the first Jewish readers of the book; and Vashti, for her part, owes both her presence and
her significance in the story to little other than the way she holds the
king up to ridicule.
Reading the story from left to right, however, not just in English but
in our own cultural context, we cannot help seeing Vashti not just as a
Persian queen but even more as a woman. As a woman she becomes a
character in her own right, not just a foil to Ahasuerus, and as a woman
she earns our applause for resisting the king's intention to display her
as a sex object before his drunken cronies. Since she is regarded by the
male as significant only for her body, and since she depends on no
Originally published in The Bible in Three Dimensions: Essays in Celebration of
Forty Years of Biblical Studies in the University of Sheffield (ed. David J.A. Clines,
Stephen E. Fowl and Stanley E. Porter; JSOTSup, 87; Sheffield: JSOT Press,
1990), pp. 22-42.
begining
12-2
end
middle
3-8
9-10
8.2
Exposition
Complication
8.17
Resolution
ability. As against that resolution, the bloodletting of 9.5-6 is a concretization of the new-found Jewish supremacy; it purges the empire of
and-Jewish elements, which is good news for the future. But it does not
resolve anything, for there is nothing still needing to be resolved.
Mordecai's drafting of the second edict has already done that. So to
analyse the plot, even along the quite unsophisticated lines here
sketched, is not simply to perceive the subtlety of the narrator's art but
to touch base already with the narrative's own specific attitudes to
power, violence, law.
2. Structuralism
In using a structuralist strategy for reading, we are explicitly seeking
below the surface of the textrelationships, especially of opposition
and contrast, that manifest themselves on the level of the text. In the
discipline of literary structuralism there are several different procedures
that stand ready-made as grids on which the narrative may be laid out.
Two of these may be of service here, an actantial and a semantic
analysis.
a. Actantial analysis
An analysis of the actants in the Esther narrative is quite straightforward, but it reveals two interesting realities. The actantial pattern, in
the style of A.J. Greimas,3 may be set out thus:
9
SENDER
deliverance
OBJECT
Jews
RECEIVER
Mordecai, king
HELPER
Esther
SUBJECT
Haman, king
OPPONENT
Greimasian language) can of course be, faute de mieux, the Story itself,
or Fate; but in this particular narrative, in its biblical context, we are
tempted to designate the sender as God, even though God does not
actually appear in the story as a character nor is any allusion made to
him. Outside the Hebrew Bible, other versions of the Esther Story
such as the elaboration it receives in the Greek Biblemake it entirely
explicit that the story is essentially a narrative of God's action. The
crucial coincidences of the plot (e.g. the presence of a Jewish woman
on the Persian throne, the reading of the chronicle of Mordecai's deliverance of the king's life at the very moment when Mordecai's own
enemy has arrived to seek his life) unmistakably point to the hand
of God, despite the absencefor whatever reasonof God from the
explicit action. A structural analysis, then, dealing solely with the
evidence of the text, registers the text's lack of identification of the
Sender as a crucial distinctive of the story.
Secondly, we observe that the position of the king in the actantial
grid is ambiguous. Inasmuch as he authorizes the plan of Haman, he
belongs with him as Opponent; but inasmuch as he commands
Haman's death and signs Mordecai's edict bringing deliverance to the
Jews he is Helper. This ambiguity in the role of the Persian king, which
the actantial analysis reflects, corresponds with the ambiguity of the
book's stance towards the Persian government, which is experienced by
the Jews both as threat and as protectionan experience consequently
inscribed in the book.
b. Semantic analysis
Another tactic from the structuralist strategy that can be profitably
employed for Esther is a semantic analysis of codes, the groupings of
terms distinctive of our text.4 The result of such an analysis will be that
each of the several codes we examine here will turn out to be a
manifestation of the theme of power, a central concern of the writing.
We can look first at the alimentary code. There is a good deal of data
relating to this code, for there are nine banquets (mishteh, lit. drinkingparty) in the book. The first and second are displays of the king's
wealth and munificence (1.1-4, 5-8). The third is Vashti's all-female
counterpart to the king's all-male banquet (1.9), and the fourth is
4. A paradigm for the present study is provided by David Jobling, The Sense of
Biblical Narrative: Three Structural Analyses in the Hebrew Bible (JSOTSup, 7;
Sheffield: JSOT Press, 2nd edn, 1986), I, pp. 26-62.
10
11
tence; and he exits directly from the royal court to the gallows (7.9-10).
The disjunction between inside and outside, constitutive of the story,
and fatal to Haman, but privately circumvented by Esther, is ultimately
abolished in the appointment of Mordecai: in going out of the king's
presence clad in royal robes, he manifests the truth that the imperial
power is now no longer located within the throne-room, but is concentrated in his person. His co-religionists, whose welfare he seeks (10.3),
are therefore no longer to be regarded as outsiders; in ch. 9, any town
where they may happen to find themselves, and especially any place
where they are 'gathered' in a show of solidarity, becomes a centre of
power that no one can resist (9.2).
There is also a further disjunction within the 'inside' sphere, that is,
between the king's presence and the rest of the palace: the king's presence is so 'inside' that even the rest of the palace is 'outside' by comparison. This disjunction is manifested in the law, known not just in the
palace but throughout the whole empire, that to enter the king's presence unbidden is to risk death (4.11). The king's presence, as the focus
of the greatest power, is evidently the most dangerous place. And that
is true not just in an obvious sense. For Vashti has discovered that not
to enter it when bidden is nearly as dangerous as entering it unbidden
(1.11-12, 19).
These codes signal the narrative's concern with power, where it is
located, and whether and how it can be withstood or manipulated by
others.
3. Feminism
A feminist criticism is concerned with 'the way the hypothesis of a
female reader changes our apprehension of a given text, awakening us
to the significance of its sexual codes'.5
The feminist issue in the Book of Esther is, it may be suggested,
whether power truly resides in the males, as the conventional wisdom
both Persian and Jewish would have it. In the case of the Vashti
episode, we are being invited to consider the question, Where does
power truly lie? Is it with the king, who has well-nigh universal power,
but of whose power it becomes plain at the first opportunity that it is
5. Elaine Showalter, Towards a Feminist Poetics', in Mary Jacobus (ed.),
Women Writing and Writing about Women (London: Croom Helm, 1979), pp. 2241 (25).
12
always open to resistance? Or does it not rather lie with Vashti, who
knows how to take the power she needs for her own self-determinationwhich is to say, all the power that matters? He can be thwarted;
she, however, provided she stands her ground, cannot. Her power is all
the more evident when we ask, What exactly is Vashti resisting? It is
not, apparently, any demands of Ahasuerus that she appear naked,
adorned by nothing more than her crown (though some rabbinic commentators thought so, reading 1.11). Nor is it his drunkenness, even
though it is true that his 'heart is merry with wine' (1.10). It is simply
his demand. And the strength of her resistance lies in the very absence
of a reason for refusing his demand. She doesn't need to have a reason,
for she is under no obligation. Her power lies in her freedom to choose
for herself.
As if to underline the fact that the issue is not one of legality but of
power, the king's response is simply one of anger; that can only mean
that she has done nothing illegal but has only made him lose face (cf.
7.7). His appeal to his wise men to tell him what, 'according to the
law', is to be done to her for her disobedience (1.15) conspicuously
fails to elicit any existing law, though they can invent an edict intended,
post eventum, to punish her (1.19). But in this they seem to wrongfoot
themselves, since the punishment they prescribe (not to come before
the king) is evidently, and ironically, Vashti's dearest wish (it was
'coming before the king' that she had declined in 1.11-12). The issue of
power, that is to say, is still in the forefront: even when the king and
princes believe they are exercising power over her, by preventing her
entering the king's presence, they are achieving no more than what she
herself has desired.
The issue of power in sexual politics is further explored in the
response of the princes of Persia to the news of Vashti's disobedience.
They unhesitatingly assume that throughout the empire it will be the
signal for wives, long suppressed, to start rising in rebellion against
their husbands, and that 'there will be contempt [on the wives' part]
and wrath [on the husbands' part] in plenty' (1.18). This truly hysterical
assumption can only mean that the men feel threatened, and that male
supremacy is being depicted as resting on the flimsiest of foundations.
It can only be ironical that their recipe for maintaining the sexual hierarchy is to spread the news of Vashti's recalcitrance throughout the
empire, and it can only be satire on males that a multilingual decree
needs to be issued throughout the 127 provinces asserting that every
13
14
15
tations of her as a woman at the Persian court. Even so, the ending of
the book raises some doubts about how thorough a success hers is. For
some sexual-political struggle between the figures of Esther and
Mordecai seems to be going on in ch. 9. We observe that it is Mordecai
who writes the letter to the Jews throughout the empire enjoining
observance of the fourteenth and fifteenth of Adar as days of celebration in commemoration of the victory achieved (9.20-22). And the Jews
do what Mordecai has written to them (9.23). But in 9.29 'Esther the
Queen' is writing 'with full authority this second letter about Purim in
order to make its observance obligatory', because her power needs to
be safeguarded literarily. The struggle is not yet over, however, for subsequently, it seems, some scribe, breaking grammatical concord,6 finds
it necessary to add 'and Mordecai' because he (it must be a man) does
not care for the flavour of the politics. And then finally Esther is lost
sight of altogether, and the book itself peters out with wishy-washy
generalities about Mordecai (10.1-3), for all the world as if the story
had really been about him all the time.7
The ultimate victory in the sexual politics of the Book of Esther
comes not in the Hebrew book, however, but in the Greek version with
its expansions. Here the whole story becomes framed by narratives of
the dream of Mordecai and its interpretation (A 1-11=11.2-12; F 110=10.4-11.1). The whole chain of events is thus represented as
divinely foreseen and foreordained, and, more to the present purpose,
as portraying the conflict of the narrative as a struggle between Mordecai and Hainan. We know that the male has finally edged Esther out of
her triumph when in 2 Maccabees we hear the day of celebration
(which had come into being primarily through Esther's courage and
shrewdness) being referred to as 'Mordecai's Day' (15.36).8
4. Materialism
A materialist criticism approaches the text in terms of the material, i.e.
6. The verb nrom is feminine singular, but the subject in the text as it stands is
both Esther and Mordecai.
7. For details see David J.[A.] Clines, Ezra, Nehemiah, Esther (NCB; London:
Marshall, Morgan & Scott, 1984), pp. 329-30.
8. See further David J.A. Clines, 'The Additions to Esther', Harper's Bible
Commentary (ed. James L. Mays; San Francisco: Harper & Row, 1988), pp. 81519.
16
17
ing those who seek their hurt (9.2), doing 'as they pleased to those who
hated them' (9.5)that 'as they pleased' being elsewhere the sign of
godless licence (as in Dan. 8.4), and, already in this very book, the
principle on which Haman has been plotting their extermination (3.11).
They seek no change in the structure of society; it is accepted as given,
as itself one of the 'laws of the Persians and the Medes'. The Jewish
ambition is solely to position themselves at the centre of power in that
society. Having once decided that if you can't beat them you should
join them, they now determine as well to have their cake and eat it.
They want to be Persian citizens and cultural outsiders at the same
time. They support the government but they support Jewishness no less.
Such a blurring of identities and shovelling underground of the ultimate divergence of interests of Jews and Persians is pragmatic rather
than principled. A materialist perspective points up the fragility of the
stance toward power adopted by the book. Some might call it realist, of
course, but the underlying tension is too strong for the compromise
position to last.
5. Deconstruction
'To deconstruct a discourse', says Jonathan Culler 'is to show how it
undermines the philosophy it asserts, or the hierarchical oppositions on
which it relies.'9 I see two points at which the narrative of Esther is
open to deconstruction in these terms.
The first is the issue of identity. It can be taken for granted that it is
quintessential to the standpoint of the narrative that Jews should maintain their racial identity. It is true that, until the edict against them, they
are, at least from the official point of view, a group without strong
coherence: they are 'a certain people scattered abroad and dispersed
among the peoples in all the provinces' (3.8), many of them exiles cut
off from their homeland, carried away from Jerusalem by Nebuchadnezzar (2.6). But once the edict for their annihilation is delivered, we
see the reality of Jewish solidarity: they act only and everywhere in
concert. 'In every province, wherever the king's command and his
decree came, there was great mourning among the Jews, with fasting
and weeping and lamenting' (4.3); all the Jews in Susa gather themselves at Esther's command for a communal fast (4.16); and when the
9. Jonathan Culler, On Deconstruction: Theory and Criticism after Structuralism (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1983), p. 86.
18
second edict arrives, 'in every province and in every city, wherever the
king's command and his edict came, there was gladness and joy among
the Jews, a feast and a holiday' (8.17). In ch. 9 also the Jews of the
empire act unitedly on the fateful thirteenth of Adar. And once the hostility has been eliminated, they pledge themselves to perpetuate the
memory of their common action: 'they ordained and took it upon themselves and their descendants that without fail they would keep these
days, that these days should be remembered and kept throughout every
generation, in every family, province, and city, and that these days
should never fall into disuse among their descendants' (9.27-28, abbreviated). All of which is to say that the narrative sees itself as promoting
racial identity, stressing collective action, experience and memory.
What it celebrates, however, is a deliverance achieved through denying one's Jewishness. Esther not only contracts a marriage with a
Gentilewhich is the quickest and surest way of denying one's Jewishnessbut keeps secret her ancestry, deliberately, in response to her
guardian's injunction (2.10, 20). Of course she does reveal her racial
identity when it will be advantageous, but we cannot get over the fact
that it is only by denying it that she can use it profitably. And, as if to
reinforce the idea that Jewish identity has its drawbacks, the narrative
reminds us that the threat of genocide against the Jews arises only
because Mordecai divulges his Jewishness (3.4) and acts on Jewish
principle so rigorously as to deny his superior the conventional courtesies (3.2). Which is to say: the Jewish people find themselves under a
death sentence because one Jew acts like a Jew and tells his people he
is a Jew; they escape through the good offices of another Jew who has
pretended she is not a Jew. If being Jewish is being Esther-like no
tragedy need be expected; if it is being Mordecai-like, no saviour in
high places can be counted on. This is a very confusing message from a
narrative that purports to sustain Jewish identity.
The second issue is the function of writing. In this narrative, realityfrom the Persian point of viewalways tends towards inscripturation, and attains its true quality only when it is written down. Only
what is written is valid and permanent. We have first been alerted to the
value of writing in Persian eyes at 1.19 where it is not enough that the
recalcitrant Vashti be deposed; her loss of office only becomes a reality
when it is 'written among the laws of the Persians and Medes'. Next,
the social order of 'each man master in his own house' can only be
assured by 'letters to all royal provinces, to every province in its own
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script and every people in its own language' (1.22). Then, the deepest
reality about the plan for Jewish annihilation is not that Haman wills it
or the king assents to it, but that it stands written. Writing is what
makes the threat real to every Jew, that ferrets them out in every corner
of the empire and confronts them with their fate; it is wherever this
royal edict comesthe written text, that isthat there is great mourning among the Jews (4.3). The writing itself, and not just its content, is
the threat.
Between chs. 4 and 7 there is (of course) no writing, because nothing
there is settled or finalized. Only when the flux of dialoguing, negotiating and executing has come to an end will the secretaries be summoned
again (8.9) and the imperial pleasure be set down in the diverse scripts
of the empire. The very act of writingquite apart from the fact that it
is irreversible Persian law that is being writtenmakes matters certain
and makes royal decrees everywhere effectual. The deliverance itself is
depicted as the result of the writing: 'in every province and in every
city, wherever the king's command and his edict came, there was gladness and joy among the Jews, a feast and a holiday' (8.17).
Now there are two moments of disequilibrium or deconstruction over
this matter of writing. The first deconstruction manifests itself in the
Jewish adoption of Persian writing. It is one thing to use the imperial
chancellery and the royal post for dispatching the second edict; that is a
matter of convenience, and clearly advantageous to the Jewish people.
It is another matter that the upshot of the whole sequence of events
should be that Mordecai 'recorded these things, and sent letters to all
the Jews who were in all the provinces of King Ahasuerus' (9.20). For
that means to say that the story of Esther and Mordecai is now written
into the Persian record (as indeed was the story of Mordecai's discovery of the eunuchs' plot, 2.23), as well as being circulated in written
form to his kinsfolk. Jews as well as Persians apparently need to have
the realities of the Haman affair permanently enshrined in written form.
This is, in its own small but deeply symbolic way, a crisis for Jewish
identity, though the narrative does not perceive it. Persian writing is a
symbol of Persian bureaucracy, which is a manifestation of empire with
its conglomerate of 127 provinces and who knows how many ethnic
groups. But Jews, though dispersed, are 'one people' (3.8), with one
language and possessed of a folk memory. In the terms of this narrative,
they should not need writing. It is a betrayal of ethnicity to adopt the
administrative machinery of an alien empire in the hope of preserving
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the national memory. Are the threat of genocide and the amazing deliverance from it so impotent, have they stirred the Jewish imagination so
little, that the only way of retaining the memory of them is to give them
the Persian treatment, recording them in chronicles of such dismal
banality that they will be read only to put people to sleep (6.1)?
We see in 9.24-25 what the Persian treatment of the events would
look like. In this capsule entry for the imperial chronicles what we find
is the true story cruelly denatured, Esther written out of the record, and
no less than seven mistakes made about the course of events (including,
incidentally, the novel information that the king 'gave orders in writing'
for the death of Haman, which he certainly did not according to the
narrative).10 The Jewish story pays a high price for being abstracted
into the Persian chronicles.
And as the end of ch. 9 makes patent, in almost laughable fashion,
once the memory of the event has been committed to the scriptorium,
the paperwork never stops. Not only must Mordecai draft a minute for
the chronicles and a circular to Jews everywhere, but Esther too must
write to them a 'second letter' (9.29) supporting or extending the letter
of Mordecai. For, it appears, the Jewish people had instituted on their
own initiative a ritual of fasting and lamenting in commemoration of
the danger. But for that institution to attain full reality there needs to be
a 'command of Queen Esther' that 'fixed these practices' and was
'recorded in writing' (9.32). She has undeniably become the (Persian)
Queen Esther.
The second point of deconstruction concerns the validity of writing.
Writing in this book is primarily the writing of law, law that not only
has the authority of the king behind it but, in the society of the Medes
and Persians, is informed by its own tradition of irreversibility. This is
the law that the Jews in ch. 9 assimilate to themselves as a guarantor of
the memory of their deliverance and of the correct observance of its
rituals.
But what the narrative has also told us, sotto voce, is that the concept
of the irreversibility of Persian law is a myth. Everyone pretends that it
cannot be altered, but if you are determined enough, you can beat an
unmovable object over the head with an irresistible force. Mordecai
undid the effect of the first edict: that is the heart of the narrative.
Writing is thereby proclaimedagainst the grain of the whole narra10. For the details, see David J.A. Clines, The Esther Scroll: The Story of the
Story (JSOTSup, 30; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1984), pp. 52-53.
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22
ical perspective. This is still not quite the same as having one critic perform different theoretical operations on the same text.
12. I know about the 'tyranny of lucidity', and accept that 'To challenge familiar assumptions and familiar values in a discourse which, in order to be easily readable, is compelled to reproduce these assumptions and values, is an impossibility'
(Catherine Belsey, Critical Practice [London: Methuen, 1980], pp. 4-5). I am talking about mystification.
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25
stance of 'objectivity' and frankly say what it is about the Bible they
want to affirm (if anything) and what it is they cannot adhere to (if anything)that is, to express their own personal evaluation of the material
they are doing their best to understand. Otherwise I do not see that we
are being honest with ourselves and fair to our students.
It happens that the last fifteen years, the period since the first edition
of this book was published, have seen an upsurge of biblical study of
kinds that can be called critique or evaluation. I am referring to the
methods in criticism that go under the heading of 'poststructuralism', of
which feminist, ideological and materialist criticisms are perhaps the
most notable. I shall be dealing with them in the second section of this
chapter, as 'second-order methods' of Old Testament study. All that
needs to be said at this moment is that none of them can dispense with
understanding. Though understanding the Old Testament may not be
the only worthwhile thing to do with it, there is nothing academic we
can do with it at all if we do not make the utmost attempts at understanding it, the parts and the whole, in its own terms and for its own
sake.
There are other academic goals we can have in the study of the Old
Testament that are neither understanding or evaluation, properly speaking. These are goals we might have when our intention is to use the Old
Testament for some other academic purpose, such as, for example, to
reconstruct the history of ancient Israel, to establish what daily life in
ancient Israel was like, or to learn the classical Hebrew language. These
are all proper academic goals, and all of them will have something to
contribute to our understanding of the Hebrew Bible. But they are not
in themselves attempts at understanding or evaluation of the Old Testament, and so I will be referring to them in the third section of this chapter as 'third-order methods' of Old Testament study. They too require
understanding of the Hebrew Bible itself, and so modes of understanding will be the 'first-order methods' of biblical study and the first
section of this chapter.
1. First-Order Methods
Since we are speaking of understanding as the first of our goals in Old
Testament study, let us be clear about the terms we should use. When
we come to formulate any understanding we gain, whether of part or of
the whole of the Old Testament, we call that formulation or putting into
words an interpretation. Now, since it is probably impossible to under-
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method, but more a way of life to most biblical scholars. The term
refers to the endeavour to interpret any passage according to the natural
sense of the words ('grammatical') and according to the probable
meaning of the author in his or her own time ('historical'). As a method, it functions first as a warning against arbitrary or fanciful interpretations, such as were often (but not invariably) to be encountered in
pre-Reformation interpretation. Thus, while an allegorical interpretation
of the Old Testament often saw in the name Jerusalem a veiled reference to the pious Christian soul or to the heavenly city, the historicalgrammatical method insists that 'Jerusalem' in the Old Testament
always refers to the ancient city of that name, unless there is good
evidence to the contrary. Or, whereas the commentary on the prophecy
of Habakkuk composed by members of the Dead Sea scrolls community at Qumran apparently interpreted the 'righteous' and 'wicked'
referred to by Habakkuk (in the late seventh century BCE) as persons
contemporary with the Qumran community, in the first century BCE, the
historical-grammatical method insists that these words should refer to
those persons intended by the prophet. (In this case, it is clear that Hab.
1.4 refers to 'righteous' and 'wicked' men of Habakkuk's own time.)
Such an approach may seem obvious enough to us, but we may note
that it may lead to apparent loss of understanding rather than gain.
Thus, the statement of God in Gen. 1.26, 'Let us make humanity in our
image', was readily interpreted by early Christian scholars as an
address by God the Father to the other persons of the Trinity, since God
is speaking of 'us' in the plural. As exegetes of the historical-grammatical school, we ourselves would deny that the author of Genesis 1 knew
anything of the doctrine of the Trinity, since Genesis was written well
before the advent of Christianity and the formulation of the doctrine of
the Trinity; so we would deny that such can be the meaning. Nonetheless, we seem to be no better off than the early Christian scholars, for
though many suggestions have been made, no entirely convincing interpretation of the plural can be offered. In such cases, we can only plead
that to understand less is not necessarily to understand worse. Again,
the historical-grammatical method can create problems that do not exist
if its rigours are not applied. So references in the Psalms to the king,
especially to the king as God's son (Ps. 2.7), were traditionally interpreted by Christian scholars as references to the Messiah, Christ. If the
historical-grammatical method is followed, however, the king must be
seen as the contemporary Israelite king, and some explanation must be
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found for references to him as God's son and for the address to him as
'God' (Ps. 45.6if that is what the Hebrew actually says).
Despite such problems, the historical-grammatical approach is universally accepted, principally because it offers a criterion for judging
between rival interpretations. It is not so clear to all scholars today,
however, as it was even a few decades ago, that the meaning of a passage should be restricted to 'the meaning intended by the author'. This
doubt arises partly because authors (especially poets) do not always
intend one meaning and one meaning only, and partly because re-applications of a prophet's words (for example) to later situationsa process that was going on already in the Old Testament period and that is
clearly evident in the New Testamentcan be argued to draw out fresh,
legitimate, meanings from those words which the prophet himself never
intended. Even more important, it is also commonly argued today that
the meaning of words is whatever they mean to readers and that authors
have no control over what their words are taken to mean. This is an
truly radical issue; but it is doubtful whether the historical-grammatical
approach can ever be dispensed with, and the meaning we presume the
author intended will always be an important constituent, though not the
sum total, no doubt, of our interpretation of a passage.
ii. Textual criticism. Historical-grammatical exegesis interprets the
texts; but what is the text? We do not have the original manuscripts of
any biblical book. The oldest Hebrew manuscripts come from the second century BCE, but they are mostly fragmentary; the oldest datable
complete Hebrew Bible is from the eleventh century CE. While all the
evidence shows that on the whole the original texts of the biblical
writings have been copied faithfully down through the centuries, in the
exact wording there are thousands of variations. It is impossible to
know with complete precision what the books of Amos or Job, for
example, originally said; but it is possible to reconstruct a 'better' text
than exists in any surviving manuscriptthat is, a text that is more
likely to be near the original text.
The discipline that strives to reach behind the mediaeval manuscripts
to the probable precise wording of the biblical books is known as textual criticism. In many respects it is a rigorously objective discipline,
with elaborate rules for the evaluation of any piece of textual evidence.
From another point of view, however, it is a form of interpretation,
since the ultimate arbiter of any textual evidence is the scholar's (or
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scholars') judgment about its intelligibility. So the fact that all the
manuscripts and the ancient versions (in some cases centuries older
than our Hebrew manuscripts) agree on the wording of a verse does not
necessarily mean that the verse makes sense or that it reproduces what
the author originally wrote. In Amos 6.12, for example, the Hebrew and
the ancient versions have 'Does one plough with oxen?' in a sequence
of rhetorical questions that are meant to be answered 'No!' There
seems to be some mistake in the Hebrew, since this particular question
is one that we would answer with 'Yes!' An emendation (i.e. proposed
correction) of the Hebrew yields the sense 'Does one plough the sea
with oxen?' ('No!')which is just the absurd kind of question required
by the context; RSV, NEB and most modern versions translate accordingly, convinced that this is more probably what Amos said. (What is
involved is dividing one Hebrew word into two and supplying different
vowels, bbqr ym, pronounced bahbaqdr yam, instead of bbqrym,
pronounced babb'qarim.) Another situation arises when the ancient
versions agree in differing from the Hebrew text. A well-known
example occurs in Gen. 4.8, where the Hebrew manuscripts have 'Cain
said to Abel his brother' but do not tell us what he said (the Hebrew
verb does mean 'said' rather than 'spoke'). Several of the ancient
versions of the Bible, namely the Samaritan text of the Pentateuch, the
Greek Septuagint, the Latin Vulgate, and two of the three Aramaic
Targums (paraphrasing translations), have Cain say to Abel something
like 'Let us go into the fields' (where Cain is intending to kill Abel).
Here the only rule a textual critic can offer by way of advice is not very
helpful: he or she will say, judiciously, that the Samaritan and the
Greek when agreeing against the Hebrew of Genesis are not necessarily
preferable. So in the end scholars must decide whether they think the
ancient versions have preserved a phrase accidentally omitted from the
Hebrew, or whether the ancient versions have made an addition to the
Hebrew because they were as puzzled by the Hebrew as we are. Among
modern translations, the RSV inserts the addition, explaining in a
footnote that the addition is based on the ancient versions, while the
NEB inserts it without explaining that it is an addition; the RV fudged
the issue by translating 'Cain told Abel his brother' (though the Hebrew
cannot mean 'told' rather than 'said'!).
It is often thought that textual criticism provides a foundation upon
which exegesis builds; the examples above show that while most of the
business of textual criticism (collecting evidence, generalizing about
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indicators of belonging: my wife, her husband, her children, their mother, my lovers, my wool, my flax, my oil, my drink, and many other such
phrases. If we see that this is a poem about belonging, we have not
tamed it or pigeonholed it, but we have sharpened our perception of it.
We can go on to consider what kinds of belonging exist in the poem:
there is right belonging ('my husband', v. 16), and negation of belonging ('not my wife', v. 2) and wrong belonging ('my lovers', v. 5). The
whole poem, it turns out, explores this triple possibility in belonging.
The acts of movement (coming, going, returning), of gift (giving, withholding, taking), of thought (remembering, forgetting, remembering
wrongly), and of speech (responding, not responding, responding
wrongly) are all developments of the fundamental three-way division in
the primary image. The more these connections and resemblances are
dwelt on and savoured, the more the poem manifests its unity of conception, and the deeper, consequently, the reader's understanding of it.
The rhetorical criticism of a passage (a poem perhaps, or a whole
book), while it requires wholehearted concentration upon that text, does
not demand that all other texts should be expunged from one's mind (as
if that were possible!), though some critics of 'close reading' have supposed that it does. For obviously one's general knowledge of life and
particular knowledge of other works of the same author, or in the case
of the Old Testament, other Old Testament books, contributeoften
unconsciouslyto one's understanding of a passage; the commentaries
draw explicit attention to all kinds of such extraneous data. There is
another type of extraneous knowledge, however, that can be very valuable even though it may be knowledge of what may not exist (!). That
is to say, every text has a countertext, or rather, many countertexts,
things that could have been said but weren't. What is actually spoken or
written is always selected, consciously or not, from the countless possibilities inherent in the language known to the speaker or writer. Every
sentence spoken or written has unexpressed and rejected counterparts
lurking in the background. By conjuring up some of these countertexts,
the reality, individuality, and lack of inevitability of the text before us
can be reinforced. We call up such a countertext when we read in Isa.
53.2 that the servant of Yahweh 'grew up before him like a young
plant, like a plant rooted in dry ground', and remark that the last phrase
is hardly what we would expect; for the righteous in the Old Testament
are generally not weedy and underdeveloped, and if they are like plants,
they are like plants by streams of water whose leaf does not wither
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34
divine speeches, chs. 38-41; the epilogue, 42.7-17) have been regarded
by one scholar or another as secondary (i.e. not part of the original
book), that the majority of interpretations of the book ignore the doubtful chapters or, indeed, interpret them in a sense at variance with the
remainder of the book. The principle of the 'literary work of art', however, operates upon the fact that the book of Job, in all its 42 chapters,
is the book that exists, and must therefore be the primary object of our
interpretative scrutiny. If some parts seem hard to reconcile with other
parts, we need not jump to the conclusion that the book is fundamentally at cross purposes with itself (though that is a possible conclusion,
to be reached only at the end of a long and tiring road), but must seek to
understand what a book so seemingly at variance with itself could
possibly signify when taken as a whole.
If the thrust of the 'literary work of art' is toward 'whole' meanings
rather than meanings of the parts, the dangers of the verse-by-verse
interpretation, such as is followed in many commentaries and much
classroom teaching, become all too clear. Unless one moves constantly
between the part and the whole, the particular and the general, what
appears to be a worthily thorough and detailed interpretation may in
fact be a steadfast and systematic refusal to confront the primary questions of meaning.
(ii) The second emphasis of the 'literary work of art' approach, that
the work should be studied primarily for what it is in itself, is common
ground for a majority of critics of English literature, for example, but
fairly revolutionary in biblical studies. More commonly Old Testament
scholars have insisted that an Old Testament writing can only be interpreted in the light of history, and have gone on from there to demand
the most minute historical reconstruction as a prerequisite of interpretation. Some literary critics have gone to the opposite extreme, and
argued for the complete 'autonomy' of the literary work of art, which is
to say that external information about the authors, their historical and
social setting, their sources and the influences upon them are all irrelevant to meaning. But a moderate statement of the issue would be more
widely accepted, that while as interpreters we need all the help we can
get from the historian, the text has to be read for itself and in itself.
While every scrap of external information is potentially valuable for
interpretation of the Old Testament, the surprising thing is how little is
in reality significant. To understand Amos or Micah well, a paragraph
or two of historical and social background probably suffices (and much
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37
38
39
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text, it would be more correct to say that the scholar is showing how the
text deconstructs itself than that the scholar has performed a deconstruction of the text. Deconstruction is an especially powerful tool in
biblical study, in that it relativizes the authority attributed to biblical
texts, and makes it evident that much of the power that is felt to lie in
the texts is really the power of the community that supports them and
sanctions them.
3. Third-Order Methods
The three methods to be discussed under this heading are usually put on
the same footing as those I have called 'first-order' methods. But the
way I would distinguish the two groups is that the third-order methods
principally use the biblical text for purposes beyond the text. This does
not mean (i) that they do not incidentally shed valuable light on the text
and so assist our interpretation of it, or (ii) that they are not legitimate
subjects of study in their own right.
i. Historical criticism. A good deal of the Old Testament is narrative of
events; it is therefore a natural undertaking to examine how the narrated
events correspond to what actually happened in history. Especially
because much of the narrative concerns a nation and not just individuals, historians rightly regard the books of Samuel and Kings, for example, as providing the raw material for a reconstruction of Israel's history. And since the scholars best equipped to pursue such investigations
are usually those who have been trained in biblical study and in Old
Testament interpretation, the impression is often given that historical
study is a primary form of Old Testament interpretation.
The term 'historical criticism' refers to this enterprise of reconstructing the events lying behind the biblical narratives. But precisely
because its focus is events and historical processes, its focus is not the
biblical text and its goal cannot be the interpretation of the biblical text.
Of course, everyone with an historical bent would like to know as well
as possible what actually happened and would like to understand the
factors behind the movements of history. But in that quest the Old
Testament becomes a source-book for the history; it is used as a tool,
sometimes the best and sometimes only one among several, for reconstructing the past. In so far as historical criticism uses the biblical text,
it is of course biblical study; but its contribution to biblical interpretation is usually indirect.
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This is not to say that indirect contributions may not be very valuable. For example, every student of the Old Testament who visits Israel
and Jordan and travels through the land of the Bible finds that he or she
has acquired an almost indelible perspective from which to read the Old
Testament. The gain is not quantifiable, and one's first-hand knowledge
of topography is not likely to alter any Old Testament interpretations
(though it may help to preserve one from some errors). Historical
reconstruction and synthesis will have a similar type of value. No doubt
the story of the conflict between twelve young warriors of David and
twelve of Ishbosheth at the pool in Gibeon (2 Sam. 2.12-17) is illuminated if one knows that such a pool existed, and more so if one has
stood by it oneself; but the meaning of the story is hardly touched by
the historical reality. Or, to take a more significant example: suppose
that historical research can show, as some contemporary historians
believe, that the conquest of Canaan by the Israelite tribes was really an
uprising of Canaanite peasants (perhaps incited by a small band of
incoming Hebrews); what difference would that make to the understanding and interpretation of the biblical narratives of the 'conquest' ?
In one sense, a fundamental difference, in that these narratives would
be shown to be only loosely connected with historical events; in other
senses, none at all, since these narratives would continue to be tales
about Israel's success when obedient to God, about Israel's unity, about
leadership, about conflicts within and without a group, about religious
war, and so on.
So while the results of historical criticism can be fed back into biblical study and determine one dimension of the biblical texts (their relationship to what happened), they do not generally have a decisive
weight in their interpretation.
ii. Source criticism. This method seeks to reconstruct, not the events
that lie behind the Old Testament texts, but the sources that lie behind
their contents. Such sources were both written and oral, but the term
'source criticism' generally refers to the reconstruction of written
sources. There can be no doubt that many of the biblical texts, especially narratives and laws, were derived or adapted from previously
existing sources. Biblical writings very occasionally acknowledge their
sources, as when a short poem on the 'standing still' of the sun in
Joshua's time is followed by the comment, 'Is this not written in the
Book of Jashar?' (Josh. 10.12-13; cf. Num. 21.14). More frequently,
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Testament studies has been in the discrimination between source material and editorial material in the Deuteronomistic History. Here it is not
so much the detection of the historian's sources that is valuable for
interpreting his work, but the isolation of those passages in which he is
not following any source but freely composing and therefore expressing
his own ideas and theological outlook.
iii. Form criticism. While historical criticism attempts to reach behind
the biblical text to reconstruct the history of Israel, form criticism
reaches back to the oral folk literature of Israel. Its principles are these:
that embedded in the written literature of a people are samples of their
earlier oral literature, and that many literary forms (legends, hymns,
laments, and so on) had in the oral stage a particular function in the life
of the people (a life-setting; German Sitz im Leberi). In gospel studies,
form criticism sought to recover the early Christian preaching in which
the narratives of Jesus' sayings and acts were recounted and took on
fixed shapes. In Old Testament studies, form criticism was fruitfully
applied to the Psalms, each type of psalm (thanksgiving by an individual, hymn of praise, appeal by the community, etc.) being shown to
belong to a certain type of occasion in Israelite worship. Narratives
were also designated as 'aetiological saga' (a tale purporting to account
for the origins of a custom or a place), 'legend' (a tale about a holy
man, holy place or sacred custom that points a moral), and so on.
Form criticism performs a valuable service in its concern with classifying types of literature within the biblical texts (e.g. prose and poetry
and their subdivisions). By enquiring after the typical it highlights what
is individual in any piece of literature, and by identifying the type or
genre of the passage in question (as hymn, prophetic speech, instruction, family saga, for example) it offers a major interpretative key to the
passage. (We would be hard pressed to interpret the story in Judg. 9.815 about the trees' attempt to anoint a king over them until we recognized that it was a 'fable'!) But in that it attempts to reconstruct the
roles the Old Testament literature played in the life of Israel, its goal is
not the interpretation as such of the biblical text.
It is as well to bear in mind also the provisional (not to say speculative) nature of much form criticism, as well as of much source criticism. This is no objection to these disciplines as such, but merely a
reminder that in the field of the humanities knowledge does not have
the precision that some scholars give the air of having achieved. In part
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BIBLIOGRAPHY
General
John Barton, Reading the Old Testament: Method in Biblical Study (London: Darton,
Longman & Todd, 1984).
Terence J. Keegan, Interpreting the Bible: A Popular Introduction to Biblical Hermeneutics (New York: Paulist Press, 1985).
J. Cheryl Exum and David J.A. Clines (eds.), The New Literary Criticism and the Hebrew
Bible (JSOTSup, 143; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1993).
Specific
Norman C. Habel, Literary Criticism of the Old Testament (Guides to Biblical Scholarship;
Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1971).
J. Cheryl Exum, Fragmented Women: Feminist (Sub)versions of Biblical Narratives
(JSOTSup, 163; Sheffield, JSOT Press, 1993).
David J.A. Clines, What Does Eve Do to Help? and Other Readerly Questions to the Old
Testament (JSOTSup, 94; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1990).
Interested Parties: The Ideology of Writers and Readers of the Hebrew Bible (JSOTSup,
205; GCT, 1; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1995).
47
political environment, or do they stem from a more specifically theological origin? To what extent is theological research thrown back on to
the genius loci, i.e. the concrete context in which it is done? 2. What
are the consequences of changing international relations, e.g. the contribution of the Third World, the changing balance between East and
West, the growing interchange with the USA? 3. If the study of religion
with its suggestion of pluralism is the horizon within which any theological question is to be put nowadays, what are the consequences for
the usual orientation of theological research towards one single religious and/or cultural tradition? 4. What are the growing points in your
own field of theological research? What trends are developing in your
own discipline, and what will be their impact on the other theological
disciplines?
These are not questions such as we biblical scholars are accustomed
to being asked, or even asking ourselves. There was no relevant scholarly literature in the professional journals I could turn to for answers or
suggestions, no biblical sub-discipline with a tradition of exploring the
contexts in which our scholarly work is done, contexts that impinge
more pressingly upon us, it seems, from year to year. So I found the
task of addressing these questions challenging, but also frightening. My
answers, I am afraid, are too impressionistic, too personal, too eccentric, even.
1. My Own Context
Because my specialism is Old Testament studies, and I teach in a
department of biblicalstudies (without any adjoining departments of
theology or religious studies), my horizon is necessarily somewhat
limited, and I can speak most intelligently about biblical research in
particular rather than about theological research in general. But because
biblical research has traditionally been a quintessential part of the theological curriculum, I would be very surprised if what I can say about
biblical studies in particular did not have its parallels in the broader
field of theology generally.
Another determinative feature of my context is that I was educated in
state-supported and secular universities (in Australia and England), and
have always taught in such institutions, except for one year when I
taught in a theological seminary in the USA. This context makes me
more alert than many other biblical scholars (apparently) to issues of
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could do no harm to consider 1. what 'internationalization' in this context would mean, 2. whether we can discern any tendencies recently to
'internationalization', and 3. whether such 'internationalization' is
desirable or not.
1.1 take talk of the 'internationalization' of biblical research
whether it is seen to be happening, or whether it is regarded as a desirable aimto presuppose that as things are, or as they have been,
research in different countries has been focused in different areas or
undertaken according to different methodologies.
Is this indeed the case? Are there indeed national characteristics in
scholarship? When I discuss this question with others, I generally find a
tension between a cautious desire not to succumb to superficial stereotypes and a healthy recognition that all groups of humans differ in some
ways from all other groups. It would not be very scholarly to adopt
the comic stereotypes of our neighbours. But when we recognize the
influence of particular languages, social structures, educational policies
and ideals, political systems and suchlike on the habits of mind of
scholars in one country compared to another, it is not at all remarkable
that we should be able to distinguish German Old Testament scholarship from American, French from British, Dutch from Danish. Perhaps
the strongest determinant of all has not been national characteristics in
themselves, or even the distinctive intellectual climates of the various
countries, but rather the particular interests of individual leading and
charismatic scholars in previous generations who have shaped the formation of their pupils in their own country. So what French biblical
scholars, for example, have in common, I would suggest, is not so
much some 'Gallic temperament' (though I believe in that a little), nor
the French language (though I believe in that a lot), nor the ideals of the
French educational system (though I believe that has a very distinctive
effect on their work), but the influence of half a dozen or a dozen
scholars who have served as role models for successive generations,
and whose personal skills and predilections (which were perhaps rather
arbitrarily chosen in the first place) have become almost normative for
their successors.
In this context, internationalization would have to mean the abolition
or minimizing of such national characteristics. Before we consider
whether such internationalization may be desirable or not, we should
ask whether we can discern any evidence of a tendency towards it.
2. Have there been in recent years or decades any tendencies towards
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isbecause I do not think what they are doing is very plausible. And I
presume that they don't, for the most part, want to talk with me about
deconstruction, let us say, for much the same reason. So if it happens,
to take one example, that most German Old Testament scholars are
historical critics and I am not, what is the point of internationalization?
I would be very happy to convince them that what I am doing is
worthwhile, but (to be honest) I do not particularly want to hear them
try to convince me that what they are doing is worthwhilepartly
because I think I know their reasoning and partly because I do not have
very much confidence in it. The 'yes' to internationalization has to be
spoken, does it not, when there are convergent lines of approach, and
when we can genuinely believe that something fruitful can emerge and
that we will not find ourselves yet again wasting time in some sterile
debate about methodology (not that all such debates are sterile). There
is no point in professing oneself in favour of internationalization in
principle; in itself it is neither good nor bad.
But as for the 'no' to internationalization, I feel compelled to utter a
firm 'no' to any moves that reduce the diversity of human distinctiveness. For example, even at the cost of some personal inconvenience, I
would be very unhappy if English were to become the standard medium
of scholarly communication in biblical studies. It is not that I believe
you can say things in German or French that you cannot in English, but
that I think the identity of researchers is being in some way negated if
they are not free to write in their native language. In the interests of
communication pure and simple I would be in favour of scholars publishing their work in English, but in the interests of contextualization I
am in favour of the opposite; and the second interest in my opinion
outweighs the first. What I would be most in favour of is of scholars
whose language is a 'minority' one publishing both in their own language and in an 'international' one.
This question of language is only an example. It would be equally
unfortunate if the distinctive ethos of biblical study in any country were
to be subjected to some universal standard. As far as we Europeans are
concerned, at any rate, the whole matter of the internationalization of
biblical studies begins to look like a question that cannot be considered
these days without reference to the political issues of federalism and
national distinctiveness; and I guess that inevitably our opinions on the
internationalization of theology will bear some relation to our political
views about the future of Europe.
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For the academics who are professionally concerned with the subject,
academic freedom has to meannot a freedom to research their subject
in isolation from the impact their work has on anyone except their fellow academics, butfreedom to choose their own priorities and goals,
freedom to resist the magisterium of anyonechurch leaders, politicians, and also the senior scholars who distribute research grants,
freedom to resist the imposition of the agendas of anyone at all.
On the side of the religious communities, they are involved in a creative tension with the academy whenever they find themselves threatened by the values of the academy. For myself, I think the church has
more power than the academy, and I cannot help thinking it a good
thing when a powerful institution feels itself challenged by a less powerful. It is especially gratifying when the academy can deliver to the
church something useful that the church doesn't know it needs or
wants. I am thinking about biblical criticism in general. The church
doesn't really know, I think, how much it needs to be liberated from the
shackles of fundamentalism, or how much it needs to abandon the use
of the Bible as a tool for social control. I am thinking, for example, of
the church's record on matters of sexual ethics, whether homosexuality
or birth control, where the Bible has served essentially as an instrument
for controlling the faithful. The academy's biblical criticism inevitably
relativizes the authority of the Bible, and the church can only benefit
from such a humanizing of the Bible.
In sum, I am suggesting that a pluralist approach is not only forced
upon us by the realities of our contemporary world, but is also potentially beneficial to 'end-users' who do not as yet realize that their distinctive appropriation of the Bible has nothing to fear or to lose from a
non-exclusive and pluralist approach.
5. An End-User Theory of Interpretation
In this section I want to propose a model for biblical interpretation that
accepts the realities of our pluralist context. I call it by various names: a
goal-oriented hermeneutic, an end-user theory of interpretation, a market philosophy of interpretation, or a discipline of 'comparative interpretation'. This framework has two axes, 1. the indeterminacy of meaning; 2. the authority of the interpretative community.
1. First comes the recognition that texts do not have determinate
meanings. Whatever a text may mean in one context, it is almost bound
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The simplest answer for academics has long been that we will seek the
approval of no one other than our fellow academics. If our papers get
accepted by Vetus Testamentum and New Testament Studiesor, better
still, by Biblical Interpretationthey are valid, and if they don't they're
not.
This safe answer has started to fall apart, though. We are beginning
to realize that what counts as a valid interpretation in Cambridge
(England or Massachusetts) does not necessarily do so in Guatemala
City or Jakarta or Seouland certainly not vice versa. The erstwhile
homogeneity of the 'scholarly world' is proving fissiparous, and many
smaller interest groups are taking the place of a totalitarian Bibelwissenschaft. More and more scholars are seeking their legitimation
from communities that are not purely academic.
Where does that leave biblical researchers?
If there are no 'right' interpretations, and no validity in interpretation
beyond the assent of various interest groups, biblical interpreters have
to give up the goal of determinate and universally acceptable interpretations, and devote themselves to producing interpretations they can
sellin whatever mode is called for by the communities they choose to
serve.
This is what I call 'customized' interpretation. Like the 'bespoke'
tailor, who fashions from the roll of cloth a suit to the measurements
and the pocket of the customer, a suit individually ordered or bespoken,
the bespoke interpreter has a professional skill in tailoring interpretations to the needs of the various communities who are in the market for
interpretations. There are some views of biblical texts that the church
will 'buy' and 'wear', and others that only paid-up deconstructionists,
footloose academics and other deviants will even try on for size.
There is nothing unethical (or novel) in cutting your garment not
only according to your cloth but also according to your customer's
shape. Even in a market economy, no one will compel you to violate
your conscience, though it may cost you to stick to your principles. As
a bespoke interpreter responding to the needs of the market, I will be
interested, not so much in the truth, not at all in universally acceptable
meanings, but in identifying shoddy interpretations that are badly
stitched together and have no durability, and I will be giving my energies to producing attractive interpretations that represent good value for
money.
In such a task interpreters of today do not have to start from scratch.
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are those interpreters who can think what they like and say what they
please and have found a publisher who doesn't care about the market.
But what a rare breed they are!
I suggest that this approach, an end-user philosophy of interpretation,
can lead towards an answer to the question raised by religious pluralism. In the briefing outline for the Stegon colloquium it was asked: 'If
the study of religion with its suggestion of pluralism is the horizon
within which any theological question is to be put nowadays, what are
the consequences for the usual orientation of theological research
towards one single religious and/or cultural tradition?' The answer, to
my mind, is that there is nothing necessary, nothing already given,
about the orientation of biblical research: it is in the hands of the
researchers, who are themselves responsible to those who fund them to
do their research. So the orientation will be whatever those interested
parties will negotiate it to be. And it will not be the same for all
researchers, far from it. It is all to the good if biblical research shows
diverse orientations; it will only enrich the study of the Bible if different researchers are pursuing different goals (even though you might
want to call this fragmentation and bewail the resultant difficulties of
communication).
6. Future Trends in Biblical Interpretation
In my view the most important single trend that has developedand is
still in its early floweringin the field of biblical studies since the
middle of this century has been the asking of 'literary' questions. That
has taken the form, first, of a concentration upon the text itself, 'the
final form of the text', the text as a work of art. The text was focused on
as the object of interpretation rather than as a means for the reconstruction of historical actualities that lie outside the text. Some described it
as a move from interest in the background of the text to interest in the
foreground of the text. The second concentration was upon the reader,
the role of the reader in the construction of meaning, the effect of the
differences between readers on the interpretation of texts, and the function of communities of interpreters. The third area of concentration has
been upon the nature and the processes of interpretation, the nature of
texts, of language. And the coming into being of this journal, Biblical
Interpretation, is evidence of this major change of orientation in biblical scholarship. Biblical interpretation was what we all thought we
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were doing all along, but we used to think that, however many difficulties there were in our texts, the act of interpretation itself was quite
straightforward; we didn't problematize it. Now the meaning of meaning has ceased to be the esoteric concern of philosophers and has
become a question for the practical workaday biblical exegete.
I would not say that this change of emphasis to literary issues has
become dominant in Anglo-American biblical criticism, which is what
I know most about. I am not even sure I want to say it has become
prominent, because most course curricula for students and most published research still reflect largely the concerns of the traditional historical-critical methods. But I think I can say that it has become legitimate, and that it is accorded at the least a grudging respect by more
traditionally oriented scholars. And it seems clear that this new style of
criticism is especially favoured by students and younger scholars, to the
extent that within a generation from now I expect that we shall begin to
see 'literary' criticism becoming the new orthodoxy in biblical studies.
A major reason why literary studies have gained acceptance is
because they do not presuppose the traditional technicalities of biblical
scholarship. This is evident in the classroom. When I was first a teacher
of the Old Testament in the early 60s, I did not expect an undergraduate
student to have any ideas of their own, but only to be able to comprehend and organize the materials of the standard debates current among
the scholars (on the cultic background to the Psalms, the place of wisdom within Old Testament theology, the historical questions about the
origins of Israel). Today, on the other hand, I am not even surprised
when students in their first term of biblical studies propose original and
interesting interpretations that are new to me and that I would call
'publishable'. This new state of affairs must have something to do with
our current educational philosophy that sees the goal of education in the
acquisition of skills rather than of knowledge. I recognize that there is a
problem over whether 'literary' criticism is post-historical or a-historical (or even anti-historical); in practical terms I myself have to face the
question each year whether I should go on teaching my students about
Wellhausen's Pentateuchal source criticism and Gunkel's Psalm Gattungen or whether I should immediately plunge into rhetorical criticism
or feminist criticism or deconstruction or whatever contemporary strategy I happen to be practising at the time. But whether we take a moderate or a doctrinaire approach to the new literary methods, merely
making room for them alongside the traditional methods or setting the
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sion, and so may represent a new alliance between the historical and the
literary approaches to biblical studies. In the historical dimension, the
ideological questions aim at identifying the groups whose interests
brought the text into being and the groups whose interests ensured the
preservation of th^ text. In the ahistorical dimension, the ideological
questions aim at detecting the impact the texts have upon groups who
are currently using them, at discerning the support the texts give to the
special interest groups who keep the texts in print. Of each of our texts,
an ideological criticism would ask, 'Why is there a book of X, and what
does it do to you if you read it?'
The net effect of the ideological approach is to relativize the biblical
text, and make it less malleable to theological reconstruction. For while
historical criticism relativized the Bible to some extent, by locating it in
an cultural context alien to our own, it did not ever defamiliarize most
of its theological ideas (witness the persistence in current theological
discourse of ideas of retribution, covenant, sin, the maleness of God,
metaphors of the king and warrior for the divine). But if we now ask,
not who held these ideas in ancient Israel and how the ideas developed
(historical questions), but in whose interest these ideas came into being
and which groups stood to benefit from them (ideological questions),
we take a further step toward relativizing the authority of the Bible. If
we then go on to ask the further ideological question about how the
ideology of the Bible is being used by modern society and especially by
the church to promote the interests of particular groups, we become
even more aware of the relativity of the Bible's authority to the power
of the groups that promote it and profess to be governed by it. I do not
mean that we necessarily encounter anything illicit, but we do set the
Bible and its effects within a framework that is given by our pluralist
society.
I illustrate the approach I have described by reference to a recent
paper of my own, 'The Ten Commandments, Reading from Left to
Right', where I address such questions to a biblical text that has long
been accepted both by society generally and by Christian and Jewish
religious communities as normative and beyond the reach of any reductionist criticism ('reading from left to right' is my slogan for resisting the ideology of the text and insisting on addressing my own questions to it).
The Ten Commandments exist, I argue, because it is in someone's
interest for them to exist. Since societies are not homogeneous, I ask, In
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which group's interest are these commandments? And since groups are
usually in some kind of conflict with other groups, I ask, What kind of
social conflict is alluded to, or repressed, by this text? And since it is
usually the victors in any social conflict whose texts get preserved, I
look carefully at elites and powerholders in Israelite society for the
matrix of these laws.
The outcome of this study was that the standard questions asked in
the scholarly literature, Are the Ten Commandments Mosaic?, What
did they originally mean?, How were they reinterpreted in later Israelite
literature?, were seen to have evaded the question of their ideological
significance and thus of their value to communities (like our own) that
do not share the material and ideological stance of their authors. And it
was very noticeable how the most sophisticated of historical scholars
and redaction critics have entertained the most appallingly uncritical
views about the ideological and ethical status of the Ten Commandments. The text was ripe for this kind of demythologization, which an
ideological criticism enabled.
In my opinion 'ideology' is going to be the catchword of the 1990s in
biblical criticism, just as 'the reader' was of the 1980s, 'the text' was of
the 1970s, and 'the author' was of previous decades of critical scholarship. When the partisan character of the biblical texts is more extensively uncoverednot just in its historical dimension, about which we
know a lot already, but in the effect that its 'interested' character has
upon its 'truth'theology is going to have to come to terms with a
Bible far different from the confessional document preserved by
'believing communities' and then by the church, far different also from
the charmingly antique (but essentially value-free and above all harmless) document lovingly restored by historical scholarship. It is going to
have to busy itself with a tendentious document that says what it says
not because it is true but because it paid to say so. And the Bible may
become, under those conditions, what it always should have beenthe
objectof theological (or, ideological) scrutiny rather than, in some
sense, its source or guide.
But there is one further aspect of these examples of the new literary
criticism that is especially relevant for the journal Biblical Interpretation. It is the question whether feminist criticism and ideological criticism are, properly speaking, interpretational at all. Perhaps we should
be sharply distinguishing between the acts of interpretation, which seek
only to represent the text, to exegete it and explicate it, to rehearse it in
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words other than its own, to understand itbut not to critique or evaluate itand, on the other hand, acts of criticism, which judge the text
by a norm outside itself. If a feminist or some other ideological criticism takes its point of departure from an ethical or intellectual position
that lies outside the text, one that may indeed be deeply hostile to the
text, its goal cannot be mere understanding, mere interpretation. To do
that would be for the critic to negate one's own personal commitments
and values. If we are not all the time making judgments on what we
read and what we see, what claim can we have to be intellectual or
ethical? Perhaps in fact the almost unchallenged assumption that the
task of biblical scholars is essentially to interpret the text represents a
systematic repression of our ethical instincts. Is it then not already too
late in the day to be founding a journal of biblical interpretation! Will
not the most interesting prospects for biblical studies lie precisely in
reading against the grain of the texts, in bringing to bear on our texts
our own cultural and historical and personal positions, and in evaluating the texts against the hundred and one yardsticks that the pluralist
world of international biblical scholarship will inevitably suggest? I
think so, but I support Biblical Interpretation all the same, so long as
the term itself can be challengedand even subverted now and then
by its contents. After all, if Vetus Testamentum can continue its success
when many of its readers feel unhappy about the Christian ideology
implicit in its title, when the Journal of Biblical Literature enters its
second century despite its minority of papers on literary subjects, and
when medical science, for that matter, with its all its technological profusion, is still represented by The Lancet, Biblical Interpretation should
go to press each quarter confident of a long and distinguished future.
Addendum
See also the responses in the same issue of Biblical Interpretation by
Pheme Perkins, 'Canon, Paradigms and Progress? Reflections on the
Essays by Rendtorff, Sugirtharajah and Clines' (pp. 88-95), and by
Davi Jobling, 'Globalization in Biblical Studies / Biblical Studies in
Globalization' (pp. 96-110).
The paper on the Ten Commandments referred to above is published
in my Interested Parties: The Ideology of Writers and Readers of the
Hebrew Bible (JSOTSup, 205; GCT, 1; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic
Press, 1995), pp. 26-45.
BEYOND SYNCHRONIC/DIACHRONIC
4. Beyond Synchronic/Diachronic
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4. Beyond Synchronic/Diachronic
71
Handout 1Workshops
Please list three respects in which workshops described and referred to
below might be parallel to what we can do in this workshop on synchrony/diachrony, and three respects in which they would differ.
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An artist of the Renaissance who was well known and had more commissions than
he could carry out alone would normally have a workshop of assistants to help him.
They would prepare the surfaces and mix the colours; and sometimes, if they performed well, they might be allotted minor parts of a work to do or a design to execute... Assistants would often graduate into pupils, who did more independent
work reflecting that of their teacher. And in due course they would go out from the
studio and set up on their own, producing work that was individual in style and
more clearly distinguishable from that of their master.
Mark Roskill, What is Art History? (London: Thames & Hudson, 1976), p. 55.
The rule for artistic practice in the Renaissanceand for the most part still in the
Baroquewas a workshop organization corresponding to the artist's general position in the social and economic sphere of the artisan class. It appears most closely
comparable to production procedure, work allocation, and work organization as we
still meet with them today in any small artisan's workshop. The master, directing
and producing the main work, is at the head, with two, three, or more apprentices
and assistants who help him out and thus for their part undergo their gradually progressing training (p. 310).
[E]ven the great and famous master was still at the same time a craftsman, like all
the more or less inferior colleagues who participated along with him as well as they
could in the same artistic field. Sometimes...many parts of the picture execution... were also taken over from the master by the staff of pupils and assistants
present in almost every workshop. Thus his personal achievement was confined to
the truly essential and centered in the design process, the allocation and supervision
of the assistants' work, the final retouching, and the finishing of the whole (p. 324).
Martin Wackernagel, The World of the Florentine Renaissance Artist:
Projects and Patrons, Workshop and Art Market (trans. Alison Luchs;
Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1981 [original, 1938]).
workshop [f. WORK n. + SHOP n. 3.] 1.
a. A room, apartment, or building in
which manual or industrial work is carried on.
1582 T. WATSON Centurie of Love
Ep. Ded. (Arb.) 25 Alexander the Great,
passing on a time by the workeshop of
Apelles, curiouslie surueyed some of
his doinges. 1775 JOHNSON West. Isl.
132 (Ostig) Supreme beauty is seldom
found in cottages or work shops. 1813
CLARKSONMem. W. Penn xviii. 335
All prisons were to be considered as
4. Beyond Synchronic/Diachronic
s.v. Supper of Lord, The constitution
which toke away from lay men the cup
of the Lorde, came out of the deuells
workshop. 1781 GIBBON Decl. & F.
xvii. II. 62 note, Two accurate treatises,
which come from the workshop of the
Benedictines. 1814 SCOTT Wav. Hi, Fergus's brain was a perpetual workshop of
scheme and intrigue. 1838 DISRAELI
Sp. 15 Mar. in Hansard's Parl. Debates
XLI. 939/2 To suppose that...the continent would suffer England to be the
workshop for the world. 1878 GURNEY
Crystallogr. 8 The workshop of Nature.
1900 W.P. KER Ess. Dry den Introd.
p. xxi, If he cannot explain the secrets
of the dramatic workshop.
c. attrib.
1869 J.G. WINTON (title) Modern
Workshop Practice as applied to marine, land, and locomotive engines. 1873
SPON (title) Workshop Receipts, for the
use of manufacturers, mechanics, and
scientific amateurs. 1902 Daily Chron.
29 Apr. 3/5 The workshop system answers because the master works with his
men, and gets the best out of them.
2. a. A meeting for discussion, study,
experiment, etc., orig. in education or
the arts, but now in any field; an organization or group established for this purpose.
1937 N.Y. Times 1 Aug. vi. 5/3 The
major requirement for admission to this
Summer workshop is an approved project for which the applicant seeks aid
and advice. 1938 L. MACNEICE Mod.
Poetry xi. 200 The communist poet,
Maiakovski, established a 'word workshop'... to supply all revolutionaries
with 'any quantity of poetry desired'.
1952 L. ROSS Picture (1953) 21 The elder Reinhardt...came to Hollywood in
1934... For the next five years, he ran a
Hollywood school known as Max Rein-
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4. Beyond Synchronic/Diachronic
75
anxious
fresh
confrontational
welcome
cumbersome
trendy
unnecessary
traditional
primary
subjective
uninteresting
pacifying
left
right
old-fashioned
On the opposite side of the sheet, the list is repeated, but the rubric is
different. It reads, 'Which words, if any, do you associate with the term
diachronicT
Participants in the workshop are asked to review these lists privately,
and tick any words that came into their minds as they thought of the
concepts 'synchronic' and 'diachronic'. I told them that at the end of
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4. Beyond Synchronic/Diachronic
ing, to follow a series of changes. But
the linguistics that penetrates values
and coexisting relations presents much
greater difficulties.
In practice a language-state is not a
point but rather a certain span of time
during which the sum of the modifications that have supervened is minimal... (p. 101).
[O]f all comparisons [to the distinction
between synchrony and diachrony] that
might be imagined, the most fruitful is
the one that might be drawn between
the functioning of language and a game
of chess...
First, a state of the set of chessmen
corresponds closely to a state of language. The respective value of the
pieces depends on their position on the
chessboard just as each linguistic term
derives its value from its opposition to
all the other terms.
In the second place, the system is
always momentary; it varies from one
position to the next...
Finally, to pass from one state of
equilibrium to the next, or according
to our terminologyfrom one syn-
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terminology in a transferred or metaphorical sense. And it is not selfevident what it is in our subject that corresponds to the synchronic
state of a language in his usage. Perhaps we should say: it is a text that
should be regarded as constituting a system, and any study of a text as
a system is synchronic. Then study of the structure of the text, or of its
narrative shape, or of its logic or its ideas or its theology as a system
would count as synchronic. It is not implicit in the concept 'synchronic'
that the result of such study must be that the text is a unity; a synchronic approachthat is, regarding the text as a systemcould well
lead to the conclusion that the text is poorly organized and does not
constitute a coherent system but manifests unevennesses, contradictions
and tensions.
If then we seek an explanation for such oddities in a text (though we
are not obliged to seek explanations, which are almost certainly going
to be hypothetical), we might have recourse to diachrony. It might be
that the reason for a text's incoherence is that has evolved over time
without a strong unifying shaping. But this is by no means the only, or
even the most natural, way of accounting for unevennesses in a text. A
text may well be a literary unity in the sense of having been composed
by one person at one time, and yet manifest disorder and contradictions
to some extent (student essays and even papers submitted for scholarly
journals have been known to have such a character). But, as a matter
of fact, diachronic studies in biblical criticism often seem to have taken
their rise from observed deficiencies in texts as systemsso much so
that a plausible case can be made for saying that synchronic study
always comes first, whether logically or in practice.
As for 'diachronic' in itself, a purist view might be that, since
'synchronic' studies systems at a given point in time, 'diachronic'
should compare systems across time. But it is very hard to envisage
how this could be done, whether we are speaking of language systems
or of texts. Saussure's formulation, that 'What diachronic linguistics
studies is not relations between co-existing terms of a language-state
but relations between successive terms that are substituted for each
other in time', helpfully excuses us from the necessity of comparing
states or systems and authorizes a focus on termsthat is, elements
within systems that have undergone change over time. That is in fact
how diachronic studies in biblical criticism have been carried out.
4. Beyond Synchronic/Diachronic
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textual criticism
stylistics
new criticism
structuralism
feminist criticism
materialist criticism
psychoanalytic criticism
reader response
deconstruction
theology
other?
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Since some colleagues may not feel entirely conversant with some of
the methods in this list, and since the scope of some of them may be
controversial, I have provided a handout offering brief descriptions of
some of the more recent methods in biblical criticism. These descriptions have of course no authority beyond that of the authors of the text
on the handout, but it would be desirable for colleagues in the workshop to accept the definitions more or less at face value for the sake of
the present exercise. Otherwise, the time of the workshop could be
spent on agreeing a definition of 'reader-response criticism', for examplewhich is not the purpose of the present workshop.
Handout 5 Methods in Biblical Criticism
Literary Criticisms No Longer 'New'
New Criticism
New criticism stands for an attitude to
texts that sees them as works of art in
their own right, rather than as representations of the sensibilities of their
authors. Against the romantic view of
texts as giving immediate access to the
ideas and feelings of great minds, the
new criticism regards texts as coherent
intelligible wholes more or less independent of their authors, creating meaning through the integration of their
elements. And against a more positivistic scholarship of the historical-critical
kind, new criticism emphasizes the literariness of literary texts and tries to identify the characteristics of literary writing
In biblical studies the term 'new criticism' has been rarely used, but most
work that is known as 'literary'
whether it studies structure, themes,
character, and the like, or whether it
approaches the texts as unified wholes
rather than the amalgam of sources, or
whether it describes itself as 'synchronic' rather than 'diachronic', dealing with the text as it stands rather than
4. Beyond Synchronic/Diachronic
thought. In the social sciences, structuralism analyses the structures that
underlie social and cultural phenomena,
identifying basic mental patterns,
especially the tendency to construct the
world in terms of binary oppositions, as
forming models for social behaviour. In
literary criticism likewise, structuralism
looks beneath the phenomena, in this
81
case the texts, for the underlying patterns of thought that come to expression
in them. Structuralism proper shades off
on one side into semiotics and the
structural relations of signs, and on the
other into narratology and the systems
of construction that underlie both traditional and literary narratives
82
readers.
Reader response criticism further
Reader Response
The critical strategies that may be
grouped under the heading of reader
response share a common focus on the
reader as the creator of, or at the very
least, an important contributor to, the
meaning of texts. Rather than seeing
'meaning' as a property inherent in
texts, whether put there by an author (as
in traditional historical criticism) or
somehow existing intrinsically in the
shape, structure and wording of the
texts (as in new criticism and rhetorical
Validity in interpretation is then recognized as relative to the group that authorizes it.
Deconstruction
Deconstruction of a text signifies the
identifying of the Achilles heel of texts,
of their weak point that lets them down.
As against the 'common sense' assumption that texts have more or less clear
meanings and manage more or less successfully to convey those meanings to
readers, deconstruction is an enterprise
that exposes the inadequacies of texts,
and shows how inexorably they undermine themselves. A text typically has a
thesis to defend or a point of view to
espouse; but inevitably texts falter and
let slip evidence against their own
4. Beyond Synchronic/Diachronic
tions, one term being privileged over its
partner; but in so doing it cannot help
allowing glimpses of the impossibility
of sustaining those oppositions. In
deconstruction it is not a matter of
reversing the oppositions, of privileging
the unprivileged and vice versa, but of
83
David J.A. Clines and J. Cheryl Exum, The New Literary Criticism', in
J. Cheryl Exum and David J.A. Clines (eds.),
The New Literary Criticism and the Hebrew Bible
(JSOTSup, 143; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1993), pp. 15-20.
Report. This exercise, although somewhat artificial, proved both interesting and useful; working in groups of three or four was crucial to the
success of this element of the workshop. Colleagues were at times surprised to find elements of the synchronic in procedures they typified as
diachronic, and vice versa. One group, for example, had quickly designated 'archaeology' as 100% diachronic, but on reflection recognized
that studying Hazor Stratum VII, the disposition of its buildings, its
water system and the like, can be a clearly synchronic activity. Another
group found it interesting to consider in what sense textual criticism,
which in principle seems to be a strongly diachronic procedure, could
be said to be synchronic, in that it could be said to take its rise from a
synchronic state of affairs in which there are many texts of the same
work, differing from one another in varying degrees. One group could
not decide whether historiography was wholly diachronic or wholly
synchronic. Others wondered if there was any method or procedure in
biblical studies that was neither synchronic nor diachronic.
I had not realized before the workshops that the method of scoring
needed some further refinement. What was the difference between scoring a method as (a) 5 on the synchronic axis and 5 on the diachronic
and (b) 10 synchronic and 10 diachronic? We managed to convince
ourselves that (a) means that half of the work in the method is synchronic and half diachronic, while (b) means that everything done in
the method is both synchronic and diachronic.
All in all, I think that the exercise established the point I had set out
to make, that a great deal of what we all do in biblical criticism has
something of both diachronic and synchronic in it, and that consequently the idea of methodological tension in this regard is not a little
false.
84
[DJeconstruction is a dismantling of 'the binary oppositions of metaphysics' ... Of course, all oppositions are not created equal. 'Each pair
operates with very different stakes in the world', as Barbara Johnson
has observed.
Stephen D. Moore, Poststructuralism and the New Testament:
Derrida and Foucault at the Foot of the Cross
(Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1994), p. 45.
4. Beyond Synchronic/Diachronic
85
positive/negative
object/representation
text/interpretation
original/copy
text/context
conscious/unconscious
transcendent/immanent
presence/absence
male/female
white/black
86
4. Beyond Synchronic/Diachronic
87
89
90
91
4. A. Jepsen, 'Nehemia 10', ZAW66 (1954), pp. 87-106 (97-101); U. Kellermann, Nehemia: Quellen, Uberlieferung und Geschichte (BZAW, 102; Berlin:
A. Topelmann, 1967), pp. 37-41.
92
Lastly, in several cases the halakot of Nehemiah 10 form the final link
in a chain of legal development, throughout the biblical period (a
development that of course continued in post-biblical times). Two
examples only fall to be considered here:
(a) In the case of sabbath laws, what appears to be the oldest Pentateuchal law (Exod. 34.21) prohibits only male occupational work,
ploughing and harvesting being mentioned as two examples or limiting
cases. Later legal collections extend the law into the domestic sphere
(Exod. 35.3 [P] 'you shall kindle no fire in all your dwellings') and
broaden its application to include all members of the community (Exod.
20.10). The scope of the term 'work' is further extended in Jer. 17.21
where carrying burdens, no doubt produce for market, is declared contrary to the sabbath law. Against this background, Neh. 10.32 yet further extends the definition of work to include buying. For while it was
already clear that selling was prohibited (cf. Amos 8.5), since that was
occupational work, a new situation had arisen in Nehemiah's time with
the setting up of sabbath markets outside Jerusalem. The traders were
non-Jews, but the purchasers were Jews. The question was this: was
non-occupational, occasional buying to be reckoned as 'work' and thus
to be considered contrary to the law? (In England today, by way of parallel, certain Sunday traders risk prosecution, but those who buy from
them do not.) Following Nehemiah's vigorous denunciation of buying
as a 'profanation' of the sabbath, the halakah of Neh. 10.32 prohibits
this particular activity. It is particularly interesting that the other, and
more serious, breaches of sabbath law witnessed by Nehemiah (Neh.
13.15) are not so much as mentioned in this pledge; the reason can only
be that it was clear in those cases what the law was, whereas in the case
of buying the question of its inclusion within the category of 'work'
had not been previously resolved.
(b) In the case of the laws on intermarriage, the oldest law is most
probably Exod. 34.11-16. Though this passage has often been thought
to be largely a Deuteronomistic expansion of v. 11 a, Brekelmans has
argued convincingly that it contains pre- or proto-Deuteronomic material.5 The law here specifies the traditional group of Canaanite nations
5. C. Brekelmans, 'Die sogenannten deuteronomistischen Elemente in Genesis
bis Numeri: Ein Beitrag zur Vorgeschichte des Deuteronomiums', Volume du Con-
93
(Amorites, Girgashites, et a/.), and forbids marriage with their 'daughters'. In the next phase, Deut. 7.1-3, the same list of prohibited nations
appears, but the law is extended by the prohibition of the marriage of
Israelite women to 'sons' of these nations. In Neh. 10.31, marriage both
of Israelite 'daughters' and of Israelite 'sons' is again the subject of the
law, but here the traditional list of the Canaanite nations is abandoned,
and the prohibited nations are subsumed under the category 'peoples of
the land'which clearly means contemporary Palestinians and includes
the Ashdodites, Ammonites and Moabites with whom, as Nehemiah
had seen (13.23), mixed marriages had been contracted.
Revision, or rather updating, of the law was long overdue. In Ezra's
time, concerned citizens had been obliged to complain to Ezra (9.1-2)
that Jews had intermarried with Canaanites, Hittites, Perizzites and
Jebusites, among otherssomething that it had in fact been impossible
for anyone to do for several centuries, since most of these races had
long died out or in some way wholly lost their identity. But in order to
bring marriages with contemporary non-Jewish races within the scope
of the law, appeal had to be made, rather anachronistically, to a law that
did not explicitly mention the nations with which marriages had been
contracted by Jews of Ezra's time. The new category employed in the
pledge of Nehemiah 10 to describe aliens with whom marriage was
forbidden, viz. 'peoples of the land', was less time-conditioned, even if
less specific than the Pentateuchal laws had been. Nehemiah himself
had, characteristically, not beaten about the bush when confronted with
marriages with Ashdodites, Ammonites and Moabites (10.23-24); but
Nehemiah's impulsive response of cursing, beating, and pulling out the
hair of those who had not accepted his interpretation of the law as
including these races within the forbidden category obviously had to be
followed up by the more permanent step of re-wording the law in order
to avoid further dispute.
It is a curious fact that the spirit of the law can be more rigorous than
the letter. A more literalistic interpretation of the Pentateuchal law
would have allowed marriages with Ashdodites, Ammonites and
Moabitesfor they are not explicitly mentioned among the prohibited
nations. Ezra, Nehemiah, and the scholars of the Nehemian age adopted
an interpretation according to the spirit (as we might say), since plainly
gres Geneve, 1965 (VTSup, 15; Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1966), pp. 90-96 (93-93); cf.
also F. Langlamet, 'Israel et Thabitant du pays'", RB 76 (1969), pp. 321-50, 481507.
94
6
ETHICS AS DECONSTRUCTION, AND,
THE ETHICS OF DECONSTRUCTION
There are two parts to this paper, an exegetical part, Ethics as Deconstruction, and a more theoretical part, The Ethics of Deconstruction.
What I hope they have in common is to show that literary and philosophical deconstruction has more ethical effect than is commonly
supposed.
1. Ethics as Deconstruction
In this part of the paper, I shall look at some biblical texts where an
ethical idea or prescription or hint seems to be founded on a deconstruction. Rather than attempt to explain what I mean by that in abstract
terms, I shall take up my first example.
a. Deuteronomy 23.15-16
You shall not give up to his master a slave who has escaped from his
master to you; he shall dwell with you, in your midst, in the place which
he shall choose within one of your towns, where it pleases him best; you
shall not oppress him.
96
own. A slave was 'a commodity that could be sold, bought, leased,
exchanged, or inherited'.1 In the ancient Near East generally, and presumably also in Israel, any injury done to a slave required compensation to the master. There is only one case in the Bible that illustrates
this principle, but there is no reason to doubt that it was at the foundation of the institution of slavery: if a slave is killed by a goring ox, the
owner of the ox must compensate the master by a payment of thirty
shekels of silver (Exod. 21.32)just as a father must also be compensated for the death of a son or daughter.2
Various kinds of manumission were available to a slave. I. Mendelsohn has enumerated them as follows: 1. A Hebrew slave is to be
released after six years of service (Exod. 21.2-4; Deut. 15.12); 2. a
Hebrew who has made himself a voluntary slave is to be freed in the
year of jubilee (Lev. 25.39-43, 47-55); 3. a Hebrew girl sold by her
father with a view to marriage is to be released if the master does not
wish to marry her when she is of age (Exod. 21.7-11); 4. a slave permanently maimed by his master is to be freed (Exod. 21.26-27).3
What is amazing about the law of the fugitive slave in Deuteronomy
23 is that it enables a slave to acquire his or her own freedomby the
relatively simple expedient of running away. A slave can choose not to
be a slave.
And that leaves us in a classic deconstructive situation. Classically, a
deconstruction takes hold of a pair of binary oppositions that have been
passing as valid currency, exposes the faults in the distinctions that are
drawn between them, the definitions that claim to separate them, and
shows how, to some extent, each is implied in the other. For practical
purposes it may well serve to continue employing the concept of an
oppositional pair, but the deconstructive enterprise has pointed out the
fragility, and perhaps the ultimate futility, of the distinction.
In this case, the opposition slave-free is deconstructed if it can be
shown that 'slave' includes 'free' (it would be a different move to show
1. I. Mendelsohn, 'Slavery in the Old Testament', IDE, IV, pp. 383-91
(Mendelsohn is sometimes speaking of slavery in the ancient Near East as a whole,
so one cannot be sure that there is Israelite evidence for all the practices mentioned
above).
2. Another case in which injury to a slave must be compensated for is not
strictly analogous, since the payment must be made to the sanctuary and not to the
master. It is the case of a man having intercourse with a betrothed slave woman
(Lev. 19.20-22).
3. Mendelsohn, 'Slavery in the Old Testament', pp. 387-88.
98
these grounds it is urged that the biblical law cannot refer to any slave
who escapes from his or her master, but to 'a fugitive slave from a foreign country seeking asylum in Palestine'.7 Needless to say, there is not
the faintest evidence in the text for such an interpretation, and the
speculation witnesses only to the embarrassment of the scholar with the
text.
I am of course not arguing that the abolition of slavery was the intention of the framers of this law; but simply that the wording itself
stealthily undermines (which is to say, deconstructs) the concept of
slaverywhich is as good a way as any of abolishing it. Even if it does
not lead immediately to a change in the social institutionand we have
no evidence that it didit remains on the statute book as an ethical
principle whose time is yet to come.
There is another biblical text that points in the same direction, and
here there can be no question of the slave being a foreigner. For in
Exod. 21.2-6, we find:
When you buy a Hebrew slave, he shall serve six years, and in the seventh he shall go out free, for nothing. If he comes in single, he shall go
out single; if he comes in married, then his wife shall go out with him. If
his master gives him a wife and she bears him sons or daughters, the
wife and her children shall be her master's and he shall go out alone. But
if the slave plainly says, 'I love my master, my wife, and my children; I
will not go out free', then his master shall bring him to God, and he shall
bring him to the door or the doorpost; and his master shall bore his ear
through with an awl; and he shall serve him for life.
This text is ostensibly a prohibition of murder.9 It threatens the wouldbe murderer that his life is in danger: if he sheds the blood of a human
being, his blood also will be shed.10 It is a gnomic text, especially its
core: ^jEffir to D1K3 D"Tn D1 JZtti 'who sheds human blood shall
have his blood shed by a human'. It is a divine sentence, and it gives all
the appearance of comprehensive law.11
8. The delicate balance between freedom and slavehood has been well brought
out by Turnham, 'Male and Female Slaves ', p. 547.
9. Glaus Westermann for one calls it a 'prohibition of homicide' (Genesis 111: A Commentary (trans. John J. Scullion; Minneapolis: Augsburg, 1984 [original,
1974], p. 466).
10. I am assuming, rightly or wrongly, that the murderer envisaged is a male.
11. I do not mean this term form-critically, for there has been a discussion
whether the phrase is formally a judicial formula (of an apodeictic type), a proverb
or a prophetic admonition (see Westermann, Genesis 1-11, p. 467).
100
102
guish him from the murderernot in the language at any rate, and if
not in the language, then where? This is not a linear sentence, then, this
^jSttT iEH DltJQ D1Tn Dl ^JSfeJ; it is a circle, for every time that the sentence is completed it resumes, putting the implied subject of the second
verb ('it shall be shed') in the position of the subject of the first
('whoever sheds'). To begin with, the executioner is hidden in the
shadow of the passive voice, lurking at the end of the sentence, when
he does his deed; but once it is done, the sentence begins to roll again,
and this time the executioner is foregrounded; he is now the ^Dfij, the
shedder of blood, and the sentence concerns him. He is authorized to
kill, but only at the cost of his own life.15
And there is the ethical hint. If blood revenge is permitted (or even
required), but only at the cost of labelling it 'murder'is it permitted?
Somewhere, I mean to say, in among the words of a text that professes
to authorize capital punishment is the undoing of that authorization, at
the very least its problematization. You can see from this case why I am
beginning to wonder whether ethical initiatives might not originate at
the points of deconstructability of traditional ethics.16
c. John 8.3-11
The scribes and the Pharisees brought a woman who had been caught in
adultery, and placing her in the midst they said to him, 'Teacher, this
woman has been caught in the act of adultery. Now in the law Moses
commanded us to stone such. What do you say about her?' This they
said to test him, that they might have some charge to bring against him.
Jesus bent down and wrote with his finger on the ground. And as they
continued to ask him, he stood up and said to them, 'Let him who is
without sin among you be the first to throw a stone at her'. And once
more he bent down and wrote with his finger on the ground. But when
15. Westermann rightly recognizes that 'The death penalty carried out by the
organs of state can also be murder', but he also claims that 'A community is only
justified in executing the death penalty insofar as it respects the unique right of God
over life and death and insofar as it respects the inviolability of human life that follows therefrom' (Genesis 1-11, p. 469). Is this an authorization of capital punishment, I ask myself, or is it not rather, deconstructively, a statement of the impossibility of offering a plausible ethical justification for it?
16. And also what I think of the statement of Luther's cited by Dillmann:
'Inasmuch as no human society is conceivable unless human life be regarded as
sacred, it may be said with truth that the foundation is here laid for the social organisation of man' (A. Dillmann, Genesis, Critically and Exegetically Expounded
[Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1897], I, p. 295).
104
106
108
110
112
114
116
46. Robert Morgan with John Barton, Biblical Interpretation (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 1988), pp. 256-57.
47. D.S. Greenwood, 'Poststructuralism and Biblical Studies: Frank Kermode's
The Genesis of Secrecy', in Gospel Perspectives, III: Studies in Midrash and Historiography (ed. R.T. France and David Wenham; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1983),
pp. 263-88 (278).
48. William S. Kurz, 'Narrative Approaches to Luke-Acts', Bib 68 (1987), pp.
195-220(196).
49. Roger Lundin, 'Deconstructive Therapy', The Reformed Journal 36 (1986),
pp. 15-20(15).
50. Lloyd Steffen, 'A Postmodern Ethic? The Case of Deconstruction', Religious Humanism27 (1993), pp. 3-10 (6). On the de Man affair, see Barbara Johnson, 'A Note on the Wartime Writings of Paul de Man', preface to the paperback
edition of A World of Difference (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1989
[original edition, 1987]), pp. xi-xviii (= Literary Theory Today [ed. Peter Collier
and Helga Geyer-Ryan; Cambridge: Polity Press, 1990], pp. 13-22).
118
9. Deconstruction is often represented as play, and play is not serious, so deconstruction is not ethical. In his famous 1966 paper, which
introduced the United States to his deconstructionism, Derrida opposed
to the 'saddened, negative, nostalgic, guilty, Rousseauistic' way of
thinking a Nietzschean way that is
the joyous affirmation of the play of the world and of the innocence of
becoming, the affirmation of a world of signs without fault, without
truth, and without origin which is offered to an active interpretation. This
affirmation then determines the noncenter otherwise than as loss of the
center. And it plays without security.52
10. Deconstructive critics are dishonest: they claim that all language
is indeterminate, but the moment they speak they expect to be heard as
having determinate things to say.53
11. There are no references to ethics in the indexes of standard books
on deconstruction.54
b. Responses
To these charges of an unethical orientation of deconstructionism there
51. Lisa D. Campolo, 'Derrida and Heidegger: The Critique of Technology and
the Call to Care', JAAR 53 (1985), pp. 431-48 (431).
52. Jacques Derrida, Writing and Difference (trans. Alan Bass; Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1978), p. 292 (= 'Structure, Sign and Play in the Discourse of the Human Sciences', in David Lodge [ed.], Modern Criticism and
Theory: A Reader [London: Longman, 1988], pp. 108-23 [121]).
53. Thus M.H. Abrams about J. Hillis Miller, in his 'The Deconstructive
Angel', Critical Inquiry 3/3 (Spring, 1977), pp. 425-88 (= Modern Criticism and
Theory: A Reader [ed. David Lodge; London: Longman, 1988], p. 274).
54. For example, Christopher Butler, Interpretation, Deconstruction and Ideology: An Introduction to Some Current Issues in Literary Theory (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1984); Jonathan Culler, On Deconstruction: Theory and Criticism after
Structuralism (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1983); Art Berman, From the
New Criticism to Deconstruction: The Reception of Structuralism and Post-Structuralism (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1988).
I feel sure it must be possible to make the point more lucidly without
losing any of the subtlety; I also feel sure that if I cannot understand
something after I have read it five times the fault is probably not mine.
2. The second is the move of Gary Phillips.57 He argues that
deconstructive reading calls for a certain kind of critical accountability
on the part of readers to the Bible and enables a critical, destabilizing
intervention within dominant critical practices, disciplines, interpretativ
traditions and institutions.58
120
structive reading does not allow us to keep a safe distance from the
text,59 but rather requires us to 'take responsibility for the text' by
'marking' the text with our own interventions, thus confusing the conventional boundary between author and reader. Deconstruction, as an
engagement that is both affirming and analytic, is a response to 'the
Other that lies beyond the Bible'; and the Other, which is the goal of
deconstruction, is the name for that which 'escapes human control,
grounding or anticipation'. The deconstructive process lays an ethical
obligation upon readers to respond to the Other.
By underscoring the radical 'otherness' of the Biblemarked in various
ways by alternative meanings, readers, interpretative traditions, communities, practices, and so ondeconstruction works prophetically for a
different kind of reading and writing position in the world. It does so by
embracing the twin ethical aim characterized as a responsibility to otherness and a responsibility to act.60
122
not hostile to ethics nor indifferent to it. In putting ethical signs sous
rature, under the marks of erasure, Derrida both effaces them and
leaves them visible67and that is perhaps the best we can do these days
with ethical signs.
5. Mark C. Taylor has spoken of an 'ethic of resistance' as the ethical
stance of deconstruction.68 What deconstruction entails is an insistence
on the alterity that stands opposed to and resistant to structures. It is
a way of coming to terms with the impossibility of liberation. The kingdom never arrives, there is no salvation; there never was wholeness,
there never will be wholeness. The problem becomes, how does one
linger with the wound, how does one linger with the negative without
negating it? How does one carry on when there's no hope of overcoming
in any kind of final way?69
That is to say, if I understand him correctly, that the ethical position the
deconstructive enterprise engenders is that in ethics, as in theology and
philosophy, the traditional fixed points of reference themselves become
the objects of scrutiny rather than the guideposts to further ethical decisions.
c. My reflections
Here are my own responses to: Is there an ethics of deconstruction?
1. If texts are indeed capable of deconstruction, and if, for example,
the oppositions on which they rely are open to question, then I want to
know about thatand I think that wanting to know is not just idle intellectual curiosity, but a kind of ethical courage, like wanting to know the
worst from my doctor. I cannot bear to be kept in the dark about something that is the case, and I think it my duty to let other people in on
secretsespecially secrets that important people would like to stay
secret.
I do not particularly wish to prejudge whether such and such a text is
deconstructable, or deconstructable in such and such a way; but if I
have convinced myself that it is, that is the way it isfor me. And I
67. Jacques Derrida, Of Grammatology (trans. Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak;
Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1976), p. 23: That mark of deletion is
not...a "merely negative symbol"... Under its strokes the presence of a transcendental signified is effaced while still remaining legible.'
68. As reported by Lloyd Steffen, 'A Postmodern Ethic? The Case of Deconstruction', Religious Humanism 27 (1993), pp. 3-10.
69. Steffen, 'A Postmodern Ethic?', pp. 8-9.
124
VARIETIES OF INDETERMINACY
Nothing that I can write here is going to make much difference to the
grand theoretical issue of textual indeterminacy. What I can offer is,
rather, an account of the experiences of a practical exegete and textual
scholar alert to the question of meaning, and not a little surprised, at
times, by the apparent mismatch between what I hold as theory and
what I find myself doing by way of 'good practice'.
The main intention of this paper then will be to explore the indeterminacies I find myself involved in across several different areas of my
scholarly work. I will be concluding that I encounter varieties of indeterminacy, an indeterminacy of indeterminacies, and I will be suggesting possible reasons for my apparent yearning for determinate meanings in one project and my abandonment to multiple and indeterminate
meanings in another.
1. Principles
But I should say first where I stand (or think I stand) theoretically,
which is to say, when I am thinking about the principles I consciously
hold to rather than analysing the principles I find in hindsight that I
have been employing (for that is the stuff, and not the preface, of this
paper). In principle, in short, I think I believe that meaning does not
reside in texts but that readers create meaning when they read texts. To
tell the truth, I have no clarity on the large question of the extent to
which texts are responsible for the meanings that readers create. But I
do not feel I have to be able to rightly apportion the responsibility
between text and readers in order to affirm that the differencesbetween
meaningswhich is what is interesting to me, and which is the subject
we are speaking of, indeterminacyare the effect of the plurality of
readers rather than the effect of some property in the text. That means
Originally published in Textual Indeterminacy, Part Two (ed. Robert C. Culley and
Robert B. Robinson) = Semeia 63 (1995), pp. 17-27, and reprinted with the permission of Scholars Press.
7. Varieties of Indeterminacy
127
to say, I suppose, that I do not hold in any strict sense with the idea of
textual indeterminacy, for that would imply that it is texts that have
meaning, determinate or otherwise. It must be the various meanings
that readers come up with when reading texts that create the impression
that it was the text itself that was indeterminate. In fact, I think the text
is neither determinate or indeterminate; but, once again, practically
speaking, it makes little difference where the responsibility lies. For if
the result of reading texts is multiple meanings, it matters little whether
it was some property of the text that engendered the multiplicity, something in the text that different readers were responding to differently, or
whether it was simply different readers reading the one text differently.
The outcome is the same: the situation of indeterminacy exists.
So, in the end, speaking about texts 'meaning' does not need to be
proscribed, not in everyday language at least. If readers mean something by texts, it is no great crime to say that texts mean. It's no crime;
it's just not true, properly speaking, that's all.
2. Indeterminacy and the Practical Theorist
Here I want to deal with the question of indeterminacy in a general and,
I suppose, somewhat theoretical way. But since I usually feel more
comfortable thinking theoretically if I can deal with some concrete
example at the same time, I call my endeavours in this direction the
work of a 'practical theorist'.
I spoke of the 'situation of indeterminacy' that is our given. I mean to
begin with the practical and empirical situation that different readers do
in fact understand a given text differently. This is of course not just a
fact of life for practical exegetes. It is also the cause of extreme anxiety
for many. So to address the 'situation of indeterminacy' is not just an
intellectual challenge. It is also, in some cases, an existential imperative.
My preference is to confront the question in its most acute form, the
anxious phrasing used by those troubled by the idea of indeterminacy:
'Can a text mean anything at all, anything a reader wants it to mean?'
My first line of reply has been, What is this word 'can'? If there are
no meanings without readers, 'can' is not a property of texts but a
potentiality of readers. And who can know the mind of readers? All we
know is what readers have done, do do. And, short of infinity, it seems
that readers are indeed capable of any interpretation.
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7. Varieties of Indeterminacy
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7. Varieties of Indeterminacy
131
for example, between 'zl I 'go' and 'z/II 'weave', between 'zn I 'hear'
and 'zn II 'weigh'. I did not mean to say, This Hebrew word 'means'
this English word. In the second place, I came to feel that the structure
of the articles served to downplay the idea of determinate meanings, for
the stress in articles as wholes was upon the kinds of contexts in which
words were used rather than upon some specification by the Dictionary
team of what the words meant. So although we listed the occurrences of
'eres under the three senses I have mentioned above, the bulk of the
article is devoted, not to discussing the correct meaning of the word in
each of its several contexts, but to showing which verbs and nouns can
be associated with the word. So the reader learns that an 'eres in the
sense of a land can be full, be peaceful, stink, mourn, perish, flow, and
so on, and that one can find references to a land of desire, of delight, of
distance, of gloom, of saltiness, and so on. There is no discussion of
what constitutes a land, and, I think it can be said, the direction of the
article is in general against specification and determinacy. This is of
course a fault in the eyes of traditional lexicographers who operate, or
try to operate, with determinate meanings all the time, the more determinate the better.
I even had the nerve to suggest in the Introduction to the Dictionary
that a dictionary at the end of the twentieth century should reflect
something of the spirit of the age and be as best it could postmodern in
orientation, 'resisting concepts of authority, determinate meanings and
the like, and...emphasizing instead the perpetual deferral of meaning
as well as the plurality and historical conditionedness of scholarly values ... short on authority and prescription and long on reader-involvement, open-endedness and uncertainty'. 2 It is a hard task for a lexiconof all thingsby anyone's standards. The question in the present
context must be whether it is even possible.
4. Indeterminacy and the Exegete
Now I am turning to think about indeterminacy in the context of my
work as a verse by verse exegete, especially in my commentary on
Job.3 My daily task, I must admit, I conceive of as a moving toward
closure on every matter that the text raises, on every verse, its text and
2.
3.
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its translation. There is not much room for indeterminacy in the way I
have been working.
On my desk there are, as well as my Hebrew Bible, 15 or so English
translations, 20 or so commentaries and a heap of photocopies of journal articles on the chapter in question. On my Mac there is an enormous
bibliography of publications on Job from two thousand years of exegesis, and the wall behind me is shelved with more commentaries, books
on Hebrew poetry, Hebrew grammars and dictionaries, Bible encyclopaedias. Within a few square feet I have about me all the makings of
a thoroughgoingly indeterminate exegesis of the book of Job. Indeterminacy is not only possible, it seems almost inevitable.
What then do I do, surrounded by this cornucopia of multiple meanings? The fact is, unhappy fact if you prefer to call it so, that I strive
toward reducing everything toward order, towards eliminating every
meaning for a text except one, the one that I will adopt, the one that I
choose. When, for example, Job recalls the days of his prime (29.4-6)
and the commentators want to specify, each in his own way, what the
essence of Job's happiness was, I want to contradict them and have it
my own way. They insist in saying things like 'Naturally the first element in Job's happiness... was the presence of his children... The second, though a less, element of his happiness was his overflowing abundance.'4 Or, 'The sum of his happiness had been his sure untroubled
sense of the divine presence... The second element of his happiness
had been his domestic gladness.'5 But I say, Not so; 'Job simply puts
side by side various memories of the past, without categorizing or prioritizing them. Even if he thinks it, he does not want to say that any one
of them is the key or the source of the happiness; he is not in the business of accounting.'6 I cannot accept that these commentators can be
right and I can be right at the same time.
Or when Bildad asks, 'How can a mortal be righteous before God?'
(25.4), I find myself writing, tetchily perhaps, but firmly and determinately certainly: 'The issue for Bildad is not, of course, whether
humans can be declared innocent by God, but whether they can in fact
4. A.B. Davidson, The Book of Job, with Notes, Introduction and Appendix
(Cambridge Bible: Cambridge: Cambrindge University Press, 1884), ad he.
5. James Strahan, The Book of Job Interpreted (Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark,
1913), p. 241.
6. David J.A. Clines, Job 21^2 (WBC, 18; Dallas: Word Books, forthcoming), in loc.
7. Varieties of Indeterminacy
133
be so. So it is not a matter of whether one can "be in the right before
God"7 or "be cleared of guilt" (NJPS) or "How can a man be justified in
God's sight?" (NEB). Nor is it a matter of "having a righteousness independent of God's".'8 It is simply whether in comparison with God's
standards any mortal can in any degree be 'righteous'.
The same goes for the philology. Faced with the vast variety of suggestions for new meanings for the Hebrew words and of never-ending
proposals for emendation, I buckle up my courage with the thought that
only one reading can be right, the original text must have had just one
reading, and I define my task as establishing that reading. Of course I
know that I am as fallible as the next, or last, commentator, but what
else am I to do?
I also have my readers in mind. What, I worry all the time, do they
really want? Do they want a blessed indeterminacy on every verse, a
smorgasbord of possible meanings (and where would the choice stop?),
or do they want me to make sense (rather than make senses) of one
verse after another? My guess is that they are reading me for my
answers to the problems of interpretation, and that they will be checking me out for coherence and consistency.
I also have the book as a whole in mind as I go. Rightly or wrongly, I
think the book as a whole has a logical sense, that the characters in the
book have points to make, that we can distinguish Bildad's position
from Eliphaz's, that Job changes his perspective from one speech to the
next but his speeches as a whole have a dramatic coherence, and the
like. I think that every verse contributes to the meaning of the book as a
whole, and I want to identify that contribution and signal it clearly to
my readers.
In short, as an exegete, I behave for all the world as if the indeterminacy of texts had never been heard of. I even believe so much in
determinacy of meaning that I find myself saying, Most of everything
that has ever been written in Job is wrong; if X's reading is right,
everyone else's is wrong. And I approach the latest article in the
learned journals with a highly sceptical reckoning of the chances of its
esteemed author being right. I am not proud of being so unrecon7. Samuel L. Terrien, Job (CAT; Neuchatel: Delachaux & Niestle, 1963), pp.
180-81.
8. S.R. Driver, in Samuel Rolles Driver and George Buchanan Gray, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Book of Job together with a New Translation (ICC; Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1921), p. 216.
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7. Varieties of Indeterminacy
135
text, and it leads to a critical evaluation of the psalm such as has not, I
believe, previously been offered (in print).
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.
Here also, in Psalm 2, those on one side of the conflict bear the names
of Yahweh, his anointed, his king, his son, and they are located at a
particular location on the face of the globe. Their opponents, on the
other hand, 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. Rather, 'Moabite' serves as a symbolic
name for people who found themselves in bondage to an Israelite king
and who desired liberation from their overlord.
In this psalm, 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. I myself happen to disapprove
of such an attitude to 'Moabites', and I think it my duty as a commentator on the text to say so. But I also think the Hebrew Bible itself might
disapprove of such an attitude, if only it knew what it was doing. For
whereas in most parts of the Hebrew Bible Israel is very happy to have
been liberated itself, this psalm does not want anyone else to be liberatedand that seems to undermine the value Israel put on national
freedom, and to render its attitude to freedom ambivalent and incoherent. Its national story was of itself as a body of slaves escaped from
Egypt. In refusing a similar history to others, it implicitly denies the
value of its own liberation.
Now that is a critique of the text, not exactly an interpretation. Perhaps someone will call it a 'reading', but I will not thank them for that,
for I would prefer to think of it as an agenda or a judgment. At the same
time, I realize that once I have taken up the cudgels on behalf of
Moabites I am into a conflictual situation, and there will be others who
will arm themselves on behalf of the other interests reflected in the text.
Everything begins in religion and ends in politics. And even if the relilished in my Interested Parties; The Ideology of Writers and Readers of the
Hebrew Bible (JSOTSup, 205; GCT, 1; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1995),
pp. 244-75.
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7. Varieties of Indeterminacy
137
I have called this paper The Pyramid and the Net, using the definite
articles in a generic sense, not in reference to any particular pyramid, or
to any particular net, but to the idea of pyramids, and of netsto the
symbolic value of the two images. I want to understand our present
moment in Old Testament criticism in terms of these two images, to
argue that they are in tension with one another, to argue that the pyramid is being supplanted by the net and at the same time that the net is
no substitute for the pyramid.
Let me not be so cryptic, but say straight out how I want to use these
images. For me, the pyramid is the model for a style of scholarship,
indeed a worldview in general, that is being overtaken by another style,
another worldview, that both subverts and enshrines the values of the
pyramid model. I will call the pyramid the model of the Modern, and
the net the model of the Postmodern. I recognize, of course, that the
style and values of something as vast as a worldview can hardly be
comprehended and summed up by a single simple image. But in reaching after a pair of striking visual images, I found nothing that suited my
purposes better than these two.
The original version of this paper was delivered as the Presidential Address to the
Society of Old Testament Study, in Birmingham, January 1996. An abbreviated
version has been published in Auguries: The Jubilee Volume of the Sheffield
Department of Biblical Studies (ed. David J.A. Clines and Stephen D. Moore; Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Supplement Series, 269; Sheffield: Sheffield
Academic Press, 1998), pp. 276-91, in Australasian Pentecostal Studies 1 (March
1998), pp. 41-54, and in The Interpretation of the Bible: The International Symposium in Slovenia (ed. Joze Krasovec; Journal for the Study of the Old Testament
Supplement Series, 269; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1998).
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1. The Pyramid
The pyramid is an extremely stable structure, one of the hardest of all
structures to overturn. It is a superb image for the edifice of western
intellectual thought, the house of knowledge in which we all live. In
this paper I want to let it stand for scientific knowledge, the Enlightenment project, the spirit of the Modern. Above it sits enthroned Reason,
its guiding principlerepresented by the knowing eye that reigns
above the pyramid on the dollar bill.
The modern period has seen the construction of a pyramid of knowledge, knowledge about science, the physical universe, society, economics and the psyche. We are all richer, all more enlightened, and on
average longer-lived, as a result. No one in their right mind is going to
say it has been a mistake. The only mistake about it has been to imagine that the pyramid project has been the only worthwhile one in existence, that its values are universally subscribed to, that its ideology is
unproblematic.
There are other virtues in pyramids. A pyramid is a co-operative project. No one built a pyramid single-handed, and the end achievements
of the Enlightenment project are not its only triumph: there is also the
way in which the tiny contributions of countless individuals have been
successfully co-opted into an enterprise vastly larger than anyone can
comprehend. This is doubtless how most of us feel about Old Testament studies. None of us may have done anything particularly earthshattering in itself, but we feel that we have all been engaged in a
common enterprise that, collectively, has had a quite considerable success. When we compare the present state of affairs, for example, with
where we were at the beginning of this century, we are perfectly
justified in crowing, Haven't we done well?
The symbolic pyramid is not only collaborative, but also incremental.
Even if sometimes it has seemed that we have had to retrace our steps
in order to make progress, it has been more of a reculer pour mieux
sauter than an admission of defeat. We are always able to tell the story
of Old Testament studies as a progress, a gradual unveiling of mysteries, a cumulation of insights and results. If we can see further than our
ancestors, it is because, we can say modestly, we (pygmies) have been
standing on the shoulders of giants. But we can see further, and deeper,
and, with all due humility, we do want to affirm that we are at a higher
level of understanding than our ancestors.
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The net, like the pyramid in this paper, is not a real net but a symbolic
one, the idea of a net. Let me draw out some of the significances of the
net.
The first is that the net is diverse or multivalent. Unlike the pyramid,
of which it could well be said that when you have seen one you have
seen them all, there is no end to the shapes a net can take, no end to the
purposes for which it can be employed. Usually, you might think, nets
exist to stop things going through: we have safety nets under trapeze
artists and under state-funded universities in the United Kingdom
(another set of high-wire performers), we have tennis court nets to stop
balls going through, and bird netting to stop birds getting at our strawberries.
Here is a sample of the kinds of nets you can buy, those made by the
Carron Net Company in Two Rivers, Wisconsin (I found them when I
went surfing on the Internet for nets):
Sport Nets
Industrial Nets
Volleyball nets
Basketball nets
Tennis nets
Soccer & goal sport nets
Baseball batting cage nets
Backstop & foul ball nets
Golf practice & range nets
Custom made to order nets
Nets to enclose athletic courts
Nets to enclose soccer fields
Stadium, gym and arena nets
Gymnasium divider curtains
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experience that websites of 1996 will not necessarily still be in existence today. But the Net itself has not gone away. It impinges upon our
daily lives and our scholarly activity with ever-increasing urgency, and
some reflection on its quiddity are perhaps still in order.
To speak pragmatically first: in 1996 I could say that the Net is the
electronic connection of 25 million computers world-wide, all capable
of communicating with one another. Since computers hold great
amounts of information in very small spacesmy ageing laptop, for
example, holds the equivalent of 500 booksand can communicate
with one another almost instantaneously it is virtually impossible to
conceive of the amount of information available today to the user of the
Net. The number of connections to the Net grows at an enormous pace.
And the traffic on the Net is increasing exponentially. At the end of
1995 I was told, Last Thursday there was more traffic on the Net than
in the whole of 1994.
But what the Net represents, what it stands for, what its symbolic
value is, is to my mind even more interesting than its physical and
electronic reality.
A central feature of the Net is that no one controls it; there is no
governmental or academic control over what information can be provided, there is no censorship or evaluation. Anyone can become an
'information provider', as the term is. That is to say, the issue of validity and legitimation is bypassed, and users take the responsibility for
the quality of the information they acquire. Marginal and sectional
interests can be as easily represented on the Net as can authoritative
governmental documents, and trivia is as easily accessible as fundamental knowledge.
The Net also expresses, very dramatically, the fragmentation of
knowledge. The reality is that in one place in the world the evidence of
seismic movements under Los Angeles is of life and death importance,
so it is LA we visit to find the earthquake record. An entirely different
site has the best collection of Impressionist paintings, so we go to the
Louvre to look at them. Ortsgebundenheit is what it would be called if
the Germans had got to the idea first. No place on earth can contain the
sum of human knowledge, so there is no adequate library anywhere. No
one can know what they will next need to know. But if you know where
you can go to find it, and especially, if you can go there instantly without leaving your chair, there are no limits. But on the way, you are being reminded of fragmentariness, of the absence of a totalizing whole.
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Yet another aspect of the Net is that it is invisible, yet it is everywhere. In this respect the Net can seem inescapable and sinister, and a
certain type of journalism plays on the fears of the computer illiterate.
Writers are constantly speaking of the Net in this kind of apocalyptic
language. It is a phenomenon that lends itself so easily to interpretation
that there is a perpetual blurring of the Net as thing and the Net as sign.
It is hard to disagree that it is the symbol par excellence of the postmodern.
4. What Is the Postmodern?
And what is the postmodern? The postmodern is the name of the age
that is now dawning. It is not the kingdom of heaven, but neither is it
the dominion of Belial. It is the moment to which the modern has been
tending, the outcome of the Enlightenment project initiated by Renaissance and Reformation. It is the overturning of the values in which we
all have been educated, and yet, in another light, it is nothing but the
self-conscious evaluation and critical assessment of those values. It is
the spirit of the age, yet it is parasitic upon the past. If we are the modernin our formation, our education and our shared quest for truth and
knowledge, then the postmodern is nothing other than ourselves
sceptical about ourselves, ourselves not taking ourselves for granted
which is to say, the modern conscious of itself.
In a word, the postmodern is the quizzical re-evaluation of the standards and assumptions of traditional intellectual enquiry and scholarship. In biblical studies, it is, as Nietzsche would have put it, the reevaluation of all valuesnot so as to negate all values but so as to
expose the partiality and self-deceptions in the values we have come to
take for granted. It is an adventure for us in biblical studies because we
do not know where it will take us. It is an adventure because it is risky.
But it is also an adventure because it is adventitiousthat is, because
the moment is ripe, because it is unavoidable, because it is the next step
in our exploration of what it means to be humans, to be intellectuals,
and to be students of the biblical texts.
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146
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I begin with the case of text criticism. In its classic formulation, the
task of textual criticism has been a quintessential project of modernity:
its aim has been to reconstruct the authentic original text, starting from
the secondary, derivative, defective manuscripts that actually exist.
This is an honourable and often very successful undertaking, but it is
'modern' in its quest for a determinate and definitive text. To this
undertaking a postmodern approach addresses two questions:
1. Was there ever, in fact, a definitive original text? Take an early
modern text like Shakespeare, for example, and we find that the quest
for an author's original can be an utter chimaera, especially if the
author has been personally involved in the process of copying and
transmitting the text. What is the original text that we hope to reconstruct by means of textual criticism? Is it the text the playwright wrote
or the text that the amanuensis wrote or the fair copy or first printed
proof that the author corrected, or the last edition that the author authorized? There is no one correct answer. There is no one definitive text.
Once upon a time, textual criticism was a simple matter of cleansing
the text from the corruptions it has acquired over the ages, and restoring
the original to its pristine purity. But those very termspurity, cleansing, corruptionare terms that show how value-laden the enterprise
was, how fixated upon a notion of an original, a determinate text it was.
The postmodern turn in textual criticism is the modern becoming conscious of itself.
2. The second postmodern question in textual criticism is that of the
significance of the manuscripts, and their texts, that are not the original
textwhich means, in biblical textual criticism, of all the manuscripts
that now exist and all the texts they contain. The old textual criticism
was devoted to marginalizingand ultimately to ignoringall its
actual evidence, which is to say, all the existing manuscripts, in favour
of and in the quest for the presumed but never glimpsed original. A
postmodern textual criticism invites us to a new adventure with
manuscripts, to consider the extant manuscripts and their texts in and of
themselvesfor what they witness to, whether the conditions of their
own production or the purposes for which they were produced. In a
word, an interest in originals is a modern interest; an interest in copies
is a postmodern interest. Or rather, it is a postmodern perception that
the distinction between original and copy is problematic and one that
needs wrestling with and not taking for granted.3
3.
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maker, on the other hand, that is to say, one who is conscious of the
social functions of dictionaries, may decide to subvert some of these
functions, and show how the security that traditional dictionaries
inspire depends on their suppression of the uncertainty and the conflict
that surrounds lexicography.
I mean, for example: typically, a modern dictionary will tell us that a
given word is capable of, let's say, three senses. In the entry, that looks
neat and tidy. The senses are labelled and numbered; they are distinguished from one another with all the care of the lexicographer's art.
The article is complete and categorical. The reader experiences the
sense of security that comes from a totalizing event. But the reality of
language is not like that. In natural language, words do not come
labelled and numbered, and the multiplicity of senses puts the speaker
and hearer and reader constantly on the qui vive, into a process of perpetual decision-making that is ameliorated only by the routinization of
most daily communications.
Things are even worse in Hebrew lexicographyI mean, more indeterminate than anyone is letting on. For not only do we have the usual
problems of polysemy that we encounter in all languagesof a single
word being used in more than one sense; we also have in classical Hebrew an extreme situation of homonymyof words that look alike being actually different words. To get the measure of the problem, recall
that in the vocabulary of classical Hebrew there are about 10,000
words. It is an open secret that in about 1500 cases there are well-recognized homonyms, like g'l I 'defile' and g'l II 'redeem'. What no one
has done is to count the number of 'new' homonyms that have been
proposed in the present century. By my reckoning it is about 3000.
Now of course not all these proposals are very probable; perhaps few of
them arethough it must be said that most of them have been published in respectable academic journals like the Journal of Theological
Studies and Vetus Testamentum and Biblica and other peer-reviewed
publications. Not a few of them cancel one another out and are mutually exclusive. Nonetheless, adding together the long-recognized and
the relatively new proposals, we find that almost half the Hebrew
vocabulary is potentially indeterminate. That means, concretely, that
the reader of a biblical Hebrew sentence who has been using a postmodern Hebrew dictionary must pause, however momentarily, at every
other word to be sure that it is the word he or she first thought it was. It
is not quite as bad as that in practice, for experience has taught us to
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The key move in a postmodern view of history is to collapse the distinction between history and historiography. 'Instead of a body of
indisputable, retrievable facts, history becomes textualized; that is, it
becomes a group of linguistic traces that can be recalled, but which are
always mediated through the historian/interpreter.'4 There is no history,
or at least no history accessible to us, that is not already history-writing.
And every attempt at a history of Israel, for example, is the creation of
a literary text. The history of Israel is not the background to the literature of the Old Testament, but the name for a type of literature of our
own time.
In the new historicism, which is the term for a postmodern history, it
has become crucial to recognize that historians are themselves part of
4. Joseph Childers and Gary Hentzi (eds.), The Columbia Dictionary of Modern Literary and Cultural Criticism (New York: Columbia University Press, 1995),
p. 207 (s.v. 'New Historicism', pp. 206-209).
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history, as much the subject of history as the events of the past. Historians are the product of a complex process of subjectification of their
own; that is, they have been constructed by their own social and historical formation. They are not objective observers standing outside the
framework of some external reality they are trying to describe, but
interested parties with some personal or institutional ideological
investment in the business of reconstructing the past.
All this is so counter to the classical Enlightenment project of
'discovering' the past 'as it actually was', even in its more refined
modern forms such as social history, that at this point the postmodern
seems more like a replacement of the modern than its natural successor.
e. Postmodern Biblical Exegesis
What is exegesis for?
What are we to do with texts
apart from understanding them?
THE POSTMODERN TURN: FROM HERMENEUTICS TO ETHICS
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ested in what texts do not say. It is their silences, their repressions, their
unexpressed interests, the social, religious and political ambitions that
they screen from us, that we are concerned with in a postmodern age.
We do not discount the project of exegesis; we might even sometimes,
though not on principle, regard it as foundational. But it is the point of
departure for more grown up questions about texts, for questions that
go beyond mere meaning. The trouble with meaning as the goal for the
study of texts is that it restricts the scholar to recapitulating the message
of the text. You do not find scholars of a 'modern' persuasion saying,
This is what my text means, and personally I do not believe a word if it.
Mostly they think their job is done when they have said again, in their
own words, what their text has already said. But in my opinion, any
scholar who has ambitions of being a real human being cannot let it go
at that, but has to involve herself or himself with the text, and not take
refuge in critical distance (however necessary critical distance might be
as a heuristic device). At the very least, the critic in a postmodern age
will need to be asking, What does this text do to me if I read it? What
ethical responsibility do I carry if I go on helping this text to stay alive?
f. A Postmodern Pedagogy
1.
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155
156
Once we ask the question we have never before been obliged to ask
Why are we doing all this? What is the function of our scholarship? To
what end is it, and whose interests does it serve?we are in the realm
of the ethical. The most insistent epistemological question of our day is
not How do I know?, but Why should I know? The question was
always there, and it was always a political question and an ethical
question. But it was never on the agenda, and we just got on with our
form criticism or our rhetorical criticism, and thought it was none of
our business to reason why. In a postmodern age we realize that it is
everyone's business to be able to give an account of the faith (read:
values) that is in them, and to ignore the question of interests and the
ethical is itself a moral fault.
In her justly esteemed presidential address to the Society of Biblical
Literature in 1987, Elisabeth Schiissler Fiorenza put it like this:
If scriptural texts have served not only noble causes but also to legitimate war, to nurture anti-Judaism and misogynism, to justify the
exploitation of slavery, and to promote colonial dehumanization... then
the responsibility of the biblical scholar cannot be restricted to giving the
readers of our time clear access to the original intentions of the biblical
writers. It must also include the elucidation of the ethical consequences
and political functions of biblical texts in their historical as well as in
their contemporary sociopolitical contexts.5
I entirely agree, though I put it in my language of a turn from interpretation to critique, from understanding to evaluation, from hermeneutics
to ethics. If there is one place that biblical studies needs to move to in
the coming century, it isas I see itfrom the essentially antiquarian
question of original meaning to questions of our own existence, to the
question of the effects of the texts we are so devotedly preserving, to
the question of our complicity with their unlovelinesses as well as with
their values, to the question of the ethics of biblical scholars like ourselves taking money from the state or the church for doing biblical
scholarship.
6. Conclusion
In this paper I have been trying to think aloud strategically about biblical studies in the coming century. In my view, it will be the end of bib5. Elisabeth Schiissler Fiorenza, 'The Ethics of Biblical Interpretation: Decentering Biblical Scholarship', JBL 107 (1988), pp. 3-17 (15).
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9
FROM SALAMANCA TO CRACOW:
WHAT HAS (AND HAS NOT) HAPPENED
AT SBL INTERNATIONAL MEETINGS
As we slide toward the end of the millennium, the telos ton aionon, we
encounter the millennial bug. It is not only a hazard for everyone's
computer; it is also a fin de siecle virus that urges harmless lexicographical drudges like myself to grand reflections on the meaning of
scholarly life as we have known it and to assessments of where we have
all been going all these yearsas well as to Salamanca and Cracow and
numerous intervening places. Having written a few months ago my
survey of the history of my Department of Biblical Studies over the last
50 years,1 I was evidently in the mood for this kind of work. The International Meeting of the Society of Biblical Literature (SBL), now that
it has 15 years behind it, is surely ripe for assessment and review, not
least because it serves both as a thermometer (identifying what are the
hottest topics among biblical scholars) and as a barometer (giving
warning of what weather we may expect).
When I proposed What Has (And Has Not) Happened at SBL International Meetings as a paper for this Cracow congress, I had nothing
more pretentious in mind than a 20-minute paper jostling for a hearing
among real works of scholarship. But Kent Richards, ever the impresario, saw the potential in this paper for an address that could perhaps
appeal to a wider audience than those sated with redaction criticism
some sleepy afternoon, an address that might even provoke a little discussion, if not controversyso here I am.
This paper was the address to the opening Convocation of the International Meeting
of the Society of Biblical Literature in Cracow, Poland, in July 1998.
1. David J.A. Clines, The Sheffield Department of Biblical Studies: An Intellectual Biography', in Auguries: The Jubilee Volume of the Sheffield Department of
Biblical Studies (ed. David J.A. Clines and Stephen D. Moore; Journal for the
Study of the Old Testament Supplement Series, 269; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic
Press, 1998), pp. 14-89.
159
I began by gathering all the data I could find about the 1666 papers
from International Meetings of the Society, incorporating at the last
minute the data for the Meeting at which this paper was to be read. I
built a database, in my favourite database program, Helix Express 4.0,
of all the people who have read a paper, the name of their institution,
the country they were from, the title of their paper and the language in
which it was given.
I should say at the beginning that I decided to believe what was
printed in the programme books rather than what I knew had actually
happened at meetings. Sometimes I had noted in my programmes when
an advertised paper had not been given, or another had been substituted,
but often I had not, and I thought it would be more systematic if I
simply reported what I found in textual form. In so doing, I was delighted to find, for example, a withdrawn paper of my own that I had
forgotten all about. Not only had it not been given, it had not even been
written. Looking back on the abstract, I decided it must have been the
best paper I had never written.
And finally, to begin with, let me say that I do not for a moment
think that all that has been happening at SBL International Meetings
has happened in the lecture room. What has happened in corridors and
bars and restaurants and bedrooms might even be more important than
the papers we have given and heard. But it is the papers that are in the
record, and it is all you will hear of here.
1. What Has Been Happening
a. The Meetings
For the sake of the record, here is a list of the SBL International Meetings (with the countries in which they have taken place, labelled
according to the international system for car numberplates):
1983
1984
1985
1986
1987
1988
1989
1990
1991
1992
Salamanca
Strasbourg
Amsterdam
Jerusalem
Heidelberg
Sheffield
Copenhagen
Vienna
Rome
Melbourne
E
F
NL
IL
D
GB
OK
A
I
AUS
160
Miinster
Leuven
Budapest
Dublin
Lausanne
Cracow
D
B
H
IRL
CH
PL
There have been 16 in all. But what has been happening, and what can
we discover about biblical studies generally in these last 16 years from
the events of these congresses? Let us look first at the development of
the meetings themselves. Each numbered heading below, centred and in
small capitals, refers to a chart located at the end of this paper:
161
162
163
scholars, and even among scholars who read one another's language
happily but cannot hear or write with the same facility. Still, an increase in the numbers of papers in languages other than English would
be welcome, I dare say. Perhaps one could even suggest a compromise,
in which a scholar reading in German, for example, would from time to
time give a key sentence in English so as to encourage hearers less
proficient in German to attend, knowing that they would not become
hopelessly lost. In return, or revenge, English-speaking scholars might
offer topic sentences or summaries in another language?
I wondered whether languages in which papers had been read had
changed much over the years, and so prepared this chart:
12. FIELDS
As you see, I divided the whole of biblical studies into five areas: the
two Testaments, the Intertestamental and the Post-Biblical, and the
Bible generally. I was not very surprised to see that there had been 50%
more papers on the Old Testament than on the New Testament, for that
was my impression from attendance at many meetings. But I still cannot explain why that should be so. I know that the Old Testament is
twice as long as the New Testament, but surely there must be many
more scholars working in New Testament? Where are they? Why are
they not at International Meetings of the SBL? It cannot be the existence of the SNTS, since, I would suppose, there are rather more New
Testament scholars who are not members of that distinguished body
than there are members. If SNTS has kept Neutestamentler away from
SBL each year, would you not have expected IOSOT to have kept
Alttestamentler away in the years it was meeting?
164
165
Among the Old Testament books, the surprise comes in the number
of papers devoted to Genesis:
it is evident that while the Gospels and Acts have had their due share of
attention, Acts and the non-Pauline epistles have certainly notwhich
may serve as an impulse for New Testament scholars looking for a new
project.
Finally on the New Testament, let's look at how some of the key
books fared:
166
21. METHODS
Everything here depends on how I have characterized the papers, and I
know that others would have done things differently. What surprised
me as I concluded my analysis were two things: (1) how dominant the
historical-critical methods continue to be (54% of the papers read),
ranging from text criticism to sociological study, and (2) how many
papers fall into the category of hermeneutics (12%), that is, either discussing interpretational theory or else deliberately reading the biblical
text from a perspective other than its own. Some people are saying that
we are all literary critics these days (in the newer and not the Literarkritik sense, that is), and it is probably correct that literary perspectives
have influenced, even influenced strongly, many of the papers I have
typified as historical-critical; yet only 22% could be called principally
literary in orientation. In the same way, theological dimensions enter
into many exegetical papers, which also I have classified as literarycritical, so the 13% for theological papers may be a little misleading.
But you will sympathize with me, I hope, for counting as theological a
paper entitled The Role of Apocalyptic in Paul's Theology, and as literary another called Characterization in Mark. It is papers like that go
to make up the categories on the chart.
But we can fine tune the analysis a little:
167
cal studies (9%) and sociological studies (7%)as well as historicalcritical study in a narrower sense (sources, redaction, dating, authorship
and the like) (14%). No doubt it is wrong to call the historical-critical
approach a method, and certainly it is not a single method, but I found
the results of this fairly crude analysis quite revealing and well worth
the effort.
How have things been changing over the years? Strange to say, not a
lot:
Heidelberg
Lausanne
Copenhagen
Amsterdam
Sheffield
Miinster
Rome
Leuven
Vienna
Dublin
Jerusalem
Budapest
Strasbourg
Cracow
Melbourne
Salamanca
77
67
62
58
57
56
55
54
54
54
52
51
49
45
37
36
we see that at the most recent meeting, in Cracow in 1998, the percentage of papers in this area was among the lowest. So perhaps things are
changing after allor perhaps rather it is a matter of where the meeting
168
is held and who therefore form the natural constituency from whom the
paper readers are drawn.
2. What Has Not Been Happening
The strongest impression I have taken away with me from my review
of the 1666 papers read at these meetings, to be candid, is how little in
touch they have been, on the whole, with intellectual movements of our
time. I will not rush to pass judgment on this fact, if it is a fact, for it is
not impossible that some of the intellectual movements of our time are
merely fashionable and others are of the nature of a dog chasing its tail.
There is something to be said for waiting until the dust settles. Living
as a private person, subject to few external influences, is a good way of
being human, and it makes for intensity, coherence and stability.
Biblical studies has lived a very private life, to judge by these meetings. There has not been a heady rush to the latest ideas, no cavalier
disregard of the traditional. Bibs has lived contentedly at home, doing
the washing up and putting in long hours navel-gazing. It is true that in
recent years it has got out more, shopping in the sociological and literary supermarkets, though picking up not a few items that, frankly, are
past their sell-by date. All the same, Bibs could hardly be called a party
animal, dashing from the latest vogue to the fashion of the moment, and
chatting up exotic and esoteric partners. Bibs, let us be honest, is not
chic. It is not cool. In a word, or three, it is not French, it is not gay, it is
not postmodern.
How to be French? From where I stand, French thinkers have been
recreating our world, and it will be just as hard to live in the twentyfirst century without Derrida, Foucault and the rest as it would have
been in the twentieth century without Freud. As with Freud, a very
great deal of what they say will later be exposed as wrongheaded, and
perhaps they are not all very nice people. But for those of us concerned
with language, history and societywhich is to say, almost all of us
they have unsettled all our learned convictions. I mean, about the indeterminacy of meaning, the constructedness of identity, the inescapable ideologies that infect the scholars as well as the objects of their
scholarship. If biblical studies were truly in the modern world, one
might expect to find a French theorist's ghostly presence in almost
every paper given at congresses such as these.
How to be gay? You do not have to problematize your sexual orien-
169
tation to recognize that the theory of gayness, queer theory, is challenging all that we hold dear about our personal and scholarly identities.
When we begin to redraw the alterity map, the boundaries between
same and different, between identity and otherness, we lose our familiar
locations and find ourselves having to think through everything, and not
just sexuality, from scratch. In the Modern Languages Association
(MLA) six years ago queer theory swept the boards;2 but unless there
are some surprises lurking behind drab papers on the Deuteronomist,
queer theory has yet to show its face at the SBL.
How to be postmodern? It is not obligatory to give up the values of
modernism, of the Enlightenment project, as the idiom has it. We need
not abandon the quest for understanding, the compulsion to scrupulous
scholarship, the urge to honesty. We do not have to believe that one
idea is as good as another. But we do have to admit that the absolute is
a chimaera, that we are not all playing the same game, and that disinterested scholarship does not exist.
There is, I think, one other gap in our biblical studies as represented
by our SBL International Meetings. It is the awareness of a social context in which we do our scholarly work, of the ethical and political
implications of being a biblical scholar, of the responsibilities to the
wider society we take on when we engage with and keep alive these
ancient texts that are both ideologically charged and personally compelling.
At this point I find myself reverting to some sentences of Elisabeth
Schiissler Fiorenza, in her presidential address to the Society of Biblical
Literature in 1987:
If scriptural texts have served not only noble causes but also to legitimate war, to nurture anti-Judaism and misogynism, to justify the
exploitation of slavery, and to promote colonial dehumanization . . . then
the responsibility of the biblical scholar cannot be restricted to giving the
readers of our time clear access to the original intentions of the biblical
writers. It must also include the elucidation of the ethical consequences
and political functions of biblical texts in their historical as well as in
their contemporary sociopolitical contexts.3
2. My colleague Stephen Moore gives a delightful account of the MLA meeting I refer to in his paper, 'Que(e)rying Paul: Preliminary Questions', in Auguries
(n. 1 above), pp. 250-74 (250-53).
3 Elisabeth Schiissler Fiorenza, 'The Ethics of Biblical Interpretation: Decentering Biblical Scholarship', JBL 107 (1988), pp. 3-17 (15).
170
1983
1984
1985
1986
1987
1988
1989
1990
1991
1992
1993
1994
1995
1996
1997
1998
UK
Germ
EUP
1
2
2
3
10
4
10
12
8
12
16
20
19
10
14
1
8
6
1
4
9
9
17
12
2
42
22
18
17
14
28
3
12
7
3
2
7
5
17
35
4
22
31
17
18
29
9
143
210
221
Salamanca
Strasbourg
Amsterdam
Jerusalem
Heidelberg
Sheffield
Copenhagen
Vienna
Rome
Melbourne
Munster
Leuven
Budapest
Dublin
Lausanne
Cracow
Isr
Asia
Aust
1
5
3
2
2
5
3
14
10
1
2
US
Amers
Afr
5
5
27
1
3
20
5
1
1
1
2
9
8
8
1
8
4
3
3
2
7
8
13
22
25
30
37
26
42
58
33
55
44
58
35
48
35
2
2
1
1
2
2
4
5
4
5
4
2
2
5
3
4
2
1
3
2
3
5
9
17
8
20
8
20
8
4
9
11
6
17
6
9
4
1
1
1
2
8
5
6
4
4
1
1
68
63
569
48
119
98
35
E Eur N Eur
1
3
3
3
1
1
2
1
5
68
3
3
1
1
92
1983
1984
1985
1986
1987
1988
1989
1990
1991
1992
1993
1994
1995
1996
1997
1998
Salamanca
Strasbourg
Amsterdam
Jerusalem
Heidelberg
Sheffield
Copenhagen
Vienna
Rome
Melbourne
Miinster
Leuven
Budapest
Dublin
Lausanne
Cracow
Germ
Eur
E Eur N Eur
US
Amers
Afr
Isr
Asia
Aust
0.0
5.9
17.6
0.0
0.0
47.1
11.8
0.0
5.9
5.9
5.9
2.0
16.0
24.0
0.0
10.0
26.0
4.0
4.0
10.0
0.0
4.0
4.7
14.0
16.3
0.0
2.3
51.2
2.3
2.3
7.0
0.0
0.0
4.9
2.4
7.3
0.0
2.4
61.0
2.4
7.3
4.9
0.0
7.3
6.4
8.5
4.3
0.0
2.1
63.8
4.3
4.3
4.3
0.0
2.1
12.8
11.5
9.0
1.3
2.6
47.4
2.6
3.8
6.4
1.3
1.3
5.9
13.2
7.4
0.0
13.2
38.2
5.9
7.4
4.4
1.5
2.9
7.9
13.4
13.4
2.4
6.3
33.1
3.9
7.1
11.0
0.8
0.8
7.2
7.2
21.1
1.8
4.8
34.9
2.4
10.2
6.0
1.2
3.0
5.8
1.5
2.9
0.0
0.7
24.1
3.6
5.8
0.0
5.8
49.6
6.5
22.8
12.0
2.7
4.3
29.9
2.2
10.9
6.0
2.7
0.0
10.9
15.0
21.1
3.4
2.7
29.9
1.4
5.4
4.1
4.1
2.0
10.6
9.5
9.0
14.3
1.6
30.7
1.1
10.6
9.0
2.1
1.6
16.4
14.7
15.5
0.9
2.6
30.2
4.3
6.9
5.2
3.4
0.0
8.1
11.3
23.4
2.4
1.6
38.7
2.4
3.2
7.3
0.8
0.8
10.6
21.2
6.8
15.2
5.3
26.5
3.0
6.8
3.0
0.8
0.8
France
Switzerland
The Netherlands
Belgium
Eastern Europe
21 Hungary
24 Poland
4 Slovenia
2 Romania
8 Bulgaria
5 Russia
3 Ukraine
1 Georgia
Americas
568 USA
45 Canada
2 Mexico
1 Peru
Africa
Asia
98 Israel
1 Jordan
2 India
3 Philippines
6 Hong Kong
4 Korea
4 Indonesia
15 Japan
3 Ethiopia
1 Kenya
2 Malawi
211 Germany
Northern Europe
3 Namibia
26 Austria
28 Denmark
5 Nigeria
38 Italy
1 Iceland
3 Malta
9 Sweden
10 Norway
16 Finland
96 South Africa
7 Swaziland
1 Zaire
Australasia
80 Australia
1 1 New Zealan
1 Tonga
12. FIELDS
21. METHODS
10
FROM COPENHAGEN TO OSLO
WHAT HAS (AND HAS NOT) HAPPENED
AT CONGRESSES OF THE IOSOT
Now that the millennium is almost upon us, and not just the fin de
siecle but the^w d'une vingtaine de siecles, it must be time for us to be
reflecting on what we have been doing with ourselves in Old Testament/
Hebrew Bible studies all these years since 1953, and where we have
been goingin addition to Copenhagen and Oslo and various other
European sites of touristic interest.
This paper analyses and reports on all the 321 main papers given at
the 16 Congresses of the International Organization for the Study of the
Old Testament (IOSOT) since the first meeting in 1953 (the Organization was actually founded in 1950). Many other things have of course
happened at these meetings in addition to the reading of those main
papers. Perhaps the most important has been the creation of a meeting
place for European scholars whose interchange has twice in this century
been paralysed by wars. And there have been a myriad of personal encounters that have injected a more human dimension into our ostensibly
objective scholarship. In recent years, there have been also very many
shorter papers delivered as a kind of fringe event. And the book displays are almost vaut le voyage in themselves. Nevertheless, what has
been published as the report of each congress, and what is described in
some at least of the congress handbooks as the 'main programme' has
been the group of invited papers, no more than 20 or 25 at each meeting, and it is these papers that I will analyse for what they reveal about
the emphases and directions of Old Testament study in the second half
of our century. First for the facts: what has happened; and then for the
opinions: what has not happened. The paper itself is supplemented by a
series of charts, to which the numbered points, centred and in small
capitals, refer.
This paper was read as a Short Communication to the Sixteenth Congress of the
International Organization for the Study of the Old Testament, in Oslo, August
1998.
195
196
197
b. Languages of Papers
My next task was to consider what were the languages of papers, and
whether there have there been any changes over the years on this front.
9. LANGUAGES OF PAPERS
It is no doubt a remarkable statistic that only half of the papers at these
international congresses have been in English. Despite the increasing
prevalence of English at scholarly congresses in most disiciplines, the
IOSOT has maintained a very strong presence for two other European
languages.
198
13. FIELDS
The unexpected feature here, to my way of thinking at least, was that so
many of the papers, a half of the total, concerned themselves with the
Hebrew Bible as a whole, while only a half were devoted to some area,
whether, for example, the prophets in general, one particular prophet or
a passage in a prophetic book.
I found it interesting to compare this with the SBL International
Meetings,
199
Here too the heavy emphasis of the IOSOT on the prophetic books is
evident; the striking over-representation of Genesis that is noticeable in
the figures for the SBL International Meetings is not repeated at the
IOSOT Congresses.
e. Methods of Papers
My final statistics show the critical methods that have been employed.
Everything here depends on how I have characterized each paper, and I
know that others would have done things differently. But what I tried to
do was identify the principal method used in each paper. This is how
things turned out:
17. METHODS
Plainly, the range of historical-critical methods still rules the day in
Hebrew Bible studies, and perhaps the percentage should be still
greater if I had included theological among the historical-critical
category. Here is the division in more detail:
200
201
Even elucidation may not go far enough. What is being called for in
our time is an engagement in a critique of the biblical texts according to
the values we ourselves are personally committed to. The Bible is being
used a very great deal in our contemporary world, for good and ill. So
long as we stay bound in the ancient world, the world of the biblical
authors, so long as we regard a knowledge and a critique of how the
Bible is being used as beneath our scholarly dignity, and so long as we
continue to give the impression that our texts are beyond criticism, we
wrong our students and our public. It is time that the role of a biblical
scholar is reconceived as a critique and not a recapitulation of the
Bible.
It is perhaps not unfair to conclude that the IOSOT has been in its 45
years of history an agent for tradition and not for change in scholarship.
One wonders whether, if it is to be effective in the twenty-first century,
in a postmodern age with ideals very alien to those of conventional
biblical scholarship, and if it is to promote Hebrew Bible scholarship
within a wider circle of intellectual adventure, it will not have to
rethink itself radically. There are those who are urging that it will need
a more transparent governance, a still greater recognition of the role of
women scholars in our academic community, a more egalitarian and
consumer-led programme of meetings, and a commitment to a true
1. Elisabeth Schiissler Fiorenza, The Ethics of Biblical Interpretation: Decentering Biblical Scholarship', JBL 107 (1988), pp. 3-17 (15).
202
IOSOT Congresses
IOSOT Congresses
IOSOT Congresses
IOSOT Congresses
IO5OT Congresses
IO5OT Congresses
IOSOT Congresses
IO50T Congresses
2 wales
1 Ireland
5 spain
25 france
Eastern Europe
1 Hungry
2 Poland
Americas
47 USA
7 canada
1 Brazuil
3 Czech Rep
Northern Europe
6 Denmark
Asia
37 Israel
15 Switzerland
8 Sweden
3 Jordan
14 The Netherlands
4 Norway
9 Belgium
64 Germany
3 Finland
1 Lebanon
4 Japan
3 Austria
19 Italy
Africa
3 South Africa
Australia
1 Australisia
IOSOT Congresses
9. LANCUACES OF PAPERS
IOSOT Congresses
IOSOT Congresses
13. FIELDS
IOSOT Congresses
IOSOT Meetings
IOSOT Meetings
SBL
IOSOT Congresses
17. METHODS
IOSOT Congresses
IOSOT Congresses
LITERATURE
11
STORY AND POEM:
I am persuaded that without knowledge of literature pure theology cannot at all endure, just as heretofore, when letters have declined and lain
prostrate, theology too has wretchedly fallen and lain prostrate; nay, I
see that there has never been a great revelation of the Word of God
unless He has first prepared the way by the rise and prosperity of languages and letters, as though they were John the Baptists... Certainly it
is my desire that there shall be as many poets and rhetoricians as possible, because I see that by these studies, as by no other means, people are
wonderfully fitted for the grasping of sacred truth and for handling it
skillfully and happily... Therefore I beg of you that at my request (if
that has any weight) you will urge your young people to be diligent in
the study of poetry and rhetoric.1
Luther's encouragement seems to have had little effect on biblical studies since his time. With some important exceptions,2 Old Testament
studies in particular have been obsessed with philological and historical
questions. And where biblical 'poetry and rhetoric' have been attended
to, the focus has very often been upon the devices or mechanics of biblical literature3 rather than upon broader issues of the literary character
Originally published in Interpretation34 (1980), pp. 115-27, and reprinted with
permission.
1. Preserved Smith and C.M. Jacobs (eds.), Luther's Correspondence (Philadelphia: United Lutheran Publication House, 1918), II, pp. 176-77.
2. E.g. Johann Gottfried von Herder, Vom Geist der ebrdische Poesie: Eine
Anleitung filr die Liebhaben derselben und der dltesten Geschichte des menschlichen Geistes (Stuttgart: J.G. Cotta, 1827 [trans. J. Marsh as The Spirit of
Hebrew Poetry, 2 vols.; Burlington: Edward Smith, 1833]). From the nineteenth
and early twentieth century we could mention George Gilfillan, The Bards of the
Bible (London: Hamilton, Adams, & Co., 1850), Richard Green Moulton, The Literary Study of the Bible: An Acount of the Leading Forms by Literature Represented in the Sacred Writings; Intended for English Readers (Boston: D.C. Heath,
2nd edn, 1899), and John Hayes Gardiner, The Bible as English Literature
(London: T. Fisher Unwin, 1906).
3. So, e.g., Eduard Konig, Stilistik, Rhetorik, Poetik in Bezug aufdie biblische
226
of the Bible or, most importantly, what it signifies that the Bible (scripture) exists as literature.
The decade of the seventies has seen changes, though not always
great advances. Two years ago in Interpretation John Dominic Crossan
gave a useful sketch of the trends of that decade in literary approaches
to biblical texts: structuralism, the genre parable, narrative syntax, the
genres tragedy and comedy.4 He omitted mention of the work of James
Muilenburg, of which his well-known Society of Biblical Literature
Presidential address of 1968 was only a sample; his call for a movement 'beyond form criticism'5 generated a proliferation of studies,
some sensitive and some mechanistic, under the banner of 'rhetorical
criticism'.6 More influential, however, in the English-speaking world at
least, has been the heady development of schools of religious studies in
secular universities; the Bible has been taught in these schools not for
the reasons that have accorded it prominence in the seminaries and
divinity schools. It has not even always been taught by professional
biblical scholars, but by professors of English for the sake of acquainting their students with what is arguably the greatest and certainly the
most influential literary work of world civilization.7
Those who have been quick to applaud this movement as a restoration of the Bible to its rightful place in education had perhaps better
restrain themselves for the time being; for it is by no means determined
Litteratur (Leipzig: Weicher, 1900).
4. John Dominic Crossan, 'Waking the Bible: Biblical Hermeneutic and Literary Imagination', Int 32 (1978), pp. 269-85.
5. James Muilenburg, 'Form Criticism and Beyond', JBL 88 (1969), pp. 1-18.
6. See Jared J. Jackson and Martin Kessler (eds.), Rhetorical Criticism: Essays
in Honor of James Muilenburg (PTMS, 1; Pittsburgh: Pickwick Press, 1974). For
two excellent surveys of the field, see M. Kessler, 'A Methodological Setting for
Rhetorical Criticism', Semitics 4 (1974), pp. 22-36; and Isaac M. Kikawada, 'Some
Proposals for the Definition of Rhetorical Criticism', Semitics 5 (1977), pp. 67-91.
Cf. also D. Greenwood, 'Rhetorical Criticism and Formgeschichte: Some Methodological Considerations', JBL 89 (1970), pp. 418-26; R.F. Melugin, 'Muilenburg,
Form Criticism, and Theological Exegesis', in Martin J. Buss (ed.), Encounter with
the Text: Form and History in the Hebrew Bible (Semeia Supplements, 8; Philadelphia: Fortress Press; Missoula, MT: Scholars Press, 1979), pp. 91-100.
7. Perhaps the finest in the collection of Literary Interpretations of Biblical
Narratives (ed. Kenneth R.R. Gros Louis, with James S. Ackerman and Thayer S.
Warshaw; Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1974), was the essay by one such literary
critic, D.F. Rauber, originally published as 'Literary Values in the Book of Ruth',
JBL 89 (1970), pp. 27-37.
227
228
10. See Barr, Bible in the Modern World, pp. 53-74; 'Reading the Bible as Literature', BJRL 56 (1973-74), pp. 10-33. As far as Brevard S. Childs's Introduction
to the Old Testament as Scripture (London: SCM Press, 1979) is concerned, I
should comment that while for him the Old Testament is Scripture, whether it is
recognized as such or not, I am not engaging with that position; I am arguing that
whether or not the Old Testament is Scripture, it is literature.
11. Cf. J. Barr, 'Story and History in Biblical Theology', JR 56 (1977), pp. 1-17
(5): 'The long narrative corpus of the Old Testament seems to me, as a body of literature, to merit the title of story rather than of history'.
12. J. Blenkinsopp, 'Ballad Style and Psalm Style in the Song of Deborah', Bib
42(1961), pp. 61-76.
13. Cf. Barr, Bible in the Modern World, p. 142; David H. Kelsey, The Uses of
Scripture in Recent Theology (London: SCM Press, 1975).
229
Those who search out the intention of the sacred writers must... have
regard for 'literary forms'. For truth is proposed and expressed in a
variety of ways, depending on whether a text is history of one kind or
another, or whether its form is that of prophecy, poetry, or some other
type of speech... For the correct understanding of what the sacred
writer wanted to assert, due attention must be paid to the customary and
characteristic styles of perceiving, speaking, and narrating which prevailed at the time of the sacred writer.14
Overarching the multiplicity of literary forms (Gattungeri) discovered within the Old Testament literature are these two catch-all forms
of story and poem. To manifestations of each of these and to some
comments on their significance I now turn.
1. Story
To observe the effect of taking the Old Testament narrative primarily as
story, we shall have to consider a few selected examples.
In the case of the book of Jonah, we note first that we are relieved of
the need to decide whether, or to what extent, the narrative recounts
events that actually happened. Most readers of this article will find no
need to be relieved of that decision, since they have already decided
that Jonah was not swallowed by a 'great fish' (though they may not be
certain whether the Jonah of the story was an historical personage or
whether Nineveh ever repented). But very many readers of the book of
Jonah itself, I suppose, do not doubt that it tells of what in fact happened, and have not seen any need to make a decision about its
historicity. If we come to the story as story, both kinds of readers can
enjoy the story, value the story, and engage in potentially fruitful discussion with each other about the meaning(s) of the story. It is not
necessary to disbelieve, or to believe, in the story's historicity in order
to understand it. The question of historicity does not have to be swept
under the carpet, but neither does it have to be the piece de resistance.
Next, if the book is viewed as story, we can sit looser to the idea that
we should search for the message or point or kerygma of the book.
When it is regarded primarily as Scripture, we are perhaps more likely
to ask what it has to say, teach, affirm, assert, deny. When it is regarded
14. Dogmatic Constitution on Divine Revelation, III. 12 (= Walter M. Abbott
[ed.], Joseph Gallagher [trans, and ed.], The Documents of Vatican II [New York:
The American Press, 1966], p. 120).
230
primarily as literature, we are more inclined to say, I think: The simplicity of this book is only superficial; what it has to say is not likely to
be simple. The history of recent scholarship confirms this presumption.15 For the conventional view has been that the book is 'a tract
against particularistic intolerance and arrogance'.16 By some the implication of such polemic has been thought to be a call to mission to the
heathen. Some have seen its purpose as a demonstration of the possibility of repentance. Others have found in it a statement about true and
false prophecy, about the relation between conditional and unconditional prophecy, or about the problem of the non-fulfilment of prophecy
against the nations. Yet again, the message of the book may be
regarded as essentially a statement about God, whether in a positive
vein, that he is willing to override his prophetic word for the sake of the
nations' salvation; or in a more negative vein, that God's capacity for
change of mind can destroy the credibility of his prophets and be in any
case ultimately ineffectual in converting the heathen. Even the old allegorical interpretation in which Jonah represents the people of Israel
swallowed up in exile by the world powers is still advocated.
Most of these interpretations of the thrust of the book of Jonah have
so much for them and against them in the book, that we can seriously
question whether the search for a message is not, in this case at least,
incompatible with a 'literary' view of the book. May not Jonah have
nothing in particular to 'teach' but be an imaginative story (traditional
or not) in which various serious concerns of the author are lightly and
teasingly sketched? The delicate echoing ironies of the book and the
tantalizing note on which it ends would tempt us to believe so. This
story, a literary critic might say, is a field not so much for conflicting
arguments but for interpenetrating visions.17
If we turn now to the David story, we can see, not how the quest for a
single theological message or 'kerygma' can disintegrate when the
15. See Childs, Introduction, pp. 419-21, 425; R.E. Clements, The Purpose of
the Book of Jonah', Congress Volume, Edinburgh (VTSup, 28; Leiden: E.J. Brill,
1975), pp. 16-28.
16. Georg Fohrer, Introduction to the Old Testament (trans. David Green; London: SPCK, 1970), p. 433, referring to Artur Weiser, An Introduction to the Old
Testament (trans. Dorothea M. Barton; London: Darton, Longman & Todd, 1961),
p. 250.
17. The formulation is Northrop Frye's (cited by M. Kessler, SBL Proceedings,
1972, II, p. 525).
231
dimensions of the text as literature are explored, but how a ruling historical-critical consensus about the purpose of the work, which lacks
any significant theological spin-off, can be overcome by a literary
approach that liberates the work to function theologically and humanistically. The story of David as king (2 Sam. 9-20; 1 Kgs 1-2) has long
been recognized as a unity in virtue of the 'succession' motif: The
thread that binds the story together is the suspenseful question, Who is
to succeed David? In other words, the work has been seen as political
propaganda for Solomon's place on the Davidic throne.18
Against this view is the rather obvious fact that the succession motif
is not strongly enough marked to function as the integrating theme. It
will not account for the focus of the story of David, the man, the king
and the father. One relatively straightforward reconceptualization of the
material is to envisage a distinction between 2 Samuel 2-5 where
David is 'under the blessing' and 2 Samuel 9-24 where he is 'under the
curse', the pivotal point being the knot of David's misdeeds in the
Bathsheba episode (2 Sam. II). 19 Since David is evidently not always
under the curse through chs. 9-24, a more subtle and more persuasive
approach to the story is one that explores various levels in the characterization of David and in his relationships with other persons in the
story.20 There is a tension between David as king and David as man
(husband, father), a tension that defeats David at times; for example,
when his son Absalom, who ought to belong to the private family
sphere, moves over into the political sphere and becomes David's
enemy militarily. At another level the story of David can be read in
terms of the paradigm of 'giving' and 'grasping', both in his private
and public life. When David is content to be given to (2 Sam. 2-5) or to
give (2 Sam. 15-18) he is at his finest. Grasping, as portrayed quintessentially in the seizure of Bathsheba, is always destructive; it boils
over into the sorry story of the family and the state with the rape of
18. Leonhard Rost, Die Uberlieferung von der Thronnachfolge Davids
(BWANT, 3.6; Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1926) (= Das kleine Credo und andere
Studien zum Alten Testament [Heidelberg: Quelle & Meyer, 1965], pp. 119-253);
R.N. Whybray, The Succession Narrative: A Study of II Samuel 9-20,1 Kings 1 and
2 (SET, 2.9; London: SCM Press, 1968).
19. R.A. Carlson, David, the Chosen King: A Traditio-Historical Approach to
the Second Book of Samuel (Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell, 1964).
20. David M. Gunn, 'David and the Gift of the Kingdom', Semeia 3 (1975),
pp. 14-45; The Story of King David: Genre and Interpretation (JSOTSup, 6;
Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1978).
232
Those who would read the David story as Scripture will not neglect,
indeed, the narrative's indications of the rather mysterious but also
rather infrequent incursions of Yahweh into the tale; but they will sap
the life out of the story if they search primarily for religious or moral
truths or lessons. They will hear it best as the 'things . . . written aforetime ... for our learning' (Rom. 15.4) if they engage with the story in its
irony and ambiguity and find themselves witnesses of a story about a
man's strengths and weaknesses.
Yet even where Yahweh is wholly absent from an Old Testament
story, as in the case of Esther, the story is not precluded from having
any theological 'pay-off. For it has been precisely through a literary
study of this tale that a most satisfying account of the book's religious
significance has been given.22 Mordecai's words in 4.13-14, 'If you
keep silence at such a time as this, relief and deliverance will arise for
the Jews from another quarter', are to be recognized as the structural
centre of the book, artistically considered. From this perspective, rather
than by decoding the term 'another quarter' as a cipher for 'God', we
can discern the storyteller's belief in a 'hidden causality' that lies
beneath the events of history. Like the Joseph story, the Esther tale
evinces no visible activity of God; unlike the Joseph story, the Esther
tale does not even allow at the end that all that has happened has in
reality been God's doing (as Gen. 45.5, 7-8; 50.20). In Esther, no theologoumenon breaks the spell of the story; but the fact that Esther is in
a position of power 'at such a time as this' and that, even if she will not
speak out on behalf of her people, 'help' from some quarter or other
can be confidently expected bespeaks an assurance that history is neither random nor directed exclusively by human forces. The whole story
21. Gunn, The Story of King David, p. 111.
22. See Sandra Beth Berg, The Book of Esther: Motifs, Themes and Structure
(SBLDS, 44; Missoula, MT: Scholars Press, 1979).
233
234
Israel is left by this literary work with the future, which can be an
occasion for hope or despair, for trust in the God of the promise or
doubt in his capability.
When this Scripture is read as story, no unambiguous kerygma
asserts itself; but the hearers expand their experience of what life under
a promise can be like and ask themselves serious questions about how
long they can go on living in expectation, with hope deferred, and with
their heart sick.
These stories are, according to one influential analysis, 'world-establishing' myths.26 But they need not be comforting assurances just for
that reason; they can be every bit as much 'world-subverting' as the
highly acclaimed 'parable' form. If Georg Btichner rightly depicted
literature as a Moglichkeit des Daseins, 'a rehearsal of the possibilities
of being in the world... not a confirmation of what one is but a proposal to be something different' ,27 all these stories are potentially subversive and have the capacity to function as a literature critical of any
worldview brought to it by the preunderstanding of its readers.
2. Poem
A first example may be taken from Psalm 42-43, where a single dominating image seems to offer the best insight into the poem.28 In the first
strophe the image is that of water as life; in the second, of water as
death. In the first strophe, water is life for the thirsty hart in the desert;
the psalmist's anxious desire for God is the instinctual drive of the desperate animal for self-preservation; it is a search for the one who is his
water, his life. In the second strophe, however, the psalmist knows himself to be overwhelmed by hostile water which, like the water he
craves, also comes from God: 'Your torrents and your breakers have
engulfed me' (42.7). In seeking water, he finds it; but it is not the lifegiving water that he finds. Does this not mean that 'God, who was to
26. Cf. John Dominic Crossan, The Dark Interval (Niles: Argus, 1975), pp. 5762.
27. Cited by J.P. Stern, The Times Higher Education Supplement (June 4,
1976), p. 11.
28. See L. Alonso Schokel, The Poetic Structure of Psalm 42-43', JSOT 1
(1976), pp. 4-11 (first published as 'Estructura Poetica del Salmo 42-43', in Wort,
Lied und Gottesspruch: Festschrift fiir Joseph Ziegler [Wiirzburg: Echter Verlag,
1972]).
235
have been the life of the psalmist, has become his death; he has become
an elemental force, oceanic, irresistible'?29 The poem is projecting the
tension in the mind of the psalmist between his contrary experiences of
God: God is at once his joy and fate.30 This tension expresses itself also
in the dialogue within the psalmist himself: 'Why are you cast down, O
my soul... Hope in God; for I shall again praise him' (42.5, 11; 43.5).
Here is the polarity of the psalmist's experience: 'At one level of consciousness nostalgia and dismay predominate; at a deeper level
confidence and hope emerge and grow'.31
What does this poem teach us about God? That God may be experienced negatively as well as positively? Certainly. That God is both
comforting and hostile? Possibly. But does this poem exist in order to
teach? Does it not exist in order to be sungor chanted or read? Will
not the polarity in the psalmist's experience of Godto speak only of
this aspect of the poembe felt and heard differently by its hearers in
their differing circumstances? Of course, as we all know; a psalm that
makes one person weep can rejoice another. When the psalm works in
this variegated manner, it is functioning as literature. To acknowledge
it as Scripture in addition is to say no more than the community of faith
welcomes, and is sustained by, the possibilities that it opens up.
Next, the Song of Songs may be chosen as an illustration of the role
of a sustained cluster of metaphor in Old Testament poetry. Country
(with its flocks, vineyards, sun, flowers, hills, fields and villages) and
court (with its king, chambers, curtains, maidens, jewels, couches,
perfumes, banquets, streets and squares) function as a brilliant but
transparent metaphoric system for the disjunction of the lovers that is
always striving towards union. The imagery is everywhere sensuous,
with fragrances, breezes, natural beauty, delights of food and wine; and
the emotional language is highly pitched, with ravishment of heart,
lovesickness, desperate longing, exultation, and its images of animal
energy and grace (gazelle, stag, goats, raven, doves, fawns). Again, the
imagery of enclosed gardens, walls, doors, of absence and presence, of
losing and finding, pervades the poem with the tension of sexual desire,
frustration, and fulfilment. It is not the explicit reference to breasts and
kissing that creates the erotic quality of this poem, but the consistent
29. Alonso Schokel, 'Poetic Structure', p. 7.
30. The phrase is from the eleventh-century mystic Jewish poet, Solomon ben
Judah ibn Gabirol.
31. Alonso Schokel, 'Poetic Structure', p. 8.
236
play of metaphor. The language is rarely direct and explicit (hence the
difficulties in reconstructing a drama from the poem, or even in some
places of assigning speeches); rather it is 'subtle and seductive, leaving
many things unspoken but nonetheless present'.32 The poem does not
allow love to evaporate into a philosophical abstraction, for it persistently makes physical attraction and excitement of feeling the chief
ingredient in romantic love; but on the other hand, its emphatic sexuality is not expressed in physical terms and it makes no appeal to the
voyeuristic instinct.33
The metaphoric systems pervading the poem exist, in the first place,
to be savoured and appreciated. The beginning of literary criticism lies
in the recognition [that]... the work of art... exists not to be used but
to be understood and enjoyed.'34 It does not exist in order to 'teach' or
'affirm' the value of sexual love. It does not even 'celebrate' it in any
self-conscious way. It is true that the Song has been appropriated for
Scripture, but that only means that its horizon of reference has been
broadened so that it can function as teaching (wisdom) if need be. Certainly it may be used in protest against distorting and limiting views of
human sexuality. But when it is no longer time for protest or battle or
the restoring of balances, the Song comes into its own again not as
some 'useful' artifact but as an invitation to delight in the mysterious
reality of joyful physical love.
For a third example of Old Testament poetry, we may consider
Hosea 2 and the function of structure in poetry.35 Though not a narrative poem in any usual sense of that term, this poem of Yahweh and his
wife is structured in two shapes (at least). It first appears in linear or
sequential shape, that is, as a plotted poem. We can make out seven
acts in its plot, one earlier act being presupposed by the poem. What is
going on in the poem, we may say, is this:
32. R.E. Murphy, 'Interpreting the Song of Songs', BTB 9 (1979), pp. 99-105
(104).
33. Cf. Leland Ryken, The Literature of the Bible (Grand Rapids: Zondervan,
1974), pp. 217-30.
34. Helen Gardner, The Business of Criticism (Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 1959), p. 15.
35. Cf. D.J.A. Clines, 'Hosea 2: Structure and Interpretation', in Studia Biblica
1978. I. Papers on Old Testament and Related Themes. Sixth International Congress on Biblical Studies (ed. E.A. Livingstone; JSOTSup, 11; Sheffield: JSOT
Press, 1979), pp. 83-103 (reprinted below).
1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.
237
The poem plainly lends itself to being read in this linear fashion. But
it also contains another structure which permits a different reading.
This second structure emerges from the function of the triple laken
('therefore') in the poem:
Appeal to Israel to abandon her harlotry (vv. 2-5).
1.
238
2.
3.
36. Cf. Hans Walter Wolff, Hosea (Hermeneia; Philadelphia: Fortress Press,
1974), p. 119.
37. See J.G. Janzen, 'Metaphor and Reality in Hosea 11', SBL 1976 Seminar
Papers (ed. G. MacRae; Missoula, MT: Scholars Press, 1976), pp. 413-45.
239
Story and poem are alike enough to allow a common set of reflections
on their significance in Old Testament literature.
1. Story and poem are oblique modes of communication. Neither
Genesis nor the Song of Songs sets out to tell us what to do or to convey a 'message' to us. Indeed, it would be excessively doctrinaire to
assert that a literary work has no meaning beyond itself ('A poem
should not mean, but be'38), but almost equally doctrinaire to claim to
nail down the 'kerygma' of a literary work. A literary approach to the
Old Testament lowers our expectations for clear messages and general
truths or for proof texts to equip arsenals for theological warfare. But it
heightens our sensitivities to being moved, amused, elated, angered,
persuaded. And when the literature provokes in us the kinds of reaction
it has the capacity to createwhat more could one ask of a scripture!
2. Old Testament story and poem reach us as texts. Texts are monuments; they signal the presence of what is dead but 'survives' and can
be awakened.39 We cannot hear these stories and poems as their first
hearers heard them, recreating the world of the teller of tales or willing
ourselves back into the audience of an Amos. But the texts themselves
still exist, endlessly replicated. They are given to springing to life and
taking even casual readers by surprise. We do not make the leap into the
past, we do not have to devise some scheme for bridging the gap between the 'then' of the text and the 'now' of the hearer. Any literature
worth the name jumps the time-gap of its own accord. For this reason,
the church is entitled to regard its scripture as 'lively oracles'.
3. What is happening in imaginative literature such as story and
poem is the creation of worlds alternative to our own present reality.
Though they bear a resemblance to our everyday world, we are aware
that things are done differently there, values we recognize are differently esteemed, and our own personal security may be troubled as we
realize that our way is not the only way for humans to be. If we are
fascinated into acknowledging the alternative world as part, at least, of
what we want to have as our own real world, two horizons merge: that
of our prior world and that of the alternative world. In religious language, this is called 'hearing' Scripture. If the Old Testament as literature wins this kind of assent from us, has it not become our Scripture?
38. A. MacLeish, 'Ars Poetica', in Streets in the Moon (Boston: Houghton
Mifflin, 1926).
39. Cf. W.J. Ong, 'Maranatha: Death and Life in the Text of the Book', JAAR
45 (1977), pp. 419-49.
12
X, X BEN Y, BEN Y:
PERSONAL NAMES IN HEBREW NARRATIVE STYLE
\.TheXbenYForm
Abner is sometimes called Abner, sometimes Abner b. Ner; Jeroboam
appears both as Jeroboam and as Jeroboam b. Nebat; Gideon is usually
Gideon or Jerubbaal, except for three places where he is called Jerubbaal b. Joash. Shimei is four times Shimei b. Gera, and fourteen times
simply Shimei, but Sheba is invariably Sheba b. Bichri on the eight
occasions he is mentioned by name. Similar variations occur in the
names of other personages in the historical books. Judging by the lack
of attention this phenomenon receives in the commentaries one must
assume that the choice of the name-forms 'X' or 'X ben Y' is generally
thought to be arbitrary.
This view may be questioned, however. While it is impossible to be
certain that one has correctly identified the reason for the use of one of
the name-forms in a particular passage, it will become clear from the
present study that a number of factors that influence the narrator's
choice of name-form may be distinguished. That is, when both 'X' and
'X ben Y' are in use for an individual, it can be observed that the long
form 'X ben Y' is used:
a.
b.
c.
d.
241
Each of these offers a quite natural occasion for the use of the long
form, and most could be readily paralleled in modern English usage.
What is noteworthy is that the use of the 'X ben Y' form can be
reduced to so small a set of contexts. It is of course obvious that a clear
distinction between the uses mentioned above cannot always be maintained: thus it could well be argued that the 'X ben Y' form in legal
formulations is motivated by a need for clarity rather than for formality,
but the analysis will, it is hoped, prove useful practically.
It needs to be remarked that the long form 'X ben Y' is not always
employed when one of the situations analysed above arises; one can
only hope to show why 'X ben Y' is used when it is used, and one cannot usually speculate about why it is not used.
The reasons for the use of one name-form rather than the other
become clear primarily through an examination of names in their setting, so it is proposed to trace certain names throughout the narratives
in which they occur. The names studied are arranged in the order of
their first occurrence in the Bible.
Ehud. The use of the 'X ben Y' (hereafter 'XbY') form in Ehud's
case is a simple example of type b i. In Judg. 3.15 'Yahweh raised up a
deliverer, Ehud b. Gera, a Benjaminite', the hero of the narrative is first
introduced with the long name-form. Thereafter throughout the story he
appears simply as Ehud (vv. 16, 18, 20, etc.).
Barak at his first mention is 'Barak b. Abinoam' (Judg. 4.6), while
his town and tribal affiliation are also noted, though integrally with the
narrative ('Deborah called Barak b. Abinoam from Kadesh Naphtali')
rather than, as is more usual, merely appended to the name (cf. Ehud).
242
243
244
nation of the continuation of the long name-form is correct, the eventual abandonment of it in favour of the short form must be accounted
for by the quickening pace of the narrative.
Michal. The name-forms used for Michal, daughter of Saul and wife
of David, are particularly instructive:
1 Sam. 14.49 'The names of (Saul's) two daughters were these:
Merab the first-born and Michal the younger' (genealogical, contextually clarified, hence 'X' form).
18.20 'Michal daughter of Saul loved David'. This is doubly significant: on the one hand, David has been cheated of Merab, the elder
daughter (v. 19), but now looks likely to succeed with the other
daughter of Saul; and on the other hand, ch. 18 has been concerned
with Saul's growing disenchantment with David, and in that setting it is
dramatically promising that David falls in love withthe daughter of
Saul. So this is type d i.
18.27 'Saul gave him his daughter Michal for a wife'; to 'Michal'
there is added the determinative 'his daughter' because the relationship
is significant. 'Daughter of Saul' is obviously impossible because
'Saul' already appears in the sentence.
18.28 'Saul saw and knew that Yahweh was with David, and that the
daughter of Saul loved him, and Saul became yet more afraid of
David'. 'Daughter of Saul' in a sentence of which 'Saul' is the subject
would appear to annul the last observation made on the previous verse.
But it is virtually certain that 'TIKETPQ ^Ql is here an orthographical
error for ^"ICT'^D "O1,7 for the MT presents the following difficulties:
Saul already knew that Michal loved David (v. 20), and Michal has
done nothing more to prove her love for him (though it could be argued
that David's double bride-price proved his love for her), so nothing can
be inferred from the emphatic 'saw and knew' (PT1 KT1); why should
Michal's love for David make Saul afraid of David? It could have been
a further ground for his hating him, but Saul obviously fears a threat to
his throne. Verse 28 emended in fact summarizes the material of ch. 18
7. Cf. LXX Kai rcdq Iapat|A, riydrca amov. So Henry Preserved Smith, The
Books of Samuel (ICC; Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1899), p. 175; Paul Dhorme, Les
Livres de Samuel (Etudes bibliques; Paris: J. Gabalda, 1910), p. 166; S.R. Driver,
Notes on the Hebrew Text... of the Books of Samuel (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2nd
edn, 1913), p. 155. Remarkably, BH 3 , NEB, Hans Wilhelm Hertzberg, I and II
Samuel (London: SCM Press, 1964), p. 159, and J. Mauchline, 1 and 2 Samuel
(NCB; London: Oliphants, 1971), p. 141, appear to have no difficulty with the MT.
245
246
her to Paltiel (1 Sam. 25.44). (This explains, incidentally, why Ishbosheth is here called 'Ishbosheth son of Saul' [type d i] while elsewhere in the chapter he is simply 'Ishbosheth' [vv. 7, 8, 11, 15].)
'Michal daughter of Saul' would be ludicrous in this context, and
'Michal' alone would not beg the question so emphatically as David's
well-chosen phrase does.
6.16 'Michal the daughter of Saul saw King David leaping and dancing before Yahweh, and she despised him in her heart'.
6.20 'David returned to bless his household, and Michal the daughter
of Saul came out to meet David, and said: How the king of Israel honoured himself today...!'
6.21 'And David said to Michal: It was before Yahweh...'
6.23 'And Michal the daughter of Saul had no child to the day of her
death'.
Here the normal pattern of name use is broken in two ways: first,
Michal is called 'daughter of Saul' rather than 'wife of David', which
one would expect for a married woman, especially since the episode
concerns an altercation between man and wife; and secondly, the
'XbY' form is used three times, contrary to the usual practice of beginning a narrative with 'XbY' and continuing with 'X'. The reason for
both these abnormalities is clear: Michal is not behaving as David's
wife (contrast 1 Sam. 19) but as his opponent: she is acting like a true
daughter of Saul,8 and the narrator has spelled this out by writing
'Michal daughter of Saul' in the two places where her criticism of
David is expressed (vv. 16, 20). Verse 23 presumably means 'Here is
the punishment for an opponent of David the divinely chosen king',
and perhaps also: 'So David fails to legitimize his succession to Saul's
throne through Michal'.
If it is correct that Michal's relationship with Saul is being emphasized by the use of the 'XbY' form (type d i), one may well wonder
8. Older commentators occasionally saw that some explanation of the full
name-form is called for, though their explanations were beside the point; for
example, 'Michalis expressly calledSaul's daughter,not thereby to characterize
her as lacking in true-hearted piety (Keil), but to distinguish her in comparison with
David's other wives, as highest in position' (C.F.D. Erdmann, The Books of Samuel
[ed. C.H. Toy and J.A. Brooks; New York: Scribner, Armstrong & Co., 1877],
p. 419); or, 'as king's daughter, she valued her royal dignity' (R. Payne Smith, II
Samuel [Pulpit Commentary, 9; London: Kegan, Paul, Trench, Trubner & Co.,
1888], p. 147).
247
why it is not employed also in v. 21. The answer can only be that
purely literary factors outweigh the significative value of 'XbY', for
example, one may sense that the narrative here gathers pace, which the
long form would slow down, or perhaps preferably that attention now
focuses on David, who is the subject of the sentence, and that it is
therefore beside the point to stress the role that Michal is playing.
21.8 The reference here to Michal daughter of Saul as having borne
five sons is almost universally agreed to be an error (cf. 6.23) for Merab
(so LXXL).9
Abner. Abner is first met with at 1 Sam. 14.50, in a passage concerning the relatives of Saul: 'The name of his army commander was Abner
b. Ner, Saul's uncle'. This is not a narrative passage but an archivaltype list where the details of relationship are significant. It is analogous
to type d i in narrative style.
Abner is not introduced with the 'XbY' form when he first appears in
the narrative at 17.55, presumably because it is not he but Saul and
David who are the protagonists there, and because Abner is more
appropriately described in the context as 'army commander'.
In the narratives in which Abner is involved he is of course usually
just 'Abner', but the eight places where he is 'Abner b. Ner' require
explanation.
In ch. 26, Abner, though a figure of subordinate interest to David and
Saul, steps further into the foreground, and engages in an altercation
with David. So in this episode it is not strange that Abner is first spoken
of as 'Abner b. Ner' (v. 5) (type b ii).
26.14 is odd: 'David called to the army and to Abner b. Ner, saying,
Will you not answer, Abner?' This is hardly a new episode (type b ii).
But if we reconstruct the scene, it is immediately obvious that 'Will
you not answer, Abner?' cannot be the opening gambit of the conversation! David will have already called "irp "I32K KrJJQti10 or nnNn
"irp ")]HN HT 11 or some such thing, the full 'XbY' name-form being
appropriate when addressing a person for the first time (cf. type b iii).
9. Cf., e.g., Driver, Notes on the Hebrew Text, p. 352; Mauchline, 1 and 2
Samuel, p. 302. J.J. Gliick, 'Merab or Michal', ZAW77 (1965), pp. 72-81, alone
retains 'Michal' at the cost of an unconvincing emendation of 'Adriel b. Barzillai
the Meholathite' to 'Paltiel b. Laish'.
10. Cf. Gen. 37.6 WIJJQti (Joseph to his brothers); 1 Sam. 22.7 WIJOO (Saul to
his servants); Judg. 9.7 ^N 1DQ2J (Jotham to the men of Shechem).
11. Cf. 2 Sam. 2.20 (Abner to Asahel); 1 Kgs 18.7 (Obadiah to Elijah).
248
But to speed up the story, the narrator embodies David's first question
in his narrative, along with the name-form that would have been
employed in direct speech.12 It is to be noted incidentally that this compression, which may have occurred at the time of writing down a longer
oral text, results in an awkward juxtaposition ('David called to the people and to Abner b. Ner'? at the same time) which some versions
have been uneasy with and have attempted to smooth out by inserting
another verb.13
At 2 Sam. 2.8 the 'XbY' form is easily explicable as introducing a
new episode (type b ii); note the position of tQine? ~0~p "|]3N before
the verb, serving the same function.
2.12, though not far from v. 8, plainly introduces a new pericope
(vv. 10-11, a chronological note, breaks up the narrative), which is
marked by the 'XbY' form for both Abner and Ishbosheth (type b ii).
Through 2 Sam. 2-3 Abner is consistently 'Abner', until 3.23 'It was
told to Joab, Abner b. Ner has come to the king', a clear example of
type b iii.
In 3.25 our analysis brings to light an interesting nuance. Joab
12. This is therefore an example of 'perspective reporting' narrative technique,
in which the narrator tells the story from within the perspective of one of his characters. This technique is discussed by M. Weiss ('Einiges iiber die Bauformen des
Erzahlens in der Bibel', VT 13 [1963], pp. 456-75) under the rubric 'erlebte Rede'.
An alternative interpretation of our text is suggested by Lande, Formelhafte
Wendungen der Umgangssprache im Alien Testament, p. 20, who sees David's
address of Abner by the simple name-form as a sign of disrespect. This is difficult
to establish since there are no exact parallels: Joram's neglect of the courteous 'my
brother' when crying 'Treachery, Ahaziah' (2 Kgs 9.23) is hardly disrespectful, and
from 2 Kgs 9.5 when a messenger addresses Jehu with 'I have a message for thee,
O commander ("15OT)', we do not learn whether one can say, 'O commander Jehu
("IC?n Kin1). Other examples (cf. Lande, Formelhafte Wendungen der Umgangssprache im Alten Testament, p. 28, and add 2 Kgs 9.31) are of a superior addressing
an inferior, and are irrelevant here. David can hardly address Abner as 'my brother'
(TIN) or 'my lord' (TIN), and as far as we know he would have to call out either
"l&H (which might produce some other "150; cf. 2 Kgs 9.5), or prp) "038, regardless of how respectful or unrespectful he wanted to appear. If he really wanted to be
ill-mannered, he could always say simply ~Q~p (cf. on ben Y below). Finally, note
that Lande does not explain why the long name-form appears in our text.
13. LXX TipoaeKaXeaaTO Aa\)ei5 TOY X,aov, KOI T<B Apevvip eA,dXnaev Xeycav.
Cf. NEB 'David shouted across to the army and hailed Abner'. The problem is
further complicated by Abner's reply 'Who art thou who callest to the king1?'
("I^QiT^K omitted by LXX, BH3, JB), but this does not concern us here.
249
reproaches David for having welcomed Abner: 'What have you done?
Behold Abner has come to you... You know that Abner b. Ner came to
deceive y o u . . . ' Why does Joab first call him 'Abner', and then 'Abner
b. Ner'? Plainly for no purely formal reason (types b, c). Rather, 'Abner
b. Ner' in this context draws attention to the relationship of son to
father (type d i). Joab means, 'You ought to realize that a relative
(uncle or cousin) of Saul must be an opponent of yours'. He has first
spoken of Abner, the man who is in his own right both David's and
Joab's enemy (2 Sam. 2.12-32), and he is astounded that David has not
held him captive: 'Why (HTTIQ^, emphatic accusatory14 particle) have
you let him go?'15 'He has got clean away!' (NEB). But secondly, he
reinforces his reproach with 'Surely you know who Abner is! He is a
kinsman of Saul. You can only expect treachery from that quarter'. The
MT to -]nns'7 O "irp 1D-n nirr should indeed be translated with
NEB 'You know Abner son of Ner: he came meaning to deceive you',
rather than with RSV 'You know that Abner the son of Ner came to
deceive you'.
Abner's death is then narrated, the 'X' form being used twice,
whereupon David says:
3.28 'I and my kingdom are innocent of the blood of Abner b. Ner'.
This sounds like a formal or legal phrase (type c i) in which the use of
the full name-form lends weight to the exculpation.
Finally, after several uses of the 'X' form in the narrative of Abner's
burial, we find
3.37 'And all the people and all Israel knew on that day that it had
not been the king's will ("[^QHQ) to slay Abner b. Ner'. It is hard to
pinpoint the reason for the 'XbY' form here, but at this resting-point of
14. Cf. Boecker, Redeformen des Rechtslebens, p. 30.
15. 'Why' questions of reproach are commonly supplemented by "O or N^H
clauses, e.g. 1 Sam 26.18 CD); 1 Sam. 17.8 (N^H), and probably vbr\ should be
restored at the beginning of v. 25 (cf. LXX). But LXX is rather free at this point,
running (24) ct7ieXr|X'u6ev ev eipfivrj (25) ri OVK oi5as ii\v Kaidav A(3evvr|p...
for MT ~mtrn njJT qftn "p^. One should not succumb to LXX and read "['n
DI^ED (so K. Budde, Die Biicher Samuel [KHAT; Tubingen: J.C.B. Mohr, 1902],
p. 212; BH3), since that is clearly an assimilation to the ending of vv. 22-23. and
Driver (Notes on the Hebrew Text, p. 249) rightly sees that 'while the narrator, and
reporters, use the common Dl'pED ~Jt?rl, Joab characteristically expresses himself
with greater energy ~[l^n "[^l. Nor should we read "1338 nm~nN in v. 25 (so
Budde, Die Biicher Samuel, p. 212), since LXX is only smoothing, though not
improving, the Hebrew.
250
the narrative where the burial of the warrior and the mourning until
sunset halts the flow of events and the attention is turned backwards to
the question of responsibility before focusing again on David in the
circle of his intimates, the formality of 'Abner son of Ner' is entirely
appropriate (? type b iv, c iii).
Mephibosheth. Mephibosheth's name at its first occurrence (2 Sam.
4.4) needs no 'XbY' form since the one-verse episode begins 'Jonathan
b. Saul had a son...' and concludes 'and his name was Mephibosheth'.
In ch. 9, the story of David's kindness, Mephibosheth is introduced
as 'Mephibosheth b. Jonathan b. Saul' (v. 6) since he is the one person
'left of the house of Saul' to whom David can 'shown kindness for
Jonathan's sake' (v. 1). The ancestry of Mephibosheth is fundamental
to the narrative, so naturally the long form (here actually 'XbYbZ') is
used (type d i). In the rest of the story Mephibosheth is regularly called
by the 'X' form.
Mephibosheth is referred to in ch. 16, but there it is 'Ziba the servant
of Mephibosheth' who is the protagonist, and for that reason, it seems,
Mephibosheth is not introduced with the 'XbY' form (16.1, 4).16
In ch. 19 there is another Mephibosheth episode, which begins (v. 24;
MT 25) not only with the full 'XbY' form (type b ii), but also with the
subject preceding the verb.17 As usual, we find the 'X' form elsewhere
in the narrative (19.25, 30; MT 26, 31).
The final reference to Mephibosheth, though it occurs in a summarizing sentence (21.7) is not an example of type b iv, but plainly of d i:
'The king spared Mephibosheth b. Jonathan b. Saul because of the
oath... between David and Jonathan b. Saul'.
Shimei. In only four of the eighteen places where Shimei is mentioned is the 'XbY' form used of him. Three of the four cases are easily
explained; in
2 Sam. 16.5 Shimei is first met with and introduced as 'a man from
the phratry (nnDtfJQ) to which the house of Saul belonged, and his name
was Shimei b. Gera'. In the continuation of the episode, he is just
'Shimei' (vv. 7, 13).
In 19.16 (MT 17), in a new episode (type b ii), he is first introduced
as 'Shimei b. Gera, the Benjaminite from Bahurim', emphasizing that
this eager monarchist is none other than the stone-throwing reviler of
ch. 16.
16. Cf. on Abner (1 Sam. 17.55).
17. Cf. on Abner (2 Sam. 2.8).
251
252
refractory Sheba son of ~DH and a well-known home of the ~D3 was
intended by the story-teller, who referred invariably to 'Sheba b. Bichri'
in order to reinforce his view of Sheba's character, which he blackens
at the very beginning with the epithet 'son of Belial'20 (20.1).
An alternative explanation of the repeated 'XbY' form is of type d i,
viz. that it is significant for the narrative that David's opponent is of the
Bichri clan, and the narrator does not allow us to forget how significant
Sheba's kinship affinity is. Already in 1896 J. Marquart21 suggested
that Saul himself came from the Benjaminite family of "OH, so that
Sheba's rebellion may be understood as the last attempt by the Bichrite
clan to regain the lost kingship.22 If this was so, it is easy to see why the
narrator stresses that it is a Bichrite who opposes David. Such a suggestion of course assumes that the narrator's audience could be
expected to know that Saul was a Bichrite, which is an assumption that
20. 'Sons of Belial' are those who break loose from accepted standards of
morality or order (cf. V. Maag, 'Belija'alim Alten Testament', TZ 21 [1965],
pp. 287-99). The parallel with the uncontrollable ITDD of Jer. 2.23 is plain; 'such a
young camel never takes more than about three steps in any direction. To this day
the young camel provides a dramatic illustration for anything unreliable' (K.F.
Bailey and W.L. Holladay, 'The "Young Camel" and "Wild Ass" in Jer. ii 23-25',
VT 18 [1968], pp. 256-60 [258-59]). Bailey and Holladay have shown emendation
of the MT ~a~tQ Ifcb N~ID (v. 24) to be unnecessary, since a different animal is
referred to in this verse, but the sense is unaffected even if one of the usual emendations is adopted: to "13"TQi? HKHS 'breaking forth into the desert' (L. Koehler,
ZAW 29 [1909], pp. 35-36, followed by BH3, W. Rudolph, Jeremia [HAT; Tubingen: J.C.B. Mohr, 3rd edn, 1968], p. 20), or to ~\S1^ H^DO (G.R. Driver, JQR 28
[1937-38], pp. 98-99; followed by NEB).
21. J. Marquart, Fundamente israelitischer und judischer Geschichte (1896),
pp. 14-15, reading ~l?3, for DTDS in the genealogy of Saul in 1 Sam. 9.1 (cf. ~D3
among the sons of Benjamin, Gen. 46.21; and I"p3 (if not an error for i"O5, cf.
BH3) among the descendants of Saul in 1 Chron. 8.38; 9.44). A difficulty with this
view is that 2 Sam. 16.5 refers to Shimei b. Gera as being of the nnstEQ (phratry) to
which the SNTPD (extended family) of Saul belonged; for we know that Gera was,
like Becher (Bichri), a clan of the Benjamin tribe, and it would be surprising to find
a Gera in the Becher clan. A less serious difficulty is that in 1 Sam. 11.21 Saul is
said to be of the nnDKJQ of Matri C"lt3Q), but since the name Matri is nowhere
attested as a Benjaminite name, we have doubtless to do with an error in transmission. Indeed, "HCOQ may itself be witness to an original '"DD; 3 and Q are easily confused both in the palaeoscript and in square Hebrew (cf. respectively B. Margulis,
ZAW 82 [1970], pp. 409-42 (421, 426); F. Delitzsch, Die Lese- und Schreibfehler
im Alten Testament [Berlin: W. de Gruyter, 1920], pp. 113-14).
22. Cf. Budde, Die Bucher Samuel, p. 296.
253
254
be observed that this exception to the general rule that we have established ('XbY' at the beginning, 'X' in the continuation) is to be
accounted for as editorial and not really narrative.
Jeroboam is mentioned after his death almost as often as before it. In
15.1 'In the eighteenth year of King Jeroboam b. Nebat', the long
name-form typical of synchronisms (type c iv) occurs, and thereafter
down to 16.19 the plain 'Jeroboam' is found (even in the synchronism
at 15.9), except for
16.2 'I will make your house like the house of Jeroboam b. Nebat',
where the formal prophetic style is used (type c ii).24
The name-forms used for Jeroboam in the Deuteronomic judgments
of the Israelite kings are particularly interesting. So long as we are
within a generation of Jeroboam, we read simply of 'Jeroboam':
15.30 Baasha destroyed the house of Jeroboam; 'it was for the sins of
Jeroboam which he sinned and which he made Israel to sin'.
15.34 Baasha 'walked in the way of Jeroboam (LXX + b. Nebat) and
in his sin which he made Israel to sin'.
15.7 The word of Yahweh came against Baasha 'for being like the
house of Jeroboam'.
16.19 Zimri died 'because of his sins..., walking in the way of Jeroboam,25 and because of his sin which he committed in making Israel
to sin'.
It is only when we come to Omri that the full 'XbY' form is used of
Jeroboam in these assessments:
16.25-26 'And Omri did what was evil in the sight of the Lord, and
he did evil more than all who had preceded him. And he walked in all
up by 'his word' just before this last clause) is a further ground for suspicion of the
clause; such repetitiousness is not normal, though it can be paralleled: in 2 Kgs
10.10, as here, 'Yahweh' is not the subject of the main clause.
24. Surprisingly the oracle has already referred (v. 2) to Jeroboamby the short
form, quite contrary to normal narrative style. This is not of course narrative form,
but a speech form of an authoritative type where a climactic statement is natural.
The oracle could in fact be easily arranged in metric form:
3+3
3+ 3 +2
2+2
2+2
25. LXX adds 'son of Nebat', on whichBH3 comments 'frt recte', though it ha
not suggested following the same LXX addition in 15.34.
255
the way of Jeroboam b. Nebat and in his sin which he made Israel sin'.
It may be argued that it is not coincidental that just at the point where
the Deuteronomic narrator wishes to stress the superlative enormity of a
king's sin ('more than all who had preceded him'; 'all the way of Jeroboam') he uses the 'XbY' form. Is this use then perhaps not principally an instance of type b iv (concluding summary), but used to convey, along with the other emphatic words in the summary, the intensity
of the narrator's distaste for Omri (type c iii)? However we explain it,
the long form now persists throughout all the summaries of Israelite
kings, for example:
16.30-31 'And Ahab b. Omri [type b iv, initial summary]26 did what
was evil in the sight of Yahweh more than all who had preceded him.
And as if it had been a light thing for him to walk in the sins of Jeroboam b. Nebat, he took as wife Jezebel
22.52 Ahaziah 'did what was evil in the sight of Yahweh and
walked... In the way of Jeroboam b. Nebat who made Israel to sin'.
Similarly 2 Kgs 3.3; 10.29; 12.2, 11; 14.24; 15.9, 18, 24, 28. By the
time we reach 2 Kgs 13 we meet with another Jeroboam, Jeroboam II,
b. Joash; and in later references the specification of patronym in the
case of Jeroboam b. Nebat is plainly necessary to distinguish him from
his later namesake. Nevertheless, it does not seem that the necessity to
distinguish XbY from XbZ (type a) is the primary reason for the use of
the long form in these passages since it is already used well before
there is any danger of confusion with Jeroboam II. Of course the narrator stood closer in time to Jeroboam II than to Jeroboam I, but apparently it was not his perspective that determined which form he used, for
he could use the short form in his summaries of Baasha and Zimri.
Once the long form 'Jeroboam b. Nebat' sets in at 1 Kgs 16.26, the
short form appears only when Jeroboam needs to be mentioned in close
proximity to a use of 'Jeroboam b. Nebat'. Thus in 10.31, following
10.29; 13.6, following 13.2;27 17.21b, 22, following 17.21a. Otherwise
the 'XbY' form is used, both in prophetic oracles:
1 Kgs 21.22 'I will make your house like the house of Jeroboam b.
Nebat and like the house of Baasha b. Ahijah' (type c ii); and similarly
2 Kgs 9.9.
26. So 'ben Omri' need not be deleted with LXX andBH3.
27. Though 13.6 may be a post-Deuteronomic addition, and so no part of the
narrative style (cf. John Gray, / and II Kings [London: SCM Press, 2nd edn, 1970],
p. 592, regarding vv. 4-6 as a 'Deuteronomistic afterthought').
256
(iii)
(iv)
(i)
(ii)
(iii)
(iv)
d (i)
(ii)
257
28. Francis Brown, S.R. Driver and Charles A. Briggs, A Hebrew and English
Lexicon of the Old Testament (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1909, corr. r.p. 1955),
p. 120b.
29. C. Siegfried and B. Stade, Hebraisches Worterbuch zum Alien Testamente
(Leipzig: Veil, 1893), p. 93.
30. Julius Fuerst, A Hebrew and Chaldee Lexicon to the Old Testament (trans.
S. Davidson; Leipzig: B. Tauchnitz, 1871), p. 215.
31. Ludwig Koehler and Walter Baumgartner, Hebraisches und aramdisches
Lexicon zumAlten Testament (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 3rd edn, 1967), p. 132b.
32. Lande, Formelhafte Wendungen der Umgangssprache im Alien Testament,
pp. 35, 82.
33. Mauchline, 1 and 2 Samuel; William McKane, / and II Samuel (Torch
Commentary; London: SCM Press, 1963); Hertzberg, / and II Samuel; Driver,
Notes on the Hebrew Text; H.P. Smith, The Books of Samuel.
34. Budde, Die Biicher Samuel, p. 144: 'ein Emporkommling wird mit den
Vaternamen verachtlich benannt'; but does Saul mean to brand David an 'upstart'
(Emporkommling)?
258
259
260
261
262
'mere man' as contrasted with God, it is implied that the prophet is also
in himself an unremarkable example of humanity.54
13
FORM, OCCASION AND REDACTION IN JEREMIAH 20
264
265
parallels with the psalms of individual lament;6 recently there has been
a renewed interest in the significance of these observations for determining the original units of composition.7
The constituent parts of the individual lament are generally recognized to be: (i) address (call to Yahweh), (ii) lament, (iii) confession of
trust, or certainty of being heard, (iv) petition, and often (v) praise.8 Jer.
20.7-13 lends itself admirably to analysis in these terms:
v. 7aa
7-10
11 act
11 ap-11 bp
12a
12ba
address
lament
confession of trust9
certainty of being heard
confession of trust
petition10
6. Walter Baumgartner, Die Klagegedichte des Jeremia (Giessen: A. Topelmann, 1917), pp. 48-51, 63-67.
7. Cf. Artur Weiser, Das Buck Jeremia (ATD, 20; Gottingen: Vandenhoeck &
Ruprecht, 5th edn, 1966), pp. 167-76; Gunneweg, 'Konfession oder Interpretation',
pp. 409-12; John Maclennan Berridge, Prophet, People, and the Word of Yahweh
(Zurich: EVZ Verlag, 1970), pp. 151-55; J. Bright, 'Jeremiah's Complaints:
Liturgy or Expressions of Personal Distress?', in John I. Durham and J.R. Porter
(eds.), Proclamation and Presence (London: SCM Press, 1970), pp. 189-213 (21213); S.B. Frost, 'The Book of Jeremiah', in Charles M. Laymon (ed.), The Interpreter's One-Volume Commentary on the Bible (London: Collins, 1972), p. 386;
Ernest W. Nicholson, Jeremiah 1-25 (Cambridge Bible Commentary; London:
Cambridge University Press, 1973), p. 169.
8. See Claus Westermann, The Praise of God in the Psalms (trans. Keith R.
Crim; Richmond, VA: John Knox Press, 1965, and London: Epworth Press, 1966),
pp. 64-81; cf. Pius Drijvers, The Psalms: Their Structure and Meaning (Freiburg:
Herder, 1965), pp. 104-45, 240-47. Westermann closely associates with the petition
an element of 'motivation' (p. 64), but this is often indistinguishable from the
'confession of trust' (cf. his analysis of Ps. 102 [pp. 66-67]). Probably confession
of trust and certainty of being heard should be viewed as always potentially
'motivation' or 'argument' (cf. Drijvers, The Psalms, pp. 122-23, 240-47).
9. 'But Yahweh is with m e . . . ' ; on the characteristic waw adversative introducing confession of trust after lamentation, see further Westermann, The Praise of
God, pp. 70-75. Note also the alternation between the form of addressing God in
the second person (vv. 7, 12) and narration in the third person (vv. 11, 18; cf. v. 9),
again a characteristic of the psalms of individual lament (Artur Weiser, The Psalms
[trans. Herbert Hartwell; OTL; London: SCM Press, 1962], p. 69).
10. Although it is more usual to find petition preceding certainty of being heard,
the order of the constituent parts is subject to considerable variation (see Westermann, The Praise of God, p. 64; and cf. Pss. 54.5-7; 59.7-14); moreover, there is in
266
confession of trust
praise
The element of praise, which usually in the individual lament takes the
form of a vow (e.g. Ps. 13.6), is here an imperative, characteristic rather
of the psalm of praise (cf. 4.35; 5.45; etc.) than of the lament. Nevertheless, (a) the imperative does occur in an individual lament at Ps. 22.24
where it stands parallel to the vow, (b) the sequence praiseexplanation
(Jer. 20.13) can readily be paralleled in the individual laments (cf. Ps.
22.25; 13.6),11 and (c) the language of the explanatory clause is highly
characteristic of the individual lament and not at all of the hymn of
praise.12
267
and this forms no part of the lament Gattung as we know it.15 On formcritical grounds, therefore, we would argue that vv. 14-18 was originally independent of vv. 7-13.16
2. Were vv. 7-9 and vv. 10-13 Originally Independent Units?
In arguing for the original independence of vv. 14-18 we have taken the
view that vv. 7-13 was itself a unit in the form of an individual lament.
It is possible, however, to reach the same conclusion about vv. 14-18
while maintaining that only in vv. 10-13 is the 'lament' to be found,
vv. 7-9 forming yet another poem.17 The secondary question therefore
arises: were vv. 7-9 and vv. 10-13 originally independent units?
There are two possible approaches to this question, the first (a) formcritical, the second (b) thematic. Both lead us to affirm the original
unity of vv. 7-13.
(a) W. Baumgartner argued on form-critical grounds that vv. 7-9 is to
be distinguished from vv. 10-13. The individual lament proper, he
argued, is contained only in vv. 10-13, while vv. 7-9 is an independent
poem (Lied)which, though it is to be associated in some ways with the
tion here with the lament psalms and for associating the 'why' question rather with
a series of a shorter non-cultic cries expressing the futility of the speaker's life
(Gen. 25.22; 27.46; Tob. 3.15; 1 Mace. 2.7, 13; 4 Ezra 5.35); cf. Glaus Westermann, Forschung am Alten Testament: Gesammelte Studien (TBii, 24; Munchen:
Chr. Kaiser, 1964), pp. 291-92.
15. Admittedly, if we define 'curse' as broadly as does S.H. Blank, 'The Curse,
the Blasphemy, the Spell, the Oath', HUCA 23 (1950-51), pp. 73-95, to include
wishes for the destruction of one's enemies, there are formal parallels in the individual lament psalms to the 'curse' as following the confidence of a hearing (e.g.
Ps. 7.10-11). But not only is it questionable whether Ps. 7.11 is a curse (it is certainly not in the ~n~IN form), it is plain that to curse oneself after expressing the
confidence of being heard is a far different thing from cursing one's enemies after
being assured that God will help one.
16. Similarly Baumgartner, Die Klagegedichte, p. 67; Weiser, Jeremia, pp. 16869; Gunneweg, 'Konfession oder Interpretation', pp. 409, 411.
17. Such a division was first urged by Baumgartner, Die Klagegedichte, pp. 6566; it has been accepted more recently by, e.g., H.J. Stoebe, 'Seelsorge und Mitleiden bei Jeremia', Wort und Dienst 4 (1955), pp. 116-34 (119), and Berridge,
Prophet, People and the Word of Yahweh, p. 114 n. 1. While Rudolph, Jeremia,
p. 130, expresses reservations about the division, it remains an influential factor in
his analysis of the passage; so also with S. Marrow, 'Hamas ("violentia") in Jer.
20.8', VD 43 (1965), pp. 241-55, but his explanation (in terms of the lament genre)
for an 'abrupt transition' from vv. 7-9 to 10-13 confuses form and content.
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269
toon]').23
This picture of the psalmist in conflict is filled out with other traditional elements from the laments. Jeremiah becomes a laughingstock
(pnti: cf. Ps. 37.13; 59.9); everyone mocks him (aifa cf. Ps. 22.8; 35.16;
59.9); he is subject to reproach (*pn: cf. Ps. 22.7; 31.12; 39.9; 42.11;
etc.) and derision (O^p: cf. Ps. 44.14; 79.4).24 Even the idea that the
reproach and derision may in some way be due to Yahweh can be paralleled in the laments: for example, in Ps. 22 the psalmist's public commitment to Yahweh brings him into derision (cf. vv. 7-9), while in 69.8
the sufferer cries, 'It is for thy sake that I have borne reproach' (cf.
vv. 11-13). Further, the image of the inner fire in the bones (v. 9) is
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271
oppressive and irresistible God, who is stronger than his victim, prevails over him and commits violence and outrage against him (vv. 7-8),
that he may be called on in turn to become the irresistible divine
oppressor of the prophet's human oppressors (v. 11). The irony is
strikingly captured in the phrase, 'But Yahweh is with me as a dread
warrior Cp"IU "1132)': he is both 'mightily heroic' ("1133, a term of
approbation,29 found often in Psalms, but rarely in a psalm of lament)
and 'terribly ruthless' (flU, normally applied to the wicked 'enemies'
or 'men of violence'; all occurrences in Psalms are in individual
laments [cf. 37.35; 54.5; 86.14]).
The repetition of ilflS, moreover, underlines this fundamental parallelism between Yahweh and the persecutors:30 in v. 7 the prophet cries
that he has been 'persuaded' (HDD) and that Yahweh has overcome him
('7D''); in v. 10 the enemies hope that Jeremiah will be 'persuaded'
(iins)31 and that they will overcome him ('PD1').
In sum, we would maintain that these internal connections, linking
vv. 7-11 at least, are fundamental to the structure of the original poem.
3. Are v. 12 and v. 13 Secondary Accretions to vv. 7-13?
(a) Verse 12. The omission of v. 12 by some critics appears to be
grounded on the similarity of the verse to 11.20, coupled usually with
some suggestion that ch. 11 provides a more suitable context for such
an appeal. Thus W. Baumgartner asserts that 'it fits badly after v. 11',
while more recently J.P. Hyatt has argued that it probably does not
belong to ch. 20 since it is 'more of a prayer than an affirmation'.32
Three points need to be made, (i) The verse is not precisely the same
as 11.20, as is often claimed, so that attempts to excise it as a gloss
from 11.20 lack conviction unless accompanied by a reason for its
inclusion in the present context and an explanation for the variation in
29. Against Bernhard Duhm, Das Buck Jeremla (KHAT, 11; Tubingen: J.C.B.
Mohr [P. Siebeck], 1901), p. 166, who misses the irony of the phrase.
30. Cf. Norman C. Habel, Jeremiah, Lamentations (Concordia Commentary; St
Louis: Concordia Publishing House, 1968), p. 169: 'Jeremiah had accused God (in
v. 7) of doing what his persecutors were planning. God had apparently become his
enemy.'
31. If it is understood that Jeremiah is to be 'persuaded' (nDS) by the adversaries themselves (to say something patently false, perhaps), the parallel between
their role here and Yahweh's in v. 7 is even closer.
32. Baumgartner, Die Klagegedichte, p. 48; Hyatt, 'Jeremiah', p. 973. Cf. also
Rudolph, Jeremia, p. 133; Marrow, 'Hamas ("violentia")', p. 242.
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273
ask: What was its intention and occasion when it stood alone?
The foregoing study (section I) has attempted to establish that from
the point of view of form vv. 7-13 is a regular individual lament. That
conclusion is the most crucial factor in assessing the original intention
of vv. 7-13, for it suggests prima facie that the thrust of vv. 7-13 will be
identical to that of a typical individual lament.37 Now the intention of a
lament (Klage), we would wish to affirm, is not a bewailing of distress,
nor a protest against unjust suffering, nor an accusation against God,
though all those elements may be included within a lament. Its intention and basic meaning lie in the fact that it is an appeal, which almost
invariably includes a note of confidence.38 'Lament' is a quite inappropriate term for the form, in fact, and we would probably do better to
speak of psalms of 'petition' (Bitte).39
These observations may now be applied to Jer. 20.7-18. It follows
from the form of the poem that, unless there are indications that in this
case form and function do not coincide,40 the point of the poem is not
that the psalmist is in rebellion against God (vv. 7-9), nor that he is
oscillating between rebellion (vv. 7-9) and trust (vv. 10-18), but that he
is moving, or has moved, from a situation of distress and rebellion to
one of confidence. It is the conventionally phrased v. 12, corresponding
as it does to the petition element in the individual lament, that forms the
centre of gravity of the poem, not the outrageously unconventional, and
therefore attractively 'modern', protest against Yahweh of v. 7a. Verse
13 is the climax of the poem, and not just its conclusion; for what is
truly remarkable about such a poem (which is to say, what is its peculiarity, its essence), is that while it begins with the poet's sense of
oppression both by God and his human enemies, it ends with his assurance that God has delivered him.
Given that such was the thrust of the poem, what was its occasion?41
Until a decade ago, almost all scholars believed that the so-called
37. Cf. also Weiser, Jeremia, p. 169.
38. Westermann, The Praise of God, pp. 74-75.
39. Cf. Westermann, The Praise of God, pp. 33-34; Drijvers, The Psalms,
pp. 120-21.
40. Clearly they do not always coincide; cf. G. Fohrer, 'Form und Funktion in
der Hiobdichtung', in Studien zum Buche Hiob (Giitersloh: G. Mohn, 1963), pp. 6886; H.W. Hoffmann, 'FormFunktionIntention', ZAWS2(1970), pp. 341-46.
But the presumption is that they do.
41. The term does not mean precise historical occasion, but typical occasion; in
section II.2 below a possible historical occasion for the psalm is discussed.
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275
276
277
ticular content of the poem is his sense of compulsion to convey Yahweh's word, then it is not difficult to see what function the poem could
have had in a public setting. We would suggest that Jeremiah is publicly affirming in this poem that the word that he speaks is not his but
Yahweh's, that he has no choice about whether he should deliver it
because Yahweh has compelled him to be his prophet, and that he is
confident that Yahweh's word cannot ultimately be received with
mockery.59
Such a setting does not remove the element of 'spiritual struggle'
(Seelenkampfe)60 from the poem, for it is undeniable that Jeremiah is
engaged in controversy with Yahweh in vv. 7-9. But it does alter the
focus of the poem from a psychologically appealing interior crisis of
faith to a public confrontation of the prophet with his people. Our suggestion is analogous to the view that prophetic call narratives are not to
be understood simply as biography but as elements in controversy concerning the authenticity of the prophet's message (cf. Amos 7.14).61
2. Vv. 7-13 in its Present Setting
A preliminary question must be whether the time at which vv. 7-13 was
composed was the occasion narrated in vv. 1-6. At first sight, there
appears to be a number of links between the two units: (i) The phrase
'Terror on every side' (v. 10), put by Jeremiah in the mouth of his
opponents, is the very name by which he has surnamed Pashhur (v. 3)
in the episode of the stocks.62 (ii) The prophet's complaint that whenever he speaks he cries out 'Violence! Outrage!' (v. 8) could naturally
59. The poem is thus to be located in a setting of confrontation, and not in a
period after the attack on Jeremiah has proved ineffectual (as Weiser, Jeremia, pp.
169-70). It is, however, uncertain whether a setting for the poem is to be sought in a
public trial of Jeremiah's genuineness such as F.-L. Hossfeld and I. Meyer, 'Der
Prophet vor dem Tribunal. Neuer Auslegungsversuch von Jer 26', ZAW 86 (1974),
pp. 30-50, have recently attempted to establish from Jer. 26.
60. Rudolph, Jeremia, p. 129. Cf. Bright, 'Jeremiah's Complaints', pp. 189214.
61. Cf. N.C. Habel, The Form and Significance of the Call Narratives', ZAW
77 (1965), pp. 297-323 (306): call narratives are 'traumatic public proclamation'; or
Berridge, Prophet, People and the Word of Yahweh, p. 30: the call form is
'designed to be preached or read'.
62. On the meaning of T30D TWO, see W.L. Holladay, The Covenant with the
Patriarchs Overturned: Jeremiah's Intention in "Terror on Every Side" (Jer 20:16)', JBL 91 (1972), pp. 305-20.
278
279
that the prose and poetry in Jeremiah were transmitted in separate collections prior to the composition of the book (or at least, of its larger
units67). If this is so, vv. 1-6 and vv. 7-13 will have reached the redactor
without any clue that they were related; it would be remarkable if in
juxtaposing them he accidentally reconstructed a single historical situation correctly.
It can therefore be concluded that the relationship between vv. 1-6
and vv. 7-13 is purely due to redactional activity. Two questions then
remain: (i) Why were these units placed in juxtaposition by the redactor? (ii) What is the effect of such juxtaposition on the meaning of each
passage?
(i) We have already seen some reasons why the situation described in
vv. 1-6 may have seemed to a redactor an appropriate setting for the
psalm of vv. 7-13. If 'Terror on every side' was original in v. 10,
plainly the catchword principle was in operation. The experience of
persecution and mockery, if read as the personal experience of the
prophet rather than as the convention of the individual lament form,
obviously suits the episode of vv. 1-6 well. Possibly also the redactor
himself took 'violence, outrage' to be Jeremiah's account of his message and so linked vv. 7-13 with a message of doom.68
There may also be other, larger structural reasons why the redactor
used vv. 7-13 in this place. W. Thiel69 has pointed out that the structure
of chs. 19-20 is identical to that of ch. 18: symbolic act and speech;
scenic comment; persecution of the prophet; lament. From three different sources (T-narrative; 'He'-narrative; laments) the Deuteronomistic
editor has shaped a narrative of a single situation to depict a stylized
scene in the preaching of Jeremiah, representing his typical preaching
and the typical reaction of his audience. The lament may then have
been deliberately inserted at this point to fill out a pattern which the editor was creating in order to offer a stereoscopic picture of Jeremiah.
67. Even if vv. 4-6 has underlying it a poetic oracle, as Holladay, The
Covenant with the Patriarchs Overturned: Jeremiah's Intention', pp. 307-308,
argues, it is clear that it was in prose that the material was being transmitted immediately prior to the final redaction of the book of Jeremiah (or of chs. 1-24 or even
chs. 18-20, if we follow the view of Claus Rietzschel, Das Problem der Urrolle
[Giitersloh: Gutersloher Verlagshaus Gerd Mohn, 1966], that the poetry and prose
were redacted into relatively short units before the final composition of the book).
68. Or perhaps the redactor understood 'Violence! Outrage' as Jeremiah's cry
to Yahweh for deliverance from Pashhur's persecution.
69. Thiel, Die deuteronomistische Redaktion, pp. 219-29.
280
70. Cf. Frost, The Book of Jeremiah', p. 386: Jeremiah 'had to wrestle with
doubt daily'.
71. The human interest motive is not the only factor in the preservation and
redaction of the Jeremiah material, but it should not be disregarded. For example,
Thiel's more kerygmatic statement of the meaning of chs. 19-20 (Die deuteronomistische Redaktion, p. 229), that it offers a theological explanation of the exile
in terms of the people's rejection of Jeremiah's word, is valuable, but it cannot
satisfactorily account for the inclusion of the lament element in 20.7-18.
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282
his people's fate, and whether the H2D in which his days are consumed
is not the objective situation of his people, which may be either a situation of religious disloyalty or of humiliating exile.75 It is not being
argued that the terms |ir and D2D themselves necessarily bear such a
connotation, but that when Jeremiah speaks in this fashion it is quite
likely that he has in mind the distress of his people rather than a private
anguish of his own.
Yet even if it is granted that v. 18 is susceptible of such an interpretation it may be objected that the curse of vv. 14-18 must surely express
the prophet's personal experience of despair. But that also would be too
rash a conclusion to reach, for the curse seems to some extent at least
formalized and stereotyped.76 The existence of a parallel curse in Job
3.2-10 suggests (unless we make the unlikely supposition that Job 3 is
literarily dependent on Jer. 20.14-1777) that it would be naive to read
Jer. 20.14-17 as a direct transcript of the prophet's feelings. The consciously artistic features of the reversal of the convention of 'reward for
bringing good news'78 in v. 10 and of the veiled allusion to Sodom and
Gomorrah (v. 16a) point in the same direction. The self-curse in fact
may perhaps be best understood as having an affinity with the conventional description of dismay at the hearing of bad news which D.R.
Millers has identified in Ugaritic and Hebrew literature.79 Though the
self-curse is not verbally analogous to those descriptions of dismay that
we find in Jer. 6.22-23; 49.23; Isa. 13.7-8; 50.43 and so on, it may well
have a similar function, namely to portray vividly the fact of bad news
in the one case80 or the fact of the shameful plight of the people in the
other. Millers's warning that such passages 'must be used much more
cautiously in discussing prophetic psychology' seems very appropriate
75. For this as the reference of H2J3, 2TQ in the pre-exilic prophets generally,
and in Jeremiah, see H. Seebass, '#13', TDOT, II, pp. 50-60 (52-56).
76. Cf. Schottroff, Der altisraelitische Fluchspruch, p. 77; Frost, The Book of
Jeremiah', p. 386: 'a fine example of a widely esteemed art form'.
77. So, e.g., Bright, 'Jeremiah's Complaints', p. 213 n. 61: 'The two texts certainly reflect a common tradition; but it is probably futile to talk of literary dependence, one way or the other'. Cf. Schottroff, Der altisraelitische Fluchspruch,
p. 77, n. 6.
78. Cf. 2 Sam. 4.10; 18.22.
79. D.R. Millers, 'A Convention in Hebrew Literature: The Reaction to Bad
News', ZAW11 (1965), pp. 86-90.
80. Killers, 'A Convention', p. 89 n. 11: 'Recast in unemotional terms, [the
prophet's] words mean: "Yahweh's word is very bad news indeed"'.
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to 20.14-17 also. As he says, The poet's use of traditional literary formulae prevents us from drawing any conclusions as to his individual
psychology'. Such passages do not describe the prophet's reaction to
the message he is bringing per se, but the distressing content of his
proclamation.81
We suggest, therefore, that the form and function of the unit 20.14-18
should be distinguished and that these verses did not originally express
the prophet's private emotions of despair at some personal calamity
(such as disappointment in his prophetic ministry), but was a conventional utterance of distress accompanying a judgment-speech or woeoracle.82
2. Vv. 14-18 in its Present Setting
What, however, is the meaning of the unit now that it has been incorporated into its present context in Jeremiah 20 (that is, the question is now
of the Sitz im Buck)! We must consider both (a) the setting of vv. 14-18
as the sequel to vv. 7-13, and (b) its setting as the prelude to chs. 2123.
(a) By linking the curse (vv. 14-18) with the appeal (vv. 7-13), and so
with the Pashhur story (vv. 1-6),83 the redactor has achieved a twofold
effect. The overall meanings of both vv. 14-18 and vv. 7-13 are
modified by the juxtaposition. As we have seen in the case of the latter
passage, once the redactor has located it at a precise moment in the life
81. We might compare also a set of lamentations of Jeremiah (4.19-22; 8.18;
10.19-20; 23.9) that preface announcements of doom.
82. Gunneweg's argument ('Konfession oder Interpretation', p. 411), that
vv. 14-17 is a wisdom piece is singularly unconvincing. One parallel of form and
three of thought in wisdom literature do not stamp the piece as wisdom, and it is
irrelevant that in Jer. 17 also there is a combination of prophetic threat, confession
and wisdom utterance; are we to imagine a redactor deliberately composing units
from such diverse sources as a sustained working method? It is even less probable
that the use of a supposedly 'wisdom' passage involves the depiction of Jeremiah
as a wise man (p. 412).
83. It is being assumed that the same redactor added vv. 14-18 to vv. 1-6 (or
rather, to 19.1-20.6); in other words, the units vv. 7-13 and vv. 14-18 were independent until their redaction into the present context. The assumption of only one
redactional stage may be an oversimplification; perhaps vv. 14-18 was joined to
vv. 7-13 before vv. 7-18 was joined to 19.1-20.6. Or perhaps vv. 14-18 was joined
to 19.1-20.6 aftervv. 7-13 was joined to 19.1-20.6. However, our analysis above
of meanings resulting from the juxtapositions is not affected by the chronological
order in which the juxtapositions were effected.
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14
'YOU TRIED TO PERSUADE ME' AND 'VIOLENCE! OUTRAGE!'
IN JEREMIAH 20.7-8
(with David M. Gunn)
I
One of the most striking of Jeremiah's so-called 'confessions' (20.7131) begins with the words:
pittitani Yhwh wa'eppathazaqtamwattukal
Pitta is commonly translated as 'deceive', 'dupe';2 its use in connection
with the seduction of a young woman (Exod. 22.15) is often said to
indicate its proper meaning in Jer. 20.7, and in fact it is sometimes
translated 'seduce' (verfuhren).3This understanding of pitta is, however, open to three criticisms: 1. There is no good reason to suppose
that (sexual) seduction is the basic meaning of pitta or that overtones of
that sense are present in Jer. 20.7. 2. Pitta does not necessarily denote
deception. 3. It is likely that pitta describes an attempted act rather than
a successful one.
Originally published as D.J.A. Clines and D.M. Gunn, ' "You tried to persuade me"
and "Violence! Outrage!" in Jeremiah xx 7-8', Veins Testamentum 28 (1978), pp.
20-27, and and reprinted with the agreement of David M. Gunn and the permission
of EJ. Brill.
1. On the nature and interpretation of this passage see further D.J.A. Clines
and D.M. Gunn, 'Form, Occasion and Redaction in Jeremiah 20', TAW 88 (1976),
pp. 390-409 (reprinted above).
2. For example, in 20.7, 10 we find 'deceive' (RSV), 'dupe', 'trick' (NEB),
'dupe', 'trap' (NAB).
3. E.g. JB; John Bright, Jeremiah (AB; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1965),
p. 132; Wilhelm Rudolph, Jeremia (Tubingen: J.C.B. Mohr, 3rd edn, 1968), p. 131;
A.H.J. Gunneweg, 'Konfession oder Interpretation im Jeremiabuch', ZTK 67
(1970), pp. 395-416 (409-10). Andre Aeschimann, Le Prophete Jeremie (Neuchatel: Delachaux & Niestle, 1959), p. 129, finds seduire insufficiently direct, 'car
il y a de bonnes et de mauvaises seductions. Le terme hebreu est le meme que dans
Ex. 22.16 ou il designe 1'acte d'un homme qui debauche une jeune fille'; he would
translate, Tu m'as "eu", et je me suis laisse avoir'.
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287
we do not have the case of a lying witness who attempts to deceive the
judge, but of the informer or the spiteful, revengeful witness who gives
testimony unnecessarily (hinndm), and speaks up in order to persuade
the judge against someone with whom he has a score to settle).8 In
Prov. 25.15, where the pual of pth occurs, 'be persuaded' is again a
rather more likely rendering than 'be deceived': 'By patience is a ruler
pitta'd, and a soft tongue will break a bone'.
Again, in Job 31.9, 'If my heart has beenp/ffrf d [niphal] in the matter of a woman', the context makes clear that it is a matter of choice,
not deception. As for Exod. 22.15, 'If a man should pitta a young
woman who is not betrothed, and lie with her, he shall give the marriage present for her, and make her his wife', it is improbable that the
law applies only when it is by deception that a man has intercourse with
an unbetrothed young woman. Pitta should therefore be understood as
having a meaning like 'entice', 'cajole', not 'deceive'. In Ps. 77.36,
where pitta occurs in parallelism with kdzab 'to lie',
They pitta'd [God] with their mouths,
they lied (kazab) to him with their tongues,
pitta might at first sight seem to mean 'deceive'. On the contrary, however, this passage shows that pitta cannot mean 'deceive', since
humans cannot in fact deceive Yahweh.9 Pitta is not, therefore, an exact
synonym of kdzab. In other cases (2 Sam. 3.25;10 Judg. 14.15; 16.5;11
Prov. 16.29; Ezek. 14.912) either 'persuade' or 'deceive' would be suit8. So William McKane, Proverbs (OIL; London: SCM Press, 1970), p. 574;
but, we argue, it is unnecessary to add: 'In order to achieve his ends he is prepared
to commit perjury'.
9. Hence translations such as 'flatter' (RSV, JB NAB) or 'beguile' (NEB). Note
A.A. Anderson, Psalms (NCB; London: Oliphants, 1972), I, p. 570: 'they tried to
deceive God' (our italics).
10. This verse could of course, mean 'Abner has come to deceive you and to
find out...all that you are doing', but it could equally well mean 'Abner has come
to win you over [cf. 3.12] and (at the same time) to find out
11. In neither passage in Judges is any deceit employed by Samson's wife or
Delilah; 'coax (NEB) or 'cajole' (JB) is more appropriate.
12. Nothing in this context indicates that the prophet who is pitta'd into delivering an oracle is deceived; rather he 'lets himself be induced by the wish to please or
288
3. It appears likely that pitta does not describe an act carried through
to a successful conclusion, but an attempted act. That is, it seems to be
more like our verbs 'urge', 'advise', 'attempt', than like 'convince',
'induce', 'compel'. The distinction between these two types of verb
corresponds to that recognised in the philosophy of language between
'illocutionary' statements (which describe the performance of an act in
saying something) and 'perlocutionary' statements (which describe the
performance of an act by saying something, i.e. the production of consequential effects on the feelings, thought, or actions of the audience).13
Of course, a verb that is illocutionary in the active may well be perlocutionary in the passive (cf. 'coax', 'cajole'), and it would seem that pitta
is of this type, signifying something like 'attempt to persuade' (active)
and 'be persuaded' (passive).
One passage in which the illocutionary nature of pitta is plain is
1 Kgs 22.20-22 (// 2 Chron. 18.19-21). Here, when Yahweh asks, 'Who
will pitta Ahab so that he will go up and fall at Ramoth Gilead?', one
of the spirits (haruah) volunteers to pitta Ahab, and is thereupon
assured by Yahweh, 'You will pitta, and also you will succeed (wegamtukdiy. If pitta meant 'persuade', that is, 'be successful in persuading',
wegam-tukdl would be unnecessary.
by a calculated compromise' (Walther Eichrodt, Ezekiel: A Commentary [OTL;
London: SCM Press, 1970], p. 183 = Der Prophet Hesekiel. Kap. 1-18 [Gottingen:
Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1959], p. 105). The 'coaxing' of the prophet is, according to this verse, ultimately Yahweh's 'inducing' (pitta).
13. See J.L. Austin, How to do Things with Words (Oxford: Clarendon Press,
1962), pp. 99-103. Two of his examples are:
1.
2.
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Why does Jeremiah claim that whenever he speaks he cries out hdmds
waSod (20.8)? And whom is he addressing when he cries out these
words? Three answers have usually been given:
1. These are his accusations of injustice against rich oppressors of the
poor.14 However, it is hard to see why accusations of injustice should
make him a 'laughing-stock' (v. 7), or in what way such a reaction to
his message should lead him to protest that Yahweh has 'overpowered'
him (v. 7).
2. These are threats of doom announced against the nation.15 In this
case, the 'confession' of 20.7-13 fits well with the preceding narratives,
in which evil is threatened against Jerusalem and its villages (19.15),
and the captivity of Judah is announced (20.4-6). Jeremiah would be
saying that whenever he utters an oracle, it is a word of doom; he is
becoming a laughing-stock (20.7b, 8b) because the doom he announces
is not actually coming about.
This interpretation, however, has a major flaw in common with the
first interpretation: zd'aq is not an appropriate term for introducing
either a judgment-speech or an oracle of doom; rather, it is virtually a
technical term for a cry of appeal made by an innocent sufferer against
unjust oppressors.
3. These are the conventional words of a cry for help; that is,
14. So e.g. J. Bright, 'Jeremiah's Complaints: Liturgy, or Expressions of Personal Disaster?', in J.I. Durham and J.R. Porter (eds.), Proclamation and Presence
(London: SCM Press, 1970), pp. 189-214 (212).
15. So e.g. NEB, NAB, Sheldon H. Blank, Jeremiah, Man and Prophet (Cincinnati: Hebrew Union College Press, 1961), pp. 125, 134.
290
Jeremiah appeals to Yahweh for deliverance from denouncers and persecutors (20.10-II).16 This interpretation, by which full weight may be
given to the verb za'aq, may be applied in two different ways to the
verse: Jeremiah could be saying:
(i) 'Whenever I open my mouth, I find I am crying to Yahweh for
deliverance from oppressors, for I am being persecuted incessantly.
This can hardly be correct, for what Jeremiah is saying when he
'speaks' ('"dabber) is specifically a 'word of Yahweh' (debar Yhwh), as
the parallelism of vv. 8a and 8b suggests; it is not that whenever he
speaks, all that he ever says is 'Violence! outrage!'17
(ii) 'When I speak the word of Yahweh, I am at the same time
appealing for future help against persecutors, who will, I know, be
attacking me for what I have said.' It is difficult, however, to see why
the prophet's cry for help should be uttered when he speaks his oracles
rather than when his enemies denounce him or persecute him. Hamas
waSod is not normally a cry uttered in anticipation of attack, but is a
cry for assistance from a person who is being attacked or for vengeance
from one who has been attacked.
It is plain therefore that another understanding of this cry must be
sought. S. Marrow, followed by J.M. Berridge, has recently made the
valuable suggestion that 'Violence! outrage!' should be seen here not
only as a cry of distress addressed to Yahweh but also as a cry of
protest against Yahweh.18
This fourth interpretation can take on two forms.
(i) The first is to see the cry as an accusation against Yahweh because
he has committed an 'outrage' against Jeremiah by failing to protect his
prophet and by breaking his promise of 15.20.19 What is unsatisfactory
16. So e.g. Bernhard Duhm, Das Buck Jeremia (Tubingen: J.C.B. Mohr
[P. Siebeck], 1901), p. 165; Walter Baumgartner, Die Klagedichte des Jeremia
(BZAW, 32; Giessen: A. Topelmann, 1917), p. 64; Rudolph, Jeremia, p. 120; cf.
Gunneweg, 'Konfession oder Interpretation', p. 409. That the cry is taken as
addressed to Yahweh is, in most cases, only implied by scholars. Few spell out
precisely their exegesis of this phrase. On hamas as a cry for deliverance, see H.J.
Stoebe, ThWAT, cols. 584-85.
17. The situation in Hab. 1.3 is different: there the prophet's cry of hamds to
Yahweh does not accompany his utterance of a 'word of Yahweh'. The prophet is
simply identifying himself with the oppressed of his people.
18. Marrow, 'Hamas ("violentia")', p. 255; Berridge, Prophet, People, and the
Word of Yahweh, pp. 153-55.
19. Marrow, 'Hamas ("violentia")', p. 248. Cf. Gunneweg's understanding of
291
about this view, however, is that hamas, 'violence', hardly seems the
appropriate word for the breaking of a promise, and, more importantly,
there is no reason to connect the outcry of 20.8 with the promise of
15.20. Not only are the two passages undatable, and therefore impossible to relate chronologically, but also they have quite probably been
transmitted at some stage in separate tradition units,20 and cannot therefore have been intended even by the redactors to be related to one
another.
(ii) A second form of this interpretation is more plausible. It is that
Jeremiah's protest is against Yahweh's compelling him to speak
prophetic words.21 Ironically, however, the only one to whom he may
cry for help is Yahweh.22 Thus he means, we suggest:23
Whenever I speak [a prophetic word]
I cry for help [to Yahweh],
I call out, 'Violence! outrage!' [by Yahweh against me].
His cry to Yahweh is at the same time his protest against him, for it is
Yahweh who compels him, with outrageous violence, to speak his
word.
On this understanding, the connection of thought in vv. 7-9 becomes
plain. The three outcries
You were too strong for me and you prevailed
I cry, 'Violence! outrage!'
I am incapable [of withholding the fire in my heart]
292
The structure of vv. 9-10 is also clarified on this view. If we may call
the theme 'Yahweh compels me to prophesy' A, and the theme 'My
prophesying makes me an object of persecution and derision' B, the
structure is:
7a
A
7b
B
8a
A
8b
B
9
A
10
B
Finally, when it is realized that vv. 7a, 8a and 9 are all making essentially the same point, the thrust of Jeremiah's address to God is better
understood. This 'confession' is not primarily a complaint that God has
'persuaded' him, much less that he has 'deceived' him; that first word
(pitta) is not the keynote. The persuasion has only been God's means to
the end of achieving domination (tukal) over the prophet, and it is
against that domination that Jeremiah is protesting. This theme of
domination or power runs through the poem:24 Jeremiah finds himself
utterly powerless (Id' 'ukdl, v. 9) in the face of Yahweh's strength; his
enemies too hope to exert their power over him (nukeldId,v. 10); but
the prophet's own experience of Yahweh's power becomes the source
of his confident expectation of vindication: Yahweh is a 'fearsome
mighty man' (gibbor 'aris, v. 11), and Jeremiah will not fall ultimately
into the power of his enemies (Id' yukalu, v. 11).
24. As is recognized also by Berridge, Prophet, People, and the Word of Yahweh, p. 155.
15
294
7c
lOa
295
(m^ ^U TI"Q~n ... rrriBQ "O3K: 'I will persuade her... and speak wooing
words to her', v. 16).8
Consequently, many commentators have followed the lead of
H. Oort's 1989 paper9 and have transferred vv. 8-9 to follow v. 15.10
Most recently this view has been strongly urged by W. Rudolph, who
argues that Israel's movement toward repentance in v. 9b, however
self-regarding it may be, cannot be ignored by Hosea's God (as it is in
the present form of the chapter) and certainly could not precede
Yahweh's claim in v. 15b ('Me she has forgotten'). The translations of
Moffatt, the Jerusalem Bible, and the New American Bible also have
adopted this view and have inserted vv. 8-9 between v. 15 and v. 16.
Others have continued to maintain the secondary character of vv. 89,11 thus effectively setting aside the problem of sequential logic within
the chapter.
However, H.W. Wolff has maintained, correctly in my opinion, that
the MT order is still the most satisfactory one. His first argument, that
the transition from v. 9 to v. 16if the suggested re-arrangement is
adoptedis 'difficult',12 is hard to understand. But his second argument, that the wording of Israel's speech in v. 9b is deliberately antithetical to her speech in v. 7b is persuasive:
7b
9b
7b
9b
8. On the translation of ilPD, see D.J.A. Clines and D.M. Gunn, '"You tried to
persuade me" and "Violence! Outrage!" in Jeremiah xx 7-8', VT28 (1978), pp. 2027 (20-23).
9. H. Oort, 'Hozea', TT 24 (1890), pp. 345-64,480-505 (352-53).
10. So A. Condamin, 'Interpolations ou transpositions?', RB 11 (1902),
pp. 389ff. (369-70); Procksch, BH3; Ernst Sellin, Die Zwolfprophetenbuch (KAT
XII/1; Leipzig: Deichert, 1929), p. 29; K. Budde, 'Der Abschnitt Hosea 1-3 und
seine grundlegende religionsgeschichtliche Bedeutung', TSK 96-97 (1925), pp. 189 (36, 41); P. Humbert, 'La logique de la perspective nomade chez Osee et 1'unite
d'Osee 2,4-22', in Vom Alien Testament (Festschrift Karl Marti; ed. Karl Budde;
BZAW, 41; Giessen: A. Topelmann, 1925), pp. 158-66 (164).
11. So William Rainey Harper, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on Amos
and Hosea (ICC; Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1905), pp. 236-37; Martin J. Buss, The
Prophetic Word of Hosea: A Morphological Study (BZAW, 111; Berlin: A. Topelmann, 1969), p. 34.
12. Wolff, Hosea, p. 35.
296
Rudolph's riposte, that vv. 8-9 were later transposed from their original
position following v. 15 because of the stronger formal connections
between v. 7b and v. 9b than between v. 9b and v. 16,13 will persuade
only those who are already convinced of the correctness of Rudolph's
position, for it effectively concedes Wolff's argument about the significance of the relationship between v. 7b and v. 9b.
Now, however, a further and perhaps stronger argument for the
Masoretic arrangement of the chapter may be developed from the total
structure of vv. 4-17, if the significance of the triple p*7 ('therefore') is
properly appreciated. The structure is:
Appeal to Israel to abandon her harlotry
For CD) (she) has played the harlot,
For ("3) she has said, I will go after my lovers...
1.
2.
3.
vv. 4-6
7a
7b
8a
8-9
1 Oa
1 la
11-15
15b
297
This developing movement is destroyed if we adopt the re-arrangement of vv. 7-8 to follow v. 15. The 'therefore' (p1?) of v. 8a does not
follow naturally upon 'me she has forgotten' of v. 15b, nor is the barring of her way to her lovers a natural sequel to the deprivations of
vv. 1-14.
Two major exegetical decisions hang upon a recognition of the
sequential structure of the poem:
(i) The third ]lh ('therefore') speech is entirely out of character: it is
not a judgment speech at all, and must be seen as a delightful reversal
of the expected, a bold rejection of the causal nexus between sin and
punishment. Indeed, some have seen in the reference to Israel's being
taken into the wilderness ("Q"IQn nTlD^m, v. 16) a punishment, specifically of exile,14 but even so the 'punishment' can only be the first step
in the process of renewal. And in fact the reference to the 'wilderness'
seems to be less an indication of place than of 'a time and situation in
which the pristine relation between God and people was untarnished
and Israel depended utterly on Yahweh (cf. 13.4f.)'.15 Thus vv. 16-17
are entirely unexpectedand illogical, given the nexus of sin and punishment, or even the impossibility of unliving the past. Yahweh's
answer to Israel's ignoring him will be to turn the clock back and let
her begin her history with him all over again.
We have here more than an ironic or novel use of the traditional language of the judgment speech (Gerichtsrede). It is a theologically creative and profound move that in effect negates the validity or effectiveness of punishment as a response to sin. In this non-judgmental
'judgment' speech (i.e. judgment in form but not in content) Yahweh
announces that he will love Israel out of her unfaithfulness, and in
response to her harlotry will woo her to himself and renew his gifts to
her.
If, then, this speech of vv. 16-17 is both the climax of the divine
speeches of vv. 4-17 and so much out of character with the preceding
judgment speeches of vv. 8-10 and vv. 11-15, one may wonder whether
the prophet (or redactor) saw these three decisions on the part of Yahweh as a sequence of actions God planned to take so much as a set of
options he opened himself up to. Could the mood of this poem, then, be
14. Cf. T.K. Cheyne, The Book of Hosea (Cambridge Bible, 26; Cambridge
University Press, 1884), p. 53; Edmond Jacob, Osee (CAT, l l a (Neuchatel:
Delachaux & Niestle, 1965), p. 30.
15. Mays, Hosea, p. 44.
298
one of divine indecisionwhich issues in an unexpected and unconditioned act of grace? One would hardly imagine so were it not for the
other glimpses Hosea gives us of God 'struggling with himself (6.4;
11.8).16 To be sure, in the narrative of ch. 3, Hosea's symbolic marriage
clearly develops through sequential stages of deprivation and renewal
of relationship; but that same sequence need not be followed in ch. 2
except formally. Chapter 2 lends itself to a reading that can dispense
with sequence on the historical plane, and present the judgments of
imprisonment (vv. 8-10) and deprivation (vv. 11-15) as a sequence of
possibilities that Yahweh passes in review, only to decide against them
and for the third possibility: restoration (vv. 16-17).
(ii) The speech of Israel in v. 9b, 'I will go and return to my former
husband,17 for it was better for me then than now' (rTDICifO HD'ptf
nn^n TK ^ ma O pctfton BTK'^K), is not to be regarded as a speech of
repentance or even 'semblance of repentance',18 but as a quite amoral
decision on Israel's part, in which only her well-being plays a part
('better for me'). There is no expression of sorrow or sense of
unfaithfulness in this speech; as is clear in v. 10, she does not even
attribute her former (TN) well-being to Yahweh; but only recalls that
by some coincidence, as it appears to hershe was 'better off with
him' (NEB) then than she is now.
Most commentators, indeed, have seen Israel's speech as indicative
of a genuine sense of repentance, however shallow. Rudolph, for
example, uses this admission on Israel's part as grounds for removing
vv. 8-9 to follow v. 14; it would then be answered by Yahweh's
encouragement in vv. 15-16. However, if we leave the Masoretic order
undisturbed, the truly noteworthy fact is that Yahweh does not respond
to this so-called profession of repentanceexcept to say, implicitly,
that it is no repentance at all since Israel does not acknowledge that her
previous well-being was his gift: 'she does not acknowledge that it is I
who gave her the grain and the wine and the oil' (v. 10). Perhaps it is
16. Wolff, Hosea, p. 119.
17. I pass over here the question of whether the poem envisages a real divorce
in v. 4 (which I doubt; cf. Mays, Hosea, pp. 37-38; contra, Wolff, Hosea, p. 36),
and consequently whether jl&SOn 'BTN really means 'my former husband' or simply 'my husband' (cf. NEB).
18. T.C. Vriezen, Hosea: profeet en cultuur (Groningen: Wolters, 1941), p. 9;
cf. Harper, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on Amos and Hosea, p. 237:
This is no genuine repentance (cf. 6.1-3), but only a desire for change, because
change is expected to bring relief.
299
300
not-belonging
wrongly
or belonging
marital
marriage
separation
adultery
verbal
response
(speaking &
answering)
no response
(speaking
without answering)
wrong speaking
mental
remembering
misremembering
forgetting
spatial
going
going away
going wrong
actional
giving
withholding
removing
false 'giving'
taking
affective
loving
not loving
loving wrongly
301
respectful address with the term 'my lord' C'PIO, v. 18), and a permanent 'espousal' (cf. NAB)22 Cprtntfl, vv. 21 bis, 22) in which he wil
guarantee as bride-price23 integrity (JB) or salvation (Wolff),24 justice,
unfailing devotion (NEB), love, and fidelity (NEB). Israel (or its offspring)25 is intended to belong to Yahweh as 'sown by God' (Jezreel),
the beloved one (reversal of Lo-ruhamah), and 'my people, my kin'
COW) (vv. 24-25).
But as it is, we learn first (v. 4a) that the belonging (of marriage to
Yahweh) is negated, secondly that Israel has created for herself other
forms of belonging (harlotry, adultery, v. 4b), and thirdly, that she now
regards herself as belonging to her 'lovers' (vv. 7b, 9a, 12, 14b, 17
namely the Baalim (cf. vv. lOb, 15a, 19). There is not only a negation
of right belonging, but a misdirection of belonging. If some distinction
exists in Biblical Hebrew between *]tf] 'to commit adultery' and !"!]? 'to
act as a harlot', 26 Israel has not only broken faith with Yahweh (cf.
iTSISfcC [v. 4b], probably 'the ornaments gained through her adulterous
behaviour') but has also become a common prostitute (cf. mitt [v. 4a]
probably 'the gifts gained from her harlotry'). It is not simply that she
has attached herself to someone other than Yahweh, but that by consorting with the Baalim (plural) she has become promiscuous. Thus the
concept of belonging has been first negated, then misdirected and
finally effectively done away with: in belonging to gods all and sundry,
she belongs to none in particular.
In the verbal sphere mutual belonging comes to expression in dialogue, speech and response, question and answer. Here in Hosea 2 the
status of the belonging relationship is strikingly reflected in several
facets of the speaking. Throughout vv. 4-15, it is effectively Yahweh
alone who speaks. Israel speaks briefly three times, but never by way of
response to Yahweh: once it is to express her abandonment to her
lovers (v. 7b), a second time to gloat over the gifts she believes she ha
had from them (v. 14), a third to wish, with the same degree of
22. Wolffs translation, '1 will make you my own' (Hosea, p. 46), brings out
well the concept of belonging as it appears in this marital language.
23. The beth of D'amm 10ml QEXOKQ1 pi:$3 and riJICNm is to be taken as beth
pretii (Wolff, Hosea, p. 52; Rudolph, Hosea, pp. 80-81).
24. Wolff, Hosea, p. 46.
25. It is unnecessary to distinguish between the people itself and Hosea's children, whose names symbolically represent Israel (cf. Mays, Hosea, p. 53).
26. *]] is regularly used of breaches of the marriage relationship; H3T for prostitution.
302
selfishness, that she were back with her husband where she was 'better
off than she is now (v. 9b).27
Then we might observe that throughout vv. 4-17 Yahweh never
speaks directly (in the second person) to Israel.28 This is on his part an
alienating device, or at least a signal of his own sense of alienation
from Israel. Only in v. 16, in the unexpected speech of non-judgment,
does he declare his intention of speaking to her (HflS, ^7 ^ ~n~I:
'persuade', 'woo'), while his expectation that she will respond (rt]#)
comes in the next verse (v. 17b). Even so, it is not until the set of three
vignettes of the time of restoration (vv. 18-19, 20-22, 23-25) that he
addresses Israel directly: 'you will call me "my husband"' (v. 18), 'I
will espouse you to me for ever' (vv. 21-22). The climax of responsiveness is reached, after a depiction of a virtual orgy of responsiveness
on the part of the entire creation (see 'answer' [H]I7] in vv. 23-24), when
the simple words are exchanged between Yahweh and Israel: 'You
are my people', 'my God' (TDK nnfcT Kim nn-Qi? 'niTK1^ 'niQNl,
v. 25b). The role of speaking in the poem, then, is entirely consonant
with the movement in belonging-ness, and so reinforces and bears out
the major concept of the poem.
With one aspect of the role of speaking in the poem, however, a
difficulty arises, Israel's children are in v. 4 addressed directly by Yahweh and told to 'protest against' (NAB) 29 their mother Israel; thus
27. Of course these are words put into Israel's mouth by Yahweh and so by the
prophet; but it makes no difference that Israel does not actually say such things.
What matters is that in a poem about belonging and not-belonging there is no converse between the partners.
28. Except for v. 8a: 'I will bar your way' (~p~lTTlK). Even if we do not follow
LXX, Peshitta and modern versions and emend to 'her way' (HDTT), which is
undeniably the easier reading, the MT reading would be an exception that proves the
rule.
29. I suggest that this is the best translation of "D"1") here. Since the formal language of the law court is not actually being used, but only reflected, the legal term
'accuse' (Wolff, Hosea, pp. 30, 35; Mays, Hosea, pp. 14, 37) seems out of place
(similarly 'faites un proces' [Jacob, Osee, p. 26]). 'Please my cause with' (NEB) is a
translation that pushes the children very much into the foreground, as if they are to
be Yahweh's mediators; but of course they play no such role in the poem. 'Plead'
(James Merrill Ward, Hosea. A Theological Commentary [New York: Harper &
Row, 1966], p. 21) by itself suggests a begging or appealing approach, which is far
from what 1T~l means. Ward makes clear in his notes (p. 24) that "D1""] suggests
judicial argument'; but 'plead' tout court does not convey that atmosphere.
'Denounce' (JB) is, I think, satisfactory.
303
although Israel is not herself addressed, her children are. But they never
do protest against their mother! Why is this? Because they have nothing
to say their very existence is itself a protest against their mother, for
they are 'children of harlotry' (D"']!]? ""H, v. 6). It is for this reason that
they disappear entirely from the main part of the poem. In that they, as
Israel's children, are distinct from Israel,30 they can be called upon to
protest against Israel, but their inherited nature, and alsoif this is
meanttheir bastard status,31 tie them so closely to their mother Israel
that they cannot speak against her. Put another way, inasmuch as
Israel's children are Israel itself in its capacity to criticize itself, they do
not speak since Israel is morally incapable of criticizing itself. Only in
the final scene of restoration (vv. 23-25) do Israel's children reappear.
But here they are no longer a symbol of protest against Israel; here they
symbolize its reintegration with the divine will. Thus Yahweh will
show love for Unloved (Lo-ruhamah, v. 25b), as against his declaration
in v. 6a, 'Her children I will not love' (Dm ^ rraTIK). The reversal
effected by the play on the name Lo-ruhamah makes it imperative to
see in the Jezreel, Lo-ruhamah and Lo-ammi of vv. 24-25 the children
of Hosea in their role as symbols of all Israel.32 Thus although the poem
began with an address to unspecified, anonymous, children of Israel, at
its end it can be understood only by reference outside itself to the children of Hosea in ch. I.33 Here, as there, the children do not differentiate
30. Who the children are intended to be is of course open to debate. 'The allegory contains many possibilities of interpretation', Wolff rightly notes (Hosea,
p. 33). But I would argue that it is inappropriate to look for some group or object
whether closely defined or ill-defined, within Israel (individuals, the youth, the
morally superior [cf. Rudolph, Hosea, pp. 64-65], a remnant, the land [cf. Wolff,
Hosea, p. 33]). The fact that the children fade out of the poem so quicklyor
rather, merge their identity with Israel so soonsuggests that they are from the
beginning Israel itself (albeit perhaps in some aspect). See Mays, Hosea, pp. 37, 39,
for an argument for some flexibility in the allegory because of individual and collective ways of thinking.
31. So, e.g., Mays, Hosea, p. 39.
32. This is not to say that I regard ch. 2 (especially vv. 4-9) as in any way an
account of the relationship between Hosea and Gomer; Rudolph, Hosea, p. 60,
among others, satisfactorily disposes of that view.
33. This is still the case if we adopt Ward's interesting suggestion (Hosea,
p. 26) that v. 3, reading the plural 'brothers' and 'sisters' as MT (DDT!N,D:>TnnK),
should be regarded as an integral part of the poem. I would, however, dispute
Ward's transference of v. 3 (preceded by 1.10-11) to a position following v. 25,
and, as I have indicated above, I do not wholly concur that it is an 'unwarranted
304
Israel from Israel, or one group in Israel from another group; each symbolizes the relation between Yahweh and all Israel.
The relationship of belonging comes to expression in this poem also
in what we could call for convenience the mental sphere, in the form of
remembering. It is the language of remembering and not remembering
that comes to the surface at the critical moment of the poem: the transition from the second judgment speech to the third (non-) judgment
speech. All that Yahweh holds against Israel is blurted out in the one
brief, potent utterance that is explicitly designated a 'word of Yahweh'
(mm n]):34 'me she has forgotten' (nrotB TIR, v. 15b). Mays writes
well when he says of that word that it 'mingles anger and anguish,
accusation and appeal; it summarizes in a word the guilt of Israel and
the problem of Yahweh'.35 More than that, it expresses the essence of
not-belonging. Israel has not only forgotten the memories she shares
with Yahweh; she has forgotten the husband who created those memories. All she remembers of him is that she was 'better off then (v. 9b).
What she does remember is what she misremembers'. her vines and figtrees she remembers as the payment from her lovers (v. 14): the days of
festival for the Baalim have not been forgotten (cf. vv. 13, 15), but
were they not supposed to be festivals for Yahweh (note the presence of
the sabbath, v. 13)?
The reinstitution of belonging is markedeven, it may be, accomplishedby a remembering, a calling to remembrance: Israel will be
led through an experience that will recall 'the days of her youth'
(mil;] TP, v. 17), 'the day she went up from the land of Egypt'
(D'lSQ'flNQ nrfry DV, v. 17). Along with that renewal of memory will
go a forcible forgetting, a blocking out of the memory of those to
whom Israel has wrongly belonged: 'I will remove the names of the
Baalim from her mouth and they will be remembered ("TOP) by name
no more' (v. 19).36 Even the word 'baal' ('lord') is to be expunged
assumption' to suppose that 'the dramatic personae of chapter 1 are carried over
into chapter 2'.
34. That is, within vv. 4-17; the phrase also occurs in vv. 18 and 22.
35. Mays, Hosea, p. 43.
36. The act of 'remembering [a deity] by name' is of course more than mental
activity; it is an invocation of the deity (cf. e.g. Wolff, Hosea, p. 50). But it is at
least a mental activity, and it may be that its correlative 1132) 'to forget' (v. 13)
equally signifies 'to fail to invoke'.
305
from the vocabulary of marriage (v. 18), lest the memory of the Baalim
should present itself before Israel again.
A further clear marker of the relationship of belonging/not belonging
is in this poem the spatial terminology. Going (away) is the sign of
severance of belonging: Israel has announced 'I will go after my lovers'
OanKQ "HriK ro'PK, v. 7). Her going is thoroughly determined. She will
chase after (^ll) them (v. 9). This is not only a sign of her unusual persistence as a prostitute, running after her lovers instead of waiting for
them to come to her.37 It is also a symbol of her deliberate alienation
from her husband. His attempt to put an end to her wrong belonging
naturally then takes the form of barring her 'way' ("pi) with a thornhedge, or building a stone wall before her so that her 'paths' (nTTQTI3)
to her lovers are blocked (v. 8).38 Israel's casual and unaccomplished
wish for her former privileges is a desire to 'go and return'
(rOTOl HD'PK, v. 9), to Yahweh, i.e. to 'set off and return' to him.
Being with her lovers is a being away from Yahweh.
Yahweh also uses the spatial terminology when he announces his
restoration of Israel: 'I will bring her' (iTfD^n) to the wilderness, 'and
I will speak wooingly to her' (H^ *?B Trail, v. 16). riTlD^n, as the
hiphil of "J^n, may not at first appear to signify a bringing near, but in
fact it is used regularly for leading or bringing.39 In any case the
wilderness is plainly the place where Yahweh will be: it is there that he
will 'speak to her heart' (m1? ^ Trail, v. 16), 'from there' that she
will receive from him his gift of the restoration of her vineyards
(D&Q iTQ-DTIN n1? T1HD1, v. 17a), and 'there' that she will respond to
him (nDB nn^, v. 17b). That last 'there' (lit. 'thither') itself signifies
movement towards Yahweh, a coming to Yahweh: a verb of motion is
probably implied by the constructio praegnans of the syntactic connection of 'answer' (iiri]^l) and 'thither' (!~IQi).40 Movement along with
Yahweh also underlies the reminiscence of the day of Israel's 'coming
up' from Egypt (DniSQ'pNa T\rbu DV, v. 17b), which will be lived
through again at the time of Israel's rehabilitation. Likewise she will
37. Wolff, Hosea, p. 35.
38. WQn is probably best translated 'she cannot reach' (cf. Ug. ms'; Willibald
Kuhnigk, Nordwestsemitische Studien zum Hoseabuch [BibOr, 27; Rome: Pontifical Biblical Institute, 1974], p. 16); cf. NEB 'she can no longer follow her own
ways'.
39. See BOB, p. 236b.
40. Wolff, Hosea, p. 43. For a contrary view, cf. Harper, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on Amos and Hosea, p. 241; Rudolph, Hosea, pp. 73-74.
306
come along with him into Yahweh's land through the traditional point
of entry into the land, the valley of Achor leading up into the hillcountry from Jericho; this time Israel will move not into a valley of
'trouble' (Achor, "I'D!?, v. 17a; cf. Jos. 7.24-26) but through a 'gateway
of hope' (mpD nns, v. 17a). Israel's final destiny is to be firmly planted
in Yahweh's land: in the phrase 'I will sow her for myself in the land'
QHN3 ^ iTnirin, v. 25), the reversal of movement away fromYahweh
initiated by Israel's passion for the Baalim has come to a full stop.
Israel no longer suffers the self-cancelling and ineffectual motion of
going and coming, and now comes to rest in a place where she will put
down rootsso the imagery impliesand where her planted-ness will
announce her belonging-ness: 'I will sow herfor myself C^)'.
If we now analyse the actions that take place in the poem, we discover thatexcept for those that have already been dealt withmost
actions involve giving or withholding. Giving appears both as 'false' (or
wrongly attributed) giving (which turns out to be taking) and as true
giving. Giving is also negated as withholding or removing. The triple
pattern of belonging/not belonging/belonging wrongly is again worked
outhere on the level of what is done for (given to) or not done for
(given to) Israel. It is only natural that the ownership implicit in Israel's
belonging to Yahweh or to the Baalim should express itself in gifts
made by the superior to the inferior, by the owner to the owned. (Only
twice does the owned appear to 'give' to the owner; see the comment
on vv. lOb, 15a below.)
Yahweh, as Israel's husband, has in fact 'given to her' (n^ TTI] "O]tf)
her grain, wine and oil, and has 'lavished upon her' (rh> TPD~in) silver
(v. 10). This motif of gift as a token of Yahweh's ownership (and so of
Israel's belonging) appears frequently, though often beneath the surface
of the text (that is, explicit words for 'giving' are not always used). So,
for example, in v. 1 Ib the syntax of the line, literally 'and I will snatch
away my wool and my flax to cover her nakedness' (~IQ2 Tl^m
nrmirnN mOD1? TUBS'!) implies the existence of a prior gift: Peshitta
and Targum and several modern versions have inserted some reference
to the gift in order to make sense.41 Thus NEB, for instance, has 'I wil
41. By not recognizing that a gift is implied, LXX had to understand DIDD1?('to
cover') as a purpose clause, and therewith, for the sake of sense, to introduce a
negative: TOV u,f| KctA/UTtTeiv. The reading of 4QpHos PIDD^D, 'so as not to cover'
(for the text, see J.M. Allegro, 'A Recently Discovered Fragment of a Commentary
on Hosea from Qumran's Fourth Cave', JBL 78 [1959], pp. 142-48 [146]), which
307
take away the wool and the flax which I gave her42 to cover her naked
body'. Similarly, the clothing that Yahweh has provided her with as
part of his husbandly responsibilities (cf. Exod. 21.10) is not even
mentioned explicitly (v. 5a), but is implicitly regarded as a gift from
Yahweh. The fertility of her land (or, of Israel as land) is, again, not
explicitly said in v. 5b to be Yahweh's gift, but such is meant to be
understood by the reference in v. 10 to the grain, new wine and olive
oil as given by Yahweh, or by the references in v. 11 to 'my grain, my
wine, my wool, my flax'. Even what Yahweh himself speaks of as her
possessions, 'her vines and her fig trees' (nfOKm il]S3, v. 14a) are
plainly only hers as gift. So it can be said at the time of restoration 'I
will give her.. .her vineyards' (!TQ~O~nK 7h TTITl, v. 17a); she has, and
will have, nothing but what she has received. As gift, and thus as a
further sign of her belonging, she is to receive the transformation of the
'Valley of Trouble' into the 'Gate of Hope'; the valley, if it is rightly
identified as the Wadi en-Nuwe'ime,43 is in itself and literally a place of
fertility, but is equally and symbolically a foretaste and ccppafkov of the
fertility of the restored land as a whole.
The relationship of belonging is to be fully reinstituted by the plentifulness of giving that is the particular theme of the second of the 'in
that day' vignettes (vv. 20-22). First of Yahweh's gifts is the 'covenant'
that Yahweh will make for them (PP~Q DH^ TTD1, v. 20a) with animals
and birds; that is, he is the covenant mediator who establishes harmony
between Israel and the creatures that are potential enemies of the people, their crops and their vineyards. This covenant forms a protection
conveys a similar sense, is judged by Rudolph, Hosea, p. 63, on the ground of its
use of ~^Q as a negation of an infinitive, to be a sign of later Hebrew, and therefore
not the original text. M. Dahood, 'Hebrew-Ugaritic Lexicography III', Bib 46
(1965), pp. 311-32 (330), following M. Bogaert, has argued that HDD itself as a privative pi'el means to 'uncover', but the immediately following threat, 'And now I
will uncover her genitals' (nrtamtf n^3K nni)1, v. 12) would be greatly weakened
if the same threat had already been made here in v. l i b (cf. Rudolph, Hosea,
pp. 63-64).
42. My italics. Similarly AV; Mays, Hosea, p. 35. There are of course other
ways of translating the verse without using the word 'give' (e.g. RSV 'my wool and
my flax which were to cover her nakedness'; JB 'that were intended to cover her
nakedness'), but the concept of gift is nonetheless implied. The intentionality
expressed by the ^ of mOD^ is lost in the translation of Ward, Hosea, p. 22: 'which
cover her nakedness'; Rudolph, Hosea, p. 62: 'womit sie ihre blosse bedeckt'.
43. See Wolff, Hosea, pp. 42-43.
308
309
310
belonging is expressed throughout this chapter with the root Dm, traditionally translated 'have pity on' but probably to be understood as
'love'. The verb Hiltf, 'love', is reserved for the illicit love of the
Baalim. Yahweh's idea of marriage is of a permanent espousal in 'love'
(D <t am...D I ni; i 7, v. 21), to 'love the unloved' (nom K^'PIK TlQrm,
v. 25). But so long as Israel remains bound to her 'lovers' (JTHnKQ,
antfQ, vv. 7b, 9a, 12a, 14b, 15b), Yahweh will have no love for Israel
(strictly speaking, for her children: Dn~lK $b iTinTlN'l, v. 6). Israel's
movement from commitment to her 'lovers' to commitment to her husband is brought about through his affection: his persuasive speech
(nTIDQ51) and wooing words (m^ *?y Trail, v. 16). Yet again the
triple category loving/not-loving/loving-wrongly expresses the essential
conceptual pattern of the poem.
What exegetical results does this study of the conceptual patterns in
Hosea 2 yield? Like most structural studies, the foregoing cannot be
claimed to produce large-scale exegetical gains. Such are won generally
from the lexicon, the concordance, the history of interpretation, the
contribution of extrabiblical studies: that is, by not concentrating so
narrow-mindedly upon a single chapter. The gains that arise from a
closer focus, which are gains one hopes to have acquired from this
study, are these: (i) Observation of the conceptual pattern that is common to both vv. 4-17 and vv. 18-25 makes it clear that the whole is an
integrated work. No matter whether it has been such ab initio, nor
whether all of the chapter is genuinely Hosean, the integrity of the
piece as it has been demonstrated above makes it impossible to interpret its elements in isolation from one another. This is a literary gain
that can have exegetical significance, (ii) Our detailed exploration of
the concept of belonging is a way of experiencing the almost obsessional quality of the prophet's concern with Israel's relationship to its
God. No new factual or exegetical information may have been
acquired, but 'close reading' of a powerful text like this poem exposes
the reader to its force. This is an aesthetic gain that brings the reader
closer to the world of the poet (or else, perhaps, alienates the reader); in
either case the poem can come to life, whether to attract or antagonize
the reader. When it does, it may not produce 'exegetical' results, but
one of its potentialities is released: and that is surely an aspect
of interpretation, (iii) Preoccupation with the conceptual system that
structures the poem can lead to hermeneuticwhich is not the same
51. See n. 8 above.
311
thing as exegesis (at least in its atomistic ICC sense) but which is the
goal of exegesis. 'Exegesis considers the text as a "closed system" of
signs... Hermeneutic prolongs the discourse of the text into a new discourse ... what the text means for the modern interpreter and the people
of the culture.'52
3. Plot
Earlier I have suggested that the p*7 speeches need not perhaps be read
sequentially, but are open to being understood as a series of options
Yahweh passes in review. Even if this is correct, the poem presents
itself in a linear formin a narrative shape, that isand only teasingly
allows us to play with the possibility that it may be read horizontally as
well as vertically. This short section of my paper is an attempt to analyse the movement of the poem in narrative (sequential, linear, vertical)
form.
Again, a tabular presentation may simplify the discussion:
1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.
8.
4aa
4bb
8-9a
9b
14
16
17b+
Yahweh
Yahweh
Yahweh
Yahweh
Yahweh
Yahweh
Yahweh
Yahweh
(T)
Israel
Israel
Israel
Israel
Israel
Israel
Israel
Israel
('she')
Baal(im)
Baal(im)
Baal(im)
Baal(im)
Baal(im)
('they')
The plot-schema is to be read thus: Preceding the action of the narrative/poem, Yahweh and Israel relate reciprocally (line 1). As the poem
opens, we find that Israel has begun to relate to the Baal(im)which is
impossible to combine with the relationship with Yahweh. So although
Yahweh still wishes to be husband to Israel. Israel has blocked that
relationship ('she is not my wife', v. 4aa, line 2). This results (line 3) in
Yahweh's abandoning a normal marital relationship with Israel, so that
there is blockage on his side as well as hers ('I am not her husband',
v. 4ab). Meanwhile Israel remains tied to the Baal(im) (line 3). (Note
that Israel's relationship to the Baal(im) is always a one-way traffic system; there is nothing reciprocal here.) The next move in the plot is
52. Daniel Patte, What is Structural Exegesisl (Guides to Biblical Scholarship;
Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1976), pp. 6, 3.
312
313
is because the first two options lead nowhere, or at least, lead only to a
fixation of the unacceptable state of affairs that has called forth the initial 'protest' ('D'H) of the poem. The first option blocks Israel's path to
her lovers but does not restore her to Yahweh. The second option leads
only to destruction and punishment, and perhaps to the elimination of
Israel itself; this option tends to the removal of the very possibility of
reconciliation. The third option, on the other hand, in restoring the
relationship of Yahweh and Israel, does not issue in a cul de sac of a
future, but opens up the way for a movement that will continue long
after the poem is over.53
53. Cf. Anon, 'Osee 2,4-17. Proposition d'un plan de travail', Foi et Vie 74
(1975), pp. 59-65(65).
16
THE PARALLELISM OF GREATER PRECISION
NOTES FROM ISAIAH 40 FOR A THEORY OF HEBREW POETRY
From the Hebrew Bible, she notes Pss. 29.5; 89.4; Deut. 32.9;3 and others. It
should be pointed out, however, that she is concerned only with cases of particularizing words and almost exclusively with cases where 'the first member of the pair is
a general term and the second is a proper, or geographical name' (p. 37). It will be
observed that the present paper extends the area of consideration in several new
directions.
315
Line A taken by itself raises the question, Why should anyone want to
burn Lebanon? Lebanon is not elsewhere in the Hebrew Bible usually
connected with burning3 and while it is natural enougheven while we
are still in line Ato suppose that it is the trees of Lebanon that are for
burning, even though they are typically used for building, it is impossible to discern from line A what purpose is in view in burning
Lebanon's trees, and thus why Lebanon's trees are insufficient for
burning. Not to know that is to be ignorant of the whole point of the
affirmation. Only with line B, and with its last word, is it made clear
that the image of the whole couplet is of sacrifice; the burning of line A
must be of wood upon the sacrificial altar. We are confirmed in our
impression that line A is not perspicuous by the fact that a modern version like the NIV finds it necessary to offer an expanded rendering:
'Lebanon is not sufficient for altar fires' (my italics).
We may say, then, that line A is less precise, less specific than line B.
Line A is not swallowed up in line B, however; it is not the case that
once we have line B we can dispense with line A. Rather, line B provides the clue or the context within which the uncertainty of line A is
resolved. Line B drives us back to read line A again in the light of what
line B has added to line A.
b. Isa. 40.22
who stretches out the heavens like a thin thing,
and spreads them out like a tent to dwell in.
3. Zech. 11.1 seems to be the only other place: 'Open your doors, O Lebanon,
that the fire may devour your cedars'.
316
In reading line A we may well ask, What, precisely, are the heavens
like that God stretches out? The problem is not primarily that pi is a
hapax legomenon, for there can be little uncertainty that it means
'something thin' (from ppl 'crush'). Even if we knew from a multiplicity of attestations that the thinness in question was specifically a
thin curtain or veil or gauze,4 we would still not know what precisely
the image was, for a curtain could be vertical or horizontal, it could be
used to divide or screen or cover, it could serve the one who spreads it
out, or someone else for whom it is spread out. Line B, however, disambiguates line A. From line B we learn that the 'thin thing' is a 'tent
for dwelling in', i.e. a tent from the viewpoint of its occupants, a curtain that is both horizontal and vertical, and spread out not to hide the
one who spreads it but to serve as a covering for those under it. The
blurred and indefinite image of the line A is brought into focus in line
B. The 'parallelism' of pT and ^HK is a parallelism of increasing precision.
c. Isa. 40.3
In the wilderness prepare the way of Yahweh,
make straight in the desert a highway for our God.
317
meaning (i) his creative activity (Job 26.14), (ii) his moral administration (Exod. 33.13; Deut. 32.4), (iii) his commandments (Gen. 18.19, 'to
keep the way of the Lord'; and often). Even if this analysis is open to
question at some points, it cannot be doubted that some such
metaphorical sense is the most natural one (within the same writing as
our text, Yahweh's 'ways' are clearly his 'way of life' or 'moral administration' at Isa. 55.8, 9). Natural or not, however, such an understanding of the present text would be wrong; for the parallel term n^DQ,
'highway', is certainly used in a literal sense. Indeed it is used, in 26 of
its 27 occurrences, literally; in the other case, 'The highway of the
upright is to depart from evil' (Prov. 16.17), we have the impression
that the metaphor is freshly minted for the occasion, and there can be
little question that n'PDQ is typically a literal road.
What line B also makes precise is the relation of the 'road' to God
The construct chain in line A is open to many interpretations, but the
phrase 'a highway for our God' in line B is unambiguous: it must mean
a road for Yahweh to walk alongjust as a 'highway for the remnant
of his people' (ID^ "INEJ1? il^OQ) in Isa. 11.16, and a 'way for the redeemed to pass over' (D^lbO "QI/7 "]~n) in 51.10, are paths for Israel
to walk on. Here, the 'way of Yahweh' (line A) has meaning in the
sense of 'a highway for our God' (line B); line B then specifies line A.
Furthermore, we may perhaps see in 'make smooth, straight' ("ntZT) a
greater precision than in 'prepare' (IB). 1]D in line A is properly 'clear
away', i.e. 'remove any obstacles', which could apply to an already
existing roadwhich might be what is meant by 'the way of Yahweh'.
Line B, however, in specifying that the 'clearing' is a matter of 'making
smooth, or straight' a highway for God, more evidently envisages the
building of a new road. 1]D 'clear' is to be understood in the sense of
"ntT 'make smooth, straight'. The obstacles to be cleared away are not
just boulders or other debris lying on the road (which ~[~11 IDS could
refer to) but are the natural features (v. 4 will mention them as mountains and valleys) that are to be overcome and eliminated in the construction of an entirely new road.
d. Isa. 40.6
All flesh is grass
and all its loyalty is like the flower of the field.
318
What line A leaves open and what is further specified by line B is the
question: in whose estimation are the nations as nothing beside him?
Without line B, we might reasonably conclude that this evaluation is
the poet's judgment, just as we would suppose for the preceding verses,
15-16 (though the presence of 1350113 in v. 15 may give us second
thoughts). What line B specifies is that the reckoning is God's: the I1?
indicates 'the efficient cause (or personal agent)' with the passive
6. "PHP! ]'D3 is indeed very improbable, but the usual emendation to ^HD, 'as if
among', though somewhat awkward, is satisfactory (^DD is supported by lQIsa,
LXX and Targums). The emendation recommended by BHS, to Tten ^Ip 'like a
poplar of Razor', is weak. It is doubtful moreover whether we should identify here
a T^n 'reed', separate from Tl>n 'grass' (so HALAT, s.v.).
319
(GKC, 121f). Line B makes clear that the perspective upon the nations
and their significance in comparison with God (113], line A) is God's
own.
There may be further precision in line B's phrase inm 02NQ by comparison with line A's "ptO. Being literal-minded about it, we might say
that "pfcO means only 'about nothing', 'roughly nothing', whereas ODNQ
means, to be precise, 'less than nothing'. But it is not at all certain that
the ]Q signifies 'less than'7 rather than 'consisting of, made from', 8 and
there is also the possibility that the text should read DSfcO (so lQIsa).9
No doubt inm 'and emptiness' adds a further precision or perhaps
elaboration to the "pR of line A; that is to say, to the idea of ignorable
non-existence is added that of chaotic absence of form. But the most
significant precision in line B is that which I have mentioned first: the
speculation of the standard or judgment that gives value and significance to the comparison p) contained within line A.
f. Isa. 40.21
Have you not known? Have you not heard?
Has it not been told to you 'from beginning'?
Have you not understood from the foundation
of the earth?
object of Dnrnn.
320
321
b.Isa. 40.18
And to whom will you liken to God,
and what image/likeness will you compare to him?
Let us suppose for the sake of the discussion that 'liken God' and
'compare a likeness to him' are strictly synonymous, or else strictly
separate (i.e. that line A refers to a deity and line B to an image of that
deity). Let us suppose, that is to say, that B is not more precise than A.
Then, we may ask, is A more precise than B? It contains 'God' &$)
whereas B contains only '(to) him' (1*7). A is indeed more precise, but
only in a trivial sense, for 1*7 in B does present us with the same referent as *?$ in A. If, on the other hand, the lines changed places, so that
we read:
nd what image/likeness will you compare to him,
and to whom will you liken to God?
B would be more precise than A, for in A we should not know who was
being spoken of ('him') but in B should find it stated ('God').
2. Not all parallelistic couplets, of course, exhibit the parallelism of
greater precision. And because the comparison is between sense-units
and not just words, there is often enough room for debate over whether
a particular B-Iine is more precise than its A-line. But I would argue
that in Isaiah 40 slightly more than half the parallelistic couplets exhibit
it. In Psalm 21, almost every verse is an example of this parallelism. In
short, the parallelism of greater precision is a common enough feature
of Hebrew poetry to make it worth asking of every parallelistic couplet
whether any gain in understanding may result from applying the present concept to it.
3. Exegetical Applications
Under this heading I am examining some texts in Isaiah 40 for which
the possibility of an analysis such as the parallelism of greater precision
may have some exegetical value.
322
a. Isa. 40.26
who brings out by number their host,
to all of them by name he calls.
This is a textbook example of a parallelistic couplet, with a mirror chiasmus. 12 K'^D is parallel to N~ip\ and DN^ to D^D1?. Those parallelisms are syntactic rather than morphological, whereas with "ISDDH //
EOT 'by number' // 'by name' we have a strict morphological parallelism as well (preposition plus noun).13
Such an analysis is accurate as far as it goes, but when we consider
the sense of the lines it is quite misleading.14 For 'by number' is not a
method of summoning the stars that is parallel to 'by name'. Each star
has a name, but each does not have a number. ~IDDQH in fact does not
mean 'by number' at all but 'in number' (cf. 1 Chr. 9.25). As far the
sense goes, we would be better to say that line B specifies the way in
which God brings the army of the stars out in full number: it is by
summoning each one of them by name. Line A acquires its specific
meaning in the light of line B. It is not so rewarding to ask which terms
of A correspond to which terms of B, as to ask whether, and in what
way, line B specifies line A.
b. Isa. 40.31
Those who wait for Yahweh will gain new
strength;
they will put forth (?) plumage like eagles.
Here the parallelism of greater precision may help to solve a longstanding exegetical problem. Is *by qal or hiphil? Do they 'rise up (on)
wings like eagles'15 or 'put forth,16 or grow, wings (or, plumage) like
12. M. O'Connor finds no example of this mirror chiasm in his selected texts
(Hebrew Verse Structure [WinonaLake: Eisenbrauns, 1980], p. 394). Wilfred G.E.
Watson, Classical Hebrew Poetry: A Guide to its Techniques (JSOTSup, 25;
Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1984), pp. 202-203 reserves the term 'mirror chiasmus' for
cases of exact repetition of terms, calling cases such as the present 'complete chiasmus' (abc//c'bV).
13. For the terminology, cf. Adele Berlin, 'Grammatical Aspects of Biblical
Parallelism', HUCA 50 (1979), pp. 17-43.
14. It should be noted that Berlin is of course quite aware that grammatical
analysis does not permit semantic conclusions ('Grammatical Aspects', pp. 42-43).
15. SoRSV.
16. So Elliger, Deuterojesaja, p. 101; Whybray, Isaiah 40-66, pp. 55-56.
323
eagles'?17 In favour of the former is the use of n'Pi? qal with D"H5EO in
Jer. 49.22, and 'soaring' is undoubtedly an obvious thing for eagles to
do. But in favour of the latter is the awkwardness of the absence of a
preposition before ~QN, the LXX rendering 7rcepO())i)riooi)oiv, 'they will
grow wings', and the Targum's wythdtwn I'wlymwthwn ksymwh dslyq 'I
gdpy nSryn 'and they will be renewed in their youth like the sprouting
(of plumage) that rises up upon the wings of eagles'.
If line B may be more specific than line A, we can ask, In what way
can the somewhat vague language of A, rD ID^rP, 'they will change,
substitute, renew (their) strength', be specified further by B? Going up
on wings in no way specifies 'changing strength' but putting forth new
wings or new plumage is indeed a sign of new strength, whether or not
there is an allusion to a belief that in old age eagles grow new wings.18
The exiles would then substitute new strength for old strength, and
'change' their strength in the sense that old eagles 'change' theirs.
c. Isa. 40.27
My way is hidden from Yahweh,
and from my God my right is disregarded.
17. 'Put forth' or 'grow' are acceptable senses of n^D hi. (HALAT, p. 785b),
contra Duhm, Jesaja, p. 274; Marti, Jesaja, p. 277; Reuben Levy, Deutero-Isaiah
(London: Oxford University Press, 1925), p. 128, who suppose a different verb rh$
'to grow' (cf. n^l? 'leaf'). Similar uses are found in Jer. 30.17; 33.6; Ezek. 37.6.
18. Some commentators find such an allusion 'doubtful' (Whybray, Isaiah 4066, p. 60) or even 'fanciful' (Christopher R. North, The Second Isaiah: Introduction, Translation and Commentary to Chapters 40-55 [Oxford: Clarendon Press,
1964], p. 89).
19. So North, The Second Isaiah, p. 89.
324
from the A-line. CDS2JQ is itself not very precise (RV 'judgement', RSV
'right', NEB 'cause'). But fora UBtOQ to~nu can only mean that a 'right'
(which perhaps already became a legal 'cause' or 'case') has 'vanished', sc. from the notice of the one to whom it ought to be a matter of
concern. In such a light, the A-line most probably means that Israel's
'course of life' or 'state' (or 'plight', since it is a bad state) is hidden
from God (A) in the sense that its claim to restitution has failed to
attract his attention (B). And Israel only knows that its 'way is hidden
from Yahweh' (A) in that its cause is ignored, it does not receive its
rights (B). The resulting interpretation of the couplet is no spectacular
advance on the appropriate sense many readers attain very quickly; but
our investigation has built a surer foundation for the validity of the
interpretation.
We should also note that the principle of the parallelism of greater
precision concerns primarily the relation between the two lines of a
couplet; it does not focus on the relationship between the members of
the two lines, either grammatically or semantically. In the present case,
for example, we have an example of a complete or 'mirror' chiasmus
(as in 40.26, discussed above), but that is of no significance for the relation of the lines. It is likewise unimportant whether ~[T7 is a good parallel to tDSOQ or not, both because the relation of the lines does not
depend upon the relation between the terms that are 'in parallel' (as we
say), and because the notion that an ideal parallelism is a truly synonymous parallelism has been exploded by the principle of the parallelism
of greater precision. Duhm found the parallelism here 'rather feeble'
(etwas armliche)which is indeed the case if the ideal is synonymity,
but not at all the case if other relationships between the lines of a couplet can exist.
The foregoing examples yield evidence of the value of having the
model of the parallelism of greater precision in mind when approaching
the exegesis of an individual text. I conclude this section with an
exegetical example of where the parallelism of greater precision is a
'false friend' and potentially misleading.
d. Isa. 40.28
God of eternity/the world is Yahweh,
Creator of the ends of the earth.
325
326
More 'concrete', yes; but he said nothing about more specific, more
precise.
Other aspects of parallelism fall now to be compared to and contrasted with the parallelism of greater precision.
a. Staircase parallelism
This feature of the parallelistic couplet, otherwise known as 'climactic'
or 'repetitive' parallelism, or the 'expanded colon', has long been recognized.23 Wilfred Watson notes some forty examples,24 including Jer.
31.21:
Return, O virgin Israel,
Return to these your cities.
327
The itemization makes it plain that it is precisely four things that the
speaker does not understand. Line A contains the approximate number
('three'), line B the precise number. In all cases of itemization the precise number is the second one mentioned.25 It is true that 'three' is in
itself just as precise as 'four', but in this context, where 'four' is the
precise number intended, 'three' is imprecise. M. Haran has listed
twelve instances of itemized number parallelism, six from the Old
Testament,26 five from Ben Sira, and one from the Babylonian Talmud
citing Ben Sira. All of these, we may now say, exhibit parallelism of
greater precision.
The recurring couplet in Amos, through it is not usually followed by
an itemization, fits here best:
For three transgressions of X,
And for four, I will not revoke it (Amos 1.3, 6,
9, 11, 13; 2.1, 4, 6).
In these cases (except perhaps in 2.6-8) it is only the fourth transgression that is specified, almost certainly because the fourth is so climactic
that the others may be left out of consideration.27 It is because of the
fact that they total to four, and so include the fourth, climactic one, that
Yahweh's punishment falls. So again the B-line of the couplet is the
more precise or specific.
ii. Unitemized number parallelism. Most such instances display ordinary 'synonymous' parallelism, though of course no number is ever
25. Cf. Menahem Haran, 'The Graded Numerical Sequence and the Phenomenon of "Automatism" in Biblical Poetry', Congress Volume Uppsala, 1971
(VTSup, 22; Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1972), pp. 238-67 (256).
26. Prov. 6.16; 30.15b, 18, 21, 29; Job 5.19.
27. Cf. Haran, 'Graded Numerical Sequence', p. 266; Y. Zakovitch, 'For
Three... and for Four' (Jerusalem: Makor, 1979), ch. 3 (Hebrew). I am not convinced by the argument of M. Weiss, 'The Pattern of Numerical Sequence in Amos
1-2', JBL 86 (1967), pp. 416-23, that there are seven transgressions (he argues that
'three' and 'four' are the break-up of a stereotyped phrase).
328
We cannot say that 'eight' is more precise, in the context, than 'seven'
(nor vice versa). Haran has suggested however that in a few cases 'the
intended number is the first of the two'; 29 but in Job 33.14 and Ps.
62.12, which he cites, it can be maintained much more convincingly
that it is the second number that is 'intended' or the more precise. This
category of graded numerical sayings thus yields two more examples of
the parallelism of greater precision, but on the whole it does not display
the feature under consideration here.
c. Automatism
The phenomenon of 'automatism' as set forth by Haran30 involves the
use of one element of a word-pair solely for balance between the lines,
and not at all for its semantic significance. An example that is adduced
is Prov. 24.30:
I passed by the field of a sluggard,
and by the vineyard of a man without sense.
The argument is that miO and Q~O form a fixed pair, corresponding to
other pairs like bread and wine, threshing-floor (]~U) and wine-vat
(Up"1), corn (p~l) and new wine (tDTVn), farmers (D'HDK) and vintners
(CPa~D). But in the context only the vineyard is really meant, for the
following verse refers to 'it' as having a stone fencewhich points to a
single parcel of ground, and that a vineyard, not a field. 'Field' is not
'intended' at all.
If such is the case, the line that contains the 'intended' word is inevitably more precise than the one with the 'automatic' variant. So for
those cases where the 'automatic' variant occurs in line A,31 we would
have the parallelism of greater precision.32 However, the existence of
28. For a possible exception, see Watson, Classical Hebrew Poetry, p. 144
n. 84.
29. Haran, 'Graded Numerical Sequence', p. 253. He is followed by Watson,
Classical Hebrew Poetry, p. 148.
30. Haran, 'Graded Numerical Sequence', pp. 243-53.
31. Haran adduces Prov. 24.30; Amos 6.1; Ps. 81.4 (pp. 243-47).
32. It is true that Haran also finds four examples where the automatism is in line
B (Prov. 4.3; 1.8 [similarly 6.20]; 23.22).
329
330
My conclusion is, though I have not reviewed here all the examples
adduced for the phenomenon of 'automatism', that the phenomenon
does not exist in the Hebrew Bible,37 and that some supposed examples
of it really exibit the parallelism of greater precision, while other examples contain other types of parallelistic relationships.
d. Ballast variants
A ballast variant is defined by W.G.E. Watson as 'simply & filler, its
function being to fill out a line of poetry that would otherwise be too
short'.38 As an example he cites Judg. 5.28:
Why is his chariot so slow in coming?
Why does the clatter of his war-wagons tarry so?
Curds, says Haran (p. 250), are only mentioned for the sake of the parallelism (as in
Gen. 18.8 and Deut. 32.14; but, unlike here, in both places ilKOn 'curds' is the A
word). Milk is what she gave him, as the prose narrative says (4.19), and that in a
'bowl' (^20), elsewhere a vessel for liquids (6.38). ilNOn, by contrast, is something
one eats (2 Sam. 17.29; Isa. 7.15, 22); it is not a drink. Against these arguments we
can assert: nothing is said in the poem (which is all that counts for this purpose) of
drinking; a vessel which, in the one other place where the term is used, could be
filled with the water wrung from a fleece (Judg. 6.38) does not thereby become
reserved exclusively for liquids. Prov. 30.33 makes clear that nNQn is a milk-product, which is to say that it is a specific kind of milk. Is this not more probably a case
of the parallelism of greater precision?
38. Watson, Classical Hebrew Poetry, p. 344.
39. M. O'Connor is perhaps extreme in asserting that the principle that all lines
331
332
precision'. It could well be argued that both 'Balak' and 'Aram' in line
A are more specific or precise than their counterparts in line B, 'the
king of Moab' and 'the Eastern Hills', because they use proper names
for identification. Yet, on the other hand, it could just as well be argued
that while many people may be called Balak, it is 'king of Moab' that
specifies which one is meant. In reality, such a debate misses the point
of the parallelism: the question is not whether, taken in isolation, B is
more precise than A, but whether 'king of Moab' in B adds any precisions to what we already have in A. Unquestionably it does; however,
we must admit that in the case of 'Aram' // 'the Eastern Hills' we cannot say that B adds precision to A (unless perhaps the poet knows
something that we do not).
In brief, so-called 'ballast variants' are prima facie candidates for the
parallelism of greater precision, but a roughly synonymous parallelistic
relationship is also quite possible.
e.Word-pairs
This very frequently discussed feature of Hebrew poetry needs to be
mentioned here primarily in order to distinguish it from the subject of
this paper. At its most conventional, the use of word-pairs is a substitute for creative poetic activity, whereas the parallelism of greater precision is a subtle relationship between or among the lines of poetry that
can only be designed in by a relatively sophisticated artist.
In a recent analysis building upon psycholinguistic studies, Adele
Berlin has argued persuasively that pairing of words is a manifestation
of a common linguistic phenomenon of word association.44 Two principal types of word associates can be denominated paradigmatic (e.g.
goodbad, fathermother, descendascend) and syntagmatic
(ZionJerusalem, mercytruth, heavensearth [as a merismus]). The
phenomenon of fixed word-pairs, which has been a primary focus of
attention in Hebrew poetry especially since the discovery of Ugaritic
poetry, is only a subset of the broader category of word-pairing. It may
indeed be possible to regard the present subject of study as yet another
type of word-pairingexcept of course that the 'greater precision' may
be a function of the whole line in relation to the previous line, and not
just one word in relation to another word.
My principal concern here, however, is to observe that the
44. Adele Berlin, 'Parallel Word-Pairs: A Linguistic Explanation', UF 15
(1983), pp. 7-16.
333
Here 'head' (2?K~l) and 'pate' (lp"Tp) are the pair, and are perhaps completely synonymous (though the latter could reasonably be thought
more specific or 'concrete' than the former). But there is nevertheless a
45. Cf. e.g. Robert G. Boling, ' "Synonymous" Parallelism in the Psalms', JSS
5 (1960), pp. 221-55 (223-24); Watson, Classical Hebrew Poetry, p. 129.
46. Cf. Berlin (see note 42 above). The conceptualization she employs is not
free from difficulties; see, briefly, Stephen A. Geller, Parallelism in Early Biblical
Poetry (HSM, 20; Missoula, MT: Scholars Press, 1979), pp. 32-32.
47. So Watson, Classical Hebrew Poetry, pp. 131-32.
48. Berlin, 'Parallel Word-Pairs', p. 8.
49. O'Connor, Hebrew Verse Structure, pp. 96-97.
50. William R. Watters, Formula Criticism and the Poetry of the Old Testament
(BZAW, 138; Berlin: de Gruyter, 1976); see, for example, pp. 102-103.
334
greater precision in line B, since "1000 'his violence' specifies the kind
of 'sin' or 'trouble' (I^DU) that the A-line speaks of.
5. Towards a (Somewhat) New Theory of Hebrew Poetry
The new feature that has emerged from this study of the parallelistic
couplet is not as much the identification of a particular relationship of
the lines of the couplet (greater precision) as a movement towards a
statement of relationships within the poetic couplet. Within the couplets
that we have examined here, we can affirm, the relationship of the two
lines is unpredictable. What is predictable about Hebrew poetry generally is its structure as couplets (or triplets, i.e. extended couplets). What
is unpredictable is how the lines of that couplet (or triplet) will turn out
to relate to one another. Will they be synonymously parallel, will they
exhibit the parallelism of greater precision, or staircase parallelism or
synonymous-sequential parallelism,51 or some other parallelistic relationor no parallelism at all?52
This unpredictability is encountered by the reader at the beginning,
middle and end of the poetic couplet. At the beginning, before we start
to read a couplet, we are aware that it is a couplet (whether through
modern conventions of typography, or through our familiarity with the
poetic convention itself); we can see that it will end after a snatch of
words of between four and about ten, and we can expect that the couplet will constitute a complete sense-unit. But we do not know how that
self-contained unity will present itself to us. We have some patterns of
expectation available to us, indeed, but we are at the mercy of the poet
for which of those patterns may lie ahead of us. At the end of the first
line (colon) when we pause momentarily for processing the sense so
far, we make a provisional judgment on the completeness or otherwise,
the self-sufficiency or open-endedness, of the sense-unit thus far read or
heard. But here also we cannot predict how the couplet will proceed;
not only do we not yet know the grammatical or syntactical pattern of
the next line, or its lexical contents, but, more importantly, we do not
know what kind of a relationship what we have read will bear to what
51. See Patrick D. Miller, 'Synonymous-Sequential Parallelism in the Psalms',
Bib 61 (1980), pp. 256-60.
52. The frequently encountered statement that parallelism is 'characteristic' of
Hebrew poetry (e.g. Watson, Classical Hebrew Poetry, p. 114) must be taken to
mean that it is not universally found (cf. Watson, p. 12).
335
we have yet to read. (Many popular expositions of parallelism, formulaic poetry, word-pairs and the like implicitly encourage us to believe
that we do.) The unpredictability remains even when we have read to
the end of the couplet. For even when we have processed both lines of
the couplet, our understanding will not be complete until we have gone
back over the lines from the viewpoint of their relationship. And what
that relationship will be is not securely indicated by any surface clues
(like grammatical morphology or the presence of a fixed word-pair). It
is often not difficult to determine that relationship, but the point about it
is that it is not given but must be figured out by every reader.5*
James Kugel was entirely right in asserting, as against a crude popularization of Lowthian parallelism, that 'Biblical parallelism is of one
sort... or a hundred sorts; but it is not three',54 But I believe he is wrong
to describe the 'one sort' as a matter of 'A, and what's more, B', since
that restricts the relationship of the lines to those of emphasis, repetition, seconding, and so on. The relationships of A and B are so diverse
that only some statement such as 'A is related to B' will serve as a valid
statement about all parallelistic couplets. And such a statement is
equally valid for non-parallelistic lines. Biblical poetry in general is
overwhelmingly composed of couplets (or triplets, extended couplets),
and of such couplets we could state that they are of one sort (A is
related to B) or of a hundred, but not of three or four or five.
Our study of the parallelism of greater precision has alerted us to
something that is true of Hebrew poetry generally. The meaning of the
couplet does not reside in A nor in B; nor is it in A+B (if they are
regarded as capable of being added like 2+2 or 3+2). It is in the whole
couplet of A and B in which A is affected by its juxtaposition with B,
and B by its juxtaposition with A. The whole is different from the sum
53. The remarks of P.A. Boodberg on parallelistic couplets in Chinese poetry
may be aptly cited: the function of the second line of a couplet is, he argues, 'to
give us the clue for the construction of the first'; 'parallelism is not merely a stylistic device of formularistic syntactical duplication; it is intended to achieve a result
reminiscent of binocular vision, the super-imposition of two syntactical images in
order to endow them with solidity and depth, the repetition of the pattern having the
effect of binding together syntagms that appear at first rather loosely aligned' ('On
Crypto-Parallelism in Chinese Poetry' and 'Syntactical Metaplasia in Stereoscopic
Parallelism', Cedules from a Berkeley Workshop in Asiatic Philology, nos. 001540701 and 017-541210 [Berkeley, 1954-55] [cited by R. Jackson, 'Grammatical
Parallelism and its Russian Facet', Language 42 (1966), pp. 399-429 (402)]).
54. Kugel, The Idea of Biblical Poetry, p. 58.
336
55. Cf. the sentence of Menahem b. Saruch (c. 960 CE), 'One half of the line
teaches about the other' (cited by Walters, Formula Criticism,p. 92).
56. Edward L. Greenstein, 'How Does Parallelism Mean?', in Stephen A.
Geller, Edward L. Greenstein and Adele Berlin, A Sense of Text: The Art of Language in the Study of Biblical Literature (JQRSup; Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns,
1982), pp. 41-70 (54).
57. I am reminded of D.S. Brewer's remark a propos the opening of Chaucer's
Parlement of Foulys that the rhetorical devices are so deployed that the reader's
mind is 'led forward by a combination of information and mild mystification,
which arouses both expectation itself and pleasure in its ingenuity' (The Parlemen
of Foulys, ed. D.S. Brewer [Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1972],
P- 49).
17
THE SIGNIFICANCE OF THE
'SONS OF GOD' EPISODE (GENESIS 6.1-4)
IN THE CONTEXT OF THE 'PRIMAEVAL HISTORY' (GENESIS 1-11)
Most studies of the 'Sons of God' pericope (Gen. 6.1-4) have busied
themselves with the narrower exegetical problems within the pericope
itself as an independent, not to say intrusive, piece of 'heathen mythology'1 or as a partly demythologized 'foreign particle'2 within the biblical text. My purpose here is to examine, via the exegetical problem of
the identity of the 'sons of God' and via the backward and forward
links between the material and its surroundings, the function of the
pericope within the larger whole of the 'Primaeval History'. Without
calling into question the consensus of opinion that the material of the
piece derives from a pre-Israelite myth, I am concerned here essentially
with the 'final form of the text'.3
1. The Identity of the 'Sons of God'
Concentration on this particular interpretational crux can, I think, point
us to a solution of the larger problem of the function of the whole pericope within its present setting.
Three chief interpretations of the identity of the 'sons of God' have
been advanced:
Originally published in Journal for the Study of the Old Testament 13 (1979), pp.
33-46, having been written in early 1972.
1. H. Holzinger, Genesis (KHAT I, 1; Freiburg: J.C.B. Mohr [Paul Siebeck],
1898), p. 64.
2. Brevard S. Childs, Myth and Reality in the Old Testament (SET, 17; London: SCM Press, 2nd edn, 1962), pp. 57-59.
3. See J.F.A. Sawyer, 'The Meaning of D'H^N Dto ("In the Image of God")
in Genesis i-xi', JTS NS 25 (1974), pp. 418-26 (418-19); 'The "Original Meaning
of the Text" and Other Legitimate Subjects for Semantic Description', BETL 33
(1974), pp. 63-70; David J.A. Clines, The Theme of the Pentateuch (JSOTSup, 10;
Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1978), esp. pp. 10-11, 82.
338
(i) The 'sons of God' are the Sethites (cf. 5.1, 3), while the 'daughters of men' are from the Cainite line.4 In favour of this view is the
division of the human race into two lines of descent in the previous
chapters (4.17-5.32), but against it are the arguments that since
'humanity' (DINi!) is used in v. 1 of humankind generally, it is unlikely
to mean only one section of humanity in v. 2,5 and that 'sons of God'
does not appear as a collective term for the Sethites, either in these
chapters or elsewhere.
(ii) The 'sons of God' are heavenly beings,6 who mate with earthly
women. In favour of this interpretation is the regular use of the term
'sons of God' for the heavenly court that surrounds Yahweh (e.g. Ps.
29.1; 89.7; Job 1.6). There is &prima facie case for supposing that both
the Nephilim and 'mighty men' (D'~a:) of v. 4 are to be regarded as the
offspring of such unions, though it has been argued that the structure of
v. 4 deliberately affirms the existence of the Nephilim before the unions
of v. 2.7 We may leave aside, however, the problem of the origin of the
Nephilim, and note that the majority of scholarly opinion supports the
identification of the 'sons of God' as heavenly beings.8 The principal
objection to this identification is that it is far from clear in the present
context why humankind as a whole should be subjected to the divine
4. The origins of this view, supported by many Fathers and Reformers, are
adequately dealt with by P.S. Alexander, The Targumim and Early Exegesis of the
"Sons of God" in Genesis 6', JJS 23 (1972), pp. 60-71; and L.R. Wickham, 'The
Sons of God and the Daughters of Men. Genesis vi 2 in Early Christian Exegesis',
O7S 19 (1974), pp. 135-47.
5. For the view that this is not an overwhelming objection, see M.G. Kline,
'Divine Kingship and Genesis 6:1-4', WTJ24(1962), pp. 189-90.
6. Frequently understood as 'angels' (cf. Jan Holman's review of Stun, der
Gottersohne oder Engel vor der Sintflut? Versuch ernes Neuverstdndnisses von
Genesis 6,2-4 unter Berucksichtigung der religionsvergleichenden und exegesegeschichtlichen Methode [Weiner Beitrage zur Theologie, 13; Wien: Herder,
1966], by Ferdinand Dexinger, in Bib 49 [1968], pp. 292-95 [293-94]); but see
Claus Westermann, Genesis (BKAT, 1.1; Neukirchen: Neukirchener Verlag, 1976),
pp. 493-94, 501-503.
7. E.g. Gerhard von Rad, Genesis (trans. John H. Marks; OTL; London: SCM
Press, 2nd edn, 1963), p. 115.
8. For example, Hermann Gunkel, Genesis (Gottinger Handkommentar zum
Alten Testament; Gottingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 3rd edn, 1910), pp. 55-56;
John Skinner, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on Genesis (ICC; Edinburgh:
T. & T. Clark, 2nd edn, 1930), pp. 141-42; von Rad, Genesis, p. 110; G. Cooke,
The Sons of (the) God(s)', ZAW76 (1964), pp. 22-47 (23-24).
17. The Significance of the 'Sons of God' Episode (Gen. 6.1-4) 339
threat of v. 3 for the sin of such non-human beings; the 'daughters of
humans' can hardly have been regarded as culpable (though their
beauty [v. 2] was the antecedent condition,9 since they were taken by
force).
(iii) The 'sons of God' are dynastic rulers who, as oriental despots,
established royal harems by force10 or practised indiscriminate rape.
This view has the merit of taking seriously the phrase 'and they took
for themselves wives from all whom they chose (*?DQ D^] Di"!1? inp'H
linn ~I2?N)'. It also makes intelligible the divine punishment upon
humanity as a whole because of the sin of these despots; for in oriental
ideology it is not uncommon to find the fate of the people at large
bound up with the fate of the king. Nevertheless, the identification of
the 'sons of God' simply as human rulers has the weakness that it is
rarely if ever attested in the ancient Near East as a term for kings in
general. Though kings in Egypt, Mesopotamia, Canaan and Israel were
frequently spoken to as 'son of God', such language seems to have
been reserved in the main for courtly rhetoric and poetic adulation, and
is not to be met with, in the Old Testament at least, in straightforward
narrative style with such a signification.11
Westermann appears to feel no difficulty at this point. Though he
seems not to know of the paper of M.G. Kline, he regards the term
DTI^N ^n as the only one available to the narrator (J) of Gen. 6.1-4 to
designate a class of beings superior to humans; for in the 'Primaeval
History' humanity is otherwise undifferentiated and undivided socially
and politically. Since the pericope concerns essentially the power of
340
one group over another, only the polarity of 'sons of God' and '(daughters of) humans' is open to him.12
It is perhaps no contradiction of Westermann's position, but rather a
development of it, to make the new suggestion that the author of Gen.
6.1 -4 in its present form did not work with a system of closed categories in which 'sons of God' must be either human or non-human.13
Are the D'H^SH ^"2 here then both divine beings and antediluvian
rulers? The use of the term may indeed be inherited from earlier formulations of the pericope in which the 'sons of God' may have been
divine beings tout court, but it is not improbable that the author of this
text in its final form should have understood it in reference to rulers of
the primaeval period who had belonged in part to the divine world. In
this connection we may observe the appearance of divine names in the
Babylonian lists of antediluvian kings, notably the identification of several rulers with the god Dumuzi or Tammuz.14 Strictly speaking, of
course, Gen. 6.1-4 represents the 'sons of God' as the generation prior
to the Nephilim and the 'mighty men' (D'~1D3),15 so that a simple identification of 'sons of God' with the other terms is inappropriate.16 But the
intercourse of 'sons of God' with 'daughters of humans' is not envisaged as occurring at only one definite periodthe imperfect verb in
v. 4 should probably be translated as a frequentative, viz. 'Whenever
12. Westermann, Genesis, p. 496: 'Der Erzahler meint mit den DTlbS '3D den
Menschen schlechthin iiberlegene Klasse: Manner, die so machtig sind, daB es fur
ihr Begehren der Schonheit einer Frau die Grenzen, die hier fur gewohnliche Sterbliche bestehen, nicht gibt'.
13. Cf. Patrick D. Miller, Genesis 1-11: Studies in Structure and Theme
(JSOTSup, 8; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1978), pp. 25-26: 'In the stories of the origin
and beginnings of "man" or the human creature it is not surprising that there is
some attempt to define the relation of 'adam beings to 'elohim beings and wrestle
with the extent and limitation of that relationship. At one point in the story [Gen.
3.22] the relationship is seen to be very close and the human creatures are like the
divine ones. But the story goes on to say that these two worlds are nevertheless distinct and that it is possible to overstep the bounds and seek to blend the two into
one.'
14. Millard, 'A New Babylonian "Genesis" Story', p. 12 n. 28, cites the Akkadian god-list in Cuneiform Texts, XXIV, pi. 19, K4338b; XXV, pi. 7, K7663 +
11035.
15. Construing the complex sentence thus: 'There were in those days the
Nephilim, whom whenever the sons of God went in unto the daughters of men they
(the latter) bore to them (the former)'.
16. So Dexinger, Gottersohne, pp. 44-46.
17. The Significance of the 'Sons of God' Episode (Gen. 6.1-4) 341
the sons of God went in unto the daughters of humans'17, so that it is
perhaps unnecessary to distinguish too sharply between kings who were
'sons of God' in the strict sense, and kings who were only sons of the
'sons of God', part-human and part-divine.
Such a 'son of God' has his portrait sketched in Akkadian literature,
the hero Gilgamesh:
Two-thirds of him is god, [one-third of him is human]...
The nobles of Uruk are gloomy in their chambers:
'Gilgamesh leaves not the son to his father;
Day and night is unbridled his arrogance...
Gilgamesh leaves not the maid to her mother,
The warrior's daughter, the noble's spouse...
The onslaught of his weapons verily has no equal.'18
That Gilgamesh was regarded in the epic as a historical human personage is beyond question; the belief in his divine or semi-divine origins
explains his significance and the survival of the story of his deeds from
ancient times, as well as his titles and entitlements; it does not mean
that the epic poet conceives of him as any more than a human, and a
mortal human at that.
The same outlook is credible in the biblical pericope: that the 'sons
of God' were both regarded as rulers of ancient times, and traditionally
ascribed divine or semi-divine origins. On this interpretation, the 'sons
of God' pericope is no alien intrusion into the story of primaeval humanity, since it concernsfrom first to lasthumans; but neither is it
simply an episode in the catalogue of human sinfulness, since it also
concerns the relationship between the divine and the human world that
is displayed in the actions of these 'sons of God'. Connections with the
surrounding material will become apparent in the ensuing motif analysis.
2. Motif Analysis
(a) The motif of 'breaking the bounds', which recurs in every major
episode of the 'Primaeval History', appears here in two forms, if the
17. So LXX cbc; av eiaeTiopeTJOVCo; cf. Skinner, Genesis, p. 146.
18. Gilgamesh I.ii.l, 11-13, 16-17, 21 (ANET, pp. 73b-74). It is perhaps also
significant that like the 'sons of God' who find their life expectancy greatly
reduced, Gilgamesh, since 'he too is flesh' (cf. Gen. 6.3), even though only onethird human, is oppressed by the thought of death and he searches for immortality,
only to find it eludes him at the end.
342
17. The Significance of the 'Sons of God' Episode (Gen. 6.1-4) 343
for unity in the divided world' [note the link with Gen. 11]; 'it desires
the destruction of the other person as creature; it robs him of his
creatureliness, violates him as well as his limit... [It]
... is therefore destruction par excellence. Thus it is an insane acceleration of the Fall; it is self-affirmation to the point of destruction.'23
(b) In the 'Primaeval History' the relation of the divine to the human
comes to expression not only in the concept of a boundary between the
two spheres, but also in the concept of communication, or communion,
between the two spheres. Thus, in Genesis 2, though God is creator and
the man is a creature, the man is infused with the divine breath (2.7),
and God walks in the garden that the man tends (3.8). To the same
effect is the concept of human creation in the image of God (1.26),
whatever precisely that may mean; in some sense, at least, the boundary
between the divine and the human is not absolute, and humanity can
represent God on earth (1.28). In 6.1-4, on the contrary, we find a
satanic parody of the idea of the image of God in humanity. Far from
God being present on earth in the person of humans as his kingly representatives exercising benign dominion over the lower orders of creation,24 we now have the presence of the divine on earth in a form that
utterly misrepresents God through its exercise of royal violence and
despotic authority over other humans.
(c) A further link between 6.1-4 and the surrounding material lies in
the concept of the possession of 'name'. The Nephilim, here identified,
it appears,25 with the 'mighty men who were of old' ("ICON DHUn
D'TUJft), were the men of renown, lit. 'men of name' (DCD'H SC93K) of
ancient times. The striving for a 'name', a permanent memorial in one's
descendants, belongs to the dynastic ambitions of these antediluvian
rulers. Earlier in the 'Primaeval History', Cain, in a sense the spiritual
23. Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Creation and Fall: A Theological Interpretation of
Genesis 1-3 (trans. John C. Fletcher; London: SCM Press, 1959), p. 80.
24. See further, D.J.A. Clines, 'The Image of God in Man', TynBul19 (1968),
pp. 53-103, reprinted in this volume as 'Humanity as the Image of God'; J. Barr,
'Man and NatureThe Ecological Controversy and the Old Testament', BJRL 55
(1972-73), pp. 9-32(21-23).
25. I assume that the phrase p^iriN D21, whether a later interpolation (Holzinger, Genesis, p. 66; Childs, Myth and Reality, p. 55) or not, does not distinguish
between the Nephilim and the DHH3 by suggesting that the Nephilim were already
in existence before the 'sons of God' cohabited with the daughters of humans, but
is intended as a note of the continued existence of the Nephilim far beyond
primaeval times, and into the period represented, for example, by Num. 13.33.
344
though not the physical ancestor of the heroes of 6.4 (here the old
patristic identification of the 'sons of God' is not entirely beside the
mark), is represented as having the same dynastic ambition: he strives
to perpetuate a family name, calling the name of his city by the name of
his son Enoch (4.17).26 Similarly the self-sufficient builders of Babel
set about building their city and tower with the explicit purpose of
making a 'name' for themselves. This desire to make a name for oneself is more than arrogance; just as their tower whose top reaches to the
sky may be seen as an assault on heaven, so their ambition for 'name'
is an attack on the prerogative of God, who himself makes his own
name great or glorious (2 Sam. 7.23; Jer. 32.20; Isa. 63.12, 14) and who
is the true source of 'name' (cf. Zeph. 3.19-20). While it is ironically
true that the builders of Babel succeeded in making a name for themselves, it was only a name of derogatory significance, Babel,
'confusion'.27
While the line of 'name'-seekers is scattered, there has already come
into being a man of 'name', Shem (DC?, 9.18), ancestor of the 'Semitic'
nations, whose name is 'probably intended to be deliberately allusive,
providing a contrast to the illegitimate attempt by humans to achieve a
name for themselves (11.4; cf. 6.4), and anticipating the great name to
be accorded to Abraham... (12.1-3)':28 ~[QC7 rftTIK'), 12.2; cf. also the
prophetic word to David, 'I will make for you a great name, like the
name of the great ones (D^TJH) of the earth' (2 Sam. 7.9).29
(d) A final motif with interesting connections in the preceding and
following chapters is that of the multiplication of humanity. Its appearance in the 'sons of God' episode is interesting not so much for the fact
of its presence, but more for the sake of its irrelevance. Throughout the
'Primaeval History' the multiplication of humanity is enjoined, furthered and blessed by God. The first command to humankind in
Genesis 1 is: 'Be fruitful and multiply, and fill the earth' (1.28). In
Genesis 4 Eve bears Cain 'with the help of Yahweh (mrPTIN, 4.2), and
26. That is, if Enoch himself is not the builder of the city and himself the perpetuator of his own name (cf. Umberto Cassuto, Commentary on Genesis [trans.
Israel Abrahams; Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1961], I, p. 230).
27. Cassuto, Genesis, II, p. 242.
28. A.K. Jenkins, 'A Great Name: Genesis 12:2 and the Editing of the Pentateuch', JSOT 10 (1978), pp. 41-57 (45).
29. On the connection between Gen. 12.2 and 2 Sam. 7.9 see H.W. Wolff, The
Kerygma of the Yahwist', Int 20 (1966), pp. 131-58 (141-42).
17. The Significance of the 'Sons of God' Episode (Gen. 6.1-4) 345
God 'appoints' (D2J, 4.25) another child, Seth, instead of Abel. After the
Flood, the first divine command to surviving humanity is a repetition of
1.28: 'Be fruitful and multiply, and fill the earth'. I have argued elsewhere30 that the position of the Table of Nations (Gen. 10) beforethe
Babel episode (Gen. 11) compels us to regard the dispersal of the
nations not only as a mark of judgment following upon Babel, but also
as a fulfilment of the divine injunctions to multiply the race.
Against that background, it is remarkable that the multiplication of
humanity in 6.1 is viewed entirely neutrally, and has no real relevance
to the narrative that proceeds from it. C. Westermann, it is true, argues
that the increase of humankind, which is indeed an appropriate consequence of the primal blessing, begins to create negative possibilities:
the sheer size of humanity creates danger-points for the relation
between humans and God (or the gods).31 From the point of view of the
form of the pericope, which is Westermann's starting-point, it does
indeed appear that the introductory clause will be of great moment for
the development of the narrative. That is not in fact the case, for the
narrative would have the same significance if the phrase 'when humans
began to multiply on the face of the ground' were absent. To be sure,
some multiplication of the human race from the primaeval pair of Genesis 2 must have occurred for the events of 6.1-4 to be possible, but
such a multiplication has already been adequately attested by the
genealogies of the Cainites (4.17-22) and the Sethites (Gen. 5).
The reference in 6.1, then, to the multiplication of humankind has
narrative significance only if the tale is told differently, with the multiplication of humanity a reason or cause for the ensuing events. For the
second time in this study, therefore, we are compelled to designate an
item 'traditional'. (I should stress that I do not regard an overriding
concern for the 'final form' of the text as precluding acceptance of the
possibility that some, if not much, of the material, has been incorporated into the final form largely because it has become traditional. We
do not have to suppose final authors of our texts being actively engaged
in the precise wording or arrangement of every part of their material;
'final form' criticismif it may be so designatedmakes only the
assumption of authorial intention in the end-redactors, and authors
obviously have many different styles of handling their material. In the
present case, I would argue that it makes effectively no difference
30. Clines, Theme of the Pentateuch, pp. 68-69.
31. Westermann, Genesis, p. 500.
346
whether the clause is present or not, so that its presence falls beneath
the level of the author's intention.)
Have we then any evidence that the tale may have been told differently, especially in relation to the multiplication motif? Yes, in the
Atrahasis epic, the story of the Deluge is prefaced by the lines:
Twelve hundred years had not yet passed
When the land extended and the peoples multiplied.
The land was bellowing like a bull.32
The Flood is sent as the final, and successful, attempt, to halt the
unlimited growth of humankind. And following the drastic reduction in
the size of humanity brought about by the Flood, measures are taken to
ensure that henceforth the size of the human population will be controlled: there are to be sterile women as well as fertile women, various
orders of religious women who will not marry, and a demon of infant
mortality to 'snatch the baby from the lap of her who bore it'.34
The story of the Flood, therefore, with the near extinction of humankind, may be told as a story about the problem of 'over-population',
while the multiplication motif presents the reason for the problem and
thus effectively accounts for the origin of death. This explanation for
the institution of death figures in many myths.35 'Earth becomes overcrowded, some check has to be put on mankind increasing to an alarming extent. Thus the only solution is Death.'36
Two aspects of the Biblical pericope are particularly instructive
against this background. First, the multiplication of humankind, though
still forming the backdrop of the 'Sons of God' pericope, is not the
cause of the introduction of death. Even though in the pericope a limitation of the human life-span (or, the onset of the death-dealing Flood
32. Atrahasis II.i.2-3 (Lambert and Millard, pp. 72-73).
33. Atrahasis II.i.7-8 (Lambert and Millard, pp. 72-73).
34. Atrahasis III.vii.1-8 (Lambert and Millard, pp. 102-103); cf. W.L. Moran,
'Atrahasis: The Babylonian Story of the Flood', Bib 52 (1971), pp. 51-61 (56).
35. See H. Schwarzbaum, The Overcrowded Earth', Numen 4 (1957), pp. 5974.
36. Schwarzbaum, The Overcrowded Earth', p. 60.
17. The Significance of the 'Sons of God' Episode (Gen. 6.1-4) 347
(7.21-22) after only a brief period of respiteif that is what the 120
years of v. 3 points to) is decreed, the grounds for it are certainly not
the over-population but the purely ethical grounds of the sin of the
'Sons of God', however that sin is understood precisely. The origin of
death in the 'Primaeval History' has of course already occurred, even
more evidently as a result of human wrongdoing. The mere multiplication of humankind, therefore, is no cause for catastrophe in Genesis 111 as it is in the Atrahasis epic;37 sheer numbers and the clamour of
teeming life are no threat to the cosmos of divine orderbut sin is.
Secondlyand this must be tentativeit is possible that the Hebrew
text of v. 3 contains a relic of the old idea of the clamour of humankind
being the immediate cause of the Flood. The unparalleled conjunction
D22O, usually translated 'because' or 'in that', is a notorious difficulty.38
Not only is "C? not attested in the Pentateuch as an abbreviation for ")$N,
and not only is the D3 difficult to make sense of, but the logic of the
divine sentence is hard to decipher. We would expect, as Westermann
observes, that the decree should be based on an act rather than on a
state of affairs. Is it too far-fetched an explanation to suggest that Q3CD
was earlier the preposition "2 with a noun cognate with the Assyrian
root Sagdmu 'to bellow, howl'?39 The text would then have read: 'My
spirit will not abide in humanity forever because of the clamour of
flesh'.40 If that was the case, it is clearly no longer the case, and the sentence, though not crystal-clear, is generally intelligible. It would be
strangely appropriate if the 'clamour' of the Mesopotamian myth
should have faded in the biblical text into a mere conjunction in a
divine speech.
The multiplication motif, along with that of the clamour of humankind, could have provided a rationale for the sending of the Flood.
Though the former motif survives, and the latter is possibly present in
disguise, neither of them functions significantly in the pericope. And
that is what is significant about these motifs in the context of the
37. Moran, 'Atrahasis: The Babylonian Story of the Flood', p. 61, goes so far as
to say, 'Gen. 9, Iff. (be fruitful and multiply) looks like a conscious rejection of the
Atrahasis Epic'.
38. See e.g. Westermann, Genesis, p. 507.
39. W. von Soden, Akkadisches Handworterbuch (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz,
1965-), I, pp. 112-13.1 am grateful to Mr A.R. Millard for pointing out to me this
possible connection.
40. Kin 'he', in the present text is admittedly unintelligible on this interpretation.
348
17. The Significance of the 'Sons of God' Episode (Gen. 6.1-4) 349
Jos. 24.29). Elsewhere in the Old Testament, it is true, 80 years is
regarded as a normal maximum lifetime (Ps. 90.10; cf. 2 Sam. 19.3435). It is true, moreover, that the ages of the post-diluvians are not
immediately reduced to 120 years;46 but that could be accounted for as
a mitigation of the penalty, just as the sentence 'in the day you eat of it
you shall surely die' (2.17) only slowly begins to take effect. Some
have indeed warned against imposing the Priestly system of decreasing
ages arbitrarily on the Yahwist account,47 while others have claimed to
find here polemic against the Babylonian tradition (and, one might have
thought, the Hebrew Priestly tradition) of primaeval kings who are said
to have lived extraordinarily long lives.48 In either case, we should ask
how the redactor of J and P reconciled to himself the J figure of 120
years with the P data of the life-spans of the post-diluviansunless
perhaps the redactor no longer saw the 120 years as a life-span. No
insuperable problem remains against the view that the 120 years is the
limitation or bounding of life-span as punishment in kind (so to speak)
of the bound-breaking by the sons of God.49
Nevertheless, it seems more probable that in the present setting the
threat of the withdrawal of the divine spirit refers to some event that is
about to occur. Since, if we assume that the 'spirit' (im) of Yahweh is
equivalent to his 'breath' (HQ^]) breathed into the man at his creation
(2.7),50 the Flood brings about the destruction of everything in whose
nostrils is 'the breath of the spirit of life' (D"n mTnDB?], 7.22), the
relation of the decree of 6.3 to the destruction of 7.22 appears to be that
of cause and effect. Of course, it may be argued that humankind is not
in fact entirely destroyed and that the spirit of Yahweh remains in
humanity even after the Flood; but it is an adequate rejoinder that 6.3 is
in the nature of a threat, and it is just as appropriate to speak of the
Flood as the destruction of humankind as to describe it as the salvation
etudes egyptologiqu.es recentes (Orientalia et Biblica Louvanensia, 3; Louvain:
Publications Universitaires, 1959), pp. 200-201.
46. Given by P, while 6.1-4 is (possibly) J; though cf. Martin Noth, A History of
Pentateuchal Traditions (trans. Bernhard W. Anderson; Englewood Cliffs, NJ:
Prentice-Hall, 1972), p. 28 n. 83; Dexinger, Gotterersohne, pp. 56-57, reckons it
to P.
47. So Childs, Myth and Reality, p. 54.
48. Kraeling, 'Origin and Significance', p. 201.
49. So Westermann, Genesis, p. 508.
50. So already Dillmann, Genesis, I, p. 236. For parallels between FTP and rotf],
cf. Job 32.8; 33.4.
350
51. The 'all' of 7.4, 21-22 is to be taken as seriously as the exceptions to the
all'in 7.1-2, 23b.
52. Twelve hundred years had not passed when...' (Atrahasis 1.352; Il.i.l;
Lambert and Millard, pp. 66-67, 72-73).
53. Cf. Millard, 'A New Babylonian "Genesis" Story', p. 13.
54. Millard, 'A New Babylonian "Genesis" Story', p. 12; W.G. Lambert, 'New
Light on the Babylonian Flood', JSS 5 (1960), pp. 113-23. Similarly Kraeling
argued that the pericope was designed from the beginning as the introduction to a
flood story ('The Origin and Significance of Gen. 6:1-4', p. 195).
55. Childs, Myth and Reality, p. 58.
18
THE FORCE OFTHETEXT:
A RESPONSETOTAMARA C. ESKENAZI'S
'EZRA-NEHEMIAH: FROM TEXT TO ACTUALITY'
352
353
354
different here in Nehemiah where a text addressed to no one in particular, an undated, previously available, tradition, is read to an assembly
convened purposely in order to hear it read (Neh. 8.1-3). Text becomes
actuality through being read aloud.
1.32. Secondly, the effect of reading a text becomes the production of
another text. This is true, of course, of all the texts contained within
Ezra-Nehemiah: all the texts mentioned in these books end up in these
books, by name or in full. It is something more, though, when a text
within the narrative generates another text that will be within the narrative. The nearest we have come to this before has been when a letter
generates another letter in response, as when the letter of Rehum and
the Samarians (Ezra 4.11-16) generates the rescript of Artaxerxes
(4.17-22), or when the letter of Tattenai and the officials of the satrapy
Abar-nahara (5.7-17) explicitly calls for (5.17) and generates the
rescript of Darius (6.2-12). But these cases of response to a previously
existing text fall within a conventional and predictable pattern. It is
something different when in Nehemiah 10 (the pledge document) we
find an unsolicited, unpredictable writing responding to and generated
by the reading of the law in Nehemiah 8.1 Here then we have a step
beyond Eskenazi's 'text to actuality': the fuller pattern is 'text to actuality to text'. And, since text, the text of Ezra-Nehemiah, is the end
product of all the actuality, had we not better use that fuller formulation
not just for the particular production of the text of the pledge of
Nehemiah 10 but for the work as a whole?
1.4. The 'force' of the text is generally taken to be its meaning. Eskenazi's paper encourages us to think of it also as the effect a text has
upon realitywhich is, in another idiom, its meaning, since texts are
not just words upon the page.
2. One Narrative or Three?
2.1. A secondary contention of Eskenazi's paper seems to me less well
founded. It is that Ezra-Nehemiah as a whole forms a single narrative
1. Perhaps we should say that it is generated at second hand by the law-reading, for the prayer of Nehemiah 9 has intervened; the prayer is generated by the
law-reading and the pledge by the law-reading as it has led the people to a prayer of
confession.
355
whose parts are related to one another as the parts of a simple story.
She organizes the total content of Ezra-Nehemiah according to the
structural schema for narrative proposed by Claude Bremond: potentiality, actualization and success. Thus the first four verses of Ezra,
narrating the decree to the community to rebuild the house of God, is
potentiality (objective defined), the bulk of the entire work (Ezra 1.5Neh. 7.72) is actualization, and the last six chapters of Nehemiah (chs.
8-13) is success (objective reached) (4.1-4.2). Eskenazi sees in the
opening lines of Ezra the goal of the whole work Ezra-Nehemiah,
namely the building of the house of God (Ezra 1.3) (4.4), and she
finds in Ezra 6.13, narrating the completion of the building of that
temple, the 'linchpin' of the work as a whole.
2.2. I grant that we may reasonably look for the plot of the work as a
whole, this being a narrative work. But there is no reason why the plot
of the work should be divulged by the first statement of intent that we
encounter in the work. The fact that the book of Ezra opens with the
command of Cyrus to 'rebuild the house of the LORD, the God of
Israel' need not mean that we are now in touch with the theme of EzraNehemiah as a whole. The issue can only be settled by asking whether
the theme 'building of the house of the LORD' is germane to all the
material of Ezra-Nehemiah. Since the completion of the temple itself is
narrated as early as Ezra 6.14, Eskenazi is obliged to claim that the
'house of the LORD' is extended in meaning in Ezra-Nehemiah from
the temple to the city (1.4); she can thus entitle the central section of
the work as a whole (Ezra 1.5-Neh. 7.72) 'the community builds the
house of God according to decree' (4.2). But there is no textual warrant for supposing this transferred sense of 'house'.2 Everywhere in
Ezra-Nehemiah the 'house' is the temple, and the city is the city, and
the people are neither the house nor the city. If we were to argue that
the building of the wall was analogous to the building of the temple,
that would be a different matter. But then we would have two (or more)
analogous stories, not one overarching story.
2.3. There is indeed one text that Eskenazi can call in aid of her view
that 'Ezra-Nehemiah expands the concept of the house of God from
temple to city' (1.4). Ezra 6.14 says that 'they finished their building
2. 'House' sometimes of course means 'family', as in Ezra 2.36, 59; Neh. 1.6,
or someone's private house, as in Neh. 2.7; 3.10; etc.
356
357
358
359
3.3. This is a good answer, and one that fits well with the evident stress
in Ezra-Nehemiah on the movement of authority from individual leaders to the community as a whole. It is not, however, the only answer
that can be given. Williamson, for example, believes that the presence
of ch. 13 derives from an editor sympathetic to Nehemiah's work, who
'felt obliged to include these additions to the [Nehemiah] memoir in
order to ensure that Nehemiah's contribution to the cultic reforms was
not overlooked; indeed, he gave them a certain prominence by concluding his work with them'.5 So does the focus in the end come to rest
upon Nehemiah or upon the people?
3.4. Whatever answer we are tempted to give is further complicated by
a textual item that Eskenazi refers to but does not make much of. It is
the chronological notation 'before this' ('DS'? HTQ) in Neh. 13.4. Obviously the narrative intends us to understand that these reforms of
Nehemiah took place before the activities of the 'ideal community'
narrated in 12.44-13.3. But how long before? Before the dedication of
the wall (12.27-43)? Before the resettlement of inhabitants of Jerusalem
(11.1-2)? Before the pledge-making (9.38-10.39)?
3.41. The chronological indicators throughout the book of Nehemiah
are in fact very tantalizing. The narrative begins in 'the twentieth year'
(1.1). We presume that is of Artaxerxes, noting that in 2.1 we are
explicitly in 'the twentieth year of King Artaxerxes'. But already we
are confused, because the events of ch. 2, which logically follow the
events of ch. 1, are dated to the first month of that year whereas the
events of ch. 1 were dated to the ninth month.6 The next chronological
indication we have is that Nehemiah will be governor of Judah from the
20th to the 32nd year of Artaxerxes (5.14), and the next dated event is
the finishing of the wall in the sixth month (Elul), no doubt of that same
20th year of Artaxerxes (6.15). Thereafter the seventh month arrives at
the beginning of ch. 8, and assemblies are held on the first, the second,
the eighth, and the twenty-fourth of that month (8.2, 13, 18; 9.1). The
'we' who are praying a penitential prayer in ch. 9 are evidently the
same people who are immediately thereafter and 'because of all this'
(9.38) signing their names to the pledge of ch. 10. The next event is the
5. Williamson, Ezra, Nehemiah, p. 383.
6. For further details, see Clines, Ezra, Nehemiah, Esther, pp. 136-37;
Williamson, Ezra, Nehemiah, pp. 169-70.
360
361
362
The point is well taken and well made. My only question is whether
that is all that is to be said about writing in Ezra-Nehemiah.
4.2. My first observation concerns how we know Ezra-Nehemiah is
prose, and how we value it once we know it is prose. If prose is the
only medium we know, we do not know it is prose. M. Jourdain in
Moliere's Le Bourgeois gentilhomtne is astonished to find that he has
been speaking prose for forty years without realizing it (il y a plus de
quarante ans que je dis de la prose sans que j'en susse rien). Prose is
only definable by way of distinction from poetry. So the identity of
prose is parasitic on the existence of both modes, and poetry is necessary for the existence of prose. It is very interesting, but also almost
inevitable, that Eskenazi's valuation of the significance of prose should
stem from a poet's vision: it is the poet Adrienne Rich, and not some
prosaic Adrienne Rich, who can see the 'prose-bound, routine remembering' as a 'putting together, inch by inch the starry worlds. From all
the lost collections.' It is the poem that 'sanctifies the prosaic', just as it
is the poem that forms the epigraph to Eskenazi's paper. Things are not
half so exciting, and meanings are not half so profound, down among
'the dailiness of placing stone upon stone' (1.2); the prosaic know.s
nothing about itself, certainly nothing about how to 'sanctify' itself.
4.3. Secondly, much has been said in Eskenazi's paper about the
movement from text to actuality, but not so much, I think, about the
ways in which texts can restrain actuality. In Ezra 1-6, for example,
Eskenazi rightly observes that 'documents precipitate and guide the
action' (7.42), and that 'what transpires is essentially the actualization
of the written word' (7.43). But the action is quite often inaction. The
written not infrequently functions as an inhibitor of action, especially of
desirable and desired action. A mere scrap of text from a local official
can generate paperwork that will put hundreds of temple builders out of
work and prevent the execution even of the plans of God.
4.4. Thirdly, texts are not the only initiators of action; for sometimes
heroes, prophets even, prove more potent than texts, and even stimulate
action that runs contrary to texts. Thus in Ezra 5.1-2, after work on the
temple has been abandoned for nearly twenty years (all because of
hostile documents, it seems, at least if you are a casual reader of Ezra
4), what prompts the resumption of work is no document but the proph-
363
364
has been given do the scribes get busy with the paperwork, preparing a
passport for Nehemiahto ensure he is treated regally enough by each
of the provincial governors he encountersand requisition orders for
building timbers for the city. We are not really surprised to discover,
much later, that what was really happening in that innocent and sentimental exchange between Nehemiah and the king was that Nehemiah
was being appointed governor of the sub-province of Judah, where he
is still comfortably installed twelve years later, picking up the tab out of
his own pocket, to be sure, but plainly having the wherewithal to feed
150 retainers plus sundry visiting dignitaries (Neh. 5.14-18). If documents were what made Nehemiah's world go round, there would have
been a lot less high living at the governor's place in Jerusalem.
4.5. Fourthly, texts take longer to produce than actuality can sometimes
afford to waitor be bothered to. The Jews can blithely carry on with
their building for all the time it takes for 'a report [to] reach Darius and
then answer be returned by letter concerning it' (Neh. 5.5). And the
'open letter' of Sanballat charging Nehemiah with treason (6.5-7),
together with Tobiah' s poison pen letters sent to frighten Nehemiah off
his city wall building (Neh. 6.19), are texts that never need answering
and become totally inefficacious once the 52 days are up and Nehemiah's wall is completed. The daily placing of stone on stone continues
while the mail is on its way.
4.6. Fifthly, texts do not only precipitate action; they can also be true or
false, and their truth or falsity will always have some effect on the
reader, if not on the action. At one end of the scale of veracity are the
prophecy of Jeremiah (Ezra 1.1) and the authorizing decrees of the
Persian kings, of Cyrus in Ezra 1 or Artaxerxes in Ezra 8, for example.
At the other end of the scale is the (presumably) totally untrue letter of
the Persian governor of Samaria that Nehemiah's wall-building is the
first sign of a rebellion of the Jews and that Nehemiah has set up
prophets in Jerusalem to proclaim him king (Neh. 6.5-7). In between
are texts that contain both truth and falsehood, as with the letter of
Rehum and Shimshai to Artaxerxes (Ezra 4.8-16). This letter says, truly
enough, that Jerusalem is notorious in history as a rebellious city and
'that was why this city was laid waste' (4.15); but it also claims that 'if
this city is rebuilt and the walls finished, they will not pay tribute, custom, or toll, and the royal revenue will be impaired' (4.13).
365
4.61. The effect of this last letter on the action is the same whether it is
true or false: the king responds with a prohibition on further work on
the temple. The truth in it that can be tested, from search in the records,
lends verisimilitude to the falsity in it that cannot be tested. Readers, on
the other hand, unless perhaps they are Persian kings receiving the letter of Rehum and Shimshai, are not inclined to believe everything they
read. Even if they are disposed to believe everything the narrator tells
them, they begin to operate in a critical mode again when the narrator
quotes someone else, especially if the someone else is not a compatriot.
So readers tend to have a different relationship to texts within the text
than they have to the text. Texts within the text are open to the
hermeneutic of suspicion, even if the text as a whole is beyond suspicion. But this of course spells trouble for the text as a whole. For once a
space is opened for the hermeneutic of suspicion, who can tell where it
will stop? Can we be so sure, for example, that Sanballat's charge
against Nehemiah was totally without foundation?
4.7. Sixthly, living in a world where texts generate actions can seriously damage one's health. It seems perfectly reasonable to have a
written list of Pilgrim Fathers (as in Ezra 2), but in the end the existence
of such a list does almost as much harm to the people whose ancestors
are recorded there as to those who aren't (the reader is invited to
consider whether she would prefer to be, or not to be, a Daughter of the
American Revolution). But Ezra 2 authorizes us to consider the cruelty
of such lists from the standpoint of those excluded. Six hundred and
fifty-two heads of families 'could not prove' their genealogy (2.59-60),
and if that perhaps meant only that they could not prove it orally, Ezra
2 puts their incapacity into writing; it is tough when you have a text
against you. It is much worse for the priests, of course; for although
they desperately 'sought their registration among those enrolled in the
genealogies... they were not found there, and so they were excluded
from the priesthood as unclean'. Uncleanness is bad enough, but of
course exclusion from the priesthood means as well loss of a livelihood. Not surprisingly (since living by documents is something of a
Persian custom), it is the 'Governor' (NTOnn), a Persian official or else
a Jew acting as a Persian official, who spells out what that exclusion
means: they were 'not to partake of the most holy food' (2.63). From
the standpoint of the defrocked priests, the period of their exclusion,
'until there should be a priest to consult Urim and Thumrnim', must
366
367
Ezra-Nehemiah. Cyrus would not have been offended in the least, and
his will would not have been one whit threatened, if the people of the
land had co-operated in the temple building. But, with a document in
their hand, a royal document to boot (the repeated word 'king' shows
how they are thinking), the Jews fall to behaving like petty bureaucrats.
For the right people in the right place, and especially if the Lord is stirring people's spirits at the same time, a document can be a great energizing; but if one is at all a legalist a document one can wave at others
can destroy both creativity and civility. Could this perhaps be true of
larger documents also, like, let us suppose, Ezra-Nehemiah itself?
HISTORY
19
THE EVIDENCE FOR AN AUTUMNAL NEW YEAR IN PRE-EXILIC
ISRAEL RECONSIDERED
372
373
up the question again and to test the arguments that have been
advanced for the view that during the greater part of the monarchical
period the year began in the autumn.
1. Evidence for an Autumnal (Tishri) New Year
In setting out the evidence for an autumnal (Tishri) new year in preexilic times, we may leave aside the question whether the general custom of an autumnal beginning to the year was perhaps preceded by an
observance of a spring new year, as has been suggested by a few scholars.5 The main pieces of evidence for an autumnal new year are as
follows:
(1) The autumn festival of ingathering ('asip) is said in the oldest
liturgical calendars of Israel (Exod. 23.14-17; 34.18-23) to occur at the
'going out' (se'f) of the year (23.16) and the 'turn' (tequpd)of the year
(34.22). The implication is that the new year begins at this season.6
(2) The time of year when 'kings7 take the field', which is generally
agreed to be the spring, is called in 2 Sam. 11.1 // 1 Chron. 20.1 and in
1 Kgs 20.22, 26 te$ubat haSSand, 'the return of the year', that is, as
R. de Vaux puts it, 'the time when the year was half over, and beginning to return from winter to summer... This again presumes an
autumnal year.'8
(3) The sabbatical year and jubilee year began in the autumn (Exod.
23.10-11; Lev. 25.1-22).9
(4) The building of Solomon's temple is said (1 Kgs 6.38) to have
Hildesheim: Olms, 1967), pp. 210-20; Franz Xaver Kugler, Von Moses bis Paulus:
Forschungen zur Geschichte Israels (Minister i.W.: Aschendorff, 1922), pp. 13450; L.I. Pap, Das israelitische Neujahrsfest (Kampen: Kok, 1933), pp. 18-33.
5. Vogelstein, Biblical Chronology, pp. 17, 31 n. 99; W.F. Albright, 'The
Chronology of the Divided Monarchy of Israel', BASOR 100 (1945), pp. 16-22 (20
n. 13); review in Bib 37 (1956), p. 489 (see n. 2 [i] above); D.N. Freedman, 'Old
Testament Chronology', in G. Ernest Wright (ed.), The Bible and the Ancient Near
East (London: Routlege & Kegan Paul, 1961), pp. 203-14; De Vries, 'Chronology
of the OT, p. 484.
6. 'These definitions of the oldest legislation are so clear and distinct as to
make further proof unnecessary' (Marti, 'Year', p. 5365)
7. Reading, with most moderns, Qere (mlakim) for Kethib(mlkyni).
8. De Vaux, Ancient Israel, p. 190; similarly Begrich, Chronologie, p. 88.
9. The argument is used, for example, by De Vries, 'Chronology of the OT',
p. 484.
374
taken seven years, but it is also said to have begun in the second month
(Ziv) of the fourth year of Solomon (6.1, 37) and been completed in the
eighth month (Bui) of the eleventh year of Solomon. If it is agreed that
'reckoning was according to the inclusive system, whereby the first and
last units or fractions of units of a group were included as full units in
the total of the group',10 then an autumn new year reckoning must have
been in force. For on a spring (Nisan to Nisan) system the building of
the temple would have taken eight years; only on an autumn (Tishri to
Tishri) system could it be reckoned as occupying seven years.
(5) In 2 Kings 22-23, the account of the reforms of Josiah, the discovery of the law book that precipitated those reforms is dated to the
'the eighteenth year of King Josiah' (22.3), while the passover that
concludes the account is also said to have been celebrated 'in the eighteenth year of King Josiah' (23.23). If the year began in the spring (on
the first of the month, I.I), there is not enough time available before the
date of the passover (the fourteenth of the first month, 14.1) to contain
all the events that are said to have occurred between 22.3 and 23.23.u
Only an autumnal new year reckoning allows sufficient time between
the finding of the book and the celebration of the passover for the
events of Josiah's reform.12
(6) In Jer. 36.1 Jeremiah is commanded, in the fourth year of Jehoiakim, to write his prophecies in a scroll. When he has done so, he orders
Baruch to read the scroll in the temple on a feast day, which Baruch
does in the fifth year of Jehoiakim, in the ninth month (36.9), which is
plainly a winter month since the king is sitting by his brazier (36.22).
The narrative reads as if all these events occurred within the space of a
few months, if not weeks; and this could be the case if we suppose an
autumnal new year. The sequence of events could be: late in Jehoiakim's fourth year, say in September, Jeremiah is bidden to write his
scroll, and Baruch gives a public reading in December (Kislev, the
ninth month) of the fifth year. This would seem a more likely course of
events than that which would have occurred if a spring new year system
were in use; such a system would imply that a period of nine months at
least, or 21 months at the most, intervened between the writing and the
10. Thiele, Mysterious Numbers, p. 28 (see pp. 28-29 for the full argument).
11. For example, Auerbach ('Wechsel des Jahres-Anfangs', pp. 117-18) catalogues ten such events.
12. This argument is advanced, for example, by Wellhausen, Prolegomena,
p. 108; Finegan, Handbook of Biblical Chronology, p. 203.
375
reading of the scroll. For on a spring new year reckoning the scroll
must have been written before the spring of the year, and not read until
the following winter.13
Further support for the postulate of a Tishri new year reckoning in
this instance is that one can offer an explanation why Jeremiah was
constrained to write his prophecies in a scroll rather than deliver them
orally. 'The Babylonian army's departure from Babylon in May/June
604 B.C., throws the kings of southern Palestine into a panic. Jeremiah,
being considered a subversive...is forbidden to go the temple, i.e., to
speak in public.'14
(7) Even after the exile, it appears that Nehemiah reckoned the reign
of Artaxerxes I on the basis of an autumnal new year. For while news
of the destruction of Jerusalem's wall reached him 'in the month Kislev
in the twentieth year' (Neh. 1.1), i.e. in the ninth month, reckoning
from the spring, his resultant distress was noticed by the king 'in the
month Nisan in the twentieth year of King Artaxerxes' (2.1), i.e. in the
first month of a year beginning in spring. Only if Nehemiah was using
an autumn to autumn reckoning could Kislev preceede Nisan in the
same year. Since it is agreed that the regular Persian and Jewish practice of this time was to reckon from a spring new year, Nehemiah's
system can be explained only as a reversion to an older Hebrew custom.15
(8) The instruction in the P source that Abib (= Nisan) in the spring is
to be the first month of the year (Exod. 12.2) is evidence that it had not
always been so. 'The announcement in this form and in this place
makes sense only if it was to replace an earlier and different counting
of the months and beginning of the year.'16
(9) A number of reconstructions of the chronology of the monarchic
period rest on the assumption that for some periods in Israel or Judah
the regnal or civil year began in the autumn, on Tishri 1. So, for exam13. For the argument, see J. Morgenstern, The New Year for Kings', Occident
and Orient (Caster Anniversary Volume; ed. Bruno Schindler; London: Taylor's
Foreign Press, 1936), pp. 439-56.
14. K.S. Freedy and D.B. Redford, 'The Dates in Ezekiel in Relation to Biblical, Babylonian and Egyptian Sources', JAOS 90 (1970), pp. 462-85.
15. This argument is put forward, for example, by Thiele, Mysterious Numbers,
p. 30.
16. H. Kosmala, VT 14 (1964), pp. 505-506; cf. Martin Noth, Exodus: A Commentary (London: SCM Press, 1962), p. 94.
376
pie, the system of E.R. Thiele depends entirely upon the presupposition
that regnal years in Judah were reckoned from Tishri to Tishri (though
in Israel a Nisan to Nisan system was used). While Thiele mentions
some of the arguments in favour of an autumnal new year outlined
above, he claims that 'perhaps the strongest argument for the use of a
Tishri-to-Tishri regnal year in Judah is that this method works, giving
us a harmonious pattern of the regnal years and synchronisms, while
with a Nisan-to-Nisan regnal year the old discrepancies would be
retained'.17
(10) A final argument, from extra-biblical evidence, is that the Gezer
calendar, dating from the period of the early monarchy, attests a year
beginning in the autumn. Israel is likely to have adopted the usual
Palestinian calendar, it is argued.18
2. Arguments against an Autumnal (Tishri) New Year
Against these arguments the following objections may be raised:
Ad (1) It is first necessary to affirm, with E. Kutsch in a recent
study,19 that bese't haSSand (Exod. 23.16) must mean 'at the end of the
year,' and not, as several have tried to prove, 'at the beginning of the
17. Thiele, Mysterious Numbers, p. 20. Thiele's view was partially anticipated
by Vogelstein (Biblical Chronology), who postulated a Nisan new year in Israel
and variation between Nisan and Tishri new years in Judah.
18. I leave aside the argument that used to be advanced in favour of an autumnal new year (see, e.g., Marti, 'Year', p. 5365; e contra, Pap, Das israelitische
Neujahrsfest,pp. 27-29), that only a Tishri reckoning in Judah can allow the reference in Jeremiah to the battle of Carchemish (46.2) to be synchronized with the first
year of Jehoiakim (25.1). For it is plain since the publication of the neo-Babylonian
chronicles that the evidence is prima facie in favour of a Nisan reckoning. The battle occurred, according the Chronicle, before the death of Nabopolassar on Ab 8,
which can be synchronized with Jehoiakim's fourth year only on a Nisan basis. For
further details, see my article, 'Regnal Year Reckoning in the Last Years of the
Kingdom of Judah', in Essays in Honour of E.C.B. MacLaurin (ed. A.D. Crown
and E. Stockton; Sydney: Devonshire Press, 1973 [=AJBA 2 (1972), pp. 9-34 (2829)]) (reprinted in ths volume).
19. E. Kutsch, '"...am Ende des Jahres." Zur Datierung des israelitischen
Herbstfestes in Ex 23, 16', ZAW 83 (1971), pp. 15-21. So already KOnig,
'Kalendarfragen', p. 624 n. 3; Norman H. Snaith, The Jewish New Year Festival
(London: SPCK, 1947), pp. 58-61; Aubrey R. Johnson, Sacral Kingship in Ancient
Israel (Cardiff: University of Wales Press, 2nd edn, 1967), p. 56 n. 4.
377
year'.20 For the fact that yasa' can refer to the appearance of the sun or
the stars (e.g. Gen. 19.23; Neh. 4.15 [Eng. 21]), and thus to the beginning of the day or the night, proves nothing about the meaning of the
verb itself but only shows that the Israelites envisaged the appearance
of the heavenly bodies as an exit from their 'house'. The correlative to
yasa', 'to go out, appear,' is bo', 'to come in, disappear', and the conception is obviously patterned on the familiar daily routine of work.
The idea of the yasa' of the year is quite different; in this connection
yasa' means 'to go out and away'. The correlative of yasa' in this context is not bo' but Sub, for we find corresponding to the yasa' of the year
in the autumn the t'Subat of the year in the spring (see below, ad 2).
But the important question is whether 'at the end of the year' must
mean 'at the end of the calendar year'.21 The festivals are in these passages plainly regulated by the agricultural seasons, not by the lunisolar
calendar,22 so it is a natural supposition that it is the end of the agricultural year that is meant. E. Mahler has with justice observed that the
final words of Exod. 23.16 bf'ospekd'et-ma"*seka min-hass'adeh, 'when
you gather in your produce from the field,' clearly refer to the agricultural year:23 the year is the year of sowing, harvest, and gathering in.24
20. W. Riedel, 'Miscellen. 6:TOEintlKlO', ZAW20 (1900), pp. 329-32; George
Buchanan Gray, Sacrifice in the Old Testament (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1925),
pp. 300-301; Begrich, Chronologic, pp. 80-81; Sigmund Mowinckel, Zum israelitischen Neujahr and zur Deutung der Thronbesteigungspsalmen(Oslo: Dybwad,
1952), pp. 12-14; Psalms in Israel's Worship, I, pp. 233-34; de Vaux, Ancient
Israel, p. 190; Kraus, Worship in Israel, p. 17 n. 2.
21. So A. Dillmann, 'Uber das Kalendarwesen der Israeliten vor dem babylonischen Exil', Monatsberichte der koniglich-preussischen Akademie der Wissenschaften zu Berlin (1882), pp. 914-35.
22. With the one exception that the month Abib appears in these lists, on which
see below, section III.
23. Mahler, Handbuch der jiidischen Chronologie, pp. 211-12; similarly Pap,
Das israelitische Neujahrsfest, p. 21.
24. It is open to question whether the beginning of a new agricultural year was
thought to succeed immediately the 'going out' of the old year. According to
Johannes Pedersen, 'When the last harvest is completed, and life dies away, then
the year "runs out" (Exod 23,16). But it only revives in spring time, when life once
more begins its growth. That time is called "the return of the year" (2 Sam 11,1; 1
Kgs 20,22.26). How the old Israelites looked upon the interval, we do not know.
They presumably considered it a dead time, seeing that the old year slumbered
before the new year was born' (Israel: Its Life and Culture [London: Oxford University Press, 1926], I-II, pp. 489-90). Even though ideas of the death and rebirth of
378
379
'a light waning at its completion'. The tequpd of the moon would seem
to either parallel to or the opposite of the moon's change bhStnwtw in v.
8. Thus we may take the fqupa of the year in Exod. 34.22 as the
turning point in a seasonal sense, the time of transition from summer to
winter.
Another passage where the tequpdof the year possibly refers to the
turning from summer to winter31 is 1 Sam. 1.19-21. The MT has it that
after returning from his pilgrimage to Shiloh, 'Elkanah knew Hannah
his wife, and Yahweh remembered her, and it came to pass lit'qupat
hayyamim that Hannah conceived and bore a son'. Several scholars
have suggested that the phrase way'hi lifqupat hayyamim is textually
misplaced32 and should be removed to the beginning of v. 21 as a
marker of the time of Elkanah's visit to Shiloh for the harvest festival.
The tequpat^ hayyamim would thus be equivalent to the fqupat
haSSand of Exod. 34.22. A similar conclusion is reached by deleting
wattahar hannd from v. 20;34 it is the birth of the child that is then said
to occur 'at the turn of the year', twelve months after Hannah's prayer
and shortly before Elkanah's second pilgrimage to Shiloh (v. 21). In
either case the use of tequpd is linked with the timing of the festival,
which is based upon the agricultural year; so the passage has no relevance to the question of the beginning of the calendar year.
Before leaving 1 Sam. 1.19-21, it may be worth considering the possibility that tequpat hayyamim is not equivalent to tequpat haSSdnd and
simply means 'the turn of the days', i.e. the midsummer solstice, when
the days start getting shorter. If this is so, the story gains in vividness,
for it means that the hitherto barren Hannah conceived her child immediately after her return from Shiloh and gave birth to him just nine
months later.35 While an accurate fixing of the date of the solstice
31. 'There are no spring and autumn seasons, properly speaking, but merely
transitional periods. The "former and the latter rain" [viz. October-November;
April-early May] are the first and last showers of the rainy season of winter'
(R.B.Y. Scott, 'Palestine, Climate of, IDB, II, pp. 621-26).
32. So Biblia hebraica (ed. R. Kittel), p. 406.
33. Most adopt the reading of 6 MSS (t'qupai) instead of the usual fqupot of the
MT.
34. So, e.g., Karl Budde, Die Biicher Samuel (KHAT, 8; Tubingen: J.C.B.
Mohr, 1902), p. 10.
35. This suggestion implies that we should either delete wattahar hannd from
v. 20 or transpose the phrase to the end of v. 19 (so S.R. Driver, Notes on the
Hebrew Text and the Topography of the Books of Samuel [Oxford: Clarendon
380
381
382
383
384
50. It can hardly be maintained that wayyibnehu is a pluperfect; see the discussion in S.R. Driver (A Treatise on the Use of the Tenses in Hebrew [Oxford:
Clarendon Press, 2nd edn, 1881], pp. 102-107), where the use of the imperfect with
waw consecutive to express a pluperfect sense is shown to be 'certainly not the
usual idiom chosen by Hebrew writers', and in fact to be probably non-existitent.
51. So also Martin Noth, Konige (BKAT, 9.1; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener
Verlag, 1968), p. 134.
52. A Nisan new year reckoning is perhaps marginally to be preferred. For it
appears that the temple building is said to have taken, on a Nisan reckoning, seven
years and five months, which can easily be rounded down to seven years, but on a
Tishri reckoning six years and five months, which can hardly be rounded up to
seven years (inclusive reckoning is not being used, it has been argued above). The
five months surplus over the number of full years is accounted for by understanding
the month of its 'completion', the eighth month (1 Kgs 6.38) to be the month when
no work remained to be done. Similarly in Gen. 2.2 kala means not 'to complete'
but 'to have finished'. So here it may be assumed that work was concluded in the
sixth month, the temple was dedicated in the seventh month, and building was all
over in the eighth month. More complicated, and less satisfactory solutions are
called for if this significance of kala is not recognized; for a catalogue of solutions,
see, e.g., Montgomery and Gehman, The Books of Kings, p. 187; and S. Talmon,
'Divergences in Calendar-Reckoning in Ephraim and Judah', VT 8 (1958), pp. 4874, where it is claimed that two different calendars are being employed.
385
Ad (5) In discussing the chronology of 2 Kings 22-23, we must distinguish between the likely course of events in Josiah' s reign (as we are
able to reconstruct them) and what the deuteronomistic historian
believed to have occurred.
In the first place there is now a large measure of agreement that the
reforms described in 2 Kings 22-23 as occurring in the eighteenth year
of Josiah were in fact spread over a considerable number of years, both
before and after that year of the finding of the book of the law. There
are, indeed, too many events to fit not only into a fortnight, but even
into six months (the period between an autumn new year and passover).
They include, for example, defiling the high places from Geba to Beersheba, bringing all the priests out of the cities of Judah, visiting Bethel,
slaying all the priests of the high places in the cities of Samaria (23.8,
15, 20). So on the grounds of historical plausibility, further supported
by the evidence of 2 Chronicles 34 which attributes some of the events
of 2 Kings 22-23 to the twelfth year of Josiah,53 and by studies of the
literary prehistory of the narratives of 2 Kings 22-23,54 it can be
justifiably claimed that not all the events recounted between 2 Kgs 22.3
and 23.23 took place in the eighteenth year of Josiah, and that therefore
no inference about the month in which that year began can be drawn.
Still, it could be argued that what matters for the interpretation of the
calendaric references is not what actually happened, but what the
deuteronomistic historian thought happened. Does his account not perhaps presume an autumn new year reckoning? Here several possibilities
open up: (i) He thought that all the events between 22.3 and 23.23
occurred within a fortnight (spring new year reckoning); (ii) He thought
they all occurred within six months (autumn new reckoning); (iii) He
did not think about this question at all, but for purely schematic reasons
arranged all his information about Josiah's reforms in a consecutive
narrative bounded by the finding of the law-book and the celebration of
passover.55 If he thought (ii) was possible, it is hard to see why he could
not as easily have thought (i) was possible, for there are no explicit
53. See Ernest W. Nicholson, Deuteronomy and Tradition (Oxford: Blackwell,
1967), pp. 7-15.
54. See, e.g., N. Lohfink, 'Die Bundesurkunde des Konigs Josias (Eine Frage
an die Deuteronomiumsforschung)', Bib 44 (1963), pp. 261-88, 461-98.
55. That is, 'the traditionist deliberately ignores chronology in his ordering of
the material', as M. Kessler says in another connection ('Form Critical Suggestions
on Jer. 36', CBQ 28 [1966], pp. 389-401).
386
indications of the passage of time in the narrative, and there would have
been no physical impossibility in Josiah's doing all he is said to have
done in a fortnight if the word of a king is thought as good as a deed.
So it is quite plausible to suggest that the Deuteronomist could have
imagined that all these events occurred within the fortnight. In that
case, the dates of 22.3 and 23.23 have no evidential value for the question of the beginning of the year. Nevertheless, much more plausible
than (i) or (ii) is possibility (iii). Without entering more deeply into
questions of the traditions available to the Deuteronomist and their relation to the Chronicler's sources, it needs only to be accepted as a reasonable probability that the date in either 22.3 or 23.23 is artificial for
2 Kings 22-23 to be eliminated as evidence for an autumnal new year.
Ad (6) Not many scholars have relied upon this argument for an
autumnal new year, since it has been widely agreed that the numbering
of the months from the spring as employed in Jer. 36.9 proves that the
spring calendar had been introduced into Judah by this time.56 But this
has not proved to be an overwhelming objection to the argument, since
some advocates of the autumn new year claim that the year was still
regarded as beginning in the autumn even when the months were numbered from the spring.57
But if it is difficult to explain why Jeremiah waited nine months or
more before having his book read in the temple, it must be remembered
that it is no less difficult to explain why he waited three months, as he
must have done if the regnal years were reckoned from Tishri. Why did
he not have Baruch read in at one of the assemblies during the seventh
month? E. Auerbach remarks apropos of E. Vogt's statement58 that the
56. So, e.g., Begrich, Chronologic, pp. 71-72; de Vaux, Ancient Israel, p. 185;
Finegan, Handbook of Biblical Chronology, p. 203; Wilhelm Rudolph, Jeremia
(HAT, 1.12; Tubingen: J.C.B. Mohr, 3rd edn, 1968), p. 233.
57. So Thiele, Mysterious Numbers, p. 28; A. Malamat, 'A New Record of
Nebuchadrezzar's Palestian Campaigns', IEJ 6 (1956), pp. 246-56; De Vries,
'Chronology of the OT', p. 484. Other instances of the counting of months from the
spring, adduced by Begrich (Chronologic, pp. 70-73), likewise fail to convince
advocates of an autumn new year. It is true that the beginning of months and the
beginning of the year do not necessarily coincide (as in the modern Jewish calendar), but the origins of such a system raise an interesting problem which will be
considered below (section III.3).
58. E. Vogt, 'Die neubabylonische Chronik iiber die Schlacht bei Karkemisch
und die Einnahme von Jerusalem', Volume du Congres Strasbourg, 1956 (VTSup,
387
book was probably written in March 604: 'Eine Bombe wie die
Buchrolle legt der Prophet nicht fur 9-10 Monate auf Eis!'59 But neither does he keep it on ice for three monthsunless he was prepared to
wait until there had developed the kind of situation that had come about
by December 604.60 If Jeremiah could wait three months, he could wait
nine months. All that is demanded is the postulation of an appropriate
historical stimulus for the writing of the book, and such is provided by
the events of 605 as well as by those of mid-604. While advocates of an
autumn new year can see such a stimulus in news of the setting out the
Babylonian army for the Hatti-land in the early summer of 604 (in
Jehoiakim's fourth year on a Tishri reckoning), an equally convincing
historical occasion for the writing down of the prophecies is provided
by the battle of Carchemish and the accession of Nebuchadrezzar in the
previous year (Jehoiakim's fourth year on a Nisan reckoning).61
Ad (7) It would certainly be remarkable if Nehemiah in composing
his memoirs c. 430 BCE had persisted in painfully translating the legal
dates of the beneficent Persian ruler62 into a Judaean system that most
agree had been abandoned by the end of the seventh century in Judah
and was not employed by the deuteronomistic historian, Ezekiel, P, the
postexilic prophets, or the Chronicler.63 Thiele thinks that Nehemiah's
usage of the Tishri new year system is an expression of a 'spirit of
intense nationalism' ,64 but he does not explain how Nehemiah happens
to be alone among the intense nationalists of the exilic and postexilic
ages in expressing his patriotism in this fashion.65
4; Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1957), pp. 67-96.
59. Auerbach, "Wechsel des Jahres-Anfangs', p. 116.
60. So H. Tadmor, 'Chronology of the Last Kings of Judah', JNES 15 (1956),
pp. 226-30 (227 n. 10). The date Kislev 603 there is probably a mistake for Kislev
604 (see p. 229).
61. So also Auerbach, 'Wechsel des Jahres-Anfangs', p. 179.
62. As Tadmor puts it ('Chronology', p. 227 n. 10).
63. See Finegan, Handbook of Biblical Chronology, pp. 210-13.
64. Thiele, Mysterious Numbers, p. 30; 'fanatic nationalism', according to
Morgenstern ('New Year for Kings', p. 442).
65. The theory of a resumption of autumnal reckoning after the exile does not
appear well founded. S.H. Horn and L.H. Wood (The Fifth Century Jewish Calendar at Elephantine', JNES 13 [1954], pp. 1-20) claimed such a system was in operation at Elephantine, on the basis of the double dating of some of the Aramaic
papyri according to Egyptian and Jewish reckoning. But R.A. Parker ('Some Con-
388
In fact the text of Neh. 1.1 is not above suspicion. It is strange that
the name of the king whose twentieth year it is remains unmentioned
until we reach 2.1. Yet although the text does seem defective, it must
be admitted that none of the emendations or interpretations of it is particularly convincing. Some have suggested that 1.1 originally mentioned the 'nineteenth' year, not the twentieth;66 but a simple scribal
error of 'esrim for te$a' 'esreh seems rather unlikely, and even a sophisticated reconstruction like that of W. Rudolph is little less arbitrary.67 If
it is supposed that the memoirs of Nehemiah did not originally begin
with a date and that an editor has transferred the year-date of 2.1 to the
beginning of the narrative without noticing the chronological problems
that were thereby created,68 we would want to ask whence the editor
derived the month date, and if he invented it, why he bothered to do so.
An even less probable suggestion is that the date in 2.1 was originally
'twenty-fifth',69 which, indeed, Josephus reckoned to be the year of
Nehemiah's arrival in Jerusalem,70 since Neh. 5.14 confirms that
Nehemiah was appointed governor in the twentieth year of Artaxerxes
(cf. also 13.6). Implausible also is the suggestion that the twentieth year
was the twentieth year since Hanani's departure from Susa.71 Perhaps
the most reasonable solution, though it too leaves unexplained the
siderations on the Nature of the Fifth-Century Jewish Calendar at Elephantine',
JNES14 [1955], pp. 271-74) showed that such a system is presupposed by only one
document, and argued persuasively for the possibility of a scribal error in the date
contained therein. See also Bezalel Porten, Archives from Elephantine (Berkeley:
University of California Press, 1968), p. 197. Horn, however, seems unconvinced
by Parker's proposal (see 'The Babylonian Chronicle', p. 16), as does Thiele
(Mysterious Numbers, p. 30).
66. So, e.g., Kugler, Von Moses bis Paulus, p. 194 n. 1.
67. He supposes that 1.1 originally read "pan KnBtfnmR1? mtiJ? Jfltfn rutf V?OD,
that the similarity of the two final letters of "frOD to those of ~pftT\ brought about the
omission of the intervening words, and that subsequently an editor filled the gap
mechanically with the date of 2.1 (Esra undNehemia[HAT, 1.20; Tubingen: J.C.B.
Mohr, 1949], p. 102). But why did the editor not also mention that it was the twentieth year of Artaxerxesl
68. Cf. L.H. Brockington, Ezra, Nehemia and Esther (NCB; London: Nelson,
1969), p. 127; de Vaux, Ancient Israel, p. 192.
69. Cf. Tadmor, 'Chronology', p. 227 n. 10.
70. Josephus, Ant. 11.5, 7 168.
71. G. da Deliceto, 'Epoca della partenza di Hanani per Gerusalemme e anno
della petizione di Neemia ad Artaserse', Laurentianum 4 (1963), pp. 431-68 (cf.
J.A. Soggin's review of the above in ZAW16[1964], p. 347).
389
390
the supposition of Tishri new year reckoning in Judah will the chronological data and synchronisms 'work'. Here only some theoretical
observations can be made, together with a report on a sample probe of
the evidence relating to one circumscribed period that I have undertaken.
First, it may be observed that when there are at the disposal of the
scholar principles such as co-regency, alternation of accession- and
non-accession-year systems, and variant dates for the new year, which
are fundamentally arbitrary (i.e. can be called upon when the researcher
needs them in the interest of the theory), it is possible that actual scribal
errors in the text could be covered up with resultant errors in the
chronology.
Secondly, it is remarkable that virtually no scribal errors have,
according to Thiele's reconstruction, occurred in the many relevant
figures found in the text. A text like Ezra 1 // Nehemiah 7, preserved in
parallel transmission, shows that a significant number of scribal errors
are likely to have occurred.75
Thirdly, the fact, assuming that it is a fact, that regnal years and synchronisms 'work' on the basis of a Tishri new year in Judah does not
preclude the possibility that also on a Nisan system the figures, or most
of them, will 'work'.76 What is required before the Nisan system is
ruled out altogether is a testing of all the possibilities using the full
range of variables (co-regency, interregnum, calendar and new year
reckoning), with certain given and pre-determined data (regnal year,
internal and external synchronisms, plausible upper limit of scribal
errors,77 plausible age of a king at the birth of his first child,78 etc.).
(1969). For a comparative table, see Thiele, Mysterious Numbers (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1st edn, 1951), pp. 254-55.
75. A point already made by Albright (The Chronology of the Divided
Monarchy of Israel', p. 17) but perhaps exploited too freely by him (note the table
of Albright's emendations provided by Thiele, Mysterious Numbers[1st edn],
p. 245)
76. It is instructive to notice that Mowinckel supported his different chronological system (autumn new year in Judah and Israel right through the monarchy) with
exactly the same argument as Thiele: it works! ('Chronologic', p. 176).
77. If there are too many, attempts at reconstruction of a chronology are a waste
of time. Some scholars have, in fact, argued that the data do not permit a precise
reconstruction of the chronology; so Freedman, 'Old Testament Chronology',
p. 209; M.D. Johnson, The Purpose of the Biblical Genealogies with Special
Reference to the Genealogies of Jesus (SNTSMS, 8; Cambridge: Cambridge
391
392
81. As recently S. Talmon, The Gezer Calendar and the Seasonal Cycle of
Ancient Canaan', JAOS 83 (1963), pp. 177-87. De Vaux's view, that it is 'a concordance table between twelve lunations (the months of the official year, listed here
without their proper names) and the periods of the agricultural year' (Ancient
Israel, p. 184), is open to the objection that it is precisely the absence of month
names that shows that it cannot be such a concordance.
393
after the end of the autumn festival82 (contrary, of course, to the priestly
calendar). But many scholars claim that 'the end of the year' is a vague
term and affirm that the autumn festival celebrated both the end of the
old year and the beginning of the new.83 It that were so, would the
autumn festival not be expected to hold first place in the list?
But the argument so far begs one question: Have the seasons of the
festivals anything to do with the calendar year? I have argued above (ad
1) that as agricultural festivals they are related in the very early lists of
Exodus 23 and 34 to the agricultural, not the calendar, year, as they
have been by the time of priestly law of Leviticus 23. The one exception to this claim is the specification of the month Abib as the date of
the festival of unleavened bread (Exod. 23.15; 34.18; cf. Deut. 16.1). It
does not matter for our present purpose whether or not the reference to
Abib is original in the text of Exodus 23 or 34: it is enough that it
appears in a form of the festival law that dates from some period in the
monarchy. Now the month Abib is surely not specified in order to prevent unleavened bread or passover from being celebrated at some other
time in the year, for the same need to specify the month is not felt in the
case of the other festivals. Can it be that Abib is specified because it is
a more significant month than the months in which the harvest and
ingathering festivals fall, that is, because it is the first month of the year
of months? Little weight can, indeed, be placed on this argument, but
some explanation of the mention of this month alone seems to be called
for.
(2) A certain amount of evidence has been produced for characterizing the spring festival, passover, as a new year festival. J.B. Segal has
most recently presented an impressive range of parallels in ritual and
ideology between new year festivals in other ancient near eastern cultures and the passover in Israel and has concluded that 'to the Hebrews
the Passover...was primarily a New Year Festival'.84 But quite apart
from the dubiety of the assumptions inherent in any patternist
394
20
REGNAL YEAR RECKONING
IN THE LAST YEARS OF THE KINGDOM OF JUDAH
A long-debated question in studies of the Israelite calendar and of preexilic chronology is this: Was the calendar year in Israel and Judah
reckoned from the spring or the autumn? The majority verdict has come
to be that throughout most of the monarchical period an autumnal
calendar was employed for civil, religious and royal purposes. Several
variations on this view have been advanced. Some have thought that
the spring reckoning, which we find attested in the postexilic period,
came into operation only during the exile,1 but many have maintained
that the usual autumnal calendar gave way in pre-exilic Judah to a
spring calendar as used by Assyrians and Babylonians.2
Originally published in The Australian Journal of Biblical Archaeology 2 (1972)
(Essays in Honour ofE.C.B. MacLaurin on his Sixtieth Birthday}, pp. 9-34.
1. So e.g. Julius Wellhausen, Prolegomena to the History of Ancient Israel
(trans. J. Sutherland Black and Allan Menzies; Edinburgh: A. & C. Black, 1885,
repr. Cleveland: World, 1957), pp. 108-109; K. Marti, 'Year', Encyclopaedia biblica (ed. T.K. Cheyne and J. Sutherland Black; London: Watts, 1907), IV, col.
5365; S. Mowinckel, 'Die Chronologie der israelitischen und jiidischen Konige',
AcOr 10 (1932), pp. 161-277 (174-76).
2. (i) In the eighth century according to E. Kutsch, Das Herbstfest in Israel
(Dissertation, Mainz, 1955), p. 68; RGG, I (3rd edn, 1957), col. 1812; followed by
Hans-Joachim Kraus, Worship in Israel: A Cultic History of the Old Testament
(trans. Geoffrey Buswell; Oxford: Blackwell, rev. edn, 1966), p. 45; similarly W.F.
Albright, review of Sociology of the Biblical Jubilee (Analecta Biblica, 4; Rome:
Pontifical Biblical Institute, 1954), by Robert North, in Bib 37 (1956), pp. 488-90
(489); Alfred Jepsen, 'Zur Chronologie der Konige von Israel und Juda', in Alfred
Jepsen and Robert Hanhart, Untersuchungen zur israelitisch-jiidischen Chronologie
(BZAW, 88; Berlin: A. Topelmann, 1964), pp. 28, 37.
(ii) In the reign of Manasseh: K.T. Andersen, 'Die Chronologie der Konige von
Israel und Juda', ST 23 (1969), pp. 69-114 (108-109); and V. Pavlovsky and
E. Vogt, 'Die Jahre der Konige von Juda und Israel', Bib 45 (1964), pp. 321-47
(346), who believe that spring reckoning was also used in Judah in the reigns of
Jehoram, Ahaziah and Athaliah (848-835 BCE) (p. 327), and was again introduced
in 604 BCE (see [vi] below).
396
Some have believed that even when a spring calendar was adopted in
Judah for civil purposes, regnal years continued to be reckoned from
the autumn.3 Several scholars have claimed that in any case it was only
in Judah that the autumnal reckoning was employed, northern Israel
having adopted a spring new year at the time of the division of the
Solomonic kingdom.4 The minority view on the whole question has
been that calendar and regnal years in both Israel and Judah were
(iii) In the reign of Josiah: M. Vogelstein, Biblical Chronology. I. The Chronology of Hezekiah and his Successors (Cincinnati: Hebrew Union College, 1944),
p. 7, who believed that Hezekiah also had introduced a spring calendar, for which
Manasseh substituted an autumn calendar.
(iv) Before 620 BCE: Joachim Begrich,Die Chronologic der Konige von Israe
und Juda und Quellen des Rahmens der Konigsbiicher (BHT, 3; Tubingen: J.C.B.
Mohr, 1929), pp. 69-90.
(v) In the reign of Jehoiakim: Roland de Vaux, Ancient Israel: Its Life and Institutions (trans. John McHugh; London: Darton, Longman & Todd, 2nd edn, 1965),
p. 192.
(vi) In 604 BCE: E. Auerbach, 'Die babylonische Datierung im Pentateuch und
das Alter des Priester-Kodex', VT 2 (1952), pp. 334-42 (336); 'Der Wechsel des
Jahres-Anfangs in Juda im Lichte der neugefundenen babylonischen Chronik', VT
9 (1959), pp. 113-21; 'Die Umschaltung vom judaischen auf den babylonischen
Kalendar', VT 10 (1960), pp. 69-70; 'Wenn eroberte Nebukadnezar Jerusalem?',
VT 11 (1961), pp. 128-36; followed by Simon J. De Vries, 'Chronology of the OT,
IDE, I, pp. 584-85; Jack Finegan, Handbook of Biblical Chronology: Principles of
Time Reckoning in the Ancient World and Problems of Chronology in the Bible
(Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1964), pp. 202-203. So also Pavlovsk^ and
Vogt, 'Die Jahre der Konige von Juda und Israel', p. 346.
(vii) About 600 BCE; E. Konig, 'Kalendarfragen in althebraischen Schrifttum'
ZDMG 60 (1906), pp. 605-44 (636).
3. E.g. A. Malamat, 'A New Record of Nebuchadrezzar's Palestinian Campaigns', IEJ 6 (1956), pp. 246-56 (252 n. 19).
4. So principally Edwin R. Thiele, The Mysterious Numbers of the Hebrew
Kings: A Reconstruction of the Chronology of the Kingdoms of Israel and Judah
(Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1951; Grand Rapids: W.B. Eerdmans, 2nd
edn, 1965); largely followed by De Vries, IDB, I, pp. 580-99; K.A. Kitchen,
'Chronology of the Old Testament', in New Bible Dictionary (ed. J.D. Douglas;
London: Inter-Varsity Fellowship, 1962), pp. 212-23; S.H. Horn, The Babylonian
Chronicle and the Ancient Calendar of the Kingdom of Judah', AUSS 5 (1967),
pp. 12-27 (16); R.K. Harrison, Introduction to the Old Testament (London: Tyndale
Press, 1970), pp. 181-92. Some others, who postulate the adoption of a spring calendar in Judah late in the monarchy, hold with Thiele that Israel followed a spring
calendar; so Pavlovsk^ and Vogt, and Vogelstein (see n. 2 above).
397
reckoned from the spring throughout the monarchy.5 In a paper published elsewhere6 I have examined the biblical data usually advanced in
favour of an autumnal new year, and have concluded that positive
direct evidence for such a calendaric system in pre-exilic Israel and
Judah is entirely lacking.
The purpose of the present article is to approach the problem rather
more indirectly by subjecting to examination, not some isolated biblical
passages that have been thought to be relevant to the question, but a set
of chronological data, both biblical and extrabiblical, relating to a comparatively brief span of pre-exilic history, in the hope that either the
spring or the autumn reckoning may prove to satisfy the exigencies of
the data. For this purpose the closing decades of the kingdom of Judah
are among the most promising for investigation, since we have for the
period 609-587/6 BCE not only several precise biblical year and month
dates, but also, for the greater part of that period, the Babylonian
Chronicle texts7 containing many exact datings. The present study is
thus a fragmentary contribution to exploring the relationship between
archaeological discovery and the biblical texts, and as such is presented
to the recipient of this volume with the respect and appreciation of the
author.
1. Arguments for an Autumn New Year
The arguments that may be advanced in favour of an autumn (that is,
Tishrif new year reckoning9 are these:
5. G. Schiaparelli, Astronomy in the Old Testament (Oxford: Clarendon Press
1905), pp. 115-16; F.A. Herzog, Die Chronologic der beiden Konigbiicher (Alttestamentliche Abhandlungen, 1.5; Miinster i.W.: Aschendorff, 1909), pp. 29-33;
Eduard Mahler, Handbuch der judischen Chronologic (Leipzig: Fock, 1916; repr.
Hildesheim: G. Olms, 1967), pp. 210-20; Franz Xavier Kugler, Von Moses bis
Paulus: Forschungen zur Geschichte Israels (Miinster i.W.: Aschendorff, 1922),
pp. 134-50; L.I. Pap, Das israelitische Neujahrsfest(Kampen: Kok, 1933), pp. 1833.
6. David J.A. Clines, 'The Evidence for an Autumnal New Year in Pre-exilic
Israel Reconsidered', JBL 93 (1974), pp. 22-40 (reprinted in this volume).
7. DJ. Wiseman, Chronicles of Chaldean Kings (626-556 B.C.) in the British
Museum (London: Trustees of the British Museum, 1956).
8. It makes no difference to the argument if one believes with Auerbach, 'Die
babylonische Datierung im Pentateuch', that the autumn new year began on
Marhewan 1 rather than Tishri 1.
9. So E.R. Thiele, 'New Evidence on the Chronology of the Last Years of
398
1. The dates given in 2 Kgs 25.8 and Jer. 52.12 for the fall of Jerusalem may be synchronized, it is said, only if Judaean regnal years are
reckoned from Tishri I.10 These passages date the destruction of the
temple, the breaching of the walls, and the captivity to 7/1 O.V.I I 11 of
Zedekiah, which is also said to be the 19th year of Nebuchadrezzar.
The 19th year of Nebuchadrezzar began in Nisan 586, when Zedekiah's
llth year, reckoned from Tishri, was still in progress, but when his
11th year if reckoned from Nisan was over (according to the most usual
chronologies; see Table, columns II and VIII).
There are, however, three possible methods of avoiding this inference short of supposing that 'nineteenth' in the parallel passages in
2 Kings 25 and Jeremiah 52 is a transmissional or computational error.
(a) First, it is possible that while standard Babylonian reckoning of
Nebuchadrezzar's regnal years began his year 1 with Nisan 604 BCE
(the 7 months from his accession on Elul 1 to Nisan 1 being reckoned,
according to the normal practice, as his accession year), in the west
Nebuchadrezzar's reign was reckoned as beginning with Nisan 60512
Judah', BASOR 143 (1956), pp. 22-27; E. Vogt, 'Nova chronica babylonica de
pugna apud KarkemiS et expugnatione lerusalem', Bib 37 (1956), pp. 389-97;
Malamat, 'A New Record of Nebuchadrezzar's Palestinian Campaigns', IEJ 6
(1956), pp. 246-56; 'The Last Kings of Judah and the Fall of Jerusalem: An Historical-Chronological Study', IEJ 18 (1968), pp. 137-56; Horn, 'The Babylonian
Chronicle and the Ancient Calendar of the Kingdom of Judah', pp. 12-27; K.S.
Freedy and D.B. Redford, 'The Dates in Ezekiel in Relation to Biblical, Babylonian
and Egyptian Sources', JAOS 90 (1970), pp. 462-85 (465).
10. So Thiele, 'New Evidence on the Chronology of the Last Years of Judah',
p. 26. Thiele's total explanation of the discrepant synchronisms is rightly rejected
by Malamat, 'The Last Kings of Judah and the Fall of Jerusalem', p. 146 n. 20, as
unnecessarily complex: viz. that in Kings Nebuchadrezzar's years are reckoned
from Tishri, and in Jeremiah Judaean regnal years are reckoned from Nisan except
in parallels with Kings. Horn's view ('The Babylonian Chronicle and the Ancient
Calendar of the Kingdom of Judah', pp. 24-26) that Nebuchadrezzar's years are
always reckoned from his first Tishri (except in Jer. 52.28-30) is not open to the
same objection, but it fails to explain Jer. 46.2 (see 2.1 below) and it offers no
more solutions of the synchronisms than do the systems examined here.
11. The day is seventh in 2 Kgs 25.8, tenth in Jer. 52.12. For the year, see 2 Kgs
25.2; Jer. 52.5.
12. So Albright, The Nebuchadnezzar and Neriglissar Chronicles', BASOR 143
(1956), pp. 28-33 (32); followed by Thiele, 'New Evidence on the Chronology of
the Last Years of Judah', p. 24; D.N. Freedman, 'The Babylonian Chronicle', BA
19 (1956), pp. 50-60(57); M. Noth, 'Die Einnahme von Jerusalem', pp. 133-57
399
since he had by that time already taken his father Nabopolassar's place
as commander of the armed forces.13
According to this view, this was the system that was normally followed in the references to Nebuchadrezzar's regnal years in 2 Kings
and Jeremiah; only in Jer. 52.28-30 was the standard Babylonian reckoning employed.14 Thus the 8th year of Nebuchadrezzar in 2 Kgs 24.12
is the same as the 7th year in Jer. 52.28, and the 19th year in 2 Kgs 25.8
and Jer. 52.12 is the same as the 18th year in 52.29.15
(155) (= Aufsatze zur biblischen Landes- und Altertumskunde [Neukirchen-Vluyn:
Neukirchener Verlag, 1971], I, pp. 111-32). Albright compares a similar 'difference
of a year in two methods of reckoning the reign of Sennacherib' (see J. Lewy, The
Chronology of Sennacherib's Accession', AnOr 12 [1935], pp. 225-31 [228-29]).
Malamat, 'The Last Kings of Judah and the Fall of Jerusalem', p. 148, does not
appear to represent Albright's view correctly when he describes it as 'a sort of
antedating, non-accession-year method' (similarly Horn, 'The Babylonian Chronicle and the Ancient Calendar of the Kingdom of Judah', p. 23). Albright's view
seems rather to be that in the West Nebuchadrezzar was regarded as having
assumed the kingship before Nisan 605, and that the year beginning in that month
was regarded as Nebuchadrezzar's first on the regular Babylonian accession-year
system. See further for this interpretation of Albright's view, Freedman, 'The
Babylonian Chronicle', p. 57, who also remarks that the reference in Jer. 46.2 to
Nebuchadrezzar as 'king of Babylon' at the time of the battle of Carchemish may
not be a minor anachronism but a reflection of a western reckoning of Nebuchadrezzar's reign. Albright is followed by J. Bright, A History of Israel (OTL; London:
SCM Press, 1960), p. 305 n. 48.
13. 'In the twenty-first year [sc. of Nabopolassar, beginning Nisan 605] the king
of Akkad stayed in his own land. Nebuchadrezzar his eldest son, the crown prince,
mustered (the Babylonian army) and... marched to Carchemish' (BM 21946, Obv.
1, 2; Wiseman, Chronicles, pp. 66-67).
14. Jer. 52.28-30 is obviously derived from another source from the rest of Jer.
52 (cf. e.g. Thiele, 'New Evidence on the Chronology of the Last Years of Judah',
p. 25; Albright, The Nebuchadnezzar and Neriglissar Chronicles', p. 32): it is
missing in the Septuagint, it may have been added in Babylonia, and the precision
of its figures (contrast the round numbers of 2 Kgs 24.14-16) perhaps point to a
derivation from a Babylonian source (cf. Freedman, The Babylonian Chronicle',
p. 57 n. 29).
15. Other synchronisms with Nebuchadrezzar's reign also fit this pattern: 10th
of Zedekiah = 18th of Nebuchadrezzar (Jer. 32.1), but 19th on Babylonian reckoning; 4th of Jehoiakim = 1st of Nebuchadrezzar (Jer. 25.1), but accession year on
Babylonian reckoning (haSSdnd hdri'Sonot need not mean 'accession year', as is
commonly thought, but 'first regnal year'); Jehoiachin's captivity in Nebuchadrezzar's 8th year (2 Kgs 24.12) = 7th year in Babylonian Chronicle (BM 21946,
Rev. 11-12; Wiseman, Chronicles, pp. 72-73).
400
(b) Secondly, it can be claimed that the captivity in the 19th year of
Nebuchadrezzar is not identical with the captivity said elsewhere to
have occurred in the 18th year of Nebuchadrezzar (Jer. 52.29),16 and
that therefore the date of the burning of Jerusalem and the captivity by
Nebuzaradan, the captain of the guard, 7/10.V. 19 of Nebuchadrezzar
(2 Kgs 25.8//Jer. 52.12), need not be synchronized with the 11th year of
Zedekiah. On this view the destruction of the city by Nebuzaradan
occurred 13 months later than the taking of the city on 9.IV. 11 of
Zedekiah, that is, in the 18th year of Zedekiah.17
The difficulty with this view is that it conflicts with the natural
sequence of events in Jeremiah 52: the walls are breached on 9.IV. 11 of
Zedekiah (vv. 6-7), and on 10.V, presumably of the same year, Nebuzaradan burned the city and took away captives (vv. 12-15).
(c) Thirdly, the 11th year of Zedekiah (reckoned from Nisan) and the
19th of Nebuchadrezzar may be synchronized by postulating that
Zedekiah acceded to the throne some time after Nisan 1, 597 BCE.18 In
that case, his first regnal year would have begun in Nisan 596, and his
11th year in Nisan 586, the beginning of Nebuchadrezzar's 19th year.
16. Thiele, 'New Evidence on the Chronology of the Last Years of Judah',
p. 25, noting the discrepancy between the mere 832 said to have been taken captive
in Nebuchadrezzar's 18th year (Jer. 52.29) and the 'rest of the people left in the
city, fugitives, and the rest of the multitude' said to have been taken captive in
Nebuchadrezzar's 19th year (2 Kgs 25.11). Similarly Horn, 'The Babylonian
Chronicle and the Ancient Calendar of the Kingdom of Judah', pp. 26-27. A double
deportation in 597, in Nebuchadrezzar's 7th and 8th years, also seems likely
according to Malamat ('A New Record of Nebuchadrezzar's Palestinian Campaigns', pp. 253-54).
17. Malamat also posits captivities in both the 18th and 19th years of Nebuchadrezzar (Malamat, The Last Kings of Judah and the Fall of Jerusalem', p. 154),
but he does not adopt this dating of the destruction by Nebuzaradan since he adopts
a Tishri reckoning, which fixes 9.IV.11 of Zedekiah in the 19th year of Nebuchadrezzar.
18. So Thiele, Mysterious Numbers, p. 168; H. Tadmor, 'Chronology of the
Last Kings of Judah', JNES 15 (1956), pp. 226-30 (230); Vogt, 'Die neubabylonische Chronik iiber die Schlacht bei Karkemisch und die Einnahme von Jerusalem', in Volume du Congres Strasbourg, 1956 (VTSup, 4; Leiden: E.J. Brill,
1957), pp. 67-96 (95-96); Auerbach, 'Die Umschaltung vom judaischen auf den
babylonischen Kalendar', pp. 69-70; 'Wenn eroberte Nebukadnezar Jerusalem?',
pp. 129-33 (with many arguments of varying weight, other than those presented
here); Schedl, 'Nochmals das Jahr der Zerstorung Jerusalems, 587 oder 586 v.
Chr.', ZAW74 (1962), pp. 209-13 (210-11).
401
The more common view is that within days of the fall of Jerusalem to
the Babylonians on Adar 2 (March 16), 597, Nebuchadrezzar personally installed Zedekiah as his own appointee, and that Zedekiah's first
regnal year therefore began in a few weeks' time, in Nisan 1, 597. This
more usual view has rested on two supports: (i) that 2 Chron. 36.10,
'Nebuchadrezzar sent and brought Jehoiachin to Babylon', shows that
Nebuchadrezzar was no longer in Judah at the time of Jehoiachin's
deportation on Nisan 10,19 and that he must therefore have installed
Zedekiah as king before the beginning of Nisan; (ii) that the appointment of Zedekiah is assigned to the 7th year of Nebuchadrezzar in the
Babylonian Chronicle,20 and thus occurred before Nisan 1, 597.
These arguments are not strong. Against (i) it may be remarked that,
if inferences may be drawn from 2 Chron. 36.10, it may also be significant that the appointment of Zedekiah is mentioned after the exile of
Jehoiachin to Babylon; and against (ii) it may be observed that if
Zedekiah were actually appointed shortly after the beginning of Nebuchadrezzar's 8th year we might still expect the event to be recorded in
the context of the king's dealings with Judah in his 7th year, since the
appointment of Zedekiah was simply the last event of a series.21
Accordingly, the way is open for a reconsideration of the possibility
that Zedekiah acceded after Nisan 1, 597 BCE.22
19. So Malamat, 'The Last Kings of Judah and the Fall of Jerusalem', p. 145.
Cf. Noth, 'Die Einnahme von Jerusalem', ZDPV74 [1958], pp. 133-57 (152), following Vogt, 'Die neubabylonische Chronik iiber die Schlacht bei Karkemisch und
die Einnahme von Jerusalem', p. 94 in supposing that Nebuchadrezzar left Judah in
time to celebrate the new year festival in Babylon in Nisan.
20. BM 21946, Rev. 12-13; Wiseman, Chronicles, pp. 72-73.
21. This argument is somewhat undermined by the suggestion of A.R. Millard,
'Another Babylonian Chronicle Text', Iraq 26 (2964), pp. 14-35 (34), that in
Assyria the chronicle for the past year was written up on Nisan 7 each year, a day
of reckoning immediately before the festival of Nabu during which the fates for the
coming year were decreed. If this were the case also in Babylonia, which is by no
means clear, events later than Nisan 7 could hardly appear in the chronicle for the
previous year.
22. Noth's argument ('Die Einnahme von Jerusalem', pp. 152-53) is doubtless
correct that the purpose of Nebuchadrezzar's expedition against Jerusalem was precisely to replace the pro-Egyptian Jehoiachin, and that consequently Jehoiachin's
reign cannot have extended beyond the turn of the year (as, e.g., Vogt, 'Die neubabylonische Chronik iiber die Schlacht bei Karkemisch und die Einnahme von
Jerusalem', p. 94 thought). But Noth does not take sufficiently seriously the
possibility that Nebuchadrezzar was not able to replace Jehoiachin immediately,
402
403
Zedekiah after Nisan 1, 597 is the following: Ezek. 24.1 dates the
beginning of the siege to 10.X.9 (sc. of the captivity of Jehoiachiri),
while 2 Kgs 25.1, Jer. 39.1 (the day is lacking) and 52.4 date it to
10.X.9 of Zedekiah.25 We know that Jehoiachin's captivity began in
Nisan 59726 (Ezek. 40.1 with 2 Kgs 24.12). So it seems clear that
Zedekiah's year 1 must also have begun in that year, and not in 596.27
This difficulty may be met, however, by supposing that the years of
Jehoiachin's captivity were reckoned on a postdating principle like the
accession-year system, that is, that year 1 of the captivity of Jehoiachin
began only on Nisan 1 of the year following the captivity of Jehoiachin
on Nisan 10, 597. The 'fourteenth year after the city was conquered' in
Ezek. 40.1 must on this view also be calculated in the same way; that
is, the 'first year after the fall of the city' begin on Nisan 1 of the year
following its fall on 9.IV. 11 of Zedekiah (= 19 of Nebuchadrezzar),
586 BCE. This method of reckoning, though lacking any established
25. No explanation of this objection to his theory can be offered by Vogt, 'Die
neubabylonische Chronik tiber die Schlacht bei Karkemisch und die Einnahme von
Jerusalem', p. 96 n. 2.
26. At least, that is agreed by almost all; Ernst Kutsch, 'Zur Chronologic der
letzen judaischen Konige (Josia bis Zedekia)', ZAW 71 (1959), pp. 270-74 (27374), dates it to Nisan 598, and Schedl, 'Nochmals das Jahr der Zerstorung
Jerusalems, 587 oder 586 v. Chr.', to Nisan 596.
27. That is, if Ezek. 24.1 is really a captivity-year date, and not a Zedekiah regnal-year date later inserted into the Ezekiel passage from 2 Kgs 25.1. The latter has
been suggested by, for example, Gustav Holscher, Hesekiel, der Dichter und sein
Buch: Eine literarkritische Untersuchung (BZAW, 39; Giessen: A. Topelmann,
1924), p. 11; John W. Wevers, Ezekiel (NCB; London: Nelson, 1969), pp. 189-90;
Walther Zimmerli, Ezechiel (BKAT, 13; Neukirchen: Neukirchener Verlag, 1969),
p. 995; and Freedy and Redford, 'The Dates in Ezekiel', p. 468. These writers note
that the form in which the date is written is unparalleled elsewhere in Ezekiel.
G. Fohrer, Die Hauptprobleme des Buches Ezechiel (BZAW, 72; Berlin: A.
Topelmann, 1952), pp. 116-19; Ezechiel (HAT, 1.13; Tubingen: J.C.B. Mohr,
1955), pp. 139-40, believes that the process occurred in the reverse direction: the
date, originally the date of the fast-day in the 10th month (cf. Zech. 8.19), was
transferred from its setting in Ezekiel to 2 Kgs 25.1, thence to Jer. 52.4, and thence
to Jer. 39.1. That is perhaps less likely in view of the deviation of the form of the
date from the form usually found in Ezekiel.
If either of these views is correct, the objection to an accession of Zedekiah after
Nisan 1, 597 disappears, since the correlation of Zedekiah years with captivity
years would be only factitious.
404
parallels other than the regnal year system, cannot easily be dismissed.
If it is natural to call the 'first year' of a king the first calendar year that
begins during his reign, it is not unnatural to call the 'first year of the
captivity' the first calendar year that begins after that event, and the
'first year after the fall of the city' the first year that begins after that
event.
Finally, in order to test thoroughly this proposal to date Zedekiah's
years from Nisan 596 rather than Nisan 597, it is necessary to examine
the other dates in Ezekiel that are reckoned from the captivity of
Jehoiachin; for it has just been argued that to date Zedekiah's years
from 596 requires also the dating of the years of Jehoiachin's captivity
from 596.
On the remaining dates in Ezekiel, 24.1 and 40.1 having already been
considered, it is clear that some are not integrated with known historical events and are therefore irrelevant to the question of the base point
for the years of the captivity. This is the case with the dates in 1.1-2;
8.1; 20.1; and 32.1, 17. But with regard to those dates that may be
associated with known historical events, the following observations
may be made:
(i) Ezek. 26.1 dates an oracle against Tyre, in which the fall of
Jerusalem is presupposed (26.2), to the 11th year of the captivity. This
date has seemed too early to many, since if the city fell in 586 BCE the
12th year of the captivity had already begun. Accordingly some have
claimed that the date of 26.1 is applicable not to the oracle of 26.2-6,
but to the subsequent oracle about the siege of Tyre (26.7-14).28 Others
have attempted to solve the problem by reading with LXXA 'in the
twelfth year'.29 But if the present proposal, that year 1 of the captivity
began in Nisan 596, is followed, the 11th year of the captivity began in
586, and the date of Ezekiel's oracle may be in order. The month is not
given, but if it were later than the 10th month, in which Ezekiel
received news of the fall of the city (33.21), it would make good
sense.30 It would also fit well with the received opinion, following
28. So Wevers, Ezekiel, p. 200; Freedy and Redford, The Dates in Ezekiel',
p. 469.
29. So G.A. Cooke, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Book of
Ezekiel (ICC; Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1936), p. 288; Fohrer, Ezechiel, p. 149.
30. W.F. Albright, 'The Seal of Eliakim and the Latest Preexilic History of
Judah, with Some Observations on Ezekiel', JBL 51 (1932), pp. 77-106 (93), proposed to supply '11th' or perhaps '12th' month in this date in 26.1.
405
406
is hard to choose even between the two most plausible of them, the first
and the third. But either of these provides a satisfactory account of the
chronology in terms of a Nisan new year.
2. Some dates in Ezekiel appear to support the 586 BCE dating of the
fall of Jerusalem. The significance of that date for the fall of the city is
that in the opinion of most scholars it would imply that Zedekiah's regnal years were reckoned on a Tishri basis, since the siege is said to have
ended in the 4th month of his llth year (2 Kgs 25.2; Jer. 52.5), which
would have fallen in 587 if a Nisan reckoning were employed. We have
already considered an argument that would exclude the necessity for
linking a 586 date with a Tishri new year,36 but it is as well to consider
the present evidence separately.
Ezek. 40.1 dates a prophecy of Ezekiel's to the 25th anniversary of
Jehoiachin's exile on the 10th day of the first month.37 The date of that
prophecy is also said to be in the 14th year after the destruction of the
city. 'In accord with these data the fall of the city would have taken
place in the twelfth year of Jehoiachin's exile, and that is the year when
an escapee brought word to Babylon of the city's fall (Eze. 33:21).'38
Ezekiel, it is generally agreed, used the Babylonian reckoning of the
year from Nisan. Whether he reckoned 1 Nisan or 10 Nisan (the actual
date of Jehoiachin's exile) as the first day of the year is of no consequence for the present argument.
Now, according to the dates in Ezekiel, year 1 of captivity begins
36. See 1.1 (c) above.
37. Not all have agreed that this is what Ezek. 40.1 means. Some have thought
that 'the beginning of the year' (ro'S haSSdnd) must be either a technical term for
new year's day on 10.VII (in the autumn) or at least a reference to a beginning of
the year in the autumn (so, e.g., Alfred Bertholet, Das Buck Hesekiel (KHAT;
Freiburg i.B.: J.C.B. Mohr, 1897), p. 195; Kurt Galling in Alfred Bertholet, Hesekiel (HAT, 1.13; Tubingen: J.C.B. Mohr, 1936), p. 135; Cooke, Ezekiel, p. 429;
Zimmerli, Ezechiel, n, p. 995. But it is difficult to see how this view can be maintained now that the Babylonian Chronicle has fixed the date of the fall of Jerusalem
as 2.XII (Adar).7 of Nebuchadrezzar (March 16, 597 BCE). It is unlikely that
Jehoiachin's captivity should have been delayed as long as the following Tishri, 7
months later. Most recent studies accept that a spring new year is reckoned with
here; so, e.g., Kurt Galling in Fohrer, Ezechiel, p. 222; Wevers, Ezekiel, p. 298;
Freedy and Redford, 'The Dates in Ezekiel', p. 469. LXX already took this view,
translating bero'S haSSdnd as ev tco Ttporccp \ir\vi.
38. Thiele, 'New Evidence on the Chronology of the Last Years of Judah',
p. 26; similarly Malamat, 'The Last Kings of Judah and the Fall of Jerusalem',
p. 149.
407
Nisan 597,39 so year 12 of captivity begins Nisan 586, that is, in the
year in which the fugitive arrived in the 10th month, bringing news of
the fall of Jerusalem (Ezek. 33.21). It would be perverse not to agree
that the city must have fallen in the same year (in the 4th month) as
news reached Ezekiel in the 10th. Also, year 25 of captivity begins
Nisan 573, which is the 14th year (Ezek. 40.1) after the fall of Jerusalem only when that event is dated in 586.
There thus seems to be a sound case for claiming that the dates in
Ezekiel demand the date 586 for the fall of Jerusalem, which date in
turn is said to demand a Tishri reckoning of Judaean regnal years.
An alternative interpretation, yielding a 587 date for the fall of
Jerusalem, must be considered, however. First, there is sufficient textual evidence for treating 'llth year of our exile' in Ezek. 33.21 as a
serious alternative to the reading '12th year of our exile',40 A corruption from 'llth' to '12th' could be accounted for as due to the appearance of '12th year' already in 32.1, 17, so that it may have seemed to a
scribe implausible that the next dated oracle should belong to the llth
year. The reason for the break in chronological sequence is not far to
seek, however; oracles about Egypt, dating from 12.X.10 (29.1-16),
7.1.11 (30.20-26), 1.III. 11 (31.1-18), 1.XII. 12 (32.1-16), 15!(?).12
(32.17-32), have been collected together; but the oracle of 33.21-22 has
nothing to do with Egypt, and its date is consequently not in series with
the dates of the Egyptian oracles. Secondly, it may be questioned
whether 'in the 14th year after the city was conquered' (40.1) must
refer to a calendar year beginning with Nisan (whether Nisan 1 or 10).
It may well be that Ezekiel reckons the exact anniversaries of the fall of
the city, just as he does the exact anniversaries of the captivity of
39. E. Kutsch's argument ('Zur Chronologic der letzen judaischen Konige
[Josia bis Zedekia]', pp. 273-74) that the first captivity must have occurred before
Nisan 597 contradicts the plain sense of Ezek. 40.1.
40. The written and oral difference between biSte and b"aSte is slight. Eight
Hebrew MSS, the Lucianic recension of LXX, and the Syriac read 'eleventh'. Thi
constitutes rather more evidence than 'only dubious MS and Versional support', as
Freedy and Redford describe it ('The Dates in Ezekiel', p. 466 n. 25). Among those
who adopt this emendation may be mentioned: Fohrer, Ezechiel, p. 187; Eichrodt,
Hesekiel, p. 317; Zimmerli, Ezechiel, p. 810; J.B. Taylor, Ezekiel: An Introduction
and Commentary (TOTC; London: Inter-Varsity Press, 1969), p. 216. It should be
noted that Ezek. 26.2, apparently dated (see on n. 28 above) to the 11th year of the
captivity, presupposes the fall of the city. One or other of these dates must be
wrong.
408
Jehoiachin (and cf. 24.2 'this very day')- In fact, the 10.1.25 year of
exile, Nisan 10 of 573 BCE, falls three months before the fifteenth
anniversary of a fall of Jerusalem in 587 BCE, and so in the 14th year
after that event. Reckoning of years from the fall of Jerusalem was not
a normal method of expressing the date and in fact the only other
occurrence of such a reckoning seems to be a literary reminiscence of
this verse.41 This further suggests that the reference concerns the
anniversary years after that famous event, and is not an alternative
nomenclature for the calendar year.
In summarizing the evidence on this point it may be said that
although some dates in Ezekiel apparently point to the date 586 BCE for
the fall of Jerusalem and are thus at first sight evidence for Tishri reckoning, closer examination of the evidence makes it equally possible that
the dates in Ezekiel are consonant with a dating of the fall of Jerusalem
in 587 BCE.
3. Dan. 1.1 refers to a siege of Jerusalem by 'Nebuchadnezzar king
of Babylon' and the captivity of some of the people in the 3rd year of
Jehoiakim. Only on a Tishri reckoning of Jehoiakim's regnal years can
a siege by Nebuchadrezzar have occurred in Jehoiakim's 3rd year (see
Table).
Some kind of an attack upon Jerusalem during the reign of Jehoiakim
is demanded by the evidence of 2 Chron. 36.6-7, which recounts that
Nebuchadrezzar took Jehoiakim in fetters to Babylon, and also carried
off some of the temple vessels. This cannot have happened at the time
of the siege of Jerusalem in early 597 BCE, since Jehoiakim died on
December 7, 598, just before the Babylonian troops set out for
Jerusalem.42 So if the biblical Chronicles tradition is sound, it is reasonable to suppose that at some time during his reign 'Jehoiakim took
part of the temple treasure [to Babylon] as a qatre-offering or as biltu
('tribute') to buy off the Babylonians'.43 2 Kgs 24.1, 'Nebuchadnezzar
41. 2 Esd. 1.1 (cf. R.H. Charles [ed.], The Apocrypha and Pseudepigrapha of
the Old Testament, with Introductions and Critical and Explanatory Notes to the
Several Books [Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1913], II, p. 561).
42. Wiseman, Chronicles, p. 33.
43. D.J. Wiseman, 'Some Historical Problems in the Book of Daniel', in D.J.
Wiseman et al., Notes on Some Problems in the Book of Daniel (London: Tyndale
Press, 1965), pp. 9-18 (18).
409
came up, and Jehoiakim became his servant three years', may in turn be
related to the same circumstances.
Now the Babylonian Chronicle makes no mention of a siege of
Jerusalem before 598-597 BCE, but it may reasonably be asked whether
such a siege could be fitted into the record of Nebuchadrezzar's campaigns in about the 3rd year of Jehoiakim.
Several dates have been suggested for such a siege of Jerusalem:
(a) In Nebuchadrezzar's first year, in Dec. 604-Jan. 603, between the
sack of Ashkelon in Kislev (Dec.) 604 and Nebuchadrezzar's return to
Babylon in Sebat (Feb.) 603.44 If this was Jehoiakim's initial act of
submission to the Babylonians, the three years of his vassaldom (2 Kgs
24.1) will have run until Kislev 601 (Nebuchadrezzar's 4th year). That
is exactly the date of the near-defeat inflicted by the Egyptians upon the
Babylonians45a setback severe enough to keep Nebuchadrezzar at
home the next year (his 5th), 'gathering together his horses and chariots
in great numbers'.46 The apparent turning of the tide in favour of the
Egyptians will then explain why at this moment Jehoiakim 'rebelled
against' Nebuchadrezzar (2 Kgs 24.1).47
The objection to this view is that on no system of reckoning does
Dec. 604-Jan. 603 fall in Jehoiakim's 3rd year.
(b) In Nebuchadrezzar's 2nd year when, it is said, he set out for the
Hatti-land with a 'powerful army' for a campaign in which he
employed 'great siege-towers'.48 The lacuna in the Chronicle of this
year's events 'most likely contained a report of specific conquests, parallel to that for the campaign to Ashkelon in his first year. This may
well have been the conquest of Jerusalem, and its date would then fall
during the autumn or winter of 603 BCE.'49 Such a date corresponds
44. So Vogt, 'Nova chronica babylonica', p. 395; Malamat, 'A New Record of
Nebuchadrezzar's Palestinian Campaigns', p. 251. The relevant passage in the
Babylonian Chronicle is BM 21946, Obv. 18-20 (Wiseman, Chronicles, pp. 68-69).
45. Cf. Freedman, The Babylonian Chronicle', p. 54.
46. BM 21946, Rev. 8 (Wiseman, Chronicles, pp. 68-69).
47. Cf. J.P. Hyatt, 'New Light on Nebuchadrezzar and Judaean History', JBL
75 (1956), pp. 277-84 (280).
48. BM 21946, Obv. 21-23 (Wiseman, Chronicles, pp. 70-71).
49. Malamat, The Last Kings of Judah and the Fall of Jerusalem', p. 142, hav
ing abandoned his previous suggestion (n. 44 above). Vogt also changed his mind
in favour of Nebuchadrezzar's 2nd year ('Die Jahre der Konige von Juda und
Israel', pp. 345-46). A similar conclusion was reached before the publication of the
Babylonian Chronicle, by J.T. Nelis, 'Note sur la date de la sujetion de Joiaqim par
410
411
412
413
Jeremiah's speech must be dated only two months or less after a successful siege by Nebuchadrezzar. Yet in it Jeremiah makes no allusion
to that catastrophic event of a few weeks earlier, nor to the king who
must have been at this time still absent in Babylon whither he 'may
have been personally required to go... to take part in the victory celebrations as a conquered and vassal king'66 (in fetters, if 2 Chron. 36.6 is
relevant here; and cf. Manasseh, 2 Chron. 33.11). Rather, Jeremiah
speaks as if Jerusalem's encounter with Nebuchadrezzar lies still in the
future (cf. 25.8-9 especially). We may conclude that although the
speech fits well into the months after Carchemish when Judah was
growing complacent again, it would be a rather anomalous speech had
Carchemish been swiftly followed by such a siege as that depicted in
Dan. l.l. 67
(iv) Likewise, if the '5th year of Jehoiakim' (Jer. 36.9) is reckoned
on a non-accession-year system (with Tishri new year), the reading of
Baruch's scroll at the fast of the ninth month would have taken place in
Kislev (Dec.) 605, less than 6 months after the siege of Jerusalem
referred to in Dan. 1.1. Again, the narrative (Jer. 36) does not read as if
such events had just taken place; the 'word of the Lord' to Jeremiah
after Jehoiakim's burning of the scroll (36.28-31) makes no allusion to
any recent humiliation of the king at the hands of the Babylonians, but,
like ch. 25, speaks as if Jehoiakim has yet to encounter Nebuchadrezzar.
(v) Further, it may be urged that the dates in Daniel are not self-consistent, and that it is not worth attempting to justify the date in Dan. 1.1.
If Daniel was taken to Babylon c. June-July 605, and immediately
began his three-year education (1.5), he cannot have completed his
education before the end of the '2nd year of Nebuchadnezzar' (ended 9
April, 602) in which the king had his dream (2.1) and Daniel, already
graduated (1.18-20), gave its interpretation. This conclusion could be
under 1.1 [a] above) and that Judah was still using a Tishri calendar (see Table).
66. Wiseman, in Notes on Daniel, p. 18. It is not, however, quite clear in Dan.
1.1 whether Jehoiakim himself, or only the temple booty, was transported to
Babylon at this time (as Wiseman notes, p. 18 n. 58).
67. This argument is of course cogent only to the extent to which an essentially
authentic content of the Jer. 25 speech is allowed; for a more negative view, cf.,
e.g., E.W. Nicholson, Preaching to the Exiles: A Study of the Prose Tradition in the
Book of Jeremiah (Oxford: Blackwell, 1970); Auerbach, 'Der Wechsel des JahresAnfangs in Juda', p. 115.
414
avoided only if it were maintained that the 'three years' of 1.15 are
counted inclusively; but against that must be set the evidence for a
fixed period of 3 full years' education, at least in the Persian court.68
The conclusion of our discussion of this point is this: Dan. 1.1 is the
only piece of biblical data that demands a Tishri reckoning of regnal
years. But there are several difficulties and implausibilities involved in
the acceptance of Dan. 1.1 at face value. Hence, while the event mentioned in Dan. 1.1 may be authenticated by other biblical references, the
date given must be viewed with reserve.
2. Arguments for a Spring New Year
The arguments in favour of a spring (that is, Nisan) new year in Judah
at this time69 are these:
1. The battle of Carchemish is said in Jer. 46.2 to have taken place in
the 4th year of Jehoiakim. The Babylonian Chronicle shows that the
battle occurred before the death of Nabopolassar on Ab 8, which can be
synchronized with Jehoiakim's 4th year only on a Nisan reckoning70
(see Table). On a Tishri new year basis the date in Jer. 46.2 must be
corrected to 'third year of Jehoiakim'.71
The only means of evading this conclusion are: (a) To suppose that a
non-accession reckoning is employed in Jer. 46.2. But the improbability
68. See James A. Montgomery, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the
Book of Daniel (ICC; Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1927), p. 122.
69. In addition to those listed above in notes 2 and 5, advocates of a Nisan system of reckoning at this time include: W.F. Albright, The Nebuchadnezzar and
Neriglissar Chronicles', pp. 28-33; Freedman, 'The Babylonian Chronicle', p. 53
n. 13 (in his 'Old Testament Chronology', in The Bible and the Ancient Near East:
Essays in Honour of William Foxwell Albright [ed. G. Ernest Wright; London:
Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1961], pp. 203-14 [208-209, 212-13], he is not so certain
of a Nisan system); Tadmor, 'Chronology of the Last Kings of Judah', pp. 226-30;
Noth, 'Die Einnahme von Jerusalem', p. 150; S. Talmon, VT 8 (1958), p. 65;
C. Schedl, 'Nochmals das Jahr der Zerstorung Jerusalems, 587 oder 586 v. Chr.'
70. So already Noth, 'Die Einnahme von Jerusalem', pp. 151-52. The cogency
of this argument is acknowledged by Thiele, 'New Evidence on the Chronology of
the Last Years of Judah', p. 24, who is unable to explain this date on a Tishri reckoning. His earlier view, that Carchemish occurred in 604 (Mysterious Numbers,
pp. 160-61), is of course abandoned by him in the light of the Babylonian Chronicle
(BASOR 132, p. 24 n. 3; Mysterious Numbers, 2nd edn, pp. 161, 163).
71. So, e.g., Malamat, 'A New Record of Nebuchadrezzar's Palestinian Campaigns', p. 250; 'The Last Kings of Judah and the Fall of Jerusalem', p. 147 n. 21.
415
of this supposition has been pointed out above (under 1.3). (b) To
suppose that Jehoiakim ascended the throne before Tishri 1, 609 BCE.
But this view, when all the data are considered, rather supports a Nisan
new year (see below, under 2.2). Or (c) to suppose that the date 'in the
4th year' belongs to the prophecy and not to the battle.72 But this entails
the postulation of a very large parenthesis in the text, contrary to the
plain sense.73
Jer. 46.2 provides in fact the clearest piece of chronological data
relevant to this period, and its witness to a Nisan system of reckoning
can hardly be challenged.
2. Examination of the date of Jehoiakim's accession to the throne
makes it more likely than not that his regnal years were reckoned from
Nisan, not Tishri. Most scholars agree that Jehoiakim came to the
throne afterTishri 1, 609; if so, the eleven years of his reign (2 Kgs
23.36; 2 Chron. 36.5), which ended on Marheswan 22 (December 7),
598,74 may have been reckoned either on a Tishri or a Nisan basis.75
But if it can be shown to be likely that he ascended the throne before
Tishri 1, 609,76 he reigned 11 years only on a Nisan reckoning (it would
have been 12 on a Tishri reckoning).
72. So Horn, 'The Babylonian Chronicle and the Ancient Calendar of the Kingdom of Judah', p. 25 n. 33, punctuating Jer. 46.1-2 thus: 'The word of Yahweh
which came to Jeremiah the prophet, against the nations; about Egypt: against the
army of Pharaoh Neco, king of Egypt (which had been at the river Euphrates at
Carchemish and which Nebuchadrezzar king of Babylon had defeated) in the fourth
year of Jehoiakim the son of Josiah, king of Judah'. This interpretation was already
suggested by B. Alfrink, 'Die Gadd'sche Chronik und die Heilige Schrift', Bib 8
(1927), pp. 385-417 (398-99) (not mentioned by Horn).
73. Malamat believes that this suggestion has 'possibly overcome' ('The Last
Kings of Judah and the Fall of Jerusalem', p. 147 n. 21) the difficulty of Jer. 46.2
for a Tishri system.
74. Wiseman, Chronicles, p. 33.
75. Malamat, 'The Last Kings of Judah and the Fall of Jerusalem', p. 141,
rightly notes that Jehoiakim's accession after Tishri 1, 609 BCE is essential to his
system based on a Tishri new year.
76. So Noth, 'Die Einnahme von Jerusalem', p. 151, with brief argumentation;
Pavlovsky and Vogt, 'Die Jahre der Konige von Juda und Israel', p. 346, and
Kutsch, 'Zur Chronologic der letzen judaischen Konige (Josia bis Zedekia)',
p. 272, without discussion. Similarly Auerbach, 'Der Wechsel des Jahres-Anfangs
in Juda', p. 119; 'Die Umschaltung vom judaischen auf den babylonischen Kalendar', pp. 69-70, though according to him Marheswan 1 is the crucial date, and the
implication of a pre-Marheswan date is evaded by his theory of calendar change.
416
77. I assume, as do most, that it was the same Egyptian force under Neco that
defeated Josiah and that crossed the Euphrates. Horn ('The Babylonian Chronicle
and the Ancient Calendar of the Kingdom of Judah', pp. 19-20) alone speculates
that Neco was unable to reach his contingents permanently stationed at Carchemish
before the Haran campaign began, and even that 'the late arrival of Neco and his
army was the reason for the failure of the campaign against Haran'.
78. Wiseman, Chronicles, pp. 62-63.
417
418
Death of Josiah
Egyptian march
Crossing Euphrates
Accession of Jehoiakim
8 June
4 wks
8 July
8 September
3
mo
Now September 8, 609 BCE is a fortnight earlier than Tishri 1 (September 21). The significance of using a mean figure is that it shows that
an accession of Jehoiakim beforeTishri 1 is more likely than not on the
basis of our available evidence.86 The reign of Jehoahaz need only have
ery [London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 1963], pp. 236-37).
84. Cf. F.E. Adcock, The Greek and Macedonian Art of War (Sather Classical
Lectures, 30; Berkeley: University of California Press, 1957), p. 78. An Assyrian
example of a surprise attack which followed a night march of 6 beru (c. 60 km, 37j
miles) by Ashurbanipal is plainly an exception; it presumably did not require the
moving of any baggage (ANET, p. 299b; ARAB, II, 825). The 50 beru travelled in
one day by Gilgamesh and the boatman Urshanabi (Gilgamesh 11.301-302; ANET,
p. 97a), is of course an element of saga.
85. Horn, The Babylonian Chronicle and the Ancient Calendar of the Kingdom
of Judah', p. 18, similarly thinks the distance from Megiddo to Carchemish must
have taken the Egyptian army nearly a month.
86. Even Malamat, for whose chronology it is indispensable to date No. 4 after
Tishri 1, will allow that the death of Josiah occurred 'sometime between early
Sivan and early Tammuz' (The Last Kings of Judah and the Fall of Jerusalem',
p. 139), which actually makes the accession of Jehoiakim before Tishri 1 more
likely than not. There is no evidence for supposing, as does Malamat (p. 141),
significant time-lapses between the reigns of Josiah and Jehoahaz, and between
those of Jehoahaz and Jehoiakim.
419
lasted 3 months and 1 week and the crossing of the Euphrates have
taken place a week later in Tammuz, for the tables to be turned; but the
likelihood of these being the case is no greater than that of the opposite
possibilities: Jehoahaz may have reigned less than 3 months, the
Euphrates may have been crossed earlier in Tammuz.
The point may be put another way: if Jehoiakim ascended the throne
afterTishri 1, as is generally thought to have been the case, Jehoahaz
more probably than not ascended the throne after Tammuz 1, 3 months
earlier. Therefore the Egyptian army must have arrived at the Euphrates
in the same month (Tammuz) in which they fought Josiah at Megiddo.
That seems, in the light of the foregoing discussion, to be rather
unlikely; equally unlikely therefore is the original hypothesis, that
Jehoiakim ascended the throne after Tishri 1.
If Jehoiakim's accession occurred before Tishri 1, 609, how is a
Tishri new year hypothesis affected? On an accession-year system, the
weeks between his accession and Tishri 1 would count as his accession
year, and his year 1 would run from Tishri 1, 609. Thus, by the time of
his death in Marheswan 598, he would be in his 12th regnal year, a
conflict with the '11 years' of 2 Kgs 23.36 and 2 Chron. 36.5.87 On a
non-accession-year system (improbable in Judah at this time in any
case),88 he would die in his 13th regnal year!
On the other hand, a Nisan new year reckoning would create no
conflict with the biblical data:89 Jehoiakim's year 1 (accession-year
reckoning) would begin on Nisan 1, 608, Carchemish would occur in
his 4th year (Jer. 46.2) = Nebuchadrezzar's 4th (605 BCE), and
Jehoiakim would die in his 11th regnal year (late 598 BCE).
This argument does not provide conclusive evidence for a Nisan new
87. The only way of evading this conclusion is to make the further supposition
that at some point in the reign of Jehoiakim the calendar reckoning was changed
from a year beginning with Tishri to one beginning with Nisan (so Auerbach, 'Der
Wechsel des Jahres-Anfangs in Juda', pp. 118-20; Pavlovsk^ and Vogt, 'Die Jahre
der Konige von Juda und Israel', p. 346, arguing that Jehoiakim's 4th year began in
Tishri 604, his 7th in Nisan 602). There seems, however, to be no compelling
reason why a change of calendar would necessitate one year of 18 months (17 on
Auerbach's reckoning) rather than of 6 months (as, for example, postulated by
Andersen, ST23 [1969], pp. 108-109, for a calendar change in 697/6 BCE). Cf. also
the criticisms of Jepsen, Untersuchungen, p. 28.
88. See above, under 1.3.
89. Except for Dan. 1.1, a problem in its own right that is discussed above
(under 1.3).
420
APPENDIX
Esarhaddon's army in an Egyptian campaign marched (they were not mounted on
camels, as A.T. Olmstead, History of Assyria [New York: C. Scribner's Sons,
1923], p. 382, thought!) 20 beru in 15 days, 4 beru in 2 days (3 times), 15 beru in 8
days (ANET, p. 292b = ARAB, II, 558). A beru is 'over 10 kms' (CAD, B, p. 208),
or more precisely, according to F. Thureau-Dangin, JA (10th series) 13 (1909),
p. 98 (cf. E. Weidner, AfO 16 [1952-53], p. 20 n. 138), 10.692 km. Thutmosis m's
army in Palestine is reckoned to have marched 'at the respectable rate of 150 miles
in 9 or 10 days' and about 80 miles in 11 or 12 days (J.A. Wilson, ANET, p. 235
nn. 16, 18). Rameses II marched the 400 miles from Sile on the Egyptian frontier to
Kadesh on the Orontes in exactly one month (ANET, pp. 255b-256a), that is, at the
rate of 13.5 miles a day. See on the subject of the rate of march of Egyptian armies,
E. Edel, 'Die Stelen Amenophis' II aus Karnak und Memphis mit dem Bericht tiber
die asiatischen Feldzuge des Konigs', ZDPV69(1953), pp. 97-176 (152-53).
In Old Babylonian times a daily rate of travel of 25-30 km (as the crow flies) is
attested, for example, in the Larsa-Emar itinerary; cf. W.W. Hallo, The Road to
Emar', JCS 18 (1964), pp. 57-88 (63, 66, 72, 75, 77). But this figure does not take
rest days into account, some of the journey appears to have been made by boat (cf.
p. 69), and above all it is most unlikely that this itinerary relates to the large-scale
movement of troops, since only one night was spent at the final destination (Emar)
421
before the homeward journey was begun (cf. p. 85). An army would do remarkably
well, judging by this standard, to march an average of 20 km a day, rest days
included.
Another set of data, relating to the Babylonian advance to Jerusalem in 598/7
BCE, offers the possibility of a rough calculation of the rate of march, though the
data are not precise enough to be really helpful. Malamat calculates that the army
covered the 1600 km (c. 1000 miles) from Babylon in about two months at an average daily rate of 30 km (18.6 miles) 'during the short and rainy winter days' (IEJ
18 [1968], p. 144; similarly Noth, ZDPV 74 [1958], p. 137). We know that the
army was mustered and set out in Kislev (18 Dec. 598-15 Jan. 597), and that its
siege of Jerusalem ended on Adar 2(16 March), 597. If we make two quite plausible assumptions, that they set out early in Kislev and that the siege of Jerusalem
lasted only a few days (so Malamat; cf. Noth, ZDPV 74 [1958], p. 138), they had
nearly three months for the journey and so need not have covered more than 12
miles a day. But it is in fact impossible to determine whether this speed or that
given by Malamat is closer to the reality. Certainly it seems unlikely that the march
could have been accomplished in a month (so Wiseman, Chronicles, p. 33), at a
rate of 33 miles a day, or even in six weeks (Vogt, VTS 4 [1957], p. 93) at a rate of
24 miles a day. Any calculations are further complicated by the possibility that
Nebuchadrezzar's troops were marched not from Babylon but from some garrison
town near the borders of Hatti-land (cf. Noth, ZDPV 14 [1958], p. 137).
It has been calculated that Roman armies marched between 14.6 and 19.5 miles a
day; but since a day of rest followed each two or three days of marching, an average of more than 15 miles a day over some weeks would have been exceptional
(see Harry Pratt Judson, Caesar's Army: A Study of the Military Art of the Romans
in the Last Days of the Republic [Boston: Ginn, 1902], pp. 52-53). It is true that the
Roman army spent a great part of the day in constructing a camp, a practice that
was perhaps not taken to such lengths during the route marches of ancient Near
Eastern infantry, but against this waste of time must be set the fact that Roman
soldiers covered their daily itinera on roads built especially for marching.
Synchronistic Table
II
I
I
I
IV
VI
VII
VIII
JULIAN
BABYLONIAN
BABYLONIAN in WEST
JUDAEAN
JUDAEAN
JUDAEAN
JUDAEAN
JUDAEAN
January
Nisan
Nisan
Tishri
Tishri - Nisan
Nisan
Nisan
Wiseman
Albright
Malamat
Auerbach
Pavlovsky- Vogt
Tadmor
Noth, Kutsch,
Jepsen
Josiah
609
Nabopolassar 17 Nabopolassar
17
Jeh'baTiaz
Jehoiakim
31 Josiah
0 Jeh'oahaz
i Teh'b'TaKim
0
31 Josiah
0 Jehoahaz
0' Te'hoTaKirn
608
607
606
20
Jehoiakim 0 Jehoiakim
/i
d(J
Nebuchad.
0
3
21
0
31
0
19
19
Nebuchad.
Josiah
31 Josiah
0 Jehoahaz 0 Jehoahaz
0
lo
18
605
31
I
JULIAN
January
II
I
I
I
IV
VI
VII
VIII
BABYLONIAN
BABYLONIAN in WEST
JUDAEAN
JUDAEAN
JUDAEAN
JUDAEAN
JUDAEAN
Nisan
Nisan
Tishri
Nisan
Wiseman
Albright
Malamat
Auerbach
Pavlovsky- Vogt
Tadmor
Nebuchad.
0 Nebuchad.
0 Jehoiakim
4 Jehoiakim
Jehoiakim
Jehoiakim
Nisan
Noth, Kutsch,
Jepsen
4 Jehoiakim
604
1
2
5
603
2
3
6
602
3
10
10
10
10
601
4
5
8
600
5
6
9
599
6
10
I
JULIAN
January
598
II
I
I
I
IV
VI
VII
VIII
BABYLONIAN
BABYLONIAN in WEST
JUDAEAN
JUDAEAN
JUDAEAN
JUDAEAN
JUDAEAN
Nisan
Nisan
Tishri
Nisan
Nisan
Wiseman
Albright
Malamat
Auerbach
Pavlovsky- Vogt
Tadmor
Noth, Kutsch,
Jepsen
Nebuch.
7 Nebuch.
8 Jehoiakim 10 Jehoiakim
597
11 Jehoiakim
11 Jehoiakin 11 Jehoiakin
11
0
0
Jehoiachin
11
0 Jehoiachin
0 Jehoiachin
Jehoiakin
0 Jehoiachin 0 Zedekiah
Zedekiah
0 Zedekiah
i
0 Zedekiah
i
0 Zedekiah
i
0
1
9
1
596
10
595
10
11
3
594
11
12
4
593
12
13
I
JULIAN
January
592
I
I
I
I
I
IV
VI
VII
VIII
BABYLONIAN
BABYLONIAN in WEST
JUDAEAN
JUDAEAN
JUDAEAN
JUDAEAN
JUDAEAN
Nisan
Nisan
Tishri
Nisan
Wiseman
Albright
Malamat
Auerbach
Pavlovsky- Vogt
Tadmor
Nebuchad.
13 Nebuchad.
14 Zedekiah
5 Zedekiah
Nisan
5 Zedekiah
Noth, Kutsch,
Jepsen
5 Zedekiah
10
10
10
10
11
11
11
11
5 Zedekiah
591
14
15
7
590
15
16
8
589
16
17
9
588
17
18
10
587
18
19
11
586
19
20
21
NEW YEAR
New Year is taken to mean here both New Year's day and the season of
New Year. The date of New Year in Israel naturally depended on the
calendar employed from time to time. It is clear that in postbiblical
times a festival of New Year was in existence; the character of that festival is well attested in the rabbinic sources. But the nature and even the
existence of such a festival in pre-exilic times remains hypothetical.
1. In the Ancient Near East
Most Near Eastern civilizations observed New Year celebrations.
a. Babylonia
In Babylon a New Year festival (the Akitu festival) was celebrated in
the spring, on Nisan 1-11. A ritual text for days 2-4 survives (ANET,
pp. 331-34), but it is not comprehensive since it concerns only the role
of the leading priest. Moreover it is not always reliable evidence for
Babylonian practice of Israelite times, since it comes from the Seleucid
period (third and second centuries BCE). However, from it and other
references to the festival, we know that the celebration included the
following: recitation of the Babylonian Creation Epic to the statue of
Marduk; purification of the temple; ceremony of renewal of the king's
authorityincluding a ritual humiliation of the king; procession to the
Akitu house outside the city; probably a ritual drama there depicting
Marduk's primordial victory over Tiamat, the chaos monster; upon
return to the city, a ritual marriage (hieros gamos) of Marduk in the
temple Esagila. It is doubtful that the king played the role of the god in
these ceremonies, as is sometimes claimed, and it is almost certainly
incorrect that the festival included a celebration of Marduk's death and
Originally published in The Interpreter's Dictionary of the Bible. Supplementary
Volume (ed. K. Crim et a/.; Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1976), pp. 625-29, and
reprinted with permission.
427
428
ond month of his fourth year and completed in the eighth month of his
eleventh year (1 Kgs 6.1, 37-38), but 1 Kgs 6.38 also says that he spent
seven years in building it. If the usual inclusive manner of counting is
employedwhereby the fractions of years at beginning and end are
counted as full years'seven years' makes sense only if his regnal
years were reckoned from Tishri, the seventh month, while the years
during which the work was carried out were reckoned from Nisan.
However, it seems that the 'seven years' are not inclusive, since they
form part of a total of Solomon's reign (see 1 Kgs 9.10; 11.42), and inclusive reckoning is not employed when adding figures. Moreover, the
'seven years' may be a schematic and symbolic figure.
(b) In the account of Josiah's reforms (2 Kgs 22-23), the discovery
of the book of the law occurred 'in the eighteenth year' of Josiah
(22.3), while the Passover that concluded his reforms also occurred 'in
the eighteenth year' (23.23). On Nisan reckoning, all the events of these
chapters must have occurred in the improbably short time of two
weeks; a Tishri reckoning allows six months. Yet it is clear from
2 Chronicles 34 that not all the events of 2 Kings 22-23 occurred in the
eighteenth year, and again the figures seem to be too schematic for sure
chronological inferences to be drawn.
(c) Jeremiah wrote prophecies in a scroll in the fourth year of
Jehoiakim, and had them read in the temple in the fifth year, in the
ninth month (Jer. 36.1, 9). Clearly the months are numbered from the
spring, for the ninth month is wintry (cf. 36.22). But if the regnal year
was reckoned from the spring, Jeremiah must have waited at least nine
months for the public reading of his scroll. It might seem more likely
that a Tishri reckoning was in force, involving an interval of only three
months. But even so, why did Baruch not read the scroll on the fast day
in the seventh month? If a three-month interval is hard to explain, a
nine-month interval is perhaps no less likely.
ii. The Agricultural and Religious New Year, (a) The autumn Festival
of Ingathering occurred, according to the ancient festival calendars, at
the 'going out' (nK2i).or the 'turn' (naipH) of the year (Exod. 23.16;
34.22). Whether these terms signify not only that the agricultural year
ended with the last harvest festival but also that the next year began
immediately thereafter, as is usually assumed, is open to question. For
the correlative of the 'going out' of the year is the 'return' (rmttfn) of
the year in the spring (2 Sam. 11.1; 1 Kgs 20.22, 26; 1 Chron. 20.1),
and the 'turn' of the year probably means simply the transition from
429
summer to winter, for it is used also for the vernal transition from winter to summer (2 Chron. 36.10).
(b) The Gezer calendar, which lists the chief agricultural activities of
the year, begins in the autumn. But it is noteworthy that it begins with
two months of 'ingathering', which is the final element in the Israelite
festival calendars (Exod. 23.14-17; 34.18-23). So if the Gezer calendar
represents the beginning of the agricultural year, it is out of step with
the Israelite religious year. It is more probable, however, that the Gezer
calendar, written rather crudely as it is, has no normative status for
establishing the time of the year Israelite peasants regarded as the
beginning of the year.
(c) The festival calendars (Exod. 23.14-17; 34.18-23) stress that the
Festival of Unleavened Bread is to be kept in the month Abib (later
called Nisan). It is hard to see why the month of observance should be
mentioned in the case of this festival alone unless the month has some
special significance, for example, as the first month. Exod. 12.2, indeed,
specifically requires Israel to count Abib as the first month of the year,
but many scholars regard this passage as postexilic and therefore of no
evidential value for the pre-exilic period. Others believe that premonarchic Israel observed a spring New Year. What is clear, however,
is that the festival calendars enumerate three chief festivals beginning
in the spring, which would be strange if pre-exilic Israel usually began
its religious New Year at the time of the autumn festival. But because
the current view is that Israel reckoned at least its religious New Year
from the autumn, it is now necessary to examine the evidence for that
view.
b. A New Year's Day?
Tishri 1, the first day of the 'seventh' monthmonths always being
numbered from the springis often thought to have been regarded as
New Year's day in pre-exilic Israel, as it was in postbiblical times.
Though the first day of every month, the New Moon day, was a religious festival (cf. Hos. 2.11 [Heb. 13]; Amos 8.5), the first day of the
seventh month was observed with more impressive ritual (Lev. 23.2325; Num. 29.1-6). Work was forbidden, a cultic assembly was held, and
sacrifices additional to those prescribed for the other new moon days
were offered. These Priestly texts probably embody pre-exilic practice,
though many scholars still believe they were first reduced to writing in
the exilic or postexilic period. But there is no suggestion that the sig-
430
nificance of this day lay in its being the New Year's day; it was rather
that it introduced the month of two most solemn observations, the day
of Atonement on the tenth, and the Festival of Tabernacles on the
fifteenth to the twenty-first or twenty-second.
Tishri 1 was also the date of Ezra's reading of the Law (Neh. 8.2),
but since that was a unique occasion, it is somewhat speculative to infer
that the day was chosen because it was New Year's day.
The term 'beginning of the year' (H]^n (27N~1) occurs only in Ezek.
40.1, where it probably designates not New Year's day, but the season
of the year. Comparison of the chronology with the Babylonian
Chronicles shows that a spring date is here intended.
c. A New Year Festivall
If no New Year's day is attested, may there have been celebrations for
the season of New Year? Those who have identified a New Year festival in pre-exilic Israel have by no means claimed that they had discovered a hitherto unknown festival additional to the well-attested festivals
of the liturgical yearPassover, Weeks, and Booths. They have rather
insisted that the New Year celebrations are only one aspect (albeit, for
most scholars of this opinion, the most important aspect) of the regular
autumn Festival of Ingathering, or, in one or two opinions, of the spring
Festival of Passover. They are therefore freed of the necessity of
demonstrating the existence of the festival; they have only to show that
the rituals and ideology of the festival signify that it bore the character
of New Year celebrations. Here the New Year rituals of the ancient
Near East are given greater or less weight by different scholars, and the
degree to which an Israelite festival may have modified non-Israelite
practices is variously assessed. An Israelite New Year festival has been
understood in various ways.
i. A Festival of Yahweh's Enthronement. This view, propounded
principally by Mowinckel and accepted in many circles of biblical
scholarship, holds that the New Year festival was primarily a celebration of an enthronement of Yahweh. Many of the Psalms, especially
those concerned specifically with Yahweh's kingship (e.g. Pss. 47, 93,
96, 97, 99), are assigned to the liturgy of this festival. The frequent
phrase "J^Q miT in these psalms would mean: 'Yahweh has become
king' (in the cultic ritual just performed). This need not mean that
Yahweh ever ceased to be king; indeed Ps. 93.2 affirms that the kingship that Yahweh has just now entered upon has been his 'from of old'.
431
432
Yahweh, and not Baal nor even the human king, who fully deserves
that title.
ii. A Typical Near Eastern New Year Festival. This view, not so
influential as that previously mentioned, is associated chiefly with
adherents of the myth and ritual school (e.g. Engnell and Hooke). They
believed it possible to identify traces in the Old Testament of a New
Year festival identical in many respects to those of the rest of the
ancient Near East. In addition to the elements of the re-enthronement of
Yahweh and the ritual battle, the liturgy of the festival will have
included: a period of chaos in which law and order are abolished and
roles are reversed, with the king being humiliated and deposed and the
god depicted as descending into the underworld; the cultic portrayal of
the god in his death and resurrection by the king; a celebration of the
hieros gamos, 'sacred marriage', by the king and his consort, symbolizing and creating fertility and prosperity; the fixing of the destinies for
the ensuing year; and the recitation of creation myths as a means of
ensuring the renewal of creation. A variant upon this view portrays the
king in the role of the resurrected sun-god on New Year's day, the
autumn equinox.
Two principal objections can be raised against this hypothesis:
(a) The ritual pattern it invokes is much more fragmentary than has
been claimed. Recent studies in Near Eastern religions emphasize the
differences in ritual and belief between cultures, and the scarcity of
information about the rituals and especially about their significance.
Hence there is no fixed Near Eastern pattern from which gaps in our
knowledge about Israelite religion can be filled. The question remains
whether New Year observances in the Near East exhibit sufficient unity
to enable us to reconstruct such observances in Israelwhen little
specific Old Testament evidence exists.
(b) The relation between mythological texts and rituals is complex.
Myth is not simply the spoken accompaniment of ritual. Near Eastern
myths are often essentially literary productions, with only distant connections to particular ritual acts. Even when they were recited during a
ritualas was the case with the Babylonian Creation Epicthe ritual
activities cannot be safely reconstructed from the myths. Equally hazardous are inferences about Israelite festivals based on Old Testament
Psalm texts.
iii. An Agricultural New Year Festival. The autumn festival, whatever else it was, was primarily a harvest festival. In the earliest Old
433
434
General
Frankfort, H., The Problem of Similarity in Ancient Near Eastern Religions (The
Frazer Lecture, 1950; Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1951).
Gaster, T.H., Thespis: Ritual, Myth and Drama in the Ancient Near East (New
York: Harper & Row, rev. edn, 1961).
Hooke, S.H. (ed.), Myth and Ritual: Essays on the Myth and Ritual of the Hebrews
in Relation to the Culture Pattern of the Ancient East (London: Oxford University Press, 1933).
The Origins of Early Semitic Ritual (The Schweich Lectures, 1935; London:
Oxford University Press, 1938).
In Israel
Gazelles, H., 'Nouvel an (fete du). IV. Le nouvel an en Israel', DBSup, VI (1960),
cols. 620-45.
Engnell, I., A Rigid Scrutiny: Critical Essays on the Old Testament (trans. John T.
Willis and Helmer Ringgren; Nashville: Vanderbilt University Press, 1969),
pp. 180-84.
Mowinckel, Sigmund, Psalmenstudien, II (Videnskapsselskapets Skrifter, 2; Kristiania: J. Dybwad, 1922).
The Psalms in Israel's Worship (trans. D.R. Ap-Thomas; Oxford: Blackwell,
1962), I, ch. 5.
Johnson, Aubrey R., Sacral Kingship in Ancient Israel (Cardiff: Wales University
Press, 2nd edn, 1967).
Ringgren, H., Israelite Religion (trans. David Green; London: SPCK, 1966), pp.
185-200.
Schmidt, H., Die Thronfahrt Jahves am Fest der Jahreswende im alten Israel
(Tubingen: J.C.B. Mohr [Paul Siebeck], 1927).
Snaith, Norman H., The Jewish New Year Festival: Its Origins and Development
(London: SPCK, 1947).
Volz, Paul, Das Neujahrsfest Jahwes; Laubhiittenfest (Tubingen: J.C.B. Mohr,
1912).
Widengren, George, Sakrales Konigtum im Alten Testament und im Judentum
(Stuttgart: W. Kohlhammer, 1955), esp. pp. 62-79.
Less sympathetic to the autumn New Year
Fohrer, Georg, History of Israelite Religion (trans. David E. Green; Nashville:
Abingdon Press, 1972), pp. 142-45.
Kraus, H.-J., Worship in Israel: A Cultic History of the Old Testament (Oxford:
Blackwell, 1966), pp. 61-68.
Segal, J.B., The Hebrew Passover: From the Earliest Times to AD 70 (London
Oriental Series, 12; London: Oxford University Press, 1963).
Vaux, Roland de, Ancient Israel: Its Life and Institutions (trans. John McHugh;
London: Darton, Longman & Todd, 1961), pp. 502-506.
435
Date
Clines, David J.A., The Evidence for an Autumnal New Year in Pre-exilic Israel
Reconsidered', JBL 93 (1974), pp. 22-40.
'Regnal Year Reckoning in the Last Years of the Kingdom of Judah', AJBA 2
(1972), pp. 9-34.
Finegan, Jack, Handbook of Biblical Chronology: Principles of Time Reckoning in
the Ancient World and Problems of Chronology in the Bible (Princeton, NJ:
Princeton University Press, 1964), pp. 33-37.
Thiele, Edwin R., The Mysterious Numbers of the Hebrew Kings (Grand Rapids:
Eerdmans, rev. edn, 1965).
In Judaism
Jacobs, L., 'Rosh Ha-Shanah', EncJud, XIV (1971), cols. 305-10.
Michel, A., 'Nouvel an (fete du), III. Dans le Judaisme', DBSup, VI (1960), cols.
597-620.
Mishnah, Tractate Rosh Hashanah.
In the Ancient Near East
Drioton, E., and R. Largement, 'Nouvel an (fete du). I. Dans 1'Egypte ancienne. II.
Dans la religion sumero-akkadienne', DBSup, VI (1960), cols. 556-97.
Falkenstein, A., 'akiti-Fest und akiti-Festhaus', in Festschrift Johannes Friedrich
zum 65. Geburtstag am 27. August 1958 gewidmet (ed. R. von Kienle et al.;
Heidelberg: C. Winter, 1959), pp. 147-82.
Lambert, W.G., 'The Great Battle of the Mesopotamian Religious Year: The
Conflict in the Akitu House', Iraq 25 (1963), pp. 189-90
Driel, G. van, The Cult ofASSur(Assen: van Gorcum, 1969), pp. 139-69.
Moor, Johannes C. de, New Year with Canaanites and Israelites, 2 vols. (Kampen
Cahiers, 21; Kampen: Kok, 1972).
Pallis, S.A., The Babylonian Akitu Festival(Dansk videns-kabernes selskab historisk-filologiske meddelelser, 12; Copenhagen: Bianco Lunos Bogtrykkeri,
1926).
Ringgren, Helmer, Religions of the Ancient Near East (Philadelphia: Westminster
Press, 1973), esp. pp. 83-89.
Thureau-Dangin, F., Les rituels accadiens (Paris: Leroux, 1921).
22
437
438
II
There is a more general question to be raised here about what constitutes historical evidence, in addition to a set of more particular historical questions.
In the first place, it appears to be necessary to insist that evidence for
a Persian official at Susa named Marduka, if that is really what we
have, is next to useless in any debate about a historical Mordecai. For if
on other grounds it seems probable that the book of Esther is a romance
tion, and Notes (AB, 7B; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1971), p. 1; Moore,
'Archaeology and the Book of Esther', in note 2 above. Perhaps we should also add
to this list Bernhard W. Anderson, who wrote of the 'revolutionary announcement'
of the Marduka text, which 'definitely administers a coup de grace to any mythological interpretation of the book' ('Esther', IB, III, pp. 821-74 [826]). But
Anderson wisely qualified his enthusiasm about Ungnad's discovery by adding, 'If
it is true', and it should be noted that his concern was not to affirm the historicity of
the book of Esther, which he regarded as a 'historical novel', but to resist the
mythological interpretation which saw the name Mordecai as a cipher for Marduk.
For Anderson, the importance of Ungnad's evidence was that it showed, for the
first time, that Mordecai could be attested extra-biblically as a human personal
name.
7. Siegfried H. Horn,'Mordecai, a Historical Problem', BibRes 9 (1964), pp.
14-25 (22).
8. Horn, 'Mordecai, a Historical Problem', p. 21.
439
440
441
other tablets. 2. Unlike many of the other tablets, it bears no date; but
judging from the persons mentioned it must come from the last years of
Darius I17 or the early years of Xerxes.18 3. Its contents are a list of
payments, both in silver and in kind, made to Persian officials and their
retainers.19 4. Among them is one Marduka, who is referred to as the
sipir of Ushtannu (line 9; in line 14 he is 'the sipir Marduka'). While
Ungnad argued that sipir meant specifically 'accountant', the term
(preferably to be written sepiru or sepiru) is agreed to have simply a
more general meaning of 'scribe' or 'administrative functionary';20 but
the matter is of little consequence for the present purpose.21 5. Ushtannu is well known as the satrap of the province of Babylon and
Beyond the River (Abar Nahara).22 6. There is a reference at the very
end of the tablet (line 26) to 'the land of Susa': 'Altogether 29 and 1/2
minas. Of which 5 minas 56 shekels the portion of Nabu-ittannu, apart
from 5 shekels of silver from the land of Susa (mat Su-Sd-an-nay.
The following assertions and inferences were made by Ungnad:
1. The Persian officials were probably in Borsippa on a tour of inspection from the palace in Susa.23 2. It is improbable that there should have
442
24. Ungnad, 'Mitteilungen', p. 219. The argument, which Moore also thinks to
be 'probably justified', and which Gordis and Yamauchi also use, leaves a lot to be
desired. For 1. it begs the question whether Mordecai was indeed an official in
Susa, or no more than a fictional character; 2. it asserts the intrinsically unprovabl
(that the existence of two Mardukas is unlikely); and 3. it distorts the evidence by
affirming that Mordecai was a 'high' official (of whom there were presumably
fewer than 'low' officials and so a lesser likelihood that there could be two Mardukas among them), though of course we have no way of telling whether Mordecai
was 'high' or 'low'even assuming that he was an official at all.
25. Ungnad, 'Neubabylonische Privaturkunden', p. 8la.
26. Otto Eissfeldt, The Old Testament: An Introduction (trans. Peter R. Ackroyd; Oxford: Blackwell, 1966), p. 508 n. 6 (= Einleitung in das Alte Testament
[Tubingen: J.C.B. Mohr, 3rd edn, 1964], p. 688 n. 1).
27. F.W. Bush, 'Mordecai', in Geoffrey Bromiley (ed.), International Standard
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Bible Encyclopaedia (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, rev. edn, 1986), III, p. 412, at least
says 'apparently...'
28. Gordis, Megillat Esther, p. 6.
29. Horn, 'Mordecai, a Historical Problem', p. 25.
30. See for details, David J.[A.] Clines, Ezra, Nehemiah, Esther (NCB; London:
Marshall, Morgan & Scott, 1984), pp. 256-61.