Mapping Galilee in Josephus, Luke, and John
Ancient Judaism and Early Christianity
Founding Editor
Martin Hengel † (Tübingen)
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Cilliers Breytenbach (Berlin) Martin Goodman (Oxford) Editorial Board
Lutz Doering (Münster) – Pieter W. van der Horst (Utrecht) Tal Ilan (Berlin) – Judith Lieu (Cambridge) Tessa Rajak (Reading/Oxford ) – Daniel R. Schwartz ( Jerusalem) Seth Schwartz (New York)
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Mapping Galilee in Josephus, Luke, and John Critical Geography and the Construction of an Ancient Space
By
John M. Vonder Bruegge
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Vonder Bruegge, John M., author. Title: Mapping Galilee in Josephus, Luke, and John : critical geography and the construction of an ancient space / by John M. Vonder Bruegge. Description: Leiden ; Boston : Brill, 2016. | Series: Ancient Judaism and early Christianity, 1871-6636 ; 93 | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identi ers: 2016019086 (print) | 2016023071 (ebook) | 9789004317321 (hardback : alk. paper) | 9789004317345 (E-book) Subjects: : Galilee (Israel)—Historical geography. | Galilee (Israel)—History. | Josephus, Flavius—Criticism and interpretation. | Bible. New Testament—Geography. Classi cation: DS110.G2 V66 2016 (print) | DS110.G2 (ebook) | 911/.3345—dc23 record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016019086
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For Heno Head and Bart Renkoski
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Contents Acknowledgments List of Figures 1 Galilee and Critical Geography: The Lay of the Land Introduction 1 Trajectory #1: Critical Geography 4 Trajectory #2: Galilee in History 11 The Point of Intersection 17 Galilee, by Way of Critical Geography 20 Mapping Galilee 29 2 Josephus’ Galilee 32 Introduction 32 Review of Scholarship
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Josephus Critical Geography 5146 Josephus’and Galilee as “Firstspace” Josephus’ Galilee as “Secondspace” 60 Josephus’ Galilee as “Thirdspace” 70 Josephus’ Galilee and Critical Geography: Implications 3 Luke’s Galilee 91 Introduction 91 Review of Scholarship 93 Luke and Critical Geography 114 Luke’s Galilee as “Imaginative Geography” 117 Luke’s Galilee and Critical Geography: Implications
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4 John’s Galilee 139 Introduction 139 Review of Scholarship 142 John and Critical Geography 152 John’s Galilee and “Cartographic Meaning” 156 John’s Galilee and Critical Geography: Implications
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5 Galilee and Critical Geography: A New “Spatial Turn” 180 Challenge #1: Utilizing Critical Geography 181 Challenge #2: Understanding Ancient Space 186 Conclusion: The Quest for the Geographical Galilee 192 Bibliography
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Index of Modern Authors 214 Index of Ancient Sources 218 Index of Geographical Features and Locales Index of Subjects 233
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Acknowledgments This study is an adaptation of my 2011 Yale University dissertation and happily retains the imprints and impressions of so many who had a hand in bringing it to completion. Primary thanks go to my esteemed professors at Yale: Harold Attridge, Wayne Meeks, Dale Martin, and Adela Yarbro Collins; and visiting professors Jürgen Zangenberg and Paul Anderson. The somewhat eclectic nature of this project draws upon all of them and would not have been possible without the wide range of expertise they brought together into one place. Secondary thanks go to dear friends and colleagues at both Yale and Northwestern College in Iowa. In particular, George Parsenios, Jeremy Hultin, Emma Wasserman, Ward Blanton, Jim Mead, and Tara Woodward provided stimulating conversations and thoughtful questions that helped me to view the subject matter from di ferent perspectives. Special thanks go to those who were instrumental in preparing the manuscript for publication. Tessa Schild, Mattie Kuiper, and Maaike Langerak at Brill guided the process startacknowledge to nish withmy acuity and alacrity. I would certainly be remiss if I didfrom not also outstanding student assistants over the years at Northwestern College: Erin Vander Stelt, Abby Korthals, Stephanie Grieme, and Kali Jo Wolkow. Kali Jo, in particular, put in long hours on the manuscript and prevented countless oversights and inconsistencies from ever reaching the printed page. Any shortcomings that remain are, of course, my own. Ultimate thanks go to God and family for support and sustenance of all kinds. I am especially grateful to my parents, Roger and Linda Vonder Bruegge, expert mapmakers who have taught me to opt for heaven while at the same time not forsake the earth. January 2016 Orange City, Iowa
List of Figures 3.1 3.2
Palestine in the rst century Palestine in the rst century to Pliny 121
: The conventional map 108 : A hypothetical map according
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Palestine in the rst century to Strabo 125 Palestine in the rst century to Luke-Acts 129
: A hypothetical map according
3.4
: A hypothetical map according
Galilee and Critical Geography: The Lay of the Land Introduction
The topic of this project is Galilee. Although its boundaries have undergone some uctuation over time, itis largely the same territorial space today that it has been for millennia, occupying an area extending east-west from the eastern shores of Lake Tiberias and the Jordan River to the outlying sections of the Mediterranean coast and north-south from the Hula Basin to the Jezreel Valley. Anywhere within that global space between roughly 32°40’–33°10’ N latitude and 35°10’–35°40’ E longitude, Galilee is visible, its landscape and physical features: Mt. Meron/Jebel Jarmac (the area’s highest peak at 1,208 m), the Rift Valley, the cli fs of Arbel, the famed Sea of Galilee itself. In fact, with the exception of a major project in the 1950’s, when engineers drained the marshy Lake and alteredthe thephysical course of the Upper order to create spaceHula for agriculture, geography of Jordan Galileein has changed very more little. The land where Jesus taught and ministered, where Josephus fended o f his rivals and took his stand against the Roman army, where Christian pilgrims gleaned inspiration by following in the footsteps of their spiritual forebears, is still largely the same place that it was centuries ago. Galilee is a real place. Ernest Renan went there in the early 1860s. Based upon his travels and his extensive rsthand knowledge of the territory, he was able to pen detailed descriptions of Galilee, which he then handed down to the reading public of Europe in his popular 1863 publication, The Life of Jesus. In contradistinction to the region around Jerusalem, which was “the saddest country in the world,” Renan’s Galilee was a veritablelocus amoenus: Galilee . . . was a very green, shady, smiling district, the true home of the Song of Songs, and the songs of the well-beloved. During the two months of March and April, the country forms a carpet of owers of an incomparable variety of colors. The animals are small, and extremely gentle— delicate and lively turtle-doves, blue-birds so light that they rest on a blade of grass without bending it. . . . In no country in the world do the mountains spread themselves out with more harmony, or inspire higher thoughts. . . . [E]verything which man cannot destroy breathes an air of
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freedom, mildness, and tenderness, and at the time of Jesus it over owed with happiness and prosperity. Renan backed up his description by citing Josephus. Renan’s formidable knowledge of ancient texts notwithstanding, Albert Schweitzer was less than impressed. In his discussion of Renan in The Quest of the Historical Jesus, he acknowledged that Renan “had the skill to make [his
readers] see blue skies, seas of waving corn, distant mountains, gleaming lilies, in a landscape with Lake Gennesaret for its center, and to hear with him in the whispering of the reeds the eternal melody of the Sermon on the Mount.” But this was not so much an admission as an indictment. Part of Renan’s problem, according to Schweitzer, was that his poetic depiction of Jesus’ life in Galilee was simply in bad taste, a work of art on about the same level as a wax-image shop-front display. His primary criticism of Renan, however, went further. For Schweitzer, Renan’s most glaring artistic shortcoming epitomized French art as a whole, “which in painting grasps nature with a directness and vigour, with an objectivity” but “has in poetry treated it in a fashion which scarcely ever arti cialbecause goes beyond the lyricaldid andnot sentimental, the Galilee, (Ger. gemacht To putit it simply, Schweitzer favor Renan’s he had).”“made” himself and poorly at that, “perfum[ing] it with sentimentality” and with a lyricism so intoxicating that it caused even the most educated readers to forget that it simply was not real. What is the “real” Galilee? Historians have long done away with the notion that any historical account can be taken simply at face value, as a crystal clear recounting of events in chronological order free from obfuscation, editorializing, or bias. History is a construct, a container for ideologies, a product of selective memory or even the invention whole cloth of a new tradition, and the traditional task of the historian has been to take history, strip away all that is ction or ller, and make it “historical” again. Historical criticism is so Ernest Renan, The Life of Jesus (New York: The Modern Library, 1927), 114–15. Albert Schweitzer, The Quest of the Historical Jesus (ed. John Bowden; Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2001), 159. Ibid., 159–60. Ibid., 159, emphasis added. The passage quoted betrays a much deeper rift between German and French scholarship at the time, the details of which it is not necessary to review here. Certainly, Schweitzer was subject to a “German bias,” which would have in uenced his opinions about Renan. Eben Sche er (“Ernest Renan’s Jesus: An appraisal,” Neot 33:1 [1999]: 179–97) argues that Renan’s contribution to historical Jesus scholarship has been given inadequate attention to this day in large part because of Schweitzer’s scathing critique. Schweitzer, The Quest of the Historical Jesus, 167.
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pervasive that it even has the ability to strong-arm other critical approaches, with the frequent result that fainter voices are silenced before they can make their presence known at all. Recently, however, new critical theories pertaining to geography and spatiality have been gaining a hearing. Although no unifying theory has won the day, the panoply of approaches has spun out of a growing felt need to recast geography a critical interest discipline, onegeography every bit as history. Along these lines,asa renewed in the of critical ancientastexts has arisen, which goes beyond the considerations previously given to space. Notions of space, boundary, and regionalism are entering the mainstream of scholarship pertaining to the ancient world, advocating a new, spatially-oriented look at even the most traditional of sources in the process: “There is a geography of Virgil, of Horace, and of Ovid. Indeed nearly all literature is open to a geographic reading, particularly history.” Such “geographic reading,” however, is not the same as “historical geography.” A geographic reading involves less the spatial and regional reality than the perception of that reality in the mind of the author, manifest in narration and in the interaction of the main characters with space. Jonathan Z. Smith, in his study placespace and ritual, goes so far asthat to espouse a distinction between space andofplace: becomes place when it is lled with meaning. Again, the topic of this project is “Galilee,” a designation, both ancient and modern, for a spatial construct that has gripped the collective imagination of scholars in recent years. As such, this project must deal with two major intellectual trajectories: one dedicated to the theorization of space, to the development of a critical spatiality, to the creative geographic reading of texts; the other devoted to the representation of 1st c. Galilee, to a thorough understanding of its people and culture, to a responsible historical reading of texts. The goal of this rst chapter is not merely to occupy the space where these two trajectories intersect, but to deliberately route them in such a way as to make them collide.
Claude Nicolet, Space, Geography, and Politics in the Early Roman Empire (Ann Arbor, Mich.: University of Michigan Press, 1991), 8. Jonathan Z. Smith, To Take Place: Toward Theory in Ritual(Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1987), 28.
Trajectory #1: Critical Geography
In 1971, Ronald Abler, John Adams, and Peter Gould made a distinction between “geographical thinking” and “geography.” It was a distinction they felt could be traced back for millennia, the former being well-represented in the ancient world by such guresas Pausanias, the latter typi ed in the work of Ptolemy. At thethe heart of their was a, thoroughly modern(ist) concept: notion thatdistinction, “geography”however, was a science inherently superior for establishing “absolute location” in a world begging to be mapped and mapped with accuracy. To put it another way, the science of geography was more adept at answering the discipline’s two great questions: where? and what is where? There have been, of course, some setbacks to the development of scienti c geography over the centuries. Theological bias, in particular, contributed to its deterioration during the Middle Ages, because it furnished “answers to where questions, which, by modern standards, are not only erroneous but positively disastrous.” Happily, however, the science of geography endured, spurred on by the steady stream of explorers who were sent forth into “uncharted” territories andnames,” saddled withthat thehas responsibility of “ lling world mappart with places and a task kept geographers busythe for the better of 2000 years. That was 1971. Arguably, Abler, Adams and Gould’s account ofscienti c geography is even more “disastrous” (by postmodern standards, that is) than any geography that emerged from the misguided, superstition-choked Christians of the Middle Ages. What one gleans from Abler, Adams and Gould by reading between the lines is less a sense of what geography encompassed throughout its history since Ptolemy, and more a sense of what encompassed geography during the middle of the 20th c.: a predisposition for the accumulation of spatial knowledge through empirical means and the quantitative and mathematical description of patterns within spatial data. In 1971, however, geography was teetering on the brink of a critical explosion that would challenge lingering disciplinary claims to being, “if not quite a consort to the Queen of the Sciences, then at least prominent among her courtiers.” More than four decades later, geography continues to develop its own critical discourse, one that began as Ronald Abler, John S. Adams, and Peter Gould, Spatial Organization: The Geographer’s View of the World (Englewood Cli fs, . .: Prentice-Hall, Inc., 1971), 70–71. Ibid., 65. Ibid., 62. Derek Gregory, Ideology, Science and Human Geography (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1978), 38.
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an import from other disciplines but is now being exported throughout the social sciences and the humanities in the form of a new critical spatiality. What follows is not intended to be a complete overview of the history of “critical geography,” a term that, for the purposes of this study, is somewhat loosely applied as an umbrella concept for a number of related spatiallyoriented approaches. Nevertheless, certain highlights deserve mention in order a sense of the eld’s trajectory and the importance of developmentsto in give recent decades. The Roots of “Involution”
Immanuel Kant’s primary claim to fame as the founder of critical philosophy is not likely to be challenged by even the most fervent rekindling of interest in his geographical thought, but it is worth noting at the outset that he lectured on geography nearly 50 times over the course of his august career. In his Inaugural Dissertation of 1770, “On the Form and Principles of the Sensible and Intelligible World,” he argued thata priori knowledge of time and space was possible because both were essentially empty concepts of “pure intuition,” subjective “conditions” presupposed by thethat mind and unavoidably categorized through experience. The distinction evolved from this, between As such, it overlaps considerably with other terms like “human geography” (Trevor J. Barnes and James S. Duncan, “Introduction,” in Writing Worlds: Discourse, Text and Metaphor in the Representation of Landscape [ed. Trevor J. Barnes and James S. Duncan; New York: Routledge, 1992], 2) and “imaginative mapping” (Dean Bechard, “Paul Among the Rustics: the Lystran Episode [Acts 14:8–20] and Lucan Apologetic,” 63:1 [Jan 2001]: 87 n.10). For other helpful, brief, and accessible overviews of key moments and key players in the development of geography as a critical discipline, see James W. Flanagan, “Ancient Perceptions of Space/Perceptions of Ancient Space,” Semeia 87 (1999): 15–44, especially 21–30; Michael C. Frank, “Imaginative Geography as a Travelling Concept: European Journal of English Studies 13:1 (April Foucault, Said,particularly and the spatial 2009): 61–77, 66–68;turn,” JohninHolmes, “Fifty Years of Disciplinary Flux within Human Geography: changing sociocognitive subdisciplines and subcultures,” Australian Geographer 40:4 (Dec 2009): 387–407; Stephan Günzel, “Space and Cultural Geography,” in Travelling Concepts for the Study of Culture. Vol. 2 of Concepts for the Study of Culture, (ed. Birgit Neumann and Ansgar Nünning; New York: De Gruyter, 2012), 307–320; Beat Kümin and Cornelie Usborne, “At Home and in the Workplace: A Historical Introduction to the ‘Spatial Turn,’”History and Theory 52 (Oct 2013): 305–318, especially 311–314 for the summary of feminist theorizing about space. Edward Soja, Postmodern Geographies: The Reassertion of Space in Critical Social Theory (New York: Verso, 1989): 36 n.5. Immanuel Kant, Kant’s Inaugural Dissertation of 1770 and Early Writings on Space. (trans. John Handyside; Chicago: The Open Court Publishing Co., 1929), 56, 60. Cf. J.A. May,
the chorological science of geography and the chronological science of history, developed into an “intellectual division of labor,” which was to hold sway for the next 200 years. Edward Soja teases out Kant’s legacy even further: not only did Kant set the divide between space and time, but in the rst half ofthe 20th c., it was temporal sequence, as opposed to spatial analysis, that became the preferred platform for discourse within social theory. Thus, history and geography divided, imagination and it was geography thatstage. was relegated to the backgroundtheoretically while the historical took center Nestled snugly within this “neo-Kantian cocoon,” geography was content to go about its business wearing theoretical blinders. Kant is not alone, however, in the bestowal of an isolated and thereby distinctively a-theoretical legacy upon geographical thought. Auguste Comte’s positivism has also been in uential. The positivist insistence upon the “real” along with the privileging of direct experience, which inhibited more critical re ection in the sciences in general, led eventually to the declaration of geography as a “positive science” by Carl Sauer in 1925. In his study of geography’s Comtean legacy during this period, Derek Gregory articulated these epistemological contending that geography had far too longComtean; without criticalfoundations, self-re ection. Its positivist outlook was notgone intentionally in fact, it was not intentional at all. Curiously, Soja makes no mention of Comte, and Gregory makes no mention of Kant. But their assessments are essentially the same: with rare exception, the state of geography during the rst half of the 20th c. is one of theoretical passivity, “totally dependent on constructs developed in other disciplines,”
Kant’s Concept of Geography and its Relation to Recent Geographical Thought (Toronto:
University of Toronto Press, 1970), 111–12. Social Theory and Modern Sociology (Cambridge: Polity Press, 1987), Anthony 142; AllanGiddens, Pred, Making Histories and Constructing Human Geographies: the Local Transformation of Practice, Power Relations, and Consciousness (Boulder: Westview Press, 1990), 6. Both Giddens and Pred allude to the fact that, although the distinction may be traced back to Kant, Kant’s writings about space are admittedly inconsistent. Cf. May, Kant’s Concept of Geography, 124–25. Soja, Postmodern Geographies, 36. Ibid., 37. Derek Gregory, Ideology, 25–29. Gregory discusses the in uence of Comtean positivism in considerable detail but is careful to distinguish between Comte’s in uence broadly stated and a wholesale acceptance of Comte’s precepts by individual geographers. Ibid., 47–48. Ibid., 38.
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and relying upon “processes whose deeper theorization was left to others.” By the 1970’s, however, as geography struggled to shake free from its Kantian/ Comtean roots, the climate began to change. The older standards of quantitative analysis and areal di ferentiation, practices that occupied the front lines of geography during its mid-century “involution,” resulted in a backlash of discontent and a groundswell of interest among geographers who wanted to reassert the not broader of theoretical discourse. The hopetheir wasown thatdiscipline geographyinto would only realm open itself up to more critical in uences, but that others, in turn, might also begin to realize simply that “geography makes a di ference.” To a limited degree, these changes were already underway. In Germany, for example, the academy had already embraced concepts like Städtegeschichte and Landesgeschichte, integrating them into university structures, but these concepts were a long way from the emerging theoretical views of space. During the mid-20th c., Carl Schmitt developed his concept of Landnahme in the context of his discussion of European law. The term was a deliberate homophonic wordplay on the Greek wordnomos, which for Schmitt went beyond its usual sense of more a “sollens” enacted into law.AsNomos was something fundamental and fundamentally spatial. an embodiment of the more polis, it derived its meaning from “dem inneren Maß eines konstituierenden, raumordnenden Ur-Aktes.” In other words, land-taking formed an essential part of culture-making. In social theory, the reassertion of geography as a critical discipline had an even more signi cant impact, most notably through the work of Marxist Soja, Postmodern Geographies, 38. Gregory’s own study (Ideology), published in 1978, is a direct result of this struggle. It is, in essence, a venting of frustrations and a declaration of a new critical geography, one which “will not be See ablealso to stumble blindly along cutGraham by practitioners fromHuman other disciplines” (54). Derek Gregory, Ron corridors Martin and Smith, eds., Geography: Society, Space, and Social Science (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1994), 3. Soja, Postmodern Geographies, 35: a term Soja uses in order to capture the way in which geographical analysis turned inward and limited its theoretical engagement with other social disciplines. Doreen Massey, “Issues and Debates,” in Human Geography Today (ed. Doreen Massey, John Allen and Philip Sarre; Cambridge: Polity Press, 1999), 7. Kümin and Usborne, “At Home and in the Workplace,” 308. Carl Schmitt, Der Nomos der Erde im Völkerrecht des Jus Publicum Europeaum (2. Auf.; Berlin: Denker & Humblot, 1950, 1974), 47. Ibid.
geographers such as David Harvey, EdwardSoja, and Mike Davis. The inauguration of this new direction in Marxist critical geography is what has been called in retrospect the Marxist “spatial turn.” The Spatial Turn
There is no easy way to outline in simple terms the development or current state geography. Nevertheless, the social developing street of thatcritical crossesMarxist the boundary between geography and theory,two-way where geography has become increasingly “theorized” and social theory has become increasingly “spatialized,” is due in large part to those engaged in this process of “mapping on the left.” Geography during the 1970’s could lay no unique claim to Marxist ideology; it was, as usual, following trends established in other disciplines, and at least at the outset, its application of Marxist theory was hardly ambitious. Even so, new interest in the construction of spaces that were re ective of dominant power structures (and in the political power of space to support or undermine such structures) arose from a number of geographers, David Harvey perhaps being foremost among them, who identi ed themselves in Marxist Harvey’s forays into critical spatialityfusing helped lay the groundwork forterms. the intriguing and at times uncomfortable of geography and western Marxism. Harvey, however, had an important precursor. At roughly the same time as the emergence of Harvey’s Marxist geography, the French Marxist tradition, which had been evolving in the context of an ongoing spatial discourse harkening back to Cubism, the Surrealist movement, and the Annales School, was nally gaining recognition in North America through the writings of Henri Lefebvre. Though it is di cult to boil down Lefebvre’s in uence into just a few Edward Soja, “Thirdspace: Expanding the Scope of the Geographical Imagination,” in Human Geography Today (ed. Doreen Massey, John Allen and Philip Sarre; Cambridge:
Polity Press, 1999), 262; Massey, “Issues,” 11. Gregory et al. (Human Geography, 3) refer to the same phenomenon as simply the “Marxist turn.” Brian Jarvis, Postmodern Cartographies: The Geographical Imagination in Contemporary American Culture (London: Pluto Press, 1998), 42–50. It is di cult to overstate Harvey’s in uence, since his own Marxist “turn” was rather abrupt, punctuating his later ideology all the more. Compare the largely traditional, empirical approach of Harvey’s Explanation in Geography (New York: St. Martin’s Press) published in 1969 to the overtly Marxist outlook of Social Justice and the City (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins ) published four years later. Cf. Soja, Postmodern Geographies, 52. The delay of Lefebvre’s in uence, according to Soja (Postmodern Geographies, 46), is explainable in terms of the di ferences between the surging Marxism of the English speaking world, which featured a consistently anti-spatial bias, and that which followed
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salient points, for the purposes of this discussion he is responsible for two signi cant trends that became well integrated into contemporary spatial theory. The rst is thespatialization of western Marxist theory. Unfettered by the need to defend a speci cally historicist reading of Marx, Lefebvre’s Marxism was distinctively anti-reductionist, exible and malleable, as his criticisms of what he deemed totalizing trends, such as Sartre’s existentialism and Althusser’s structuralism, revealed. Hisspace, own assessment of the capitalist production of space, of the way in which all whether inside or outside urban areas, was becoming increasingly “urbanized,” led to his insistence that the production of space come under more critical scrutiny, even if that meant shifting the locus of discussion away from historical processes. The result was a challenge to the foundational historicism of the traditional Marxist critique; Marxism was becoming increasingly spatialized. The association of such disparate terms as “Marxism” and “geography,” however, was not the only strange combination to spring from Lefebvre’s spatializing social theory. Another term, notoriously problematic in whatever setting, was thrown into the mix: postmodernism. If postmodernism and Marxism have conceptually oneyears another within socialboth theory in thea main,been geography has in at theodds last with several openly courted in such way as to challenge their traditional (binary?) opposition. Lefebvre’s work, particularly in his masterwork The Production of Space, is important in this respect, especially for its in uence upon Soja, who now, as much as any other, serves as the standard-bearer for this strange blend of epithets. As a result, Soja, who stands in a direct line with Lefebvre’s spatialized Marxism, would go in the tradition of French socialism. Thus, “the distinctively French debates on the theorization of space rarely penetrated the more historicist armour of the other, non-Latin Marxisms.” (Ibid., 47). Au-delà du structuralisme. (Paris: Editions Anthropos, 1971), 313 f; cf. Henri Stuart Lefebvre, Eldon, “Mondialisation before globalization: Lefebvre and Axelos,” in Space, Di ference, Everyday Life: Reading Henri Lefebvre (eds. Kanishka Goonewardena, Stefan Kipfer, Richard Milgrom, Christian Schmid; New York: Routledge, 2008), 86. Henri Lefebvre, The Survival of Capitalism: Production of the Relations of Production. (trans. Frank Bryant; New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1976), 17. Henri Lefebvre, The Production of Space (trans. Donald Nicholson-Smith; Oxford: Blackwell, 1991). Humorously, Soja himself recently listed over 15 di ferent quali ers that have been applied to his brand of geography over the years. Without showing favoritism, he does acknowledge that the unadorned title of “geographer no longer seems enough.” Edward Soja, “Taking Space Personally,” in The Spatial Turn: Interdisciplinary Perspectives (ed. Barney Warf and Santa Arias; New York: Routledge, 2009), 11.
on to produce one of the most important manifestoes of spatial theory under the title Postmodern Geographies in 1989. The speci cs of Soja’s geographical thought will be discussed in further detail below. Marxist geography was not without its critics, however, even from within the eld of geography itself. Margaret Fitzsimmons used the platform of the “journal of radical geography,”Antipode, to criticize Marxist geography for the lack of attention paid“spatial to nature and environmental Jon May and Nigel Thrift, the turn” remained bogged concerns. down in theFor language of metaphor in part due to its over-isolation of spatial concepts. Marxist geography had also neglected to draw upon the concurrent advances of feminist geography, which, as Gillian Rose pointed out in her review of Soja’s Postmodern Geographies, had itself been chipping away at the hegemony of historicism. The fact that aspects of traditional Marxism, particularly the Marxist historical narrative, have undergone a degree of scrutinization and criticism in recent decades is also understood by some to be a key factor in the “spatial turn”: the very survival of a Marxist perspective called for serious adaptation. Whether or not this is the case is an open question, but whatever the cause-and-e fect relationship, the surge of interest in a geographically-oriented Marxism sequently combined with its perceived declining cache has resulted in a subcrucial step forward for all aspects of spatial theory. The lines of communication between geography and other discourses, notably critical social theory, were open for the rst time in decades, and geography was nally in a position to make a di ference to those outside of its traditional disciplinary pale. A developing body of critical spatial theory was waiting in the wings, ready to di fuse itself throughout the humanities and social sciences in the form of a new spatialized discourse. The New Human Geography
Geography has long recognized a bifurcation of interests within its own disciplinary boundaries, commonly divided along the lines of “physical” and Margaret Fitzsimmons, “The Matter of Nature,” Antipode 21:2 (1989): 106–20. Jon May and Nigel Thrift, “Introduction,” in Timespace: Geographies of Temporality (ed. May and Thrift; New York: Routledge, 2001), 5. Gillian Rose, “Review of Edward Soja, Postmodern Geographies and David Harvey, The Condition of Postmodernity,” Journal of Historical Geography 17:1 (1991), 118. Gregory, Martin and Smith, Human Geography, 4; Jarvis, Postmodern Cartographies, 45. Soja’s own discomfort with this wedding of terms may be evident in a section of Postmodern Geographies entitled, “The postmodernization of Marxist geography,” where, by the end, “Marxist” is dropped altogether, and the preferred nomenclature that emerges is “postmodern critical human geography.”
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“human.” Although the eld of“Human Geography” is hardly a recent development, it nevertheless has become the umbrella term for the amalgam of critical geographies that have burgeoned in recent years. In the interest of “lowering the capitals” and discarding along with them former notions of disciplinary territorialism, the new critical human geography has chosen to embrace a pluralism of approaches among geographical theorists as well as to invite those whoThe have been traditionally deemed as outsiders to matters,” participate in the dialogue. recognition that, to put it simply, “geography is perhaps the best way to describe how the current unsettled nature of human geography is holding itself together. Gregory has tried to map out how various social theory approaches have interacted and in uenced one another and, in turn, in uenced human geography. He cites and discusses a number of these: classical Marxism, western Marxism, feminist theory, structuration theory, postmodernism, and poststructuralism. After exploring the intricacies of each, the bottom line, according to Gregory, is that the multiple voices are indeed more of a cacophony than a chorus, but neither should these voices be silenced. We are to live with the “theoretical dissonance.”
Trajectory #2: Galilee in History
Whereas geography has embraced a critical and theoretical discourse about space in recent years, even challenging the long-held hegemony of historicism, Galilee scholarship on the whole has been moving in the opposite direction. Even a cursory overview of biblical scholarship indicates that a noticeable surge of interest in the history of Galilee has occurred within the past few decades. Sean Freyne’s 1980 opus magnum,Galilee: From Alexander the Great to Hadrian, serves as a symbolic icebreaker for this most recent push, allowing numerous others to make their own forays into the research while oating somewhat freely within its wake. The sheer volume of information culled from Gregory, Martin and Smith, Human Geography, 4. The “capitals” to which they refer are the capital letters often placed at the beginning of disciplinary designations (e.g. “Geography” as opposed to “geography”), a phenomenon reinforced by the departmental organization of the university. These capitals imply a hegemonic approach to knowledge, where knowledge is classi ed neatly within and governed by di ferent academic elds, highlighting the boundaries that restrict interdisciplinary dialogue. Massey, “Issues,” 6. Derek Gregory, “Social Theory and Human Geography,” in Gregory, Martin and Smith, eds., Human Geography, 78–109. Ibid., 105.
the ancient sources, especially Josephus, and coalesced into a owing narrative of historical inquiry is invaluable in itself, but it was also a benchmark and a sounding board, something that scholars could enlist in their own historical reconstructions of Galilee, whether in support or in critique. Early Exploration of Galilee
The western, post-biblical fascination withinGalilee, however, has a much longer and richer history than what has occurred the past few decades. Comments on the Galilee region made their way into early Christian pilgrimage accounts, though not initially. The Bordeaux Pilgrim does not include any, perhaps because there was nothing of note to see in comparison with Jerusalem, but Egeria creates something meaningful out of the apparently limited remains. When she sees the dilapidated state of the synagogue in Capernaum, she explains it in terms of Jesus’ curse against the city (Matt 11:23; Luke 10:15). The Piacenza Pilgrim also comments on Galilee, emphasizing its fertility in a manner somewhat akin to Josephus’ geographical excursuses, but on the whole, Galilee was not the primary focus of those traveling to the “holy land.” Jerusalem occupiedremained center stage while Galilee remained the shadows. This situation largely unchanged throughinmost of the modern era of biblical scholarship, but the establishment of foundations dedicated to the exploration of the holy land fostered at least a sustained, if still derivative, interest in Galilee. The Palestine Exploration Fund was created by the British in 1865 under the leadership of Charles Warren, and German counterparts, the Deutscher Palästina-Verein and the Deutsches Evangelisches Institut für Altertumswissenschaft, were established by the end of the century. The Blake Leyerle, “Pilgrims in the Land: Early Christian Perceptions of the Galilee,” in Galilee Through the Centuries: Con luence of Cultures (ed. Eric Meyers; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 1999), 345–57; eadem, “Landscape as Cartography in Early Christian Pilgrimage Narratives,” 64:1 cf. (1996): 119–43. Leyerle, “Pilgrims in the Land,” 351. See also Robert L. Wilken, The Land Called Holy: Palestine in Christian History and Thought (New Haven: Yale , 1992), 110, who mentions that the Bordeaux Pilgrim may have had a Jewish guide, another possible reason for the focus on Jerusalem. Leyerle, “Pilgrims in the Land,” 353. Wilken, The Land Called Holy, 105. Graham I. Davies, “British Archaeologists,” in Benchmarks in Time and Culture: An Introduction to Palestinian Archaeology (ed. Joel F. Drinkard, Jr., Gerald R. Mattingly, and J. Maxwell Miller; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1988), 37. Sean Freyne, “Galilean Studies: Problems and Prospects,” in Galilee and Gospel: Collected Essays (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2000), 3.
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French eventually founded the École Biblique in 1920. Freyne points out that these institutions grew out of a desire to combine religious dedication with the rigors of scholarship and inspired a number of scholars to harmonize the biblical texts with the biblical landscape. The emphasis on viewing the land apologetically in support of the historicity of the biblical narrative was partially a response to the 19th c. liberal lives of Jesus, but it was also a rush to a vacuum left to bythe those samebackdrop accounts inofan Jesus, which, on the whole,the paidlllittle attention cultural attempt to universalize ethical message understood to be the epitome of Jesus’ preaching. Meanwhile, Jewish scholarship in Europe, inspired in part by the rabbinic ties to Galilee that began in the 2nd c. , began taking its own interest in Galilee’s history. By the middle of the 20th c., Jewish scholars were instrumental in training the rst generation ofIsraeli archaeologists. The Institute of Archaeology at Hebrew University in Jerusalem, founded by Eleazar Sukenik, eventually took up this task, and Sukenik’s son, Yigael Yadin, pioneered the substantial excavations at Hazor. Archaeology of Galilee By theThe middle of the 20th c., archaeology was changing signi cantly as a discipline, and the development of more advanced archaeological techniques had resulted in its near-canonization as a “science.” Old models included techniques such as the “shaft-and-tunnel” method, based directly on military mining handbooks. Although the newer methods did not necessarily preclude the religious concerns of the discipline’s early pioneers, William F. Albright being perhaps the most famous among them, they were a de nite improvement. Archaeology took great strides in developing more reliable dating methods based upon stratigraphic analysis during this time. With Kathleen Kenyon’s excavation of Jericho, archaeology as a whole began to adopt both a more reliable methodology and a more historical critical tone. As a result of Kenyon’s improved methods, the shortcomings of John Garstang’s previous
Pierre Benoit,
, “French Archaeologists,” in Benchmarks in Time and Culture: An Introduction to Palestinian Archaeology (ed. Joel F. Drinkard, Jr., Gerald R. Mattingly, and J. Maxwell Miller; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1988), 63. Sean Freyne, “Galilean Studies,” 3. Ibid., 5–6. Amihai Mazar, “Israeli Archaeologists,” in Benchmarks in Time and Culture: An Introduction to Palestinian Archaeology (ed. Joel F. Drinkard, Jr., Gerald R. Mattingly, and J. Maxwell Miller; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1988), 110. Davies, “British Archaeologists,” 37.
work at Jericho became apparent. Archaeology was asserting itself as a discipline that could not just ll in the gaps but even provide a corrective to the traditional understandings of historical narratives. The relationship between spade and text continues to be a tenuous one, but the pride of place traditionally given to ancient texts has yielded to an increased sense of both disciplinary independence and interpretive interdependence. Although full-scale signi cant “textbook”less sitessite-speci continue,c. archaeology in recentexcavations decades hasof become increasingly Survey methods had their precursors in French and German cartographic interests of the 19th c., but in their more modern manifestation as proven archaeological techniques, they tend to emphasize breadth rather than depth in an e fort to read the archaeological record at the regional as well as the local level. In Galilee speci cally, the greatest initial strides in taking a regional approach came from a series of surveys and synagogue excavations by the Meiron Excavation Project sponsored by Duke University during the 1970’s. Based upon a growing sense of diversity within early Judaism in general as well as the emerging archaeological evidence, Eric Meyers advised resistance to any oversimpli portrait Galilee that would it as a place of unsettled religioused foment andofignorance of the Law.characterize In an announcement that would contribute signi cantly to subsequent analyses of Galilean history and social situation, Meyers stated rather de nitively that, “to view Galilee as one region with one culture is simply no longer possible.” The primary division, one between Upper Galilee and Lower Galilee, was not new—both Josephus and the Mishnah make the same distinction—but it was now recognized as being something more than just a historical breakdown. Upper Galilee had remained less a fected by Roman in uences, including urbanization, and showed more a nities with the Golan region than with Lower Galilee. None of this, however, mitigated the fact that 1st c. Galilee, whether Upper or Lower, was according to Meyers essentially Jewish. He enlisted di ferent strands of archaeological evidence to support this view, the most important of which Ibid., 48–50. Freyne, “Galilean Studies,” 4. Philip J. King, “American Archaeologists,” in Benchmarks in Time and Culture: An Introduction to Palestinian Archaeology (ed. Joel F. Drinkard, Jr., Gerald R. Mattingly, and J. Maxwell Miller; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1988), 33–34. Meyers, “Cultural Setting,” 693. Idem, “Reappraisal,” 115–31; idem, “Jesus and His Galilean Context,” in Archaeology and the Galilee: Texts and Contexts in the Graeco-Roman and Byzantine Periods (ed. Douglas R. Edwards and C. Thomas McCollough; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1997), 58–59.
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were the distribution of nds such as miqva’ot, stone vessels, and aniconic coinage, which would indicate widespread halakhic concerns. Excavations and surveys since the Meiron Excavation Project have largely con rmed Meyers’ characterization. James F. Strange’s work at Sepphoris has led him to similar conclusions regarding Galilee’s strident support for purity laws and Temple authority. Mark Chancey, based on extensive study of the archaeological evidence acrossinstead a number Galileaninsites, dismissed the notion of a “Gentile Galilee,” arguing thatofGentile uences remained on the periphery of Galilee until the 2nd c. when there was an in ux of Roman soldiers. Archaeological surface surveys of Galilee conducted by Zvi Gal and, later, Uzi Leibner, have demonstrated that whereas Galilee declined in population following the Assyrian conquest, it experienced signi cant growth following the Hasmonean conquest. According to Leibner, these settlement patterns are best understood as evidence of Jewish migration from Judea in the south during the Hasmonean period, lending credence to the notion that Galilee in the 1st c. remained connected to Temple cult and concerns. Izchak Magen’s study of stone vessels in Galilee seems to con rm the interest in purity regulations. Roland Deines, in his summarizes: discussion of Pharisaic in uence in the late Second Temple Period, “The general pictureon. Galilee . . does Eric M. Meyers and A. Thomas Kraabel, “Archaeology, Iconography, and non-Literary Written Remains,” in Early Judaism and Its Modern Interpreters (ed. Robert A. Kraft and George W.E. Nickelsburg; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1986), 175–210. James F. Strange, “First Century Galilee from Archaeology and from the Texts,” in Archaeology and the Galilee: Texts and Contexts in the Graeco-Roman and Byzantine Periods (ed. Douglas R. Edwards and C. Thomas McCollough; Atlanta: Scholars Press,
1997), 43–45. Mark A. Chancey, The Myth of a Gentile Galilee (Cambridge: Cambridge , 2002), 28–62, but also chs. 3 and 4, in which he covers the archaeological data in detail. Galilee During the Iron Age, ( Zvi Gal, Lower1992), Dissertation Series 8; Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 108–109. Uzi Leibner, Settlement and History in Hellenistic, Roman, and Byzantine Galilee: An Archaeological Survey of the Eastern Galilee, Texts and Studies in Ancient Judaism 127 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2009,) 319–326. Izchak Magen, The Stone Vessel Industry in the Second Temple Period: Excavations at Ḥimza and the Jerusalem Temple Mount (Judea and Samaria Publications 1; Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, Israel Antiquities Authority, 2002) 160–161. Purity concerns were not only geographically diverse, but they were also resistant to social strati cation. Both stone vessels and miqva’ot were utilized by the poor as well as the elite. See Susan Haber, “Going Up to Jerusalem: Pilgrimage, Purity, and the Historical Jesus,” in Travel and Religion in Antiquity (Studies in Christianity and Judaism/Études sur le christianisme et le judaïsme 21; ed. Philip A. Harland; Waterloo, Ont.: Wilfrid Laurier University Press, 2011,) 56.
not allow for a separate Galilean religious practice or identity against Judea.” Archaeology, however, has not been the only voice. The Historical Jesus in Galilee
Although there is no doubt that archaeology has been a signi cant driver of Galilee research over the past few decades, a number of important studies have beenbedriven by broader historicalfrom questions. Representative these would Sean Freyne’s monograph 1980, mentioned above,among which remains the standard overview of the history of Galilee. After its publication, Meyers criticized Freyne’s relatively poor handling of archaeological evidence, but it is noteworthy that, in the end, they agreed on the question of Galilee’s predominantly Jewish character. In the years that followed, however, not everyone agreed over the interpretation of the historical data. It is no coincidence that the interest in Galilee has arisen at the same time as the latest surge in historical Jesus research. Nor is it a coincidence that depictions of Galilee are as numerous and varied as depictions of the historical Jesus. In the service of a Cynic Jesus, Galilee is portrayed as heavily hellenized and fundamentally urban.in In the service of a “Jewish” Jesus, Galilee is nearly untouched by hellenizing uences and largely rural. In the service of a “revolutionary” Jesus, the population of Galilee is both urban and rural, and the two groups do not get along. All of these positions rely on appeals to a variety of archaeological and textual evidence. In terms Roland Deines, “Religious Practices and Religious Movements in Galilee: 100 – 200 ,” in Vol. 1 of Galilee in the Late Second Temple and Mishnaic Periods: Life, Culture, and Society (ed. David A. Fiensy and James Riley Strange; Minneapolis: Fortress, 2014,) 95. Meyers, “Galilean Regionalism,” 119. For a more detailed overview of the close connections between Galilean and historical Jesus seeinRoland Deines, Historical JesusLife, in Recent Research,” in Vol. 1 studies, of Galilee the Late Second“Galilee Templeand andthe Mishnaic Periods: Culture, and Society (ed. David A. Fiensy and James Riley Strange; Minneapolis: Fortress, 2014), 11–48. See for example F. Gerald Downing, Christ and the Cynics: Jesus and other Radical Preachers in the First Century Tradition (She eld, Eng.: Press, 1988); Burton Mack, A Myth of Innocence: Mark and Christian Origins (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1988). See for example Sean Freyne, especially in Galilee: From Alexander the Great to Hadrian 323 BCE to 135 CE (Notre Dame, Ind.: University of Notre Dame Press, 1980); Mark A. Chancey, The Myth of a Gentile Galilee (Cambridge: Cambridge , 2002). See for example Richard Horsley, Sociology and the Jesus Movement (2nd ed.; New York: Continuum, 1994); Galilee: History, Politics, People (Valley Forge, Pa.: Trinity Press International, 1995); idem, Archaeology, History, and Society in Galilee: The Social Context of Jesus and the Rabbis. (Harrisburg, : Trinity Press International, 1996).
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of economics, social structure, hellenization, language, culture, a nity for Jerusalem, population, ethnicity, and urbanization, Galilee has the uncanny ability to re ect every point along the spectrum. Within the last 20 years especially, Galilee has been characterized in yet another way: as the home of the Q community. Within the last 10 years, another analytical lens has taken center stage: the urbanization program of Herod Antipas. Salivating historical Jesus scholars werehas quick to add weapons their arsenals as well.regardJonathan Reed argued thatthese scholarship hastoreached a consensus ing the ethnicity of 1st c. Galilee: as both Meyers and Freyne contended decades ago, it was predominantly Jewish. Yet the concern with portraying a Galilee that re ects available historical evidence while retaining the brushstrokes of criticism, one which provides a tting stage upon which the dramas of nascent Christianity and rabbinic Judaism can unfold, shows no signs of abating. If, however, historical Jesus scholarship has traditionally been the force behind Galilee scholarship, a reversal of roles has occurred in recent years. In essence, the quest for the historical Jesus has evolved into “a quest for the historical Galilee.”
The Point of Intersection
The phrase bears repeating, with emphasis: “a quest for the historical Galilee.” What emerges from an overview of Galilee in history is in many ways parallel to the trajectory taken by geography in its more positivistic, physical manifestation, only with an ironic twist: it has gravitated toward the accumulation and arrangement of evidence, which in turn forms the basis of an accurate re ection of history. Recall once again the name of Sean Freyne’s magisterial and the Galilean Jesus: A Re-examination of SeeEvidence for example Jonathan L. Reed, Archaeology the (Harrisburg, : Trinity Press International, 2000), 170–96; John S. Kloppenborg Verbin, Excavating Q: The History and Setting of the Sayings Gospel (Edinburgh: T&T Clark,
2000), 170–75. See for example Morton Hørning Jensen, Herod Antipas in Galilee: The Literary and Archaeological Sources on the Reign of Herod Antipas and its Socio-Economic Impact on Galilee, 2 215 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2006), 242–251.
Jonathan L. Reed, “Instability in Jesus’ Galilee: A Demographic Perspective,” 129:2 (2010): 343. Sean Freyne, “The Geography, Politics and Economics of Galilee,” in Studying the Historical Jesus: Evaluations of the State of Current Research (ed. Bruce Chilton and Craig A. Evans; New York: E.J. Brill, 1994), 76; cf. Halvor Moxnes, “The construction of Galilee as a place for the historical Jesus—Part ,” 31:1 (2001): 26; Reed, “Instability,” 343.
tome Galilee—subtitled not from the regions around Ptolemais to the Jordan River, but from Alexander the Great to Hadrian. The dominant ethos of the past 40 years of research on Galilee might be aptly summarized in this way: it remains a historical endeavor. The proper way to study a space, in other words, is through time. Just as the “spatial turn” cut directly into the scienti c underpinnings of physical geography and the historicist hegemony of social theory, it is similarly to intersect any The ancient textofwhen it is read geographically andpoised to produce parallelwith results. Galilee our ancient texts is, after all, a spatial concept. For the purposes of this project, however, it will not su ce merely to assume that geography, like the “history” of historical criticism, has been misrepresented and should be recast in an e fort to recover a lost srcinal. The geographical criticism employed here assumes not that there is a map to be stripped away in order to reveal true territory, but that all territory is inescapably mapped and should be analyzed in terms of how maps both re ect and shape socially constructed spaces. As much as any other “area” currently under the scrutinizing gaze of biblical studies, 1st c. Galilee is ripe for the methodological picking. What happens at the pointhistory’s of intersection whencollides a spatialwith discipline recently emboldened to challenge dominance the study of a space that has for decades been dominated by historical criticism? It is worth noting that critical human geography has not always received the warmest of welcomes from those with whom it requests a hearing. Within geography’s sub-specialty of cartography, the animosity can be even more palpable whenever the objectivity of the mapping process is challenged. J.B. Harley notes that if a map can be exposed for “bending the rules,” for betraying bias or distortion, it may be written o f as inferior and even removed from the category of “true” cartography altogether. Technological improvements have reinforced the perception that a more accurate map is a more “innocent” map. There is a belief in “linear progress: that, by the application of science, ever more precise representations of reality can be produced,” and, furthermore, that those ever more precise representations can be “value-free.” At a fundamental level, critical approaches to geography collide with more positivistic approaches at precisely this point: the former rejects the notion that “science” or “scienti c
J.B. Harley, “Deconstructing the Map,” in Writing Worlds: Discourse, Text and Metaphor in the Representation of Landscape (ed. Trevor J. Barnes and James S. Duncan; New York: Routledge, 1992), 231. Ibid., 234. Ibid., 236.
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improvements” go hand-in-hand with “neutrality,” or that neutrality is even a thing to be grasped. The contention here is that Galilee scholarship is open to a similar critique in terms of the way that it has approached issues of territory and space: its primary concern (even if it has not yet been fully realized) is the accurate reading/ interpretation of the map. The critique might begin with archaeology, which has a crucial roleofintechnique the current wave research, because illustrates howplayed progress in terms does notofnecessarily yield, asit has sometimes been argued, “a simple line of increasing objectivity” in the interpretation of territory. Archaeology is just as open to ideological bias when it reads territory through ground penetrating radar and neutron-activation analysis as when it moves the earth with shovels and picks. The critique also extends to the interpretation of texts that are crucial for the understanding of 1st c. Galilee. No matter how careful the method of analysis or how comprehensive the body of research, the texts may not be so easily mined for pieces of the historical Galilee if Galilee is read through them as a socially constructed space. Understanding mapped territories as texts which can be read and subjected to critical interpretation a favorite metaphor among in critical human geographers, although has it isbecome not without its problems. Inherent geography is a fundamental simultaneity, the notion that two spaces may exist side by side without sequence at the same period in time. Texts, by way of contrast, imply The tension between geography’s “quantitative” and “qualitative” branches continues. See Daniel Sui and Dydia DeLyser, “Crossing the qualitative-quantitative chasm I: Hybrid geographies, the spatial turn, and volunteered geographic information (VGI),” Progress in Human Geography 36:1 (2012), 111–124. The two authors represent both sides of the divide, but in hopes of coalescing physical and human geography, they argue in favor of a “new turn” toward synthesis. See also Flanagan (“Ancient Perceptions of Space,” 21), who argues that the divide re ects “modern” vs. “postmodern” outlooks. King,for “American 36. Archaeology” (a theoretical approach to the disciSee, example,Archaeologists,” the critique of “New pline that became current in the 1960s and 1970s) and the advocacy of “post-processual archaeology” in Ian Hodder, Reading the Past: Current Approaches to Interpretation in Archaeology (2nd ed.; Cambridge: Cambridge , 1991), 1–18, 156–81. Cf. Colin Renfrew and Paul Bahn, Archaeology: Theories, Methods, and Practice (3rd ed.; London: Thames and Hudson, 2000), 483–91; William G. Dever “Impact of the ‘New Archaeology,’” in Benchmarks in Time and Culture: An Introduction to Palestinian Archaeology (ed. Joel F. Drinkard, Jr., Gerald R. Mattingly, and J. Maxwell Miller; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1988), 337–52. The collection of essays edited by Trevor Barnes and James Duncan, Writing Worlds, centers on the investigation of how the landscape might be read in terms of text, discourse, and metaphor.
a linear ow of language, a sequential succession that is inherently tied to historicality but not spatiality—what Soja laments as “linguistic despair.” However, when “text” takes on the expanded sense of “a collection of culturally bound codes,” it becomes a relevant and useful metaphor for the mapping of territories. Barnes and Duncan argue in favor of using this metaphor, following Paul Ricoeur’s textual model for the social sciences, since landscapes, like texts, aretheir social and cultural productions. Not onlycan do their meanings persist beyond srcinal mappings, but those meanings be extended into and altered in light of di ferent situations. Furthermore, the metaphor of the text allows for an intertextual approach to multiple mappings, one which recognizes that all mapping is part of a larger cultural discourse. As a result, Harley can speak of a “rhetorical cartography” that views all maps as persuasive communication, and that should not, as some critics would have it, be con ned only to the artistic, aesthetic fringes (often in a literal, spatial sense) of the mapping process. In the aftermath of the collision between critical human geography and more positivist approaches to Galilee’s history, a space has been created for the “textuality” of the mapped territory. Both theorists and their critics “arelacking—with beginning to allude the notion of a rhetorical cartography, but what is still a few to notable exceptions—is a rhetorical close reading of maps.” That is precisely what this study aims to do.
Galilee, by Way of Critical Geography
While there have been a few important forays into more consciously critical and theoretical readings of geography in early Jewish and Christian texts, there is still ample room for a project that focuses on 1st c. Galilee from a spatial
Soja, Postmodern Geographies, 2; cf. Harley, “Deconstructing,” 238. Barnes and Duncan, Writing Worlds, 6. Harley, “Deconstructing,” 242. I.e. projects that go beyond historical geography, land theology, geographical symbolism, and use a deliberately crafted theoretical approach to space: for example, Leyerle, “Landscape as Cartography”; Jamie Scott and Paul Simpson-Housley, eds., Sacred Places and Profane Spaces: Essays in the Geographics of Judaism, Christianity, and Islam (New York: Greenwood Press, 1991); Dean Bechard, Paul Outside the Walls: A Study of Luke’s Socio-Geographical Universalism in Acts 14:8–20 (Rome: Editrice Ponti cio Instituto Biblico, 2000); James M. Scott, Geography in Early Judaism and Christianity: The Book of Jubilees ( 113; Cambridge: Cambridge , 2002); Matthew Sleeman, Geography and the Ascension Narrative in Acts ( 146; New York: Cambridge , 2009).
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perspective. What follows is a sampling of voices, some of which belong to individuals for whom the title “geographer” would be inappropriately applied. They are included here because they have made signi cant contributions to the current wave of interest in spatializing discourse, and the concepts they introduce will provide the theoretical armature for the rhetorical, close readings of Galilee in successive chapters. Soja, by Way of Lefebvre, and Thirdspace
Although he may not have been the rst to do so, Edward Soja has made a name for himself over the past 25 years by exposing to the English-speaking world the historical hegemony inherent in the social sciences and humanities. In fact, he treats it as a necessary precursor to any spatial theorizing, lest the historicist’s eye pass over his work without giving it a second look. He states his goal succinctly at the outset of Postmodern Geographies: “to spatialize the historical narrative, to attach to durée an enduring critical human geography.” It is integral to his explicit agenda of deconstructing and reconstructing the history-centered Marxist narrative, but its intent is more far-reaching. His opening statement in Thirdspace gives a glimpse of the bigger picture: My objective . . . can be simply stated. It is to encourage you to think differently about the meanings and signi cance of space and those related concepts that compose and comprise the inherent spatiality of human life: place, location, locality, landscape, environment, home, city, region, territory, and geography. In encouraging you to think di ferently, I am not suggesting that you discard your old and familiar ways of thinking about space and spatiality, but rather that you question them in new ways that
Instructive here the helpful andSanta wide-ranging JohnTurn: Corrigan (“Spatiality and Religion,” in isBarney Warf and Arias, eds.,essay The by Spatial Interdisciplinary Perspectives [New York: Routledge, 2009, 157–172), both for what it says and for what it does not say. He discusses a number of ways in which space may be seen as intersecting with religion, including imaginative worlds, pilgrimage, migration, and ritual, among others. Ironically, he does not create a category such as “land” or “region” or even “historical geography” in which a space like “Galilee” might be included. Besides those already mentioned, I point to Allan Pred (Making Histories and Constructing Human Geographies) to justify what some might perceive as laziness with respect to taxonomizing. He begins his rst chapter with a selection of 12 di ferent quotations culled from 10 di ferent authors, presented in no identi able order and without commentary under the heading, “Fragments from a Discourse in the Making.” Soja, Postmodern Geographies, 1.
are aimed at opening up and expanding the scope and critical sensibility of your already established spatial or geographical imaginations. For Soja, the reassertion of space into critical discourse is something of a mission, a message of spatial enlightenment going out to those who have lived and thought for too long under a blanket of “historicality.” This should not, however, read as a statement against historicism per Rather it issocial a reaction to “anbeoverdeveloped historical contextualization of se. social life and theory that actively submerges and peripheralizes the geographical or spatial imagination.” His geographical and spatial a rmative action recommends the prioritization of space for the time being, given the fact that, relative to history, it has been a neglected part of critical thinking. Therefore, in Soja, the “spatial turn” has given way to a full-blown “ontological shift,” one in which scholars begin to take proper notice of space as a source and destination of critical insight. To limit the discussion to the opposition between the historical and the spatial, however, is to misrepresent another important aspect of Soja’s agenda. Whereas historical typically occupied rstchair, “sociality of being”to has also the earned a placehas within critical discourse. Thus,the spatiality, according Soja, is a way to overcome the currently reigning duality of critical discourse, one that has been dominated by temporal sequence and social relations. Two terms are inadequate, and in a move reminiscent of Derrida’s poststructuralism, a third term is introduced, one that does not simply occupy an intermediary position—in Soja’s own words, a “critical thirding-as-Othering.” Thus, Soja is able to approach critical theory “trialectically,” via a “trialectics of being,” where historicality, sociality, and spatiality intertwine, in every discipline and every discourse. Despite the traditional hegemony of historicality and the pride of place that Soja gives to spatiality as a counterbalance, none has an intrinsic priority over the others. Soja proposes his “trialectics of being” with an eye toward expanding and surpassing the traditionally historical dialectics of both Hegel and Marx. Edward Soja, Thirdspace: Journeys to Los Angeles and Other Real-and-Imagined Places (Cambridge, Mass: Blackwell, 1996), 1. Ibid., 16. Soja, Postmodern Geographies, 15. Soja, “Thirdspace: Expanding,” 261. Ibid., 268. The capital “O” utilized here is intentional. It deliberately harkens back to Lefebvre’s un-category of l’Autre. Soja, Thirdspace: Journeys, 47, 69–70.
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Thinking trialectically not only allows one to move past the order of temporal sequencing, but it also allows one to get beyond the concept of synthesis. Instead, the introduction of a third element precipitates disruption, disorder, and deconstruction: “It shifts the rhythm of dialectical thinking from a temporal to a more spatial mode, from a linear or diachronic sequencing to . . . con gurative simultaneities and synchronies.” The result, if this is done correctly, should be an “epistemological openness” rather than a “holy trinity” that stops at just one “thirding.” In this vein, the “trialectics of being” is not the only trialectic that Soja proposes. He moves on to propose a “trialectics of spatiality” and in doing so borrows heavily from Lefebvre. In The Production of Space, what David Harvey described as the “culminating work” in his series of discussions on space, Lefebvre also makes explicit his own discomfort with a philosophical duality that only allows for discussion in terms of oppositions: Relations with two elements boil down to oppositions, contrasts or antagonisms. They are de ned by signi cant e fects: echoes, repercussions, mirroriteisfects. . . . Such a system canrationality have neither materiality nor loose ends: a ‘perfect’ system whose is supposed, when subjected to mental scrutiny, to be self-evident. This paradigm apparently has the magic power to turn obscurity into transparency and to move the ‘object’ out of the shadows into the light merely by articulating it. In short, it has the power to decrypt. Thus, if the “trialectics of being” lies at the heart of Soja’s attempt to deconstruct critical social theory, then the essence of his deconstructive move with regard to geography, his attempt to disrupt the perfect system, lies in his “trialectics of spatiality.” The binary pitfall that Soja seeks to avoid through this trialectic is one in which conceptions of space vacillate between “opaqueness” and “transparency.” By opaqueness, Soja is referring to a myopic conception of space “that sees only super cial materiality,” one that is “ xed, dead, undialectical.” On the other hand, a transparent conception of space has the
Soja, “Thirdspace: Expanding,” 268. Ibid., 269. David Harvey, afterword to The Production of Space, by Henri Lefebvre (trans. Donald Nicholson-Smith; Oxford: Blackwell, 1991), 430. Lefebvre, The Production of Space, 39–40. Soja, Postmodern Geographies, 7.
e fect of dematerializing space, of relegating it to the realm of “pure ideation.” In order to break up the dualism between the “real” and the “imagined” that epitomizes the illusion of opaqueness and transparency, Soja introduces what he calls “Thirdspace.” Thirdspace breaks up the familiar bipolarization of material spatiality (“real” space, that which is empirically measurable and mappable, “Firstspace”) and representational spatialityAgain, (“imagined” which tois Lefebvre, conceptual and symbolic, “Secondspace”). Soja isspace, heavilythat indebted whose triad of “perceived,” “conceived,” and “lived” space sets the pattern for Soja’s trialectics of spatiality. Neither Soja’s “Thirdspace” nor Lefebvre’s “lived” space should be understood as something altogether di ferent from material and representational space, nor does either one represent some sort of synthesized middle ground. Rather, each holds forth space as something that is both realand-imagined (or even “realandimagined” ), touting the simultaneity of a space’s material and ideological aspects. Thirdspace is a place of posturing, a platform for the wielding of power or for the subversion of the powers-that-be, a position of social action. It confounds any tendency for discourse to remain solely the imagination, constantly re-grounding it in the material and spatial.within Soja summarizes: If Firstspace is explored primarily through its readable texts and contexts, and Secondspace through its prevailing representational discourses, then the exploration of Thirdspace must be additionally guided by some form of potentially emancipatory praxis, the translation of knowledge into action in a conscious—and consciously spatial—e fort to improve the world in some signi cant way. Thirdspace is the lens by which space is shown to be inherently political, “simultaneously a social product and a shaping force in social life.” Said, by Way of Foucault, and Imaginative Geography
The idea that a territory can be constructed, often times falsely so, lies at the heart of Edward Said’s pathbreaking Orientalism. According to Said, “Orientalism” was a construct of the West, one which served the West in its Ibid. Soja, Thirdspace: Journeys, 10–11. Ibid., 22. Soja, Postmodern Geographies, 7. Edward Said, Orientalism (New York: Pantheon Books, 1978).
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imperialistic endeavors, conceived for the purpose of maintaining control over an area ideologically and, by extension, practically. Although knowledge of the Orient has always been politically charged and culturally mandated, such conditions should not be viewed as built-in limitations. Said argues that “we can better understand the persistence and durability of saturating hegemonic systems like culture when we realize that their internal constraints upon writers and thinkers were productive, unilaterally inhibiting.”, rather In the however, what is produced must be not recognized asrepresentation thanend, a “natural” depiction of the area in question. The sense given to these representations is dependent upon the West, not the East; in other words, Orientalism as a eld of study says far more about the Orientalist than the Oriental. It makes no di ference that the depiction does not correspond very well, or even at all, with what is “on the ground.” Such representations make the Orient “visible, clear, and ‘there’ in discourse . . . and rely upon institutions, traditions, conventions, agreed-upon codes of understanding for their e fects, not upon a distant and amorphous Orient.” They are an exercise in “imaginative geography.” One of the o fshoots of imaginative geography is the apparent arbitrariness of certain geographical distinctions, but in fact these distinctions are never without a purpose: Imaginative geography . . . legitimates a vocabulary, a universe of representative discourse peculiar to the discussion. . . . In other words, we need not look for correspondence between the language used to depict the Orient and the Orient itself, not so much because the language is inaccurate but because it is not even trying to be accurate. Read as geographical texts, these vocabularies are generative. Or, to put it another way, “It is Europe that articulates the Orient; this articulation is the prerogative, not of a puppet master, but of a genuine creator.” Explicit in Said’s text is a general indebtedness to Michel Foucault and particularly to the relationship between knowledge and power laid out in Foucault’s The Archaeology of Knowledge. Essentially Said has adopted Foucault’s Ibid., 4. Ibid., 22. Ibid., 54. Ibid., 71. Ibid., 57. Michel Foucault, The Archaeology of Knowledge (trans. A.M. Sheridan Smith; New York: Routledge, 1972; Routledge Classic ed. 2002), 23–33.
characterization of knowledge as discourse, recognizing that an understanding of the network of interests inherent in Orientalist discourse plays a crucial role in the management and production of the concept of “Orient.” This squares with Foucault’s emphasis on geography over history: “Temporal models cannot adequately portray the role of power in the formation of discourses. Spatial metaphors better convey the strategic aspect of knowledge.” Yet he does blindly. Heattention also adapts the contributions notion of discourse in such a waynot thatadopt he is Foucault more willing to pay to the of individual authors, even individual texts, in the discursive formation of Orientalism as opposed to “the otherwise anonymous collective body of texts.” Said’s adaptation is in the interest of doing “close textual readings,” which inform and are informed by the broader systems of knowledge and power. Said’s spatial legacy is not limited, however, to the introduction of a new conceptual framework for discussing colonialism or even to the phrase “imaginative geography” itself, which numerous geographical writings have employed since the publication of Orientalism. His persuasive case for imaginative geography was a crucial step forward in the legitimization of a mode of spatial analysis does not owe place simply to thePeter constitution of Rodney reason.” White, Said was “that not necessarily theitsrst in this respect; Gould and for example, were already discussing “spatial bias” in their study of “mental maps” published a few years earlier. Said’sOrientalism, however, coming from outside the eld,re-oriented geographers toward a fuller appreciation for the partiality and situatedness of geographical knowledge. A given space can “make sense” even if it is not fully or fairly represented, as long as that “sense” is understood as deriving from the observer and not what is being observed. In the end, Said o fers the valuable reminder that part of human geography entails re ecting upon how human beings are responsible for inventing geography—a geography that de nes others and de nes the self in terms of others.
From a 1976 interview with Foucault cited in Vincent J. Miller, “History or Geography? Gadamer, Foucault, and Theologies of Tradition,” in Theology and the New Histories (ed. Gary Macy; Maryknoll, . .: Orbis Books, 1998), 67. Said, Orientalism, 23. Ibid., 24. Massey, “Issues,” 43. Peter Gould and Rodney White, Mental Maps (Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1974), 40. Gill Valentine, “Imagined Geographies: Geographical Knowledges of Self and Other in Everyday Life,” in Human Geography Today (ed. Doreen Massey, John Allen and Philip Sarre. Cambridge: Polity Press, 1999), 47.
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King, by Way of Baudrillard, and Cartographic Meaning
Central to Geo f King’s program is an attempt to destabilize the notion that maps serve as objective re ections of territory. His 1996 publication Mapping Reality is a criticism of the process of mapping to be sure, and although it culminates in a discussion on the deconstruction of maps, it does not start there. He actually begins by deconstructing the territory and in so doing prioritizes what traditionally has been viewed as derivative: In the modernist experience, it is argued, the notion of representation in general came under more concerted question. As representational forms became more autonomous they began to take on a distinct opacity and became disconnected from everyday reality. In the postmodern, it is reality itself that is said to have become problematic. Representations, formerly understood as secondary elements, become central to the fabric of our lives. In implying that the map is preserved while the territory is lost, it is not difcult to see the work of Baudrillard lurking in the background. a world where representation hasJean given way to simulation, “sovereign diInference” between representation and reality is also lost, the very thing that was “the charm of abstraction.” The idea of the smooth transfer of real world to mapped image, where map and territory are separable yet coextensive, is dismissed by Baudrillard as “the cartographer’s mad project.” But even in Baudrillard, whose pronouncements of the “loss of the real” have on occasion induced severe criticism, the real is not so much lost as subsumed into the simulation itself. The map not only takes precedent over the territory, it engenders it, something that King is careful to preserve in his admonition against drawing a clear line between map and territory. They cannot ultimately be separated from one another. Territory is that which is “always already” mapped. Furthermore, mapped territories are cultural productions, and as such they are subject to certain conventions, stemming Geo f King, Mapping Reality (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1996). Ibid., 5. Jean Baudrillard, Simulacra and Simulation (trans. Sheila Faria Glaser; Ann Arbor, Mich.: University of Michigan Press, 1994), 1. Ibid., 2. Ibid., 1. Alluding to Baudrillard’s de nition of the “hyperreal” (ibid., 108), viz., which is “always already” simulation.
more from that particular culture’s perceptions of territory than from some pre-existing territorial reality. Maps are created in accordance with the choices made about them, choices about inclusion and omission, choices that create “cartographic meaning.” To put it another way, maps become tools for imposing meaning upon the world, making it manageable, decipherable, navigable, or conquerable. King notes modernbut improvements in cartographic techniques may create to the illusionthat of reality, there is no such thing as neutrality when it comes mapping at any stage in the history of cartography. The reason for this is that all maps incorporate distortion. However, it is important to distinguish “distortion” from any notion of miscommunication that, rst, presupposes the separability of map and territory and, second, extols an unadulterated accuracy as its sole virtue. Distortion is not secondary “noise” that intrudes upon and mu es or garbles an otherwise clear transfer of information. Maps do not communicate in spite of distortion but through it. It may be tempting to assume that an understanding of maps like the one King advocates would lead invariably to the capricious redrawing of maps, to the mapsofsuited whim and attitudes fancy. Maps can constrained be redrawn, but production because theofpower mapstotoevery shape cultural is also by cultural attitudes, it is not always easy to do so—map and territory remain inextricably bound. Interpreted, however, as social space, no map is xed and unchangeable, nor can it be exclusive. The fusion of map and territory is not necessarily a one-to-one arrangement. It is possible for multiple maps to exist simultaneously, each utilizing its own system of distortions and creating its own cartographic meaning. Landscape then becomes “a palimpsest of di ferent mappings.” By the same token, a map’s provisionality should not be con ated with some sort of cartographic humility. The more “provisional” the map, that is, in terms of its weaker correspondence to a given cultural perception, often the more vigorously—and even violently—it is defended. Wars may be fought over invisible lines inscribed upon the land, but it is often their provisionality, rather than their permanence, which gives rise to disputes. King, Mapping Reality, 18. Ibid., 33. Ibid., 37. Cf. Soja, Postmodern Geographies, 2. King, Mapping Reality, 73. Ibid., 41. Derek Gregory (“Social Theory,” 81) applies this principle speci cally to the academy: “It is always possible to provide (historical) reasons for drawing the boundaries this way rather than that. But once those boundaries are established they usually become
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Nevertheless, because of the power of maps to in uence and to a fect change, their provisionality, their ability to be redrawn or overwritten, must remain intact. According to King, “Everything that becomes meaningful does so by being tted into, or challenging, some existing map.”
Mapping Galilee
This study is not an exercise in historical geography as it relates to Galilee but rather an investigation into the process of applying a deliberately spatial critique to Galilee (or rather to multiple Galilees), and what this might mean to the modern reader of particular ancient texts. The chapters that follow address three di ferent and roughly contemporaneous texts—Josephus, the Gospel of Luke, and the Gospel of John—each of which maps Galilee in its own way. Previous studies have covered this terrain from the standpoint of amassing evidence and drawing conclusions using the tools of historical criticism. The unique approach being used here, however, is the deliberate application of critical the study isof so Galilee. array of methodologies makinggeography up criticaltogeography vast, aBecause speci cthe theoretical approach has been selected for each text. In chapter 2, Josephus, especially via J.W. and the Life, will be analyzed through the lens of Edward Soja’s concept of “Thirdspace” in order to demonstrate how Josephus constructs Galilee as a platform for his own actions and as an apologetic for his own purposes. In chapter 3, Edward Said’s “imaginative geography” will be applied to the Gospel of Luke for the purpose of showing how Luke’s portrait of Galilee speci cally (and ancient Palestine as a whole) aptly serves his narrative, even if its utility is not always recognized by modern interpreters. Chapter 4 is a study of the Fourth Gospel using a method of analysis drawn from Geo f King’s concept of “cartographic meaning,” which advocates for the provisionality of maps and how their simultaneity can be crucial to the communicative process. Chapter 5 will provide nal re ections on the application of critical geography to the study of Galilee as an ancient space and its relevance for current trends in scholarship.
institutionalized. All the apparatus of the academy—teachers, courses, journals, texts, academic societies—is mobilized to mark and, on occasion, to police them.” King, Mapping Reality, 169. For a very helpful study along precisely these lines see Sean Freyne, Galilee, Jesus and the Gospels: Literary Approaches and Historical Investigations (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1988).
No rules govern which theory should be applied to which ancient text, and a case could be made that any of the theoretical approaches used here could be fruitfully applied to any number of ancient writings. Nevertheless, these methodological/textual pairings have been carefully chosen (as will hopefully become clear in each case) with the intent of proceeding cautiously. Admittedly, each of these theoretical approaches can lay claim to the label “postmodern,” butgoal the istarget of this studyanalytical is still, inlenses a sense, In other words, the to apply these to “premodern.” Galilee so as to amplify what each of these texts is actually doing with Galilee as a constructed space. I make no claims of interpretive neutrality, but my intent is to leave the construction of Galilee to the ancient authors. My desire is that this study will be of use to those who have no interest in (deliberately) doing a spatial critique, but who share the same fundamental goal: a better understanding of the Galilee(s) of these texts. Even though it does not claim to be another entry into the quest for the historical Galilee, the hope is that it still may be of service to those who have made the historical Galilee their aim. The contribution, however, will be in the form of problematizing the quest from a geographical perspective, inasmuch as it calls into question thefrom historical Galilee itself as something that can be recovered or even rescued the texts in question. When Josephus writes about the war between the Jews and the Romans, he does not merely give glimpses of the “true” Galilee, but glimpses of maps that impose meaning upon Galilee. Thus, if the quest for the historical Galilee asks “What was rst century Galilee really like?” this project asks “How does Galilee as a spatial construct function within this text?” By analyzing 1st c. Galilee in terms of critical geography, the intention is not to supplant other critical approaches to the texts in question or to Galilee as an area of research. The same air of superiority exuded by more positivistic approaches to Galilee and geography based upon their perceived progression toward accuracy and realism can easily be transferred to other critical approaches that challenge the presuppositions of the status quo. They become the new vehicle for progressing beyond the “old” ways of thinking. There is
I take seriously the skepticism of Amy-Jill Levine, “Theory, Apologetic, History: Reviewing Jesus’ Jewish Context,” 55 (2007): 57–78, who challenges the notion that social scienti c models alone, apart from textual analysis and archaeology, can provide an unbiased explanation of Galilee. They are meant to introduce an element of objectivity but often do the opposite. If the critique is valid for social-scienti c models, it is valid for spatial models as well.
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a danger in the corresponding “triumphalistic” tone which characterizes much of scholarship, and it pays no respect to theoretical leanings. Jarvis’ study of postmodernism’s e fects on the mapping process, in answer to the work’s fundamental question, carefully notes that despite the way geography has changed by virtue of new theoretical approaches, the process of mapping has not. He concludes that “postmodern cartographies . . . do not then constitute aIndecisive break people from the dominant traditionsall of along; landscape representation. ” other words, have been “mapping” the new approach has merely reinscribed those processes within di ferent theoretical frameworks. With this in mind, the intention here is to tread lightly with respect to those who have advanced our understanding of Galilee over the centuries, o fering a challenge to their theoretical outlook while at the same time taking a place humbly alongside them. A nal wordon terminology is in order before moving forward. Throughout this study, the words “geography” and “geographical” will be used in their broadest possible senses. One could make the case that the study of Galilee is not “geography” at all but is closer to the 2nd c. geographer Ptolemy’s category of “chorography,” that liberties is, the study particular or region. Nevertheless, certain linguistic will of beataken, and aχώρα strict distinction of these categories will not be observed. “Geography” in this study covers a wide range of regional-level spatialities including chorography, topography, and cartography, although when such terms are more appropriate they will be used also. In the chapters that follow, extended English quotations of the Bible have been taken from the , and quotations from Greco-Roman literature have been taken from their respective Loeb Classical Library translations unless otherwise indicated. With regard to the authors of texts, proper names such as “Luke” and “John” will be used on occasion as a matter of convenience and should not be interpreted as assumptions about authorship.
John Rennie Short, “Alternative Geographies: From Cosmography to Geography,” in Sacred Landscapes and Cultural Politics (ed. Philip P. Arnold and Ann Grodzins Gold; Aldershop, Eng.: Ashgate Publications, Ltd., 2001), 27–28. Jarvis, Postmodern Cartographies, 188. Ptolemy, Geogr. 1.1. Even in the ancient world, this term was uid, however. Pomponius Mela’s De chorographia (ca. 37–41 ) surveyed the entire known world, not just one region. See Daniela Dueck, Geography in Classical Antiquity (Cambridge: Cambridge , 2012) 47.
Josephus’ Galilee Introduction
Interpretations of Josephus are subject to pitfalls and di culties even without the addition of Galilee as yet another point of contention. Although the study of Galilee has become a key battleground for theories pertaining to the historical Jesus in recent years, it is still Josephus, rather than the Gospels, that reigns supreme among ancient authors for providing information about Galilee’s history, culture, and character during the 1st c. . All four of Josephus’ works contain important references to his geographical insight and outlook, but J.W. and the Life are of special signi cance for Galilee, the former for its summary of events that took place there during the early stages of the con ict with Rome (particularly Books 2 and 3), and the latter for the conspicuously disproportionate focus it places on the Josephus’ tenure there afterasbeing commissioned to oversee thethat district before war broke out. Galilee a topic of scholarly discussion has hardly been left in the dark. With the ascendancy of archaeology in the Galilean region over the past few decades, scholars who are interested in the nature of Galilee have found in Josephus an invaluable dialogue partner in the attempt to maintain the delicate balance between text and trench. In addition, standard, very helpful overviews of Josephus abound, “[Josephus] is our most important guide to the geography, topography, and monuments of Palestine, so that the archaeologist must dig with a spade in one hand and a copy of Josephus in the other.” Louis H. Feldman, introduction to Josephus, the Bible, and History (ed. Feldman and Gohei Hata; Detroit: Wayne State see , 1989), a detailed of the archaeological evidence pertaining to Galilee, Mark18. A. For Chancey, The treatment Myth of a Gentile Galilee (Cambridge: Cambridge , 2002). As the title implies, Chancey’s primary goal is to rebut those statements, rather pervasive in scholarly literature, that claim Galilee was mostly, largely, or signi cantly Gentile. Cf. Eric Meyers, “Identifying Religious and Ethnic Groups through Archaeology,” inBiblical Archaeology Today, 1990: Proceedings of the Second International Congress on Biblical Archaeology, Jerusalem, Je-Jl 1990 (ed. Avraham Biran and Alan Paris-Shadur; Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 1993), 738–45. For general introductions, see Per Bilde, Flavius Josephus between Jerusalem and Rome: His Life, His Works, and Their Importance (JSPSup 2; She eld: Press, 1988); Louis H. Feldman, “Flavius Josephus Revisited: The Man, His Writings, and His Signi cance,” 2.21.2:763–862; Mireille Hadas-Lebel, Flavius Josèphe: Le Juif de Rome (Paris: Fayard, 1989);
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each of which recognizes Josephus’ frequent contradictions and the confounding questions they pose to modern readers; that Galilee serves as one of the primary staging grounds for such conundrums in Josephus’ narratives is obvious enough. More speci c issues such as those pertaining to the “Galileans”— who they were and what role they played—have also received their share of attention. On the whole, however, Josephus’ spatialhave sensibilities his attention. function asAsa geographer, mapper, and creator of space, received and far less an example, in a parting shot at the end of his Josephus and the New Testament, Steve Mason readily admits that with regard to Galilean history and geography, “[w]e said almost nothing.” Josephus the historian has long had a place at the table, but Josephus the geographer is a relative newcomer. Exceptions exist, of course, but not enough to form a body of work in which one can identify de nitive lines of argument or major bearings in scholarship. Josephus’ geography, at least in the traditional sense of boundaries, population centers, regions, and topographical descriptions, does merit its share of comments, but deliberate re ection upon him as a geographer is comparatively rare. Those who attempt to emerging theoretical trends from spatialofdisciplines andmore applyimporthem to utilize Josephus are rarer still. Nevertheless, a review some of the tant contributors to this discussion can be helpful. At this point, the intention is not to give an overview of scholars who are interested in the character of 1st c. Galilee, but to give consideration to those who have made Josephus’ geography (or Josephus qua geographer) their primary aim. Steve Mason, Josephus and the New Testament (2nd ed.; Peabody, : Hendrickson, 2003); idem, Understanding Josephus (JSPSup 32; She eld: She eld Academic Press, 1998); Tessa Rajak, Josephus: The Historian and His Society (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1984). Shaye J.D. Cohen wastes no time in confronting one of the most widely discussed problems in the entire Josephan corpus: in many respects, the Lifeassimply disagree as tosent what Josephus is doing in Galilee. Broadly speaking, in J.W. J.W.and he serves a warring patriot, to Galilee to prepare it for battle; in Life he represents the moderate faction, sent to Galilee to maintain peace. In ch. 1 of Cohen’s Josephus in Galilee and Rome: His Vita and Development as a Historian (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1979), he lays out an extensive history of scholarship on this question. Most notably in Life, which has more than double the references to the “Galileans” (44 total) than does J.W. (20 total) despite being only about one tenth as long. See, in particular, Sean Freyne, “The Galileans in Light of Josephus’ Life,” in Galilee and Gospel: Collected Essays (ed. S. Freyne; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2000), 27–44. Mason, Josephus and the New Testament, 297–98. Many of these will be discussed throughout.
Review of Scholarship
It is no coincidence that interest in Josephus’ geography has paralleled two other rising trends: 1) Galilean archaeology and 2) the latest historical Jesus quest. The initial result was a pursuit of geographical data that could be used in the service of a largely historical-critical approach. Michael Avi-Yonah’s 1974 article servesgeography, as a good itstarting point,ofand with most scholars who analyze Josephus’ is inclusive 1st c.asGalilee but not necessarily Galilee- or 1st c.-speci c. In this article, Avi-Yonah gives an overview of the history of Palestine from the perspective of geographical regions, ruling dynasties, and territorial divisions. Rather than organize his study around geographical regions, however, he opts for a breakdown according to historical periods: Persian, Hellenistic, Hasmonean, Herodian, and the time of Jesus. His primary source materials are the works of Josephus, and although he is suitably critical at times, he does not theorize about Josephus as a geographer. Avi-Yonah’s interest is in mining Josephus for information that can help the modern reader construct a historical geography of the region. Ze’evisSafrai’s 1989 article, “The Description Land of Israel Josephus’ Works,” still primarily historical-critical, butofhethe does begin to askinquestions about what lies behind Josephus’ geographical descriptions, particularly in terms of parallels found in other ancient writings. He lists references to other historiographers who include geographical excursuses in their writings, but the comparison ends there. He also draws connections between Galilee as described in J.W., Book 3 and Talmudic literature. However, such scattered observations, although helpful, play only a minor role; his goal is to evaluate Josephus’ reliability as a reporter of geographical data, not his geographical methods. When Safrai, for example, examines J.W. 3.57, he explains that Josephus is incorrect when he says Agrippa’s kingdom extended “as far as Julias Michael Avi-Yonah, “Historical Geography,” in Vol. 1 of Jewish People in the First Century:
Historical Geography, Political History, Social, Cultural and Religious Life and Institutions (ed. Shemuel Safrai and Menahem Stern; Assen, Netherlands: Van Gorcum, 1974), 78–116. Ze’ev Safrai, “The Description of the Land of Israel in Josephus’ Works,” in Josephus, the Bible, and History (ed. Louis H. Feldman and Gohei Hata; Detroit: Wayne State , 1989), 295–324. These include Julius Caesar, Bell. gall. 1.1; Tacitus, Hist. 5.1; Herodotus, Hist. 4.1–9; and Arrian, Anab. 5.6, 7.10–12. Safrai, “Description of the Land,” 299–301. As emphasized in one of his opening statements: “The reliability of [Josephus’] compositions, his sources and the manner in which he utilized them, and his objectives and those of his sources are among the most important issues for the study of Jewish history at the end of the Second Temple period” (295).
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[Bethsaida]” since, in fact, it also included Tiberias. His concern is to point out that Josephus is inconsistent but not to ask why. A signi cant step forward in the study of Josephus’ geography came with Per Bilde’s 1994 article focusing on Josephus’ geographical excursuses. In isolating these excursuses for consideration and analysis, Bilde moves beyond the notion that Josephus’ writings can be mined for geographical information; at the verypassages, least, he giving also isolates geographer. article considers 27 such a brief Josephus summarythe of each one (andThe admitting that there are many other examples and parallels that could have been included). Bilde then o fers summary comments and observations, but he does not attempt a theoretical explanation of Josephus as a geographer. For example, he comments that Josephus shows “a curious interest in climatology,” but he does not explore what motivation Josephus might have had for including such information. To be fair to Bilde, uncovering Josephus’ theoretical approach to space and place was not his aim. Nevertheless, his article does make a crucial contribution to those who wish to explore Josephan geography, regardless of the methodological approach. According to Bilde, Josephus’ geographical excursuses are srcinal to him not derived from another source, since they are consistent with otherand passages that are unquestionably Josephan compositions. This conclusion is a signi cant one, given the trend going back to Wilhelm Weber that viewed the excursuses as borrowed from Vespasian’s
While Safrai is technically correct, the misstep is hardly a blatant one and may be rather easily explained. Agrippa had been srcinally given the territory formerly belonging to Philip on the east side of the upper Jordan. Only later were Tiberias and Tarichaeae, on the west side of the Sea of Galilee, added to his jurisdiction by Nero ( J.W.2.252). It is true that by the time Josephus reaches the point in his narrative where he summarizes the geography of Galilee and surrounding districts ( J.W. 3.35–43) Agrippa already has oversight of Tiberias, but given the fact that the boundary line in question is a natural (Jordan River), territorial (Gaulanitis vs. Galilee), and administrative (Philip vs. Antipas) one, Josephus can be easily forgiven here. Per Bilde, “The Geographical Excursuses in Josephus,” in Josephus and the History of the Greco-Roman Period: Essays in Memory of Morton Smith(ed. Fausto Parente and Joseph Sievers; Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1994), 247–62. The article follows up on some limited speculation on Josephus’ geographical excursuses in Pere Villalba i Varneda, The Historical Method in Flavius Josephus (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1986). Bilde, “Geographical Excursuses,” 260. Josephus is likely following a historiographical commonplace. Cf. Hippocrates, Airs, Waters, Places 13.8–17. This will be discussed further below. Bilde, “Geographical Excursuses,” 261. Cf. Villalba i Varneda, The Historical Method in Flavius Josephus, 123.
military commentaries. If the excursuses are indeed Josephus’ own, then the geography is likely Josephus’ as well. Bilde makes one further observation that is pertinent to this study. He comments at the outset of his article that very little analysis had been done on Josephus’ geography to that point, and virtually nothing had been published on the subject of his geographical excursuses speci cally. Within a few years, however, this would begin togeography change. Two articlesbut by Ben-Zion have not only taken up Josephan in earnest have also Rosenfeld made a foray into a more theoretical approach, arguing that Josephus’ geography is fused with ideology and should not be read merely as a window into the historical geography of the period. His main concern is with Roman Palestine as a whole—which includes but is not limited to Galilee—and particularly with Palestine’s 1st c. coastal regions. According to Rosenfeld, Josephus’ descriptions can be varied and even inconsistent, sometimes revealing a Josephan “national geography” and other times a “realistic geography.” When speaking of Judea, Rosenfeld argues that Josephus has multiple de nitions depending upon his needs at the moment. “Judea” can refer to the Roman province of Judea (a more of “realistic geography”), the land that is inhabited by Jews even if it lies outside the province (a mixture of “realistic” and “national geography”), or “the land of the Jews” re ecting a biblical perspective of eretz Israel regardless of its inhabitants in Josephus’ day (a more “national geography”). Furthermore, Josephus will even modify biblical borders “according to the realities of his time.” Perhaps the best example of this is in Ag. Ap. 1.60–63, one of Josephus’ most intriguing commentaries on Judean geography despite its occurrence in what is arguably his least “geographical” work:
Wilhelm Weber, Josephus und Vespasian: Untersuchungen zu dem Jüdischen Krieg : G. Olms, 1921, 1973), 145. Josephus does refer to des FlaviusCommentaries Josephus (Hildesheim, Vespasian’s in Life 342, though no reference is made to geographical information. It is worth noting that J.W. does not refer to sources as a rule, so the lack of a reference in Josephus’ geographical excursuses speci cally was not problematic for Weber. Bilde’s study, therefore, is that much more important. Bilde, “Geographical Excursuses,” 248. Ben-Zion Rosenfeld, “Flavius Josephus and His Portrayal of the Coast (Paralia) of Contemporary Roman Palestine: Geography and Ideology,” 91:1/2 (2000): 143–83; BenZion Rosenfeld, “Josephus and the Mishnah: Two Views on the Outline of the Map of Palestine in the First Two Centuries A.D.,”RevEtudJui 163:3/4 (2004) 415–28. Rosenfeld, “Flavius Josephus and His Portrayal of the Coast,” 144. Ibid., 145. Ibid., 152.
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Well, ours is not a maritime country; neither commerce nor the intercourse which it promotes with the outside world has any attraction for us. Our cities are built inland, remote from the sea; and we devote ourselves to the cultivation of the productive country with which we are blessed. Above all we pride ourselves on the education of our children, and regard as the most essential task in life the observance of our laws and of the AgAp pious 1.60) practices, based thereupon, which we have inherited. (Josephus, The picture of contented isolation and separation from invading cultural forces painted here, however, is not supported by another important geographical passage from Josephus, this time in J.W.After explaining that Judea’s breadth “stretches from the river Jordan to Joppa [a city on the Mediterranean coast],” Josephus comments further that Judea is in fact “not cut o f from the amenities of the sea, because it slopes down towards the coast on a ridge extending as far as Ptolemais.” Rosenfeld, as a result, adds another category to his previously speci ed categories of “realistic” and “national” geographies. This time, Josephus is utilizing a “cultural geography.” Rosenfeld explains: Josephus’ treatment of the coast here is based not on national geography, nor on a geography re ecting political reality, but rather on the di fering cultural perceptions of the coastal inhabitants and of those living inland. This cultural geography re ects both the reality and an ancient ideological tradition, extending back to biblical times, of keeping a distance from the sea. . . . Josephus thus re ects a sort of internal tension which covets the coast and at the same time is repulsed by it. Josephus’ geographical information will vary depending upon which “geography” he is employing at the time. Geography, therefore, becomes a tool to be manipulated or a container for his own ideology. Josephus, J.W. 3.51. Ibid., 3.53. Rosenfeld, “Flavius Josephus and His Portrayal of the Coast,” 170. Although Rosenfeld does not comment further, there is also more than just “geography” in uencing Josephus in this instance. Some of Josephus’ apologetic tendencies may be more disguised than others, but the motivation behind AgAp is clear. Josephus is rebutting claims that the Jews lack antiquity as a race since they are largely unknown to ancient historians. Not only is this not exactly true, argues Josephus, but to the extent that it is true, it is also easily explainable. Landlocked countries would not be as widely known as coastal countries with robust maritime activity (such as the Phoenicians).
Rosenfeld’s breakdown of di ferent geographies is far from being a recognized standard for evaluating Josephus’ construction of space, but his contributions should not be overlooked. He takes seriously Josephus’ role as a geographer, understands the broader historical context, yet still attempts to break new ground in theorizing about Josephus’ ideologically infused geographical information. Whether his brand of theorizing becomes commonplace is not really the issue, especially given the that aversion among to adopt a single theoretical framework would only critical producegeographers a new hermeneutical hegemony. Far more important is the fact that he has looked at Josephus’ geography through a lens that allows him to move beyond the object of study (in this case, Judea) as a thing to be discovered in Josephus’ writings. Josephus does not just describe space, he creates it. By far the most important contribution to the study of Josephus’ geography to date has come from Yuval Shahar. His 2004 publication, Josephus Geographicus: The Classical Context of Geography in Josephus, began as a research project into the question of how one might read Josephus’ geographical passages in the light of Greco-Roman geography. He opens his book with a clear indication of thespace di culty of the task.functioned Looking to in classical for a summary of how and geography ancientscholarship historiographers so that he might have a point of comparison to Josephus’ writings, he found, to his chagrin, that “there was no such textbook.” Shahar’s work, therefore, serves as a primer on the development of the ideological underpinnings of classical geography beginning with Homer but with an eye toward Josephus as its endpoint. His primary contribution is the identi cation of various lines of geographical thought, their most important individual proponents, and how those lines are then passed on to and re ected in Josephus. Shahar discusses four early classical geographical concepts that Herodotus (5th c. ) inherited, most likely from Hecataeus of Miletus, and utilized to a greater or lesser extent: 1) the notion of the “inhabited world” or oikoumenē; 2) Homer as the father of geography; 3) the curious lack of a geography of Greece despite a strong See Derek Gregory et al., eds., Human Geography: Society, Space, and Social Science (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1994), 4. Yuval Shahar, Josephus Geographicus: The Classical Context of Geography in Josephus (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2004), 1. Shahar does acknowledge predecessors who have done important studies on particular aspects of classical geography. See, for example, Claude Nicolet, Space, Geography, and Politics in the Early Roman Empire(Ann Arbor, Mich.: U of Michigan Press, 1991); James S. Romm, The Edges of the Earth in Ancient Thought: Geography, Exploration, and Fiction(Princeton: Princeton , 1992); Katherine Clarke, Between Geography and History: Hellenistic Constructions of the Roman World (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1999), who focuses principally, but not exclusively, on Strabo.
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Greek geographical tradition; and 4) the use of “linear geography” as was perpetuated in travel literature. Of these, the oikoumenē and the Greek geography/geography of Greece dichotomy are the most important, especially when they are allowed to collide in Herodotus’ geographical descriptions. For Herodotus, the oikoumenē is fundamentally balanced; geography functions as a meaningful barometer for the measurement of human action and human culture. visible For rst example, in the waywhen Herodotus characterizes thoseRiver who dby o not respectThis thisisbalance. Croesus crosses the Halys digging a channel, dividing the river into two streams and thus making it fordable, it represents for Herodotus the manipulation of a natural boundary and is therefore a sure sign of hubris. Second, the balance of the oikoumenē manifests itself in its inhabitants in such a way that aspects of geography are re ected in the cultures of its various people groups. Perhaps the best example of this can be found in Herodotus’ ethnographic description of the Egyptians. Many aspects of Egyptian culture are backward compared to Greek customs: not only is the Egyptian language written from right to left, but Egyptian women are involved in trade, carry loads on their shoulders, and urinate while standing, while men weave, carry loads heads, and while sitting. For Herodotus, however, all of thison is their explainable: “Justurinate as the Egyptians have a climate peculiar to themselves, and their river is di ferent in its nature from See in particular ch. 1, “Early Spatial Concepts,” 8–48. “Linear geography” refers to the predominance of a one-dimensional approach to space that is applicable in travel and itineraries. What is important is the progression of locales, not necessarily their twodimensional spatial layout. My suggestion, not Shahar’s. The work of Thomas Harrison is instructive here. He contends that the link between land and inhabitants is actually one of several Herodotean “schematisms,” which also include geographical scale, symmetry, and ethnocentrism. See idem, “The Place of Geography in Herodotus’ Histories,” in Travel, Geography and Culture in Ancient Greece, Egypt and the Near East (ed. Colin Adams and Jim Roy; Oxford: Oxbow Books, 2007), 44–52. Herodotus, Hist. 1.75.2–5. Obviously the primary o fenders for Herodotus are the Persians. “The Persian position [according to Herodotus] does not believe in the just balance of the oikoumenē. Their concept of space is opposed to the recognition of boundaries and their restrictions and always pushes the Persians to disturb the cosmic order. Herodotus presents, time after time, the yawning gap between the boundaries and the extent of the oikoumenē and the Persian ambitions for expansion. Thus, he sets the complexity of the geographical reality against the unsuitable preparations of the Persians for their expeditions of conquest and shows us the distance between the great dreams and the enormity of loss” (Shahar, Josephus Geographicus, 59). Herodotus, Hist. 2.36.4. Ibid. 2.35.2–3. The section on Egyptian customs is replete with similar examples.
all other rivers, so, too, have they instituted customs and laws contrary for the most part to those of the rest of mankind.” Given that Herodotus predates any writings on the geography of Greece speci cally, he applies his understanding of geography only to non-Greeks. Ethnography, with its close ties to geography, was a way of contemplating the “other.” Not all Greek historiographers followed Herodotus’ lead when it came to geography, An important dissenter Thucydides (lateusing 5th–early 4th c. however. ), who, according to Shahar, showedwas no real interest in ethnography. This may be a bit of an overstatement; short ethnographic digressions do occur. Regardless, his geographical passages focus only on those details that are pertinent to battle narratives. Some of the Greek/nonGreek dichotomy of Herodotus is retained, in that Thucydides does not include geographical passages covering mainland Greece. His geography covers only outlying areas. The function of his geographical passages, however, is virtually opposite to that of Herodotus. Herodotus uses a telescope; Thucydides uses a microscope. With Polybius (2nd c. ), an important decision arises: whether to follow Herodotus’ todetailed geography with its service larger brush strokes or to follow Thucydides’approach ner, more lines in the of battle descriptions. His solution, according to Shahar, is to utilize both. Not all of Shahar’s observations are relevant here, but important among them is a distinction between “regional” geography and “military” geography. Polybius’ regional geography is featured in passages that draw upon Herodotus’ ethnographic sections,
Ibid. 2.35.2. The Nile’s chief di ference, of course, is that it oods in the summer but dries up during the winter (2.19.2). Shahar (52–54) attributes this at least in part to the notion that Herodotus viewed geography as an inadequate lens for understanding Greece. Individual city-states necessitated a political explanation. The result is a more pronounced divide between Greek and barbarian. Vassiliki Pothou, La Place et la role de la digression dans l’oeuvre de Thucydide (Historia 203; Stuttgart: Fran Steiner, 2009), 67. One example of an ethnographic digression can be found in Peloponnesian War 7.29.4 where the Thracians are noted for their brutality, though the digression amounts only to a single sentence. A good example would be Thucydides’ description of the harbor at Pylos (Peloponnesian War 4.8.6). The position of the island of Sphacteria, situated in the mouth of the harbor, is described at some length since it plays a role in the ensuing naval battle. Shahar, Josephus Geographicus, 91–92. Ibid., 129. Ibid., 130, 168. Ibid., 161. Shahar also includes, as a third type, Polybius’ treatment of the entire oikoumenē.
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though admittedly without the same level of ampli cation. Their more limited scope may be due to the fact that Polybius devoted all of Book 34 (now lost) of his Histories to geography in order to minimize interruptions. As a result, an interest in peoples and places is still apparent, but obviously the stark Greek exceptionalism underscored by Herodotus’ geographical discourses is missing given Polybius’ interest in the ascendancy of Rome. Meanwhile, his military geography imitatesThe Thucydides’ of territory as an important feature of battle narratives. result is a use synthesis of geographical traditions within the same texts. One of the most important gures with regard to ancient geographical thought is Strabo (late 1st c. –early 1st c. ), whose 17-volume Geography continues largely in the synthesized tradition of Polybius. Shahar’s primary interest in Strabo lies in demonstrating that he is Josephus’ “chief guide” when it comes to writing about places and also his primary interlocutor with regard to Palestine in particular. Not only does he see evidence of Strabo’s geographical outlines as being programmatic for Josephus, he also argues for a “hidden dialogue” with Strabo and more speci cally with Strabo’s Geography. Although Josephus acknowledges Strabo as amust source in Ant. , aware Shaharofcontends, against most scholars, that Josephus also have been Strabo’s
See, for example, his description of the χώρα of Artabazanes in Hist. 5.55.6–8. This short passage includes both ethnographic details (“a large and warlike population”) and corresponding regional descriptions (“natural resources [that] provide every kind of warlike material”). See Daniela Dueck, Geography in Classical Antiquity (Cambridge: Cambridge , 2012) 42. Admittedly, this is a more complex issue. There is disagreement over whether Polybius was pro-Roman or pro-Greek; see the discussion in Clarke, Between Geography and History, 98–99. Regarding Polybius’ geographical passages speci cally there is further debate. F.W. Walbank (Polybius [Berkeley: U of California Press, 1972], 47) assumes his excursuses came from an outside source. Clarke (104) disagrees. See, for example, Polybius’ description of New Carthage in Hist. 10.9.8–10.13. He prefaces his excursus by saying, “Now that I am about to narrate the siege and capture of the place, I think it behoves me to make my readers acquainted to some extent with its surroundings and actual position.” The description that follows makes no mention of its people or their relation to the geography. Shahar, Josephus Geographicus, 190. Ibid., 207. In Geogr. 1.1.15–16, Strabo explains the main points of any good geographical description, including size of country, terrain, and peculiarities, all of which are features of Josephus’ geographical descriptions as well. Ibid., 238–53. Strabo is mentioned several times in books 13 & 14.
description of the region (Geogr. 16.2) when writing J.W. and even “gently corrects” it at times. Less of an emphasis in Shahar’s study but also worthy of note is the way in which geographical thought is transmitted to Josephus through the Polybius/ Strabo lineage. Given that Strabo’s work is a geographical overview of the Roman Empire (and therefore a sympathetic witness to its magnitude) rather than narrative history of events, his approach to space can di fer tially afrom Polybius’ military geography. Strabo’s focus is primarily on substandescriptions of regions and their peoples, which at rst glance might appear to be a throwback to Herodotus’ ethnography. In reality though, the ideology that drove Herodotus is altogether absent from both Polybius and Strabo. Polybius does not perpetuate the notion of assigning moral signi cance to natural boundaries; Strabo goes a step further and articulates the opposite of Herodotus’ approach: [F]or the scene of the activities of states is land and sea, the dwelling place of man. The scene is small when the activities are of small importance, and large whenall they of (which large importance; largest is the scene that embraces theare rest we call by and the the special name of “the inhabited world”), and this, therefore, would be the scene of activities of the largest importance. Moreover, the greatest generals are without exception men who are able to hold sway over land and sea, and to unite nations and cities under one government and political administration. (Strabo, Geogr. 1.1.16) Josephus’ regional descriptions descend from this tradition, showing much more in common with Strabo than with Herodotus. Furthermore, the clear distinction between “regional” and “military” geography that characterizes Polybius’ work, although somewhat muted in Strabo, makes a return in Josephus. He, like Polybius, is a “synthesizer” when it comes to geography. Shahar’s book ends with the admission that there is a need for further study of the geographical traditions in uencing Josephus, and he announces his own plan to write a second volume focusing on Jewish geography. It is true that “Land Theology” in the Judeo-Christian tradition is not new to biblical Shahar, Josephus Geographicus, 240. Josephus does not mention Strabo as a source in J.W., but as previously mentioned, J.W. does not include information about sources. Shahar, Josephus Geographicus, 165. See the discussion under “Josephus’ Galilee as Firstspace” below. Shahar, Josephus Geographicus, 130.
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scholarship, but little has been done with regard to Josephus’ land theology in particular. One important exception would be the work of Betsy HalpernAmaru. She concludes that although the concept of the land as a signi cant aspect of the covenant was prevalent in the Hebrew Scriptures, it is simply not present in Josephus. Instead, Josephus downplays the “promissorial” function of the land covenant when discussing the patriarchs and replaces it with a “predictive” As the centrality the promised land is diminished, the people ofapproach. the covenant then take on of a more prominent role. Josephus also develops an “alliance” theme whereby the people retain possession of the land through their own exploits, but only so long as they remain allied with God through observance of the law. For Josephus, God is the “ally of those who are martially prepared.” The conspicuous absence of land theology is also evident in the way that Josephus omits any notion of the land being pure and intolerant of pollution, a theme found in Lev 18–20. It is further exemplied in Josephus’ recounting of Balaam’s prophecy, where he claims that the people will not only be fruitful and dwell in the land of promise, but that they shall eventually inhabit all lands: Marvel ye then, blessed army, that from a single sire ye have grown so great? Nay, those numbers now are small and shall be contained by the land of Canaan; but the habitable world, be sure, lies before you as an eternal habitation, and your multitudes shall nd abode on
See, for example, Robert L. Wilken, The Land Called Holy: Palestine in Christian History and Thought (New Haven: Yale , 1992); Norman C. Habel, The Land is Mine: Six Biblical Land Ideologies (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1995); Alain Marchadour and David Neuhaus, The Land, the Bible, and History: Toward a Land That I Will Show You (New York: Fordham , 2007). Betsy Halpern-Amaru, “Land Theology in Josephus’ Jewish Antiquities,” 71 (1980): 201– 29; eadem, “Land Theology in Philo and Josephus,” in The Land of Israel: Jewish Perspectives (ed. Lawrence A. Ho fman; Notre Dame, Ind.: U of Notre Dame Press, 1986), 65–93; eadem, Rewriting the Bible: Land and Covenant in Postbiblical Jewish Literature (Valley Forge, Pa.: Trinity Press International, 1994). Halpern-Amaru, “Land Theology in Josephus’ Jewish Antiquities,” 207. Ibid., 211. Ibid., 216–18. Halpern-Amaru cites Joshua’s speech in Ant. 5.93–98, warning the people that should they forsake God’s laws, the alliance would be dissolved. Halpern-Amaru, “Land Theology in Josephus’ Jewish Antiquities,” 219. Ibid., 212. Ibid., 225–6.
islands and continent, more numerous even than the stars in heaven. (Josephus, Ant. 4.116) Thus, “Josephus . . . constructs, or reconstructs from the biblical text, a context for diaspora living.” That Josephus, given his Roman postwar context, would pursue such a goal in his writings is not surprising. Halpern-Amaru, however, argues Josephus’ outlook consistent with otherwith postbiblical Jewish authors.that Philo, for example, inisa quite manner that is congruous his own overall interpretive schema, views the land allegorically. The acquisition of promised land in the biblical narrative is therefore replaced with “the gradual acquisition of wisdom and virtue.” In other words, although the reasons and motivations may vary from one writer to the next, the attenuation of biblical land theology in Josephus is not unique to him. Halpern-Amaru’s conclusions are largely substantiated in the earlier work of W.D. Davies. Although Davies makes scant mention of Galilee in his study of land doctrine in the Jewish tradition, he acknowledges the trend toward a more symbolic interpretive method, particularly in works like T. Job and Philo’s . Philo’s turn away on from literal Overall, understanding of landtendency doctrine leads toMoses an increased emphasis thea law. this common “to detach . . . from ‘place’” resulted in the Jewish view of the land becoming increasingly “contextual,” allowing for some diversity in the way land doctrine is appropriated. One more study of Josephus’ use of space is deserving of comment. In 2012, following two volumes devoted respectively to narrator and time, Brill published a third volume in its Studies in Ancient Greek Narrative series focusing on the concept of space. In their chapter on Josephus for this volume, L. Huitink and J.W. van Henten look into the way that space functions narratologically in J.W. Following Shahar, they recognize the Herodotean and
Halpern-Amaru, “Land Theology in Josephus’ Jewish Antiquities,” 229. Halpern-Amaru, “Land Theology in Philo and Josephus,” 76. In Rewriting the Bible, Halpern-Amaru also discusses Jub., T. Mos., and Ps-Philo’s Bib. Ant., but the overall conclusion is the same for each: land theology is minimized or missing (116). W.D. Davies, The Gospel and the Land: Early Christianity and Jewish Territorial Doctrine (Berkeley: U of California Press, 1974; repr., She eld: Press, 1994), 121. Ibid., 130f. Ibid., 157–58. L. Huitink and J.W. van Henten, “Josephus,” in Space in Ancient Greek Literature(Vol. 3 of Studies in Ancient Greek Narrative; ed. Irene J.F. de Jong; Leiden: Brill, 2012) 199–217.
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Thucydidean in uences on Josephus’ excursuses, but their investigation of the Josephus’ use of space goes well beyond geography. For example, by contrasting the sense of order typical of the Roman encampment with the civil strife characteristic of the Jewish population, they argue that Josephus places at least part of the blame for the fall of Jerusalem on the inhabitants’ misuse of space. Although their study is a helpful look into the broader function of space within Josephan narrative, shouldcriticism. be notedFurthermore, that their interpretive lens is one of literary criticism, notitspatial like past treatments of Josephan geography, their primary focus is on Jerusalem rather than Galilee. Several salient observations from the preceding review of scholarship can serve as a useful foundation for further analysis. Josephus, like numerous historiographers before him, does acknowledge the importance of geography when writing history, and modern scholars are heavily indebted to him for their understanding of 1st c. . Palestine, including Galilee, despite the fact that he can be inconsistent at times. Deliberate theorizing about Josephus the geographer is still in its infancy, but each foray breaks new ground. When isolating pertinent becomes evident Josephus is no more a passivepassages, observeritthan Josephus thethat historian. He the doesgeographer not just record information about places; he creates spaces that suit his needs. This is particularly evident when comparing his writings to parallel biblical passages, but there is no reason to assume that he refrains from doing so at other times. Most importantly, Josephus does appear to be the heir of a developing geographical tradition. He utilizes geographical tropes and commonplaces that can be found in the Greco-Roman historians and geographers that predate him, without (obviously) sharing the same outlook concerning Greece like some of his earliest forebears. Herodotus’ interest in ethnography has been passed on to him through Polybius and Strabo, but he has no vested interest in characterizing the “other” as Herodotus did. Josephus’ geographical concerns, especially in J.W., are directed toward his own πατρίς. Likewise, he stands squarely within a postbiblical Jewish tradition concerning the land as a whole that has minimized the covenantal function so prevalent in the Hebrew Scriptures. Signi cant gaps remain, however, particularly with reference to the goals of this study. Although there is an abundance of interest in Josephus’ information about Galilee, and while notable progress has been made with regard to Josephus as a 1st c. geographer, Josephus as a geographer of Galilee is virtually unexplored territory. Furthermore, it is apparent that Josephus adopts Ibid., 205. Ibid., 206–208.
the geographical templates of previous writers without necessarily adopting the ideologies deposited into past geographies. Yet this does not mean that Josephus’ concept of place is devoid of all ideology. If Josephus does not utilize the Greek exceptionalism of earlier Greek historians or the covenantal land theology of earlier Hebrew writers, what ideas does he infuse into his concept of space? When he writes about Galilee, in particular, how does it become a container for new ideologies? What sort of Galilee does Josephus not only map but also create?
Josephus and Critical Geography
As explained in chapter 1 above, one of the most intriguing aspects of critical geography is that, of the panoply of theoretical approaches, no single method has won the day. Before selecting a lens through which to view Josephus’ geography, it should be emphasized that this is not an attempt to advocate a particular method as the “right” method, elevating it above all others or as the “only” method that can resultbyintheir a fruitful analysis.overlap In fact,and many of the with current theoretical frameworks, very nature, converse other approaches, mitigating any need to draw stark boundary lines between them. This does not mean, however, that all theoretical approaches rank as equals in their application to Josephus. On the one hand, Geo f King’s concept of “cartographic meaning,” which focuses on the priority of map over territory and the provisionality of maps in relation to territory, might provide a welcome challenge to current understandings of Josephus’ Galilee. On the other hand, Josephus is probably not the best place to apply Edward Said’s “imaginative geography,” which is primarily concerned with how the outsider (in Said’s case, the westerner) conceives of and maps the territory of the “other.” Such an approach might be a natural t for an evaluation of Herodotus’ ethnographically-oriented geographies of non-Greek regions, but not necessarily for Josephus, who is far more concerned with mapping his own πατρίς and his own ὁµόφυ οι, even if he does it from within a Roman milieu. Both King and Said can speak of engendering territory through the mapping process, but what they do with that concept varies widely enough to suggest di ferent applications. One suits Josephus the geographer well; the other does not.
Geo f King, Mapping Reality (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1996), 18; see ch. 1 above. Edward Said, Orientalism (New York: Pantheon Books, 1978), 22, 54; again, see ch. 1 above. King, Mapping Reality, 5; Said, Orientalism, 40.
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The primary evaluative lens chosen for this particular study, however, is the critical geography of Edward Soja with noticeable overtones from the spatial theory of Henri Lefebvre. Soja’s main contribution to geographical theory is his notion of “Thirdspace,” and as the term implies, its de nition necessarily draws upon the related concepts of “Firstspace” and “Secondspace.” If Firstspace refers to “real” space, the territory itself that is measurable and mappable, and refers in to conventional “imagined” space, of that territory Secondspace not only pictorially mapsthe butrepresentation also imaginatively in social discourse, Thirdspace is “realandimagined,” a position of understanding and experiencing space that draws upon both First- and Secondspace. Yet Soja is adamant that Thirdspace not be considered merely a combination, a subsidiary synthesis of two predecessors. The point is to introduce a critical “thirding-asOthering,” a disruptive third element into what would otherwise be a closed, tidy, and moribund binary system. Soja’s concern is that a given place, viewed only as Firstspace, is susceptible to the “illusion of opaqueness, . . . a myopia that sees only super cial materiality.” Likewise, Secondspace can create an “illusion of transparency . . . [the] pure ideation of space.” Once these illusions removed, the result is an interpretive geography neither bound to an are undialectical view of space nor disassociated duethat to aisdematerialized view of space. As such, Thirdspace is a deliberately constructed platform for “the translation of knowledge into action.” The crucial in uence of Lefebvre cannot be overlooked in this regard. Soja’s trialectic of space is a deliberate echo of Lefebvre’s own triad of “perceived,” “conceived,” and “lived” space. Thus, for Soja, Thirdspace “can be mapped but never captured in conventional cartographies; it can be creatively imagined but obtains meaning only when it is practised and fully lived.”
See ch. 1 above. Probably Soja’s most accessible and concise explanation of these concepts can be found in Thirdspace: Journeys to Los Angeles and Other Real-and-Imagined Places (Cambridge, Mass: Blackwell, 1996), 10–11. Soja, Thirdspace: Journeys, 5. Edward Soja, Postmodern Geographies: The Reassertion of Space in Critical Social Theory (New York: Verso, 1989), 7. Ibid. Ibid., 22. Henri Lefebvre, The Production of Space (trans. Donald Nicholson-Smith; Oxford: Blackwell, 1991), 40. Edward Soja, “Thirdspace: Expanding the Scope of the Geographical Imagination,” in Human Geography Today (ed. Doreen Massey et al.; Cambridge: Polity Press, 1999), 276; emphasis his.
Soja’s concept of “Thirdspace,” therefore, is not just an intra-disciplinary theory; it is a full-blown interdisciplinary agenda, a deliberate attempt at theorizing about space with an eye toward expanding geography’s imaginative and critical function. As such, it acts as a critique of space, of spatial disciplines, and beyond. Geography is squarely in the crosshairs, but it is not Soja’s only, or even most important, target. Soja summarizes Lefebvre’s insistence on making space a part of critical theory: That ‘everything’ occurs in time and is inherently historical, that our actions always play a part . . . in constructing sequential temporality and making histories, in the construction of individual and societal ‘biographies,’ seems unremarkably true, even if frequently outside of our conscious awareness or submerged in enfolding ideologies. What Lefebvre is arguing for is a similar action-oriented and politicized ontology and epistemology for space: ‘everything’ also occurs in space, not merely incidentally but as a vital part of lived experience, as part of the (social) production of (social) space, the construction of individual and societal spatialities. . . . Space was too important to be left onlyStudies) to the specialized spatial disciplines (Geography, Architecture, Urban or merely added on as a gap- ller or factual background for historians, social scientists, or Marxist sociologists. The spatiality of human life, like its historicality and sociality, infused every discipline and discourse. In other words, theorizing about space is not only necessary for geography, but for all disciplines, including (and most importantly for the purposes of this study) history. Soja’s theorization about space is an intentional backlash against “an overdeveloped historical contextualization of social life and social theory that actively submerges and peripheralizes the geographical or spatial imagination.” What might Soja’s critical geography look like when applied to Josephus? First and foremost, it is a means of setting Josephus’ spatial imagination free from his historiography. Though this may seem a rather simple undertaking at rst glance, there are potentially unique pitfalls lurking that are rooted in the nature of historiography itself. Soja describes (laments?) what he calls
Note the parallel to Lefebvre’s statement (Space, 30) “that (social) space is a (social) product.” Soja, Thirdspace: Journeys, 46–47. Soja, Postmodern Geographies, 15.
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“linguistic despair,” the unavoidability of temporal sequence that is inherent in the practice of writing. “Language dictates . . . a linear ow” in a way that is conducive to historiography but serves as a “temporal prisonhouse” for spatial hermeneutic. Geography, as opposed to history (and language), is characterized by simultaneity. If history is a manuscript, then space is a “palimpsest,” one that is “being constantly reinscribed, erased, and reinscribed again.” Unlocking Josephus’ to geography his historiography is not necessarily an easy task. According Soja, “we from are constrained by language much more than we know . . . the spatiality of social life is stubbornly simultaneous, but what we write down is successive, because language is successive.” There is a sense, however, in which the pairing of Soja and Josephus does not necessarily result in a perfect match. To be fair to Soja’s vision for Thirdspace, it should be clearly stated that he would almost certainly be disappointed in Josephus’ Galilee (or perhaps more accurately just in Josephus). Soja’s and Lefebvre’s overt Marxisms might be fruitfully applied to a study of ancient Galilee, but Josephus had obviously never read either one. It should not be surprising, therefore, that Josephus’ vision of Galilee is not necessarily crafted according to posturing Soja’s idealeven vision of Thirdspace. Thirdspace be a placeMarxist of politicking and when not in the Can service of a deliberately agenda? For the purposes of this study, it can. Soja’s approach is, above all else, a method of reasserting spatial categories in critical discourse, a recognition that the deliberately scripted historical drama that unfolds before us takes place upon a willfully constructed stage. The intent here is to look closely at Josephus’ production of Galilee, not (hypothetically) Soja’s.
Ibid., 2. Ibid., 1–2. Ibid., 2. Soja, Thirdspace: Journeys, 18; cf. King, Mapping Reality, 73, who (apparently independently) refers to landscape as “a palimpsest of di ferent mappings.” Soja, Postmodern Geographies, 247. While this would likely be less than ideal in Soja’s thinking, a Thirdspace that can only subvert hegemonic power structures is counterintuitive. Other theorists have in fact gone in very di ferent directions with regard to the relationship between space and action. In her “Performing Space,” (in Human Geography Today [ed. Doreen Massey et al.; Cambridge: Polity Press, 1999], 249), Gillian Rose argues, “If space is a performance of power and we are all performers in our everyday relationalities, the project of interpreting space critically cannot claim to be an e fort to escape power.” Rose’s argument is not intended as a rebuttal of Soja, but her unique approach shows that the combination of space and action is a malleable one.
Along with the potential pitfalls, however, come opportunities. Taking a fresh look at Josephus’ writings through a deliberately spatial lens can yield new observations. If Josephus’ history is laden with his own ideologies, is there any reason to assume that his geography is not? Josephus the geographer may indeed be a rather new concept (given the review of scholarship above), but it is also one that is ripe for analysis. The present study, then, in taking a careful look at how Josephus constructs space andLefebvre’s in particular how he constructs Galilee, shares something in common with approach: The production of space, having attained the conceptual and linguistic level, acts retroactively upon the past, disclosing aspects and moments of it hitherto uncomprehended. The past appears in a di ferent light, and hence the process whereby that past becomes the present also takes on another aspect. As Josephus’ Galilee is opened up to reconsideration through Soja’s critical geography, the hope is that current discussions on the nature of 1st c. Galilee willreason bene t.exists for applying the Lefebvre/Soja line of critique to Another Josephus, particularly when he is compared to other ancient authors who wrote about 1st c. Galilee. As stated above, integral to the idea of Thirdspace is the dual notion that action is incomplete without re ection upon space, and re ection upon space is incomplete without action. It must be “lived” space. Although there is no reason to insist that this attains validity only when the “living” takes place in a literal sense, of all our ancient historiographers, Josephus is the only one to have experienced Galilee extensively and directly, to have lived in its space and to have acted in it and upon it. Thus, his production of Galilean space is more than just a literary exercise, a projection of an author’s imagination. It is for Josephus both real and imagined, a space that he both perceives and conceives and that becomes a platform for his own activity. As he, a commissioned general and leader of the populace, serves the needs of Galilee, so Galilee, a palimpsest of simultaneously created places, comes to serve his own.
Lefebvre, Space, 65.
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Josephus’ Galilee as “Firstspace”
Soja’s Firstspace might seem initially to be nothing more than the territory itself—accurate, objective spatial reality—but the key to understanding the concept of Firstspace lies not with the territory but with the methodology that underpins the study of territory. In other words, it has as much to do with conventional geography with actual space. Firstspace consists of more than simpleasmapping; it also includes a widespatial varietyanalysis of methodological approaches that nd common ground in quantitative measurement. According to Soja, as conventional geography adopted more of these methods, the result was twofold. Not only did they usher in a “so-called quantitative ‘revolution’ in geography,” but they also coalesced into “a fundamentally positivist ‘spatial science’” that left the geographer in a position of theoretical stagnancy. The epistemologies of Firstspace may indeed be “incomplete and partial,” but they are nevertheless epistemologies, attempts at understanding space. Thus, Firstspace’s fascination with the “real” should not be confused with objective reality. Firstspace is real space—measurable and mappable—as it isthis perceived the geographer. When applying principle by to Josephus’ Galilee, therefore, the goal is not to distill the accurate geographical information from the inaccuracies in his account and call it Firstspace. The goal instead is to identify those aspects of his description of Galilee that are largely neutral with regard to his own theorization about that space, regardless of accuracy. Josephus may be inaccurate when giving the measurements of the Lake of Gennesar ( J.W.3.506) as approximately 5 miles wide and 18 miles long, but it is di cult to argue that his error is due to an ideological bias, whether intentional or unintentional. Strabo does instruct geographers to call the east-west dimension “length,” corresponding
Soja, Thirdspace: Journeys, 76. Ibid., 75. Ibid., 78. In Lefebvre’s sense of the “perception” (as opposed to the “conception”) of space; see Lefebvre, Space, 40. He is indeed incorrect, at least by today’s dimensions (7 miles wide by 12 miles long). It is worth remembering that today’s shoreline is not identical to what it was in the past, though Josephus is o f by a far wider margin. See Mendel Nun, Ancient Anchorages and Harbours Around the Sea of Galilee (Kibbutz Ein Gev, Israel: Kinnereth Sailing Co., 1988); John F. Shroder, Jr. and Moshe Inbar, “Geologic and Geographic Background to the Bethsaida Excavations,” inBethsaida: A City by the North Shore of the Sea of Galilee (eds. Rami Arav and Richard A. Fruend; vol. 1 of Bethsaida Excavations Project Reports and Contextual Studies; Kirksville, : Thomas Je ferson University Press, 1995), 92–93.
to the longer dimension of the oikoumenē, and the north-south dimension “width,” the shorter dimension of the oikoumenē, but even when Josephus breaks with this tradition he is still being “conventional.” For Josephus the geographer, the longer measurement is always called the “length” regardless of its orientation (and even Strabo himself will at times break his own rule). Although Josephus’ accuracy is often paramount when evaluating his history or it is notgeographer the primary issue here.toWhen Josephus dons the caphis of geography, the “conventional” with regard the basics of the region (keeping in mind that his conventions may not match modern ones), that is when Galilee becomes Firstspace. Amassing the sum total of Josephus’ geographical information pertinent to Galilee is not necessary for this study, but an overview of his Firstspace Galilee according to three broad categories—boundaries, features, and production— can provide a baseline for further discussion. Boundaries
Josephus’ favorite spatial descriptor for Galilee is the rather generic term χώρα (see, starters, 78,Galilee 102, 205, 244; territorial which implies thatwas he Life of J.W. 1.29, 128), mightfor have conceived in loose terms. In fact, Josephus fully aware that Galilee was a rather well-de ned space. His rendering of the extent of Galilee’s borders is well-known, and besides illustrating Josephus’ awareness of a common ancient geographical tradition, it also serves as an important reference point for modern scholars’ understanding of the region during the 1st c. . Galilee, with its two divisions known as Upper and Lower Galilee, is enveloped by Phoenicia and Syria. Its western frontiers are the outlying territory of Ptolemais and Carmel, a mountain once belonging to Galilee, and now to Tyre; . . . On the south the country is bounded by Samaria and the territory of Scythopolis up to the waters of Jordan; on the east by the Strabo, Geogr. 2.1.32. The “longer” and “shorter” dimensions are obviously an ancient perception. See ch. 5 below. Shahar, Josephus Geographicus, 235. E.g., Uriel Rappaport, “Where Was Josephus Lying—in his Life or in the War?” in Josephus and the History of the Greco-Roman Period: Essays in Memory of Morton Smith (ed. Fausto Parente and Joseph Sievers; Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1994), 279–89. See the discussion of Safrai’s “The Description of the Land of Israel in Josephus’ Works” above. Both Polybius (Hist. 12.25e.1–2) and Strabo (Geogr. 1.1.15) advocate summarizing distances and spatial dimensions when discussing a particular region.
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territory of Hippos, Gadara, and Gaulanitis, the frontier-line of Agrippa’s kingdom; on the north is Tyre and its dependent district mark its limits. ( J.W. 3.35–38) Thus, Josephus is not only aware of boundaries, but even how those boundaries have changed over time, as is the case with Carmel. His discussion of borders does within not stop however. He the continues by delineating an important border thehere, region, namely, boundary between Upper and Lower Galilee: Lower Galilee extends in length from Tiberias to Chabulon, which is not far from Ptolemais on the coast; in breadth, from a village in the Great Plain called Xaloth to Bersabe. At this point begins Upper Galilee, which extends in breadth to the village of Baca, the frontier of Tyrian territory; in length, it reaches from the village of Thella, near the Jordan, to Meroth. ( J.W.3.38–40) Josephus frequently uses borders reference pointsfor forexample, cities andis villages, particularly in theGalilee’s Great as Plain (Esdraelon), Life: the said to lie in between Galilee and Samaria, but certain villages can be located within one region or the other. Dabaritta, for example, is in Galilee ( Life 318), but Ginae is in Samaria ( Ant. 20.118). Although acknowledging that some of Josephus’ biases may be shining through when he discusses Galilee’s neighbors, he does nevertheless convey helpful information about the historically tense relations between Galileans and those from surrounding districts. The Samaria/Galilee rivalry, well known to biblical scholarship and a likely outgrowth of the conquest of Samaria by the Hasmoneans ( J.W. 1.64–65; Ant. 13.254f), apparently featured enough animosity to boil over into violence ( J.W. 2.232–33; Ant. 20.118; cf. Tacitus, Cf. J.W. 1.21–22; 2.568. The distinction between Upper and Lower Galilee is not part of the biblical tradition, but it is not unique to Josephus. It is also present in rabbinic sources (m. Šeb. 9:2–3, which adds a third region around the lake; b. Sanh. 11b, which recognizes Upper and Lower Galilee only) and later echoed by Eusebius (Onomastikon 72.18–21). Eric Meyers (“The Cultural Setting of Galilee: The Case for Regionalism and Early Judaism,” 2.19.1:693–98) uses this ancient distinction as a starting point for his own study of the di ferences between the two regions. “Gema,” J.W. 2.232, but see J.W. 3.48 where “Ginaea” is, more ambiguously, said to lie on Samaria’s frontier. Jürgen Zangenberg, “Between Jerusalem and the Galilee,” in Jesus and Archaeology (ed. James H. Charlesworth; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2006), 404, 430.
Ann. 12.54). Josephus traces frictions with Tyre, evident during the period just before the war ( Life 44), as far back as Herod the Great ( J.W. 1.238; Ant. 14.239), although the Phoenician architecture of Chabulon ( J.W. 2.503), a Galilean town near Ptolemais, would indicate that at least some of the cultural exchange was less belligerent. Latent tensions with other cities and districts could also explode into violence. J.W. 2.457–60 is an interesting passage speaking to there. both the bordersreports of Galilee andfollowing the caustic clashes that took place Josephus that a massacre of sometimes the Jewish population at Caesarea, retaliatory strikes against Syrian districts broke out in all directions. When Josephus reports this, however, he uses the ancient geographical method of listing place names according to the back and forth pattern of a ploughed eld (boustrophēdon), starting in the Decapolis, moving north along the east side of the Sea of Galilee, crossing west into Phoenicia, then following the coastline south. The result is a nearly complete circuit around Galilee corresponding to the borders he will outline later in Book 3. The subsequent Syrian reprisals are listed by Josephus in J.W. 2.477 using the same method but in reverse order. In sum, Josephus is not only aware of the importance the borders of Galilee, but he does so using the typical methodsof ofdelineating an ancient geographer. Features
Polybius reminds his readers that spatial details are fundamental to his historiography and lists several items that were expected of any good geographical description: “cities, places, rivers, lakes, and in general all the peculiar features of land and sea.” In the same vein, Josephus’ narrative is rich with information about speci c features and locales within Galilee. One signi cant topographical feature for Josephus is the rugged landscape ( Life 187). It is conspicuously absent from his geographical overview of the region, but Although Tacitus recognizes a tension between Jews and Samaritans similar to that described in Josephus, it is unlikely that he is using Josephus as a source. Tacitus claims that Felix and Cumanus served as procurators in the region simultaneously (Felix overseeing Samaria and Cumanus overseeing Galilee), whereas Josephus clearly states that Felix became procurator over Judea, Samaria, and Galilee only after Claudius had banished Cumanus. The question of Tacitus’ sources concerning Judea and the Jews is still an open one, but it is likely that he used a variety of accounts both from older works and eye witnesses ( Hist. 5.6). See Silvia Cappelletti, “Non-Jewish Authors on Galilee,” in Religion, Ethnicity, and Identity in Ancient Galilee: A Region in Transition (ed. Jürgen Zangenberg et al.; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007), 75–76, in particular n. 29 where she lists a number of studies supporting this view. Shahar, Josephus Geographicus, 236–37. Polybius, Hist. 12.25e.1–2.
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it is included in numerous descriptions of speci c—and sometimes rather obvious—places (Sepphoris, J.W. 2.511–12; Jotapata, J.W. 3.158–60; Tiberias, J.W. 3.486, Life 322; Tabor, J.W. 4.57). As one would expect, Josephus also includes several comments on Galilee’s sources of water, the region’s other signi cant natural feature. Both the lake and the Jordan River are described in a geographical excursus devoted to them in J.W. 3.506–21, explaining the source and nature of their waters as information the spring-fed of Gennesar at the lake’s northwest corner. Notasallwell of his is plain trustworthy. Where there are obvious inaccuracies resulting from commonly held but misguided traditions rather than Josephus’ own biases, however, his perception of Galilee may still be described as Firstspace. For example, when Josephus a rms the erroneous notion that the actual source of the Jordan was at the distant pool of Phiale rather than at Panion ( J.W. 3.509–13), there is no need to assume he harbors an ideologically charged motive. He is merely taking at face value the tradition about Philip the tetrarch throwing cha f into Phiale only to see it surface later at Panion’s famous grotto spring. In addition to natural features, Josephus also includes information about various locales within Galilee, especially villages, forti cations. Of the 204 settlements of Galilee (Life 235), cities, the three largestand cities were Sepphoris, Tiberias, and Gabara (Life 123; cf. 346). Sepphoris was Galilee’s “chief city” (Life 38) during Josephus’ tenure there due primarily to the redistricting by Nero that made it the main administrative center of the area ( J.W. 2.252; Ant. 20.159; Life 37–38), but its reputation as “the ornament of Galilee” (Ant. 18.27) was also bolstered by its strategic central location ( J.W. 2.511) and easily defensible position ( J.W. 3.34). Nero’s redistricting resulted in a natural rivalry between Sepphoris and Galilee’s former capital, Tiberias, which was founded by Antipas only a few decades earlier ( Ant. 18.36) and boasted both his royal palace (Life 65) and a stadium (Life 92). Less is said about Gabara, but it is at the center of one of Josephus’ more intriguing geographical statements. In Life 240, Josephus speaks of “guard[ing] the routes leading from Gabara into Panion (Paneas/Banias), being near Caesarea Philippi, is technically outside of Galilee, but it is an important part of Josephus’ description of the Jordan, Galilee’s most important river. Not all of Josephus’ erroneous material is so easily explained, as will be discussed below. Population statistics aside, Josephus’ identi cation of cities and villages is considered reliable. However, he attributes a number of the forti cations to his own doing ( J.W. 2.573– 74; Life 187–88) when many of these likely date to the Hellenistic period. The notable exception is Jotapata, which shows signs of being heavily forti ed within a short period of time immediately prior to the war. See Mordechai Aviam, Jews, Pagans, and Christians
in the Galilee: 25 Years of Archaeological Excavations and Surveys, Hellenistic to Byzantine Periods; (vol. 1 of Land of Galilee; Rochester, . .: U. of Rochester Press, 2004), 92–105.
Galilee” as though Gabara were located outside the Galilean borders. The odd phrasing likely stems from his understanding that larger cities like Gabara oversaw their own toparchies and therefore retained an integral connection with and a measure of independent authority over their surrounding territory. Josephus does not use the term τοπαρχία in this passage, but he does apply it to other cities, notably Tiberias ( J.W. 2.252; cf. 3.54). He also refers to Tiberias’ χώρα ( Life to 120,the 155) withside much force and hintsowned that itland might have extended other of the the same lake: Crispus ofeven Tiberias across the Jordan (Life 33); villages belonging to Gadara and Hippos can be said to lie “on the frontiers (µεθόριοι) of Tiberias” ( 42). Furthermore, Tiberias had Life its own βου ήLife ( 64, 69, 169, 279, 284, 300, 313, 381; J.W. 2.639), and Jesus son of Sapphias is called an ἄρχωνLife ( 134, 294). The result is a Tiberian territory that is in some sense distinguishable from the rest of Galilee ( Life 121?), yet for reasons other than Nero’s redistricting. The signi cance of these cities for Josephus’ narratives is obvious, but from the strict standpoint of Josephus’ geography they pale in comparison to some of the smaller Galilean towns and forti cations. In J.W., Jotapata (3.158–60) and Mt. Tabor receive Likewise, their ownthe short geographical excursuses describing their(4.54–55) positionboth and terrain. excursus covering the lake, the river, and the Gennesaret plain is a function of its context, coming in the midst of Josephus’ account of the Roman attack on Tarichaeae, a substantial city in its own right located on the shore where the plain meets the lake. The fact that Josephus chose to highlight these particular locales may be ideologically motivated, but the reason they receive their own geographical excursuses is not. Josephus is doing what would be expected of him as a historiographer, particularly one that writes about war. Prior to his excursus on Sparta, Polybius reiterates why spatial descriptions are necessary and what they should include. What he lays out is in many ways programmatic for Josephus: But lest owing to ignorance of the localities my narrative tend to become vague and meaningless, I must describe their natural features and relative
A similar distinction can be made with Gamala and Gaulanitis. Even though Gamala lies within Gaulanitis ( J.W. 2.547), Josephus can also speak of “Gamalitic” (Γαµα ιτικός) territory as a space that is distinguishable from Gaulanitis ( J.W. 3.56). See also Dennis E. Groh, “The Clash Between Literary and Archaeological Models of Provincial Palestine,” in Archaeology and the Galilee: Texts and Contexts in the Graeco-Roman and Byzantine Periods (ed. Douglas R. Edwards and Thomas McCollough; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1997), 31. Tarichaeae was large enough to hold a sizeable population ( J.W. 1.180) and to have its own hippodrome ( J.W. 2.599; Life 134).
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positions. . . . [W]e must by no means neglect to illustrate by local descriptions events of any sort, and least of all those of war, nor must we hesitate to adopt as landmarks harbours, seas, and islands, or again temples, mountains, and local names of districts (χῶραι), and nally di ferences in climate. . . . For this . . . is the only way of making readers acquainted with places of which they are ignorant. (Polybius, Hist. 5.21.3–9) Josephus’ excursus on the area surrounding Tarichaeae does not include an example of every landmark mentioned above, but neither does Polybius’ description of Sparta which immediately follows. There is more than enough overlap, however, to show that Josephus’ excursus re ects a common tradition: he speaks of both the territory (χώρα) and the lake of Gennesar, because the battle at Tarichaeae began in the plain ( J.W. 3.485–91) and continued as a naval battle on the lake; he includes otherwise obscure climatic details such as the e fects of the cold night air on the water and the unique temperateness that allows a wide array of plant species to grow in the plain ( J.W. 3.508, 516–19); though he mentions no speci c temples or structures by name, he tells of Agrippa’s of Panion at his own expense. All of these details nd echoes inenhancement Polybius’ statement. In fact, Josephus seems to be well aware of the distinction between “regional” and “military” geography in the Polybius/Strabo tradition as proposed by Shahar, and he re ects this understanding in di ferent kinds of excursuses. Regional excursuses are intended to be more chorographic, more fully developed in terms of historical traditions associated with a particular region or the natural peculiarities of that region. Strabo’s description of Judea is such an example; it includes common Hellenistic (not Jewish) traditions about Moses and explanations for the “ ery” nature of the land around Masada as well as peculiar features like the balsam sap at Jericho that can cure cataracts or the fetid waters of Gadaris that can cause animals to lose their hair, hooves, and horns. Polybius’ description of Byzantium, in which he explains that the reason for its “singular prosperity” (εὐπορία) has more to do with the
Cf. Ant. 15.364, a parallel digression on Panion where Josephus reports that Herod had built a temple to Augustus in the vicinity. Panion’s picturesque cave would have been broadly associated with veneration (cf. Seneca, Lucil. 41.3). See also Peregrine Horden and Nicholas Purcell, The Corrupting Sea: A Study of Mediterranean History (Oxford: Blackwell, 2000), 412–17. Shahar, Josephus Geographicus, 161. Strabo, Geogr. 16.2.35–36, 44. Ibid., 16.2.41, 45.
natural currents of the Hellespont than the well-known fertility of the soil, is another example of regional geography. In addition to Josephus’ geographical excursuses on Ptolemais ( J.W. 2.188–91), Jericho and the lower Jordan valley ( J.W. 4.452–75), and Lake Asphaltitis (i.e., the Dead Sea; J.W. 4.476–85), those on Galilee and its surrounding districts ( J.W. 3.35–58) and the Gennesar district ( J.W. 3.506–21) belong in this category. Other excursuses, having a more limited focus and particularly those dealing with smaller locales, aretopographical better categorized as “military” geography. The tradition can be traced back to Thucydides and is exempli ed in passages such as his comments on Oeniadae, which he describes as being surrounded by lakes formed by the alluvial deposits of the Achelous River. Given the di culties of the terrain, the Athenians under Phormio postpone their attack until after winter. Polybius’ sketch of New Carthage follows suit; it is essentially a topographical overview with descriptions of its harbor and the surrounding hills including a few landmarks, all for the purpose of making his account of the ensuing battle easier to follow. The most notable Galilean example of “military” geography in J.W. is the excursus on Jotapata (3.158–60), which intended to illustrate only the strength of(4.4–8), its position. descriptions ofis Tabor (4.54–56) and Gamala in Gaulanitis as wellThe as Jerusalem in a very lengthy excursus about its layout, walls, and forti cations (5.136–247), are of the same ilk. That Josephus is actively identifying with these broader geographical traditions is also evident in the formulaic statements that conclude the majority of his excursuses, whether “regional” or “military.” There is considerable variation in wording, but they all serve the same purpose: to close out the excursus and continue the historical narrative. His simple declaration in J.W. 3.521, “Such is the nature of these things” (ταῦτα µὲν [οὖν] οὕτως φύσεως ἔχει), is typical parallels similar statements found in Polybius and Pliny.
and
Polybius, Hist. 4.38.13. Thucydides, Peloponnesian War 2.102.2. Polybius, Hist. 10.9.8–10.13. My translation. See similar statements in J.W. 2.191 (Ptolemais); 3.58 (Galilee, Judea, etc.); 3.160 (Jotapata); 4.475 (Jericho and the lower Jordan valley); 4.485 (Lake Asphaltitis); and 5.247 (Jerusalem). The descriptions of Gamala, Tabor, and Masada do not feature a concluding statement. See, for example, Polybius, Hist. 10.11.1. After his description of New Carthage, he writes: “Such being the situation of the place” (τοιαύτης δ᾽ ὑπαρχούσης τῆς διαθέσεως τῶν τόπων) and resumes his account of the battle. Pliny, Nat. 5.17: “Et hactenus Iudaea est.”
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Production
According to Strabo, another vital part of ancient geography was the “terrestrial history” (ἡ ἐπίγειον ἱστορία) of a given region, namely, “the history of animals and plants and everything useful or harmful that is produced by land or sea.” His own description of Judea and its surroundings in Book 16 does cover some of the natural and cultivated produce of the area, but only aincluding few remarks speci cally to Galilee: around Josephus the lake, reedspertain and balsam, and the pickledtheshvegetation of Tarichaeae. also incorporates this “terrestrial history” into his own geographical passages, sometimes in his regional excursuses and other times simply in the course of his narrative. Galilee was “a special home of the olive” and its oil was plentiful ( J.W. 2.592); according to Josephus’ account of the siege of Jotapata, there was oil in enough abundance to be boiled and used as a scalding weapon ( J.W. 3.271). Grain, another important agricultural product, was stored in large quantities by both the Romans ( Life 71) and the Herodians ( Life 119). Other fruits of the region, particularly in the fertile Gennesar plain, included dates, grapes, and walnuts ( J.W. 3.517–19). Josephus certainly has less to say about the shing of the lake than the writers,safe buttoheassume does acknowledgeindustry it o andedly ( J.W.district 3.508, 520), andGospel it is probably that the primary purpose of the many boats on the lake was not, in fact, martial despite their function in Josephus’ narratives ( J.W. 3.522–31; Life 163–69). Livestock was also present in Galilee ( J.W. 3.62), although perhaps not in the same measure as the neighboring districts of Samaria ( J.W. 3.50) and Gaulanitis ( Life 58). In terms of the general fertility of the area, Josephus may have an ulterior motive for extolling it so highly, but it is nevertheless substantiated to a degree by the fact that Antipas’ tetrarchy yielded twice the income of Philip’s ( J.W. 2.95; Ant. 17.318–19). Josephus’ reports on the agricultural production of Galilee no doubt come from rsthand experience, especially given the paucity of such information about contemporary Galilee in other historians and geographers. Once again, it must be acknowledged that some of the details in Josephus’ descriptions of
Strabo, Geogr. 1.1.16. Ibid., 16.2.16, 45. Strabo does call the lake “Gennesaritis,” but there is some debate over whether he has confused it with Lake Semechonitis (Huleh) further to the north. See Cappelletti, “Non-Jewish Authors on Galilee,” 70. Strabo may be incorrect on a number of other counts as well; see ch. 3 below. Cf. b. Meg. 6a. According to Cappelletti (“Non-Jewish Authors on Galilee,” 69), “Hellenistic historians apparently ignored Galilee’s existence.”
the land may be guilty of inaccuracy or, occasionally, even bias. What is clear, however, is that Josephus is following the literary conventions of those who wrote about regions and localities before him, both historians and geographers, especially Polybius and Strabo. As a historian himself, he is responsible for perceiving the land and giving expression to that in his writings. What he perceives is Firstspace.
Josephus’ Galilee as “Secondspace”
In Soja’s trialectic, if Firstspace refers to “real” space as it is perceived, then Secondspace is “imagined” space, the characterization or even the production of space in the mind of the one working with space. As with Firstspace, Secondspace on initial glance is open to misinterpretation. Soja insists that Secondspace is not “secondary” space, a conceptualization of space that is only derivative of “real” space, but rather di fers from Firstspace in the quality of its approach, being more conceptual and symbolic than materialist. Thus, ideology isGalilee an important component in Secondspace. The of evaluating Josephus’ as Secondspace, however, is not only to goal identify how Galilee becomes a vehicle for Josephus’ ideology, but also to recognize that Josephus’ ideology needs a space. Lefebvre, like Soja, is not just advocating a novel approach to the study of space, but the infusion of spatiality into social discourse: What is an ideology without a space to which it refers, a space which it describes, whose vocabulary and links it makes use of, and whose code it embodies? . . . [W]hat we call ideology only achieves consistency by intervening in social space and in its production, and thus by taking on body therein. With Secondspace, therefore, ideology alone will not su ce; the goal is not to distill ideology from space. Instead, the goal is to identify what Lefebvre calls a “representation of space” or a “conceptualized space” that is “shot through with knowledge ( savoir)—i.e. a mixture of understanding ( connaissance) and
Soja, Thirdspace: Journeys, 10–11. Soja, “Thirdspace: Expanding,” 267. Lefebvre, Space, 44. Ibid., 38.
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ideology.” Representation, the point at which these two elements become “barely distinguishable” from one another, becomes the proper tool for analyzing space. Thus, when using a Secondspace approach to Josephus’ Galilee, it is imperative to look not just at ideology, but also how that ideology is embodied (represented) in the land itself. A good place to begin is Josephus’ excursus on Galilee in J.W. 3.35–44. Technically, it is theand rsttheir part surrounding of a larger geographical digression on “theτε καὶ country of the Jews neighbors” (τῆς Ἰουδαίων πέριξ χώρας; J.W. 3.58), including Perea, Samaria, Judea, and Jewish portions of Agrippa’s kingdom. Galilee is the rst battleground in the war, and this is no doubt a signi cant (though perhaps not the only) factor in why it receives pride of place. Josephus starts the digression with a recounting of Galilee’s borders, which, in and of themselves as guidelines for mapping (Firstspace), present few problems. In terms of a representation of space (Secondspace), however, boundaries again play an essential role. According to James Romm, “Perhaps the most fundamental act by which the archaic Greeks de ned their world was to give it boundaries, marking o f a nitestretch of earth from the otherwise expanse surrounding Rivers, were commonlyformless viewed as borders, whether atit.” the level of including the entire“Ocean,” oikoumenē or the smaller scale of a speci c region. Agrippa demarcates the extent of the Roman Empire in similar fashion: For, not content with having for their frontiers on the east the Euphrates, on the north the Ister [i.e. the Danube], on the south Libya explored into desert regions, on the west Gades, they have sought a new world beyond the ocean (ἀλ᾽ὑπὲρ ὠκεανὸν ἑτέραν ἐζήτησαν οἰκουµένην) and carried their arms as far as the Britons, previously unknown in history. ( J.W. 2.363) A parallel account can be found in Josephus’ excursus describing the Roman army and the reasons for the vastness of Roman territory: Ibid., 41. Ibid., 45. Romm, The Edges of the Earth, 10. Later interpreters of Homer credited him as the rst to teach that the inhabited world was surrounded by Ocean, a great river owing around the whole earth and feeding all other rivers (cf. Il. 21.190–99). Herodotus ( Hist. 2.21–23; 4.8, 36) acknowledges the idea but sco fs at it; Strabo comes to Homer’s defense (Geogr. 1.1.3, 8). Polybius does not discuss Ocean, but in his division of the oikoumenē the Tanais and Nile Rivers function as the EuropeAsia and Asia-Africa boundaries, respectively ( Hist. 3.37.3). Romm, The Edges of the Earth, 12.
Where counsel thus precedes active operations, where the leaders’ plan of campaign is followed up by so e cient an army, no wonder that the Empire has extended its boundaries on the east to the Euphrates, on the west to the ocean (ὠκεανὸς δὲ πρὸς ἑσπέραν), on the south to the most fertile tracts of Libya, on the north to the Ister and the Rhine. ( J.W. 3.107) With thisboth in mind, with the fact citesrole the that Jordan as a border for Pereacoupled and Judea ( J.W. 3.47,that 51), Josephus the minimal it plays as a border for Galilee may be signi cant. He explains that the southern boundary of Galilee extends as far as east as the Jordan ( J.W. 3.37), but the eastern boundary itself is de ned by the territories of Hippos, Gadara, and Gaulanitis and not the waters of the Jordan River which, as he explicitly states later, bisect the lake ( J.W. 3.515). His reasons for doing so are partly due to the function of the lake: unlike a river, it served as a connector more than a divider. Yet by citing these three locales on the eastern border, along with Ptolemais to the west, Samaria and Scythopolis to the south, and Tyre to the north, it also allows Josephus to de ne Galilee as rst and foremost anarea that is “surrounded by such powerfulFollowing foreign nations” ( J.W. 3.41). his discussion of borders, Josephus takes the next step in developing his representation of Galilee by discussing three important aspects of the territory in J.W. 3.41–43. First, he explains that “the two Galilees have always resisted any hostile invasion,” not because the terrain is rugged or inaccessible (though in some places such as Jotapata it was), but because the inhabitants, who are lauded for their courage and mettle, were “from infancy inured to war.” Second, the land itself is extremely fertile, “rich in soil and pasturage” and capable of supporting such a wide variety of agricultural pursuits that even the laziest among the population felt compelled to work every last parcel. Third, the region is densely inhabited, replete with numerous cities and well-populated villages, all due to the area’s general productivity (εὐθηνία). Surrounded by powerful nations, well-populated with an indomitable and industrious people, and abundantly productive, Josephus’ representation of Galilee is beginning to take shape in a way that goes far beyond the placement of its borders.
I am grateful to Jürgen Zangenberg for this helpful reminder. See also Horden and Purcell, The Corrupting Sea, 21. Cf. J.W. 3.44. Unlike Perea, Galilee “is entirely under cultivation and produces crops from one end to the other.”
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Already Josephus’ own interests are beginning to bleed through, but those interests are not necessarily the sole impetus behind this depiction. In fact, the excursus in J.W. 3.35–44 is a rather conventional one given the geographical tradition in which he stands. Correlation between land and population is part of a broader ethno-geographical tradition. An earlier form of this tradition can be seen in Herodotus, who frequently connects a territory and its climate with the character of the inhabitants. Withone. regard to a people’s suitability for war, however, the correlation is a negative Herodotus comments favorably on Cyrus’ declaration, “Soft lands breed soft men; wondrous fruits of the earth and valiant warriors grow not from the same soil.” A parallel to Herodotus can be found in Hippocrates: more warlike peoples come from places that have more extreme climates and di cult terrain. Strabo, on the other hand, represents a later form of the tradition positively correlating land and inhabitants. He is much closer to Josephus when describing Cispadana, a region in northern Italy: “As for the excellence of the regions, it is evidenced by their godly store of men, the size of the cities and their wealth.” The most notable application of this principle in Strabo can be found in his representation of Italy as a whole. Its balanced favorable positionwater within the oikoumenē —defensibility, moderate climate,and fertile soil, plentiful (including both cold and hot springs), abundant natural resources—makes it a tting place from which to rule: Further, since it lies intermediate between the largest races on the one hand, and Greece and the best parts of Libya on the other, it not only is naturally well-suited to hegemony, because it surpasses the countries that surround it both in the valour of its people and in size, but also can easily avail itself of their services, because it is close to them. (Strabo, Geogr. 6.4.1)
Contra Rosenfeld (“Josephus and the Mishnah: Two Views on the Outline of the Map of Palestine in the First Two Centuries A.D.,” 418) who categorizes J.W. 3.35–58 as “realistic geography” because Josephus has not derived his description from scripture. Herodotus, Hist. 9.122.3. Hippocrates, Airs, Waters, Places 13.8–17; 16.3–16. Strabo, Geogr. 5.1.12. This tradition is also evident in Vitruvius, De Arch. 6.1.6–11. The temperament of the world’s peoples is determined by its geography. To the south, since in those regions there is less distance to the heavens, the peoples have higher-pitched voices (similar to the shortest strings on a musical instrument), more intellect, and less courage. To the north, in regions that lie further from the heavens, the peoples have lower-pitched voices, less intellect, and more courage. Rome is perfectly situated in the middle so as to be properly voiced and properly balanced between mental and physical. “Thus the divine mind has
In other words, place is an important factor in determining the character and quality of a people. Josephus conveys the same idea, particularly when comparing his portrayal of Galilee to the other districts in the region. Perea, being too rugged and too wild, is less productive than Galilee ( J.W. 3.44). Judea and Samaria, two very similar territories in terms of terrain, receive more glowing evaluations owing to their abundant rainfall and well-watered lands. Josephus makes mention the people of Perea; regarding Judea (ἀρετή and Samaria, however, henoclaims thatof“the surest testimony to the virtues [sing.]) and thriving condition (εὐθηνία) of the two countries is that both have a dense population” ( J.W. 3.50). It comes as little surprise that Thucydides does not stand within this tradition, since his interest in geography was limited to its role in military strategies and outcomes. Polybius, however, does. His description of Media is indicative and serves as an intriguing parallel to Josephus’ excursus on Galilee. It is productive, containing vast amounts of horses, cattle, and corn; it is surrounded by formidable foes such as the Persians and Parthians and including “the Cossaei, Corbrenae, Carchi and other barbarous tribes with a high reputation for their warlike and it Furthermore, is crisscrossedMedia by mountains and plains that are “full of townsqualities,” and villages.” is at the center of a revolt, having rebelled against Antiochus the Great under the instigation of his former satrap, Molon, who “being master of this country . . . seemed absolutely terrible and irresistible to all the inhabitants of Asia.” Each of the major elements of Josephus’ Galilee is also present in Polybius’ Media. This general correlation between land and people is also present in Polybius’ comments on the district of Artabazanes and the Italian city of Croton. The point is not to imply that Josephus deliberately patterned his Galilee after the details in Polybius’ description of Media, but to show that the elements of his portrayal are common to other Hellenistic geographers and historians. Notable similarities also exist in the description of the Jewish territory allotted to the Roman state an excellent and temperate region in order to rule the world.” (6.1.11). See also Clarke, Between Geography and History, 218–19. Thucydides, Peloponnesian War 1.10.1–3. Mycenae, after all, was small, and Sparta, despite the city’s poor rst impression, ruled two- fths of the Peloponnese. Athens, by contrast, looked as if it should be twice as powerful as it was. Polybius, Hist. 5.44.1–11. Ibid., 5.45.1–2. Ibid., 5.55.6–8: “It . . . has a large and warlike population chie y mounted, while its natural resources provide every kind of warlike material.” Ibid., 10.1.6: “One can form some idea of the advantages of its situation from the prosperity of the people.”
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given in the Letter of Aristeas 107–18, though the author does not single out Galilee speci cally. Ps-Aristeas o fers parallels to some of the characteristics of Galilee discussed above such as numerous inhabitants, extensive cultivation of the land, and resistance to invasion. However, what makes the Jewish territory di cult to attack is the mountainous terrain, and there is no mention of borders or the Spartan qualities of the inhabitants. Given that Josephus used a sourceupon in Ant. , his familiarity with it prior to writing is possiLet. If Aris. ble. he as is drawing Ps-Aristeas’ description, however, he hasJ.W. packaged it in the terms of Greco-Roman geographical tradition. When he depicts Galilee the way he does, he is rst and foremost following well-known conventions. This does not mean, however, that Josephus’ Galilee is neutral in its representation. Galilee as Secondspace is a product of his own knowledge fused with ideology. It is important to note, however, that Secondspace, as a general rule, is not to be understood as a personal or purely subjective approach to space. Since it is explored inevitably via its connections with “prevailing representational discourses,” it is simultaneously an individual conception and a social product. According to Lefebvre, “Representations of space are certainly abstract, they also playand a part in social and politicalspace practice: established relations but between objects people in represented are subordinate to a logic which will sooner or later break them up because of their lack of consistency.” As a result, perhaps ironically, it is actually Firstspace that is potentially less coherent in the sense that it is not always, as Lefebvre puts it, “intellectually worked out.” Secondspace, however, in part because it is a representational system that is “intellectually worked out,” re ects the broader social function of a space. Although this is the prevailing tendency for presentations of Secondspace, there are exceptions to the rule, an important idea to keep in mind when evaluating Josephus. In one sense, as the above discussion demonstrates, Josephus is undeniably participating in a broader social discourse about space, utilizing the language of that discourse, in fact, with minimal variation or even imagination. In another sense, however, Josephus is showing signs of breaking free from that discourse to produce a unique space called Galilee, a space that has no suitable parallel in ancient texts. One of the chief di culties in exploring Josephus’ Galilee as Secondspace stems from the dearth of information speci c to Galilee that can be found in other comparable literary sources. Soja, Thirdspace: Journeys, 11. Lefebvre, Space, 41. Ibid., 38. Lefebvre (Ibid., 39) acknowledges this.
That Galilee is, to some degree, Josephus’ individual conception is not in doubt, but the warp and woof of Galilee as a social product of Josephus’ own milieu is elusive. A survey of Greco-Roman historians and geographers from whom Josephus borrows heavily in terms of his method does indicate that there were commonly held notions, most likely stemming from ps-Hecataeus’ excursus on the Jews, about the nature of Judea (including its inhabitants). The unsavory character ofand the Jewish their srcins, ties of their customs worshippeople, practices,stories andabout the strange nature oddiof the Dead Sea are recognizable tropes in geographical passages. Galilee, however, is either passed over, subsumed into the broader regional whole, or treated with extreme brevity. Polybius, while recounting a military campaign of Antiochus in 218 , narrates his successes in Philoteria “o f the shore of the lake [Gennesar] into which the river Jordan falls,” in Scythopolis, and at Tabor, “a conical hill.” The victories gave Antiochus con dence of continued good fortune, particularly since this newly acquired territory was “capable of supplying his whole army with food.” Strabo (as discussed above) is aware of the Jordan River, the lake and the vegetation around it, and the sh industry of Tarichaeae. who refers name, also(located mentions the Jordan River and Pliny, the lake, along withtotheGalilee cities ofbyJulias, Hippo across the lake in the Decapolis, though Pliny does not mention this), Tarichaeae, and Tiberias. Reconstructing a spatial discourse about Galilee from these Hecataeus of Abdera’s work Aigyptiaka is no longer extant, but the excursus, usually assumed to have been reworked at a later date, has been preserved in Diodorus, Bibl. 40.3.1–8; cf. 40.4.1. Bazalel Bar-Kochva (Pseudo-Hecataeus, On the Jews: Legitimizing the Jewish Diaspora[Berkeley: U of California Press, 1996], 211–17) discusses the in uence of the excursus on Strabo and Tacitus in particular and even asserts that “it became a vulgate in Greco-Roman literature” (19) with regard to Jewish history and customs. The modest goal here is to discuss how representative Greco-Roman authors with an interest in geography conceive of Galilee in passages with a geographical outlook. For a fuller treatment of how non-Jews viewed Jews in general, see Louis H. Feldman,
Jew and Gentile in the Ancient World: Attitudes and Interactions from Alexander to Justinian (Princeton: Princeton , 1993), particularly chs. 1–8. Strabo, Geogr. 16.2.28, 37; Tacitus, Hist. 5.3–5, 8. Strabo, Geogr. 16.2.34; Tacitus, Hist. 5.2–3; Diodorus, Bibl. 40.3.1–8. Strabo, Geogr. 16.2.35–37; Tacitus, Hist. 5.4–5; Diodorus, Bibl. 34/5.1.1–5; Pliny, Nat. 5.17 (on the Essenes only). Strabo, Geogr. 16.2.32, 34, 42 (erroneously called “Lake Sirbonis”); Tacitus, Hist. 5.6–7; Pliny, Nat. 5.16. Polybius, Hist. 5.70.3–12. Ibid., 5.70.5. Polybius does not use the term “Galilee.” Pliny, Nat. 5.15.
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meager scraps is di cult, however. Silvia Cappelletti, in her study of nonJewish authors on Galilee, concludes, “In the eyes of the Roman world, Galilee was a marginal region.” Regarding Galilee as Secondspace, the one ostensibly ideological comment among these authors pertaining to Galilee comes from Strabo, who implies that Scythopolis, “in the neighborhood of Galilee,” is one of several locales featuring bandsamong of robbers (τὰ ῃστήρια). Josephus “brigands” is aware of( objectionable elements the Galilean population, including ῃσταί; J.W. 1.304–5; 2.511, 593; Life 78), but his overall casting of Galilee is not consistent with Strabo’s predominantly negative outlook or even what generally served as Greco-Roman stereotypes about the Jews. In other words, Josephus’ characterization of Galilee is clearly not in sync with those, particularly Strabo, with whom he shares a broader geographical tradition. Jewish writings from within Josephus’ orbit are on the whole not much di ferent from their non-Jewish counterparts, with a few notable exceptions. Josephus may be making use of Jub. 8–9 in his own recasting of the Table of Nations tradition ( Ant. 1.122–47; J.W. 3.52), but this has little e fect on his portrait of Galilee. makes only onehe explicit reference to Galilee, but other than its addition toPhilo Agrippa ’s kingdom, gives no further information. The revelatory experience narrated in 1 Enoch 12–16 takes place in a clearly specied location: near the waters of Dan, southwest of Mt. Hermon (13:7). George Nickelsburg points out that the sacred character of this territory is evident in both the textual traditions and the archaeological remains, but it should be kept in mind that for Josephus this area lies outside both his clearly delineated boundaries for Upper Galilee ( J.W. 3.39–40) and the jurisdiction assigned to him during his commissioning ( J.W. 2.568). These texts o fer only minor contributions, however, especially when compared to the rabbinic corpus. Rabbinic comments about Galilee are diverse and not easily systematized. The tradition recognizes Galilee’s subregions, Cappelletti, “Non-Jewish Authors on Galilee,” 81. Strabo, Geogr. 16.2.40. It should also be noted that the brief allusion to Galileans as a fearless group in Epictetus, Diatr. 4.7.6 has long been considered a reference to Christians as a whole rather than inhabitants of Galilee. See John Lancaster Spalding, introduction to Discourses of Epictetus, by George Long (New York: D. Appleton and Co., 1904), xiii. James M. Scott, “Luke’s Geographical Horizon,” in The Book of Acts in Its Graeco-Roman Setting (ed. David W. Gill and Conrad Gempf; vol. 2 of The Book of Acts in Its First Century Setting; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1994), 511–12. Philo, Legat. 326. George Nickelsburg, “Enoch, Levi, and Peter: Recipients of Revelation in Upper Galilee,” 100/4 (Dec. 1981): 583.
whether by dividing it simply into Upper and Lower Galilee ( b. San. 11b) as Josephus does or by adding a third subregion around Tiberias ( m. Šeb. 9:2–3). The sweet fruits of Galilee, particularly those produced in the Gennesaret plain, were famously eaten to excess ( b. Meg. 6a; b. Ber. 44a), and the region’s olive production was well known (Gen. Rab. 20:6). Galileans are characterized as being interested in certain, but not all ( y. Šabb. 81a–b), aspects of the law, even if there disagreement about its application to Judea (m. Ned. 2:4; was 55a). Inwhen fact,compared relations between b. Moʿed Qaṭ. 23a–b; b. Pesaḥ. Galilee and Jerusalem were hostile at times (b. B. Bat. 38a–b), which likely fed into the Galilean reputation for being quarrelsome ( b. Ned. 48a). Thus, there are some parallels to Josephus’ Galilee in the rabbinic tradition, but there are also substantial problems from the standpoint of using them to evaluate the broader social discourse about Galilee in Josephus’ day. Aharon Oppenheimer, for example, has questioned the longstanding idea of associating the Talmudic concept of the ‘ammei ha-aretz, those stigmatized and loathed by the rabbis for being uneducated and ignorant of the law ( b. Pesaḥ. 49a–b), exclusively with the people of Galilee. He argues instead that the ‘ammei ha-aretz could be found in either JudeaFurthermore, or Galilee and beother understood apart their geographical locale. as should with any concept, the from Galilee of the rabbis must be understood ultimately as a product of the period of nal editing rather than a historical snapshot of rabbinic ideology at the time of Josephus. This appears to be substantiated by Josephus’ representation of Galilee. He has his dialogue partners, but the rabbinic tradition is not signi cant among them. More important to Josephus’ Galilee is 1 Macc, in large part because Josephus uses it as a source in the Ant. Two observations are pertinent. First, although 1 Macc is replete with geographical references, the geographical commonplaces found in the Hellenistic tradition, such as descriptions of terrain and agriculture or even the use of excursuses, are absent. It indicates that, unlike writers such as Polybius and Strabo, 1 Macc had little in uence on Josephus See Laurence H. Schi fman, “Was There a Galilean Halakhah?” in The Galilee in Late Antiquity (ed. Lee I. Levine; New York: Jewish Theological Seminary of America; Cambridge: Harvard , 1992), 143–56. Aharon Oppenheimer, The ‘Am Ha-Aretz: A Study in the Social History of the Jewish People in the Hellenistic-Roman Period (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1977), 203. Sean Freyne, Galilee, Jesus, and the Gospels: Literary Approaches and Historical Investigations (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1988), 213–16; Joshua Ezra Burns, “The Archaeology of Rabbinic Literature and the Study of Jewish-Christian Relations in Late Antiquity: A Methodological Evolution,” in Religion, Ethnicity, and Identity in Ancient Galilee (ed. Jürgen Zangenberg et al.; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007), 407–8.
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qua geographer. Second, 1 Macc does have one signi cant element in common with the Hellenistic writers: Josephus in both cases feels free to depart from his sources when it comes to the characterization of Galilee depicted in his writings. His divergence from 1 Macc may be more subtle, but it is still telling. In several passages of the Ant., Josephus explicitly refers to Galilee even when it does not appear in his sources. Curiously, these passages tend to revolve around battle and their principal characters. Joshua’s exploitsarmy represent the rstnarratives of these, having faced an immense Canaanite/Philistine which had assembled, as Josephus is quick to point out, in Galilee: “[The Canaanites and Philistines] encamped at Berothe, a city of Upper Galilee, not far away from Kedesh—this also being the district of the Galileans” (Ant. 5.63). Despite Joshua being grossly outnumbered, God showed him favor and the battle was a rout, but what is noteworthy is how Josephus edits his source, Josh 11. Not only does he substitute Berothe, a city he himself forti ed prior to Vespasian’s attack, for Josh 11:5’s “waters of Merom” ( Μαρρων), but he also mentions “Galilee” speci cally when Josh 11 does not. His redaction serves a simple explanatory purpose evoking two references to “Kedesh in Galilee” in JoshThis 20:7pattern and 21:32resurfaces (cf. Ant. 5.91), it is alsouse indicative of an emerging with but Josephus’ of 1 Macc. Simon, the pattern. brother of Judas Maccabeus, also experienced military success in Galilee, having been sent there to repel the forces of Ptolemais, Tyre, and Sidon ( Ant. 12.331–334). That Josephus mentions Galilee in this context should not come as a surprise; he is rather slavishly following his source, 1 Macc 5. What is somewhat surprising, however, is that Simon, the champion of Galilee, is later mentioned in the context of signing of a peace treaty with (of all nations) Rome: The decree was signed by Eupolemus, son of John, and by Jason, son of Eleazar, when Judas was high priest of the nation and his brother Simon was commander. It was in this way that the rstfriendship and alliance between the Romans and the Jews came into being. ( Ant. 12.419) Not only is the reference to Simon a Josephan addition to the information found in 1 Macc 8:17–32, but it appears to overemphasize the role of Simon, Galilee’s most recent hero. Following the death of Judas Maccabeus, it is Jonathan, not On the assumption that Berothe is the same locale as Mero ( J.W. 2.573)/Meroth ( J.W. 3.39)/Ameroth (Life 188). For Josephus’ use of the rather than the Hebrew Scriptures, see Eugene Ulrich, “Josephus’ Biblical Text for the Books of Samuel,” in Josephus, the Bible, and History (ed. Louis H. Feldman and Gohei Hata; Detroit: Wayne State 1989), , 81–96.
Simon, who is appointed as the new commander of the nation (1 Macc 9:28–31; Ant. 13.6). The pattern continues in Ant. 12.420–21, where Josephus apparently corrects an erroneous reference to Gilgal in 1 Macc 9:2 and replaces it with “Galilee.” The emendation, which allows for the proper location of Arbela near the Gennesar plain, is not enough, however. As part of his embellishment of the skirmish only brie y recorded in 1 Macc, he spotlights the caves in the cliskirmish fs nearby, information source butofwell known from another that takes placeabsent there from duringhisthe tenure Herod the Great (Ant. 14.415–30; J.W. 1.302–15; cf. Life 188). In summary, a Secondspace analysis of Josephus’ Galilee reveals that although he is heavily indebted to the Hellenistic geographical tradition for his method of presenting Galilee, he is not always following in those footsteps with regard to the characterization of Galilee. Furthermore, his characterization does not appear to be directly dependent upon Jewish texts of the period either. Overlap between Greco-Roman authors, Jewish authors, and Josephus himself does occur, but only in a somewhat restricted area limited primarily to certain geographical features (the Jordan River, the lake of Gennesar) and agricultural highlights (the hints fruits of of the Gennesar plain, olive production, the shing industry). Possible a broader social discourse about Galilee may also be evident in the way Galileans are characterized. The brigandage throughout Palestine as recorded by Strabo, the general contemptibility of the Jews according to Tacitus, and the disagreeable nature of the Galileans in the rabbinic tradition all show shades of similarity with Josephus’ characterization of the people’s feistiness and fortitude, but without a doubt his portrayal goes much further. Josephus’ Galilee emerges from Secondspace, not as a troublesome backwater, but in its own humble way as a military stronghold and a military man’s dream. In fact, on a fundamental level Josephus’ Galilee has more in common with Polybius’ Media or even with Strabo’s Italy than with any other ancient representation of Galilee. As such, it is evident that he is departing from the discursive approach to space that is a typically characteristic, though not compulsory, aspect of Secondspace. As he goes outside the bounds of that discourse on Galilee, he enters Thirdspace.
Josephus’ Galilee as “Thirdspace”
For Soja, neither Firstspace with its predominant focus on the perception of “real” space nor Secondspace with its discursive approach to the conception See the note by Marcus (
; Ant.
–
, 220).
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of “imagined” space captures the full potentiality of space. When the “real” of Firstspace and the “imagined” of Secondspace collide, however, they are capable of producing something that is more than the sum of its parts, something that is “not to be comfortably poured back into old containers.” Thirdspace’s “realandimagined” quality emanates from the fact that it is “lived” space, in Lefebvre’s words the space of the “inhabitant” or the “user.” The result is space that. . is. empirical “simultaneously objective andIt subjective, material and metaphorical, and theorizable.” dispenses with the notion that space is unpolemical or a thing that is “naively given.” Rather than serving as the passive backdrop or xed stage for the historical narrative, Thirdspace involves creative processes that produce set and scenery: “It overlays physical space, making symbolic use of its objects” and in so doing “seeks to change and appropriate” space. When analyzing Josephus’ Galilee as Thirdspace, the goal is to identify the ways in which Josephus has changed and appropriated that space and for what purpose. Josephus in this sense adopts the role not of a conventional geographer or cartographer, but of an artist who communicates through symbols thatittranscend the lines andmerely shapes which they are made. In other words, is not enough to look at from Josephus’ descriptive language about Galilee, but also how he positions himself within and through Galilee. Whereas Secondspaces exert pressure to be consistent with prevailing social discourses, Thirdspaces “need obey no rules of consistency or cohesiveness.” Thus, Josephus can appeal, in his own construction of Galilee, to that which interests him, even apart from coexisting Secondspace representations. In the analysis of Secondspace above, it became apparent that although Josephus has adopted the language of Greco-Roman geography, he has also broken free from the (admittedly minimal) discursive representations of Galilee. From Secondspace began to emerge something that was non-Secondspace or extraSecondspace, namely, a self-produced platform for his own activity in Galilee as its military commander. That Josephus has apologetic purposes is hardly a new concept, but the following discussion provides a di ferent analytical lens, one that focuses speci cally on Galilee as a vehicle for his apologetic. A special emphasis will be Soja, Thirdspace: Journeys, 163. Lefebvre, Space, 39. Soja, Thirdspace: Journeys, 45. Ibid., 169. Lefebvre, Space, 39. Ibid., 41.
put on Josephus’ two primary sources on Galilee, the Life and J.W. It will be argued that Josephus produces two Galilees, one speci c to the Life and the other speci c to J.W., that are parallel but not identical. In the Life, Galilee becomes Josephus’ legitimate sphere of activity as military commander; in J.W., it becomes his ideal sphere of activity as military commander. The results will not necessarily coincide in all respects with a prototypical historical analysis, but such discrepancies due more to ferences in methodology than contradictory conclusions. are Nevertheless, it di is hoped that historical analyses might bene t from a deliberately spatial approach. The decision to analyze the Life rst, despite the fact that it was written after J.W., is intentional. Not only does it serve as a reminder that history/historiography need not always take precedence over geography—the Galilees depicted in the Life and in J.W. were in fact experienced by Josephus simultaneously even if they were written down successively—but it also allows the Life to serve as a baseline of argumentation. The reason for this is not based on any assumption that the Life is the more genuine account; rather, the depiction of Galilee in the Life,with the inordinately large amount of attention it receives in Josephus “autobiography” and with its onwritings. the “Galileans,” is often the starting point for the study of special Galilee emphasis in Josephus’ Thirdspace in the Life
Despite the prominence of Galilee as the setting for most of the work, the Life is devoid of formal geographical descriptions similar to those found in J.W. There are no excursuses detailing Galilee’s characteristics, boundaries, or natural features, but by this point the reasons for these ostensible omissions should be clear. Geographical digressions were an expected historiographical element in J.W., and Josephus even followed typical geographical conventions, but there were no such expectations in his autobiographical Life. It is a stark There is considerable di ference of opinion on this issue. See reviews of scholarship in Cohen, Josephus in Galilee and Rome, ch. 1; Tessa Rajak, “Josephus and Justus of Tiberias,” in Josephus, Judaism, and Christianity (ed. Louis H. Feldman and Gohei Hata; Detroit: Wayne State , 1987) 81–94; Bilde, Flavius Josephus between Jerusalem and Rome: His Life, His Works, and Their Importance, 174–76. Cohen (Josephus in Galilee and Rome, 101–4) insists that, without true parallels in Jewish literature, the Life must be examined in light of Greco-Roman biography. What is atypical about the Life is that one part of Josephus’ life, his tenure in Galilee, occupies so much of the work. For Cohen, Josephus’ variance from the biographical tradition is primarily apologetic. Cf. Sean Freyne, “The Galileans,” 29: “The question of Josephus’ authority is the central issue in the Life, yet surprisingly we do not nd any detailed geographical description of
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di ference between the two texts and a reminder that in some sense we are dealing with two di ferent Galilees. In terms of Firstspace and Secondspace, the Galilees of the Life and J.W. are, if not completely identical, at least essentially compatible; in terms of Thirdspace, however, those di ferences become pronounced. The Galilee of the Life is not the same staging ground for Josephus’ storyline as the Galilee in J.W. If Thirdspace the appropriation physical space The objects as symbols, the symbol involves in the Life isofthe “Galileans.” debate over par excellence the character of the Galileans is a long one, but for the purposes of this study Martin Hengel’s Die Zeloten provides a useful starting point. In his attempt to unpack the Jewish ethos that gave rise to the revolt, Hengel argued that the Galileans could be viewed as a revolutionary group. Die Zeloten was received well as “an authoritative basis for all future study” by some, but it was not without its critics. Solomon Zeitlin claimed that Hengel had too easily conated the Zealots and the Sicarii, had not taken into account the di ferences in their ideological underpinnings, and had erroneously linked the Zealots with messianism. Morton Smith criticized Hengel’s association of the Zealots and the Sicarii with Galileans, locating groups in Judeaoverturn instead.his However, these denouncements of Hengelboth did not necessarily basic premise that the Galileans should be viewed as revolutionaries. Zeitlin, in a later article, argued that the term “Galileans” in the Life should be recognized as being devoid of any geographical connotation whatsoever and understood purely as a designation for a separate revolutionary party with characteristics similar to the Zealots and a “philosophy” similar to the Sicarii. Francis Loftus gave a similarly rebellious characterization to both the “Galilean contingent” in Jerusalem ( J.W. 4.558) and Galilee itself. Such analyses, ironically, have helped to sustain a common understanding of the Galileans as a subset of, another name for, or parallel to the Zealots. the territory entrusted to him, similar to 3, 35–39.” The reason for the di ference lies with the expectations associated with the two literary genres. Martin Hengel, Die Zeloten: Untersuchungen zur Jüdischen Freiheitsbewegung in der Zeit von Herodes I bis 70 n. Chr. (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1961), 57–61. Shimon Applebaum, “The Zealots: The Case for Revaluation,” 61 (1971): 156. Solomon Zeitlin, “Zealots and Sicarii,” 81:4 (Dec 1962): 395–98. Morton Smith, “Zealots and Sicarii, Their Origins and Relation,” 64:1 (Jan 1971): 15–19. Solomon Zeitlin, “Who Were the Galileans? New Light on Josephus’ Activities in Galilee,” 64:3 (Jan 1974): 193, 195–96, 200–1. Francis Loftus, “A Note on Σύνταγµα τῶν Γα ι αίων B.J. iv 558,” 65:3 (Jan 1975): 182–83. See also Zeitlin, “Who Were the Galileans,” 196. Loftus, “The Anti-Roman Revolts of the Jews and Galileans,” 68:2 (Oct 1977): 78–98.
The irony lies not in the conclusions themselves—there are defensible arguments underlying them—but in the fact that the term “Galileans,” when used as an “appellative name” for an identi able group, is a concept derived almost exclusively from the Life, a work that contains not a single reference to the Zealots. Meanwhile in J.W., where the Zealots show up with frequency, there is not a single reference to their activity in Galilee. These simple facts are sometimeon overlooked byassociated the best ofwith scholars. Shimon when commenting di culties studying the Applebaum, Zealot movement, states that “the only work furnishing anything like a comprehensive series of reports [about the Zealots] are by Flavius Josephus—the Jewish War, the Jewish Antiquities, and his Life,” as though references to the Zealots are evenly scattered throughout the corpus. Louis Feldman, although critical of those who equate the Galileans with a distinct revolutionary group, makes no distinction in his own analysis of the term “Galileans” between its use in the Life and in J.W. It is no wonder that Richard Horsley concluded that a comparison of the modern scholarly conceptualization of the Zealots and the textual accounts upon which they were supposedly based (i.e. Josephus) revealed “seriousthe discrepancies.” In a response to Zeitlin,asSean Freyne only challenged common conception of the Galileans Zealots, butnot he also implicitly recognized that their depiction in the Life is best understood independently of Josephus’ other writings: “Josephus, it seems, has a particular interest in portraying the Galileans in colours corresponding to his own selfportrayal in both works.” A Thirdspace analysis leads to a similar position, albeit by a di ferent route. Steve Mason has argued that the Life should be understood primarily as a conclusion to the Ant. showing the character of the author and not as a refutation of Justus’ rival historical account. The disproportionate amount of attention given to the Galilee phase of his career is due to the fact that Galilee is the primary location where his character is on public display. Mason o fers a helpful corrective, but his argument does not necessarily run counter to
Zeitlin, “Who Were the Galileans,” 193. Applebaum, “The Zealots,” 156. Like Life, both Ant. and Ag.Ap. lack any reference to the Zealots. Louis H. Feldman, “The Term ‘Galileans’ in Josephus,” 72:1 (Jul 1981): 50–52. Richard A. Horsley, “The Zealots: Their Origin, Relationships, and Importance in the Jewish Revolt,” NovT 28:2 (Apr 1986): 160. Freyne, “The Galileans,” 42. Steve Mason, “Josephus and Judaism,” The Encyclopedia of Judaism 2:556; idem, Josephus and the New Testament, 123, 131.
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Josephus’ apologetic aims. If his ultimate purpose in writing the Life is not to defend J.W., at the very least it does serve as a defense of his character. Thus, Cohen is probably too harsh in attributing so many of the distortions in Josephus’ narrative to his “vanity,” given that his character has been attacked in Justus’ published history (Life 338, 340, 352). The Life, therefore, devotes so much space to his Galilean tenure, because Justus had assailed his character speci cally in terms tness tomain command. is no coincidence, then,than that the “Galileans” serveofashisJosephus’ line ofItdefense (in more ways one). Despite Zeitlin’s contention to the contrary, the geographical dimension of the term “Galileans” in the Life is integral to understanding how they function symbolically for Josephus. In fact, the Galileans display six di ferent qualities in the Life with considerable consistency: 1.
The Galileans are provincial. In most cases, the Galileans are distinguished from the residents of the major cities within Galilee, notably the Sepphorites (Σεπφωρῖται; 30, 39, 108, 396), the Tiberians (Τιβεριεῖς; 66, 108, 143), and the inhabitants of Gabara (οἱ . . . Γάβαρα κατοικοῦντες; Along these lines, the Galileans are predominantly anti-city in their out- 124). look, even though the inhabitants of those cities are their ὁµόφυ οι (376– 77). They have a healthy dislike for Sepphoris (39, 375) and Tiberias (384, 392), and they strike fear in the hearts of the Gabarans (124–25). It should be noted, however, that the overarching, urban-rural tension that emerges from such passages is not without exceptions. The Tarichaeans (Ταριχεῶται; 99, 143), too, are routinely distinguished from
Cohen, Josephus in Galilee and Rome, 123. Tessa Rajak, in her review of Cohen ( Josephus in
Galilee Rome: His Vita and Development as a Historian, The Classical Review 31:2 [1981]: 250–53),and o fers a similar criticism. See Morton Hørning Jensen, Herod Antipas in Galilee: The Literary and Archaeological 2 Sources on the Reign of Herod Antipas and its Socio-Economic Impact on Galilee , 215 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2006) 88–89, who o fers a brief survey of the issue and a similar critique. Freyne (“The Galileans,” 33–34) adds Gischala to this list due to its (John’s?) hostility toward Josephus, and Josephus himself does include it with the other three cities in J.W. 2.629. It should be noted that Gischala is never explicitly classi ed as a πό ις in the Life, though Josephus does refer at one point to its πο ῖται (43). The enmity the Galileans harbored for the city of Sepphoris was extreme enough that they apparently avoided going there. In one skirmish, their ignorance of the layout of the city was a key factor in limiting their success (396).
the Galileans, but they also welcome the Galileans as allies (99). The πό ις of Asochis is not only hospitable to Josephus, whom it backed in the rivalry with Jonathan of Jerusalem (233), but it also serves as the Galileans’ rallying point prior to their planned attack on Tiberias (384). Josephus even makes an o anded reference to the Galileans’ πό εις (84), though he does not specify which ones they are. Thus, the tension is not primarily
2.
characterized as theelites. economic oppression of rural peasantry bysu wealthy urban land-holding Josephus does allude at one point to fering in icted on the Galileans by Justus prior to the war (392), but the nature of those injustices goes unexplored. The point is that Josephus does not utilize the socio-economic dimension of this rivalry, to whatever degree it existed. The Galileans’ animus toward these cities is di ferently cast. The Galileans are anti-Roman.When Josephus rst arrives in Galilee, he nds that the Galileans are threatening to plunder the Sepphorites “because of their leanings towards the Romans and the overtures of loyalty and allegiance which they had made to Cestius Gallus, the governor of Syria” (30; cf. 39). The Tiberians’ security is also jeopardized by GalileansRome’s “loudly denouncing them as traitors” showing loyaltyhasto Agrippa, client king (384). In one instance,for Josephus himself to reckon with the Galileans’ resentment after a rumor had spread that he intended to betray the χώρα of Galilee to the Romans (132, 143). Josephus has no interest in explaining the various revolutionary groups in the Life as he does in J.W.; in both Jerusalem (28, 46–47) and Galilee (77, 105–6, 145, 175, 206) he is content to call such elements ῃσταί. However, for Josephus the anti-Roman sentiment of the Galileans is not the same as the revolutionary posture of the brigands. The brigands, whom Josephus was commissioned to disarm (30, 77), are not only distinct from but also in opposition to the Galileans.
Cohen (Josephus in Galilee and Rome, 209) may be correct that Tarichaeae’s pro-Josephus/ pro-Galilean posture stems from the fact that it was a “native Galilean town” in contrast to Tiberias, but neither its Galilean roots nor its fealty to the Galilean cause quali es its residents to be called “Galileans.” Sepphoris’ allegiance to Rome was such that the city had no interest in taking sides on whether Josephus was t ot command Galilee (232). Zeitlin’s argument (“Who Were the Galileans,” 193) certainly breaks down here. He looks at two passages in which the Galileans and the brigands are mentioned in close proximity (Life 78–79, 175–77) and then con ates the two groups. In what can only be a gross oversight, he does not mention at all two passages in which they are clearly distinguished (Life 105–7, 206).
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3.
The Galileans are impassioned.As indicated by their seething antipathy for both Sepphoris and Tiberias (384), the Galileans have a reputation for brash behavior. They also dislike Gabara (125) and Gischala (102) and prove a threat to both; their participation in the destruction of Herod’s palace in Tiberias results in excessive plundering (66–67); and they nearly kill the Jerusalem delegates sent to depose Josephus (262). When
4.
5.
Josephus to intimidate Justus and his fatherfor Pistus, heoreminds them thatwants the Galileans had once been responsible cutting f Justus’ brother’s hand (177). Yet despite their penchant for unruliness, Josephus succeeds in restraining their passions time and time again, sometimes by his own authority (31), sometimes by persuasion (100, 307), and sometimes by σόφισµα (380). If Josephus proves his mettle by how he handles his enemies in J.W., in the Life it is proven by how he handles his own troops. The Galileans are passionately devoted to Josephus. Nowhere is Josephus’ personal apologetic more evident than in the deep a fection constantly lavished upon him by the Galileans. In only one instance do they show opposition to him,this when he was betrayingafter Galilee to Rome (143). Both before incident (84,accused 125) andofespecially its resolution (207–10, 250–52), the Galileans display erce loyalty to Josephus. He is at home in their villages such as Cana (86), Simonias (115), Chabolo/ Chabulon (213), Japha (270), and Arbela (311), even when the rival delegates from Jerusalem are not (230–31). Josephus is so popular among the Galileans, in fact, that their concern for him was greater than their concern for their own safety (84). They plead for him not to leave when his position is threatened (207), and after rallying to his aid they hail him as “benefactor and savior” (244, 259). Dramatic overtones are detectable in Josephus’ account of the climactic confrontation between himself and the Jerusalem delegates (256–58). Instead of producing the traditional “two or three witnesses” to testify to his good character, he instead produces a throng of Galileans lling the plain opposite Gabaroth and implores them “to conceal nothing of the truth, but to declare in the presence of these men, as before judges in court, whether I have done anything amiss” (258). The Galileans are pro-Jerusalem. The tension between Galilee and Jerusalem found in later rabbinic tradition is, overall, not a signi cant factor in the Life. On two occasions the Galileans express dissatisfaction See Chancey, The Myth of a Gentile Galilee (mentioned in fn. 1 above) for an extensive overview of the archaeological evidence supporting a generally “Jewish” Galilee.
with Jerusalem, but in both instances the reason is clear: they are upset with the Jerusalem delegation’s attempts to depose Josephus (211, 311). Otherwise, Jerusalem’s authority over the a fairs of Galilee is generally recognized, whether in Josephus’ own commissioning (28; cf. 341, 393) or in the several appeals to Jerusalem leaders made by both sides of the developing rivalry (Josephus in 62, 266 and his challengers in 190, 237). When Jonathan’s assembly sent Jerusalem to depose Josephus, they are instructed to appealis to thefrom Galileans by citing their own credentials as Jerusalemites, experts in the law, and priests (198). The Galileans’ sensitivity to matters of law and tradition is evident in their tithing to the Jerusalem priests who accompany Josephus (63, 80) and the apparent widespread observance of the Sabbath (159, 162). The oft cited account of the Galileans’ participation in the destruction of Antipas’ Tiberian palace may also have been inspired by their respect for Jewish law, but it is just as important to note that this did not begin as an impromptu popular uprising. The command to destroy the palace was handed down from Jerusalem (65). 6.
the standpoint of Josephus’ The Galileans represent province. military command, the the Galileans areFrom synonymous with Galilee itself. Galilee is described as “their province” (210–11, 244, 311), and when Josephus gives “the Galileans” orders to join him at Gabaroth, a village of Galilee, he reports that they rallied in large numbers “from Galilee” (243). The implication is not that Gabaroth lies outside of Galilee, but that the Galileans come from all over the district. Furthermore, Josephus’ response to the charges against his “conduct in Galilee” is to produce a crowd of “Galileans” as character witnesses (257–58). The Galileans serve as representatives of Galilee. An important passage in this regard is Life 190–93 where “the Galileans” and “Galilee” are used interchangeably. When John of Gischala sends representatives to Jerusalem for the purpose of “depriving [Josephus] of the command of the Galileans” (τὴν ἀρχὴν ἀφε οµένους . . . τῶν Γα ι αίων; 190), Josephus summarizes the argument made against him by Simon, John’s close friend: “[He was] saying it would be advantageous to them if I were deprived of Galilee” (συνοίσειν αὐτοῖς έγων εἰ τῆς Some liberty has been taken here. The references are to Sabbath observance in Tarichaeae; the Galileans are not speci cally mentioned. Sabbath traditions were also observed in Tiberias (275–79). In the case of the refugees from Trachonitis, it is “the Jews” or “the masses” in Tarichaeae that take o fense at their uncircumcision (112–13, 149–54). The irony is obvious; see Steve Mason, Josephus, Judea, and Christian Origins: Methods and Categories (Peabody, Mass.: Hendrickson Publishers Inc., 2009), 98.
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Γα ι αίας ἀφαιρεθείην; 193). The use of ἀφαιρέω in both places underscores the equivalence. The close link between Galilee and the Galileans may seem rather obvious, but it needs to be made explicit given the opposing viewpoint that “the term ‘Galilean’ in Life cannot have a geographical connotation.” An of these characteristics a glimpse of Josephus’ Theanalysis rst three characteristics, whenyields considered by themselves, doapologetic. not make a direct contribution to Josephus’ defense of his honor as military commander. He does not share the Galileans’ animosity toward the cities (#1) upon his arrival. In fact, his rst stop after being commissionedto Galilee is in Sepphoris (30, 64), a city that only later becomes a target of his military raids. His later di culties with other cities develop as a result of opposition to him directly. He does not pro t from the Galileans taking an avid anti-Roman stance (#2) or from their impetuous behavior (#3). Each of these qualities, however, allows for an indirect apologetic. The urban-rural rivalry (#1) in the Life is cast primarily in political-nationalistic rather than socio-economic terms. Almost certainly the was greater than Josephus lets on, but itnot is not socio-economic in his interest to dimension explore it. While the anti-Roman sentiment (#2) may be Josephus’ ideal, he is careful to distinguish the Galileans’ nationalism from the impious insurrectionism and/or opportunism of the brigands. Likewise, the Galileans’ penchant for unbridled fervor (#3) causes Josephus problems at times, but it also serves as a juxtaposition to his own moderation and an opportunity to illustrate his ability to impose restraint. These qualities also work in conjunction with the nal three characteristics, which do have a more direct apologetic function for Josephus. The impassioned Galileans (#3) channel that passion most conspicuously toward Josephus himself, their general (#4). Their a fection for him becomes one of the clearest justi cations for his military oversight in Galilee, despite rivals like Justus and As argued by Zeitlin, “Who Were the Galileans,” 195. See comments above. This is the primary evaluative lens for Richard Horsley who argues that the “tributive” economic system of Galilee would have resulted in a steady ow of resources from the poorer, agricultural villages to the wealthier, administrative cities ( Archaeology, History, and Society in Galilee: The Social Context of Jesus and the Rabbis [Harrisburg, Pa.: Trinity Press International, 1996], 76–85). Sean Freyne, who is often on the opposite side of the debate as Horsley, does concede that the Galilean urban-rural rivalry probably had an economic aspect (“The Galileans,” 31). These elements also emerge in his Jesus a Jewish Galilean: a new reading of the Jesus-story (New York: T&T Clark International, 2004), particularly in ch. 2. The point to be made here, however, is that such a characterization is not part of Josephus’ rhetoric in Life.
Jesus of Tiberias and John of Gischala. If the Galileans display anti-Roman nationalism (#2), it only accentuates the pro-Jerusalem posture (#5), which plays a signi cant role in their devotion to him as Jerusalem’s legitimate representative. Perhaps the most important apologetic derives from the fact that the people who vouch so strongly for Josephus’ character and position are not “Sepphorites” or “Tiberians” or even “Tarichaeans” but “Galileans” (#1). Other sources (rabbinic literature,does the Gospel of designation John) make in usethe of Life the “Galileans” as well, but what Josephus with that is unparalleled, not only compared to other ancient authors but even to his own corpus. He has used a common word to coin a unique term. To speak of Galileans as opposed to Sepphorites or Tiberians is, on the surface, nonsensical, but only until Josephus is allowed to de ne them as his unique creation. In the Life, he does not de ne them as revolutionaries; he does not de ne them as the peasant class; rather, he de nes them as loyal subjects of his military command. Thus, Freyne is not quite correct when he says, “‘Galilee’ is synonymous with the places which support Josephus.” More precisely, the Galileans are synonymous with the place that supports Josephus (#6). Every time the Galileans areTo invoked his narrative, they ironically evoke Josephus’ lived space. put it in another way, Zeitlin has a point when he argues that the term “Galileans” in the Life is not actually geographical—not all Galileans (e.g. Sepphorites, Tiberians, Gabarans) are “Galileans”—but this is only true from the rather narrow standpoint of Firstspace. From the standpoint of Thirdspace, the term’s geographical dimension is not only essential but deliberately provocative. The “Galileans” are not Galileans; they are Galilee, Josephus’ own lived space, his legitimate sphere of command. Thirdspace in the
Jewish War
Having discussed how Josephus depicts the Galileans in the Life, it remains to be seen whether the same depiction can be found in J.W. The rst indication that these depictions are at variance with one another is visible not only in the far fewer uses of the term “Galileans” in J.W. as a whole but even more starkly in the noticeable lack of references to the “Galileans” in J.W. 2.569–647. In this section, which covers the period from Josephus’ commissioning to his declaration of the end of civil (ἐµφύ ιος) discord in Galilee (i.e. the same period covered in the Life), the term “Galileans” is used only once (2.622). Thus, the Freyne, “The Galileans,” 34. The word Γα ι αῖος appears 20 times total in J.W., 16 times in the plural and four times in the singular. Of the four singular uses, two function as the surname of Judas “the Galilean” (2.118, 433).
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“Galileans” simply cannot have the same function in J.W. as in the Life. Even the brief glimpse that this single passage a fords points to inconsistencies. Although the Galileans do rally to Josephus’ aid against John of Gischala, a role they share in the Life, they stream to him from the various cities (κατὰ πό εις). In fact, taken as a whole, there is no indication in J.W. that the “Galileans” are being presented as predominantly rural. Despite a fundamentally agricultural Galilee, thesizable Galileans were(3.42–43). so numerous that their district was withτῆς cities and villages Thackeray’s translation of οἱreplete . . . ἀπὸ χώρας as “the country-folk” in 2.602 (cf. 3.199), therefore, is unhelpful especially given the similar phrase οἱ . . . ἀνὰ τὴν πέριξ χώραν in 2.621 where the reference is clearly to those who ocked to Josephus from the cities. A subtler hint of this inconsistency with the Life can be found in J.W. 2.570–72. The “Galileans” are not speci cally mentioned there, but the appointment of 70 elders from Galilee, obviously referring to the same 70 “Galileans” in Life 79, are granted direct authority over the seven additional appointees “in each city” (ἐν ἑκάστῃ πό ει). Furthermore, the antipathy of the Galileans in theLife toward Sepphoris is almost entirely absent in J.W. In short, these are not the Life’s “Galileans.” qualities of thethey Galileans in same overlap in with those inperthe J.W. dofunction , but of thisthedoes not mean have the Josephus’ LifeSome sonal apologetic. The prime example is the Galileans’ anti-Roman stance. In both works, they are characterized by a nationalistic pride that puts them at odds with Rome yet without being revolutionaries. In the Life, when viewed in conjunction with other attributes of the Galileans, it allows Josephus to portray them as having proper allegiances—to Jerusalem rather than Rome, to Josephus rather than his rivals. In J.W., however, it is put to a di ferent use, particularly when combined with other qualities. In the Secondspace discussion above, it became apparent that Josephus’ geographical excursus on Galilee in 3.35–43 followed a rather quintessential Greco-Roman template. It also became clear that while following that template, he deliberately broke with 203, pages 555, 561. Thackeray’s translation “the inhabitants of the district” at 2.621 is an improvement over 2.602. Cf. J.W. 2.170 where the references to “townspeople” and “country-folk” are also probably unwarranted. The sense is that the people of Jerusalem who were upset over the erection of standards within the city were joined by the people from the rest of the district (of Judea), not just by rustics. Perhaps the worst infraction is in J.W. 3.62 where he renders διαρπάζοντες τὰ ἐπὶ τῆς χώρας κτήµατα as “pillag[ing] the property of the country-folk.” William Whiston’s translation, although on the whole inferior, is preferable in this case: “stealing away the cattle that were in the country.” It may be worth noting that Thackeray’s translation of the Life was published prior to his translation of J.W. Though purely speculative, this may indicate that he has imported connotations from the Life into his subsequent work on J.W.
other conceptions of Galilee that were circulating in broader social discourse. Galilee was known to other ancient writers, but Galilee as a military utopia is a distinctly Josephan creation. The uniqueness does not end there, however. In J.W. 3.35–43, Galilee is exceptional even when compared to other regions in the same passage. In no other geographical digression does Josephus speak of the bellicose ethos of the region or the warlike qualities of the inhabitants; this is speci Galilee. Thein impression given isdutifully of a territory teeming withEven soldiers whoc to spend their time between battles working the land. the “thickly distributed” towns (3.43) have been aggrandized. Josephus is not always consistent with his terminology, but he does display a de nite trend: in the Life, Jotapata (188), Chabolo/Chabulon (213), Japha (230), and Garis (395, 412) are classi ed as κῶµαι, whereas inJ.W. each is a πό ις. Thus, when the Galileans’ anti-Roman stance combines with their serviceability in battle, the result is a veritable and venerable war machine under Josephus’ command. To be content with this depiction of the Galileans in J.W., however, still misses the point. The conceptual elements that will eventually blossom into the “Galileans” in the Life, where “Galileans” becomes something of a termiare chorus either absent or only in J.W.function Their role the nus is akin to, the of a Greek play;germinating their dramatic is toinhelp Life technicus carry the storyline and provide information (viz., Josephus is the legitimate commander of Galilee) that is helpful to the audience, and they are deliberately inserted into the narrative when such functions are needed. This is not, however, the role that the Galileans play in J.W. where they are merely an outgrowth of Galilee rather than tantamount to it, as in the Life. The Galileans spring from Galilee’s fertile soil like vegetation, industrious and battle ready from infancy ( J.W. 3.42). They are not members of the cast; they are part of the specially designed set. It is on this stage that Josephus lives out his role as the “ideal general” whose ingenuity almost singlehandedly keeps the Romans
The term Josephus uses to describe the Galileans is µάχιµος. Contrast this with the fact that Gabara (assuming correct emendations in the at 2.629 and 3.132), one of the cities that had rejected Josephus’ command, is easily overrun by the Romans since it was bereft of any of the µάχιµοι (3.132). Besara, for example, is called both a κώµη and a πό ις in the same sentence Life( 118). For Chabulon, see 2.503; for Japha, 3.289; for Garis, 5.474 and perhaps 3.129. For Jotapata, although its classi cation in the Life is inconsistent (cf. 322), it is exclusively called a πό ις throughout the battle narrative in J.W. (3.111 f). Cf. Freyne, “The Galileans,” 35, who makes a similar analogy.
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at bay. It is Galilee itself that becomes the willfully constructed platform for the staging of Josephus’ own military experiences. This also is evident in the far fewer uses of the term “Galileans” in J.W. when compared to the Life, but once again it is the speci c contexts from which they are missing that o fer the clearest testimonies. Just as they were conspicuously absent from J.W. 2.569–647, the period of overlap with the Life, they are also missing places, Jotapata, onethan locale where Josephus’ prowess from, is put of onall prominent display. the Other a few heroic soldiersmilitary (3.229– 33), it is not Γα ι αῖοι who ght at Jotapata butἸουδαῖοι (3.113, 130, 142, 320, 355). The preference for “Jews” at Jotapata might at rst glance seem out of place with what Josephus has presented thus far in J.W., but only if Galileans are expected to be the prominent cast members that they were in the Life. When not viewed through that lens, the “Jews,” the general term for the combatants at all of the major battles (Jotapata, Gamala, Jerusalem, and Masada) throughout “the war of the Jews against the Romans” (1.1), can function in Jotapata and elsewhere as something more than just inhabitants of Judea. There are three passages in the Jotapata narrative that might indicate an intentional di ferentiation Jews and Galileans, but on closer analysis these apparent contrasts arebetween mitigated. 1.
J.W. 3.199: In this passage, Josephus suggests to the besieged people of Jotapata that an appeal to “the Galileans from the country” (τούς . . . ἐκ τῆς χώρας Γα ι αίους) might bring alleviation. They could create a distraction that would draw o f the Roman troops. It is tempting to read Thackeray’s translation in light of 3.229–33, which describes three combat heroes that hail from Galilean villages (see below), and assume an urban-rural dichotomy similar to the one found in the Life where the term “Galileans” has a provincial avor. This would require reading the Jotapata narrative selectively, however, since Japha, “a town (πό ις) in the vicinity of Jotapata” (3.289), was also peopled with Galileans (3.293, 301, 306). Cohen (Josephus in Galilee and Rome, 70, 91–100) cites Cicero as the creator of the model general. Josephus’ military skill is exempli ed by several tricks common to ancient warfare (e.g. pouring boiled fenugreek on the gangplanks so that the Romans would slip, 3.277) that give the impression that Josephus is a master strategist. On occasion Josephus also designates the combatants of Jotapata as Ἰωταπατηνοὶ, but both 3.112–13 and 3.157 clearly show that he is using the terms interchangeably. As per Cohen, Josephus in Galilee and Rome, 207. He assumes, against Zeitlin, that the term “Galilean” is used as a contradistinction for “Judeans,” those living in Judea proper. It should be clear at this point that the classi cation of Japha as a village (κώµη) in Life 230, albeit “the largest village in Galilee,” is not relevant to its classi cation in J.W.
2.
3.
A better translation of 3.199 would be simply “the Galileans from the district,” i.e., from the rest of Galilee around Jotapata. J.W. 3.229–33. The potential dichotomy in the previous passage between the Jews of Jotapata and the Galileans from the surrounding district is further minimized when J.W. 3.229–33 is more closely analyzed. Again, at rst glance, it might appear that these war heroes are purposely designated them from the “Jews” Jotapata. Eleazarasis “Galileans” described asto“adistinguish native of Saba in Galilee” (Σαβὰ . . . of πατρὶς αὐτῷ τῆς Γα ι αίας); Netiras and Philip, “also Galileans” (Γα ι αῖοι καὶ αὐτοί), are from the village of Ruma. However, Eleazar, who is technically not called a “Galilean,” is in fact referred to as one of the “Jews” (ἀνήρ τις . . . Ἰουδαίων) in the same passage. Thus, even though they are all Galileans from villages outside Jotapata, their speci c designation as such is not intended to distinguish them from the rest of the Jews. The terms are essentially interchangeable and there is no need to infuse the “Galileans” in J.W. with a function or purpose they do not possess. J.W. 3.289–306. While still in the midst of the Jotapata narrative, Josephus changes scenes to recount theinterruption Roman victory at Japha. the digression parallels a similar in the siege ofStructurally, Gamala covering the fall of Mt. Tabor (4.54–61). Spatially, with the change in scenery comes an additional transposition: the “Jews” of Jotapata are conspicuously displaced by the “Galileans” of Japha. Although it appears that Josephus’ distinction between the Jews and the Galileans is rooted in ethnic or ethnographic concerns, his purposes are actually geographical The Jotapata/Japha juxtaposition is independent of the urban/rural dichotomy present in the Life. Josephus should be allowed to imagine his geography di ferently from one work to the next. That he is in fact “imagining” is evident when looking at the archaeological record. Japha was approximately double the size of Jotapata (Jonathan Reed, Archaeology and the Galilean Jesus [Harrisburg, Pa.: Trinity Press International, 2000], 82), making Japha’s “Galileans” substantially more urban than Jotapata’s “Jews.” Other passages outside of the Jotapata narrative con rm that Josephus did not intend a stark distinction between Jews and Galileans in J.W. In 2.232, Samaritans murder “a Galilean, one of a large company of Jews” travelling to Jerusalem. When the Sepphorites pledge their allegiance to Vespasian, they do so for fear of their ὁµόφυ οι, speci ed as Jews in 3.32–33 but Galileans in 3.61. It is also signi cant that in Josephus’ speech to John of Gischala during the Jerusalem siege, he calls John a “Jew” and appeals to him on the basis of shared tradition (6.102, 107). He sees no ethnic distinction between them despite each having a di ferent πατρίς (cf. Life 372, 417–18). Although John is not called a “Galilean” speci cally (he is always John “of Gischala”), the Gischalans are referred to as Galileans (4.92; cf. 4.104–5, 558).
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and historiographical. The key to understanding these purposes comes from the passage immediately following. Before returning to the siege of Jotapata, Josephus changes scenes again, this time to Mt. Gerizim: “The Samaritans, too, did not escape their share of calamity” (3.307). The depictions do vary signi cantly, re ecting Josephus’ creation of Thirdspace (the Galileans, valiant ghters on the whole, are not somuch defeated byfall theprey Romans as gifted to them by God whereas the Samaritans to their own heedlessness), but [3.293], their historiographical function is identical. The Japha and the Mt. Gerizim accounts provide representative battle narratives for Galilee and Samaria, respectively, concluding in statements that tell the number of total casualties and the date of demise (3.306, 315). Later in Book 4, similar treatments are given to Perea and Idumea. Together they are tangential but important passages that illustrate the geographical progression of the Roman assault. Once the dual digression covering Japha and Mt. Gerizim has been concluded, Josephus can resume the main storyline, the defeat of the “Jews” at the hands of the Romans beginning in Jotapata. To summarize, there is no indication in these passages that the Galileans constitute a specially recognized separate group as they do in the Life. They are not primary characters for which Josephus has written a compelling role; they emerge as a part of the scenery of Galilee. This particular Galilee, then, is geographical, but it is not Firstspace. Its spatial dimension is not revealed as boundary lines that can be drawn on a conventional map, but rather as Josephus’ sphere of activity, the platform on which he shows himself publicly to be an ideal general of the Jewish people—intrepid but enlightened, a master of warfare who understands that the only master of war is God. It should not come as a surprise, therefore, Perea is represented by the fate of the Gadarenes, some of whom voluntarily capitulate to the Romans while others, having ed, are slaughtered later at the Jordan River. The passage concludes with the total number slain (4.436), but the date is recorded at the beginning of the account (4.413) rather than the end. The corresponding Idumea narrative is likely 4.552–55, but with some variation in the pattern. Three battles are discussed (Caphthera, Capharabis, and Hebron), though each with extreme brevity, and there is neither a summation of the number of casualties nor a date. Cf. Cohen’s “ideal general” ( Josephus in Galilee and Rome, 70, 91–100). Mason ( Josephus and the New Testament, ch. 3) does not list Josephus’ personal apologetic as a fundamental reason for writing the war, but the idea is compatible with his more national apologetic of “preserv[ing] the dignity of a conquered and humiliated people” (88). One looks at Josephus as an individual, the other at the Jews as a whole.
that Josephus relates the fall of Gamala before he announces that all Galilee had been subdued. Josephus is well aware of the fortress’s Firstspace location in Gaulanitis (4.2), but in terms of Thirdspace it is subsumed within the sphere of Josephus’ activity. Galilee becomes the ideal stage deliberately constructed in the Greco-Roman geographical tradition for Josephus to act out his role in the play. In fact, the Jewish War is acted out on several stages, each one acknowledged at the time Jerusalem of its subjugation to the Romans: Perea (4.431), Idumea (4.555), (6.435–42), and nally Galilee the rest(4.120), of the country (χώρα; 7.408). Of all of these statements, it is only Galilee that receives praise, being commended for “a fording the Romans a strenuous training for the impending Jerusalem campaign.” The echo of the geographical digression in 3.35–58, where Galilee alone is described as a bulwark against invasion, is unmistakable.
The inclusion of Gamala in the Galilee narrative is also grounded in cultural factors that dovetail nicely with Josephus’ commission to oversee the two Galilees and Gamala together. Eric Meyers (“The Cultural Setting of Galilee,” 693–98) argued that Upper Galilee had more in common with Gaulanitis than with Lower Galilee. Although he later softened his view of Upper Galilee’s isolationism (“Galilean Regionalism: A Reappraisal,” in Studies in Judaism and Its Greco-Roman Context [ed. William Scott Green, vol. of Approaches to Ancient Judaism;Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1985], 115–31), he maintained the cultural link with Gaulanitis. See also Eric Meyers and A. Thomas Kraabel, “Archaeology, Iconography, and non-Literary Written Remains,” in Early Judaism and its Modern Interpreters (ed. Robert A. Kraft and George W.E. Nickelsburg; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1986), 177. There are some parallels between this approach to Josephus’ geography in J.W. and the Life, and the “apologetic historiography” that Gregory Sterling has identi ed in Ant. Sterling argues that Josephus has utilized the form of hellenistic historiography, but lled it with a content that is speci c to his own interests as an apologist for Jewish culture. See Gregory Sterling, Historiography and Self-De nition: Josephos, Luke-Acts and Apologetic Historiography (New York: E.J. Brill, 1992), 16. A similar approach was advocated several years earlier by Harold W. Attridge, The Interpretation of Biblical History in theAntiquitates Judaicae of Flavius Josephus (Missoula, Mont.: Scholars Press, 1976): “Josephus transforms the genre of antiquarian, rhetorical historiography and succeeds in producing a Greek version of Jewish sacred history with speci cally religious implications. Herein lies the basic achievement of the apologetics of the Antiquities. Greek materials have been made the vehicles of a profoundly religious and forthrightly Jewish interpretation of history” (183–84).
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Josephus’ Galilee and Critical Geography: Implications
Soja’s spatial theory shows, if nothing else, that geography has become a complex, critical discipline. It follows that geographical analyses of Josephus should also aspire to a similar level of complexity and criticism. Several important implications emerge. First, analytical approaches to Galilee or Galileans that areand couched in termsthey of “geographical/not are not onlyterm too binary too simplistic, are misleading. Ingeographical” Zeitlin’s thinking, if the “Galileans” lacks the geographical consistency that would make them conventionally mappable, only one alternative remains: they must constitute a historical group that ourishes in the context of the war. Beginning with this presupposition, Zeitlin sees certain qualities of the Galileans paralleled in the brigands, the Zealots, and the Sicarii. Once these connections are made, a new portrait of the Galileans emerges. Josephus, however, never makes these connections himself. All three of these revolutionary groups are featured most prominently (in the case of the brigands) or exclusively (in the case of the Zealots and Sicarii) in J.W., but Josephus con nes his special use of the term “Galileans” to the isLife . The overlap is minimal, more the explicit association non-existent. When Josephusbut refers to importantly the brigand Judas as “the Galilean” it must be kept in mind that these references are found not in the Life but in J.W. (2.118, 433); any association of Judas with the “Galileans” in the Life is hasty at best. The same can be said of the “Galilean contingent” in J.W. 4.558. To assume that this is the proper name of a separate revolutionary group is not only misguided, it is a misperception rst and foremost of Josephus’ geography. A second implication of analyzing Josephus’ Galilee as Thirdspace pertains to the con ation of Josephus’ individual writings. The oft-scrutinized con ict, going as far back as Laqueur, between J.W. and the Life regarding Josephus’ commissioning is as much geographical as it is historical. Indeed there are important historical questions. For example, whether Josephus was forced to capitulate over time to an unruly mass of Galileans, a factor that eventually compelled him to transform from a keeper of the peace into a wager of war, is a legitimate historical dilemma. Giorgio Jossa grapples with this very
Richard Laqueur, Der Jüdische Historiker Flavius Josephus: ein biographischer Versuch auf neuer quellenkritischer Grundlage (Geissen: v. Münchow, 1920), 103–16. Laqueur assumed the Life to be the more accurate of the two with respect to Josephus’ actual commission, though in the main Josephus was not to be trusted at all, breaking from the Jerusalem leadership, usurping power, and eventually becoming the chief of the brigands.
question, but his solution to the historical problem is unconvincing. In an attempt to explain the discrepancies between the narratives, he proposes that the Galileans were a moderate revolutionary faction separate from the more radical brigands: “They would, therefore, be in the terms (and in the conception) of Josephus, νεωτερίζοντες, or, as he says in the , νεωτερισταί, that is Life innovators on the plane of tradition and πάτρια ἔθη, not ῃσταί, that is rebels on a political social level.” revolutionary behavior is extreme enough to requireand Josephus’ presenceTheir in the district as per it is not Life, but extreme enough to justify the commission as characterized in J.W.; thus, for Jossa, the Life is the more reliable account. Putting aside for the moment what it means to be an “innovator on the plane of tradition,” the more glaring problem stems from the fact that in the Life the word νεωτερισταί is never applied to the “Galileans.” In trying to walk the historical tightrope between J.W. and the Life, Jossa’s argument has become unbalanced. Geography, on the other hand, provides a di ferent but equally useful lens for analysis. Viewed through the prism of Thirdspace, the fundamental geographical question is “to which Galilee has Josephus been commissioned?” Given that each writing creates a unique platform for Josephus’ actions, thein tension between them Josephus is commissioned appropriately both works given thediminishes. distinct purposes of each. Through a critical spatial analysis, the careful reader of Josephus will be forced to reckon with other questions, equally valid for understanding Josephus, besides “what actually happened?” Arguably the most important implication of this study relates to the general caution it provides to other assessments of Josephus, particularly those
Giorgio Jossa, “Josephus’ Action in Galilee During the Jewish War,” in Josephus and the History of the Greco-Roman Period: Essays in Memory of Morton Smith (ed. Fausto Parente & Joseph Sievers; Leiden: Brill, 1994), 265–78. Ibid., 266. The word νεωτεριστής is used only three times inLife the , twice referring to rebel elements in Jerusalem (22, 28) and once referring to Jesus of Tiberias, one of Josephus’ primary adversaries (134). It is entirely absent in J.W., where the action of “innovating/rebelling” (from νεωτερίζω) predominates. In addition to νεωτεριστής, the word νεωτερισµός (“revolutionary movement”) is used four times in the Life, twice referring to activity in Judea (17, 23) and twice in Gamala (56, 184). The action of “innovating/rebelling” (i.e. the verb νεωτερίζω) is absent fromLife the. Cf. Mireille Hadas-Lebel, Flavius Josephus: Eyewitness to Rome’s First-Century Conquest of Judea (trans. Richard Miller; New York: Macmillan Publishing Co., 1993), 69–70. HadasLebel does acknowledge that historically, the “preparation for war” motive and the “keep the peace” motive can be compatible but still opts for J.W. as the more reliable.
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that apply his corpus to “the quest for the historical Galilee.” The fact that it is a “historical” quest re ects the methodology most commonly applied, but Galilee is rst and foremost a space, and space can be appropriated creatively, deliberately, hegemonically, to the same extent as historical events or gures. A classic debate within Galilee scholarship is represented by the running dialogue, sometimes direct, often indirect, between Sean Freyne and Richard Horsley. Is 1st c.andGalilee better venerated understood(Freyne), as a Jewish annex where the Torah is respected the Temple or as the native homeland of Israelite villagers struggling under the oppression of Roman client rulers and Jerusalem elites (Horsley)? The discussion ranges far beyond Josephus, but when it surfaces in his writings, the contrasting historical reconstructions are evident even in the enlistment of minute details. Compare their descriptions of Herod’s palace destroyed by the “Galileans” in Life 65–67: Sean Freyne, “The Geography, Politics and Economics of Galilee,” in Studying the Historical Jesus: Evaluations of the State of Current Research (ed. Bruce Chilton and Craig A. Evans; New York: E.J. Brill, 1994), 76. Sean Freyne, Galilee, from Alexander the Great to Hadrian 323 B.C.E. to 135 C.E.: A Study of Second Temple Judaism (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1980), 259–97; idem, “Galilee-Jerusalem Relations in Josephus’ Life,” 33/4 (Oct 1987): 604; idem, “Behind the Names: Galileans, Samaritans, Ioudaioi,” in Galilee and Gospel: Collected Essays (ed. Sean Freyne; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2000), 131; idem, “Archaeology and the Historical Jesus,” in Galilee and Gospel: Collected Essays (ed. Sean Freyne; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2000), 180–81. Richard A. Horsley, Galilee: History, Politics, People (Valley Forge, Pa.: Trinity Press International, 1995), 26–33; idem, Archaeology, History, and Society in Galilee, 15–42. One representative issue is Zvi Gal’s archaeological survey of Galilee (Lower Galilee During the Iron Age, Dissertation Series 8 [Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 1992], 108–109) that showed a signi cant depopulation after the period of the Assyrian conquest. Freyne (“Behind the Names,” 117) enlists Gal’s results in defending a Jewish, as opposed to “Israelite,” Galilee that was repopulated under the Hasmoneans and shared a cultural identity with Jerusalem. Horsley, who argues that the Galileans of the 1st c. were descendants of the northern kingdom and harbored resentment toward the Jews in the south, disputes Gal’s survey results claiming they “provide a super cial basis for drawing any conclusions” (Archaeology, History, and Society in Galilee, 22). See also Reed, Archaeology and the Galilean Jesus, 28–43, who is supportive of Gal’s survey data. More recently, Uzi Leibner (Settlement and History in Hellenistic, Roman, and Byzantine Galilee: An Archaeological Survey of the Eastern Galilee, Texts and Studies in Ancient Judaism 127 [Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2009], 319–326) has also voiced support for Gal’s study, calling Horsley’s view “pure conjecture” (320). His conclusion is supported by his own survey data, which shows a marked expansion in settlement during the late Hellenistic and Early Roman periods, population growth that is best understood as resettlement following the Hasmonean conquest of Galilee rather than the increased birthrate of its inhabitants (322).
for Freyne, it is the “royal palace with animal decorations and Greek-styled furniture”; for Horsley, it is the “royal palace, symbol of their (‘Galileans’/ villagers) subjection . . . [with] gold and other luxurious furnishings.” The caveat being o fered here is that signi cant aspects of both of these depictions ow out of Josephus’ Thirdspace. In the Life, Galilee is deliberately portrayed as the rightful domain of Josephus (“my district [τὴν ἐµὴν χώραν]” Life 154) and, not coincidentally, of the “Galileans,” he characterizes as faithful followers of Jerusalem’s rightful emissary (aswhom in Freyne) while standing rmly against his rivals, whether they be power-hungry Tiberians or pro-Roman Sepphorites (as in Horsley). Nevertheless, for both Freyne and Horsley, it seems that (constructed) Thirdspace has too easily become (descriptive) Firstspace, and Firstspace has too quickly become “historical context.” The purpose of this survey and analysis of Josephus’ geography of Galilee is to be deliberately a-historical, not in the sense of ignoring historical arguments, but rather in an attempt to break free from a purely historical analysis where geography is viewed as an inert and static background. “Social reality,” whether present or past, “is not just coincidentally spatial, existing ‘in’ space, it is presuppositionally and ontologically spatial.” are already well aware of the potential pitfalls in historical analyses Scholars of Josephus; the hope is that this study can provide yet another useful map for navigating his writings from a consciously di ferent perspective.
Freyne, Galilee: From Alexander, 129; cf. 234, 311. Horsley, Archaeology, History, and Society in Galilee, 129. Soja, Thirdspace: Journeys, 46.
Luke’s Galilee Introduction
Within the synoptic tradition Galilee has received more than its fair share of attention, and with good reason. Mark’s gospel, as is well known, devotes nearly two-thirds of its contents to Jesus’ ministry in Galilee and its immediate surroundings, and his broadly geographical schema of Galilee/travel section/Jerusalem is reiterated, though with modi cations, in both Matthew and Luke. Yet interest in Galilee has been linked to more than just Mark and its successors. More recently, scholars have found another reason to enter into the broader discussion over Galilee: a possible Galilean provenance for the Q material. Q notwithstanding, however, by far the greatest contributions in the past few decades to the study of the synoptic Galilee have come from the burgeoning eld of to Galilean The rapid excavations increase in extra-literary data that continues emergearchaeology. from the decades-long at Sepphoris, the more recent work at Tiberias, and the ongoing operations and surface surveys from the remainder of Galilee have collided with interest in the historical Jesus, and the result has been a juggernaut of immensely intriguing and frequently con icting scholarship. Underlying this complex cooperative relationship is a simple foundational concept: to understand Jesus the Galilean one must rst understand Galilee. Alongside Josephus and the Gospel of John, the synoptic tradition rounds out the literary-historical triumvirate. Closer evaluation of Galilee scholarship speci c to the synoptics, however, reveals that contributions to the discussion are far from evenly distributed. In fact, it is the Gospel of Mark that has received the lion’s share of attention, and again with good reason. There exists a common assumption that Matthew’s Galilee is, for the most part, passively adopted rather than purposely adapted in any signi cant way from Mark’s more deliberately conceived depiction. As a result, fewer scholars have taken a critical look at what Matthew does with Galilee given that the author’s interests with regard to Jesus’ story lie more with the interpretation of the law than the interpretation of the land. There has been a similar lack of attention directed toward Luke, though for entirely di ferent reasons. The author has a de nite geographical emphasis, but that emphasis is on Jerusalem over and against Galilee, both as the place of destination (destiny? Luke 13:33) for Jesus in Luke and as the point of distribution
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for the gospel in Acts. Furthermore, those interested in the geography of LukeActs have found much more captivating terrain in the “end of the earth” scope of Acts than in the more limited, provincial, and ostensibly misconceived space of Luke. If Luke apparently does not care enough to convey an accurate, mappable Galilee, then why should we? Although acknowledging that there is still plenty of room for analysis of both Mark’s andthey Matthew’s depictions Galilee, Q of is deserving of attention as well, are not the primaryof focus here.and Thethat point this chapter is to explore the Galilee of Luke, and, as with Josephus, to do so from a deliberately geographical perspective using a consciously spatial analytical method. This approach is not primarily concerned with amassing data from Luke about the nature of 1st c. Galilee in terms of religious practices, culture, economy, social relations, or political history. The goal is to ascertain how Luke imagines Galilee within its geographical context and to investigate how Luke’s Galilee functions within the narrative. Geographical analyses of Lukan material, however, are not easily reviewable since they are usually found scattered through commentaries or embedded within larger works. Even where there is discernible interest, focus often liesmissionary elsewhere,activity whetherofwith the list of nations at the Pentecost, or the Paul.Jerusalem, Furthermore, in order to investigate the geography of the Gospel of Luke, some consideration must be given to the broader synoptic tradition, particularly Mark, Luke’s primary extant source and the one from which he derives his basic geographical schema. In sum, most synoptic studies of Galilee focus on Mark, and most geographical studies of Luke focus on something other than Galilee. The review of scholarship that follows, therefore, takes a somewhat serpentine path, meandering rst through the substantial collection of studies pertaining to Mark’s Galilee and concluding with geographical analyses of Luke-Acts that usually do not make Galilee their aim. Many have blazed trails through Luke-Acts’ See Sean Freyne, Galilee, Jesus, and the Gospels: Literary Approaches and Historical Investigations (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1988), 90–115. Although his concerns go beyond the mere accumulation of details on Galilee culled from Luke and deal also with Luke’s conception of Galilee, his methods are more historical-critical rather than spatial-theoretical. The hope is that the present study will provide yet another analytical lens. For obvious reasons, Matthew and Q both lie outside the purview of a study of Luke’s Galilee, but both are deserving of comment. With regard to Matthew, there are relatively few geographical analyses, especially when compared to Mark. Despite C.C. McCown’s assertion that “not a single case of correct, independent, and srcinal addition to Mark’s geography can be ascribed to Matthew” (“Gospel Geography: Fiction, Fact, and Truth,” 60:1 [1941]: 13), Matthew’s geography was not in fact lifted whole cloth from Mark without any contextualizing. See, e.g., Donald J. Verseput, “Jesus’ Pilgrimage to Jerusalem and Encounter in the Temple:
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geography in general, but the route to Luke’s Galilee is neither clearly demarcated nor well-trodden. It is largely uncharted territory.
Review of Scholarship Behind Luke
Any investigation into the synoptic tradition on Galilee necessarily begins with the Gospel of Mark and, more speci cally, with Ernst Lohmeyer’s in uential Galiläa und Jerusalem. Mark was not Lohmeyer’s sole interest, but the lasting in uence of his study had a distinctively Markan orientation. In Mark, Lohmeyer saw evidence for a Galilee that went beyond literal representation, A Geographical Motif in Matthew’s Gospel,” NovT 36:2 (1994): 105–21. Verseput contends that Matthew does indeed adapt Mark by placing greater emphasis on Jerusalem rather than on the journey. This emphasis highlights Jerusalem’s more starkly negative role, particularly in comparison to Galilee. See also Steven R. Notley, “The Sea of Galilee: Development of an Early Christian Toponym,” 128:1 (2009): 183–88. In this short but helpful study, Notley points to Isa 9:1 ( 8:23), the only place in the Hebrew scriptures where and occur in the same verse, as the srcinal inspiration for the term “Sea of Galilee” found in Matthew, Mark, and John. He also argues that Matthew 4:13–16 collapses Isaiah’s three distinct geographical references into a single topos, namely, Capernaum and its immediate surroundings, in order to make it relevant to Jesus’ ministry. Cf. Shmuel Ahituv, “Zebulun and the Sea,” in Studies in Historical Geography and Biblical Historiography: Presented to Zecharia Kallai (ed. Gershon Galil and Moshe Weinfeld; Leiden: Brill, 2000), 3–7. For a study of Matthew’s exploration of marginal space, see Paul Hertig, “Geographical Marginality in the Matthean Journeys of Jesus,” in Society of Biblical Literature 1999 Seminar Papers (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 1999), 472–89. The hypothetical sayings source Q lies behind Luke as does Mark, but it lacks the built-in geography of a narrative structure. This does not mean it is void of geographical context, however, and recent studies, as alluded to above, have attempted to Excavating Q: The History identify a Galilean provenance. John S. Kloppenborg and Setting of the Sayings GospelSee (Minneapolis: AugsburgVerbin, Fortress, 2000), 214 f; Jonathan L.
Reed, Archaeology and the Galilean Jesus: A Re-examination of the Evidence (Harrisburg, : Trinity Press International, 2000), 170–96. For a dissenting view on the Galilean provenance for Q based on archaeological evidence, see David Álvarez Cineira, “La localización geográ ca de Q: Galilea, Jerusalén, Antioquía,” EstEcl 81 (2006), 493–533. Ernst Lohmeyer, Galiläa und Jerusalem (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1936), particularly pages 10–15, 26–36 where he lays out his treatment of Mark. See also Günter Stemberger, “Appendix IV: Galilee—Land of Salvation?” in W.D. Davies,The Gospel and the Land: Early Christianity and Jewish Territorial Doctrine(Berkeley: University of California Press, 1974; repr., Press, 1994), 409–40; Adela Yarbro Collins, Mark: A Commentary (Hermeneia; Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2007), 653–67. Both of these helpful résumés of scholarship pertaining to Galilee begin in earnest with Lohmeyer.
a “broader, so-called churchly (kirchlichen) concept of Galilee,” and also for a Galilee that went beyond traditional mapping, a Galilee encompassing the surrounding locales of Tyre, Sidon, and the Decapolis (cf. Mark 7:31). Two of Lohmeyer’s important legacies, therefore, became embedded within a strand of Markan scholarship. First, he argued that Mark’s references to Jesus’ postEaster return to Galilee (Mark 14:28; 16:7) should not be read through the lens of laterasgospels andtothus understoodSecond, as a future resurrection rather allusions the Parousia. in stark contrast toappearance Jerusalem, but the center of Jewish animosity toward Jesus, Galilee was to be the place where Jesus’ followers would gather to await Christ’s return. It should be perceived as “christliche Galiläa.” Lohmeyer’s analysis was literary and exegetical, and some of his presuppositions have been more recently challenged. Yet his in uence on subsequent studies of Mark’s Galilee is di cult to overstate. Following in his footsteps came a line of scholars espousing variations on Lohmeyer’s two principal theses: R.H. Lightfoot, George H. Boobyer, L.E. Elliott-Binns, J.-M. van Cangh, Willi Marxsen, and Werner Kelber. theimplied whole, these scholars were supportive notion thatappearance. Mark 14:28 andOn16:7 a Galilean parousia rather thanofathe resurrection Lightfoot claimed that had Mark included a resurrection appearance it would have occurred in Galilee as the place of revelation, but that did not diminish Galilee’s primary function as the place of eschatological consummation, indicated by the use of the verb ὁράω, which, in his view, tied together 13:26 Lohmeyer, Galiläa, 26. Ibid., 27. Ibid., 13–14. Ibid., 27, 81. and Doctrine in the Gospels (New York: Harper and Bros. Publishers, R.H. Lightfoot, Locality 1938)—though Lightfoot did not use Lohmeyer directly. George H. Boobyer, “Galilee and Galileans in St. Mark’s Gospel,” 35 (1952–53): 334– 48; repr. in Galilee and Galileans in St. Mark’s Gospel (Manchester: John Rylands Library Bulletin, 1953), 334–48. L.E. Elliott-Binns, Galilean Christianity (Chicago: Alec R. Allenson, Inc., 1956). J.-M. van Cangh, “La Galilée dans l’Evangile de Marc: un lien théologique?” RevBib 79:1 (1972): 59–75. Willi Marxsen, Mark the Evangelist: Studies on the Redaction History of the Gospel (trans. James Boyce et al.; Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1969). Werner Kelber, The Kingdom in Mark: A New Place and a New Time (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1974). Lightfoot, Locality and Doctrine, 52, 70–71.
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and 14:62 (both being allusions to the Son of Man coming on the clouds) with 16:7. After Lightfoot, the idea of a Markan parousia became foundational for Marxsen’s redaction-critical analysis. According to Marxsen, geographical detail within the Gospel of Mark always occurred at the level of earlier tradition except when pertaining to Galilee. Galilee, therefore, functioned as Mark’s own “redactional device” that pulled together otherwise “isolated, disparate pieces” of tradition and 16:7, created locale that element is theologically than historically signi cant. Mark as aaredactional workingrather in combination with the women’s fear in 16:8, implied a Galilean parousia, not a resurrection appearance. The place that had become so integral to the Christian movement had been written back onto the story of Jesus, which was su cient for Marxsen to suggest a Galilean provenance for the gospel. Similar arguments were put forth by Kelber who characterized the kingdom of God in Mark as nothing less than a “Galilean Kingdom.” This kingdom was broader than Galilee proper since the symbolism of Mark’s geography indicated Jesus’ inclusiveness of places like Tyre, Sidon, and the Decapolis. Like Marxsen, he suggested that Mark was written in Galilee and not Rome: “So much in sympathy with Galilee is the author . . . that it seems plausible to see in him the spokesman of Galilean Christians.” Despite this enthusiastic support for a Galilean parousia, it has not otherwise been well-received largely due to the dearth of evidence of any prior historical tradition espousing Galilee as an eschatological space. Lohmeyer’s hypothesis, which was suggestive and tentative to begin with, crumbled without Ibid., 54–55. It should be noted, as both Stemberger (“Appendix IV,” 413) and Collins (Mark, 665 n.174) report, that Lightfoot later reversed this opinion and instead preferred to view 14:28 and 16:7 as allusions to Jesus’ resurrection. See R.H. Lightfoot, The Gospel Message of St. Mark (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1950), 116. Mark the Evangelist, 73. Marxsen, Ibid., 92. Ibid., 85. Ibid., 66. Kelber, The Kingdom in Mark, 11. Ibid., 46, 131. Along these lines, the stilling of the storm (4:35–41) and the subsequent healing of the demoniac (5:1–20) are misunderstood if they are viewed as manifestations of Jesus miraculous power rather than an overcoming of the Gentile barrier (51). Ibid., 130. See criticisms in Stemberger, “Appendix IV,” 425–29; Collins, Mark, 660; Davies, The Gospel and the Land, 222–35; Ernest Best, Mark: The Gospel as Story (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1983), 76–77; Robert H. Gundry,Mark: A Commentary on His Apology for the Cross (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1993), 1007–8.
a substantial historical foundation. Far more enduring, however, has been Lohmeyer’s idea of a stark contrast between Galilee and Jerusalem. Lightfoot took a similar approach, characterizing Mark’s Galilee as “the scene and seat of revelation” and “the area of salvation” in contradistinction to Jerusalem, “the place of rejection” and “the sphere of sin and death.” Although his study, like Lohmeyer’s, was primarily exegetical, he saw support for a GalileeJerusalem inand the cultural of the regions, Jerusalem being a center fordichotomy Jewish piety Galilee, ethos inclusive of two surrounding areas, being more characteristically Gentile. Boobyer followed suit with a stringent defense based on his analysis of pertinent texts in the . The dichotomy was also a major underpinning for Elliott-Binns who maintained that “srcinally the Galileans, the folk from whom the rst Christians were drawn, were largely of non-Jewish descent.” The resulting Jewish/Christian division, therefore, corresponded to an ancient rift, but it was also perpetuated by a characteristically Galilean stubborn and independent spirit. Galilean Christians “were all ‘sons of thunder,’” which was o f-putting to the Jews. Kelber went even further, arguing that Mark presents a northern movement in opposition to the Jerusalem-based under the direction of Peter and“the the traditional apostles. site Thus,of for Mark, Galileechurch becomes a “New Jerusalem,” because eschatological manifestation had become a broken center, void and empty.” Many of these themes continue to echo, although substantial challenges have been mounted, particularly from the eld of archaeology. What is Lightfoot, Locality and Doctrine, 28–29, 111. Ibid., 111–12, 122. Boobyer, “Galilee and Galileans,” 335 f; see the detailed critique in Collins, Mark, 660–64, who shows that Boobyer’s attempt, which is based in part on corrupted texts in the , to establish a Gentile Galilee in Mark’s day is unfounded. Elliott-Binns, Galilean Christianity, 19. Ibid., Ibid., 27. 25–26; cf. Mark 3:17. Kelber, The Kingdom in Mark, 64. Ibid., 139. Archaeological evidence suggests a closer relationship between Galileans and the Jerusalem Temple than what Lohmeyer and others imply. While 1st c. Galilean synagogue remains continue to be speculative and elusive, other material culture ( miqva’ot, stone vessels, aniconic coinage and art) point to a Galilee-wide concern for purity laws and continuity with Temple authority. See James F. Strange, “First Century Galilee from Archaeology and from the Texts,” in Archaeology and the Galilee: Texts and Contexts in the Graeco-Roman and Byzantine Periods(ed. Douglas R. Edwards and C. Thomas McCollough; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1997), 43–45. Others have also argued for an essentially “Jewish” Galilee based on the archaeological evidence. See in particular Eric M. Meyers, “Galilean
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important to note here is the widespread recognition of the emphasis that Mark places on Galilee, however it is to be interpreted. If the idea of a Galilean parousia or the reconstruction of a community of Galilean Christians has not won universal favor, the tendency to read Mark’s geography as symbolic or heavily theologized has nevertheless endured, even among those who disagree with Lohmeyer’s approach. The persistent emphasis on Mark’s geographical symbolism is most analysis evident of in “distinctions the work of and Elizabeth StrutherstoMalbon who applies a structural interrelations” Mark’s geography and then rewrites them back onto Mark’s theology. The quintessential “order/chaos” dichotomy is that between land and sea, but other dualisms are evident as well such as homeland vs. foreign land and Galilee vs. Judea. Regionalism: A Reappraisal,” in Approaches to Ancient Judaism, Vol. V: Studies in Judaism in Its Greco-Roman Context(ed. William Scott Green; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1985), 115–31; idem, “Jesus and His Galilean Context,” in Archaeology and the Galilee: Texts and Contexts in the Graeco-Roman and Byzantine Periods(ed. Douglas R. Edwards and C. Thomas McCollough; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1997), 57–66; Sean Freyne, “Archaeology and the Historical Jesus,” in Galilee and Gospel: Collected Essays (ed. Sean Freyne; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2000), 161–82; idem, “Galilee, Jesus, and the Contribution of Archaeology,” ExpT 119:12 (2008): 573–81; Zvi Gal, Lower Galilee During the Iron Age, ( Dissertation Series 8; Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 1992), 108–109; Mark A. Chancey, The Myth of a Gentile Galilee (Cambridge: Cambridge , 2002), 167; idem, Greco-Roman Culture and the Galilee of Jesus (Society for New Testament Studies Monograph Series 134; Cambridge: Cambridge , 2005), 166–220; Uzi Leibner, Settlement and History in Hellenistic, Roman, and Byzantine Galilee: An Archaeological Survey of the Eastern Galilee, Texts and Studies in Ancient Judaism 127 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2009) 319–326. Dissenters to this view include Richard A. Horsley, Galilee: History, Politics, People(Valley Forge, Pa.: Trinity Press International, 1995), 19–33; idem, Archaeology, History, and Society in Galilee: The Social Context of Jesus and the Rabbis (Harrisburg, Pa.: Trinity Press International, 1996), 20–23; Burton L. Mack, A Myth of Innocence: Mark and Christian Origins (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1988), 65–69. Horsley and Mack havethe disocial ferentelite motives, however.and Horsley is interested in showing a strong rivalry between of Jerusalem the peasantry of Galilee; Mack’s concern is the portrayal of Galilee as a region steeped in Hellenism and Cynic teaching. Ze’ev Weiss (“Greco-Roman In uences on the Art and Architecture of the Jewish City in Roman Palestine,” in Religious and Ethnic Communities in Later Roman Palestine [Studies and Texts in Jewish History and Culture 6; ed. Hayim Lapin; Potomac, Md.: University Press of Maryland, 1998], 246) also contends that, at least in the Jewish cities of Sepphoris and Tiberias, hellenistic in uences were pervasive enough so as to a fect public institutions and administration. Elizabeth Struthers Malbon, “Galilee and Jerusalem: History and Literature in Marcan Interpretation,” 44 (1982): 247; cf. eadem, Narrative Space and Mythic Meaning in Mark (New York: Harper & Row, 1986). Malbon, “Galilee and Jerusalem,” 251–52.
The result is a wholesale exchange of historical concerns for literary ones using a highly symbolized geographical binarism as the primary currency. Several passages within Mark have contributed to this tendency toward a symbolic reading of Mark’s geography, but perhaps none more than 7:31 where Jesus takes what can only be described as a “roundabout” path from the regions of Tyre, through the territories of Sidon and the Decapolis, before returning the Sea Galilee. The seemingly unlikely itinerary given rise to the to notion that of Mark is perhaps geographically ignorant whenhas it comes to Galilee and its immediate surroundings, and only a symbolic reading will su ce. For Gerd Theissen, the geographical errors in Mark are proof enough that the author was not from Palestine, and he surmises a Syrian provenance instead. Thus, the journey in 7:31 is “imaginary” for the purpose of bringing Jesus into the Syrian orbit. Others are less comfortable heaping criticism on Mark’s geography, but a symbolism is still maintained. F.G. Lang identi es the journey with the “Ursprung” of Gentile Christianity but also acknowledges it as geographically plausible. Despite the varied opinions on Mark the geographer, symbolic or theological interpretations of Jesus’ journey serve as a common thread. There is less agreement, however, as to the setting of what follows Jesus’ journey, particularly with regard to Mark 8:1–9, and this is important for determining Mark’s purpose for the passage. The long history of interpretation that sees the rst feeding miracle (6:30–44) as taking place in Jewish territory and the second feeding miracle (8:1–9) as taking place in Gentile territory has a number of modern adherents. It should be noted that for some commentaCollins, Mark, 369. Gerd Theissen, The Gospels in Context: Social and Political History in the Synoptic Tradition (ed. and trans. Linda M. Maloney; Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1991), 237, 249. Ibid., 249. “‘Über Sidon mitten ins Gebeit der Dekapolis’: Geographie und Theologie in F.G. Lang, Markus 7:31,” 94 (1978): 160. Martin Hengel, Studies in the Gospel of Mark (London: Press, 1985), 46; Joel Marcus, Mark 1–8: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary ( 27; New York: Doubleday, 2000), 472; R.T. France,The Gospel of Mark: A Commentary on the Greek Text ( ; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2002), 12; Kelber, The Kingdom in Mark, 60; Collins, Mark, 369. Gundry may be considered the exception that proves the rule. He takes Mark 7:31 as straightforward narration of Jesus’ itinerary (Apology for the Cross, 382–88), consistent with his overall portrait of the Gospel as containing “no ciphers, no hidden meanings, no sleight of hand” (1). Kelber, The Kingdom in Mark, 59–62; William L. Lane, The Gospel According to Mark: The English Text with Introduction, Exposition and Notes ( ; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans,
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tors, a locale within Gentile territory is not necessarily tantamount to a Gentile feeding, much less a full-blown “Gentile mission.” For others, however, the notion of a Gentile setting is wholly precluded by opting to locate the miracle on Jewish rather than Gentile soil; Jesus’ return εἰς τὴν θάλασσαν τῆς Γαλιλαίας in 7:31 indicates that he is back in his previous sphere. Mark’s introduction to the pericope includes no spatial references, so the location hinges on the interinterpretum of the nal phrase, ἀνὰ µέσον pretation of 7:31, especially the crux τῶν ὁρίων ∆εκαπόλεως. If ἀνὰ µέσον is taken to mean “through the middle of,” it implies that Jesus has returned to Galilee by way of the Decapolis; if it is taken to mean “in the middle of,” then the location of the feeding miracle would be opposite Galilee in the predominantly Gentile Decapolis. Both options have their di culties, but a setting in the Decapolis is preferable on several counts. First, Jesus’ return “to the sea of Galilee” does not necessarily imply that he is in Galilee. Based on 5:1–20, Mark was aware that the lake was adjacent to both Galilee and the Decapolis. Second, if the nalphrase in 7:31 is understood as a clari cation of Jesus’ locale upon reaching the lake, the structure may be similar to 11:1 where “near (πρός) the Mount of Olives” clari es
the themiddle villagesof” of Bethphage and Bethany. Third, Lang’s tionlocation “throughofthe is not required in this case, despite thetranslalack of comparable uses of the phrase ἀνὰ µέσον in other texts. It occurs only here in Mark and rarely elsewhere (cf. Matt 13:25; 1 Cor 6:5; Rev 7:17; text variant in Luke 17:11), but it is extremely common in the where it usually refers to the space “between” two things, whether those things be material or conceptual. Movement “through” is not a prerequisite, even in passages describing travel itineraries. Exod 16:1 provides an intriguing parallel: ἀπῆραν δὲ ἐξ Αιλιµ καὶ ἤλθοσαν πᾶσα συνα ω ὴ υἱῶν Ισραηλ εἰς τὴν ἔρηµον Σιν ὅ ἐστιν ἀνὰ µέσον Αιλιµ καὶ ἀνὰ µέσον Σινα. 1974), 266; Rudolf Pesch, Das Markusevangelium I: Einleitung und Kommentar zu Kap. 1,1–8,26 ( ; Freiburg: Herder, 1976) 403; Walter Grundmann, Das Evangelium nach Markus (ThKNT 2; Berlin: Evangelischer Verlag, 1977) 204; Robert A. Guelich, Mark 1–8:26 ( 34A; Dallas: Word, 1989); Sean Freyne, Galilee, Jesus, and the Gospels, 54–56. This idea also has a long history. See Benjamin W. Bacon, “The Treatment of Mk. 6:14–8:26 in Luke,” 26:2 (1907): 139. See for example Marxsen, Mark the Evangelist, 69–70; Gundry, Apology for the Cross, 388; Collins, Mark, 369, 378. Collins, Mark, 512 (cf. 457 n. a), gives a viable alternative, preferring the translation “to the Mount of Olives.” Lang, “Dekapolis,” 152–54; cf. Heikki Räisänen, The “Messianic Secret” in Mark(Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1990), 153.
And they departed from Ailim (Elim), and the whole company of the children of Israel went to the wilderness of Sin, which is between Ailim and Sina (Sinai). With the exception of διά, each of the prepositions used in Mark 7:31 also appears in Exod 16:1, and in the same order. Similar parallels can be found Gen 13:3–4 where Abram ἀνὰencampment µέσον Βαιθηλ καὶ ἀνὰ µέσονinΑγαι and Num 33:49, whichpitches locateshis thetent Israelite ἀνὰ µέσον Αισιµωθ. Outside the , parallels may be found in Ant. 14.448, which refers to Herod’s brother Joseph encamping “(up) in the mountains” (ἀνὰ τὰ ὄρη), and Strabo’s summary of Posidonius’ three-fold climatic division of the world in which the central zone (between the “Ethiopian” and the “Scythian/Celtic”) is simply called τὴν ἀνὰ µέσον. Taken together, these texts suggest that ἀνὰ µέσον can refer to a xed locale and that Mark 7:31 is best understood as bringing Jesus “to the Sea of Galilee in the midst of (or perhaps even ‘up in’) the territory of Decapolis.” It is not necessary to conclude that Mark has erroneously placed the lake “in the middle of” the Decapolis; he is aware that it is adjacent to Galilee. His tomoved show that is in Gentile territory. any indication thatpoint Jesus ishas priorJesus to the feeding miracle, thereWithout is no reason to place the event in Galilee. The rami cations of this for Luke, who tends to minimize Jesus’ exposure to Gentile areas, will be discussed below. My translation. Admittedly, the Exodus passage, by use of an inde nite clause, clari es that the two ἀνὰ µέσον phrases are elaborating on the location of the wilderness of Sin, whereas no such syntactical aid is found in Mark 7:31. The inde nite clause, however, does show that in this case movement is not implied. From a purely grammatical point of view, it is Sin that is situated between Elim and Sinai, not the people’s exodus route. According to Joel Marcus, Mark may be using an Exodus motif, which would make this parallel even more intriguing. See Joel Marcus, The Way of the Lord: Christological Exegesis of the Old Testament in the Gospel of Mark (New York: T&T Clark, 1993, 2004), 80–93, for an
exposition of Mark 9 in light of Exod 24. Strabo, Geogr. 2.3.1. The explanation of Guelich (Mark 1–8:26, 403) is instructive. The feeding may not have been exclusively for Gentiles, nor is it necessary to posit a Markan “Gentile Mission,” but Jesus’ willingness to re-examine de lement laws (7:1–23) appears to set the stage for his movements in non-Jewish areas, including in this case the Decapolis. On the feeding being located in Gentile territory, see also Eric K. Wefald, “The Separate Galilee Mission in Mark: A Narrative Explanation of Markan Geography, the Two Feeding Accounts and Exorcisms,” 60 (1995): 12. Contra Collins (Mark, 369) who argues that “ἀνά with the accusative . . . usually expresses horizontal motion when used locally.” Thus, in her view, Jesus has traveled “through” the Decapolis and returned to Jewish territory. The point of the somewhat detailed argument
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The preceding review of scholarship on Mark’s Galilee is not intended to be exhaustive, but it does lay important groundwork for an investigation of Luke’s Galilee. Not only has Luke borrowed Galilean material from Mark, but just as importantly, he has conspicuously omitted the extra-Galilean material included in Mark 6:45–8:27a. Yet despite this oft-cited “Great Omission,” Luke’s Galilee has still been relegated to the shadows modern the shadow of Mark’s Galilee. Geography as ainwhole hasstudies—and had to survivenot in just the shadow of history. According to François Bovon, since 1950 the most signi cant areas of critical inquiry regarding Luke-Acts have centered on Heilsgeschichte: “Everything began with history and eschatology.” When Luke’s geography did move out of the shadows, it was the geography of Acts that led the way; when the geography of the gospel was discussed, Jerusalem stole the limelight. One area of study that brought some attention to Luke’s Galilee was the central travel section (9:51 f; the close of the section is debated). The emphatic pronouncement that as the time of Jesus’ ἀνάληµψις approached “he set his face to go to Jerusalem” is almost universally viewed as a crucial pivot in the narrative. Beyond that, however, scholars “what may be fairly called a consensus” on only one thing: thathave the reached travel narrative is “primarily a theological-Christological rather than a geographical entity.” The knotty question of whether to place the journey itself in Perea, Samaria, or elsewhere has caused some to abandon the notion of a geographically-based itinerary altogether. For example, William C. Robinson, Jr., claimed that “[t]he trip has no locale of its own but is constructed with reference to its function as a transition between . . . Galilee and Jerusalem.” Adding to the confusion, passages like 9:52–56 (emissaries in Samaria), 10:13–15 (woes to Galilean towns), o fered here is to demonstrate that ἀνά with the accusative does not always conform to this usualBovon, sense. Luke the Theologian: Fifty- veYears of Research (1950–2005) (2nd ed.; François Waco, Tex.: Baylor , 2006), 11. Cf. W.C. van Unnik, “Luke-Acts: A Storm Center in Contemporary Scholarship,” in Studies in Luke-Acts: Essays presented in honor of Paul Schubert (ed. Leander Keck and J. Louis Martyn; Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1966), 15–32, who discusses the related debate over Luke’s identity as a historian or theologian (27). It is worth noting that the Keck-Martyn volume contains no essays on geography, a barometer of the mid-60’s status quaestionis with regard to Lukan studies. There are of course notable exceptions to be discussed below. David S. Gill, “Observations on the Lukan Travel Narrative and Some Related Passages,” 63:2 (Apr 1970): 199. William C. Robinson, Jr., “The Theological Context for Interpreting Luke’s Travel Narrative (9:51 f.),” 79:1 (Mar 1960): 29.
10:38–42 (a visit to Mary and Martha), 13:31–33 (Jesus in danger from Herod), and 17:11–19 (travelling through/between Samaria and Galilee) taken together obscure where Jesus might be at any given time along the way. Furthermore, some of the Galilean material in Mark (Luke 11:15–23, 37–54) and some of the Q material which Matthew situates in Galilee (Luke 11:29–32; 12:22–34) are placed in Luke’s travel section. For an author so concerned with geographical concepts andlast details, Lukevirtually seems toevery be notoriously impreciseofabout place. Over the 50 years, serious discussion Luke’s geography has been forced to reckon with Hans Conzelmann’s The Theology of St. Luke. Ironically for the purposes of this study, its greatest legacy is actually the subjugation of geography to historical concerns, evident in his 3-fold division of redemptive history into epochs corresponding to the time before Jesus (ending with John the Baptist), the time of Jesus, and the time of the Church. His emphasis is chronological as the srcinal German title, Die Mitte Der Zeit, clearly implies. Nevertheless, his monograph is divided into ve sections, with the rst section devoted to Luke’s geography, and in any investigation of Luke’s geographical sensibilities Conzelmann is a critical interlocutor. On the whole, he contends that to Luke’s of Palestine is “in many imperfect,” leading Luke makeknowledge use of geography in a symbolic way. respects John the Baptist is separated spatially from Jesus, which is why “Judea” (as Jesus’ sphere of activity) is consistently omitted from Luke’s passages pertaining to John. Topographical features such as the top of a mountain or the lake are provided Mikeal C. Parsons, “The Place of Jerusalem on the Lukan Landscape: An Exercise in Symbolic Cartography,” in Richard P. Thompson and Thomas E. Phillips, eds.,Literary Studies in Luke-Acts: Essays in Honor of Joseph B. Tyson (Macon, Ga.: Mercer , 1998), 158 n.14, claims that “even after adjusting the results to take into account the fact that Luke and Acts are much longer than any other document, the Lukan writings demonstrate a higher rate of frequency for spatially related terms than any other document.” Cf. C.C.Conzelmann, McCown, “The Geography s Central Section,” 57:1 (MarLondon: 1938): 55.Faber Hans The Theology of of Luke’ St. Luke (trans. Geo frey Buswell; and Faber, 1960); trans. ofDie Mitte der Zeit: Studien zur Theologie des Lukas (Tübingen: Mohr, 1954). A rebuttal to Conzelmann’s chronological schema came from William C. Robinson, Jr., Der Weg des Herrn: Studien zur Geschichte und Eschatologie im Lukas-Evangelium. Ein Gespräch mit Hans Conzelmann ( 36; Hamburg: H. Reich, 1964). As his title indicates, the
emphasis on history is downplayed in favor of something more spatial, but it is far from an inquiry into Luke’s geography. Robinson’s approach is based upon the concept of “the way,” but it is heavily theologized so as to become its own expression of Heilsgeschichte (30–43). Conzelmann, Theology, 19–20. Ibid.
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as “theological” rather than “geographical” details. With regard to Galilee speci cally, Luke has taken a very di ferent approach from Mark. Whereas Mark emphasizes Galilee as a place of promise and ful llment, for Luke it has “no fundamental signi cance . . . as a region.” Following Lohmeyer, Conzelmann claims that Mark’s Galilee has been recast in Luke and stripped of eschatological meaning. his speciofchis observations are deserving of criticism, but by far theSome most of intriguing ideas regarding Galilee comes from his comments pertaining to “The Journey” in Luke. The frustrating perplexity of the journey, according to Conzelmann, is likely due to the fact that Luke has “an inaccurate picture of the country.” Speci cally, Luke has imagined Galilee and Judea as sharing a common border, with Samaria lying adjacent to both. In defense of this idea, Conzelmann cites Pliny,Nat. 5.15, and Strabo, Geogr. 16.2.34, as evidence of a similar geographical outlook on the region. Related to this, Conzelmann draws several conclusions. First, it is an indication that the entire region is being viewed “from abroad.” Second, the travel section, although developed to some degree in his sources, is essentially a Lukan construction. Third, the Ibid., 42. Ibid., 41. Ibid., 45. A few examples will su ce to illustrate that Conzelmann is not always consistent. The distinction, for example, between John and Jesus’ spheres can be seen at the level of preLukan tradition—see Robinson, Der Weg des Herrn , 10–16. Conzelmann also claims that “the mountain” has been “stylized” in such a way that it is a place of retreat and prayer for Jesus. “No temptation can take place on it” (29). This works well in light of Luke’s (presumed) omission of “the mountain” from 4:5, but is a bit inconsistent with Jesus experience on the Mount of Olives in 22:39–46. In addition, Conzelmann assumes that Capernaum’s location by the lake is perhaps unknown to Luke: “If one were not familiar with wouldLuke havewas the familiar impression Capernaum was inthis the may middle of Galilee” (39).Mark, But ofone course withthat Mark. Furthermore, have more to do with Luke’s overall geographical agenda, to be discussed below, which consistently eliminates certain geographical references in his source. Finally, although Conzelmann views geography as purely symbolic (20), he refuses to view historical events in the same way (34)—precisely the sort of methodological double standard that this study is arguing against. Conzelmann, Theology, 66. Ibid., 69. It should be noted that the arrangement of the following conclusions is my own, not Conzelmann’s. Ibid., 70. Ibid., 62.
journey should not be understood as taking place in Samaria, given that this is not explicitly mentioned in the text of Luke. Fourth, the theory that “Judea” is applied by Luke in both a broader sense (as the entire region of which Galilee was a subset) and a narrower sense (the political jurisdiction of Pilate as opposed to that of Antipas ) is in e fect unnecessary. The common border between Galilee and Judea means that Jesus can freely move between both without ever conclusions, setting foot inthe either or Perea. Of these rstSamaria pertaining to the provenance of Luke has been well-received, but this was already the prevailing viewpoint. The second has also attracted adherents. Conzelmann argued that whereas Luke derived the material within the travel section from his sources, the travel narrative itself was his own construct. Thus, Luke “stamps the journey on the existing material.” Conzelmann based this on Luke’s use of πορεύοµαι to convey Jesus’ movement toward Jerusalem, a speci cally Lukan expression as opposed to the use of ἀναβαίνω in the other gospels. Robinson concurred, citing stylistic considerations evident in Luke’s use of Mark, Q, and his special material. Ibid., 66. Following the death of Herod the Great (4 ), Galilee and Perea came under the jurisdiction of Herod Antipas whereas Judea, Samaria, and Idumea were given to Archelaus. After Archelaus’ was deposed in 6 , a succession of Roman governors of equestrian rank, one of which was Pontius Pilate, ruled in his place. Administratively, Galilee and Judea were reunited under Agrippa (41–44 ), and they continued to be ruled together as the province of “Judea” by Roman procurators until the time of the Jewish revolt, and afterwards (presumably at the time of the gospel’s composition) by legates of senatorial rank who answered directly to Rome rather than the governor of Syria. The fact that the term “Judea” had various geographical and administrative applications during the 1st c. adds to the confusion surrounding its use and interpretation. Ibid., 70–71. The placeisofusually writingassumed. is unknown, a provenance of Palestine Historiography and(Rome, Self-DeAchaia, nition: Antioch) See but Gregory Sterling, outside Josephos, Luke-Acts and Apologetic Historiography (New York: E.J. Brill, 1992), 328–29; Martin Hengel, Between Jesus and Paul: Studies in the Earliest History of Christianity (London: Press, 1983), 99, 126; Joseph A. Fitzmyer, The Gospel According to Luke: Introduction, Translation, and Notes ( 28–28a; Garden City, . .: Doubleday, 1981), 1153; Dean Bechard, “The Theological Signi cance of Judea in Luke-Acts,” in The Unity of LukeActs (ed. Jozef Verheyden; Louvain: Peeters, 1999), 675–91. For a placement in Caesarea, however, see Hans Klein, “Zur Frage nach dem Abfassungsort der Lukasschriften,” EvT 32:5 (1972): 467–77. Conzelmann, Theology, 72–73. Ibid., 68. Robinson, “Theological Context,” 20–22.
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Likewise, David S. Gill in his own study of the Reisenotizen went so far as to classify πορεύοµαι as a Lukan terminus technicus. Less convincing has been Conzelmann’s third conclusion, the rejection of Samaria as the locale for the travel narrative. Interpretations of the geography in this section are wide-ranging. Its early identi cation as the “Perean section” resulted from the attempt to harmonize Luke 9:51 with Mark 10:1 and Matt 19:1. In absence of anythe reference Lukescholarship to Jesus traveling thethe region eastsecof thethe Jordan, however, trend ininlater was to in place travel tion in Samaria even if this was done without much critical re ection. Bovon is more deliberate in placing Jesus’ travel there: “Lukas und vor ihm der Autor der Sonderguts mußten wissen, daß man Galiläa über Samaria verläßt, um nach Judäa zu kommen.” Joseph Fitzmyer is more ambivalent but also seems to assume a locale in Samaria. By contrast, Robinson and E. Earle Ellis rejected the idea that the journey went through Samaria, though for reasons wholly different from Conzelmann’s. Both preferred to remove the journey from any map whatsoever, seeing its signi cance rooted instead in its rhetorical function. For Robinson, the key to understanding Luke 9:51 f came from the interpretive lens given 13:31; it provides a place for the witnessing of Jesus’ ministry “from GalileeintoActs Jerusalem.” Ellis was so reticent to acknowledge any historical or geographical elements that he rejected even the nomenclature of “travel narrative” and instead preferred to think of it as a “teaching narrative,” dividing Gill, “Observations,” 201. Others have also recognized a distinctively Lukan use of the travel material: Robinson, Der Weg des Herrn, 53; E. Earle Ellis, The Gospel of Luke ( ; rev. London: Oliphants, 1974), 146–48, refers to the journey narrative as a “sca folding” providing structure for Jesus’ teachings, although he disagrees with Conzelmann that it can be understood chronologically; Fitzmyer, Luke: Introduction, Translation, and Notes, 826, refers to Luke’s “christological purpose” in the travel section; Joel B. Green, The Gospel of Luke ( ; Cambridge/Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1997), 411 n.33, maintains that the phrase toward Jerusalem’ is a metaphorical reference.” Aon dissenting can be found in“‘going I. Howard Marshall, The Gospel of Luke: A Commentary the Greekview Text(Grand Rapids: Paternoster/Eerdmans, 1978), 401–2, who prefers to think of Luke adopting the travel motif of his source material without signi cant alteration. McCown, “The Geography of Luke’s Central Section,” 60–61. E.g., Lohmeyer, Galiläa, 41; Lightfoot, Locality and Doctrine, 132–33. François Bovon, Das Evangelium nach Lukas ( ; Zürich: Benziger Verlag, 1989–2009), 3.149; cf. 2.26. Fitzmyer, Luke: Introduction, Translation, and Notes, 824; cf. 165 where two options for reading Lukan geography are given, both of which include Samaria in the central section. Robinson, “Theological Context,” 30; similarly, Freyne, Galilee, Jesus, and the Gospels, 112–15. Note that Conzelmann (Theology, 41) shares this view, but it is not the primary reason for his rejection of a Samaritan locale as it is for Robinson.
it into six groups of six subsections each, arranged chiastically. Similar to Ellis would be I. Howard Marshall who argued that the assignment by Luke of any signi cance to the journey itself must be considered unlikely, and that “the real importance of the section lies in the teaching given by Jesus.” Of Conzelmann’s four conclusions outlined above, the nal one pertaining to Luke’s confusing application of the term “Judea” has been the least popular. touchstone for Mark’s the debate lies intothe perplexing in 4:44,The where he changes reference Jesus preachingLukan in theredaction synagogues “throughout all Galilee” (Mark 1:39) to Jesus preaching in the synagogues “of Judea.” The commonly accepted explanation, namely, that Luke utilized both a broader and a narrower sense of “Judea,” the former corresponding to Judea as a geographical region that includes Galilee (1:5; 4:44; 6:17; 7:17; 23:5) and the latter corresponding to Judea as an administrative district during Jesus’ lifetime exclusive of Galilee (1:65; 2:4; 3:1; 5:17), Conzelmann found unnecessary due to what he perceived as Luke’s erroneous understanding of geography. If Luke thought of Galilee and Judea as contiguous, then Jesus’ movements back and forth across the hypothetical common border would su ce to explain why hethis is described as being in Galilee in one instance and That JudeaLuke in the next. Yet on matter, there is virtually unanimous opposition. is using the term “Judea” in the broader sense of “all of Palestine” or “das ganze Land” in 4:44 is not only commonly recognized among modern scholars,
Ellis, The Gospel of Luke, 148–50. Marshall, The Gospel of Luke, 401. Despite the text critical issues facing Luke 4:44, there is an essentially universal preference for “Judea” as the lectio di cilior over “Galilee.” See Bruce M. Metzger,A Textual Commentary on the Greek New Testament(4th ed.; Stuttgart: Deutsche Bibelgesellschaft/ German Society, Ellis, TheBible Gospel of Luke1994), , 101. 114–15. Bovon, Das Evangelium, 1.226. Others opting for Judea in the wider sense include Lightfoot, Locality and Doctrine, 134; Robinson, “Theological Context,” 29; Heinz Schürmann, Das Lukasevangelium, T. 1 (1,1–9,50) ( ; Freiburg: Herder, 1969), 261; Martin Völkel, “Der Anfang Jesu in Galiläa: Bemerkungen zum Gebrauch und zur Funktion Galiläas in den lukanischen Schriften,” 64 (1973), 226; Fitzmyer, Luke: Introduction, Translation, and Notes, 165–66, 558; Charles H. Giblin, The Destruction of Jerusalem According to Luke’s Gospel(Analecta Biblica 107; Rome: Biblical Institute Press, 1985), 26; Freyne, Galilee, Jesus, and the Gospels, 91; Darrell L. Bock, Luke ( ; 2 vols.; Grand Rapids: Baker, 1994–96), 1.441; Bechard, “Theological Signi cance,” 677; Hans Klein, Das Lukasevangelium (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2006), 195, 201.
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it is assumed by ancient authors as well. Within German scholarship there has been a tendency to see 4:44 as the beginning of a new section. According to Hans Klein, “Mit diesem Abschnitt schließt sich des erste Haupteil des Evangeliums . . . [Jesus] wirkt auch nicht nur im Umkreis des Jordans (3,3), sondern in ganz Judäa (4,44).” The Galilean section ended here for Martin Völkel as well, with the remainder of the gospel up to 9:51 representing a conscious expansion of Jesus’ ministry to the entire region of Palestine. Forbeginmost, however, the Galilean section is understood as extending up to 9:51, the ning of the travel narrative. What is remarkable about these criticisms of Conzelmann is that despite their variety, they all exhibit a common hermeneutical thread: each one derives from an unquestioning acceptance of the conventional map. This may seem obvious for those who apply this map directly to Luke’s general knowledge of the area, such as Bovon, and provide a narrative location, such as Samaria, even when Luke does not do so explicitly. Such observations are based on the assumption that Luke has knowledge of the map that is so commonly taken for granted. Robert M. Grant, in an explicit critique of Conzelmann, also places the narrative Samaria, even asserting that picturetravel must be close tointhat of the reliable Josephus. . . .Luke’s Would“geographical Luke have contradicted Josephus?” Yet the same map also serves as the starting point for those at the opposite end of the spectrum who view Luke’s geography through an a-spatial lens. Interpretations of Luke’s travel narrative that expunge from it any sense of geography are engendered by the tension experienced when one plots the journey with a copy of Luke in one hand and a conventional map in the other. Pliny, Nat. 5.15, to be discussed in more detail below; Tacitus, Ann. 12.54, refers to Felix, the governor of Judea, whose ineptitude resulted in Galilee being given over to Cumanus. Bechard (“Theological Signi cance,” 677)has contends that Josephus, who alsoand hadshould an inclusive/exclusive understanding of “Judea,” been surprisingly overlooked be given more consideration as a “representative voice.” Klein, Lukasevangelium, 195. Cf. Schürmann, Das Lukasevangelium, 256–57. Völkel, “Der Anfang,” 226. Lucien Cerfaux, “La mission de Galilée dans la tradition synoptique,” 27:2 (1951): 369–89; Fearghus O Fearghail, The Introduction to Luke-Acts: A Study of the Role of Lk 1,1–4,44 in the Composition of Luke’s Two-Volume Work (Analecta Biblica 126; Rome: Editrice Ponti cio Instituto Biblico, 1991), 40; Freyne, Galilee, Jesus, and the Gospels, 90–91; Bechard, “Theological Signi cance,” 685 n.32. Robert M. Grant, “Early Christian Geography,” 46 (1992): 106; cf. Annette Weissenrieder, Images of Illness in the Gospel of Luke ( 2. Reihe; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2003), 187–88.
Palestine in the First Century C.E.: The Conventional Map
Tyre
Caesarea Philippi (Paneas)
Lake Huleh
Capernaum
Bethsaida
Sea of Galilee Sepphoris Tiberias Gadara
Caesarea Maritima
Joppa
Jerusalem
Ascalon
Dead Gaza
Sea
0
.
The conventional map of 1st c.
10
20 miles
Palest ine.
This does not mean that all symbolic or theological interpretations are so engendered. Such interpretations may be warranted even without geographical tension. For example, this tension is not required for Ellis to read the middle section as a “teaching narrative.” His adamant insistence that the journey be emptied of geography, however, comes not from Luke’s didactic-theological purposes but from Ellis’ own understanding of the map and the journey’s incompatibility with it. Thus he states, “[T]he journey references form a part of
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a thematic structure and are not markers in a running chronological account. For example, the Lord is no nearer Jerusalem in 17:11 than in 9:51 f.” Add to this Luke 10:38–42, Jesus’ visit with Mary and Martha, which shows him as “apparently on the outskirts of Jerusalem.” Ellis, it should be noted, does not assume Luke’s knowledge of the area was de cient. Rather, Luke simply had a di ferent purpose for the central section. The fact that “Luke is not charting any route, symbolic otherwise” is ahedeliberate narrative strategy Luke’s part. Luke knows theorcommon map; has written a narrative con on icting with that map; therefore, he must not have used the map (or, by extension, geography). For those interpretations of Luke’s geography that fall in between these two extremes, the same principle holds true: the common map is taken for granted. The travel motif may be retained in these analyses, but it is characterized as everything from “theological-Christological” to simply “convoluted.” Furthermore, those who prefer to extend the Galilean section of the gospel to 9:50 also do so on the basis of the map. Both Dean Bechard and Fearghus O Fearghail insist that 4:44 cannot mark the end of Jesus’ Galilean ministry, because there are too many clear geographical references to Galilean locales in subsequentmap chapters. What they do not acknowledge, however, that the conventional can also obscure Luke’s geographical data. Bothis Bechard and O Fearghail place the limits of the Galilean section at 9:50 despite other subsequent geographical references to Galilee, some of which are no less ambiguous. For example, O Fearghail contends that the reference to Herod in 9:7–9 indicates that Jesus is in Galilee, but he does not apply the same logic to 13:31–33 where Jesus is warned to ee the area because Herod wants to kill him. In the same manner, Freyne argues that 5:1, 7:1, 8:2, 22, 26, and 9:7–9 taken together clearly imply “that the author/narrator wants us to think of Galilee as
The Gospel of Luke, 147. The use of the term “chronological” as opposed to “geographEllis, ical” may seem a bit out of place in the context of this discussion, but it is likely used deliberately as a critique of Conzelmann’s attempt to understand the journey chronologically. See Ellis’ discussion on page 148. Ibid., 148. Note, however, that Luke does not situate Mary and Martha in Bethany (cf. John 11:1–44; 12:1–3) but in an unnamed village. Ibid., 209. He is critical of Conzelmann here, asserting that erroneous geography on Luke’s part is “incompatible with Conzelmann’s view of Luke’s strong geographical interests.” In other words, if Luke was uncertain of something, he would have asked a Palestinian Christian who knew the area. Gill, “Observations,” 199. Green, The Gospel of Luke, 398. Bechard, “Theological Signi cance,” 685 n.32; O Fearghail, Introduction to Luke-Acts, 40.
the actual location of the story up to the major break of 9:51.” Based on these arguments for a Galilean ministry through 9:50, it might come as a surprise to learn that the only explicit mention of “Galilee” in terms of a possible locale for Jesus after 4:44 comes in 17:11, near the end of the travel narrative. If Luke 8:26, which places Jesus on the side of the lake “opposite Galilee” is indicative of his Galilean activity, then why not 17:11, which situates Jesus on the SamariaGalilee border?what sets Conzelmann’s ideas about Lukan geography apart Ultimately, from those who have come after him is not the set of conclusions discussed above, but rather his own starting point: a willingness, even for a moment, to disregard the map. Analyzing the travel narrative, Conzelmann found other approaches de cient (speci cally those situating the journey in Samaria) precisely because they were “based not on the text, but on the map.” Yet, ironically, the overwhelming trend since Conzelmann has been a general eschewing of geography as an analytical tool for the travel section, not because scholars have abandoned the map but because they have continued to embrace it, whether actively or passively, and found Luke’s geography to be inconsistent in comparison. This an additional irony embedded inundergird the critiques of Conzelmann and thereveals interpretations of Luke’s geography that them. Luke is assumed to be geographically aware and astute prior to the travel narrative, as in 4:44, and after the travel narrative, especially in the book of Acts, but when discussing the travel narrative itself he becomes geographically apathetic or illiterate. It is safe to say that Luke is not the only one who is potentially inconsistent with geography. Beyond Luke
The most recent wave of scholarship on Lukan geography has gone beyond the narrow limits of the gospel, and thus the narrow limits of Palestine, to embrace the geographical agenda of Luke-Acts as a whole. At the risk of oversimplifying, what holds these studies together is the refusal to look at geography in
Freyne, Galilee, Jesus, and the Gospels, 91. Only one of these passages (7:1), by placing Jesus in Capernaum, is a clear indication of his presence in Galilee. Luke 5:1 and 8:22 are references to the lake and may be safely assumed to be Galilean locales, though Luke is not explicit. Luke 8:2 is a reference to Mary of Magdala, not a geographical description, and in 8:26 Jesus is actually in the region of the Gerasenes. Like O Fearghail, Freyne makes no mention of Luke 13:31–33 in this context. Conzelmann, Theology, 66; cf. 41 n.1.
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Luke-Acts in the same way as everyone else—as a theological tool only. A key aspect that distinguishes them from more traditional “theological” analyses of Lukan geography is their intentional use of methodologies that are often crossdisciplinary and conversant with theoretical approaches to space. The “pioneer e forts” in this regard came from James M. Scott, whose extensive 1994 essay, followed by his 2002 monograph, go beyond merely footnoting Luke-Acts and otherupon ancient writings. Scott instead setsthe outparallels to chart between the geography of Luke-Acts a broader theoretical landscape, to plot Luke’s “geographical horizon” in relation to other spatial conceptualities in the ancient world. After an abbreviated review of GrecoRoman viewpoints on geography and a more extensive study of the Jewish view of the world, he concludes that Luke’s geographical horizon could be seen within the con uence of these two broader traditions. His primary thesis is that Luke-Acts derives its conceptualization of the world from the Table of Nations tradition (Gen 10), particularly as it is conveyed through Jub. 8–9. Perhaps the most obvious application of this “geographical horizon” in Luke’s writings can be seen in the central focus that is placed on Jerusalem that Jub. the eassociated fectively with makes it “the navel of the earth” (into 8:19).Jewish Theimago Greekmundi tradition Delphi has been co-opted and applied to Jerusalem just as it was re-appropriated in the Roman tradition and applied to Rome. Scott also sees the Table of Nations tradition re ected in Jesus’ ancestry (Luke 3:23–38), the mission of the 70/72 (Luke 10:1–20), Acts’
Cf. Dean Bechard, Paul Outside the Walls: A Study of Luke’s Socio-Geographical Universalism in Acts 14:8–20 (Rome: Editrice Ponti cio Instituto Biblico, 2000), 83. Bechard, Paul Outside the Walls, 169. James M. Scott, “Luke’s Geographical Horizon,” in The Book of Acts in Its First Century Setting (ed. David W. Gill and Conrad Gempf; vol. 2 of The Book of Acts in Its GraecoRoman Setting; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1994), 483–544. James M. Scott, Geography in Early Judaism and Christianity: The Book of Jubilees (
113; Cambridge: Cambridge , 2002). Both of Scott’s works are wider in scope than just the Lukan materials; the comments here, however, have been limited to observations pertinent to Luke-Acts. Scott, “Geographical Horizon,” 543. Scott, Geography in Early Judaism, 23–43; idem, “Geographical Horizon,” 507–9. Scott, Geography in Early Judaism, 56. Cf. Philip S. Alexander, “Notes on the ‘Imago Mundi’ of the Book of Jubilees,” 33:1–2 (1982), 197–213, who argues that Jubilees is partially indebted to the Greco-Roman geographical tradition. Strabo, Geogr. 9.3.7; Pausanias, Descr. 10.16.3. Cf. Ezek 5:5. Strabo, Geogr. 6.4.1; Vitruvius, De Arch. 6.1.11.
geographical structure (Judea/Samaria = Shem; Ethiopia = Ham; Asia/Europe = Japheth), and the list of nations at Pentecost (Acts 2:5–11). At times, Scott’s analysis is, by his own admission, rather tendentious, and it has not been without criticism. Mikeal C. Parsons agrees with Scott that Luke utilizes a version of the Table of Nations tradition, but whereas Scott emphasizes the continuity of Luke-Acts with Jubilees, Parsons argues for a greater measure of discontinuity. According to Parsons, occupies isa middle position between the Table of Nations tradition,Luke-Acts where Jerusalem explicitly stated to be at the center of the earth, and the adaptation of the Table of Nations in Josephus, who depicts Jerusalem as the center of Israel only ( J.W. 3.52). As such, for Luke, Jerusalem is not the eschatological destination—it is not the “end” as it often is in the Table of Nations tradition —but rather it stands at the beginning of the end. Bechard argues that although Luke does indeed nd “an authoritative point of orientation” in the Table of Nations, his imago mundi was not Jerusalem centered, as substantiated by the fact that his geographical categories are primarily Roman. Gary Gilbert goes a step further, arguing that, at least with respect to the list of nations in Acts 2, the of Nations tradition no in uence at Instead, Acts 2 should be Table interpreted in light of the had Roman tradition of all. using geographical lists as political propaganda, such as in the Augustan Res Gestae. As such, Acts 2 rede nes Christianity as an alternative to Roman hegemony over the oikoumenē. Perhaps the most overt criticism of Scott, however, comes from Matthew Sleeman, who claims that the focalization on Jerusalem via the Table of Nations tradition is too rigid. Unlike Scott’s other detractors, Sleeman destabilizes earthly geography altogether, both through his use of spatial theory and his narrative reading of Acts, resulting in (among other things) a destabilized Jerusalem. Sleeman’s study will be discussed in more detail below.
Scott, Geography in Early Judaism, 44–51, 51–55, 56–62, and 66–84, respectively. Ibid., 21. Parsons, “Place of Jerusalem,” 165–67. Sib. Or. 5.249–50; 1 En. 26:1. Parsons, “Place of Jerusalem,” 167. Bechard, Paul Outside the Walls, 224, 341–42. Gary Gilbert, “The List of Nations in Acts 2: Roman Propaganda and the Lukan Response,” 121:3 (2002): 497–529. On the Res Gestae and its propagandistic function, see Claude Nicolet, Space, Geography, and Politics in the Early Roman Empire(Ann Arbor, Mich.: U of Michigan Press, 1991), 15–28. Matthew Sleeman, Geography and the Ascension Narrative in Acts ( 146; Cambridge: Cambridge , 2009) 33–35.
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Of all Scott’s speci c observations about Lukan geography, the one that is most pertinent to this study is also one of the more widely accepted. A key reason for associating the mission of the 70/72 in Luke 10:1–20 with the Table of Nations tradition is re ected in its own textual history. The evidence, both internal and external, is evenly weighted regarding whether Jesus sent out 70 or 72 emissaries at the outset of the journey to Jerusalem. Yet the tradition itself is similarly icted: the Hebrew textinofLet. Gen 10 lists 70 3nations the lists 72,con the number also re ected 50 and 18:2–3, and Aris. En. 17:8,whereas 30:2. The connection of Luke 10:1–20 to the Table of Nations is not srcinal to Scott, but he does o fer a unique contribution, namely, that the numbers 70 and 72 are rooted not only in the Jewish tradition, but in the Greco-Roman tradition as well. Following Scott, Dean Bechard’s erudite Paul Outside the Walls (2000) on Acts 14:8–20, Paul’s missionary visit to Lycaonia, provides another foray into a broader conceptual understanding of Lukan geography. Bechard’s purpose is to show that Luke has drawn upon an extensive Greco-Roman tradition which characterizes Lycaonia as a cultural backwater and has incorporated this into his own narrativewho world. This allows author to portray Paultradition as the apostle extraordinaire can preach to thethe urban sophisticates of Athens and the simple rustics of Lycaonia with equal aplomb. Thus, like Scott, Bechard charts out Luke’s geographical horizon based upon the socially constructed conceptual maps of his day. Both Scott and Bechard base their studies on the assumption that geography can be a critical discipline, but neither attempts an analysis that is purposefully patterned on a modern spatial-theoretical methodology. Sleeman’s 2009 monograph Geography and the Ascension Narrative in Acts seeks to do precisely that using the critical geography of Edward Soja. Sleeman begins by explaining his project’s indebtedness to the advent of narrative criticism, speci cally in the sense that it has successfully mounted a challenge to historical critical approaches. The potential for narrative criticism to open itself up to spatial questions via the analysis of narrative setting, however, was never fully realized. Plot and action continued to dominate. Given that the relegation Metzger, Textual Commentary, 126–27. Parsons, “Place of Jerusalem,” 163; Green, The Gospel of Luke, 412. See, e.g., Marshall, The Gospel of Luke, 415. Scott, Geography in Early Judaism, 53–54. Bechard, Paul Outside the Walls, 243, 278. Ibid., 336–37. Sleeman, Geography and the Ascension Narrative in Acts, 7–8.
of geography to the margins of academic discourse “unjusti ably constrains a fully critical reading of the text,” Sleeman proposes the use of a spatial critique that will shed light on Luke’s “ascension geography.” Utilizing Soja’s concept of Thirdspace, he argues for a “heavenly Christocentrism” in Acts that serves as a foil for any and all earthly spatialities, constantly challenging, destabilizing, and deconstructing them. James Scott’s Jerusalem, for example (see discussion above),“Constructions is inadequate precisely it is inherently stable. According to Sleeman, of place because are contested, require active maintenance, and always remain subject to possibly radical realignments.” The one exception to this would be “ascension geography” itself. It re ects an ultimate “heavenly thirdspace,” the space by which all other spaces are perpetually rede ned. As a thoroughgoing application of critical spatial theory to the study of an ancient text, Sleeman’s work is groundbreaking. Sleeman is more conversant with spatial theory while Scott and Bechard are more conversant with ancient geography, but they all share a similar desire to reconstruct a sense of space that is socially produced and re ected in Luke’s own geographical agenda. In that sense, they distinguish themselves from those whotoassume Luke’s geography is subservient to a theological agenda that is unique him. Even though these investigations into Luke’s spatial sensibilities have little to do with Galilee directly, they are important precursors to this study because they are attempting to uncover a Lukan conceptual geography. Like Conzelmann before them, they have refused to take the map for granted.
Luke and Critical Geography
There are common theoretical underpinnings that tie together the work of Edward Soja, whose methodology was applied to Josephus in ch. 2, and that of Edward Said. Both understand geography to be something more than an accumulation of data or empirical knowledge of the “object.” For both, producing discourse about space is a creative enterprise that controls space by Ibid., 22. Ibid., especially ch. 2. Ibid., 59. Ibid., 34. Ibid., 78. Ibid., 259. Perhaps we should expect no less—Sleeman holds two doctoral degrees, one in biblical studies and one in human geography.
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de ning it. To both, space is political and polemical. Nevertheless, in one very important respect, their theoretical approaches are worlds apart. Soja’s concept of Thirdspace rests fundamentally on the appropriation of one’s own space from within. It is experiential space, “lived” space, ideally with an eye toward its emancipation. Said’s “imaginative geography” on the other hand is the appropriation of another’s space from without. It is hegemonic space, “articulated” space, usually with an eye toward domination. By debenition, “imaginative geography” is the geography of theitsoutsider. It should obvious, therefore, why Said’s “imaginative geography” is more appropriate as an evaluative lens for Luke. With only rare exceptions, Lukan scholarship is in agreement: “The only thing which we may a rm about the locale in which [the author of Luke-Acts] wrote is that it was not Palestine.” Thus, “imaginative geography” does not correspond to any and every imagining of space. Both Tacitus and Josephus, for example, present an imagined view of Palestine, but only one of these is an exercise in imaginative geography. Said de nes imaginative geography as “the invention and construction of a geographical space . . . with scant attention paid to the actuality of the its inhabitants.” thatimagined space is and “the invented Orient,” but specigeography cally theand Orient as articulated byFor theSaid, West, for the purpose of establishing a foil for western culture. It is therefore a creative enterprise that, in the articulation, engenders rather than describes space. In the case of Orientalism, the imperialism implied is rst and foremost ideological, not a conscious attempt at domination. Orientalism is to be understood as a distributive process that disseminates a particular concept of space into art, literature, and scholarship. The resulting geographical distinctions may be characterized as “arbitrary” to a certain degree, but because they are the products of a broader social discourse, it is not the same as asserting that they are nonsensical or irrational. In fact, those distinctions carry a “rational sense,” just one that is “poetically . . . endowed.” The conceptuality of space Edward Said, Orientalism (New York: Pantheon Books, 1978), 57. Sterling, Historiography, 328–29. Edward Said, “Palestine: Memory, Invention, and Space,” in The Landscape of Palestine: Equivocal Poetry (ed. Ibrahim Abu-Lughod, Roger Heacock, and Khaled Nashef; Birzeit: Birzeit University Publications, 1999), 9. Said, Orientalism, 12. Ibid., 54. For the derivation of Said’s concept of knowledge as discourse, see Michel Foucault, The Archaeology of Knowledge (Trans. A.M. Sheridan Smith; New York: Routledge, 1972; Routledge Classic ed. 2002), 23–33. Said, Orientalism, 55.
can then trump the actuality of space. In other words, “the objective space of a house . . . is far less important than what poetically it is endowed with.” This is especially true when mapping the space of the Other. The “poetic process” which converts a “vacant or anonymous” space into a known place can convey meaning across the greatest of distances. The “Orient,” therefore, is not the space of the inhabitant, but the inhabitant’s space in the eye of the outsider, who is nothing lessSaid. than the Orient’s genuine creator. “I have no ‘real’ Orient to argue for,” said The issues Said addressed in Orientalism were both political and personal. As a native of Palestine, he was concerned with the way in which his homeland had become marginalized through imaginative geographies like Orientalism. The parallels between Said’s orientalist Palestine, always negatively de ned (de ned negatively?) as both a subregion of Israel and as Israel’s “other,” and the Galilee of Luke, often negatively de ned with respect to Judea, are deliciously tantalizing at rst glance. However, Said’s polemically situated perspective should be kept in mind before blindly assigning a similar perspective to Luke. In other words, as with Soja and Josephus, when viewing Luke through thepolitical lens of “imaginative geography,” it is possible, to remove the message from the theoretical method.even Oncepreferable, this is done, however, the prospects for analysis have lost little of their appeal. One of the important lessons learned from Said is that the map is not always the same as geography. One can hold on to geography while at the same time relinquishing the “accuracy” of the map, and this is particularly applicable to the geography of the outsider. As an outsider, Luke is creating a space (in this case Galilee, but it applies to ancient Palestine as a whole) that has meaning in his own social world for others who share his imago Palaestinae.
Ibid. Ibid. Ibid., 57. From the Preface (xx) in the 25th anniversary edition of Orientalism published by Vintage Books. Said, it should be noted, has numerous critics, some of which are non-westerners. See Robert Irwin, For Lust of Knowing: The Orientalists and Their Enemies (London: Penguin Books, 2006), 253–54, 277–330. The question of whether Luke is writing to a Christian or a non-Christian audience is not at issue here. (On this, see Gilbert, “List of Nations,” 524–25, for current trends in scholarship pertaining to this debate.) In either case, his implied Greco-Roman audience would share his own geographical outlook. They are also “outsiders.”
’ Luke’s Galilee as “Imaginative Geography”
The purpose of this section is to consider Luke’s Galilee anew, unencumbered by traditionally accepted mappings of ancient Palestine. Today’s traditional map owes its existence primarily to Josephus who had extensive rsthand experience with Galilee. Luke, however, had none. Should it be assumed, as did Grant, that Luke’s sensehand of Palestinian geography was comparable to that of Josephus? If on the other Luke’s knowledge of Palestinian geography is de cient when compared to the Josephan map, should it be assumed that Luke espouses only a spatially-charged theology and has no functional geography at all? “Imaginative Geography” in Conzelmann
To answer these questions requires a return to Conzelmann and his theory of what is essentially an “imaginative geography” in Luke. Conzelmann’s controversial theory was that Luke’s travel narrative betrays a de cient knowledge of geography similar to what can be found in other ancient authors such as Pliny and Strabo. He cites the following: Supra Idumaeam et Samariam Iudaea longe lateque funditur. pars eius Syriae iuncta Galilaea vocatur, Arabiae vero et Aegypto proxima Paraea, asperis dispersa montibus et a ceteris Iudaeis Iordane amne discreta. Beyond Idumaea and Samaria stretches the wide expanse of Judaea. The part of Judaea adjoining Syria is called Galilee, and that next to Arabia and Egypt Peraea. Peraea is covered with rugged mountains, and is separated from the other parts of Judaea by the river Jordan. (Pliny, Nat. 5.15) τοιοῦτοι ὰρ οἱ τὴν Γαλιλαίαν ἔχοντες καὶτὸν Ἱερικοῦντα καὶ τὴν Φιλαδέλφειαν καὶ Σαµάρειαν, ἣν Ἡρώδης Σεβαστὴν ἐπωνόµασεν. [F]or such are those who occupy Galilee and Hiericus and Philadelphia and Samaria, which last Herod surnamed Sabastê. (Strabo, Geogr. 16.2.34) According to Conzelmann, Luke may have envisioned a map of the area in which Judea and Galilee shared a common border, which is why Luke portrays Jesus as going back and forth between the two regions: From these geographical details we can explain the course of the journey without di culty: Galilee—along the border of Samaria—Jericho— Jerusalem; and also a number of otherwise strange statements. In Luke
Jesus can alternate without di culty between Galilee and Judaea, without any thought of journeys to Jerusalem in the Johannine manner. This explains iv, 44, and also the fact that there is no transition marked between the stay in Galilee, xii, 31 f, and the arrival outside Jerusalem. It is popularly assumed—although it cannot be proved—that ‘Judaea’ is used in a narrower and broader sense, but this assumption becomes unnecessary if the regions of as adjoining. to Luke’s idea, they aretwo a unity fromare thethought geographical, national, According and religious point of view and politically they are divided into the Roman province and Herod’s domain. As discussed above, in rearranging the conventional map, few have followed Conzelmann’s lead. One of Conzelmann’s most adamant critics in regard to this speci c thesis was I. Howard Marshall. Marshall rst discusses the passage from Strabo, Geogr. 16.2.34, which lists Galilee, Jericho, Philadelphia, and Samaria/Sabaste, in that order. Conzelmann argued that this provided a parallel for Jesus’ journey to (19:1), skip suddenly from Galilee’s border (Luke 17:11) to a which locale seemed in Jericho but Marshall is correct that region the connection is somewhat tenuous and probably irrelevant; Strabo’s list is not a travel itinerary, and more importantly there is precious little context that would help to situate these places within Strabo’s own imaginative geography of the region. Marshall’s treatment of the Pliny passage, however, quickly devolves into a critique of Conzelmann, speci cally his notion that given Luke’s geography, there is no need to assume a broader sense of “Judea” which includes Galilee. Yet this criticism has de ciencies of its own. Marshall focuses on Conzelmann’s application of the thesis to Luke 4:44 and argues that a broader concept of “Judea,” being well attested, is more than enough of an explanation, and a rearrangement of the map is unnecessary. In this respect Marshall is correct. However, the value of Conzelmann’s thesis does not lie with the interpretation of 4:44 (despite Conzelmann’s own insistence) but rather with the travel narrative. Conzelmann, Theology, 69–70 (Mitte, 62). It is worth noting that Conzelmann’s separation of Galilee and Judea is not quite as stark as many have argued, yet the separation is still evident. I. Howard Marshall, Luke: Historian and Theologian (Grand Rapids: Academie Books, 1989), 70–71. After Luke 17:11, where Jesus is “on the way to Jerusalem . . . going through the region between Samaria and Galilee,” the next geographical reference of any kind is 18:31, where Jesus tells the Twelve, “See, we are going up to Jerusalem . . .” (Mark 10:17’s “As he was setting out on a journey” has been omitted by Luke in 18:18 prior to the episode with the rich ruler.) By 18:35 they are approaching Jericho; in 19:5, they enter Jericho.
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Marshall has not separated out the thesis from Conzelmann’s own misappropriation of it; he assumes that by o fering a better explanation for 4:44, the thesis is unnecessary. Where the de ciency of Marshall’s critique becomes most evident, however, is in his own assessment of the travel section, precisely where Conzelmann’s theory can be most e fectively applied. Marshall is forced to conclude, with most other scholars, that Luke is accurate in 4:44 but imprecise elsewhere: [I]t is now recognized that it is impossible to construct an itinerary that runs clearly through this section. . . . What is important is that Luke cannot have been consciously providing a geographical progress from Galilee to Jerusalem. The incidents are not tied to speci c locations; if in 10:38–42 Jesus is on the outskirts of Jerusalem (assuming that the home of Mary and Martha was at Bethany, which is admittedly not stated by Luke), in 17:11 he is apparently still on the border between Galilee and Samaria, which in any case is strange after the incident in Samaria in 9:52–56. Consequently, it is unlikely that a journey as such is signi cant from Luke’s point of view. The apologetic for Luke’s broader “Judea” in 4:44 has led to a thoroughly nonspatial recasting of 9:51–17:11. In defending Luke’s nuanced understanding of the map, Marshall has denied him geography. The map in question of course is the conventional Josephan/modern map, and it is usually taken for granted as the only map which may be compared to Luke’s travel section. The criticism of Conzelmann by W.D. Davies should also be read against this backdrop. Interestingly, Davies agrees that Luke is an outsider, evident in the fact that he has no identi ably theological approach to the land. Therefore, Luke does not develop any sort of intricate land symbolism. In this regard, Davies’ interpretation of Luke’s geography runs counter to many others, including Conzelmann himself. Despite Jerusalem’s central role for Christian beginnings, it must be understood as a conduit rather than a destination, eschatological or otherwise: “Christianity is a Way which began at Jerusalem, but passes through it.” His rebuttal of Conzelmann, therefore, is ultimately theological. What is noteworthy, however, is that this rebuttal nds its starting point in Luke’s lack of geographical acumen: “[I]t is precisely this kind of geographical inconsistency that makes any precise Marshall, The Gospel of Luke, 401. Davies, The Gospel and the Land, 247–51. Conzelmann, Theology, 20. Davies, The Gospel and the Land, 260.
geographical-theological interest so questionable.” Said would no doubt vociferously disagree. Consistent knowledge is not a prerequisite for imaginative geography. What is at issue here is not Conzelmann’s broader program regarding Luke’s use of geography or how deftly he applies it to Luke’s theological agenda. The fundamental issue for this study is more speci c: whether Conzelmann’s proposal of an imaginative geography, one thata runs the conventional map, is a tenable one. speci To do cally this requires closercounter look attoPliny and Strabo. What emerges from a more detailed analysis—one closer than even Conzelmann’s—is a portrait of the outsider’s sense of Palestinian geography in which consistency in detail remains elusive but broader trends become identi able. This portrait can then be compared to Luke’s own imaginative geography to see if he holds a similar view. “Imaginative Geography” in Pliny and Strabo
A good place to begin is Conzelmann’s arrangement of the regions in question: “Luke imagines that Judaea and Galilee are immediately adjacent, and that Samaria alongside them, apparently bordering on bothwho, regions.” He goes on to lies compare this arrangement to Pliny ( Nat. 5.14–15), according to Conzelmann, “has exactly the same idea of the country.” As a point of comparison for Luke’s imaginative geography, Pliny is crucial: not only is he a contemporary of Luke, but he is also an outsider. to 135 Ibid., 249. Freyne (Galilee: From Alexander the Great to Hadrian 323 [Notre Dame, Ind.: University of Notre Dame Press, 1980], 365), citing Davies, uses precisely the same argument in his rebuttal of Conzelmann. Conzelmann, Theology, 69. Ibid. It is unlikely that Pliny had ever been to Judea, despite the contention that he had been by
Hartmut Stegemann, “The Qumran Essenes: Local Members of the Main Jewish Union in Late Second Temple Times,” in Vol. 1 ofThe Madrid Qumran Congress: Proceedings of the International Congress on the Dead Sea Scrolls, Madrid, 18–21 March 1991 (ed. Julio Trebolle Barrera and Luis Vegas Montaner; Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1992), 84–85. See Menahem Stern, Greek and Latin Authors on Jews and Judaism (Jerusalem: Israel Academy of Sciences and Humanities, 1974–84), I.465–66. According to Mark D. Smith (“Bethsaida in the Natural History of Pliny the Elder,” in Vol. 3 ofBethsaida: A City by the North Shore of the Sea of Galilee [ed. Rami Arav and Richard A. Freund; Kirksville, Mo.: Truman State , 2004], 86–87), Pliny used Agrippa’s Geography and other information from the commentaries of Vespasian and Titus as sources for his knowledge of the area. See also Silvia Cappelletti, “Non-Jewish Authors on Galilee,” in Religion, Ethnicity, and Identity in Ancient Galilee: A Region in Transition (ed. Jürgen Zangenberg et al.; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007), 74–75; Henry Innes MacAdam, “Strabo, Pliny, Ptolemy and the Tabula Peutingeria: Cultural Geography and Early Maps of Phoenicia,” in Archaeology, History, and Culture in Palestine
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Palestine in the First Century C.E.: A Hypothetical Map According to
Caesarea Philippi (Paneas)
Pliny Caesarea Maritima Bethsaida Joppa
Lake of Genesara Tiberias Gamala
Hippos Tarichaeae
Ascalon
Gaza
Jerusalem
Lake Asphaltitis Machaerus
Not to Scale
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A reconstruction of Pliny’s view of 1st c. Palestine based on his writings.
According to Pliny, how was Judea situated within the region relative to other districts? Pliny rst describes the coastal regions from south to north (Arabia, Idumea, Palestine, Samaria, Phoenicia) then moves inland to Judea. and the Near East: Essays in Memory of Albert E. Glock (ed. Tomis Kapitan; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1999), 285. Just as important is the fact that Pliny apparently did not use
Strabo, whose geography was probably not widely read in the 1st c. . See O.A.W. Dilke, Greek and Roman Maps (London: Thames and Hudson Ltd., 1985), 62–64; MacAdam, “Strabo, Pliny, Ptolemy,” 285; Katherine Clarke,Between Geography and History: Hellenistic Constructions of the Roman World(Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1999), 344. Since Pliny had not read Strabo, there is no compelling need to consider them in chronological order. It should be noted that the hypothetical maps included here (Figure 4.2) and subsequently in this chapter (Figures 4.3 and 4.4) are my own creations based on the descriptions found in Pliny, Strabo, and Luke-Acts, and I o fer them with a healthy sense of trepidation. They re ect my interpretations alone, and they should not be construed as visuals that these authors actually or implicitly possessed or conceived. A fundamental point of this study is to argue against the notion that mapping in the ancient world was the same sort of visual exercise that we commonly make it out to be today (see ch. 5 below). These maps
The commonly held notion that Pliny’s “Judea” should be understood as the Roman province may be an oversimpli cation, particularly if this implies that he always used the term in the same way. “Judea” may have a more generalized, regional sense in Pliny, but he is not always consistent in how he de nes it. Arabia is what separates Egypt and Judea in 12.46, yet Idumea, which is distinguished from Judea in 5.13, is placed between Arabia and Judea in 5.14; Phoenicia Judea in 36.65 12.55), yet In Samaria Phoenicia’s in 5.14 andadjoins is distinguished from (cf. Judea in 5.15. e fect,isfor this part ofneighbor Syria, a country that had “a great many divisions with di ferent names” (5.13), “Judea” seems to function consistently in only one way: as Pliny’s default term. With regard to Judea and Samaria, there is additional ambiguity. On the one hand, Pliny does describe them separately in 5.14 (Samaria and its cities) and 5.15 (Judea and its features), and he never calls Samaria a part ( pars) of Judea as he explicitly does with Galilee and Perea (5.15). On the other hand, he does seem to imply that Samaria could also be considered an area within Judea. A look at the city of Joppa demonstrates that this may be the case: it is situated in coastal Samaria (5.14), characterized as Phoenician (“Iope Phoenicum” 5.14), and listed as onecity of the ten toparchies of Judea (5.15; cf. 9.5). Pliny also describes the coastal of Ascalon as being in Judea (19.32) despite having named it earlier as an oppidum liberum in Samaria (5.14). If Samaria is a part of Judea in some sense, this would explain the omission of Samaria from the two lists of Syrian territorial divisions in 5.13. But where is Samaria spatially within Judea? According to 5.14 it is the area along the coast in between
are meant simply to help the modern reader remove the lenses of conventional mappings, lenses that these authors certainly did not possess. Luke: Historian and Theologian, 70; Cappelletti, “Non-Jewish ” 73; Marshall, cf. Yuval Shahar, Josephus Authors, Geographicus: The Classical Context of Geography in Josephus (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2004), 186–87. Not, however, a Talmudic sense as suggested by Stern, Greek and Latin Authors, I.474. Not all references to the region in Pliny have geographical import. In fact, the majority comment on the region’s two most renowned products, bitumen (e.g. Nat. 7.15) and perfumes (e.g. Nat. 13.4), but Pliny is consistent in referring to the place of their srcin as “Judea.” To complicate matters, Josephus says there were 11 administrative districts in J.W.3.54–56, but Joppa, along with Jamnia, are mentioned only after the 11 have been enumerated. Joppa’s administrative connection to Judea was at times a complicated one ( J.W. 1.396, 2.97; Ant. 13.246, 14.202, 15.217, 17.320). According to Josephus, Ascalon was always an enemy to the Jews ( J.W. 3.9–10).
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Gaza and Phoenicia, although some of its towns (including Gamala!) lie inland. According to 5.15, it appears to lie to the west of Judea, or perhaps more speci cally to the northwest, with Idumea occupying the coastal plain further south, since Judea is situated “beyond (supra) Idumea and Samaria.” “Judea” in this sense would be that part of Judea not occupied by Samaria or Idumea. Galilee included in this sense. Galilee is brieliesy alluded to and as thePerea, “part”however, (pars) ofare Judea adjacent to Syria, which for Pliny north. Although aware of its location across the Jordan, he seems to think of Perea as further south and west: “next to Arabia and Egypt,” than it appears on the conventional map. In other words, within Judea, Pliny may have envisioned it as being the southern “part.” He is aware that it is separated from the rest of Judea by the Jordan River, but it should be kept in mind that he does not clearly delineate where or precisely in what direction the river ows. He places the source at Panias in the Decapolis, which adjoins Judea “on the side of Syria” (i.e. presumably to the north and east; 5.16), but gives no indication that it ows through Galilee. He knows the lake by two names, Genesara and
The locale discussed just prior to Samaria is actually Mt. Argaris. If this is actually a reference to Mt. Gerizim, it is geographically out of place. Gaza also presents di culties. Going along the coast from Pelusia and Arabia, Pliny mentions Idumea and Palestine, although Palestine may have been a previous name for that particular area in Pliny’s mind (“namque Palaestina vocabatur qua contingit Arabas” [5.13]). He next mentions the city of Gaza (among others) before discussing the region of Samaria, implying that Gaza is in Idumea/Palestine. Palestine is never accounted a part of Judea or explicitly located within Judea, although it does seem to be used as a substitute for Judea in 5.17 where it is located “behind Antilibanus inland” (post [Antilibanum] introrsus). In one of its few other mentions (12.40), it is said to be in Syria. However, Gaza is said to be “a city of Judea” in 12.32. In otherswords, Pliny is not alwaysinentirely clear.is con rmed by 5.13 where he states that Idumea’ location along the coast Pliny’s mind it is part (along with Judea!) of the maritime coast of Syria. In a reference to this passage, Steve Mason, Flavius Josephus: Translation and Commentary, Judean War 2 (vol. 1b of Flavius Josephus: Translation and Commentary; ed. Steve Mason; Boston: Brill, 2008), 63 n.577, translated Pliny’s “supra” as “higher than,” but this is not always the sense that it has in his geographical descriptions. (See Pliny, Nat. 2.87, which describes the sea as “supra” Memphis.) In this case, Pliny, having covered the coast, is now moving inland. After Judea (5.15) he discusses the Decapolis region (5.16) before going “back to the coast and to Phoenicia” (5.17). See the intriguing parallel in Isa. 8:23 (9:1) where “beyond the Jordan” and “Galilee of the Gentiles” are further described as τὰ µέρη τῆς Ιουδαίας, a quali cation not found in the .
Tarichea, but not as the “Sea of Galilee” (5.15). The most that can be said is that Pliny is aware it ows through Judea since it is included in his description of that region. As a boundary, the waters of the Jordan are only applied to Perea; his description of the Decapolis, which includes other rivers, never mentions the Jordan itself, only the spring at Panias. Thus, he may have envisioned the Jordan as owing southwest from Panias through Judea and into Lake Asphaltitis than south—if he but wasthat envisioning it atthe all.point. For all Much of this israther admittedly speculative, is precisely of his rich information, Pliny’s Judea, relative to Josephus’ Judea, is still rather vague. There are still signi cant questions about his use of the term “Judea,” and the locations of the various subregions do not exactly correspond to the conventional map. Most importantly, based on Pliny alone, no one would have any idea that Samaria lies between Judea and Galilee. Furthermore, his description implies that one could be in Judea without being in Galilee, but he shows no awareness that one could be in Galilee without being in Judea. Pliny had many sources, but it must be acknowledged that Josephus was not among them. He should be allowed to have his own map. Strabo actually an evenof stronger rmation that Judea is located in the interior. His gives description Syria, likecon Pliny’s, also follows the coastline, although in the opposite direction. He begins with an overview in which he mentions Commagene, Syrian Seleucis, Coele-Syria, “and last, on the seaboard, Phoenicia, and, in the interior (ἐν δὲ τῇ µεσο αίᾳ), Judaea” Geogr.( 16.2.2). After this, he covers each region in succession in greater detail, reiterating this arrangement of territories: the coast “from Orthosia to Pelusium” is called Phoenicia and “the interior above it” (ἡ . . . ὑπὲρ ταύτης µεσό αια) between (µεταξύ) Gaza and Antilibanus is called Judea (16.2.21). Jerusalem is characterized as near the sea (πρὸς θαλάττῃ, 16.2.34), even visible from Joppa where, according to Strabo, the coastline noticeably changes directions (16.2.28), but given the narrowness of Phoenicia (16.2.21) and the exaggerated height of Joppa Tarichaeae Pliny situates on the south. He has likely confused the second appellation with “Tiberias,” the next city in his list, perhaps misunderstanding or misquoting his source. See Cappelletti, “Non-Jewish Authors,” 74–75. Curiously, he locates Machaerus to the south of the Dead Sea when it was actually east. If the orientation of the Dead Sea was skewed to the west as perhaps the Jordan was, Machaerus, relatively speaking, might then be located to the southeast. The obvious parallel would be Perea, though Pliny does not explicitly say that Perea was “south” of the Jordan. Regarding the prevalence of askew geography during this period, see the discussion in ch. 5 below. Cf. Josephus Ag. Ap. 1.60 (“Ours is not a maritime country”), although he contradicts this in J.W.3.51–53.
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Theuprosopon
Palestine in the First Century C.E.: A Hypothetical Map according to
Lake Gennesaritis
Strabo Sidon
Coele-Syria includes: Damascene •
The Trachones Lake Gennesaritis Jordan R. Chrysorrhoas R. Lycus R.
•
Tyre
• • •
Ptolemais
•
Strato’s Tower
Joppa
Judea includes: Galilee Jericho Philadelphia Samaria/Sabaste • •
Jerusalem
• •
Ascalon Gaza Lake Sirbonis
The Lake Sirbonis region includes: Moasada Sodom (in a previous era) Gadaris Tarichaeae • • • •
Not to Scale
.
A reconstruction of Strabo’s view of early 1st c.
Palestine based on his writings.
(16.2.28), this should not be understood as evidence for a coastal Judea. Not only is Judea, in Strabo’s view, indisputably inland, it is inland from Phoenicia. The region of Samaria is never mentioned, only the city, and even then without much context (16.2.34). The region of Idumea is not named either, but, Idumeans, who are distinguished from Judeans (16.2.2), are said to live in the western part of Judea (16.2.34; cf. Pliny, Nat. 5.15). Neither is the Decapolis
Ze’ev Safrai (“Temporal layers within Strabo’s description of Coele Syria, Phoenicia and Judaea,” in Strabo’s Cultural Geography: The Making of aKolossourgia [ed. Daniela Dueck, Hugh Lindsay, and Sarah Pothecary; Cambridge: Cambridge , 2005], 256) argues that these two references to the Idumeans re ect di ferent time periods in Strabo’s sources. In 16.2.2, they would have been described as a separate group; in 16.2.34 they would have been united with the Jews.
mentioned, although Decapolis cities such as Philadelphia (16.2.34, 40) and Scythopolis (16.2.40) are. To put it starkly, there is no indication in Strabo that separate regions known as Samaria, Idumea, and the Decapolis even exist. They have no place in his imaginative geography. With Galilee, the depiction is downright jarring, especially if Strabo is set free from conventional mappings. The Galilee region, which goes unnamed in his primary of the area, is identi able due to references to the discusJordan River anddescription Lake Gennesaritis. Yet this description comes within Strabo’s sion of Coele-Syria, not Judea (16.2.16). When Galilee is named (16.2.34, 40), the context suggests it is in Judea (along with Jericho, Philadelphia, and Samaria/Sabaste), although its location within Judea is indeterminable. What is important to realize is that, according to Strabo, the Jordan River and the Lake of Gennesaritis are not in the place he calls “Galilee.” He explicitly states that they occupy the plain between Libanus and Antilibanus (16.2.16). The Jordan River does not ow into the Dead Sea;it ows like the Lycus River into the Mediterranean (16.2.16). The erroneously named Lake Sirbonis, which Beyond Judea and Coele-Syria is Arabia (16.3.1). Cappelletti, “Non-Jewish Authors,” 71 n.12, serves as an example of what can happen when Strabo is read in light of the conventional map. She incorrectly states that Strabo lists Idumea as an independent region in 16.2.2. Yet Strabo only refers to the “Idumeans” as one of four “tribes” (ἔθνη) located in the area. The idea of a separate “Idumea” region cannot be deduced from Strabo alone, but only when the conventional map is superimposed upon him. Further underscoring this point, the other three tribes of 16.2.2—Azotians, Gazaeans, Judeans—can indeed be associated with their corresponding locales discussed separately in 16.2.29, 16.2.30–32, and 16.2.34–46, respectively. The Idumeans, by contrast, having joined with the Judeans and having adopted their customs, are merely said to dwell in Judea. That is, in the narrower sense, de ned here by the Libanus and Antilibanus ranges. In 16.2.21, states had atobroader covering the entire areaStrabo from explicitly Seleucia (on thethat coast“Coele-Syria” near Syrian also Antioch) “Egyptsense, and Arabia.” Cf. Let. Aris. 116–17; Conzelmann, Theology, 19 n.1 (Mitte, 13 n.3, a more extensive note than in the ). In fact, it may be that Strabo conceives of the Libanus and Antilibanus ranges as running perpendicular to the coast rather than parallel (as they actually do) since both are said to terminate at the Mediterranean (16.2.16). If he thinks of the Jordan as running through this valley, the Mediterranean would be its natural outlet. Cf. Tacitus, Hist. 5.6, who connects the Jordan to the Libanus range, but explicitly states that it does not ow into the Mediterranean (regarding his sources, see ch. 2, n. 104 above); Pliny, Nat. 5.17, who identi es the Lycus as owingbelow Libanus toward the coast. Both Robert North (A History of Biblical Map Making [Wiesbaden: Reichart, 1979], 61–65) and MacAdam (“Strabo, Pliny, Ptolemy,” 287) point out that Ptolemy also assumed the Libanus and Antilibanus ranges were oriented east-west, much like Strabo.
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by location is apparently the Lake Sirbonis of Egypt (16.2.32, 34; cf. 1.3.4) but by description is the Dead Sea (16.2.42), is never associated with the Jordan River. Alarmingly, however, it is associated with Tarichaeae. Tarichaeae’s brief mention, which alludes to its location on “the lake” (it is not called Gennesaritis), its sh-pickling industry, and the asphalt (!) collected there, comes at the end of the section on Lake Sirbonis (16.2.45). Read by itself, there is more reason to that the unnamed lake is Sirbonis than Gennesaritis. Finally,that the oneassume tantalizing bit of ostensibly useful information about Galilee, namely, some had characterized it as being of mixed race, is tempered by its immediate context; according to those same reports, so was the rest of Judea (16.2.34; cf. Tacitus, Hist. 5.2–3). As with Pliny, however, to say that Strabo is not following the map is to miss the point. In fact, he does follow the map. It is not the conventional cartography of Josephus and modern scholarship; it is the imaginative geography of an outsider in the ancient world. If Strabo were evaluated as Luke often is, his multivolume Geography would be devoid of “geography,” and his readers would be forced to look for meaning in its “symbolism.” Furthermore, as with Pliny, Strabo doesaccurate well withasenumerating cities on theimportantly, coast, but becomes less speci c and less he moves inland. Most as with Pliny, there is not a single indication in Strabo that he pictures Samaria as a region separating Galilee and Judea. Given how di ferent their portraits of the region are, this is noteworthy common ground. If Pliny and Strabo were the only sources extant, the only feasible conclusion would be to assume that Galilee and Judea were in some sense contiguous. “Imaginative Geography” in Luke
It remains to be seen how Luke’s understanding of the region compares to those of Pliny and Strabo. There is no intention here of drawing a direct line of geographical tradition as if Luke had read Strabo or consulted Pliny. Nor is there any intention of demonstrating that all of Luke’s sources were “outsider” Not surprisingly, Strabo is ambiguous here. He seems to associate “Gadaris,” well known for its hot springs but in actuality located a few miles of the Sea of Galilee, with the “ ery” (ἔµπυρος) (16.2.44) region of Sirbonis due to its “noxious lake water” (ὕδωρ µοχθηρὸν λιµναῖον) (16.2.45; cf. 16.2.29 where Gadaris is situated near the coast between Joppa and Gaza). If this refers to yet a separate body of water, then an alternative location for Tarichaeae would be at the southern end of Gadaris’ lake, the exact location of which is unspeci ed. Other possible locales contributing to Strabo’s concept of “Gadaris” include Gezer/Gazara near the coastal plain (cf. Josephus, Ant. 12.308) and Gedor/Gadora/Gadara in Perea (cf. Josephus, Ant. 13.375; . . 4.413).
sources; often, the outsider’s and the insider’s data is comparable, even interchangeable. Rather, the intent is to show that Luke’s geography is broadly compatible with an outsider’s view of the region. There are some initial indicators that this is the case. For example, Luke is the only gospel that refers to the “Sea of Galilee” as a λίµνη, speci cally the Lake of Gennesaret (Luke 5:1). This in fact was likely the insider’s name for the lake, but both Strabo ( Geogr. 16.2.16) and Pliny (Nat. 5.15)Mark, show was the outsider’s designation as well.Luke’s Luke was not following butthat drewit upon another tradition. In addition, use of ὀρεινός to describe the hill country of Judea (1:39, 65) is unique among the gospels, and although utilized by Josephus, it is also paralleled in Pliny, Nat. 5.15, who lists Orinen ( : “the Hills”) among the toparchies of Judea. Finally, Bechard argues persuasively that Luke has relatively accurate knowledge of the coastal regions of Asia Minor but is much less knowledgeable about the interior. For Bechard, this sets the stage for Luke’s imaginative concept of Lycaonia, but it may also help explain why Luke exhibits a respectable command of the coastal cities of Samaria (Acts 8:26–40) while his geographical references for the interior (as in the travel section) are more ambiguous. In this regard, resembles Plinydetail and Strabo more than the other gospels. WhenLuke compared in more to the imaginative geographies of Pliny and Strabo, Luke’s own map seems to be closer to that of Pliny, although there are a few parallels with Strabo’s as well. Luke’s rehearsal of the geographical references in Mark 3:7–8 indicates that he does have an inclusive sense of “Judea” (cf. Luke 4:44; 23:5) that is roughly consistent with Pliny. Mark says that the See Yuval Shahar, “Josephus’ hidden dialogue with Strabo,” in Strabo’s Cultural Geography: The Making of a Kolossourgia (ed. Daniela Dueck, Hugh Lindsay, and Sarah Pothecary; Cambridge: Cambridge , 2005), 235–249. Despite the fact that Josephus cites Strabo in both Ant. and Ag.Ap., Shahar observes that most scholars still assume that Josephus had Geogr. no knowledge of Strabo’s Against thisStrabo consensus, Shahar argues for a “hidden dialogue” between Josephus and(236). his predecessor in which Josephus both utilizes and corrects Strabo’s descriptions of the region. If Shahar’s hypothesis is correct, it would, at the very least, indicate that Strabo’s Geogr. was known to one of Luke’s contemporaries. In other words, the geographical traditions of “outsiders” may have been more widely circulated than many think. Josephus ( J.W. 3.463) reports that the locals called it the Lake of Gennesar, and this is also his preferred designation. Steven R. Notley’s very helpful article, “The Sea of Galilee,” 183–88, goes o f track here. He speculates that Luke’s more accurate characterization of the Sea of Galilee as a lake may show he has a “more informed” picture (185), but this is not necessarily the case. Rackham’s translation of lacus as “sea” is misleading. Bechard, Paul Outside the Walls, 345 f.
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Palestine in the First Century C.E.: A Hypothetical Map According to
Tyre
Luke-Acts
Ptolemais
Caesarea
Joppa
Lake of Gennesaret Lydda
Region of the Gerasenes
Azotus
Galilee includes:
Jericho
Nazareth Capernaum Bethsaida? Chorazin? Nain?
• • •
Jerusalem
•
Gaza
•
Salt Sea*
Near Jerusalem: Bethphage Bethany Mount of Olives Emmaus
• • • •
Not to Scale
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A reconstruction of 1st c. Palestine based on Luke-Acts. Items marked with an asterisk (*) are mentioned in sources available to the author (Mark, Torah) but do not appear in Luke or Acts.
multitudes gathered from Galilee, Judea, Jerusalem, Idumea, “beyond the Jordan,” Tyre, and Sidon; Luke (6:17) is content with Judea, Jerusalem, Tyre, and Sidon. The Lukan interpolation that quali es Tyre and Sidon as coastal (παράλιος) shows an awareness of their location that goes beyond Mark (regardless of the interpretation of Jesus roundabout itinerary in Mark 7:31), and it may also be a subtle indication that Judea, which is not so quali ed, lies inland, as it does in Strabo. Luke is aware of Samaria, even though Mark and Q make no mention of it, and may even share Pliny’s sense that it lies to the west of Judea proper as opposed to the north, particularly if a contiguous Galilee/Judea is assumed for Luke. Reconstructing the relationship, Assuming the reference in Matt 10:5 is a Matthean interpolation. Cf. Acts 15:3, where Barnabas’ and Paul’s trip from Antioch to Jerusalem takes them through Phoenicia and Samaria. The conventional map places Samaria to the north of
administrative or otherwise, between Judea and Samaria is a bit tenuous. Samaria may be closely associated with Judea as in Acts 1:8, but it is also, in Luke’s view, a separate χώρα (Acts 8:1). That it is not listed as being under Pilate’s jurisdiction (Luke 3:1) could be taken inclusively or exclusively. He does, however, conceive of an ethnic di ference between Jews and Samaritans (Jesus, for example, refers to the Samaritan leper as ἀ ο ενής in Luke 17:18) that is not detectable Pliny and obviously in Strabo,If though it is not incompatible withinthem. Luke also hasnot nopresent use for Perea. he thought of it as lying to the south of Jerusalem as apparently Pliny did and not as a conduit for those traveling between Galilee and Jerusalem as Mark did, it would not only lie far outside of Jesus’ travel route, but more importantly it would distract him from his goal once he had “set his face to go to Jerusalem” (9:51, 53). Jericho, which is familiar to both Pliny ( Nat. 5.15) and Strabo (Geogr. 16.2.41), also appears in Luke’s travel section. Admittedly Mark 10:46–52 features Jericho as well, but Luke may be making use of its reputation for cultivated groves and orchards, a characteristic of the Jericho plain acknowledged by Strabo but not Mark, by having Zacchaeus climb a sycamore tree (Luke 19:4). The mostforcompelling reasonisfor an imaginative, yet functional, geography Luke, however, theassuming travel narrative itself. It may not be necessary to plot out Luke’s conceptualization of the region to the degree that Conzelmann does, but if Luke is employing the notion that Judea and Galilee are contiguous, then many of the geographical conundrums disappear. Of the four journeys between Galilee and Jerusalem (Luke 1:39–56; 2:4–39; 2:41–52; 9:51 f), none are explicitly said to go through Samaria. The nal journey at rst glance appears to be the exception, taking Jesus on his way to Jerusalem via “a village of the Samaritans” (9:52–56), a route that would not be impossible even for Luke’s imaginative geography, but several factors argue against a transSamaria sojourn: 1) Jesus himself does not go and the emissaries sent “before his face” are not “received” (cf. 9:5); 2) Jesus restrains James and John from calling down punishment upon the Samaritans because a Samaritan reception would be at cross-purposes with Jesus’ face being set toward Jerusalem; Judea (even Conzelmann, Theology, 70, takes it this way), but a Samaritan location on the west along the coast is just as possible given their itinerary. Cf. Tacitus, Ann. 12.54, who does recognize the distinction. The language in 3:3 referring to John’s baptizing ministry in “the region around the Jordan” (περίχωρον τοῦ Ἰορδάνου) does not necessarily suggest to the modern reader, particularly one that sets aside the conventional map, that this is the Perea region. It need not have done so for Luke, either. Again cf. Acts 15:3; see n.179 above.
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yet . . . 3) the subsequent sending of the 70/72 “before his face” into other cities and villages (10:1) is apparently not at cross-purposes with Jesus’ face being set toward Jerusalem, since their mission is successful; and 4) the parable of the good Samaritan (10:25–37), told after the return of the 70/72, presupposes a non-Samaritan setting, as does Martha’s reception of Jesus in her anonymous village (10:38). Taken together, therefore, Jesus does not appear to be traveling through given Luke’s geography, notGalilee, have to be. NewsSamaria, of Pilate’sand atrocities towardimaginative the Galileans can comehe to does him in as opposed to Samaria (13:1–5). Narrative settings which include Pharisees (11:42; 13:31; 14:1; 15:2; 16:14; 17:20) and synagogues (13:10; cf. 11:43; 12:11) are consistent with Luke’s Galilee. No elaborate rearrangement or source theories are necessary to explain why Luke includes the warning about Herod in 13:31–33 if Luke still thinks of Jesus as being in Galilee. Episodes in Mark that are situated in Galilee, such as the Beelzebul controversy (Mark 3:22; Luke 11:14–23) or the Parable of the Mustard Seed (Mark 4:30–32; Luke 13:18–19), as well as Q’s sign of Jonah passage (Luke 11:29–32) which may presuppose a Galilean setting, are still situated in Galilee in Luke even though they have been placed in a new literary context. Thus, Jesus can along the outskirts Samaria both at the outset (Luke 9:52–56) andbe thegoing conclusion (17:11) of the of travel narrative without doing violence to Luke’s map. Furthermore, and perhaps most importantly, Luke’s geographical interests, which are everywhere else on display, can still be recognized in the travel section. He should not be denied his geography for the sake of a map he did not possess. A nal consideration may be taken into account regarding Luke’s imaginative geography: it is compatible with Mark. The language in Mark 10:1, the only clear geographical reference prior to Jesus’ arrival at Jericho in 10:46, would not alter Luke’s picture of a contiguous Galilee and Judea, regardless of the textual variants. The question is whether Jesus went to the region of a) Judea “and beyond” (καὶ πέραν) the Jordan; b) Judea “beyond” (πέραν) the Jordan; or c) Judea “through the region beyond” (διὰ τοῦ πέραν) the Jordan. External evidence alone is not determinative, but the internal considerations are suggestive. Option (c) would create the biggest potential problem for Luke’s imaginative geography. However, according to Metzger, this reading is The woes to the towns of Chorazin, Bethsaida, and Capernaum (Luke 10:13–15) are delivered in retrospection. In themselves, they are not indicative of a Galilean setting for the mission of the 70/72. See Green, The Gospel of Luke, 411–12. Reed, Archaeology, 197–211, argues that Galileans would have been aware of local traditions about Jonah re ected in later rabbinic writings. Metzger, Textual Commentary, 87–88.
“manifestly an explanatory correction introduced by copyists who were perplexed by the geographical di culties involved in earlier readings.” Option (b) likely re ects an attempt to conform Mark 10:1 to Matt 19:1, but even if this reading is maintained, it is not incompatible with Luke’s concept of a shared border between Galilee and Judea. Option (a), which likely re ects the earliest known wording, would only reinforce Luke’s picture of the area. Adela Yarbro that the later variants stemmed fromrst theand ambiguity of thisCollins readingnotes which “seems to imply thatlikely he went to Judea then to Perea.” Luke may have understood it in precisely that sense. This may suggest that Luke thinks of Perea as both “beyond the Jordan” and beyond (i.e., to the south of) Judea; as alluded to above, a sojourn there would not be consistent with the Lukan Jesus’ focus on Jerusalem. More importantly, however, there is nothing in the wording of Mark 10:1 that would contradict Luke’s notion that Galilee and Judea shared a common border. In fact, Luke’s imaginative geography may have taken it a step further: not only did Galilee share a common border with Judea, but more speci cally Galilee was a region within Judea. Modern scholarship typically recognizes that Luke is, as Bechard states, “indisputably inconsistent” regard to his use of Judea, using it sometimes in the “broader” sense (thewith entire region inclusive of Galilee) and sometimes in the “narrower” sense (the administrative district exclusive of Galilee). Nearly always taken for granted, however, are the spatial implications inherent in this distinction. In the broader sense, Jesus can be inside Galilee and Judea at the same time. In the narrower sense, however, he cannot; he must be in one or the other. The broader sense can be found substantiated in both Pliny and Strabo, but the narrower sense is based squarely on a conventional geography that is bound to a conventional map. According to that map, the administrative district of Galilee is spatially separated from the administrative district of Judea. Luke, on the other hand, never operates with any sense that Galilee could be spatially separated from Judea (even though he is well aware that it is a distinct administrative unit). Conzelmann argued that the broader vs. narrower distinction was unnecessary since Jesus could go back and forth at will across a common border between Judea and Galilee without ever going through Samaria. According to Luke’s imaginative geography, however, Jesus does not have to cross the administrative boundary. To put it another way, Luke knows that Jesus can be inside of Galilee and at the same time inside of Judea (e.g. 6:17); Luke also Ibid., 87. Collins, Mark, 457. Bechard, Paul Outside the Walls, 231 n.114.
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knows that Jesus can be outside of Galilee and inside Judea (e.g. 5:17); but Luke knows of no sense in which Jesus can be inside of Galilee and outside of Judea—precisely the “narrower” sense that modern scholars usually take for granted. Thus, it may be necessary to propose a third “composite” sense of Judea, drawn not from conventional mappings but from Luke’s imaginative geography, in which mid-1st c. Galilee is always a separate district from Judea administratively butthat never a separatefrom region from Judea In fact, this is precisely the sense is derivable both Pliny andspatially. Strabo. Neither gives any indication that Samaria lies between Galilee and Judea. Rather, Galilee is a “part” of Judea (pars: Pliny, Nat. 5.15; cf. Strabo, Geogr. 16.2.34), in the same way that Judea is a “part” of Syria (pars: Pliny, Nat. 5.13; µέρος: Strabo, Geogr. 16.2.2): conceptually distinct and spatially within but not spatially distinct.
Luke’s Galilee and Critical Geography: Implications For Luke
The implications of positing an imaginative forofLuke caninbecomfarreaching. First, it lends perspective to Luke’s geography de-emphasis Galilee parison to Mark. If Luke has an outsider’s view of the geography of Galilee, then it is reasonable to assume that he also has imported, at least to some degree, an outsider’s ideology with respect to Galilee. This should be carefully tempered with the full realization, however, that he does not share the outsider’s stereotypically negative views of the Jewish people, especially as they are presented in Strabo and Tacitus. As a re ection of his imaginative geography of the area, however, Luke displays a systematic minimizing of the importance of Galilee as a separate region. From the outsider’s perspective, the perspective not only of Luke but also presumably of his srcinal audience, Galilee was unimportant. This does not necessitate a rejection of Luke’s theological agenda with regard to Jerusalem but in fact works in conjunction The negative view alluded to here is not to be confused with what many have perceived as a Lukan “anti-Judaism.” To what degree Luke had a negative view of Judaism, especially in light of the Christian gospel, is a persistent question and beyond the purview of this study. It has little in common, however, with disparaging Greco-Roman stereotypes of Jewish srcins, customs, and temple worship. For a discussion of the anti-Judaism/proJudaism tension in Luke, see Daryl D. Schmidt, “Anti-Judaism and the Gospel of Luke,” in Anti-Judaism and the Gospels (ed. William R. Farmer; Harrisburg, Pa.: Trinity Press International, 1999), 63–96, and responses by David Balch and Allan McNicol. Cf. Cappelletti, “Non-Jewish Authors,” 81.
with it; it was Jerusalem, not Galilee, that played a prominent role in the Table of Nations tradition. Given the polemical function of imaginative geography in Said, the irony of its application to Luke’s gospel is that Luke’s depiction of Galilee is actually less polemical than what is found in Mark. Luke is not afraid to appropriate his source material in novel ways, and when recasting the Markan narrative he certainly recasts Galilee. Yet while Luke places his primary emphasis Jerusalem, is not anti-Galilee, andConzelmann he does not set one up as a foil for theonother. Galileeheand Judea are not, as argues, “throughout clearly distinguished as regions.” As Galilee is geographically subsumed within Judea, the importance of Galilee as a locale simply fades. Luke’s rather systematic elimination of allusions to Galilee in Mark, be they direct uses of the term or references to obviously Galilean locales, is readily explainable in light of his imaginative map. In other words, his minimization of Galilee is due more to his geography than his theology. Meanwhile, Jesus’ ministry emerges as a deliberately Judean one. As Galilee becomes less distinct in Luke as compared to Mark, Judea becomes more pronounced. Tyre, Sidon, the Decapolis, and Caesarea Philippi are not just “extraGalilean” they are alsoare extra-Judean territories. Episodes Mark thatterritories, take place outside Judea generally either omitted, such asfrom the Villages such as Nazareth, Bethlehem, Capernaum, and Bethsaida are πόλεις in Luke. Mark also refers to Capernaum as a πόλις (1:33) but Bethsaida is a κώµη (8:23, 26). In addition, the thatched roof of Capernaum in Mark 2:4 is replaced by ceiling tiles in Luke 5:19. On Mark’s accuracy in this regard, see Reed, Archaeology, 159. Conzelmann, Theology, 41. Luke 4:37||Mark 1:28; Luke 4:44||Mark 1:39; Luke 6:17||Mark 3:7; Luke 9:43b||Mark 9:30 (although in this case the elimination is necessary, since, contrary to Mark, there is no indication in Luke that Jesus ever left Galilee. Therefore Mark’s reference to Jesus’ return to Galilee is super uous.) I.e., locales2:1that are associated explicit2:13references to Galilee4:1elsewhere: 5:17||Mark (“Capernaum”); Lukewith 5:27||Mark and Luke 8:4||Mark (“the sea”).Luke The one possible exception to this rule might be Luke’s Bethsaida-area setting for the feeding miracle (Luke 9:10–17), particularly in light of Pliny, Nat 5.15, which mentions Bethsaida being on the east side of the lake. However, this may not have been known to Luke. Despite Rackham’s translation in the , Pliny actually refers to Bethsaida as “Julias,” the name Philip assigned to it upon its refounding as a polis (cf. Josephus, Ant. 18.28). Luke knows of Philip (3:1), but shows no awareness of this connection to Philip’s territory, indicating that he may have thought of Bethsaida as a Jewish city. Its inclusion with Chorazin and Capernaum in Q’s pronouncements of judgment (Luke 10:13) may have suggested a Galilean locale to Luke. Furthermore, Luke would not be alone in this placement—see John 12:21. Freyne, Galilee, Jesus, and the Gospels, 92–93.
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trip through Phoenicia and the second feeding miracle in the Decapolis, or moved to an ambiguous, implicitly Judean location, such as Peter’s confession in the villages of Caesarea Philippi (Mark 8:27||Luke 9:18–21). Brief stints on or just outside the borders—the Gerasene demoniac (Luke 8:26) and the Samaritan leper (17:11)—only underscore that Jesus’ ministry foreshadows something broader but for now is performed “throughout all Judea” only (Luke 23:5; cf. 4:44; 7:17; Acts Galilee absorbed withinthat Judea, particularly as Luke progresses into10:39). Acts. There is noisneed to assume because Galilee is omitted from Acts 1:8, Luke knew nothing about the Christian movement there. In Luke’s mind Galilee has been grafted into the Judean ministry, which is likely why it is placed in between Judea and Samaria in Acts 9:31. Con rmation of this approach to Luke’s imaginative geography becomes even more evident when it is compared to a completely di ferent imaginative geography of Galilee that has heretofore gone unmentioned: the one held by non-Galilean Judeans. A detailed reconstruction of this imaginative geography will have to remain tentative, but there are hints of it in the rabbinic corpus. Galilean traditions were often at odds with those of Judea, and the reputation associated with Galileans was not always Additional of an anti-Galilean polemic, however, come frompositive. the other gospels. Thehints Gospel of John implies that merely linking someone to Galilee, as the Jerusalem authorities do with Nicodemus (John 7:50–52), is considered disparaging. According to Matthew, Judeans could identify Galileans by their accent (Matt 26:73). This is somewhat cursory evidence, but if there was a polemical imaginative geography of Galilee, it seems to have come from within Judea. Luke, however, knows nothing of it. It is an indication that a comparison of Luke’s imaginative geography to the likes of Pliny and Strabo is a favorable one. He is not only an outsider with respect to Galilee, but with respect to all Judea. The second major implication of a Lukan imaginative geography is that many of the prevailing theories about the geographical structure of Luke’s gospel need to be reconsidered. The idea espoused by Schürmann, Völkel, and Klein that argues for an end to the Galilean section at 4:44 should be revised. Luke’s map allows him to conceive of Jesus being in Galilee even when it is Cf. Robinson, “Theological Context,” 29. See Ben Witherington, The Acts of the Apostles: A Socio-Rhetorical Commentary (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1998), 111. m. Ned. 2:4; b. Moʿed Qaṭ. 23a–b; b. Pesaḥ. 55a. b. B. Bat. 38a-b; b. Ned. 48a. Cf. Nathanael’s negative view of Nazareth in John 1:46, but see also ch. 4 below for a reassessment of John’s geography.
unexpectedly absent or replaced by Judea in the narrative as in 4:44 (Mark 1:39), 6:17 (cf. Mark 3:7–8), and 7:17 (Luke’s special material). Yet the theory espoused by most others, that the Galilean section ends at 9:50, misunderstands Luke’s geographical picture as well. For Luke, Jesus is in Galilee at least until 17:19 and perhaps beyond. He does not explicitly say when Jesus crosses the administrative border and exits Galilee, and it was apparently not a concern. By extension, theFitzmyer classic debate over Lukan as a whole is also subject to criticism. summarizes the twogeography primary options: 1. 2.
Galilee (4:14–9:50); Samaria (9:51–17:11); Judea/Jerusalem (17:11–21:38) Galilean ministry (4:14–9:50); the journey to Jerusalem (through Samaria and Judea, but not through Perea—9:51–19:27); Jerusalem ministry (19:28–21:38)
The second is an improvement upon the rst,but it is unlikely that Luke would be content with either one. As discussed above, a Galilean setting emerges in several sections of the “Samaria/journey” section. Only two explicit references are made a narrative setting within Judeasection in the entire gospel, they both come fromtothe “Galilee/Galilean ministry” (4:44; 7:17). In and the three geographical summaries of Jesus’ ministry given by Luke himself (Luke 23:5; Acts 10:37; 13:31), Samaria is never mentioned. The structure, particularly the break at Luke 9:51, may in fact be commendable. The forced geographical schema, posthumously imposed, is not. Finally, and most intriguingly, if Luke indeed employs a “composite” sense of Judea as described above, he acquires a quality that few in the past have been willing to bestow upon him: geographical consistency. The idea of being in Galilee without being also in Judea is foreign to Luke; he never thought of himself as creating a spatial contradiction when going back and forth between a “broader” and “narrower” sense. Thus, he can interweave his geographical references to Judea and Galilee without feeling like he is disorienting his readers. Dissonance occurs when the conventional map is superimposed upon Luke’s imaginative map. The indisputable inconsistency, to echo Bechard, may be an issue for modern scholars, but it was never an issue for Luke. It may be that Luke thought of Jesus as exiting Galilee when he picks up Mark’s narrative in earnest in Luke 18:15 (cf. Mark 10:13). Luke 18:31 is another tempting possibility, when Jesus renews his focus on Jerusalem, but Luke gives no geographical references that would substantiate this. Based on his imaginative geography, however, it is likely that he had no idea where the border was, and Mark o fers him little help. Fitzmyer, Luke: Introduction, Translation, and Notes, 165.
’ For Lukan Scholarship
“In all this Luke can hardly be said to live up to his reputation as a littérateur and a historian. But it is his geography which is principally at fault.” C.C. McCown’s scathing critiques of Luke’s “geographical ineptitude” are rather infamous among those who study the geography of the gospels. He decries Luke’s “arti ciality” and “geographical insensitiveness” in what he insists referred as thewalking “centralupsection,” since no one would believecan thatonly Jesusbecould spendtoweeks and down a Galilee-Samaria border which is only 12 to 15 miles long. He asks with bewilderment how anyone who is “so fond of geographical terms and settings” can at the same time be “so inde nite, careless, and even mistaken in their use.” In the end, Luke’s mountain of “geographical crimes” can mean only one thing: “He was a study-table geographer who never did any eldwork.” The impression McCown gives at times is one of apoplectic revulsion, but his nal conclusion about Luke, denigrating and pejorative as it may be, is essentially correct. Luke was an outsider to the area he wrote so extensively about; there is no indication that he knew the area personally. In every other respect, however, McCown’s analysis misses the point. It Judea” was Josephus who wrote, “The province of Samaria lies between Galilee and ( J.W. 3.49), not Luke. McCown no doubt read those words many times and frequently consulted maps based upon them. Luke never did. For Luke to be properly understood, he must be allowed to have his own imaginative geography, and he should be evaluated against that geography rst and foremost as opposed to a map he did not possess. It is usually assumed that because Pliny and Strabo have a limited or incorrect picture of the region, they are of little value as points of comparison. This study argues the opposite: it is precisely their incorrect understanding that makes them so valuable. Critiques of Luke’s geographical accuracy can come later, but they will likely prove far less fruitful once an imaginative geography is understood. Evaluated against his imaginative map, what emerges is the clear sense that Luke is not a McCown, “The Geography of Luke’s Central Section,” 58. McCown, “Gospel Geography,” 15. The phrase is occasionally quoted directly: Fitzmyer, Luke: Introduction, Translation, and Notes, 1152 (referencing Luke 17:11); Notley, “The Sea of Galilee,” 187. McCown, “The Geography of Luke’s Central Section,” 56. Ibid., 60, 65. Ibid., 56. Ibid., 60. McCown, “Gospel Geography,” 18.
careless geographer when it comes to ancient Palestine after all; he is actually a very careful one. Not only has Luke created an imaginative geography, he is faithful to it. Few of the interpretive methods employed in Lukan scholarship recognize this. None of this, however, need imply that Luke is being purely geographical, as if his geography somehow precludes a symbolic application or a theological agenda. One of the keyisconcepts to emerge from more recent theoretical approaches to geography that ideology is necessarily embedded in geography in the same way that it is embedded in historiography. This is particularly true with regard to Said’s imaginative geography. In the case of Luke’s Galilee, it is not of the pointed, deliberately polemical nature that Said attributes to Orientalism. Galilee is subjugated to Judea, but this subjugation is primarily spatial; there is no signi cant ideologically driven “Galileanism” in Luke that seeks either to denigrate or to dominate. In fact, the lack of an overt polemicism in Luke is all the more signi cant given the widespread anti-Semitism of other Greco-Roman “outsiders.” Luke stands within that tradition geographically, but theologically, at least to some extent, he should be viewed as cutting against the grain. Thusfor even a Galilee is geographically can have a critical function Luke. It is, asthat Freyne has recognized,subjugated the starting point for the ministry of Jesus, a ministry which is later transferred through the pouring out of the Spirit to the apostles for its expansion and completion. The Galileans are to be “witnesses” (Luke 24:48; Acts 1:8, 22; 2:32; 3:15; 10:39–41; 13:31) of all Jesus has done both at home and abroad. Galilee is the ἀρξάµενος ἀπό to Judea’s καθ᾽ ὅλης (Luke 23:5; Acts 10:37; cf. Luke 7:17; Acts 9:31), just as Jerusalem is the ἀρξάµενοι ἀπό to the earth’s ἕως ἐσχάτου (Luke 24:47; Acts 1:8; 13:47). Galilee may have lost ground in Luke’s geography, but it still has a place in Luke’s theology.
Freyne, Galilee, Jesus, and the Gospels, 115. To echo Robinson, “Theological Context,” 29.
John’s Galilee Introduction
“I would like to begin this study with the unusual confession that I shall be discussing a subject which, in the last analysis, I do not understand.” So began Ernst Käsemann’s rst Scha fer Lecture at Yale Divinity School in the spring of 1966. The “study” to which he was referring was none other than the Gospel of John. Facing a subset of the same study, speci cally, the Galilee of the Fourth Gospel, if such a confession was appropriate for Käsemann, it is more than appropriate here. With any study of the Gospel of John, it is usually the questions that run rampant and the answers that remain elusive. In the very moment we think we have uncovered a de nitive solution to one of its mystifying puzzles, more di culties spring up in its wake. The Fourth Gospel was chosen for inclusion in this studyknotty speci geography. cally for its widespread symbolism, layers of meaning, and particularly The problem at rstglance lies in John’s narration of Jesus’ travels, an account that di fers remarkably from those recorded in the synoptics. Whereas the synoptics essentially depict Jesus’ ministry as beginning in Galilee and making its way to Jerusalem, John’s travelogue is far more extensive. In addition to the discrepancy with the synoptics, there are internal inconsistencies as well, the most notable of which can be found at the beginning of John 6. Jesus, in mid-conversation in Jerusalem at the close of ch. 5, whisks away suddenly “to the other side of the Sea of Galilee, or Tiberias” with barely as much as a µετὰ ταῦτα to serve as a transition. The geography of John is further complicated by its portrait of Jesus, which—if Wayne Meeks’ reassessment of Rudolf Bultmann is right, viz., that Jesus reveals that he is an enigma —is precisely what this portrait is meant to do. The Ioudaioi (a term deliberately left untranslated here )
Ernst Käsemann, The Testament of Jesus: A Study of the Gospel of John in the Light of Chapter 17 (trans. Gerhard Krodel; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1968), 1. Wayne Meeks, “The Man from Heaven in Johannine Sectarianism,” 91:1 (Mar 1972): 57. Literature on the identity of the Ioudaioi in the Fourth Gospel is extensive. See, in particular, two articles by Urban C. von Wahlde devoted to surveying the research: “The Johannine ‘Jews’: A Critical Survey,” 28:1 (Jan 1982): 33–60; “The ‘Jews’ in the Gospel of John: Fifteen Years of Research (1983–1998),” 76:1 (Apr 2000): 30–55. A more recent article by Cornelis Bennema, “The Identity and Composition of ΟΙ ΙΟΥ∆ΑΙΟΙ in the Gospel of John,”TynBul 60:2
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have their most pervasive problem with Jesus’ identity; they sometimes phrase their questions spatially, particularly in terms of where Jesus is from, all the while betraying a lack of awareness of Jesus’ true heavenly srcins. We are left nearly as confused as they are, with our geographical sensibilities reeling and asking the question: just what sort of map is this author using? The di culties associated with interpreting John’s use of space and locale have long history. Heracleon’s gnosticknown commentary the Fourth Gospel,freone of theaearliest scriptural commentaries to haveon existed, was quoted quently by Origen in his own Commentary on John. While their conclusions often di fered, the methods were similar: Jesus’ travels from place to place could be understood allegorically as references to spiritual truths. For Origen, indications of the allegorical meaning became apparent through one of several interpretive methods. Topography, for example, could be read at a symbolic level. When Jesus leaves Cana after the wedding miracle, he must “go down to” Capernaum, rather than “go up to” or “go in to,” indicating that Capernaum was of lower spiritual status than Cana (Comm. John 10.7). As was typical of allegorical interpretation during that time, Origen also attached great importance to the there etymology of place thosemost placeimportantly, names re ected Jesus’ poses (Comm. John names, 10.6, 10).since Perhaps Origen sawpurthe perceived historical discrepancies between the gospel writers as an opportunity for spiritual exegesis, like cracks in the surface of the narrative that led to deeper elucidation. Thus he maintained that when it came to understanding
(2009): 239–63 (especially pages 239–45), provides a valuable review of the research since von Wahlde’s 2000 article. The identity of the Ioudaioi is not the primary focus of the present study, although the term’s “sense” (that is, how the group functions as an element of the narrative—see John Ashton, “The Identity and Function of the Ἰουδαῖοι in the Fourth Gospel,” NovT 27:1 [Jan 1985]: 40–75) is not unrelated, particularly in light of questions surrounding the “sense” of the gospel’s Galilaioi. However, as will be argued below, a strict dichotomy between Ioudaioi and Galilaioi, one which might de ne the Galilaioi negatively as the opposite of Ioudaioi, is not as consistently maintained throughout the gospel as some have insisted. No attempt is made here to determine whether the Ioudaioi consist of Judeans, Jewish leadership, Jewish laity regardless of locale, or anyone worshipping the Jewish God regardless of ethnicity. Bennema (op. cit., 256, 259–64) argues convincingly that the Ioudaioi were a composite group and, to some extent at least, were divided in their responses to Jesus. Regarding the di culties confronting “dynamic equivalence” translations of the term Ἰουδαῖοι, see the helpful article by Ruth Sheridan, “Issues in the Translation of οἱ Ἰουδαῖοι in the Fourth Gospel,” 132:3 (2013): 671–95. See the study by Elaine Pagels, The Johannine Gospel in Gnostic Exegesis: Heracleon’s Commentary on John ( ; Nashville: Abingdon, 1973).
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Jesus’ travels from place to place, “the truth of these matters must lie in that which is seen by the mind” ( Comm. John 10.2). Modern approaches to the interpretation of Johannine geography do not utilize the same methods, but the association with symbolism persists. Scholarship is certainly less than monolithic, but despite the geographical conundrums—inseparable as they are from equally challenging questions of srcins, ethnicity, theology—this area where To a discernible path canand be traced leading toisa one family of of similarstudies conclusions. one degree or another, a majority of scholars interpret the geography of the Fourth Gospel symbolically, particularly along the lines of a Judea/Jerusalem vs. Galilee dichotomy. This approach has noticeable parallels to the innovative work of J. Louis Martyn and Raymond Brown (though Brown himself did not subscribe to such geographical symbolism ). They argued that the Gospel itself is best understood as operating at two levels, the rst being the level of the narrative action and the second being the level of the Johannine community. Applied to John’s geography, the narrative space of the gospel re ects the experiences and perspectives of Johannine Christians as well as other groups against were (and are still) de This which overallthey solution is intriguing. In aned. manner similar to the confounding geography of Luke, it allows many scholars to mine John’s geography for sense, meaning, and ideology without feeling tied to geography itself. Yet as with Luke, John seems to be truly interested in place and locality. The Fourth Gospel’s penchant for speci c place names such as Cana, Sychar, Ephraim, and the pool of Bethzatha, all of which are absent from the synoptics, is well known. Casting a massive shadow over all of them, however, is John’s peculiar interest in a place much more broadly conceived: ὁ κόσµος. In the Gospel of John,
The tenability of this view receives support from the many studies on the use of speci c symbols in the Fourth Gospel (even if those symbols are not directly related to geography). For more general discussions of Johannine symbolism, see Xavier Léon-Dufour, “Towards a Symbolic Reading of the Fourth Gospel,” 27:4 (July 1981): 439–56; R. Alan Culpepper, Anatomy of the Fourth Gospel: A Study in Literary Design (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1983), 180–98; Craig R. Koester, Symbolism in the Fourth Gospel: Meaning, Mystery, Community (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1995). J. Louis Martyn, History and Theology in the Fourth Gospel (3rd ed.; Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2003). Raymond Brown, The Gospel According to John( 29–29A; Garden City, . .: Doubleday, 1966–70), 1. – ; idem, The Community of the Beloved Disciple (New York: Paulist Press, 1979); idem, The Epistles of John ( 30; New York: Doubleday, 1982), 71–86. Brown, Community, 39.
“the world” occurs ve times more than in the synoptics combined, and no one instance is enough to illustrate its signi cance. John 17:16–18, Jesus’ prayer for his disciples, at least pulls together one of the most important juxtapositions: They do not belong to the world, just as I do not belong to the world. . . . As you have sent me into the world, so I have sent them into the world. How does John situate Galilee in light of the gospel’s robust symbolism, pervasive dualism, and cosmic outlook?
Review of Scholarship
In much the same way that Ernst Lohmeyer stood at the threshold of modern theorizing about Mark’s Galilee, scholarship pertaining to John’s geography is heavily indebted to the 1925 study of Karl Kundsin, Topologische Überlieferungssto fe im Johannes-Evangelium. Many of those who are at variance withKundsin his conclusions tracehad their lineage back toinhis ing work. claimed can locality been undervalued thegroundbreakstudy of the formation of Christian tradition. Given how geography has often languished in the shadow of history, he was ahead of the curve in asserting space into critical discourse pertaining to the Fourth Gospel. He argued that whereas Paul and Luke took a chronological approach to developing the tradition of the church, Mark and John instead employed a topographical approach that prioritized the value of place (Ortsangabe) over that of time. With respect to John, this was evident in the special attention given to the interweaving of speci c localities into the gospel’s narrative. These geographical details were not utilized by the evangelist simply to add narrative color but rather to re ect the traditions of the early church already forming with regard to “holy places.” The predominance of place names in the south as opposed to the north led Kundsin to hypothesize a Judea-centered tradition, but he acknowledged strong northern elements as well, particularly those pertaining to Cana. In fact, so critical were places like Cana and Sychar to the narrative, Kundsin The statistics are as follows for NA28: Matthew – 9; Mark – 3; Luke – 3; Acts – 1; John – 78; Epistles of John – 24. Karl Kundsin, Topologische Überlieferungssto fe im Johannes-Evangelium(Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1925), 7–8. Ibid., 17–19. Ibid., 76–77. Ibid., 22–25.
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posited active Johannine Christian communities in both Galilee and Samaria when the gospel was written, and especially at those speci c settlements. By way of contrast, the devaluation of Capernaum in the Gospel of John relative to the synoptics could be explained by the absence of a Johannine community there. In the same way that the Genesis place-traditions re ected the locales most important to later Jewish communities, so the Johannine placetraditions redoes ected localesatmost important to the Johannine In short, locale notthe function the level of the historical Jesus, norchurch. is it literary ourish; rather it represents a geography that is pertinent to the Johannine community’s situation. The idea of locating Christian communities in those places emphasized or esteemed within the narrative was adopted as well by Lohmeyer with respect to Mark’s gospel several years later, and some of the same criticisms that were applied to Lohmeyer are applicable to Kundsin as well, speci cally the dearth of evidence from this period in support of such communities in Galilee. Although few since have used Kundsin as a basis for their understanding of Johannine geography, a notable exception came in the form of a short article by Charles H.H. Scobie in 1982. that Scobie wasaless convinced of the developing trend in Johannine scholarship favored symbolic interpretation of geography. Instead, he preferred Kundsin’s approach, essentially adopting whole cloth his method of locating Johannine churches in places that are highlighted in the gospel. Johannine Christians in Bethany, for example, likely would have venerated places like Mary and Martha’s house or Lazarus’ tomb while reserving some level of animosity for those of “imperfect faith” in Jerusalem (cf. John 7:5), i.e. the Christian church under the leadership of James. Similar proposals are made for Johannine churches in Galilee and Samaria, and he assumes that the traditional material containing topological references must date to the earliest period of the Johannine community’s history. Like Kundsin, however, Ibid., 30–34. Ibid., 1–3. Kundsin also discusses the cult of Dionysus traditions in the same way (4–5). A similar assessment can be found in Gerd Theissen, The Gospels in Context: Social and Political History in the Synoptic Tradition (trans. Linda M. Maloney; Minneapolis: Fortress, 1991), 16. Charles H.H. Scobie, “Johannine Geography,” 11:1 (1982): 77–84. Ibid., 81; cf. Brown’s communities of “inadequate faith” in Community, 73–81; Francis J. Moloney, “From Cana to Cana (John 2:1–4:54) and the Fourth Evangelist’s Concept of Correct (and Incorrect) Faith,” in Studia Biblica 1978, II: Papers on the Gospels(ed. Elizabeth A. Livingstone; She eld: Press, 1980), 185–213. See also Charles H.H. Scobie, “The Origins and Development of Samaritan Christianity,” 19:4 (1973): 390–414. Scobie, “Johannine Geography,” 82.
Scobie does not go beyond suggestive readings of the text. Meeks, who was also intrigued by Kundsin’s study, had already noted that Kundsin’s theories lacked substantiating evidence that could only come from further historical study of Galilee and Samaria in the rst two centuries. Ironically, it was the work of Wayne Meeks that was instrumental in steering the trajectory of scholarship away from Kundsin and in a new direction with regard Johannine geography. He was preceded in thisis regard, however, by the worktoof R.H. Lightfoot. His commentary on John often cited, particularly with regard to his interpretation of John 4:44, but the commentary devotes much less attention to geography than his earlier monograph, Locality and Doctrine in the Gospels. In the earlier work, Lightfoot looked for theological spin within the topographical traditions of John much as he did with the other gospels. He viewed Jerusalem as the gospel’s primary focus, though the author approached it with ambivalence, casting it “not only in light, but shadow,” with its most distinctive feature being that “the cross stood there.” With regard to Galilee speci cally, he asserted that its function in John’s gospel was minor, but favorable. It did not have the eschatological overtones of Mark’s Galilee, butbut it had associations ofitits own. It was a place of secrecy and retreat for Jesus, more importantly was a place of acceptance, where signs were more fruitfully received than in Jerusalem. Thus, Lightfoot concluded that being “of Galilee” was tantamount to being “an adherent of Jesus and hostile to the ‘Jews.’” His view on this would change somewhat in his later commentary, but his theological approach to John’s geography would set in motion a new line of interpretation e fectively replacing Kundsin’s etiology with a geographical symbolism. Wayne Meeks, The Prophet-King: Moses Traditions and the Johannine Christology(Leiden: Brill, 1967), 314–16. Wayne Meeks, “Galilee and Judea in the Fourth Gospel,” 85:2 (June 1966): 169. R.H. Lightfoot, Locality and Doctrine in the Gospels (New York: Harper and Bros. Publishers, 1938), 144. See also the short article by another predecessor of Meeks, Donatien Mollat, “Remarques sur le vocabulaire spatial du quatrième évangile,” in Studia Evangelica 1 (ed. Kurt Aland; Texte und Untersuchungen 72; Berlin: Akademie-Verlag, 1959), 321–28. Mollat argues for a theological interpretation of spatial references along the lines of Johannine dualism. Lightfoot, Locality and Doctrine, 158. Ibid., 157. Ibid., 149. R.H. Lightfoot, St. John’s Gospel: A Commentary(Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1956), 34–36. The change is noticeable in his comments on John 4:44. This passage will be discussed in further detail below.
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Meeks left an indelible mark on Johannine scholarship in general with his penetrating 1972 essay on Johannine sectarianism, but his 1966 article, “Galilee and Judea in the Fourth Gospel,” has had a more direct in uence on interpretations of the gospel’s geography. In this respect he continued in the same vein as Lightfoot, whom he cites favorably. Meeks begins by discussing the issue of Jesus’ srcins. The traditions associating Jesus with Nazareth of Galilee predate the andcomment the author awaresrcins of them, whenare theaccompacharacters within thegospel, narrative onisJesus’ theirbut remarks nied by ignorance, misunderstanding, and irony. Such remarks have the e fect of underscoring Jesus’ true srcin “from God,” yet Meeks insists that Jesus’ Galilean srcins are also emphasized, particularly in contrast to the presumed non-Galilean srcins of the Messiah or “the prophet.” What accounts for this emphasis on Galilee? To answer that question, Meeks turns to John 4:44, the saying which appears (with variations) in all four canonical gospels plus the Gospel of Thomas, regarding a prophet being without honor in his πατρίς. The passage presents a notorious problem for interpretation; whereas the synoptics assume Jesus’ πατρίς to be Galilee, the Fourth appears toJesus apply it dihis ferently. the following verse, the Galileans are Gospel said to welcome upon arrivalIn there after having traveled from Judea. In light of John 1:11–12, the reception indicates that Jesus’ πατρίς should not be understood as Galilee but rather Judea, the place of Jesus’ rejection by the Ioudaioi. Thus, “the Galileans are those who ‘receive’ Jesus.” Meeks is aware of the temptation to posit a “purely symbolic” sense of John’s geography, but in the end he is not comfortable with this view. Instead, citing Kundsin, he suggests that “historical reasons” may account for the peculiar emphases placed on Galilee and Samaria. Nevertheless, it was the symbolism that proved to be the more enduring quality of Meeks’ study, and the Jerusalem/Judea vs. Galilee dichotomy, where Jerusalem and Judea become the place of rejection and Galilee the place of reception, continues to hold sway as the dominant interpretation of Johannine geography. It is important to note that much of Meeks’ argument is formulated against the form critical analysis of the Fourth Gospel by C.H. Dodd. For Dodd, the “topographical notices” in John derived from traditional material. Thus the geographical framework was not laden with symbolism, and Galilee was Meeks, “Galilee and Judea,” 162–66. Speci cally, Nazareth, a connection made explicit in Luke but not in Matthew or Mark. Ibid., 165. Ibid., 168. C.H. Dodd, Historical Tradition in the Fourth Gospel (Cambridge: Cambridge , 1963), 233.
not considered as important relative to Judea and Jerusalem. In challenging Dodd, Meeks did not explore the redactional tendencies of the gospel in any detail, but Robert Fortna, who credited Meeks with bringing Lightfoot’s take on John’s geography to the fore, did embrace the task. In his 1974 essay, Fortna argues that references to speci c locales are due to the redactional activity of the evangelist. For example, Jesus’ ight across the Jordan in John 10:40 would not have been found in the source material, since happened there. It must have been an editorial insertion, one that toysnothing deliberately with locality as a symbol for acceptance or rejection. As with Bultmann, Fortna’s redactional approach to John’s gospel can be speculative at times. If his analysis has been successful, it has been predominantly as a countermeasure to Dodd. His study goes beyond redaction critical analysis, however, and includes an interpretation of the theological signi cance of John’s topography. In this way Fortna follows Meeks, but he does not share Meeks’ view of Kundsin nor his openness to situating Johannine communities in the gospel’s named localities. Instead, Fortna is interested in showing how the evangelist sets up Galilee, which is nearly always depicted favorably, as the primary foil for Judea. Galilee is the of discipleship,” and one who opposition to“place Jesus of is “faith, ipso facto no longer a Ioudaios but achallenges Galilean.”Jewish The term Ioudaios is better translated as “Judean” since the opposite of Ioudaios in the gospel is not “Gentile” but “Samaritan” or “Galilean.” Whereas Judea’s depiction is “rarely unambiguously positive,” Galilee is nothing less than “terra christiana.” In the nal analysis, locality in John’s gospel “ceases to be mere topography and becomes instead a symbol for human attitude.” Fortna’s symbolism at times is taken to extremes. When Jesus goes to Jerusalem in John 7:10, the fact that he goes “in secret” has implications for the gospel’s spatial symbolism: “he is, yet is not, in Judea.” Nevertheless, the utilization of a symbolic lter for spatial references in the Fourth Gospel has continued to be the preferred interpretive method. Both Meeks and Fortna tied the symbolism speci cally to the regions of Galilee and Judea (and, to an extent, Samaria). Jouette Bassler followed this same line of interpretation but
Robert T. Fortna, “Theological Use of Locale in the Fourth Gospel,” AThRSup 3 (1974): 64. Ibid., 85. Ibid., 87. Ibid., 84, 93. Ibid., 88. Though Fortna does not cite him here, the phrase echoes Ernst Lohmeyer, Galiläa und Jerusalem (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1936), 28, who characterized Mark’s Galilee as “ terra christiana.” Ibid., 93. Ibid., 74.
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with one signi cant modi cation. In her 1981 article, she argued for essentially the same distinction between acceptance and rejection, but she couched it in ethnographic rather than geographic terms. The reason for the modi cation grew out of her reading of John 6, in which the Galilean “pattern of positive response” is broken. Here, Jesus receives a much cooler reception; some begin to complain about his teaching (v. 41), and some even refuse to follow him any further (v. 66). Yet notesthan that the at this point. inThe therejection narrative, Jesus’ primary challengers areBassler none other Ioudaioi appears out of place in light of the previously proposed geographical symbolism, but it is consistent with Bassler’s proposed ethnographic symbolism according to which the Ioudaioi are characterized by their rejection (or inauthentic acceptance) of Jesus while the “Galileans” are portrayed as those who receive and believe. In other words, the metaphor is tied to people, not place. On the whole, Bassler’s modi cation has been well received, and even Meeks in a later article cites her correction favorably. Since the publication of her study, most deliberate treatments of John’s geographical symbolism have followed the Meeks-Fortna-Bassler approach. The place/people distinction has not always been strictly delineated subsequent analyses, butmaintained. the pattern of acceptance in as Galilee coupled with in rejection in Judea has been Craig R. Koester’s 1995 monograph on Johannine symbolism is in general agreement, although the geography of the Fourth Gospel does not occupy a major part of his study, and his brief section on “Geographical Symbolism” is tucked away in the Postscript. More important than the acceptance/rejection pattern for Koester is that the gospel’s intended readers would have conceived
Jouette M. Bassler, “The Galileans: A Neglected Factor in Johannine Community Research,” 43 (1981): 251. Ibid., 252. Ibid., 254–55. Wayne Meeks, “Breaking Away: Three New Testament Pictures of Christianity’s Separation from the Jewish Communities,” in Essential Papers on Judaism and Christianity in Con lict: From Late Antiquity to the Reformation (ed. Jeremy Cohen; New York: New York University Press, 1991), 92. Others who explicitly cite Bassler in support include Culpepper, Anatomy, 131; Sean Freyne, Galilee, Jesus and the Gospels: Literary Approaches and Historical Investigations (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1988), 122 n.8; David Rensberger, Johannine Faith and Liberating Community (P hiladelphia: Westminster Press, 1988), 34 n.64; Koester, Symbolism, 58; Lawrence M. Wills, The Quest of the Historical Gospel: Mark, John and the Origins of the Gospel Genre (London: Routledge, 1997), 173; Craig S. Keener, Vol. 1 of The Gospel of John: A Commentary (Peabody, Mass: Hendrickson, 2003), .221 n.455, .228. Koester, Symbolism, 262–64. He is more concerned with how various individuals/groups, actions, and concepts (such as light or water) function symbolically than with the gospel’s spatial references.
of individual locales as real places, but they also would have had certain builtin ideas associated with them. It is a more limited approach, since it presupposes information already existing within the reader’s knowledge set, and thus the evangelist is not necessarily creating the symbolism outright. Nevertheless, Koester is sympathetic to Bassler, adding only that the symbols associated with (the people of) Galilee and Judea were re ecting broader traditions already connected with those regions Jesus’does activity in Galilee andpreviously his death in Jerusalem. Interpretation of due the to gospel not hinge on such held associations, according to Koester, but an understanding of Johannine geographical symbolism would certainly be “enhanced.” In an article speci cally on the Fourth Gospel’s depiction of Galilee, Frédéric Manns advocates a similar acceptance/rejection dichotomy. The article does su fer from trying to do too many things at once. Manns devotes a substantial subsection of the study to the rabbinic stereotypes regarding Galilee, from which he concludes that Galilee was in fact rather similar to Judea in terms of its respect for Jewish law. He then discusses Galilee as a symbol for discipleship, concluding that it should be held in juxtaposition to Judea. He softens the apparent by appealing theaspeople Galilee in precisely the inconsistency, same way thathowever, Bassler does. Galilee’s to role “terre of d’accueil” is contradicted by the negative reaction to Jesus’ teaching in John 6:41 f, but it is the “Jews,” rather than the Galileans, who are guilty of the lack of faith. One of the most recent studies to take on Johannine geography in earnest is the essay on “territoriality” in the Fourth Gospel by Jerome H. Neyrey. With Neyrey, any lingering ties to the historical Galilee and Judea that were still visible in Koester or Manns dissipate completely. Neyrey prefers to analyze the geography of the gospel through the anthropological lens of “territoriality,” de ned as the assertion of in uence or control over a given space, regardless of whether that space is geographical or “trans-geographical.” The “territoriality” model employed by anthropologists helps to de ne territory, usually according to binary oppositions: public/private, sacred/profane, xed/ uid, etc. Neyrey’s application of this model seeks similar dichotomies in the Gospel of
Ibid., 264. Frédéric Manns, “La Galilée dans le quatrième évangile,” Anton 72:3 (1997): 351–64. Ibid., 359. Ibid., 363. He does not cite Bassler directly at any point in the article. Jerome H. Neyrey, “Spaces and Places, Whence and Whither, Homes and Rooms,” 32:2 (2002): 60–74; reprinted with very few modi cations in idem, The Gospel of John in Cultural and Rhetorical Perspective(Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2009), 58–86. Neyrey, “Spaces,” 61.
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John and analyzes how the author vests meaning in them. Beginning with the Galilee/Judea dichotomy, Neyrey distinguishes his approach as “symbolic” as opposed to “topographical” or “traditional.” The regional distinctions are not spatial but social, and the key to decoding their proper character hinges on whether Jesus “remains” in a given place or not. Jesus “remains” in Galilee; he does not “remain” in Judea. Thus, although Neyrey’s methods and interpretive models are diasferent, position on John’s geographical essentially the same that ofhis Bassler, whom he cites favorably. symbolism is The rhetoric of Neyrey’s symbolic interpretation, however, goes beyond that of his predecessors. He is unabashedly insistent on detaching John’s geography from anything involving “real or topological” space. When referring to the theme of “remaining,” Neyrey states that “this happens in ‘Galilee,’ wherever that may be.” Regarding the Galilee/Judea dichotomy, he explains that “no speci c geographical space is identi ed.” His conclusion puts it starkly: “[T]here is relatively little geographical or topological space of concern in the Fourth Gospel. ‘Galilee’ and ‘Judea’ are not real places, but code names for welcome or rejection.” Thus, although interpretations of Johannine geography completely uniform, there is an identi able line of interpretation that are hasnot become dominant, particularly among those who have made theorizing about John’s use of space their aim. The Meeks-Fortna-Bassler approach has become somewhat mainstream; having been adopted in several studies that do not make Johannine geography their primary focus, it now appears to be the default position. With that in mind, however, a few additional comments are needed with regard to those who hold di fering views, since not all who look at John’s geography opt for symbolism as the primary hermeneutical tool. Raymond Brown, despite his theory that in John’s gospel the history of the Johannine Community was written back onto the story of Jesus, never accepted the idea of a pattern of spatial symbols in John, particularly with regard to Judea and Galilee. Commenting on the rearrangement theories spawned by the di cult
His study includes a number of other applications of space as well: public/private, xed/ uid, whence/whither. They are not necessarily related to one another. Neyrey, “Spaces,” 63. Ibid., 63–64. See the critique of this idea below. Ibid., 64. Ibid., 63. Ibid., 64. Ibid., 71. Brown, Community, 39, citing Fortna (unfavorably).
transition between chs. 5 & 6, he voiced what some commentators who say nothing at all about Johannine geography probably think: “No rearrangement can solve all of the geographical and chronological problems in John, and to rearrange on the basis of geography and chronology is to give undue emphasis to something that does not seem to have been of major importance to the evangelist.” In other words, if geography was not a consequential issue for John, neither should itrebuttal be for modern interpreters. The most forceful of a symbolic interpretation of the land in John has come from W.D. Davies. His de nition of “land” ranges rather broadly, including virtually all of the spatial markers in John and not just geographical features such as cities and regions. The centerpiece of his argument is that Jesus has become the replacement for the Temple and has thus supplanted any need for a land theology or a spatial symbolism. When Jesus departs from the Temple in John 8:59, Davies reads this as a deliberate separation from what was perceived as holy space in order that Jesus himself might become its substitute. The symbolism is therefore misused when applied to geography rather than Christ and the Temple. For the Gospel of John, “the person of Jesus becomes place’likely which replacestheological all holy places. lighttoofgeographic this, it is, therefore,the not‘the a gospel to ascribe signi In cance entities. To do so, it would seem, would be to contradict much of its concern.” In a separate section covering Galilee and Judea, Davies is even more direct. After spending several pages reviewing and critiquing Meeks’ theory, he claims that only by a “tour de force” can an acceptance/rejection dichotomy be superimposed upon Johannine geography. His exegetical counterarguments are instructive, but Christology predominates: “To ascribe to John a developed geographical symbolism would be to run counter to his concentration on the Word made esh in a Person.” Thus, once again, it is his view of Jesus that becomes his trump card. Davies acknowledges Brown as a primary in uence with regard to his rejection of a geographical symbolism, and both are, by the standards of critical geographers today, methodologically suspect in assigning a benign or neutral
Brown, The Gospel According to John, 1.236. W.D. Davies, The Gospel and the Land: Early Christianity and Jewish Territorial Doctrine (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1974; repr., She eld: press, 1994); see esp. pp. 321–31 where he deals with “Galilee and Judea” in a separate section. Ibid., 294. Ibid., 318. Ibid., 329. Ibid., 331 n.85.
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character to space. The reason Davies’ overarching approach has garnered fewer adherents is not due to his exegesis, which at times is extremely helpful, but at least in part to awed assumptions about space. For example, Davies claims that when the two disciples of John the Baptist ask Jesus where he is staying (John 1:38), no “spiritual connotation” is intended, since they are able to “see” the place “that day,” implying that it was a physical locale. He seems to disregard the ideasymbolically that actual physical locations can have metaphorical meanings and be used or even re-created in discourse. Davies may also be criticized for his idea that Jesus is the only sacred “place” in John’s gospel in contradistinction to the Temple. As mentioned above, John 8:59, where Jesus is said to depart from the Temple, is a key passage for Davies’ interpretation. His attempt to explain John 10:22 (“Jesus was walking in the temple, in the portico of Solomon”) by claiming that the reference to the portico indicates that Jesus was “outside the Temple proper” is unconvincing. Yet even if Jesus is being presented as a holy space to replace the Temple, it does not preclude the possibility that John’s geography may be critically evaluated in terms of its function as an ideological vehicle. Both Davies and Brown seem to have been under the impression that eitheratgeography was signi cant as a deep spiritual metaphor or it signi ed nothing all. More recently, however, there has been a new take on Johannine geography, one which views John’s gospel as a valid source of information, both geographical and chronological, for the historical Jesus. The reasoning behind such an approach di fers considerably from that of Brown or Davies, neither of whom places much importance on John’s geographical information, but in one Ibid., 328. Ibid., 292. See in particular the work that has come out of the Society of Biblical Literature’s John, Jesus, and History Group: Paul N. Anderson, Felix Just, S.J., and Tom Thatcher, eds. John, Jesus, and History, Volume 1: Critical Appraisals of Critical Views (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2007) and John, Jesus, and History, Volume 2: Aspects of Historicity in the Fourth Gospel(Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2009). See also D. Moody Smith, John Among the Gospels (2nd ed.; Columbia, : University of South Carolina Press, 2001; src. pub. 1992), 205; Keener, The Gospel of John, .42–47; Richard Bauckham, The
Testimony of the Beloved Disciple: Narrative, History, and Theology in the Gospel of John (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2007); C. Stephen Evans, “The Historical Reliability of John’s Gospel: From What Perspective Should It Be Assessed?” in The Gospel of John and Christian Theology (ed. Richard Bauckham and Carl Mosser; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2008), 91–119. Rumblings of this can be also be seen in Paula Fredriksen, Jesus of Nazareth King of the Jews: A Jewish Life and the Emergence of Christianity(New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2000), 33–34.
fundamental respect they are similar. The evangelist’s interest in speci c locations and the depiction of Jesus’ regular movements between Jerusalem and Galilee (as opposed to what may be a more stylized Galilee-journey-Jerusalem schema in the synoptics) are providing an alternative to the predominantly symbolic readings that have dominated Johannine scholarship for the past generation. To what extent this reappraisal of the Fourth Gospel’s geographical and value willthat gainthe momentum remains totobe seen.gospel If nothing else, it is ahistorical subtle indication symbolic approach John’s has been pushed to an extreme that some nd untenable. Is the interpretation of John’s geography in need of a corrective?
John and Critical Geography
At this point it may be helpful to make an observation concerning one of the great ironies of current scholarship on Johannine geography. What Meeks proposed, what Bassler perfected, and what Neyrey beati ed has become a commonly, if not quite agreed method the in interpretation of Johannine space. Notuniversally, only is a de nite upon pattern identiforable the organic growth of the theory, but more importantly the theory itself is essentially an explication of the pattern to be found in John’s geography. In other words, the riddle is decipherable. Meeks shows the most reserve; by the end of his 1966 article, he is still looking for the proper place for his theory of a Galilee/Judea dichotomy to land safely. Bassler is more con dent. By the end of her study, admittedly after considerable evidence sifting, she can say, “The symbolism is obvious.” By the time the theory reaches Neyrey, he asserts that the geography of John can be readily understood once one “learns the code.” Is anything in John “obvious”? Can anything in John be easily “decoded”? Despite its twists and turns, what makes John’s geography so readily decipherable for many interpreters is the application to it of a legible map. The map in question is not a conventional one that outlines boundaries and points out topographical features. Whereas with Luke scholars still cling to the conventional map (even if Luke does not), with John the conventional map was It should be noted that Meeks’ lens for the interpretation of John changes somewhat by the time he gets to his now classic essay on Johannine sectarianism. He argues that it is in fact the heightened sense of misunderstanding in John that makes the message of the gospel even remotely understandable, a method laden with an irony all its own. Bassler, “The Galileans,” 254. Neyrey, “Spaces and Places,” 64.
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discarded long ago. In its place, however, is a conceptual map, a map that situates symbols like landmarks within a metaphorical landscape and allows the reader to navigate safely through them. It is a road map for John’s symbolic geography, a pattern for interpretation. As such, it confers meaning, it gives de nition, and it provides stability. Central to Geo f King’s theoretical approach to cartography is the notion of mapsthat as objective re ections In his book destabilizing Reality , he proposes the mapping processofisterritory. less of a re ection of Mapping the land itself than most people realize. Maps are ideological tools, at times going “well beyond the bounds of simple propaganda,” and they have always been used to bolster existing viewpoints. Thus, in this sense, they do not re ect the territory so much as the culture behind the cartography. They are “cultural productions” that “owe as much to particular understandings of a territory as to the territory itself, if not more.” It is false, therefore, to conclude that the history of mapmaking has been characterized by the systematic elimination of subjective elements or bias, even as cartography has made huge strides in depicting land more accurately. Maps do not qualify as “neutral phenomena.” King’s program does notJean stopBaudrillard’s with deconstructing thethe objectivity of the map, however. Following concept of “precession of simulacra,” he also sets out to deconstruct the territory itself. Baudrillard, using cartography as a principal metaphor in his treatise on the nature of reality and signs, claimed that in the absence of objective “real” territory, it is in fact the map that precedes and engenders space. He contended that we now live in an “era of simulation” characterized by the “liquidation of referentials” and the substitution of “the signs of the real for the real.” For King, however, the application of Baudrillard’s “hyperreal” does not require the renunciation
Geo f King, Mapping Reality (New York: St. Martin’s Press, Inc., 1996), 30. Ibid., 18. Ibid., 36. See also J.B. Harley, “Deconstructing the Map,” in Writing Worlds: Discourse, Text and Metaphor in the Representation of Landscape(eds. Trevor J. Barnes and James S. Duncan; New York: Routledge, 1992), 231–32. Harley laments the “positivist assumptions” that technological improvements have reinforced among cartographers in recent years, though without lamenting the improvements themselves. Jean Baudrillard, Simulacra and Simulation (trans. Sheila Faria Glaser; Ann Arbor, Mich. University of Michigan Press, 1994), 1. Ibid., 2; see also the assessment of Baudrillard in Brian Jarvis, Postmodern Cartographies: The Geographical Imagination in Contemporary American Culture(London: Pluto Press, 1998), 30–41.
of the real existence of territory; the territory exists but only in an “always already” mapped state. Since there is no clear line of distinction between the map and the territory, there is no such thing as “unmapped ground.” The map is always providing the interpretive lens and giving to the territory “cartographic meaning.” At rst glance, King’s “cartographic meaning” might seem to imply a tidy theoretical for movinginfrom territorysense to theassigni cancetransiof territory. Whatunderpinning is generally perceived a modernist a smooth tion from land to map is made even smoother in the postmodernist sense if indeed the map is the land. The patterns that emerge should be that much more identi able, or so it would seem. But the substitution of the representation for the referent brings additional complications. Not only is it the map that confers meaning upon the territory and not the other way around, but maps, according to King, are also provisional. Without an objective reality to which they are bound, maps can be lifted, replaced, erased, and redrawn. The cartographer can change the map or lay down multiple maps at a single time. As a result, what began as a picture of neatly interlocking lines and shapes becomes altered, discontinuous, The once-hoped-for pattern has changed. King maintains that thedistorted. resulting distortion is not only unavoidable, but critical to the mapping process. Maps communicate through both provisionality and distortion, that is, through the (sometimes deliberate, sometimes not) manipulation of the image. Usefulness, even accuracy, is not dependent upon the realistic portrayal of hypothetically un-mapped space. A road map is far more serviceable to the navigator than a satellite image. It is important to realize that the provisionality and distortion inherent in the mapping process is never viewed by King as a reason to discard maps altogether. His goal is not to dissolve the representation simply because it is culturally situated and malleable. Maps exist in dialectic relationship to the map-makers, a relationship that is re ected in the ability to redraw the lines. The resulting cartographic “palimpsest” allows for territory to be understood as signi cant and usable. To illustrate his point, King explains that some of the Some of Baudrillard’s comments along these very lines regarding the rst Gulf War, however, unleashed a storm of criticism. Compare King’s position to Jarvis, Postmodern Cartographies, 10. Despite his postmodern approach, Jarvis also wants to hold on to “certain spatial raw materials” when doing his analysis. King, Mapping Reality, 5. Ibid., 15. Ibid., 18. Ibid., 59. Ibid., 20. Ibid., 73.
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most sophisticated early maps were produced by cultures that occupied relatively featureless landscapes, such as the Arctic. The response of such cultures to their surroundings was “to impose mappings that create meanings and so make the territory negotiable, both physically and conceptually, rather than to submit to an undi ferentiated existence.” Thus, no matter how provisional maps are, they are necessary for the utilization of space. They provide cartographic meaning. One of the key implications of King’s study is that cartographies are socially produced rather than empirically driven. As such, inevitable inconsistencies emerge from the redrawing of lines or the wholesale exchange of one map for another. A single, stable map provides a pattern, a template that can be followed; multiple maps distort the pattern and may require a change of direction. In terms of Johannine geography, it is tempting to seize upon a single map and cling to it for the purposes of a stable interpretation. Yet there is no reason why the evangelist cannot draw a map and then erase its lines. Doing so may disrupt the pattern, but it does not necessarily disrupt the conveyance of cartographic meaning. Changes in the map may communicate just as much asAnother the mapsimportant themselves. implication of King’s study is that map and territory are inseparable. For all of the destabilization of both map and territory that characterizes King’s analysis, he consistently reinforces the fact that they are inextricably linked. The territory is the map. The postmodernist priority that he gives to the map over the territory does not mean that the land simply fades away, but rather that it fadesinto the map itself. When this principle is applied to the Fourth Gospel’s use of space, the pervasive question of whether or not John uses a geographical “symbolism” may be viewed as a misunderstanding and an oversimpli cation of the complex process of mapping, particularly if by “symbolism” one is able to separate the map from the land and leave either the territory or the symbol behind. Yet in the progressive theorizing about Johannine geography, this is precisely what has happened. Thus, another great irony of scholarship pertaining to Johannine geography is that both primary lines of thought, symbolic and non-symbolic, presuppose the same thing: the easy dissolution of material world and mapped image. On the one hand, the line extending from Lohmeyer is basically a theoretical progression from material space to immaterial symbol. By the time the theory gets to the end of the line, Neyrey has no use for the land whatsoever. He has thrown away the territory. On the other hand, the approach of Brown and Davies precludes any meaningful theorizing about space. The evangelist is too concerned with other issues to assign a deeper symbolic meaning to geography. Ibid., 59.
They have thrown away the map. King would likely be disappointed with both approaches, not so much because they are both wrong, but because they are both inconsistent with the process of creating maps. The author of the Fourth Gospel may not be a geographer by trade, but the fact that he is mapping space is undeniable. Before revisiting the geography and, more speci cally, the Galilee of the Fourth Gospel,An it isimproved importantmethod to comment onathe limitations this (or any) methodology. may be valuable aid inofreaching better conclusions, but it does not guarantee them. In some respects, of all the scholars previously discussed it was Kundsin who approached John’s geography with the most methodological sophistication (though no doubt he did so unintentionally), because he held on to both the symbolic signi cance of John’s spatial references but never let go of the actual spaces themselves. An honorable mention goes to Meeks, who, while espousing a di ferent symbolic interpretation, like Kundsin was uncomfortable assuming that the map and the territory could be so easily divided. Yet Kundsin’s theory has not been substantiated, either by its adoption within scholarship or by archaeological evidence Johannine communities at speci sites. Thus,itsitbene is important to go beyondofthe mere application of theory andcdetermine t by a careful analysis of the text itself. Furthermore, King’s study is speci c to cartography as applied to actual spaces, maps of inhabited or inhabitable territories and not imaginary worlds. Given this limitation, it may still be argued that the evangelist has created an entirely symbolic world with no correspondence to actual space. Yet this seems unlikely given the Fourth Gospel’s interest in both speci c locales and broader regions. The two lines of thought with respect to John’s geography when taken together are a testimony to this—it is possible to read John’s gospel in different ways. John’s penchant for symbols makes a symbolic approach seem natural. Likewise, John’s geographical detail lends credence to a non-symbolic approach. This is precisely where King’s “cartographic meaning” proves so valuable, however. Not only is it possible for real territory to have meaning as mapped space, it is unavoidable. Neither the territory alone nor the symbol by itself will do. Opting for the symbol does not force one to jettison the space.
John’s Galilee and “Cartographic Meaning”
With respect to John’s Galilee, there remains something very appealing about the notion that the Fourth Gospel, as notorious as it is for its double layers of meaning, could be read bene cially through the lens of King’s approach to cartography. To do this will require a closer look at how the evangelist associates
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Galilee with various cartographic patterns, conceived not as re ections of territorial space per se but as assignments of meaning. In this sense, the analytical approach adopted here may be clearly distinguished from that espoused by Brown and Davies. However, it is also to be distinguished from the MeeksFortna-Bassler approach, because it does not start with the presupposition that the evangelist is intent on employing a single, consistent map. A careful reading of theyet text suggests that the evangelist is purposely developing multiple patterns, none with complete consistency. The end result is a palimpsest of cartographic patterns that create distorted images with the intention of not only redrawing the map but redirecting the reader. It is through these distortions and misdirections that the author’s most important ideas about space are communicated. Galilee as the Place of Acceptance
For the Meeks-Fortna-Bassler approach, which nds its roots in Lightfoot and its culmination in Neyrey, the ideological centerpiece is the notion that Galilee can be distinguished from Judea symbolically as the place of acceptance. The following serieshas of quotations (some previously cited) illustrates how persistent this theory been: 1938: “To be of Galilee seems almost identical with being an adherent of Jesus and hostile to the Jews.” 1966: “The Galileans are those who ‘receive’ Jesus.” 1974: “Galilee is the place of belief, and Galileans are shown as men of faith.” 1981: “[T]he epithet ‘Galileans’ appears as a consistent but exible positive counterpart to the negatively charged term Ioudaioi. . . . [I]t evolved into a tag for those who within or, somewhat later, without the synagogue responded favorably to the Johannine message about Jesus.” 1997: “[L]es Galiléens . . . symbolisent ceux qui ont accueilli la Parole de Dieu. Ils sont disciples de Jésus.” 2002/2009: “‘Galilee’ and ‘Judea’ are not real places, but code names for welcome or rejection.”
Lightfoot, Locality and Doctrine, 149. Meeks, “Galilee and Judea,” 165. Fortna, “Theological Use of Locale,” 85. Bassler, “The Galileans,” 256. Manns, “La Galilée,” 363. Neyrey, “Spaces and Places,” 71.
These statements are not without foundation. John does apparently develop a pattern of favorable responses to Jesus in Galilee: the calling of Philip and Nathanael (1:43–51); the miracle at Cana and the disciples’ response (2:1–11); the welcoming of Jesus by the Galileans (4:45); the healing of the royal o cial’s son in Capernaum and the household’s response (4:46–54); the feeding of the 5000 (6:1–14); Peter’s confession (6:67–69); Jesus’ resurrection appearance (21:1–14). Furthermore, theresponses Galilean of pattern standsJudea: out all more when juxtaposed with the negative those in/of thethe skepticism of the Ioudaioi toward John the Baptist (1:19–28); Jesus’ expulsion of the money changers from the Temple and the response of the Ioudaioi (2:13–25); the Ioudaioi seeking to kill Jesus after the healing on the Sabbath (5:18); the accusations about Jesus having a demon (8:48; 10:20); the attempted stoning of Jesus (8:59; 10:31); the negative reaction to the healing of the blind man (9:13–41); and, of course, Jesus’ arrest, trial, and cruci xion (18:1 f). It is di cult to argue that these patterns are not there. But are they consistent? At the level of the regions of Galilee and Judea, they are not. Bassler points out that in ch. 6, where Jesus is indeed rejected in Galilee, the pattern of Galilean acceptance is unquestionably broken. Theinpattern is likewise challenged by episodes where Jesus is favorably received Judea, as in the case of the blind man of ch. 9. What appear to be insurmountable exceptions to the rule are explainable, however, once it is realized that the symbolism is not tied to the regions of Galilee and Judea, but to “ Galilaioi (those who accept) and Ioudaioi (those who reject).” In ch. 6, Jesus is rejected, but Bassler contends that this is precisely why the Ioudaioi make an unexpected appearance there and serve as Jesus’ primary interlocutors. In fact, there is a “movement from the category of Galileans (believers)” to Ioudaioi once they become dissatised with Jesus’ teaching. Likewise, according the Bassler, the di culty presented by favorable responses to Jesus in Judea is “easily resolved . . . by noting that although positive responses to Jesus in Judea are recorded, these groups are not identi ed as Ioudaioi.” For Bassler, therefore, “the symbolism is obvious; the dichotomy works well at the level of Ioudaioi and Galilaioi, although it breaks down if we insist on a rigid distinction between the regions of Galilee and Judea.” In exposing the inconsistencies of the regional distinctions, Bassler has provided a valuable service. However, her own alternative is unconvincing, mainly
Bassler, “The Galileans,” 257, parentheses hers. Ibid., parentheses hers. Ibid., 254–55, emphasis hers.
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due to the frequent breaks in what Bassler paints as a consistent pattern. A number of these exceptions Bassler recognizes (sometimes in footnotes), although she considers them inconsequential, each for its own set of reasons. In order to test Bassler’s theory, it is necessary to look more closely at these exceptions: theferent evangelist’s interest is attached to the people argues within that the di regions symbolic rather than the regions themselves, • Bassler
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but she is forced to admit that “the Galileans are primarily represented by references to their region.” Her theory depends on this, since, as she also acknowledges, the adjective Γαλιλαῖος is used only once in the entire gospel (at 4:45). Thus, it is not unfair to say that her own statements about the gospel’s “references to Galileans” or “the epithet ‘Galilean’” are, at the very least, somewhat misleading. Bassler is not clear about how the “Galileans” (outside of the one clear reference in 4:45) should be identi ed, but by looking at the characters within the gospel it is possible to estimate where she draws her lines. If “Galileans” are thoseNicodemus who are speci mentioned being “from Galilee,” this would include onlycally (7:52), who is as also described as a Pharisee and Since the publication of her article, Bassler has had few dissenters. Scobie would presumably be critical. Although his article was published a year after Bassler’s, he is apparently not aware of her study, but he is skeptical of both Meeks and Fortna (“Johannine Geography,” 79–80). Others who show reluctance to adopt Bassler’s theory are few and far between. David Rensberger, who cites Bassler brie y but favorably in his 1988 publication is a bit less enthusiastic in a later essay where he contends that her proposal still leaves some problems unsolved, particularly regarding the categorization of Jesus as a Ioudaios himself. See David Rensberger, “Anti-Judaism in the Gospel of John,” in Anti-Judaism in the Gospels (ed. William R. Farmer; Harrisburg, Pa.: Trinity Press International, 1999), 124. See also Bennema, “Identity and Composition,” 256 n.57, who criticizes Bassler’s dichotomy for downplaying inconsistencies. Finally, while I am critical of Bassler’s conclusions, I want to acknowledge the exemplary rigor and overall value of her study. In some ways, it is easier to be critical of a well-presented, detailed thesis than of one that is poorly presented or ambiguously formulated. Bassler, “The Galileans,” 253–54. Ibid., 252 n.35. Ibid., 255. John 7:52 does not state that Nicodemus is accused of being a “Galilean” but that he is accused of being “from Galilee.” Bassler does refer to Nicodemus as a “Galilean” (252, 254) contrary to the language of the text, although she is well aware of her interpretive move. In a footnote (253 n.36) she explains that such language is tantamount to calling him a Galilaios. Referencing the “peculiar form” of the question, she links the phrasing to the
a leader of the Ioudaioi (3:1). A slight expansion of this de nition would result in the inclusion of Nathanael “of Cana in Galilee” (21:2) and Philip “who was from Bethsaida in Galilee” (12:21), with Andrew and Peter, who were also from Bethsaida (1:44), occupying the next tier. The royal o cial, whose household nds faith after Jesus heals his son, is a resident of Capernaum (4:46), and although Capernaum is not speci cally said to be in is no question it is, given the also multiple references to theGalilee, Galileanthere setting (4:46–47, 54).thatFinally, Bassler appears to include statement immediately following, that “no prophet is to arise from Galilee.” (Cf. 4:7–9 where the woman at the well is referred to as both a γυνὴ ἐκ τῆς Σαµαρείας and a ἡ γυνὴ ἡ Σαµαρῖτις, indicating that such a construction was not necessarily “peculiar” to the gospel, but also that the two phrases could indeed be used interchangeably.) Likewise, Manns states that Nicodemus “est accusé d’être un Galiléen” (“La Galilée,”363) though without a similar explanation. Pointing out these inconsistencies may seem like splitting hairs, but given that both Bassler and Manns insist on a distinction between regions and people groups, it is necessary to do so. If John 21 is not the work of the evangelist but was added to the gospel by the redactor at a later date (Brown, Community, 161–62), then Nathanael’s identi cation as someone from “Cana of Galilee” might not be an appropriate bit of evidence. In the crucial passage where Nathanael makes his own confession (1:49), his home is not mentioned, although the episode does take place in Galilee. For the purposes of evaluating Bassler’s theory, however, it will su ce to give Bassler the bene t of the doubt and think of Nathanael as being from Galilee. Technically, Bethsaida was located on the east side of the Jordan in the territory of Herod Philip, not in Galilee, but due to its Jewish population and close proximity to Galilee and the lake, it was probably “Galilean” in character if not locale. Again, for our purposes, this need not be an obstacle to Bassler’s theory. It is appropriate to think of Andrew and Peter as slightly further removed from this hypothetical de nition of “Galileans” than Philip. When they are mentioned, Galilee is not. Only later, in ch. 12, does the reader learn that Bethsaida was, according to John, in Galilee. It is worth noting that when Peter makes his threefold denial of Jesus in the Gospel of John, the bystanders make reference to him only as Jesus’ disciple, not as being from Galilee as in the synoptic tradition (Matt 26:69, 72; Mark 14:70; Luke 22:59). Here too there is another potential obstacle to the theory, although not an insurmountable one. Although it is clear that the episode takes place in Galilee and that the royal o cial is a resident of Capernaum, it is not clear that he would have been understood (at the literal level) as being a Jewish Galilean. Though care should be taken not to read too much of the synoptic tradition into the Fourth Gospel’s account, the o cial may still have been considered an outsider culturally and/or ethnically (A. Hugh Mead, “The basilikos in John 4:46–53,” 23 [1985]: 69–72; Keener,The Gospel of John, .630–31). If this was the case, the symbolism would need to be clear enough (as with Nicodemus) to overcome an obstacle at the literal level, but a lack of clarity seems to be the rule.
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the crowds present at the feeding miracle in ch. 6, given that the later use of the appellation Ioudaioi depicts “their movement from the category of Galileans (believers)” to the category of unbelievers. It is at this point, then, that Bassler apparently reaches the limits of her de nition. Yet signi cant problems still remain. The crowds present at the feeding do appear sincere in their reaction to Jesus at rst (they acclaim him as “the prophet who is to motives—they come into the world,” 6:14), butJesus it is soon revealed have ulterior have followed because they that wantthey more of “the food that perishes” rather than “the food that endures for eternal life” (6:26–27). Additionally, although it is true that Jesus’ teaching is disputed by the conspicuously named Ioudaioi (6:41, 52), they are not the only ones who have such di culties. Perhaps just as conspicuously, it is those who are described as Jesus’ “disciples” who struggle with his teachings to the point that Jesus can recognize their disbelief (6:64) and “many” then decide to leave him (6:66). It may be argued that, following the references to the Ioudaioi, these “disciples” should be categorized in the same way, but what accounts for the change of epithets? If the sudden appearance of the term
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is telling, would notimmediately its sudden disappearance so as well? Given Ioudaioi the mention of Capernaum preceding the be reference to the disbelieving disciples (6:59), there seems to be no clear reason to assume that these disciples are less “Galilean” than the royal o cial of ch. 5. Another exception to Bassler’s theory would seem to be Jesus’ brothers, whom Bassler does not discuss. They are residents of Galilee (2:12; cf. 6:42), and it is when they are conversing with Jesus in Galilee that the author explicitly states “not even his brothers believed in him” (7:5). Similarly, it is when the disciples are in Galilee that the betrayal of Judas is revealed (6:71). None of these are explicitly called “Galileans,” but as demonstrated above, hardly anyone in the gospel is.
Virtually all of the individuals discussed above, therefore, present some sort of di culty with respect to the “Galilean” theory, although in a number of cases they are not insurmountable. Perhaps each one is explainable and the link to the theory can be maintained, although only with a rather substantial amount of interpretive e fort. Thus, what is more important than any of the individual Although, see Fortna, “Theological Use of Locale,” 87, who insists that the feeding should not be understood as taking place in Galilee. For Bassler’s theory, however, it is a moot point, since the same crowd follows Jesus back to Capernaum, and her primary emphasis is on the people in Galilee rather than Galilee itself. Bassler, “The Galileans,” 257.
discrepancies is the overall lack of both consistency and purposefulness that is needed to establish the pattern that Bassler proposes. If the author is attempting to portray “Galileans” as those who accept Jesus, he does not appear to have done so with a clearly recognizable intentionality. Despite Bassler’s insistence to the contrary, it is unlikely that, with so much symbolic import riding on the careful use of spatial epithets, the evangelist would see t to use the term “Galilee” 16 times “Galileans” only once. The ip side ofand Bassler’s proposal, that the Ioudaioi represent those who reject Jesus, also has pitfalls. She is aware that there are instances of positive response in Judea, but, in accordance with her theory, these regional inconsistencies are obviated once it is realized that “these groups are not identi ed as Ioudaioi.” In a footnote, she deals with “the single exception to this statement,” namely, theIoudaioi at the resurrection of Lazarus who “believed in him” (11:45; cf. 12:9–11, 17). Citing 11:46, she explains that their faith is not genuine since it is based on “enthusiasm” and “misunderstanding,” yet this seems to be in spite of the fact that 11:45 says that “many . . . believed” while 11:46 says “but some” reported him to the Pharisees: Bassler con ates what are, in fact, two different groups of Ioudaioi Similarly, the positive of the crowds in the Temple (7:40–43), the. blind man (9:38), and theresponses divided Ioudaioi (10:19–21) present di culties for Bassler’s theory. Even if the evangelist were consistent in not referring to any of these people as Ioudaioi, a signi cant inconsistency would remain at the level of the theory itself. According to Bassler’s theory, the Ioudaioi group includes only those that are explicitly designated as such, while the Galilaioi group consists predominantly of those who are not speci cally designated as such. If the Galileans are stipulated almost exclusively by linking them to their region, why would the evangelist not develop the Ioudaioi in the same way? At some point, the frequent breaks in the pattern become too problematic for Bassler’s theory to remain tenable.
Ibid., 254. Ibid., n.39. Bassler’s citation of both 11:46–54 and 12:19 as evidence that the enthusiasm precludes genuine belief because “[t]he result is to generate o cial hostility toward Jesus” is unconvincing. It would be more understandable if the believing groups themselves eventually turned their enthusiasm into hostility, but in both cases, the hostility is displayed by others. Oddly, she never cites 8:30 f, which would be more supportive of her view. Bassler also attempts to bolster her argument by insisting that these references to believing Ioudaioi should be read in light of 2:23–25, which states that while “many believed in his name” Jesus apparently knew their faith was insincere. The di culties with this association will be discussed below.
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There is one other signi cant piece of evidence that is often cited in support not only of Bassler’s theory but of the broader concept of a Galilee/Judea dichotomy as well—the interpretation of John 4:43–45: Μετὰ δὲ τὰς δύο ἡµέρας ἐξῆλθεν ἐκεῖθεν εἰς τὴν Γαλιλαίαν· Ἰησοῦς ἐµαρτύρησεν ὅτι προφήτης ἐν τῇ ἰδίᾳ πατρίδι τιµὴν οὐκ ἔχει. ὅτε οὖν
αὐτὸς γὰρ
ἦλθεν τὴν Γαλιλαίαν, ἐδέξαντο οἱεἰςΓαλιλαῖοι ἐποίησενεἰς ἐν Ἱεροσολύµοις ἐν τῇ ἑορτῇ, καὶ αὐτοὶ αὐτὸν γὰρ ἦλθον τὴν ἑορτήν. πάντα ἑωρακότες ὅσα After two days, [Jesus] departed from that place [Samaria] to Galilee. For Jesus himself testi ed that a prophet in his own country has no honor. Therefore, when he went to Galilee, the Galileans welcomed him, since they had seen everything that he did in Jerusalem at the festival, for they too went to the festival. As the only explicit mention of Γαλιλαῖοι in the gospel, this passage is crucial to any theory that espouses a pattern of Galilean acceptance. The saying itself is drawn from31) the pre-gospel (cf.way Mattin13:57; Mark LukeGospel 4:24; Gospel of Thomas but given tradition the unique which the6:4; Fourth contextualizes this saying, should Jesus’ πατρίς be understood as Galilee/Nazareth as in the Synoptic tradition, or as Judea? Although there is no consensus on this issue, there is actually notable consistency. Without exception, those who see a Galilee/Judea or Galilean/Ioudaios dichotomy being developed in John’s Gospel, also interpret Jesus πατρίς in 4:44 as a reference to Judea, the place of rejection. That the Galileans welcome Jesus in 4:45 precludes the notion For what is arguably the most thorough and helpful treatment of this di cult passage to date, see Gilbert Van Belle, “The Faith of the Galileans: the Parenthesis in Jn 4,44,” 74:1 (1998): 27–44. For a fuller study of Johannine “asides,” see his Les parenthèses dans 11; Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1985). l’évangile de Jean( My translation. The traditional elements of the saying include the use of προφήτης and πατρίς Gos. Thom. ( uses ⲡⲉϥϯⲙⲉ “his town”), but the Fourth Gospel leaves its own stamp, in particular with the use of ἰδίᾳ as opposed to αὐτοῦ. See Meeks, “Galilee and Judea,” 165. For other characteristically Johannine elements in the immediate context, see Dodd, Historical Tradition, 238–41. Meeks, Prophet-King, 40; idem, “Galilee and Judea,” 164–65; Fortna, “Theological Use of Locale,” 72; Bassler, “The Galileans,” 253; Manns, “La Galilée,” 363. See also Lightfoot, Locality and Doctrine, 145–46, but compare to idem, St. John’s Gospel, 35, where he changes his view and instead argues, quizzically, that Jesus’ πατρίς is “in heaven, in the bosom of the Father.” This latter interpretation is no doubt based on the Johannine theme of Jesus
that Jesus is without honor there. Furthermore, the successful faith-inducing sign of the healing in Capernaum (4:46–54), like the rst Cana miracle which resulted in the faith of the disciples (2:11), con rms that Galileans are receptive to Jesus’ message. Likewise, those who understand Jesus’ πατρίς to be Galilee are generally less receptive to the notion of an elaborate dichotomous symbolism embedded within Johannine geography. The primary reason for this interpretation the 19:19). gospel makes it clearthe thatapparent Jesus is “from Nazareth” in Galilee (1:45–46;is that 18:5–7; Regarding contradiction being “from above,” but it makes little sense in the context of 4:44 since the prophet’s πατρίς is where he is rejected. Neyrey’s analysis is based primarily on where Jesus “remains,” and thus he takes no clear position on 4:44. Others who opt for Judea as Jesus’ πατρίς include C.H. Dodd, The Interpretation of the Fourth Gospel (Cambridge: Cambridge , 1953), 352; idem, Historical Tradition, 238–41; C.K. Barrett, The Gospel According to St. John (2nd ed.; Philadelphia: The Westminster Press, 1978), 246; Kikuo Matsunaga, “The Galileans in the Fourth Gospel,” Annual of the Japanese Biblical Institute 2 (1976): 139–58; Freyne, Galilee, Jesus, and the Gospels, 122; John Ashton, Understanding the Fourth Gospel (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1991), 301; Koester, Symbolism, 51–52 (tentatively); R. Alan Culpepper, The Gospel and Letters of John ( ; Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1998), 145 (tentatively); Bruce J. Molina and Richard L. Rohrbaugh, Social-Science Commentary on the Gospel of John (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1998), 106; Keener, The Gospel of John, .629. Some identify a more speci c locale within Judea: Edwin C. Hoskyns, The Fourth Gospel (2nd ed.; ed. Francis Noel Davey; London: Faber & Faber, 1947; src. pub. 1940), 260–61, who opts for Jerusalem only; Barnabas Lindars, The Gospel of John ( ; London: Oliphants, 1972), 200–1, who also opts for Jerusalem only while rejecting Lightfoot’s geographical symbolism; J. Willemse, “La patrie de Jésus selon saint Jean iv,44,” 11:4 (1965): 349–64, who opts for the Temple speci cally; Anthony Therath, Jerusalem in the Gospel of John: An Exegetical and Theological Inquiry into Johannine Geography(New Delhi: Intercultural Publications, 1999), 117–18, who claims that Jesus’ πατρίς was Jerusalem by tying the word πατρίς etymologically to the place of one’s πατήρ (i.e., the Temple). Bassler, “The Galileans,” 248–49. Rudolph Bultmann, The Gospel of John: A Commentary (ed. R.W.N. Hoare and J.K. Riches; trans. G.R. Beasley-Murray; Philadelphia: The Westminster Press, 1971), 204; Brown, The Gospel According to John, 29.186–88; idem, Community, 39–40; Rudolf Schnackenburg, The Gospel According to St. John, Vol. 1(tr. Kevin Smyth; New York: Herder & Herder, 1968), 462; Davies, The Gospel and the Land, 321–31; Ernst Haenchen and Ulrich Busse, Das Johannesevangelium: ein Kommentar (Tübingen: Mohr, 1980), 257; George BeasleyMurray, John ( ; Waco, Tex.: Word Books, 1987), 73; John W. Pryor, “John 4:44 and the Patris of Jesus,” 49 (1987): 254–63; Alois Stimp e, “Das ‘sinnlose gar’ in Joh 4:44: Beobachtungen zur Doppeldeutigkeit im Johannesevangelium,” 65 (1992): 86–96; Van Belle, “The Faith of the Galileans,” 39. Cf. John 7:41, 52 which also associate Jesus with Galilee, as well as references to Jesus’ family being from Galilee in 2:1; 6:42; and 7:1–3.
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this creates with the Galilean welcome in 4:45, it is usually assumed that the response of the Galileans to Jesus’ work is not genuine. Since their faith is tied to Jesus’ performance of a miracle (4:48 ), it should be understood as “bloße Zeichenglaube.” These explanations for Galilee as Jesus’ πατρίς are perhaps not insurmountable, but there are a number of other factors that o fer a more formidable challenge thethe notion that of Galilee/Galileans acceptance. Bassler arguestothat omission any reference inare 4:45symbols to false of intentions means that the Galileans’ faith should not be understood against the backdrop of 2:23–25, which indicates that faith based on signs may not be genuine or fully adequate. However, she contends that other passages alluding to the faith of the Ioudaioi should be read against this backdrop, despite the fact that they also fail to mention any disingenuousness. Regardless, it is di cult to read the double reference to the Galileans’ presence at the festival in Jerusalem in 4:45 as not hearkening back to 2:23–25, and at the very least the reader is likely to notice the hints of ambiguity. The full import of the festival references are only borne out completely in what follows. Meeks’ approach is to read light of given him the use ἴδιος both passages. If according to4:44–45 1:11 Jesus’in“own” do1:11–12, not receive andofyet he is in accepted in Galilee (and Samaria), Jesus’ πατρίς must be Judea. This would seem to be a clear indication as to the proper interpretation of 4:44, but ambiguities remain. The connection between 4:45 and 1:12 is not as apparent as it might at rst seem. Whereas 1:11–12 speaks of those who do or do not “receive” (παραλαµβάνω) Jesus, 4:45 states that the Galileans “welcomed” (δέχοµαι) him. Noting the use of the plural pronouns rather than the singular. Haenchen, Das Johannesevangelium, 257. Bassler, “The Galileans,” 248–49, 254 n.39; similarly, Fortna, “Theological Use of Locale,” 72, 86 n.81. Bultmann, John, 204; Brown, The Gospel According to John, 29.188. It may also be signi cant that, according to 2:23, “during the Passover festival many believed in his name.” That the “many” included Ioudaioi may be inferred from 2:18, but the epithet is not directly mentioned here, of all places. This makes it easier to associate the Galileans with this group, while at the same time making it more di cult to link it to subsequent references to the Ioudaioi. Meeks, “Galilee and Judea,” 165. Meeks is well aware of the primary reason for assuming Jesus’ πατρίς to be Galilee, namely, that he is “from Nazareth.” He sees this as one of the great complexities in John that a symbolic understanding of geography helps to alleviate. Davies makes this very point, saying “there was nothing to prevent John from there writing elabon or parelabon auton hoi Galilaioi rather than edexanto auton hoi Galilaioi” (The Gospel and the Land, 326). Bassler counters that “Davies’ insistence. . . simply
The two words have an overlapping semantic range, but given the ubiquity of λαµβάνω/παραλαµβάνω, including its thematic use in key parallels such as 5:43, the use of the hapax δέχοµαι here is, at the very least, conspicuous. Proceeding further through the narrative to the healing of the royal o cial’s son, Meeks makes the valid point that signs in the Fourth Gospel should not be interpreted against the background of the synoptics, but his insistence that such a “genuine” albeit one that is “without until signs Jesus’lead ‘glorito cation’ ” mayfaith, still be an overstatement. He understanding argues against Bultmann that the faith of the royal o cial, being the result of a sign, implies the legitimacy of Galilean sign faith. Craig Keener, however, stakes out a middle ground, maintaining that signs in John lead to a faith that is “not bad” but “by itself inadequate.” If Keener is correct, it may be signi cant that the o cial’s faith comes before he sees the sign (contra Jesus’ apparently exasperated statement in 4:48) and is explicitly linked to “the word that Jesus spoke” (4:50) rather than the sign itself. Thus, the o cial’s faith might be set up as a subtle contrast to the Galileans’ response to Jesus, rather than a con rmation of it, in which case his identi cation as a βασιλικός may function to heighten re ects a rigid in exibility with regard to theme-development that fails to do justice to the evangelist’s skill and subtlety” (“The Galileans,” 253 n.37). Her rebuttal is a bit thin; if indeed the author exhibits “skill and subtlety,” it seems more likely that at this crucial point in the narrative, more consistency with the carefully developed theme would have been maintained. Meeks does not discuss the Greek. “I have come in my father’s name, and you do not receive (λαµβάνετε) me.” The verse is mentioned by Davies, also. Its importance lies not with the fact that the Galileans are being accused here (the accusation is leveled against those in the Temple), but with the fact that the object of the verb is Jesus himself, as in 1:11–12. At other times, it is the “testimony” (3:11, 32; 5:34) or the “words” (12:48; 17:8) that serve as the object of the verb. Cf. 19:27 and (authorship issues aside) 2 John 10 where δέχοµαι might be naturally employed, but λαµβάνω is used instead. See, however, 3 John 9–10 which does use ἐπιδέχοµαι, but, unlike John 4:45, in the deliberate context of a letter of recommendation where such vocabulary would be expected. See Abraham J. Malherbe, “The Inhospitality of Diotrephes,” in God’s Christ and His People(ed. Jacob Jervell and Wayne Meeks; Oslo: Universitetsforlaget, 1977), 222–32, who lays the groundwork for understanding 3 John as a typical Greco-Roman letter of recommendation by identifying consistencies in vocabulary, although he stops short of drawing this conclusion himself. Meeks, “Galilee and Judea,” 164. See Bultmann, John, 204. Keener, The Gospel of John, .277. Clearly this is not exactly Meeks’ position, but neither is it the position of Bultmann, which Meeks rightly criticizes. Meeks (“Galilee and Judea,” 164) states that “only by a very strange logic” can the response of the royal o cial be construed as rejection of Jesus.
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the contrast even further. The persistent ambiguity has not really gone away, and the pattern of Galilean faith that was implied in 2:11 is showing hints of unraveling. Yet it will not do to stop at ch. 4. When Jesus returns to Galilee in ch. 6, the crowd at the miraculous feeding initially seems to t the pattern ofacceptance: upon seeing the sign, they declare that Jesus is “the prophet who is to come intowas theinadequate, world” (6:14). Later, it becomes apparent their response since Jesushowever, accuses them of following him that because of the food they ate rather than the sign itself. Their subsequent request for an additional sign, particularly one like Moses’ provision of manna in the wilderness (6:30–31), is a further indication that they are far from an adequate faith; having just seen one, the demand for another seems impertinent. When Jesus declares that he is the true manna (6:35–40) and that they must eat his esh and drink his blood (6:49–51, 55–56), not only do the Ioudaioi nd Jesus’ teaching di cult (6:41, 52), but so do those who are classi ed as his “disciples” (6:60). By the end of the narrative, Jesus is forced to confront the disciples’ lack of belief (6:64), and as a result many of them desert him (6:66). Even among the Twelve is betrayalis(6:70–71), despite the belief ofnot the just rest seeing of the Twelve, fullthere understanding elusive. and The Johannine goal is the signs, nor even believing the signs, but true discipleship (8:31), and this is not always attained, not even among the people of Galilee.
This is in contrast to Brown, The Gospel of John, 29.188, who sees the o cial as a parallel to Nicodemus, with both possessing inadequate faith based on signs. It may also be helpful at this point to take note of the plural pronouns in Jesus’ comment in 4:48. The fact that the statement is not directed speci cally to the o cial may be a further indication of the contrast being argued here. It may not be necessary to go as far as the theory proposed by Paul Anderson, “The Sitz the Johannine Bread of Life Discourse and Its Evolving Context,” in im Leben of views Readings of John 6 (ed. R. Alan Culpepper; Leiden: Brill, 1997), 1–59. AndersonCritical 6:67–71 through the lens of a Petrine vs. Johannine rivalry and asserts that Peter’s confession of Jesus as “the holy one of God” is not Johannine and therefore disingenuous. Jesus’ reference to one of the disciples being a devil in 6:70 is then, according to Anderson, properly applied to Peter rather than Judas (see especially pp. 50–59). The Petrine vs. Johannine rivalry may be evident in other places, but not likely here. It is better to understand Peter’s confession, standing by itself, as less than adequate rather than false. Peter may claim to “believe and know” (6:69), but Jesus takes little comfort in it at that moment, and questions what they truly “know” later (14:9). See also Ludger Schenke, “The Johannine Schism and the ‘Twelve’ (John 6:60–71),” in Critical Readings of John 6 (ed. R. Alan Culpepper; Leiden: Brill, 1997), 205–19, who disagrees with Anderson’s assessment of Peter’s confession.
However, to deduce from all this that Galilee rather than Judea must be the πατρίς of 4:44 is not entirely accurate either. Most analyses of this passage tend to view it in light of two options only, either Galilee or Judea, but in reality this is a false choice. It may be preferable to posit that Jesus’ πατρίς is both Galilee and Judea. Yet at the same time, it must not be assumed that this double association is xed or homogeneously presented throughout the gospel, the point of this study to suggest anon alternative to howand the evangelist develops thisisidea. Scholars the wholeexplanation have becomeastoo susceptible to plotting John’s geography according to a single map, in John’s case almost invariably a symbolic one, and the resulting debates are essentially disagreements over which map to use. That the gospel must be using a single map, however, goes unquestioned. A single map presupposes a consistent pattern that can be applied at all points within the gospel, thus making it conveniently knowable and navigable. The reason why such approaches prove to be so tempting has a great deal to do with the fact that a single map has the power of stabilizing meaning. Mapmaking, however, is inherentlyunstable. There is no reason to assume that using a single map whenhis painting own portrait of Galilee orgoes that he isJohn onlyisinterested in presenting Galileehis according to a pattern that unchanged. The lack of a single map or a consistent pattern does not imply that the evangelist was careless; the contention of this study is that the Fourth Gospel assigns a “cartographic meaning” to Galilee by deliberately mapping and remapping, drawing and redrawing. The pattern of Galilean acceptance is indeed developed at the outset, but the pattern is broken as the narrative continues. Thus, with regard to Galilee, the saying in 4:44 is transitional. To that point, Galilee and Judea have been mapped largely in juxtaposition to one another, and the πατρίς of 4:44 might most naturally be interpreted as a reference to Judea (despite the synoptic tradition), where Jesus has already experienced opposition (2:13–20; 4:1). The reader might assume that Galilee will continue to function as a place of acceptance, but soon that function begins to dissipate. Beginning with 4:44, the lines on John’s map of Galilee are erased and redrawn, at rst slowly and subtly, but still perceptibly. As the narrative continues, the remapping becomes more noticeable. By the end of Jesus’ nal stint there, Galilee looks very much like Judea, complete with Ioudaioi, mixed
See Ben Witherington , John’s Wisdom: A Commentary on the Fourth Gospel (Louisville, Ky.: Westminster John Knox, 1995), 126.
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reactions, and inadequate faith. John’s Galilee is not consistent; it is organic. John’s map of Galilee is not static; it is dynamic. Although the uctuating pattern of Galilean acceptance is arguably the most signi cant both to the gospel and to Johannine scholarship, it is not the only one. The Fourth Gospel also associates other patterns with Galilee that are likewise mapped onto the territory to the same e fect. As cartographic lines erased by theare text itself.and redrawn, patterns established within the text are broken Galilee as the Place of Origin
Another signi cant pattern associated with Galilee in the Fourth Gospel is the “whence” of Jesus’ srcins. John 4:44 is obviously key to this pattern as well, but the evangelist goes much further than that one passage. Once again, the pattern seems clear: the evangelist is well aware of the tradition that Jesus hails from Nazareth (1:45–46; 18:5–7; 19:19) and that his family lives in Galilee (2:1; 6:42; 7:1–3). Furthermore, the crowds and the Pharisees associate Jesus with Galilee (7:41, 52). The clarity of this pattern is not the issue, however; what is at issue its consistency. It isthe probably all such identi cations comeisfrom others within gospel,deliberate not Jesus that himself. Yet the gospel also places on the lips of other characters the assertion that Jesus is both a Ioudaios (4:9, 22) and a Samaritan (8:48). Bassler is correct that these latter statements are not to be taken literally, but their purpose is not to undergird
The rearrangement theory made famous by Bultmann ( John, 209), where he contends that chs. 5 & 6 were transposed in the earliest stages of the transmission of the gospel, is intriguing. If this were in fact the case, there would likely be less robust speculation about a pattern of Galilean acceptance; any positive connotations associated with Galilee as a result of the healing of the o cial’s son would be too quickly mitigated by the immediate transition to the feeding of the 5000 and the additional ambiguities that arise from it. For the purposes of this study, however, it is not necessary to hold Bultmann’s view. The present order allows for a more deliberate development of the characterization of Galilee: in 1:43–2:12, the pattern of Galilean acceptance is established, especially in juxtaposition to the skepticism of the Ioudaioi; in 4:43–54, the pattern is made more ambiguous, especially in juxtaposition to the acceptance of Jesus in Samaria; in 6:1–71, the pattern is broken completely, and the Galileans, like the Ioudaioi of 5:45–47 (cf. 7:19–24; 9:28–29), are characterized by their misunderstanding of Moses. Thus, the obvious geographical problems notwithstanding, the present order actually enhances the cartographic meaning proposed here, in contrast to Brown ( The Gospel According to John, 29.235–36) who does not favor the rearrangement theory because geography was not important to the evangelist. Cf. D. Moody Smith, John ( ; Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1999), 130, who discusses the rearrangement theory without coming down rmly on either side.
a rigid symbolism pertaining to acceptance and rejection. Instead, they function as subverting elements with regard to Jesus’ place of srcin, working in concert with a more subtle pattern of destabilization that is actually built into the very statements that map Nazareth/Galilee as Jesus’ πατρίς. In other words, the Nazareth/Galilee pattern is at variance with another map deliberately and simultaneously superimposed upon it. Thisthat other in a series of use symbols symbolic ences aremapping all linkedisbyevident the Fourth Gospel’s of theand word πόθεν.referThe question of “whence” is applied repeatedly, creating a backdrop against which Jesus’ own srcins can be evaluated. In each case, there is a lack of understanding about the object’s true place of srcin: wine in Cana (2:9); wind (3:8); living water (4:11); bread that sustains (6:5; cf. 6:31–42). The interlocutors assume a natural explanation, but Jesus knows that such explanations will not su ce. After the di cult teaching about the true bread that comes down from heaven (and after Jesus’ last stint in Galilee until after his resurrection), the question of srcins shifts speci cally to Jesus (7:27; 8:14; 9:29), and it becomes clear that Jesus is not really from Galilee, but from the one who sent him (7:29), from above (8:23), frommany God laden (9:30–32). is notmeaning, ἐκ τοῦare κόσµου τούτου at all. All of these references, withHe double sandwiched between two open ended questions about Jesus’ srcins which account for the rst and last occurrences of πόθεν in the gospel. In 1:48, Nathanael asks Jesus, “πόθεν do you have knowledge of me?” and Jesus gives an indirect response, claiming that he has supernatural foresight and alluding to greater signs. At this point, the reader is only beginning to see the “whence” pattern develop. In 19:9, πόθεν resurfaces for the last time when Pilate, perplexed by the vitriol heaped upon Jesus by his own people, asks him, “Where are you from?” and Jesus gives no response at all. Yet by this point, the reader is fully aware of Jesus’ true origins. He is not the man from Galilee, but the man from heaven. Thus, when addressing the “whence” of Jesus, the evangelist utilizes two maps at once. On the rstmap, the map of Jesus’ πατρίς, Galilee plays a unique See Meeks, “Galilee and Judea,” 162–63; Davies, The Gospel and the Land, 329; Benedetto Prete, “La particella pothen e il probleme del quaerere Deum nel quarto vangelo,” in Quaerere Deum: Atti della XXV Settimana Biblica(ed. Nicolò Maria Loss and Luciano Pacomio; Brescia: Paideia Editrice, 1980), 419–35. Barrett’s explanation of the use of πόθεν here is helpful in understanding the sense of the question (The Gospel According to St. John, 185). He restates it as “How do you know me?” based on similar constructions, both Semitic and Greek. This need not preclude the evangelist’s deliberate usage in 1:48, however, especially given the ubiquitous use of πῶς throughout the rest of the gospel. The echo of Meeks’ highly evocative 1972 essay is, of course, deliberate.
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role that, at the outset, seems distinguishable from Judea. However, the second map, the map of Jesus’ srcins, runs at deliberate cross-purposes with the rst. On this map, Galilee is subsumed under headings such as “from below” and “this world” (8:23) in much the same way that Judea is. To argue that Galilee is Jesus’ πατρίς may be a legitimate position; to argue that Galilee is Jesus’ place of srcin is not. Early in the gospel, the rst map sits closer to the surface and is more easily read, butLines by the endonce of the gospel, theare second mapthen has erased, obscured it beyond recognition. that seemed clear crossed, and nally redrawn. This is visible even in those references that claim Nazareth/ Galilee as Jesus’ homeland, since in each case the association is laced with ambiguity or paradox. The rst identi cation of Jesus as being from Nazareth (1:45), is immediately cast in shadow by Nathanael’s question and Jesus’ miraculous response. Likewise, viewed against the broader question of Jesus’ srcins, the references to Galilee in 7:41 and 52 drip not so much with symbolism as with irony. Having been asked at his arrest if he is “Jesus the Nazorean,” his response, ἐγώ εἰµι, is only understandable when utilizing both maps (18:5, 8). He answers a rmatively, but in such a way as to reveal his divine identity and true srcin. When Pilate uses designation on the the reader has both Jesus’ claim tothe thesame divine srcin (18:5–6) and titulus Pilate’s(19:19), exasperated, unanswered question (19:9) echoing in the background. With respect to Jesus’ srcins, therefore, the Fourth Gospel assigns “cartographic meaning” to Galilee through the simultaneous use of multiple maps. The goal is not to separate these maps from one another and view them separately, however. The Johannine Galilee’s full signi cance arises out of the distortion and dissonance created when using both maps at once. Either map viewed by itself will not su ce. Getting the whole picture requires simultaneity. Galilee as the Place of Retreat
Similar to other mappings of Galilee in the Fourth Gospel, another pattern can be identi ed in the way the evangelist presents Galilee as a place of retreat, especially from the ignoble intentions of the Ioudaioi. The rst indications
Although it is important to consider the two concepts simultaneously, care must be taken to distinguish between what the evangelist understands as Jesus’ πατρίς and Jesus’ true srcins. Lightfoot’s infamous comment that Jesus’ πατρίς is “the bosom of the father” (St. John’s Gospel, 35) is not so much wrong as a misapplication of Johannine cartography. Regardless of its derivation, the epithet Ναζωραῖος should be understood as being tantamount to ἀπὸ Ναζαρέτ (1:45; cf. Matt 2:23; 26:71; Luke 18:37; numerous variants). See Bultmann, John, 639 n.7; Meeks, “Galilee and Jerusalem,” 160 n.6. As is commonly argued. See Keener, The Gospel of John, .1082 n.120.
of this pattern can be found in 4:1–3, when Jesus retreats to Galilee after the Pharisees learn of his growing popularity, but it is most clearly stated in 7:1–2 where Jesus avoids Judea because the Ioudaioi want him executed. Closely linked to this pattern are other connotations, such as Galilee being a place of privacy/secrecy (ἐν κρυπτῷ, 7:3–4) and a place where Jesus “remains” (µένω, 7:9; cf. 2:12). Again, the primary contrast is with Judea. a de nite pattern emerges, is not always consistent. In ch.As7,before, in fact,while it is broken rather abruptly: Jesusit“remains” in Galilee (7:9), but only until his brothers leave for the festival in Jerusalem. Immediately thereafter he goes to Jerusalem as well, but he does so ἐν κρυπτῷ (7:10), and even in the Temple he can hide himself (κρύπτω) from the Ioudaioi (8:59; cf. 12:38). Then, when Jesus seeks a place to “remain” in retreat from the Ioudaioi, he does not return to Galilee. Having already “remained” in Bethany beyond the Jordan (1:38–39; cf. v. 28) and Samaria (4:40), he “remains” beyond the Jordan once again (10:40–42; 11:6) and also in the city of Ephraim “in the region near the wilderness” (11:54). Thus, although Jesus does not “remain” in Jerusalem or Judea, neither does he “remain” exclusively in Galilee. all the places where Jesusit“remains,” however, the most intriguing may be Of Capernaum (2:12), because is this place more than any other that hints at a disruption of yet another Galilean pattern. First, although the presence of his disciples might imply fellowship (cf. 1:38–39; 11:54), Jesus’ brothers “remain” in Capernaum with him also. Admittedly, the reader may not yet associate the brothers with disbelief (this is not revealed until 7:5), but this is precisely the point. The map of Galilee is not static; it is drawn and redrawn. Second, during the only other time in the gospel that Jesus is explicitly placed in Capernaum (6:59), his teaching is challenged and those who are called “disciples” desert him. Furthermore, this occurs in, of all places, Capernaum’s synagogue. Not only is this signi cant in the later context of Johannine Christians being ousted from the synagogues, it also breaks apart the pattern of Galilee Meeks, “Galilee and Judea,” 167–68; Brown, The Gospel of John, 29.510–12; Neyrey, “Spaces and Places,” 63–64; Keener, The Gospel of John, .472. The perceived theological importance of µένω derives from not only the instances when Jesus “remains” in a certain place, but also in the emphasis that is place on “remaining” in Jesus within the Johannine tradition. See, for starters, John 6:56; 8:31; 15:4 f; 1 John 2:6; 2:27–28; 3:6; 2 John 9. Jesus’ brothers urge him to go to Judea since that is where he can act with παρρησία and make himself known to the rest of the world (7:3–4; cf. 10:24), and as Meeks points out, Jesus never “stays” (µένει) in Judea or Jerusalem. In fact, the gospel only mentions Jesus remaining in Galilee twice, compared to three times in the Transjordan, and twice elsewhere. Martyn, History and Theology, 119.
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as a place of retreat from the Ioudaioi. Jerusalem, in other words, is not the only place where Jesus appears publicly and where he is publicly confronted. That the Capernaum synagogue episode is to be understood as a public appearance derives from Jesus’ reply to the high priest in 18:20: “I have spoken openly (παρρησίᾳ) to the world; I have always taught in synagogues and in the temple, where all the Ioudaioi come together. I have said nothing in secret (ἐν κρυπτῷ).” Perhaps it should come as no surprise that leaves immediately mention of Jesus remaining in “Galilee” (7:9), Jesus Galileeafter and the ndsonly retreat elsewhere. Capernaum, the one speci c locale in Galilee where Jesus “remains,” is no place of retreat. If indeed it is mapped as such in 2:12, by 6:59 this mapping has been erased. Summary: Galilee and “Cartographic Meaning”
What emerges from this analysis of Galilee in the Fourth Gospel is that any attempt to assign a singular value or consistent symbolism to John’s Galilee will likely end in frustration, and caution should be observed before too facilely portraying Galilee as the place of “ ll in the blank.” Despite Bassler’s rigorous presentation and the substantial she has garnered, symbolism she has proposed is too rigidfollowing for John’sthat cartographic process. Itthe is preferable to view the mappings in terms of the places rather than the people, with the understanding that the cartography itself takes precedence. In other words, all territory is mapped, and Galilee in John is no exception. Yet although the maps of Galilee are mutable and multiple, they are not capricious. The contention of this study is that the evangelist intentionally constructs maps and then replaces them, draws lines and then erases them, creates patterns and then breaks them. We are left with really only one pattern—that all emerging patterns about Galilee within the text are broken by the text itself. The consistent element is misdirection. If, as Harold W. Attridge put it, the Fourth Gospel can bend genres, perhaps it can also be said to bend geographies, especially given that geography bending is inherent to the process of mapping. Maps, by their very nature, bend geography in order to communicate something about
That the Johannine Christians were forced to grapple with being ἀποσυνάγωγοι (9:22; 12:42; 16:2) is widely recognized (see Martyn, History and Theology, 46–66). However, 6:59 and 18:20 constitute the only two times that the noun συναγωγή appears in the gospel. The signi cance of the unexpected appearance of the Ioudaioi has more to do with the fact that synagogues are places “where all the Ioudaioi come together” than the author ’s need to maintain a Galilean/Ioudaios symbolism. Harold W. Attridge, “Genre Bending in the Fourth Gospel,” 121:1 (2002): 3–21.
the geography in question. Distortion of the patterns can be integral to the communicative process. An intriguing parallel to John’s cartographic meaning can be found in Michael Scott’s case-study of Strabo’s description of Greece. According to Scott, scholars of Strabo have too readily marginalized Greece’s role within his Geography—ironically so, since it occupies the midpoint of the work. Like the entirety of the , Greece is a conextensive icted space, struggling to nd its place in the newoikoumenē era of Rome. Yet Strabo’s discussion of Greece’s history and society coupled with the prominent descriptions of Greek cities would seem to serve as something of an apologetic. Greece’s glory days lie in the past, but its past refuses to fade away, as if Greece is “suspended in time (indeed, out of time and above reproach).” The result is a simultaneous mapping of Greece, one that is characterized by both “importance and impotence.” Embedded within, argues Scott, is also a subtle critique of Rome itself. Dominant though it may be, next to Greece, it appears transient. Similar to Strabo’s Greece, the cartographic meaning of John’s Galilee is multivalent. Not only can the evangelist assign to it multiple maps simultaneously, but those maps can besetaltered the Judea courseatofodds the with narrative. At the outset many same of these patterns Galileeinand one another, but perhaps the most remarkable observation stemming from this study is how similar Galilee and Judea eventually become, far more similar than the history of scholarship might lead one to believe: both are places of belief and acceptance; both are places of disbelief and rejection; both feature incomplete faith; in both, Jesus divinely sees through insincere faith; in both, people are divided over faith; both are places of public teaching; both are places of personal concealment; both can claim to be Jesus’ πατρίς;
Michael Scott, Space and Society in the Greek and Roman World(Cambridge: Cambridge , 2013) 144. See Strabo, Geogr. Bks. 8–10. Ibid., 151. Ibid., 146. Ibid., 158. Galilee: 2:11; 4:50, 53; 6:69. Judea: 9:38; 11:45a; 12:11. Galilee: 4:44; 6:52, 64, 71. Judea: 4:44; 5:16; 8:48, 59; 9:22; 10:31; 11:57; 12:37. Galilee: 6:14. Judea: 8:30–33; 12:42–43. Galilee: 6:64. Judea: 2:23–25. Galilee: 6:66–71. Judea: 7:43; 9:16; 10:19–21; 11:45–46. Galilee: 6:59 (cf. 18:20). Judea: 7:26 (cf. 18:20). Galilee: 7:1–4. Judea: 7:10; 8:59; 12:36. Galilee: 1:45–46; 4:44; 18:5–7; 19:19. Judea: 4:9, 22, 44.
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neither quali es as the place of Jesus’ true srcins; in both places Ioudaioi are present; and, perhaps not coincidentally, Jesus appears to his disciples in both places after the resurrection. What is initially so perplexing about John’s Galilee is that it does not begin as a counterpart to Judea but as a foil. To assume that it functions as a foil throughout, however, is to misunderstand its cartographic meaning. Thewhen stark similarities that eventually emerge are When placed Samaria in even greater relief Galilee is mapped against do other places. (or, to a lesser degree, the Transjordan) is added to the mix, it becomes clear that Galilee has more in common with Judea than with Samaria. Yet this pales in comparison to the most important “place” of all for John’s cartography. Jesus’ insistence that he is the “living bread that came down from heaven” (6:51), that he is “from above” (8:23), that as the true light “coming into the world” (1:9) he comes “to his own” who do not receive him (1:11), places both Galilee and Judea on equal footing. Mapped against the kingdom that is “not from this world” (18:36), the lines of distinction that characterized them at rst are erased, and they function cooperatively as the foil for Jesus’ true place of srcin (1:51; 6:42; 8:23). John’s Galilee and Critical Geography: Implications
Ernst Käsemann is well known for his view of John’s Christology. In response to Bultmann, his teacher, he contended that the key phrase in the prologue of John was not “the Word became esh,” but rather “and we beheld his glory.” The Fourth Gospel was, according to Käsemann, naively docetic, and no Christology of humiliation was to be found in it. The characteristic feature of the evangelist’s voice was its “other worldly quality,” which had always been recognized and always esteemed. Käsemann’s position has been challenged, notably by Günther Bornkamm, who was also student of Bultmann. Bornkamm contended that what Käsemann identi ed as docetic was actually
3:31; 8:23; 18:36. Galilee: 6:41–59. Judea: passim, but especially 7:1; 11:7–8. Galilee: 21:1–23. Judea: 20:1–29. Käsemann, The Testament of Jesus, 8–9. Ibid., 18. “Naïve” not in the sense of uninformed, but rather “not thought through nor elevated into dogma” (45). Ibid., 2.
pre-Johannine tradition. “Docetic” may have been a fair descriptor of the tradition but not the evangelist, who manipulated the tradition so as to avoid what was for Käsemann a “sacri ce of history.” Thus, for Bornkamm, Käsemann’s insistence that the passion narrative was an embarrassment to the evangelist was unfounded, since Jesus’ glori cation could only be understood in light of—not in spite of—the cruci xion. Following Bornkamm, other studies have taken on Käsemann’s e fectively turningtendencies it on its head and characterizing the Gospel ofthesis Johnas aswell, a refutation of docetic within the early church. It was argued above that the symbolic approach to Johannine geography, in light of King’s theories about mapping, is guilty of separating the symbol from the space itself, and in analyzing the symbol, the space was often discarded. “Cartographic meaning,” however, does not discard the territory; it embraces territory as something that is “always already” mapped. It views territory as something to which meaning and signi cance can be assigned, not as something from which meaning and signi cance should be extracted. The advantage of this cartographic approach, therefore, is that land and meaning are inextricably bound. It is not comfortable with characterizing Johannine
Günther Bornkamm, “Towards the Interpretation of John’s Gospel: A Discussion of The Testament of Jesus by Ernst Käsemann,” in The Interpretation of John (2nd ed.; ed. John Ashton; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1997), 111. Ibid., 102. The phrase is Bornkamm’s, not Käsemann’s. Ibid., 107–8. For arguably the most thorough critique, see Marianne Meye Thompson, The Humanity of Jesus in the Fourth Gospel (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1988). Other helpful assessments along similar lines can be found in Paul Anderson, The Christology of the Fourth Gospel: Its Mohr, 1996), 161–62; George L. Parsenios, Unity andand Disunity of John 6 (Tübingen: Rhetoric DramaininLight the Johannine Lawsuit Motif ( 258; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010), 120. For a somewhat more sympathetic view, see Kyle Keefer, The Branches of the Gospel of John: The Reception of the Fourth Gospel in the Early Church (New York: T&T Clark, 2006), 85–89, who calls Käsemann’s reading of John understandable but “naively Valentinian” (86). In fact, this is not unique to those who espouse a symbolic geography. Brown, who has no use for a Johannine geographical symbolism also sees very little use for the land itself. As quoted above, geography was “not of major importance” to the evangelist ( The Gospel According to John, 1.236). Likewise, Davies discounted geographical symbolism not because he feared the territory of John might be lost, but because he assumed it already was, having been subsumed under the “holy space” of Jesus ( The Gospel and the Land, 318). King, Mapping Reality, 5.
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geography as a network of symbols “striding over the earth,” and it precludes the “sacri ce of geography” that has become so prevalent in modern criticism. Is it possible that current scholarship on the Fourth Gospel has fallen prey to a “geographical docetism” that, in fact, runs counter to the evangelist’s own (anti-docetic?) rhetoric with regard to geography? The assertion being made here is that the Fourth Gospel does not extract meaning from the territory as the prevailing schema would seem to imply; it imbues the territory with meaning. Despite the negative connotations persistently associated with “the world” in John, especially when mapped against Jesus’ kingdom which is “not of this world,” Jesus does not descend there to reciprocate the rejection that is heaped upon him. The world may not be the place of Jesus’ srcins, but it is his destination, a stark contrast to the synoptic tradition which sees his ultimate destination as Jerusalem. When Jesus prays for the disciples, he does not ask the Father to take them out of the world (17:15). Instead he sends them into the world, just as he was sent into the world (17:18), so that the world might believe (17:21) and know the true “whence” of Jesus (17:23). The evangelist makes use of multiple maps, all of which and Judea with cartographic inultimate their ownsuperway, but byprovide the endGalilee all cartographies pay homage to thismeaning one. This imposition does not smooth over other cartographies; it merely adds the nal layer of dissonance and distortion through which other cartographies must be viewed. Communication happens through this distortion, not in spite of it. The result is not only a coalescence of Galilee and Judea but a universalizing approach to all territory—not the particularizing one that characterizes the current analysis of Johannine geography and assigns static and distinct meanings to each place. In 4:20–21, the Samaritan woman’s comment comes squarely out of a mapping which subdivides territory: this mountain or that one? Jesus says neither. In 10:16, Jesus says there will be one ock, one shepherd, even though at that moment there are other sheep that have not yet been brought into the fold. In 11:49–51, Caiaphas’ prophecy is teased out to its fullest
To borrow a phrase from Käsemann. See Ernst Käsemann, Essays on New Testament Themes (London: Press, 1964), 58. To paraphrase Bornkamm. See above. See Je frey L. Staley, “The Politics of Place and the Place of Politics in the Gospel of John,” in What is John? Volume II: Literary and Social Readings of the Fourth Gospel (ed. Fernando F. Segovia; SBLSymS 7; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1998), 265–77, who uses this phrase although with a di ferent application. Cf. Alain Marchadour and David Neuhaus, The Land, the Bible, and History: Toward a Land , 76–78. That I Will Show You(New York: Fordham 2007),
extent: Jesus is to die not only for the nation, but to gather into one the dispersed children of God. The crux of Johannine geography, in other words, does not lie in deciphering and dissecting regional di ferences, or in the elevation of one over another but in the unbounded universal mission. The message of John is not grasped by detaching it from geography; the message of John grasps all geography. In an essaythat on the of deliberately time and history the Fourth Nils Dahl argued the function evangelist keepsinJesus withinGospel, the historical land of Israel until his “time” has come. When the Greeks visit him in 12:20–23 (cf. 2:4; 7:6–8), it marks the end of his ministry in Israel and the beginning, not of some heavenly reign, but of the universal mission to the world. Furthermore, Dahl states that on account of Jesus’ death, the “historical and geographical limitations of the ministry of Jesus are dissolved” (cf. 12:32–33). The spatial analysis provided here suggests that this universalizing trend stems not only from his departure from the world (13:1) but also his advent (16:28). The perplexing imagery of Jesus as both the ascending and descending Son of Man serves at the very least to provide cartographic meaning to the world, not only a place to be juxtaposed withisheaven but also as Jesus’ destination. The keyasto understanding this motif its mythic structure, which, when applied spatially, ultimately underscores Jesus’ foreignness in a world that is his πατρίς but not his home. Yet the Prophet seeks it out regardless (6:14; 7:52). What Meeks applies to Johannine metaphor, so “fraught with opportunity for misunderstanding,” also apples to Johannine cartography: “its self-contradictions and its disjunctures may be seen to be means of communication.” There may be something of “Galilee” that can be read into Nils Alstrup Dahl, “The Johannine Church and History,” in The Interpretation of John (2nd ed.; ed. John Ashton; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1997), 151. Ibid., 150. Intriguingly, it is against this very backdrop that Dahl comments on John 4:44 and Jesus’ πατρίς. When faced with the two primary options, Judea and Galilee, Dahl chooses neither. The lack of honor Jesus receives refers to his entire “earthly ministry” (151). Meeks, “The Man from Heaven,” 48–49. Ibid., 64. Ibid., 68. There is a sense in which my own study takes as its point of departure not a negative critique of the line of interpretation extending from Meeks (1966) to Bassler, but a positive critique of an alternative line extending from Meeks (1966) to Meeks (1972). Many of the questions that Meeks proposed in 1966, questions about the possibility of a link between Galilee and the Johannine community, have gone unanswered even in the wake of decades of Galilean archaeology since. Undaunted, in 1972 Meeks embraced the questions embedded in Johannine literature and concluded that Jesus’ incomprehensibil-
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the later history of the Johannine community (just as there may be something of Judea, Samaria, and the Transjordan), but the social function of Johannine cartography sets up Galilee as, at best, their πατρίς. It is no more their true home than it is Jesus’ true home. Johannine Christians are not “Galilean” because they “receive”; they “receive” because do not “belong to the world” at all (17:16; cf. 14:16–17; 20:22). As with Jesus, all places have become foreign to them. just asoJesus to those places, so areinthey TheYet critique feredwas heresent of the current trajectory the (20:21). study of Johannine geography is not that it has misread John. The patterns of geographical distinction are there. Rather, the critique o fered here is that to stop there is to stop too soon. The Fourth Gospel creates a story with built-in limitations—including geographical limitations: distinctions, borders, barriers, territoriality—and then transcends them. It creates patterns, then breaks them. It draws maps, then redraws them. In John, of all places, when the conclusions we reach detach us from the earth rather than allow us to invade its sphere, and divide up its territory rather than transcend its boundaries, perhaps a new method is needed. When combined with a careful reading of the Fourth Gospel, this new approach may allow even biblical scholars to opt for heaven while at the same time not forsake the earth.
ity was part and parcel to the interpretive process, though he did not apply them to John’s Galilee. My own study is essentially a spatial application of the christological and social reading proposed in 1972 by Meeks, to whom I am greatly indebted.
Galilee and Critical Geography: A New “Spatial Turn” This study began with a brief look at the mawkish depiction of Galilee by Ernest Renan in 1863. To Schweitzer’s chagrin, Renan’s biography of Jesus exuded a sentimentality as unbridled as the book’s sales receipts—it has remained in print for over 150 years. Of course, Schweitzer is not alone. Another recent publication on Galilee also features Renan in its opening remarks, and the assessment is, at the very least, disparaging. The Galilee of Renan is idyllic and idealized, a “dreamlike never-never-land,” and an arti cial setting, giving birth only to an arti cial Jesus, simply will not su ce. “What we need,” claim the editors, “is a more sober appraisal of ancient Galilee,” balanced on the back of the last 30 years of historical research —and they are not wrong. Renan’s Galilee is not wehave know. Yetthe theGalilee last 30that years not only seen a dramatic burgeoning in research on ancient Galilee, they have also witnessed the transformation of a discipline, one that lies close to the heart of the region of Galilee itself. It is a discipline in ux, and it brings a disciplinary perspective that is still in its infancy, but enough common ground is emerging from the chaotic waters that, by this point, we might be able to mount a respectful challenge to the historical critical status quo and say: perhaps Renan was right about something after all. Without embracing his robust romanticism, his rampant anti-Semitism, or his racial determinism, Renan does help us to see with full clarity that ancient Galilee is a construct, a “Thirdspace,” an exercise in “imaginative geography” and “cartographic meaning.” Of course, Renan is not alone either. As this study has shown, Josephus, Luke, and John all qualify as creators of space, and rather than denigrate them for it, they have been embraced as geographers in their own right. Critical geographers today may not always be pleased with their creations, but critical geography, the disciplinary amalgam of a multitude of emerging spatial criticisms, demands that we give them their due. In fact, those of us who study Galilee from any perspective are, whether consciously or not, doing something David A. Fiensy and James Riley Strange, “Introduction to Galilee: Volumes 1 and 2,” in Vol. 1 of Galilee in the Late Second Temple and Mishnaic Periods: Life, Culture, and Society (ed. David A. Fiensy and James Riley Strange; Minneapolis: Fortress, 2014) 3. Ibid. ©
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similar, namely, creating a space that suits our needs as academics or as activists, as critics or as clerics. We would all do well to embrace what we are. As the second edition of the 1562 Geneva Bible erroneously rendered in Matthew 5:9, “Blessed are the placemakers.” Critical geography does not merely bless the process, however. It also creates avenues for viewing those maps in a new light or, for some readers perhaps, even for the rst time. As stated in chapter 1, this study makes no claim to being another attempt at recovering the Galilee of history, though hopefully historians of Galilee will nd it useful. Fundamentally, it is an experiment in applying new, deliberately spatial criticisms to ancient, intrinsically spatial texts, and therein lie its most important contributions: to a discipline-in-themaking that challenges the dominance of history and to an ancient space that continues to be viewed primarily through a historical lens. Each of these areas, critical geography and the study of ancient space, constitutes a challenge, especially for those rooted in historical critical methods. What potentially awaits, however, as scholars of ancient Judaism and early Christianity become more attuned to the spatialities of the texts we study, is a Galilean “spatial turn.” The John specihave c implications of applying critical to Josephus, Luke, and been summarized at the end ofgeography their respective chapters and will not be repeated here. What follows are concluding remarks with regard to these methodological challenges and the new intellectual spaces they make accessible.
Challenge #1: Utilizing Critical Geography
Despite several decades of disciplinary development, even the fundamental concept of “place” has no agreed upon de nition. This can create obstacles, even splintering, but also opportunities. In the spirit of “multivocality” that now characterizes human geography and spatial theory, no single theory/ theorist forms the basis for the methodology of the preceding chapters.
Quoted also in Matthew Sleeman, Geography and the Ascension Narrative in Acts( 146; Cambridge: Cambridge , 2009), 260. Charles W.J. Withers, “Place and the ‘Spatial Turn’ in Geography and History,” 70:4 (Oct 2009): 638. John Holmes, “Fifty Years of Disciplinary Flux within Human Geography,” Australian Geographer 40:4 (Dec 2009): 388. Trevor J. Barnes and James S. Duncan, afterword to Writing Worlds: Discourse, text, and metaphor in the representation of landscape (ed. Trevor S. Barnes and James S. Duncan; London and New York: Routledge, 1992), 252.
Multiple voices involved in the mapping process of a single space remind us that the maps themselves are subject to change, from one writer to the next and from one map to the next. Michael Scott argues that the study of space can shake us free from more traditional, “positivist” ways of studying the ancient world “by underlining the mutability of meaning and the number of participants active in creating that meaning.” What is true of ancient mappers is also true of modern theorists. Furthermore, not every useful analytical perspective derives from the great luminaries of the eld. Both Soja and Said feature prominently in standard overviews of geography’s evolution into a critical discipline, but Geo f King barely makes the roster. (King, to be fair, is not a geographer in the disciplinary sense; he has published far more extensively in his primary eld of lm study.) Nevertheless, his concept of “cartographic meaning” yields fruitful results in the analysis of John’s geography, allowing for an alternative reading that cuts against the status quo of Johannine scholarship. The results may sound capricious (swap out the theory, and you get a di ferent map altogether), but only if by “results” we mean a single map that accurately re ects reality, a concept that King, in fact, argues directly against. The theoretical lenses weexpose use, when are successful, do not expose the “proper” map; rather, they the they process of mapping, and that has value for any study of any space, be it a spatial critical analysis or historical critical research. Responding to would-be dissenters, Matthew Sleeman points out that modern critical spatial theory does not result in anachronistic readings any more than the absence of theory does. Every modern reader possesses a perspective/bias that does not match the perspective/bias of the ancient author. We may take it a step further, however, and a rm that the utilization of spatial criticism brings an added bene t: it exposes our own mapping process as well—something we often do unconsciously, not unlike the ancient authors themselves. Thus, when we apply the principles of critical geography to our studies, we become less prone to reading ourselves into the text, not more. Exposure to and experimentation with a multitude of critical geographers should be considered bene cial, not detrimental, and disciplinary obscurity (as in King’s case) certainly does not preclude utility. Even Edward Said was not a geographer per se. Geographical theorists made him one. Michael Scott, Space and Society in the Greek and Roman Worlds. (Key Themes in Ancient History; Cambridge: Cambridge , 2013), 9. Sleeman, Geography and the Ascension Narrative in Acts, 50. Idem, “Mark, the Temple and Space: A Geographer’s Response,” BibInt 15 (2007) 338. Here, while addressing an audience of biblical scholars, Sleeman makes the valid point that, in
For purists, the aggregate nature of the geographical criticism employed in this study may elicit a certain degree of “theoretical dissonance,” but such is the current state of the eld. In fact, the dissonance shows no signs of abating, due in part to the fact that the theories themselves are, like the discipline as a whole, notoriously uid. Michael C. Frank, in an intriguing article tracking the “itinerary” of Said’s “imaginative geography,” argues that no theory travels from one discipline to another without being “reshaped,” an idea, incidentally, traceable to Said himself. In other words, a theory’s malleability is critical to its mobility. According to Frank, “Theories do not usually travel in their entirety; in the context of each ‘turn’, they are reduced to those concepts which can best be adapted to the theoretical needs of the moment.” Chapter 1 illustrates the point: each of the primary theorists utilized in this study arrived at a theoretical position “by way of” someone else. Another way in which a spatial theory may become a “traveling concept” is by decoupling the theoretical process from its ideological underpinnings when those ideologies do not suit the targeted text. Viewing Luke through the lens of “imaginative geography” was helpful in exposing his mapping process, but the motivations evident in Said’s process of mapping the Orient were nottonecessarily by upon Luke,him. nor would it be appropriate for modern readers foist such ashared position A rewriting of Luke’s map according to Said is not the goal. In fact, a conscious e fort has been made in this study to respect the contexts in which our ancient authors conceived space. Analyzing them with the help of contemporary theoretical approaches can be instructive, but only if we remember that they will always map in the context of and (at least to a degree) in accordance with their own cultural discourses. Ancient geography itself was anything but static. The scienti c/mathematical approach to geographical the study of space, geography as a discipline does not have the nal word. Rather,it o fers perspective, “a lens for interpretations.” Derek Gregory, Ron Martin, and Graham Smith, eds. Human Geography: Society, Space, and Social Science. (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1994), 105. Michael C. Frank, “Imaginative Geography as a Travelling Concept: Foucault, Said and the spatial turn,” European Journal of English Studies 13:1 (April 2009): 61. Ibid., 73. A term obviously employed by Frank, but not unique to him. See, for example, the recent volume edited by Birgit Neumann and Ansgar Nünning, Travelling Concepts for the Study of Culture. (Concepts for the Study of Culture, volume 2; Berlin and New York: De Gruyter, 2012). Sleeman, utilizing Soja’s theoretical model, would seem to agree (Geography and the Ascension Narrative in Acts, 259). For Luke, heavenly geography is ultimate and not open to endless re-examinations, as Soja might otherwise prefer.
inquiry, under the in uence of Eratosthenes of Cyrene (276–194 ) and Hipparchus of Nicea (ca. 180–125 ), was replaced for a time with ethnographic and topographic concerns. It was not until the 2nd c. that Ptolemy picked up the torch of scienti c geography once again. Josephus, Luke, and John are sandwiched in between these more scienti c forays during a time when the “literary” branch of geography was gaining momentum in authors like Polybius, Strabo, and Pomponius Mela. Alexander Lychnos of Ephesus, likely a rough contemporary of Strabo and cited by him ( Geogr. 14.1.27), was actually a geographical poet—two disciplines that we would rarely put together today. It should not surprise us, then, to learn that all three of the ancient authors considered in this study re ect certain commonplaces of the literary geographical tradition. In the sense that it shows an awareness of both geographical criticisms and historical contexts, this project occupies a methodological space in between scholars like Sleeman, whose focus is on the former, and James Scott or Dean Bechard, whose focus is on the latter. The balance is achieved somewhat unconventionally, particularly when placed alongside other studies of 1st c. Galilee. Whereas most studies employ a methodology in the service of research, I have instead employed research (ancient history, ancient geography, modern scholarship) in the service of a methodology. We can do more than merely adapt the methodologies we employ, however. A unique aspect of this study is its willingness to bring together multiple theories in the service of a single goal: a better understanding of the processes ancient authors utilized in the mapping of Galilee. Deliberately summoning di ferent, even disparate, voices to the same table has resulted in the composite theoretical category “critical geography,” a term that should be understandable to spatial theorists even if it is not widely utilized. Due to its composite nature,
Alfred Stückelberger, “Ptolemy and the Problem of Scienti c Perception of Space,” in Space and the Roman World: Its Perception and Presentation(Antike Culture und Geschichte 5; ed. Richard Talbert and Kai Brodersen; Münster: Verlag, 2004), 27–28. Following Daniela Dueck (Geography in Classical Antiquity[Cambridge: Cambridge , 2012] 3), who divides ancient geography into three branches: literary, mathematical/ scienti c, and graphic. Ibid., 29–30. James M. Scott, “Luke’s Geographical Horizon,” in The Book of Acts in Its First Century Setting (ed. David W. Gill and Conrad Gempf; vol. 2 of The Book of Acts in Its Graeco-Roman Setting; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1994), 483–544; idem, Geography in Early Judaism and 113; Cambridge: Cambridge , 2002); Dean P. Christianity: The Book of Jubilees ( Bechard, Paul Outside the Walls: A Study of Luke’s Socio-Geographical Universalism in Acts 14:8–20 (Rome: Editrice Ponti cio Instituto Biblico, 2000). See ch. 3 above.
it cannot be lifted from these pages and applied elsewhere without undergoing radical reshaping, and no attempt has been made to establish it as the next fashionable theoretical lens. As a theoretical assemblage, it is yet another “travelling concept.” A main goal of chapter 1 was to re-route two trajectories, critical geography and Galilee research, so as to make them collide. Here, I o fer some summary remarks regarding the collision of spatial criticisms. Although the list of concepts below is unavoidably sequential, it does not correspond to a sequential application in the preceding chapters, nor is there an underlying hierarchical order. Rather, they should be understood as a constellation of overlapping ideas, each of which functions di ferently depending upon the text, map, or territory to which it is applied. In concert with one another, they give a sense of how the study of critical geography contributes to and functions as a theoretical exercise, and how the application of critical geography to Galilee can foster new interpretive strategies through the geographical reading of ancient texts. Imagination. If there is any pride of place given to the rst of these concepts, it is due to the fact that, in its privileged position within terms like “imaginative mapping” and “imaginative geography,” it isGalilee subject the most radical mischaracterizations. To qualify the mapping of as to “imaginative” is not tantamount to a geographical anarchy or complete free range in designing new Galilees. It rst and foremost conveys the sense that maps of Galilee do not necessarily re ect an untainted spatial reality or mirror that which is “on the ground.” Mapping is a creative exercise, and as such, it is not bound to a system of logical relations that governs the process of production. An imaginatively mapped Galilee makes sense to those who are able to read the map, even if its correspondence to the “real” Galilee is minimal. Provisionality. Maps of Galilee may be lifted, erased, and redrawn, a process which contributes to the creation of new cultural meanings and new conceptions of territory. In the sense that maps are created in accordance with how they function, their provisionality means that there is no inherent authority that may be awarded to one map of Galilee over others. Simultaneity. Geography is fundamentally simultaneous in the sense that multiple places can exist side-by-side outside of any sequential, chronological progression. But simultaneity may be applied to maps as well, since maps of Galilee are not exclusive of one another. Furthermore, the mapping of Galilee does not take place in a vacuum but in conjunction with the mappings of other places. Because of this characteristic simultaneity, it is not always easy—or advisable—to try and view these maps one at a time. Distortion. The term distortion can also foster misunderstanding in that it implies the separation of map and territory as well as imperfection or
disruption in the mapping process. Distortion is not a miscommunication at the secondary level of representation; it is primary to the mapping process and something which is as inseparable from the territory as the map itself. In terms of Galilee, it does not hinder the ow of information about Galilee. Much of what may be perceived about Galilee in ancient texts is made known not through an ostensible objectivity but through the distortion of its maps. Situatedness. The situatedness of maps overlaps with their provisionality and simultaneity in that their spatial meaning is de ned in relation to other mappings. Thus, maps are situated by their intertextuality. However, mappings of Galilee do not exist as spatial phenomena only. They are created in trialectic relation to a speci c system of social relations and a particular historical context, and it is necessary to analyze them with a sensitivity to those contexts. The fact that they are culturally situated means that they are subject to certain cultural practices that temper the production of spaces and counterbalance the provisionality of their maps.
Challenge #2: Understanding Ancient Space
Sean Freyne, in one of the few essays devoted to the status quaestionis of Galilee research, summarizes recent advances in archaeology with what seems to be a throw-away line: “Gradually the map . . . is being drawn with greater precision.” In its context, Freyne’s comment refers to the use of archaeological survey data in determining the extent to which stone pottery and other Jewish ethnic markers can be found scattered throughout Galilee and the Golan (to the uninitiated, hardly a scintillating topic), but left to stand by itself it is a serviceable synopsis of the primary goal of the modern study of Galilee. Detailed scale maps have long been useful tools in biblical studies, and as archaeological and literaryhistorical techniques are honed by application, testing, and academic scrutiny, the impression they give is one of ever increasing objectivity and accuracy. No doubt in some respects this goal is being attained—we have come a long way from the “T and O” mappaemundi of the Middle Ages. Yet these maps were not striving for accuracy as is often the case with modern cartography, and to
Freyne, “Galilean Studies: Problems and Perspectives,” in Galilee and Gospel: Collected Essays (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2000), 13. Also called “tripartite” maps, these world maps resembled a letter “T” inscribed within a letter “O” creating a three-fold division of space corresponding to the continents of Asia (above the crossbar of the “T”), Europe and Africa (to the left and right of the downstroke, respectively—such maps are oriented toward the east). The dividers, represented by the “T” itself, mapped the major bodies of water dividing the continents (the Mediterranean,
criticize them as being “inaccurate” is to misunderstand their function. They were far more interested in depicting territory than re ecting it. The “T and O” maps themselves are medieval, but their spatial organization is ancient. Such depictions of the world are likely traceable back to a Roman precursor, the 1st c. mappamundi of M. Vipsanius Agrippa, displayed in Rome’s Porticus Vipsania, the ultimate purpose of which was not merely to convey geographical information but to impose meaning upon geography. The world, after all, belonged to Augustus. Unfortunately this map did not survive, and key questions about its nature remain unanswered. Most assume that it was pictorial, but considerable debate remains over whether any attempt was made to draw it to scale. Kai Brodersen has even argued that Agrippa’s map was not a map at all, but a lengthy inscription on world geography. The point here is not to ascertain whether pictorial maps existed in the Greco-Roman period but to show that very little is known about them. It is highly unlikely, for example, that the maps preserved in the manuscripts of Ptolemy’s Geography are faithful copies of srcinals. What we do know about Greco-Roman geography comes almost exclusively from texts, not pictorial representations.
the Nile R., and the Tanais R.), while the circumscribing “O” represented Ocean, a circular river owing around the entire earth. See, e.g., Homer, Il. 21.190–99; Herodotus, Hist. 4.37–45 (who is rather critical of such ideas); Polybius, Hist. 3.37.3. See also the discussion in David Woodward, “Medieval Mappaemundi,” in The History of Cartography (ed. J.B. Harley and David Woodward; Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1987), 296–97. These concepts were sometimes reinterpreted in the medieval period through a Christian lens, with the result being that the tripartite divisions re ected the Table of Nations tradition of Gen 10, with Shem occupying Asia, Ham occupying Africa, and Japheth occupying Europe. Cf. Pliny, Nat. 3.3. O.A.W. Dilke, Greek and Roman Maps (London: Thames and Hudson Ltd., 1985), 41, comments on the map’s propagandistic function. The debate is somewhat involved. See Susan P. Mattern, Rome and the Enemy: Imperial Strategy in the Principate(Berkeley: University of California Press, 1999), 49, for a helpful and concise summary. Kai Brodersen, Terra Cognita: Studien zur römischen Raumerfassung(Hildesheim: G. Olms Verlag, 1995), 275–77. For an opposing viewpoint, see Benet Salway, “Travel, Itineraria and Tabellaria,” in Travel and Geography in the Roman Empire(ed. Colin Adams and Ray Laurence; New York: Routledge, 2001), 29. See also the discussion in Evelyn Edson, Mapping Time and Space: How Medieval Mapmakers Viewed their World (London: British Library, 1997), 11. Robert North, S.J., A History of Biblical Map Making (Wiesbaden: Reichert, 1979), 61–65; J. Lennart Berggren and Alexander Jones, Ptolemy’s Geography: An Annotated Translation of the Theoretical Chapters (Princeton: Princeton , 2000), 45.
In these descriptions, spaces are sometimes drastically distorted by the standards of modern cartography. Julius Caesar, Agrippa’scomentarii, Strabo, and Ptolemy all describe an “oblong world” in which scale and orientation are skewed to exaggerate the east-west axis. As a result, continents are dis gured, and coastlines and mountain ranges are sometimes described as running almost perpendicular to their actual directions. Agrippa understood Africa to be far wider (east-west) than it was long (north-south); Ptolemy, despite his scienti c advances, still oriented Italy as well as the Libanus and Antilibanus ranges east-west; Strabo envisioned the Pyrenees as running north-south; Caesar described the coast of Gaul as facing due north and Britain as lying close to Spain. The famed Tabula Peutingeriana, a medieval copy of a presumably 4th c. srcinal, preserves the same strange dimensions to the modern eye, but to an even greater extreme, since it depicts the entire Roman world on a narrow manuscript measuring approximately 7 m long and only 34 cm high. This bizarre “map” probably belongs to the Roman tradition of itineraria, which were essentially station lists with intervening distance measurements that helped travelers get from place to place. These lists could be given in either written (adnotata or graphic (picta form. Regarding latter, however, it is important to note)that “there was no)concept of scale . .the . geographical accuracy is not sought.” They are rooted far more “in the experience of travel than the theory of geography.” Their characteristic distortion may be due to the fact that they are not attempts at cartography at all, even if they were Mattern, Rome and the Enemy, 51; Stückelberger, “Ptolemy and the Problem of Scienti c Perception of Space,” 37. Mattern, Rome and the Enemy, 51. Stückelberger, “Ptolemy and the Problem of Scienti c Perception of Space,” 37. North, A History of Biblical Map Making, 64; Henry Innes MacAdam, “Strabo, Pliny, Ptolemy and the Tabula Peutingeria: Cultural Geography and Early Maps of Phoenicia,” in Archaeology, History, and Culture in Palestine and the Near East: Essays in Memory of Albert E. Glock (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1999), 287. Mattern, Rome and the Enemy, 51. Ibid., 52. Berggren and Jones, Ptolemy’s Geography, 31. Kai Brodersen, “The Presentation of Geographical Knowledge for Travel and Transport in the Roman World:Itineraria non tantum adnotata sed etiam picta,” in Travel and Geography in the Roman Empire(ed. Colin Adams and Ray Laurence; New York: Routledge, 2001), 13. Ibid., 58; Richard Talbert, however, advocates a reduced level of skepticism regarding the cartographic srcins of the Tabula Peutingeriana, insisting that Brodersen has undervalued its signi cance. See Richard Talbert, “Cartography and Taste in Peutinger’s Roman Map,” in Space and the Roman World: Its Perception and Presentation . (ed. Richard Talbert and Kai Brodersen; Antike Kultur und Geschichte 5; Münster: Verlag, 2004), 118.
in uenced to some degree by ancient maps. Graphic itineraries typically listed locations in oblique cases (a governing preposition assumed) indicating their direct descent not from pictorial maps but from narrative description, at times even betraying dependence upon a particular verb of motion. In other words, the distortion apparent in numerous geographical texts has found its way onto the drawn map in the form of a “quite remarkable mixture of correct information, errors, and illusions.” Yet the distortion of geography in ancient texts is not spatial only. These writers infuse space with meaning in a way that is speci c to their own experiences and purposes. Dicaearchus of Messana ran the diaphragma, an eastwest latitudinal line that divided the world into equal northern and southern halves, through not only the Pillars of Hercules (the Strait of Gibraltar) and the Taurus Mountains (southern Anatolia), as did Eratosthenes after him, but also through Sardinia (his homeland) and the Peloponnese (where he lived). Distances in ancient geographical texts were often measured in terms of the time taken to travel them. Unexplored regions, especially those to the north, were assumed to be much smaller and more compact than they actually were. Claude Nicolet that even though the Greeks whoconfollowed them hadargues the ability to picture abstract spaceand as athe at Romans plane, their tinued interest in the periplus tradition indicates that they thought of space Salway, “Travel,” 26–27. The Tabula Peutingeriana, interestingly, does use oblique cases for its place names. Claude Nicolet, Space, Geography, and Politics in the Early Roman Empire(Ann Arbor, Mich.: University of Michigan Press, 1991), 70. He also discusses how even ancient pictorial maps can be understood as deriving from geographical texts, particularly those of the periplus genre. A periplus account functions as a “visualization (eventually graphic) of regions so extensive that it becomes a ‘drawing of the world.’” Frank William Walbank, Polybius, Rome, and the Hellenistic World: Essays and Re lections (Cambridge: Cambridge , 2002), 46. Dilke, Greek and Roman Maps, 30. Eratosthenes’ diaphragma ran instead through Rhodes. The idea that Josephus was aware of the diaphragma tradition has been argued by Scott, “Luke’s Geographical Horizon,” 518; and Bechard, Paul Outside the Walls, 208. For a helpful analysis of Dicaearchus’ geography, see Paul T. Keyser, “The Geographical Work of Dikaiarchos,” inDicaearchus of Messana: Text, Translation, and Discussion (ed. William W. Fortenbaugh and Eckart Schütrumpf; Rutgers University Studies in Classical Humanities 10; New Brunswick, . .: Transaction Publishers, 2001), 353–72. Katherine Clarke, Between Geography and History: Hellenistic Constructions of the Roman World (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1999), 200. Ptolemy’s distortions may be due in part to reliance upon this kind of data, particularly outside of the Roman Empire. See Stückelberger, “Ptolemy and the Problem of Scienti c Perception of Space,” 38. Mattern, Rome and the Enemy, 51.
rst and foremost in a single dimension only, “a linear vision” that takes into account a succession of localities and the distances between them as if they are merely points on a line. Their situation in space is of little importance, resulting in “a grossly distorted universe.” Regarding parallel Jewish conceptions of space during this period we know far less. The di culty of such a task is illustrated by the yeoman work of James M. Scott who has argued for the existence of what he calls the Kypros map. His hypothesis stems from his reading of a 1st c. epigram by Philip of Thessalonica describing a tapestry woven by queen Kypros, the wife of Agrippa , which depicted “the harvest-bearing earth.” While acknowledging that the source for such a map might in fact be Roman, he also posits a Jewish geographical tradition lying in the background. This includes: 1) conjectural connections to the high priestly vestments, especially in light of Josephus’ cosmological explanation (Ant. 3.183–84); 2) a shallow bowl from Qumran which, as Scott argues, gives a schematic imago mundi with Jerusalem at the center; 3) decorative elements within the Temple “that point to a strong geographical orientation”; and 4) a letter from Agrippa to Gaius detailing the extent of the Jewish diaspora. The purpose reviewing Scott’s proposal is not to be critical—he himself recognizes thatof“the evidence is tantalizingly sketchy and highly evocative” —but to illustrate the challenge of reconstructing a sense of the abstraction of space within the Jewish tradition. Numerous studies have taken up the task of investigating “land theology,” a related but not necessarily identical endeavor. Ironically, however, whereas the ancient emphasis on land theology in the Jewish tradition seems to have faded over time, it continues to be a driving impetus in modern scholarship Nicolet, Space, Geography, and Politics, 70. Ibid. At this point Nicolet also makes a reference to the Tabula Peutingeriana. Geographythis in extra-biblical Early Judaisminformation and Christianity Scott, , 5–22. to his rst-hand knowledge as Scott attributes in Josephus a Jerusalem priest, but it is di cult not to see the hellenizing in uence. See, e.g., Plato, Tim. 32b–c. The bowl features a hole in the center surrounded by groupings of concentric rings. It has been alternatively interpreted as a sundial, as Scott acknowledges. Speci cally the “bronze sea” of 1 Kings 7:23–26. Assuming that the letter, which is preserved in Philo, Legat. 276–329 is not the composition of Philo, but of Agrippa himself. Scott, Geography in Early Judaism, 21. Betsy Halpern-Amaru, Rewriting the Bible: Land and Covenant in Postbiblical Jewish Literature (Valley Forge, Pa.: Trinity Press International, 1994), 116.
to the point that it has become a default mode for the analysis of geography and topography. Jewish and Christian texts from the Roman period are therefore read with an eye predisposed to looking for the land’s symbolic meaning. Such approaches may have great value, but they also have the ability to obscure other critical approaches to geography within these same texts. The point of this study has been to elucidate some of those alternative methods and to show that when theories derived from critical geography are carefully applied, they can aid in our ability to understand the ways in which these authors conceived space. They provide opportunities to look beyond the bifurcated system of symbols and referents and allow us to see geography’s apologetic function, its imaginative qualities, its multiplicity and simultaneity, and most importantly, the characteristic situatedness that makes each text a unique exercise in the construction of space. Modern concepts of ancient geography are based on these very same texts, but we usually superimpose their information onto our own maps, ones that have been drawn using modern cartographic methods, satellite imagery, and global positioning devices, all the while not realizing that we are adding to the dissonance. In other it isnot thenecessarily accuracy oftake modern them “inaccurate,” in thatwords, they do their maps spatialthat cuesmakes from the ancient texts upon which they are based. H.F. Tozer’sA History of Ancient Geography attempted in its own way to rectify this problem. His rather infamous “world according to” maps, including those based on Hecataeus of Miletus, Herodotus, Strabo, and Ptolemy, have been often reproduced, even though we have no actual maps from these writers and, in most cases, no evidence that they ever drew any. (Herodotus, in particular, seems to have taken a dim view of world maps generally—see Hist. 4.36—and probably did not use any himself. ) To redraw the maps as I did for Pliny, Strabo, and Luke-Acts in chapter 3 may be instructive, but only with the following caveats: 1) they must not be viewed as substitutions for the complex literary (as opposed to pictorial) mapping process embedded in these texts; 2) as we saw with the Gospel of John, even conceptual or symbolic maps when used unilaterally can be inhibiting and restrictive. A hypothetical map of “Galilee according to” Josephus, Luke, or John would be put to best use not as a replacement for our own maps of the ancient world, but in conjunction with them. Multiple con icting maps can convey more to us than any single map can.
H.F. Tozer,A History of Ancient Geography (2nd ed.; Cambridge: Cambridge Dilke, Greek and Roman Maps, 57.
, 1935).
Conclusion: The Quest for the Geographical Galilee
The geographies of Galilee found in Josephus, Luke, and John are not spatial only. They work in tandem with ideologies and agendas that infuse Galilee with signi cance in ways unique to each text. To recover the “historical Galilee” from these texts is still a worthwhile pursuit, but given the destabilization of Galilee that emerges from these new approaches, it becomes a much more challenging task. In fact, the same principles of geographical criticism that may be applied to ancient texts can be applied to modern ones as well. Despite his erudition, even Sean Freyne (with whom I tend to agree regarding his reconstruction of a fundamentally Jewish historical Galilee) is susceptible. His invaluable Galilee: From Alexander the Great to Hadrian, 323 to 135 , takes a more spatial approach than the title lets on. Historically, Freyne’s Galilee was Jewish; spatially, it was a circle. Both of these characterizations are easy enough to spot, but far more subtle is the cooperation between the two. Beginning with the book’s opening pages, the circle imagery is deliberately developed, stemming from the etymology of Galilee, , itself. Taking it a stepoffurther, the Gentiles is to not be viewed, according to Freyne, as a ring GentileGalilee nationsofsurrounding, but signi cantly impacting, a fundamentally Jewish core within. The isolation that such a description (map?) implies is evident not only in its geography and its history, but also its cultural, religious, and ethnic identity. Thus, he e fectively draws a circle around Galilee, a barrier that is sometimes spatial and sometimes ideological but always separating what is outside from what is inside. Like every good circle, it also has a center. It was not Tiberias, which was “withdrawn from the center of Galilean
Sean Freyne, “The Geography, Politics and Economics of Galilee,” in Studying the Historical Jesus: Evaluations of the State of Current Research (ed. Bruce Chilton and Craig A. Evans; New York: E.J. Brill, 1994), 76. Sean Freyne, Galilee: From Alexander the Great to Hadrian, 323 to 135 , A Study in Second Temple Judaism (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1980), 3; cf. Ernest Renan’s “enchanted circle” in his Life of Jesus (New York: The Modern Library, 1927), 84. Ibid., 102 (“it was precisely in the surrounding circle that Israelite and later Jewish believers experienced the threat of the outsider”), 107 (“Ptolemais is unlikely to have exercised any great cultural in uence on the interior beyond the borders of its own territory”), 113 (“even though Scythopolis and the interior was very di ferent to that of Ptolemais, there seems to be no compelling reason to suggest that it ever exercised any great in uence outside its own territory”), 114 (similar statements regarding Philoteria, Antiochia, and Seleucia), 121 (regarding surrounding cities in general, “the nature of their contacts with the interior” resulted in minimal cultural change in Galilee).
country life,” nor was it Sepphoris, which, despite Josephus’ (geographical) insistence to the contrary, “never became the natural center.” In the middle of the circle was Jerusalem, “the real cultural center for Galilean Jewish loyalties.” Freyne is not alone in theorizing about the space of Galilee. In fact, he is in very good company. The work of Halvor Moxnes has shown that theorization about Galilee has been going on for centuries. In two intriguing articles, he surveys 200 years of scholarship on Galilee, tracing the way Galilee is constructed, deconstructed, and reconstructed for its use within each scholar’s social setting or ideological outlook. Ironically, some of the current debates, particularly whether Galilee during the 1st c. was in sync with Jerusalem, as with Freyne, or out of sync, as with Richard Horsley, are merely old discussions in new clothes. Not long after Friedrich Schleiermacher was advocating for the similarities between Galilee and Jerusalem, D.F. Strauss was arguing for their di ferences. Moxnes contends that what is generally seen as true for the current context (including religious and social con icts) is assumed to be true for the ancient context: “Both are based on descriptions characterized by dichotomies that have been regarded as ‘natural’ or ‘given,’ and thereforefrom not questioned.” many of perpetuated one generationThus, of scholars tothe thesame next.modes of analysis are Some notable overlap exists between Moxnes’ work and my own. Each of us assumes that Galilee, like any other space, is not neutrally re ected in texts but ideologically constructed. Methodologically, he is heavily in uenced by David Harvey, who, like Soja, used the critical outlook of Henri Lefebvre in the formulation of his own approach to space. Yet Moxnes’ emphases are quite distinct from those of the present study. In rejecting the notion that one can draw an objective picture of Galilee from the textual and archaeological evidence, he insists that there “needs to be an attempt at an hermeneutical interpretation, recognizing the role of the interpreter as well as the role of the ancient inhabitants of Galilee in encoding their space with meaning.” The same dualized approach is echoed in his later monograph, Putting Jesus in His Place: “To make a picture of an area like Galilee is always an interpretation; it is a
Ibid., 133. Ibid., 139; cf. Josephus, J.W. 2.511. Ibid. Halvor Moxnes, “The Construction of Galilee as a Place for the Historical Jesus—Part I,” 31:1 (2001): 26–37; idem, “The Construction of Galilee as a Place for the Historical Jesus—Part II,” 31:2 (2001): 64–77. Moxnes, “The Construction—Part I,” 32. Moxnes, “The Construction—Part II,” 75.
hermeneutical task. This places the emphasis rst on the interpreter: How do we today create an image of Galilee? But second, it emphasizes also the role of the 1st c. subject, Jesus, in shaping Galilee.” But what is missing? He recognizes that space is constructed at the two endpoints, rst by the inhabitants of that space and second in its modern interpretation. This study, however, occupies that space in between the inhabitant at one end and the scholar at the other, a space with which Moxnes interacts, but which is not his stated aim—the space of the ancient author. Josephus, Luke, and John all contribute to the construction of Galilee, too, and the utilization of modern spatial criticisms is but one way to study their techniques. The construction of Galilee takes place on a variety of di ferent levels, according to numerous blueprints, at the hands of multiple builders. Thus, our de nitions of the “historical Galilee” derive not only from the historical reconstructions of the ancient authors but also from their geographical reconstructions. Before proceeding, we must recognize the inherent di culties of the task and rethink basic assumptions about what it means to nd the “historical” in anything that is, like Galilee, so obviously “geographical.” What is needed a Galilean “spatial turn.”Jesus It is no longer enough to say, did Freyne, that “theis quest for the historical is quickly becoming theas quest for the historical Galilee.” Until it is recognized that Galilee is just as spatial as it is historical, that a quest for the “geographical Galilee” critically conceived is also a legitimate pursuit, the task will forever lean to one side. Geography also has its place. The same cautions that are applicable to studies of the “historical Galilee” are even more applicable to those that focus on the historical Jesus, with one additional caveat. Historical Jesus research operates with the underlying assumption that Jesus is inevitably the product of his rural Galilean upbringing, outlook, and culture, or to put it in more abstract terms, that the person Halvor Moxnes, Putting Jesus in His Place: A Radical Vision of Household and Kingdom (Louisville, Ky.: , 2003), 143. Compare this to his explanation of the plan of his study on page 3. There he proposes three “places” which must be taken into consideration: his own place as the modern reader, the place of other modern readers (speci cally scholars from the 19th and 20th centuries), and “ nally and foremost, the place of Jesus in his context.” Yet despite the fact that he delineates three places here, it is consonant with the twofold structure (ancient inhabitant and modern interpretation) alluded to in other passages. Cf. Victor Matthews, “Physical Space, Imagined Space, and ‘Lived Space’ in Ancient Israel,” 33:1 (2003): 12–20. Matthews utilizes Soja in his analysis of the ancient threshing oor and the ark of the covenant. He discusses how the biblical characters transform spaces, but he stops short of asking how the biblical authors construct those same spaces. Freyne, “The Geography, Politics and Economics of Galilee,” 76.
is, in e fect, an image of the place. To understand Jesus we must understand Galilee. Yet the starting point of critical geography is exactly the opposite: place is, in e fect, an image of the person. Josephus does not just tell us about a historical Galilee; he tells us about the Galilee of his imagination, as an expert in stagecraft having constructed a platform for showcasing his wisdom and virtue, evident in his role as both a leader of the Jews and a sympathizer with the Romans. Luke does not just plot Jesus’ ministry on the conventional maps of our day; he has rst imaginedhis own map corresponding to the spatial imagination of his own day. John does not create a single image of Galilee encoded with a singular meaning; he draws multiple images of Galilee and uses them simultaneously, even at odds with one another, in order to communicate that Jesus transcends Galilee. Any placement of Jesus within Galilee will have to reckon with these portraits of Galilee rst, and therein lies the challenge of critical geography: that the “real” Galilee, reconstructed from our sources, is an imagined place. We are creating images from images.
My use of the term “image” here is a deliberate echo of Geo f King’s discussion of what constitutes reality in the medium of digital photography where there is no negative serving as a nal arbiter of the srcinal image. See idem, Mapping Reality: An Exploration of Cultural Cartographies (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1996), 8–9.
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Index of Modern Authors Abler, Ronald 4, 4n8 Adams, John S. 4, 4n8 Ahituv, Shmuel 93n2 Alexander, Philip S. 111n105
Cangh, J.-M. van 94, 94n11 Cappelletti, Silvia 54n104, 59nn, 67, 67n160, 120n154, 122n156, 124n165, 126n170, 133n190
Álvarez Cineira, David 93n2 Anderson, Paul N. 151n67, 167n128, 176n164 Applebaum, Shimon 73n181, 74, 74n188 Ashton, John 140n3, 164n110, 176n161, 178n171 Attridge, Harold W. 86n220, 173, 172n142 Aviam, Mordechai 55n109 Avi-Yonah, Michael 34, 34n7
Cerfaux, Lucien 107n89 Chancey, Mark A. 15, 15n62, 16n70, 32n1, 77n200, 97n32 Clarke, Katherine 38n27, 41n44, 64n141, 121n154, 189n40 Cohen, Shaye J.D. 33n3, 72nn, 75, 75n193, 76n197, 83nn, 85n218 Collins, Adela Yarbro 93n3, 95nn, 96n26, 98nn, 99nn, 100n49, 132, 132n187 Conzelmann, Hans 102–107, 102nn, 103nn, 104nn, 105nn, 109nn, 110, 110n98, 114, 117–120, 118n144, 119n149, 120nn, 126n172, 130, 130n179, 132, 134, 134n192 Corrigan, John 21n87
Bacon, Benjamin W. 99n41 Bahn, Paul 19n81 Bar-Kochva, Bazalel 66n151 Barnes, Trevor J. 5n12, 18n76, 19n82, 20, 20n84, 153n73, 181n6 Bassler, Jouette M. 146–49, 147nn, 148n48, 152, 152n69, 157–63, 157n87, 158nn, 159nn, 160nn, 161nn, 162nn, 163n110, 164n111, 165, 165nn, 169, 173, 178n175 Baudrillard, Jean 27, 27nn, 153, 153nn, 154n76 Bechard, Dean Philip 5n12, 20n86, 104n70, 106n85, 107nn, 109, 109n96, 111nn, 112–14, 112n114, 113n121, 128, 128n177, 132, 132n188, 136, 184, 184n18, 189n39 Bennema, Cornelis 139n3, 159n93 Benoit, Pierre 13n50 Best, Ernest 95n23 Bilde, Per 32n2, 35–36, 35nn, 36nn, 72n177 Bock, Darrell L. H.106n85 Boobyer, George 94, 94n9, 96, 96n26 Bornkamm, Günther 175–176, 176nn, 177n168 Bovon, François 101, 101n50, 105, 105n77, 106n84, 107 Brodersen, Kai 184n15, 187, 187n25, 188nn Brown, Raymond E. 141, 141nn, 143n18, 149, 149n58, 150n59, 151, 155, 157, 160n98, 164n112, 165n117, 167n127, 169n130, 172n137, 176n165 Bultmann, Rudolf 139, 146, 164n112, 165n117, 166, 166nn, 169n130, 171n135, 175 Burns, Joshua Ezra 68n167
Dahl, Nils Alstrup 178, 178nn Davies, Graham I. 12n48, 13n54 Davies, W.D. 44, 44nn, 93n3, 95n23, 119, 119nn, 120n151, 150–151, 150nn, 151nn, 155, 157, 164n112, 165n120, 166n121, 170n131, 176n165 Deines, Roland 15, 16nn Dever, William G. 19n81 Dilke, O.A.W. 121n154, 187n23, 189n39, 191n52 Downing, F. Gerald 16n69 Dueck, Daniela 31n135, 41n43, 125n168, 128n174, Duncan, James 184n16 S. 5n12, 19n82, 20, 20n84, 181n6 Eldon, Stuart 9n32 Elliott-Binns, L. 94, 94n10, 96, 96n27 Ellis, E. Earle 105–06, 105n75, 106nn, 108–109, 109nn Feldman, Louis H. 32nn, 66n152, 74, 74n189 Fiensy, David A. 180n1 Fitzmyer, Joseph A. 104n70, 105, 105nn, 106n85, 136, 136n202, 137n204 Fitzsimmons, Margaret 10, 10n36
Huitink, L. 44, 44n68 Flanagan, James W. 5n12, 19n79 Fortna, Robert T. 146–147, 146nn, 149, Inbar, Moshe 51n95 149n58, 157, 157n86, 159n93, 161n102, Irwin, Robert 116n142 163n110, 165n116 Foucault, Michel 5, 24–26, 115, 183 Jarvis, Brian 8n29, 10n39, 31, 31n134, 153n75, France, R.T. 98n39 154n76 Frank, Michael C. 5n12 Freyne, Sean 11, 12n49, 13, 13nn, 14n56, 16–17, Jensen, Morton Hørning 17n73, 75n194 16n70, 17n75, 29n131, 33n4, 68n167, Jossa, Giorgio 87–88, 88nn 72n179, 74, 74n191, 75n195, 79n204, 80, Kant, Immanuel 5–7, 5n14, 6n15 80n205, 82n211, 89–90, 89nn, 90n230, Käsemann, Ernst 139, 139n1, 175–176, 175nn, 92n1, 97n32, 99n40, 105n79, 106n85, 176nn, 177n167 107n89, 109, 110n97, 120n151, 134n195, Keener, Craig S. 147n43, 151n67, 160n101, 138, 138n210, 147n43, 164n110, 186, 164n110, 166, 166n125, 171n136, 172n137 186n19, 192–94, 192nn, 194n63 Kelber, Werner H. 94–96, 94n13, 95nn, 96nn, 98nn Gal, Zvi 15n63, 89n229, 97n32 King, Geo f 27–29, 27nn, 28nn, 29n130, 46, Giblin, Charles H. 106n85 46nn, 49n87, 153–56, 153nn, 154nn, Giddens, Anthony 6n15 155n83, 176, 176n166, 182, 195n64 Gilbert, Gary 112, 112n115, 116n143 King, Philip J. 14n57, 19n80 Gill, David S. 101n51, 105, 105n74, 109n94 Gould, Peter M. 4, 4n8, 26n116117 Grant, Robert 107,26, 107n90, Green, Joel B. 105n74, 109n95, 113n118, 131n183 Gregory, Derek 4n11, 6, 6nn, 7n22, 8n28, 10n39, 11, 11nn, 28n129, 38n26, 183n10 Groh, Dennis E. 56n110 Grundmann, Walter 99n40 Guelich, Robert A. 99n40, 100n48 Gundry, Robert H. 95n23, 98n39, 99n42 Günzel, Stephan 5n12 Habel, Norman C. 43n54 Haber, Susan 15n65 Hadas-Lebel, Mireille 32n2, 88n225 Halpern-Amaru, Betsy 43–44, 43nn, 44nn, 190n50 Harley, J.B. 18, 18n76, 20, 20nn, 153n73 Harrison, Thomas 39n30 Harvey, David 8, 8n30, 23, 23n98, 193 Hengel, Martin 73, 73n180, 98n39, 104n70 Henten, J.W. van 44, 44n68 Hodder, Ian 19n81 Holmes, John 5n12, 181n5 Horden, Peregrine 57n112, 62n135 Horsley, Richard A. 16n71, 74, 74n190, 79n204, 89–90, 89nn, 90n231, 97n32, 193
Klein, Hans Verbin, 104n70,John 106n85, 107n87, Kloppenborg S. 107, 17n72, 93n2135 Koester, Craig R. 141n5, 147–148, 147nn, 148n45, 164n110 Kümin, Beat 5n12, 7n25 Kundsin, Karl 142–146, 142nn, 143nn, 156 Lane, William L. 98n40 Lang, F.G. 98–99, 98n38, 99n44 Laqueur, Richard 87, 87n221 Lefebvre, Henri 8–9, 8n31, 9nn, 21, 22n94, 23–24, 23nn, 47–50, 47n79, 48n81, 50n90, 51n94, 60, 50n128, 65, 65nn, 71, 71nn, 193 Leibner, Uzi 15, 15n64 89n229, 97n32 Levine, Amy Jill 30n132 Leyerle, Blake 12nn, 20n86 Lightfoot, R.H. 94–96, 94nn, 95n15, 96n24, 105n76, 106n85, 144–146, 144nn, 157, 157n84, 163n110, 171n134 Loftus, Francis 73, 73nn Lohmeyer, Ernst 93–97, 93n3, 94nn, 96n32, 103, 105n76, 142–143, 146n37, 155 MacAdam, Henry Innes 120n154, 126n172, 188n30 Mack, Burton L. 16n69, 97n32 Magen, Izchak 15, 15n65
Malbon, Elizabeth Struthers 97, 97nn Manns, Frédéric 148, 148nn, 157n88, 160n97, 163n110 Marchadour, Alain 43n54, 177n170 Marcus, Joel 98n39, 100n46 Marshall, I. Howard 105n74, 106, 106n81, 113n119, 118–119, 118n145, 119n147, 122n156 Martyn, J. Louis 101n50, 141, 141n6, 172n140, 173n141 Marxsen, Willi 94–95, 94n12, 95nn, 99n42 Mason, Steve 33, 33nn, 74, 74n192, 78n202, 85n218, 123n163 Massey, Doreen 7n24, 8n28, 11n41, 26n115 Mattern, Susan P. 187n24, 189nn Matthews, Victor 194n62 May, J.A. 5n14, 6n15 May, Jon 10, 10n37 Mazar, Amihai 13n53 McCown, C.C. 92n2, 102n53, 105n75, 137, 137nn
Parsenios, George L. 176n164 Parsons, Mikeal C. 102n53, 112, 112nn, 113n118 Pesch, Rudolf 99n40 Pothou, Vassiliki 40n36 Pred, Allan 6n15, 21n88 Purcell, Nicholas 57n112, 62n135
Meeks,145nn, Wayne147n43, A. 139, 139n2, 152, 144–147, 144nn, 149–150, 152n68, 156–157, 157n85, 159n93, 163nn, 165–166, 165n119, 166nn, 170nn, 171n135, 172nn, 178, 178nn Metzger, Bruce M. 106n82, 113n117, 131, 131n185 Meyers, Eric M. 14–17, 14n58, 15n60, 16n67, 32n1, 53n101, 86n219, 96n32 Miller, Vincent J. 26n112 Moxnes, Halvor 17n75, 193–194, 193nn, 194n62
Safrai, Ze’ev 34, 34nn, 35n11, 52n99, 125n168 Said, Edward W. 24–26, 24n105, 25nn, 26nn, 29, 46, 46nn, 114–116, 115nn, 116nn, 120, 134, 138, 182–183 Salway, Benet 187n24, 189n36 Sche er, Eben 2n4 Schenke, Ludger 167n128 Schi fman, Laurence H. 68n165 Schmidt, Daryl D. 133n189 Schmitt, Carl 7, 7n26 Schürmann, Heinz 106n85, 107n87, 135 Schweitzer, Albert 2, 2nn, 180 Scobie, Charles H.H. 143–144, 143nn,
Neuhaus, David 43n54, 177n170 Neyrey, Jerome H. 148–149, 148nn, 149nn, 152, 152n70, 155, 157n89, 164n110, 172n137 Nickelsburg, George W.E. 67, 67n164 Nicolet, Claude 3n6, 38n27, 112n115, 189, 189n37, 190nn North, Robert 126n172, 187n26, 188n30 Notley, Steven R. 93n2, 128n175, 137n204 Nun, Mendel 51n95 O Fearghail, Fearghus 107n89, 109, 109n96, 110n97 Oppenheimer, Aharon 68, 68n166
Räisänen, Heikki 99n44 Rajak, Tessa 33n2, 72n177, 75n193 Rappaport, Uriel 52n98 Reed, Jonathan L. 17, 17nn, 84n215, 89n229, 93n2, 131n184, 134n191 Renan, Ernest 1–2, 2nn, 180, 192n54 Renfrew, Colin 19n81 Robinson, Jr., William C. 101, 101n52, 102n55, 103n61, 104–5, 104n73, 105nn, 106n85, 135n196, 138n211 Romm, James S. 38n27, 61, 61nn Rose, Gillian 10, 10n38, 49n89 Rosenfeld, Ben-Zion 36–38, 36nn, 37nn, 63n137
159n93 Scott, James M. 20n86, 67n162, 111–114, 111nn, 112nn, 113n120, 184, 184n18, 189n39, 190, 190nn Scott, Michael 174, 174nn, 182, 182n7 Shahar, Yuval 38, 38n27, 39nn, 40–42, 40nn, 41nn, 42nn, 44, 52n97, 54n105, 57, 57n113, 122n156, 128n174 Sheridan, Ruth 140n3 Short, John Rennie 31n133 Shroder, Jr., John F. 51n95 Simpson-Housley, Paul 20n86
Sleeman, Matthew 20n86, 112–114, 112n116, 113n123, 114nn, 181n3, 182, 182nn, 183n14, 184 Smith, D. Moody 151n67, 169n130 Smith, Graham 7n22, 10n39, 11n40, 183n10 Smith, Jonathan Z. 3, 3n7 Smith, Mark D. 120n154 Smith, Morton 73, 73n183 Soja, Edward 5n13, 6, 6nn, 7nn, 8–10, 8nn, 9n35, 10nn, 20–24, 20n83, 21n89, 22nn, 23nn, 24nn, 28n127, 29, 47–51, 47nn, 48nn, 49nn, 51nn, 60, 60nn, 65n147, 70, 71nn, 87, 90n232, 113–116, 182, 183n14, 193, 194n62 Spalding, John Lancaster 67n161 Staley, Je frey L. 177n169 Stegemann, Hartmut 120n154 Stemberger, Günter 93n3, 95nn Sterling, Gregory E. 86n220, 104n70, 115n132 Stern, Menahem 120n154, 122n157 Stimp e, Alois 164n112 Strange, Strange, James James F. Riley15, 15n61, 180n1 96n32 Talbert, Richard 188n35 Theissen, Gerd 98, 98n36, 143n16 Therath, Antony 164n110
Thrift, Nigel 10, 10n37 Tozer, H.F. 191, 191n51 Ulrich, Eugene 69n169 Unnik, W.C. van 101n50 Usborne, Cornelie 5n12, 7n25 Valentine, Gill 26n117 Van Belle, Gilbert 163n107, 164n112 Verseput, Donald J. 92n2 Villalba i Varneda, Pere 35nn Völkel, Martin 106n85, 107, 107n88, 135 Wahlde, Urban C. von 139n3 Walbank, F.W. 41n44, 189n38 Weber, Wilhelm 35, 36n16 Weiss, Ze’ev 97n32 Weissenrieder, Annette 107n90 White, Rodney 26, 26n116 Wilken, Robert L. 12nn, 43n54 Witherington, Ben 135n197, 168n Withers, Charles W.J. 181n4 Zangenberg, Jürgen 53n103, 62n135 Zeitlin, Solomon 73–75, 73nn, 74n187, 76n199, 79n203, 80, 83n214, 87
Index of Ancient Sources Old Testament/Hebrew Bibl e
Pseudepigrapha
Genesis 10 13:3–4 (
1 Enoch 12–16 13:7 26:1
67 67 112n112
3 Enoch 17:8 18:2–3 30:2
113 113 113
Exodus 16:1 ( 24
) )
111, 113, 187n21 100 99–100 100n46
Leviticus 18–20
43
Numbers 33:49 (
)
100
Joshua 69 69
1 Kings 7:23–26
Ezekiel 5:5
190n47 )
93n2, 123n164 93n2 111n107
50 107–18 116–17
113 65 126n172
Liber antiquitatum biblicarum (Pseudo-Philo) 44n64 Sibylline Oracles 5.249–50
112n112
Testament of Job
44
Testament of Moses
44n64
Ancient Jewish Writers
Apocrypha
1 Maccabees 5 8:17–32 9:2 9:28–31
44n64, 111n105, 112 67, 111 111
Letter of Aristeas
11:5 20:7 21:32
Isaiah 8:23 ( 9:1
Jubilees 8–9 8:19
69 69 70 70
Josephus Against Apion 1.60 1.60–63 Antiquities 1.122–47 3.183–84 5.63
37, 124n167 36 67 190 69
5.93–98 12.308 12.331–34 12.419 12.420–21 13 13.6 13.246 13.254f 13.375 14 14.202 14.239 14.415–30 14.448 15.217 15.364 17.318–19 17.320 18.27 18:28
43n58 127n173 69 69 70 41n49 70 122n159 53 127n173 41n49 122n159 54 70 100 122n159 57n112 59 122n159 55 134n194
2.503 2.511 2.511–12 2.547 2.568 2.569–647 2.570–72 2.573 2.573–74 2.592 2.593 2.599 2.602 2.621 2.622 2.629 2.639 3 3.9–10 3.32–33 3.34
54, 82n210 55, 67, 193n57 55 56n110 53n101, 67 80, 83 81 69n168 55n109 59 67 56n111 81, 81n207 81, 81n207 80 75n195, 82n208 56 34, 54 122n160 84n216 55
18.36 20.118 20.159
55 53 55 83 53n101 52 53 52 56n111 54 70 67
3.35–38 3.35–39 3.35–43 3.35–44 3.35–58 3.37 3.38–40 3.39 3.39–40 3.41 3.41–43 3.42 3.42–43 3.43
52–53 73n179 35n11, 81–82 61, 63 58, 63, 86 62 53 69n168 67 62 62 82 81 82
122n159 59 122n159 80n206, 87 81n207 58 58n119 53n102, 84n216 53 35n11, 55–56 61 80n206, 87 54 54
3.44 3.47 3.48 3.49 3.50 3.51 3.51–53 3.52 3.53 3.54 3.54–56 3.56 3.57 3.58
62n136, 64 62 53n102 137 59, 64 37n22, 62 124n167 67, 112 37n23 56 122n159 56 34 58n119, 61
Jewish War 1.1 1.21–22 1.29 1.64–65 1.128 1.180 1.238 1.302–15 1.304–5 1.396 2.95 2.97 2.118 2.170 2.188–91 2.191 2.232 2.232–33 2.252 2.363 2.433 2.457–60 2.477
Jewish War (cont.) 3.61 3.62 3.107 3.111 f 3.112–13 3.113 3.129 3.130 3.132 3.142 3.157 3.158–60 3.160 3.199 3.229–33 3.271 3.277 3.289 3.289–306 3.293
84n216 59, 81n207 62 82n210 83n213 83 82n210 83 82n208 83 83n213 55–56, 58 58n119 81, 83–84 83–84 59 83n212 82n210, 83 84–85 83, 85
4.104–5 4.120 4.413 4.431 4.436 4.452–75 4.475 4.476–85 4.485 4.552–55 4.555 4.558 5.136–247 5.247 5.474 6.102 6.107 6.435–42 7.408
84n216 86 85n217, 127n173 86 85n217 58 58n119 58 58n119 85n217 86 73, 84n216, 87 58 58n119 82n210 84n216 84n216 86 86
Life
3.301 3.306 3.307 3.315 3.320 3.355 3.463 3.485–91 3.486 3.506 3.506–21 3.508 3.509–13 3.515
83 83, 85 85 85 83 83 128n175 57 55 51 55, 58 57, 59 55 62
17 22 23 28 30 31 33 37–38 38 39 42 44 46–47 56
88n224 88n224 88n224 76, 78, 88n224 75–76, 79 77 56 55 55 75–76 56 54 76 88n224
3.516–19 3.517–19 3.520 3.521 3.522–31 4.2 4.4–8 4.54–55 4.54–56 4.54–61 4.57 4.92
57 59 59 58 59 86 58 56 58 84 55 84n216
58 62 63 64 65 66 66–67 69 71 77 78 78–79
59 78 78 56, 79 55, 78 75 77 56 59 76 52, 67 76n199
79 80 84 86 92 99 100 102 105–6 105–7 108 112–13 115 118 119 120 121 123 124 124–25 125
81 78 76–77 77 55 75–76 77 52, 77 76 76n199 75 78n201 77 82n209 59 56 56 55 75 75 77
210–11 211 213 230 230–31 232 235 237 240 243 244 250–52 256–58 257–58 258 259 262 266 270 275–79 279
78 78 77, 82 82, 83n215 77 76n198 55 78 55 78 52, 77–78 77 77 78 77 77 77 78 77 78n201 56
132 134 143 145 149–54 154 155 159 162 163–69 169 175 175–77 177
76 56, 56n111, 88n224 75–77 76 78n201 90 56 78 78 59 56 76 76n199 77
284 294 300 307 311 313 318 322 338 340 341 342 346 352
56 56 56 77 77–78 56 53 55, 82n210 75 75 78 36n16 55 75
184 187 187–88 188 190 190–93 193 198 205 206 207 207–10
88n224 54 55n109 69n168, 70, 82 78 78 79 78 52 76, 76n199 77 77
372 375 376–77 380 381 384 392 393 395 396 412 417–18
84n216 75 75 77 56 75–77 75–76 78 82 75 82 84n216
Philo De vita Mosis Legatio ad Gaium 276–329 326
44 190n48 67n163
New Testament
Matthew 2:23 4:13–16 5:9 10:5 13:25 13:57 19:1 26:69 26:71 26:72 26:73 Mark 1:28 1:33 1:39 2:1 2:4 2:13 3:7 3:7–8 3:17 3:22 4:1 4:30–32 4:35–41 5:1–20 6:4 6:30–44 6:45–8:27a 7:1–23 7:31 8:1–9 8:23 8:26 8:27 9
171n135 93n2 181 129n178 99 163 105, 132 160n100 171n135 160n100 135 134n193 134n191 106, 134n193 134n194 134n191 134n194 134n193 128–29 96n29 131 134n194 131 95n21 95n21, 99 163 98 101 100n48 94, 98–100, 98n39, 100n45, 129 98 134n191 134n191 135 100n46
9:30 10:1 10:13 10:17 10:46 10:46–52 11:1 13:26 14:28 14:62 14:70 16:7 16:8 Luke 1:5 1:39 1:39–56 1:65 2:4 2:4–39 2:41–52 3:1 3:3 3:23–38 4:5 4:14–9:50 4:24 4:37 4:44 5:1 5:17 5:19 5:27 6:17 7:1 7:17 8:2 8:4 8:22 8:26 9:5 9:7–9 9:10–17 9:18–21 9:43b
134n193 105, 131–32 136n201 118n146 131 130 99 94 94, 95n15 95 160n100 94–95, 95n15 95 106 128 130 106, 128 106 130 130 106, 130, 134n194 107, 130n181 111 103n61 136 163 134n193 106–7, 106n82, 109–10, 118–19, 128, 134n193, 135–36 109, 110n97, 128 106, 133, 134n194 134n191 134n194 106, 129, 132, 134n193, 136 109, 110n97 106, 135–36, 138 109, 110n97 134n194 109, 110n97 109–10, 110n97, 135 130 109 134n194 135 134n193
22:39–46 22:59 23:5 24:47 24:48
103n61 160n100 106, 128, 135–36, 138 138 138
1:9 1:11 1:11–12 1:12 1:19–28 1:28 1:38 1:38–39 1:43–51 1:43–2:12 1:44 1:45 1:45–46 1:46
175 175 145, 165, 166n121 165 158 172 151 172 158 169n130 160 171, 171n135 164, 169, 174n154 135n200
102 118 131 131 131 131 102, 109, 110n97, 131 91 131 131 131 99, 109–10, 118–19, 118n146, 131, 135, 137n204
1:48 1:49 1:51 2:1 2:4 2:9 2:11 2:12 2:13–20 2:13–25 2:18 2:23 2:23–25 3:1
170, 170n132 160n98 175 164n113, 169 178 170 164, 167, 174n147 161, 172–73 168 158 165n118 165n118 162n106, 165, 174n150 160
102 136 130 136 131 136n201 118n146 118n146, 136n201 118n146 171n135 118 130 118n146 136
3:8 3:11 3:31 3:32 4:1 4:1–3 4:7–9 4:9 4:11 4:20–21 4:22 4:40 4:43–45 4:43–54
170 166n121 175n155 166n121 168 172 160n97 169, 174n154 170 177 169, 174n154 172 163–67 169n130
9:50 9:51 9:51 f 9:51–17:11 9:51–19:27 9:52–56 9:53 10:1 10:1–20 10:13 10:13–15 10:25–37 10:38 10:38–42 11:14–23 11:15–23 11:29–32 11:37–54 11:42 11:43 12:11
109, 110, 136 105, 107, 110, 130, 136 101, 105, 109, 130 119, 136 136 101, 119, 130–31 130 131 111, 113 134n194 101, 131n183 131 131 102, 109, 119 131 102 102, 131 102 131 131 131
12:22–34 12:31 f 13:1–5 13:10 13:18–19 13:31 13:31–33 13:33 14:1 15:2 16:14 17:11
17:11–19 17:11–21:38 17:18 17:19 17:20 18:15 18:18 18:31 18:35 18:37 19:1 19:4 19:5 19:28–21:38
John
John (cont.) 4:44
8:14
161, 174n148 175n156 172 164n113, 169 174n153 172, 172n138 143, 161, 172 178 172–73 146, 172, 174n153 169n130 174n152 170 170 162 164n113, 169, 171 174n151 135 159, 159n97, 164n113, 169, 171, 178 170
167, 158 169n130 170 161, 167, 174n149, 178 161 167 170 167 147, 148, 161, 167 175n156 161, 164n113, 169, 175 167 175 161, 167, 174n148
8:23 8:30 f 8:30–33 8:31 8:48 8:59 9:13–41 9:16 9:22 9:28–29 9:29 9:30–32 9:38 10:16
170–71, 175, 175n155 162n106 174n149 167, 172n137 158, 169, 174n148 150–51, 158, 172, 174nn 158 174n151 173n141, 174n148 169n130 170 170 162, 174n147 177
167 172n137 161, 172–73, 173n141, 174n152 167 161, 167, 174n148, 174n150 147, 161, 167 174n151 158 167n128 167n128, 174n147 167n128 167
10:19–21 10:20 10:22 10:24 10:31 10:40 10:40–42 11:1–44 11:6 11:7–8 11:45 11:45–46 11:46 11:46–54
162, 174n151 158 151 172n138 158, 174n148 146 172 109n92 172 175n156 162, 174n147 174n151 162 162n106
4:46 4:46–47 4:46–54 4:48 4:50 4:53 4:54 5 5:16 5:18 5:34 5:43 5:45–47 6
144–45, 144n27, 163, 164n110, 165, 168–69, 174nn, 178n172 165 158–59, 163, 165, 166n122 160 160 158, 164 165–66, 167n127 166, 174n147 174n147 160 139, 150, 161, 169n130 174n148 158 166n121 166 169n130 139, 147, 150, 158, 161,
6:1–14 6:5 6:14 6:26–27 6:30–31 6:31–42 6:35–40 6:41 6:41–59 6:42 6:49–51 6:51 6:52 6:55–56 6:56 6:59
4:44–45 4:45
6:60 6:64 6:66 6:66–71 6:67–69 6:67–71 6:69 6:70 6:70–71
6:71 7:1 7:1–2 7:1–3 7:1–4 7:3–4 7:5 7:6–8 7:9 7:10 7:19–24 7:26 7:27 7:29 7:40–43 7:41 7:43 7:50–52 7:52
11:49–51 11:54 11:57 12:1–3 12:9–11 12:11 12:17 12:19 12:20–23 12:21 12:32–33 12:36 12:37 12:38 12:42 12:42–43 12:48 13:1 14:9 14:16–17 15:4 f
177 172 174n148 109n92 162 174n147 162 162n106 178 134n194, 160 178 174n153 174n148 172 173n141 174n149 166n121 178 167n128 179 172n137
16:2 16:28 17:8 17:15 17:16 17:16–18 17:18 17:21 17:23 18:1 f 18:5 18:5–6 18:5–7 18:8
173n141 178 166n121 177 179 142 177 177 177 158 171 171 164, 169, 174n154 171
18:20 18:36 19:9 19:19 19:27 20:1–29 20:21 20:22 21 21:1–14 21:1–23 21:2
173, 173n141, 174n152 175, 175n155 170–71 164, 169, 171, 174n154 166n122 175n157 179 179 160n98 158 175n157 160
Acts 1:8 1:22 2 2:5–11 2:32 3:15 8:1 8:26–40 9:31 10:37 10:39 10:39–41 13:31 13:47 14:8–20 15:3
130, 135, 138 138 112 112 138 138 130 128 135, 138 136, 138 135 138 105, 136, 138 138 113 129n179, 130n182
1 Corinthians 6:5
99
1 John 2:6 2:27–28 3:6
172n137 172n137 172n137
2 John 9 10
172n137 166n122
3 John 9–10
166n122
Revelation 7:17
99
Greco-Roman Literature
Agrippa, Marcus Vipsanius 120n154 Geography Arrian Anabasis 5.6 7.10–12
34n8 34n8
Caesar Bellum Gallicum 1.1
34n8
Diodorus Siculus Bibliotheca historica 34/5.1.1–5 40.3.1–8
66n155 66nn
Epictetus Diatribai 4.7.6
67n161
Hecataeus of Abdera 66n151 Aigyptiaka Herodotus Historiae 1.75.2–5 2.19.2 2.21–23 2.35.2 2.35.2–3 2.36.4 4.1–9 4.8 4.36 4.37–45 9.122.3
39n31 40n34 61n133 40n34 39n33 39n32 34n8 61n133 61n133, 191 187n21 63n138
Hippocrates On Airs, Waters, Places 13.8–17 35n14, 63n139 16.3–16 63n139 Homer Iliad 21.190–99
61n133, 187n21
Pausanias Description of Greece 10.16.3 111n106 Plato Timaeus 32b–c
Pliny the Elder Naturalis historia 2.87 3.3 5.13 5.14 5.14–15 5.15 5.16 5.17 7.15 9.5 12.32 12.40 12.46 12.55 13.4 19.32 36.65 Polybius Historiae 3.37.3 4.38.13 5.21.3–9 5.44.1–11 5.45.1–2 5.55.6–8 5.70.3–12 5.70.5 10.1.6 10.9.8–10.13 10.11.1 12.25e.1–2 34
123n163 187n22 122, 123nn, 133 122 120 66n159, 103, 107n86, 117, 122–25, 123n163, 128, 130, 133, 134n194 66n156, 123, 123n163 58n121, 66n155, 123nn, 126n172 122n158 122 123n161 123n161 122 122 122n158 122 122
61n133, 187n21 58n116 57 64n143 64n144 41n42, 64n145 66n157 66n158 64n146 41n45, 58n118 58n120 52n100, 54n106 41
Pomponius Mela De chorographia
31n135
Ptolemy Geographia 1.1
31n135
190n45 Res gestae divi Augusti 112, 112n115
Seneca Ad Lucilium 41.3
57n112
Strabo Geographica 1.1.3 1.1.8 1.1.15 1.1.15–16 1.1.16 1.3.4 2.1.32 2.3.1 5.1.12 6.4.1 8–10 9.3.7 14.1.27 16.2 16.2.2
61n133 61n133 52n100 41n47 42, 59n122 127 52n96 100n47 63n140 63, 111n108 174n143 111n106 184 42 124–25, 125n168,
16.2.16 16.2.21 16.2.28 16.2.29 16.2.30–32 16.2.32 16.2.34 16.2.34–36 16.2.35–36 16.2.35–37 16.2.37 16.2.40 16.2.41 16.2.42 16.2.44 16.2.45 16.3.1 Tacitus Annales 12.54
126n170, 133 59n123, 126, 126n172, 128 124, 126n171 66n153, 124–25 126n170, 127n173 126n170 66n156, 127 66nn, 103, 117–18, 124–27, 125n168, 133 126n170 57n114 66n155 66n153 67n161, 126 57n115, 130 66n156, 127 57n114, 127n173 57n115, 59n123, 127, 127n173 126n169
53–54, 107n86, 130n180
Historiae 5.1 5.2–3 5.3–5 5.4–5 5.6 5.6–7 5.8
34n8 66n154, 127 66n153 66n155 54n104, 126n172 66n156 66n153
Thucydides Peloponnesian War 1.10.1–3 2.102.2 4.8.6 7.29.4
64n142 58n117 40n37 40n36
Vitruvius De Architectura 6.1.6–11 6.1.11
63n141 111n108
Rabbinic Works
Mishnah Šebiʿit 9:2–3
53n101, 68
Nedarim 2:4
68, 135n198
Babylonian Talmud Berakot 44a
68
Pesaḥim 49a–b 55a
68 68, 135n198
Megillah 6a
59n124, 68
Moʿed Qaṭan 23a–b
68, 135n198
Nedarim 48a
68, 135n199
Baba Batra 38a–b Sanhedrin 11b
Early Christian Writings
68, 135n199 53n101, 68
Jerusalem Talmud Šabbat 81a–b
68
Midrash Genesis Rabbah 20:6
68
Eusebius Onomastikon 72.18–21
53n101
Gospel of Thomas 31 Origen Commentary on John 10.2 10.6 10.7 10.10
163
141 140 140 140
Index of Geographical Features and Locales Galilee
Arbel(a) 1, 70, 77 Asochis 76 Baca 53 Berothe 69, 69n168 (see also Meroth) Bersabe 53 Besara 82n209 Cana 77, 140–42, 158, 160, 160n98, 164, 170 Capernaum 12, 93n2, 103n61, 108 (Fig. 3.1), 110n97, 129 (Fig. 3.4), 131n183, 134nn, 140, 143, 158, 160–61, 160n101, 161n102, 164, 172–73 Synagogue 12, 172–73 Chabulon (Chabolo) 53–54, 77, 82, 82n210 Chorazin 129 (Fig. 3.4), 131n183, 134n194 Dabaritta 53
(Fig. 3.1), 117, 121 (Fig. 3.2), 123–24, 124n166, 125 (Fig. 3.3), 126–27, 126n172, 129 (Fig. 3.4), 130n181, 146, 160n99, 172 Jotapata 55–56, 55n109, 58–59, 58n119, 62, 82–85, 82n210, 83n213, 84n215 Kedesh 69 Magdala see Tarichaeae Me(i)ron, Mt. (Jebel Jarmac) 1, 14–15 Meroth (Mero/Ameroth/Berothe?) 53, 69n168 Nain 129 (Fig. 3.4) Nazareth 129 (Fig. 3.4), 134n191, 135n200, 145, 163–64, 169–71 Philoteria 66, 192n55 Ruma 84
Gabara 55–56, 75, 77, 80, 82n208 Gabaroth 77–78 Galilee see Index of Subjects Galilee, Sea of 1, 51n95, 54, 93n2, 98–100, 108 (Fig. 3.1), 124, 127n173, 128, 128n175, 134n194, 139, 160n99 (see also Gennesar, Lake of) Garis 82, 82n210 Gennesar(et) (Gennesaritis), Lake of 51, 55–57, 59, 59n123, 62, 66, 70, 103n61,
Saba 84 Sepphoris/Sepphorites 15, 55, 75–77, 76n198, 79–81, 84n216, 91, 97n32, 108 (Fig. 3.1), 193 Simonias 77
110, 110n97, 121 (Fig. 3.2), 123–24, 125 (Fig. 3.3), 126–28, 128n175, 129 (Fig. 3.4) (see also Galilee, Sea of) Gennesar(et) (Gennesaritis), Plain of 55–59, 68, 70 Gerasa/Gerasenes 129 (Fig. 3.4) Gischala/Gischalans (Gush Halav) 75n195, 77–78, 80, 81, 84n216
124n165, 125 Fish-pickling 127(Fig. 3.3), 127, 127n173 Hippodrome 56n111 Thella 53 Tiberias, Lake of 1, 139 (see also Galilee, Sea of; Gennesar, Lake of) Tiberias/Tiberians 35, 35n11, 53, 55–56, 66, 68, 75–77, 78n201, 80, 88n224, 97n32, 108 (Fig. 3.1), 121 (Fig. 3.2), 124n165, 192 Antipas’ Palace 55, 77–78, 89–90 Boulē 56 Stadium 55
Hula (Huleh/Semechonitis), Lake 1, 59n123, 108 (Fig. 3.1) Japha 77, 82–85, 82n210, 83n215 Jordan River 1, 35n11, 37, 52–53, 55–56, 55n107, 62, 66, 70, 85n217, 105, 107, 108
Tabor, Mt. 55–56, 58, 58n119, 66, 84 Tarichaeae/Tarichaeans (Magdala) 35n11, 56–57, 56n111, 59, 66, 75–76, 76n197, 78n201, 80, 91, 110n97, 121 (Fig. 3.2), 124,
Xaloth 53
Outside Galilee
Achelous River 58 Aesimoth 100 Africa 61n133, 186n20, 187n21, 188 Ai 100 Anatolia 189 Antilibanus 123n161, 124, 125 (Fig. 3.3), 126,range 126nn, 188 Antiochia 192n55 Antioch, Syrian 126n171, 129n179 Arabia 108 (Fig. 3.1), 117, 121–23, 121 (Fig. 3.2), 123n161, 126n171 Arctic, the 155 Argaris, Mt. 123n161 Artabazanes 41n42, 64 Ascalon 108 (Fig. 3.1), 121 (Fig. 3.2), 122, 122n160, 125 (Fig. 3.3) Asia 61n133, 64, 112, 186n20, 187n21 Asia Minor 128 Asphaltitis, Lake (Dead/Salt Sea) 58, 58n119, 66, 108 (Fig. 3.1), 121 (Fig. 3.2), 124, 124n166, 126–27, 129 (Fig. 3.4) Athens 64n142, 113 Azotus/Azotians 126n170, 129 (Fig. 3.4) Bethany 99, 109n92, 119, 129 (Fig. 3.4), 143 Bethany-beyond-Jordan 172 Bethel 100 Bethlehem 134n191 Bethphage 99, 129 (Fig. 3.4) Bethsaida (Julias) 35, 66, 108 (Fig. 3.1), 121 (Fig. 3.2), 129 (Fig. 3.4), 131n183, 134nn, 160, 160n99 Bethzatha, Pool of 141 Britain 188 Byzantium 57 Caesarea Maritima 54, 104n70, 108 (Fig. 3.1), 121 (Fig. 3.2), 129 (Fig. 3.4) Caesarea Philippi 55n107, 108 (Fig. 3.1), 121 (Fig. 3.2), 134–35 (see also Paneas) Canaan/Canaanites 69 Capharabis 85n217 Caphthera 85n217 Carmel, Mt. 52–53 Chrysorrhoas River 125 (Fig. 3.3)
Cispadana 63 Coele-Syria 124, 125 (Fig. 3.3), 126, 126n171 Commagene 124 Croton 64 Damascus (Damascene) 125 (Fig. 3.3) Dan 67 Dead Sea see Asphaltitis, Lake Decapolis 54, 66, 94–95, 98–100, 100n48, 108 (Fig. 3.1), 121 (Fig. 3.2), 123–26, 129 (Fig. 3.4), 134–35 Delphi 111 Egypt/Egyptians 39–40, 117, 122–23, 126n171, 127 Elim (Ailim) 100, 100n45 Emmaus 129 (Fig. 3.4) Ephraim 141, 172 Ethiopia 100, 112 Euphrates River 61–62 Europe 25, 61n133, 112, 186n20, 187n21 Gadara/Gadarenes (Gadaris) 53, 56–57, 62, 85n217, 108 (Fig. 3.1), 125 (Fig. 3.3), 127n173 Gades 61 Gamala 56n110, 58, 58n119, 83–84, 86, 86n219, 88n224, 121 (Fig. 3.2), 123 Gaul 188 Gaulanitis (Golan) 14, 35n11, 53, 56n110, 59, 62, 86, 86n219, 108 (Fig. 3.1), 186 Gaza 108 (Fig. 3.1), 121 (Fig. 3.2), 123–24, 123n161, 125 (Fig. 3.3), 126n170, 127n173, 129 (Fig. 3.4) Gedor (Gadora/Gadara; in Perea) 127n173 Gerasa/Gerasenes 110n97, 135 Gerizim, Mt. 85, 123n161 Gezer (Gazara) 127n173 Gilgal 70 Ginae(a) (Gema) 53, 53n102 Greece 38–40, 40n35, 63, 174 Halys River 39 Hebron 85n217 Hellespont 58 Hermon, Mt. 67 Hippo(s) 53, 56, 62, 66, 121 (Fig. 3.2)
Idumea 85–86, 85n217, 104n68, 108 (Fig. 3.1), 117, 121–23, 121 (Fig. 3.2), 123nn, 125–26, 125n168, 126n170, 129, 129 (Fig. 3.4) Israel/Israelite 36, 89, 89n229, 100, 112, 116, 178, 192n55 Ister (Danube) River 61–62 Italy 63, 70, 188 Jamnia 122n159 Jericho (Hiericus) 13–14, 57–58, 58n119, 117–18, 118n146, 125 (Fig. 3.3), 126, 129 (Fig. 3.4), 130–31 Jerusalem 1, 12, 12n45, 17, 45, 58, 58n119, 76–78, 81n207, 83, 84n216, 86, 87n221, 89n229, 91–92, 93n2, 94, 96, 97n32, 101, 104, 105n74, 108 (Fig. 3.1), 109, 111–14, 117–19, 118n146, 121 (Fig. 3.2), 124, 125 (Fig. 3.3), 129–30, 129 (Fig. 3.4), 129n179, 132, 134–36, 136n201, 138, 139, 141, 143–44, 146, 152, 163, 164n110, 172–73, 190, 193
Mycenae 64n142 New Carthage 41n45, 58, 58n120 Nile River 40n34, 61n133, 187n20 “Ocean” 61–62, 61n133, 187n20 Oeniadae 58 Olives, Mount of 99, 99n43, 103n61, 129 (Fig. 3.4) Orinen 128 Orthosia 124 Palestine 29, 32n1, 34, 36, 41, 45, 70, 98, 106–7, 108 (Fig. 3.1), 110, 115–16, 121, 121 (Fig. 3.2), 123n161, 125 (Fig. 3.3), 129 (Fig. 3.4), 138 Paneas (Banias/Panias/Panion) 55, 55n107, 57, 57n112, 108 (Fig. 3.1), 121 (Fig. 3.2), 123–24 (see also Caesarea Philippi) Temple of Augustus 57n112 Parthia/Parthians 64
Jezreel 53 Joppa Valley 37, 108(Plain (Fig. of 3.1),Esdrealon) 121 (Fig. 3.2),1,122, 122n159, 124, 125 (Fig. 3.3), 127n173, 129 (Fig. 3.4) Judea 36–38, 54n104, 57, 58nn, 59, 61–62, 64, 66, 68, 73, 81n207, 83, 83n214, 88n224, 102–7, 104n68, 106n85, 107n86, 108 (Fig. 3.1), 112, 116–18, 118n144, 120–37, 120n154, 121 (Fig. 3.2), 122n158, 123nn, 125 (Fig. 3.3), 126n170, 129 (Fig. 3.4), 130n179, 141–42, 145–46, 149–50, 152, 157–58, 163, 164n110, 165, 168, 172, 174–75, 177, 178n172, 179
Peloponnese 64n142, 189 124 Pelusium (Pelusia) 123n161, Perea (“beyond the Jordan”) 61–62, 62n136, 64, 85–86, 85n217, 101, 104–5, 104n68, 108 (Fig. 3.1), 117, 121 (Fig. 3.2), 122–24, 124n166, 127n173, 129–32, 129 (Fig. 3.4), 130n181, 136 Persia/Persians 39n31, 64 Phiale, Pool of 55 Philadelphia 117–18, 125 (Fig. 3.3), 126 Philistia/Philistines 69 Phoenician Sea 121 (Fig. 3.2) (see also Mediterranean Sea) Phoenicia/Phoenicians 37n25, 52, 54, 108
Libanus range 125 (Fig. 3.3), 126, 126nn, 188 Libya 61–63 Lycaonia 113, 128 Lycus River 125 (Fig. 3.3), 126 Lydda 129 (Fig. 3.4)
(Fig. 3.1), 121–25, 121 (Fig. 3.2), 125 (Fig. 3.3), 129 (Fig. 3.4), 129n179, 135 Pillars of Hercules (Strait of Gibraltar) 189 Ptolemais 37, 52–54, 58, 58n119, 62, 69, 125 (Fig. 3.3), 129 (Fig. 3.4), 192n55 Pylos 40n37 Pyrenees Mountains 188
Machaerus 121 (Fig. 3.2), 124n166 Masada (Moasada) 57, 58n119, 83, 125 (Fig. 3.3) Media 64, 70 Mediterranean Sea 108 (Fig. 3.1), 125 (Fig. 3.3), 126, 126n172, 129 (Fig. 3.4), 186n20
Qumran 190 Rhine River 62 Rhodes 189n39
Rome 63n141, 69, 76n198, 77, 104n68, 111, 174, 187 Samaria/Samaritans 52–53, 53n102, 54n104, 59, 61–62, 64, 84n216, 85, 101–5, 104n68, 105nn, 107, 108 (Fig. 3.1), 110, 112, 118n146, 119–22, 121 (Fig. 3.2), 123n161, 125–26, 128–33, 129 (Fig. 3.4), 129n179, 135–37, 143–44, 146, 160n97, 163, 165, 169, 169n130, 172, 175, 177, 179 Samaria (Sebaste) 117–18, 125–26, 125 (Fig. 3.3) Sardinia 189 Scythia 100 Scythopolis 52, 62, 66–67, 126, 192n55 Seleucis (Seleucia), Syrian 124, 126n171, 192n55 Sharon, Plain of 129 (Fig. 3.4) Sidon 69, 94–95, 98, 125 (Fig. 3.3), 129, 129 (Fig. 3.4), 134 Sinai (Sina) 100, 100n45 Sin, Wilderness of 100, 100n45
Sirbonis, Lake 66n156, 125 (Fig. 3.3), 126–27, 127n173 (see also Asphaltitis, Lake) Sodom 125 (Fig. 3.3) Spain 188 Sparta 56–57, 64n142 Sphacteria 40n37 Strato’s Tower 125 (Fig. 3.3) (see also Caesarea Maritima) Sychar 141–42 Syria 52, 54, 76, 98, 104n68, 108 (Fig. 3.1), 117, 121 (Fig. 3.2), 122–24, 123nn, 129 (Fig. 3.4) Tanais (Don) River 61n133, 187n20 Taurus Mountains 189 Theuprosopon 125 (Fig. 3.3) Thrace/Thracians 40n36 Trachonitis (Trachones) 78n201, 125 (Fig. 3.3) Transjordan 172, 175, 179 (see also Perea) Tyre 52–54, 62, 69, 94–95, 98, 108 (Fig. 3.1), 125 (Fig. 3.3), 129, 129 (Fig. 3.4), 134
Index of Subjects Acceptance/rejection pattern 144, 146–50, 157–69, 174, 179 Agrippa 67, 104n68, 190, 190n48 Agrippa 34, 35n11, 53, 57, 61, 76
Eratosthenes of Cyrene 184, 189, 189n39 Ethnography 39–40, 40n36, 41n42, 42, 45–46, 63, 84, 147, 184
Agrippa, M. Vipsanius 120n154, 187–88 Alexander Lychnos of Ephesus 184 ‘Ammei ha-aretz 68 Andrew 160, 160n100 Anti-Judaism 133n189 Antiochus (the Great) 64, 66 Antipas 17, 35n11, 55, 59, 77–78, 89, 102, 104, 104n68, 109, 131 Archelaus 104n68 Augustus 57n112, 112, 187
Felix 54n104, 107n86 “Firstspace” 24, 47, 51–60, 61, 65, 70–71, 73, 80, 85–86, 90 Form criticism 145
Boustrophēdon 54 Caesar, Julius 34n8, 188 Caiaphas 177 Caligula (Gaius) 190 “Cartographic meaning” 27–29, 46, 154–156, 168, 169n130, 171, 173–75, 176–178, 180, 182 Cestius Gallus 76 Chorography 31, 31n135, 57 Christology 101, 105n74, 109, 150, 175–76, 179n Claudius 54n104 Crispus of Tiberias 56 Critical Geography 4–11, 18, 29–30, 113, 150–51, 180–82, 184–85, 190, 195 (see also Space, Theoretical approaches to) John and and 152–56, 175–79 Josephus 46–50, 87–90 Luke and 114–116, 133–38 Croesus 39 Cumanus 54n104, 107n86 Cynics 16, 97n32 Diaphragma 189, 189n39 Diaspora 44, 190 Dicaearchus of Messana 189, 189n39 Docetism 175–77 Dualism, Johannine 142, 144n23
“Galileans” in John 147–48, 157–63, 159n97, 160nn, 165, 165n120, 166, 166n121, 169n130, 173n141 in Josephus 72–85, 87–88, 90 Galilee Agricultural produce of 57, 59–60, 62, 62n136, 66, 68, 70, 81, 127 Archaeology of 13–16, 19, 19n81, 32, 32n1, 34, 77n200, 84n215, 89n229, 91, 93n2, 96, 96n32, 156, 178n175, 186, 193 Borders of 1, 52–54, 61–62, 67, 117–18, 120, 130–32, 137 Brigands in 67, 70, 76, 76n199, 79, 87–88, 87n221 Early Christian pilgrims in 12 Ethnicity and 14–17, 32n1, 77n200, 89n229, 96, 96n32, 192–93 Forti cation of 55–56, 55n109, 69 Historical study of 11–17, 30, 34, 72, 89–90, 92n1, 144, 180–81, 192, 194 Jerusalem/Judea in contrast with 17, 77–78, 89n229, 94, 148–49, 96–97, 152, 96n32, 89–90, 140n3, 141, 145–46, 157–69, 172, 174, 178n172, 193 Natural features of 1, 54–55 “of the Gentiles” 123n164, 192 Rabbinic views of 13, 67–68, 131n184, 135, 148 Samaria’s rivalry with 53–54, 54n104 Upper and Lower 14, 52–53, 53n101, 67–69, 86n219 Urban/rural rivalry in 17, 79, 81, 83 Geography Apologetic 71, 77, 79–81
Geography (cont.) Askew 124n166, 126n172, 188–89 Climate and 35, 39, 57, 63, 63n141, 100 Critical see Critical Geography Discourse (critical, social, spatial) and 4, 6–8, 10–11, 19n82, 20–22, 21n88, 24–26, 47–49, 60, 65–66, 68, 70–71, 82, 114–15, 115n136, 142, 151, 183 Excursuses on 12, 34–36, 35n12, 36n16, 38–41, 41nn, 45, 55–59, 61, 63–64, 66, 66n151, 68, 72, 81–82 Feminist 10–11 Greco-Roman 38–41, 45, 65, 70–71, 81, 86, 111–13, 111n105, 187–90 Human 10–11, 19n79, 21, 26, 114n130 Kant, Immanuel and 5–7 Linear 39, 39n28, 190 Literary 184, 189, 189n37, 190 Marxist 7–11, 8nn, 10n39, 21–22, 48–49 (see also “Spatial Turn”) Military 40–42, 57–58, 64, 81 Physical 10, 17–18, Positivism 1,and 6–7, 19n79 17–18, 20, 30, 51, 153n73, 182 Postmodernism and 9–10, 10n39, 11, 19n79, 27, 30–31, 154–55, 154n76 Regional 40, 41n42, 57–58, 60–61 Social theory and 6–11, 18, 22–23, 48 Symbolism in 20n86, 24, 44, 60, 71, 73, 75, 95, 97–98, 102, 103n61, 105n74, 108, 119, 127, 141, 143–52, 155–56, 159, 164n110, 168, 170, 173, 176–77, 176n165, 190 Text as metaphor for 19–20, 19n82, 25–26 Hasmoneans 15, 53, 69–70, 89n229 Hecataeus of Abdera 66, 66n151 Hecataeus of Miletus 38, 191 Heilsgeschichte 101–2, 102n55 Heracleon 140 Herod Antipas see Antipas Herod the Great 54, 70, 100, 104n68, 117–18 Hipparchus of Nicea 184 Historical criticism 2, 13, 18, 29, 34, 92n1, 113, 180–82 Historical Jesus 2n4, 16–17, 32, 34, 91, 143, 151, 194–95
Historiography 34, 35n14, 38, 40, 45, 48–50, 54, 56, 72, 85, 86n220, 138 “Hyperreal” 27n123, 153 “Imaginative geography” 24–26, 29, 46, 115–38, 180, 182, 185 Imago mundi 111–12, 190 Ioudaioi 139–40, 139n3, 145–48, 157–58, 159n93, 160–63, 162n106, 165, 165n118, 167–69, 169n130, 171–73, 173n141, 175 Itineraria 39n28, 188–89 Jerusalem delegation 77–78 Jesus (son of Sapphias) of Tiberias 56, 80, 88n224 Jews, Greco-Roman views of 66–67, 66nn, 133, 133n189, 138 Johannine Community 141, 143, 146, 149, 156, 172, 173n141, 178n175, 179 John of Gischala 75n195, 76, 78, 80–81, 84n216 John Baptist161,102, 103n61, 130n181, 151, 158 Judasthe Iscariot 167n128 Judas Maccabeus 69 Judas “the Galilean” 80n206, 87 Justus of Tiberias 74–77, 79–80 κόσµος 141–42, 161, 167, 170–71, 173, 175, 177–79 Kypros map 190 Landnahme 7 Land theology 20n86, 42–43, 45–46, 119, 150, 190–91 Mappaemundi 186–87, 186n20 Mapping Conventional 47–48, 51–52, 63, 65, 72, 87, 94, 107, 108 ( g. 3.1), 109–10, 117–20, 121n155, 123–24, 126–27, 126n170, 129n179, 130n181, 131–32, 136–37, 152–53, 195 Distortion in 28, 154, 171, 173–74, 177, 185–90 Imaginative 5n12, 84n215, 185, 190, 195 Instability of 153, 155, 168, 170, 192 “Palimpsest” as metaphor for 28, 49–50, 49n87, 154, 157
Provisionality of 28–29, 154–55, 168, 171, 174, 179, 182, 185 Simultaneity of 19, 28–29, 49, 155, 157, 168, 170–71, 173–74, 185, 190–91, 195 Situatedness 26, 186, 191 Meiron Excavation Project 14–15 µένω 149, 164n110, 172–73, 172nn Miqva’ot 15, 15n65, 96n32 Molon 64 Moses 57, 167, 169n130 Narrative Criticism 44–45, 113 Nathanael 135n200, 158, 160, 160n98, 170–71 Nero 35n11, 55–56 Nicodemus 135, 159, 159n97, 160n101, 167n127 Oikoumenē 38–39, 39n31, 40n41, 42–43, 52, 61, 61n133, 63, 112, 174 Ortsangabe 142 Parousia πατρίς 94–95, 45–46,9784n216, 145, 163–65, 163nn, 164n110, 165n119, 168, 170–71, 171n134, 174, 178–79, 178n172 Pentecost 92, 112 Periplustradition 189–90, 189n37 Peter 96, 135, 158, 160, 160n100, 167n128 Pharisees 15, 131, 159, 162, 169, 172 Philip (disciple of Jesus) 158, 160, 160n100 Philip of Thessalonica 190 Philip (tetrarch) 35n11, 55, 59, 134n194, 160nn Phormio 58 Pomponius Mela 31n135, 184 Pontius Pilate 104, 104n68, 130–31, 170–71 πόθεν 169–170, 170n132, 177 Ptolemy 4, 31, 126n172, 184, 187–88, 189n40, 191 Q 17, 91–92, 92n2, 102, 104, 129, 131, 134n194
Sabbath 78, 78n201, 158 “Secondspace” 24, 47, 60–70, 71, 73, 81 Sicarii 73, 87 Sign faith 164–66, 170 Simulacra 153 Space Conceived 24, 47, 50, 60, 183, 191 Lived 24, 47–48, 50, 71, 80, 115 Perceived 24, 47, 50–51, 60 Power and 49, 49n89 Theoretical approaches to 3, 5, 8–10, 21–24, 47, 49, 60, 87–88, 92n1, 111–14, 142, 181–86, 193–94 (see also Critical Geography) “Spatial Turn” 8–10, 18, 22, 181, 194 Synagogue 12, 14, 96n32, 106, 131, 157, 172–73, 173n141 Table of Nations tradition 67, 111–13, 134, 187n21 Tabula Peutingeriana 188, 189n36, 190n43 Temple164n110, 15, 89,166n121, 96n32, 172–73, 150–51, 190 158, 162, Terrestrial history 59 (see also Galilee, Agricultural produce of) Territoriality 148–49 “Thirdspace” 21–24, 29, 47–50, 49n89, 70–86, 87–88, 90, 114–15, 180 Titus (Roman general and emperor) 120n154 Travelling concept 183, 183n13, 185 Travel narratives in John 139–40 in the Synoptics 91, 98, 98n39, 101–10, 105n74, 117–19, 128–31, 134n193, 135, 139 Vespasian 35, 36n16, 69, 84n216, 120n154 Zealots 73–74, 87
