[Bryan D. Bibb] Ritual Words and Narrative Worlds (Bokos-Z1)

LIBRARY OF HEBREW BIBLE/ OLD TESTAMENT STUDIES

480 Formerly Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Supplement Series

Editors Claudia V. Camp, Texas Christian University Andrew Mein, Westcott House, Cambridge

Founding Editors David J. A. Clines, Philip R. Davies and David M. Gunn Editorial Board Richard J. Coggins, Alan Cooper, John Goldingay, Robert P. Gordon, Norman K. Gottwald, Gina Hens-Piazza, John Jarick, Andrew D. H. Mayes, Carol Meyers, Patrick D. Miller, Yvonne Sherwood

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RITUAL WORDS AND NARRATIVE WORLDS IN THE BOOK OF LEVITICUS

Bryan D. Bibb

Copyright © 2009 by Bryan D. Bibb All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher, T & T Clark International. T & T Clark International, 80 Maiden Lane, New York, NY 10038 T & T Clark International, The Tower Building, 11 York Road, London SE1 7NX T & T Clark International is a Continuum imprint.

Visit the T & T Clark blog at www.tandtclarkblog.com

A catalog record for this book is available from the Library of Congress. ISBN-13: 978-0-567-02713-9 ISBN-10: 0-567-02713-9

CONTENTS Acknowledgments

vii

INTRODUCTION

1 Part I THEORY AND TEXT

Chapter 1 LEVITICUS AS LITERATURE 1. Literature or History? a. Generic Possibilities b. Rhetorical Intentions 2. Leviticus as a “Book” a. Literary Separation b. Literary Artistry 3. Structure a. Leviticus’s Two Halves b. Narrative Structuring

5 7 8 13 18 19 22 26 26 30

Chapter 2 NARRATIVIZED RITUAL 1. Ritual Genre a. Historical Possibilities b. The Ritual World of Leviticus c. Ritual and Narrative Polyphony 2. Ritualization a. Reading, Writing, Ritualizing b. The Practice of Ritual c. Aspects of Ritualization d. Ritual and Power 3. Conclusion

34 34 36 40 44 49 49 52 58 62 68

Part II RITUAL AND NARRATIVE IN LEVITICUS Chapter 3 NARRATING RITUAL: LEVITICUS 1–7 AND 11–15 1. Ritual in Narrative

73 74

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Ritual Words and Narrative Worlds

2. Characterization a. Speaking, Hearing, Observing b. Doing, Having, Being (1) Moses and Aaron (2) The Priests (3) The Congregation c. Feeling, Believing, Desiring 3. Ritual Analysis

78 78 82 82 85 88 89 95

Chapter 4 RITUALIZED NARRATIVES: LEVITICUS 8–10 AND 16 1. Cultic Debut: Leviticus 8–9 a. Narrative Frame b. Ritualized Language 2. Ritual Failure: Leviticus 10 a. Theorizing Failure b. Literary Analysis (1) Presence and Absence (2) Dangerous Sanctification (3) Filling in the Gaps c. Law and Narrative 3. A Crucial Day: Leviticus 16

100 100 101 109 111 112 116 117 123 125 128 132

Chapter 5 THE WORLD OF HOLINESS: LEVITICUS 17–27 1. A New Ritual World a. “You are to be holy” b. “So that they may not profane my holy name” c. Reading Across Boundaries d. Law and Narrative Revisited: Leviticus 24:10–23 2. Ritualizing Ambiguity a. The “Holy” in Ritual and Society b. God, Priests, and the People

138 138 138 141 146 153 156 157 159

Chapter 6 CONCLUSION: RITUALIZED READING

164

Bibliography Index of Biblical References Index of Authors

167 177 181

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS I would like to express my heartfelt appreciation to the teachers, colleagues, friends, and family who have enriched my studies and my life, and who have made the production of this book possible. I am deeply indebted to the faculty of Princeton Theological Seminary for their guidance and support throughout my graduate program. I am particularly grateful to my advisor, Patrick D. Miller, for his patient and insightful mentoring, and for inspiring me to be a better scholar, teacher, and preacher. I would not have been able to tackle the methodological issues addressed in this study without the wisdom shared by my dissertation committee, Katharine Doob Sakenfeld and Dennis T. Olson, as well as professors C. Leong Seow and J. J. M. Roberts. I also appreciate the affirmation of my Furman colleagues during some difficult years. My work has been supported in many ways by Provost Tom Kazee, Associate Dean Linda Bartlett, and my department chairs, John Shelley and David Rutledge. I offer thanks to Keith Ray, who read drafts and helped me through the final stages, and to dear friends Helen Lee Turner, Claude Stulting, Sean O’Rourke, Margaret Oakes, and Jeffrey Rogers. I am grateful as well to series editors Claudia Camp and Andrew Mein, and to Duncan Burns for saving me from many errors. None of this would have been possible without the steadfast love of my wife, Jennifer, who journeyed with me to a strange land and back home again. Our families have been a constant source of strength and encouragement, and they have contributed to the completion of this project more than they know. This book is for my boys, Joseph and Nolan.


INTRODUCTION The following study has two distinct sections, one methodological and one exegetical. Part I argues that the best way to read Leviticus is by drawing on two theoretical traditions, Literary Criticism and Ritual Studies. Although each of these has been used somewhat in recent interpretations of Leviticus, in this project they work together to facilitate a sensitive final-form reading of the text. By setting aside historical and source-critical questions, one can allow literary features and ritual dynamics to enlighten each other. This involves a leap of imagination, especially on the ritual studies side, since the object of interpretation is a literary text, not actual ritual practices. The key to the application of ritual studies methods to Leviticus is the concept of “ritualization” through which ordinary activities (in this case, writing and reading) take on ritual-like qualities. Part II of this study explores exegetical insights that emerge from this methodological framework, considering both literary and ritualizing features of the text. Leviticus functions prescriptively while describing a particular moment in Israel’s mythic past, the establishment and inauguration of the tabernacle cult. Literary and ritual analysis help the reader make sense of this complex interaction of genres Chapter 1 argues that Leviticus is a book, meaning that it is a coherent literary work distinct from its surroundings. It evaluates notable efforts to read Leviticus as a literary text rather than as an historical record or priestly manual. Although there are difficulties with regard to structure and context, internal clues as well as tradition may lead one to treat Leviticus as an independent work. Chapter 2 draws upon Ritual Theory to define the genre of Leviticus as “narrativized ritual,” a complex blending of descriptive narrative and prescriptive ritual. It argues that the best way to apply Ritual Theory to such a literary text is to attend to dynamics of ritualization. In conversation with Catherine Bell, it presents several aspects of the text that are ritualized and shows how this ritualization implies a negotiation of power relations among participants. In Leviticus, ritualization strategies allow characters (and readers) to develop shared understandings and values and to participate in the ritual system despite dangerous ambiguities.

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Beginning the second part of the study, Chapter 3 examines the legal sections in the first half of Leviticus, chs. 1–7 and 11–15. These texts, which address sacrificial procedures and purity laws, demonstrate ritualizing tendencies in their language and formulation, as well as in the working out of power relationships among priests and worshippers. The reader is invited into this ritualization process through which a person must develop his or her own appropriation of the shared values being communicated. Chapter 4 considers the two narrative units in the first half of Leviticus, chs. 8–10 and 16. The first of these is the only extended narrative in the book: the installation of the Aaronic priests and the new altar, followed by the enigmatic story of the deaths of Nadab and Abihu. Leviticus 16, although technically prescriptive, functions as narrative because of its close association with 8–10 and because it addresses Aaron’s performance of the Yom Kippur rituals for the first time. The argument in this chapter is that the narratives expose gaps and ambiguities in the ritual system, which must be addressed through further law-giving. Chapter 5 turns to the second half of Leviticus, traditionally called the Holiness Code. The ritual language found in this section is less formal and precise, mirroring the way in which the concept of holiness is expanded and extended to the whole people. Here one finds only one narrative section, 24:10-23, which is very similar in theme and literary purpose to Lev 10. This time, however, the story addresses concerns of the laity rather than of the priests. The thesis is that since the holiness material concludes the book, it relativizes and democratizes the strict ritual system contained in the first half. Given the discussion of gaps and ambiguities, this turns out to be a positive development, one way in which ritual knowledge is internalized by characters in the story as well as readers. The central claim throughout this study is that an integration of literary and ritual methods enables the interpreter to identify narrative and theological dynamics that shape the text. Discussion of prior research is intended to further the argument, not to provide an exhaustive summary of Leviticus scholarship. It has been necessary especially to defer questions about Leviticus’s compositional history and relationship to the history of ancient Israel. These methods are certainly valuable and have influenced the author dramatically, but they are not strictly necessary in considering the final form of Leviticus from the perspective of ritual theory. This study aims to contribute to the scholarly discussion about Leviticus, encouraging other critical investigations that are sensitive to the issues of genre and ritual in interpreting the book. 1

Part I

THEORY AND TEXT


Chapter 1

LEVITICUS AS LITERATURE

The book of Leviticus has been largely neglected as a subject of literarycritical study. While stories found in Genesis and Samuel have received exhaustive attention from biblical and literary scholars, they have rarely seen the value in applying these methods to Leviticus. On the surface, this is quite understandable. The “book” of Leviticus seems to hold little of what modern critics would describe as literary elegance or narrative complexity. In addition, a book with such a paucity of literary artistry is at the same time an incredibly rich resource for the history of Israelite religion and of Jewish ritual theology. Source critics have generally treated the book as a (more or less) monolithic part of the “Priestly” source, giving little attention to the book as a discrete or unique literary work. Even with the recent renewed attention given to the various strands of material within the book,1 the result has been to devalue even more the

1. Attention to literary strands within Leviticus is a classic topic in source-critical approaches to the book, and characteristically focuses on two questions: the date of the Priestly source(s) relative to the First and Second Temple periods, and the separation of the Priestly strand(s) from later redactional activity. For good summaries, see Ernest Nicholson, The Pentateuch in the Twentieth Century: The Legacy of Julius Wellhausen (Oxford: Clarendon, 1998), and R. Norman Whybray, The Making of the Pentateuch (JSOTSup 53; Sheffield: JSOT, 1987). More relevant to this study, Israel Knohl and Jacob Milgrom have emphasized the theological and conceptual differences between the two major source traditions in the book. See Israel Knohl, “The Priestly Torah versus the Holiness School: Sabbath and the Festivals,” HUCA 58 (1987): 65–117, and The Sanctuary of Silence: The Priestly Torah and the Holiness School (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1995), Milgrom’s discussion in Leviticus 1–16 (AB 3; New York: Doubleday, 1991), 3–34, and Leviticus 17–22 (AB 3A; New York: Doubleday, 2000), 1319–67, and finally his translation of Leviticus showing P, H, and redactional layers in different fonts (Leviticus 23–27 [AB 3B; New York: Doubleday, 2001]), 1896–943. In the present study, these three volumes of Milgrom’s Leviticus commentary will be referred to in a much abbreviated form, as Milgrom I, II, and III, respectively.

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idea that “Leviticus” is a unified literary work.2 Therefore, the book might be regarded as: barely a literary work; an uninteresting, non-narrative part of a larger literary strand; a composite hodge-podge of conflicting Priestly traditions. In practice, all three of these conclusions may be held at once by the same exegete. Part I of the present study will address each of these objections, arguing that Leviticus: can be read as a distinct literary work; integrates ritual and narrative to create a unique genre of “narrative ritual”; employs strategies of “ritualization” to integrate seemingly conflicting narrative and ritual traditions. First, Chapter 1 will consider whether Leviticus can be considered a discrete literary work, what we might call a “book.” There are two parts to this question: the relationship of Leviticus with the material before and after it in the Pentateuch, and the internal consistency of the book itself. Implicit in this is the need to demonstrate that the book follows a coherent structure with a purpose and an organizing principle. The burden is to show that the book is neither amorphous nor random. Chapter 2 will argue that identifying the genre of Leviticus is one key to reading the book. Although the question of Leviticus’s historical context is disputed, the text clearly bears the stamp of generic identity, and even in the absence of historical context this may be a guide to interpretation. If Leviticus operates within an overall generic identity, one may read across its literary and structural fissures to understand the intention of the whole. Drawing on theories of ritualization, it will identify the internal ritual dynamics that hold all of this material together. Regardless of the historical origins of these various traditions, the parts of Leviticus work together to address the uncertainties, questions, and fears of worship leaders and worshippers. Especially important is the role of ambiguity within the book’s literary crafting and narrative story-telling. This ambiguity turns out to have vital importance to both the literary structure of the book as well as to its theological complexity. In sum, the task is to find the most enlightening method for explicating (1) the structure of the text, (2) its progressive narrative development, 2. A notable recent exception to this is the work of Wilfried Warning, Literary Artistry in Leviticus (Leiden: Brill, 1999), who argues that subtle literary strategies unite the book so completely that traditional divisions between P and H are not sustainable. 1

1. Leviticus as Literature

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and (3) the theological complexity within the book. This study will argue that the interaction between the narrative and ritual sections of Leviticus is the key to understanding the first two of these matters, and that this interaction creates a ritualized narrative text that bears the stamp of its content and is the key to the third question. 1. Literature or History? This study of Leviticus focuses on the so-called “final form” of the book, but that does not obviate all historical questions. It will be helpful to clarify the relationship between the analysis here and historical- and source-critical research. Even a literary oriented, final-form reading of the book must consider the implications of genre and redaction, which are closely tied to historical models of the text’s development and context. As pointed out above, Leviticus is a crucial source for the history of ancient Israelite religion, particularly with regard to the sacrificial system. Most historians are concerned primarily with issues of authorship and context: Who wrote the text, and when? Were these ritual prescriptions ever used in the Temple, and when? How did Israel draw upon the ritual and theological traditions of the ancient Near East in constructing its ritual system?3 Does Leviticus point to the authorization of the Torah by Persian authorities in the temple-community of Yehud? 4 Such questions are vitally important, and research has shed much light on these complex problems. Within much historical research, however, the actual text of Leviticus serves merely as a source for reconstructing the ancient Israelite context. In the process, the book has often been dissected into small units of “original” text with little importance for the text as it 3. Milgrom emphasizes that excellence in interpreting Leviticus depends on two things: absolute mastery of the Hebrew text and wide-ranging control of the ancient Near Eastern cultic parallels. See his appreciative comments about Victor Hurowitz’s review of his commentary: “he is in total command of the cultic material of the Bible and the ancient Near East and, thus, is fully equipped to evaluate critically every page of my commentary” (III:2452). 4. For more on this recent historical debate, see Frank Crüsemann, The Torah: Theology and History of Old Testament Law (trans. A. W. Mahnke; Minneapolis: Fortress, 1996), who argues that the Torah mirrored Persian royal decrees that could not be rescinded but could be reinterpreted or even contradicted by later rulings. Also, according to Crüsemann, the Torah mediated disputes between the priests and local landowners, and posed no threat to Persian authority. The explicit role of the Persians in the formulation and publication of the Torah is the subject of Persia and Torah: The Theory of Imperial Authorization of the Pentateuch (SBLSS 17; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2001), a collection of essays edited by James Watts.

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currently stands.5 Closely allied to this historical approach has been the recent application of sociological and ritual studies methodologies to ancient Israel’s sacrificial cult. Although these studies do not necessarily concern themselves with specific historical or political events, they are similar to classic historical studies in their use of the text primarily as a source for reconstruction.6 Before turning to the application of Ritual Theory in Chapter 2, we must first consider how historical questions help frame our search for literary structure and genre in Leviticus. There have been many thorough surveys of the historical issues surrounding the Priestly material and Leviticus specifically.7 In this discussion, it will not be necessary to duplicate that task, but several interesting points can be made by examining two scholars who explore the intersection of historical and literary worlds, David Damrosch and James D. Watts. a. Generic Possibilities In his book The Narrative Covenant, Damrosch explores the idea of genre in arguing that historical and literary analyses do not contradict 5. For a recent critique of this form-critical tradition, see James Watts, “The Rhetoric of Ritual Instruction in Leviticus 1–7,” in The Book of Leviticus: Composition and Reception (ed. Rolf Rendtorff and Robert A. Kugler; Leiden: Brill, 2003), 79–100. Watts argues that “both the form-critical and comparative methods end up as analyses of ideal types rather than of actual biblical texts, because some features of the extant texts do not conform to the proposed genres” (84). 6. Some notable applications of Ritual Theory to the Priestly texts include Robert Cohn, The Shape of Sacred Space: Four Biblical Studies (AAR Studies in Religion 23; Chico, Calif.: Scholars Press, 1981); Howard Eilberg-Schwartz, The Savage in Judaism: An Anthropology of Israelite Religion and Ancient Judaism (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1990); Frank Gorman, The Ideology of Ritual: Space, Time, and Status in the Priestly Theology (JSOTSup 91; Sheffield: JSOT, 1990); Nanette Stahl, Law and Liminality in the Bible (JSOTSup 202; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1995); and, by comparison, David Wright, Ritual in Narrative: The Dynamics of Feasting, Mourning, and Retaliation Rites in the Ugaritic Tale of Aqhat (Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2000). 7. In addition to Crüsemann’s The Torah and Milgrom’s massive commentary, see the work of Gary A. Anderson, Sacrifices and Offerings in Ancient Israel: Studies on their Social and Political Importance (HSM 41; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1987); Menahem Haran, Temples and Temple Service in Ancient Israel: An Inquiry into the Character of Cult Phenomena and the Historical Setting of the Priestly School (Oxford: Clarendon, 1978); and Hannah K. Harrington, “Interpreting Leviticus in the Second Temple Period: Struggling with Ambiguity,” in Reading Leviticus: A Conversation with Mary Douglas (ed. John Sawyer; JSOTSup 227; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1996), 214–29. 1


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each other, and that interpreters should strive to coordinate these two lines of inquiry within the interpretation. 8 He points out that literary analysis of the Bible is difficult because the text has undergone such a dramatic editing process; the literary critic has little access to the historical background that scholars of other literature find enlightening, and so must either ignore historical questions or confine their analysis to small fragments of texts with few historical implications.9 On the other hand, historians have traditionally atomized the text so that their main areas of focus have been the “earliest” sources within a text and the political dynamics that may have influenced these texts. This has led to the situation where “scholars must actively exploit textual incoherencies, working against the intentions of the later authors and editors in order to recover what they had so long concealed.”10 Damrosch argues that in response to this historical approach, modern literary criticism of the Bible has rejected all attention to historical issues, preferring a kind of “ahistorical structuralism” that is no longer even used in literary circles.11 Damrosch calls for a new integration of literary and historical analysis, contending that to ignore historical questions undermines all literary approaches to the text, even so-called “close readings.”12 Literary critics are often fascinated by the seams in a text, gaps and ambiguities that provide interesting contact points for literary analysis. At the heart of the matter, however, is the question of how the text was constructed, particularly in light of its generic development. Damrosch argues that “the study of genre and structure only reaches its full force when it is linked to historical study of the generic possibilities that existed before, during, and after the time of a given text’s creation.” 13 Thus, according to his approach, one should not look at a gap or seam in a text as raw material for fanciful literary analysis that is disconnected from the possibilities delineated by the historical realities that underlie the origins of the text itself.14 In turning to the Pentateuch, Damrosch points out the dramatic literary accomplishment achieved by editors who integrated the genres of law 8. David Damrosch, The Narrative Covenant: Transformations of Genre in the Growth of Biblical Literature (San Francisco: Harper & Row, 1987). 9. Ibid., 5. 10. Ibid., 9. 11. Ibid., 189. 12. Ibid., 23. 13. Ibid., 31. 14. Chapter 2 will begin the exploration of Leviticus’s genre with a brief discussion of “descriptive rituals” in the Ugaritic literature. This question is explored in more depth by David Wright in his Ritual in Narrative.

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and narrative into one coherent text. He says, “The mixing of law and narrative was not a crude blunder by incompetent editors… [R]ather, it was the most important generic innovation of its age.” 15 Leviticus itself has a narrative component, and the “workings of the story around it cannot be fully understood without a sustained literary study of that least literature-like of books.”16 Damrosch’s central point is that the joining of law and narrative in the Priestly writing has transformed each of the components to create something new. He speaks of this in terms of the Hebrew verbal system.17 Narrative is fundamentally a “perfective” genre, telling a story of events that took place at some point in (literary) time, while ritual texts are basically “imperfective,” presenting an idealized set of actions and beliefs that transcend any particular iteration. Damrosch writes, “the Priestly writers give the presentation of the Law a strongly perfective aspect and the presentation of history an equally pronounced imperfective aspect.”18 Speaking in terms of our modern notions of time, all three dimensions of temporality (past, present, future) merge in subtle and interesting ways in the narrative of Israel’s founding rituals and ritual prescriptions. Damrosch’s literary analysis takes seriously the source-critical divisions in the text, treating “P” as a literary force that shaped and reworked various traditions into the multivalent text that remains. Unlike many contemporary critics, he is sensitive to historical issues and how they have shaped the literary process. This in some ways hearkens to earlier methods of “literary criticism” that generally carry the name “source criticism” in contemporary parlance. Although he is not trying to “discover” source divisions, nor to use them in historical reconstructions, like earlier critics he is interested in the literary and theological achievements of the Bible’s first authors, editors, and redactors. The most interesting aspect of Damrosch’s work for this study is his awareness of how the ritual dimension of these texts impacts the writing and reception of Leviticus. He argues that “ritual” is the glue that holds the perfective and imperfective so closely together in the book. The sacrificial laws stand as timeless prescriptions, yet they are delivered to particular priests at the founding of Israel’s cult and serve as the guide for the initial offerings in chs. 8–9. The textual account of the Day of Atonement (ch. 16) is a complex blending of the instructions for future ritual and for Aaron’s initial performance of it. The next chapter will explore this in more

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15. 16. 17. 18.

Damrosch, The Narrative Covenant, 35. Ibid., 36. Ibid., 281–83. Ibid., 283.


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depth, and argue that the “narrative” and “ritual” in Leviticus cooperate so closely that the narrative itself begins to bear marks of ritualization. It is instructive to compare Damrosch’s perspective with that of John Sailhamer, who interprets the Pentateuch in light of the “strategy” of the biblical writer as discerned in a close, literary reading of the text. 19 He agrees with Damrosch that interpretation of the Pentateuch should not follow atomistic, historical-critical tendencies. The chief difference between them, however, is that Sailhamer’s conservative perspective begins with the assumption that Moses is the sole author of the Pentateuch—a unified, single composition.20 Whereas Damrosch discusses the strategies revealed in the way that different genres interact in Leviticus, Sailhamer focuses primarily on the connections between legal material and the earlier narratives in Genesis.21 This attempt to connect the legislation to specific narratives is similar to the approach of Calum Carmichael but very different in spirit: Carmichael has argued in several works that the biblical writers composed laws as a reflection of specific traditional narratives that are now found in the Pentateuch and in the Deuteronomistic History;22 Sailhamer’s goal is to show that the same author composed both the Flood story and the purity legislation in Leviticus. Whereas Damrosch pledges to move interpretation beyond mere source-critical division, Sailhamer fails to consider the effect of different traditions interacting in the final form of a composite text. By examining how basic themes and ideas develop throughout the Pentateuchal narrative, Sailhamer hopes to recover Moses’s “strategy,” and thus something of the real meaning of the text. Even though the content of the Pentateuch may vary from place to place, the “compositional strategy of the book as a whole” is consistent, and is the hermeneutical key for interpretation.23 Leviticus, then, is not a book, but rather a small 19. John Sailhamer, The Pentateuch as Narrative: A Biblical-Theological Commentary (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1992), xxi. 20. Sailhamer describes this as an assumption (ibid., 4): “If we assume Mosaic authorship of the Pentateuch, then it was written during the general period of the Exodus and the initials [sic] stages of the conquest of the land.” 21. For example, twice Sailhamer presents a detailed chart showing the linguistic and thematic connections between the purity legislation in Leviticus (primarily chs. 13–14) and the Flood story in Gen 6–9 (ibid., 40–41, 338–39). 22. Calum Carmichael, Law and Narrative in the Bible (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1985), The Origins of Biblical Law: The Decalogues and the Book of the Covenant (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1992), The Spirit of Biblical Law (Athens, Ga.: University of Georgia Press, 1996), and Law, Legend, and Incest in the Bible (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1997). 23. Sailhamer, The Pentateuch as Narrative, 24.

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section within a larger work.24 He says, “Leviticus is a continuation of Exodus. We should not, in fact, think of it as a new book.” 25 Sailhamer and Damrosch both cast some doubt on the possibility of interpreting Leviticus as a self-contained literary work. Sailhamer sees it as one chapter in Moses’s magnum opus, while Damrosch argues that it is integral to the Priestly Work as a whole. In these two visions, the compositional process of the Pentateuch was either simple and unified, or excruciatingly complex and collaborative. Damrosch insists that even the literary critic must attend to the historical processes that led to the text’s creation, especially the possibilities and restraints created by the historical use of different genres. Sailhamer avoids this challenge in two ways: first, he chooses to avoid the difficult historical questions created by the seams and ambiguities in the text of the Pentateuch; second, when he does address the historical question of the text’s authorship and setting, he indicates only that his assumption is that Moses composed the work as one literary whole.26 The contrast between Damrosch and Sailhamer reveals that one should not simply ignore the evidence for historical development of the text. On the other hand, the interpreter should feel free to address literary questions apart from (or beyond) the redactional history of the text. Chapter 2 will address this fundamental question, arguing that attention to the ritual world created by the text will reveal the literary dynamics operating in the text as it stands, without forgetting that key historical questions cast a shadow on the analysis. As for Damrosch, a central task must be the identification of the genre of this material, especially in light of what historians know about ritual and narrative texts in the ancient world. 24. For a more satisfying study of the unity of the Pentateuch, see Thomas Mann, The Book of the Torah: The Narrative Integrity of the Pentateuch (Atlanta: John Knox, 1988). He emphasizes that there is not an either/or situation: “either read the text as a composite document reflecting actual historical events and authorial situations or read it as a seamless narrative which renders a completely fictive world… The Pentateuch is both a composite document and a unified narrative” (6). In my view, this insight applies both to the literary strata that underlie the current composition as well as the traditional divisions between the five books. 25. Sailhamer, The Pentateuch as Narrative, 323. 26. Compare the forthright comments by John Goldingay, in “ ‘That You May Know that Yahweh is God’: A Study in the Relationship Between Theology and Historical Truth in the Old Testament,” TynBul 23 (1972): 92: “We know that Israel’s account of the events of her history will not be discredited… I think that if we are committed to God and to the tradition, we may, indeed must, believe that the tradition and the events do in fact correspond, even when we cannot demonstrate how.” 1


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b. Rhetorical Intentions One good way to approach the question of genre is to address the matter of rhetorical “intention.” By looking at the rhetorical ebb and flow of a text, the interpreter can build a metaphor for how the text itself “wants” to be read. This section will consider what can be learned by attention to such rhetorical matters. The key question, however, is how well such analysis can avoid making the leap to “authorial intention,” or to turn the rhetorical dimension of the text itself into something fixed and objectively knowable. To what extent can generic analysis, along the lines of rhetorical intention, provide a window into the textual world without becoming a surrogate for naive historicism? In Reading Law, James Watts investigates biblical law from the perspective of how its authors “intended it to be read.”27 Like Damrosch, Watts attends to the combination of genres, that is, law and narrative, in the creation of the text, paying attention to the “rhetorical effects” this generic combination has on “the Pentateuch’s intended readers.” 28 The main success of Watts’s analysis is that he addresses well the unique combination of law and narrative in the Pentateuch. Like Damrosch, he incorporates historical context into his literary reading, in this case the rhetorical shaping of the authors/editors who produced this generic mix. He does not fully address the historical issues raised by his approach, but suggests that the law was written to be read aloud from the earliest stages of development during the monarchy. The final form of the Pentateuch, even if it was produced long after the tradition of oral law ended, preserves evidence of this form of presentation. Watts does not base his interpretation of the legal texts on any particular historical argument; however, the very idea of rhetoric implies original authors/hearers, which raises difficult historical questions. The advantage of Watts’s approach is that he makes very limited assumptions about the historical situation. Indeed, the historical component of his argument about the oral nature of law is grounded in his reading of the text itself. 29 Therefore, disputing his historical reconstruction would not itself discredit his interpretation; one must deal with the interpretation directly to judge if it supports his conclusions. Watts begins his study by arguing that the law was read aloud in public on a regular basis in ancient Israel. He uses texts such as Deut 31:9–13, 27. James Watts, Reading Law: The Rhetorical Shape of the Pentateuch (Biblical Seminar 59; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1999), 13. 28. Ibid., 13. 29. He says in his conclusion that “rhetorical analysis of the Pentateuch’s form provides clues to the historical process by which the literature was shaped” (ibid., 147).

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in which Moses commands the priests to read the law to the people gathered in Jerusalem for the feast of Booths every seven years. Other notable public readings of the law include the covenantal discourses by Joshua (Josh 8), Josiah (2 Kgs 23), and Ezra (Neh 8). Watts investigates the rhetorical shaping of the Pentateuch in light of this oral reading, contending that the original oral setting has fundamentally shaped the written text, especially in the combination of different genres. 30 The assumption behind this historical argument is that the biblical text naturally bears the imprint of its rhetorical beginnings. Applied to the Pentateuch, this means that the practice of reading law in public led to the integration of law and narrative in a way that supported the recital and reception of the text. Watts uses classic rhetorical theory to outline three basic genres that are combined to enhance the persuasiveness and effectiveness of the text: story, list, and divine sanction. Story and list “require” each other because a list is not persuasive unless it is put into a particular context, while rhetorical narratives benefit from lists, that is, concrete descriptions of how the audience must believe and act in light of the story. Watts contends that the “story alone may inspire, but to no explicit end. The list alone specifies the desired actions or beliefs, but may not inspire them.”31 He includes as well “divine sanction,” in which the intended beliefs and actions are made more persuasive by appeal to the will of the deity. In the Pentateuch, of course, the first two of these genres correspond to narrative and law, while the third applies to the blessings and curses that conclude both the Levitical and Deuteronomic law codes. The material comprising the Sinai Pericope (mostly from the “Priestly” source), roughly Exod 19–Num 10, has enough homogeneity to stand as a distinct unit. These chapters are set, however, in the same narrative setting as the previous chapters of Exodus. Therefore, the authors shape these chapters in light of the overall narrative setting, which makes their rhetorical force dependent on the wider narrative context, rather than the narrative contained only within the corpus.32 Within the Priestly section itself, the emphasis is on list rather than story: instructions for building the tabernacle (Exod 25–31), “listlike narrative” of the fulfillment of these instructions (Exod 35–40), laws and regulations of Leviticus, and the census and rules for tabernacle personnel (Num 1–9). Watts argues that within this legal corpus there are only two sections of true narrative, Exod 32– 34 and Lev 8–10, asserting that the list-dominated Priestly texts describe

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30. Ibid., 24. 31. Ibid., 45. 32. Ibid., 53.


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Israel as it “should be,” the “ideal cult and ideal community.” 33 He says that the laws present the readers/hearers with the hope that this ideal could be achieved through careful diligence and obedience, while the narratives expose the fragility of the divine–human relationship (e.g. the Golden Calf, and the deaths of Nadab and Abihu). 34 Watts brings his rhetorical analysis together nicely with the observation that the divine sanctions (the blessings and curses) integrate both the “idealistic” vision of the law and the “realistic” warnings of the narrative, while transcending this dialectic “with a wider promise of God’s covenantal faithfulness.”35 One of the most compelling strength’s of Watts’s work is his analysis of the interaction between law and narrative. He asserts that the laws “provide solutions to problems and issues detailed by narratives, which in turn demonstrate the necessity of law.”36 One aspect of this interaction is that the legal traditions are gathered together into one huge collection under the influence of the overall narrative structure, thus transcending any natural boundaries in the texts. Watts points out that this narrative development gives interpreters a way to explain the contradictions among the various legal traditions.37 A second interesting feature is socalled “non-sequential narrative,” in which narratives are arranged topically under the influence of the legal categories rather than their strict chronological position. The classic example of this is the Day of Atonement in Lev 16, scheduled for the 10th day of the 7th month, which is technically six months after Aaron’s performance of it. 38 Third, there are narratives that “float” within the legal traditions, such as Lev 24:10–23. These narratives have no organic chronological relationship to the overall narrative but are placed where they are in order to comment on the legal texts surrounding them.39 Watts concludes from these observations that “biblical law and narrative are two parts of a persuasive strategy that depends on both to make its case.” Because they are united in aim and persuasive strategy, they “influence each other’s literary conventions.”40 33. Ibid. 34. Ibid., 53–54. 35. Ibid., 55. 36. Ibid., 58–59. This observation accounts for the alternation of law and narrative in Leviticus. In the present study, Chapter 3’s discussion of Lev 10 and 24:10–23 will demonstrate how this interaction operates within each pericope and on a larger level. 37. Ibid., 85. 38. Ibid., 86. 39. Ibid. 40. Ibid., 87–88.

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Watts also addresses the important question of variation and contradiction within the legal corpus. Drawing on Bakhtin’s idea of “polyphony,” he suggests that the various “voices” in the legal material are consciously adopted as part of an overall rhetorical strategy, saying that his reading emphasizes “a unified persuasive intention behind the multiple voices of the Pentateuch,” in contrast to some literary analyses which “have emphasized irreconcilable tendencies in its discourse.”41 While Bakhtin’s theory holds some promise for pure literary analysis of the Pentateuch,42 if one is concerned with the rhetorical strategy of the Pentateuch, as something implemented by real editors at some point in history, then it must be acknowledged that the various “voices” in the Pentateuch have been juxtaposed and presented as one “Voice,” echoed through Moses. The editors attempt to hide the various contradictions and differences; they do not create or emphasize them to rhetorical effect. The effectiveness of their rhetoric depends, to a great extent, on readers’ and listeners’ complicity in accepting these laws as essentially unified.43 Watts addresses the issue of contradiction in the legal traditions again in his next chapter, which discusses Yahweh as law giver and Moses as law speaker. He argues that texts such as Lev 24:10–23 show legal development and cast Yahweh as the instigator of such changes. 44 The purpose of this legal development recorded within the narrative, he says, is that Torah is an ongoing process, and that laws necessarily require further interpretation and refinement.45 However, these narratives do not address the fundamental inconsistencies between different versions of laws. Bernard Levinson’s discussion of the editors’ attempts to conceal the history behind the traditions explains the rhetoric of law on a much deeper level.46 Watts returns to the question of the historical context of this rhetorical strategy in his final chapter, titled “Law.” He bases his historical discussion on the notion of “persuasive intent,” the “overriding purpose of the text’s composition.”47 His notion of intentionality is worth quoting at length: 41. Ibid., 80 n. 7. 42. See the discussion of Stahl in Chapter 2, below. 43. Sailhamer’s reading places itself fully under the direction of this unifying rhetorical device. 44. Watts, Reading Law, 104. 45. Ibid., 106. 46. Bernard Levinson, Deuteronomy and the Hermeneutics of Legal Innovation (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997). 47. Watts, Reading Law, 132–33. 1


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Intentionality provides the rhetorical connection between literary description and historical analysis. By matching the intentions found in texts with the socio-historical situations that generated the texts, a full description of the rhetorical transaction between writers and intended readers becomes theoretically possible. In practice, gaps in our historical knowledge may place limits on this enterprise, but these must be delineated through the process of historical description.48

The difficulty with Watts’s view of the text’s intentionality from a literary-critical point of view is the problematic notion that readers have access to the original “intent” of the authors. Modern readers often do not have reliable information about ancient authors, 49 but that is not exactly the point; rather, the issue is that texts stand on their own after being produced by authors, at which point the author becomes an interpreter along with everyone else. If one were to hear exactly what an author intended in a composition, does that necessarily communicate what the text actually does? Watts argues that the Persian period political situation led to the final redaction of the Pentateuch as it is, although the literary form of the text itself is better explained with reference to Israel’s supposed traditions of oral recitation of law.50 It seems that Watts would not need to address the Persian period at all in order to show that the rhetorical intentions embedded in the text contributed to the complex composition. The “reasons” behind the redaction are not as fundamental to interpretation as are the interactions between the text and the reader. The editors created a text that calls readers to live within this ideal world of ritual purity and holiness; one does not need to know who exactly the 48. Ibid., 133. 49. Other studies attempt to make difficult historical judgments about the Israelite cult, with much value and success. In addition to the works of Milgrom, Haran, and others cited above, see Frederick Cryer, Divination in Ancient Israel and Its Near Eastern Environment (JSOTSup 142; Sheffield: JSOT, 1994); Tikva Frymer-Kensky, “Pollution, Purification, and Purgation in Biblical Israel,” and Herbert B. Huffman, “Priestly Divination in Israel,” both in The Word of the Lord Shall Go Forth: Essays in Honor of David Noel Freedman in Celebration of His Sixtieth Birthday (ed. C. L. Meyers and M. O’Connor; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 1983), 399–414, and 355–59; Jonathan Klawans, Impurity and Sin in Ancient Judaism (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000); Patrick D. Miller, The Religion of Ancient Israel (Library of Ancient Israel; Louisville, Ky.: Westminster John Knox, 2000); Richard D. Nelson, Raising Up a Faithful Priest: Community and Priesthood in Biblical Theology (Louisville, Ky.: Westminster John Knox, 1993); Raymond Westbrook, “Biblical and Cuneiform Law Codes,” RB 92 (1985): 247–64; and David P. Wright, The Disposal of Impurity: Elimination Rites in the Bible and in Hittite and Mesopotamian Literature (SBLDS 101; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1987). 50. Ibid., 137–43, and see his edited volume, The Authorization of Torah.

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editors were in order to immerse oneself in that universe of meaning. The editors make this claim itself by setting all of these laws in the words of Yahweh and the mouth of Moses, not as prescriptions given in the Persian period. The historical “context” that is really crucial is the mythological beginnings of Israelite worship, and this context is provided by the narrative that incubates and gives birth to this legal discourse. Watts concludes that the “Pentateuch does not try simply to instruct its readers in the academic tradition of law, nor does it intend primarily to reform problematic aspects of Israel’s legal practices. Rather, it aims to win adherence to a programmatic ideal of the Torah as the religion’s definitive expression.”51 If Watts is correct, the text embodies and expresses a particular ideal vision of the Torah and of Israel’s ritual life. 52 Regardless of the connections with historical reality, it is instructive to understand the fullness of this idealistic representation. The historical issues this study will address are those relating to the text itself, such as Damrosch’s attention to generic possibilities during the time of the text’s production. The idea that the text carries its own intentionality, even removed from questions of authorship or historical reference, should not become yet another way to make positivistic statements about what the text means, or says, or does outside of the interpretive moment itself. It should be possible to construct an interpretive model that describes the “ritual world” created by the engagement of reader and text, without depending too heavily on any one historical reconstruction or simply replacing the “author” with textual or rhetorical intention. 2. Leviticus as a “Book” The preceding discussion of literary and historical realities in Leviticus and in the Pentateuch as a whole raises a very important question: Can Leviticus even be considered a proper subject for literary analysis? In other words, can one distinguish Leviticus in any useful way from the material before and after it, and can one discern the internal logic and 51. Watts, Reading Law, 136. 52. For one sensitive constructive presentation of this ideal vision, see Samuel E. Balentine, The Torah’s Vision of Worship (OBT; Minneapolis: Fortress, 1999). Balentine says that “[the] Torah conveys a vision of worship grounded in the liturgy of God’s creative acts, and fitted for constructing another world in which God’s cosmic commitments might be celebrated, sustained, and restored.” He focuses squarely on the textual, canonical realities of the Pentateuch, but also argues that this Torah vision “emerges out of a concrete world of cultural and social determinates,” more specifically, life as a Persian colony (76–77).

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consistency expected in a work of literature? Is Leviticus, read as a book, sufficiently unified in its composition and distinct from its literary surroundings? From a source-critical perspective, the Sinai Pericope running from Exod 19 through Num 10 swallows Leviticus whole. The legislation concerning sacrifice is a natural correlative to the building of the tabernacle in Exod 35–40, and leads directly into the census and the marching-forth of the Israelites in Numbers. The material found in Leviticus is not different in kind from the legal material found in Exod 34, for instance, or sacrificial instructions in Num 5–9. Theologically, there are different emphases among the various sections of the Priestly material, though the tradition as a whole has a high degree of coherence, as has been recognized almost universally by source critics. From the start, therefore, the literary critic must struggle even to delimit the text under consideration. Several scholars have addressed this problem in reading Leviticus, and their insights will prepare the way for this study’s decision to read Leviticus as a distinct, unified whole. a. Literary Separation Rolf Rendtorff, in his contribution to Reading Leviticus: Conversations with Mary Douglas, points out several factors that make it worthwhile to read Leviticus as a “separate book.”53 To begin, the text, written on a separate scroll as one part of the “five books” of the Pentateuch, has been regarded as a separate work in traditional exegesis. This is not sufficient reason for the contemporary scholar; indeed, scholars have generally focused on the source divisions that break Leviticus into pieces and link it with corresponding passages in neighboring texts in the Pentateuch. There is no problem with regarding Genesis and Deuteronomy as selfstanding literary works. The literary boundaries that separate natural sections in Exodus, Leviticus, and Numbers, however, are more problematic. Numbers begins with a dating formula, which is usually a clear sign of a new literary section.54 Also, despite several ritual passages, Numbers largely deals with a different topic than does Leviticus. The wilderness wanderings that begin after the people leave Sinai have little to do with the actual ritual legislation given at the mountain, and in fact 53. Rolf Rendtorff, “Is It Possible to Read Leviticus as a Separate Book?,” in Sawyer, ed., Reading Leviticus, 22–39. His argument has its roots in his own suspicion of the classic documentary hypothesis (see The Problem of the Process of Transmission in the Pentateuch [JSOTSup 89; Sheffield: JSOT, 1990]). Rendtorff favors the idea that blocks of material have been patched together, rather than that independent strands have been woven together secondarily. 54. Rendtorff, “Is It Possible to Read Leviticus?,” 26.

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could stand on their own without the content of the legislation itself. Exodus ends with the building of the Tabernacle at the base of Mt Sinai, while Leviticus begins with a series of sacrificial instructions that Moses delivers at the entrance of the Tabernacle. The books of Exodus and Leviticus, though they may be considered “distinct,” do not merit the adjective “independent” or “separate.” As Rendtorff points out, Milgrom is inconsistent on this point: he argues that the sacrificial material in Lev 1–7 is “intrusive,” an insertion between the building of the Tabernacle and its inauguration in Lev 8–9. However, Milgrom says that this insertion “makes sense” because the narrative of the tabernacle’s initial offerings would be unintelligible without the instructions of chs. 1–7. 55 Rendtorff presses the salient objection here: What is the nature of an insertion that is necessary for the original text to be understood? 56 Milgrom’s uncertainty demonstrates precisely the problem that readers face in this question of Leviticus’s “independence.” On one level, Leviticus is different from what precedes it; it is set off by a narrow ritual focus and by its content: direct and repeated divine instruction. On the other hand, the overarching narrative of the Pentateuch is the requisite setting for the communication of this ritual legislation. Leviticus can, in fact, stand as a separate book in the intellectual sense because it bears a narrowly defined objective that is fulfilled within its own, closed literary universe. Yet still, it stands as a kind of interlude within a larger narrative flow, a literary world within a larger one that depends on the larger context for its proper setting and meaning. Does this mean that Leviticus is like one act of a five-act play, perhaps with its own structure but merely a sub-section of the whole? Is it an insertion that augments an independent narrative into which it is placed, or an indispensable middleact that is essential and independent? Rendtorff navigates between these two extreme conclusions. He recognizes the close relationship between Exodus and Numbers, but argues that Leviticus is not simply the “continuation” of the story in Exodus.57 Instead, Exodus is “the preparation for the central religious and cultic texts beginning in Leviticus 1.”58 In addition, he expresses dissatisfaction with the traditional source-critical divisions within Leviticus itself, preferring to read the book “synchronically” as a unified composition,59 though not naively denying the complexity of its literary history.

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55. 56. 57. 58. 59.

Milgrom, I:61. Rendtorff, “Is It Possible to Read Leviticus?,” 25–26. Ibid., 27. Ibid., 26–27. Ibid., 29.


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He is appreciative of Douglas’s synchronic reading of Leviticus as a “ring structure” and shows how there are vital connections across Leviticus’s supposed sources. By virtue of its integrated structure and thoroughgoing coherence, Leviticus can certainly be read as an independent book. Also, Rendtorff addresses the vital connections between Levitical laws and Pentateuchal narratives in other books. If, as he argues, one must read Lev 26 in relation to Gen 17 and Exod 6,60 then Leviticus may not be considered fully “independent.” He says that a larger canonical focus is indispensable, that is, one should recognize the themes and concepts that tie the whole Pentateuch together and underlie the interpretation of each section. Rendtorff admits that his “closing remarks are in a sense ambivalent.”61 Graeme Auld attempt to clear up this slippery issue in his contribution following Rendtorff’s.62 Auld makes the excellent point that Leviticus is no more fragmented than any other book in the Pentateuch. In fact, the three other primary traditions (JED) play no role in the book, leaving only the Priestly material to consider.63 Auld’s basic argument is quite compelling: he suggests that the five books of the Pentateuch relate to each other in serial fashion, with each subsequent book building on the preceding material. This seems especially relevant to Exodus and Leviticus, as argued above. Numbers also fits the definition as it takes the story of newly liberated Israel into a different mode. Deuteronomy is clearly an insertion into the end of Numbers that provides needed theological preparation for the coming acquisition of the Promised Land, raising the classic problem of how the Pentateuch/Hexateuch relates to the Deuteronomistic History. The model of “serial publication” makes the interdependence and separation of these “books” intelligible. Auld takes the analogy one step too far, however, when he argues that this model accounts for the composition of the Pentateuch rather than merely for its present literary arrangement. He says that the addition of later traditions in Leviticus and Numbers allowed later authors to extend Mosaic authority to their own texts. The arrangement may, he says, be a tacit admission that these later traditions are secondary in origin.64 Auld means only to float a suggestion rather than to defend this thesis, but even so, it is hard to accept. It would 60. Ibid., 33–34. 61. Ibid., 35. 62. Graeme Auld, “Leviticus at the Heart of the Pentateuch,” in Sawyer, ed., Reading Leviticus, 40–51. 63. Ibid., 41. 64. Ibid., 50.

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be difficult to show the kind of unity and sequential dependence required by this suggestion. The conversation between Rendtorff and Auld in their essays demonstrates an important point: source-critical and historical discussions are important, and they could have dramatic impact on the way that one reads the text. From a literary-critical perspective, however, it is quite permissible to read these books as they stand in the canon, as five distinct parts of an overall unified story. There are certainly historical issues that scholars should attend to, but they do not need to be part of every reading of the text. The question of whether it is possible to read Leviticus as a book is answered in the affirmative simply by observing that it has been read in such a way. It is obviously possible, but the central question will be whether that reading is compelling and enlightening. The most difficult issue is whether material in Leviticus can truly be understood without referring back to events in Exodus or looking forward to Numbers. Certainly one could read it in isolation, but would they be giving up too much to do so? This question will be one of the central themes of the exegetical sections to follow. For example, Lev 1 provides a definite starting point, and the sacrificial legislation leads naturally into the inauguration of the cult in chs. 8–9. In this seemingly self-contained material, however, does the text ever explicitly hearken back to earlier texts or material? Does the implied reader necessarily have knowledge of earlier commands or occurrences? This will be an important question as we consider the issues of narrative structuring and ambiguity. How should one fill in the gaps and ambiguities in the text? Should one supplement the reading with information from earlier texts, or perhaps simply make inferences from the details that are given? The deeper question is whether there is ever a way to fill these gaps fully. This study will argue that although scholars look around for supporting material when faced with gaps and ambiguities, attempting to find the missing (yet presumed) information, these points of indeterminacy are actually key to the literary and theological development of the text. b. Literary Artistry Another method of establishing Leviticus’s status as a “book” is to emphasize the literary crafting that seems to transcend the various parts of the text. Mary Douglas approaches the literary form and structure of Leviticus in a highly inventive way in her book Leviticus as Literature.65

65. Mary Douglas, Leviticus as Literature (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999). See her exploratory comments in “Poetic Structure in Leviticus,” in Pomegranates and Golden Bells: Studies in Biblical, Jewish, and Near Eastern 1


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She calls her method an “anthropological reading,” and her task is similar to her classic reading of Leviticus in Purity and Danger—namely, to uncover the thought-world of ancient Israel through its ritual legislation.66 The significance of Douglas’s insights for this work is that she is able to bracket out questions of historicity while not denigrating them as an important topic, and that she recognizes the close integration of the form of the text with its message. While Douglas certainly sees her work as part of the “anthropological” enterprise, she has transitioned into the realm of rhetorical criticism; or rather, she has brought the methods of anthropology and rhetorical criticism to bear upon each other, with very interesting results.67 She argues that the writers and editors of Leviticus have constructed an elaborate analogy that brings into parallel Mt Sinai, the structure of the tabernacle, and Leviticus’s ritual legislation. 68 As will be discussed below, Douglas analyzes the structure of Leviticus as a series of interlocking “rings,” themselves tied together in one large “ring structure.” She asserts that a reader coming to Leviticus Ritual, Law, and Literature in Honor of Jacob Milgrom (ed. David P. Wright et al.; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 1995), 239–56. 66. Douglas, Leviticus as Literature, 7. See also Douglas’s Purity and Danger: An Analysis of the Concepts of Pollution and Taboo (London: Routledge & Keegan Paul, 1966), and her reconsideration in “The Forbidden Animals in Leviticus,” JSOT 59 (1993): 3–23. 67. The book of Leviticus as a whole, Douglas says, is a “theological treatise in the full sense of the word.” Its ideas about God’s “grandeur, his unswerving justice and unfailing compassion” connect with such ideas in the other parts of the Bible, and its legal system puts into a coherent package the sense of justice found in Genesis and Exodus (Douglas, Leviticus as Literature, 12). Douglas has retreated somewhat from the conclusions in her earlier influential work, Purity and Danger. Her hermeneutical key for describing the ritual world of Leviticus is no longer pollution theory, but rather a reading of the literary structure of the book itself. 68. Douglas contrasts Leviticus’s analogical approach, which is non-linear and “primitive,” with the modern, rational, and dialogic world of Deuteronomy (Leviticus as Literature, 29). She says this literary style may be the reason scholars have tended to ignore Leviticus: “Scholars reared in the Deuteronomic tradition would have difficulty following the simplest meaning of Leviticus, to say nothing of deciphering its convoluted subtleties.” Regardless of the source-critical distinction that has been made between P and H, both “halves” of Leviticus exhibit the same use of analogy, as opposed to Deuteronomy’s “‘causal’, ‘logical’ ‘discursive’ or ‘dialogic’ reasoning” (34). The text of Leviticus is characterized by a “laconic, priestly style, reticent, highly patterned and controlled by the literary form” (41). It addresses its topics in a restrained, highly concrete and specific sense, not with moralisms or flairs of emotion. In obvious contrast to Deuteronomy, Leviticus’s idea of “goodness” is expressed as “right ordering” and has little to do with appeals to emotion.

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expecting to find a linear argument (as in Deuteronomy) will be hopelessly confused. Leviticus provides clear markers and hints along the way to guide the reader, especially when one discerns that the whole book is an elaborate textual rendering of the tabernacle, itself a mirroring of Mt Sinai. She says “we shall show that Leviticus is a sacred text designed on the proportions of a temple. The entrance and compartments provide a journey type structure and the closed architecture prepares the ending.”69 Both the tabernacle and the Sinai encampment are marked by three “zones,” the innermost (topmost) holy place, the intermediate arena suitable for priests, and the outermost (lowest) area reserved for the common people. Thus, Douglas shows how the writers have embedded the theological lessons of the book within its literary structure, which Douglas summarizes in this way: “Inside the concentric circles and between the parallelisms Leviticus writes its lessons. It is always the same, about the mightiness of God, the vulnerability of living beings, their weakness, their evil tendency to oppress each other, human predatoriness, the covenant with God, his protection in return for obedience.” 70 Wilfried Warning’s book The Literary Artistry of Leviticus challenges common notions about the “editors” or “redactors” of the book of Leviticus.71 It is his contention that the book has been carefully crafted and integrated, such that any prior Vorlagen have been thoroughly subsumed in the whole. Thus, even though there has been editorial and redactional activity, it is best to describe the person(s) responsible for this as authors rather than editors. Warning compares the frequency of words in the book, looking for repeated literary devices. The analysis of this terminological distribution allows Warning to describe the “microstructures” found in the text, the organization and interaction of various individual units of text, as well as its “macrostructure,” the overall “structuration” of the whole book. 72 Along the way, he reveals characteristic literary techniques and strategies: the repetition of the number seven, chiastic structures, numerological symmetries, envelope structures, and grammatical arrangements. His approach to the divine speeches in Leviticus bears directly on the question of “rhetoric” raised above. By his count, there are thirty-seven occurrences of divine speech in Leviticus, as marked by the formulaic 69. Ibid., 58. 70. Ibid., 88. 71. Warning, Literary Artistry in Leviticus, a revision of his dissertation, “The Contribution of Terminological Patterns to the Literary Structure of Leviticus” (Ph.D. diss., Andrews University, 1998). 72. Ibid., 23.

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phrase, “and the Lord spoke/said to Moses/Aaron.”73 These speeches serve to structure the entire book, breaking the text into component sections around speeches of various lengths. The “central” divine speech is found in 16:2–34, the description of the Day of Atonement. 74 He discovers a chiastic arrangement in Lev 11, a chapter that Milgrom and others have broken into several earlier sources,75 thus attesting to the literary intentionality found in the final form of the text. The first and last of the divine speeches—chs. 1–3 and 27—bracket the whole book, and Warning connects them through their use of the phrase “most holy.” Whereas Warning uses the idea of “divine speech” to bring all this material together, the approach in the present study will be to locate this literary intentionality within the interaction of genres. Thus, Warning’s work should be considered complementary to the thesis here, coming from a different methodological perspective. Warning expresses an important insight when he says that a clear grasp of the literary form of a text is necessary before its theology can be properly addressed.76 This study benefits from the work that Warning has done in analyzing the close linguistic connections throughout Leviticus, but its aim is different. If indeed Leviticus is a coherent, integrated piece of literature, exactly what kind of literary form does it have? What are the connections between form and content, between genre and theology? Another of Warnings insights will need to be put aside for the moment, if with care. In discussing Mary Douglas’s “ring composition” theories, he points out that a “thematic” approach to the text is inherently weak because it must always leave out other themes.77 This “ineluctable subjectivity” is contained somewhat, he suggests, by the more controlled linguistic approach that he uses.78 It is apparent, however, that no single discussion of 73. Ibid., 37. 74. Interestingly, Warning considers Lev 16:1 to be a one-verse divine speech. This is necessary in order to preserve the symmetry between the two halves of the book, one on either side of the Day of Atonement. Chapter 4 will make a similar argument about the Day of Atonement text, but through attention to the alternation between ritual and narrative. 75. See Milgrom, I:691–98. Milgrom identifies four “stages” in the composition of Lev 11, three from Priestly sources and one H redaction. 76. Warning, Literary Artistry in Leviticus, 7. 77. Ibid., 17. 78. Ibid. One should also take to heart Milgrom’s evaluation of cultural anthropological interpretation of the Bible. While he sees its promise (“it is no longer an irrelevant distraction”), he says that “its indiscriminate use is fraught with peril” that can only be avoided with “a mastery of the biblical text and its ancient Near Eastern background” (III:2438). It should be noted, however, that creative uses of theory often pave the way for significant re-evaluations of the biblical text and of its

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Leviticus will do full justice to its many layers of meaning and significance. It is not a fault, therefore, if a conceptual approach does not do justice to all possible aspects of the text. Indeed, this is why many treatments of Leviticus can co-exist more or less peacefully. 3. Structure Granting that the book of Leviticus can be identified as a free-standing (if not independent) literary work with internal coherence and consistency, it should be possible to discern the structure of the text in its present form. In comparing various commentaries and monographs, however, one realizes that critics disagree about the basic structure of the book. In fact, one’s preferred “outline” of the book depends to a degree on the methodological approach and thesis being developed. The basic points of agreement as well as intractable problems will become clear when one considers a few interesting proposals. a. Leviticus’s Two Halves In his commentary, John Hartley divides the book of Leviticus into a sixpart structure.79 Chapters 1–7 contain the Regulations for Sacrifice, followed by the Ordination of the Priests and the First Sacrifices in chs. 8–10. Chapters 11–15 constitute Laws of Ritual Purity, and ch. 16 addresses the Day of Atonement. The last two sections are the Laws on Holy Living in chs. 17–26 and the appendix in ch. 27 that provides Laws on Tithes and Offerings. In many ways, this is the simplest way to answer structural questions. It recognizes the most natural divisions up to ch. 17, and then gives way to traditional scholarly opinion about the Holiness Code and its appendix, although Hartley does not use the increasingly problematic moniker. For a commentary this outline is perhaps the best choice because it has the virtue of being largely non-controversial. 80 Hartley’s analysis supports the dominant scholarly consensus, pointing out that these chapters “stand off from the rest of Leviticus, primarily being framed by the summary statement and compliance report at 16:34 background. Rather than seeking to solve all exegetical problems, studies such as the present one have a different goal, to elucidate certain interesting problems and to stimulate further thinking and research. 79. John E. Hartley, Leviticus (WBC 4; Dallas: Word, 1992). 80. Unfortunately, one cannot simply assume the literary unity of chs. 17–26, and must decide whether this “section” is a hodge-podge of miscellaneous laws, a carefully crafted and independent source, or an integral part of the larger structure of the book. In fact, it may be all three of these on different levels. 1


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and the subscript at 26:46.”81 Ascribing these chapters to a separate section of the book, however, is largely by default, as they do not seem to fit with anything else. In fact, in his opening comments on chs. 17–26, Hartley admits that there are smaller blocks of material but that “there is no definitively discoverable arrangement of these blocks.”82 If chs. 17–26 consist of loosely arranged blocks of laws that are different from the rest of the book yet not coherent in their own regard, this may challenge the idea that Leviticus even has a literary structure. The “Holiness Code” is indeed the bane of most attempts to read Leviticus as a whole. The difficulty in navigating this structural issue is evident when one considers the structure advocated by John Sailhamer. As noted above, the first two sentences in his chapter on Leviticus call the whole matter into question: “Leviticus is a continuation of Exodus. We should not, in fact, think of it as a new book.”83 Since Sailhamer’s stated purpose is to read the Pentateuch as a unified whole, possibly springing from a single author, he has no need to argue for a coherent structure unique to Leviticus or to admit the possibility of a “Holiness Code” in the second half of the book. His structural outline, therefore, is different in some interesting ways. He divides the book into two sections: The Offerings and Sacrifices (chs. 1–17) and Holiness in the Life of the People (chs. 18–27), each with six subsections. Already he has driven a fissure into the classic structure by connecting ch. 17 with the prior material and including ch. 27 as an integral part of the second half. His first subsection includes the Laws of Sacrifice, found in chs. 1–7, themselves divided into laws for laity and laws for priests (shifting at 6:8). Interestingly, he puts the Consecration of the Priests (chs. 8–9) into its own section, followed by the death of Nadab and Abihu in ch. 10. Sailhamer continues to his fourth subsection by joining the Laws of Purity and Impurity in chs. 11–15, following the common practice of seeing these five chapters divided into four sections with chs. 13–14 dealing with the same topic (skin diseases). Sailhamer’s fifth subsection is ch. 16, on the Day of Atonement, and the final part of the first half of the book is ch. 17, Warnings Against Improper Actions. This is the point where Sailhamer departs most clearly from standard treatments of Leviticus, at least in the specific outline he provides. In the course of his discussion of ch. 17, however, it is unclear why he would conclude the first section with ch. 17 rather than using it to begin the second one. The bulk of his analysis deals with the important 81. Hartley, Leviticus, 249. 82. Ibid. 83. Sailhamer, The Pentateuch as Narrative, 323.

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role played by ch. 17 in introducing the legislation to follow. He says that as the Golden Calf narrative is an important prologue to the giving of sacrificial laws for priests in Exod 35–Lev 16, so this chapter with its concern for “goat idols” introduces the laws concerning the people themselves.84 It is unclear, then, why this should not be the introduction to the second half of the book, especially considering the strong break at the end of ch. 16. Perhaps he was concerned more with maintaining the symmetry with six subsections on each side. Sailhamer’s second major unit begins with chs. 18–20 on the Conduct of God’s People, and continues with the Condition of Priests Within the Community (chs. 21–22), which contains three lists of instructions for priests and material dealing with the handling of sacrifices. The third subsection concerns the Calendar of the Religious Seasons, chs. 23–24. The end of this subsection, however, is the story of the blasphemer, found in 24:10–23. Sailhamer includes one paragraph of analysis on this intriguing story, and fails to explain why it should be the conclusion to a section on the timing of festivals and offerings. 85 The final three chapters form a subsection, addressing respectively the Sabbath and Jubilee Year, the Final Conditions of the Covenant, and the Vows and Tithes. In short, Sailhamer’s description of Leviticus’s structure is unconvincing. He is more concerned with the literary and theological links to other parts of the Pentateuch, and with listing in encyclopedic fashion all of the Commands and Prohibitions. Also, since he is unconcerned with sourcecritical issues, he does not have to justify some of the odd grouping decisions that he has made. Sailhamer makes some interesting observations along the way, but he does not regard Leviticus as a “book,” and it shows in his analysis. Henry Sun’s dissertation, “An Investigation into the Compositional Integrity of the So-called Holiness Code (Leviticus 17–26),”86 proposes a quite novel approach by dividing the book into two sections: chs. 1–10 and chs. 11–26 (+27). It is indisputable that chs. 1–10 belong together, as they provide the prescriptions and the initial performance of the sacrifices, while the purity legislation beginning in ch. 11 is quite another matter. Remarkably, however, Sun reads across the traditional boundary of P/H to see chs. 11–27 as a unit. Leviticus 26:26 serves as a summary 84. Ibid., 343–45. 85. Ibid., 360–61. He comments only that this passage serves to distinguish murder (by an individual) from capital punishment (by the congregation). 86. Henry Sun, “An Investigation into the Compositional Integrity of the Socalled Holiness Code (Leviticus 17–26)” (Ph.D. diss., Claremont Graduate School, 1990). 1


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statement that incorporates all three types of legal material found in the larger section: the My+p#m and Myqwx are the statutes and ordinances found in chs. 16–26, and the twrwt are the laws found in chs. 11–15. So, although these two subsections do not address the same material, they are bound together by the inclusive summary statement. Similarly, he points out that the duties of the priests, as described in 10:10, are to distinguish between the holy and the common, and between the holy and the profane. Sun argues that the former distinction coordinates with chs. 11–15 and the latter with chs. 16–27. He begins with a reasonable hypothesis, that if the “Holiness Code” existed as an independent text, then one should be able to discern the “redactional compositional layer which either presupposes or creates a literary corpus from Lev 17–26.” 87 In his argument that such a layer cannot in fact be discovered, he presses the objection that efforts to describe such a layer always proceed with the assumption that it exists and so analyze the text in such a way as to confirm its reality. Sun attempts to analyze the literature itself 88 to look for evidence of compositional activity, and his conclusion is that such a redactional layer (pointing to an earlier, pre-Priestly text) cannot be substantiated. Concerning the layout of the subsections within the second unit, Sun discovers seven discrete parts to this material: 16; 17–22; 23; 24:1–9; 24:10–23; 25–26; and 27. His investigation into these divisions is quite detailed, and the specific reasons behind these sections need not detain us here. It is important to note, however, that he sees ch. 16 and 24:10–23 as separate sections, as this study will argue later. In order to do this, however, one must consider why the first part of ch. 24 (vv. 1–9) is squeezed between ch. 23 and the narrative of the blasphemer. Overall, assigning this material into its various sections is quite difficult. Whatever rubric is assumed, there are parts of the structure that are difficult to account for, unless the “structure” is merely a listing of the various topics covered by each chapter.89 87. Ibid., 40. 88. Sun writes that “the inquiry after the compositional history of the individual units seeks to recover—the basis of the structure analysis—the growth process from the earliest recoverable stage to the present stage. The emphasis on the adjective ‘recoverable’ is deliberate and intentional. The history of research is marked by attempts to isolate compositional stages which are in turn generated by the assumption of earlier stages and not by the evidence of the text itself… Let us instead allow the compositional strata to emerge naturally from the textual inconcinnities” (ibid., 58). 89. Sailhamer and Hartley basically take this last approach, which may work for a commentary, but is insufficient within a literary study.

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The quest for a coherent literary arrangement of the book of Leviticus is quite difficult, and no constructive rubric will be entirely satisfactory. The decision to read Leviticus as a self-contained literary work must be made before the book can actually be read in such a way. In other words, the literary divisions and arrangement are not obvious and clear-cut enough to stand out plainly. This, of course, is the reason why such energy has been expended on the matter. There are compelling reasons to read against the grain of the current text to identify various P and H strands in connection with similar material elsewhere in the Pentateuch. On the other hand, the book of Leviticus does stand by itself, set apart by traditional arrangement as well as by its style and content. From the perspective of literary criticism, the decision to read the book as a literary whole does not need to be fully justified over and against other ways of reading the book. The fact that it has been read as such in the traditional rendering is a compelling reason to address the question, not to mention the fact that contemporary readers encounter the text as a whole, not as a hodge-podge of various sources. Rather than presuming to discover the literary structure of Leviticus, this study will focus on points of literary strategy, especially with regard to matters of ritualization. b. Narrative Structuring Given the approach of reading Leviticus as a “book,” it will be instructive to consider two literary interpretations of Leviticus’s structure that take seriously the mandate to account for what is in each section and how they relate to each other. Mary Douglas, in Leviticus as Literature, provides a compelling structural outline based on the geography of sacred space in the Priestly world. The starting point for her analysis is the observation that two narratives (Lev 8–10 and Lev 24:10–23) divide the book into three sections, mirroring the tripartite division of the tabernacle (and also Mt Sinai). The placement of the second narrative in its current location has often confused readers and scholars, but Douglas argues that it is a crucial turning point for the structure of the whole book. She uses the tabernacle metaphor to argue that the narratives serve as two “screens” delineating three textual regions. The essence of her claim is the contention that each literary section thus separated off by a narrative has a certain completeness of form and homogeneity of matter; furthermore, each section so defined deals with topics that relate appropriately to the corresponding part of the building: the first part deals with what happens in the court of sacrifice, the last part deals with what is contained in the ark of the covenant in the holy of holiness, and the middle 1


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deals with the sanctuary, the precinct preserved for the priests.90 The two narratives are a “matching pair” that make sense only when read in tandem.91 Together they “are parables about trespass on forbidden ground,” hence her designation of them as screens.92 Douglas envisions the narrative flow of the book as a kind of tour around the tabernacle, leading the reader into the sacred spaces, up one side and down the other. Opposite the entrance into the outer court is the first major narrative, chs. 8–10, the screen into the inner room where the altar stands. Chapters 1–7 lead on the right side toward the screen, and chs. 11–17 lead away from the screen back on the left toward the entrance. This arrangement around the pivotal narrative aligns chs. 1 and 17, 2 and 16, etc., all the way to chs. 7 and 11, which in fact decenters ch. 16 and puts more emphasis on ch. 17, which Douglas says repeats the sacrificial legislation of the opening chapter, echoing its words and teachings.93 Thus, seven chapters are on each side of the outer court, divided in two by the three-chapter narrative in 8–10. Passing through this first screen, the tour enters the sanctuary and immediately encounters chs. 18–20 concerning the cult and righteousness.94 Chapters 21 and 22 deal with particular requirements for the priests and their families, and form a “little ring on their own.”95 The next section addresses the festivals (Lev 23:1–24:9), and leads directly to the second screen, the story of the blasphemer in Lev 24:10–23. In Douglas’s structure, the Holy of Holies is represented in chs. 25–27, the outer chapters being an elaborate frame for honoring ch. 26, which contains, she says, the terms of the covenant itself, comparable to the covenantal text kept in the Ark of the Covenant.96 Since the covenant is concerned greatly with the idea of liberty, ch. 25 deals with the release of slaves and the remission of debts. Chapter 27 addresses offerings and other things consecrated to God, which brings the whole book back around to the first section, and “latches the end on to the beginning.”97 The coordination of smaller rings into one large ring is similar to the approach advocated by Gerstenberger in his Leviticus commentary. The analogy he uses is that of a tree’s growth rings, saying that the text has 90. 91. 92. 93. 94. 95. 96. 97.

Douglas, Leviticus as Literature, 196. Ibid., 199. Ibid., 200. Ibid., 226. Ibid., 229. Ibid. Ibid., 241. Ibid., 244.

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developed over time through a succession of “ever new stages of composition, collection, and interpretation, in both oral and written transmission, alteration, and restructuring of the texts.”98 By recognizing this fact, the interpreter can be freed from the necessity to read the book as “an ordered, continuing narrative” and can “focus on the thematically centered growth of individual textual groups.”99 Whereas Gerstenberger envisions this as an historical process, and advocates analysis of these smaller traditions in isolation, Douglas concerns herself with the last stage of “restructuring,” which certainly involved some composition, collection, and interpretation. The overall ring structure, mirroring a tour around the tabernacle, is an ingenious way to envision the coordination of this diverse material. The question remains, however, whether one should read the final form of this text in an oblique and circular manner, as Douglas suggests, or whether a narrative, linear reading is possible or desirable. While Douglas’s theory about nested rings in Leviticus is compelling, it is still natural to read the book from start to finish as a narrative unity. Doing so allows one to bring in relevant literary critical ideas about genre and narrative. It would be wrong, it seems, to assume that this book needs to be read in one way. To the contrary, Leviticus can be read in different ways, perhaps even at the same time.100 In his essay, “The Literary Structure of Leviticus,” Christopher R. Smith makes an excellent argument that the book of Leviticus should be divided into seven parts, four legal sections separated by three narratives, Lev 8–10, 16, and 24:10–23. Smith describes the central concern of each ritual section as follows: sacrifices (chs. 1–7), cleanness (chs. 11–15), holiness (17:1–24:9), and redemption (chs. 25–27). 101 Smith’s treatment has the advantage of taking the generic divisions in the book seriously. In order for his schema to work, however, ch. 16 must be read as narrative, rather than ritual. Although Smith’s claim here is not widely accepted, there are several factors that give plausibility to his reading. This issue will figure prominently in Chapter 5, and we shall see that the mixture of law and narrative within ch. 16 mirrors the situation in the two main 98. Erhard S. Gerstenberger, Leviticus: A Commentary (OTL; Louisville, Ky.: Westminster John Knox, 1996), 3. 99. Ibid., 6. 100. This can apply to the distinction between historical and theological approaches, the question of sources vs. final form, or even the question of Leviticus as the heart of the Hebrew Torah or as the third book of the Christian Old Testament. 101. Christopher R. Smith, “The Literary Structure of Leviticus,” JSOT 70 (1996): 17–32. 1


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narrative sections of the book.102 The chapter itself is a microcosm of the book’s ritual world, a subtle integration of narrative past and timeless, disembodied ritual. In any case, it is clearly the central pivot point of the book and any literary analysis must account for its importance in the structure and the message of Leviticus. The single most intractable problem of Leviticus’s structural organization, the structural division of chs. 21–27, is not addressed well by any of these theories. The narrative of the blasphemer is cast in the middle of this diverse material, and it will be quite a challenge to account for the literary arrangement and theological subtleties in that part of the book. Smith argues that the narrative in 24:10–23 is a structural marker indicating that a totally new subject begins after it. The texts preceding the narrative deal with holiness, which links them to the content of the earlier chapters. After the narrative, there is not a concern for holiness, per se, but rather matters of personal property and “redemption.” 103 As my discussion of ritualization will demonstrate, the alternation of law and ritual is a key strategy in the composition of the text, and Smith’s structure is a good starting point for consideration of this dynamic. In summary, this chapter has argued that Leviticus can legitimately be read as a literary text, even as an independent work with a unifying internal structure. To be sure, there are difficult problems with regard to Leviticus’s place in the Pentateuch as well as its internal structure. Even so, the unique subject matter of the book and the subtlety of its composition encourage the literary critic to read it as a “book,” a distinct literary work. Chapter 2 will turn to the second part of my thesis, arguing that, as literature, Leviticus reveals a novel combination of ritual and narrative. The dynamic interaction of “list” and “story” blend into a single genre, called here “narrative ritual,” in which the ritual prescriptions are narrativized and the story-telling itself is ritualized.

102. 103.

Ibid., 23. Ibid., 27.

Chapter 2

NARRATIVIZED RITUAL

Chapter 1 argued that literary analysis of Leviticus should begin by identifying the genre of the book, which requires consideration of historical parallels as well as a close reading of the generic intentions perceived in the text. This chapter will argue that Leviticus incorporates common generic elements, including prescriptive ritual instructions and narratives describing the performance of these rituals, though its genre is not simply prescriptive or descriptive. Leviticus is not a priestly manual, a descriptive account of ritual behavior, or a fictional narrative with literary purposes. Actually, to some degree it is all of these things, but none of them define the book. These various generic elements interact in the final mix of the book to form a genre called here “narrativized ritual.” Leviticus is primarily a descriptive narrative, but the rituals it narrates have a clear prescriptive intention. Thus, the writing and reading of Leviticus are ritualized, whereby the telling and experiencing of this mythic narrative has ritual-like qualities, mirroring its ritual content. 1. Ritual Genre When we read Leviticus, we discover a text that (1) tells a story about some rituals that were performed by great figures of the past during foundational moments in Israel’s history, (2) presents these ritual moments as models for the characters in the story to follow in the immediate future, and (3) looks toward what will be required of the descendants of those characters in a distant future in the land of promise. The story-telling dimension raises the question of historical reference, but to read the story as a source for ancient Israelite history is not sensitive to the layers of the text’s meanings. The ritual prescriptions, most notably the rules for sacrifices in Lev 1–7 and the purity laws in chs. 11–15, sound like they might have originated in priestly circles as part of a priestly manual, with the descriptive element serving only a rhetorical or

2. Narrativized Ritual

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pedagogical role in the telling. Even so, to use these “ritual texts” to unravel the dynamics of sacrifice or purity, as one might with field descriptions produced by anthropologists, ignores the literary context of these passages. Leviticus narrates a mythic tale of ritual founding, itself the heart of the nation’s founding. However, the description of these founding rituals serves a teaching role; they contain prescriptive instruction for how (and when, and why) the people should conduct their basic practices. Ritual prescription has been put into narrative, creating a “narrativized ritual.” The ritual dimension of this text is still ritual, but now taking a different literary form, that of narrative description. Therefore, the story encountered by the reader in Leviticus is a special kind of narrative, a ritualized narrative, and interpretation of this story must attend to its ritual dynamics, just as one might do with any ritual text. The terms “narrativized ritual” and “ritualized narrative” point to two aspects of the same generic interaction. They emphasize, respectively, the two genres that make up the book of Leviticus: ritual and narrative. The point is that the ritual aspect does not survive as an identifiable ritual text, and that the narrative itself bears ritual significance within and beyond its story-telling. Therefore, interpretation of Leviticus must integrate analysis of its ritual dynamics and of its narrative structuring. The “ritualized narrative” element is found (1) in the overall narrative setting of the book, and (2) in the inset narrative stories, Lev 8–10, 16, and 24:10–23, which will be discussed in Chapters 4 and 5. Therefore, this chapter has two tasks: to identify the historical, ritual, and literary factors shaping the genre of Leviticus, and to examine the animating textual dynamic that binds these three aspects together, “ritualization.” To that end, I will argue that narrative texts from Ugarit provide a better historical parallel to Leviticus than do ritual texts. If this is true, however, we must discern to what extent one can consider Leviticus to be a ritual text. If Leviticus is both narrative and ritual, then literary techniques of analysis should be paired with insights from Ritual Theory in interpreting the book. Frank Gorman’s book The Ideology of Ritual: Space, Time, and Status in the Priestly Theology will provide a test-case for the value of Ritual Theory in interpreting the descriptive, narrative text of Leviticus. I will argue that Gorman’s ritual-theoretical observations are valid as long as they remain in the literary world of the text, not in some hypothetical “social world.” The ritual dynamics in Leviticus that emerge in Gorman’s analysis, however, do not tell the whole story. Nanette Stahl has argued that the combination of law and narrative in the Pentateuch is an instance of polyphony in the Bible, and provides “depth

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and complexity” to the telling of the story, as well as a fair amount of ambiguity.1 Her observations about the multivalent literary world of the Pentateuch demonstrate how narrative story-telling and ritual prescriptions can work together within a ritualized, ambiguous literary text. Next, the work of Ronald Grimes in analyzing ritualizing tendencies in literature will provide a helpful rubric for discerning the links between narrative and ritual. Finally, the last section of the chapter will employ Catherine Bell’s theory of ritualization to examine the ritualizing dynamics inherent within Leviticus’s literary world. It will become evident that underneath the text lies a deep theological concern about the unpredictability of God, and a consequent effort to stamp out and disguise the ambiguities inherent in the ritual world. Ultimately, the ritual world of the text addresses these difficulties by giving sufficient room for the negotiated participation of worshippers. a. Historical Possibilities In his essay, “The Rhetoric of Ritual Instruction in Leviticus 1–7,” James Watts has argued compellingly for a literary approach to the genre of Leviticus. Positioning himself against form-critical and comparative methods, Watts proposes a fluid and interactive definition of genre, one which he defines as “repertoires of literary conventions available to speakers and writers that allow them to play on the expectations of their audiences.”2 The task for Watts is to identify the generic interactions in the text without getting lost in a hypothetical reconstruction of original generic forms. Differing somewhat from Damrosch, Watts asserts that we should be able to identify the generic interactions in the text “even without knowing which forms were recognized by ancient audiences and which represent creative modifications and amalgamations of diverse generic elements.”3 Watts argues that the biblical ritual texts are unique in the ancient world and that “there is no single ritual genre into which all these texts fit.”4 They resemble royal decrees in that they attempt to persuade the listener or reader to do something (the prescriptive element). They are unlike royal decrees, however, in their amazingly detailed focus on ritual procedures. The ritual texts that appear in the ancient record sometimes 1. Stahl, Law and Liminality in the Bible, 56. 2. Watts, “Rhetoric,” 84. This essay has been expanded to become Chapter 2 in his Ritual and Rhetoric in Leviticus: From Sacrifice to Scripture (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007). 3. Ibid., 86. 4. Ibid., 92.

1


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match the biblical account for detail and content, but their form and presentation are entirely different. Thus, the task is to describe carefully what is happening in the generic interactions of Leviticus, drawing analogies to each of the possible historical precedents. Damrosch and Watts agree, therefore, that historical parallels can be a valuable point of reference in identifying genres in the Pentateuch. However, because of the subtle and unique combination of generic elements in Leviticus, no single historical analogy provides a sufficient comparison. Thus, the interpreter should look for specific points of contact to provide a vocabulary and framework for generic analysis, but the reading finally rests within the text itself. Central to generic identification is a close analysis of the biblical ritual texts and their narrative context, looking for signs of original or essential generic elements. The biblical ritual texts are thoroughly prescriptive, meaning that they present an argument for how ritual should be performed. Even within the ritual texts of Leviticus, however, there are various forms and literary intentions at work. The audience within the text is the gathered assembly of priests and people. Just before they set out for their wanderings toward the promised land, they are given prescriptive words to guide their religious and everyday lives. The historical readers of the text are the later Israelites who encounter these texts as normative descriptions of the past. In other words, historic instructions to the ancestors function as ongoing requirements for the descendants. As Levine points out, Leviticus is not written as a matrix of timeless ritual instruction but rather as a report of particular commands and compliance to them. He argues that biblical ritual texts have their origin in descriptive accounts of actual ritual practices, and that these were transformed into explicitly prescriptive instructions for the priests. 5 In his discussion of priestly “commissioning” in Lev 8–9, he argues that the narrative actions taken by Moses, Aaron, and the sons began as temple records of specific procedures. They were then, in Levine’s reconstruction, transformed into prescriptive formulations that were used in constructing the biblical narrative.6 Levine’s reconstruction is plausible

5. This historical possibility still leaves the interpreter one step behind the final text, in which these prescriptive rituals have been folded into the narrative of the founding of Israel’s cult at Sinai. See Baruch Levine, “The Descriptive Tabernacle Texts of the Pentateuch,” JAOS 85 (1965): 307–18. 6. Compare the analysis of Anne Fitzpatrick-McKinley in The Transformation of Torah from Scribal Advice to Law (JSOTSup 287; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1999). Fitzpatrick-McKinley argues that the legal collections in the Pentateuch should not be interpreted in light of any particular political or social situation. She

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but quite conjectural. The problem is that there are prescriptive and descriptive ritual texts both in the Bible and in the larger ancient Near Eastern world,7 but no comparative material yet unearthed contains ritual texts like those in the final form of the Pentateuch, descriptive ritual texts (in this case narrating fictional moments) that have an enduring prescriptive component due to their use in a hortatory text. In other words, no other ancient Near Eastern ritual texts display the same type of rhetorical intentions that are so striking in the Pentateuch, or as Watts puts it, “literary conventions [that] play on the expectations of their audiences.”8 Levine’s analysis of the Ugaritic material hinges on a central question of verbal translation. Should the yqtl verbs in the Ugaritic ritual texts be translated as descriptions of specific ritual moments, or as imperfects that express customary action or possibly even imperative force? The translator must decide whether these are (1) descriptive rituals that are simply preserving moments for historical interest, or (2) prescriptive rituals that tell people what to do in their future actions. There is a third alternative, however, which is what we find in the Pentateuch: a ritual text describing a particular moment in order to provide an inspiring model or constraining example as a guideline for future action. Thus, the descriptive and prescriptive have been drawn together for rhetorical impact, creating “narrativized ritual.” The closest ancient Near Eastern parallel is found in the texts examined by David Wright in his Ritual in Narrative: The Dynamics of Feasting, Mourning, and Retaliation Rites in the Ugaritic Tale of Aqhat. He examines ritual practices that appear in the mythic narrative of Aqhat. These scenes are not a record of, or prescription for, any real cultic practice. Rather, the rituals in the narrative serve purely literary purposes. So, rather than attempting to connect the ritual information in these narratives to actual ritual practice, Wright “looks at ritual within a story’s context to see how it contributes to the development of the story, advances the plot, forges major and minor climaxes, structures and periodicises the story, begins with a post-modern insight to distance the text from any particular sociopolitical influences: “since the creation of a text involves a decontextualization or a distancing of the text from its original author, its original context of production, and its original audience, it may eventually develop independently of the ideological system within which it was created, creating alternative ideologies” (80). It is not clear to me that the second part (begun with a weighty “may”) follows necessarily from the first. Not surprisingly, she has sympathy for Carmichael’s view that the creation of law is at home in the scribal school, not in the practical life of Israel (108). 7. Levine addresses Hittite, Akkadian and Ugaritic parallels. 8. Watts, “Rhetoric,” 84. 1


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and operates to enhance the portrayal of characters.”9 He works from the assumption that the ritual element in these texts is not prescriptive (i.e. priestly instruction), which Wright argues distinguishes them from the Priestly laws of the Pentateuch and Ezekiel’s vision of the restored temple.10 He says that ritual practices have been adapted or invented to play a role in the literary world of the Ugaritic myths and legends, where even the gods serve as characters. Further, although the narratives do not correspond directly with external reality, these fictional texts do communicate important aspects of ancient Ugarit’s ritual world, namely, the “views and attitudes” of people at the time in which the text was written, specifically their conception of how the gods were involved with humanity.11 Also, according to Wright these texts constitute an indirect admission that rituals do not always go as hoped, and include reflection on some of the factors that might cause ritual failure.12 Wright suggests that biblical ritual texts are different in kind from the Ugaritic examples in his study. He writes of the Ugaritic texts, The authors of the stories did not intend to reinvent religion or to reform cultic performance. These texts are not programmatic, like the priestly legislation of the Torah or the description of Ezekiel’s visionary temple, nor do these stories concern themselves with reform, like the biblical tales about Hezekiah and Josiah (that is, by the Deuteronomist and, later, the Chronicler).13

As we have seen, however, there is a subtle distinction between prescriptive and descriptive in the biblical ritual texts as well. They are programmatic and may have had specific connections with “real world” ritual practice. Even so, these texts are literary in the full sense of the word. Their programmatic quality, in service to any prescriptive agenda, is embedded in rhetorical strategy, characterization, and subtle narrative development. In other words, these texts might be descriptions of actual ritual practices that were common in the Temple or they might constitute a prescriptive vision of how rituals should be performed. In either case, though, they are an imaginative reconstruction of the founding moments of Israelite religion at Sinai. Therefore, while interpreters have read the Pentateuchal narrative as literature,14 and others have considered the 9. Wright, Ritual in Narrative, 6. 10. Ibid., 4. 11. Ibid., 3. 12. Ibid., 17. 13. Ibid., 4. 14. Even so, the Sinai material has not received the same level of attention. An interesting exception is Joe Sprinkle’s The Book of the Covenant: A Literary

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ritual qualities in these texts,15 an essential integrative step is to consider how these fictional narratives function in a ritual sense, and how the ritual aspects have shaped the literary creation of the text. Wright’s work is a good example of this level of analysis, and such an approach is needed for the Sinai material as well.16 The difficulty, however, is in differentiating the historical, literary and ritual elements in this integrative interpretation. The next subsection will turn to the most significant recent application of Ritual Theory to the text of Leviticus, Frank Gorman’s The Ideology of Ritual. His analysis does an excellent job in accounting for the ritual aspects of the text, but is unable to account for the descriptive, literary elements of the text. b. The Ritual World of Leviticus In looking at ritual texts in the Pentateuch, one encounters the difficult problem of parsing out the relative importance of literary production, historical context, and ritual world-view. As argued in the first chapter, the historical question is very important, but not all interpretation of the text needs to interact primarily with historical data. In fact, given the uncertainty about the connection between the Sinai material and ancient Israel’s actual cultic practices, literary criticism provides a way to speak meaningfully about the text without becoming fixed in contentious historical debates.

Approach (JSOTSup 174; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1994). His conclusion is the moderate claim that literary analysis of the Covenant Code produces interesting insights that are not in conflict with historical or source-critical approaches. 15. See the discussion of Gorman in the next section of this chapter. 16. Three aspects of Wright’s work resonate with the approach taken in this study. First, he begins with Catherine Bell’s definition of ritualization, which is a helpful rubric for scholars of ancient ritual texts because it is descriptive and explanatory without being “overdetermined.” One insightful aspect of Bell’s theory is her discussion of ritualization and the balance of power relations inherent in ritual actions. Wright explores the way that those on the underside of power relationships in the Aqhat narrative use ritual to fulfill their own desires. Bell’s theories of ritualization will be the focus of the second half of this chapter. Second, Wright interacts with the work of Ronald Grimes on ritual failure, or “infelicities.” This will be particularly salient in my discussion in Chapter 5 of Lev 10, one of the foremost examples of ritual failure in the Hebrew Bible. Third, Wright is sensitive to the literary quality of the Aqhat text, attending to intertextual connections (“contrasts and echoes”) across the text as well as structural aspects of the ritual scenes. This chapter will argue, with Nanette Stahl, that the combination of ritual and narrative creates this same kind of contrast and echo. 1


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When one turns to the matter of ritual world-view, the problem is magnified. Ritual theory grows out of anthropology, an essentially empirical discipline. Theorists of ritual invariably begin with observation and analysis of actual ritual performances, and attempt to describe these performances in a way that links them with what is known about human rituals in general. Even if one could firmly situate the Pentateuchal ritual texts within a particular historical setting, it still would be impossible to observe these rituals in practice. Aside from the historical uncertainties, the texts themselves do not provide enough information to allow the interpreter fully to imagine a real performance. As will be shown below and in the chapters to follow, the ritual world constructed by the text is partial, fractured, and ambiguous. The ritualization emergent in the text attempts to eliminate these vagaries and create a unified, coherent ritual system, though the text twice subverts its own intentions with the inclusion of problematic narratives. Thus, the matter of “ritual” in the Pentateuchal text could well be more of a literary issue than an historical one. The interrelations of literature, history, and ritual feature prominently in Frank Gorman’s excellent work, The Ideology of Ritual: Space, Time and Status in the Priestly Theology, in which he applies the anthropological theories to ritual texts in Exodus and Leviticus. 17 He begins by defining ritual as a “social act which takes place in a specific sociocultural context.”18 Therefore, he says that analysis of rituals should focus on how those rituals function within that particular socio-cultural context.19 Gorman does not consider, however, how a set of texts about rituals can be said to function within a socio-cultural context. Which context does the interpreter have in mind, and how can one know that the 17. Gorman’s particular interest is to connect the ideas of sacred space, time, and status to the Priestly cosmology, that is, the creation theology that underpins and grows out of this particular ritual system. He argues that ritual serves the important purpose of defining (“creating”) order out of chaos, maintaining and restoring that order when it is threatened or disrupted. The basic outlines of this system are present at the very beginning of creation, and in the first narrative in the Bible. He says that if creation is accomplished through the “demarcation” of certain elements into ordered pairs, then “these divisions must be recognized and maintained if the created order is to continue to exist and not collapse into confusion and chaos” (Ideology, 41). This created order is associated closely with the creation of the people and of the cultus in Exodus, rendering three interrelated, ordered categories: cosmic, social and cultic. 18. Ibid., 14. 19. There is affinity between Gorman’s work and that of David Janzen in The Social Meaning of Sacrifice in the Hebrew Bible: A Study of Four Writings (BZAW 344; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2004).

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texts provide any entry into that socio-cultural situation? Does the interpreter need to know what the socio-cultural context was before the rituals in the texts can be understood in light of that context? Or do the texts themselves provide adequate information for reconstructing that sociocultural context, which may then be used to interpret the rituals found in the texts? This kind of circularity, though not necessarily vicious, is implicit in the historical method itself, and is also quite prevalent in social scientific approaches to the Bible. Gorman addresses the issue directly when he says that the “context” in question “cannot be limited to questions of the historical, social world in which the ritual took place or was constructed. Furthermore, our knowledge of the specific social structure of Israel at any given time is, at best, fragmentary.” 20 Reading closely, one soon discovers that what Gorman addresses in his book is a literary reality, though he does not use that terminology. He says, “As used here, socio-cultural context refers primarily to the context of meaning which gives rise to and is embedded in the rituals.” 21 He says that his task is to “discover the world view that stands behind rituals, that gives rise to the rituals, that is enacted and made real in the rituals.” This sentence would be better if the word “texts” were substituted for “rituals.” What Gorman actually does in his study is to examine “ritual texts,” in order to construct a “world view” from those texts. He says that this world view simultaneously “gives rise” to the rituals, and is “enacted and made real” by them. This dual relationship between the rituals and the world view is made even more complicated by the fact that the world view is abstracted from the text from the beginning. Gorman contends that “if there is indeed a close relationship existing between ritual and its socio-cultural context, then it should be possible to gain clues to the shape of the socio-cultural context through the rituals.” 22 The reason, however, that there is such a close connection between the rituals and the “socio-cultural context” is that this context has in fact been constructed by looking at the “rituals” themselves. There is a fundamental difference between this kind of analysis and anthropological field work which, while not any more purely objective, at least has observable data to correlate with the model. In this case, however, there are only texts that presume to narrate certain important rituals in the life of the Israelites. If the interpreter does not address which Israelites wrote these texts and for whom, and whether these rituals were performed, then the study is not a consideration of particular rituals in their “socio-cultural

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20. Gorman, Ideology, 14–15. 21. Ibid., 15. 22. Ibid.


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context.” Rather, that study would be a literary, or perhaps theological, consideration of certain texts. It would be necessary to ask what kind of texts these are, and what sort of world they create. This methodological point notwithstanding, Gorman’s argument in the book is quite compelling. He declares at the beginning that he “seeks to develop more fully the precise nature of the conceptual, ideological, and theological framework that informs specific Priestly rituals and which is, in turn, constructed, in part, by those rituals.”23 This quotation reveals nicely the direction that his study takes, as well as the particular problems that it addresses. First, his work attempts to “develop” the framework of the Priestly world view, rather than to “understand” or “comprehend” it. The nuance may be slight, but the difference is crucial. Rather than bringing together the disparate pieces of Priestly legislation and attempting to coordinate them into a coherent system, as exemplified masterfully in Milgrom’s work,24 Gorman brings into service particular theoretical constructs that enable him to “develop” the Priestly system in ways that simple observation would not permit.25 He later says that he “seeks to understand Priestly creation theology and Priestly ritual,” but this is done “in terms of the thick web of meaning and significance that constitute culture,” a rubric imported from the cultural anthropological approach of Clifford Geertz, Victor Turner, and others.26 Gorman points to the interweaving of descriptive narrative and prescriptive ritual instruction when he correlates different types of rituals with appropriate “times.” The “founding” rituals, namely, the inauguration of the tabernacle, priesthood and cult, occur in a time “in the distant past.”27 The “maintenance” rituals take place at “regularly prescribed times,” and the rituals of “restoration” are required at random occasions when impurity has disrupted the ritual order. The rituals that give rise to the tabernacle and its cult took place “in the distant past” within the temporal perspective of the text. The other rituals, both maintenance and restoration types, occur primarily in prescriptive words given by Yahweh 23. Ibid., 9. 24. Once could also argue, however, that Milgrom’s reliance on the questions and techniques of the ancient rabbis provides him with the same sort of constructive rubric. 25. The application of such external models reveals the extent to which meaning is a product of the reading process, rather than simply “apprehended” by an objective reader. The text always stands as partner in this interpretive process, however, providing a common language for all interpreters and a basis of conversation and critique. 26. Gorman, Ideology, 9–10. 27. Ibid., 58.

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through the words of Moses, though some appear as paradigmatic narratives (e.g. Lev 16). If one turns the analysis to a reconstruction of which rituals actually occurred in the Temple during a given period, these temporal categories would look significantly different. The prescriptive texts most likely did serve as a road-map for actual ritual practices, though it is difficult to argue that these temporal divisions were instituted via legislative fiat by Moses before the Israelite settlement even began. The narratives are even harder to understand in this light. The building of the tabernacle in Exod 24–40, the inauguration of the priests and cult in Lev 8–9, and the initial Day of Atonement ritual performed by Aaron are in another realm from the prescriptive ritual texts, though they serve a related goal. Taken from an historical perspective, these narrative texts do not narrate rituals that took place “in the distant past,” and do not give information about real historical experiences. The most that one should say is that these rituals “in the distant past” represent the ideological framework for the ritual system of the priests who developed these rituals and recorded these texts. In order for them to serve as historical sources, however, the texts must be broken down and reconstructed. The building of the tabernacle and the anointing of the priests creates the “sacred space” that Gorman discusses, but they function primarily on the literary level to provide the necessary framework for the prescriptive texts (themselves cast as a narrative). Even if the prescriptive texts served as a priestly manual in the Second Temple period, these foundational ritual texts probably served primarily a theological and literary (rhetorical) purpose. c. Ritual and Narrative Polyphony This chapter thus far has argued that the genre of Leviticus should be defined as narrativized ritual, in which the ritual and narrative aspects of the text interact in a complex way, transforming each other in the reader’s experience. This integration of ritual and narrative does not produce a smooth blend, however. Even in the final form of the text, these two generic ingredients continue the process of engagement, creating an ongoing conversation that draws in the reader. In other words, the genre of Leviticus is a mixture of different elements, but the lingering contrast between these elements is a defining characteristic of the genre itself. Nanette Stahl has made this point well in her book Law and Liminality, in which she illuminates the ongoing conversations within the complexity of the Pentateuch. Stahl argues that the multiplicity and polyphony found in the Bible has resisted any homogenizing impulse, and stands as a monument to the 1


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complex history of ideas that influenced the Bible. Taking her cues from Ilana Pardes, Meike Bal, and Daniel Boyarin,28 her thesis is that law “contributes to the biblical polyphony both relationally, in its dialogue with narrative, and intrinsically, in the tensions contained within itself.” 29 First, in her discussion of “liminal moments,” Stahl points out that the Bible narrates several key episodes of struggle and ambiguity, and that law is a key component of these moments. She writes that law provides a “source of stability and order in an imperfect, chaotic world,” but also is fraught with the same ambiguities contained in the narratives themselves.30 She discusses passages where the giving of law (or its absence, as in the Tower of Babel story), seems to inaugurate new eras and new beginnings, but is unable to overcome the difficulties plaguing the old era. She says that “laws echo the destabilizing themes implicit in the narrative and work to further undermine the message of healing and renewal at the very moment it is articulated.”31 For example, the new beginning offered to Noah’s family, the flood survivors, is an optimistic beginning of a new stage of obedience and blessing. God’s mandate to the people, however, casts doubt on any enduring improvement over the previous situation. The people are told that they could eat of all the animals, but they could not “eat flesh with the life-blood still in it” (Gen 9:4). The qualification of the general law parallels the important “exceptions” given to Adam and Eve in the Garden, and works “to affirm and simultaneously to undermine the message of renewal which is the primary theme of this passage.”32 Stahl goes on to examine the creation stories in Gen 1–3, Noah’s post-diluvian experience in Gen 9, Jacob’s wrestling with the “angel” in Gen 32, and the revelation at Sinai in Exod 19–34. The second part of her thesis is that law not only displays conflict with its narrative context, but also embodies conflict and ambiguity in its very self. Stahl argues that law should be defined as an act of communicating certain “intentions” to the people, one that is not complete until the

28. Ilana Pardes, Countertraditions in the Bible: A Feminist Approach (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1992); Meike Bal, Lethal Love: Feminist Literary Readings of Biblical Love Stories (Bloomington, Ind.: Indiana University Press, 1994); Daniel Boyarin, Intertextuality and the Reading of Midrash (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1990). See Stahl, Law and Liminality, 17–19, and the notes there. 29. Stahl, Law and Liminality, 19–20. 30. Ibid., 14. 31. Ibid. 32. Ibid., 15.

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people fulfill the mandates communicated.33 Therefore, “law” is not a simple, unilateral pronouncement, but rather is the complex product of a community’s various voices.34 Stahl draws on Bakhtin’s work on the “polyphonic novel,” in which meaning emerges not so much from the plot, as from the complex interaction among its various components— different genres, voices, and ideologies.35 Each genre may serve a variety of roles, depending on the situation, and thus may embody tension within its very self. Interpreting biblical law along these lines, Stahl argues that rather than being a “conservative, stabilizing force,” law actually serves many roles in its diverse interaction with other genres.36 She aims to reveal how law “intermingles” with other genres, and also “the polyphonic tension built into the very locus of monotheistic authority, biblical law itself.”37 In her chapter, “Law and Sinai,” Stahl addresses the integration of law and narrative in the Sinai pericope, focusing on Exod 19–20 and Exod 34. She says that the first episode’s primary theme is “God’s desire for intimacy with Israel,” yet throughout there is an awareness of the danger posed to the people by this intimacy.38 This is, in fact, the chief theological problem throughout the Priestly material.39 The narratives and the laws are aware of and attempt to address this problem, and they provide two distinct voices in this endeavor. Stahl argues that law and narrative provide “depth and complexity” to the presentation of this key “liminal moment.” 40 Because the narrative is laced with legal pronouncements, “history takes on qualities of continuation and repetition which look to the future.” At the same time, because the legal material is presented as part of an overall narrative, “law takes

33. Ibid., 21. 34. Rhetorically, law presents itself as simple pronouncement, and in the world of the text, it is simple pronouncement. The question is whether these pronouncements adequately meet the needs of the situation or not. 35. M. M. Bakhtin, “Discourse in the Novel,” in Dialogic Imagination: Four Essays by M. M. Bakhtin (ed. Michael Holquist; trans. Caryl Emerson and Michael Holquist; Austin: University of Texas Press, 1981), 259–422. See Stahl, Law and Liminality, 23–24. 36. Stahl, Law and Liminality, 25. 37. Ibid., 26. 38. Ibid., 52. 39. One should note, however, the view of Milgrom and others that the chief danger to the people is that God will abandon the sanctuary. This may be a distinction without a difference. See Milgrom, I:50. 40. Stahl, Law and Liminality, 56. 1


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on the status of a hallowed and venerated monument in Israel’s past.” 41 The narrative presents Moses as the gifted mediator who shuttles between God and the people, bridging the gap in communication. This simultaneously works to heal the fissure between God and the people, and yet also highlights the very separation. Stahl argues that in the covenant renewal ceremony Exod 34 the giving of law never takes the form of divine speech. 42 She concludes, “This represents not only God’s withdrawal from communication with Israel, but also the Israelites’ inability to receive unmediated divine communication.”43 Instead of law, the narrative includes a totally different genre—poetry (Exod 34:6–7). The laws present in this renewal ceremony also tend to reinforce the distance from God that the people have now experienced. The rules concerning idolatry, coming as they do after an idolatrous episode, seem to imply a future when the people will commit these very transgressions. The laws given through Moses, the mediator, to the people imply that the divide has been closed and they have been reconciled to God. However, the scars from the earlier breech in communion remain, and the reader senses a broadening distance between the people and God. One crucial remnant of the break between God and people is the second set of commandment tablets, which are inscribed by Moses instead of God.44 The shift here is from the commandment 41. Ibid., 55–56. One important question that Stahl does not address adequately is the difference between judicial and ritual legislation. This issue is quite important in considering the connections between Lev 10 and Lev 24:10–23. 42. Compare the delivering of the first commandments, when the people hear the voice of God (Exod 21:1, 18–19, 22). After this seminal episode, all other laws are mediated and written down by Moses (Exod 24:4). One explanation for this difference is the contrasting theological emphases of the Priestly and Yahwistic writers who may have been responsible for the different narratives. However, they are combined consciously into the same narrative by the final “author,” and deserve to be interpreted as such. It is possible, perhaps even unavoidable, that the narratives operate differently on different levels, depending on the context in which they are read. Another key example of this is the contrast between P and H in Leviticus. These sources represent two distinct traditions and narrative/legal voices, but together they create a text greater (and more interesting?) than either text alone. 43. Stahl, Law and Liminality, 64. 44. There is some ambiguity in the text with regard to the inscribing of the commandments. In Exod 34:1, God says, “I will write on the tablets,” although in 34:27–28, God instructs Moses to “write these words.” After Moses had been with God for forty days and nights, “he wrote on the tablets the words of the covenant, the ten commandments.” However, the first set of tablets carry none of that ambiguity, as the text says that the tablets were “written with the finger of God” (31:18) and that they “were the work of God, and the writing was the writing of

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tablets as tangible representations of God’s presence to tablets as medium of communicated laws. Stahl says, “law as communicative utterance becomes the locus of mediated revelation and thus partakes of human unpredictability and capriciousness.”45 The process that Stahl sees of law becoming “communicative utterance” begins, but does not end, with the inscribing of the second tablets. In the narrative, this is the first instance in which (from the perspective of the people) the communication of the law takes on its own form and essence, apart from the direct communication of God’s wishes.46 There are several other places in the Bible where the law is written down for future generations, and later on, prophecies are written down for the same reason. This widening gap between the speaking of God and the reception of that message by the people culminates in the creation of the final composite text. One could also argue that it continues, through the production of translations and modern critical editions with commentary notes. Thus, Moses is the most striking human figure in the Bible, one who experiences God directly during Israel’s key liminal moment. Moses cannot give the people direct access to his experience, but he does fulfill the function of “mediator” when he conveys the legal statutes to the people “as the linguistic enactment of God’s will.”47 What we find in Leviticus is the linguistic enactment of God’s will, as Moses speaks to the people (and to Aaron) what God commands him to say. This linguistic enactment, however, represents a stage of separation between the original expression of God’s will and the people’s experience of it. When they act in fulfillment of those ritual commandments, they are obeying the spoken (and later, written) law rather than the direct voice of God. This gradual widening of the separation between God and the people, filled and made tangible by the written law, creates tensions and ambiguities with respect to what God’s will is, and how the people

God, engraved upon the tablets” (32:16). In the second episode, God no longer speaks directly to the people, and it may be that the writing of the laws (despite God’s intention in 34:1) is done by Moses alone. 45. Stahl, Law and Liminality, 72. 46. Moses writes down the first commandments, but the people hear them spoken directly by God. Exod 34:1 begins with Yahweh’s promise that he will write down the words as before. In v. 27, however, Yahweh tells Moses to write down the words on the tablet. It makes little practical difference to the people, who must trust the written word delivered to them by Moses. The instruction that Moses inscribe the tablets rather than Yahweh is part of this overall shift. 47. Stahl, Law and Liminality, 73. One could argue further that Moses himself becomes embodied in the Torah, persisting in and through the laws he conveys. 1


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might be sure that they know it. The ritualizing tendencies in the text, discussed in the second part of this chapter, attempt to overcome (or at least give people a way to negotiate) these tensions and ambiguities. 2. Ritualization The first part of this chapter discussed the genre of Leviticus as narrativized ritual and identified important issues in the interpretation of Leviticus’s (ritualized) narrative world. Now, we must consider what effect the generic transformation has on the narrative, especially with regard to its encounter with readers. This section will argue that Leviticus is a “ritualized” text, bearing the stamp of its ritual content and drawing the reader into a ritualized textual engagement. I will here present Ronald Grimes’s discussions of ritualization in narrative literature, and then draw on Catherine Bell to explain how ritualization works in Leviticus, what effect it has on the text and on readers. Bell’s theory will assist in identifying the ritualized aspects of Leviticus, as well as the power dynamics embedded within its over-determined and ambiguous ritual world. a. Reading, Writing, Ritualizing Ronald Grimes has reflected on the process of “ritualizing,” particularly as it relates to writing and reading in his book, Reading, Writing, Ritualizing: Ritual in Fictive, Liturgical, and Public Places.48 His definition of ritualizing implies that it has to do primarily with activities that are outside the regular, closely guarded realm of rites. It is the process whereby rituals develop outside of the normative context, and as such provide a critique and/or an individualized reflection on the ritual. He sees this process as operative in the literary realm, both on the side of the author and of the reader. Grimes’ book has two sections that are important to this study, his introductory essay and Section III in which he examines particular literary works with regard to their reflection on ritual actions or ritual processes. In his introductory essay, “Reinventing Ritual,” Grimes defines ritualizing as “the activity of incubating ritual…the act of constructing ritual either self-consciously and deliberately or incrementally and editorially, as it were.”49 His first task is to argue against the commonplace notion that ritual is always traditional and collective, rather than invented and 48. Ronald Grimes, Reading, Writing, Ritualizing: Ritual in Fictive, Liturgical, and Public Places (Washington, D.C.: Pastoral, 1993). 49. Grimes, “Reinventing Ritual,” 5.

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individual. In fact, one of the chief characteristics of ritual is its timeless quality; that is, the propensity to understand ritual actions as following in an ancient tradition, perhaps inaugurated by a divine being. Although ritual is often traditional and follows a long-standing pattern, it can also be creative and invented. In this case, there is an appeal to tradition that is ideological in nature; the ritual seems to be timeless and without origin. Even traditional rituals change over time, and what seems to be timeless and motionless is built upon an underlying process of change and adaptation. He says that “ritual is a fully historical, fully cultural process.”50 The example that Grimes gives here is that of a clock’s hands—whether they seem to move depends on the observer’s frame of reference. Grimes draws upon the work of Eric Hobsbawn in his introduction to The Invention of Traditions, who argues that “[inventing] traditions…is essentially a process of formalization and ritualization characterized by reference to the past, if only by imposing repetition.” 51 Grimes says that tradition is “rule-bound,” has the “aura of invariance,” and enjoys “the sanction of perpetuity.”52 This description of tradition has the advantage of accounting for how rituals could develop over time and yet still be rooted in mythic tales of origin, which is significant for understanding biblical rituals. Grimes points out, however, that Hobsbawn’s theory assumes that rituals can only be effective if the participants, both actants and observers, have succumbed to the illusion of timelessness and do not see the tradition as invented. This may be the case in some instances, where innovations might arise informally and be incorporated without reflection. However, there are many examples of innovations in traditions that are not disguised and yet are enthusiastically accepted as if the innovations were part of the original story. Well-known examples are the invention of Bastille Day in 1880s France and the addition of “under God” to the American Pledge of Allegiance in the 1950s. Ritualists may certainly be aware of the innovation process without sacrificing the legitimacy of their ritual tradition. How might the conscious revision of ritual tradition be permitted and accomplished? It may be that the innovations are seen as consonant with the tradition itself, and hardly as innovations at all. Or perhaps certain

50. Ibid., 8. 51. Eric Hobsbawn, “Introduction: Inventing Traditions,” in The Invention of Traditions (ed. E. Hobsbawn and T. Ranger; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), 4; quoted in Grimes, “Reinventing Ritual,” 9. 52. Grimes, “Reinventing Ritual,” 9. 1


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“reforms” are necessary given a newly discovered deeper meaning of the tradition. In the case of the Pledge of Allegiance, the addition was an explicit response to an alternate tradition, as perceived in the US, namely, the “godlessness” of the Soviet Union. The addition was not a violation of the traditional text, but rather an open expression of something that the populace had “assumed” all along. According to Grimes, there may also be “tacit ritual revision and adaptation,”53 which is conceived and implemented by leadership and imposed gradually on the constituents. In any case, all ritual innovations have particular social and political purposes, and are supported by subtle rhetorical means. Whether the changes are downplayed or celebrated, the goal of the innovators is for the participants in the ritual to continue to feel “natural,” for the changes to seem expected and welcome. With the biblical literature, the issue of ritual innovation is complex because it is not clear how the text relates to its “authors” and to its “readers.” Were these ritual texts ever implemented in a way that would expose innovation on the textual level? Or did any ritual revision have to gain only the approval of a small, closed set of readers who were developing their own version of Israel’s communal life? The answer to these questions would have radical implications for how we discuss these texts. If it were possible to situate these texts firmly into a particular historical episode of ritual innovation, then it would be possible to decipher the implication of the changes and how they might have been perceived by their proponents and by the community in general. It would be wrong to envision a situation of complete homogeneity, where the biblical account of Israel’s religious life and ritual observance was fully implemented and was shared by all.54

53. Ibid., 15. 54. These texts, however, do not lend themselves only to this kind of analysis. An equally important question is to ask what kind of texts these are. If Leviticus is a list of ritual procedures, then it would be almost necessary to ask historical questions. The text, however, is not on its surface a ritual text in the same way as rituals from Ugarit and Emar. The text is a narrative, which opens up a whole different set of interpretive possibilities and queries. As narrative, the reader should pay attention to matters of plot, characterization and theme, in addition to the question of implied author(s), implied reader(s), point of view, and structure. Even if the “real” situation of authorship is hidden in (or from) the text, there are still ways to discover meanings being communicated and arising from the reading process. It may be that this literary analysis will contribute in some way to historical understanding, but that is not its primary goal or focus.

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b. The Practice of Ritual First we must define the idea of ritualization more clearly, and then indicate what practical effect this ritualization has on the ritual and narrative sections of Leviticus. The work of Catherine Bell will provide the ritual studies rubric for approaching these questions. Her definition of ritualization will allow for more precise analysis of the text of Leviticus, leading into a discussion of the power dynamics operative throughout the process of ritualization, and its textual product. Bell has called into question the rigid, overdetermined definitions of ritual that often have more to do with the researcher’s theory than with the culture in question.55 She opens the definition of ritual to consider the process of “ritualizing,” a tendency in a culture to endow particular activities with ritual-like qualities. She says “Ritualization, the production of ritualized acts, can be described, in part, as that way of acting that sets itself off from other ways of acting by virtue of the way in which it does what it does.”56 This part of the definition puts the emphasis on the specific ways of acting within a ritual context, which together form “expedient schemes.” These schemes “structure an environment in such a way that the environment appears to be the source of the schemes and their values.”57 Thus, ritualization is not just about setting certain behaviors apart, but also involves layers of misdirection and misrecognition. When one considers the power-laden relationships that shape and direct ritual interactions, discovering ritualization strategies becomes essential. Ritualization is “strategic,” which means that effective analysis requires that one consider the source and power behind these strategic aims as well as the complex interaction of agents within this environment. An observation of these tendencies, in Bell’s view, leads to a more authentic, native definition of ritual for that culture, and a more enlightening study.58 Bell argues that two basic trends in ritual studies are misguided: the tendency to privilege thought (ritual meaning) over action (ritual performance), and the temptation to define ritual in a strict, overdetermined fashion, either as a distinct set of activities or as a general aspect of all 55. Catherine Bell, Ritual Theory, Ritual Practice (New York: Oxford University Press, 1992), 70. 56. Ibid., 140. 57. Ibid. 58. Although the definition of ritualization here may appear broad, it involves a specific combination of social, ideological, and ritual elements. This analysis can be applied to traditional ritual observances, but also to other activities that exhibit this complex interaction of forces. This is one of the main benefits of drawing on Bell in the present study. 1


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human activity.59 Basic to her approach is the recognition that what “ritual” is, means, and does depends completely on the context in which it happens. Thus, analysts of ritual should consider how particular human activities “establish and manipulate their own differentiation and purposes—in the very doing of the act within the context of other ways of acting.”60 In moving away from a strict or totalizing “theory” of ritual, Bell prefers the language of “ritualization” to refer to the manner in which certain actions take on ritual-like qualities and involve their participants in ritualized relationships. Bell uses practice theory as a helpful way to consider how certain actions set themselves off from other, mundane actions. She presents the idea of ritual as practice, which among other things helps her to point to the situational character of all ritual actions, arguing that “[ritualization] gives rise to (or creates) the sacred by virtue of its sheer differentiation from the profane.”61 Most notably, she draws out the difference between oral and written ritual instructions. A ritual text involves a unique set of ritualization strategies, including “a tactical recasting of the source and type of authority invoked in ritualization.” 62 Authority now rests directly in the hands of those who are holding and controlling the text, which is different from an oral system in which authority depends on “memory, seniority, and practice.”63 The biblical ritual texts are an interesting example of this phenomenon, since these texts certainly had an oral stage. This is one of the chief aspects of Watts’s argument about the rhetorical function of the Torah, as the written text still bears marks of its composition for oral delivery and hearing. When the text is written down, the ritual instruction achieves a level of fixity not possible without such codification. Even more, these ritual texts are cast as part of a narrative of Israel’s deliverance from Egypt and entrance into the promised land, which influences the reader’s interpretation of the laws. This is seen, of course, in Moses’s answer to the anticipated question in Deut 6:20: “What is the meaning of the decrees and the statutes and the ordinances that the Lord our God has commanded you?” Bell acknowledges the important transformations that take place when rituals are codified into such a narrative. She points out that

59. 60. 61. 62. 63.

Ibid., 70. Ibid., 74. Ibid., 91. Ibid., 136. Ibid.

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Ritual Words and Narrative Worlds [the] fixing of the past in writing can open a gap between the present and the past that appears to demand different forms of mediating authority— perhaps an authority that represents ‘sanctified tradition’ not through a convincing evocation of continuity of the past with the present but through privileged access to the ‘sources’ of the past.64

The “gap” between the past and the present are important in looking at the narrative framework of Leviticus. The particular rituals that are described are presented as timeless prescriptions and as temporally rooted speeches by Moses. Additionally, the performance of the rituals in chs. 8–9 and 16 serve both as specific moments in the narrative past and as paradigmatic examples of how these rituals are to be performed. Chapters 8–9 put into action some of the prescriptions in chs. 1–7, while ch. 16 is a complex admixture of past and present, specific and timeless. Additionally, the process of putting these ritual prescriptions in the mouth of Yahweh via Moses is an important rhetorical strategy, of course, but it is also an aspect of ritualization; the codified ritual texts are ritualized to the extent that they embed these particular linguistic constructions in an authoritative voice, in the revered past. Thus, the text simultaneously presents ritualized actions in the past, constructs timeless ritual visions, and ritualizes its own narration of these actions and visions by tying into an ancient authority. One of the problems faced in the ancient community is related to our own struggle with the “historical context” of Leviticus, the gap between what was written and what was actually done. One strength of Bell’s analysis is that she calls to mind the specificity and contextuality of all ritualized actions, such that the meaning and significance of a ritual must grow out of its particular setting, not from any abstract or unconnected ritual theory. In this case, the text as ritualized object is distinct from the actual ritualized practices performed by ancient Israelites or subsequent Jewish cultic personnel. Evidently, when the text was published it was either a record of actual cultic practices and was intended to serve as a witness to what was done and should continue to be done, or it was a programmatic vision for temple cultic practice that was constructed on the basis of theological commitments rather than empirical observation. Most likely, of course, it was some combination of the two. In any case, after the text’s final editing and canonization it has always ridden along a sliding scale of identification with actual practice. It is possible that the post-exilic temple cult followed aspects of this ritual legislation closely, either for theological or political reasons, or both.65 After the destruction

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64. Ibid. 65. See Watts, ed., Persia and Torah.


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of the Second Temple by the Romans in 70 C.E., however, the text became a purely ideological reality with no possible connection to actual practice. The question of historical context as it relates to the ritual life of ancient Israel and the continuing Jewish community, therefore, is most acute at the point of the text’s composition. Even then, however, the text participated in its own unique ritualized practices, to use Bell’s terminology. The practice of writing the text, as well as the practice of reading/ hearing the text across the years, includes important aspects of ritualization. Over time, this ritualized element became more important as the text increasingly diverged from historical possibilities. The language, whether or not it was originally archaizing, became more archaic; the specific rituals that had perhaps been performed in these ways became expressions of ritual ideas and of Jewish identity rather than descriptions of anything concrete; and the particular expressions and literary forms were canonized such that even aspects that were originally casual or mundane took on sacred status. As the words were thus codified and canonized, any kind of innovation or alternate expression needed to find new techniques and strategies, which can be seen in the many layers of imaginative interpretation of the Torah seen among Jewish and Christian exegetes, ancient and modern. In short, Leviticus was on its way to becoming “scripture,” and some aspects of its ritualization were present from the beginning and grew in importance while others developed in the reading of the text over the centuries. Bell says that “a textually constituted tradition must continually and simultaneously create both the gap [between the past and the present] and the authority structures that can bridge it.”66 This is exactly the process seen in the history of interpretation of the Bible, and Leviticus is a striking instance of this because from the start it followed this path of ritualization toward becoming sacred text. In a section on “Ritual and Language,” Bell discusses the “communicative” function of ritual, which is somewhat controversial in the field of ritual studies. Rituals use language, of course, but some theorists have used linguistic paradigms to understand the meanings communicated by ritual. Bell herself emphasizes the “practice” of ritual and resists any attempt to reduce a ritual to its communicated “meaning” at the expense of being attentive to what the ritual does. Consistent with the rest of her work, she does not want to make any totalizing statements about the applicability of linguistic analysis to ritual or about the relationship between ritual and language in general. She writes that “[whereas] the use of language or a particular mode of speaking does not appear to be 66. Bell, Ritual Theory, 137.

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intrinsically necessary to ritual as such, the opposite does hold—namely, that ritualization readily affects the way language is used and the significance it is accorded.”67 Thus, there are some interesting connections between the ways ritual and language do what they do. This may not be an intrinsic connection, but analysis of either one can benefit the other. In this vein, Bell incorporates interesting perspectives on language from deconstructionist perspectives. One aspect of the work of Derrida and DeMan is that the text actively resists deconstruction, a phenomenon that Edward Said terms the “worldliness” of the text.68 The “practical worldliness” of the text is that particular text’s participation in the social strategies and processes inherent in textualization. In other words, the text attempts to shield from the reader how it is implicated in the web of power relationships. According to Said, “[a] text is not a text unless it hides from the first comer, from the first glance, the law of its composition and the rules of its game.”69 For Bell this is similar to the process of “misrecognition” that she discerns in ritual, in which a ritual practice engages in “a fundamental ‘misrecognition’ of what it is doing, a misrecognition of its limits and constraints, and of the relationship between its ends and its means.” 70 There is a kind of “deliberate oversight” of what is actually going on, so that the ritual does something different for the people involved. 71 The application here for ritual theory is that ritual often does something different than what it appears to do to an objective observer, hence the importance of situating the ritual within its actual context. Although the participants have a specific idea of what is happening in the ritual, the actual context is wrought with “indeterminacy, ambiguities, and equivocations.”72 The rituals of ancient Israel functioned in this complex manner; sacrificial rites, for example, only make sense to the people who understand these symbolic actions to effect an erasure of the impurities/ iniquities of the congregation. At the same time, the political, social, and theological underpinnings of this rite were quite complex, though the participants did not dwell on such analytical matters. The ritual text of

67. Ibid., 113. 68. Ibid., 114. 69. From Edward Said’s The World, the Text, and the Critic (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1984), 184, cited in Bell, Ritual Theory, 114. 70. Bell, Ritual Theory, 82. 71. Ibid., quoting Peter Bourdieu, Outline of a Theory of Practice (Cambridge Studies in Social and Cultural Anthropology; trans. Richard Nice; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1977), 106. 72. Bell, Ritual Theory, 83. 1


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Leviticus provides certain rationales for what these rituals do, 73 though scholars have made a cottage industry of second guessing these explanations, looking for the hidden rationales and motivations for the ritual performances. The text of Leviticus presents itself as a ritualized communication of Yahweh, through Moses, to the priests and to the people. The text’s ritualization causes the reader to follow the ritual descriptions and narrative moments in a certain way. The text provides the questions as well as the answers. To use Bell’s language from above, the text creates the distance between the past and the present with its narrative style and bridges that gap with specific techniques to show the timelessness of the narrative moment as well as the continuity of the present with that glorified past. These ritual strategies, however, are in some senses illusory; in order to participate with the text the reader must engage in deliberate oversight, misrecognitions of what has actually gone into the creation of the text. Those who composed the text presented the ritual descriptions as the words of Moses, and then proceeded to regard the text as if it were authentic and ancient. The ritualization strategies that influenced its composition were successful in promoting the text’s authoritative use in a variety of contexts. Modern critics have a choice to follow the text along this path, choosing to misrecognize what is transpiring in the text’s writing and reading, or to resist and deconstruct, reading the text across the grain.74 The insight of deconstructionism, however, is that the text contains the seeds of its own undoing. Wherever there is repetition, there is a drive to fend off meaninglessness, to hide the deconstructive tendency of différance. What becomes clear is that the generic combinations within Leviticus serve this dual purpose. The interplay between ritual and narrative construct a ritual world in the past that the present reader can inhabit, creating a literary world in which temporal distinctions are meaningless. On another level, however, the primarily narrative sections (considered here to be Lev 8–10, 16, and 24:10–23) raise points of ambiguity and tension in the ritual world that expose the weaknesses in the tight systematization that the ritual descriptions seek to create. On an analytical level, here is one point where textual analysis, literary criticism, and ritual theory come together to help the exegete account for the intentions of the text, the varied responses of modern readers, and the multiplicity and complexity characteristic of all rituals and of all texts. 73. These ritual motivations, such as the need for acceptance and purification, will be discussed in Chapter 4. It is difficult to know for sure what these rationales actually signify, which is what gives rise to academic speculation. 74. The majority of critical scholarship has chosen this second option, of course. Sailhamer is a notable exception, as was discussed in Chapter 1.

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c. Aspects of Ritualization In her book Ritual: Perspectives and Dimensions, Bell develops more fully her description of “ritual-like” activities, moments and places in culture where “ritualization” takes place. She outlines several characteristics of ritualized activity, all of which apply in some measure to the text of Leviticus. First, she defines formality as the “use of a more limited and rigidly organized set of expressions and gestures, a restricted code of communication or behavior in contrast to a more open or elaborated code.”75 This aspect of ritualization reveals the intrinsic connection between form and content: how something must be communicated influences greatly what can be communicated. These “codes” of behavior enforce conformity on participants by requiring “acceptance, compliance, or at least forbearance with regard to any overt challenge.”76 An example is the formality of table etiquette, in which a clearly defined set of accepted behaviors determines what people may or may not do, and expresses the underlying social structures and hierarchies. The textual style of Leviticus can only be described as “formal.” Compared with the language in other parts of the Hebrew Bible, even with Exodus and Deuteronomy, Leviticus contains the most highly structured and formalized language. This is evident from the first sentence of the book, which uses five forms of verbs meaning “to speak.” Verse 1 begins “And he called unto Moses and the Lord, spoke to him from the tent of meeting, saying, ‘Speak to the Israelites and say to them…’” This sentence manages to use all three common verbs for speaking, and in the process emphasizes that this book is going to be about communication, both between Moses and God and between Moses and the people. Many other examples of the book’s formality will be explored in the following chapters, but it suffices to say here that Leviticus consistently uses elaborate language that is abstracted from the speech patterns of everyday life. It is difficult, of course, to know what ‘spoken’ Hebrew would have been like, since all we have are literary productions in a language that has been called “Classical Hebrew.” Even among these literary sources, Leviticus stands apart in its formalized speech patterns. The extra-biblical inscriptional material, which probably reveals more about “everyday” language, is generally less formal than any of the biblical material. 77

75. Bell, Ritual Theory, 139. 76. Ibid., 140. 77. This applies even to the letter from Mesad Hashavyahu, which is a formal appeal to the military governor in a legal matter.

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Second, Bell uses the term traditionalism to mean an “attempt to make a set of activities appear identical to or thoroughly consistent with older cultural precedents.” It is “repetition of earlier activities, adaptation, or creation of new activities that evoke links with the past.” 78 In order to be effective a ritual must call to mind a powerful tradition, and aspects of ritualized activity must mirror older, respected practices closely. An excellent example is the continued use of archaic dress for symbolic reasons, such as that practiced by the Hasidim and Amish and by academics at ceremonial gatherings. An example given by Bell that is directly relevant to the issue at hand is the retention of dead tongues, that is, Latin and Hebrew as “liturgical languages” long after they are lost in everyday speech. It is possible that Leviticus and other cultic writings are deliberately archaic or “archaizing,” though it is difficult to say since our evidence is limited to the Bible. The Priestly texts were put into their final form in the post-exilic period, but they may have incorporated much older traditions that had been alive in the First Temple. The question of the “traditionalism” of this Priestly language is complex, and tied in with debates about the date of and the shifting patterns of Hebrew. It may be reasonable to say that the priests who produced the text as we have it avoided current vernacular and preserved speech patterns and vocabulary from an earlier, revered time.79 In connection with traditionalism, ritualized actions often have a political dimension. Many public ceremonies consist of actions and words that have been shaped in order to appear “traditional” and authoritative.80 The people who orchestrated these innovations did not attempt to conceal their created origins. They are certainly cast, however, as having authentic connection with the glorified past. The political dimension of Leviticus is clear, both in the rhetorical function of the texts in the Israelite community and in the narrative world of the text itself. In the narrative the people gather (are “called” together) by the command of God, receive instruction, and witness examples of proper ritual action. In its prescriptive dimension, the text also demands that readers behave in certain ways, and thus it presents a corporate vision of ritual life. As with so many things in the ritual legislation, literary and narrative features mirror the claims being made on the reading community. 78. Bell, Ritual Theory, 145. 79. An alternative explanation, of course, is that the text incorporates actual, older literary traditions. Milgrom and Weinfeld have based much of their argument about the antiquity of P on this view. Whether these texts are archaic, or newer texts that use outdated terminology, the point about their traditionalism stands; their authority rests in adherence to an ancient tradition, real or perceived. 80. Bell, Ritual Theory, 149.

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Bell’s next two characteristics of ritual are related: invariance and rule-governance. In both of these, ritualized activity must follow a prescribed set of rules in a strict way. In order to be a “ritual,” an activity must be performed in the same way every time. Whereas traditionalism roots the ritual activity in the mythic past, invariance releases the action from the realm of history. The normal passing of time has no impact on the ritual; it has a timeless quality that is an anchor in shifting circumstances.81 The invariable nature of the ritualized activity must be more than simple custom or routine procedures; there must be total precision and control over the physical actions. In the case of Leviticus, sacrificial rituals are described in great detail, over and over again. The burnt offering is described in ch. 1 three times, once for each type of animal to be sacrificed: bull, sheep/goat, or bird. There are explicit instructions for dashing the blood of the animal on the altar, washing the entrails and arranging the parts on the altar. These instructions are repeated almost verbatim in vv. 5–9 and 11–13. As the description of the burnt offering moves to a new animal in vv. 11–13, it is necessary that the text repeat many of the same procedures rather than simply saying “do this like you would do the other one.” Leviticus 3 moves to a discussion of the offering of well-being, a sacrifice that is not totally consumed in fire (like the burnt offering) but is cooked and shared as a communal meal. Even with the offering of well-being, however, the animal still needs to be prepared in a certain way, and there are close parallels to how the burnt offering is prepared in ch. 1. There is more detail here because the text must be more precise about what is to be burned, but the description of dashing blood and arranging entrails to be burned is very similar to that in ch. 1. The offering of well-being can be a bovine, a sheep, or a goat, so ch. 3 must repeat three times almost verbatim the instructions for preparing the offering. It is obvious that sacrificial ritual involves invariable attention to certain rules. The deeper point is that the text itself mirrors this invariance and rule-governance. Just as there are certain ways that these practices must be prepared and offered, so there are certain ways that these practices must be described. The vocabulary, order of items discussed, and even syntax follow closely set guidelines. After becoming acquainted with the general pattern that these ritual descriptions follow, it is quite possible to predict what will be written next. It is remarkable how the priests have ritualized the texts themselves, to the extent that writing and reading could properly be termed ritualized activities.

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81. Ibid., 150.


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The next aspect of ritualized activity in Bell’s rubric is the use of sacral symbolism. By setting something apart so completely, the process of ritualization “effectively creates the sacred by explicitly differentiating such a realm from the profane one.”82 The process of creating scripture itself meets this requirement. Leviticus is a natural example because the text presents the actual words of God delivered to Moses and then mediated in text or speech to the people. This sets the text off from the common, or “profane,” realm of literature almost completely. In some ways, the formal, traditionalized, and invariant nature of the text heightens this “sacral” quality by constantly reminding the reader of the specialness of this text; the unique form symbolizes (points toward and makes present) the unique subject matter. Sacral symbolism has primarily to do with the experience of sacrality, and Leviticus consciously strives to draw the reader into this ritual world separate from the messy ambiguities of everyday life. Finally, the last characteristic is the most difficult to apply due to the nature of this study. Bell highlights the performative dimension of ritualized activities, saying that these are highly symbolic actions that are displayed in public.83 The actions are framed in a way that calls attention to their special significance. In terms of this literary discussion, the text itself does call attention to itself as a special record of divine communication and as a description of Israel’s founding moments. This aspect of ritualization is difficult to confine to the textual reality itself, however. This is a point where one would need to consider how the writing and reading process might have functioned in a particular historical context. James Watts’s study of the rhetorical use of the Pentateuch, discussed in Chapter 1, argues that the text is structured to achieve certain rhetorical goals when read aloud in public. Watts speaks of the “rhetorical setting” of the literature rather than any particular historical setting.84 It is probably true, especially in light of Watts’s detailed study, that the text of Leviticus is crafted to address certain intentions for public performance. Watts makes a good case that one goal of this performance was rhetorical, to convince people to follow the law. The ritualizing tendencies apparent in the literature serve this rhetorical purpose well, as they draw the reader deeply into the ritual world. 82. Ibid., 157. 83. Ibid., 160. 84. Watts, Reading Law, 45. He says, “The combination of story and list can serve as evidence neither of literary dependence nor of a document’s date of composition. Instead, it indicates the rhetorical setting of the literature and the persuasive goals motivating its composition.”

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Bell concludes her discussion with an excellent summary that easily could have come from a discussion of Leviticus: Ritual repetition and redundancy, formal language and gesture, and direct and indirect references to an idealized tradition all effectively posit the existence of powerful forces understood as rooted in the past. These forces are invoked in ways that contextualize and subordinate the current moment, thereby ordering the relations of past and present and establishing a sense of continuity, security, and direction.85

In Leviticus, not merely the ritual subject matter, but the literary form of the book itself operates in this ritualized manner. A careful analysis of the literature reveals repetition, redundancy, formal language, idealized traditions, and a sense of continuity and direction. As indicated above in the discussion of “misdirection,” this web of ritual prescriptions is not “innocent.” The ritualizing tendencies function within an overarching social and political strategy. In her earlier work, Ritual Theory, Ritual Practice, Bell demonstrates nicely how ritualization helps to explain the subtle, hidden, and ambiguous power relations inherent to all social (and, thus, cultic) activity. d. Ritual and Power Implicit in literary analysis is the awareness that readers bring expectations, desires, and concerns to the reading process. The ritualizing aspects of Leviticus engage and channel these readerly concerns, providing readers with a path to negotiate their way through the text. In other words, these ritualizing tendencies are a crucial part of Leviticus’s repertoire, of the context in which the text and reader engage each other. One of the fundamental aspects of this ritual negotiation has to do with power, that is, the powerful bonds that undergird social and political life. In Leviticus, there are issues of power relationships with regard to God and Moses, Moses and Aaron, Aaron and the priests, the priests and the people, and among different segments of the people. Ritual theorists have long attended to the role of ritual in binding a community together, in resolving conflict and crisis, and in creating a context in which members of society feel secure and valued. This same dynamic is at work in the text of Leviticus, as the ritual and narrative sections of the book allow the reader to find a secure place within this construct. Because of the ambiguity in this generic interaction, readers find space to negotiate meanings for themselves, addressing their desires and concerns.

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85. Bell, Ritual Theory, 160.


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In order to explain this point further, we will turn now to another aspect of Bell’s ritual theory, her attention to the relationship between ritualizing and the negotiation of power in ritual. This section will conclude with a few preliminary remarks of application to Leviticus, but the full implications this theory will be explored in Chapter 3. In Ritual Theory, Ritual Practice, Bell develops a nuanced view of the way that ritual participates in the complex web of human power relationships. Many theorists have argued that ritual serves as an instrument of social control, developing from Durkheim’s seminal insight into the role of religious ritual in reflecting the power that the community has over individuals. Bell parses this idea of ritual as social control into four theses: “the social solidarity thesis, the channeling of conflict thesis, the repression thesis and the definition of reality thesis.” 86 The problem is that ritual varies so dramatically from setting to setting, and so any theory arguing that ritual functions to promote consensus, to reduce social conflict, or to control through subtle repression must consider how specific rituals function in specific societies, and to account for why particular kinds of societies might be open to particular control strategies. 87 Bell argues that the notion of ritual as social control is not subtle or flexible enough to address the deeper level of questions necessary to understand the relationship between ritual and power. In her last two chapters, she argues that “ritual does not control; rather, it constitutes a particular dynamic of social empowerment.”88 By bringing into the discussion of ritual the issues of belief, ideology, and legitimation, she attempts to “reconceive ritualization” to elucidate its role in constructing the environment in which ritual participants engage in power-laden relationships. In contrast to a simplistic view of ritual as “social control,” Bell argues that the process of ritualization is a “‘mastering’ of relationships of power relations within an arena that affords a negotiated appropriation of the dominant values embedded in the symbolic schemes.” 89 Put another way, ritualization creates a web of relationships through which all participants engage the power dynamics inherent in those relationships. The “schemes” that are engaged in the ritualization process (the strategies particular to that instance of ritualization) create a two-way avenue for the communication of values and expectations and the negotiated acceptance and resistance of those receiving this communication.

86. 87. 88. 89.

Ibid., 171. Ibid., 176. Ibid., 181. Ibid., 182.

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Bell is sensitive to the struggle and tension that is an intrinsic part of this process; rather than seeing a “neat” internalizing of the dominant notions of reality, she argues that participants engage the process with an amount of freedom and self-awareness.90 The notion of “ambiguity” thus becomes especially important, and breaks down the classic distinction between belief systems that demand rigid acceptance and those that tolerate dissonance. Bell says “symbols and symbolic actions not only fail to communicate clear and shared understandings, but the obvious ambiguity or overdetermination of much religious symbolism may even be integral to its efficacy.”91 The matter of “shared understandings” and religious symbolism raises the issue of ideology, which Bell attempts to free from the simple notion of unarticulated beliefs. She insists that ideology has little to do with personal convictions; those who are the receivers of ideology are not expected to internalize fully the beliefs and convictions, but only to consent to them.92 If ideology has to do merely with consent to particular notions in the context of ritual practice, there is always the possibility for actants to agree or disagree internally with those notions. Integral to this process is “complicity, struggle, [and] negotiation,” which casts ideology as a “partial and oppositional process actively constructed by all involved.”93 Bell says that an “ideology is always in dialogue with, and thus shaped and constrained by, the voices it is suppressing, manipulating, echoing.”94 This subtle view of ideology and the manner in which shared notions and beliefs infuse ritualized activities leads to a new understanding of how ritual participates in power relationships. Violence and overt repression are not the exercise of power relations, but rather the complete deconstruction of power relations in favor of bodily manipulation. As long as there is a power relationship, ideology is a key strategy by which the dominant societal notions and forms are presented as right and natural.95 In this ritualized setting, however, ideology always implies its opposite and the exercise of power presupposes resistance to power. Thus, rather than seeing ideology as brainwashing or mindless adherence to hidden principles, Bell argues that ritual constructs a matrix through which ideology is transmitted and received, complete with the tension, ambiguity, and resistance expected from free agents. Rather

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90. 91. 92. 93. 94. 95.

Ibid. Ibid., 184. Ibid., 190. Ibid., 191. Ibid. Ibid., 192.


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than being a tool of power, politics, or social control, “ritual practices are themselves the very production and negotiation of power relations.” 96 Using the “analytics” of power developed by Foucault, Bell proposes that freedom is a necessary ingredient in ritualized power constructions. Power expressed in ritualization is a power relationship, and a relationship can only exist when the dominant force has not obliterated the individuality of the other or forced the other into becoming a complete adversary.97 If this is true, then ritualization must include specific strategies designed to administer and influence this process. Bell outlines several dimensions of the way that power operates internally within ritualization. Each of these has an interesting application to Israelite rituals as well as to the ritualized text of Leviticus. First, she says that power “exists insofar as it is constituted with and through the lived body, which is the body of society and the social body.”98 The importance of “body” here is that ritual participants do not see themselves as acting out an idea or a particular notion; rather, the actions seem to be “socially instinctive” responses within the ritualized environment. Intrinsic to this “instinctive” action is a construction of the “way things are”; and the ritualized environment often appeals to a power outside the environment (i.e. a god) to provide legitimation and to root the structured environment in a vision of the cosmos, the entire created order. In Leviticus, the ritual instructions come from the mouth of God, via Moses, and one implication of this divine speaking is that the ritual world appears to mirror closely God’s created order. This has been explored in depth in Gorman’s book, discussed above, which shows how the ritual world created by the text of Leviticus is a mirroring and extension of God’s created order, while the rituals serve to extend, support, and repair that cosmic order. In this environment, the ritual actions relating to separating clean and unclean, holy and profane, appear to be natural and reasonable. The body of the society feels that it is appropriate to confine menstruating women and lepers from the core community; and the social body (the individual body as an extension of the social identity) follows the cleansing rituals with purpose and ease. There is nothing alien or disturbing about such distinctions or such rituals; they are as normal as life itself. Second, Bell argues that those who appear to be controlled in these power relationships are actually empowered within the ritual dynamics. 99 96. 97. 98. 99.

Ibid., 196. Ibid., 201. Ibid., 204. Ibid., 207.

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Because there is always negotiation in this process, the individual participant is free to construct their own version of the dominant ideology and appropriate the ideas and notions inherent in it in a personally satisfying manner. Bell says, “A participant, as a ritualized agent and social body, naturally brings to such activities a self-constituting history that is a patchwork of compliance, resistance, misunderstanding, and a redemptive personal appropriation of the hegemonic order.”100 Here she brings together several themes from the earlier section, most notably the idea of misrecognition. This process can easily be seen in a modern example, the role of women in conservative Christian churches. The subordination of the feminine to the masculine in Christian theology and practice has led to particular ways in which women are dominated in these churches: they cannot hold certain offices, cannot lead in worship, and cannot teach classes with male students, and so on. In the ritualized environment of the local church, various schemes may be implemented to facilitate the implementation of this ideology, but one of the most powerful is the ritualized moments of female exaltation (such as Mother’s Day, meal preparation, and public performance of children’s musicals). The women here have negotiated ritually in creative ways to achieve a level of public leadership and prominence not in line with the dominant ideology. This is accomplished first by manipulating the channels of female leadership that have some level of acceptance (mothering, cooking, teaching children, etc.), but in the process the women are empowered to have a dynamic impact on the community. This is especially clear in struggling churches where the majority of the congregation is women and children. Although men may hold the titular authority, often the environment is ritualized in such a way that women exercise more power than the overt ideology seems to allow. Turning to the text of Leviticus, one sees the same kind of negotiated appropriation leading to empowerment can be seen in the treatment of people with skin diseases. Although the rituals exclude, manipulate, and alienate these individuals, they provide a structured path by which they might be included back into the community. Even for chronic sufferers, however, the fact that they are defined as “outside” and “other” ensures that they are still part of the larger community dynamic, which gives them a certain right to demand kind treatment and aid in their distress. Although many of the sufferers might object to their treatment, especially those with relatively minor afflictions, the ritualized environment gives them a path by which to engage and transform the cosmic order. Accepting the dominant ideology, and resisting in negotiated ways, has 1

100.

Ibid., 208.


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definite advantages for the individual, while outright rejection of the communal norms can only lead to more dislocation. 101 Third, ritualized power dynamics have advantages for those who are in power as well, most notably the institutionalization of power to the office rather than to the individual, the hierarchization of ritual practices, and the traditionalizing of ritual knowledge.102 By renewing the tradition over and over again, in the person of particular exalted individuals who hold office, ritualization ensures the survival of the office itself and thereby frees the individual to perform the appropriate actions. Thus, ritualization empowers the individual by endowing them with powers beyond their personal capacity, and at the same time ritualization limits their power according to what is acceptable or not acceptable in that office. Ritualization binds the leaders and the participants together, and each has certain freedoms and certain responsibilities. Noting this dynamic relationship, Bell says that the “traditionalism, authority, and dramaturgy of ritual power can be as fragile as they can be impressive and enduring.”103 In order for it to work, the participants must experience the ritualized environment as adhering closely to traditional precedent and as resonating with their lived experience. This is a vital point for understanding the ritual world of Leviticus because the priests and the people are tightly bound together in this ritual system. Unlike some societies, the people are not mere spectators who watch the priests perform these rituals. Rather, they are intimately involved in almost every detail: the worshipper presents the animal and is very active in the slaughtering process; ordinary people with natural impurities pose a danger to the community and so can actually hold the fate of the whole society in their hands; and all people are enjoined to be “holy.” There are specific requirements for people residing at different gradations of holiness, but the whole community is bound together, for good or for ill. Also, the integration of ritual description/prescription with narrative elements fulfills the need for these rituals to address “lived experience.” Sometimes rituals fail, ritual experts make mistakes, and ritual legislation does not fully prevent all possible breakdowns in the system. The narratives in Leviticus testify to these cracks, fissures, and ambiguities in the ritual environment, thus making the whole book closer to lived reality; there is an inherent idealism in the narrativized ritual in Leviticus, but also a deep suspicion that God’s holiness cannot be contained by any human system, no matter how specific. 101. 102. 103.

Ibid., 211. Ibid., 212–13. Ibid., 213.

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Leviticus could well be described as overdetermined yet ambiguous, and these two elements are both schemes within its ritualization. The priest has a powerful role, yet he is counter-balanced by the specter of ritual failure and the necessary participation and responsibility of the community. The central problem of the book is the dilemma posed by having a holy deity dangerously in the midst of the camp. The people have an awareness of the rules required to placate this deity’s sense of what can be endured and what cannot. The text presents this information in the form of a systematized ritual environment; the rituals are systematized and the text is systematized. However, in the narrative sections the rituals are exposed to be fallible, ambiguous, and limited. In this tenuous environment, both negotiated compliance and resistance are absolutely essential, and are the means by which ritual becomes powerful and effective. On a ritual level, the people are given opportunities to become involved in the process, and implied in this is their own freedom to consent or resist, to express frustration, doubt, and insecurity in negotiated ways, which ensures that the system itself will survive by allowing people neither to lose themselves in domination nor to reject the whole system outright. The reader can see this in the way that the rituals develop: there is room for personal participation and choice, individual maneuvering and manipulation of the system, and a high premium on personal responsibility. This is also seen in the way that the text itself is structured. A patterned manner of telling brings order to chaotic possibilities. The text recognizes, however, that chaos persists, and the narrative framework allows for enough flexibility to withstand potentially breaking pressures. The text itself becomes ritualized, mirroring the ritualized environment of its content. 3. Conclusion Mary Douglas argues that the literary structure of Leviticus mirrors the physical design of the wilderness tabernacle, so Leviticus is a genre, if a very unique or idiosyncratic one.104 The analysis in these first two chapters agrees in spirit with Douglas, but here genre is defined not so strictly. The genre of “narrativized ritual” requires a literary structure that mirrors the ritualized nature of its content. It is more than a mere description of ritual in the process of telling a story, but it is also different from the independent ritual guides normally found in the cognate literature. A “narrativized ritual” not only encapsulates essential moments in

1

104.

Douglas, Leviticus as Literature, 197.


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the mythic past, but also embodies the ritual dimension of the writing/ reading process. Modes of expression found in these texts create order out of chaos, maintain rigid boundaries, and find ways to transgress boundaries when necessary, just as the rituals themselves do.


Part II

RITUAL AND NARRATIVE IN LEVITICUS


Chapter 3

NARRATING RITUAL: LEVITICUS 1–7 AND 11–15

In the second part of this study we will consider the text of Leviticus in light of the theoretical principles laid out in the first part. The thesis is that the process of ritualization explains not only the development of Israel’s ritual system but also the presentation of that system in narrative form. The ritual prescriptions are placed in the mouth of Yahweh and of Moses, and are delivered at a specific moment in the mythic past. This transformation of ritual description into prescriptive formulation, and finally into a transformed fictive description, has a dramatic impact on the nature of these ritual elements.1 This chapter will look at the prescriptive ritual passages in Lev 1–7 and 11–15, showing the various layers of ritualization. The next chapter will discuss the interaction between ritual and narrative in Lev 8–10, 16, and 24:10–23. The overall thesis is that whereas the legal texts create a coherent system of expected behaviors, the narrative sections expose weaknesses in that system, leading to moments of further law-giving that address the newly discovered ambiguities. These narrative sections, moreover, reveal the social dynamics of participation, negotiation, and power implicit in the previous ritual texts. Chapter 5 will expand these insights to address the “holiness” material in the second half of Leviticus. Leviticus 17–27 relativizes the rigid ritual system created by chs. 1–16, expanding the concept of holiness to cover the entire congregation. This alters the power dynamics in significant ways, while still preserving the ritualized interactions among various cultic participants. This material also makes use of the alternation between ritual and narrative, with the story of the blasphemer placed in the midst of a diverse legal collection. Once again, the narrative raises disturbing questions about the ritual 1. This reconstruction assumes the correctness of Levine’s theory about the various early stages of the material (see Levine, “The Descriptive Tabernacle Texts,” 307–18). It is not necessary, in any case, to know exactly how these texts came into this final form. Ritualization is evident in the text itself, without reference to the historical processes that may have influenced it.

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system, and aspects of ritualization evident in the story help to preserve the fragile ritual order for characters as well as readers. We will consider these texts from the perspective outlined in the previous discussion: how the literary text is organized and presented in a ritualized fashion, and for what theological purposes. The central claim is that the ritualization process has impacted the literary and rhetorical nature of the book, which can be discerned in characterization, narrative framing, and the subtle use of ambiguity. On the surface the text is smooth and systematic; this systematization points, however, to deep fears and uncertainties that are partly assuaged through the flexibility built into the system. 1. Ritual in Narrative Chapter 2 presented the idea that the genre of Leviticus should be described as narrativized ritual. These ritual texts have been thoroughly integrated into the narrative framework of the Pentateuch. The various attempts to discover a “ritual genre” in recent decades have followed a source-critical path, seeking to isolate within the texts the prototypical elements of ritual instruction. This process necessarily involves chipping away at the text until the hidden nuggets of historical reality come into view. Although such critical investigation has been suggestive, and has helped explain the commonalities and differences among various ritual texts, it cannot account for the present text of Leviticus in a completely satisfying manner. Whatever their origins, the various bits of ritual instruction in Leviticus are now thoroughly integrated within the narrative context of the Pentateuch. Although source- and form-critical studies help isolate the generic elements in Leviticus, the current narrative framework provides a fruitful and often neglected context of interpretation.2 The words that make up the ritual instruction are the words of Moses; the listeners to these words are the people of Israel and their priests; and the historical context of these words is the wilderness camp at the base of Mt Sinai. Not only is the performance of early rituals (such as the inauguration of the cult in Lev 8–9) narrated, but so also are the words of institution that lead up to and follow the performance. Thus, the ritual found in Leviticus is narrativized: ritual actions are narrated and ritual instructions are narrated as moments of authoritative teaching from Yahweh. The words of instruction given to Moses, Aaron, his sons, and the people shine through this narrative framework into the world of the reader. That is, despite the thorough narrativizing of these 2. This point has been made by James Watts, in his essay “The Rhetoric of Ritual Instruction in Leviticus 1–7.” 1

3. Narrating Ritual: Leviticus 1–7 and 11–15

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ritual instructions, the text still bears an unmistakable “prescriptive” quality. In fact, most study of these passages focuses on the question of their prescriptiveness: what exactly they prescribe and to what extent they were actually implemented. Therefore, ritual analysis of this material must walk a delicate balance between attending to the mythic world of the narrative and to the rhetorical and ethical claims being placed on the readers via that fictional presentation. The narrative assumes that readers are interested in the outcome of the story, and that they acknowledge the necessity of learning these rules for themselves. In this way, the reader is drawn into the rhetorical web constructed by the narrative. This interpretive engagement follows the same contours of ritualization experienced by the characters in the story. We see and feel ourselves as participants within the community, standing alongside the priests as we watch every stroke of the knife, measuring our level of comprehension as the voice of God filters into our hearing. The first seven chapters of Leviticus stand as a monument to Israel’s ritual theorists. The sacrifices and offerings described there constitute the center of the Jerusalem cult, and therefore are the very heart of the Pentateuch. All preparations at Sinai lead to this moment in which Moses and Aaron receive from Yahweh’s own voice the proper procedures for using the tabernacle that has been constructed. These sacrificial instructions animate the narrative sweep leading to the climax of the story, the inauguration of the cult in Lev 8–9, and they are central and foundational to the ritual world of the Pentateuch. Similarly, Lev 11–15 provides the necessary legislation for the people in their task of maintaining ritual purity. Considering matters such as acceptable and unacceptable foods, as well as impurity caused by bodily fluids and diseases, these chapters construct a ritual system for everyday Israelite life. Matters of impurity are not shameful or “sinful,” but rather are natural, normal parts of everyday life. Nevertheless, these ordinary matters still have great ritual significance because they potentially bear the seeds of communal disaster. Proper observance of these purity regulations is required for the survival of the people as the congregation of Yahweh. Negligence in these matters would render the guilty party unfit for worship and for membership in the community; wholesale rejection of these norms could lead to the total breakdown of the social network and the total destruction of the congregation. Leviticus 11–15, then, form a necessary counterpart to the ritual laws of chs. 1–7. They address situations that create the necessity for those ritual sacrifices, and go further to construct a picture of the ideal community preserved by ritual. Our analysis of the ritual legislation in the first half of Leviticus will follow in two sections. The first addresses the characterization of leaders

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and participants in the text, particularly with regard to what things people say, do, and feel. The second considers the ritual function of ambiguity and negotiated acceptance in light of the characterization of these leaders and participants. Several key questions probe the world of ritual actions and participants in Leviticus. What do people say, hear, and see? What do they do and have? What do they believe, feel, or desire? By paying attention to the interactions between leaders and participants, and to what they say and do in that interaction, it becomes clear that the text narrates a web of ritual expectations, fears, needs, and hopes. The ritual instructions have the quality of clear, precise, and exhaustive procedural directions. Throughout, however, there are points of ambiguous, imprecise, and elliptical material. As readers work their way through these chapters, they seek to learn the details of this ritual system, but find themselves encountering scenes in which it is not clear what the participant or leader is supposed to do. Participants and leaders have decisions and responsibilities for which they may not be prepared. Interpreters respond to these points of ambiguity in several ways. One common path, exemplified by the ancient Rabbis and by modern Jewish readers such as Jacob Milgrom, is to begin by assuming that this material reflects a complete system. By means of source-critical analysis, Milgrom and others account for blatant contradictions as remnants of competing systems. However, their first interpretive assumption is that everything should make sense, that the authors and participants were cognizant of the ritual meanings binding actions together, and that human logic can uncover these often obscure connections. Every page of Milgrom’s masterful three-volume commentary develops the procedural and ideological connective tissue that helps the text make sense and the ritual system hang together. Whenever there is a gap in the information provided, Milgrom uses logical reasoning to extrapolate or interpolate the missing elements. Whenever he is unable to account for some odd detail or contradiction he admits as much honestly, saying that the solution (currently) escapes logical or philological reasoning.3 It remains, however, to wonder why the authors and editors of the text did not fill in gaps and smooth these inconsistencies themselves. Some of this can be explained by saying that the editors did not feel free to change their source texts, so certain contradictions have been preserved in the text. This may account for some of the most striking differences in the 3. For example, with regard to the phrase “it is a cereal offering” in Lev 2:6, Milgrom says, “This formula is used for the natural grain offering (v 15) but not for the baked and pan-fried varieties; the reason is obscure” (I:185). 1


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text, such as the conflicting ideas about holiness in the Priestly and Holiness School material. Perhaps some of the little inconsistencies also are due to this situation. For example, where are the ordination offerings that are mentioned in the summary statement in Lev 7:37? The editors may have used a text that originally included these instructions but for some reason either decided not to include them or encountered the text after they had been lost (yet with an unchanged summary statement). One might also assume that these last editors did in fact feel free to change the text, and so they purposefully left out the rules for the ordination offering alluded to in 7:37 (yet did not alter the summary statement). That does not solve anything, of course, since it would not be clear why they would have changed the text to introduce problems and not changed it to solve a few of them. This last example illustrates the dilemma that the reader faces in the present text of Leviticus. As we imagine the narrative scene taking place, the action is decidedly broken and puzzling in places. The text goes to great lengths to impress upon the characters (and readers) the importance of this material, indeed the life and death consequences they face. Yet, at key moments the readers (and surely the characters) are left confused and perhaps a bit worried. Defusing the tension in Leviticus—by breaking it into smaller fragments or smoothing over difficulties with soaring logical treatises—passes over the narrative and ritual peculiarities of the final form of the text. In light of the ritual theory discussed in the previous chapter, these points of ambiguity and openness can be understood as areas of flexibility where worshippers and priests have a modicum of personal responsibility and freedom. In choosing what kind of offering to bring, when to offer certain sacrifices, or how exactly to interact with others, ritual participants and leaders become full partners in the ritual process. The text presents the illusion that one must simply follow directions, while the reality is that things are much more complicated. On the one hand, this is problematic, since freedom of the individual introduces very dangerous variables into high-stakes ritual procedures. Thus, the rhetorical strategy of the text is to encourage certainty and confidence, and to mask any ambiguity or obscurity that persists. This strategy works to ensure that people do not refuse to participate out of trepidation, in other words, to prevent the whole system from collapsing under the weight of its own importance. One part of the ritualization process is to create a text that conforms to rules of formality and traditionalism, as discussed in the last chapter. On the other hand, we recognize that individual appropriation of ritual procedures and meanings is essential to the effectiveness of the ritual system in binding the community

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together. Despite the appearance of a single, well-defined ritual path, the participants actually choose their own paths within larger ritual boundaries. This process, which Bell calls “negotiated acceptance,” is operative for priests and worshippers as well as for readers. As we make our way through the text, we are guided by the narrative framework toward certain understandings and conclusions. At key junctures, however, the reading process requires leaps of faith and imagination, patience with unresolved tensions, and most of all, a willingness to work things out for oneself.4 2. Characterization In order to demonstrate the ritualization strategies leading to “negotiated acceptance” in the text of Leviticus, we must first examine what kinds of things are being said and done. This analysis will show that leaders (Moses, Aaron, and his sons) as well as participants (individual offerers and the gathered congregation of Israel) have well-defined roles and areas of personal responsibility. They are not merely passive enacters of a set ritual script. Rather, the ritual processes operative in the story are dynamic and fluid. A careful reading of the developing ritualized narrative will show that what people say, do, and believe is often ambiguous and underdetermined. Each character and reader must negotiate this dangerously contoured landscape. 1. Speaking, Hearing, Observing The characteristic narrative action in Leviticus is that of speaking, and the beginning of the book emphasizes this by using some form of “speaking” verb five times in the first two verses: And he called ()rq) to Moses, and the Lord spoke (rbd) to him from the Tent of Meeting saying (rm)), “Speak (rbd) to the Israelites, and say (rm)) to them, ‘Any one of you who brings an offering to the Lord, from the herd or from the flock he shall present his offering.’” (Lev 1:1–2)

These verbs of speaking are complemented by verbs of gathering and approaching: the Tent of “Meeting” (that is, of “appointments,” d(y), and the bringing near (brqh) of offerings (Nbrq). From the beginning, the reader is aware that the book of Leviticus will be about connections, both spoken and acted, between God and people, between the divine and human worlds. 4. In this way, the impressive inferences and interpretations in Milgrom’s commentary demonstrate the success of the text’s ritualization strategies. 1


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What is soon clear, however, is that little in the cultic instructions calls for the priests or the people to say anything. Unlike most ritual liturgies, there are no formalized quotations that direct the language used in the service. Is the sacrificial cult in Leviticus, to use Israel Knohl’s phrase, a “sanctuary of silence” in which no words are spoken? The only hint of speech is in a requirement for the purification offering found in Lev 5:5: various offenses that create the need for the t)+x (perjury, touching something unclean, or uttering a rash oath), must be confessed. The verse says that when the offender realizes their guilt in doing one of these things (hl)m tx)l M#)w), they should confess (hdwth) what they have done. Then, they are to bring a female sheep or goat as a t)+x. The question is whether this oral confession of sin is part of the ritual or something that takes place before the ritual occurs. If confession is part of the ritual, it should indicate specifically that the offerers present the animal and then confess their sins. Confession in this verse is tied to the only instance in Leviticus of a purification offering in response to deliberate (as opposed to inadvertent) transgression.5 Thus, it is not coincidental that confession appears here. In fact, Milgrom argues that the confession is absolutely essential since the purification offering is normally only effective for inadvertent transgressions. This ritual pleabargaining causes the intentional sin to be reduced to an inadvertence. 6 Finally, if the confession were part of the ritual itself, it would seem necessary to include the specific performance of it in the fuller context of the purification ritual. If confession were required for all of the purification rites, this would need to be specified in the instructions in Lev 4:27–35. The time when such a declaration would best fit is just before or during the hand-leaning ritual whereby the worshipper claims ownership of the offering. If these four cases are so different that they require a separate step of confession, then it seems that the rite should have been adjusted here to make room for the new element. Even if the confession occurs before (and separate from) the actual offering of the animal, it still carries important ritual meaning. As the footnote to Lev 5:5 in the Oxford Study Bible asserts, “[confession] of sin must precede the rite, for sacrifice is not a magical means of atonement.”7 5. In addition to the confession required as part of the Day of Atonement ritual in 16:21. 6. Milgrom, I:373. 7. Bruce Metzger and Roland Murphy, eds., The New Oxford Annotated Bible with the Apocrypha (New Revised Standard Version; New York: Oxford University Press, 1991), 130 (OT). The author of the notes for Genesis through Deuteronomy is Bernhard Anderson.

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This is a remarkable statement considering that this verse is the only reference in the book to confession. Does this mean that the other rituals, not involving spoken words of confession, are magical? More likely the author of this note meant to imply that the worshipper must have a degree of sorrow and repentance for the action and that the ritual itself is not effective in a mechanical way. Although texts that mention personal confession or remorse are somewhat elliptical, it is clear that the worshippers being cleansed of their impurities should feel a burden of guilt and responsibility for their impurity.8 In the purity legislation of Lev 11–15, there is one important moment of oral ritual, although the text of this ritual speech is not reported. After the impure person has fulfilled the liminal period, he or she must come to the priest for examination. In the case of skin disease, the priest examines the nature of the sores and either pronounces the person “unclean” ()m+) or “clean” (rwh+). The priest in the narrative does not actually say the words, but the text of these pronouncements may be contained in the summary statements throughout: “He is unclean” ()wh )m+) and “He is clean” ()wh rwh+).9 As above, the chief question is: When does this ritual pronouncement occur in relation to the rest of the service? Is this properly part of the ritual, and, if so, does it matter what exact phrase is used to pronounce the priest’s judgment? If it does matter, which seems likely given everything we know about ritual and about Leviticus in particular, then why does the text not make it clear exactly what words should be spoken? Another illustration of hidden dialogue in these ritual texts is in the two-bird rite for the skin-diseased person in Lev 14:1–9. If the priest finds the person formerly unclean to be healed, then he “commands” (hwc) that certain ritual actions be performed (v. 4). He calls for two live birds to be brought along with cedar wood, yarn, and hyssop, and then commands that one of the birds be slaughtered in a clay vessel over fresh water (v. 5). After these verbal commands, the priest proceeds to perform the remaining ritual actions himself. His final two acts (v. 7) are to pronounce the person “clean” and then to release the live bird into the field. 8. An important question, of course, is where this “guilt” comes from. In the case of unknown transgressions, the offender comes to know his offense because he “feels guilty,” at least in Milgrom’s construal of the relevant passages (cf. Lev 5:17). Should the “guilt” of the person be considered a “state,” such as a guilty verdict in a court of law? Milgrom argues rather that the guilt is “the self-punishment of conscience, the torment of guilt” (I:345). In the case of unintended or unconscious sins, this feeling of guilt presumably assails the person and leads them to investigate their possible wrong-doings. 9. The priest makes one of these two pronouncements 17 times in Lev 13. 1


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The priest is rather like a doctor making house calls, who must diagnose and treat the situation on the spot and often without much preparation time. Thus, after the initial analysis of the situation, the priest must call for the proper ritual items to be brought and prepared before he can proceed. A similar situation arises later in Lev 14 regarding a house with a fungus, a kind of architectural scale disease (Lev 14:34–57). The person who has a house with symptoms of scale disease comes to the priest and makes a confession: “It seems to me there is something like a scale disease in the house” (14:35). The priest then follows the pattern seen above, first commanding and then performing ritual actions. He commands for the house to be emptied and then inspects it for the impurity (v. 38). The house is closed up for a week and examined again for spreading or abatement of the condition (v. 39). These rites take place outside the camp and in the residential zone, due to the circumstances, but there must have been a verbal exchange between the priest, the sufferer, and unspecified ritual assistants. The same issue comes up several times in the sacrificial laws, where it is sometimes unclear who is doing certain actions. If the priest “has” certain things done, does this imply a verbal command on his part? It may be that at the main altar, as well as “in the field,” it is necessary for the priest to issue instructions to those serving around him, though no guidance about this is given in the text. A final matter relating to speaking and hearing is the moment of legal instruction itself. Periodically through the ritual instruction the narrator reminds the reader that all of this instruction is delivered orally from Yahweh to Moses, and then to the priests and people before the assembled congregation. This complex gathering of participants is fundamentally impacted by what happens in the sacrificial cult, yet it is unique in the ancient world for ritual instruction to be so public and open. In most ritual traditions, in fact, priests have explicit rules for protecting their professional knowledge from the unqualified public. This is necessary because the threat of ritual failure is so high, and the best way to ensure proper ritual practice is to guard the particulars very carefully. Leviticus takes a different approach to this problem: the ritual regulations for offerers and priests are delivered to everyone together, which creates a situation of interdependence and mutual balancing. The people know what the priests are supposed to be doing at each juncture, especially with regard to their obligations and perquisites. Thus, the legislation is presented as a speech, itself folded into a ritual moment. Yahweh’s relaying of instructions through Moses is a ritual and the language used throughout bears ritual qualities.

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b. Doing, Having, Being Given the fact that all these parties are gathered together, an important issue is how the various cultic roles are managed and distributed among the participants. In other words, who does what, who gives what, and who gets what? The narrative structuring of Lev 1–7 and 11–15 reflects the ritual parsing of responsibility and obligation in the characterization of the various persons as well as through subtle literary and rhetorical strategies. As the reader progresses through these ritual prescriptions, it is evident that the relative roles of Moses, Aaron, the priests, and the people are carefully delineated. However, the instructions are not totally clear or comprehensive, and there are actions being taken by unspecified individuals. In the narrative framing of these rituals the main characters watch much of the ritual action being done, along with the reader. Throughout the story, there is an interplay between specificity and ambiguity that demonstrates the ritualization strategies inherent in the text. In order to develop this point, I will look at the relative actions and responsibilities of each major character in the narrative. (1) Moses and Aaron. A discussion of priestly participation in Leviticus must begin with the dynamics of interaction between God and Moses. As Milgrom has shown, the “meeting” between God and Moses at the “Tent of Meeting” does not imply a face-to-face encounter.10 Unlike the Sinai theophany in which Moses is admitted into God’s presence, he receives the totality of the Levitical instruction from the outer sanctuary. He “hears” the voice of God delivering the instructions; he does not “see” God in any sense.11 Moses must not enter the tent because it is filled with God’s dwbk (Exod 40:35). In other texts, Moses stands inside the tent and hears the voice emanate from the ark (Exod 25:22; 30:6, 36; Num 7:89; 17:19), though he is separated from the ark by the veil. 12 Aaron is actually 10. Milgrom, I:138. 11. The Kohathites are likewise prevented from “seeing” God, as shown by the fact that they must shield their eyes with the ark coverlet as they prepare the Tabernacle for travelling (Num 4:20). Aaron is permitted to enter the Holy of Holies during the Day of Atonement rituals, but he must obscure his vision with a cloud of incense. The holiness of that inner sanctum and of the items it contained, bearing the very holiness of God, must be shielded and protected for the purpose of shielding and protecting God’s people. Even the priests, who have a higher requirement of purity than the general population, may not encroach on the most sacred precincts. 12. For Milgrom (I:134), the difference is that he goes in whenever he is getting a private revelation, not when he and all the people are hearing God’s declarations. 1


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permitted to enter the holy of holies during the Day of Atonement ritual. Milgrom concludes that this is an attempt by the Priestly writer to downplay the possibility of Moses-veneration by emphasizing his mortality (in as much as he cannot do something that Aaron can do).13 The issue, however, is that the shift from Moses to Aaron reflects the subordination of the personal dimension of leadership to the office itself. It is not that Aaron can do this per se, but that this class of priests, symbolized mythically by Aaron, can and will perform this important, dangerous duty. In the ongoing tradition, the high priest is the embodiment of the ideals symbolized by Aaron, and there is no corresponding embodiment of Moses. Aaron’s ritualization is seen in the increasing importance of the high priest, while Moses’s ritualization is through the text that contains his words. The first reference to Aaron in Leviticus is by way of saying what he gets from the cereal offering (Lev 2:3). His name appears several times in Lev 1, but always in the phrase “Aaron’s sons, the priests.” Even in Lev 2:3, he shares textual focus with his sons: “the remainder of the cereal offering shall be for Aaron for his sons, a most sacred portion from Yahweh’s food gifts.” This same refrain appears in Lev 2:10. His only task in the first three chapters, then, is to satisfy his hunger by eating his prebend, or sacred portion (hwhy y#)m My#dq #dq). Leviticus 6 begins with a complex set of instructions for “Aaron and his sons” regarding the daily burnt offerings. The procedure itself does not require Aaron, however, since the one who performs the action is simply Nhkh, “the priest” (Lev 6:3 [Eng. 6:10]). The notion that this mention of Aaron is simply formulaic is confirmed by the fact that in the next paragraph, which provides priestly protocol for the hxnm, the introductory statement mentions only “the sons of Aaron,” not Aaron himself (Lev 6:7 [Eng. 6:14]). It is more important, however, that v. 9 says that “Aaron and his sons” shall eat the remainder of the cereal offering. The overall effect is that Aaron is lumped in with his sons, the more or less generic group of priests. One reference to Aaron in Leviticus is not technically a reference at all, as his name is never used. Chapter 4 discusses the purification offerings specific to the sins of particular socio-political groups within the Israelite community. The first of these is sins accruing to the “anointed priest,” the xy#mh Nhkh (Lev 4:3). Since in Lev 8 the only priest who is actually anointed is Aaron, we can reasonably say that the “anointed priest” is supposed to represent the high priest, in this case Aaron (Lev 8:12). Of course, at this point the reader does not know this fact, so it is 13. Ibid., 138.

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not necessarily obvious who this anointed priest actually is. In any case, the ritual is required when the anointed priest commits a transgression that brings guilt on the people (M(h tm#)l )+xy, Lev 4:3).14 Literarily speaking, this reference does not contribute to the characterization of Aaron since he is not called by name here, which means that Aaron himself is saved from the accusation that he might sin in such a grievous manner that the people would incur guilt. A second issue is more important for our purposes: the prerogatives and responsibilities of the high priest office are separated from Aaron as an individual. By not using Aaron’s name in this passage, the text furthers the elevation of the office over the one who sits in that office. This ritualization strategy ensures that the effectiveness of the ritual system will not hinge on the personal gifts and charisma of the office-holder, thus insulating the office (and thus, the rituals) from wide fluctuations in legitimacy. The issue of Aaron’s person versus his office is taken up again in Lev 6:12–15, in which there is a particular cereal offering for Aaron to do on a daily basis. Verse 12 is careful here to put off this requirement until Aaron is actually anointed, which suggests that this offering is not about Aaron himself but about one important daily responsibility of the high priest. The shifting narrative focus in this short passage is dizzying: Yahweh spoke to Moses, saying, “This is the offering of Aaron and of his sons which they shall offer to Yahweh on the day of his anointing. A tenth of an ephah of choice flour [as a] perpetual grain offering, splitting it into half for the morning and half for the evening. On a griddle with oil you [sing.] shall make it; soaked you [pl.] shall bring it, prepared as a cereal offering of pieces, you [sing.] shall present a pleasing aroma for Yahweh.” And the anointed priest after him from among his sons shall make it. It is a perpetual due for the Lord, to be completely burned in fire.” (Lev 6:12–15)

It is difficult to figure who is doing what in this passage. Aaron is about to be anointed, at which point he will officially become the high priest. From that day onward, Aaron is to prepare and present an expensive cereal offering, half in the morning and half in the evening. The passage contains ritual instruction to Aaron himself, saying that he (“you”) should bring it in such a way. It alternates this second person address with a third person perspective (“the anointed priest…shall make it”), and with an interesting use of the second person plural (“you [pl.] shall bring it”). On one hand, this second person plural might refer to the 14. It is difficult to say what kind of sin by the high priest would bring guilt on the whole people, and the text gives no hints about what it might be. One possibility is that the high priest would miscalculate the proper date for a ritual observance, thus leading the people to fulfill their obligations in spirit but technically in violation. 1


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larger priestly group who is listening to the instruction. As a whole, however, they are not involved in this ritual. Thus, the conclusion must be that this passage is addressed to the larger community of high priests who are to follow in Aaron’s footsteps, each “anointed priest after him from among his sons” (Lev 6:15). This passage illustrates well the subtle narrative dynamics of this whole book; there is a complex web of relationships among the various narrative characters, implied readers, and real readers. (2) The Priests. As seen in the discussion of Aaron above, the priests, collectively known as “the sons of Aaron,” are the most important ritual actors and receivers of Moses’s instruction.15 Aaron himself is absorbed into them, even as his name provides their collective identity. Whereas the “anointed priest” has a higher level of responsibility in some areas, and a few specific ritual duties, the priests in general carry out the majority of ritual actions prescribed in the text. One important fact is that with the exception of narrative moments in Lev 8–10 and 16, none of Aaron’s sons are specifically named in the ritual legislation. They exist as faceless functionaries, while at the same time they are personally responsible for important decisions. The text de-emphasizes the personalities of these individual sons in order to place focus on their official identities, and on their roles within the ritual system. Any specific son of Aaron who happens to perform a ritual action is insignificant except that he embodies the official priestly function. This turns out to be an important distinction in Lev 10, in which the priests as a group must learn from and adjust to mistakes made by particular members of their retinue. The most important action that the priest takes is “to make atonement for” the worshipper who has brought the sacrificial offering. For example, the summary refrain in Lev 4 is this: “and the priest shall make atonement for him on account of his sin, and it shall be forgiven him” (wl xlsnw )+x-r#) wt)+x-l( Nhkh wyl( rpkw, Lev 4:35). The t)+x is joined by the other offerings, each with its own theological provenance. The purification offering, usually rendered in common parlance as the “sin offering,”16 works to purify the sanctuary, a necessary and continuous requirement for God’s enduring presence in their midst. Thus, the responsibility of the priest is to ensure the survival of the relationship between God and the people. 15. A helpful explanation of the phenomenon of priesthood is Richard D. Nelson’s Raising Up a Faithful Priest. See also Joseph Blenkinsopp, Sage, Priest, and Prophet: Religious Leadership in Ancient Israel (Library of Ancient Israel; Louisville, Ky.: Westminster John Knox, 1995). 16. See Milgrom, I:253–61.

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The purification offering, as the central cultic performance in the world of Leviticus, benefits the people as a whole in the sense that they are allowed to continue in their present gracious state. If the offending member of the community does not promptly and correctly offer the offering after committing a transgression of some kind, it is not only that one who will suffer, but everyone. The priest must perform everything correctly, and it has already been shown how correct performance is not necessarily a cut and dry case. As will become clear in Lev 10, the priests bear significant personal risk in this important duty. Their benefit from the purification offering, however, is the same as the whole congregation. This is a significant benefit, of course, but they receive nothing special for their service.17 The specific benefits of serving as priest come through other offerings: the grain offering (hxnm), the well-being offering (Myml#), and the reparation offering (M#)) from which the priests are entitled either most of the offering (in the grain offering, Lev 2:10; 6:9) or the choice selection of meat (the well-being offering, Lev 7:31–34). Thus, the people provide offerings that serve a variety of functions, the most important being the purification of the altar and the sanctuary. The execution of these sacrificial rituals requires functionaries who will be knowledgeable, competent, and always available. In other contexts, the sacrificial specialist was the family patriarch or even the leader of the community. In Leviticus, however, the performance of ritual duties is too important to leave to the personal vagaries of family or politics. By endowing a professional class of priest, the text creates an environment in which the essential ritual matters can be handled reliably and with dispatch. What we see in Leviticus is a subtle transition of ritual responsibility and prerogatives away from individual personalities (such as Moses and Aaron) toward officials with public identities. The separation is not as radical as in the modern world, of course. The priest could never take his tunic off and enter the normal world as seamlessly as today’s professionals. There is definitely a sense, however, that a “son of Aaron” operates in two distinct modes. While serving in a ritual capacity, his purity requirements are much greater and he is entitled to benefit from the offerings he is performing. For illustration, see the legislation about disposal of various offerings in Lev 7. The guilt offering follows the 17. For more on priests and the purification offerings, see Menahem Haran, “Priesthood, Temple, Divine Service: Some Observations on Institutions and Practices of Worship,” HAR 7 (1983): 121–35; N. Kiuchi, The Purification Offering in the Priestly Literature: Its Meaning and Function (JSOTSup 56; Sheffield: JSOT, 1987); and David Wright’s The Disposal of Impurity. 1


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same basic outline as the purification offering, with the exception that the meat is then eaten by all of the priests in a holy place (7:6). The priest who performs the burnt offering, however, is allowed to keep the skin of the animal, a valuable item (7:8). There is also a small distinction in the grain offering, in which cakes made in a pan or griddle are consumed by the officiating priest, while all others are eaten by the priests generally (7:9). With the well-being offering, the breast belongs to all of the priests (“to Aaron and his sons,” 7:31) and the right thigh goes to the officiating priest (7:32). Furthermore, the “thanksgiving offering,” a sub-type of the well-being offering, requires that the offerer bring various cakes and wafers to eat with the meat produced by the sacrifice, from which the officiating priest gets first choice (7:14). It is important to notice that this “perpetual due” (Mlw( tqx) is mandated by God, but is actually a gift “from the children of Israel” (Lev 7:36). The portion is effectively payment for services rendered, but it represents a bit of “hazard pay” as well. The priests agree to spend the time and energy required to keep the elaborate sacrificial system running, and the people make that possible by providing for their upkeep. The priests live in the sacred precincts, have their food provided via offerings, and their other expenses (clothes, etc.) come out of the sanctuary revenue. The “job” of being a priest is not necessarily desirable, however. The work is messy and repetitive, and there is significant ritual “red-tape.” By having a priestly class coming from a particular family, the priesthood is protected from being available to all comers (and is thus more tightly controlled), but it is also assured a pool of willing workers, who are following well-trodden societal and familial paths. The power that naturally acrues to this professional priestly class, however, is balanced by the participation of the people of Israel who are the chief beneficiaries. The sacrifices are necessary, but they depend on the continuing good choices of the Israelite people. The priests do not have power to go through the town and confiscate property like tax collectors. For the offerings to work, there must be a proper emotional feeling in the gift, as will be seen below, and the offerings are necessarily free responses of the people to their feelings of guilt, sorrow, gratitude, and duty. Therefore, even though the priests serve a necessary function that brings them incredible responsibility and prerogatives, they depend on the people’s continued obedience to God’s commands. The involvement of priests in ritual life is inextricably bound with the participation of ordinary Israelites, who are the chief benefactors in a material sense and beneficiaries in a cultic and spiritual one. This means that the text itself becomes essential, perhaps equal to the priests themselves. Its teaching function is freighted with self-importance, since it gives rise to proper

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cultic understanding for ordinary Israelites. This instruction ensures that the people survive and that their relationship with God endures (which is practically the same thing), and along the way it ensures that the priesthood will survive. The people and the priests are bound together in need; their complementary desires and resources work together to make the cultic system function. (3) The Congregation. In considering the participation of ordinary Israelites in the cultic life of Israel, there are two main issues. First is their access to the inner workings of priestly sacrificial practices and theology, and second is their own cultic role within that priestly construct. Each of these two aspects makes sense in light of Bell’s description of the appropriation and negotiation at the heart of ritual practice. As pointed out above, the people are privileged to hear the great majority of the legislation handed down in Leviticus. This is unique in the ancient world, in which cultic specialists had access to ritual instruction, while these texts were kept secret from the general populace. The Israelites, due to their role as observers, serve as a check and balance to the power and prerogatives of the priests. Because the correct performance of priestly duties was necessary for the people’s survival, they naturally want to see that these performances are correct. In order to have any confidence about this matter, though, they must have knowledge of what is expected and appropriate. Milgrom surveys the important passages on this point and closes with this assessment: In any event, the “priests’ manual,” Israelite version, is not an esoteric doctrine, the zealously guarded secret of the priestly guild, but an open book, or more accurately, a school textbook for all Israel.18

Second, the people play a significant role in the sacrifices and rituals that directly involve them. The first five chapters of the book address sacrifices from the perspective of the worshipper who must decide what offering should be performed, how expensive the offering should be, and when certain offerings are necessary. Also, the worshipper is involved in several aspects of the sacrificial procedure itself, the gravity of which is made clear throughout the book. Because they must perform the offerings correctly with regard to the timing, animal selection, ritual killing, and so on, they are partners with the priests in the overall ritual world. Thus, the people receive instruction that pertains to them as well as a quantity of material that does not directly pertain to them. They are secondary beneficiaries of positive cultic action as well as victims of any liability that arises. 1

18. Milgrom, I:144.


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One interesting aspect of worshipper participation is that women have full access to the sacrificial cult. Although the idealized character in the narrative who represents the worshipper is male, the women present in the gathered community are certainly supposed to see themselves as well in that personage. This is confirmed by the presence of specific sacrificial prescriptions for women that follow previous instructions exactly. The circumstances of her impurity are different, naturally, but the overall problem and its solution are one and the same with those of the male half of the population. In Lev 12:6, after describing the time of purification required for male and female births, the text says: When the days of her purification are completed, whether for a son or for a daughter, she shall bring to the priest at the entrance of the tent of meeting a lamb in its first year for a burnt offering, and a pigeon or a turtledove for a purification offering.

The woman is given the normal choice between more expensive and more affordable offerings, but each provides the required purification from the impurities associated with childbirth. This same basic pattern is repeated in Lev 15, which deals with abnormal bodily discharges. Women sufferers pose the same threat to communal purity as men, so there are rules for ritual cleansing and the final purification offering (in this case, the twin bird offerings). Despite whatever gender discrimination or patriarchalism exists in the world of the text (or existed in ancient Israel, for that matter), there can be no question of excluding women from these absolutely essential practices. c. Feeling, Believing, Desiring Another issue relating to ritualization is the internal life of participants. What is the motivation of the offerers and the priests, and how do they communicate intentions and desires in the ritual service? This is an important aspect of the “negotiated appropriation” in the text, since it should be apparent why the various participants have engaged the ritual process. What do the priests and people respectively hope to accomplish in their ritual involvement? What important need does the ritual meet for each person or group? What must happen for those hopes and needs to be fulfilled? How is this matter reflected in the narrative structuring of the text and in the characterization implicit in its presentation? The majority of narrative information here centers on actions that are reported or prescribed in simple and uncluttered sequences. Very little, if anything, is said about the internal life of the participants, their emotions or their motivations. Whatever the reader might learn about these matters comes through reading carefully and paying attention to clues and subtle

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emotionally charged statements. For example, the first chapter of Leviticus begins the ritual instruction with these words: “When one of you brings an offering of livestock to the Lord, you all shall present your offering from the herd or from the flock” (Lev 1:2). This is a remarkably straightforward statement19 that presumes a world of knowledge and motivation prior to this moment of decision. In other words, the reader comes into the scene with the important decision already having been made; now the important issue is how that decision will be put into action. There is one clue to the chief worry felt by worshippers, however. Leviticus 1:3 instructs the person to select a male without blemish (rkz Mymt) and to bring it to the entrance of the Tent of Meeting. The motivation to follow this command exactly is so that the offering may serve “for acceptance on his behalf before the Lord” (hwhy ynpl wncrl). The term Nwcr is used for the burnt offering and for the well-being offering, but not for the purification and reparation offerings. 20 The term “acceptable” (hcr) carries two distinct connotations in Biblical Hebrew, that of “technically sufficient” and that of “gratifying or pleasing.” The technical meaning is operative here, in that the verse refers to physical requirements for the animal being offered. In order for the sacrifice to “take,” it must be performed with an unblemished animal of the proper species and gender. The term appears twice in Lev 1:3–4 in reference to the burnt offering, and also in Lev 7:18 in reference to the well-being offering. In that latter text, it refers to the need to eat all of the meat resulting from the wellbeing offering on the first or second day after the slaughter. If it is eaten on the third day, “it shall not be acceptable” (hcry )l, Lev 7:18), it shall not be accounted to the one who has presented it. This shows the technical nature of the term in that the effectiveness of the well-being offering for the offerer could be nullified by someone else who partook of the food in an illegitimate manner. The verse goes on to say that this is an “abomination” (lwgp), and that the one who does it shall incur guilt (hnw( )#t). This is an impressive list of consequences, but they are necessary to provide the proper disincentive for eating meat that would have seemed edible from an objective perspective, especially to a hungry person. The 19. The strange, yet characteristic, switch from singular to plural verbs notwithstanding. 20. It occurs one verse later in 1:4 in an odd phrase: “it shall be acceptable on his behalf to expiate for him.” The attribution of an expiatory function to the burnt offering occurs only rarely, though even its limited use casts a shadow on our attempts to delineate clearly the various purposes and functions of the offering types. 1


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basic idea is echoed in Lev 19:7, with an additional explanation that the person would “profane what is holy” and should be cut off from the people. We will look at the importance of these two additions in Chapter 5. 21 The fuller meaning of “acceptance” can be more fully comprehended in looking at the term in other contexts. The term appears in Ps 19:15 in the psalmist’s wish for the prayer to be “acceptable” before God, which carries an evident emotional and spiritual connotation. Several prophetic texts use the term to refer to God’s rejection of the people’s sacrifices, saying that their offerings would not be acceptable.22 Also, Third Isaiah turns the whole matter upside down when he asserts, in contradiction to ritual legislation, that the sacrifices of eunuchs and foreigners would be “accepted” in the Temple (Isa 56:7). Clearly there is a fuller sense in which “to be accepted” as a sacrificial gift involves not only the technical approval of the animal, but also implies the deeper connection between God and the worshipper. This is the implicit meaning exploited by the prophets in their rhetorical denunciation of the ritual cult. 23 In his patronizing explanation of “how religion works” to Job, Elihu summarizes the basic hope of a worshipper: “Then he prays to God, and is accepted by him, and he comes before him with a shout of joy, and he will repay a man for his righteousness” (Job 33:26). Thus, the first major desire being communicated by the worshipper in the ritual is for the sacrifice to be “acceptable” on his or her behalf. The selection of the animal is the first, and perhaps most foundational, element of this acceptance. What is behind this selection is more important, namely, the commitment of the individual to honor the deity with a valuable and whole animal, rather than one that is more easily expendable. Much can be made of the “wholeness” of this animal, especially as 21. The second half of Leviticus also makes a distinction between the freewill and votive offering (Lev 22:23). There, an animal with a limb out of proportion can be used for the freewill but not the votive offering (for which “it will not be accepted”). Lev 22:27 continues to say that an animal must be at least eight days old before it is acceptable as a food gift. In addition to the well-being, freewill, and votive offerings, the text also applies the “acceptable” category to the thanksgiving offering (22:29) and the sheaf offering (23:11). 22. Jer 6:20; 14:10; Hos 8:13; Amos 5:22; Mic 6:7. Interestingly, Malachi uses the term three times to refer to God’s rejection of sacrifices on purely technical terms. See Mal 1:8, 10, 13. 23. Thus, the prophets were exploiting theological resources already nascent in the ritual tradition. See Bryan D. Bibb, “Did the Prophets Reject Israel’s Cultic Life?” in Priests in the Prophets: The Portrayal of Priests, Prophets, and Other Religious Specialists in the Latter Prophets (ed. Lester Grabbe and Alice Ogden Bellis; JSOTSup 408; London: T&T Clark International, 2005), 31–43.

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it mirrors the necessary “wholeness” of the officiating priest.24 However, an important factor must be the commitment of the worshipper to the integrity of the sacrifice, symbolized in the careful selection of the animal at the center of the ritual. Recognizing the emotional and spiritual desire of “acceptance” for one’s offering explains the more common refrain that appears first in Lev 1:9, the hopeful statement that this offering will be “a food gift of pleasing odor to the Lord” (hwhyl xxyn xyr h#) )wh hl(). The acceptance of the offering is not only (or perhaps even primarily) a matter benefiting the worshipper. At the heart of this desire is the hope of pleasing the deity with the gift.25 In addition to the similarities in technique and attitude, this refrain is the single most important element binding the three basic sacrificial offerings together with all of their sub-types. The burnt offering, the cereal offering, and the well-being offering have unique features, and each one can take different forms depending on the circumstances. The reader recognizes the fundamental binding principle easily, however, in the desire for the offerings to provide a pleasing gift to the deity. The worshipper must choose the proper expression of this desire (whether it be in the form of a bovine, sheep, bird, or grain), and these instructions provide a road map for making the choice. In the face of anxiety about choosing the proper type of sacrifice and specific specimen, the text provides the worshipper in the narrative with one basic principle: give according to your means, and give the best that you have within that category.26 Reading further into the sacrificial legislation, however, the ideas of “acceptability” and “food gift” disappear completely. In Lev 4–6, which presents the purification and reparation offerings, the motivation of the worshipper and the officiating priest is to bring expiation for ritual transgressions. A characteristic statement is found in Lev 4:20: “The priest shall effect purgation for them that they may be forgiven.” 27 The basic idea is that the sins committed by the people have negative ritual consequences. Whether the sin is an inadvertent commission of something forbidden, an inadvertent neglect of some required action, or an intentional commission of a transgression, the result is that impurity builds up 24. Compare Lev 21:20 and 22:24, which require that neither a priest nor a sacrificial animal have “crushed testicles.” See Douglas, Purity and Danger, 52–54. 25. The noun translated here “food gift” and usually as “an offering by fire” appears 13 times in the first three chapters, and not at all in Lev 4–6. 26. This is in fact the exact sentiment expressed in Mal 1. 27. Using Milgrom’s translation here, as opposed to the normal phrases “sin offering” and “make atonement,” for its technical precision. 1


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on the altar and other sacred precincts. The purification offerings serve to cleanse the altar from the impurity caused by these ritual transgressions, with subtle theological variations depending on the circumstances. The precise and redundant instructions provide the officiating priest and the worshipper with a clear procedure for accomplishing this vital task. It is interesting that the sacrificial legislation here does not spell out the more dire consequences of neglecting or botching this duty, but the threat is certainly under the surface and rendered more chilling by the cool detachment of the text. The “reparation offering,” normally translated as “guilt offering,” deals primarily with breaches in the relationship between God and a worshipper, and secondarily among members of the community. Beginning in Lev 5:14, the situation envisioned is when a person “sins unintentionally with regard to any of the holy things of the Lord” (Lev 5:15). The penalty is a ram, which is unique in that it can be converted into a cash payment. This is extended in Lev 5:17 to include any non-willful performance of a forbidden thing (such as the accidental breaking of a purity regulation). The reparation offering serves for the expurgation of the sanctuary, the same as the purification offering, but it has an added benefit of restoring proper balance within a relationship. Withholding a required tithe, for example, causes a breach of communion between God and the worshipper, and the reparation offering brings things back into focus. This aspect is reflected in the fact that the offering can be transferred into a payment of silver (Lev 5:15). This makes it quite different from the purification offering, which serves a much more narrow ritual function. The uniqueness of the reparation offering is seen even more in the second major category of offense addressed by it: the defrauding of one member of the community by another (Lev 5:21–26 [Eng. 6:2–7]). If the worshipper has stolen from another person through breaking a pledge, robbery, fraud, or deception, the guilty party must pay the salient amount to the injured party plus a twenty percent penalty (Lev 5:24 [Eng. 6:5]). The offender must also bring a reparation sacrifice (or its silver equivalent) to the sanctuary, but this is still the only sacrificial ritual in this section of Leviticus that has such an explicitly social focus (Lev 5:25 [Eng. 6:6]). Perhaps not coincidentally, this is also the sacrifice that is the most concerned with the emotional life of the individual worshipper. How might one come to know that one had “inadvertently” performed one of the prohibited actions? The text says that the guilty would “realize their guilt” or “feel guilty” and thus initiate the ritual remedy. 28 28. See Milgrom, I:339–45.

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Thus, it appears that the sacrificial and purity systems address three needs. First, burnt offerings and well-being offerings must be “acceptable” by God for the people, that is, on their behalf. The ritual procedures put in place increase the chances that an offering will be “acceptable,” and thus that the offerer will feel “accepted.” While the requirements might seem arbitrary, they ensure that the “food gift” is brought with seriousness and consideration, and that the animal is worthy of the moment. Only animals of the highest relative value (with no “blemishes”) are acceptable. Second, the purification and reparation offerings need to be effective for purification of the sanctuary and reparation of the relationship between God and the people. Thus, Milgrom writes, the function of the >ōlâ here is to elicit the favor of the deity. Thus it can hardly be an accident that the nominal derivative rāßôn appears with the burnt offering (22:19–20; Jer 6:20; cd. Isa 60:7) and the well-being offering (19:5; 22:21, 29) but never with the purification and reparation offerings. These latter two sacrifices serve strictly expiatory functions… Their offerers approach God under the burden of sin; they seek his pardon, not his pleasure.29

The expiatory function of the reparation offering, however, still leaves room for a third primary function: the maintenance of social cohesiveness. Worshippers navigate the ritual system in hope of fulfilling these three goals. They must not only select the proper animal, but they must also be able to identify the proper time for performing each rite. With the reparation offering especially, the person must rely on a (possibly unreliable?) inner sense of guilt. Milgrom calls this the “torment of conscience,”30 but it is ominous that such an important matter is left to the sensitivity of each person to the subconscious. What is presented as a straightforward matter of “realizing” and acting appropriately is actually much more problematic. What guarantees that a person will come to realize their fault in a monetary matter with their neighbor? These matters are often heavily disputed even when all of the facts are known, and this situation implies a degree of obscurity in the situation. The text presents this matter in a ritualized fashion, echoing the same familiar refrains that have been encountered over and over. Thus, the reader is likely to absorb this new situation and then move on, confident of the adequacy of the ritual remedies being presented. Such confidence, however, can become blind ignorance of reality. On the other hand, the text does provide basic principles that serve as best as can be expected.

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29. Ibid., 149. 30. Ibid., 345.


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The individual worshipper must be diligent to learn the prohibitions so that they are always on the mind. This, coupled with a sense that inadvertent transgression is always possible, will lead to a greater likelihood of errors being discovered in time. There is no other way for these situations to be handled, since discovery can only come from the guilty party. In other words, sensitivity and social consciousness become ritual requirements. 3. Ritual Analysis In its present form, the first half of Leviticus contains ten twrwt, discrete sections of ritual instruction, five in Lev 6–7 and five in Lev 11–15. These sections are thought to derive from temple records, though they are thoroughly integrated into the present narrative. The twrwt are as follows: Verses 6:2–6 6:7–16 6:17–23 7:1–10 7:11–21

Sacrifice Subject Burnt offering Cereal offering Purification Offering Reparation Offering Well-being offering

Verses 11:1–23, 41–42 12:1–8 13:1–59 14:1–57 15:1–32

Impurity Subject Animal carcasses Woman and infants Scale disease Purification of scale disease Genital discharge

This listing can be construed as an important part of Leviticus’s possible role as a “priests’ handbook,” a document providing the specific knowledge and actions required by the proper performance of the sacrificial cult. However, Leviticus does not provide a complete manual. Significant parts of the ritual process remain obscure, and even the coverage of sacrificial topics is selective. Above we have explored why the text follows the contours that it does. It provides a basic road map for the priests and worshippers in meeting their three basic needs. What should one make of this alternating specificity and limited coverage? The natural conclusion is that the authors had reason to include what they wrote and to exclude what they did not write. They perhaps wrote clearly and specifically about the topics that were controversial or difficult and left out topics that they felt reasonably sure would not be a problem. For example, the text never specifies exactly how the sacrificial animal should be killed. Does this mean that any method would have been acceptable? Not likely. Rather, the text’s authors may have felt confident that priests would simply have known how to slaughter the animal. The text of Leviticus, if we envision it as a priestly manual, must have

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been supplemented with oral instruction, hands-on training, and/or basic cultural “common sense.” This combination of specificity and selectivity, which is perhaps coherent in light of the “handbook” hypothesis above, creates an unusual text that remains opaque to the modern reader, who has not been privileged with the information gleaned from the ancient informal or practical sources. The task is to understand the material that does make it into the text, in spite of the lacunae or ambiguities that mark the text. However, the absences stand as bits of confusion and ambiguity, and ultimately call for the trust of the exegete that everything is as it seems. The blank spots on the map, so to speak, are nowhere acknowledged or explained; the reader must simply trust that the text tells us everything that we need. The trust required is the conviction that the sacrificial system is coherent, complete, and unambiguous. Wherever there is ambiguity or lack of information, readers are supposed to believe that they are the source of any deficit in knowledge: the text provides all that is necessary and the remainder is to be supplied by the reader. For the sake of argument, however, consider whether this quality of the text is comforting or really as innocuous as it seems. The text repeats itself carefully, echoing the same level of specificity throughout its various sections. The actions and events of the sacrifices have a kind of non-threatening progression, and the reader is drawn along the process with each bit of familiar repetition and natural permutation. Underneath this repetition is a profound anxiety. Why would the same basic point need to be repeated verbatim for each sub-type of sacrifice? Why would the text use such specific, formalized language if not out of a desire to get things right? And why is it so necessary for these sacrifices to be performed correctly and precisely? The answer is obvious: the threat of God’s holiness. If the rituals are not performed correctly, such ritual failure could lead to a complete breakdown in the ritual connection with the deity. Such transgression could lead to the failure of the ritual (i.e. it does not achieve its purposes), to the death of the priest or the worshippers, and possibly even the severance of the community’s relationship with God. All of these outcomes are hinted at in the disastrous Golden Calf incident (Exod 32), and are picked up again in the story of Korah’s rebellion in Num 16. The story of Nadab and Abihu, placed almost halfway between these two stories causes the specter of ritual failure to shadow the whole book of Leviticus.31 31. What exactly is the threat? In light of the exilic provenance of the Priestly literature, Milgrom and others have argued that the main threat is that God would leave the people. This is in fact what Ezekiel witnessed in his fantastical vision of 1


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In light of this tenuous ritual balance and the possibility that the whole enterprise will slip into oblivion, it is essential that the rituals that are performed are done correctly. It is odd, therefore, that the specificity and repetition of language in the sacrificial instructions are confounded by silence on certain topics. It may be true that these gaps in the ritual instruction are simply our points of deficiency, and that the original authors and priests were completely comfortable with the text as it stands. In the world of the text, however, there is an undercurrent of doubt and anxiety, and gaps and ambiguities take on new significance in this light. The reader must ask: Are there hidden pitfalls mixed in with the common-sense knowledge presumed by the text? Where has the text left readers to fend for themselves without the necessary knowledge to fill such gaps accurately or confidently? As will be shown in the next chapter, Nadab and Abihu “fill in” one such gap to their ruin. It is clear that Lev 11–15 occurs where it does because it is required by the narrative events of Lev 10. While the ritual ambiguity opened up in that story relates to priestly behavior, the same threat lies on the people as well. Soon, they will be required to offer the sacrifices discussed in Lev 1–7, so they must be concerned about how to perform properly those sacrifices as well as how to ritually prepare for the experience. For the people, what would be an analogous situation to the priests’ careless cleansing or use of alcohol? Issues of diet, personal hygiene, and illness. The specificity with which the text addresses these matters of purity emphasizes the importance of diligence and a discriminating attitude among the Israelites. Like the laws that Moses delivers after Nadab and Abihu die, these regulations create a threatening atmosphere in the textual world. Ominously, the people are warned to keep these purity regulations down to the last letter. However, the people must bear a God’s flaming chariot fleeing the city of Jerusalem, forsaking the impure and sinladen capital of Judah. In the text itself, however, this threat also translates into a danger of destruction. Milgrom acknowledges the connection between God’s exit and the death of the people in his introduction to Priestly theology in the first volume of his commentary: “Thus, in the Priestly scheme, the sanctuary is polluted (read: society is corrupted) by brazen sins (read: the rapacity of the leaders) and also be inadvertent sins (read: the acquiescence of the ‘silent majority’), with the result that God is driven out of his sanctuary (read: the nation is destroyed)” (I:50). The threat to the people ultimately is destruction, whether directly (as seen in the Nadab and Abihu incident) or secondarily as a result of God’s abandonment. Further, the high priest, at least, is in danger of his life during the yearly offerings on Yom Kippur. Lev 16:2 says that the high priest can only come at the designated time “or he will die.” The feeling of threat with regard to the deity, of course, can only be compounded by what is experienced by Nadab and Abihu in Lev 10.

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degree of personal responsibility for their own purity, and there are significant points of ambiguity or multivalency in the laws as well as lacunae in the material covered. How can the people be sure that they have performed everything according to God’s stated wishes? Even more troubling, how can they be sure that they have been told everything that they need to know? In conclusion, the argument here is that the ritualized language of Lev 1–7 functions in a very particular way. It bears the stamp of its ritualization in the formalism and specificity of its language and formulation. Underneath and behind this ritualized formality, however, one finds indeterminacy. There are two possible reasons for these points of ambiguity: (1) the reader is assumed in the text to have the requisite knowledge to understand (and operate) without explicit instruction; and/or (2) the text does not have an answer to certain questions and prefers to pass these matters in silence. Given the emphatic drive for completeness and specificity in other areas, the first of these explanations is suspicious. In fact, the ritualization of the language can be read as an explicit attempt to hide any underlying messiness in the ritual system. Despite all clever techniques, however, these gaps and ambiguities find their way to the surface in the narrative sections. The fluidity present in this supposedly rigid text and ritual system increases the level of ritual danger: the danger that the characters will make a serious error, that the reader will misunderstand or misconstrue an important point, or that such reading might lead to improper ritual performance. Despite the dangers, this fluidity is necessary because it provides room for implicit power dynamics to function in a healthy manner. The priests have tremendous responsibilities and privileges in this system. Their leadership is balanced, however, by the monitoring of the Israelites who are full recipients of the ritual legislation. Furthermore, no single ritual prescription can account for every possible situation that might arise. Thus, the people (and priests) are free to adapt their ritual actions within the given framework. The indeterminacy of the text and of the ritual prescriptions themselves provides room for this “negotiated acceptance” on the part of priests and worshippers. This means that the priests and people are negotiating a fluid and dynamic ritual reality. Many parts of the exercise and even important moments of decision and self-awareness are left to them. Rather than a tunnel that they are to walk through, the ritualized world of Leviticus can better be described as a terrain with clearly marked paths and a common goal. Although the map is clear enough, there are enough uncertainties about the journey to create anxiety about what could happen. 1


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The reader, in the face of textual ambiguities and the difficulty of entering into the timeless mythical past via a time-bound and fictional document, must engage the text with freedom and creativity. In creative identification with the past they find explanation for their present experience. Working with the gaps and ambiguities enables this creative engagement between past and present, providing raw material for the individual negotiation of meaning and significance.

Chapter 4

RITUALIZED NARRATIVES: LEVITICUS 8–10 AND 16

Christopher Smith has argued that the structure of Leviticus is best understood as an alternation between law and narrative. He identifies three narratives (chs. 8–10, 16, and 24:10–23), contending that they form the pivot points in a seven-part structure beginning and ending with law. The next chapter will discuss the difficult question of structure within the Holiness material, but it seems clear that the first two narratives (chs. 8– 10 and 16) function in the way that Smith proposes. They build upon and react to the ritual sections, even while they place the ritual within a narrative context. The sacrificial and purity material contains ritual prescriptions that have been transformed into narrative. This blending of genres extends to the narrative sections, which have taken on aspects of their ritual content. The ritual and narrative sections in Leviticus differ in their style, tone, and formulation, but that difference is one of degree rather than kind. Each displays a melding of narrative and ritual elements, and the transition from one to the other is natural and smooth, even while the subject matter can be quite jarring. This chapter will explore the ritualized elements of these narrative texts, especially in connection with the preceding ritual material. 1. Cultic Debut: Leviticus 8–9 Leviticus 8–9 narrates two necessary events before Israel’s cultic apparatus is ready to travel: the consecration of Aaron and his sons as priests, and the inauguration of the altar sacrifices. These events prepare the cultic personnel, objects, and shrine for the regular practice of the sacrificial regimen outlined in chs. 1–7. Thus, chs. 8 and 9 serve as the natural conclusion to the ritual prescriptions contained in that earlier material. Narratively speaking, they present the climax of the story. The rhythmic detailing of sacrificial practices gives way to dramatic action that ends in successful ritual performance.

4. Ritualized Narratives: Leviticus 8–10 and 16

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In the interaction with its ritual subject, the narrative takes on a rituallike quality. The narrative language used to describe ritual actions is formal and precise, much like that within the prior ritual prescriptions. This precision, however, hides a level of ambiguity and uncertainty that lurks ominously behind the scenes. Ritual dynamics in the narrative hint at the negotiation of the delicate power relationships among Moses, Aaron, his sons, and the congregation. All of these characters are necessary in the cultic system, and they must rely upon each other in subtle ways. Each of them, however, has a unique set of questions and concerns addressed in the ritual moment. The narrative presentation of chs. 8–9 is measured, careful, and rational. This chapter will look at the narrative framing of the story, considering the order of events and how the scene’s elements naturally build upon each other. Also, there is a ritualizing tendency in the narrative with regard to the transference of authority from Yahweh, through Moses, and to Aaron and his sons. The endowing of the priests with responsibility and authority in their commissioning (the subject matter of the story) emerges in the way that the story itself is told. After considering this account of ritual success, this chapter will conclude with the next scene in Leviticus, the very next scene in the book, the profound ritual failure of Nadab and Abihu, which casts a dark shadow back upon the story of the priestly commissioning. a. Narrative Frame Leviticus 8 in its present form serves as fulfillment of the ritual prescription in Exod 29. The differences in the two passages, however, show that they have a varied textual history. Leviticus 8–9 has significant similarities with Exod 29 but is not a direct correlative to it. Gerstenberger interprets the connection to Exod 29 and the supposed fulfillment of the ritual prescriptions in Exod 40:16 and 40:34–38 to mean that Lev 8 is “not in the least oriented toward any possible sequence of events.” 1 He goes on to say: Leviticus 8, then, does not represent a narrative about any historic event. Rather, this text is a literary composition that perhaps from the very beginning was intended to be read in the worship service. Its purpose is to demonstrate that the sacrificial worship service in the temple of Jerusalem already familiar to its contemporaries was established at Sinai and still proceeds according to the same pattern.2

1. Gerstenberger, Leviticus, 100. 2. Ibid.

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Several questions raised in this quotation lead nicely into our discussion. First, Gerstenberger writes that the text in no way was intended to refer to a specific sequence of events, but was intended to remind people of the original pattern established at Sinai. In the mythic world of Leviticus, however, this narrative does refer to a specific sequence of events. The narrative setting places this initial anointing and consecration of Aaron and his sons as part of the overall sacred history. The specific ritual elements of Lev 8 function within the literary world of the text as record of sacred events. However the texts were used as part of the Temple instructions, they do not bear the mark of that use. The most important structuring element of this text is its connection with what is happening at the foot of Mt Sinai. The narrative begins with the standard opening, “Yahweh spoke to Moses, saying…” (Lev 8:1). Yahweh tells Moses to assemble Aaron and his sons along with five items: the vestments, anointing oil, the bull for a purification offering, a pair of rams, and a basket of unleavened bread (8:2). The bulk of the chapter relates the meticulous performance of a series of rituals that together prepare both the priests and the sanctuary for the regular cultic life to follow. The material is the fulfillment of instructions given in Exod 29, and the textual correspondences to that chapter are of course striking. The intervening material, as Milgrom points out, is necessary. The instructions to consecrate the priests in Exodus presume that the tabernacle is both created (Exod 25–40) and purified (Lev 8:10–11) so that these priests can operate in it. 3 Moses assembles the priestly candidates and the ritual materials in front of the whole community at the entrance to the Tent of Meeting. Leviticus 8:4–5 emphasizes that these actions follow the explicit command of Yahweh. The narrator reports as much, and then Moses announces, “this is what Yahweh has commanded to be done.” The preparation involves several different actions: the materials must be gathered together, the required ritual participants must be summoned, and the community must be assembled to witness the events. The most important requirement, however, is for the participants and observers to know that every particular has been accomplished according to the explicit command of Yahweh. This knowledge is part of the ritual fabric, establishing the requisite mental and emotional state for the ritual but also assuring the people that this ritual will be effective. As Grimes has shown in the matter of ritual infelicity, the conviction among participants that a rite is legitimate and effective is necessary for its legitimacy and

1

3. Milgrom, I:494.


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effectiveness.4 Insistence that everything is being done exactly according to the command of Yahweh reveals, ironically, an underlying sense of doubt or unease about this matter. The consequences of failure are simply too grave. Moses’s next act is to “bring forward” Aaron and his sons, described in the text with the hiphil of brq (Lev 8:6). The ritual movement of Aaron and his sons in this moment is not simply a matter of getting closer to the action, but is Moses’s ritual presentation of them for Yahweh’s service. A modern comparison might be the forward movement of a bride and groom after the bride has been presented by her father. The progress of the couple toward the altar at this moment in the ritual is their first step as a new couple, with the groom leading the bride away from her father. After presentation, Moses dresses Aaron in his tunic, sash, robe, ephod, decorative band, breastpiece, turban, and holy diadem, all of this “as Yahweh had commanded Moses” (Lev 8:7–9). These items are described in much more detail in Exod 28 and 39, where they are commissioned by Yahweh’s words and made according to his instructions. The next scene reveals Moses’s consecration of the tabernacle and its contents (Lev 8:10–11). It is not clear whether the items mentioned (the altar and its utensils, basin, and base) are just a sampling of what he anointed with oil, or whether they comprise the totality of his anointing. 5 Verse 10 gives the impression that Moses walked throughout the tabernacle and spread oil on everything in sight, even on the walls and floor of the tabernacle itself (“he anointed the tabernacle and all that was in it”). In any case, he specifically anoints with oil the altar (seven times), the utensils, and the laver with its stand. The anointing of the tabernacle flows directly into the anointing of Aaron, indicating his natural association with the holy place (Lev 8:12). The oil is poured on his head, which is the effective act of consecration: “he anointed him in order to consecrate him.” The holy place, holy objects, and holy high priest are all consecrated by virtue of their anointing by Moses. Only after this consecration of the tabernacle does Moses involve the sons of Aaron, when he presents (byrqh) them and clothes them in tunics, sashes, and caps (“as Yahweh had commanded Moses,” Lev 8:13). This raises the question, of course, of what they happened to be wearing up to this point. The notion of priests either naked or in their 4. Ronald Grimes, “Ritual Criticism and Infelicitous Performances,” in Readings in Ritual Studies (ed. Ronald Grimes; Upper Saddle River, N.J.: Prentice Hall, 1996), 280–93. 5. A more complete list of sacred objects can be found in Num 4:4–12.

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plain clothes does not square with the solemn nature of this moment. The Exod 29 version has Moses clothing the sons just after Aaron is clothed, and there is no intervening section about consecration of the tabernacle. It is also interesting that the sons of Aaron are not anointed as priests here. The sons are anointed later in the chapter (v. 30), but even then they do not receive a pouring of oil, only a sprinkling. This discrepancy establishes a strong hierarchy of Aaron over his sons. After these initial consecrations, there are three sacrificial actions, the presentation of the “bull of purification” (t)+xh rp, 8:14–17), the “ram of the burnt offering” (hl(h ly), 8:18–21), and the “ram of ordination” (My)lmh ly), 8:22–23). The bull is slaughtered, and then Moses uses his finger to smear some blood on the horns of the altar. He then pours out the rest of the blood on the base of the altar. The subject of the verb “slaughter” is mysterious, since there is an active verb with no explicit subject. The normal impulse would be to carry the subject over from the previous phrase, thus saying that Moses slaughtered the animal. Milgrom points out, however, that part of the “Priestly style” is to use non-specific active verbs in a general sense, best rendered as a passive; 6 thus he translates +x#yw as “and it was slaughtered.” The burnt offerings were normally slaughtered by the worshipper, so Milgrom’s argument here is that someone (not necessarily Moses) killed the animal. In such a high moment, however, it is not clear who would be the proper actor for this role. Hartley and others preserve the implication that Moses is the one, and indeed there can be no other good possibility considering the circumstances. The suet, liver lobe, and kidneys are burnt on the altar just like the normal burnt offering of the earlier section of Leviticus (8:15–16). There are two interesting details in this. First, the act of smearing blood follows the same infinitival construction that was seen in the consecration of Aaron in v. 12. Whereas before it said “he anointed him in order to consecrate him,” now we hear “he consecrated it to purge it” (wh#dqyw wyl( rpkl, v. 15). The causal relations among these various actions remain imprecise, but somehow the ritual action brings about the intended ritual state. This is problematic, however, since the purged state must come prior to any consecration/sanctification.7 This cause and effect relationship does not make sense within the overall schema of the Priestly writer. Thus Milgrom prefers to read, with Rashi and Ibn Ezra, “to effect atonement upon it,” taking the infinitive to refer to the future uses of the altar being thus consecrated. Second, the rest of the bull (its

1

6. Milgrom, I:520–21. 7. Ibid., I:524–25.


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hide, meat, and dung) is carried outside the camp (by someone…) and burned “in a clean place” like the two most important variants of the purification offering in Lev 4, of the high priest and of the community (8:17). The fact that the hide is burned as well (as opposed to the practice in the whole burnt offering) shows that none of this beast can be of practical use. After the sacrifice of the bull, the two rams are presented. The first ram serves as a whole burnt offering, corresponding closely with the prescriptions in Lev 1. The second ram is more interesting since it is an “ordination offering,” which is not outlined in Lev 1–7. 8 After the ram is slaughtered, Moses rubs blood on each right ear lobe, thumb, and big toe of Aaron and his sons (8:23–24). In addition to an apotropaic function, as seen in other ancient prophylactic rituals, this blood rite also can be understood as having a purgatory effect, similar to the smearing of blood on the horns of the sacrificial altar.9 Having dashed the rest of the blood around the four sides of the altar, Moses prepares the “elevation offering,” the hpwnt (Lev 8:27–29). Generally, the elevation offering symbolizes the transfer of ownership of the sacrificial pieces from the worshipper to God.10 It is normally part of the well-being offering, used to differentiate the sacrificial bits that are given over to God as opposed to the bulk eaten by the congregation. In our passage, there are two specific moments of “elevation.” First, the suet parts, a cake of unleavened bread, a cake of oil bread, one unleavened wafer, and the right thigh are placed on the palms of Aaron and his sons, elevated before Yahweh, and then turned into smoke on the altar (Lev 8:27–28). So far this follows naturally the contours of the elevation rite in other contexts.11 The right breast, however, is not part of the original offering and is elevated by Moses alone before Yahweh and then kept by him as his portion (Lev 8:29). This is not the normal prebend given to the priest by the offerer, since Moses is not technically a priest. Since the breast has undergone the elevation offering, and then is given to Moses, it is his gift from Yahweh.12 8. It is mentioned in the summary statement of Lev 7:37, however, which is evidently a remnant of redactional activity. Milgrom argues that the ordination offering would have appeared originally after Lev 7:10 (ibid., I:436–37). This is little help, of course, for those needing to learn how to do the ordination offering from the present text. 9. Ibid., I:528–29. 10. Ibid., I:461–73. 11. Ibid., I:461. 12. Ibid., I:532. The intricacy of this situation is a good illustration of what in the Priestly system appears precise and slippery at the same time. The unwavering

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After the offering of the rams of burnt offering and ordination, an intervening verse details the sprinkling of blood and oil on Aaron’s clothes, on his sons, and on his sons’ clothes (Lev 8:30). This completes the consecration of the priests that was begun with the anointing of Aaron in v. 12. The oil is consecratory, while the blood normally serves an expiatory function. Since the blood has come from the altar itself, rather than being collected from the dying animal, it can also serve a sanctifying role. It is worth noting, however, that Aaron is consecrated earlier in the text through the pouring of oil on his head. Here, Aaron himself is not anointed with the oil and blood. Why would the blood be necessary or important for the anointing of the sons and not Aaron himself? The last paragraph of Lev 8 details the final instructions of Moses to the newly minted priests. They are to eat the meat and bread left over from the ordination ceremony in the entrance to the Tent of Meeting, where they must abide for the seven days of their liminal state (Lev 8:31–35). This fulfills the previous command of Moses, found in Exod 29:31–32. In accordance with the other offerings that are consumed by the priests, any food that is left over on the next day must be burned in fire.13 Each day of the seven-day period might either be filled with the repeated actions, or simply marked by waiting. Milgrom argues that the transfer from common to holy requires a gradual movement effected one bit at a time by rites performed repeatedly over seven days. 14 Moses says “your ordination will require seven days” (Mkdy-t) )lmy Mymy t(b# yk), literally “and he shall fill your hands for seven days.” This might indicate that the sacrifices must be repeated over seven days, or simply that a seven-day liminal period is required for the consecration to “burn in.” logical analysis of Milgrom and the rabbinical interpretations that animate his commentary often amaze in their ability to impose order on a chaotic text. Indeed, the initial assumption that all of these details must make sense enables sharp analytical minds to make them make sense. The text, fragmented and halting as it is, sometimes labors under the weight of rational analysis. 13. In imagining these priests living for a solid week in the limited confines of the sacred space, naturally questions about their personal hygiene arise. One gets the impression from this text that Yahweh is quite serious about their need to stay sequestered for the liminal period. Therefore, there must have been facilities for relieving themselves. Actually, nowhere in the Priestly literature is feces listed as a defiling substance (ibid., I:536). 14. Ibid., I:538. He writes, “It is inconceivable that after the first day they merely wait out the week at the Tabernacle door. Each day’s rites will remove them farther from their former profane state and advance them to the ranks of the sacred, until they emerge as full-fledged priests.” 1


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One would hope that the priests themselves received more instruction from Moses on the matter. The reader is left to mere inference. The account ends with a summary compliance report stating that Aaron and his sons did all of the things that Yahweh had commanded through Moses. This is the first time, actually, that they do anything, other than following along as various things are done to them. When the seven days of ordination are complete, the priests are ready to perform sacrificial offerings for the first time on the newly consecrated altar. Leviticus 9 is more straightforward than ch. 8, not least because these sacrifices are described in the earlier prescriptive section, while the ordination offering is not. The narrative description of these sacrifices is dramatically curtailed, as the action focuses almost entirely on matters that affect the altar, and leaves out other important details. Most notably, there is no hand-leaning rite performed in this sequence. Although the sacrifices here have a unique character and do not conform to every aspect of the normal legislation, the hand-leaning rite is actually indispensable to the burnt and purification offerings (Lev 1:4; 3:2, 8; 4:4, 15, 24, 29, 33). The narrative, then, is selective and shaped according to particular theological and literary interests. Milgrom suggests that the missing hand-leaning rite was done but not reported in order to keep the emphasis on the altar-related rites.15 He goes on to assert that although Aaron performed the slaughtering of the people’s purification offering (normally slaughtered by the offerer), the elders would have performed the missing hand-leaning rite. There are, he says, other cases where the elders did the hand-leaning even when someone else had slaughtered the animal. The issue remains, however, that the participation of the people in this story remains ambiguous. It is not clear how much they were involved in the events beyond simply being spectators. Even so, one can question how much they would have comprehended since the rites differ in important ways from the prescriptions just laid out in chs. 1–7. At the beginning of the day, Moses predicts that “today Yahweh will appear to you” (Lev 9:4). This is the only place in P where God’s presence is not mediated through his Glory (dwbk).16 An uncomfortable feeling about Moses’s statement can be seen in the Targums, which insert “honor,” “glory of the presence of the Lord,” and “Word of the Lord” to eliminate the striking (and ultimately impossible) promise. The Masoretic text (MT) has vocalized the verb as a feminine singular (h)rn),

15. Ibid., I:583. 16. Ibid., I:574.

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perhaps to indicate that the subject of this verb is the fire (feminine singular, #)), not Yahweh himself. Later in the story, when this promised manifestation of the deity takes place, the “Glory of Yahweh” appears to the people (Lev 9:23). It is “from before Yahweh” that the fire comes and consumes the rest of the sacrificial material (v. 24). Thus, the promise of God’s presence in the beginning of the chapter is imprecise since Yahweh does not actually appear without the cover of his dwbk. For the people (and the reader) the expectation is heightened by a promise of something unique. Although the occurrence is dramatic and effective, there is still the lingering sense of distance and despair at not being able to experience the unmediated presence of Yahweh. Actually, there may have been a sigh of relief, and the joyful shout of the people may partially have stemmed from gladness to be alive. It is not possible for anyone to see God directly, if the priests are correct on the matter, but the little slip of Moses’s tongue in v. 4 is a glimpse into the deeper emotional and spiritual yearnings of the people that are not (cannot be?) met. The sacrifices of the day come in two distinct segments. First, Aaron brings two offerings for himself: a calf for the purification offering and a ram for the whole burnt offering (Lev 9:8–12). Then, he presents on behalf of the people a series of offerings: a male goat for the purification offering, a calf and a lamb for the whole burnt offering, a cereal offering, and an ox and a ram for the well-being offering (9:15–21). Aaron performs all of these rites “in the prescribed manner” (v. 16), finishing with the elevation offering of the breasts and right thigh of the wellbeing offering (his prebend, v. 21).17 The climactic moment comes after the sacrifices are already performed, as fire comes forth “from before Yahweh” and consumes the sacrificial material on the altar. Since the offerings had already been performed, they were either still on fire or smoldering. The people respond to this amazing, and perhaps unexpected, showing with shouts of joy and prostration.

17. It is worth noting that the animal brought by/for the congregation for purification is a male goat, despite the fact that Lev 4:14 calls for a bull. This animal selection actually corresponds to the command in Num 15:24. The two animals (a young ram and a young bull) for the burnt offering reflects the commands for public offerings at festival times. In connection with the need for “yearlings,” Milgrom admits “[that] the two burnt offerings consist of young animals cannot be an accident, but the rationale escapes me” (ibid., I:573). Finally, it is strange that there is a thigh used in the elevation ritual, which is ruled out in Lev 7:32. Milgrom is forced to conclude that that this phrase is a secondary addition, reflecting later ritual reform (ibid., I:586). 1


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b. Ritualized Language One way in which Lev 8–9 incorporates ritualized language is the constant refrain, “as Yahweh had commanded,” which appears in some variation in the following verses: 8:4, 5, 9, 13, 17, 21, 29, 31, 34, 35, 36; 9:6, 7, 10, and 21. The first two of these are in parallel, as Moses gathers the sacrificial raw materials, priestly personnel, and the congregation all together, “as Yahweh had commanded him.” His first action when this has been accomplished is to declare to all present, “This is what Yahweh has commanded to be done.” From the beginning, therefore, the reader is clued into the fact that these ritual and sacrificial procedures will follow to the exact letter the commands of God. The specificity and formalization of language seen earlier lead us to expect nothing less. The next five occurrences are all of a kind, simple reports that Moses has performed the ritual action exactly according to the command of Yahweh. Leviticus 8:31 is an alternation from the pattern, however, as we hear Moses pointing out that something was his command. He says to Aaron and his sons that they should cook and eat the meat with the bread at the entrance of the Tent of Meeting, “as I commanded, ‘Aaron and his sons shall eat it.’” It is interesting to compare this statement with v. 35, a speech of Moses with a similar construction except with the pual passive form of the verb: “because thus have I been commanded.” The Septuagint (LXX), Syriac, and Targums all reflect a passive reading in v. 31, in parallel with v. 35, which would put this command also in the mouth of Yahweh.18 The ritualization of the language, however, would lead one to reject this harmonizing reading. In addition to the fact that Moses claims responsibility for the command about where to consume the sacrificial food in Lev 10:18, the departure from the standard syntax with Yahweh as the explicit subject of an active piel verb reflects the different situation in this verse. Moses is passing along the required ritual knowledge to Aaron and his sons, and by this point his command is to be identified with that of Yahweh. His authority has fused with that of Yahweh, or rather one should say that Yahweh’s authority has fully overwhelmed Moses’s mortal limitations and his command stands in for that of Yahweh. Moses finishes the ritual ceremonies in Lev 8 with another short speech in which he reiterates that “everything done on this day, Yahweh has commanded to do” (Lev 8:34). The syntax here is curious, as there is no direct object as is normally found (Moses, Aaron, us, you, etc.). Rather, the phrase here (as well as in v. 5) is t#(l hwhy hwc. Thus, the 18. Incidentally, the same passive construction also occurs in Lev 10:13.

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emphasis is on the fulfillment by everyone of Yahweh’s general commands, not on the particular actions of any one individual. Moses backs away from his authority to make room for the rising authority of Aaron and his sons. This is seen in the use (for the first time, in my reading) of the passive form of the verb in v. 35. The verse concerns the necessity for the priests to stay in the sacred precincts for a solid week to complete the liminal state. This is required, according to Moses, “so that you do not die, for thus I have been commanded (ytywc)” (Lev 8:35). This use of the passive indicates that Moses is stepping out of the relationship between the priests and Yahweh. His own voice is subordinated to that of Yahweh, and it is now Aaron who will hear the voice of the deity. It is significant that the issue at hand is the survival of Aaron and his sons, and, appropriately in such a life and death matter, the priests take more responsibility for themselves, not necessarily relying on Moses to tell them what to do. The final step in the process is found in the last verse of the chapter, one final “compliance report,” this one unique in its subject: “And Aaron and his sons did all of the things that Yahweh had commanded through Moses” (Lev 8:36). This represents the final stage in the transfer of ritual knowledge. At first Moses does everything according to Yahweh’s command; then he announces to the people what is required by that command; then Moses passes commands directly to Aaron and his sons for them to follow; finally the priests take on the responsibility of following the commands themselves. Moses is no longer the primary follower of ritual commands; that prerogative now rests with the priests. Leviticus 9 does not follow this pattern so cleanly, but the various elements are all present.19 Verses 6 and 7 use the refrain in the opening speech of Moses, first in address to all the people and then in address to Aaron. He tells the people that the upcoming events are what Yahweh has commanded, “so that the glory of Yahweh may appear to you” (Lev 9:6). The promise of God’s presence is tremendously significant, and reinforces for the people why these things are so important. Aaron has already learned that these commands will safeguard his very life, but such a private matter is not as important as the overall experience of God’s presence among the people. Interestingly, the last use of the phrase in Lev 9 brings back Moses as the subject of the verb: “Aaron elevated the breasts and the right thigh as 19. It is expected that the narrative of the priestly ordination would be more intentional about showing the shift in authority from Moses to Aaron and his sons. The subsequent narrative of initial sacrifices still has participation of Moses, of course, but Aaron is the central lead in the drama. 1


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an elevation offering before Yahweh, as Moses had commanded” (Lev 9:21). The difficulty of this is evident by the fact that some Hebrew manuscripts as well as the LXX and Samaritan Pentateuch add the words t) hwhy, creating the reading, “as Yahweh had commanded Moses.” The commands of Moses, however, are an important part of the ritual dynamic. The authoritative voice passes from Yahweh, through Moses, and eventually to Aaron, and this verse represents the middle part of that stage. Leviticus 8 is more clearly arranged in this regard, but the various elements are certainly present in ch. 9 as well. Thus, ritualized language in these chapters with regard to the compliance reports is a key to interpretation. Rhythmic repetition emphasizes how carefully everything must be done, while subtle shifts and alterations in the language reveal inner ritual dynamics at work in the narrative. 2. Ritual Failure: Leviticus 10 Just as the reader finishes Lev 8–9, which culminates in ritual success and a rousing shout of joy from the people, the mood of the narrative changes in the course of two short verses: “Now Aaron’s sons, Nadab and Abihu, each took his censer, put fire in it, and laid incense on it; and they offered strange fire before the Lord, such as he had not commanded them. And fire came forth from before the Lord and consumed them, and they died before the Lord” (Lev 10:1–2). Suddenly, the confidence and exuberance of the previous section has been replaced by confusion, doubt, and dread. The rest of this chapter will examine this dramatic moment of ritual failure, arguing that this narrative calls into question not only the results of the previous scene, but indeed the entire ritual system. Discussing the Passover meal, Jorunn Jacobson Buckley writes: I see the meal as redescribed cannibalism: lamb substitutes for household, and the Israelites mimic eating themselves. Had they not, God would have eaten them. The ritual is indeed apotropaic. In the priestly interpretation, however, it becomes something else: commemorative. The difference lies in the conception of time: apotropaic rituals try to prevent something, while commemorative ones dwell on the past by making it present…20 The text fairly seethes with endangered life, compressed tension, and irony, and its devastating implications demonstrate to the full what it would mean to love and fear God. The priests try to domesticate the story and the rituals, and the way they do this offers a lesson in the economics of religious psychic energy…

20. Jorunn Jacobson Buckley, “A Matter of Urgency: A Response to ‘The Passover Supper in Exodus 12:1–12,’” Semeia 67 (1995): 68.

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Ritual Words and Narrative Worlds If rituals bring out conflicts rather than permanently solve them, the priests’ way of presenting the insoluble tension in the text focuses on the dangers of indiscriminate action and the slender but vital possibility of rescue by adherence to symmetries.21

This statement about the Passover legislation rings true for the sacrificial laws in Leviticus as well. The crux of the issue is the classic anthropological disagreement about the social purpose of ritual with regard to conflict. Chapter 2 of the present study argued, with Bell, that ritual does not function simply to resolve or mask social conflict. Rather, it functions in a complex way to allow for the negotiation of conflict in the community, binding the participants together in a way that respects (and builds upon) individual freedom and identity. The rituals do not resolve conflict as much as defer resolution of conflict in order to preserve the functioning social network. The Leviticus narrative works to preserve that delicate balance by presenting the ritual symmetries of the inauguration ceremonies, balanced by a dramatic recounting of ritual failure in Lev 10. By dwelling “on the past by making it present,” these narratives raise the important issue of what it takes to be ritually correct, and how easily ritual performances can go astray. Leviticus 10 serves two functions: it emphasizes the everpresent danger inherent in the interaction between people and God, and provides a voice of hope and assurance that the ritual system in place provides the requisite safeguards to enable worshipful existence. The analysis of Lev 10 that follows begins with a discussion of ritual failure from a theoretical point of view, and then moves to a literary-critical appraisal of the interaction between law and narrative in the chapter. a. Theorizing Failure Ronald Grimes has provided a thorough catalog of the kinds of actions that can be construed as “ritual failure.”22 Using the language developed by Austin with regard to Speech-Act Theory, Grimes breaks these various types into two main categories, with smaller sub-types of each. The two major types are “misfires” and “abuses,” the main difference between them seemingly the intent of the participant who fails. In a misfire, wellmeaning participants violate the technicalities of the ritual performance. In the case of an abuse, the participant knowingly and deliberately transgresses ritual protocol.23 The interpretation of the Nadab and Abihu

1

21. Ibid., 69. 22. Grimes, “Ritual Criticism and Infelicitous Performances.” 23. Ibid., 284–85.


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event hinges on which of these two types one thinks is occurring. In order to sort out this issue, it will be helpful to consider the various subcategories of each, considering why an individual might fall into such error. Grimes himself makes the point, however, that such typology is just a beginning; it only provides a vocabulary for analysis.24 It may be that the Nadab and Abihu difficulty has elements of several of these under the surface. Types of misfire involve procedures that are either poorly planned or executed. They may involve incompetence by the ritual leaders or participants, or unforeseen complications. In either case, no actual culpability can be assigned to the participants, except for generally asserting that skilled ritualists should either know better or be better prepared for eventualities. They include the following: Nonplays. This type of “misinvocation” is when the ritual act itself is out of bounds because it does not exist in the ritual repertoire. Either the person has invented a ritual action on the spot, or borrowed them from another context, with the end that the action is not legitimate. Misapplications. A second type of misinvocation, this is when the rite is itself legitimate, but not in the time or manner of its execution. Either it is being performed in the incorrect time or place, or by the wrong person(s). Flaws. This “misexecution” is when the linguistic expressions or gestures in a ritual performance are incorrect. This is often a major preoccupation with ritual specialists, who are fearful of inadvertently “getting it wrong.” Hitches. This is a type of misexecution where the procedures are incomplete. Especially in rites related to liminality, not bringing the ritual to its required conclusion is an egregious error. 25 Also, ritual failure can be brought on by types of abuse. As opposed to the previous list, these cases implicate the ritual leaders and/or participants in willful error. They may include actions that are selfish or selfaggrandizing, but may just as likely involve laziness or lack of focus or gravitas. These ritual “abuses” include the following: Insincereties. This type of infelicity is difficult to assess and is of questionable significance. How much does the successful execution of a ritual action depend on the personal, emotional state of the participants? What if all technical requirements are met, but the people involved

24. Ibid., 289. 25. Ibid., 285–86.

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do not have the requisite “feelings” in the matter? Some rituals may succeed, while others may fail.26 Breaches. This cause of failure may flow directly from the previous one, for it involves broken pledges and contracts. A wedding of necessity may satisfy a formal, legal requirement for marriage, but if the parties subsequently discard the vows that have been made in the ceremony, the wedding may be considered a failed ritual. Again, this is an ambiguous situation.27 Grimes adds these final three categories to those of Austin: Glosses. A “gloss” is a procedure that covers over a weakness in the ritual moment, a kind of veneer that masks contradictions or other major problems. Grimes points out, of course, that one basic element of ritual is the glossing over of potential objections or infelicities. If that covering is too “thin,” and thus ineffective, or too “thick,” and thus socially unacceptable, the ritual will fail.28 flops. A “flop” in Grimes’ terminology involves the realm of dissatisfaction with the ritual moment. Procedurally the rite may have been performed flawlessly, by well-intentioned people, but for whatever reason the participants have not been grasped or affected in the intended way. Like the matter of ritual intentions discussed above, this is controversial and ambiguous. Does a ritual fail if it does not create the proper “mood” or emotional response among the participants? In some cases, though not all. Ineffectuality. Grimes includes this category specifically for the matter of “magical” ritual, itself a controversial topic. The magical element he has in mind is the notion that ritual should have observable effects on the world. Traditionally, magical rituals have been concerned with healing the sick, ensuring success in warfare or politics, or providing for agricultural blessing and the like. If a ritual is performed exactly as prescribed, 26. Consider, for example, a Christian baptism undertaken for the wrong reasons (fear, desire for social inclusion, etc.). Is that baptism “successful”? The person has fulfilled the outward requirements for membership in the church, but have the spiritual intentions of the ritual been realized? 27. Grimes, “Ritual Criticism and Infelicitous Performances,” 286. 28. Continuing the example of Christian baptism, everyone realizes that the best intentioned initiates will be imperfect members of the community. If the ritual, in calling for repentance and commitment to God, were to demand total adherence, then the ritual would be prone to failure. No one involved would believe that this requirement could be kept without breach. However, if the ritual imposed no obligation on the initiates and other participants (despite the reality of human failures) the ritual would fail for a lack of idealism, so to speak. 1


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by careful and skilled ritualists, and the intended effects are not observed, this may be considered the failure of the magical rite, its ineffectuality. 29 Even a ritual that ostensibly succeeds might still be construed as a failure if certain negative effects flow from it. Grimes enumerates a handful of ways in which ritual might succeed and yet fail at the same time. He uses the following terms: violation (the ritual transgresses a moral code), contagion (a rite succeeds but spills over its own boundaries, to detrimental effect), opacity (ritual that uses incomprehensible words or actions), defeat (where one ritual overturns or invalidates another), omission (where the ritual itself is not flawed, but it simply is not performed), and misframes (where the ritual is taken to be something other than what it is).30 The explanatory potential of Grime’s typology of ritual failure lies in its insistence on close observation of actions and results along with the intentions and feelings of the ritual participants. Although the inner experience of priests and worshippers is not always apparent, the prevailing idea in the biblical tradition is that such features are quite significant, and are as important as technically correct performance. The prophetic tradition makes this point explicitly, of course, and Micah goes so far as to declare that God desires inner commitment to the covenant in preference to the external performance of ritual (Mic 6:6–7). The Priestly writers would not go that far, to be sure, but the sentiment is clearly present, especially in the asham offering.31 As we come to the story of Nadab and Abihu, aspects of the ritual performance leading to failure come into relief in light of Grimes’s theoretical construction. When Nadab and Abihu bring incense before Yahweh in the Tent of Meeting, what was the nature of their ritual failure? First, it is not at all clear that the ritual itself has failed, in a strict sense. Their intention was to bring in sweet smelling smoke to Yahweh, which they did. The problem, of course, is that they do not survive. This might be described as a “hitch,” where the ritual is left uncompleted due to unforeseen circumstances. But what is the reason for this abortive ritual performance? Interpreters throughout the centuries have puzzled over this question. Using Austin’s terminology, the chief debate has been whether these two 29. Grimes, “Ritual Criticism and Infelicitous Performances,” 286. 30. Ibid., 287–88 31. This is part of the traditional scholarly contrast between the Ritual and the Prophetic traditions, which has emphasized the formality of the former and the authentic spirituality of the latter. One point of this study is to show the personal, spiritual and theological dimensions of worship in the Priestly tradition.

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young priests fell victim to a ritual misfire or ritual abuse.32 The narrative analysis above has suggested that chs. 8–10 represent the highest moment of ritual accomplishment since the giving of the commandments. Is it conceivable that Nadab and Abihu would undertake this ritual performance with insincerity, or that they would have willfully transgressed a clear ritual mandate, leading to a ritual breach of contract? If one sets aside the possibility of willful disobedience, what other possibilities remain? One explanation would be the fundamental incompetence of these two young, inexperienced priests. They are new priests, of course, but there is nothing in the text to suggest that they have been rushed into service prematurely. Indeed, the successful performance of the sacrificial offerings involved in their inauguration is intended to reassure the reader that the priests are fully instructed, prepared, and committed to the sensitive task at hand. If Nadab and Abihu were not either willfully disobedient or radically incompetent, the only other explanation is that the ritual system itself is basically flawed. Like the unwitting captain of a leaky vessel, were Nadab and Abihu doomed from the start? Was their ritual training misleading or irrelevant? Is there some element of deception or nefariousness in the ritualized relationships between God and humans that lead to their betrayal? These conclusions would represent too strong a reaction to this situation. The episode does, however, expose a pervasive element of ambiguity in the ritual system, one that has been suppressed and covered over by the preceding ritual instruction. By looking more carefully at the elements of ambiguity in this narrative, one discovers that the story reveals the subtle intertwining of ritual and narrative for the purpose of exposing and addressing the ambiguities inherent in divine– human relationships. b. Literary Analysis From a literary perspective, the brief story of Nadab and Abihu in Lev 10:1–7 disrupts the orderly flow of the inauguration ceremonies, upsets the smooth generational transition of priesthood from Aaron to his sons, and forces Moses to take emergency measures to contain the trouble.33 A careful reading reveals that this story exposes the constant need to fill in 32. Grimes argues that the story represents some sort of misfire, but what kind depends on whether the problem was with intention or procedure. He suggests that we might need a new sub-category of “contagion” to explain this story: “backfires.” See “Ritual Criticism and Infelicitous Performances,” 289–90. 33. An earlier version of this literary analysis of Lev 10 appeared in my essay, “Nadab and Abihu Attempt to Fill a Gap: Law and Narrative in Leviticus 10:1–7,” JSOT 96 (2001): 83–99. 1


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gaps of understanding, and reveals the inherent fragility of our attempts to do so. The genres of law and narrative interact in a desperate effort to resolve the fundamental ambiguity of our situation before the holy. The events in the story occur during the highest moment for the cult, the best chance that they will ever have for getting things just right. They have Moses present for careful instruction. The people are all looking on with anticipation and wonder, not wandering off to follow the other gods with their pagan rituals. The golden calf incident is like the memory of a bad dream, and they have the highest hopes of making a clean start. 34 Nadab and Abihu, however, step right into the consuming fire of Yahweh, sending Moses’s carefully laid plans into a tail-spin. The swift and mysterious destruction of these two leading priests, eldest sons of Aaron no less, strikes fear into the hearts of the remaining priests, and no doubt dread into the minds of the congregation. Since that initial moment of burning, observers of the scene have attempted to understand the fiery execution of these two men. The characters in the story, as well as readers of the text, have a stake in filling in the gaps and resolving the ambiguities that the text leaves open. Despite attempts to smooth over these difficulties, the seeds of fear and doubt have already been sown. This story does not merely have gaps that need to be filled; this story is itself about gap-filling and its attendant danger and frustration. (1) Presence and Absence. Nadab and Abihu each take a censer and place in it hot coals from a fire,35 put incense over the coals, and bring it into the presence of Yahweh. From the beginning of the story, the key movement of the action is toward hwhy ynp. The presence of God is the most dramatic and complicating factor in the narrative. The characters are motivated by their desire to be in the presence of God, and from the beginning we may wonder if they will be successful. We do not have any real reason to worry, however, because they have just experienced a powerful ceremony of installation. They are freshly minted, so to speak, and are beginning their new phase of service in the sanctuary of Yahweh. The first major gap concerns their reason for taking incense into the presence of Yahweh. Sweet smelling incense was offered by the priests twice a day on the inner altar (Exod 30), and once a year by the high priest as part of the Day of Atonement ritual (Lev 16).36 We do not know 34. The presence and enthusiasm of the people is indicated several places in Lev 9. See vv. 5, 22–24. 35. Jacob Milgrom clarifies that the “fire refers to the hot coals from the source” (Milgrom, I:597). 36. Ibid., I:597–98.

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what relationship Nadab and Abihu’s incense bears to these particular incense offerings. The text does not explicitly link their censing with any prescribed activity involving incense, but initially we have no real reason to feel uneasy with this gap. The details of the narrative seem innocuous enough: the two highest-ranking officials of the cult, after Moses and Aaron, are taking some incense and offering it before Yahweh. We do not know what particular kind of incense they are offering. The terms used in the other passages give more detail: Myms tr+q (“perfumed incense”) in Exod 30:7, and hqd Myms tr+q (“finely ground perfumed incense”) in Lev 16:12. However, the basic noun here is the same: tr+q. Therefore, there is no reason to assume that this is some special concoction of Nadab’s and Abihu’s own invention, or that they are engaging in any particularly offensive activity. After the initial statements, however, our suspicions are suddenly raised. What is hrz #)? What kind of fire could be called strange? There have been several attempts to identify the “strange” quality of the fire, all of them indicating that Nadab and Abihu (willfully or out of ignorance) violated a ritual convention. 37 A list of the major theories will suffice to demonstrate the difficulty of knowing the exact nature of this phrase. They may have offered at the wrong time of day, or from the wrong motives, or in an over-zealous manner because of the shouts of the people. Maybe they used the wrong procedure by not purifying themselves properly, by daring to enter the adytum, or by taking fire from a profane source. Perhaps they were bringing foreign incense used in pagan cults, or maybe they were not even priests at all! It has also been suggested that this story should be understood in connection with the sin of Aaron with the golden calf (Exod 32), as a counterpart to the rebellion of Korah (Num 16), or a cipher for the sin and punishment of Jereboam (1 Kgs 14–15). 38 The rabbis prove themselves superior in cleverness and creativity, as usual, by proposing a series of possible readings.39 In addition to prefiguring 37. For summaries of the history of interpretation, see ibid., I:633–35; Robert Kirschner, “The Rabbinic and Philonic Exegesis of the Nadab and Abihu Incident (Lev 10:1–6),” JQR 73 (1982–83): 375–93; Edward L. Greenstein, “Deconstruction and Biblical Narrative,” Prooftexts 9 (1989): 43–71; John C. Laughlin, “The ‘Strange Fire’ of Nadab and Abihu,” JBL 95 (1976): 559–65; Roland Gradwohl, “Das ‘Fremde Feuer’ von Nadab und Abihu,” ZAW 75–76 (1963–64): 288–96; and Watts, Ritual and Rhetoric, 98–103. 38. See David Damrosch, “Leviticus,” in The Literary Guide to the Bible (ed. Robert Alter and Frank Kermode; Cambridge, Mass.: Belknap, 1987), 66–77; Gerstenberger, Leviticus, 116–22. 39. See Milgrom, I:633–35; Kirschner, “Rabbinic and Philonic Exegesis,” 380–85. 1


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later interpretations, they suggest that the priests officiated while drunk, neglected to consult with each other or with Moses, did not wear the right garments, were childless, wanted to usurp Moses and Aaron, looked boldly at the divine presence, or thought arrogantly that no woman was equal to their status. Jacob Milgrom argues that the primary problem is that the priests are offering private incense.40 He puts much weight on small textual clues that point to differences between this practice and the official incense offerings. He points out that each one takes his censer, which can be interpreted to mean that the censers belong to the men themselves, and are therefore part of individual religious practices rather than the official cult. Also, the two priests take fire (that is, hot coals) and put it in the pans. They do not, however, take from the fire that was always burning upon the altar. Furthermore, the incense is not described as the sweet smelling variety used in the official rites, so therefore the mixture is their own special recipe and not the incense intended for official purposes. Thus, Milgrom argues that the key to the “strangeness” of the fire is that the priests are not operating within the official parameters of the cultic apparatus, and therefore their sin rests in their use of “unauthorized coals.”41 They use the coals from a fire source other than the one on the outer altar, one that was “profane” rather than “holy.” This interpretation of “strange fire” certainly has its merits. However, the facts in the story do not provide an unassailable basis for his reading. Much of his argument rests on precise expectations for the way that the language ought to appear but does not. For example, the assumption is that if the incense were really the proper kind, then the text would certainly use the full name for it. Further, if the two priests each take his pan, then that must mean that the pans belong to them personally. Finally, the text does not say that they take coals from the fire, so therefore the fire was from some illegitimate source. The fact that Milgrom must rely on evidence that is not there to explain the single clue that is there (hrz) illustrates most clearly that the gap resists being closed. Milgrom’s interpretation seems plausible, but he does not address the question of why Nadab and Abihu would perform such an “unauthorized” ritual. He does not answer this question because it is not important to his thesis. Milgrom argues that the point of the story was to outlaw all 40. Milgrom, I:596–98, 628–35. He surmises that the authors of the story wrote this invective against private incense offerings because such were easily penetrated by worship of other gods. 41. Milgrom translates the hrz #) in comparison with the “unauthorized incense” (hrz tr+q) of Exod 30:9, 37. See Milgrom, I:598.

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private incense offerings. He writes that this story “was a perpetual reminder and threat to anyone else who would use hrz #),” particularly any non-priests using it in their private worship. 42 By reducing the passage to its pedagogical intent or historical reference, this kind of reading ignores the subtle narrative dynamics in the story. Given our discussion of ambiguity and negotiation in ritualized narratives, the obscure motives of Nadab and Abihu become very important. What are the desires, needs, and concerns of these two priests? To what extent is their ritual performance guided by clear and complete instructions, and how much room do they have to appropriate their own meanings and negotiate their place in the ritual world? Interpreters of this narrative need the answer to these questions, but the narrative ends abruptly with the priests’ deaths. It seems that they do not have as much room for personal negotiation as they need, that their desires and needs are not met in their ritual performance after all. In the face of this uncertainty, the interpreter is reduced to speculation. So, why do Nadab and Abihu take up that unauthorized incense? There are essentially three options: they were either ignorant, careless, or malicious. Do they use coals from outside the holy precinct because they do not know any better, or because they are taking a ritual shortcut, and think that it would not make any difference? Or, worst of all, perhaps they know that this action is wrong and decide to do it anyway, out of some wicked desire to transgress God’s command. The last of these seems unlikely, since there is no indication in the story that they act out of willful disobedience. In his discussion of the reparation offering, Milgrom refers to the Nadab and Abihu incident as an example of “deliberate sacrilege against sancta.”43 However, there is no command that would have helped the priests avoid this fateful error. If there is no command to be broken, then their actions cannot be willful disobedience of God’s command.44 The second possibility, that they are careless, is almost as problematic. Considering the scene that has just transpired at the end of Lev 9, Nadab and Abihu would have to be terribly foolish to 42. Ibid., I:631. 43. Ibid., I:355. 44. The verses that Milgrom cites to indicate why this fire was so “unauthorized,” Num 17:5; Exod 30:9, 37; and Lev 16:2, are of little help to Nadab and Abihu. The Korah episode has not taken place yet, and in any case Korah’s incense offering was rejected because he was an unauthorized person. Nadab and Abihu were certainly authorized. The Exodus verses warn against unauthorized incense mixtures, saying nothing about the source of the fire. Finally, Aaron specifically takes fire from the altar for his incense offering in Lev 16, but this is the first time that such a prescription has been given, and one might chalk it up as a hard-learned lesson. 1


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approach their priestly service lightly. They have just witnessed an aweinspiring scene in which fire comes forth from an altar and consumes the burnt offering. In light of this fresh memory, would not the priests be extra careful to do things exactly correctly? There is a fine line between careless and reckless, and given the recent narrative events, it is hard to imagine the priests being too casual about their duties. This leaves the possibility that they are ignorant, acting out of a lack of information, which is the most distressing of these possibilities. If Nadab and Abihu act without malice or negligence, but are killed anyway, without warning, what does that say about the reliability of ritual knowledge? While the “strange fire” leaves us wondering so many things about these priests and their activity, this enigmatic phrase may be made clearer by the explanatory phrase that follows: Mt) hwc )l r#), “which he had not commanded them.” This phrase, however, is not itself very easy to decipher.45 Who is doing the commanding? Who is receiving the command? Finally, what is implied here, a certain kind of command or the absence of a command? Commentators have generally assumed that there exists a specific command that Nadab and Abihu violate by bringing their incense offering. The text explicitly says, however, that there is no command particularly relevant to this incense offering. They perform something that he had not commanded them. This is quite different from other formulations that describe disobedience, such as Lev 26:14: “If you will not obey me, and do not observe all these commandments.” This formula refers to specific commandments that are willfully broken, but the language in Lev 10:1 is quite different. We might interpret the priests to be operating in a realm in which no command of God is pertinent. 46 The recipient of the hwc )l could be the priests in general or specifically the two priests here. This choice does in fact make a difference. If Nadab and Abihu are the specific recipients of the non-command, then the source must be Moses, since we do not find Yahweh speaking directly to any of the priests under Moses and Aaron.47 45. Timothy Beal and Tod Linafelt offer a rather speculative reading of this phrase in “Sifting for Cinders: Strange Fires in Leviticus 10:1–5,” Semeia 69–70 (1995): 24–28. They read this phrase as referring to child sacrifice. Their reading, however, is more of a commentary on Derrida than on this text. 46. Note, however, Watts’s view that this “negative command” is an intentional variation on the normal refrain “as the Lord had commanded,” which has the rhetorical effect of a “thunderclap, an aural shock” (Watts, Ritual and Rhetoric, 106). 47. This is an example of a gap in the story that is filled for the sake of interpretation. Each reader will have certain gaps that are filled while others are left open.

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If Moses is the source of the non-commandment, then the issue is one of rebellion against Mosaic authority. Moses can be negligent at times (e.g. in Lev 10:16), and so we should not immediately blame the priests involved. Further, if it is a matter of usurping Moses’s prerogative to administer the sacrifices, this still does not provide an explanation for the events to follow. Second, the priests as a group may be the recipients of the command, which would probably make Yahweh the lawgiver. In this reading, there is no command that specifically authorizes or prohibits the priests’ incense offering here. How can Yahweh hold the priests responsible for transgressing a law that he has not yet given them? The real problem for Nadab and Abihu is the absence of Yahweh’s word or command. The priests prepare their incense offering and “bring it near (brq) unto Yahweh.” The text gives us no indication that they know their incense to be inherently wrong, but the narrator does tell us two facts about the offering. First, the offering uses strange fire, which seems to have an indeterminate meaning. Second, they bring an offering that Yahweh has not explicitly commanded. Therefore the priests are living within a gap. In the absence of Yahweh’s word they seek the presence of Yahweh, but the narrator has alerted us that they are acting within a lacuna in the legislation. There is no explicit prohibition of this activity. For the priests (and others working within gaps) is this comforting or threatening? In the next verse (Lev 10:2) we see that the priests do in fact encounter the presence of Yahweh. However, instead of experiencing the Mynp of Yahweh, they only feel the presence as an #) coming forth from the Mynp. The language in vv. 1 and 2 reveals the irony regarding what they seek and what they actually find. In the absence of Yahweh, they bring #) hwhy ynpl, but find instead that presence through hwhy ynplm #). The fire comes forth from Yahweh and consumes “them,” the same “them” that Yahweh has previously not commanded. Therefore, God has been the subject of only two verbs, one of which seems particularly appropriate within the priestly worldview and one that does not. Yahweh consumes (“eats”) the two priests just as the fire had consumed the offering in 9:24. The difference, however, is crucial. Instead of consuming hl(h, the fire consumes Mt). The destruction by Yahweh of the two ranking priests is even starker, however, in light of the only other action by Yahweh so far, “not commanding” (v. 1). This action is more like a non-action than a particular activity. The absence of Yahweh is height-

Even when choosing a particular reading, however, one should recognize the ambiguity often resident in such gaps. 1


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ened in the text, which speaks without a specific nominal agent for the verb (hwc). The Greek provides the noun, ku&rioj, which clears up the ambiguity but also makes Yahweh present here in a way that he is not in the MT. Milgrom, similarly, restores the Tetragrammaton as the subject of this verb.48 The LXX and Milgrom both bring the presence of Yahweh into the text where he is absent. Nadab and Abihu themselves finally face the presence of Yahweh. They bring an offering before Yahweh (ynpl hwhy), and encountering the presence in the form of fire, they die before Yahweh (hwhy ynpl). There are gaps in the story, and when we pay close attention to these gaps by refusing to close them quickly or easily, we discover that they exist for Nadab and Abihu themselves. The priests are not violating a specific commandment set forth by Yahweh. In fact, they are living within the gap, searching for the presence of Yahweh. They unfortunately discover that they are not prepared to find what they seek. (2) Dangerous Sanctification. After these events, we move to the center of the passage. Previously, the command of God was absent and this led to grave consequences. Now Yahweh speaks through Moses and seemingly provides an explanation for the events that have just occurred. Moses’s introduction to the speech supposedly tells the reader how Yahweh’s words explain the events that have just transpired. Moses says, hwhy rbd-r#) )wh (Lev 10:3). It is not clear, however, to what antecedent the )wh refers. Does it only refer to the speech? (This is what Yahweh said.) Or does it refer back to some part of the event in order to illustrate the meaning of Yahweh’s words when he spoke? Did Yahweh ever speak such words in the past? The words are not a quote of any divine speech that we have in the text. Or, as some rabbis and Milgrom have suggested, perhaps Moses is giving a new word of Yahweh for this immediate situation.49 If this is the case, the command of Yahweh that he had not given before is now implied in these new words spoken through Moses. The presence of Yahweh that had eluded and then consumed the priests now appears, speaking words through Moses. But what kind of words are they? Yahweh says that through (in or by) his ybrq, he will be glorified, #dq). The first word means that he will use the ones who are near to him. According to Milgrom, this term is a permanent title for priests who may approach the presence of Yahweh directly. It has an analogous meaning in Akkadian, referring to a privileged member of a royal court.50 In this case, the speech refers to the priestly class. 48. Milgrom, I:598–99. 49. Ibid., I:600. 50. Ibid., I:600–601.

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However, we have very recently encountered two priests bringing near (brqh) their offering before Yahweh. Thus, the words have something to do with the specific actions and punishment of Nadab and Abihu. The niphal verb of #dq may mean either that Yahweh will be sanctified or that Yahweh will sanctify himself. There is much at stake in the choice of meanings here, particularly with reference to the role of the people in sanctifying God.51 In either case, however, the deaths of Nadab and Abihu serve the larger purpose of sanctifying Yahweh. It seems that the deaths of these two priests have not been in vain after all. By calling attention to the swift way that Yahweh responds to any violation of his sanctity, they have actually participated in the sanctification of Yahweh. In the second part of his speech, Yahweh says, “before all the people, I will be glorified (dbk)).” There are similar problems with the passive form of this verb, but the structures are in parallel, so the meaning here is closely related to that of the first. What is different here is the mention of the people. They are the onlookers who have witnessed these activities (cf. 9:24), and in some way they have witnessed the glorification of Yahweh. The principle at stake here, whatever it may be, does not concern only the priests, but also has implications for the people and how they view Yahweh. It seems that the public nature of the glorification helps to explain the sanctification in the first part of the doublet. Milgrom writes, “The deaths of God’s intimate priests, Nadab and Abihu, perform the function of sanctifying God—providing awe and respect for his power to all who witness the incident or who will subsequently learn of it.”52 The sanctification and glorification of Yahweh has something to do with Yahweh’s status among the people.53 In any event, Moses presents this speech of Yahweh as some sort of explanation of the preceding events, but it comes across mainly as a double threat. Both the near-ones and the congregation stand in the same tenuous situation that Nadab and Abihu confront. Because there are gaps in their comprehension of the holy, they must reckon with the fate of Nadab and Abihu as a possible outcome. In this speech the presence of Yahweh comes to Aaron, but it is 51. See Lev 20:3; 22:2. The people’s disobedience actually profanes the name of Yahweh. The adherence of the people to the holiness laws seems to have implications for Yahweh as well as for the people. This is one of the central points in Chapter 5, below. 52. Milgrom, I:602. He points out an interesting parallel in Ezek 28:22. 53. The references to the actual profanation of Yahweh in the Holiness Code point in this same direction. There are similar indications in the laws regarding the priests and their families in Lev 21. On the theology of the Holiness Code, see Knohl, The Sanctuary of Silence; and Robert Kugler, “Holiness, Purity, the Body, and Society: The Evidence for Theological Conflict in Leviticus,” JSOT 76 (1997): 3–27. 1


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not a comforting word. It helps very little in rationalizing the events that have happened, but only sows further seeds of doubt. In the face of this, Aaron is silent. Therefore, the speech by Yahweh does not close any of the gaps in the story. We could say that Nadab and Abihu are destroyed because they violate the rules of God’s holiness. That is certainly true. The problem is, however, that we do not know what all of those rules are. Nadab and Abihu offer their incense and are killed, while the only tangible reason is that Yahweh had not commanded them to do so. There is always the threat of making some inadvertent transgression of the holiness of Yahweh, and then one may or may not be spared. The severity of the mishap does not seem to correlate with the degree of punishment. 54 As the priest approaches the daunting task of attending to the sanctuary, gaps and ambiguities threaten to unravel the whole enterprise. After this speech the presence of Yahweh recedes from the story, and Moses steps into the primary role. (3) Filling in the Gaps. The first thing that Moses must do is deal with the aftermath of the consuming fire. He contains the situation and creates a way that the evidence can be disposed of without bringing further destruction on the people. He calls forward two of the kinsmen of the slain priests and directs them to put the evidence of Yahweh’s consuming fire outside the camp (Lev 10:4). They should banish all of the nagging remnants of their encounter with the unknown, and thus bury their fear and doubts with the pollution of the dead bodies. 55 Moses tells the men, Mishael and Elzaphan, to go near (wbrq) and take up the remains of the slain priests. After Nadab and Abihu have brought their incense near (byrqh), and after Yahweh has declared that he will be sanctified through his near-ones (ybrq), this seems like an astonishing request. The events around Nadab and Abihu call into question the safety of being one of Yahweh’s near ones. Yahweh has not explicitly commanded that this 54. For example, the priests in Lev 10:16–20 do not receive such a punishment for a severe mishap. 55. This interpretation of the burial scene does not dispute the fact that burial removes the impure bodies from the holy area. Purity is certainly an important and pressing issue in this scene. Their anxiety about the situation and their attention to the demands of purity, however, are motivated to a large degree by concern for their own survival. Disposing of the bodies is technically required, but it also would be a great emotional relief. There is no account here of the purification of the area after the bodies have been removed. This shows that the narrative is not simply focused on the technical requirements of purity. The burial also serves an important narrative role—the expeditious removal of this disturbing carnage.

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procedure should be done in this way, although clearly it does need to be done. Yahweh has receded from the narrative completely, and now only Moses speaks and directs the priests. With the presence of Moses and his commands, are the people safe? The kinsmen muster up the courage to perform this task and they fortunately escape harm themselves (Lev 10:5). It is interesting that there are still remains to be removed, because the narrator tells us that the fire consumes the priests. Even stranger is the notion that their tunics are still there. There are so many details missing in this narrative, it is somewhat frustrating that the narrator chooses to tell us that they are buried with their tunics. Philo infers that the tunics are still there because Nadab and Abihu had taken them off before entering the sancta.56 The rabbis reasoned that the fire had entered their bodies through the nose and consumed them from the inside out, leaving their clothes. Milgrom has suggested that the mention of the tunics reflects a professional disagreement about whether a priest’s clothing maintains contagious holiness after contact with the holy. 57 It is interesting that interpreters feel that they must interpret this detail fully. Here the ambiguity in the narrative works not through omission, but through the inclusion of an enigmatic note. When Moses tells the men how to dispose of the bodily remains, it is only the beginning of a flurry of legal activity. Moses proceeds to give Aaron’s sons some specific instructions about their need to refrain from mourning (Lev 10:6). Yahweh tells Aaron that he and his sons should not drink while ministering, and that they should teach the people to separate the clean and unclean, the holy and profane (10:8–11). 58 Moses also gives instructions about the ritual consumption of sacrifices (10:12–15), which has an ominous tone after the previous events. After an interlude for ritual practice rather than instruction (chs. 8–9), the deaths of Nadab 56. See Kirschner, “Rabbinic and Philonic Exegesis,” 385–91. Philo writes that the priests had stripped their tunics off and zealously presented their naked bodies before Yahweh so that their souls could be freed by beneficent fire: “It is thus that the priests Nadab and Abihu die in order that they may live, receiving an incorruptible life in exchange for mortal existence, and being translated from the created to the uncreated. Over them a proclamation is uttered betokening immortality, ‘They died before the Lord’ (Lev 10:2), that is, ‘They came to life,’ for a corpse may not come into God’s presence” (De Allegoriis Legum II:15, quoted in Kirschner, “Rabbinic and Philonic Exegesis,” 386). 57. Milgrom, I:606. 58. This is the only time that Yahweh actually speaks in this chapter. The fact that Yahweh speaks (to Aaron) here heightens the dramatic tension with regard to what Yahweh has and has not spoken to Moses and to the priests. 1


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and Abihu have triggered a new round of lawgiving. The instructions continue beyond this chapter into the next section of the book (chs. 11– 15) concerning the laws of purity.59 Leviticus 16, about purification of the sanctuary, comes as a direct result of the Nadab and Abihu incident (16:1). Chapters 17–26 define more clearly the nature of Yahweh’s holiness. In the narrative context of the book, the laws following this story fill in the gaps that still plague their understanding of how to stand before the holy. How do you guard yourself against a real possibility of consumption when you are not sure what causes it? In the face of ambiguity and fear of the unknown, Moses establishes a law code that seeks to provide added security and protection from the dreadful presence of Yahweh.60 However, the seeds of doubt have already been sown. There have been many different attempts to provide a conceptual understanding of the “holy.” It could be the awe-inspiring, mysterium tremendum (Otto), the dangerous force contained by the cult (Douglas), or the fundamental principles that order and give life to the community (Durkheim).61 The law is often seen as an instrument that enables one to approach the holy, and this is true to a large degree. In the story of Nadab and Abihu, however, underneath the cultic apparatus is a sense of fear and doubt, with a nagging awareness of ambiguity and its dangers. These are the necessary precautions that one must use when the holy is living in a tent in the middle of the camp. This story, moreover, reveals the weaknesses of this apparatus. The cult must account for the sinfulness and possible ignorance of the people and of the priests, but it also must live with the fear that its armor is not total. Many have seen the story of Nadab and Abihu as the story of ritual error caused by disobeying a ritual 59. The purity regulations are spoken by Yahweh to Moses and Aaron, with the instruction that they are to pass them along to the people. Yahweh speaks to Moses alone in 12:1 and 14:1 (but compare 14:33). 60. The scenes of lawgiving alternate between Moses speaking his own words to the people (presumably, for example, in Lev 8:6–7 and 12–15) and Yahweh speaking words to Moses (and/or Aaron) that are to be relayed to the people. From the perspective of the people, however, the effect is the same. The authority of Moses and Aaron is firmly grounded in their access to the revelatory words of Yahweh. Thus, anything they say to the people must be taken as binding. The focus of this argument is not whether the words of Moses are (authentically) from Yahweh or (illegitimately) from his own reasoning. The point is that the lawgiving unfolds within the narrative, and that each new moment of lawgiving ironically raises doubts about the comprehensiveness of their ritual knowledge. 61. See Rudolf Otto, The Idea of the Holy (trans. John W. Harvey, London: Oxford University Press, 1958); Douglas, Purity and Danger; and Emile Durkheim, The Elementary Forms of Religious Life (New York: Free Press, 1995).

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requirement.62 The message then would be that the system is sound, and sinful people get what they deserve: “Beware all you priests…follow these instructions carefully and you will be successful.” However, this version of events rings more like propaganda than true explanation. From the literary analysis above, the extent to which the characters willfully disobey is questionable, and the narrative suggests that the real problem is some lack of knowledge on the priests’ part. If this is the case, the ritual system itself is suspect, because the leaders and worshippers cannot know when another unexpected problem will arise. If there are things that Yahweh has not commanded, we still need to fill in those gaps. Nadab and Abihu show that when we try to fill in the gaps of our protection against the holy, sometimes we expose the chink in our armor. c. Law and Narrative This story is pertinent to the discussion of law and narrative on both literary and hermeneutical levels. On a literary level, the law in Leviticus can be seen as the priests’ attempt to come to terms with their fear and apprehension about dealing with the holy. This fear is concretely related to the holy God who has delivered them from slavery in Egypt and has revealed himself to the people on the mountain at Sinai. Their apprehension is not simply before “the holy,” but rather before holy Yahweh. It is rooted in specific experiences in which the people and priests come into dangerously close contact with Yahweh and realize the limits of their understanding. When the priests must minister in the presence of Yahweh, it is very important that they have complete instructions about how to conduct themselves during that process. Their instructions, however, can never be totally complete. Also, the story of Nadab and Abihu suggests that they should not expect to be able to plead ignorance or 62. Again, the question remains, why would they disobey a requirement? In this ritual context, the difference between carelessness and sinfulness is one of degrees. It is true that inadvertent sin is handled a bit more leniently with regard to the purification offering (Lev 4:2, 13, 22, 27). However, the build-up of impurity on the altar from Israelite sins is relatively gradual, and they can afford to be lenient. When it comes to direct and instantaneous defilement of the sacred, intentionality is irrelevant. See Deborah Sunoo, “God Bursts Forth: Unexpected Disruptions in the Narrative Landscape of the Hebrew Bible” (Ph.D. diss., Princeton Theological Seminary, 1999), who examines (in addition to Lev 10) the narratives about God’s attempted killing of Moses (Exod 4:24–26) and the death of Uzzah when he saved the Ark from tumbling to the ground (2 Sam 6:3–11). David was understandably upset with God for that last event, and afraid to bring the Ark into this vicinity. Compare as well James Crenshaw, A Whirlpool of Torment: Israelite Traditions of God as an Oppressive Presence (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1984). 1


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misunderstanding. They are never guaranteed to be eligible for probation, leniency, or clemency. The “gaps” are inevitable but have the gravest consequences. The law, therefore, is an attempt to “fill in” the gaps as much as possible. The flurry of activity on Moses’s part at the end of Lev 10 as well as the law collections in the following sections function as the rounding off of gaps in their preparation. This rounding off, however, is never complete and always maintains a hypothetical character. These are the provisions in certain circumstances, but one never knows what additional circumstances may arise that will not be covered within the system. The literary gap-filling does not function in only one direction. After the narrator has told us of the swift destruction of Nadab and Abihu, Moses says, “This is what Yahweh was talking about when he said…” (Lev 10:3). The narrative functions on a literary level as a piece of evidence that helps fill in gaps in our understanding of the cultic law. In his speech, Yahweh reminds the people that the important thing is that he be sanctified and glorified. His speech does not make the story any easier to understand, but it does cause the hearers and readers to contemplate the principles of holiness at the root of the cultic system. The deaths of Nadab and Abihu function at a level deeper than our own understanding, and despite the opacity of the events, Yahweh reaffirms that there is a deep principle at work here. This is a somewhat different point from E. Greenstein’s view that this passage asserts Yahweh’s “unpredictability and autonomy.”63 He argues that the cultic system “reassures” that pollution can be purified, and “renders God normative and predictable.” 64 Through these inexplicable actions, “Yahweh breaks up the orderliness to show that he is above/beyond the cultic order.”65 It is true that the cultic order cannot contain the sheer magnificence of Yahweh’s transcendence. However, one should not reduce the cultic system to a “veneer” intended to hide the “inscrutable Other.”66 First, the cultic participants are more aware of the problem than Greenstein admits. Indeed, the apparatus is necessary and continues to grow because of their realization that the system contains gaps that always leave them vulnerable to destruction. Second, the cultic system struggles with God’s otherness while still affirming that there is some degree of order within the seeming chaos. Yahweh reminds the people that the problem is not that there is disorder in his divinity. The problem is that the limited understanding and ability of humans can only take a few steps toward comprehending the true 63. 64. 65. 66.

Greenstein, “Deconstruction,” 63. Ibid. Ibid., 64. Ibid.

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reality, with its blessings and dangers. The narrative not only exposes the depth of the problem; it also motivates them to think more about the limitations of their cultic system. The narrative events in the first part of Lev 10 lead Moses (and us) to contemplate the meaning of sanctification and glorification, and this reflection leads to positive statements about what purity (chs. 11–15) and holiness (chs. 17–26) are really about. The narrative has exposed certain gaps, and this leads to further constructive reflection, even if it is always provisional and ongoing. The second level at which law and narrative interact is more hermeneutical in nature. The relationship between these two is an important factor in how we interpret difficult passages in the Bible, and has important implications for the process of interpretation in general. A prominent practice among interpreters of the Bible is to use one genre of literature in order to provide a firm foundation for the interpretation of other, more problematic genres. Some readers tend to privilege the narrative in the Pentateuch, and often they ignore the legal collections completely or regard them as peripheral to the central concerns of the Pentateuch. A better method is to interpret the legal material as a reflection of specific problems that arise in the narrative.67 For example, the laws regarding the inheritance of property in Numbers are in their current position because the people are about to enter the promised land and need to know how to divide their inheritance. 68 This approach uses the story world created by the narrative to fill in the gaps in our legal knowledge. Other interpreters use the legal codes to explain specific developments in the narrative. Leviticus 10 is a perfect example of this tendency since almost every commentator has attempted to find the hermeneutical key within a certain legal standard that has been transgressed. A growing trend in legal scholarship is to coordinate interpretive 67. This is similar to the position taken to the extreme by Calum Carmichael in Law and Narrative in the Bible. The argument here, although concerned with the issue of law and narrative, does not advance the kind of tradition-historical conclusions advocated by Carmichael. Another scholar working in this area is closer to the position taken here. Nanette Stahl in Law and Liminality in the Bible argues that law appears at certain “liminal” moments within the narrative of Israel’s history. At these decisive turning points (such as creation, the flood, and Sinai) law and narrative both reflect the “dialogic tension” experienced in Israel’s relationship with God. Stahl’s chapter on the Sinai theophany is an excellent discussion of the tension within Israel’s desired intimacy with God, yet required distance from God (Stahl, Law and Liminality, 52). See Chapter 2, above. 68. See Dennis T. Olson, The Death of the Old and the Birth of the New: The Framework of the Book of Numbers and the Pentateuch (BJS 71; Chico, Calif.: Scholars Press, 1985), 174–77. 1


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problems in the biblical narratives with specific legal requirements. The assumption is that we are able to use the legal material to fill in gaps of information in our problematic narratives. On a hermeneutical level, this analysis shows that both law and narrative have unavoidable gaps and ambiguity, and this often poses serious problems for interpretation. The hermeneutical process must be a complex interaction among the different levels within the literature, never a unilateral movement from one genre to the next. Furthermore, although unique problems arise when working with each genre, both function with the rules and limits of all communication. In the modern discussion, this issue is a point of debate between Stanley Fish and Richard Posner. 69 Posner is a legal scholar and judge who has spent some time reflecting on the similarities and differences between law and literature as distinct genres of literary production. Although he concedes that there are some interesting areas of comparison, law and literature are fundamentally different because legal language is (among other things) non-ambiguous, non-rhetorical, scientific, and neutral, while literature is the opposite of all of these.70 Fish counters that all language is rhetorical and ambiguous. He writes that “[the] difference between science and law, on the one hand, and literary criticism, on the other, is not the difference between rhetoric (or style) and something else, but between the different rhetorics that are powerful in the precincts of different disciplines.”71 There are many implications of this statement, but one is that neither the law nor the narrative provides an objective foundation for interpreting difficult texts.72 When we uncover the specific rhetorical devices that are operating within the texts (including gaps and ambiguity), then we are in a better position to see how they may interpret each other. In conclusion, the story of Nadab and Abihu does not just have gaps. It is about gaps and how we deal with them. This leads to some interesting conversation with the work of Meir Sternberg. Sternberg asserts that

69. See Stanley Fish, “Don’t Know Much About the Middle Ages: Posner on Law and Literature,” in Doing What Comes Naturally: Change, Rhetoric, and the Practice of Theory in Literary and Legal Studies (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 1989), 294–311; and Richard Posner, Law and Literature: A Misunderstood Relation (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press 1988). 70. See Fish, “Don’t Know Much,” 296–97. 71. Ibid., 298. 72. Another interesting issue is the question of “scientific” models for interpretation. Models such as structuralism, historical criticism, or even deconstruction, have explanatory power to the extent that their rhetoric is persuasive to the audience hearing the interpretation.

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ambiguity and gaps are standard features of all narratives.73 A clever reader will be able to discern the interplay of ambiguous elements, but the ambiguity will not hinder the path toward proper interpretation. He argues that the more opaque the plot is, the more transparent the judgment.74 Readers can “luxuriate” in the ambiguity of a passage,75 but the reader who misses it will still “get the point.”76 Sternberg has a high degree of confidence in the biblical narrator’s ability to lead its readers to the proper conclusion. “The wilder the play, in short, the wider the margin of safety.”77 The point of Lev 10 is that even when there is incredible ambiguity, there is no margin of safety! This story breaks through the easy assumption that understanding the narrative can be a simple, or even a safe, process. The ambiguity in a story is not always constructive, but can be destructive. Nadab and Abihu learn the “point” when they stumble right through a gap, but they do not have any room to “luxuriate” in the process. Understanding is difficult and meaning is elusive, but sometimes these matters are deathly serious. Nadab and Abihu cannot just ignore the gap created by the non-command of Yahweh. Moses and the priests around him feel the acute need to sort out these events and to implement some way of dealing with the ambiguity that they see. Finally, contemporary readers in politically charged situations do not have the “luxury” to enjoy the narrative play of a clever gap or ambiguity. Filling in gaps is always necessary, never complete, and sometimes quite dangerous. 3. A Crucial Day: Leviticus 16 This discussion of ritual failure raises well the central issues found in Lev 16, narrating the “Day of Atonement” ritual. This title derives from v. 30, “For on this day atonement shall be made for you to purify you; from all your sins you shall be purified before the Lord.” 78 From a literary perspective, the rituals outlined in Lev 16 are necessary because of what happened to Nadab and Abihu in Lev 10. The pollution of the 73. See Meir Sternberg, The Poetics of Biblical Narrative: Ideological Literature and the Drama of Reading (Bloomington: Indiana University, 1985). Sternberg is not interested here in the legal material. In fact, he never even cites Leviticus. 74. Ibid., 54. 75. Ibid., 228. 76. Ibid., 234. 77. Ibid. 78. The term rpk is better translated “purgation” to emphasize the ritual meaning of the term over broader notions of sin and forgiveness. 1


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sancta, both by their illegitimate offering and by their corpse contamination, has now revealed the need for some way to purify the holy precinct from impurities that accrue. In the last chapter we saw how regular impurities would build up in everyday life (birth, death, sex, illness, etc.) and could “stick to” the altar, thus requiring a variety of purification offerings. Certainly there had to be some systematic way to cleanse these things from the holy precincts, but the tragic events of Lev 10 turn this theoretical question into one of immediate import. Leviticus 16 does not merely lay out the ritual prescriptions for future purification of the sanctuary. It narrates Aaron’s future performance of those rituals in response to the impurity resulting from his sons’ misguided actions. There are two details that complicate this situation. First, the initial warning is that Aaron should not come “just any time” (t(-lkb) into the inner sanctum; only “thus” (t)zb) should he come, following the prescriptions laid out in the following text (Lev 16:2–3). This pair of statements do not work very well together. What does it mean that Aaron should not come at just any time, but only in this prescribed manner? The text should have said either “Aaron should not come in just any manner into the inner sanctum, but only like this,” or “Aaron should not come just any time into the inner sanctum, but only in this time.” At the end of the chapter, however, we do find a temporal requirement that Aaron should perform these rituals “in the seventh month, on the tenth day of the month,” that is, the tenth of Tishri (Lev 16:29). So, does this text narrate an emergency procedure required by the (sinful) deaths of Nadab and Abihu, or does it provide ritual prescriptions for a strictly timed once-per-year observance? Milgrom argues from a source-critical perspective that Lev 16 originally was placed just after Lev 10 and that the editors incorporated a (pre-existing) prescription for sanctuary purgation.79 These two narratives were interrupted by chs. 11–15 because it is helpful to define the purity guidelines before presenting rituals that purge impurities from the sanctuary and the people. The final stage occurred when Leviticus was put together as a whole and edited finally by the Holiness tradents. At this stage redactors added the final paragraph to the chapter (vv. 29–34) in which the command is for the purgation rituals to take place annually on the tenth of Tishri. Importantly, in this section the focus shifts away from Aaron alone to the people as a whole. They now have a responsibility to discipline themselves by fasting and refraining from work, and are explicitly listed among the beneficiaries of the ritual action, as atonement/ purgation occurs for the benefit of the sanctuary, the Tent of Meeting, the 79. Milgrom, I:1061–65.

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altar, the priests and all of the people.80 In later tradition, the rites in Lev 16 were identified with the “Day of Atonement” (Lev 23:27, 28; 25:29; Num 29:11). What this multi-layered source development has created is a text that walks a fine line between traditional descriptive narrative and ritual prescription. It is at the same time a narrative of Aaron’s emergency purgation and a table of rituals for an annual sacrificial performance. While it is true that the later tradents have transformed the meaning and significance of the chapter, they have not completely obfuscated or transformed the original literary focus. In fact, the editors have benefited greatly from that natural narrative setting; Aaron performs the ritual the first time, which gives it validity, and does so in a ritually charged setting of great danger. Nothing could emphasize the importance and efficacy of the sanctuary purgation more than having it performed the first time with live ammunition, so to speak. There is nothing about Aaron’s actions here that could be construed as a “dry run.” From the first, the reader pays careful attention to what is commanded and what is done. In Lev 16, then, we find an elegant example of the literary genre of Leviticus as a whole. The telling of this story, with Aaron, Moses and the people as characters, becomes a prescriptive example for future actors to follow. At the same time, the catalog of ritual actions (which is possibly an independent, pre-existent text) has become grounded within the narrative setting and literary world of the text. Aaron’s performance of the purgation ritual is “historical,” mythical, literary, and dogmatic. The ritual and narrative generic elements have transformed each other to create something unique. A careful reading of this chapter reveals this subtle generic interaction at work. The result is a text that ritualizes the narrative, linking a story rooted in the distant past into a ritual world of timeless actors and actions. From the beginning, the story emphasizes the dangerous nature of this day for Aaron because he must make multiple entries into the Holy of Holies.81 To make this action possible, Aaron is screened by a cloud. Verse 2 says, “He shall not come just at any time into the holy place inside the curtain, before the covering that is on the ark, or he shall die. 80. Milgrom writes, “kippûr is achieved no longer by purging the sanctuary whenever there is an emergency (vv 2–28) but only at the fixed annual date, when it is accompanied by the people’s abstention from work and self-denial (vv 29–33)” (I:1059). 81. This chapter is idiosyncratic in the Priestly corpus in that it refers to the inner sanctum as the #dq, rather than using the normal term My#dqh #dq, the “holy of holies.” 1


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For in a cloud I will appear on the covering.” The “cloud” in this verse could refer to incense burned by Aaron later in the chapter or to the divine cloud, the visual representation of God’s glory that appeared to the people in the camp and settled on the Ark when God was instructing Moses. Milgrom points out that the rabbis were split on this issue, but he himself prefers the idea of incense.82 In this case, however, the cloud of incense does not serve a merely functional purpose to shield the holy objects from Aaron’s view. Yahweh says that he will appear in that cloud, which puts the Day of Purgation ritual with Aaron on par with Moses’s revelatory experiences of God’s presence in the cloud upon the Ark (Exod 25.22; Num 7:89). In Leviticus, the voice of God emanates from the inner sanctum, coming to Moses primarily, but overheard by Aaron, his sons, and the rest of the congregation. Thus, Aaron’s experience of God’s presence upon the Ark on this day is unique and special. One thorny problem remains, however. Aaron is instructed to go into the inner sanctum in vv. 12–13 and burn incense in order to create a cloud (to mask his view of the ark). This may have been the single greatest moment of danger for Aaron, since it is not clear how a person can enter the sanctum and perform this rite without catching a glimpse of the Ark in the center of the space. The text clearly assumes that Aaron will be able to perform this delicate procedure safely, but in light of recent tragic events, his initial entrance into the Holy of Holies gives the reader pause. Even if the room was pitch black, some light would have filtered in when the curtain was parted momentarily. Perhaps Aaron was supposed to close his eyes, part the curtains and duck through, and close the curtains before opening his eyes. Then he could put the incense into the fire pan without fear of viewing the Ark. These machinations are highly implausible, however, not least because the text gives no hint that such a thing would be necessary. The stakes here—Aaron’s life—are rather high. Thus, if it had been important for him to cover his eyes and work in darkness until the smoke had filled the room, surely (hopefully) instructions would have been given to that effect. Additionally, the text seems to assume that putting incense on a pan of hot coals would create enough smoke to render the Ark hidden from Aaron’s view. It might make sense within the world of the narrative, but any skeptical consideration necessarily raises the question of whether this is possible. Milgrom reports an experiment with incense ingredients performed by one of his students that confirms this suspicion: “the smoke they generated was woefully insufficient to produce a screen.”83 The 82. Milgrom, I:1015. 83. Ibid., I:1030.

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answer for Milgrom and for many ancient rabbis is that there was a special smoke generating substance used in the pan for the purpose. Thus, the reference to the covering “cloud” is caused by this smoke-producing ingredient rather than by the incense itself (Lev 16:13). This may have been true of Second Temple practices, which seem to have used a more complex mixture of incense ingredients. The fact must remain, however, that this text mentions nothing of the sort. Aaron has just experienced the deaths of his sons and must perform the purgation rituals to cleanse the sacred area that has been sullied. Given the situation, the instructions for entering into the Holy of Holies seem insufficient. Aaron is taking his life into his hands, and the reader accompanies him through his preparations and entrance into the inner sanctum. Despite the cool objectivity of the text, under the surface there is an echo of ritual failure. The lack of basic information about how Aaron’s eyesight will be masked in this process is offset by clear and detailed instructions for his dress. The text says that Aaron should bathe and then put on his linen vestments (Lev 16:23–24). This is a special dress required for this day in which he will enter the most holy area. Throughout the day Aaron will move into the inner sanctum three times, perform four sacrifices, and officiate over one live goat ceremony. His actions are ritually precise, and yet there are many details that are not covered. For example, Aaron travels into the inner sanctum three times: to light the incense, to sprinkle blood from his bull of purification, and to sprinkle blood from the goat purification offering for the people. The rabbis add a fourth: to collect the incense pan.84 A little detail like this might seem a small matter but it certainly is not. The whole chapter is predicated upon the initial warning that Aaron should not enter this holy place in just any way or at just any time. So, after the day’s actions are over and the incense cloud has burned itself out, how should one retrieve the pan? Another curious matter is Aaron’s supposed second trip into the inner sanctum. He brings his incense censer and two fists full of incense and lights the smoke-producing fire (vv. 12–13).85 Verse 14 continues directly to say that he should sprinkle some of the blood of his bull of purification on the ark covering and “before” it (presumably on the ground). Especially since his hands were overfull on the trip into the space, it is probable that Aaron had to return to the court in order to get the blood for this sprinkling. Thus, his “second” trip into the inner sanctum is an inference based on how much material a person could carry at once. 84. Ibid., I:1015. 85. Milgrom notes the logistical difficulty of carrying two handfuls of incense and the pan in which to burn it (ibid., I:1025). 1


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Also, the text does not say how many times the covering of the ark itself should be sprinkled. There are perhaps seven, to match the sprinkling “before” the covering, or perhaps just once since no explicit repetition is mentioned. In any case, only Aaron knows what he does. Finally, it is not clear how Aaron is supposed to exit the inner sanctum. The rabbis constructed a ritual procedure in which Aaron walks backward from the Ark, pauses to say a short prayer, steps backward through the curtain, and only then turns around to get blood from the priest who has been charged with stirring it to keep the viscosity down.86 Maybe Aaron does do these things, but if he does it is a procedure entirely of his own construction. Since the text does not report it, the reader as well is invited to reconstruct these connective events in their own mind. As in my discussion of Sternberg above, this makes for interesting readerly analysis, but in the ritual world of the text it is a very dangerous game. Milgrom responds to this type of question with the concession that, “Perhaps one should not always infer from the silences of the text that there were no additional precautions.”87 The question must be, therefore, where such precautions would originate and how they were communicated. If Aaron undertook “intensive spiritual preparation,” as later rabbinic tradition would suggest was appropriate,88 what were those preparations and how did he come by them? Drawing on Bell’s idea of personal appropriation and negotiation, one may conclude that Aaron (as a character in the story, at least) is in the process of building his own ritualized actions. The guidelines coming to him from God via Moses are instructive and helpful, but they do not tell the whole story. Many points during the day’s activities require Aaron’s forethought, quick reflexes, and/or resourcefulness. Although the text masks the level of ambiguity inherent in the ritual regulations, Aaron has room to negotiate his own participation in these events. Further, whatever decisions Aaron made about such matters are not recorded in the text. Any high priest following Aaron’s example in the future must make those same decisions. 89

86. Ibid., I:1031. 87. Ibid., I:1015. 88. Ibid. 89. Of course, here is where ongoing priestly reflection and oral traditions come into play. These codify the negotiated compliance and appropriation operative at the individual level.

Chapter 5

THE WORLD OF HOLINESS: LEVITICUS 17–27

1. A New Ritual World In the Priestly material1 the concept of holiness is intricately connected with the cultic sphere. All things that are described as holy bear a relation to the divine realm, either through ritual activity or the world of the priesthood.2 In the priestly writings, holiness is “that which belongs to the sphere of God’s being or activity.”3 This refers primarily to Yahweh, and everything else follows from there. Holy objects (sacrificial implements), holy persons (priests), holy places (the sanctuary) and holy times (the Day of Purgation) are separated from the mundane world by virtue of their sanctification, their being set apart for special service. a. “You are to be holy” As we move into Lev 17–27, however, the idea of the holy is broadened beyond the narrow cultic focus found earlier. The root #dq is used in several interesting ways, and it is helpful to start by considering to what this term is applied, and how.4 1. This chapter will focus on the ritual dynamics encountered in Lev 17–27, referred to here generally as “the second half” of the book, sometimes as the “Holiness material,” or simply, “H.” I will sometimes refer to the Priestly material, which generally means the larger Priestly work found in Lev 1–16 and in other parts of the Pentateuch (especially Numbers). 2. Baruch Levine has thoroughly analyzed the occurrences of the term #dq in the Hebrew Bible, particularly with an eye toward the theology of holiness. See his chapter, “The Language of Holiness: Perceptions of the Sacred in the Hebrew Bible,” in Backgrounds for the Bible (eds. M. P. O’Conner and D. N. Freedman; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 1987), 241–55. Also, Philip Peter Jenson in Graded Holiness: A Key to the Priestly Conception of the World (JSOTSup 106; Sheffield: JSOT, 1992) presents the Priestly view in a systematic way. See Chapters 4–7 where he discusses the dimensions of space, person, ritual and time, as well as his introductory remarks on pp. 40–55. 3. Jenson, Graded Holiness, 48. 4. On this task, see also Jacob Milgrom, “The Changing Concept of Holiness in the Pentateuchal Codes with Emphasis on Leviticus 19,” in Sawyer, ed., Reading Leviticus, 65–75.

5. The World of Holiness: Leviticus 17–27

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Leviticus 19:2 is widely considered the programmatic statement for this part of the book, perhaps even the fulcrum around which the whole book revolves. It says, “Speak to all the congregation of the Israelites and say to them, ‘You are to be holy, because I, Yahweh your God, am holy.’” Holiness points to the distinct relationship between the people of Israel and their God. Both the people and the priests are now considered holy because their holy God has sanctified them. The root #dq appears over 80 times in this part of the book (chs. 17– 27), which I term here the “Holiness material.” The most predominant usage (more than 50 times) is the nominal form #dq. This noun may stand on its own as a reference to a holy thing. First the text uses it to refer to the “holy offerings” that the Israelites bring. Leviticus 19:8 says that any person who does not follow the proper procedures for partaking of the sacrificial feast “profanes what is holy to Yahweh.” Reference to the holy offering is common in the instructions to priests in Lev 22 and elsewhere. Second, the noun may refer to the “holy convocation,” the festivals to which the priests summon all of Israel (Lev 23). A third use is in reference to the holy place, the sanctuary. The most common form is in the nominal form #dqm, though it also appears without the mem prefix in Lev 27:25.5 Fourth, there are three occurrences of the phrase “holy of holies,” usually translated “most holy.” These texts (21:22; 24:9; 27:28) refer to the most holy offerings that have been dedicated to Yahweh. The first two say that the offerings are most holy to the priests while the last one says that all devoted things are most holy to Yahweh. Finally, there are three occurrences of the noun form in construct with the “name” of Yahweh: y#dq M#, “my holy name.” In this way the noun is being used as an attributive modified of the noun, “name.” These nominal forms have adjectival force; they emphasize the state of a certain thing, namely, its state in relation to the divine realm. Furthermore, they refer to objects and events that must be honored by the community in order that they may not be profaned. The holiness of these cultic items is protected to the extent that the community confers this holy status on them. This will become more clear in the discussion of profanity below. The adjectival form #wdq occurs ten times in the Holiness material. Most often it refers to the people (19:2; 20:26) or to the priests (21:6, 7, 8). These passages state that the people and the priests are to be holy because Yahweh is holy. One interesting aspect of this is that the holy quality implies the force of possession. In 20:26 Yahweh says that the 5. To follow an interesting discussion about the reference “holy place” in H and especially in P, see Milgrom, I:29–36.

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people are “holy to me, for I, Yahweh, am holy.” Similarly, in 21:6 and 21:7 the priests are to be “holy to their God.” Leviticus 21:8 says that the priests are to be holy to the people. This statement follows the injunction to the Israelites that “you shall treat them as holy” (wt#dq). The priests are to be holy to the people as well as to Yahweh, which requires that the people regard them as holy. The people impute holiness to the priests by giving them proper standing and respect in the society. As individuals maintain the proper standing in relation to the divine world, Yahweh grants holiness. In addition, as the priests maintain this proper standing, the people confer holiness on them. Finally, there are several verbal forms built from the root #dq. The most common one is the piel participle, which refers to Yahweh’s sanctifying activity. The object of this verb may be the people in general (20:8) or the priests (21:8, 15, 23; 22:9, 16). The most common application is to the priests, but even this single reference to the laity is significant.6 The piel form of the verb also occurs in the perfect form in 21:8 and 25:20. These refer to the people’s activity of “hallowing” (in essence, sanctifying) the priests and the year of jubilee. The emphasis here is not on the divine quality of the verb but on the process of sanctification. This process is one of elevating something in importance, value, or status. The piel form, then, conveys a true factitive meaning to the root #dq. A person doing this action makes something holy. A larger question is whether the force of the verb is physical or “declarativeestimative,” which means that the resulting state is produced through the mental orientation of the actor.7 The piel form, then, could be translated as “to declare something holy.” There are several forms of the hiphil stem as well. They refer to the practice of consecrating an offering for use in the cult. All of these forms appear in Lev 27 and in 22:2. It is difficult to know how the hiphil form differs from the piel form in meaning. Waltke and O’Connor suggest that the piel emphasizes the results while the hiphil emphasizes the process that leads to those results.8 Muraoka is unconvinced by that argument, 6. Milgrom argues that this extension of holiness to all the people grows out of the theology of the land. The land is holy, and therefore all who reside in it (both citizen and alien) must guard the land by protecting it from impurity (Lev 18:26–27). See ibid., I:48, 724. It is a significant criticism of Milgrom on this point that these verses do not mention holiness or profanity of the land, but only its defilement. 7. See the discussion of Paul Joüon and T. Muraoka, A Grammar of Biblical Hebrew (SubBi 14/1; 2 vols.; Rome: Editrice Pontificio Instituto Biblico, 1993), 1:155. 8. Bruce Waltke and M. O’Connor, An Introduction to Biblical Hebrew Syntax (Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 1990), 435–41. 1


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and concludes that there is no discernible difference between the two forms of #dq.9 There are two other verbal forms. Leviticus 20:7 contains one hithpael verb, and commands the people to “consecrate themselves and be holy.” This injunction comes in the midst of several moral/ethical stipulations, which implies that one accomplishes self-consecration through fastidiously obeying the statues. Verse 8 contains the refrain, “I am Yahweh your God, I sanctify you.” The process of Yahweh’s sanctification is not exclusive of one’s personal effort to live within the boundaries set by the laws, which is why a person is liable for punishment if he or she disobeys one of the statutes. The divine process of sanctification requires an accompanying self-discipline on the part of humans. There is, finally, a niphal participle in 22:32, in which Yahweh says that the people should not profane the divine name, “that I may be sanctified among the people of Israel.” This emphasizes very strongly that the holiness of a person or thing requires that people attribute holiness to that person or object. If holiness were an intrinsic, objective quality (perhaps like color or weight), then that quality would be valid even if no one were present to validate the data. On the other hand, personal qualities (like authority or charisma) depend to some extent on the validation of others. A leader has authority because the society collectively agrees to give that person authority. A popular teacher has high status because the students and colleagues affirm the teacher’s skill and charisma. In the Holiness material, God declares a priest to be holy through the process of sanctification. Also, however, the people participate in this process since the community also declares the priest to be holy by giving him the requisite deference and authority (cf. Lev 21:8). Yahweh is holy (as the text declares vociferously), but Yahweh’s holiness is at some level contingent upon the people’s reception (and mirroring) of Yahweh’s holiness. This last point, however, requires some attention to the opposite concept: profanation. b. “So that they may not profane my holy name” In the Priestly corpus, the concept of profanation does not play a large role. The only occurrence of the nominal form lx, “the common, the profane,” is in Lev 10:10.10 The verse says that the priest is to distinguish between the holy and the common, and between the clean and the unclean. Thus, the profane (or better, the common) is simply the noncultic counterpart of the holy. If an object, person, place or time is not set 9. Joüon and Muraoka, A Grammar of Biblical Hebrew, 1:155. 10. A verse that Milgrom assigns to the H corpus anyway, though see the discussion below.

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apart for cultic use, it is common. Such a distinction must have seemed too obvious to make very often, however. There are no (other) occurrences of the root llx in the priestly corpus.11 Although it is not studied as often as #dq (“holy”), the idea of profanity (llx) is crucial to understanding the second half of Leviticus. A large portion of the material focuses not on how to be holy but rather on how to avoid profanation. The injunction to be holy includes a number of positive statutes, such as how to treat one’s neighbor and how to observe the proper ritual times. This injunction also implies a strong prohibitive command: avoid behaviors that would take away from one’s holiness, that is, “profane” oneself. Further, the root (llx) does not appear as often or in as many contexts as #dq, and most of the uses are either here in Leviticus or in Ezekiel. The term does not appear in the Priestly material,12 so it may be that the concept of profanity holds the key to the new ritual world present in the second half of Leviticus. The nominal form does not appear at all in this part of Leviticus, and the adjectival form appears only twice. The adjective llx has definite moral connotations and refers to a “sexually dishonored woman” in Lev 21:7 and 21:14. Along with divorcees and prostitutes, priests should not marry “a woman who has been profaned.” This leaves the various verbal forms to explore. The piel form of the verb “to profane” describes the shift from a holy state to a profane state. There are many different things threatened by profanity.13 Milgrom contends that the Holiness material fuses and confuses the terms ˙illēl ‘desecrate’ and ãimmē< ‘defile’.” The high priest who is defiled by a corpse pollutes the sanctuary, a far more grievous sin than yĕ˙allēī 5 ‘desecrate’ (21:12). Similarly, the ordinary priest who eats sacred food in a state of impurity becomes defiled, not desecrated (22:9). Yet in both cases, H uses the verb ˙illēl ‘desecrate’.14

It is not certain, however, that desecration of the sanctuary is less serious than defilement of it. By focusing on the profanation of the sanctuary (rather than just its defilement), the text shifts focus away from the narrowly cultic aspect and toward the broader social implications. The second part of Leviticus does not “fuse and confuse” these terms as much as it focuses on a different issue entirely, the status of the sanctuary in

11. In the Priestly worldview, therefore, the real opposite of holy is impure, not common. See Milgrom, I:732. 12. The disputed text Lev 10:10 notwithstanding. 13. In large part, they correspond to the set of things that can be sanctified. 14. Milgrom, II:1327. 1


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the community, which is threatened by profanation. 15 This point will be clearer as we look at the things that can potentially be “profaned.” First, there are a half a dozen references to the profanation of Yahweh’s name. Leviticus 18:21 (cf. Lev 20:3) says that if the Israelites participate in the cultic practice of giving their children (to be sacrificed) to Molech, then they “profane the name of their God.” Also, if anyone “swears falsely” by the name of Yahweh they also profane the name (Lev 19:12). In these three references the implication is that the disobedience of the people actually detracts from the holiness of Yahweh. This priestly text is certainly not saying that human sin in reality takes away from God’s real, life-giving power. What could profanation mean, then? Both of these transgressions imply a public setting. In performing the public acts of Molech sacrifice or a false oath, the offender calls into question the lordship of Yahweh. These acts profane Yahweh’s name because they publicly declare that Yahweh has no authority over that person’s actions. These sins show flagrant malice toward Yahweh and his rule in the community. In the eyes of the community, then, Yahweh’s authority is denigrated. The person has profaned the name of Yahweh; he or she has taken away from Yahweh’s holiness, a serious offense. The only way that Yahweh can preserve the holiness of the name is to punish that person with death (Lev 20:3). Leviticus 21 provides the priests with specific instructions to follow. By fulfilling these statutes, “they shall be holy to their God, and not profane the name of their God” (Lev 21:6). Similarly, the priests must be very careful in handling the offerings that the people bring to the sanctuary, so that they may not profane Yahweh’s holy name. The priests have an obligation to protect carefully the name of their God whom they serve, and the way they do this is to follow specific rules for sanctuary service. The priestly regulations go beyond the strict cultic sphere and include how they are to conduct their family affairs. Because Yahweh has set them apart for special service, he has authority over their lives. If they struggle against this authority by breaking any of the priestly regulations, it reflects back upon Yahweh. This sinfulness profanes Yahweh’s name among the people. Both laity and the congregation are included in the injunction of 23:32, which says that in sacrificial giving the people should not profane the name of Yahweh, “that I may be sanctified among the people of Israel.” Sanctification implies a social interaction. People have a role in attributing holy status to an individual or object. Likewise, if the people 15. See below on the issue of how to address seeming contradictions in the whole book of Leviticus.

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disobey Yahweh’s statutes, they profane Yahweh’s name in public. Disobedience desecrates the sanctity that the community has imputed to the name of their God.16 A second thing that can be profaned is the sanctuary (Lev 21:12, 23; 22:9). The sanctuary holds a special place in the center of the community, and the people put their trust in its suitability for the rituals that are required to intercede between Yahweh and the people. If the priests are negligent in keeping the sanctuary regulations, then they risk causing the community to lose its faith in the sanctuary and in the priesthood. For the same reason, in offering the sacrifices, everyone must exercise proper care so that the offering itself is not profaned (Lev 19:8; 22:15). Third, it is possible for one to profane his or her family. Leviticus 19:29 says that one should not “profane your daughter by making her a prostitute.” The daughter in question does not have any holiness derived from connection with the cult. She is not related to the realm of the divine, yet she may be profaned. If a family abuses their daughter by selling her into some form of prostitution, they detract from her status in society and desecrate any sense of holiness that she may receive from the community. Also, Lev 21:9 says that the priest’s daughter who (presumably) chooses to become a prostitute “profanes her father,” thereby denigrating her own name as well as that of her father. In this case it is particularly grievous because her behavior also presents a threat to the good name of the priestly institution. Leviticus 21:15 says that a priest must not marry any woman of questionable character, or he will “profane his offspring among his kin.” Again the community is the chief concern with regard to profanation. The children born to a priest in an illicit marriage bear a burden from the start because they were not born in a socially sanctioned manner. Finally, two verses use the niphal stem, imparting either a reflexive or a passive meaning. A priest “profanes himself” by disobeying the rules of social engagement in Lev 21:4. This might include being exposed to a corpse outside the rules for such exposure. Or it may be caused by a public show of grief such as cutting hair or flesh. Why would these activities profane the priest? One interpretation would be that these activities are common, that is, in the mundane realm. Another interpretation would see holiness in connection with life, while contact with a corpse or grieving brings the holy into contact with death. 17 In P, the activities of a priest outside the sanctuary do not generally affect his 16. One should also note that the “name” is a buffer used to separate the act of profanation from Yahweh himself. For all practical purposes, “the name” is Yahweh. 17. See Jenson, Graded Holiness, 112. 1


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holiness because he has left the holy realm. Any uncleanness encountered may be properly cleansed.18 This passage does not say simply that the priest is defiled and must undergo proper rituals, though that is certainly part of the picture.19 The text says that the priest defiles himself (which would be the common priestly interpretation) and also that he profanes himself among his people. The other niphal form occurs in Lev 21:9, already mentioned. The daughter of a priest who engages in prostitution profanes herself and also profanes her father. Profanity here is not primarily a cultic issue, but a concern for how the people view the priests and how they conduct themselves before the watchful eyes of the congregation. In conclusion, P and H use much of the same terminology to discuss matters of holiness and profanity. Holiness, especially, is applied to many of the same referents. The differences between them, however, are very significant. First, the Priestly writers define holiness in terms of a person’s or object’s position with regard to the divine realm. Priests, offerings, and the sanctuary are holy because they participate in cultic rituals of expiation, purgation, and other sacrificial ends. Any person, item, or place not explicitly part of the ceremonies addressed to Yahweh is profane, that is, common. Being common is the normal state of being until a specific, temporary rite sends that person or object into a holy state. In contrast, H ascribes holiness to the entire camp. Because all of the people live under the command to be holy, the statutes found in H transcend the narrow cultic focus found in P. Ethical and moral commands take on added importance because they protect the holiness of the people. This broadening of the scope of holiness necessarily leads to (or grows out of) a fundamental change in the character of holiness. To be holy in H does not mean to be set apart for a specific use in the cultic sphere. Rather, it implies a total relation to the deity that includes but transcends the cultus and engages the people in their everyday lives. 20 18. Ibid., 49. 19. See the discussion in Milgrom, II:1327. 20. Robert Kugler uses this conclusion to argue that the H tradents “were not particularly pro-priestly, nor did they construct a social system in which priests would stand to benefit greatly (“Holiness, Purity, the Body, and Society,” 27). Kugler pushes the differences between P and H too far, however. As Milgrom has shown, the Holiness material presumes and expands on P (II:1349–52; see also his “The Changing Concept of Holiness,” 68–69, in which he says that H “does not deny the genetically transmitted holiness of the priesthood”). The revisions found in H preserve distinctions between priests and laity, even as the concept of holiness is democratized and expanded. Actually, the fact that holiness is now the fundamental societal bond would have reaffirmed the importance of the priests in the society.

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The P material addresses matters of everyday life through the purity legislation. These matters are truly a threat, however, only to the extent that something impure could come into contact with the holy. In the last part of this chapter we will see how one’s state of holiness implies the communal affirmation of that state. The holiness statutes are not only the words of Yahweh delivered in exhortation. They also embody the collective will of the community, expressed through the language of belief and ritual. If a person fulfills the expectations of behavior in public and cultic affairs, that obedience is interpreted via the religious symbol of “holiness.” Conversely, when a person exhibits behavior contrary to communal norms, that person loses the respect and validation of the community. This loss of status and affirmation is interpreted via the religious symbol of “profanity.” In the second half of Leviticus, we find a dramatic shift in the basic terminology and ritual concepts. The concept of profanation appears much more frequently and with more import than in the first part of the book. The verbal form llx, “to profane” something, eliminates the static, mundane character of the common. Suddenly, the idea of profanity has a dynamism and a power of infection that up until now has only been imputed to impurity. In the latter material, to profane something is parallel to the dangerous combination of sacred and impure in the earlier chapters. Every effort must be made to prevent the shift from holy to profane, in contrast to the priest’s need to restore purity after the fact. c. Reading Across Boundaries In this study, the chief question is what effect this fundamental shift has on the book of Leviticus as a whole and on the reading process. One strong temptation, well represented in contemporary scholarship, is to break the text into smaller, discrete units for analysis. From a sourcecritical perspective, it is undeniable that there are at least two major textual traditions represented in this complex work. Since August Klostermann used the phrase “Holiness Code” in reference to Lev 17–27 in 1877, it has been customary to speak of the Priestly code (P) in the first half and the Holiness Code (H) in the second.21 Klostermann Milgrom argues that H is a reform movement responding to Isaiah’s prophetic indictment. If his historical judgment is correct, the priests, by adapting to changing circumstances and incorporating basic prophetic insights into their cultic worldview, have ensured their continuing relevance within Israelite society (a reality born out, of course, in the Restoration period). 21. August Klostermann, “Beiträge zur Entsehungsgeschichte des Pentateuchs,” ZTK 38 (1877): 401–5. See the history of commentaries in Hartley, Leviticus, lii. 1


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probably did not mean to make such a strong distinction, but nevertheless the split between these two sections of the book has grown increasingly sharp. Both P and H have generally been considered late (post-exilic) compositions, with the P writers having access to the H material in their final editing of the Pentateuch.22 In his book The Sanctuary of Silence, Israel Knohl makes a proposal that radically departs from the traditional view of the relationship between Priestly work and the Holiness Code. Historically, many scholars have suggested that the Holiness Code is a collection of laws available to the Priestly writers when they were compiling the material that became the heart of the Torah.23 Wellhausen incorporates this view into his discussion of the development of Israelite cultic practice. 24 In the early stages, worship was spontaneous and uncontrolled by priestly hierarchy. This was the setting that saw the growth of the Holiness Code. During the Babylonian exile, the people had lost all connection with these popular forms of religion celebrating the land and agriculture. The priests established artificial forms of worship that reflected this separation from popular, energetic piety. H therefore represents an earlier form of religious worship and, according to Wellhausen, is the link between the older sources JE, D, and the latest source P. Since then, scholars have chosen sides in the debate over relative dating of P and H. Scholars such as Yahezkel Kaufmann and Moshe Weinfeld have argued for an earlier date for P, and have therefore needed to downplay the differences between P and H.25 Knohl dramatically differs from these views. He argues that H is not one document embedded within the general Priestly source (even a very distinct one). Rather, he argues that the H material is not confined to Lev 17–26 but can be found in the editorial layers of the Priestly code and indeed in the rest of the Pentateuch.26 He argues, in fact, that the Holiness School was responsible for the final redaction of the Pentateuch. These priests are responsible for editing the Priestly work and then combining 22. See Knohl, The Sanctuary of Silence, 2. 23. See ibid.; and Abraham Keunen, The Origin and Composition of the Hexateuch (trans. P. H. Wicksteed; London, 1886). 24. Julius Wellhausen, Prolegomena to the History of Ancient Israel (repr., Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1994), 86 n. 1, 376–85. 25. Yahezkel Kaufmann, The Religion of Israel, from Its Beginnings to the Babylonian Exile (trans. and abridged Moshe Greenberg; Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1960), 175–200; and Moshe Weinfeld, “The Change in the Conception of Religion in Deuteronomy,” Tarbiz 31 (1961): 1–14. 26. Knohl uses analysis of the linguistic, stylistic, and theological tendencies in HS to identify such passages.

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with the historical works JE and D.27 Using the sigla HS to refer to the Holiness School and PT to refer to the Priestly Torah, Knohl maintains that each of these reflects a larger textual tradition rather than individual authors. Knohl draws the distinction between P and H so strongly that he writes, “It will no longer be possible to continue speaking in general terms about “the theology of the Priestly source”; rather, it will be necessary to recognize two separate Priestly theologies—that of PT and that of HS.” Through the course of The Sanctuary of Silence, he investigates many different phenomena relating to the cult and priestly activity, and traces within the Pentateuch three separate sources: the P corpus, the non-Priestly traditions, and the work of HS. Knohl examines the lists of holy festivals in Lev 23 and Num 28–29 in order to deduce which festivals were celebrated by the Priestly writers and which were commended by HS alone.28 In order to establish his conclusions, he applies a sourcecritical methodology, evaluating linguistic, literary and ideological indicators to discover where HS has emended the P text. 29 Knohl also looks throughout the Pentateuch for traces of HS editorial activity. 30 The most relevant section of Knohl’s book here is found in his last two chapters on “Cult and the Conception of God.” 31 In those chapters, Knohl discusses the relative understandings of holiness in P and H. He argues that in P the cultic space contains a kind of “contagious substantive holiness” that the priests handle only through much preparation and courage.32 Even when sanctified, the priests must be careful to perform every act within a small margin of error. Nadab and Abihu are haunting reminders of the danger implicit in the holiness of the sanctuary. The holiness of the cultic realm is not connected with the moral or ethical realm of life; rather, its holy rituals spring from the guilt that is caused by the human encounter with God’s fearsome holiness.33 God’s presence in the sanctuary requires that the priests guard the whole area’s sanctity 27. Knohl, The Sanctuary of Silence, 6, 204–14. 28. See ibid., 8–45. His conclusion is that HS introduces several popular practices and institutionalizes several more. Most significantly, he argues that P does not view the Sabbath as a holy day, and that it was only an occasion for an extra sacrifice. Only in HS does the Sabbath take on the holy character we associate with the Priestly writers (14–19). 29. Ibid., 46–55. He concludes that many passages considered part of P are actually editorial insertions by the HS. 30. Ibid., 59–123. This forms the heart of his study. 31. Ibid., 124–98. 32. Ibid., 150. 33. Ibid., 151. 1


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with diligence. The priest, by virtue of his ordination, carries the sin of the people before God, which preserves the people’s spiritual wellbeing.34 The priesthood, then, is not an elitist sect as much as it is a dangerous profession operating at the boundary between humanity and the holy God (Exod 28:38). The priests must be sanctified because they make expiation before Yahweh for the community’s sin (Lev 10:17). Because their primary place of action was the hidden interior of the sanctuary, the priestly regulations do not concern the ordinary things of life or even popular cultic rituals like communal festivals. 35 Consider, however, the previous discussion in Chapter 3 regarding the importance of purity regulations for social organization, and the visibility of much of the sacrificial practices to the gathered community. Knohl draws a strong distinction between this PT idea of holiness and that found in HS. The Holiness material incorporates moral commandments along with regulations into its injunctions.36 One example of this is in Lev 24:16–17 where the writers juxtapose the prohibition of murder with that of blasphemy. Both sins require the same penalty: death. 37 He writes, HS expands the realm of holiness. In its view, the concept of holiness also encompasses the realm of social justice. Holiness thus includes all areas of life and applies to the entire community of Israel and the land they inhabit.38

Through the fulfillment of the commandments, the people approach the perfection of holiness in a way that is not possible in the PT corpus. Even in the non-Priestly sources of the Pentateuch, the holiness of the people is restricted to the ritual-cultic sphere (Exod 22:30; Deut 7:1–6). Only in HS does holiness extend to all areas of life.39 Holiness here is not only the motivating factor of the commandments; it is also their aim. God’s sanctifying activity is not a one-time affair, but is rather an ongoing process in which both God and the people participate. 40 Also, in HS the locus of the holy is not the sanctuary alone; rather, the whole land is 34. Ibid., 32–34, 162. 35. Ibid., 180. 36. Ibid., 175. 37. Ibid., 179. 38. Ibid., 180. 39. Ibid., 181 n. 38. 40. Ibid., 183 n. 43. Knohl sees a close correspondence between HS and D on this point. He argues that the difference is that D makes the holiness of the people the reason for the commandments, while in HS the commandments forms a pathway toward holiness.

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holy, which is what requires both citizens and resident aliens to be holy. 41 This leads naturally to the special status of Israel’s land among the nations.42 The central question, therefore, is how one should read across the (invisible) boundary in Leviticus between the Priestly and Holiness sections. The key to this question is to remember that the holiness material is found in a few passages from the first half of Leviticus, most notably Lev 11:43–45, and that the editors have crafted a text that invites us to read across these textual divides. The tensions and ambiguities are inducements for the reader to engage the book creatively, not to dice it up into unrecognizable fragments. First, one value of Knohl’s work is that he has identified the role of the Holiness School redactor in crafting the final form of Leviticus. The material being discussed is not limited to the so-called Holiness Code in Lev 17–26; there are traces of this textual tradition throughout the earlier chapters.43 For example, Lev 3:16b–17 asserts that all suet belongs to Yahweh and that the prohibition of eating suet and blood should be “a law for all time throughout your generations.” Milgrom argues that Lev 6:12–16 and 7:22–27 are both interpolations from H, as they interrupt the string of hrwt (“this is the ritual of…”) pericopes. He also attributes to H the difficult command that the priests being ordained were to “stay at the entrance of the Tent of Meeting day and night for seven days, observing Yahweh’s prohibitions, so that [they would] not die” (8:35). The original command in 8:33a does not imply this teetering pose in the doorway, suspended neither in nor out of the sanctuary. He also argues for the H provenance of ritual innovations in Lev 12:8; 14:33–53; 15:31; and 16:29–34.44

41. Ibid., 186. See Lev 18:26–28. 42. Ibid., 190. Cf. Lev 26:42: “I will remember the land.” In the first volume of his Leviticus commentary, Milgrom expressed his general acceptance of Knohl’s analysis. He explains through the course of that volume the general outline and minute details of the Priestly system. In his second volume he revises Knohl’s conclusions on several technical matters and provides an excellent introduction to the various changes that take place in the Holiness material. See Milgrom, II:1235– 330. 43. One can get a quick glimpse into this source-critical discussion by examining Milgrom’s translation at the beginning of his second volume. For chs. 1–16 he places supposed Holiness material in italic type. 44. On the additions to the Day of Purgation ritual, see the previous chapter. The subsequent editors have brought requirements of self-discipline and fasting to the originally celebratory occasion. 1


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Two theologically significant verses that Knohl attributes to HS are Lev 10:10–11 and 11:43–45. The first of these is the unique command of Yahweh to Aaron: “You must distinguish between the sacred and the common, and between the impure and pure. And you must teach the Israelites all of the laws that Yahweh has imparted to them through Moses?” Milgrom argues that the priests are charged in this verse “through their constant instruction (v. 11), to enlarge the realms of the sacred and the pure by reducing the areas of the common and the impure.”45 They reduce the arena of the impure by teaching people how to observe carefully the purity regulations. They reduce the subset of the common “by sanctifying it—for example, by faithfully observing sacred time (the Sabbath and festivals) and frequenting holy space (the sanctuary).”46 He continues: Hence, the goal is that the categories of common and impure shall largely disappear, by their respective conversion into the sacred and pure. The priestly task is, therefore, a dynamic one. It is to make all of Israel into “a royalty of priests and a holy nation” (Exod 19:6). This objective is the hallmark of H, a fact that raises the possibility that vv 10–11 stem from the hand of H. (I:617)

It is not clear at all, however, that the charge to teach the Israelites the laws and to distinguish clearly between ritual categories carries the weight that Milgrom imputes. First, teaching the laws is essential because the people should avoid senseless and flagrant violation of the purity laws. The reason for this is that such purity threatens the community by coming into contact with the sacred. One could probably avoid eating forbidden animals, and perhaps even touching animal carcasses, though accidents could easily happen. Giving birth, contracting an illness, and menstruation, however, are not avoidable conditions, generally speaking. Purity laws explain how to address the condition of impurity when it arises. Second, the categories of sacred/common and pure/impure fit nicely into the static conceptions of ritual categories found in P.47 Everything Milgrom argues in the last quotation is true of the Holiness material, and indeed if this verse tended in that direction it would clearly be an example of H editing. As it is, nothing in the verse requires such an attribution.48 45. Milgrom, I:616. 46. Ibid. 47. Granted, Lev 10:10 is the only Pentateuchal occurrence of the noun “the common” (lxh). 48. Milgrom also bases his argument on the use of masculine plural Myqxh, whereas P consistently uses the feminine plural. There are only two other occurrences

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The second important verse at issue is Lev 11:43–45, which says the following: You shall not defile yourselves with any creature that swarms. You shall not make yourselves impure with them and thus become impure, for I, Yahweh, am your God. You shall sanctify yourselves and be holy, for I am holy. You shall not contaminate yourselves with any swarming creature that moves upon the earth. For I, Yahweh, am the one who brought you up from the land of Egypt to be your God; you shall be holy, for I am holy.

The specific issue of impurity caused by “teeming creatures” is debated, but clearly the rest of the language in this verse derives from the Holiness tradition. There is similar language throughout chs. 18 and 19 of Leviticus. Finally, the differences between traditions in Leviticus stand in tension, but they are not contradictory. The second half of the book shifts focus while borrowing much of the language from the first half. This creates a dynamic literary and ritual world that invites the reader to engage the text creatively. Douglas’s analysis of Leviticus’s structure should be enough for us to recognize the crafting and subtle integration that binds these various topics together.49 Whereas Knohl may be correct that one should not speak glibly of “the priestly theology” in view of the differences between PT and HS, it remains that one should still strive to identify “Leviticus’s theology.” On the other hand, some conservative scholars read the book as a whole, oblivious to the fractures and contradictions that it holds. The true challenge posed by the book (and fully known by its editors, in my opinion) is that these various pieces do not always fit well together, but together they accomplish more than their individual parts. The shifting ideas of holiness found primarily in the second half of Leviticus are not simple repudiations of what came before. The central movement, as discussed above, is the shift from a narrow cultic focus to the larger communal setting. This has implications for the topics that are addressed, the reduced specificity in the language, and the broadly hortatory rhetoric of the text. These aspects turn out also to have significant ritual implications as well. After addressing briefly the one short narrative in this half of the book, I will consider the ritual implications of this of the masculine plural in the Priestly material (Lev 26:46 and Num 30:17), though it is used extensively by E and D. The aspect of teaching the laws could be part of an editorial insertion, possibly even from H, but this does not change the fact that the categories listed here do not necessarily belong to H. 49. See the discussion of Douglas in Chapter 1. 1


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shift from cult to community. The exhortations found in the second half of Leviticus draw the people together in a bond of mutual concern, commitment to justice, and love for their God. This bond can only be called, “the sacred.” Furthermore, the text calls us to move from narrow focus on technique to a broader appreciation of how Yahweh’s holiness permeates every aspect of life and transcends all simple typologies. d. Law and Narrative Revisited: Leviticus 24:10–23 The only narrative in the final half of Leviticus demonstrates the pervasiveness of Yahweh’s holiness. Leviticus 24:10–23 mirrors the rhetorical and ideological features of Lev 10, while engaging a different arena of life. In this little narrative, a man (who happens to have an Israelite mother and Egyptian father) gets into a fight with an Israelite man in the camp (Lev 24:10). It says that this person had “come out” among the Israelites, raising the question of where he had been. Possibly his home was in a separate area, but in any case the text is clear that this fight takes place “in the camp,” which makes a theological difference. The transgression takes place within the confines of the Israelites’ “land.” Granted, they have not yet taken possession of the promised-land-to-come, but the camp embodies all of the theological significance of the land in Leviticus. Earlier in the text, being in the camp requires more diligence than being outside the camp because of the closer proximity to the sanctuary (and the main concern is defilement, in any case). Now, however, the sanctity of the Israelite community is at stake. It is also significant that the incident takes place during a fight in the public square. There are people listening who are in a place to judge the propriety of any actions taken in their midst. Above, it was noted how much of the profanation in this legislation involves very public actions such as sacrificing to Molech and swearing falsely. The fact they are fighting already raises doubts about the situation, since these men do not seem to be following the basic requirements that the Israelites have for care of their neighbors (Lev 19:18). Looking at the specifics of that pericope in ch. 19, one can easily imagine one of these offenses having speaked this disagreement that led to violence. Lying, exploitation, robbery, injustice, hatred, and grudges, and so on, are the very things that endanger the community bonds being addressed by these social laws. So, the situation itself is very bad, but things become much worse when the man of mixed parentage “blasphemes” and “curses” the name of Yahweh (Lev 24:11). One cannot be entirely sure what specific utterance is meant by these words. The irony about blasphemy laws in the Hebrew Bible is that one cannot usually define what is meant by

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blasphemy due to the texts’ reluctance to speak plainly about it. The problem is “the conundrum that writing or saying exactly what had been said in an act of blasphemy would itself be an act of blasphemy.” 50 The Bible resorts usually to euphemism and circumlocutions. In this case, we learn that the person “blasphemed the name.” Milgrom takes the verbal form bqyw to mean “pronounced” the name.51 The linguistic evidence may support his reading over something stronger, but one should not forget the euphemistic nature of these contexts. To pronounce the name in this case implies a certain kind of pronunciation, either taking the name lightly (as in Exod 20:7) or saying something negative about the name (i.e. about Yahweh himself). He “curses,” and the object of his cursing is presumably Yahweh, though the writers have left out the direct object for reasons of piety. It is not clear whether the curse involves using the name of Yahweh in a negative statement about the opponent, or saying something negative about Yahweh. In light of the concerns about profaning the name of Yahweh in other Holiness texts, I prefer the latter reading. The name of Yahweh must not be profaned in any way, and his holiness is in part dependent on the people making it so. This being a public act, the man is overheard by spectators and is immediately seized and taken into custody (Lev 24:12). They are not sure what to do in the situation, probably because the offender is not a full Israelite. So, they bring him before Moses, who presumably instructs them to place the man in fetters and await an oracle from Yahweh on the matter. Similar to the situation in Lev 10, there is a gap in the legislation that makes this case ambiguous. What should be done with this person who is not of full Israelite parentage, and hence an alien in the camp, and who blasphemes and curses (Yahweh)? Blasphemy is something that certainly cannot be tolerated in the midst of the people, but is a nonIsraelite bound by the same obligations as the congregation in this regard? One side of the argument would be that the alien is exempt from these laws. The Egyptian himself might have used this as his primary defense, that he was not bound by such strictures, or at least did not know that he was. As Lev 10 establishes so dramatically, ignorance of the law is no excuse. Unlike the earlier case, however, the punishment for this crime does not manifest itself automatically and without warning. This is an issue that the people must sort out for themselves. The problem is that the law is of little help, not addressing this instance specifically. Moses himself is unsure of what to do, and will not make an executive decision.

1

50. Hartley, Leviticus, 408. 51. Milgrom, II:2107–108.


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Therefore, Moses and the people decide to wait for a direct utterance to answer their query (Lev 24:12). The text does not tell us what measures may have been taken to elicit the required response from Yahweh, but in any case Yahweh does speak to Moses. Yahweh responds to the ambiguous situation with a clear legal mandate. This man shall be brought out and stoned by the congregation as a whole (Lev 24:13). The people who heard the blasphemy shall place their hands on his head and then stone him. In this way, the sin will be expunged from the community. Like the scapegoat of Lev 16, the man must bear the iniquity away from the people, accepting back the contagion that he had unleashed in the community. The problem has been answered, but Yahweh is not finished giving laws. In Lev 10, Moses himself starts to speak and develop further regulations, but here the gaps are being filled by Yahweh himself. 52 Yahweh tells Moses to inform the people about these new laws that have emerged from the gap-narrative. He says anyone who blasphemes his god shall bear his sin, and anyone who blasphemes the name of Yahweh shall surely be put to death (Lev 24:15–16). These two assertions are interesting in their juxtaposition. Does the first one mean that any person, Israelite or not, incurs sin by blasphemy of their divine being? Or, does it mean that if someone does this and is not heard, then they will be punished by Yahweh anyway? There are some serious issues that are left unexplained in this decision. The laws continue by restating the lex talionis for killing a person, an animal, or injuring a fellow person. In v. 22, the narrative comes full circle, affirming that there is but one law operative for Israelite and non-Israelite alike. The lex talionis is not directly related to the laws about blasphemy, but it is appropriate here because this is another area in which a resident alien might claim an exemption based on a different set of standards. However, there is no escape from this most basic requirement, the high regard for life and its protection. Why should the talion law be extended to all people in the camp, regardless of their parentage? Because, as Yahweh says, “I am the Lord your God” (Lev 24:22). This motivation clause is common in the latter half of Leviticus, and by itself constitutes the basic reason for all of this care and reflection. The people must be watchful of things that go on in the camp because they are living in a community gathered around a holy God who requires that certain things be guarded, including life, health, and the proper reverence for his name. Any disregard for these things is disregard for Yahweh’s holiness, and

52. This is somewhat reassuring to the reader.

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thus profanes Yahweh. The narrative concludes after this round of lawgiving, reporting that the people do as Yahweh has commanded, stoning the man outside the camp. This narrative is structurally parallel with the Nadab and Abihu incident in Lev 10. It interrupts the flow of ritual legislation to present an ambiguous case. The gap opened up by the narrative is then addressed by a further round of law-giving. The ambiguity is the same, the generic interaction is the same, and the structural role played by each story is the same. What is different in Lev 24 is the focus of the story. Just as the second half of Leviticus has shifted to the broad social arena, this narrative takes place in the camp (not in the sanctuary), involves regular people (not priests), and narrates a transgression of several laws that have to do with holiness. The holiness of the community is endangered by the hatred and fighting between these two neighbors, and the holiness of Yahweh is endangered by the blaspheming of his name. This narrative, then, mirrors the shift in the ritual world seen in the book as a whole, and illustrates the fact that social transgressions can be as deadly serious as ritual failures. 2. Ritualizing Ambiguity Social-theoretical approaches to ritual and religion help us to understand how communal values infuse religious language, especially notions of “holiness.” Emile Durkheim, for example, argues that interdictions (commands about how to approach the sacred) strengthen communal bonds and provide a way for an individual to show proper compliance with the expectations of society.53 These convictions become the central idea of the holy, which means that they direct people’s actions and orient what the society regards as important, true, and powerful. Catherine Bell has shown, moreover, that in the characterization of God, the priests, and the people, one can discern the interweaving power relationships and personal appropriation and negotiation that undergirds the whole system. The present study has explored ways in which this ritual world of dynamic tension shapes and guides the reading process itself. In entering the “world” of Leviticus, the reader encounters ambiguities and tensions alongside certainties and truth-claims. If the reader responds to this world rigidly or with critical detachment, the literary world itself disintegrates. By dynamically engaging this tension, however, the reader is able to follow the contours of the ritual world being constructed, possibly even to personal transformation. 1

53. Durkheim, Elementary Forms of the Religious Life.


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a. The “Holy” in Ritual and Society In his seminal work on religion and “the holy,” Durkheim argues that the primary characteristic of the sacred is that it cannot abide the presence of the profane. Therefore, several categories of interdictions protect and separate the sacred, and also control behaviors in the presence of the sacred. Positive interdictions govern the manner in which people approach the sacred and assure the effectiveness of the rites associated with the sacred.54 In part they ensure that all of the worshippers participate in the ceremony with the proper realization of its importance and gravity. Voluntary modification of behavior increases the bond between the individual and the community as the person submits to the social will. On the other hand, negative interdictions protect the sacred by keeping all profane things away.55 These rules, covering such topics as food laws and corpse handling, are often described as taboos that maintain the fundamental distinctions required by the classification system and make people aware of the danger inherent to human contact with the totem. The most important thing implied by Durkheim’s theory is that the sacred is an object of profound respect.56 The sacred is the embodiment of social power over individuals, and social conventions require that the sacred thing be revered. This respect translates into certain inhibitions and clear notions of how people should live their lives. The behaviors dictated by the interdictions generally serve the interests of society and of healthy communal life. Proper devotion to the sacred (expressed through positive interdictions) strengthens the bonds of the community. Conversely, if the sacred is violated in some way (by the transgressing of a negative interdiction), then the bond between the community and sacred is potentially weakened. In other words, the power of the sacred is reduced if the people disregard the interdictions meant to protect the sacred from the profane. Moving beyond Durkheim’s functionalist approach, Catherine Bell has shown that ritual and religious actions in general are not only the workings of social pressure or the imposition of powerful interests on the helpless individual. Bell argues that “ritual does not control; rather, it constitutes a particular dynamic of social empowerment.” 57 The individual voluntarily becomes a “social body,” which is the individual body as an extension of the social identity.58 Within the ritual system, the 54. 55. 56. 57. 58.

Ibid., 339. Ibid., 340. Ibid., 347. Bell, Ritual Theory, 181. See the full discussion of this in Chapter 2. Ibid., 204.

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participants are tremendously empowered. Individuals have responsibilities and a degree of autonomy in their ritualized negotiation of the sacred. On the highest level, however, the reality is oppressive; the one option that is not open to an individual is to cast off the whole web of expectations, to remove themselves from the entire enterprise. Presumably a person could leave completely and move to another land and another community, though such an action would be unprecedented. What they could not do is ignore all social and ritual expectations while still remaining a member of the community. The lepers and other afflicted individuals who are confined to areas “outside” the camp are not expelled or excommunicated. Their status as “outsiders” means that they are still part of the system; their distance makes visible the symbolic separation created by their condition. Just as the moon is separated from the earth, however, these individuals are still bound by the gravitational pull of the sacred. They are still bound to the community, and the community is still bound to them. They still are the community. The dynamics of control and oppression, therefore, are not top-down. The religious system does not serve simply as a mask for the interests of the powerful and influential in the society. Indeed, even the highest leaders of the community (the prince, the high priest, the priests) are themselves constrained by it. This ritual system embodies the sacred principle itself, and it follows the community’s basic convictions about God and about how they should relate to the divine being. Individuals engage the ritual world and in doing so become social bodies. They reflect in their own persons the demands and expectations of the community, through their personal rituals of cleansing, their daily handling of diet and medical emergencies, and their relationships with each other. The private body becomes the social body, as private events are recognized as having social, political, and public implications. What does the individual gain by making this self-sacrifice? Important issues discussed in Chapter 3 include the desire for “acceptance” of one’s offering and the need for effective purification and purgation. Individuals are allowed to remain members in good standing within the community, which carries a tremendous set of benefits, of course. They engage in ritualized events of giving and receiving. The people give their tithes and offerings, and the priests benefit from these offerings as their basic means of sustenance. Within the rituals themselves, the moments of lifting and waving symbolize the giving and receiving aspect, the transfer of ownership and benefit. Finally, the negotiated ritual system provides a safe and healthy environment in which to commit violence against animals. The 1


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rules about blood handling and consumption reveal the tenderness that the community feels about this issue. It is a serious matter to kill an animal and the sacrificial system provides a way to benefit from the animal without actually “taking its life,” since the life (the blood) is given back to God. This ritual killing of animals, in turn, provides the people with meat for food, with ample supplies for worship of the deity, and with opportunities to build a community around a shared table. The negotiated acceptance of communal demands (in the form of ritual behavior and social morality) comes with a cost to the individual. The benefits of engaging the sacred, however, provide a compelling incentive to shape oneself according to the full range of interdictions. b. God, Priests, and the People In comparison with the narrow definition of holy people and holy things in the Priestly tradition, it is astonishing to read in Lev 19:2 that “you are to be holy, for I the Lord your God am holy.” The people have stipulations that enable their holy state, motivated by the certain knowledge that Yahweh is holy. The people must emulate the divine life, which means maintaining the laws and regulations that Yahweh has commanded through Moses. Basing the holiness of the people on the holiness of the divine figure is an essentially theological formulation. The key feature of these stipulations, however, is that they are not religious laws primarily. They take into consideration the entire existence of the people in their relations with each other, within their families, and among the larger world community. These precepts, cast as theological dictums, have a pre-eminently social focus. In this part of Leviticus the holiness of the people is at root a fulfillment of social expectations that have been presented in the theological language of holiness. Central to the demands that the deity makes on the individual are the demands that the community makes on its members. In devotion to their sacred principles, people behave in the manner that they believe the “holy” requires. These requirements embody the necessary prerequisites of communal life. In the case of the Israelites, for example, they achieve holiness by giving proper respect to their parents (Lev 19:3). Respecting parents, strictly speaking, has nothing to do with the cultic sphere, but it becomes an intrinsic component of holiness because it is necessary for the continued survival of the community. Social cohesion depends on each generation’s commitment to revere and learn from the experienced elders in the group. In this way, the social requirement of respecting elders surfaces in religious language about holiness.

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One question that Lev 19:2 raises is whether the people are holy already or whether the text provides a goal toward which they must strive. Interpreting the phrase as “you shall be holy” construes it as a normative statement that gives the people something to attempt. Contemporary readers, conditioned as we are by pessimism in culture and theology, are likely to doubt that such a goal is attainable. How can the people achieve holiness through their own efforts? Our text, however, assumes that the people will be able to live in a state of holiness. The stipulations assert that people should not commit “abominations” so that they may not profane themselves. Therefore, holiness is the ground state of the people, sealed by their relationship with Yahweh and by their membership in the Israelite community. From this perspective the laws about the people’s holiness (and threats to it) are interdictions to safeguard the holiness already granted to them as a whole, and preserves the standing of each individual within the community. The people become holy because Yahweh sanctifies them, but they also have a role in sanctifying themselves through obedience (cf. Lev 20:7). Through their obedience the people maintain the cohesive bonds of society. This is essentially their metaphorical consecration of themselves. This obedience increases their status in the community, and thus they are sanctified. The theological interpretation offered in the closing half of Leviticus is that Yahweh sanctifies them, but this sanctification is also the stamp of approval by the society. At stake in the laws is the community itself, the very fabric of society. The priests still have regulations with regard to their holiness, of course. The primary motivation for the priests’ holiness is that they offer the “food of their God” (Lev 21:6; 22:2). The threat against which these regulations guard is the profanation of the name of Yahweh. The priests’ public service reflects upon the one whom they serve. If they perform the rituals incorrectly, they profane the name of Yahweh. This unfortunate outcome is parallel to what the people cause if they sacrifice a child to Molech (18:21) or swear falsely by the holy name (19:11). Any public disobedience reflects badly upon the deity who issues the standard of conduct. If the priests openly transgress the will of Yahweh, then they will cause the people who are watching to hold Yahweh in lower esteem. A key question regarding the holiness of the priests is how it compares to the holiness of the people. In the first half of Leviticus there is a strong distinction in this regard. Leviticus creates a picture of a differentiated sacred world, one with “gradations” of holiness.59 In Chapter 3 of this 59. See Jenson, Graded Holiness, and Gordon Wenham’s commentary The Book of Leviticus (NICOT; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1979). 1


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study, for example, we saw how the priest must negotiate his entrance and exit from the holy precincts and holy duties. The ritual clothing and washing associated with beginning priestly duties symbolizes (and effects) the movement of the priest into an inner sphere closer to the source of holiness itself. This closer proximity (in a spatial as well as spiritual sense) means that the priest must adhere more closely to principles of purity. Analogously, an ordinary individual who obtains a measure of impurity through the normal course of life generally must follow a set of instructions for washing and/or waiting. The only way that such impurity can actually be dangerous is if the person enters into the holy precincts while in such a state.60 When the reader encounters statements in Lev 19 and elsewhere dictating that the people are also to be holy, this distinction dissolves before our eyes. The book finally arrives at the theological assertion that holiness is the ground state for all of the people living in the community, and that they all have equal responsibility to follow the prescribed codes. The priests’ own holiness is not their only concern, since they must now be attentive to the holiness of their whole family. A priest’s daughter who enters prostitution “profanes” her father (Lev 21:9). Also, if a priest marries a woman of questionable character, he risks profaning his offspring (21:15). This shows that the priests’ holiness is more than a cultic or ritual matter; as with the people, their holiness hinges on communal expectations for social behavior. Even in these latter chapters, however, there is still a distinction drawn between the priests and the people. The concept of holiness has been broadened, but the special requirements of the ritual sphere still adhere. Priests must still operate in a dangerous location in close proximity to the holy deity, and must take care because of it. The priests have strict rules about when they may approach the altar, and about who may not approach at all (Lev 22:1–9). A priest who is blemished in some way and approaches the altar (to minister upon it) profanes the sanctuary (21:23). The list of requirements for priests is similar to the one for animals used in the sacrifices (22:21–25). Because the priests are an integral part of the cultic apparatus, they must be perfect, whole in every way. 61 Another indication of the separation between the priesthood and the laity is the regulation that a lay person must not eat of the sacred offerings (22:10), lest they profane the offering. Even though Leviticus ends up demanding 60. For an interesting summary chart of impurities and their requisite ritual performances, see Milgrom, I:986–91. 61. This is the classic position of Mary Douglas in Purity and Danger, 52. She writes, “he must be perfect as a man, if he is to be a priest.”

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holiness of all people, it maintains the strict rules associated with the ritual activity of the priests. If the altar at the center of society represents the sacred principle for the community, then the people who work in closest proximity to the altar must maintain an extra degree of holiness. They must be compatible with the sacred in every way. The community depends on their services to conduct rituals and mediate the religious experience. If the leaders fail in their duty, they may cause the people’s faith in the sacred acts, in the deity, and in the sanctuary to waver. It is this destruction of public unity around the “holy” that the regulations try desperately to avoid. Finally, Yahweh’s holiness is the force that sanctifies the people. This theological interpretation of holiness may have been the primary consideration for the people writing the codes. One way of approaching this matter is to understand that Yahweh represents the standard of holiness. Leviticus presents this standard to the people as the defining force of the community. Yahweh’s sanctification of the Israelites refers to the chosen people’s special relationship with the deity. The holiness of the people arises from their close affiliation with Yahweh, who demands certain social and ritual behaviors from them. Through obedience to the standard of the holy, the people stand close to the center of their society. It is by close association with the ground of holiness that the people become holy. Many of the laws relating to Yahweh’s holiness address the profanation of the holy name.62 Both the people and the priests have a responsibility to protect Yahweh’s holiness. The people profane the name of their God if they sacrifice to Molech (Lev 18:21) or swear falsely by the name (Lev 19:11). Both of these are public ceremonies. If the people publicly declare that Yahweh’s holiness and authority means nothing to them, then Yahweh’s standing in the eyes of the people becomes threatened. Also (and amazingly), the consistent obedience of the people to the holiness statutes actually sanctifies Yahweh among the people. Leviticus 22:31–32 says, You shall heed my commandments and do them. I am Yahweh. You shall not profane my holy name that I may be sanctified in the midst of the Israelites. I am Yahweh who sanctifies you, your deliverer from the land of Egypt to be your God. I am Yahweh.

The holiness of Yahweh is not merely a static state that the deity possesses and lends to the people. Rather, all holiness is bound up within the 62. Milgrom points out that this term (hwhy M# llx) in “H” is the functional equivalent of desecration (l(m) in “P” (Milgrom, II:1326). 1


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interrelations of society. Even God can be sanctified.63 The people accomplish this feat by obeying the social and ethical norms that Leviticus establishes. Yahweh represents the sacred principle at the heart of society. When the people all join together in obedience to that sacred principle, it strengthens the community and makes the principle itself stronger. When the people publicly give their allegiance to the “holy,” that holy thing becomes even more holy in the eyes of the people. However, if the people publicly blaspheme the name by swearing falsely or committing an abomination for another God, the holiness of God is destroyed. In Durkheim’s language, God then no longer represents what is central to the society, and thus ceases to be the sacred principle. From a practical perspective, one could say even that Yahweh ceases to be God.

63. Milgrom writes, “Israel increasingly regards him with sanctity and is more scrupulous in preventing the desecration of his name… The result is that YHWH’s sanctity is more visible, giving the appearance of his increased sanctity” (II:1888). Though Milgrom does not use the language or concepts being explored here, the subtle distinction he draws is supportive. The important factor is not Yahweh’s objective possession of holiness but rather his holiness defined as the dynamic commitment of the people to him. Interestingly, Milgrom confines the statement in 22:32 to the immediate context of sacrificial regulations. He has already noted, however, that this exhortation forms an inclusio with the opening of Lev 19 (II:1887). Thus, the potential to profane or sanctify Yahweh should be seen in connection with the overall collection of rules and laws in the interim, both ritual and moral in nature.

Chapter 6

CONCLUSION: RITUALIZED READING

The purpose of the present study has been to compare and coordinate the insights of ritual and literary analysis of Leviticus. By drawing upon the Ritual Theory of Catherine Bell, one can understand the ritualizing tendencies that animate the generic dynamics in the book. Leviticus is a polyphonic work, not only with different genres working together (and in conflict), but also with competing voices embedded in its compositional history. Rather than reducing this complex literary text to ritual propositions, historical propaganda, or disparate original “sources,” I have endeavored to account for the text as it stands, particularly with regard to the interaction of ritual and narrative in the book. In addition to the literary task of interpreting the book in its final form, this study has explored the ritual dynamics of power relationships, the ritualized negotiation of meaning and participation, and the way in which narrowly cultic ritual ideas can be expanded and democratized to cover the social life of the community. The shifts and reformulations that appear in the second half of Leviticus are not simple contradictions. The temptation has been to draw the contrast between these two sections (P and H) too sharply, and to see each as part of its own theological and social world. Rather, the second half of the Leviticus addresses different topics while using much of the same language, giving rise to a dynamic tension through which each half of the book transforms and interprets the other. The subtle interplay of concepts in the book of Leviticus draws the reader into a process of interpretation that mirrors the content. The ritual world of Leviticus is fractured and ambiguous, while also providing a path of negotiation for the priests and worshippers to engage the holy deity creatively and (hopefully) safely in their cultic and everyday lives. They have much to gain in this process, and so are motivated to persevere through doubts and questions that arise at various points in the narrative, and to work out the inner connections and meanings among conflicting ritual prescriptions. They must hold together two radically different

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understandings of holiness and their relationship with it. Either they are not holy, as “common” members of the laity, or they are charged to be holy, as Yahweh himself is holy. What might seem to be impossible from a detached, theoretical perspective is actually quite natural and commonplace. People are able to affirm mutually incompatible theological sentiments and arrange their lives around both of them. Imagine an Israelite in the camp striving “to be holy” as Yahweh is holy. This would mean one thing during the activities of his everyday life and a quite different thing as he approached the sanctuary to present a burnt offering. In that latter case, he would know that he must be clean, not holy. To be holy would put him on the same level as the priests officiating in places and actions to which he could not possibly aspire. These different spheres of life have their own inner logic with regard to the “holy,” and a skilled ritualist or worshipper would navigate those fault lines with little difficulty, or possibly even little awareness. In the same way, the (modern) reader encounters in Leviticus a text that is fractured and ambiguous. The first chapters develop a strictly defined ritual world in which priests and worshippers have specific roles and responsibilities. Although there are problematic and potentially dangerous gaps and inconsistencies in the ritual legislation, the text consciously presents itself as complete, rational, and reliable. Although a careful reader will notice these points of dissonance, and will doubtless be troubled by the Nadab and Abihu incident, the natural tendency is to read with the flow of the text. Through the subtle integration of ritual and narrative, the reader draws connections and fills in the gaps as they move forward. Starting in ch. 17, however, the literary stage changes dramatically and the reader must work harder to hold competing visions in tension with each other. One decision the reader could make is to divide the text into smaller parts that are each internally consistent. Then, one can read each part by itself, untroubled by any larger contradictions. In reading Leviticus, however, one must strive to hold these various ideas together, considering how they relate to each other and how they each relate to the reader. Reading Leviticus invariably must become a communal process. The various voices present in the text, unified into one Voice, converse in the reader’s mind, and these ambiguities and tensions compel the reader to join the larger interpretive community. Holiness is not a characteristic that requires separation from others, but rather one that unites people around concern for justice and love. In some religious movements, holiness has come to mean a radical separation from everything “worldly.” In one sense, this is consistent with Leviticus, as holiness is achieved by living in a way congruent with the rigorous standards of the group. In

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Leviticus, however, there are notions that subvert this exclusivistic reading of the text. For example, love and justice do not extend only to one’s neighbor but also to the resident alien (19:10). Holiness draws people together around the center, but it also pushes people out from the center, toward relationship with each other. In the same way, it is best to avoid sectarian, rule-bound reading communities that seek only to fracture and divide the text and the text’s interpreters into ever-smaller pockets. The broad scope of Leviticus’s ritual and literary world has motivated this study’s reliance on a plurality of critical methods, seeking language that expresses truths about the text no matter their provenance. Certainly an integrative reading that seeks across boundaries for connections and synergies will not be completely satisfying to source-critical reading communities that atomize, parse, and filter with enthusiasm. Using ritual theory to analyze the literary world of a text will raise doubts for social scientists. At the same time, one must not reduce theology and textual creation to mere social phenomena. The various ritual approaches here are useful as long as they remain so, and no more. Finally, literary theory itself is so fragmented that no one treatment can satisfy most readers. Reading Leviticus can be a transformative experience for the exegete, but any meaningful transformation always emerges within a community. To read Leviticus as a whole requires a level of negotiation and appropriation on the part of the reader, as well as, finally, what Bell terms misrecognition.1 This “deliberate oversight” is the result of the reader following the rhetorical contours of the text. In other words, as a worshipper must hold two competing ideas of holiness at once in order to approach the altar, the reader must do the same in reading the book. Far from being uncritical or unreflective, such a reading honors the text’s inner dynamics and is able to plumb the depths of its fuller meanings. Is holiness confined to a specific sphere in close proximity to Yahweh, or are the people as a whole required to be holy? Both are true, and moreover both ideas serve essential functions in the ritual world of Leviticus. Holiness provides the motivation for care and diligence in Israel’s sacrificial cult, and it elicits sublime connections between the inner life of Yahweh and the highest moral and social expectations for Israelite communal life. Perhaps only the God who brought the people with power and mercy out of bondage in Egypt could deliver such an imperative: For I Yahweh am the one who brought you up from the land of Egypt, to be your God; you shall be holy, for I am holy. (11:45)

1

1. Bell, Ritual Theory, 82.

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1

INDEXES INDEX OF REFERENCES HEBREW BIBLE Genesis 1–3 6–9 9:4 17 32 Exodus 4:24–26 6 19–34 19–20 19 19:6 20:7 21:1 21:18–19 21:22 22:30 24–40 24:4 25–40 25–31 25:22 28 28:38 29 29:30 29:31–32 30 30:6 30:7 30:9 30:36

45 11 45 21 45

128 21 45 46 14, 19 151 154 47 47 47 149 44 47 102 14 82, 135 103 149 101, 102, 104 104 106 117 82 118 119, 120 82

30:37 31:18 32–34 32 32:16 34 34:1 34:6–7 34:27–28 34:27 35–40 35 39 40:16 40:34–38 40:35 Leviticus 1–17 1–16 1–10 1–7

1–3 1

1:1–2

119, 120 47 14 96, 118 48 19, 46, 47 47, 48 47 47 48 14 28 103 101 101 82

27 73, 138, 150 28 20, 26, 27, 31, 32, 34, 36, 54, 73, 75, 82, 97, 98, 100, 105, 107 25 20, 22, 60, 83, 105 78

1:1 1:2 1:3–4 1:3 1:4 1:5–9 1:9 1:11–13 2:3 2:6 2:10 2:15 3 3:2 3:8 3:16–17 4–6 4 4:2 4:3 4:4 4:13 4:14 4:15 4:20 4:22 4:24 4:27–35 4:27 4:29 4:33 4:35 5:5 5:14 5:15 5:17

58 90 90 90 90, 107 60 92 60 83 76 83, 86 76 60 107 107 150 92 85, 105 128 83, 84 107 128 108 107 92 128 107 79 128 107 107 85 79 93 93 80, 93

178


Leviticus (cont.) 5:21–26 93 5:24 93 5:25 93 6–7 95 6:2–7 Eng. 93 6:2–6 95 6:3 83 6:5 Eng. 93 6:6 Eng. 93 6:7–16 95 6:7 83 6:8 27 6:9 86 6:10 Eng. 83 6:12–16 150 6:12–15 84 6:12 84 6:14 Eng. 83 6:15 85 6:17–23 95 7 31, 86 7:1–10 95 7:6 87 7:8 87 7:9 87 7:10 105 7:11–21 95 7:14 87 7:18 90 7:22–27 150 7:31–34 86 7:31 87 7:32 87, 108 7:36 87 7:37 77, 105 8–10 14, 26, 30–32, 35, 57, 73, 85, 100, 116 8–9 10, 20, 22, 27, 37, 44, 54, 74, 75, 100,

8

8:1 8:2 8:4–5 8:4 8:5 8:6–7 8:6 8:7–9 8:9 8:10–11 8:10 8:12–15 8:12 8:13 8:14–17 8:15–16 8:15 8:17 8:18–21 8:21 8:22–23 8:23–24 8:27–29 8:27–28 8:29 8:30 8:31–35 8:31 8:34 8:35 8:36 9

9:4 9:5 9:6 9:7 9:8–12

101, 109, 111, 126 84, 100– 102, 107, 109, 111 102 102 102 109 109 127 103 103 109 101, 103 103 127 83, 103, 104, 106 103, 109 104 104 104 105, 109 104 109 104 105 105 105 105, 109 106 106 109 109 109, 110, 150 109, 110 100, 107, 110, 111, 117 107, 108 117 109, 110 109, 110 108

9:10 9:15–21 9:16 9:21 9:22–24 9:23 9:24 10

10:1–7 10:1–2 10:1 10:2 10:3 10:4 10:5 10:6 10:8–11 10:10–11 10:10 10:11 10:12–15 10:13 10:16–20 10:16 10:17 10:18 11–27 11–26 11–17 11–15

11 11:1–23

109 108 108 108–111 117 108 108, 122, 124 15, 40, 47, 85, 97, 112, 116, 129, 130, 132, 153–55 116 111 121, 122 122, 126 123, 129 125 126 126 126 151 29, 141, 142, 151 151 126 109 125 122 149 109 28 28 31 26, 27, 29, 32, 34, 73, 75, 80, 82, 95, 97, 127, 130, 133 25, 28, 31 95

179

Index of References 11:41–42 11:43–45 11:45 12:1–8 12:1 12:6 12:8 13–14 13 13:1–59 14 14:1–57 14:1–9 14:1 14:4 14:5 14:7 14:33–53 14:33 14:34–57 14:35 14:38 14:39 15 15:1–32 15:31 16–27 16

16:1 16:2–34 16:2–28 16:2–3 16:2 16:12–13 16:12 16:13 16:14

95 150–52 166 95 127 89 150 11, 27 80 95 81 95 80 127 80 80 80 150 127 81 81 81 81 89 95 150 29 10, 15, 26–29, 31, 32, 35, 44, 54, 57, 73, 85, 100, 117, 120, 127, 132–34 25, 127 25 134 133 97, 120, 134 135, 136 118 136 136

16:23–24 16:29–34 16:29–33 16:30 16:34 17–27 17–26

17–22 17 17:1–24:9 18–27 18–20 18 18:21 18:26–28 18:26–27 19 19:2 19:3 19:5 19:7 19:8 19:10 19:11 19:12 19:18 20:3 20:7 20:8 20:26 21–27 21–22 21 21:4 21:6 21:7 21:8

136 133, 150 134 132 26 73, 138, 139, 146 26–29, 130, 147, 150 29 26–28, 31, 165 32 27 28, 31 152 143, 160, 162 150 140 152, 153, 161, 163 139, 160 160 94 91 139, 144 166 160, 162 143 153 124, 143 141, 160 140, 141 139 33 28 31, 124, 143 144 139, 140, 143, 160 139, 142 140, 141

21:9 21:12 21:14 21:15 21:20 21:22 21:23 22 22:1–9 22:2 22:9 22:10 22:15 22:16 22:19–20 22:21–25 22:21 22:23 22:24 22:27 22:29 22:31–32 22:32 23–24 23 23:1–24:9 23:11 23:27 23:28 23:32 24 24:1–9 24:9 24:10–23

24:10

144, 145, 161 142, 144 142 140, 144, 161 92 139 140, 144, 161 31, 139 161 124, 140, 160 140, 142, 144 161 144 140 94 161 94 91 92 91 91, 94 162 141, 163 28 29, 139, 148 31 91 134 134 143 29, 156 29 139 15, 16, 28–30, 32, 33, 35, 47, 57, 73, 100, 153 153

180


Leviticus (cont.) 24:11 153 24:12 154, 155 24:13 155 24:15–16 155 24:16–17 149 24:22 155 25–27 31, 32 25–26 29 25 31 25:20 140 25:29 134 26 21, 31 26:14 121 26:42 150 26:46 27, 152 27 25, 27– 29, 31, 140 27:25 139 27:28 139 Numbers 4:4–12 4:20 5–9 7:89 10 15:24

103 82 19 82, 135 14, 19 108

16 17:5 17:19 28–29 29:11 30:17

96, 118 120 82 148 134 152

Isaiah 56:7 60:7

91 94

Jeremiah 6:20 14:10

91, 93 91

Deuteronomy 7:1–6 149 31:9–13 13

Ezekiel 28:22

124

2 Samuel 6:3–11

128

Hosea 8:13

91

1 Kings 14–15

118

Amos 5:22

91

2 Kings 23

14

Micah 6:6–7 6:7

115 91

Nehemiah 8

14

Malachi 1 1:8 1:10 1:13

92 91 91 91

Job 33:26

91

Psalms 19:15

91

INDEX OF AUTHORS Anderson, G. A. 8 Auld, G. 21 Bakhtin, M. M. 46 Bal, M. 44 Balentine, S. E. 18 Beal, T. 121 Bell, C. 52–54, 56, 58–67, 157, 166 Bibb, B. D. 91, 116 Blenkinsopp, J. 85 Bourdieu, P. 56 Boyarin, D. 45 Buckley, J. J. 111, 112 Carmichael, C. M. 11, 130 Cohn, R. 8 Crenshaw, J. 128 Crüsemann, F. 7, 8 Cryer, F. 17 Damrosch, D. 9, 10, 118 Douglas, M. 22–24, 31, 68, 92, 127, 161 Durkheim, E. 127, 156, 157 Eilberg-Schwartz, H. 8 Fish, S. 131 Fitzpatrick-McKinley, A. 37, 38 Frymer-Kensky, T. 17 Gerstenberger, E. S. 32, 101 Goldingay, J. 12 Gorman, F. 8 Gorman, F. H. 41–43 Gradwohl, R. 118 Greenstein, E. L. 118, 129 Grimes, R. 49–51 Grimes, R. L. 103, 112–16

Haran, M. 8, 86 Harrington, H. K. 8 Hartley, J. E. 24, 27, 154 Hobsbawn, E. 50 Huffman, H. B. 17 Janzen, D. 41 Jenson, P. P. 138, 144, 145, 160 Joüon, P. 140, 141 Kaufmann, Y. 147 Keunen, A. 147 Kirschner, R. 118, 126 Kiuchi, N. 86 Klawans, J. 17 Klostermann, A. 146 Knohl, I. 5, 124, 147–50 Kugler, R. 124, 145 Laughlin, J. C. 118 Levine, B. 37, 73, 138 Levinson, B. 16 Linafelt, T. 121 Mann, T. 12 Metzger, B. 79 Milgrom, J. 5, 7, 20, 25, 46, 76, 79, 80, 82, 83, 85, 87, 93, 94, 97, 102, 104–108, 117–20, 123, 124, 126, 133–40, 142, 145, 150, 151, 154, 161–63 Miller, P. D. 17 Muraoka, T. 140, 141 Murphy, R. 79 Nelson, R. D. 17, 85 Nicholson, E. 5

182


O’Connor, M. 140 Olson, G. T. 130 Otto, R. 127

Sternberg, M. 132 Sun, H. 28, 29 Sunoo, D. 128

Pardes, I. 45 Posner, R. 130

Waltke, B. 140 Warning, W. 6, 24, 25 Watts, J. W. 7, 8, 13–18, 36, 38, 55, 61, 74, 118, 121 Weinfeld, M. 147 Wellhausen, J. 147 Wenham, G. 160 Westbrook, R. 17 Whybray, R. N. 5 Wright, D. P. 8, 9, 17, 39, 86

Rendtorff, R. 19–21 Said, E. 56 Sailhamer, J. 11, 12, 27, 28 Smith, C. R. 32, 33 Sprinkle, J. 39, 40 Stahl, N. 8, 36, 45–48, 130

[Bryan D. Bibb] Ritual Words and Narrative Worlds (Bokos-Z1)

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