Old Testament in Its World

The Old Testament in Its World

Oudtestamentische Studiën Old Testament Studies published on behalf of the Societies for Old Testament Studies in the Netherlands and Belgium, South Africa, the United Kingdom and Ireland

Editor

J.C. de Moor Kampen Editorial Board

H.G.M. Williamson Oxford

H.F. Van Rooy Potchefstroom

M. Vervenne Leuven

VOLUME 52

The Old Testament in Its World Papers Read at the Winter Meeting, January 2003 The Society for Old Testament Study and at the Joint Meeting, July 2003 The Society for Old Testament Study and Het Oudtestamentisch Werkgezelschap in Nederland en België

Edited by

Robert P. Gordon & Johannes C. de Moor

BRILL LEIDEN • BOSTON 2005

This book is printed on acid-free paper. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data LC Control Number: 2004058584 Becking, Bob. Between fear and freedom : essays on the interpretation of Jeremiah 30–31 / by Bob Becking. p. cm.—(Oudtestamentische studiën = Old Testament studies, ISSN 0169-7226; d. 51) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 90-04-14118-9 (alk. paper) 1. Bible. O.T. Jeremiah XXX–XXXI—Criticism, interpretation, etc. I. Title. II. Oudtestamentische studiën; d. 51. BS1525.52.B43 2004 224’.206—dc22

2004054639

ISSN ISBN

0169-7226 90 04 14322 X

© Copyright 2005 by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands. Koninklijke Brill NV incorporates the imprints Brill Academic Publishers, Martinus Nijhoff Publishers and VSP. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by Brill provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to The Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910, Danvers, MA 01923, USA. Fees are subject to change. printed in the netherlands

Contents Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . vii K.J. Cathcart, The Comparative Philological Approach to the Text of the Old Testament . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 M. Dijkstra, ‘As for the other events . . . ’ Annals and Chronicles in Israel and the Ancient Near East . . . . . . . . .14 R.P. Gordon, ‘Comparativism’ and the God of Israel . . . . . 45 A.C. Hagedorn, ‘Who would invite a stranger from abroad?’ The Presence of Greeks in Palestine in Old Testament Times . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 68 P.S. Johnston, Death in Egypt and Israel: A Theological Reflection . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 94 K.A. Kitchen, The Hieroglyphic Inscriptions of the NeoHittite States (c. 1200–700 bc): A Fresh Source of Background to the Hebrew Bible . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 117 M.C.A. Korpel, Disillusion among Jews in the Postexilic Period . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .135 N. MacDonald, Whose Monotheism? Which Rationality? Reflections on Israelite Monotheism in Erhard Gerstenberger’s Theologies in the Old Testament . . . . . . . . . . . . . 158 M.E.J. Richardson, Textual Modification: Some Examples from Egypt . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 168 J.E. Tollington, Abraham and his Wives: Culture and Status . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 183 P.J.P. van Hecke, Pastoral Metaphors in the Hebrew Bible and in its Ancient Near Eastern Context . . . . . . . . . . . . . .200

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J.A. Wagenaar, The Priestly Festival Calendar and the Babylonian New Year Festivals: Origin and Transformation of the Ancient Israelite Festival Year . . . . . . . . . . . . . 218 J.-W. Wesselius, Language Play in the Old Testament and in Ancient North-West Semitic Inscriptions: Some Notes on the Kilamuwa Inscription . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 253 P.J. Williams, Are the Biblical Rephaim and the Ugaritic RPUM Healers? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 266

Abbreviations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 279 Index of Authors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 281 Index of Biblical Texts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 288

Introduction This volume brings together papers read at the Winter Meeting of The Society for Old Testament Study in Birmingham, 6-8 January, 2003, and at the joint meeting of The Society for Old Testament Study and the Oudtestamentisch Werkgezelschap in Nederland en België, in Cambridge, 21-23 July, 2003. The latter meeting was organised in coordination with the Society of Biblical Literature International Meeting (20-25 July, 2003). The meetings had as their overarching theme ‘The Hebrew Bible against its Ancient Near Eastern Background’, and most of the papers presented in this volume have a Near Eastern as well as an Israelite-Old Testament dimension. The benefits of drawing upon the linguistic stock of the neighbouring cognate languages for the illumination of obscure words and phrases in the biblical text have long been appreciated. In the opening essay, however, K.J. Cathcart argues the further point that it may on occasion be justifiable to emend the Hebrew text in the course of applying the insights of comparative philology to textual cruces. With the use of worked examples, he illustrates the ways in which Akkadian, Ugaritic and Old Aramaic may help to solve problem readings in the Hebrew. M. Dijkstra is concerned with the content of texts of an historical complexion. He commends Hans-Gustav G¨ uterbock’s distinction between what kings in antiquity had recorded for their own glorification and truly historical writing in which posterity ‘selected and wrote what it wanted to remember from the past’. It was the latter that gave rise to historiography in the ancient Near East, and Israelite historiography is to be seen within the context of this development. Israel did not have to wait for Herodotus to develop a view on its history. The conceptions of history held in Israel and in the adjacent countries are one of several topics that engage R.P. Gordon as he considers the question of comparativism’ and whether, and in what respects, it is possible to distinguish Israel from her neighbours. His conclusion is that the comparing and contrasting of intellectual and religious developments in Israel and among her neighbours is both legitimate and desirable. The essay by A.C. Hagedorn reminds us that Israel also had neighbours to the west. While acknowledging the likelihood of

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migrant craftsmen from the east settling in ancient Greece, Hagedorn is interested in the reverse process, focussing on the points of contact between Greek and oriental in Palestine as a means of discovering something about the social identity of those Greeks who settled in Palestine. Egypt, Israel’s most influential neighbour to the south, is the focus for comparison and contrast in the essay by P.S. Johnston on death and the dead in Egypt and in Israel. Johnston notes the positive aspects of death that are popularly associated with ancient Egypt, but also highlights a problem in that there are also clear indications that, in practice, the Egyptians failed to respect the dead, and were to a considerable degree sceptical and cynical about the afterlife. ‘Egyptian views on death and the afterlife were altogether more varied than often assumed.’ Such hope as there was and such preparations for death as were possible were the privilege of the well-to-do. In Israel, to judge from its scriptures, death was fairly uniformly regarded as ‘the negation of life, disrupting its activity and bringing separation from the divine presence’. K.A. Kitchen, best known for his Egyptological work, is concerned here with the ‘transitional era of Western mini-empires (c. 1180-950 b.c.)’, which saw the flourishing of the Neo-Hittite states, the Aramaean state of Aram-Zobah, and the Israelite ‘empire’ of David and Solomon. The Neo-Hittite states are seen as important from an Old Testament perspective, not only on account of their historical interaction with Israel but also for the cultural background that they provide for the accounts of Israelite history in Samuel-Kings and Chronicles. Some filling in of the sparse narration of the biblical books is possible in the light of the recently published corpus of over 220 inscriptions in Hieroglyphic Luwian. M.C.A. Korpel takes us several centuries further on as she considers the negative effects on the Jewish people of the destruction of the Jerusalem temple and the deportation of leading citizens to Babylonia. She claims that the general preoccupation with the restoration of Judah after the exile has deprived scholars of a proper appreciation of the disillusionment and pessimism that affected Jewish communities in the Neo-Babylonian and Persian periods. The literary evidence, both biblical and archival, for

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the state of mind of Jews in Judah, Egypt and Babylon during this period gives ample illustration of the despairing re-evaluation of their religious faith and traditions that was going on. There was no full and instantaneous triumph of strict monotheism’ at the end of the exile. N. MacDonald does not address the question of monotheism expressly within a Near Eastern setting, but his conclusion directs discussion back towards that larger environing world in which Old Testament faith developed. MacDonald seeks to apply insights from Systematic Theology to the discussion of monotheism, noting that the term itself is a coinage of the English Enlightenment. He demonstrates the danger of imposing upon Old Testament texts a ready-made term and therewith a conceptuality that is more restrictive than, and less truly descriptive of, what the texts actually say in relation to Israelite belief about God. It is the transmission of traditions that engages M.E.J. Richardson, who concentrates on Egyptian literature, ranging from Coptic tradition, in which the Gospel account of the Holy Family in Egypt develops into a number of links with specific sites, to the much-cited Merenptah Stele, with its mention of ‘Israel’. It is suggested that some texts that share motifs with Old Testament passages are also deserving of recognition as comparative’ material and therefore of inclusion in anthologies devoted to the presentation of such. It is also urged that consideration be taken of such matters as the purpose and the transmission of documents when they are cited in illustration of biblical texts. Though she does pay attention to ancient Near Eastern parallels occasionally, J.E. Tollington retains a specifically Old TestamentIsraelite focus in her examination of the relationships between Abraham and his wives. The accounts of the lesser’ wives, Hagar and Keturah, are truly ‘patriarchal’ in outlook, but it is not so in the depiction of Abraham and Sarah: ‘A close reading indicates that neither patriarchy nor matriarchy is the appropriate authority for God’s people.’ P.J.P. van Hecke, writing on pastoral metaphors, discusses the depiction of God as shepherd in relation to his people, but Van Hecke does not limit himself to positive imagery: he is also interested in negative evaluations of God as sheep-owner and

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even as ‘anti-shepherd’. The justification for this approach lies partly in the fact that ‘opposing metaphors’ from within the same domain may co-exist in a text. ‘Text’ may refer to biblical or, more generally, to Near Eastern texts, since, as Van Hecke shows, the non-Israelite texts have not only the traditional, positive use of the shepherd metaphor but also clear instances of the reversed form. J.A. Wagenaar is largely concerned with the internal development of the festival calendar of Israel, including the relation between the agricultural seasons and the fixed-date prescriptions of the priestly calendar of Leviticus 23. The possibility of influence from the Babylonian festival calendar is noted, and the Israelite Gezer calendar inevitably comes into the picture. The comparison between Israel and Babylonia becomes most pronounced when it is suggested that the transformation of PesachMassot into a New Year festival may mirror a similar transformation of the Babylonian New Year Festival, according to which equal ‘equinox years’, each of six months, were recognized. The use of words tropically is addressed by J.-W. Wesselius, who seeks to fill a lacuna in modern studies of wordplay in the Bible and related literature by highlighting possible occurrences in epigraphic material. Special attention is paid to the Phoenician Kilamuwa Inscription where the invocation of casus pendens is thought to illuminate the meaning of the opening lines. The same inscription, it is suggested, contains an example of polysemy in which the several possible significances of a word are each developed subsequently in the text. The additional feature of the ‘trapdoor’, in which an expression that is ambiguous is taken in a different direction from that expected, is noted for Kilamuwa and the Bible, and further illustrates the point that word-play was ‘a very serious element in composing official texts’ in the literary culture shared by the Old Testament and Kilamuwa. Finally, P.J. Williams considers the meaning of the Hebrew term ‘Rephaim’ and its apparent Ugaritic cognate RPUM, and in particular the possibility that the terms may mean ‘healers’. The vocalisation of the biblical term, however, does not necessarily support such a derivation, and the meaning of Rephaim-RPUM is regarded as remaining an open question. The Editors

Kevin J. Cathcart

Campion Hall, Oxford – United Kingdom

The Comparative Philological Approach to the Text of the Old Testament 1 Introduction1 One of the events in the 1960s which many Old Testament scholars remember well was the publication of James Barr’s Comparative Philology and the Text of the Old Testament.2 No less interesting were some of the lively reviews of that book.3 It is important to note that Barr does not regard his work as an introduction to the discipline of comparative philology. He is more concerned with the ‘application of philological means to elucidate Old Testament passages which would otherwise be regarded as obscure or corrupt’.4 Accordingly, it may be helpful to begin with Barr’s very useful definition of comparative philology: This term has meant the comparative study of language groups within which signs of a common historical origin can be detected; ‘comparison’ is not a general discussion of similarities and diffences, but the construction of an historical common scheme within which the material of related languages can be placed.5

Thus, to be comparative means to be historical, and employing the comparative philological method for the study of the text of the Old Testament involves the general comparative study of the Semitic language family. Barr distinguishes two types of treatments (his term): the textual treatment and the philological treatment. Generally speaking, the textual critic deals with a text 1

Whereas elsewhere in this volume Hebrew is printed in Hebrew type, the Editors decided in this case to maintain the transliterated Hebrew the author used in his manuscript to facilitate comparison with the other Semitic languages he cites. 2 J. Barr, Comparative Philology and the Text of the Old Testament, Oxford 1968. 3 See, for example, the reviews by M.J. Dahood, ‘Comparative Philology Yesterday and Today’, Bib. 50 (1969), 70-9; W.L. Moran, CBQ 31 (1969), 238-43. 4 Barr, Comparative Philology, 10. 5 Barr, Comparative Philology, 77.

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in which a graphic error has occurred during transmission. The scholar who applies the comparative philological method does not posit a different original text, but seeks to elucidate the existing one. One can assume that Barr’s textual treatment (or approach) includes, for example, emendations proposed on the basis of other Semitic texts like the Ugaritic texts recovered from Ras Shamra. Let us take an example. In 2 Sam. 1:21 (David’s lament um¯ ot should be over Saul), it has been proposed that ˜ ´s e dê t e rˆ um¯ ot, ‘upsurging of the deeps’, comemended to read ´s e ra t e rˆ paring KTU 1.19:I:45. I am not concerned here with the strengths and weaknesses of this proposal,6 made on the basis of a similar Ugaritic text. I simply make the point that, if the ˜ is emended, it seems to belong to the category of a ‘textual treatment’ rather than, or perhaps as well as, a philological one. Of course, this particular case may illustrate the not uncommon situation in which one works with a combination of the textual and comparative approaches. Although it is true that the philological approach may often justify rare or anomalous words, the same approach may also bring about the identification of a word that is not rare at all. (See the discussion of Heb. y¯ apˆı a h. and Ugar. yph. below.) Finally, it is interesting to note that Emmanuel Tov regards support from cognate languages, especially from Ugaritic, as leading to ‘linguistic emendations’ because they involve ‘some form of emendation, namely, in vocalization’.7 Nevertheless, in this connection it is salutary to read Barr’s contribution on the ‘fallibility’ of the consonantal text, in which he quite rightly criticises philological scholars, as he calls them, for their inconsistency in the use of emendation.8 However, excesses in some philological treatments should not deter scholars from engaging in the comparative philological approach. Sound philological proposals do make us generally cautious about tampering with the text. On the other hand, wholesale reckless emendation of the biblical text that we associate with scholarship of a previous era cannot be used to block convincing and sensible solutions based on emend6

See, however, J.P. Fokkelman, ‘´s e dê t e rˆ um¯ ot in II Sam 1, 21a: A NonExistent Crux’, ZAW 91 (1979), 289-292; S. Talmon, ‘The “Comparative Method” in Biblical Interpretation – Principles and Problems’, in: F.E. Greenspahn (ed.), Essential Papers on Israel and the Ancient Near East, New York 1991, 381-419 (405-6). 7 E. Tov, Textual Criticism of the Hebrew Bible, Assen 1992, 363. 8 Barr, Comparative Philology, 191-4.

The Comparative Philological Approach

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ation. Quite rightly Barr stresses the need to be conscious of the ‘balance of probability’ in textual and philogical approaches to the text. After examining many issues and sending out several warnings, Barr sums up as follows: These criteria are not rules the simple observation of which will certainly lead to a right result. They themselves are probable rather than absolute; and sometimes they may seem capable of working in either direction.9

It would be impossible to address all the points which arise in discussing the comparative philological approach, so I have chosen some worked examples that I think are interesting in the light of recent research and epigraphical discoveries. Conscious of some of the pitfalls of the philological approach, highlighted in particular by Barr, I shall now set out some examples of philological treatment that involve the use of comparative data from Akkadian, Ugaritic and Old Aramaic, and which have a direct bearing on the text of the Old Testament. I admit shamelessly that to some extent my own particular interests have guided my choices, but I am quite confident that I am not influenced by that factor which Barr says is ‘more social than genuinely linguistic’, namely ‘the love of the scholar for his own specialization’.10 My choices scarcely need justification. Akkadian is the most widely attested Semitic language of the ancient Near East and its great importance is self-evident. Ugaritic and Old Aramaic texts meet some of the criteria suggested by Barr for making preferences between sources. These texts are written in Northwest Semitic languages; they come from the Syro-Palestinian area, and they are near to the Old Testament period in time.11

2 Examples Using Akkadian Although it is not always recognised, for Old Testament scholars one of the most significant developments in ancient Near Eastern studies during the nineteenth century was the decipherment of Mesopotamian cuneiform by Edward Hincks and Henry Creswicke Rawlinson.12 The basic decipherment was accomplished by 9

Barr, Comparative Philology, Barr, Comparative Philology, 11 Barr, Comparative Philology, 12 The best account of Hincks’s 10

288. 111. 112-13. work is by P.T. Daniels, ‘Edward Hincks’s

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Hincks in a series of papers between 1846 and 1852.13 One can only imagine Hincks’s excitement when he was able to read Akkadian words that were not names of persons or places, or when he identified for example, the mention of Jehu son of Omri in the inscription on the Black Obelisk of Shalmaneser III in 1851. Among Hincks’s papers in the Griffith Institute, Ashmolean Museum, Oxford, there is a fragment of a paper that is the beginning of an article on ‘Hebrew Roots Compared with Assyrian, No. 1’. It begins as follows: In addition to the light which the recent discoveries in Assyrian literature throw on the history, chronology and geography of the Bible, it may be expected that the language of the inscriptions, which is of the same family as the languages of the Old Testament, will illustrate obscure passages of the Bible by giving the true meaning of roots that are of rare occurrence in Hebrew, perhaps hapax legomena; and also by giving the true derivations of Hebrew nouns, of which the verbal roots have been hitherto only conjectured.14

The first entry in his draft article is on the Hebrew root s.rb, which occurs four times in the Hebrew Bible: as a passive verb in Ezek. 21:3; as an adjective in Prov. 16:27, and as a noun in Lev. 13:23, 28. Hincks had correctly translated a line in the great pavement inscription from Nimrud in which he identified a verb s.ar¯ abu. The line reads: dam¯eˇsunu ˇsadu as.rup,15 which he renders: ‘with their blood the mountains I reddened’. Hincks read the verbal form as.rup as as.rub, so he identified it with the Hebrew verb Decipherment of Mesopotamian Cuneiform’, in: K.J. Cathcart (ed.), The Edward Hincks Bicentenary Lectures, Dublin 1994, 30-57. See also Daniels’ contribution on decipherment in: P.T. Daniels, W. Bright (eds), The Writing Systems of the World, London 1996, 141-59; and Cathcart, ‘The Age of Decipherment: the Old Testament and the Ancient Near East in the Nineteenth Century’, in: J.A. Emerton (ed.), Congress Volume: Cambridge 1995 (VT.S, 66), Leiden 1997, 81-95. There is still no good critical account of H. C. Rawlinson’s contribution to the decipherment of Mesopotamian cuneiform (not to be confused with the decipherment of the Old Persian cuneiform writing system). There is much useful background information, however, in M.T. Larsen, The Conquest of Assyria: Excavations in an Antique Land, London 1996. 13 See K.J. Cathcart, P. Donlon, ‘Edward Hincks (1792-1866): A Bibliography of his Publications’, Or. 52, 1983, 325-56. 14 Griffith Institute, Oxford: Hincks Correspondence, MS 558. 15 The text is cited in CAD [S.], 104, where the full references are given.


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arab, missing the identification of s.ar¯ apu which would later be .s¯ made with .s¯ arap, ‘to smelt, refine’. Modern dictionaries of Akkadian list .sar¯ apu, ‘to smelt and refine metals; to fire clay tablets or bricks; to burn; to dye textiles, ivory, leather, even mountains red’.16 Hincks’s knowledge was imperfect, but his instincts were correct and his interpretation of s.¯ arab in the biblical texts was e u, ‘shall be scorched’; Prov. 16:27, accurate: Ezek. 21:3, nis.r bˆ arebet, ‘as a scorching fire’; Lev. 13:23, 28, s.¯ arebet, ‘ink e ¯eˇs s.¯ flammation, redness; scar’. It is, of course, true that misuse of the newly deciphered texts from Mesopotamia led to the excesses of pan-babylonianism, but there is no doubt that the study of Akkadian and Sumerian texts has contributed enormously to the understanding of the Old Testament. In this article, however, I am concerned with comparative philological data from Akkadian. The unsatisfactory translations of mlh lbtk (Ezek. 16:30) in many modern English Bibles illustrate what might be described as an example of wilful resistance to knowledge gained from comparative philology. The NRSV has: ‘How sick is your heart’; the NAB, ‘How wild is your lust’, and the JPSV, ‘How sick was your heart’. The JPSV translator does admit in a footnote that, on the basis of the Akkadian, a change of vocalisation will give, ‘How furious I was with you’. The NEB and REB have a satisfactory version: ‘How you anger me!’ The correct understanding of this verse was first published by David Hartwig Baneth in 1914, when he published a suggestion made by his father Eduard Baneth that Akk. libb¯ ati malˆ u, ‘to become angry with’, had a counterpart in Ezek. 16:30.17 It was noted that the same idiom occurred in Aramaic too. Godfrey Rolles Driver made the same proposal in 1928, and elaborated on it in 1931.18 All the main Hebrew lexicons admit this identification by Baneth, and the Akkadian loan has been subjected to further scrutiny by Harold Cohen19 and again thor16

CAD [S.], 1962, 102-5; J. Black et al. (eds), A Concise Dictionary of Akkadian, Wiesbaden 2000, 334. Note Neo-Babylonian s.ar¯ abu. 17 D.H. Baneth, ‘Bemerkungen zu den Achikarpapyri’, OLZ 17 (1914), 251, n. 1. 18 G.R. Driver, ‘Some Hebrew Words’, JThS 29 (1928), 393; Idem, ‘Studies in the Vocabulary of the Old Testament III’, JThS 32 (1931), 366. Joseph Fitzmyer added a new Aramaic occurrence in 1961; see J.A. Fitzmyer, ‘A Note on Ez 16, 30’, CBQ 23 (1961), 460-2. 19 H.R. Cohen, Biblical Hapax Legomena in the Light of Akkadian and Ugaritic, Missoula 1978, 47-8.

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oughly by Paul Mankowski in his very important published Harvard dissertation.20 Among early modern commentators, G.A. Cooke21 accepted the Akkadian and Aramaic evidence for the correct understanding of the text, but some commentators still prefer the interpretation apparently intended by whoever pointed the ˜. The interpretation of the Akkadian loanword, lbh, ‘anger’, as a cognate of Heb. l¯eb, ‘heart’, is an example of a loanword in the consonantal Hebrew text of the Bible being wrongly interpreted in the Massoretic text. It is interesting to note that the Ì (‘How should I dispose of your daughter?’) and the Í (‘Why should I judge your daughter?’) did not interpret lbtk as ‘your heart’. Among the many useful contributions to the study of the Biblical Hebrew lexicon in Mankowski’s work on Akkadian loanwords, the section on sibilants in his phonological analysis is highly informative for Hebraists. He writes: ‘The single most important diagnostic tool for identification of loans in BH is the treatment of sibilants’.22 He draws attention to the fact that, in Akkadian, sibilants written with ˇs -signs had the Babylonian pronunciation [ˇs ] but the Assyrian pronunciation [s]; and sibilants with s-signs had the Babylonian pronunciation [s] and the Assyrian pronunciation [s]. Perhaps one of the best-known examples of the representation of Akk. ˇs by Northwest Semitic s is that in the Hebrew words misk¯en¯ ut, ‘poverty’, in Deut. 8:9, and misk¯en, ‘poor man’, in Qoh. 4:13; 9:15, 16. Akk. muˇsk¯enu, ‘commoner’ (as for example in the Code of Hammurabi), also had the meaning ‘poor man’. The sibilant indicates that the Akkadian word entered Hebrew and Aramaic via Neo-Assyrian.23 Another good example of a loanword with Heb. s for Akk. ˇs is Heb. .taps¯ ar, Akk. .tupˇsarru, which occurs twice in the Old Testament, in Jer. 51:27 and Nah. 3:17. The spelling of the Hebrew form with s corresponding to Akk. ˇs points to a borrowing from 20 P. Mankowski, Akkadian Loanwords in Biblical Hebrew (HSS, 47), Winona Lake 2000, 77-80. 21 G.A. Cooke, The Book of Ezekiel (ICC), Edinburgh 1936, 171-3. 22 Mankowski, Akkadian Loanwords, 155. 23 There is a fascinating discussion of the transmission of Akk. muˇsk¯enu into other Semitic languages and then into the Romance languages, in Mankowski, Akkadian Loanwords, 97-9, who fails, however, to give Heinrich Zimmern his due, cf. H. Zimmern, Akkadische Fremdw¨ orter als Beweis f¨ ur babylonischen Kultureinfluss, Leipzig 1914, 47.


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Neo-Assyrian. Klaas Spronk is under the impression that .taps¯ ar 24 occurs in Isa. 33:18 also, but the word there is s¯ op¯er. Notice, however, that .taps¯ ar is in the apparatus for that verse in BHK, as part of a proposed emendation of s¯ op¯er. At Jer. 51:27, .taps¯ ar is used of a military officer, and one can compare ˇs¯ o.t¯er, with the sense of ‘marshal’ or ‘quartermaster’, in Josh. 1:10; 3:2. I continue to hold the view that, in Nah. 3:17, .taps¯ ar is a palace functionary. Furthermore, I see no reason to change my long-standing view that the parallel word minz¯ arayik should be emended slightly to manz¯ azayik, as proposed long ago by H. Torczyner.25 No defence azu is a well-known term of the ˜ stands up to scrutiny. Akk. manz¯ for a palace functionary (see manz¯ az ekalli ), so manz¯ azayik is an excellent parallel to .taps¯ arayik. I have discussed elsewhere my interpretation of the significance of these terms and the roles of these palace officials or functionaries.26 The Vulgate custodes tui has led some scholars to propose the identification of Heb. minz¯ ar with Akk. mas.s.aru, ‘guardian, guard, sentinel’. This proposal does not stand up to scrutiny. One would have to assume nasalisation of the geminate consonants, which, although well attested in Imperial Aramaic, is not found in Biblical Hebrew. Mankowski examines the possibility of an Aramaic loan route but finds it virtually impossible to sustain. As he says, mas..sar is not attested in any Aramaic dialect, and the hypothetical *mas..sar > *mans.ar > *manzar > Heb. minz¯ ar is problematic.27 Finally, it is possible ¯r¯ ah in Nah. 2:2 should be repointed to mas.s.¯ ar¯ ah and that m e .su related to Akk. mas..sartu, as in the Akk. mas.s.arta nas.¯ aru, ‘to stand guard’. Nah. 2:2, n¯ as.ˆ or mas..s¯ ar¯ ah, may be rendered ‘stand guard’.

3 Examples Using Ugaritic The close affinity of Ugaritic to Hebrew within the classification of the Semitic languages is just one of the factors that has ensured its pre-eminence in the study of the language, literature and religion of ancient Israel. Progress in the study of Ugaritic 24

K. Spronk, Nahum (HCOT), Kampen 1997, 139. H. Torczyner, ‘Presidential Address’, JPOS 16 (1936), 7. 26 K.J. Cathcart, ‘Micah 2:4 and Nahum 3:16-17 in the Light of Akkadian’, in: Y.L. Arbeitman (ed.), Fucus: A Semitic/Afrasian Gathering in Remembrance of Albert Ehrman, Amsterdam 1988, 197-200. 27 Mankowski, Akkadian Loanwords, 96. 25

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continues unabated. In this article I confine my remarks to some Ugaritic lexical items that bear directly on Old Testament texts and have (or should have) impacted on modern versions. One of the more interesting discoveries for the Biblical Hebrew lexicon is the identification of the Hebrew noun y¯ apˆı a h., cognate with Ugar. yph., ‘witness’. This was already noted by Mitchell Dahood in 1958.28 In the 1960s Samuel Loewenstamm published a more detailed article on y¯ apˆı a h. and Dahood again made further important observations.29 William McKane was convinced by the Ugaritic evidence and accepted the interpretation of y¯ apˆı a h. in 30 Proverbs as a noun meaning ‘witness’. In 1978 Dennis Pardee reviewed all the Ugaritic and Hebrew evidence carefully and he presented an excellent systematic examination of all the texts.31 The noun y¯ apˆı a h. occurs at least once in the Psalms, six times in Proverbs and once in Hab. 2:3. Many modern translations of the Old Testament adhere to the long-standing analysis of ypyh. as a form of the verb pwh., ‘to blow, breathe’. At Hab. 2:3 the RSV ‘it hastens’ and the NEB ‘it will come in breathless haste’ recall BDB’s ‘panteth (hasteth) towards the end’. The REB ‘it will testify to the destined hour’ is definitely an improvement, and the JPSV ‘A truthful witness for a time that will come’, is obviously based on the new knowledge about Ugar. yph..32 The NRSV, on the other hand, is rather unsatisfactory. For Hab. 2:3 it has, ‘it speaks of the end’, and in Prov. 14:5 we are back to the old ‘breathes out lies’. Thankfully, the REB with ‘honest witun¯ ah at Prov. 12:17, for example, has given ness’ for y¯ apˆı a h. e mˆ its approval to a noun y¯ apˆı a h., ‘witness’, as do most of the newer dictionaries of Biblical Hebrew.33 28

M. Dahood, ‘Some Ambiguous Texts in Isaias’, CBQ 20 (1958), 47-8, n.

21. 29

S. Loewenstamm, ‘y¯ ap¯e a h., y¯ ap¯ı a h., y¯ apˆı a h.’, Leˇs. 26 (1962), 205-8 (reprinted with some additions in: S.E. Loewenstamm, Comparative Studies in Biblical and Ancient Oriental Literatures (AOAT, 204), Neukirchen-Vluyn 1980, 137-45); M. Dahood, Proverbs and Northwest Semitic Philology, Rome 1963, 45; Idem, ‘Hebrew-Ugaritic Lexicography III’, Bib. 46 (1965), 319-20; Idem, Psalms I (AB, 16), Garden City 1965, 169. 30 W. McKane, Proverbs: A New Approach, London 1970. 31 D. Pardee, ‘yph., “witness” in Hebrew and Ugaritic’, VT 28 (1978), 20413. 32 K.J. Cathcart, ‘Legal Terminology in Habakkuk 2:1-4’, PIBA 10 (1986), 103-10. 33 HALAT, 405; HAHAT, 479; L. Alonso Schoekel, Diccionario B´ıblico


9

Much has been written on Ugaritic-Hebrew parallelism in poetry. Here I simply wish to comment on a remark by Barr. He writes: Where Ugaritic words are used for the elucidation of Hebrew, it should be remembered that the meanings of many of these depend in the first place on parallelisms in Ugaritic, and the same caution has to be used in any reliance on these Ugaritic meanings.34

I think that I understand Barr’s worries here, but I suggest that we should be just as cautious about reliance on Hebrew meana ˆ ot, ings. Let me take an example. The parallel pair h¯ arˆım g e b¯ ‘mountains hills’, is common in biblical poetry, and notably so in the psalms and the prophetic books, especially Isaiah. In Ugaritic literature the equivalent pair is g˙ r gb , plur. g˙ rm gb m, and this Canaanite pair has survived in Num. 23:9.35 One may translate Num. 23:9 as follows: ‘I see him from the top of the mountains, I watch him from the hills’. The NRSV has ‘crags’ for .su ¯rˆım, the REB ‘rocky heights’. This preference for ‘rocks, rocky heights’ is remarkable. It is true, of course, that, elsewhere in the Old Testament, s.u ˆr means ‘rock, rocky ground, place of refuge’. Now, a search of Driver’s translation of the Ugaritic texts is quite revealing.36 There we find ‘rocks’ for g˙ rm and ‘mountains’ for gb m. The rendering ‘mountain’ for gb is quite surprising and really inexplicable, not least because in his glossary Driver had ‘hill, hillock’ for this word.37 In the second edition of Canaanite Myths and Legends, Gibson too has ‘rocks’ for g˙ rm, but he does correctly translate gb m as ‘hills’.38 I think that g˙ rm must be translated as ‘mountains’ in the Ugaritic texts.39 I prefer the translation ‘mountains’ for s.u ¯rˆım in Num. 23:9, but I am open Hebreo-Espa˜ nol, fasc. 4, Valencia 1991, 300; D.J.A. Clines (ed.), The Dictionary of Classical Hebrew, vol. 4, Sheffield 1998, 251. 34 Barr, Comparative Philology, 282. 35 So for the first time, W.F. Albright, ‘The Oracles of Balaam’,JBL 63 (1944), 212, n. 22. See also S. Gevirtz, Patterns in the Early Poetry of Israel (SAOC, 32), Chicago 1963, 56-7. 36 G.R. Driver, Canaanite Myths and Legends, Edinburgh 1956, 97, 109, 111. 37 Driver, Canaanite Myths and Legends, 146. 38 J.C.L. Gibson, Canaanite Myths and Legends, Edinburgh 2 1978. 39 ˇ see now This also follows from the equivalence g˙ rm = d HUR.SAG.MES, ˘ D. Pardee, Les textes rituels (RSO, 12), t. 1, Paris 2000, 292, 306.

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to any persuasive arguments that it means ‘rocks, cliffs’. I have chosen this example to show how familiarity with the frequent Biblical Hebrew word s.u ˆr, ‘rock’, has influenced not only our translation of the text in Numbers 23:9, but even some translations of Ugaritic texts.

4 Examples Using Old Aramaic Old Aramaic inscriptions are a rich source for philological research and are particularly relevant for the study of the Old Testament.40 As long ago as 1964 Delbert Hillers quite rightly pointed out that the Aramaic inscriptions of Sefire provide many interesting and close parallels to Old Testament literature.41 Since the 1970s, the corpus of Old Aramaic texts has expanded. There is the very important late ninth-century Neo-Assyrian/Aramaic bilingual from Tell Fakhariyah, and more recently we have seen the publication of thirteen lines of a reasonably well-preserved Aramaic text found at Buk¯ an in Iranian Azerbaijan, south-west 42 of Lake Urmia. In this article several interesting lexical items are chosen from the Sefire inscriptions. The following words occur in Sefire III:4: whn yqrq mny qrq, ‘Now if a fugitive flees from me’.43 Here we find two forms of the verb qrq, ‘to flee’, which in later Aramaic is rq, that is, with ayin in first position. In Job 30:3, 17 we find the dislegomenon ¯ araq, which means ‘to gnaw’. This meaning ‘to gnaw’ is accepted by most scholars, who cite Arab. araqa and point out that the Vulgate has rodebant in v. 3. In his commentary on Job, Marvin Pope writes with regard to v. 3: 40 See K.J. Cathcart, ‘The Curses in Old Aramaic Inscriptions’, in: K.J. Cathcart, M. Maher (eds), Targumic and Cognate Studies: Essays in Honour of Martin McNamara (JSOT.S, 230), Sheffield 1996, 140-52; S.A. Kaufman, ‘Recent Contributions of Aramaic Studies to Biblical Hebrew Philology and the Exegesis of the Hebrew Bible’, in: A. Lemaire (ed.), Congress Volume: Basel 2001 (VT.S, 92), Leiden, 2002, 43-54. 41 D.R. Hillers, Treaty-Curses and the Old Testament Prophets (Biblica et Orientalia, 16), Rome 1964, 77. 42 A. Lemaire, ‘Une inscription araméenne du VIIIe s. av. J.-C. trouvée ` a Bukˆ an (Azerba¨ıdjan iranien)’, StIr 27 (1998), 15-30; Idem, ‘The Old Aramaic Inscription from Bukan: A Revised Interpretation’, IEJ 46 (1999), 105-15. 43 Text as in J.A. Fitzmyer, The Aramaic Inscriptions of Sefire (BibOr, 19A), Rome 2 1995, 136.


11

The word rq which occurs only here and in v. 17 below may also mean ‘go away, flee’ or the like. Either sense would be acceptable here, e.g. ‘Roaming the arid steppe’ as with the Targum (rqyn rˇsy y b r .sh.yy [‘the wicked were fleeing in a parched land’]).44

Now the third edition of Koehler-Baumgartner lists three intera ¯ or e qˆım .siyy¯ ah in v. 3.45 First, a figurative one: pretations of ˜ h¯ ‘the gnawing of drought’. Second, the proposal to insert iqq e rê, ‘roots’, before s.iyy¯ ah. This is followed by the REB: ‘they gnawed roots in the desert’. Finally, the interpretation found in the Ì and Ê: ‘They flee into the wilderness’. In support of this last interpretation, which, as we have just seen, Pope thought was valid, Koehler-Baumgartner lists Jewish Aramaic, Syriac and Mandaic rq; Old Aram. qrq, and Arab. araqa. There is also the suggestion that, of the three interpretations given, the last is unlikely. Unfortunately, the compilers of the lexicon have not seen the incompatibility of the various words which they believe to be cognates. The initial q in Old Aram. qrq indicates proto-Semitic d.; therefore a Hebrew cognate would have s. and an Arabic cognate would have d..46 Compare, for example, the common Semitic word for ‘earth’: Aram. arq¯ a/ ar ¯ a, Heb. eres., Arab. ard.. The Ê translator naturally understood ¯araq as if it were an Aramaic word. The Ì oiJ feuvgonte" suggests the same. If there is an Arabic verb araqa, ‘to flee, depart’ (and I have not found it in the lexicons), it simply cannot be cognate with the Aram. e raq, ‘to flee’, for, as we have seen, its initial consonant would have to be d.. It is best, therefore, to do what BDB did and have in the lexicon of ancient Hebrew only the entry ¯ araq, ‘to gnaw’, citing Arab. araqa with the same meaning. There is another interesting example of an Old Aramaic word with q in Sefire III: 6, rqh trqhm, ‘you must placate (appease) as.¯ ah, ‘to be acceptable, them’.47 This verb is cognate with Heb. r¯ pleasing’. I have drawn attention elsewhere to the use of this 44

M. Pope, Job (AncB, 15), Garden City 1965, 193. I have inserted a translation of the Ê. 45 L. Koehler, W. Baumgartner, The Hebrew and Aramaic Lexicon of the Old Testament, study edition (ed. M.E.J. Richardson), Leiden 2001, 888-9. 46 See the brief but perceptive remarks on the etymology of Aram. qrq/ rq, by Fitzmyer, The Aramaic Inscriptions of Sefire, 146. 47 Fitzmyer, The Aramaic Inscriptions of Sefire, 136.

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verb in the Hadad (Zenjirli) inscription, line 22, which, although fragmentary, has zbh.h w’l yrqy bh, ‘his sacrifice, and may he not look favourably upon it’, which can be compared with Amos 5:22, ‘Even if you offer me burnt offerings and your gift offerings, I will not accept them (l¯ o ers.eh)’.48 Or is the sense, ‘I will not be appeased’ ? In the final section of this paper, I offer a new proposal to remove a particular difficulty in Nah. 2:14. The precise meaning of several words in this verse could be debated, but the discusah. This word sion here will be confined to the problematic ˜ rikb¯ causes difficulty because of the third person feminine singular suffix and the mention of ‘chariots’ in the context. Some scholars, most recently J.J.M. Roberts,49 think that ‘chariots’ breaks the metaphor of the lion. Accordingly, with the Ì and 4QpNah frags. ah, with a second masculine 3+4 col. I, 10, Roberts reads rubb e k¯ a for singular suffix, and thinks that it, like .trpk (he reads .tarp e k¯ ˜ .tarp¯ek ) later in the verse, refers to the plundered wealth stored up in Nineveh. Driver pursued the lion metaphor even further by ah to rohb¯ek, ‘your pride’, and ˜ mal ¯ ak¯ek¯eh emending ˜ rikb¯ (probably to be read mal ¯ akayik ) ‘your ambassadors, messenal¯ek, ‘your feeding’.50 Not surprisingly, Driver’s gers’, to ma a k¯ proposals found their way into the NEB. But it is rather surprisal¯ek, ing to find that the JPSV thought the emendation to ma a k¯ ‘your feeding’, worth mentioning in its footnotes. The reference to lions disappears altogether if one follows Fitzmyer’s proposal to take kpyr as the word for ‘village’, attested with this spelling in the Haddad and Panammu inscriptions and in some late Old Testament texts.51 Robert Gordon notes that, while main Ê MSS have understood the ˜ k e pˆırayik as ‘your princes’, some MSS interpreted it as ‘your villages’.52 Roberts, as most scholars have done, interprets k e pˆırayik as referring to troops or officials. But let us return to rikb¯ ah. The Ì plh'qov" sou and 4QpNah rwbkh, ‘your throng’, clearly support a reading rbk(h) in the Old Test48

Cathcart, ‘Curses in Old Aramaic Inscriptions’, 143. J.J.M. Roberts, Nahum, Habakkuk, and Zephaniah: a Commentary, Louisville 1991, 63. 50 G.R. Driver, ‘Linguistic and Textual Problems: Minor Prophets, II’, JThS 39 (1938), 271. 51 Fitzmyer, The Aramaic Inscriptions of Sefire, 159-60. 52 K.J. Cathcart, R.P. Gordon, The Targum of the Minor Prophets (The Aramaic Bible, 14), Wilmington 1989, 138, n. 47. 49


13

ament text. But how is this to be interpreted? Does it refer to ‘plundered wealth’, as argued by Roberts and others before him, or does it refer to persons? The latter seems to be the interpretation of the Qumran pesher, 4QpNah, frags 3+4 col. I, 10-11: ‘ “Your throng” are his gangs of soldiers [. . . ]; “his cubs” are his nobles [and the members of his council, . . . ] and “his spoil” is the wealth which [the pries]ts of Jerusalem accu[mulated]’.53 Now there is a curse in Sefire I:39-40, which in translation reads: ‘[Just as] this calf is cut in two, so may Matiel be cut in two, and may his nobles (rbwh) be cut in two.’54 This is one of several references to the king and his nobles in the curses. The king is even threatened with being burned like a wax figure (Sefire I:37). I propose being burnt tentatively to read rabbayik and suggest the following version for Nah. 2:14: ‘I shall destroy your nobles (or chief officers) in a pall of smoke, and the sword will devour your young lions.’ We may compare Nah. 3:15, ‘There fire will devour you, the sword will destroy you, it will devour you like a young locust’, and Job 1:15-16 for the destroying sword and fire; and Jer. 39:13; 41:1 for the ‘chief officers (rabbê ) of the king’. The selection of texts that has been examined from a philological point of view in this article illustrates how much has been, and can be, accomplished in the study of the Old Testament text. Much still remains to be done. For example, it would be very instructive to carry out a detailed study of the lexical overlap of ancient Hebrew with other Semitic languages, especially Ugaritic. I am thinking here of the sort of thing that Barr55 has done on a sample basis. I have done a limited sample with Ugaritic, but a more extensive study would be very useful. In an age when the ‘dumbing down’ of language requirements is increasing, it is important to encourage young scholars to work in the fields of textual criticism and comparative Semitic philology.

53

F. Garc´ıa Mart´ınez, E.J.C. Tigchelaar, The Dead Sea Scrolls (study edition), vol. 1, Leiden 1997, 336-7. 54 Fitzmyer, The Aramaic Inscriptions of Sefire, 47. 55 Barr, Comparative Philology, 162-4.

Meindert Dijkstra

Utrecht University – The Netherlands

‘As for the other events . . . ’ Annals and Chronicles in Israel and the Ancient Near East

1 Introduction One of the best-known turns of phrase in biblical tradition, with which the author, presumably of Deuteronomistic provenance, refers to his sources, runs as follows in the AV and RSV: Now the rest of the acts of Jeroboam, how he warred and how he reigned, behold they are written in the Book of the Chronicles of the Kings of Israel (1 Kgs 14:19). Now the rest of the acts of Rehoboam . . . are they not written in the Book of the Chronicles of the Kings of Judah . . . (1 Kgs 14:29).

and so on (for instance 1 Kgs 11:41). As a devout child listening to my father’s readings after the evening meal, running continuously through the Bible, I knew that the rest of the story could be found and, if need be, checked in the Book of Chronicles. I still remember how disappointed I was as a young theological student, when I found out that ‘the Chronicles’ were not what they seemed to be, the source of the Books of Kings. But then a more intriguing quest was born, the search for the lost chronicles, the lost history – history-sources of which we know only the titles, such as rv;Y:h' rp,se ‘The Book of the Just (or: Yaˇsar)’ (Josh. 10:13; 2 Sam. 1:18) or hw:hy“ tmoj}l]mi rp,se ‘The Book of the Wars of Yhwh’ (Num. 21:14). Some scholars deem such references to be a learned, but fictional, pia fraus. There is little to prove this point. Some modern scholars have difficulty in accepting the idea that texts sometimes existed beyond texts, texts different from the texts in front of us, but nevertheless their ‘sources’. ‘As for the other events of Rehoboam’s reign . . . are they not written in the Book of the Annals of the Kings of Judah?’ You may have noticed the difference. In NIV, ‘the Book of the Chronicles’ is ‘the Book of the Annals’. What is the difference? The Concise Oxford Dictionary says:

‘As for the other events . . . ’

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annals • pl.n. a record of events year by year ➤ historical records; chronicle • n. a written account of important or historical events in the order of their occurrence.

In his seminal studies on the historical traditions of ancient Mesopotamia and Anatolia, Hans-Gustav G¨ uterbock formulated a fundamental distinction between ‘historical records’ in which royalty prescribed what they wanted to be remembered for by posterity and a kind of historical literature in which posterity selected and wrote what it wanted to remember from the past.1 The latter form marked the birth of ancient Near Eastern historiography. It is my view that scholars have often ignored this distinction between annals and chronicles in comparative studies. The difference in the dictionary does not seem great, but the definition of chronicle may imply a different order of occurrence from year to year, or at least a deliberate recording and selection of events from the viewpoint of the chronicler. I would like to discuss some of the problems of Israelite historiography in the context of Near Eastern historiography from this viewpoint.

2 Historiographic Background and Roots of Israelite Historiography In my study of the summary statement, ‘He who calls the eras from the beginning’ (Isa. 41:4) in the Festschrift for Henk Leene,2 I discussed the question whether the belief in Yhwh’s historical intervention and his power to call up history by his command was 1

H.G. G¨ uterbock, ‘Die historische Tradition und ihre literarische Gestaltung bei Babylonier und Hethitern bis 1200’, ZA 42 (1934), 1-2, 13. Also: A. K. Grayson, Assyrian and Babylonian Chronicles (TCS, 5), New York 1975 (=AssBabC ); A.K. Grayson, ‘History and Historians of the Ancient Near East: Assyria and Babylonia’, Or. 49 (1980), 140-94, esp. 188-9 = ‘Assyrië en Babylonië’, in: E. Otto et al., Geschiedschrijving in het oude Nabije Oosten (Supplementen ‘Ex Oriente Lux’, 3), Leiden 2000, 37-98, esp. 91-2; J. van Seters, In Search of History: Historiography in the Ancient World and the Origins of Biblical History, New Haven 1983, 91-2; M. van de Mieroop, Cuneiform Texts and the Writing of History (Approaching the Ancient World), London 1999, 25-7. 2 M. Dijkstra, ‘ “He who calls the Eras from the Beginning” (Isa. 41:4): From History to Eschatology in Second Isaiah’, in: F. Postma, K. Spronk and E. Talstra (eds), The New Things: Eschatology in Old Testament Prophecy. Festschrift for Henk Leene (ACEBT.S, 3), Maastricht 2002, 61-76.

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a concept of Second Isaiah’s own design (for instance, as distinctive from Geschichtskonzepte in the Book of Ezekiel),3 or whether it was consonant with the ideas of Israelite historiography as part of ancient Near Eastern historiography. It was my contention that this formula implied a view of history and its periodicity that emerged in the first millennium bce, in particular in the Nabonassar Era (after 747 bce), and was disseminated in the centres of learning of the ancient Near East, whence they also influenced ancient Jewish historiography and Second Isaiah’s concept of history. This contention depended, however, on the premise that a certain historical awareness based on conceptions such as divine intervention, alternations of good and bad periods and the like, emerged in historiographic genres of the first millennium bce, such as the Synchronic King List, the Babylonian Chronicles and even documents of prognostic historiography (so-called Akkadian Apocalypses). It is at present unwarranted to distinguish between a cyclical, deterministic and immanent concept of history in Mesopotamia and a linear (teleological) and transcendent view of history in Israel, as has often been done.4 Assyriological scholars have rightly refuted this schematic simplification used in Old Testament studies.5 At present, the debate about ancient Near Eastern historiography revolves not so much around such differences between historiography in the Bible and the ancient Near East, but around method, in particular, the approach to ‘sources’ of information and their analysis in relation to mater3

T. Kr¨ uger, Geschichtskonzepte im Ezechielbuch (BZAW, 180), Berlin 1989. 4 A view which was definitely challenged by the ground-breaking work of B. Albrektson, History and the Gods: An Essay on the Idea of Historical Events as Divine Manifestations in the Ancient Near East and in Israel (CB.OT, 1), Lund 1967. See also: Van Seters, In Search of History, 57-9. For evidence indicating that the step from an immanent to a transcendent view of history could take place in the Umwelt, see K. van der Toorn, ‘Prophecy between Immanence and Transcendence: A Comparison of OldBabylonian and Neo-Assyrian Prophecy’, in: M. Nissinen (ed.), Prophecy in its Near Eastern Context: Mesopotamian, Biblical and Arabian Perpectives (SBL Symposium Series, 13), Atlanta 2000, 71-87. 5 W.G. Lambert, ‘History and the Gods: A Review Article’, Or. 39 (1970), 175 n.7; Idem, ‘Destiny and Divine Intervention in Babylon and Israel’, OTS 17 (1972), 70-1; A.K. Grayson, Babylonian Historical-Literary Texts, Toronto 1975, 21 n.34; Idem, Or. 49 (1980), 191 = ‘Assyrië en Babylonië’, 95; M. deJong Ellis, ‘Observations on Mesopotamian Oracles and Prophetic Texts: Literary and Historiographic Considerations’, JCS 41 (1989), 151, 179-81.


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ial and social culture. The classical Ereignisgeschichte or histoire ´ événementielle in the terminology of the Ecole des Annales (F. Braudel) is a legacy of the optimistic late 19th and early 20th centuries, which saw Assyrian-Babylonian royal inscriptions, Old Testament ‘sources’ (whether or not reconstructed)6 as immediate information for reconstruction of what appears to be political history. However, this intermediate relation between text and history posed a problem in modern theory of history under the influence of modern linguistics, not only in biblical studies, but also in Assyriology.7 At the most, documents are facts in themselves, but do not contain immediate historical facts, let alone events. They are messages or narratives with relative and limited historical value that can only be included, interpreted and understood in a more comprehensive histoire conjoncturelle.8 History is not simply the history of kings and officials, but, in the approach of ´ the Ecole des Annales, supposes also involvement of official and private archives, material culture, architecture and iconography, in short, of all the different genres of culture in their Eigenbegriff-

6

On the problem of calling the Old Testament a ‘source’ of historical information, see B. Becking, ‘Inscribed Seals as Evidence for Biblical Israel: Jeremiah 40.7–41.15, par exemple’, in: L.L. Grabbe (ed.), Can a ‘History of Israel’ Be Written? (JSOT.S, 245), Sheffield 1997, 69. 7 M. Liverani, ‘Memorandum on the Approach to Historiographic Texts’, Or. 42 (1973), 178-94. A useful survey is A.M. Bagg, ‘Geschichtsschreibung in der Assyriologie’, WO 29 (1998), 98-108. The article is a review of W. Mayer, Politik und Kriegskunst der Assyrer, M¨ unster 1995, as a recent example of Ereignisgeschichte in contrast to collections of modern historiographic essays on ancient Near Eastern studies such as M.T. Larsen (ed.). Power and Propaganda, Copenhagen 1979; F.M. Fales (ed.), Assyrian Royal Inscriptions: New Horizons in Literary, Ideological, and Historical Analysis (OrAnt.C, 17), Rome 1981. Other representatives of this ‘sceptical’ approach to Mesopotamian historiographic texts are A.L. Oppenheim, M. Civil, F.R. Kraus, H. Tadmor and G. van Driel. Against this ‘sceptical’ approach see W.W. Hallo, ‘The Limits of Skepticism’, JAOS 110 (1990), 187-99; A.R. Millard, ‘Story, History and Theology’, in: A.R. Millard et al. (eds), Faith, Tradition, and History: Old Testament Historiography in its Near Eastern Context, Winona Lake 1994, 37-64 (esp. 53-64). 8 B. Becking, ‘Chronology: A Skeleton without Flesh? Sennacherib’s Campaign as a Case-study’, in: L.L. Grabbe, ‘Like a Bird in a Cage’: The Invasion of Sennacherib in 701 bce (JSOT.S, 363), Sheffield 2002, 46-71, esp. 71; but see also the criticism of Braudel’s three-causes model by Ch. Lorenz, De constructie van het verleden: een inleiding in de theorie van de geschiedenis, Amsterdam 1998, 145-6.

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lichkeit.9 Historiography needs a basic factual and chronological framework. Chronology is still the backbone or even ‘skeleton’ of history,10 and, as such, there is nothing wrong with creating a histoire événementielle,11 but to provide it or revive it with flesh and blood is a different matter. Mesopotamian and biblical historiography share many aspects and elements of a common ancient Near Eastern belief system, in particular the idea of divine intervention and a view of the past as a sequence of good and bad times. Furthermore, they often show the same mixture of human and divine action, myth and legend, and aetiological interest, as well as the author’s criticism and disapproval.12 In most of its literary aspects, biblical historiography is a variant form of ancient Near Eastern historiography, except for its fundamental confession of Yhwh’s exclusiveness and the singular emphasis on recalling and remembering ‘Israelite history’ in worship (Deut. 26:3-10; 32:7; Ps. 78:3-4). But such a form of liturgical remembrance is, after all, no less biased and ideological in character than the creation of history serving to legitimate a cult or dynasty in the ancient Near East. Historical memory is everywhere more ‘adjusted to what really serves the present than to what may “really” have happened and cannot in fact be altered’.13 So I doubt whether biblical authors were and could be the first historians or creators of history. With some confidence, I still quote Huizinga’s definition of history, as has been done by numerous students of biblical and ancient Near Eastern history: ‘History is the intellectual form in which a civil9 See Van de Mieroop on history from above and from below (Cuneiform Texts and the Writing of History, 39-85, 86-105). 10 Becking, ‘Chronology’, 67-71. 11 So also Bagg, ‘Geschichtsschreibung’, 103; Van de Mieroop, Cuneiform Texts and the Writing of History, 55. 12 Some of these aspects have been noted by J. Barr, ‘Story and History in Biblical Theology’, JR 56 (1976), 1-17. He also noted an absence of critical evaluation of sources and reports, but I agree with Millard (‘Story, History and Theology’, 39-40) that this aspect is not completely absent either in biblical (in particular Deuteronomistic) or in Babylonian historiography. See below. 13 B. Halpern, The First Historians: The Hebrew Bible and History, San Francisco 1988; Idem, ‘History as a Jewish Problem’, in: J. Neusner et al., From Ancient Israel to Modern Judaism: Intellect in Quest of Understanding. Essays in Honor of Marvin Fox, vol. 1, Atlanta 1989, 3; M. Z. Brettler, The Creation of History in Ancient Israel (JSOT.S, 148), Sheffield 1992, 2 1995, 137.


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ization renders account for its past.’ Historiography was born in an axial period of ancient Near Eastern civilisation and biblical historiography took its part in it. Cultural heritage, ideology and theory-loadedness play their part in any form of historiography, ancient or modern, so within the variety of theories of history, Huizinga’s definition allows proper space and place for ancient Israelite and Mesopotamian historiography within the bounds of their mutual Eigenbegrifflichkeit.14 Already in the Umwelt of Israel, we find an historiographic interest that took historiography a step further than the res gestae, i.e. recording the deeds of the king and his officials, namely to the development of a literary historical tradition.15

3 A Survey of ‘Babylonian’ Chronicles What is the difference between annals and chronicles? Annual reports or annals usually relate to the military, cultural and political achievements of a particular king or dynasty, often year after year. Usually such annals are in autobiographical style, but occasionally annalistic inscriptions are in biographic style, perhaps because, as some scholars suppose, they were compiled from current war journals.16 Annalistically structured records appear in royal inscriptions of, for instance, the Third Dynasty of Ur as early as the beginning of the second millennium bce, but the 14 W.E. Krul, ‘Huizinga’s definitie van de geschiedenis’, in: J. Huizinga, De taak der cultuurgeschiedenis, samengesteld, verzorgd en van een nawoord voorzien door W.E. Krul, Groningen 1995, 284; F.R. Ankersmit, De spiegel van het verleden, Exploraties 1: Geschiedtheorie, Kampen 1996, 7-9; Van Seters, In Search of History, 1; DeJong Ellis, JCS 41 (1989), 182-4; Becking, ‘Inscribed Seals as Evidence for Biblical Israel’, 66; but see also the problems with this definition in Brettler, Creation of History in Ancient Israel, 11. Note that Peter Machinist also emphasised this Eigenbegrifflichkeit in his lecture ‘The Old Testament in Comparative Perspective’ (SOTS/SBL 2003 Cambridge). 15 This is seemingly the point missed by Brettler, Creation of History in Ancient Israel, 11. Even if Huizinga made a sharp distinction between history and literature and if, according to Brettler, modern scholarship may not do so, this correction applies also to Israelite and Mesopotamian historiographic tradition. 16 This theory of war journals in combination with letters (reports) to the deity as Vorlage for the Assyrian annals is in Mayer’s view essential for the credibility of the inscriptions (Mayer, Politik und Kriegskunst, 56-59); but for the pitfalls of this theory, see Grayson, Or. 49 (1980), 164-70 = ‘Assyrië en Babylonië’, 64-67; Bagg, ‘Geschichtsschreibung’, 105.

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genre may go back to kings from the third millennium such as Sargon of Akkad, and even to pre-Sargonic times.17 Collections of such annual reports written on tablets and stored in archives for consultation, study and reference are known in Mesopotamia only from the Late Middle Assyrian Period onwards (1132-935 bce). Similar texts are found in Anatolian archives such as the pinaˇsdar ‘(masculine) acts’ compiled in chronological order. They are annalistically composed texts, which approach the later chronographic texts, being the earliest examples of ancient Near Eastern historiography.18 We think here especially of the Annals of Mursilis II (ca 1300 bce), in particular the decennial records, series of ten years of annals (TUAT, 1/5, 471-81), which were extracts, taken and summarised from extensive running yearbooks. The genre of the chronicle, with its fundamental focus on the past, its selective structure, eclectic preference and hardly hidden historiographic bias emerges after the first quarter of the first millennium. But it did not appear out of the blue. The change in viewpoint from annals to chronicles is a gradual one. In essence, annals focus on the exploits of their sponsor in time and space. Though they may show interest in the past (usually the recent past), their focus is the present, not the past.19 In some early historical texts, even as early as the Sumerian historical inscription of Enmetana of Lagaˇs (ca 2400 bce), there are historical surveys summing up events that constitute the prelude to the present 17

See the survey W.W. Hallo, ‘Sumerian Historiography’, in: H. Tadmor, M. Weinfeld, History, Historiography and Interpretation: Studies in Biblical and Cuneiform Literatures, Jerusalem 1983, 9-20; R.E. Averbeck, ‘The Sumerian Historiographic Tradition and its Implications for Genesis 1-11’, in: A.R. Millard et al. (eds), Faith, Tradition, and History, Winona Lake, Indiana 1994, 79=102. It follows the observations of Grayson, Or. 49 (1980), 142; D.O. Edzard, RLA 6, 77-86; Van de Mieroop, Cuneiform Texts and the Writing of History, 59-75. Beside the most interesting predecessor of Assyrian-Babylonian historiography, i.e. the Sumerian King List, there is the ‘Tummal Chronicle’, actually a building chronicle. See, however, the criticism of the designation ‘chronicle’ by Edzard, RLA 6, 85-86. 18 H.G. G¨ uterbock, ‘Hittite Historiography: A Survey’, in: Tadmor, Weinfeld, History, Historiography and Interpretation, 30-1 = ‘Hettitische geschiedschrijving: een overzicht’, in: Geschiedschrijving, 108. 19 J. Renger, ‘Vergangenes Geschehen in der Text¨ uberlieferung des alten Mesopotamien’, in: H.-J. Gehrke, A. Möller (eds), Vergangenheit und Lebenswelt: Soziale Kommunikation, Traditionsbildung und historische Bewußtsein, T¨ ubingen 1996, 9-60; Van de Mieroop, Cuneiform Texts and the Writing of History, 25.


21

situation. In that particular text, the previous history comprises a period of about 150 years, divided into a distant past (Mesilim of Kiˇs, ca 2550 bce) and the recent past (Eanatum, the uncle and predecessor of Enmetena).20 Such reviews of the past often occur, leading up to the occasion for which the inscription was made. A good example is the early Hittite Anitta text (CTH 1),21 which is actually a compilation of inscriptional tablets.22 The technique of reviewing the recent past (sometimes even the distant mythical or legendary past)23 as a ‘historical’ introduction and then describing the current state of affairs stemming from this previous history, is best known from Hittite tradition.24 Famous examples are the Proclamation of Telepinu and the Apology of Hattusilis,25 but such historical reviews also appear often in treaty texts, after the preambles,26 and in West Semitic royal inscriptions, such as the Kulamuwa inscription (lines 2-8) and the Mesha stela (lines 5-8). However, such texts have sometimes been called chronicles, but they are not really part of this genre, since they follow no sys20

See the discussion of this text by Averbeck, ‘Sumerian Historiography’, 93-8; Th.J.H. Krispijn, ‘Het relaas van Enmetana, stadvorst van Lagasj over de strijd met Umma om het Guedana’, in: R.J. Demarée, K.R. Veenhof, Zij schreven geschiedenis: historische documenten uit het oude Nabije Oosten, Leiden 2003, 3-9. 21 Hittite texts referred to after E. Laroche, Catalogue des textes hittites (EeC, 75), Paris 1971. 22 As noted by Van Seters, In Search of History, 106-7; see further G. McMahon, ‘History and Legend in Early Hittite Historiography’, in: Faith, Tradition, and History, 149-57, esp. 151. Indeed, Van Seters minimises its importance, but McMahon seems to overstate its innovative character. Its annalistic structure does not make it a kind of early Hittite history. 23 As in the Hittite Zalpa legend (CTH 3), H.A. Hoffner, ‘The Queen of Kanesh and the Tale of Zalpa’, in: W.W. Hallo (ed.), The Context of Scripture, vol. 1: Canonical Compositions from the Biblical World, Leiden 1997 = ContS 1, 181-182 (1.71), discussed in the literature cited in n. 22. 24 See H.A. Hoffner, ‘Histories and Historians of the Ancient Near East: the Hittites’, Or. 49 (1980), 283-332; G¨ uterbock, ‘Hittite Historiography: A Survey’, 21-35 = ‘Hettitische Geschiedschrijving: een overzicht’, 99-113; McMahon, ‘History and Legend in Early Hittite Historiography’, 149-57. 25 See the new translation and comments of Th.P.J. van den Hout in respectively, ContS 1, 194-98 (1.76) and 199-204 (1.77); also H. de Roos, ‘De troonsbestijging van Hattusili III’, in: Zij schreven geschiedenis, 169-79. 26 Examples may be found in ContS 1, 94, 96, 98-9, 100; E. von Schuler, ‘Die akkadische Fassung des Verträges zwischen Suppiluliuma I. von Hatti und Niqmaddu II. Von Ugarit’, Staatsvertr¨ age, TUAT 1/2, 131-4.

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tematic chronology.27 A good example is also the ‘Synchronistic History’ from the library of Assurbanipal (AssBabC 21). This historiographic work is not a chronicle in the proper sense, but actually contains a chronologically arranged survey of AssyrianBabylonian relations from the 15th century bce until the reign of Adad-Nerari III (870-783 bce), within the framework of the settlement of a boundary dispute. This document suggests itself as being the copy of a royal inscription on a stela that once allegedly marked the border between both countries. To what extent the text was fictitious in character, but created to be ‘legal proof’ of the fortunes of war that led to the fixation of the present border, is a matter of debate.28 An interesting feature is the suggestion of precise factuality that is clare et distincte, but using pre-existing chronographic records with a hardly hidden political agenda. Apart from this kind of extract in monumental inscriptions, unfortunately few library copies of such annalistic records have been preserved in Assyria.29 This Synchronistic Chronicle (AssBabC 27 Such a misnomer is, for instance, the Hittite ‘Palace Chronicle’ (CTH 8); cf. McMahon, ‘History and Legend’, 153; J. Klinger, ‘Aus der sogenannten “Palastchronik” ’, TUAT, Erg¨ anzungslieferung, G¨ utersloh 2001, 61-4. 28 Grayson, AssBabC, 50-6; Grayson, Or. 49 (1980), 181-2 = ‘Assyrië en Babylonië’, 83-4; J.A. Brinkman, ‘The Babylonian Chronicle Revisited’, in: T. Abusch et al. (eds), Lingering over Words: Studies in Ancient Near Eastern Literature in Honor of William L. Moran (HSS, 37), Harvard 1990, 73104; Hallo, Origins, 140-1. 29 Fragments in Grayson, AssBabC, 184-9; J.-J. Glassner, Chroniques m´ esopotamiennes, Paris 1993, 174-8. All these fragments, presumably belonging to the same text, have the library of Tiglath-Pileser I as their provenance (1143-1076 bce). They comprise a period from Enlil-Nirari (ca 1329 bce) up to Tiglath-Pileser I (ca 1050 bce). The text does survey the AssyrianBabylonian conflicts but that does not make it a chronicle. See my remarks above on the Synchronistic History (AssBabC 21). About the possible existence of early Assyrian chronicles, see Grayson, Or. 49 (1980), 181, n. 191a = ‘Assyrië en Babylonië’, 84, n. 200; H. Tadmor, ‘Observations of Assyrian Historiography’, in: M. deJong Ellis (ed.), Essays on the Ancient Near East in Memory of Jacob Joel Finkelstein (MCAA, 19), Hamden 1977, 211, in contrast to Van Seters, In Search of History, 82-4. Whether this text was a chronicle in the proper sense remains to be seen, for it is at present too fragmentary to warrant such a designation. It is remarkable that we have so many Assyrian annals, especially in monumental fashion, but that such archival historiographic works, comparable to the Babylonian Chronicles, seem to have been absent from the Library of Assurbanipal, despite so many other texts witnessing to the existence of a historical tradition (king lists – even one synchronistically arranged – historical epics, prophecies of Marduk ˇ and Sulgi, the Weidner Chronicle and so on).


23

21) ends just before Nabu-Nasir’s immediate predecessor, but that is perhaps pure coincidence.30 From the same period, or perhaps some later date is the P(inches)-Chronicle (AssBabC 22), describing political relations between Babylon (Karduniaˇs), Assyria and Elam from the perspective of their dealings with the cult of Marduk.31 A related text is also the ‘Weidner-Chronicle’ (AssBabC 19).32 This document was recently discovered not to be a chronicle, but a letter allegedly written by two early second millennium kings. It has interesting parallels in the prognostic ˇ texts known as the Marduk and Sulgi prophecies, suggesting that it too was a pia fraus counterfeited for propaganda purposes. That does not mean, however, that they were completely unhistorical, because the authors clearly drew their source-material for their historical surveys from existing annals, astronomical diaries and historical chronicles.33 ˇ ˇ The Samaˇ s-Suma-Ukin Chronicle (AssBabC 15) is an excerpt, presumably made for study. It was compiled from different chronicles,34 as is clearly stated in the colophon. Apart from the chronicles of the 4th to the 18th year of this king, it contains some unintegrated lines copied from a writing board about ˇ ˇ Babylonian kings from earlier periods than Samaˇ s-Suma-Ukin’s 35 reign. The Akitu Chronicle, the Religious Chronicle and the 30 It is unclear whether it yet reveals awareness and forms another argument for the existence of a Nabonassar Era. Pace Hallo, Origins, 141. 31 This text stems from Babylon. Van Seters, In Search of History, 86– 7, defends convincingly its literary dependence on the Synchronistic History (AssBabC 21), in contrast to Grayson, AssBabC, 58; Idem, RLA 5, 88 (dating it ca 1155 bce). 32 G¨ uterbock, ZA 42 (1932), 47-57 (Assur 13955gv photograph and copy); Grayson, AssBabC, 43-5; 147-51; Glassner, Chroniques, 215-8, known from a Neo-Assyrian copy from Assur, a few fragments from Babylon and now also a copy from Sippar. See A.R. Millard, ‘The Weidner Chronicle’ (1.138), in: ContS, vol. 1,468-70, and further literature below. 33 In the later periods chronicles were also composed about the Kassite Period and even older dynasties; cf. for instance Chronicle 25. See Grayson, RLA 6, 89; C.B.F. Walker, ‘Babylonian Chronicle 25: A Chronicle of the ˇ Kassite and Isin II Dynasties’, in: G. van Driel et al. (eds), ZIKIR SUMIM: Assyriological Studies Presented to F.R.. Kraus on the Occasion of his Seventieth Birthday (SFSMD, 5), Leiden 1982, 398-417. 34 A.R. Millard, ‘Another Babylonian Chronicle’, Iraq 26 (1964), 14-35; Grayson, AssBabC, No. 15, 32-4; 128-30; Glassner, Chroniques, 189-90. 35 Millard, Iraq 26 (1964), 31; Grayson, AssBabC, 32-3, 130; Glassner, Chroˇ niques, 189-90, covering such Babylonian kings as Assur-Nadin- Sumi (699-

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Eclectic Chronicle (AssBabC 16, 17, 24) probably used existing chronicles of which they are extracts36 written for the special reason of summarising a particular historical development such as the varying fortunes of Bel and the New Year festival (including the Akitu ritual), or to indicate conjunctions of events and extraordinary (ominous?) signs. In a way, they stand outside the mainstream of Babylonian Chronicles, but emphasise the eclectic nature of these Chronicles. This is no longer recording events for the greater glory of royalty (the res gestae), even if some authors are rather biased in their description of certain kings and their fortunes: it also gives a distant view of the past manipulating and rewriting it where necessary according to the writer’s own historical perspective. And that is indeed the mark of true ancient historiography. The most complete series of chronicles that really deserve this name are the Babylonian Chronicles, known in two versions. An older Neo-Babylonian version, which runs from King Nabu-Nasir (747-734 bce) to Darius II, has a colophon dated the 22nd year of Darius and is written on tablets with four columns (AssBabC 1 and 7, Appendix B).37 The second version is known from Late Babylonian sources (Appendix B). This version is expanded with preceding chronicles of early kings,38 and is supplemented with chronicles about the Persian and Greek dynasties until the Seleuˇ ˇ 694 bce, contemporary with Sennacherib); SiriktiSuqamuna (ca 984 bce) ˇ and Nabu-Suma-Iˇ skun (760?-748 bce). 36 See, in particular, in the Akitu Chronicle, the items shared with other chronicles (AssBabC 1 ending; AssBabC 14 ending; and once more AssBabC 15). The interesting thing is that excerpt AssBabC 15 does not mention the proceedings of the Akitu festival as is done in AssBabC 16 (and summarily found in AssBabC 1), but that they were included in the Late Babylonian version (AssBabC 14). This is an interesting case of re-writing history (Grayson, AssBabC, 30-1). See below. 37 Grayson, AssBabC, 9 n. 7; D.J. Wiseman, Chronicles of the Chaldean Kings, London 1956, 3. Fragment BM 34779 (Sp II, 271; see on this fragment Grayson, AssBabC, 280) belongs also to this class of texts. 38 Presumably also AssBabC 14 (Esarhaddon // AssBabC 1), 20 A and ˇ B (Sargon I–Agum III), 25 (Tukulti-Ninurta I 1244-1208 bce; Adad-SumaUsur, 1216-1187 bce; Adad-Apla-Iddina 1068-1047 bce); 24 (from MardukSapik-Zeri 1080–1068 bce to Nabu-Nasir 747-734 and Salmanassar V 726-722 bce) may have been part of this series (Appendix B). AssBabC 20A and 14 have a colophon suggesting that they belong to the same series (ANET, 266, 303; see, however, the critical remark of Grayson, AssBabC, 128).


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cid Era (third century bce).39 There were at least two copies of the Late Babylonian version (AssBabC 3, 5, 10[?] written on long tablets with one column on each side and AssBabC 2, 4, 6 and 25 written on small business-tablets). The relation between the two copies is not completely clear, but is interesting to note that the text of tablets AssBabC 3, 4 and 5 joins without any gaps, though they belong to different copies. The chronicles AssBabC 11-13, 13a, 13b are related and begin to date according to years of the Seleucid Era after the elusive reigns of Philip III and Alexander IV (AssBabC 10), which indicates their Late Babylonian origin (the last date is the 88th year).40 The sources of information for this new type of chronicle were perhaps running reports recording astronomical and other data preserved in the so-called astronomical diaries and related texts, the regular observation and recording of which most probably was initiated under king NabuNasir.41 If the Nabonassar Era were indeed the axial period for their emergence, their introduction into the ancient Near Eastern curriculum implies also a cultural, literary and historical difference and development between annals and chronicles. Chronicles are those texts that digest a selection of traditions, events, observations and other data in a chronographic structure and synthesise them into historiography. Interpreting those sources by selecting, summarising, revising and criticising from a distance is the true mark of early historiography.

39

Grayson, AssBabC, 8–9; Idem, Or. 49 (1980), 174 = ‘Assyrië en Babylonië’, 75. 40 T. Boiy, ‘Dating Methods during the Early Hellenistic Period’, JCS 52 (2000), 115-20, esp. 117. The first six years of this Seleucid Era perhaps represent the rule of Alexander IV and Seleucus I together. See the King List 6, King List of the Hellenistic Period (RLA 6, 98-9). Only in his / the seventh year (305 bce) was Seleucus I apparently acknowledged as sole ruler when he accepted the royal title. 41 Grayson, Or. 49 (1980), 174 = ‘Assyrië en Babylonië’, 75; Van de Mieroop, Cuneiform Texts and the Writing of History, 33-4. See the edition of A. J. Sachs, H. Hunger, Astronomical Diaries and Related Texts from Babylonia, ¨ vol. 1: Diaries from 652 B.C. to 262 B.C. (DOAW.PH, 195), Vienna 1988, 11-38. War journals were kept in Egypt alongside other kinds of log book such as the famous ‘journal’ of Amennakht under Ramses III. See recently R.J. Demarée, in: Zij schreven geschiedenis, 238-50. On the problem of war journals in Mesopotamia, see note 16.

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4 Sources of the Deuteronomistic Chronicles The Deuteronomistic author or historian (designated DtrH ) used literary sources. Sources which evidently stood more close to the recorded events than the DtrH himself. He, or eventually the author whose chronographic work he consulted and summarised, mentions his sources in so many words, which is a clear but rather unique benchmark of nascent historiography. Three sources are mentioned by name: the hmoløv] yrEb]Di rp,se (1 Kgs 11:41), yrEb]Di rp,se laer:c]yI ykel]m'l] μymiY:h' (1 Kgs 14:19 par.) and ykel]m'l] μymiY:h' yrEb]Di rp,se hd:Why“ (1 Kgs 14:29 par.). The author creates the impression that he compiled his chronographic work from official annual records of major events in Israelite and Judaean history. He made a calculated selection from them, referring his readers for further information to these same sources. I cannot discuss here the theories and problems around the redaction history of DtrH, or the exact nature of his sources.42 It is also still a matter of debate whether the Deuteronomistic author created the synchronistic framework in the Books of Kings himself, expanding it with oral traditions and written sources from other provenances (such as the Elijah–Elisha cycles), or whether he used an existing synchronistic chronicle or king list. Noth and the majority of scholars suppose that DtrH created it himself,43 though Smend does not exclude a pre-existing ‘Synchronistic Chronicle’.44 Is it, how42

See R. Smend, Die Entstehung des Alten Testaments (ThW, 1), Stuttgart 4 1989, 121-2; Y. Yamit, History and Ideology: An Introduction to Historiography in the Bible (BiSe, 60), Sheffield 1999, 56-64, esp. 56-7. 43 ¨ M. Noth, Uberlieferungsgeschichtliche Studien, Teil 1: Die sammlenden und bearbeitenden Geschichtswerke im Alten Testament, Darmstadt 1963, 18-27, 72-3; Smend, Entstehung, 121, T. Veijola, Moses Erben: Studien zum Dekalog, zum Deuteronomismus und zum Schriftgelehrtentum (BWANT, 149), Stuttgart 2000, 13-4; Th.C. Vriezen, A. van der Woude, Oudisraëlitische & vroegjoodse literatuur (Ontwerpen, 1), Kampen 10 2000, 242-7. Also the Forschungsbericht about recent Deuteronomistic research by T. Veijola, ‘Deuteronomismusforschung zwischen Tradition und Innovation I-III’, ThR 67 (2002), 273-327, 391-424; 68 (2003), 1-41, esp. 6: Das Deuteronomistische Geschichtswerk als Ganzes’, 15-44. 44 Smend, Entstehung, 121, 138. The opinion is occasionally expressed that DtrH counterfeited his sources (see recently F.A.J. Nielsen, The Tragedy in History: Herodotus and the Deuteronomistic History [JSOT.S, 234], Sheffield 1997), but I agree with Smend, Veijola (ThR 68 [2003], 24) and others that there is no obvious reason to deny the existence of these royal annals.


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ever, probable that DtrH used such an existing S-Chronicle? The existence of Babylonian Chronicles is evident. But is there evidence that similar synchronistic chronicles existed? There are six pieces that are of a Synchronistic King List known, one adding even the names of viziers (umm¯ anu) who served these kings,45 all from Assur apparently, and ending with Assurbanipal and Kandalanu. It is a pity that the Assyrian scholars, as far as we know, did not write such extensive chronicles as the Babylonians did, but Grayson rightly remarked that a clear distinction between such king lists and chronicles is hardly possible because both are chronographic texts sharing a number of genre-critical features. Sometimes king lists contain short chronistic remarks, whereas chronicles show the listings of regnal years, officials and provenance characteristic of king lists. It is possible that such a king list served as a frame of reference, or was even the ‘skeleton’ or chronological framework of the chronicles and therefore the Synchronistic King List may be a source for the series of Babylonian Chronicles, which have also a clear synchronistic structure.46 Though the viewpoint of the shared history of Assyria, Babylonia and occasionally Elam is alternately Babylonian and Assyrian, it is in reality Babylonian. In my opinion, Grayson and others showed convincingly that such selective, synthetic chronicles written from a biased historical viewpoint were derived from annals, war journals and astronomical diaries. The same sources were used also for the production of monumental inscriptions and showpieces. This historiographic genre that deals both diachronically and synchronically with the history of different countries, periods and dynasties emerged in that period. Their contemporary origin makes a comparative study of biblical and Assyrian-Babylonian historiography even more worthwhile and promising in their comparative aspects and in regard to their individual character. On the one hand, the Babylonian Chronicles usually do not mention their sources, though we occasionally find a hint in a colophon or elsewhere. However, in some cases, we have the remains of their sources, for instance the astronomical diaries, and we even have different versions of the same chronicles. We have seen that these ANET, 272-4; new edition of Grayson, RLA 6,86-135 §3.12-17; Millard, ContS 1,463. 46 ANET, 301-7; R. Borger, TUAT 1/4, 401-4. 45

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series of chronicles have been partly preserved in at least two different versions, a Neo-Babylonian one dated to Darius II (521-486 bce)47 and a Late Babylonian one dated at the latest to year 88 of the Seleucid Era (230 bce).48 On the other hand, DtrH and the Chronicler often mention their sources, though they no longer exist. For DtrH, these were essentially the separate annals of the Kings of Judah and Israel, which certainly left traces in DtrH.49 In the Chronicler’s History, we find extensive extracts from DtrH. By comparison, we get some idea how the respective authors used and adapted these sources. Even a superficial comparison of the versions of the Babylonian Chronicles shows both textual variants and examples of rewritten tradition. Unfortunately, there is still little overlap between the two versions of the Chronicles, and what there is comes mainly in the sections about Esarhaddon and ˇ ˇ Assurbanipal / Samaˇ s-Sumu-Ukin (AssBabC 1.IV // AssBabC 50 14, 15, 16). Notable differences do not only include scribal variants but also often the use of different geographical names. They insert personal names (e.g. Bel-Etir, judge of Babylon), vary in the use of formulas, invert certain events, have different dates for events, and so on. However, despite these variants and differences, they had clearly the same Vorlage. The Neo-Babylonian text has more historical details (e.g. AssBabC 1, IV, 7-10, 24-28), but the Late Babylonian version AssBabC 14 elaborates much more on the exile of Bel in Assur and the cancelling of the Akitu ceremony. Without going into much detail, it is clear that further study will reveal the same kind of stylistic variants, editorial interventions and literary revision as is known in biblical historiography. But similar developments, observable between the historical works of 47

Even copies made close in time, such as the one from Babylon (AssBabC 1 A) and the one from Sippar (AssBabC 1 B(+)C), show some considerable variations in detail and structure. In general, Exemplar B(+)C, as far as preserved, seems to have a longer text, in particular at the beginning. For the details see Grayson, AssBabC, 69-75. 48 Grayson, Or. 49 (1980), 73-5 = ‘Assyrië en Babylonië’, 74-7. 49 Occasionally, such references to annals may be marked by the formula wym;y:B], ‘in his days / reign’ (// Akk. formula ina u¯m¯ıˇsu). See 1 Kgs 16:34; 2 Kgs 8:20; 23:29; 24:1. See also this formula ymeyBi with a royal name, e.g. 1 Sam. 17:12; 21:1; 1 Kgs 10:21; 22:47; 2 Kgs 15:29. 50 Only AssBabC 14 seems to represent a kind of standard Late Babylonian version (Glassner, Chroniques, 187-9). The other two texts are of a different character, but apparently contain extracts. On AssBabC 15 see also Millard, Iraq 26 (1964), 14-35, esp. 33; Glassner, Chroniques, 189.


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the Old Testament and similar works of rewritten history in later Jewish tradition, might be searched for among the sources of the Deuteronomistic History. Jepsen discerned as one of the sources of the Books of Kings a Synchronistic Chronicle.51 He reconstructed a ‘Chronik S’ from the time of Solomon until Hezekiah. He supposed that such a chronicle, apart from the twrøWbG“ ‘the brave / mighty acts’ (1 Kgs 15:23; 16:5, 27; 22:46, etc.) contained other achievements such as the holy objects they made, the cities and temples they built or restored, but also reports of conflicts, wars, diplomatic contacts and dynastic marriages, officials, and finally illness and death, whether or not violent. These are also the subjects found in the Babylonian Chronicles. If indeed such annals existed and the SChronicle derives from them, the earliest possible terminus post quem for such a work would be the fall of the Kingdom of Israel. However, the annals of Judah continued beyond that date (2 Kgs 20:20-21;52 21:17, 25; 23:28-30; 24:5).53 It is plausible that the author who wrote the ‘Synchronistic Chronicle’ that is incorporated in the Book of Kings was also responsible for the selection of other events and references to those events from the lost annals of Israel and Judah. It is my impression that R. Smend, W. Dietrich, T. Veijola and L. Camp (in his informative study on Hezekiah) are inclined to the view that the original DtrH was a slightly expanded Synchronistic Chronicle, which underwent several revisions, in the course of which large blocks of prophetic material were included in and after the Exile.54 The problem with Jepsen’s 51

A. Jepsen, Die Quellen des K¨ onigbuches, Halle 2 1956, text S-Chronicle, 30-6. 52 It is possible that the Siloam inscription was an extract from Judaean royal annals. See M. Dijkstra, ‘History of Israel: Problems, Progress and Prospects’, in: International Bible Commentary (English version forthcoming). 53 It is surprising that this concluding remark for Zedekiah as well as Jehoiachin is missing, even though recording of their reign did not stop. Zedekiah simply disappeared from the records after his deportation (2 Kgs 25:7). Is there an explanation? The passage about Jehoiachin’s rehabilitation (2 Kgs 25:27-30) seems to imply knowledge of his death some time after his release from prison (ca 560 bce). 54 L. Camps, Hiskija und Hiskijabild: Analyse und Interpretation von 2. K¨ on. 18–20 (MThA, 9), Altenberge 1990; W. Dietrich, ‘Prophetie in deuteronomistischen Geschichtswerk’, in: T. Römer (ed.), The Future of the Deuteronomistic History (BEThL, 147), Leuven 2000, 47-65, esp. his reconstructed text of DtrH 2 Kgs 3–10 on page 65.

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hypothesis of an S-Chronicle is that, if it were written during Hezekiah’s reign, it would antedate the bulk of similar king lists and chronicles of Mesopotamian provenance by about a century. Even if we admit that there is evidence that Babylonian scholars started to keep detailed astronomical reports in chronological records in the period of Nabu-Nasir – a historical development that even gave birth to the Hellenistic idea of the Nabonassar Era55 – it seems too far-fetched to find one of its first products in the Israelite-Judaean S-Chronicle. The solution might be that the earliest version of the Deuteronomistic Synchronistic Chronicle, as contained in DtrH, originated after Jehoiachin’s death. I shall leave that problem for the specialists in the Deuteronomistic literature and draw attention to a post-exilic chronographic work that is somewhat more accessible to literary criticism and history, namely the prophetic ‘Chronicle of Haggai’.

5 The Chronicle of Haggai It was a surprise to me to discover that hardly any scholar has described the genre of the minor prophet Haggai as a chronicle,56 though a chronicle it is. It has all the features of one: date formulas, unit division along date lines, inclusion of chronologically arranged events, and, as its only peculiar element, prophecies.57 55 Grayson, AssBabC, 13-4; Idem, Or. 49 (1980), 174 = ‘Assyrië en Babylonië’, 75; Hallo, Origins, 140-2. 56 Occasionally one would compare his booklet to an extract from a building chronicle, an idea introduced by Klostermann in 1896 and followed by Rothstein, Deden, Dhorme, etc. See, however, J.L Koole, Haggai (COT), Kampen 1967, 6; A. van der Woude, Haggai Maleachi (PredOT), Nijkerk 1982, 13; Vriezen, Van der Woude, Oudisraëlitische Literatuur, 319. Rudolph thought of an apology and Koole of a dated propagandistic document to be used as a kind of charter for the Second Temple. More recent surveys may be found in J.E. Tollington, Tradition and Innovation in Haggai and Zechariah l-8, (JSOT.S, 150), Sheffield 1993, 19-23; Idem, ‘Readings in Haggai: From the Prophet to the Completed Book, a Changing Message in Changing Times’, in: B. Becking, M.C.A. Korpel (eds), The Crisis of Israelite Religion: Transformation of Religious Tradition in Exilic and Post-Exilic Times (OTS, 42), Leiden 1999, 194-208; J. Kessler, The Book of Haggai: Prophecy and Society in the Early Persian Period (VT.S, 91), Leiden 2002, 243-5. 57 Basically the redactional debate revolves around the question whether or not a collection of prophecies was secondarily framed by a chronographic framework, be it of ‘Chronistic’ (W.A.M. Beuken, Haggai–Sacharja: Studien ¨ zur Uberlieferungsgeschichte der fr¨ uhnachexilische Prophetie, Assen 1967) or of ‘Deuteronomistic’ origin (R.A. Mason, ‘The Purpose of the “Editor-


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Therefore I would call it a ‘prophetic chronicle’, though that is no more remarkable than a chronicle of New Year festivals, or of market prices, water levels and similar chronographic collections, i.e. from a form-critical perspective. Of course, as a chronological record of prophecies, it is a unique document. I cannot name any other ancient Near Eastern text outside the Old Testament comparable with it. We have collections of salvation oracles for Esarhaddon and Assurbanipal, but they are, to my knowledge, neither prophecy, nor chronologically arranged. Also the prognostic historical texts are different, for they all use the future tense and mention no names. Haggai is written in the past tense, and its main characters are mentioned by name: the Persian King Darius II, the Governor Zerubbabel, the High Priest Jeshua and, of course, the Prophet Haggai himself. So it reads somewhat like a story. What is more, it is historiographic in form. Even the Religious Chronicle (AssBabC 17), as far as I understand it, is different, though the chronographic collections of events, omens and so on could be intended for divination. In fact, the only comparable texts come from the Old Testament itself and, hardly surprising, from the Former and the Latter Prophets. Other prophetic books such as Jeremiah and Ezekiel also have many date formulas, but they do not cover the whole book.58 Moreover, the underlying chronological framework and systems of dating are highly confusing and still a matter of debate. The only text that has a clear chronographic structure is Jer. 36:1–45:5 also known as the ‘Memoirs of Baruch’ and running from the 4th year of Jehoiakim son of Josiah to the 7th month of the 11th year of Zedekiah, the year of the capture of Jerusalem.59 However, it remains a ial Framework” of the Book of Haggai’, VT 27 [1977], 413-21, esp. 415-6). Both Tollington and Kessler argue that the oracles of Haggai have been integrated thematically and grammatically in its chronographic framework, which does not suggest a pre-existing prophecy collection, so that as for its literary genre, it primarily originated as a prophetic chronicle, even if it was revised and expanded secondarily (e.g. Tollington, ‘Readings in Haggai’, 200-7). 58 Nevertheless, D. Petersen, Haggai and Zachariah 1–8 (OTL), London 1985, 32-6, rightly noted the resemblance between Haggai and the ‘Historische Kurzgeschichte’ as described by N. Lohfink, ‘Die Gattung der “Historischen Kurzgeschichte” in den letzten Jahren von Juda und in der Zeit des Babylonischen Exils’, ZAW 90 (1978), 319-47. 59 Lohfink, ZAW 90 (1978), 322-3, 343-7, had noted the coherence of Jer. 26 and 36–41. See on the possibility of a pre-deuteronomistic ‘scribal chronicle’, C.R. Seitz, Theology in Conflict: Reactions to the Exile in the Book of

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riddle why, for instance, chapters 32–34 were not incorporated in these memoirs or ‘Chronicle of Baruch’.60 So it is extremely difficult to assess the overall picture of these dates in relation to the origin and redaction of these books. The problem is certainly too complicated to discuss within the limits of this article.61 As comparable texts, I would instead mention isolated ones such as the prophetic stories in Isaiah 762 ] and Amos 7, or the records about the 14th year of Hezekiah (2 Kgs 18:13–19:37) and the 18th year of Josiah (2 Kgs 22:3–23:30). They are all narrative texts that include dates, historiographic formulas, and accounts of, in particular, prophetic activity, often with extensive quotations of prophecies. In my opinion, it is undeniable that prophetic and historiographic literature in the period of the Exile and afterwards shows a rapidly increasing, almost explosive interest in meticulous chronological recording by the scribes who produced the collected works, if not by the prophets themselves. The structure and style of this ‘Chronicle of Haggai’ is similar to Deuteronomistic historiographic literature and, presumably, originated in that milieu,63 which was also the environment responsible for the redaction of Jeremiah’s prophecy taken from the ‘Chronicle of Baruch’. One may note the remarkable parallel between the hopeful messianic ending of DtrH and Haggai’s Chronicle. This intimate relationship is significant because the date of the ‘Chronicle of Haggai’ is reasonably well established. Most scholars asJeremiah (BZAW 176), Berlin 1989, 285-7; T.Ch. R¨ omer, ‘How Did Jeremiah Become a Convert to Deuteronomistic Theology?’, in: L.S. Schearing, S.L. McKenzie (eds), Those Elusive Deuteronomists: The Phenomenon of PanDeuteronomism (JSOT.S, 268), Sheffield 1999, 196-7. 60 No wonder that the lack of chronologica1 coherence brings quite a number of scholars to the conclusion that the dates and chronological framework are secondary, having been added to already existing collections of Jeremiah’s prophecies. The differences from the shorter Greek text also point in that direction. 61 It is difficult to assess the many date formulas in the Book of Ezekiel. The combination of date formulas and ‘autobiography’ is singular; see, however, Isa. 6:1. Some consider the possibility of literary fiction. Zimmerli, however, pointed to an ever-increasing interest in exact dating in prophetic literature in and after the Exile, in contrast to early prophecy (W. Zimmerli, Ezechiel I, [BKAT 24/1], Neukirchen-Vluyn 1969, 40-1). 62 Also date formulas in Isa. 6:1; 14:28; 20:1. 63 Mason, VT 27 (1977), 414-7; Van der Woude, Haggai, 12; R. Rendtorff, Das Alte Testament: Eine Einf¨ uhrung, Neukirchen-Vluyn 1983, 250.


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sume that it originated shortly after the dedication of the Second Temple (Nisan 515 bce).64 Though the chronicle in its present form contains the words of Haggai only and especially a selection from his Temple speeches,65 it is possible that it was an extract from a more voluminous running chronicle. It is the type of extract known from Babylonian sources as a niˇshu. ˘ belonged to If the Aramaic parts of Ezra (Ezra 4:7-6:18) once the same Aramaic chronographic source used in the compilation and redaction of Ezra–Nehemiah,66 it is clear that this source dates from the last part of the 5th century bce. In particular, the fragment about the rebuilding of the Temple (4:24–6:18) is an interesting, apparently independent, counterpart of Haggai’s Chronicle. Perhaps the two drew their information from the same events and sources, but obviously gave a different picture of the circumstances that led to the standstill of the work on the House of God in Jerusalem. One can discuss and differ widely about the meaning of Haggai’s words cited from the mouth of the people: ‘The time has not yet come for the Lord’s House to be built.’ One could think of theological, psychological, political or economical reasons; it is not the same as in Ezra 4:4, where opposition to the rebuilding by surrounding peoples frustrated their plans during the entire reign of Cyrus, king of Persia, down to the reign of Darius. In Haggai, however, we do not yet find a particular bias against the enemies of Judah. The account in Ezra is clearly a later historical view of these events, a view perhaps 64

It is possible that parts of Zechariah belonged to this Chronicle (1:117; 7:1-14). Their appearance together in the Chronicler’s History within the framework of an Aramaic Chronicle (Ezra 4:8–6:18), from which the Chronicler extracted two segments (4:8-23; 4:24–6:18, apparently revising them and adding some Hebrew glosses 4:24; 6:14), points in this direction. In particular, the words awDø[iArB' hy:r“k'z“W ha;ybin“ yG"j' ta'Wbn“Bi (Ezra 6:14) suggest a joint performance. Zech. 7:14 could have been the epilogue of this chronicle. 65 Rendtorff, Das Alte Testament, 250: ‘Der Rahmen des Buches hat den Worten Haggais eine bestimmte Prägung und Tendenz gegeben, aber wohl kaum ihre urspr¨ ungliche Intention ver¨ andert.’ See also Kessler, Haggai, 243-4. 66 The authenticity is a matter of debate (H.G.M. Williamson, Ezrah and Nehemiah [OTGu] Sheffield 1987, 44-5; Vriezen, Van der Woude, Oudisraëlitische & vroegjoodse literatuur, 384), but I cannot see why the Chronicler went so far as to translate parts of his work to make them look more authentic, and then inserted some Hebrew glosses afterwards. For my argument, it does not make any great difference, for if the Aramaic source is a counterfeit of the author–redactor of Ezra–Nehemiah, it is even later than the 5 th century bce.

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found for the first time in this Aramaic Chronicle, but adopted and elaborated by the author of the Book of Ezra–Nehemiah. The Aramaic Chronicle displays bias about political developments in the early post-exilic period and has a perspective different from its Hebrew context. It speaks consistently of ayed:Why“ (Ezra 4:12, 23; 5:1, 5; 6:7-8, 14), even of ayed:Why“ as inhabitants of the province of Yehud and Jerusalem (5:1). The same usage is found in the later Memoirs of Nehemiah (Neh. 1:2; 2:16; 3:33-34; 4:6 and so on), that is the usage consistent with the use of Y e hudˆı in the royal Persian administration, denoting Jews from the province of Y e hud, but also Jews living elsewhere in the Empire, and probably still without any religious overtone. Since the documents speak expressis verbis of Jews who lived in Y e hud and Jerusalem at that time, one wonders whether the narrator or chronicler resided somewhere else, perhaps in Mesopotamia, and was writing for Aramaic-speaking local readers.

ˇ 6 Babylonian Scholars on Divine Sulgi of Ur Anyhow, against the background of the ancient Near Eastern tradition of annals and chronicles, and the development of historical tradition transmitted in a diversity of literary chronicles, it is interesting to study the development of Hebrew historiography. There is no immediate reason to look for parallels in early Greek or Hellenistic historiography.67 The explosive interest in chronographic recording and interpretation of events in heaven or on earth originated as early as the Nabonassar Era and may have influenced the beginnings of biblical historiography. To detect examples of biased history-writing in Mesopotamian chronicles is as easy as it is in biblical chronicles such as the DtrH, the Chronicle of Haggai and the literary works that are dependent on them. The same kind of development and elaboration occurs also in many Babylonian Chronicles. ˇ An interesting example is the treatment of King Sulgi in ˇ Babylonian-Assyrian historical tradition. Apart from Sulgi being ˇ the protagonist of the famous Sulgi prophecy and the Marduk prophecy, the vaticinium ex eventu about the adventures of the Marduk statue from Babylon, he figures also in several chronicles. 67

See the book by F.A.J. Nielsen (note 44), and J.W. Wesselius, Origin of the History of Israel: Herodotus’ Histories as Blueprint for the First Books of the Bible, London 2002.


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The best known is the Weidner Chronicle (AssBabC 19; App. A1), though actually it is not a chronicle at all, as was recently discovered.68 Nevertheless, it was once considered a chronicle, an early historiographic text dubbed as ‘the first Mesopotamian textbook on the idea of History’.69 It is, however, a composition set in the form of a letter allegedly from King Damqi-Iliˇsu of Isin to Apil-Sin of Babylon or Rim-Sin of Larsa,70 kings from the 19th century bce. The text originated centuries later and is only known from copies of the first millennium bce. It deals with the fate of various kings who honoured or failed to honour the cult of Marduk at Esagila, and merits attention because it parallels the treatment of kings in the Books of Kings, judging them by their religious policy towards a particular cult. Just as in the Deuteronomistic account, their attitude to the god and his cult ˇ affects his treatment of the kings. Sulgi is also one of the kings with a bad record in the Weidner Chronicle.71 However, there ˇ are more chronicles mentioning Sulgi ’s fate, for instance the Late Babylonian Chronicle of the Early Kings (AssBabC 20 A.28-30; App. A2) and a Late Babylonian scholarly excerpt from Uruk (SBTAU I No 272 dated 21 Abu 61 Seleucid Era = 15 August 251 bce; App. A3).73 The purpose of Chronicle 20 is not clear. 68

The extant sources comprise one Neo-Assyrian copy (A, Ass 13955gv from Assur) and four Neo-Babylonian / Late Babylonian copies; C from Uruk; B, perhaps from Babylon or B(irs) N(imrud); S from Sippar; B, of unknown provenance. See Grayson, AssBabC, 43-45, 166: I.L. Finkel, ‘Bilingual Chronicle Fragments’, JCS 32 (1980), 72-3; F.N.H. al-Rawi, ‘Tablets from the Sippar Library: 1. The ‘Weidner Chronicle’: A Suppositious Royal Letter Concerning a Vision’, Iraq 52 (1990), 1-14 (Sippar excavations No 4/2167 IM 124470). The text was newly translated by al-Rawi, Iraq 52 (1990), 8-10; B.T. Arnold, ‘The Weidner Chronicle and the Idea of History in Israel and Mesopotamia’, in: Millard et al. (eds), Faith, Tradition, and History, 129-57, esp. 133–8; Millard, ‘The Weidner Chronicle (1.138)’, ContS 1, 468-70. 69 E.A. Speiser, ‘Ancient Mesopotamia’, in: R.C. Dentan (ed.), The Idea of History in the Ancient Near East, New Haven 1955, 59. 70 However, on the uncertainties about the name and the cities see al-Rawi, Iraq 52 (1990), 1; Arnold, ‘The Weidner Chronicle’, 131. 71 I maintain this designation for reasons of convenience. See also Millard, ContS 1, 468. 72 H. Hunger, Sp¨ atbabylonische Texte aus Uruk, Teil 1 (ADFGUW, 9), Berlin 1976, No. 2 (W 22289), 20-1 (=SBTAU ). For the text and translation see Appendix A3. 73 Most probably, also in the Dynastic Chronicle, somewhere in Columns III–IV before the Dynasty of Babylon (K 8532+K 16930), but this part has not been recovered yet. See AssBabC 18 (Grayson, AssBabC, 139-44), new

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Grayson advanced plausible arguments that the author used the Weidner Chronicle, in particular the passages about the desecration of Babylon and the Esagila Temple, but not all the kings were blamed for such sins, so the author may have had other interests too.74 Marduk, however, afflicted both kings with a disease for their treatment of Babylon.75 Unfortunately, all copies ˇ are broken at the point where the deadly disease of Sulgi is specified, but circumstantial evidence suggests leprosy. However, the most interesting parallel feature is the development of historical ˇ tradition. In the Chronicle of the Early Kings, Sulgi ’s criminal behaviour contrasts with his favourable treatment of the city of Eridu on the seashore. The author of the Late Babylonian niˇshu of the Chronicles, Anu-Aha-Uˇsabˇsi, from a priestly family ˘ in ˘ Uruk, seems to have been interested in collecting especially all ˇ the ‘historical tradition’ about Sulgi. At the beginning and end of ˇ his niˇshu, he simply marked the reign of Urnammu, Sulgi ’s pre˘ decessor, and Amar-Sin, his successor, in the manner typical of the Dynastic Chronicle, and inserted a large section about divine ˇ Sulgi. I cannot discuss all the details here. Although his view is not favourable, it is certainly balanced, which (I would say) marks the ‘real nascent historian’. Of course, we find the matter of the maltreatment of Babylon, perhaps quoted from the earlier Chronicle of the Early Kings. The words are identical (AssBabC 20 A.29 ˇ = SBTAU I, 2:7). Further, in contrast to Sulgi ’s building activ76 ities in his own city of Ur, he noted the maltreatment of the offspring of his predecessor Utuhengal of Uruk77 and the fam˘ connections and fragments; W.G. Lambert, ‘The Home of the First Sealand Dynasty’, JCS 26 (1974), 208-10; W.G. Lambert, A.R. Millard, Atra-Has¯ıs, ˘ Oxford 1969, 15-21; W.G. Lambert, ‘A New Fragment from a List of Antediluvian Kings and Marduk’s Chariot’, in: Symbolae Biblicae et Mesopotamicae Francisco Mario Theodoro de Liagre B¨ ohl Dedicatae (SFSMD, 4), Leiden 1973, 271-5, 278 (second Neo-Assyrian copy not used in Grayson); Finkel, JCS 32 (1980), 65-72. The pattern of the niˇshu in SBTAU I, No. 2 is clearly ˘ that of the Dynastic Chronicle. 74 Grayson, AssBabC, 47–8. 75 As he did with other kings, according to the Weidner Chronicle, e.g. Amar-Sin, who dies of the ‘bite of his shoe’, whatever that may mean (perhaps gangrene, Millard, ContS 1, 470 n. 8). 76 ˇ The words are similar to those in the Sulgi Prophecy about the founding of Nippur–Duranki. See Borger, BiOr 28 (1971), 20, 22 (II 8’-9’). 77 Who presumably was drowned while inspecting a dam, but according to


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ous scholar (umm¯ anu) Lu-Nanna, who presumably is mentioned here as the ‘author’ of the cultic prescriptions for the god Anu of Uruk.78 Most remarkable are, however, his remarks about the ˇ end of Sulgi ’s rule. Though the text is unfortunately somewhat damaged, enough is preserved to understand their general idea. ˇ First, Sulgi wrote and left a stela to posterity, as well as a tablet about impudence in the purification ritual of the god. It can ˇ hardly be doubted that [SU?]LUH .HA DINGIR.RA is meant to ˘ ˘ or neglect of the purificˇ be a reminiscence of Sulgi ’s defilement ation ritual as recorded in the Weidner Chronicle, though the author, in his own words, puts it down to acts of insolence, sacrilege or even blasphemy. The reference to the Weidner Chronicle seems obvious; the reference to the stela is obscure. It is tempting ˇ to think here of the Sulgi prophecy, which initially indeed was ˇ called the Sulgi-narˆ u by G¨ uterbock, because it was clothed in words typical of a royal inscription starting with the res gestae 79 If so, it is most remarkable that our historian calls this ˇ of Sulgi. inscription a lie, as if aware that it served once as a pia fraus. Finally, he recounts the unfortunate demise of the king. Though the text is damaged, it is clear in the light of his sources that either Sin or Bel Marduk became angry, turned an evil eye on him and, in the language of Canaan, struck him with a wasting disease, whether consumption, leprosy or something similar.80 It is obvious that this late scholar from Uruk knew his sources quite well, if we assume that he was the author of this compilation.81 the Weidner Chronicle he was punished by Marduk with this fate, because he carried out criminal acts against Babylon. 78 Another tradition views him as the author of the Adapa myth. Such traditions ascribing authorship of ancient tradition to a famous man of the past is in itself an interesting aspect of the development of historical tradition ˇ in the ancient Near East. The text seems to imply that Sulgi took the records from Uruk to have them introduced to the cult of Sin in Ur (Hunger, SBTAU 1, 20). 79 Cf. G¨ uterbock, ZA 42 (1934), 62-86, esp. 84-6; Borger, BiOr 28 (1971), 22: ‘einigermassen im Stile der Königsinschriften’. 80 The word is broken in all pertinent sources, but the wording is reminiscent of a wasting disease affecting his body and caused by his sin (arnu / ˇ ak¯ annu) (S alu ‘consume’ in the Chronicle of the Early Kings). In particular, the expression ˇse-ret-su ra-bi-tu4 , ‘his great scourge’, is reminiscent of curses which, expressis verbis or by implication, mention leprosy or other skin diseases as a curse of the god Sin, Gula and other gods (CAD (Z), 158 s.v. zumru, also with D-stem lab¯ aˇsu!). 81 Whether his sources and data contained credible historical facts is, of

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ˇ He does not withhold his judgement, blaming Sulgi for criminal sacrilegious acts, though he occasionally also mentions his more successful achievements. It is a beautiful piece of genuine ancient Near Eastern historiography, particularly, if he were also aware ˇ that Sulgi ’s prophecy was a historical fraud. Perhaps some of the suggested connections and historical comments are not convincing but I cannot understand why scholars would view such a text as less historiographic in character than Israelite historiographical writings. It is not clear why some scholars assert so confidently that the Mesopotamian literati never moved beyond chronicle to genuine historiography. It must involve a major misunderstanding of the genuine historiographic character of many of the Babylonian chronicles. To say that Akkadian literature has nothing to compare, for instance, with Israelite characterisation, interpretative presentation of past events and multiple causal factors is certainly a grossly overstated conclusion, perhaps typical of an approach in which the assessment of ancient Near Eastern literature and culture is handicapped by prejudice in favour of Israelite tradition. Here we have an interesting and, in my opinion, convincing example of interpretative development in historical tradition. This development has a remarkable literary parallel in the treatment of the Judaean King Azariah = Uzziah. In the Books of Kings, Azariah is mentioned as one of the kings who was just in the eyes of the Lord. However, the Lord afflicted him with leprosy or another skin disease until the day he died and he therefore lived in a separate house. This is mentioned as a matter of course, with no further comment or explanation (2 Kgs 15:1-7). Within the somewhat revised framework taken from the Deuteronomistic account (2 Chron. 26:1-4, 21-23), however, we find in Chronicles an extensively elaborated version of his res gestae to show that he was a successful king until his pride led to his downfall (2 Chron. 26:5-20). After his successful wars, his building activities and reorganisation of the army, the Lord punished him with leprosy for his unfaithfulness, namely an act of pride and sacrilege. When entering the Temple in order to burn incense as a pontifex course, a different matter, and a problem that is not discussed here. But see on the problem of annals, chronicles and history or historical narrative proper concerning such ancient kings, Van de Mieroop, Cuneiform Texts and the Writing of History, 76-85.


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maximus, leprosy broke out on his forehead. It is surprising to find that the author of Chronicles built his argument in the same ˇ way as the author of Sulgi ’s history, with climax and anticlimax. This is certainly a coincidence, though it might reveal a certain similarity in theological reasoning and frame of mind.

7 Conclusion Such historical compilation and revision as described here hardly qualify the biblical chronicler and the Babylonian scholars for recognition as modern historians but they were certainly historians in their own right within the bounds of ancient Near Eastern civilisation. They are no less and no more biased in using their traditions and sources than their Greek counterparts Herodotus, Thucydides and Xenophon, who wrote their account of history following their own intentions just as did these ancient Near Eastern scholars. It hurts our historiographic consciousness today less than it did in the past that they were ideologically biased or that they wrote from a particular theological viewpoint. There is not such a thing as objective historiography, and Huizinga’s definition of historiography is a merciful judgement on all historiographic essays in the past and the present. It has not been my goal to discuss annals and chronicles in Israel and the ancient Near East in order to find evidence for greater credibility, accuracy or factuality for either of them, or to show that the biblical authors were more authentic and genuine historians than their Babylonian colleagues. Our limited knowledge of the sources and their origin prohibits such a conclusion for the present. I am more than satisfied if my arguments show that a contextual approach from the cultures and literature of the ancient Near East provides our best ‘controlled comparison’ for the development of historiography in Israel and the Old Testament. If so, there is as yet no historical reason to set it against the background of Hellenistic historiography, much less to declare the Old Testament a Hellenistic book.

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ˇ Appendix A: The Life, Illness and Death of King Sulgi

A1. Weidner Chronicle A-B-C D S

Grayson, AssBabC, No.19, 150 Finkel, JCS 32 (1980), 7 Sippar: al-Rawi, Iraq 52 (1990), 7

S28

ˇ a-na d Sul-gi u-tu kiˇs-ˇsat mˆ ar (DUMU) l Ur-d Nammu LUGAL-´ KUR.KUR id-di-in-ma ˇ [ana d ]Sul-gi mar (DUMU) d Ur-d Nammu LUGAL-ut kiˇs-ˇsat KUR.KUR id-din-ˇsum-[ma] [ ]Nammu ˇsar-ru-ut*[ kiˇs]-ˇsat* KUR[.KUR . . . ] ˇ ana d Sul-gi mar (DUMU) Ur-d Nammu [ˇsar-ru-ut . . . ] ˇA)´ par-s.i-ˇsu ul u ´-ˇsak-lil ˇsu-[luh]-hi-ˇsu ú ´-la-´ a-i-ma an-na libbi(S ˘ ˘ ˇsu ´:? zu-um-ri-ˇsu ´* il*-tak-kan [par-s.i]-ˇsu ul u ´-ˇsak-lil ˇsu-luh-hi-ˇsu u ´-le-´ u-ma an-na-ˇsu ´ x x zu* [˘˘ um-ri-ˇsu ´] [ ]-ˇsu u ´-la-´ a-i-ma an-na-ˇsu ´ [par-]s.i-ˇsu ul u ´-ˇsak-lil ˇsu-luh[-hi . . . ] ˘ ˘ ˇ He (Marduk) gave to Sulgi, son of Ur-Nammu, sovereignty over all lands. He did not perform his rites, he defiled his purification ritual, and his sin beset his body.

A63 C16 D4’ S29 A64 C16 D5’

A2. Chronicle of the Early Kings AssBabC 20 28 29 30

28 29 30

md ˇ ´ tam-tim a ah (GU) Sul-gi mar m Ur-d Nammu Eridu(NUN)KI ˇs´ ˘ ra-biˇs iz-nun* ´ sag-il u Bablemuttu(MUNUS.HUL) iˇs-te-’-e-ma makk¯ ur E-ˇ ili (TIN.TIR.KI) ˘ ˇ ina ˇsil-lat uˇstes.i d Bel ikkelme (IGI.HUS?)-ma pagar (AD6 )-s´ u liˇ s ˘ ´ ` ´ u-ˇs´ a-kil kaliˇs (DU) muti(US)-ˇsu

ˇ Sulgi, son of Ur-Nammu, provided abundant food for Eridu, which is on the seashore. But he committed a crime by taking away the property of Esagila and Babylon as booty. Bel became [ang]ry and caused his body to waste away completely until his death(?)

Appendix A

41

Appendix A (continued ) A3. Extract from a Chronicle Similar to the Chronicle of Early Kings, or Dynastic Chronicle SBTAU 1, No 2 3

ˇ ˇ S.UNUG.KI) ˇ [x d ]Sul*-gi ˇs´ ar (LUGAL) Uri(SE mˆ ar 2 (A) l UrNammu [ˇsar ]-ru-tu matˆ ati (KUR.KUR) ka-la-ˇsi-na i-pu-uˇs ˇ ˇs´ [x x ]ban-ga-´ ar u m Rab-si-si ˇsarr¯ı(LUGAL.MES) a mat Subarti(SU.BIR4 .KI) i-be-el ˇ mat nu-kur-ti iˇs-lu-lu [al¯ı(URU.]MES*) ´ [makk¯ ur ] E-sag-ila u Babili (TIN.TIR.KI) ina ˇsil-lat uˇs-te-s.i ´ ]-giˇs-nux (SIR)-gal ˇ ˇ S.UNUG.KI) ˇ [E bˆıt d Sin ˇsa qé-reb Uri (SE ` ipuˇs (DU-uˇs)-ma u ´-ˇsak-lil ´ ˇ S.UNUG.KI) ˇ ` s )-ma iˇsid [d¯ ur ](BAD*) Uri(SE ipuˇs(DU-uˇ ˇ ˇ ˇ (SUHUS) Uri(SES.UNUG.KI) u-kin* ˇ [x ] d˘Sul-gi mˆ ara (DUMU) marta (DUMU.MI) ˇsa md Utu-hé-en˘ gal ˇs´ ar Uruk *(UNUG[.KI)] m d II l´ u u ´* L´ u- Nanna IGI NU.TUK um-man-nu [x ] ˇ UL-ti ina lib-bi-ˇsu [MUNUS.]H ´-nu ib-ba-x [-x ] ˘ d ˇ UR.MES) ˇ ˇs´ [paras.(GAR]ZA) Anu(60)-´ u-tu usur¯ ati(GIS.H a ˘ Uruk (UNUG.[KI)] [ni]-s.ir-ti lú um-man-nu ˇs´ a la si-mat u ´-nak-[kir ] ˇ S.UNUG.KI) ˇ [ˇsu?]-ut d Sin [be-]lu Uri (SE iˇs-tur ´ [ina / ana] pal*-e-ˇsu ´ narˆ a (NA4 .RU.A) sur-ra-at tup-pi ˇsilˇ lat MES ˇ [SU?].LUH .HA DINGlR.RA iˇs-tur-ma i-zib ˘ ˘ (LUGAL) ˇsˆ [d Belu] ˇsarru a si-ma-tu-ˇsu ´ rab-ba-´ a ik-kil-me-s´ u-ma [ar-na]-a ˇse-ret-su ra-bi-tu4 [x x ]-gi* zu-mur-ˇsu ú ´-lab-biˇs [vestiges of signs] d

4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13

ˇ Sulgi, King of Ur, son of Ur-Nammu, exercised kingship over all lands. He subdued [ ]-Bangar and Rabsisi, kings of the land of Subarti. [Ci]ties of the enemy’s land he plundered. [The property] of Esagila and Babylon he took away as booty. [E ]giˇs-Nugal, the House of Sin in the centre of Ur he completely rebuilt. He made the wall of Ur and established the foundation of Ur. ˇ Sulgi [accused?] the son and daughter of Utu-Hengal, king of ˘ Uruk, and the blind scholar Lu-Nanna of a crime in their heart. The prescripts of the Anu cult, the rules designed for Uruk,

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Appendix A (continued ) 14 15 16-17 18 19-20

[the] secret of the scholar he changed without precedence. [As if those] of Sin, Lord of Ur, he wrote (them) down. [In/About] his reign he wrote and left [for posterity] a false stela, a tablet [about the puri]fication ritual of the god. [Bel?], the king whose destinies are sublime, became angry with him. [As a pu]nishment, he clothed his body with his great scourge.

Appendix B: The Babylonian Chronicle

B1. Neo-Babylonian Version Edition AssBabC 1 CT 34,43–5082

AssBabC 7

82

Museum number, collection A BM 92502 (=84-2-11,356) BM 75976 (=AH 83-1-18,1338) C BM 75977 (=AH 83-1-18,1339) BM 35382 (Sp II, 964)

Provenance Size

Colophon

Sippar

193x158 pirsu reˇstu 22nd Darius 85x68 3rd Nabu-Nasir–acc

Sippar

55x60

Babylon

140x140 1st Nabonidus – ?Cyrus

Babylon

ˇ ˇ Samaˇ s-Sum-Ukin

Fragments B and C from the Sippar collection may be parts of one large tablet. Remarkably, the first section in A starts with the ascension to the throne of Tiglath-Pileser III in the 3rd [?] year of the Babylonian king, NabuNasir. Copy B from Sippar had a preceding section anyway, ending with a remark about the interruption of the Akitu Ceremonies (AssBabC 1,1*), but also an extra passage about Tiglath-Pileser III after A I.10. Perhaps the Sippar text was longer than A. Because about 16/18 lines are missing in Columns III-IV between B and C, the Sippar text could have been written on a rather long tablet (ca 200x85), but the problem is then that one has to assume that this text was also considerably longer in Columns III=IV than the text in A III and IV. More probably, in my opinion, the Sippar text once had six columns. If so, it presumably contained sections of the Babylonian History at the beginning, as found, for instance, in the Eclectic Chronicle (AssBabC 24), of which the last preserved lines overlap with AssBabC 1 1-2, 9–10.

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Appendix B

Appendix B (continued ) B2. Late Babylonian Version83 Edition

Museum number, collection AssBabC 20A BM 26472 (=98-5-14, 290) AssBabC 20B BM 96152 (=1902-4-12,264) AssBabC 2585 BM 27796 (=98-7-11,61) AssBabC 2486 BM 27859 (=98-7-11,124) AssBabC 14 BM 25091 (=98-2-16, 145) AssBabC 15 BM 96273 (=1902-4-12,385) AssBabC 2 BM 25127 (=98-2-16,181) AssBabC 3 BM 21901 (=96-4-9,6) AssBabC 4 BM 22047 (=96-4-9,152) AssBabC 5 BM 21946 (=96-4-9,51) AssBabC 687 BM 25124 (=98-2-16,178)

83

Provenance Size

Colophon

Babylon

85x55 GIGAM.DIDLI84

Babylon

65x55

Babylon?

55x55*

Babylon Babylon

ˇ 60*x45 Marduk-Sapik-Zeri Nabu-Nasir? 76*x50 GIGAM.GIGAM

Babylon

ˇ ˇ 57x43* Samaˇ s-Sumu-Ukin

Babylon

52x60 acc-3rd Nabopolas

Babylon

132x69 10-17th Nabopolas

Babylon

45x54 18–20th Nabopolas

Babylon

81*x59 21st Nab.–11th Neb. II

Babylon

46x58 3rd Neriglissar

This list does not imply that these texts belong to the same series. Only the groups AssBabC 20A, 14, AssBabC 2, 4, 6 and AssBabC 3, 5 may belong to one another, being copies written by the same scribe. See Grayson, AssBabC, 9 n. 7. Some of these texts, however, are extracts (e.g. AssBabC 6, 15) and contained only parts of a more complete Vorlage. For these, small administrative tablets (‘business-tablets’) were usually used. 84 A library label meaning ‘Battles’. 85 An excerpt written on an administrative tablet. It completes the gap between Chronicle P (AssBabC 22) and the Eclectic Chronicle (AssBabC 24). 86 The Late Babylonian text from Uruk/Warka SBTAU 3, No. 58 contains a rather elaborate chronicle about Nabu-Nasir’s immediate predecessor Nabuˇ Suma-Iˇ skun (763-748 bce). Its relationship to the series of the Babylonian Chronicles needs further investigation. 87 For another text containing an extract of one royal year, the 37th year of Nebuchadnezzar II (568/567 bce), see Wiseman, Chronicles, 94-5; Pl. XXXXI = BM 33041 (=78-10-15, 37). BM 33053 (=78-10-15, 38) does not belong to this text (Borger, HKL 1, 284. See HKL, 553 // CTBT 20,39-42 pace ANET, 308).

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Appendix B (continued ) B2. Late Babylonian Version (continued) Edition

Museum number, collection AssBabC 8 BM 36305 (=80-6-17,30) AssBabC 9 BM 31450 (=76-11-17,1177) AssBabC 1088 BM 34660 (=Sp III, 143) +BM 3631389 (=80-6-17,39) AssBabC 11 BM 32440+32581+ 32585 (76-11-17,2176/ 2324/2328) AssBabC 12 BM 32235(+)32957 AssBabC 13 BM 32171 (=76-11-17,1898) (76-11-17,1962; 78-6-31,46) AssBabC 13a BM 32310 (=76-11-17,2039) AssBabC 13b BM 35421 (Sp II 1008)

88

Provenance Size

Colophon

Babylon

100*x65* Xerxes?

Babylon

48x66

Babylon

92*x70* 7-8th Alexander IV

Babylon

86*x60*

Babylon

110*x85* 18th -19th SE?

Babylon Babylon

60*x55* 30-31 SE 65*x60* 66-67 SE?

14th Artaxerxes III

50*x45* Babylon

70*x53*

Babylon

55*x130 88 SE

This chronicle still dates according to the regnal years of the elusive Philip III and Alexander IV up to the 8th year (see below). In the King List from the Hellenistic Period (RLA 6, 98-9), only the first six years of the Seleucid Era (SE) are attributed to Alexander and Seleucus I together, with Seleucus possibly as co-regent. From other documents, later years of Alexander IV are known too, up to the 11th year (Boiy, JCS 52 [2000], 117). Chronicles 11–13 date after the Seleucid Era. 89 It has been established that the fragments join (different from AssBabC, 115), so that perhaps only one line between them is missing. This implies that lines AssBabC 10, Rev.34-8 belong to the 8th year of Alexander IV (309-308) and not the 9th year (P. Wheatley, ‘Antigonus Monophthalmus in Babylonia 310-308 bce’, JNES 61 [2002], 39-47; 42, n.16).

Robert P. Gordon

St Catharine’s College, Cambridge – United Kingdom

‘Comparativism’ and the God of Israel1 The view that the God of Israel was sui generis among the deities of antiquity was once standard fare, and still has many defenders. During the second half of the twentieth century, however, Old Testament specialists have had to tread more cautiously when making the kinds of comparison (or contrast) that undergird such a claim. For while the idea of the uniqueness of Israel’s God prospered for a time as a tenet of the Biblical Theology ‘movement’, the steady accession of comparative near eastern material has almost inevitably added to the perception of resemblance, rather than of difference, between Israel’s God and the others.2 The issue has been addressed across a broader front by Peter Machinist, in his essay ‘The Question of Distinctiveness in Ancient Israel’ (1991).3 Machinist notes that, with the accrual of information from archaeological discovery, ‘some correspondence always seems to be waiting to be found somewhere in the ancient Near East . . . for what is proposed as a distinctive concept or behavior in ancient Israel’ (197). He suggests that Israel’s distinctiveness may lie not in ‘individual, pure traits’ but in ‘configurations of traits’ (200). Machinist opts for an alternative approach by posing the question: ‘how did Israel, in its Biblical canon, pose and answer the distinctiveness question for itself?’ 1

This was the SOTS presidential paper (2003) read at the winter meeting of the society in Birmingham on 6 January 2003. The word ‘comparativism’ is not recorded in any of the dictionaries that I have consulted. ‘Comparativism’ may be taken to be something that ‘comparativists’ do, and this latter word does already exist. I regard the title ‘the God of Israel’ as appropriate despite the acknowledgement of the existence of other gods by many an Israelite. The Old Testament and Israelite-Judean onomastics together provide sufficient justification for the usage. 2 The dangers attending comparative exercises such as are discussed here are frequently noted. See, for example, D. Damrosch, The Narrative Covenant: Transformations of Genre in the Growth of Biblical Literature, San Francisco 1987, 28-9. 3 P. Machinist, ‘The Question of Distinctiveness in Ancient Israel: An Essay’, in: M. Cogan, I. Ephal (eds), Ah, Assyria . . . Studies in Assyrian History and Ancient Near Eastern Historiography Presented to Hayim Tadmor (= ScHier, 33), Jerusalem 1991, 192-212.

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(202). His answer is framed in terms of Israel’s consciousness of a special relationship to her God (205). The present study focusses more narrowly on the God of Israel, but most of the time it will be desirable to think of this God, not in isolation nor in the abstract, but relationally, whether we relate him to the people of Israel, or to Israelite prophets, or to the gods of other nations. I begin by reviewing four areas where claims to uniqueness that long seemed to require no justification are now, in the light of the work of recent decades, in need of at least some nuancing.

Divine Action in History For students of my generation the appearance of Bertil Albrektson’s History and the Gods in 1967 provided a short cut to important insights.4 In this ‘essay’, as it is termed in the subtitle, Albrektson showed that ideas of divine action in history that had widely been regarded as special to the Old Testament were, in fact, shared with her neighbours in Mesopotamia, the Hittite homeland and, more proximately, in the land of Moab. Albrektson also questioned whether the Old Testament talks of a divine ‘plan’ in history in quite the overarching way commonly assumed, and he cited Mesopotamian texts that give some evidence of divine plan in a more limited sense of the term.5 He suggested that the celebration of divine acts in history perhaps featured more prominently in the Israelite cult than was the case elsewhere. He noted the lack of historical reference in the Ugaritic cultic texts especially (115), and he concluded that what distinguished Israel from her neighbours was, if not the concept itself, the prominence that was given to it in the Israelite cult (116). Some years later Nicholas Wyatt sought to show that even the comparatively meagre textual evidence in the West Semitic region reflects ‘the presuppositions of theocratic history’,6 and already J.J.M. Roberts had pointed out that the absence of hymns and prayers in the extant Ugaritic texts makes it dangerous to assume 4

History and the Gods: An Essay on the Idea of Historical Events as Divine Manifestations in the Ancient Near East and in Israel (CB.OT, 1), Lund 1967. 5 Albrektson, History and the Gods, 68-97. 6 N. Wyatt, ‘Some Observations on the Idea of History Among the West Semitic Peoples’, UF 11 (1979), 825-32 (831).

‘Comparativism’ and the God of Israel

47

too much about the importance or unimportance of history to Canaanite religion.7 In his final chapter Albrektson highlighted the Old Testament conception of the divine word as its truly unique possession. The idea of communicating divine words to humans may have been common near eastern currency, nevertheless the content of such divine communication within the Old Testament is ‘in several respects unique’ (122). In the divine word we learn about God’s thoughts and intentions, his nature and his claims in ways that are not experienced elsewhere. Albrektson’s essay added to the discomfiture of ‘Biblical Theology’ at a crucial point in the 1960s. In the previous year, in his Old and New in Interpretation James Barr had been exposing the problems inherent in maintaining history ‘as a central and mandatory theological concept’.8 But neither Albrektson nor Barr denied that history was fundamentally important for the writers of the Old Testament. Nor could they, for Israel is not India.

Prophecy Albrektson’s suggestion that what truly separated Israel from her neighbours was the conception of God that came through the divine word leads directly into the prophetic domain, where once it was possible to hold discussion with minimal reference to contemporary non-Israelite phenomena. However, since George Smith’s publication, in 1875, of an oracle of encouragement to Esarhaddon (now listed as text K. 4310),9 a veritable ‘alternative prospectus’ of near eastern prophetic texts has become available. These include not only the Neo-Assyrian prophecies, which in the 1990s have been made more accessible to non-Assyriologists, in the series State Archives of Assyria, but also the prophetic texts found in the royal archives of eighteenth-century Mari. Since 1875 the story has been one of increasing encroachment upon the uniqueness of the biblical institution of prophecy. It is clear that 7

J.J.M. Roberts, ‘Myth Versus History: Relaying the Comparative Foundations’, CBQ 38 (1976), 1-13 (11). 8 J. Barr, Old and New in Interpretation: A Study of the Two Testaments, London 1966, 65-102 (68). 9 G. Smith, ‘Addresses of Encouragement to Esarhaddon’, in: H.C. Rawlinson (ed.), The Cuneiform Inscriptions of Western Asia, vol. 4, London 1875, no. 68 (cuneiform text only); translation by T.G. Pinches in: S. Birch (ed.), Records of the Past, vol. 11, London 1878, 59-72 (61-72).

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the prophet figures of Mari could, as part of their prophetic commissioning by a god, be allowed to witness the Divine Council in its decision-making.10 Something similar is described for the prophet Balaam in the Deir Alla plaster text from the first millennium.11 Again, cognate forms of the Hebrew aybin:, a term which previously had given the impression of being without an Akkadian parallel, have been claimed for Mari (text 216 [A. 2209]) and Emar (text 387).12 However, whereas the Hebrew prophets were characteristically concerned about ethical conduct and social obligation as well as national and international politics, their Mesopotamian counterparts have so far produced only a few syllables that express ethical concerns.13 From the Mari prophecies we have text A. 1121, in which Adad counsels Zimri-Lim through a prophet figure: ‘When a wronged man or woman cries out to you, stand and judge their case.’ In text 194 (A. 4260) the god Shamash tells Zimri-Lim to decree a remission of debts and to direct people with a legal case to Shamash’s own feet. If we go forward to the Neo-Assyrian prophecies we shall find little or nothing by way of moral or ethical content. Parpola cites his texts 1.4.27-9 (‘Do not trust in man. Lift up your eyes, look to me’) and 2.3.17 (‘Mankind is deceitful; I am one who says and does’), but it is a poor return for a night’s fishing.14 Nothing has happened in a thousand years to make prophecy the mouthpiece for divine calls to 10

See the writer in ‘From Mari to Moses: Prophecy at Mari and in Ancient Israel’, in: H.A. McKay, D.J.A. Clines (eds), Of Prophets’ Visions and the Wisdom of Sages (Fs R.N. Whybray) (JSOT.S, 162), Sheffield 1993, 72. 11 For text in transliteration, with English translation, see M. Weippert, ‘The Balaam Text from Deir Alla and the Study of the Old Testament’, in: J. Hoftijzer, G. van der Kooij (eds), The Balaam Text from Deir Alla Reevaluated: Proceedings of the International Symposium held at Leiden 21-24 August 1989, Leiden 1991, 153-8. Cf. also the admission of a ‘diviner’ to the Divine Council in the Old Babylonian text discussed by A. Goetze, ‘An Old Babylonian Prayer of the Divination Priest’, JCS 22 (1968), 25-9. 12 See D.E. Fleming, ‘N¯ abˆ u and Munabbi¯ atu: Two New Syrian Religious Personnel’, JAOS 113 (1993), 175-83; Idem, ‘The Etymological Origins of the Hebrew n¯ abˆı: The One Who Invokes God’, CBQ 55 (1993), 217-24. The relevance of the Emar terms is queried by J. Huehnergard, ‘On the Etymology ¯ Î ’, ErIs 26 (Frank Moore Cross Volume; 1999), and Meaning of Hebrew NAB 88*-93* (91*-2*). 13 Cf. Gordon, ‘From Mari to Moses’, 63-79 (77-8). 14 S. Parpola, Assyrian Prophecies (SAA, 9), Helsinki 1997, xlviii, cv, nn. 255-6.


49

justice and righteousness. For that we have better places to look in Mesopotamia, for example the text ‘Advice to a Prince’.15 The Neo-Assyrian prophecies are largely concerned with kings and their welfare.16 Even so, the preoccupation is often mundane and the undertakings of the god(dess) none too specific. Nor is there much at all that is predictive in the grand way of the Old Testament prophecies.17 If all he knew was prophecy of this sort, we can easily understand how an exilic Judean prophet could ask in relation to developments in the late sixth century, ‘Who told this long ago? Who declared it of old?’ (Isa. 45:21). There clearly are formal and terminological correspondences between prophecy in its Levantine and Mesopotamian manifestations and Israelite prophecy, but these constitute a minor act of encroachment when once their content is taken into account.

The National Covenant A third area where Israel was thought to overtop its neighbours was that of covenant, for the Old Testament, especially in Deuteronomically affected areas, makes much of a covenant forged between the people of Israel and their God. Other covenants are described, notably the Davidic covenant articulating the dynastic ideology of the royal house of Judah. This latter has parallels, but the concept of a God specially bound to his or her people by covenant was otherwise unknown.18 The introduction of the political treaty into the discussion offered explanation for formal elements of the biblical national covenant and even potential clues to dating, though it was disputed whether the second millennium Hittite treaties, as the best examples of a more widespread treaty tradition in the period, or the Neo-Assyrian representatives of the first millennium provided the closer comparison. The popular view that the Old Testament national covenant concept had developed in Deuteronomic hands under the 15

See W.G. Lambert, Babylonian Wisdom Literature, Oxford 1960, 110-5. I am grateful to Professor W.G. Lambert for helpful comments on the status of the ‘royal’ prophecies in the Ashurbanipal library. 17 Cf. Parpola, Assyrian Prophecies, lxvi. 18 Cf. S.A. Geller, ‘The God of the Covenant’, in: Barbara N. Porter (ed.), One God or Many?: Concepts of Divinity in the Ancient World (Transactions of the Casco Bay Assyriological Institute, 1), n.p. 2000, 284: ‘Nowhere else is a God attached to a people by a covenant, nowhere else is there such a radical break with myth and mythology.’ 16

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impulse of Neo-Assyrian political practice certainly rendered it ‘of the earth, earthy’ but did not, of itself, impair its essential uniqueness. This too has changed. Eckart Otto, for example, notes that the idea of a covenant between a god and human subjects is also found in Neo-Assyrian texts and in one of the Arslan Tash inscriptions, whose genuineness Otto is happy to accept.19 At first Otto lumps together covenants involving kings and covenants involving the general populace,20 but the necessary distinction is observed when he comes to discuss the Neo-Assyrian text K. 2401, ‘Prophecy for Esarhaddon’.21 This he understands as requiring both Esarhaddon and his subjects to fulfil the terms of the covenant made initially between Asshur and the king.22 The Arslan Tash inscription even refers to an ‘eternal covenant’ ( lt lm) made between Asshur and the citizens of Hadattu, hence judgments on its authenticity are very important˘ for the ‘Israel only’ discussion. Otto claims that the distinctive feature of Judean religion in the seventh century was not ‘covenant theology as such’. What was ‘innovative’ was Judah’s deployment of covenant theology in 19

E. Otto, Das Deuteronomium: Politische Theologie und Rechtsreform in Juda und Assyrien (BZAW, 284), Berlin 1999, 73, 81-2, 85; Idem, ‘Der Ursprung der Bundestheologie in Assyrien und Juda: Eine forschungsgeschichtliche Orientierung’, in: Idem, Gottes Recht als Menschenrecht: Rechts- und literaturhistorische Studien zum Deuteronomium (BZAR, 2), Wiesbaden 2002, 128-66 (161-6). Otto assumes the authenticity of the Arslan Tash text, citing (Das Deuteronomium, 85 n. 371) J. van Dijk, ‘The Authenticity of the Arslan Tash Amulets’, Iraq 54 (1992), 65-8, and F.M. Cross, quoted in T.J. Lewis, ‘The Identity and Function of El/Baal Berith’, JBL 115 (1996), 401-23 (409). See already Z. Zevit, ‘A Phoenician Inscription and Biblical Covenant Theology’, IEJ 27 (1977), 110-8, for the suggestion, on the basis of the Arslan Tash text, that the national covenant concept was not unique to Israel (118). 20 Otto, Das Deuteronomium, 73. 21 Titled ‘The Covenant of Assur’ by Parpola in his Assyrian Prophecies, 22. 22 Otto, Das Deuteronomium, 82. For the text see Parpola, Assyrian Prophecies, 22-7. Parpola thinks that the covenant is made with Ishtar rather than with Asshur, though he also believes that, for the author of the text, Asshur and Ishtar were identical (pp. XIX-XX). For the covenant as a ‘double covenant’ between god and king and then between king and people see T. Ishida, The Royal Dynasties in Ancient Israel: A Study on the Formation and Development of Royal-Dynastic Ideology (BZAW, 142), Berlin 1977, 115-6.


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opposition to Assyrian imperial and royal ideology.23 But it would also be true to say, with Bernhard Lang, that it was only the Judeans who gave this covenant theology anything like developed theological expression.24 Thus the national covenant becomes a key theological concept within the Old Testament, such that even the Judean dynastic covenant is swallowed up in the national covenant in one well-known text (Isa. 55:3), when the ‘sure mercies of David’ are extended to the whole non-monarchical community of the later exile.

Aniconism My fourth example of a diminishing differentia is that of aniconism. The rejection of images to represent Israel’s God, or any god, gives the biblical writers a point d’appui for their attacks on polytheism, and has been recognized as a defining feature of Old Testament – perhaps even Israelite – religion. However, the work of T.N.D. Mettinger (especially) has raised questions about this uniqueness of Israelite aniconism.25 Mettinger argues that aniconic worship is a more general West Semitic phenomenon, and that Israel reflects this common outlook. Much of his evidence is late, coming principally from Nabatea and Phoenicia – Mettinger self-consciously works back from the later evidence to his conclusions about earlier periods – and much depends on the validity and the significance of his category of ‘material aniconism’ which he distinguishes from the ‘empty-space aniconism’ most often associated with the religion of the Old Testament. Examples of this second category outside Israel are especially few and late.26 Because of this assumed West Semitic background, Mettinger holds that aniconism was a feature of Israelite religion from the beginning. But what was special to Israel was the development of programmatic iconoclasm; nowhere else in the ancient Semitic world was there an actual veto on the use of graven images (196). 23

Otto, Das Deuteronomium, 86. B. Lang, The Hebrew God: Portrait of an Ancient Deity, New Haven 2002, 38. 25 T.N.D. Mettinger, No Graven Image?: Israelite Aniconism in its Ancient Near Eastern Context (CB.OT, 42), Stockholm 1995. See also the review by C. Uehlinger, ‘Israelite Aniconism in Context’, Bib. 77 (1996), 540-9. 26 See Mettinger, No Graven Image?, 100-2 (cf. 113) on the (very late) Sidonian ‘votive’ (possibly) thrones, the only datable one coming from ad 59-60. On the aniconism of the ‘Aten revolution’ in Egypt see ibid., 49. 24

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The exclusion took place late in the history of Israel-Judah: Mettinger claims that the accumulation of anthropomorphisms in the Old Testament prophetic literature reflects a situation in which ‘a strictly aniconic theology remained unarticulated’ (15). This fits with his view that explicit prohibition occurred only in the exilic or early post-exilic period, but reads strangely when put against, say, Isaiah 40-66, which has pronounced aniconic moments, yet is very free in its use of the anthropomorphisms of God’s mouth, arm, hand and even eyes and ear.27 Mettinger has unquestionably altered the terms in which discussion about Israelite aniconism must be carried out.28 However, it is a problem that, if the evidence for ‘material aniconism’ is not late, it is as likely to be early and ‘mute’. This applies especially to the standing stones of the Bronze and Iron Ages that Mettinger dignifies as ‘aniconic’. His discussion of West-Semitic ‘aniconism’ rests heavily on these stones. It would assist greatly if we knew how those that are genuinely cultic – for they are divided into several classes – were viewed by the people who made and used them.29 The problem can be illustrated by reference to the Assyrian deity symbols that Mettinger discusses at one point. There is textual evidence to confirm that these symbols could be treated just like images, even to the extent of undergoing the mouth-washing ritual (47), and Mettinger is not inclined to regard them as aniconic (42). By contrast, West Semitic seals of the ninth to sixth centuries displaying divine symbols such as the sun disk are regarded as tending towards (material) aniconism (194). The distinction between ‘iconic’ and ‘aniconic’ can, therefore, be fluid enough. The definition of ‘aniconic’ is an issue to which Mettinger returns in a later study, in which he cites the use of ‘aniconic’, in 27

The view that the polemics against the manufacture of images in Isa. 40–55 are secondary is a potentially complicating factor, but, even if the hypothesis were granted, Isa. 40–55 would still have its ‘aniconic moments’. 28 As well as Mettinger, some others who have written on the subject have contributed essays to: K. van der Toorn (ed.), The Image and the Book: Iconic Cults, Aniconism, and the Rise of Book Religion in Israel and the Ancient Near East (CBET, 21), Leuven 1997. See further J.C. de Moor, The Rise of Yahwism: The Roots of Israelite Monotheism (BEThL, 91A), Leuven 2 1997, 42, 52-4, 60, 128, 264, 297, 354, 358. 29 On Mesopotamian god-symbols see W.G. Lambert, ‘Ancient Mesopotamian Gods: Superstition, Philosophy, Theology’, RHR 207 (1990), 115-30 (123-5).


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the study of Greek religion, for certain kinds of cultic stones and pillars.30 Here he also allows a greater importance to the ‘empty space’ aniconism of the Jerusalem temple as a ‘background factor’ in the eventual development of the prohibition on images (189, 204). No doubt, part of our problem is that ‘aniconic’ and ‘aniconism’ are terms of considerable interest to the biblical theologian, and in that context suggest a concept, and a quite abstract, theological one at that, which may owe little to the niceties of archaeological typology.

‘Reverse’ Comparativism So far we have been concerned with the kind of ‘comparativism’ that has dominated in Old Testament study, and that has been widely perceived to work to the disadvantage of non-Israelite traditions. There is, on the other hand, a kind of comparativism that works in the opposite direction and that sees the Old Testament as impoverished and constricted as compared with the rich and diverse forms of Israelite religion that have been obscured by Deuteronomic and similarly motivated manipulation of the literary tradition. One of the most recent exponents of this view, J. Edward Wright, complains about the ‘parochial perspectives on history and religion’ introduced into the Old Testament by its monotheistic Judean editors.31 He notes, further, that their ‘sterile’ view of reality was nothing like what the average Judean and Israelite thought of the divine and human realms (73). The substantive point in this latter utterance may readily be conceded, and the Old Testament itself is the primary witness to the fact that the Israelites were often nearer in outlook to their near eastern neighbours than to the prophetic and Deuteronomic blueprints presented in the Old Testament. In the light of this newer ‘reverse’ comparativism, we shall now consider representative ways in which even the heavy hand of Deuteronomism, or of monotheism, has worked positively, imaginatively and insightfully with Israel’s traditions, keeping in mind with Stephen Geller that biblical religion is ‘an essentially literary faith’ which ‘ap30

See his essay entitled ‘Israelite Aniconism: Developments and Origins’ in: Van der Toorn (ed.), The Image and the Book, 173-204 (199-200). 31 J.E. Wright, ‘Biblical versus Israelite Images of the Heavenly Realm’, JSOT 93 (2001), 59-75 (60).

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proaches the supernatural through essentially literary means’.32 I shall not be much concerned to make evaluative comparisons with what is found in surrounding cultures. The dangers involved in that kind of exercise have already been acknowledged, though I shall conclude this paper by asserting that ‘comparativism’ remains a legitimate and even desirable feature of our discipline. For now, I am mainly interested in the kinds of things that were possible within what some would view as the straitjacket of Old Testament religion. First we should note, however, that for many students of the Old Testament it is not just a matter of imagery or imagination; the Old Testament is regarded as serious testimony to things at the very heart of reality. So the well-known essay by C.S. Lewis, ‘Is Theology Poetry?’, has relevance, even though Lewis is talking of Christian theology, which for him includes both Testaments. And the first fact I discover, or seem to discover, is that for me at any rate, if Theology is Poetry, it is not very good poetry. Considered as poetry, the doctrine of the Trinity seems to me to fall between two stools. It has neither the monolithic grandeur of strictly Unitarian conceptions, nor the richness of Polytheism. The omnipotence of God is not, to my taste, a poetical advantage.33

But that did not put Lewis off the biblical text, nor did it stifle his enthusiasm for amateur theologizing. Ultimately, with him, we shall want to judge the Old Testament by worthier canons than its use of imagery or its serviceableness as a conduit of phantasmagoric near eastern polytheism. I shall be discussing our topic under four headings: ‘The Coat of Many Colours’, ‘God and the Narrative Tradition’, ‘The Anthropomorphized God’ and ‘The Conciliar God’.

32

S.A. Geller, Sacred Enigmas: Literary Religion in the Hebrew Bible, London 1996, 168. 33 C.S. Lewis, ‘Is Theology Poetry?’, in: Idem, Screwtape Proposes a Toast, and Other Pieces, London 1965, 42. Again, ‘The majestic simplifications of Pantheism and the tangled wood of Pagan animism both seem to me, in their different ways, more attractive. Christianity just misses the tidiness of the one and the delicious variety of the other’ (ibid., 42-3).


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The Coat of Many Colours This subtitle introduces an aspect of the ‘richness’ and ’diversity’ of the Old Testament presentation of God that deserves mention, even though similar tendencies are evident among Israel’s polytheistic neighbours. This is the ‘clothes-stealing’ that goes on in the Old Testament when characteristics (forms, functions, epithets) of non-Israelite gods are assumed by the God of Israel. In some contexts this would come appropriately under the heading of ‘syncretism’. The fourth chapter of John Day’s monograph on Yahweh and the Gods of Canaan deals with this subject and is entitled ‘Yahweh’s Appropriation of Baal Imagery’.34 The potential for enlargement in this area is considerable, but I shall mention only the haunting case of Isa. 45:7 where Judah’s God claims to be the creator of darkness as well as of light, of woe as well as of weal.35 This apparent rejection of conceptual dualism is uttered immediately after the section on the rise of Cyrus the Persian in 45:1-6, and the juxtaposition is striking, given that Persia provided the matrix for dualistic Zoroastrianism. Many commentators refrain from comment in this direction because it is not certain that Zoroastrianism was in a position to influence Judean thinking – even exilic Judean thinking – in the later sixth century. At the same time, Zoroastrianism is occasionally suggested as a factor in the development of Israelite-Jewish monotheism,36 but that is a separate and much larger issue and not at all my concern here. Uncertainty about the dating of Zoroaster and about the extent of his influence in the sixth century discourages easy conclusions about Isa. 45:7 being a response to Persian dualism.37 J.D.W. Watts, in his commentary on Isaiah, takes it for 34 J. Day, Yahweh and the Gods and Goddesses of Canaan (JSOT.S, 265), Sheffield 2000, 91-127. 35 On the multifaceted problem of the relation between the deity and evil see now A. Laato, J.C. de Moor, Theodicy in the World of the Bible, Leiden 2003; O. Loretz, G¨ otter – Ahnen – K¨ onige als gerechte Richter: Der “Rechtsfall” des Menschen vor Gott nach altorientalischen und biblischen Texten (AOAT, 290), M¨ unster 2003. 36 References in Robert Gnuse, ‘The Emergence of Monotheism in Ancient Israel: A Survey of Recent Scholarship’, Religion 29 (1999), 315-36; Laato, De Moor, Theodicy, viii-ix. 37 Cf. M. Boyce, A History of Zoroastrianism, vol. 2: Under the Achaemenians (HO, 1/8, 1, 2, 2A), Leiden 1982, 1-4; G. Gnoli, Zoroaster’s Time and Homeland: A Study on the Origins of Mazdeism and Related Problems

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granted that 45:7 functions in this way,38 but then Watts holds that the first audience for the book of Isaiah is to be dated in the late fifth century.39 At least, if it ever were demonstrated that 45:7 was meant to counter Persian dualism, we should not be surprised, for the God of the Old Testament would as happily spoil the Persians as the Egyptians.

God and the Narrative Tradition That the Old Testament presents a literary, and in particular a narrative, tradition that stands apart from those of neighbouring countries seems self-evident. Attempts to boost the image of the competing literatures may alter the detail, but they do not change the picture. Admittedly, the narrative continuum of the Pentateuch-Former Prophets (Genesis–2 Kings) of the Hebrew canon, or of Genesis-Esther in the English Bible tradition, suggests a connectedness that would not have been apparent at the time of the composition of the individual books. Still, the considerable dovetailing of some of the constituent books and their orientation towards a history outside themselves indicate that something more than last-minute editing has created this sense of continuity. The view that the monotheistic faith of Israel has given birth to this narrative tradition is often associated nowadays with Robert Alter and his 1981 volume on biblical narrative.40 The theory is, of course, much older than Alter, whose predecessors in the field include Gerhard von Rad41 and Shemaryahu Talmon.42 When Alter first raises the question, he is consciously building on Talmon’s claim that, far from containing the vestiges of a national epic, the Old Testament deliberately avoids epic because (SMDSA, 7), Naples 1980; Idem, Zoroaster in History (Biennial Yarshater Lecture Series, 2), New York 2000. 38 J.D.W. Watts, Isaiah 34–66 (WBC, 25), Waco 1987, 157. 39 See J.D.W. Watts, Isaiah 1–33 (WBC, 24), Waco 1985, xxx. 40 R. Alter, The Art of Biblical Narrative, London 1981. 41 G. von Rad, ‘The Beginnings of Historical Writing in Ancient Israel’, in: G. von Rad, The Problem of the Hexateuch and Other Essays, tr. E.W. Trueman Dicken, Edinburgh 1966, 166-204 (translated from Gesammelte Studien zum Alten Testament, M¨ unchen 1958, 148-88. The essay, entitled ‘Der Anfang der Geschichtsschreibung im alten Israel’, first appeared in AKuG 32 [1944], 1-42). 42 S. Talmon, ‘The “Comparative Method” in Biblical Interpretation – Principles and Problems’, VT.S 29 (1978), 320-56 (351-6).


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of its pagan associations: the Old Testament writers ‘purposely nurtured and developed prose narration to take the place of the epic genre which by its content was intimately bound up with the world of paganism and appears to have had a special standing in the polytheistic cults’ (354). Such a creative role for monotheism has been questioned, for example by David Gunn, who thinks that Alter is simply reverting to the values and judgments of the Biblical Theology period.43 Norman Whybray reckoned that Alter’s approach was too heavily final form, expecting too much from the final redactors of the biblical text. He also found it puzzling that narrative writing of the type so praised by Alter appears to have gone into decline in the very period when monotheism was in the ascendant. This, it will be clear, is predicated on certain assumptions about the age of the narrative books of the Old Testament. If in the main they originated in post-exilic times, different arguments would apply. For some, the applicability of the term ‘monotheism’ to Israelite-Judean religion before the Babylonian exile is a major issue, but it may in any case be sufficient to frame the question in terms of the influence of ‘Yahweh-aloneism’ in Israel and Judah, in the pre-exilic period and subsequently. For it is hard to dissociate the development of the unique Israelite literary tradition from questions of world-view, and in almost any ancient society world-view and religion overlap substantially. Certain it is that a comparable narrative-historical tradition did not develop in the surrounding cultures, even where and when the high gods became exceedingly ‘high’. Moreover, if there was no prior Israelite epic tradition, as Talmon has argued,44 the rise of the narrative tradition is the more obviously in need of explanation, since it is then not simply a ‘prosification’ of older epic material. This development of a unique narrative tradition within the literature of the ancient near east is matched by the comparative absence of pictorial art and glyptic in ancient Israel, and this too appears to be related to Israelite religious perception, now in its aniconic/iconoclastic mode. The ban on images was ‘the ruin of their art, but the making of their religion’, wrote 43

D.M. Gunn, ‘Hebrew Narrative’, in: A.D.H. Mayes (ed.), Text and Context: Essays by Members of the Society for Old Testament Study, Oxford 2000, 234. 44 Talmon, ‘The “Comparative Method”’, 353-4.

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D.L. Edwards in a popular volume of his a quarter of a century ago.45 Whether the ‘ban’ was the cause or merely a reflex of an underlying tendency, there is the likelihood of a connection between the ideology and the absence of the art. A similar thing has been observed of England, which has had its share of iconoclastic revolution. In consequence, England has never competed with the other European countries where the visual arts are concerned. On the other hand, a tradition of the written word that is second to none has developed and reached out across the globe.46 This tradition of the word, it is true, is not limited to narrative – Shakespeare appears early on the honours board – but it remains the case that the flow of creative energy has been channelled into the written word in a way that is not true of the visual arts. It appears to have been the same in ancient Israel. To say no more, however, would be to limit ourselves to the via negativa. The idea that Israel’s God was solely responsible for the created order, controlled and shaped history, and determined the whole course of Israelite national affairs, can justly be claimed as the dynamo that powered the narrative-historical tradition within the Old Testament. Other peoples might attribute similar powers to their gods, but polytheism fragments, and even when the gods claimed credit for their doings in history, their vicegerents on earth had a good slice of the glory, as their proud accounts of victory testify. In the Old Testament this is not so, and even Israel’s monumental architecture – whether coincidentally or otherwise – bears silent witness to the sole claim of Yahweh to glory on the field of battle.47 ‘Yahweh-aloneism’ indeed! So, although it may be an overstatement to claim that monotheism per se gave rise to the Old Testament narrative tradition, the manner of Israel’s recognition of one supreme God created the context in which such a tradition could flourish. In this the consciousness of the special relationship between God and people, as described by Machinist (see above), played its part, as can be illustrated from the larger narrative blocks represented by the books of Kings and 45

D.L. Edwards, A Key to the Old Testament, London 1976, 31. Cf. J. Paxman, The English: A Portrait of a People, London 1998, 109-10. This ‘civilisation not of the image, but of the word’ is applied more broadly to Protestant Europe by Kenneth Clark, Civilisation: A Personal View, London 1969, 159. 47 Cf. 2 Sam. 8:6, 14. 46


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Chronicles. The writers, or compilers, of these books mention annalistic material of the sort that is commonplace within the larger near eastern literary corpus, but they are self-consciously creating a different type of literature in which they recount the story, extending over several centuries, of a people and its God.

The Anthropomorphised God The extent to which God is depicted anthropomorphically in the Old Testament is striking, given that he is viewed as above and beyond his creation, the high and holy One of many a text in prose and verse. The statement in Deuteronomy 4 that at Horeb the Israelites ‘saw no form of any kind’ on the day God spoke out of the fire (v. 15; cf. v. 12) and the parallel aniconic tradition of tabernacle and temple, where God was enthroned invisibly between the cherubim (cf. 1 Sam. 4:4), certainly reflect a noncorporeal conception of God. On the other hand, the point is made increasingly nowadays that Deuteronomy 4 is a rare text on the subject of God’s incorporeality.48 Moreover, it may be argued that Deut. 4:15 is saying only that God did not manifest his form at Horeb, not that no form could ever be attributed to him. Stephen Geller takes this further, claiming that, whereas the old Deuteronomic thinkers allowed but one breach of divine transcendence, at Horeb, Deut. 4:36 wants to reject even this one concession.49 Whatever our views on Deuteronomy 4, we should not globalise its message so as to create an unbridgeable gulf between the God of the Old Testament and the physical world of his making. To do so would involve the further loss of unnecessarily widening the gap between Old Testament views of God and Christian incarnational theology. One of the most striking anthropomorphisms in the Old Testament is the ‘angelophany’, in which the angel of the Lord appears to favoured humans. When God appears to Gideon it is in the guise of the angel of the Lord sitting un48

See S.D. Moore, ‘Gigantic God: Yahweh’s Body’, JSOT 70 (1996), 87-115 (92). 49 Geller, Sacred Enigmas, 42. According to Geller, Deut. 4 teaches that hearing, rather than seeing, is the proper way to experience revelation (39, 48); the Deuteronomic writers are redefining the nature of God and the process of revelation (40-42); the unique feature of ‘biblical religion’, as of its daughter faiths Judaism and Christianity, is ‘transcendent monotheism’ (170).

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der an oak in Ophrah and, apparently, indistinguishable from a human (Judg. 6:22). Gideon does not appreciate the literal potential in the greeting ‘The Lord is with you’; nevertheless, the story discloses that it is none other than the Lord himself speaking to Gideon (Judg. 6:11-24 [14]). It is as a ‘man of God’ that God, initially introduced in the story as ‘the angel of the Lord’, appears to Manoah’s wife (Judg. 13:3, 6, 9, 13, 19-22). The appearance of God to Abraham in Genesis 18 belongs here, even though the chapter does not mention angels or the angel of the Lord.50 Abraham is confronted by three ‘men’, who eat his food, and, it becomes apparent, one of those who enjoys his hospitality is ‘the Lord’ (vv. 13, 17). Similarly, it is as a man that God encounters Jacob at Peniel, and Jacob at the end recognises that he has seen God face to face (Gen. 32:30). As we know, there is a tendency within traditional Christian exegesis to identify the ‘angel of the Lord’ with the second person of the Trinity, though the New Testament itself noticeably refrains from this in the martyr Stephen’s reference to the angel of the Lord at the burning bush (Acts 7:30-34). Such Christophanic emphasis results from exegetical overkill, however, and its effect is to obscure a serious point of contact between the two Testaments: the compatibility of the biblical God with human form. Alter goes to the other extreme in claiming that in the Old Testament there is, ‘despite anthropomorphism’, an ‘absolute cleavage between man and God’: ‘man cannot become God and God (in contrast to later Christian developments) does not become man’.51 As ontology such a statement is pointless in an Old Testament context,52 while the absoluteness of the ‘absolute cleavage’ depends precisely on the limits observed in the anthropomorphising in the biblical texts. In the Old Testament, as we have already seen, anthropomorphism is taken quite far. Paying anthropomorphism its due respect will have repercussions for our reading of the biblical text more generally, as may be illustrated from the first page of the Bible. It is the anthropomorphised God who creates the universe in Genesis 1. There is a tendency to emphasise the fiat aspect of the creation (‘God 50

In 19:1, 15, on the other hand, the other two visitants who continued on to Sodom are called ‘angels’ (or ‘messengers’). 51 Alter, The Art of Biblical Narrative, 157. 52 Alter’s contrasting of Christianity, according to which God does ‘become man’, shows the sense in which he (presumably) intends this ‘becoming’.


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said, “Let there be . . . ” ’), as if this expressed a distinctive Israelite standpoint. However, we know that fiat creation is also a feature of Egyptian Memphite ‘creation theology’, and Genesis 1 is actually stronger on the idea of the ‘workman God’, not least when it comes to the creation of the first humans. This may have a bearing on the statement in verse 26 about God’s making humans ‘in our image’, for this strangely abstract phrasing – at least in an Old Testament setting, and as most often expounded – may not be so devoid of corporeality as is often assumed.53 If the language of the Divine Council lies behind the use of the first person plural in the verse, as is widely believed, then there is even more reason for our interpretation of ‘image’ and ‘likeness’ to avoid theological abstraction – this perhaps encouraged by other Old Testament passages which associate God with some sort of corporeal existence, even where the ‘angelophany’ is not involved.54 What we have in the Old Testament is a depiction of God that is as developed and multiplex as that of any human character described there. This relates very directly to the aptitude of the biblical writers for characterisation in narrative: God as a narrative protagonist is treated according to the same literary conventions as the human participants in the narratives. It would be a large claim that characterisation developed in the Old Testament literature in a way unparalleled elsewhere, but a good case could be made. So God himself is depicted with an astonishing range of characteristics and responses to the people and situations described in the biblical narratives. Now, while the danger of the unwarranted comparison lurks again, it is, nevertheless, a fair question whether the personality of any other god in the ancient near east has been so developed, and so anthropomorphised in the process, as that of the God of Israel. 53

This may apply even if the beth essentiae approach is favoured (i.e. ‘as our image’ [v. 26; cf. v. 27]). 54 See R. Kasher, ‘Anthropomorphism, Holiness and Cult: A New Look at Ezekiel 40-48’, ZAW 110 (1998), 192-208 (192-4). See further M.C.A. Korpel, A Rift in the Clouds: Ugaritic and Hebrew Descriptions of the Divine (UBL, 8), M¨ unster 1990, as well as J.C. de Moor, ‘The Duality in God and Man: Gen. 1:26-27 as P’s Interpretation of the Yahwistic Creation Account’, in: J.C. de Moor (ed.), Intertextuality in Ugarit and Israel: Papers Read at the Tenth Joint meeting of The Society for Old Testament Study and Het Oudtestamentisch Werkgezelschap . . . Oxford, 1997 (OTS, 40), Leiden 1998, 112-25.

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The Conciliar God The fate of the ‘foreign’ gods in the Old Testament is to be reduced to angel status and to sing the praises of Israel’s God. Or worse, according to Psalm 82. This, however, does not exhaust the limits of the reconceptualisation of polytheism within the Old Testament, as may be judged from the afterlife that it permits the ‘Council of the Gods’ or ‘Divine Council’.55 The biblical presence of this Divine Council is something more than ‘vestigial’. It is represented in the Pentateuch, the Former Prophets, the Latter Prophets, Psalms, Job and Daniel, sometimes expressly and sometimes implicitly. As we have already noted, it can no longer be claimed that the Old Testament was unique in envisaging the admission of humans to the Divine Council.56 Mari text 208 recounts a discussion among the gods in Ea’s circle, while text 196 portrays Dagan passing judgment on Tishpak, the god of Eshnunna, in the Divine Council, both occasions being witnessed by the prophets who reported them. On the earthly plane, the Babylonian b¯ arˆ u diviners were admitted to the royal court when their services were required, and it is a reasonable supposition that it was the experience of the diviners at the level of the earthly court that led to the idea not only of diviners but also of prophets being admitted to the divine court.57 Actual participation in conciliar decisions in Mesopotamian texts was very much the preserve of the gods themselves. So, already in the Sumerian flood story the decision of the gods in Council to destroy humanity is described as a ‘final sentence’ (di-til-la, a term borrowed from the Sumerian courtroom).58 Decisions of the gods in Council had to be confirmed by an oath at the start or end, or both, of the announced decision. There was no going back, as was discovered by Ningal when she tried to save Ur from destruction: 55 Cf. E.T. Mullen, The Assembly of the Gods: The Divine Council in Canaanite and Early Hebrew Literature (HSM, 24), Chico 1980. 56 Cf. Gordon, ‘From Mari to Moses’, 71-4. 57 See the writer in ‘Where Have All the Prophets Gone? The “Disappearing” Israelite Prophet Against the Background of Ancient Near Eastern Prophecy’, BBR 5 (1995), 78-9. 58 See M. Civil, ‘The Sumerian Flood Story’, in: W.G. Lambert, A. R. Millard, Atra-h¯ as¯ıs: The Babylonian Story of the Flood, Oxford 1969, 142 (iv ˘ 158).


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May my city not be destroyed, I said to them. May Ur not be destroyed. May its people not be killed . . .

But there was no favourable response from Anu or Enlil.59 Once the decision of the gods in Council was reached, there was no opportunity for review. Even less was it open to humans to interfere in the decisions of the Council. While there is evidence in the Mari texts of prophet figures being allowed to witness Council proceedings, there is none that suggests that they participated or in any way questioned the decrees that eventuated. In Ugarit kings seem to have participated in gatherings of their deified ancestors, and similar phenomena have been observed elsewhere.60 An intercessory role has been claimed for the Balaam of the Deir Alla text,61 but this much is not clear from the text itself. It appears that Balaam weeps and fasts after witnessing the gods in Council,62 but that is a different matter from participation in Council proceedings. In the Old Testament, prophets not only witness but may on occasion take part in the Divine Council. Micaiah is merely a spectator in relation to the curious goings-on that are described in 1 Kings 22. Isaiah, on the other hand, not only interrupts the proceedings of the heavenly court with his confession of uncleanness, but also offers his services as messenger and seeks clarification as regards the time-range of the message that he is to announce (Isa. 6:1-13; esp. vv. 5, 8, 11). Those who revocalise rm'a;w“ (‘And he [or “one”] said’) in Isa. 40:6 to rm'aow: (‘And I said’; cf. 1QIsa , Ì) envisage prophetic participation in the proceedings 59

See ‘Lamentation over the Destruction of Ur’ in ANET, 458; cf. T. Jacobsen, The Treasures of Darkness: A History of Mesopotamian Religion, New Haven 1976, 86. 60 Cf. De Moor, The Rise of Yahwism 2 , 317-61; Idem, ‘Seventy!’, in: M. Dietrich, I. Kottsieper (eds), “Und Mose schrieb dieses Lied auf ”: Studien zum Alten Testament und zum Alten Orient (Fs O. Loretz), M¨ unster 1998, 199-203. 61 See H.-P. M¨ uller, ‘Die aramäische Inschrift von Deir Alla und die ¨ alteren Bileamspr¨ uche’, ZAW 94 (1982), 214-44 (242); M. Dijkstra, ‘Is Balaam also among the Prophets?’, JBL 114 (1995), 43-64 (52). 62 See M. Weippert, ‘The Balaam Text from Deir Alla and the Study of the Old Testament’, in: J. Hoftijzer, G. van der Kooij (eds), The Balaam Text from Deir Alla Re-evaluated: Proceedings of the International Symposium held at Leiden 21-24 August 1989, Leiden 1991, 167-9.

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of a Divine Council meeting at which an anonymous figure in the Isaiah tradition is commissioned with a message for the returning exiles.63 Zech. 3:5, as pointed in the ˜, has the prophet contribute a sentence to the proceedings when he asks that a clean turban be placed on Joshua the high priest’s head. A different level of engagement is represented in the visionary experiences of Amos 7. There is no direct mention of the Divine Council here, except the possible hint in rm'aow: (‘and I said’) in the first two visions (vv. 2, 5). Indeed, it would hardly be possible to have a conventional Council session in these two visions, since they incorporate acted out judgments upon Israel, in the locust attack on the crops and the destruction of the land by fire (vv. 2, 4).64 Nevertheless, it is difficult to divorce the Amos visions from the world of the Divine Council. If not Amos himself, an early interpreter of his sees this kind of experience as God’s revealing of his plan (dwsø) to his prophet-servant (3:7); and the point of the previews in ch. 7 is that they give the prophet the opportunity to intercede on behalf of his endangered people. Here the God of Israel condescends to being entreated and even to ‘repenting’ of his decisions in a way seldom described for an Israelite ruler. Certainly, Amos 7 differs in this respect from the typical king’s council in Old Testament narrative, whether as in 1 Kings 12 (Rehoboam), or 2 Samuel 16–17 (Absalom), or 1 Kings 22 (kings of Judah and Israel). In Amos 7 God is not seeking advice because of his perplexity, but shows himself willing to have his judgment opposed because of his merciful character. This aspect of the divine character is most strikingly apparent in the account of God’s meeting with Abraham in Genesis 18. Their encounter is not presented as a session of the Divine Council, and yet there are elements in the story that seem to point that way.65 And after all, it is on the basis of Abraham’s intercession for Sodom in this chapter that he is described to 63 For the view that the speaker in Isa. 40:6 is a member of the heavenly council see C.R. Seitz, ‘The Divine Council: Temporal Transition and New Prophecy in the Book of Isaiah’, JBL 109 (1990), 229-47. 64 Perhaps Deir Alla provides a parallel in the vision that reduces Balaam to tears; Weippert has already suggested a parallel between the Balaam text and the Amaziah narrative in Amos 7:10-17 (‘The Balaam Text’, in: Hoftijzer, Van der Kooij (eds), The Balaam Text, 164, 177; cf. M. Dijkstra, ‘Response to H.-P. M¨ uller and M. Weippert’, ibid., 216). 65 Cf. G.J. Wenham, Genesis 16–50 (WBC, 2), Dallas 1994, 50.


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Abimelech in 20:7 as ‘a prophet’: ‘he is a prophet and he will pray for you’.66 What God decides to reveal to Abraham is nothing other than his dwsø (‘plan’). When it is recognised that 18:17 introduces a flashback (cf. The Revised English Bible, ‘The Lord had thought to himself’), it becomes evident that God’s decision about Sodom has not yet been reached when he visits Abraham. His ‘going down to see’ is not the taking of the road from Hebron to Sodom – about which the text has nothing further to say, for only the two accompanying angels reach Sodom (cf. 18:17, 22; 19:1)67 – but, as we would ordinarily expect, his descent from his heavenly abode to investigate what his human subjects are doing (‘I shall go down and see whether they have done according to the outcry that has reached me’, v. 21; cf. Gen. 11:5). So Abraham is truly in the position of a prophetic intercessor whose bargaining takes place before the divine plan is finalised. The result is the remarkable picture of Abraham the Hebrew haggling with God over the fate of a pagan city, which might in its entirety be spared if there were, finally, but ten righteous people in it. In Genesis 18, then, God is memorably shown as being open to persuasion by a mere mortal (cf. ‘dust and ashes’, v. 27). We may perhaps hear echoes of the Council in the book of Hosea, in the self-deliberations of God over Israel. There are scarcely any speech formulae to punctuate the text, and in that respect oracles and soliloquies go seamlessly on. Something of Hosea’s own perplexities are, doubtless, surfacing in the divine fretting over Israel. Hosea has stitched his heart on the sleeve of God.68 This God has no colleagues or even juniors to whom he turns, no Council where decisions can be debated. All is happening in the mind of Israel’s God. So he asks, ‘What can I do with you, Ephraim? What can I do with you, Judah?’ (6:4); ‘How can I give you up, Ephraim? How can I hand you over, Israel?’ (11:8). Andersen and Freedman attribute the seeming lack of structure in Hosea to the consideration that Yahweh’s self-deliberations occur within the context of the Divine Council, or even that they 66

Genesis 18 and 20 are traditionally assigned to different sources, but the portrayal of Abraham as a prophet of intercessory accomplishment is found only in ch. 18. 67 Verse 22a then fulfils its proper function of being a resumptive repetition picking up verse 16 after the flashback material of verses 17–21. 68 The standpoint of the text is, of course, that of the reverse process.

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represent a stage preliminary to the Council.69 So God soliloquises, and we hear him debating the pros and cons of the policy that he is hammering out. Only Jeremiah among the later prophets comes close to such a depiction of God (cf. Jer. 5:7-9). The debating of pros and cons also seems to be a feature of Hos. 2:425 (2-23), and David Clines has written suggestively about this chapter as presenting, not a sequence of actions, but a series of options, the last of which is the course that God actually decides upon, viz. forgiving Israel and loving her out of her rebellious ways.70 Andersen and Freedman, in their commentary published a year later, and in apparent independence of Clines, view with some favour the possibility that the first two options in Hosea 2 are discarded in favour of the third.71 If so, the conceptuality of the Divine Council is not too far away.

In Conclusion In the second part of this paper comparisons and contrasts have not been of crucial importance. A different question has been addressed: How does the Old Testament, committed to the one God Yahweh, respond to the environing traditions and practices in which its own views of God and reality developed? Whether there were parallel developments elsewhere was not so important. But that was a self-denying ordinance on the writer’s part, for there is no reason why the making of cultural comparisons should be abandoned, even if the results must always have an element of provisionality about them. That the sum total of the Old Testament vision witnesses to something unique in the ancient east is self-evident, and it is hard to disagree with David Jobling when he remarks that ‘[i]t argues little maturity on the part of biblical scholars that we sometimes seem to be arguing passionately against the distinctiveness of our material in any respect.’72 69

F.I. Andersen, D.N. Freedman, Hosea: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AncB, 24), Garden City 1980, 45. 70 D.J.A. Clines, ‘Hosea 2: Structure and Interpretation’, in: E.A. Livingstone (ed.), Studia Biblica 1978, I: Papers on Old Testament and Related Themes – Sixth International Congress on Biblical Studies, Oxford 3–7 April 1978 (SJSOT, 11), Sheffield 1979, 83-103 (= pp. 293-313 in Clines’s On the Way to the Postmodern: Old Testament Essays, 1967-1998, vol. 1 [=JSOT.S, 292], Sheffield 1998). 71 Andersen, Freedman, Hosea, 263. 72 D. Jobling, ‘Robert Alter’s, The Art of Biblical Narrative’, JSOT 27


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The analogy of apocalyptic and the New Testament may serve a useful purpose in this regard. Part of the exegetical task in the book of Revelation is to distinguish between standard apocalyptic features and specifically Christian elements in the book. They are interwoven in the text, but proper exegesis does not stop there. If verse 11 of the last chapter expresses classic apocalyptic determinism, as most would still recognise it – ‘Let the evildoer still be evil and the filthy still be filthy!’ – then this is overwritten in verse 17 in the unrestricted offer of the water of life to any thirsty hearer.73 That is a specifically Christian element in the text. In the same way, the elements within the Old Testament that modify or rewrite the underlying near eastern ‘script’ are a legitimate concern of the Old Testament specialist. There will never be a complete match, or, if there is, it will be Yahwism by another name, or not even that. In fact, Egyptian Atenism comes closest to the monotheism of the biblical tradition (if one may disregard the chronology), yet the Aten was a ‘nonanthropomorphic, nonspeaking god’ who ‘required an interpreter for humanity, a role taken by the king, who claimed exclusive “knowledge” of the deity.’74 Nonanthropomorphic, nonspeaking! That, surely, is real monotheistic sterility.

(1983), 87-99 (90). 73 ‘Let the one who is thirsty come; let the one who wishes take the water of life freely.’ 74 J. Baines, ‘Egyptian Deities in Context: Multiplicity, Unity, and the Problem of Change’, in: B.N. Porter (ed.), One God or Many? Concepts of Divinity in the Ancient World (Transactions of the Casco Bay Assyriological Institute, 1), n.p. 2000, 60.

Anselm C. Hagedorn

Humboldt-Universit¨ at – Berlin

‘Who would invite a stranger from abroad?’ The Presence of Greeks in Palestine in Old Testament Times Herrn Prof. Dr. Matthias K¨ ockert zum 60. Geburtstag

In Homer’s Odyssey 1 we read in the 17th book: tiv" ga;r dh; xei'non kalei' a[lloqen aujto;" ejpelqw;n a[llon gΔ eij mh; tw'n oi} dhmioergoi; e[asi, mavntin h] ijhth'ra kakw'n h] tevktona douvrwn, h] kai; qevspin ajoidovn, o{ ken tevrphÛsin ajeivdwn… ou|toi ga;r klhtoiv ge brotw'n ejpΔ ajpeivrona gai'an:2 [Who, pray, of himself ever seeks out and invites a stranger from abroad, unless it is one of those that are masters of some public craft, a prophet, or a healer of ills, or a builder, or perhaps a divine minstrel, who gives delight with his song? For these men are invited all over the boundless earth.]

These lines have led scholars such as W. Burkert to postulate a flourishing culture of migrant craftsmen in the Eastern Levant during the late Bronze and early Iron Age.3 It is generally assumed – and archaeological evidence seems to support such a view – that craftsmen from the East worked in Greece during this period and that, in turn, their craftmanship deeply influenced archaic Greek art.4 The ‘orientalising period’ of Greek history, literature and art has been sufficiently examined and does 1

Unless otherwise stated, all translations of Greek authors are taken from the Loeb Classical Library. In addition to the usual abbreviations, the following are used: FGH = F. Jacoby, Fragmente der griechischen Historiker, Leiden 1956ff.; IG = Inscriptiones Graecae; ICret = Inscriptiones Creticae; LSJ = H.G. Liddell, R. Scott, H.S. Jones (eds.), A Greek–English Lexicon, with a Revised Supplement, Oxford 1996. 2 Homer, Od. 17.382–385. 3 Cf. W. Burkert, The Orientalizing Revolution: Near Eastern Influence on Greek Culture in the Early Archaic Age (Revealing Antiquity 5), Cambridge 2 1992, 9-40 and Idem, ‘Itinerant Diviners and Magicians: A Neglected Element in Cultural Contacts’, in: R. Hägg (ed.), The Greek Renaissance of the Eighth Century B.C.: Tradition and Innovation – Proceedings of the Second International Symposium at the Swedish Institute in Athens, 1–5 June 1981 (Skrifter utgivna av Svenska Institutet i Athen 4/30), Stockholm, 1983, 115-9. 4 Cf. B. Borell, D. Rittig, Orientalische und griechische Bronzereliefs aus

‘Who would invite a stranger from abroad?’

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not need to concern us here.5 Rather, I would like to turn the picture around and consider Greek migrant craftsmen, travelling from Greece to the Eastern Levant and more specifically to SyroPalestine. As such, this study is not intended to evaluate the significance of the Greek world for the history or theology of the Old Testament,6 but, rather, to explore possible areas of contact and what we can learn from these contacts about the social identity of the Greeks in Palestine.7 I hope to demonstrate that cultural contact is not exclusively a process among elites.8 Olympia: Der Fundkomplex aus Brunnen 17 (Deutsches Arch¨ aologisches Institut – Olympische Forschungen, 26), Berlin 1998, who were able to demonstrate on the basis of bronze-reliefs from a fountain in Olympia that the fragments originated in the workshop of an oriental craftsman in Crete. For a more cautious view on immigrant presence in Crete see G.L. Hoffman, Imports and Immigrants: Near Eastern Contacts with Iron Age Crete, Ann Arbor 1997, 153-89. 5 Cf. S. Dalley, The Legacy of Mesopotamia, Oxford 1998, 85-106; H. Matth¨ aus, ‘Zur Rezeption orientalischer Kunst-, Kultur- und Lebensformen in Griechenland’, in: K. Raaflaub (ed.), Anf¨ ange politischen Denkens in der Antike: Die nah¨ ostlichen Kulturen und die Griechen (Schriften des Historischen Kollegs, Kolloquien 24), M¨ unchen 1993, 165-86; S.P. Morris, Daidalos and the Origin of Greek Art, Princeton 1992; R. Osborne, Archaic and Classical Greek Art (Oxford History of Art), Oxford 1998, 43-51; C. Penglase, Greek Myths and Mesopotamia: Parallels and Influence in the Homeric Hymns and Hesiod, London 1994; M.L. West, The East Face of Helicon: West Asiatic Elements in Greek Poetry and Myth, Oxford 1997. 6 This has been done magnificently in the study by O. Kaiser, ‘Die Bedeutung der griechischen Welt f¨ ur die alttestamentliche Theologie’, in: Idem, Zwischen Athen und Jerusalem: Studien zur griechischen und biblischen Theologie, ihrer Eigenart und ihrem Verh¨ altnis (BZAW, 320), Berlin 2003, 1-38. 7 On the other hand, scholars of the Ancient Near East have started to explore views of Greece and her inhabitants found in Ancient Near Eastern sources. Cf. A. Kuhrt, ‘Greeks’ and ‘Greece’ in Mesopotamian and Persian Perspectives: The twenty-first J.L. Myres Memorial Lecture, Oxford 2002; G.B. Lanfranchi, ‘The Ideological and Political Impact of the Assyrian Imperial Expansion on the Greek World in the 8th and 7th Centuries BC’, in: S. Aro, R.M. Whiting (eds.), The Heirs of Assyria (Melammu Symposia, 1), Helsinki 2000, 7-34; H. Sancisi-Weerdenburg, ‘Yauna by the Sea and across the Sea’, in: I. Malkin (ed.), Ancient Perceptions of Greek Ethnicity (Center for Hellenic Studies Colloquia, 5), Washington 2001, 323-46. 8 For reasons of space we will disregard the interesting phenomenon of intermarriage, which could possibly result in bilingual children (cf. Xenophon, Anab. 4.8.4 and Herodotus, Hist. VI.138); on the topic see M.L. West, East Face of Helicon, 618-21 and the remarks by J.N. Coldstream, ‘Mixed Marriages at the Frontiers of the Early Greek World’, Oxford Journal of

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The presence of travelling ‘foreign specialists’, as I prefer to call them, is well known from the Old Testament. Thus we read in 1 Kgs 7:13-14 of a certain Hiram from Tyre who comes down to Jerusalem to help Solomon with his building projects. The text states explicitly that he was a skilled bronze-worker: .rXomi μr:yjiAta, jQ'YIw" hmoløv] Ël,M,h' jl'v]YIw" 13 aleM;YIw" tv,jon“ vrEjo yrIxoAvyai wybia;w“ yliT;p]n" hFeM'mi aWh hn:m;l]a' hV;aiAˆB, 14 awbøY:w" tv,jNo “B' hk;al;m]AlK; twcø[}l' t['D'h'Ata,w“ hn:WbT]h'Ata,w“ hm;k]j;h'Ata, .wTøk]al'm]AlK;Ata, c['Y"w" hmoløv] Ël,M,h'Ala, [Now King Solomon invited and received Hiram from Tyre. He was the son of a widow of the tribe of Naphtali, whose father, a man of Tyre, had been an artisan in bronze; he was full of skill, intelligence, and knowledge in working bronze. He came to King Solomon, and did all his work. (nrsv)]

This may be a fictitious report,9 but it nevertheless draws attention to the fact that it was perceived as normal to ‘import’ foreign specialists for building projects.10 (From a literary point of view it is quite striking how the description of the manufactured items by Hiram in 1 Kgs 7:13-50 resembles the descriptions of handiwork we find in Homer.11 ) In a similar context we encounter Greek (Ionian) workers in the Persepolis Treasury Tablets, who are listed next to Syrians and Egyptians: 5 (to) workmen (of) the lands of the Hattians (Syrians), Egyptians, 6 and Ionians, (who are) earning wages, 7 (and for whom) Vahush is responsible at Parsa, 8 (to) these, for wages, give – (to these) who are ‘laborers’ 9 upon the columned hall, the . . . . of making the columned hall.12

Only in passing let us note that the Greeks here are called ia-una-ip a word obviously related to the Hebrew ˆw:y,: which is used Archaeology 12 (1993), 89-107. 9 Cf. V. Fritz, Das erste Buch der K¨ onige (ZBK.AT, 10/1), Z¨ urich 1996, 80-1. 10 M. Cogan, 1 Kings (AncB, 10), New York 2000, 271. 11 Cf. for example, the description of the Shield of Achilles in Homer, Il. 18.478-613. 12 Translation according to G.G. Cameron (ed.), Persepolis Treasury Tablets, Chicago 1948, Tabl. 15.5-9.


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to denote Ionian Greeks in the Table of Nations (Gen. 10:2, 45). Also, we possibly find Ionians, who build ships in Nineveh, mentioned in the inscriptions of Sennacherib:13 ‘Hittites’, plunder / of my bows I settled in Nineveh. Mighty ships / (after) the workmanship of their land they built dexterously. Sailors – Tyrians / Sidonians and ‘Io[n]ians’ – captives of my hand, I ordered / at the bank of the Tigris with them. Downstream to Opis / I had them shipped to disembark (there).14

Furthermore, a silver bowl from Amathus in Cyprus (now in the British Museum [WA 116253]) shows Greek hoplites fighting next to Assyrian soldiers.15 Even though it could be argued that the scene is purely mythological,16 the bowl nevertheless demonstrates that there has been a certain Greek-Assyrian involvement by the seventh century.17 In contrast to the hoplites, depictions of people in civilian dress are virtually non-existent. The only possible exception is a painted sherd from Ramat Rahel which could depict a Greek person.18 13 Cf. E. Frahm, Einleitung in die Sanherib-Inschriften (AfO.B, 26), Wien 1997, 117, who also considers the reading Ja-[ad ] -n[a]-a-a for the singular Ja-[am !? ] -n[a]-a-a in the inscriptions of Sennacherib, which would then refer to ‘Cypriots.’ 14 Text of T 29 quoted according to R. Rollinger, ‘The Ancient Greeks and the Impact of the Ancient Near East: Textual Evidence and Historical Perspective (ca. 750–650 bc)’, in: R.M. Whiting (ed.), Melammu Symposia II, Helsinki 2001, 233-64 (242). 15 Picture in J. Boardman, The Greeks Overseas: Their Early Colonies and Trade, London 4 1999, 50, and a more detailed report on the bowl can be found in J.L. Myers, ‘The Amathus Bowl: A Long-lost Masterpiece of Oriental Engraving’, JHS 53 (1933), 25-39. 16 As recently done again by A. Fantalkin, ‘Mezad Hashavyahu: Its Material Culture and Historical Background’, Tel Aviv 28 (2001), 3-165 (141). 17 Thus W.-D. Niemeier, ‘Greek Mercenaries at Tel Kabri and Other Sites in the Levant’, Tel Aviv 29 (2002), 328-31 (328-9). On the question of the Greek-Assyrian encounter see Rollinger, ‘The Ancient Greeks and the Impact of the Ancient Near East’, 233-64. 18 S. Geva, ‘The Painted Sherd of Ramat Rahel’, IEJ 31 (1981), 186-9. R. Wenning, ‘Griechische Vasenbilder in Palästina’, in: C. Uehlinger (ed.), Images as Media: Sources for the Cultural History of the Near East and the Eastern Mediterranean (1st millennium bce) (OBO, 175), Fribourg 2001, 339-58, remarks on the sherds: ‘Obwohl diese Scherben f¨ ur die Frage der Interkulturation von großer Bedeutung sind, steht eine befriedigende Klassifika-

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References to Syria and Palestine are sparse in Homer and Hesiod. Of course, Homer mentions the Phoenicians19 as well as their land (Od. 4.83; 14.291), which can sometimes be called ‘Sidonia’ (Oi} dΔ ej" Sidonivhn eu\ naiomevnhn ajnabavnte" ⁄ w[/contΔ:20 ), and he also knows of the city of Sidon, when he says: ejk me;n Sidw'no" polucavlkou eu[comai ei\nai, kouvrh dΔ ei[mΔ ΔAruvbanto" ejgw; rJudo;n ajfneioi'o.21 [Out of Sidon, rich in bronze, I declare myself to be, and I am the daughter of Arybas, to whom wealth flowed in streams.]

As in Antiquity in general, so also in Homer the Phoenicians are famed for their ships (Foivnike" nausivklutoi h[luqon a[ndre"22 ) and are thus the long-distance traders par exellence.23 The only reference to Syria in Homer is found in Od. 15.403, where it is described as being an island: nh'sov" ti" Surivh kiklhvsketai, ei[ pou ajkouvei", ΔOrtugivh" kaquvperqen, o{qi tropai; hjelivoio, ou[ ti periplhqh;" livhn tovson, ajllΔ ajgaqh; mevn, eu[boto", eu[mhlo", oijnoplhqh;", poluvpuro".24 [There is an island called Syria, if perchance you have heard of it, above Ortygia, where are the turning places of the sun. It is not so very thickly settled, but it is a good land, rich in herds, rich in flocks, full of wine, abounding in wheat.] tion, f¨ ur die auch zwei weitere Fragmente von solchen Zeichnungen desselben Kontextes wichtig sind, noch aus’ (343-4). 19 Cf. Homer, Il. 4.141; 6.219; 7.305; 9.223, 621, 659; 10.133; 14.321; 15.538; 17.555; 23.360, 717, 744; Od. 4.83; 6.163; 11.124; 13.272; 14.291, 500; 15.415, 419, 473; 21.118; 23.201, 271. 20 Homer, Od. 4.285 (‘And they went on board, and departed for the wellpeopled land of Sidon’). 21 Homer, Od. 15.425; the Odyssey also mentions the title ‘King of the Sidonians’ (Sidonivwn basileuv", Od. 4.618), which is paralleled in 1 Kgs 16:31 (μynIdoyxi Ël,m), . 22 Homer, Od. 15.415, Homer continues to label the Phoenicians ‘greedy knaves’ (trw'ktai). 23 Cf. B. Patzek, ‘Griechen und Phöniker in homerischer Zeit: Fernhandel und der orientalische Einfluß auf die fr¨ uhgriechische Kultur’, M¨ unsterische Beitr¨ age zur antiken Handelsgeschichte 15 (1996), 1-31 (11). 24 Homer, Od. 15.403-6.


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It is highly unlikely that this island of ‘Syria’ refers to Syria proper, since already in antiquity it is identified with the island of Syros.25 This would tally well with Strabo’s statement that Homer is ignorant of the great empires.26 Similar uncertainty regarding the geography of the Levant can be found in the Homeric Hymns. In the Hymn to Dionysos we read about a mountain called Nysa, which is located far away in Phoenicia – this Phoenicia is then described as being near the rivers/streams of Egypt: e[sti dev ti" Nuvsh u{paton o[ro", ajnqevon u{lhÛ thlou' Foinivkh", scedo;n Aijguvptoio rJoavwn.27 [There is a place Nysa, a mountain most high, burgeoning with forest, in a distant part of Phoenicia, almost at the waters of the Nile.]

To complete the picture of the early literary evidence, two fragments from Hesiod mention Byblos and Sidon as well as having a word for Phoenicia.28 This adds to the reference in Works and Days, where wine from Byblos seems to be mentioned (bivblino" oi\no").29 Let us now turn to the literary evidence that seems to point to a certain Greek presence in, and knowledge of, Syro-Palestine. First of all we must consider some terminology. Herodotus seems 25

Cf. Aristarchos and Herodian apud the scholion to Od. 15.403ff: Surivhº miva tw'n Kuklavdwn hJ Suriva. ei[rhtai de; Suriva wJ" ta; Yuvra Yuriva, Ôvnhvsou ejpi; Yurivh"Δ (Od. g 171). H. miva tw'n Kuklavdwn hJ Suriva, hJ pa;rΔ hJmi'n legomevnh Su'ra. B.Q. quoted according to W. Dindorf, Scholia Graeca in Homeri Odysseam ex codicibus aucta et emendata, vol. 2, Oxford 1855, 617. 26 Strabo, Geogr. 15.3.23: ”Omhro" gou'n ou[te th;n tw'n Surw'n ou[te th;n tw'n Mh'dwn ajrch;n oi\den: oujde ga;r a[n, Qhvba" Aijguptiva" ojnomavzwn kai; to;n ejkei' kai; to;n ejn FoinivkhÛ plou'ton, to;n ejn Babulw'ni kai; Nivnw/ kai; ΔEkbatavnoi" paresiwvphse. 27 Homeric Hymn I (To Dionysus) 8-9. 28 Cf. Hesiod, fr. 405.1 (Buvblon tΔ ajggivalon ka;i SivdwnΔ ajnqemovessan) and fr. 141.7 (kovuºrªhºi Foivniko" ajgauou'); fragments quoted according to R. Merkelbach, M.L. West, Fragmenta Hesiodea, Oxford 1967. 29 Hesiod, Works and Days 589. LSJ Suppl., 68, gives the translation ‘Bibline’, i.e. a special kind of wine. (cf. Theocritus, 14.15 ajnw'/xa de; Bivblinon aujtoi'"); the evidence from other ancient authors, however, suggests that we have to equate Bivblino" with Phoenician (see references in K. Dover, Theocritus: Selected Poems, repr. ed. Bristol 1985, 191).

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to be the only Greek author who explicitly calls Palestine by that name. MouvnhÛ de; tauvthÛ eijsi; fanerai; ejsbolai; ej" Ai[gupton. ajpo; ga;r Foinivkh" mevcri ou[rwn tw'n Kaduvtio" povlio" ejsti; Suvrwn tw'n Palaistivnwn kaleomevnwn.30 [Now the only manifest way of entry into Egypt is this. The road that runs from Phoenice as far as the borders of the city of Cadytis, which belongs to the Syrians of Palestine, as it is called.]

Of course, the ‘father of history’ is not concerned with Palestine as such, but mentions it always in connection with Egypt, often using the compound ‘Syro-Palestine’.31 This does not mean, however, that Herodotus is not interested in this part of the Eastern Levant. In his ‘ethnographic’ descriptions,32 he frequently mentions Greek contact with Phoenicia, when he states, for example, that Cretans were the first Greeks to come to Tyre,33 and that Io seemed to have been the first permanent dweller amongst the Phoenicians.34 Furthermore, Herodotus acknowledges the wellknown fact that the Phoenicians brought the alphabet to Greece: 30

Herodotus, Hist. III.5; see also the references in Hist. I.105; II.104; III.91; IV.39; VII.89, and S. Mittmann, ‘Die K¨ uste Pal¨ astinas bei Herodot’, ZDPV 99 (1983), 130-40; A.F. Rainey, ‘Herodotus’ Description of the East Mediterranean Coast’, BASOR 321 (2001), 57-63. 31 Here we detect the phenomenon which J. Assmann has described as the fascination of Greeks with the Egyptian world. Cf. J. Assmann, Weisheit und ¨ Mysterium: Das Bild der Griechen von Agypten, Munich 2000. 32 On the ‘ethnography’ of Herodotus see R. Thomas, Herodotus in Context: Ethnography, Science and the Art of Persuasion, Cambridge 2000, and on the anthropological problems of such a view cf. M. Herzfeld, Anthropology through the Looking-glass: Critical Ethnography in the Margins of Europe, Cambridge 1987, 18-20. 33 Herodotus, Hist. I.2: Meta; dev tau'ta ÔEllhvnwn tinav" (ouj ga;r e[cousi tou[noma ajphghvsasqai) fasi; th'" Foinivkh" ej" Tuvron prosscovnta" aJrpavsai tou' basilevo" th;n qugatevra Eujrwphn. ei[hsan dΔ a]n ou|toi Krh'te". 34 Herodotus, Hist. I.5: Peri; de; th'" ΔIou'" oujk oJmologevousi PevrshÛsi ou{tw Foivnike": ouj ga;r aJrpagh'Û sfeva" crhsamevnou" levgousi ajgagei'n aujth;n ej" Ai[gupton, ajllΔ wJ" ejn tw'/ “Argei> ejmivsgeto tw'/ nauklhvrw/ th'" neov": ejpe;i dΔ e[maqe e[gkuo" ejou'sa, aijdeomevnh tou;" tokeva" ou{tw dh; ejqelonth;n aujth;n toi'si Foivnixi sunekplw'sai, wJ" a]n mh; katavdhlo" gevnhtai. On the myth of Io in general see T. Gantz, Early Greek Myth: A Guide to Literary and Artistic Sources, vol. 1, Baltimore 1993, 198-204.


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OiJ de; Foivnike" ou|toi oiJ su;n Kavdmw/ ajpikovmenoi, . . . , a[lla te polla; oijkhvsante" tauvthn th;n cwvrhn ejshvgagon didaskavlia ej" tou;" ”Ellhna" kai; dh; kai; gravmmata, oujk ejonta pri;n ”Ellhsi wJ" ejmoi; dokevein, prw'ta me;n toi'si kai; a{pante" crevwntai Foivnike":35 [These Phoenicians who came with Cadmus . . . at their settlement in this country, among many other kinds of learning, brought into Hellas the alphabet, which had hitherto been unknown, as I think, to the Greeks.]

What we learn from the usual mixture of myth and reliable historical facts in the work of Herodotus is that he is very much concerned with establishing Greek-Phoenician contact from a very early stage onwards.36 Furthermore, Herodotus draws a sharp distinction between the peaceful interactions with the Phoeni35

Herodotus, Hist. V.58; on the introduction of the alphabet into Greece ¨ from Phoenicia cf. W. Helck, Die Beziehungen Agyptens und Vorderasiens zur ¨ Ag¨ ais bis ins 7. Jh. v. Chr. (EdF, 120), Darmstadt 2 1995, 136-40; J. Tropper, ‘Griechisches und Semitisches Alphabet: Buchstabennamen und Sibilantenentsprechungen’, ZDMG 150 (2000), 317-21. One of the earliest examples of Greek writing comes from Rhodes, where we read in an inscription orao hmi ulic" (text according to L.H. Jeffrey, The Local Scripts of Archaic Greece: A Study of the Origin of the Greek Alphabet and its Development from the Eighth to the Fifth Centuries B.C., rev. ed., Oxford 1999, 347). A further early example can be found at the western Greek colony in Pithekoussai (where there has certainly been Greek-Phoenician contact; cf. D. Ridgway, ‘Phoenicians and Greeks in the West: A View from Pithekoussai’, in: G.R. Tsetskhladze, F. De Angelis (eds.), The Archaeology of Greek Colonisation: Essays Dedicated to Sir John Boardman, Oxford 1994, 35-46): Nevstoro"Ú eª2-3ºiÚ eu[potªonºÚ potevrioªnÚº ⇐ h o;" dΔ a] to'de pªiveºsiÚ poterivªoºÚ aujtivka ke'non ⇐ h ivmerªo"Ú h airºevsiÚ kallisteªfavºnoÚ ΔAfrodivte". ⇐ This is the text of the so-called ‘Cup of Nestor’, quoted according to R. Meiggs, D. Lewis, A Selection of Greek Historical Inscriptions to the End of the Fifth Century B.C., rev. ed. Oxford 1988, No. 1. Also in the West we find Semitic loanwords in Greek inscriptions. See H. van Effenterre, F. Ruzé, Nomima, receuil d’inscriptions politiques et juridiques de l’archa¨ısme grec II (CEFR, 188), Rome 1995, No. 75. 36 Herodotus, Hist. II.104 mentions the practice of circumcision (ta; aijdoi'a) and continues to state that the Phoenicians and the Syrians of Palestine have learnt the practice from the Egyptians (Foivnike" de; kai; Suvroi oiJ ejn th/' Palaistivnh/ kai; aujtoi; oJmologevousi parΔ Aijguptivwn memaqhkevnai). In this respect too he may well have been right, cf. J.C. de Moor, The Rise of Yahwism: The Roots of Israelite Monotheism (BEThL, 91A), Leuven 2 1997, 299-100, n. 100.

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cians and the aggressive encounter with the Persian empire.37 At the same time, Herodotus always assumes that there has been a strong Greek presence in Syro-Palestine. It is to this presence that we will now turn our attention. The starting-point will again be a ‘travelling specialist’ whom we encounter in a fragment of the Lesbian poet Alcaeus,38 namely his brother Antimenidas: h\lte" ejk peravtwn gaj" ejlefantivnan lavban tw; xivfeo" crusodevtan e[cwn . . . ªto;n ajdelfo;n ΔAntimenivsn . . . fhsin ΔAlkai'oj Babulwnivoi" summacou'nta televsaiº39 a[eqlon mevgan eujruvsao dΔejk povnwn ktevnai" a[ndra macaivtan basilhivwn palavstan ajpuleivonta movnan i[an pacevwn ajpu; pevmpwn [From the ends of the earth you are come, with your swordhilt of ivory bound with gold . . . fighting beside the Babylonians you accomplished a great labour, and delivered them from distress, for you slew a warrior who wanted only one palm’s breadth of five royal cubits.]40

The fragment can be described as a ‘poem of welcome’41 for Antimenidas, the brother of Alcaeus. He seems to have returned from his service as a mercenary soldier in the army of the Babylonians. (We will return to the phenomenon of Greek mercenaries in the Eastern Levant below when dealing with the Arad ostraca and the ‘fortress’ of Mezad Hashavyahu.) The only ‘military’ success of Antimenidas mentioned in the poem is his killing of a giant 37

Cf. Herodotus, Hist. 1.143: toi'si de; aujtw'n nhsiwvth/si h\n deino;n oujdevn: ou[te ga;r Foivnike" h\savn kw Persevwn kathvkooi). 38 On the political situation of Alcaeus’ poems and his struggle with Pittacus, the tyrant of Mytilene, see D. Page, Sappho and Alcaeus: An Introduction to the Study of Ancient Lesbian Poetry, Oxford 1955, 149-244; R. Osborne, Greece in the Making 1200–479 BC, London 1996, 190-3; L. Kurke, ‘Crisis and Decorum in Sixth Century Lesbos: Reading Alkaios Otherwise’, QUCC 47 (1994), 67-92. 39 Phrase added from Strabo, Geogr. 13.2.3: ‘And his brother Antimenidas, who according to Alcaeus performed a great feat while fighting as ally of the Babylonians.’ 40 Alcaeus, fr. 350 LP; translation according to D. Page, Sappho and Alcaeus, 223. 41 D.A. Campbell, Greek Lyric Poetry: A Selection of Early Greek Lyric, Elegiac and Iambic Poetry, London 1967, repr. Bristol 1997, 302.


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warrior who was apparently ca. 8ft and 4in high,42 and who had caused – just as Goliath did to Saul – distress to the Babylonian king. The poem itself does not allow for any precise dating or geographical location of the military engagement of both Alcaeus’ brother and the Babylonian king, since the only ‘geographical’ location mentioned is the ‘end of the earth’ (ejk peravtwn ga'") which probably is intended to symbolise the far away place from which Antimenidas has now safely returned. However, a second, very fragmentary poem may offer some help here, since we read the following: º . an qavlassan º tw fevresqai: ºkΔ w\n fevraito ºa katavgrei ºBabuvlwno" i[ra" ºn ΔAskavlwna krºuvoentΔ ejgevrrhn ºn ka;t a[rka". ºte ka[slon º" ΔAivdao dw'ma ºlw novhsqai stºefanwvmatΔ a[mmi º tau'ta pavnta ºo . ª..º au\)toi º . den ª [. . . the sea . . . to be carried; . . . might be carried . . . destroys . . . (from?) holy Babylon . . . Ascalon . . . to stir up chilling (war?) . . . from the summit . . . and good . . . house of Hades . . . to think . . . garlands for us . . . all these . . . -selves . . . ]43

Because of to the occurrence of the phrase ‘holy Babylon’ (Babuvlwno" i[ra") next to Ashkelon (ΔAskavlwna) in lines 6-7 scholars have argued that this poem refers to the fall of Ashkelon at the 42

Calculation according to D. Page, Sappho and Alcaeus, 223 n.4, with reference to Herodotus, Hist. VII.117 (ajpo; ga;r pevnte phcevwn basilhivwn ajpevleipe tevssera" daktuvlou"). 43 Alcaeus, fr. 48 LP.

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hand of Nebuchadnezzar II in 604 bce.44 Since fr. 350 and fr. 48 are the only two texts in Alcaeus that mention Babylon, it is probable that they both refer to the military career of his brother. If that is indeed the case, Alcaeus’ brother would have been part of the military campaigns of Nebuchadnezzar II in Palestine.45 Here we would have one of the few Greeks in Palestine whom we actually know by name. At the same time, we note that it was all right for a member of one of the elite families from Lesbos to go abroad and be a soldier, but where exactly Antimenidas joined the army of the Babylonian king cannot be determined from Alcaeus’ works.46 In fact, other fragments from Alcaeus indicate that he was quite proud of military achievements and was – if we believe Athenaeus – ‘warlike to a fault’ (ma'llon tou' devonto" polemiko;" genovmeno" [Scholars at Dinner 14.627a-b]).47 As far as the literary convention is concerned, it is surprising that the poet Alcaeus hardly uses any Near Eastern elements in his poetry and thus stands in stark contrast with his contemporary Sappho.48 It looks as if his brother did not bring back more from Palestine than a ‘sword hilt of ivory bound with gold’. Alcaeus’ brother is not the only Greek person whom we encounter by name who was active in Palestine. In several cuneiform texts from the time of Sargon II he mentions a certain Iamani of Ashdod, who was the cause of some grief for the Assyrian king:49 44

Cf. J.D. Quinn, ‘Alcaeus 48 (B16) and the Fall of Ascalon (604 B.C.)’, BASOR 164 (1962), 19-20; on the political events and the destructions see L.E. Stager, ‘Ashkelon and the Archaeology of Destruction: Kislev 604 BCE’, ErIs 25 (1996), 61-74, and the so-called Adon Papyrus (text and translation in J.M. Lindenberger, Ancient Aramaic and Hebrew Letters (SBL.WAW, 14), Atlanta 2 2003, 23-4); cf. Jer 47:5a (ˆwløq]v]a' ht;m]d“nI hZ:['Ala, hj;r“q: ha;B; ‘Baldness has come upon Gaza, Ashkelon has perished’); Herodotus, Hist. I.103-106 mentions the sack of the Temple of ΔAfrodivth Oujraniva by Scythian soldiers, an event which may refer to the destruction of Ashkelon. 45 Already D. Page, Sappho and Alcaeus, 224, followed by D.A. Campbell, Greek Lyric Poetry, 302. 46 ¨ Contra P.W. Haider, ‘Griechen im Vorderen Orient und in Agypten bis ca. 590 v. Chr.’, in: C. Ulf (ed.), Wege zur Genese griechischer Identit¨ at: Die Bedeutung der fr¨ uharchaischen Zeit, Berlin 1996, 60-311 (93), who argues that the tiny and corrupt fragment Alcaeus, fr. 398LP (†tetrabarhvwn †plivnqwn †kai; tavgmata†) contains a description of Babylon. 47 Cf. Alcaeus, fr. 357 LP, where he proudly describes the weapons stored in his house (marmaivrei de; mevga" dovmo" cavlkwi, pai'sa dΔ a[rhi kekovsmhtai stevga ⁄ lavmpraisin kunivaisi). 48 Cf. West, East Face, 531-2. 49 English texts in Rollinger, ‘The Ancient Greeks and the Impact of the


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[Against] their ruler [they started] rebellion and insurrection; they expelled him out [of Ashdod] like someone who has shed blood . . . [. . . ] Iamani, commoner [without claim to the throne they made] king over them, they made sit [him] down [on the throne] of his master . . . 50

The revolt of Iamani is short-lived because he lacks support from the surrounding nations, and he is forced to flee to Egypt.51 R. Rollinger, after a careful examination of all the Iamani texts, is able to conclude that we should regard the person as someone of Greek descent, but one has to be careful to identify him with an Ionian Greek. Rather, it is likely that we are dealing with somebody from the Aegean region.52 If that is the case, ‘the cuneiform texts from the times of Tiglathpileser III and Sargon II mentioning Iam(a)naya are the earliest written evidence for Greeks since the Bronze Age.’ 53 Furthermore, we need to note that the Iamani-texts do not allow us to argue for an identification of them as merely mercenaries,54 and that one cannot narrow the relationship down to either trade or military activity. The evidence from Alcaeus directs our attention to the phenomenon of Greek mercenaries in the Eastern Levant.55 Next to Ancient Near East’, 245-7. 50 Nineveh-Prism (Annals of the Year 711 bce) VII.b: K.1668+IV’; English text according to Rollinger, ‘The Ancient Greeks and the Impact of the Ancient Near East’, 245; see also A. Fuchs, Die Annalen des Jahres 711 v. Chr. (SAAS, 8), Helsinki 1998, 124-31 (cuneiform text of the prism, 44-6). 51 ‘Iamani from Ashdod, afraid of my weapons, left his wife and children and fled to the frontier of Egypt . . . and stayed there like a thief,’ Annals XIV.1114, quoted according to Rollinger, ‘The Ancient Greeks and the Impact of the Ancient Near East’, 246. 52 Rollinger, ‘The Ancient Greeks and the Impact of the Ancient Near East’, 249, following I. Morris, ‘Archaeology and Archaic Greek History’, in: N. Fisher, H. van Wees (eds.), Archaic Greece: New Approaches and New Evidence, London 1998, 1-91, who would call this region ‘central Greece’. 53 Rollinger, ‘The Ancient Greeks and the Impact of the Ancient Near East’, 258. Furthermore, Berossos mentions a mercenary with the name of Pythagoras – ‘the student of Chaldean wisdom’ – who is supposed to have served in the Assyrian army (FGH 685, F5), but this seems to be doubtful (see the discussion in Haider, op. cit., 91-2). 54 This view is supported from legal texts in which Iam(a)naya are mentioned; here we get the picture of respectable persons who live peacefully ¨ ais aus der Sicht amongst the Assyrians (cf. W. Mayer, ‘Zypern und die Ag¨ der Staaten Vorderasiens in der 1. H¨ alfte des 1. Jahrtausends’, UF 28 [1996], 463-84 [472-3]). 55 On the topic see P.R. Heym, ‘Greeks’ in the Neo-Assyrian Levant and

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the above-mentioned evidence for a Greek fighting in the Babylonian army, Herodotus tells us about Carian and Ionian soldiers in the service of Psametik I of Egypt (664-610 bce),56 and this is supported by epigraphic evidence.57 The Carians also appear twice in the Old Testament as part of the ‘bodyguards’ of queen Athaliah (yrIK; in 2 Kgs 11:4, 19).58 However, whether we are able to use this passage as an indication for the presence of Carian mercenaries in Palestine during the 9th century remains doubtful,59 since literary critical research seems to point to an origin of the narrative within a deuteronomistic milieu.60 .

It seems that rulers of Eastern Levantine empires sometimes could employ Greek mercenaries to strengthen their armies.61 Such a view is probably supported by the well-known Arad ostraca,62 which frequently mention the ‘Kittim’, a term generally understood as referring to Greeks of Aegean origin.63 ‘Assyria’ in Early Greek Writers, PhD Diss., University of Pennsylvania 1980, 135-60; M. Betalli, I Mercenari nel mondo Greco (Studi e testi di storia antica, 5), vol. 1: Dalle origine alla fine del V sec. a.C., Pisa 1995, esp. 43-52. 56 Cf. Herodotus, Hist. II.163: ei\ce de; peri; eJwuto;n Ka'rav" te kai; [Iwna" a[ndra" ejpikouvrou" trismurivou". 57 Meiggs, Lewis, A Selection of Greek Historical Inscriptions, No. 7 and SEG 37, No. 994. 58 In 2 Sam. 20:23 one should read with the Qere ytyrk for yrk. C. Levin, Der Sturz der K¨ onigin Atalja: Ein Kapitel zur Geschichte Judas im 9. Jahrhundert v. Chr. (SBS, 105), Stuttgart 1982, 38, n. 20, proposes to read ytyrk as well in 2 Kgs 11:4, but remarks: ‘Doch wenn hier ein Fehler vorliegt, ist er jedenfalls sehr alt; denn die Ergänzungsschicht in V. 19a und LXX lesen den heutigen Text.’ In the parallel text in 2 Chron. 23:1 the Carians are missing. 59 R. Wenning, ‘Nachrichten u ¨ ber Griechen in Palästina in der Eisenzeit’, in: J.M. Fossey (ed.), Proceedings of the First International Congress on the Hellenic Diaspora from Antiquity to Modern Times, vol. 1: From Antiquity to 1453 (Monographies en Archéologie et Histoire Classique de l’Université McGill, 10/1), Amsterdam 1991, 207-19 (210). 60 Cf. C. Levin, op. cit., 95, who nevertheless argues for an older source written shortly after the events of the year 840 bce 61 R. Wenning, ‘Mezad Hasavyahu: Ein St¨ utzpunkt des Jojakim?’, in: F.-L. Hossfeld (ed.), Vom Sinai zum Horeb: Stationen alttestamentlicher Glaubensgeschichte, W¨ urzburg 1989, 169-95, has pointed out that one should not regard ‘mercenaries’ as simply being ‘fighting personnel’, since they could also serve as couriers, border patrols, etc. (174). 62 On the site of Arad see Y. Aharoni, ‘Arad: Its Inscriptions and Temple’, BA 31 (1968), 2-32; Z. Herzog et al., ‘The Israelite Fortress at Arad’, BASOR 254 (1984), 1-34. 63 On the problem of terminology see P.-E. Dion, ‘Les KTYM de Tel Arad: Grecs ou Phéniciens’, RB 99 (1992), 70-97; D. Pardee, in: W.W. Hallo (ed.),


81

Arad 1:64 w . bçyla . la μytkl . ˆtn . t[ w 1 1 1 . ˆyy . μyh μç . btk jmqh . dw[mw

1 2 3 4 5

t . ˆçarh 6 jmq . 1 . bkr 7 l . μhl . tç[l 8 . ˆyym . μj 9 ˆtt . twngah 10

To Elyashib: And now: Issue to the Kittim 3 bat (of) wine and write down the date. And from what is left from the first flour, you shall load up 1 homer of flour, to make bread for them. Give them wine from the crates.

Arad 2: l ˆtn . t[w . bçyla . la l . ˆyy 1 1 μytk w μmyh t[bra w μjl 300 • hw ˆyy . rmjh . alm . rjat la . rjm tbs tnw . ≈mj . dw[ . μaw . μhl . t

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8

To Elyashib: And now: Issue to the Kittim 2 bat (of) wine for the four days and 300 (loaves of) bread.65 And one full homer with wine: Deliver tomorrow; do not be late! And if there is any vinegar, give (it) to them

Arad 4: ç μytkl ˆt bçyla la 1 w wnjlçw μtj 1 ˆm 2 . μhl ˆt 1 ˆyy 3

To Elyashib: Issue to the Kittim oil 1 (jug). Seal (it) and send it (hither). And wine, 1 bat give to them.

The Context of Scripture, vol. 3, Leiden 2002, 82, n.3. The Kittim are attested in the Levant since c. 1190 (cf. De Moor, The Rise of Yahwism, 248, with bibliography). 64 The text of the ostraca from Arad follows J. Renz, W. Röllig (eds.), Handbuch der althebr¨ aischen Epigraphik, Bd. 1, Darmstadt 1995. See also A. Lemaire, Inscriptions hébra¨ıques, t. 1: Les Ostraca (LAPO, 9), Paris 1977 and the selection (with English translation) in: J.M. Lindenberger, Ancient Aramaic and Hebrew Letters, Atlanta 1994, 113-24. 65 According to the app. crit. in the edition of Renz and R¨ ollig (p. 359) there is a trace of a letter before the number 300. This could be a k, thus being the abbreviation for rK;K,i being a round loaf of bread (cf. μj,l, rK'Ki in Exod. 29:23; 1 Sam. 2:36; Jer. 37:21; Prov. 6:26; 1 Chron. 16:3; pl. Judg. 8:5; 1 Sam. 10:3). However, D. Pardee, ‘Letters from Tel Arad’, UF 10 (1978), 289-336, has proposed that the trace is a left-over from a previous inscription, especially since the ‘letter’ is written over the otherwise fairly consistent margin.

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Arad 7: [w . bçyla la μytkl . ˆtn . t djl 1 b yrç[l hççh d[ . ç ?w¿ 1 1 1 çdjl b . ˚ynpl htbtk ç[b . çdjl μynç j ˆmçw . yr ? . . wnjlçw μt¿

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

To Elyashib: And now: Issue to the Kittim for the tenth (month) on the 1st of the month until the sixth of the month 3 bat [and] write (it) down before you: on the second of the month in the tenth (month). And oil se[al it and send it]

Arad 8: To Elyashib: And now: Issue to the Kitt[i]m 1 homer flour from the 13th of the month until the 18th of the month. [And] wine 3 bat [. . . ] [. . . ] [. .] to me and [. .] [. .] who for the son [. . . ]

l ˆtn . t[w . bçyla la 1 . (j)mq 1 μ?y¿tk 2 çh . ˆm h d[ . çdjl rç[ hçl 3 çdjl rç[ hnmç 4 1 1 1 . ˆyy?w¿ 5 ç?≥≥≥¿ 6 jb?≥≥¿b tn?≥≥≥¿ 7 w . yla?≥≥¿ 8 ˆbl rça ?≥≥¿ 9 ?≥≥≥¿ 10

Arad 10: . t[w . bç?yla la¿ 1 1 1 1 ˆyy . μy?tk l ˆtn¿ 1 ˆmçw . μytb?≥¿a μ?jl¿ ?jl¿ç whydb[ ˆbl . μt?j¿

1 2 3 4

?≥≥¿y μytkl 5 ?≥≥≥¿ 6

[To Elya]shib: And now: [Issue to the Kitt]im wine, 4 bat [brea]d [. .] and oil, 1 (jug). [Se]al (it) for the son of Abdiyahu. Se[nd (it)] to the Kittim. [. .] [. . . ]

Arad 11: bçyla . la μytkl ˆtn t[w ˆyy 1 1 ?˚tam¿ ?≥≥¿w jq alm whymj?n¿m

1 2 3 4 5

To Elyashib: And now: Issue to the Kittim [from you] 2 bat wine. Fill (it) up (and) take (it). And [. .] [from Ne]hemyahu

Arad 14: ?t[w b¿çy?la . la¿ 1 ?≥≥ ˆy¿y μytk?l ˆtn¿ 2 ˆmç 1 jlç?w ≥≥¿ 3

[To El]yashi[b: And now:] [Issue to the] Kittim w[ine . .] [. . and] send 1 (jug of) oil.


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Arad 17 verso: ç μjn ˆtn çdjl 1 1 1 1 20 b 8 1 .ytkh dyb ˆm 9

On the 24th of the month Nahum gave oil into the hand of the Kittite: 1 (jug).

The figures for bread, flour and wine listed in the ostraca suggest a population of either 38 or 75 mercenaries in the neighbourhood of the fortress of Arad.66 The μyTiKi are mentioned about eight times in the Old Testament67 and are grouped under the ˆw:y: ynEB] according to Gen. 10:4 (μynId:dow“ μyTiKi vyvir“t'w“ hv;ylia‘ ˆw:y: ynEb]W). Generally speaking the term describes the inhabitants of Cyprus;68 however, the use of μyTiKi in Ezek. 27:6 seems to suggest that the population of the Aegean islands is referred to: μYITiKi yYEaime μyrIvua}AtB' ˆveAWc[; Ëver“q" ËyIf;wVømi Wc[; ˆv;B;mi μynIwLøa' They made your oars of oaks from Bashan; for your deck they used ivory-inlaid cypress69 from the islands of the Kittim.

This would tally well with the use of ˆw:y: ynEB] in the Old Testament, where the term describes the Ionians.70 Arad was not the only garrison or settlement of Greek mercenaries in Palestine. Further evidence comes from the fortress of Mezad Hashavyahu,71 probably ‘the only site in Palestine – of any 66

Renz, R¨ ollig, Handbuch, Bd. 1, 354, who calculate the measurements as follows: 3 bat of wine = 63-72l; 1 homer of flour = 200-240l. Ostracon 2 mentions 300 loaves of bread for four days; this would, following Jer. 37:21, imply 75 daily rations for 75 people. 67 Gen. 10:4; Num. 24:24; Isa. 23:1, 12; Jer. 2:10; Ezek. 27:6; Dan. 11:30; 1 Chron. 1:7. 68 Recently Y. Garfinkel, ‘MLS HKRSYM in Phoenician Inscriptions from Cyprus: The QRSY in Arad, HKRSYM in Egypt, and BNY QYRS in the Bible’, JNES 47 (1988), 27-34, has again argued for Cypriot origin of the Kittim at Arad. 69 Read with Ê μyrçatb for ˜ μyrçaAtb. 70 Gen. 10:2, 4-5; Ezek. 27:13, 19; Isa. 66:19; Joel 4:6; Zech. 9:13; Dan. 8:21; 10:20; 11:2; 1 Chron. 1:5, 7. For the use of the term in the ANE see J.A. Brinkman, ‘The Akkadian Words for “Ionia” and “Ionian” ’, in: Daidalikon: Studies in honor of Raymond V. Schroeder, S.J., Waucoda 1989, 53-71; R. Rollinger, ‘Zur Bezeichnung von “Griechen” in Keilschrifttexten’, RA 91 (1997), 167-72. 71 On the site see Fantalkin, ‘Mezad Hashavyahu’, 1-165; J. Naveh, ‘The Excavations at Mes.ad H . ashavyahu: Preliminary Report’, IEJ 12 (1962), 89113; E. Stern, Archaeology of the Land of the Bible, vol. 2: The Assyrian, Babylonian, and Persian Periods (732-332 B.C.E.), New York 2001, 140-2; Wenning, ‘Mezad Hasavyahu’, 169-95.

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period – that has been called a Greek settlement . . . (otherwise unknown from biblical or other sources), which produced quantities of East Greek pottery of the late seventh century b.c.’72 The fort is L-shaped in outline; its maximum measurements are 77-95m. It is surrounded by a wall about 3.2m thick that is strengthened by exterior buttresses. A single gate on the west, protected by two towers faces the sea. Except for the gate area, the fort represents a single stratum of construction, pointing to a short period of occupation.73

According to J.C. Waldbaum and J. Magness, the place differs from the other sites in Palestine for the following reasons: 1. it cannot be associated with any ancient site known from literary sources; 2. it was occupied for a brief time only, showing one occupation phase over most of the site, two in limited areas, with the Greek pottery belonging to the earliest occupation, and 3. it has no clear destruction layer, and seems instead to have been simply abandoned.74

Furthermore, in Mezad Hashavyahu we find Hebrew ostraca and local pottery next to imported products.75 Especially striking is the occurrence of much pottery of the so-called ‘wild-goatstyle’,76 which is not normally found in these numbers in Pales72

J.C. Waldbaum, ‘Greeks in the East or Greeks and the East? Problems in the Definition and Recognition of Presence’, BASOR 305 (1997), 1-18 (5). The text of the ostraca can be found in Renz, R¨ ollig, Handbuch, Bd. 1, 315-34. 73 Quoted from R. Reich, ‘Mesad Hashavyahu’, Oxford Encyclopedia of Archaeology in the Near East, vol. 3, Oxford 1996, 474-5; see also the general plan in Fantalkin, ‘Mezad Hashavyahu’, 9. 74 Quoted from J.C. Waldbaum, J. Magness, ‘The Chronology of Early Greek Pottery: New Evidence from Seventh-Century B.C. Destruction Levels in Israel’, AJA (1997), 23-40 (38). 75 Waldbaum, ‘Greeks in the East or Greeks and the East?’, 5 states cautiously: ‘That it was not an exclusively Greek settlement, if it was one at all, is attested to by the presence of locally made pottery and several Hebrew ostraca..’ 76 For definition and description of this style see R.M. Cook, P. Dupont, East Greek Pottery (Routledge Readings in Classical Archaeology), London 1998, 32-70, and W. Tietz, ‘Wild Goats: Wechselwirkungen u ¨ ber die ¨ ais hinweg bei Vasendarstellungen wildlebender Paarhufer in der archaAg¨ ischen Epoche’, in: H. Klinkott (ed.), Anatolien im Lichte kultureller Wechselwirkungen, T¨ ubingen 2001, 181-247.


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stine.77 Of course the presence of ‘Greek’ pottery alone does not automatically allow the conclusion that Greeks were present at the site.78 However, the existence of ‘Greek’ kitchen-ware, which was normally not exported from Greece but was locally produced, is a strong indication of Greek population.79 This does not allow us to jump to the conclusion that Mezad Hashavyahu was a settlement founded by Greeks (the once popular hypothesis that Mezad Hashavyahu was originally a Greek trading post80 has to be abandoned on the basis of the structure of the buildings and the lack of direct access to the sea which would be necessary for maritime trading), since the Greek presence in the Eastern Mediterranean often had the character of a so-called ejnoikivsmo"81 or, better, katoikiva,82 i.e. the peaceful existence of a Greek community next to the already existing local population.83 This would also explain why there has been no building found displaying Greek style; the possible exception is Tell-Sukas, where the excavations revealed roof tiles with Greek graffiti.84 In general, Greek ‘inscriptions’ are very rare in Syro-Palestine,85 and we have to distinguish between graffiti made before firing and scratchings 77

For parallel finds see Fantalkin, ‘Mezad Hashavyahu’, 88. Waldbaum, ‘Greeks in the East or Greeks and the East?’, 6. 79 Wenning, ‘Mezad Hasavyahu’, 171-2; W.-D. Niemeyer, ‘Archaic Greeks in the Orient: Textual and Archaeological Evidence’, BASOR 322 (2001), 1132 (22), and the more critical view of such a position by Waldbaum, ‘Greeks in the East or Greeks and the East?’, 8, 12, who lists the finds of cooking pots and concludes that ‘this is a very thin repertoire if we are going to associate them with resident Greeks who show a preference for their own domestic ware’ (8). 80 Thus, inter alios, H. Weippert, Pal¨ astina in vorhellenistischer Zeit (Handbuch der Arch¨ aologie: Vorderasien, 2/1), M¨ unchen 1988, 620. 81 On the term compare ICret IV 72, IV 34f. (ka me; ¸oikeu;" ejn¸oike'i ejp-⁄i; kovrai ¸oikivon) and Herodotus, Hist. II.178. 82 The term seems preferable since it generally refers to the dwelling of non-citizens; see ICret IV 78 (kata¸oikivdeqai). 83 Stern, Archaeology of the Land of the Bible, vol. 2, 222; this even seems to be the case for Naukratis (on the site see Herodotus, Hist. II.178-9; Boardman, The Greeks Overseas, 118-33, and A. M¨ oller, Naukratis: Trade in Archaic Greece (Oxford Monographs on Classical Archaeology), Oxford 2000), and definitively for the fortress of Migdol (cf. E.D. Oren, ‘Migdol: A New Fortress on the Edge of the Eastern Nile Delta’, BASOR 256 [1984], 7-44). 84 P.J. Riis, Sukas I: The North-East Sanctuary and the First Settling of Greeks in Syria and Palestine (Publications of the Carlsberg Expedition to Phoenicia, 1), Copenhagen 1970, 68-9. 85 Waldbaum, ‘Greeks in the East’, 8-9. 78

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produced after firing.86 The above-mentioned graffito on a roof-tile at Tell-Sukas is written in Ionian dialect and thus points to a EuboeanCycladic owner (pesaore" emi).87 Furthermore, we have a dedication incised on a Phoenician bowl (˙alio hm(i) ) which was probably written by a Dorian from Rhodes. At Al Mina we have an inscription on pottery from the second half of the fifth century (man(dri)o" kolix kalh). All the inscriptional evidence points to craft-literate, non-elite people.

The origin of Mezad Hashavyahu is difficult to determine. J. Naveh, the original excavator of the site, argued that the Greek soldiers garrisoned there belonged to the – above-mentioned – mercenaries employed by pharaoh Psametik I.88 Later on, it was conquered by Josiah and then abandoned when Necho II marched along the coast in 609 bce.89 Due to the absence of any Egyptian finds, as already noted by Naveh himself,90 it is highly unlikely that the fortress was ever under Egyptian control.91 Rather, scholars such as W.-D. Niemeier have suggested on the basis of the Hebrew ostraca found at Mezad Hashavyahu that the fortress had always been under Judean control.92 ‘Interpretations based on two settlement phases, with a change in the ethnicity of the inhabitants between the first and the second phases, must, therefore, be abandoned.’93 As far as a possible date for the erection of the fortress is concerned, R. Wenning has argued convincingly that one should date the finds and the fortress itself to the time of Jehoiakim (ca. 600-598 bce).94 Furthermore, the presence of 86

See the discussion in M.K. Risser, J.A. Blakeley, ‘Imported Aegean Fine Ware in the First Millennium B.C.E.’, in: W.J. Bennett, J.A. Blakeley (eds.), Tell el-Hesi: The Persian Period (Stratum V) (ASOR Excavation Reports), Winona Lake 1989, 69-137 (135-7). 87 All graffiti quoted from P.J. Riis, ‘Griechen in Phönizien’, in: H.G. Niemeyer, Ph¨ onizier im Westen (Madrider Beitr¨ age, 8), Mainz 1982, 23755 (241). 88 Again proposed by Fantalkin, ‘Mezad Hashavyahu’, 139-46. 89 Naveh, ‘The Excavations of Mes.ad H . ashavyahu’, 98-9. 90 Naveh, ‘The Excavations of Mes.ad H . ashavyahu’, 99 n.16. 91 This, however, does not prevent scholars such as P.W. Haider, op. cit., 75-6 still subscribing to Naveh’s original proposal. 92 Cf. the detailed discussion in W.-D. Niemeier, ‘Archaic Greeks in the Orient: Textual and Archaeological Evidence’, BASOR 322 (2001), 11-32 (23-4). On the literary form of the ostracon see F.W. Dobbs-Allsopp, ‘The Genre of the Mesad Hashavyahu Ostracon’, BASOR 295 (1994), 49-55. 93 Niemeier, ‘Greek Mercenaries at Tel Kabri’, 329; cf. Fantalkin, ‘Mezad Hashavyahu’, 10-17. 94 ‘Mezad Hashavyahu k¨ onnte der kurzen Phase der Autonomie des Jojakim


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Hebrew ostraca indicates that there must have been at least some persons resident at Mezad Hashavyahu who were able to write in Hebrew. Since bilingualism is difficult to prove due to the absence of bilingual inscriptions, it would seem that the ostraca point to a mixed community resident at the fortress – a view also supported by the evidence from Tel Kabri.95 Since we have already used pottery to support the thesis of Greek presence at some ‘mixed communities’ in Palestine, let us finally look briefly at this archaeological evidence.96 The earliest finds of ‘Greek’ pottery in the Eastern Levant consist of parts of proto-geometric amphorae dating from the tenth century found at Ras el-Bassit97 (the so-called ‘Tel Hadar Bowl’, an example of Euboean Middle Protogeometric or early Late Protogeometric – terminology according to N. Coldstream-Lebes, will be mentioned only in passing, since we do not yet have any parallel pottery from Greece98 ). These amphorae probably stem from Euboea.99 This would support the thesis of very early contacts between Euboea and Phoenicia.100 The earliest Greek import in Palestine is a pendant semicircle skyphos from Stratum III at Tell Abu Hawam (near Haifa), which can be dated thanks to comparable material zuzuweisen sein. Ob Jojakim die Instabilität nach 601/600 v. Chr. zum Anlaß nahm, einen Korridor nördlich der philist¨ aischen St¨ adte zum Mitelmeer zu okkupieren oder ob er dort nur partiell bestehende Besitzrechte wahrnahm, l¨ aßt sich von den Quellen her nicht entscheiden. Der festungsartige Charakter von Mezad Hashavyahu, die Stationierung griechischer Hilfstruppen und die Errichtung einer jud¨ aischen Verwaltung erkl¨ aren sich aus dieser Situation’ (Wenning, ‘Mezad Hashavyahu’, 191). 95 Niemeier,‘Greek Mercenaries at Tel Kabri’, 328-31. 96 For a list of Greek pottery finds in Syro-Palestine in geographical order see Niemeier, ‘Archaic Greeks in the Orient’, 12-3, and also R. Wenning, ‘Griechische Importe aus der Zeit vor Alexander d. Gr.: Vorbericht u ¨ ber ein Forschungsprojekt’, Boreas 4 (1981), 29-46; J.C. Waldbaum, ‘Early Greek Contacts with the Southern Levant, ca. 1000–600 B.C.: The Eastern Perspective’, BASOR 293 (1994), 53-66. 97 On the site see P. Courbain, ‘Bassit’, Syria 63 (1986), 175-220. 98 N. Coldstream, A. Mazar, ‘Greek Pottery from Tel Rehov and Iron Age Chronology’, IEJ 53 (2003), 29-48. 99 Cf. P. Courbain, ‘Fragments d’amphores protogéométriques grecques à Bassit’, Hesperia 62 (1993), 95-113. 100 On the problem see M. Popham, ‘Precolonization: Early Greek Contact with the East’, in: G.R. Tsetskhladze, F. de Angelis (eds.), The Archaeology of Greek Colonisation: Essays dedicated to Sir John Boardman, Oxford 1994, 11-34.

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from Lefkandi, to the 9th/8th century.101 As far as styles and shapes are concerned, J. Waldbaum lists the following categories of Greek pottery found in Palestine: • Lekythoi and amphoriskoi (perfumed oil flasks); • ‘vessels appropriate for wine service’ (cups, skyphoi, bowls, kraters); • oinochoai or jugs (seventh century only).102 By contrast, pottery for more general use, such as hydriai and funerary vessels, is absent. Earlier scholarship has argued that Greek pottery was only imported for use by Greeks,103 implying that the presence of Greek ware would always equal the presence of Greeks at the site: ‘While it might be appealing to picture bands of Greek adventurers toting their favorite cups, like erstwhile coffee mugs, to remind them of home in far-off lands, lugging a krater for personal use might be a little more cumbersome.’104 However, Greek pottery has turned up at so-called ‘non-Greek’ places such as Tyre, and the finds of ceramics in Phoenician tombs at Khaldeh and Tell Rachidieh have forced archaeologists to reconsider such a view.105 This might suggest – in addition to the limited forms of pottery – that the vessels reflect local practice with regard to drinking and cooking.106 Places of origin of the Greek pottery are: Rhodes, Miletos, Samos, Chios, i.e. all from the Aegean region. Corinthian pottery, on the other hand – the most widespread Greek trade ware – does not occur very frequently in the Southern Levant.107 The only occurrence 101

Waldbaum, ‘Early Greek Contacts with the Southern Levant’, 55 (photographs on page 56). 102 Waldbaum, ‘Greeks in the East or Greeks and the East?’, 6. 103 Cf., as pars pro toto, P.J. Riis, Sukas I, who states: ‘It has rightly been emphazised . . . that the Orientals did not care for Greek pottery, and that when it occurs in the East, it is a sign of Greeks living there, as merchants or mercenaries’ (129). 104 Waldbaum, ‘Greeks in the East or Greeks and the East?’, 7. 105 Waldbaum, ‘Early Greek Contacts with the Southern Levant’, 56, referring to J.N. Coldstream, P.M. Bikai, ‘Early Greek Pottery in Tyre and Cyprus: Some Preliminary Comparisons’, Report of the Department of Antiquities, Cyprus 1988, 35-44. 106 Waldbaum, ‘Greeks in the East or Greeks and the East?’, 8. 107 Waldbaum, Magness, ‘The Chronology of Early Greek Pottery’, 33. And Waldbaum, ‘Early Greek Contacts with the Southern Levant’, 59.


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in Israel so far is at Tel Kabri.108 ‘Nowhere in Israel does Corinthian ware of any kind seem to have been imported in quantity.’109 After a careful analysis of the pottery found at Tel Kabri W.-D. Niemeier concluded that all the finds have to be dated in the period ca. 630–580 bce.110 If that is the case, the Greeks stationed at Tel Kabri must have been mercenaries in the pay of Tyre, since Tel Kabri has never been a trading community like Naukratis or Al Mina.111 Here the evidence from Tel Kabri and Mezad Hashavyahu allows us to conclude that the occurrence of Greek pottery is an indication of a certain Greek presence, but that it is not possible to argue for a homogenous population on the basis of the pottery found. In contrast to Palestine, we find Corinthian pottery in some volume at Al Mina.112 Al Mina cannot be identified from Greek sources and it has probably never been regarded as a colony proper.113 Despite the fact that the site of Al Mina is still seen as a distinctive Greek settlement in Syria, we have to note that all characteristics of Greek presence (apart from pottery) such as housing styles, cult etc. are missing.114 This stands in sharp contrast to the picture we gain from Naukratis. Again, I would argue that at Al Mina we again encounter – if we encounter Greeks at all – a ‘mixed community’. Also, we have to bear in mind that Al Mina (and Naukratis for that matter) are special cases and that the insights gained from these sites are not readily transferable to the rest of Syro-Palestine. In recent years it has therefore become quite clear that it is impossible to argue for Greek presence in Palestine on the basis of pottery alone. To return to our question from the title: ‘Who would in108

On Kabri cf. A. Kempinski, W.D. Niemeier, ‘Kabri 1993’, IEJ 34 (1994), 181-4, 257-9. 109 Waldbaum, Magness, ‘The Chronology of Early Greek Pottery’, 35. 110 W.-D. Niemeier, ‘Greek Pottery: Evidence for Greek Mercenaries at Kabri’, in A. Kempinski, W.-D. Niemeier (eds.), Excavations at Kabri: Preliminary Report of 1992-1993 Seasons, Tel Aviv 1994, *31-*38 (*34). 111 Niemeier, ‘Greek Pottery’, *34. 112 Cf. J. Boardman, The Greeks Overseas: Their Early Colonies and Trade, London 4 1999, 46-49; Waldbaum, Magness, ‘The Chronology of Early Greek Pottery’, 35-6. 113 Waldbaum, ‘Early Greek Contacts’, 54. 114 Cf. Riis, ‘Griechen in Phönizien’, 245 who states: ‘Die alte Stadt X–VII hatte architektonisch anscheinend ein ganz orientalisches Gepräge; ¨ ahnliche H¨ auser und Gassen hat man im spätbronzezeitlichen Ugarit . . . entdeckt.’

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vite a stranger from abroad?’ The answer has to be twofold. Firstly, we can be fairly certain of the existence of Greek mercenary soldiers in the Judean and in the Babylonian army and, of course, one could even speculate whether the Greeks from Mezad Hashavyahu fought against the Greeks from the army of Nebuchadnezzar II, if we take the above-mentioned Amathus bowl as representing actual historical facts. This mercenary presence certainly does not allow us to subscribe to W.F. Albright’s thesis of a coast ‘dotted with’ Greek settlements,115 because there is no evidence of a specific Greek way of life at the sites where pottery has been found.116 This leaves us with the question why Palestine seemed attractive to Greek military personnel. One could probably argue for a certain Greek-Philistine connection, which, in the Old Testament, is expressed in the term Kerethi and Pelethi117 and also supported by a seventh century inscription from Ekron which uses a Greek loan-word.118 It may be 115

W.F. Albright, From Stone Age to Christianity: Monotheism and the Historical Process, Garden City 2 1957. Followed by E. Stern, Archaeology of the Land of the Bible, vol. 2, 222. 116 Waldbaum, ‘Greeks in the East or Greeks and the East?’, 10-1. 117 Cf. David’s bodyguards in 2 Sam. 8:18; 15:18; 20:7, 23, 1 Kgs 1:38, 44; 1 Chron. 18:17 and 1 Sam. 30:14 (ytirEK]h' bg

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that the Philistine sea-ports of the Palestinian coast provided a good starting-point for non-military personnel such as artisans and traders for their penetration of the hinterland, as well as the basis for later permanent settlement.119 The overwhelming presence of Attic pottery in Dor from the fifth century onwards might support the close ties of Dor with Athens and Attica.120 In addition, Dor is generally thought to have been part of the Delian League; however, such an assumption rests only on a remark by Stephanus of Byzantium, quoting Craterus: e[sti kai; Kariva" Dw'ro" povli", h}n sugkatalevgei tai'" povlesin tai'" Karikai'" Kratero;" ejn tw'/ peri; Yhfismavtwn trivtw/. Kariko;" foro;": Dw'ro", Fashli'tai.121

Nevertheless, an Athenian casualty list (IG I2 929) reads: ejn Kuvproi Ú ejn Aijgªuvºptoi Ú| ejn Foinivkei ªÚº ejn ΔAlieu'sin ªÚº | ejn Aijgivnei Ú Megaroi': to; aujto' ejniauto'.

In addition to this evidence, we find reports of Athenian expeditions to Cyprus in Thucydides’ description of the Peloponnesian War, and he seems to regard it as a fact that Athens actually subdued Cyprus: Kai; ejstravteusan ej" Kuvpron kai; aujth'" ta; polla; katestrevyanto . . . 122 ell [eds.], A New Companion to Homer (MnS, 163), Leiden 1997, 668-93.) 119 On the ‘Aegean affinities’ of the Philistines see T. Dothan, ‘Tel MiqneEkron: The Aegean Affinities of the Sea Peoples (‘Philistines’) – Settlement in Canaan in Iron Age I’, in: S. Gitin (ed.), Recent Excavations in Israel: A View to the West – Reports on Kabri, Nami, Miqne-Ekron, Dor and Ashkelon (Archaeological Institute of America: Colloquia and Conference Papers, 1), Dubuque 1995, 41-57. 120 On the Attic pottery cf. E. Stern, ‘Tel Dor: A Phoenician-Israelite Trading Center’, in: Gitin (ed.), Recent Excavations, 81-93. On Greek vases in Palestine in general see R. Wenning, ‘Griechische Vasenbilder in Palästina’, 339-58. 121 FGH 342, fr. 1[Craterus]; on the assessment of Dor see R. Meiggs, The Athenian Empire, Oxford 1972. 122 Thucydides, I.94.

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[They made also an expedition against Cyprus, subduing most of it.]

Cyprus then becomes a base for Athenian ships whence they were able to operate in the Eastern Mediterranean, and especially against Egypt.123 With regard to numbers, the archaeological evidence does not allow us to argue for a large Greek population in Palestine. All this leads to the second observation: if we are correct in assuming that the preferred mode of existence of Greeks in Palestine was the ejnoikivsmo" or katoikivsmo", it is hardly surprising that we do not find any architecture of a specific Greek style, since this mode of ‘colonial’ existence is generally expressed by making use of the exterior structure (e.g. houses) of the native population while using interior furnishings (e.g. pottery) which reflect the place of origin of the settlers. (Since burial practices normally also reflect the origin of the settlers, it is surprising that ‘no unequivocally Greek tombs have been found in Palestine or Syria.’124 ) This would explain why the existence of Aegean Greece and its inhabitants is known in biblical sources yet concrete points of contact are missing. If the Greeks living in Palestine were not part of any elite group it is hardly surprising that the written evidence is sparse,125 and that the elite circles mostly responsible for the authorship of the biblical documents hardly mention contact with them. True, ‘[i]n the ancient Near Eastern universe Israel and Judah are something of a backwater’,126 and both states probably never had any direct political dealing with Aegean Greeks, but on the non-elite level we can confidently argue for contact and exchange as well as for some permanent Greek presence in Palestine before Alexander the Great. At the same time, we can only speculate what the ‘intellectual’ indicators of the existence 123 Thucydides, I.104: oiJ de; (e[tucon ga;r ej" Kuvpron strateuovmenoi nausi; diakosiva" aujtw'n te kai; tw'n xummavcwn) h\lqon ajpolipovnte" th;n Kuvpron . . . 124 Waldbaum, ‘Greeks in the East or Greeks and the East?’, 11. For examples of continuity and adaptation from modern times (from a slightly different context) see R. Hirschon, Heirs of the Greek Catastrophe: The Social Life of Asia – Minor Refugees in Piraeus, Oxford 2 1998, 106-65. 125 Cf. the listing and discussion in Waldbaum, ‘Greeks in the East or Greeks and the East?’, 8–10. 126 West, East Face of Helicon, 587.


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of the Greeks in Palestine would have been: the evidence only tells us about traders, wandering artisans and mercenaries.127

127

Therefore the rather extreme conclusions reached by W. Gauer, ‘Die Aegaeis, Hellas und die Barbaren’, Saec 49 (1998), 22-60, have to be rejected (cf. R. Rollinger, ‘The Ancient Greeks and the Impact of the Ancient Near East’, 254-5), when he remarks: ‘Denn nur durch die Bereitschaft, in einem gr¨ oßeren Rahmen und unter fremder Herrschaft zu ‘dienen’, konnten die Griechen auch in aller Welt ihre befruchtende politische und kulturelle Wirklichkeit entfalten’ (44); he continues to talk about the ‘¨ uberlegene Kultur’ of the Greeks.

Philip S. Johnston

Oxford – United Kingdom

Death in Egypt and Israel A Theological Reflection

1 Introduction Death was of profound importance to the Egyptians, who invested more of their time, energy and wealth in preparation for it than any other people at any time in history.1 As Morenz comments: ‘death was present to every Egyptian in his lifetime, to king and commoner alike; for all men the thought of it governed much of their earthly actions’.2 Inevitably the main Egyptian deities played crucial roles in death as in life. By contrast, death in Israel was a decidedly low-key affair, which elicited some emotional apprehension but involved little material preparation and minimal ongoing provision, if any. Death brought inactivity, no sanctioned contact with the living, and separation from the one official deity. These two contrasting perspectives existed in close geographical proximity for many centuries, without apparent cross-fertilisation. Even when Israelite views developed to include a positive afterlife, this concept had few discernible links with long-standing Egyptian views. This paper seeks to reflect on these contrasting views,3 looking again for possible points of similarity and reflecting theologically on their extensive dissimilarity.

2 Death in Egypt 2.1

Positive Views of Death

Egyptian positive views of the afterlife constitute one of the few aspects of the ancient world to have caught the popular imagination and to be well known in our own times. They have been extensively treated in detailed scholarly work and competent sum1

So S. Morenz, Egyptian Religion, London 1973, 187; M. M¨ uller, ‘Afterlife’, Oxford Encyclopedia of Ancient Egypt, vol. 1, Oxford 2000, 36. 2 Morenz, Egyptian Religion, 195. 3 For comparisons across many cultures, see e.g. P.J. Ucko, ‘Ethnographic and Archaeological Interpretation of Funerary Remains’, World Archaeology 1 (1969), 262-80; S.C. Humphries, ‘Introduction: Comparative Perspectives on Death’, in: S.C. Humphries, H. King (eds), Mortality and Immortality: The Anthropology and Archaeology of Death, London 1981, 1-13.

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maries,4 so a brief summary of their outline and development down to Ptolemaic times will suffice here. In the Old Kingdom the king alone could achieve a blessed afterlife among the gods. This prospect was gradually extended to non-royal officials from at least the Middle Kingdom onwards, and by the New Kingdom it was accessible in principle to all. Correct preparation was vital, notably preservation of the body in mummification, provision of material needs in perpetual offerings by the living, knowledge of the underworld route, and protection from its dangers. This knowledge and protection were provided first by Coffin Texts and later by the Books of the Dead (or more accurately, Books of Going Forth by Day). These texts, inscribed successively on tomb walls, coffins and papyri, would guide the deceased either directly to the heavens or through the elaborate underworld to the great hall of judgment, where Osiris presided, and where one’s heart was weighed against the feather symbol of Maat. Those who passed the test proceeded to the Field of Reeds / Field of Offerings, those who did not were devoured by the crocodile-headed Ammut. Before judgment the deceased would pronounce the famous negative confession contained in chapter 125 of the Book of the Dead, with its numerous declarations of innocence.5 As with any complex culture extending over several millennia, there were inevitably variations and ambiguities concerning the dead and their situation. For instance, they were located variously in the sky and the underworld, they were in their tomb yet free to wander, they enjoyed a good life yet depended on repeated provision by the living. Nevertheless, apart from an increasing inclusiveness, Egyptian afterlife beliefs remained remarkably stable through the dynastic period.

2.2

Contact with the Dead

One interesting feature of the continued existence of the dead is their assumed ability to affect the lives of the living. In particular, a number of letters to the dead have been recovered. These ad4 See most recently M. M¨ uller, ‘Afterlife’, Oxford Encyclopedia of Ancient Egypt, vol. 1, Oxford 2000, 32-6; J.H. Taylor, Death and the Afterlife in ¨ Ancient Egypt, London 2001; J. Assmann, Tod und Jenseits im alten Agypten, M¨ unchen 2001. 5 For text, see ContS, 2.12, 59-64; ANET, 34-6.

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dress the recently departed, reminding them of the writer’s past affection and continued loyalty, and requesting help in a current difficulty. These letters have a long history from the Old Kingdom to the New Kingdom,6 though only a few have survived.7 However, the very mundaneness of the letters imply that this was a common, widespread, unremarkable custom, part of the popular religion for which we have relatively little evidence.8 The procedure is summarised colourfully by Gunn: We of course communicate with our departed friends by letter. That the dead can read is obvious, for in the afterlife they retain all their faculties; and if the addressee is illiterate,9 there are others who will read the letter to him. As to transmitting it, since the dead, who spend much of their time in their tombs, take the food-offerings that we put down for them there, they can also take a letter if we leave it in the same place; and if, by an artful combination, we write the letter on the bowl containing an offering, delivery is as good as certain. As to the form of the letter, it is a good thing to begin by recalling some incident which shows that we, or the person on whose behalf we are writing, parted from the addressee on good terms; we will then state our trouble, and, while calling him to take the necessary steps, work in a reminder that powerful as he is he depends on us for the upkeep of his tomb and the supply of his offerings, so that if he does not help us we have the power to make things very unpleasant for him. This is not perhaps very delicate, but it is necessary because the dead, in the very different circles in which they now move, may easily lose interest in our affairs.10 6

A.H. Gardiner, K. Sethe, Egyptian Letters to the Dead: Mainly from the Old and Middle Kingdoms, London 1928. Also E. Wente, Letters From Ancient Egypt (SBL.WAW, 1), Atlanta 1990. 7 Less than twenty in a thousand years; so J. Baines, ‘Society, Morality, and Religious Practice’, in: B.E. Shafer (ed.), Religion in Ancient Egypt, Ithaca 1991, 155. Gardiner and Sethe give 11; Wente reproduces 8 of these and adds another 6, i.e. ‘most of the letters that have survived reasonably intact’ (p. 1). I have not had access to S.R. Keller, Egyptian Letters to the Dead in Relation to the Old Testament and Other Near Eastern Sources, PhD Dissertation, New York University, 1989. 8 On this, cf. A.I. Sadek, Popular Religion in Egypt during the New Kingdom, Hildesheim 1987. I thank Prof. K.A. Kitchen for this and two other references, and for kindly reading a draft of this paper. 9 Wente reports estimates that only 1% of ancient Egypt was literate (p. 7). 10 B. Gunn, review of Gardiner, Sethe, Egyptian Letters, JEA 16 (1930), 147.


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One example on a bowl from the Old Kingdom, cited here for its compactness and concluding comment, reads as follows: It is Shepsi who addresses his mother Iy: This is a reminder of the fact that you said to me, your son, ‘You shall bring me some quails that I may eat them’, and I, your son, then brought you seven quails and you ate them. Is it in your presence that I am being injured so that my children are disgruntled and I, your son, am ill? Who, then, will pour out water for you? If only you might decide between me and Sobekhotep, whom I brought back from another city to be interred in his own city among his necropolis companions after tomb clothing had been given to him. Why is he injuring me, your son, so wrongfully, when there is nothing that I said or did? Wrongdoing is disgusting to the gods!11

The final comment could be Shepsi’s indirect appeal to the gods over the head of his mother Iy, or a veiled threat that they will not look kindly on Iy in her afterlife for allowing her son to suffer. These letters show that the dead and living were thought to exist in symbiosis, ‘engaged in a network of mutual relationships which were conceptualised in highly ambivalent, even contradictory terms’.12 The dead were both weak, needing regular sustenance, and powerful, able to influence affairs on earth. And the living met their physical needs and supplicated their benevolent influence. One letter urges: ‘Please become a spirit for me [before] my eyes so that I may see you in a dream fighting on my behalf.’13 Currid describes this as ‘a form of necromancy, an attempt to know or influence the future’.14 But this requested dream apparition is nothing like the consultation of the dead practised in the Semitic world and elsewhere. For necromancy proper, i.e. seeking to interact directly with the spirits of the dead, there is no evidence from pre-Ptolemaic Egypt. As a topic, necromancy merits 11 Wente, Letters, 212, no. 342. L.H. Lesko, ‘Death and the Afterlife in Ancient Egyptian Thought’, in: J.M. Sasson, Civilizations of the Ancient Near East, Vol. 3, New York 1995, 3, 1765, quotes 4 others from Wente, from both ends of the second millennium. 12 S.J. Seidlmayer, ‘Necropolis’, Oxford Encyclopedia of Ancient Egypt, vol. 2, Oxford 2001, 511. 13 Wente, Egyptian Letters, 215, no. 349. 14 J.D. Currid, Ancient Egypt and the Old Testament, Grand Rapids 1997, 222.

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no article in the Oxford Encyclopedia of Ancient Egypt or in15 and is ignored ¨ dexed reference in the Lexikon der Agyptologie, in recent monographs dealing with magical practices in Egypt.16

2.3

Disrespect of the Dead

Baines and Lacovara write tellingly: ‘Ancient Egypt offers a paradigm contrast between ideals of respectful care for the dead, on the one hand, and realities of medium- and long-term neglect, destruction and reuse on the other.’17 This contrast, often ignored or down-played in popular introductions to Egyptian afterlife beliefs, reveals a glaring disjuncture between theoretical respect and practical disrespect. To our knowledge, it was seldom addressed directly within Egyptian society itself. First, mortuary material was reused. This took many forms: stone was taken from old monuments and reused in newer ones; parts of one mortuary complex were annexed to another; tombs were appropriated for later burials, often without any family connection; new tombs cut into and violated the integrity of old ones; even coffins and sarcophagi were recycled. This frequently occurred for monuments and tombs already centuries old and neglected, but it could also occur for relatively recent mortuary material.18 It was so common that a tomb inscription could even warn against it: ‘[One] interesting curse written on a small stone block was originally placed at the entrance to a tomb to tell potential interlopers to find a place of their own and not disturb even a pebble from the magically protected site.’19 The practical reasons for doing so are obvious. The construction of tombs, sarcophagi and coffins was a very costly enterprise, suitable dressed stone was in short supply, and the needs of families for necropolis space would vary over time. But whatever the immediate justification for such recycling of material and how¨ W. Helck et al. (eds), Lexikon der Agyptologie, Wiesbaden 1972-1992. Nor is it noted in J. F. Borghouts, ‘Witchcraft, Magic, and Divination in Ancient Egypt’, in: J.M. Sasson et al. (eds), Civilizations of the Ancient Near East, vol. 3, New York 1995, 1775-85. 16 E.g. R.K. Rittner, The Mechanics of Ancient Egyptian Magical Practice, Chicago 1993; G. Pinch, Magic in Ancient Egypt, London 1994. 17 J. Baines, P. Lacovara, ‘Burial and the Dead in Ancient Egyptian Society: Respect, Formalism, Neglect’, Journal of Social Archaeology 2 (2002), 5. 18 For references, see Baines and Lacovara, ‘Burial and the Dead’, 18-9. 19 Lesko, ‘Death and Afterlife’, 1771. 15


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ever official or unofficial its status, it clearly reflects a lack of respect for the dead whose mortuary material was thus co-opted. In theory they were to be honoured in perpetuity; in practice they were forgotten and their funerary accoutrements were commandeered by another generation for its own – theoretically perpetual – commemoration. Secondly, tomb-robbery was widespread. Indeed, Baines and Lacovara state: ‘The only reasonable insurance against robbery was to have a grave too poor and insignificant to warrant plundering’ (p. 25). Royal and elite tombs may have survived intact through periods of strong state control, but were plundered of their wealth at the earliest opportunity. The so-called Tomb Robbery Papyri indicate how pervasive was such activity in the Theban necropolis, implicating many of the very officials employed to guard and provide for the dead.20 ‘As soon as a tomb dropped out of the network of social processes within the community, it was bound to face rapid destruction.’21 Robbery of non-royal tombs was endemic, often occurring shortly after burial but occasionally during or even before burial, as evidenced by disturbed body wrappings, empty sarcophagi, non-operative blocking stones, etc.22 The robbers were often tomb diggers who knew the exact locations of the treasures, sometimes tunnelling directly into a coffin from below or from an adjacent wall. They also knew how to circumvent the increasingly elaborate protective devices of blocking stones, pits, portcullises, etc.23 Even the great pyramids with their warren of false tunnels and array of other protective devices were eventually robbed of their treasures. The tomb of Tutankhamun is a very rare exception, and stunning proof of the riches which tempted robbers. As Seidlmayer rather cautiously concludes: ‘tomb robbery, while clearly considered a criminal act, was in fact a regular phenomenon, and so it seems that religious fears did not trouble the minds of the ancient Egyptians as overwhelmingly as is some20

For recent summary see O. Goelet, ‘Tomb Robbery Papyri’, Oxford Encyclopedia of Ancient Egypt, vol. 3, Oxford 2001, 417-8. 21 Seidlmayer, ‘Necropolis’, 506-12. 22 Discussion and references in Baines, Lacovara, ‘Burial and the Dead’, 25; Lesko, ‘Death and Afterlife’, 1771. 23 These are well described and illustrated in A.J. Spencer, Death in Ancient Egypt, Harmondsworth 1982, ch. 4.

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times supposed . . . ’24 Indeed, endemic tomb desecration suggests that the afterlife beliefs solemnly expressed by some in their tombs were simply ignored by others for material gain. And acknowledgment of the reality of tomb robbery is extremely rare.25 Thirdly, mortuary offerings which family or priests were expected to present in perpetuity were soon abandoned. Property was regularly endowed to ka-priests on condition that they regularly furnish the dead with food. But, as Gardiner eloquently explains: Needless to say, in the lack of legal enforcement, such contracts lapsed all too easily not long after their author’s demise. When this happened, and after the tomb had been wrecked and plundered, all that was left to its owner was the despairing hope that his name might be remembered or that a funerary formula might be pronounced on his behalf by some kindly passer-by. . . . What bathos that a people who had staked their hopes upon the luxury of their tombs should have to plead thus, whining like beggars that it will cost the passer-by nothing and may well bring him luck!26

2.4

Negative Views of Death

In his classic, aptly titled work, Death as an Enemy,27 Zandee notes several indications from the Old Kingdom onwards of what he terms a ‘negative view’ of death. For instance, in the Pyramid Texts the common people28 cannot pass through doors to ‘heaven’ as does the king. Instead, they stay in the earth, locked up in the realm of its god Geb. Hence one line reads: ‘Take NN by his arm, take NN to heaven, that NN may not die on earth among men.’29 Alternatively, they may stay with Osiris in the underworld, as implied by the king’s own avoidance of this fate: ‘Re-Atum has not given you to Osiris . . . ’; ‘I do not deliver him 24

Seidlmayer, ‘Necropolis’, 511. E.g. Papyrus Chester Beatty IV, cf. Lesko, ‘Death and Afterlife’, 1767. 26 A.H. Gardiner, The Attitude of the Ancient Egyptians to Death and the Dead, Cambridge 1935, 27-8. 27 J. Zandee, Death as an Enemy According to Ancient Egyptian Conceptions, Leiden 1960. 28 Replaced by ‘foreign peoples’ in variants Pyr. 1726.a.b. 29 Pyr. 604.e-f, cited by Zandee, Death, 8. 25


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to Osiris . . . ’30 Further, those consigned to the underworld walk upside down, as often depicted pictorially and occasionally textually, for example: ‘It is NN’s horror to walk in darkness, he cannot see walking upside down’.31 (By the time of the Coffin Texts, this fate was reserved for the impious.) And the West, the place of the dead, was to be avoided: ‘May you not go on the roads of the western ones; who go on them, they do not return; may you go on these roads of the eastern ones, among the followers of Re.’32 A negative reaction to death, probably from the First Intermediate Period, occurs in chapter 175 of The Book of the Dead, in words said by ‘the Osiris NN’: ‘O Atum, what does it mean that I go to the desert, the Land of Silence, which has no water, has no air, and which is greatly deep, dark and lacking?’ ‘Live in it in contentment.’ ‘But there is no sexual pleasure in it.’ ‘It is in exchange for water and air and sexual pleasure that I have given spiritual blessedness, contentment in exchange for bread and beer’ – so says Atum.33

Another hint that death was unwelcome comes in the common Middle Kingdom formula addressed to the living: ‘O you who love to live and hate to die, speak [the prayer for the dead].’34 An early sceptical view is voiced in the ‘Dialogue of a Man and his Soul’ (or ‘Dispute of a Man with his Ba’), from the late 12th Dynasty (19th century bce). In this the man in traditional mode extols the afterlife, while the soul less conventionally praises the present life. The soul challenges the man to ‘ponder life’ and counters his views of peaceful and welcome death with tales of tragedy and the comment that ‘you will not come up again to see the sunlight’. Only in the final line of the poem is there a measure of resolution, with the soul accepting a more tranquil perspective and concluding: ‘we [shall] make harbour together’.35 Parkinson 30

Respectively Pyr. 145.b; Pyr. Neith 779; cited by Zandee, Death, 8. Pyr. 323.a-b, cited by Zandee, Death, 8. Spells for not walking upside down were often linked to not eating excrement. 32 Pyr. 2175, cited by Zandee, Death, 10. 33 ContS 1.18, 27-30; extant texts from the 18th Dynasty onwards. 34 M¨ uller, ‘Afterlife’, 36; Morenz, Egyptian Religion, 187. Morenz also cites the fragmentary earliest known instruction, that of Hor-dedef: ‘Lowly [i.e. depressing] for us is death; life we hold in high esteem.’ 35 R.B. Parkinson, The Tale of Sinuhe and Other Ancient Egyptian Poems 31

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comments: ‘Neither vision of death triumphs in isolation . . . the horror of death is not mitigated, and both aspects of death are found acceptable in a literary resolution.’36 Many tombs were decorated with so-called Harpers’ Songs extolling the traditional positive afterlife perspectives. However, a few so-called ‘heretical’ songs portray a significantly different, more sceptical, carpe diem philosophy.37 The Harper’s Song from the tomb of the (probably) Middle Kingdom King Intef includes the lines: None comes from there, | To tell of their state, | To tell of their needs, | To calm our hearts, | Until we go where they have gone. . . . Do your things on earth as your heart commands! | When there comes to you that day of mourning, | The Weary-hearted [i.e. Osiris] hears not their mourning, | Wailing saves no man from the pit!38

Similarly, Song I in the New Kingdom tomb of Neferhotep (c. 1300 bce) states: Recall to yourself only joy, | until the coming of that day of mooring | At the Land that Loves Silence, | Where the Son-whom-He-Loves [i.e. Horus] is not weary . . . Sitting powerlessly in what was made for his shade.39

These songs present death as a land of silence and no return, and urge the living to enjoy life while it lasts. The mouth-opening ceremony for Neferhotep has a similar gloomy view: Thou who [wast] rich in people, thou art in the land that likes solitude. He who loved to spread his legs in walking is bound, enwrapped, obstructed. He who liked to dress himself in rich fabrics sleeps in yesterday’s cast-off garment.40

Here someone previously rich both materially and socially now dwells in solitude, immobility and poverty. Another lament, this 1940-1640 BC, Oxford 1997, 160. 36 Ibid., 154. 37 Thirteen such songs have survived; so S. Fischer, Die Aufforderung zur Lebensfreude im Buch Kohelet und seine Rezeption der ¨ agyptischen Harfnerlieder, Frankfurt am Main 1999, 150-75. 38 ContS 1.30, 49; ANET, 467; two later copies. 39 Theban Tomb 50, from reign of Horemheb; ContS 2.13b, 65. 40 Morenz, Egyptian Religion, 187.


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time for a certain Mose in the Ramesside era, notes thirst and darkness: He who liked to drink is in the land which hath no water; the lord of many granaries he hath hastened thither . . . he hath hastened to the land of eternity and darkness, in which is no light.41

The Neferhotep Harper’s Song quoted above is one of three in the same tomb, each with a different emphasis. Song II presents the normal positive perspective, while Song III describes death in traditional ritualistic terms.42 As Lichtheim comments: ‘the three songs in one and the same tomb reflect the Egyptian preoccupation with the nature of death and the varying and conflicting answers and attitudes which continued side by side’.43 The New Kingdom saw an increase in the portrayal of the afterlife as dark and gloomy. But this did not engender any new beliefs. ‘People learned to live with the conflict between scepticism and confidence in the ancient magical means which promised a conscious life in a beautiful afterworld.’44 It is often argued that these ‘heretical’ Harpers’ Songs were engendered by times of social upheaval and dislocation, whether the political disruption characteristic of Intermediate Periods or the religious disruption of the Amarna revolution.45 However, their date of origin is uncertain,46 and others argue that they reflect a more general malaise.47 41

Morenz, Egyptian Religion, 188; some Book of the Dead spells address thirst. 42 Neferhotep II: ContS 1.31, 49-50; ANET, 33-4; Neferhotep III: ContS 2.13, 64-5. ContS publishes these songs in different volumes following its general classification. 43 M. Lichtheim, ContS 1, 49. Similarly A. Niccacci, ‘La foi eschatologique d’Israël ` a la lumière de quelques conceptions égyptiennes’, LASBF, 33 (1983), 10. 44 M. M¨ uller, ‘Afterlife’, 36. 45 The latter is emphasised by Fischer, Die Aufforderung; Idem, ‘Egyptian Personal Piety and Israel’s Wisdom Literature’, Acta Theologica 21 (2001), 2; Idem, ‘Qohelet and the “Heretic” Harpers’ Songs’, JSOT 98 (2002), 107. 46 Lichtheim, Ibid., mentions a Middle Kingdom original of the Intef Song, while Fischer, Die Aufforderung, 140-2, dates it to the New Kingdom. 47 So S. Burkes, Death in Qoheleth and Egyptian Biographies of the Late Period, Atlanta 1999, 157-69. My thanks to Dr E.S. Christianson for this reference.

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In the following Third Intermediate Period, sceptical and negative voices become increasingly heard. For instance, Nebneteru, a 9th century priest of Amon, laments: The end of life is sorrow . . . [it] means sitting in the hall of unconsciousness at the dawn of a morning which does not come . . . [it] means not knowing, [it] means sleeping when the sun is in the east, [it] means being thirsty at the side of beer.48

And a contemporary reflects: The fleeting moment when one receives the rays of sun stand for more than eternity.49

As Morenz comments: ‘In all these testimonies . . . we can hear the voice of men tortured by fear of the end – less of death itself than the end of their happy existence and the beginning of something infinitely lengthy and disagreeable.’50 A later, extraneous indication of this sceptical approach to death comes from Herodotus, who describes an apparently odd custom of Egyptians at a banquet passing round a deceased person in a container (perhaps a statuette) to remind them of death and encourage them to enjoy life, with the words: ‘Gaze here and be merry, for when you die, such will you be.’51 Thus, over against the seemingly pervasive belief in a happy afterlife and preparation for it, there is much evidence of disbelief. As well as endemic robbery and widespread material neglect, there was an undercurrent of scepticism and cynicism. Egyptian views on death and the afterlife were altogether more varied than is often assumed.

3 Death in Israel 3.1

Negative Views of Death

Compared to Egypt’s ‘virtual embarrassment of riches’, Pitard notes tellingly: ‘One of the most striking aspects about the Hebrew Bible is how little it actually talks about death and the afterlife. The subject does not form a primary theme in any book 48

Morenz, Egyptian Religion, 188. Morenz, Egyptian Religion, 189. 50 Morenz, Egyptian Religion, 189-90. 51 Herodotus II, 78; so Morenz, Egyptian Religion, 195.

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of the Hebrew Bible. What we find instead are (at best) scant, rather off-hand, ambiguous and non-specific references and allusions to the subject in a variety of contexts.’52 The biblical data have received renewed study in recent years, along with steadily increasing artifactual material, leading to several detailed scholarly treatments.53 They need only be summarised briefly. Sheol is the most common biblical term for the underworld, but even it occurs only infrequently. So arguably the underworld was not a particularly important concept for the canonical writers and redactors. Sheol almost never occurs in simple reportage or general prescription, but only in ‘first person’ contexts, so is a term which connotes personal emotional engagement.54 Whatever its etymology, there is no hint of Sheol as a deity. Descriptive details are very sparse, but suggest a somnolent, gloomy existence without meaningful activity or social distinction. There is certainly no elaborate journey through the underworld. So there was no expressed concern with the ongoing fate of the dead.55 Instead, in the majority of its occurrences Sheol is used to describe human fate. Sometimes it is a destiny which the righteous wish to avoid, or which in desperate circumstances they envisage as divine punishment. More often it is the destiny wished for the ungodly. The occasional synonyms of Sheol portray the same picture. In sum, the underworld in Israel’s canonical literature is an infrequent theme and an unwelcome fate. The Hebrew Bible mentions customs surrounding death only in passing. There are glimpses of 7-day and 30-day mourning periods, but no general policy is stated. Mourning customs are mentioned more frequently, with some variation over time. There 52 W.T. Pitard, ‘Tombs and Offerings: Archaeological Data and Comparative Methodology in the Study of Death in Israel’, in: B.M. Gittlen (ed.), Sacred Time, Sacred Place: Archaeology and the Religion of Israel, Winona Lake 2002, 145-6. 53 Most recently: P.S. Johnston, Shades of Sheol: Death and Afterlife in the Old Testament, Leicester 2002; Gittlen (ed.), Sacred Time, Sacred Place, Part IV; A.J. Avery-Peck, J. Neusner (eds), Judaism in Late Antiquity, Part 4: Death, Life-After-Death, Resurrection and the World-to-Come in the Judaisms of Antiquity (HO 1/49), Leiden 2000, Section 1. 54 Strictly, Num. 16:33 is the one exception. But here the narrator simply repeats Moses’ words of v. 30 in describing the subsequent event. See further Johnston, Shades of Sheol, 70-2. 55 See further Johnston, Shades of Sheol, 79-85.

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is virtually no information on funerary rites, apart from the lavish burning of spices for kings. In particular, there is no reference to religious ceremonies at funerals – burial was simply conducted by the immediate family. Mourning and funerary customs were not apparently invested with religious significance. Burial normally occurred on family land, though no inference is ever drawn from burial locations about consultation or veneration of the dead. Non-burial, whether from exposure, exhumation or cremation, was abhorrent. Archaeology confirms a consistent pattern of multiple, successive cave burial in the central hill country throughout the Late Bronze and Iron Ages. At each new interment, the skeletal remains of previous corpses were simply swept into a corner, and the bones of the dead were not accorded any special reverence. Burial was accompanied by various pottery assemblages, including bowls and jugs. These may have contained food for the dead at the time of burial, but there is no clear evidence of regular, ongoing nourishment of the dead in Judahite tombs.56 Thus, while the act of burial was important, there was apparently no continued reverence for physical remains, and little if any attempt to feed the departed.

3.2

Contact with the Dead

Israel’s religious literature contains only occasional references to necromancy – in several prohibitions, one narrative account, and a few other texts. Apparently necromancy was not an issue which preoccupied its final editors. Two terms are normally used, ¯ obˆ ot and yidd˘e ¯ onˆım.57 But there was no fixed expression for necromancy, as shown by the use of these terms for both ‘spirit’ and ‘medium’, the variation between singular and plural, the occasional use of the first without the second, and the variety of associated verbs. Necromancy was not obviously associated with ancestor worship in the Hebrew Bible, though the two may well have coexisted in Israel’s experience. 1 Samuel 28, the only narrative account of necromancy, furnishes few details of its practice, but confirms that it was considered both illegal and effective, even if for Saul its apparent effect was simply to seal his fate. 56 Pace E. Bloch-Smith, Judahite Burial Practices and Beliefs about the Dead (JSOT.S, 123), Sheffield 1992, 122-26; cf. review by P.S. Johnston, VT 44 (1994), 419-20. See also Pitard, ‘Tombs and Offerings’, 155. 57 Hebrew is given in transliteration in this more general article, at the author’s request (The Editors).


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Some scholars now argue that necromancy was generally accepted in Israel until the exclusive Yahwism promulgated in Hezekiah’s and (particularly) Josiah’s reforms, and that this can be discerned through a close study of various texts. Thus, for instance, it is detected in a pre-Deuteronomistic version of 1 Samuel 28, and in the polemical exchange of Isaiah 28.58 But these proposals raise as many issues as they seek to resolve.59 Friedman and Overton have recently argued source-critically that an early lay source underlying Genesis to Kings spoke of death and the dead naturally and uncensoriously, while later priestly redactions sought to circumscribe death and to proscribe contact with the dead.60 In similar vein, the lay prophets Elijah, Elisha and Isaiah engaged with death more openly than did the priestly prophets Jeremiah and Ezekiel or the priestly-influenced Deuteronomist and Chronicler. However, the fact that the Deuteronomistic History readily included references to death, Sheol and necromancy from the posited lay source shows that its redactor was not unhappy with this material.61 Similarly, the distinction between prophets is overdrawn, since ‘(First) Isaiah’ is hardly ‘filled with allusions to afterlife experience’,62 whereas Ezekiel, however priestly, still conveys a vision of defiling bones returning to life.63 Certainly there were varied perspectives in Israel on death and the dead, and priestly concern over defilement may well illuminate some source-critical issues, but this thesis is overstated. 58

E.g. respectively J. Tropper, Nekromantie (AOAT, 223), NeukirchenVluyn 1989; K. van der Toorn, ‘Echoes of Judaean Necromancy in Isaiah 28,7-22’, ZAW 100 (1988), 199-217. 59 For detailed critique, see Johnston, Shades of Sheol, 153-60. 60 R.E. Friedman, S.D. Overton, ‘Death and Afterlife: The Biblical Silence’, in: Avery-Peck, Neusner (eds), Judaism in Late Antiquity, Part 4, 35-59. Cf. also R.E. Friedman, Who Wrote the Bible?, San Francisco 2 1997; Idem, The Hidden Book in the Bible, San Francisco, 1998. 61 Friedman and Overton answer that the Deuteronomist (their singular) limited his perspective to the framework (p. 52). But this undermines their proposal of competing ideologies. 62 Friedman, Overton, ‘Death and Afterlife’, 53. Of the terms cited, two are rare: r˘ep¯ a ˆım (Isa. 14:19; 26:14, 19), ittˆım (Isa. 19:3); the other, ˇs˘e ˆ ol, occurs 8 times in 5 contexts (Isa. 5, 7, 14, 28, 38, including emendation of Isa. 7:11). 63 While this applies to national restoration (so Friedman and Overton, ‘Death and Afterlife’, 52-3; Johnston, Shades of Sheol, 222-4), it still engages with death imagery.

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3.3

P.S. Johnston

Respect for the Dead

The Israelites may have been tempted to venerate their dead as other ancient peoples did. Several scholars have argued recently that such ancestor cults were widespread in Israel and Judah until the late monarchy reforms, and have identified vestigial traces of this practice in various biblical texts.64 But it is only glimpsed in a small number of texts.65 Num. 25:2 records the apostasy of the wilderness generation with the Moabites, and Ps. 106:28 describes this as their eating ‘sacrifices of the dead’. But neither text elaborates further on the nature of the cult, and both describe Yhwh’s punishment of Israel for their participation in it. This is the only biblical reference to such sacrifices. Isaiah 57 and Ezekiel 43 (if pigrê malkêhem indicates offerings, vv. 7, 9) may reflect veneration of the dead, but other posited references to such a cult are mostly unlikely. For instance, the interpretation of Saul’s meal at Endor as part of a death cult (1 Sam. 28:20-25) involves supposing a very different original story and substantial Deuteronomistic rewriting. A marz¯eah. was apparently a social gathering linked with drinking and feasting (e.g. Amos 6:7) but only occasionally with the dead (e.g. Jer. 16:5-9),66 and the term itself is too general to indicate a cult of the dead. The interpretation of t˘er¯ apˆım as ancestor images is possible but not essential, and in any case they are of minimal importance in the prophetic critique of religious malpractice. Pillars feature more frequently, but their function is unclear. Kinship names may refer to ancestors and imply their veneration, but these names are a minority in Israel, and such association may be vestigial. There is insufficient evidence to link respect for parents, levirate marriage, annual sacrifice or other cultic practice with the cult of the dead. Certainly some associations with death and the dead were 64 Notably: K. Spronk, Beatific Afterlife in Ancient Israel and in the Ancient Near East (AOAT, 219), Neukirchen-Vluyn 1986; T. J. Lewis, Cults of the Dead in Ancient Israel and Ugarit (HSM, 39), Atlanta 1989; Idem, ‘How Far Can Texts Take Us? Evaluating Textual Sources for Reconstructing Ancient Israelite Beliefs about the Dead’, in: Gittlen, Sacred Time, Sacred Place, 169-217. 65 For detailed critique, see Johnston, Shades of Sheol, 167-95. 66 Other suggested biblical references to a marz¯eah. (funerary or otherwise) are unconvincing.


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condemned by the prophets, and some practice of grave food was deemed inappropriate for the tithe (Deut. 26:14). But the almost casual mention of such grave offerings here and the complete lack of censure elsewhere suggest that they were not inimical to Yahwism, and therefore that they did not involve veneration of, or communion with, the dead. Further, the fact that there is so little censure of death cults, by writers who have no qualms against lambasting other practices deemed illegitimate, strongly suggests that such cults were not a major preoccupation of the writers. Thus the Hebrew Bible does not substantiate the view that ancestor veneration was widespread in Israel and that evidence of it was later suppressed. On the contrary, it suggests that, while it may have occurred, it was of limited importance. For all their other perceived faults, the Israelites envisaged in the texts seem to have been more concerned with the living than the dead. This portrayal is not significantly altered by archaeology, which has provided plenty of evidence for heterodox religion but not for necromancy or ancestor cults.

3.4

Positive Views of Death

Two biblical characters apparently escaped death. Enoch simply ‘was no more, for God took him’ (Gen. 5:24), and Elijah ‘ascended in a whirlwind into heaven’ (2 Kgs 2:11). However, neither became a paradigm for the righteous in any form; their fate is never invoked by psalmists or others facing the trauma of impending, unwelcome death. These two may have escaped death, but this had no reported relevance to Israelite aspirations. Several proverbs juxtapose wise and foolish, life and death, upward and below, and therefore may imply differentiated postmortem fates. But proverbs are by definition pithy sayings, without immediate context and easily misunderstood. Job 19:25-27 may also exhibit post-mortem hope, though the physical expression here of Job’s hope and its eventual fulfilment (42:5) imply otherwise. At the same time, the textual difficulties of these passages probably reflect instead a later afterlife belief, and the desire of some scribes and translators to emend accordingly.67 A few psalms seem to affirm continued communion with God after death. Psalm 16 builds on the delight of present experience, 67

Cf. J.F.A. Sawyer, ‘Hebrew Words for the Resurrection of the Dead’, VT 23 (1973), 232-3.

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and projects it into the future. Psalm 49 asserts that unjust reward in this life will be reversed at death, with the foolish rich consigned to Sheol and the oppressed psalmist ransomed from it. And Psalm 73 combines the themes of continued communion with God and rectification of present injustice to affirm that ‘afterward’ God will receive the author. These psalms give no elaboration of how, when or where this communion would occur. They simply affirm it in faith. While for most Israelites, hope remained firmly anchored in the present life, a few apparently glimpsed continued communion with God beyond it.68 Belief in resurrection eventually emerged, arguably developing mainly from reflection on Israel’s God and Israel’s experience. The songs of Moses and Hannah celebrate Yhwh’s power to ‘kill and make alive’ (Deut. 32:39; 1 Sam. 2:6). They may have affirmed this theoretically rather than experientially, but they affirmed it nonetheless. The prophetic tradition recorded two instances of resuscitation following the intercession of Elijah and Elisha, and one due to contact with Elisha’s bones (1 Kgs 17:22; 2 Kgs 4:35; 13:21). Isolated, rural cases perhaps, but nevertheless food for thought for later writers. Yhwh’s initial creative power is invoked in Ezekiel’s vision, when he prophesies to the breath and it immediately brings the reconstituted bodies to life (Ezek. 37:9-10).69 Thus Yhwh’s proclaimed power to renew life, its occasional experience in life and in vision, his authority over the underworld,70 and the desire for unending communion with him all contribute to Israelite belief in resurrection. Israel’s experience was one of judgment and mercy, of destruction and restoration, of exile and return. This forms the backdrop of so much of her prophetic literature, and in particular of the resurrection motif which it occasionally employs. Imminent judgment overshadows Hosea’s promise of renewal (Hos. 6:1-3), its devastating effect on the exiles gives sharp relief to Ezekiel’s vision of return (Ezek. 37:1-14), while disappointment at its incompleteness underlies the Isaianic delight in resurrection (Isa. 68

On these texts see further Johnston, Shades of Sheol, 199-217. Cf. B.C. Ollenburger, ‘If Mortals Die, Will They Live Again? The Old Testament and Resurrection’, Ex Auditu 9 (1993), 29-44; the Maccabean martyrs continually invoke this same creative power. 70 The living could not escape Yhwh by fleeing to Sheol (Amos 9:2; Ps. 139:8), since it was ‘naked’ before him (Job 26:6). While the dead remained cut off from Yhwh, Sheol was not beyond his remit. 69


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26:19). Israel as a people experienced death and rebirth. National resurrection was a reality in their experience. But that rebirth seemed only partial. The nation never regained its former autonomy and confidence (cf. Isa. 26:13), mighty empires would control its destiny (Dan. 7-12), and many faithful Jews would perish in the Antiochene persecution (Dan. 11:33). How could the rebirth be complete? Yhwh had resurrected the nation as a whole; his power over death was unquestioned; his ability to raise the dead had been recorded. Perhaps then the answer to this unfulfilled post-exilic hope was one further development in belief: an individual, physical resurrection from the dead. However startlingly different it might seem, this belief clearly built on elements of Israelite faith and experience. And however much the development may have been helped by non-Israelite resurrection belief (in whatever form), it emerged as distinctly Israelite and communal: Yhwh would resurrect his people. Those who slept in the dust of the earth would awake, some to everlasting life, and some to shame and contempt (Dan. 12:2). The Hebrew Bible has no concept of judgment after death.71 Nor does it comment on the punishment or destruction of the wicked. These issues may be the logical consequence of the differentiated fates noted obliquely in Isaiah 26 and directly in Daniel 12, but they were not developed in the canonical texts. The ‘shame and everlasting contempt’ (Dan. 12:2) remains unexplained and undeveloped. The non-canonical inter-testamental literature testifies to increased interest and speculation concerning the fate of the wicked as well as the righteous, and the New Testament pursues this further. But the Hebrew Bible stops short of this.72

71 N.J. Tromp, Primitive Conceptions of Death and the Nether World in the Old Testament (BibOr, 21), Rome 1969, 22 n. 13, sees post-mortem judgment in Job 31:6, but the context implies present punishment. For weighing, cf. also Prov. 16:2; 21:2; 24:12. 72 On these texts see further Johnston, Shades of Sheol, 218-39.

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4 Reflection 4.1

Socio-Political Factors

The southern Levant was of course geographically close to Egypt, and many factors might suggest ongoing relationships and mutual influence. Over the millennia Egyptians pursued trade, conducted military campaigns, and maintained garrisons in the area.73 Egyptian presence and influence in the southern Levant is clearly attested by archaeological finds at various sites. For its part, the Biblical text narrates many instances of interaction with Egypt. As well as the lengthy and detailed Joseph narrative74 and exodus tradition, it records Abraham’s brief sojourn, Jeroboam’s asylum, Shishak’s (Sheshonq’s) invasion, political manoeuvring and prophetic censure, and eventual emigration. Even if late redaction of earlier material was highly interpretative, the final text records a tradition of long-standing interaction, with both positive and negative consequences. And yet there was little mutual cultural or ideological influence. As Redford comments: In general, Egyptian culture transplanted poorly in western Asia. At no time can we detect a collective will in the Egyptian peoples towards promoting their own way of life beyond their Sinai frontiers, either by colonisation or forcible conversion. It is even arguable that Egyptians resisted such cultural proselytizing among the Asiatics who, in their perception, were a wholly worthless lot, to be exploited, uprooted and enslaved for the benefit of Egypt.75

Egypt was self-consciously xenophobic, little interested in the religious views of even close neighbours. It stood apart from the Semitic world in race, language and culture, and sought to main73 E.g. campaigns of Merneptah and Sheshonq; garrisons at Bethshean and Deir el-Balah. 74 M. G¨ org, ‘Biblical Tradition’, Oxford Encyclopedia of Ancient Egypt, vol. 1, 183, notes that the redactor ‘was familiar with Egyptian titles and the way of life’, and used genuine terminology, e.g. for embalming. 75 D.B. Redford, ‘Egypt and Western Asia in the Late New Kingdom: An Overview’, in: E.D. Oren (ed.), The Sea Peoples and Their World: A Reassessment, Philadelphia 2000, 7. Similarly Idem, ‘Egyptian’, in: J. Kaltner, S.L. McKenzie (eds), Beyond Babel, Atlanta 2002, 118.


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tain this distinction in practice as far as possible.76 Hence its garrisons in the Levant tended to rule through local elites rather than by direct intervention.77 Conversely, Israel shared many cultural and religious concepts with its Semitic rather than Egyptian neighbours, and during the crucial centuries of the mid-first millennium it was dominated not by Egypt but by Mesopotamia.78 There was certainly some Egyptian influence in Israel, as discussed for instance by Redford.79 But apart from dismissing Akhenaten’s religious revolution as ‘the classic “red herring” ’ (377),80 he makes little reference to religious belief, let alone to death and the afterlife. In reverse direction, the extent of later Israelite knowledge of Egypt is unclear. For instance, Isaiah’s understanding of Egypt is variously dismissed81 and defended.82 But whatever the extent of this well educated Judean’s familiarity with Egypt, there was little mutual cultural or religious influence.

4.2

Theological Factors

Alongside these important socio-political factors, there were no less important theological ones. In Egypt, as already noted, a positive afterlife perspective was so deep-rooted, and perhaps so carefully nurtured by priestly interest, that it persisted for three millennia, despite universal robbery, widespread neglect and increasing scepticism. Right down to Ptolemaic times, those with 76

Cf. S. Hollis, ‘Ancient Israel as the Land of Exile and the “Otherworld” in Ancient Egyptian Folktales and Narratives’, in: M. Lubetski et al. (eds), Boundaries of the Ancient Near Eastern World: A Tribute to Cyrus H. Gordon (JSOT.S, 278), Sheffield 1998, 320-7. 77 Called ‘elite emulation’ by C. R. Higginbotham, ‘The Egyptianising of Canaan’, BAR 24/3 (1998), 39. 78 Except very briefly during 609-605 bce. 79 D.B. Redford, Egypt, Canaan and Israel in Ancient Times, Princeton 1992, ch. 13: kingship, government, literary form (Königsnovelle), cult, language, poetry, penitential psalms and wisdom. Similarly Görg, ‘Biblical Tradition’, 183; Currid, Ancient Egypt. 80 A.R. Millard, ‘Abraham, Akhenaten, Moses and Monotheism’, in: R. S. Hess et al. (eds), He Swore an Oath, Cambridge 1993, 119-29, gives a different perspective, but also discounts any immediate link with Yahwism. 81 E.g. S. Ah.ituv, ‘Egypt that Isaiah Knew’, in: I. Shirun-Grumach (ed.), ¨ Jerusalem Studies in Egyptology (AAT, 40), Wiesbaden 1998, 3-7. 82 E.g. S. Israelit-Groll, ‘The Egyptian Background to Isaiah 19:18’, in: Lubetski, Boundaries, 300-3; M. Lubetski, C. Gottlieb, ‘Isaiah 18: the Egyptian Nexus’, in Lubetski, Boundaries, 364-84.

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the financial means prepared to enter the afterlife physically intact and guided by their personal copy of the Book of the Dead, while only a small minority dared to voice any doubts. Israelite perspectives on life and death, by contrast, were moulded by faith in Yhwh. Of course this faith was often partial, whether because of their apostasy from an early Mosaic Yahwism, as the biblical texts state, or their emergence from Canaanite polytheism, as much scholarship suggests. But whatever the complex development of Israel’s beliefs – which is not of concern here – at no time during the monarchy was there a general expectation of a positive afterlife. Israel’s deity Yhwh is presented supremely as the god of this life. His very name is associated with the verb ‘to be’,83 and his affirmation of life is repeatedly asserted across the literary genres and historical contexts of the biblical canon.84 Conversely, the dead are cut off from Yhwh, and can no longer experience his care or celebrate his goodness.85 While Yhwh’s authority over Sheol and his power to raise the dead are occasionally proclaimed, neither element is developed theologically until the emergence of resurrection belief (see above). Faith concerns this life: death and the dead are not of theological importance. There are several implications of this fundamental religious difference.86 First, the theology of death in Egypt led to a fascination with the afterlife in its various astral and underworld guises, and with the dead and their supposed ability to affect the living. By contrast, Israel’s canonical literature shows little concern with the afterlife, and proscribes contact with the dead. It locates Israel’s faith in the present, and concentrates on life here and now. Secondly, death in Egypt involved a heavy financial investment during life, which, as noted above, surpassed that of any other known people. The Israelites were generally poor, and they were spared this lavish expense. The cost of death was not to undermine life itself. 83

Exod. 3:14; whether this is a genuine or a folk etymology is immaterial to this point. 84 E.g. Deut. 30:19-20; Jer. 21:8; Ps 36:9; Job 12:10. 85 E.g. Isa. 38:18; Jon. 2:4; Ps. 6:5; 88:5, 12. 86 For Niccacci, ‘La foi eschatologique’, 8, Israel’s lack of personal eschatology was ‘fundamentally polemical’.


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Thirdly, death in Egypt inevitably perpetuated social division from this life to the next. Only the wealthy could provide for their afterlife appropriately; the vast majority of Egyptians who had insignificant, archaeologically invisible burials presumably entered the afterlife ill-prepared. By contrast, Israel saw itself as a more egalitarian society. Deuteronomy relativises royalty, affirms family land ownership and asserts the dignity of slaves; historiography, prophecy and psalmody all champion the rights of the common people. Though not absolute in theory or in practice, this egalitarian instinct was nevertheless fundamental to Israelite faith. It extended even to the status of the dead, most notably in Job’s memorable assertions of nakedness and social levelling in death (1:21; 3:18-19).87 The lack of hierarchical status among the dead inevitably relativised such status among the living, and underlined a basic tenet of Israel’s socio-religious framework. Fourthly, death in Egypt perpetuated a social order which was seen as divinely ordained and immutable. Life was governed by, and must conform to, Maat, while the idea of change and development was anathema.88 By contrast, Israel saw its destiny as continually unfolding: Yhwh had freed them from bondage, established a covenant of mutual obligation, provided them with leaders, and punished their disobedience.89 Egypt maintained a status quo, and death consolidated it.90 Israel was called to perpetual renewal of faith in this life, and death detracted from it. Fifthly, the dichotomy between the ideology and the reality of death in Egypt fostered delusion on a grand scale. For millennia pharaohs, officials and wealthy commoners provided lavishly for the preservation of their own bodies, yet were surely aware of the neglect, disrespect and robbery of the remains of their forebears. This was a colossal, collective exercise of self-deception, 87

Two important prophetic texts are sometimes interpreted otherwise, but mistakenly. Isa. 14:9-11 emphasises the weakness of the fallen emperor, and Ezek. 32:17-32 the similar fate of all terrible conquerors. 88 Cf. B.E. Shafer, ‘Introduction’, in: Idem (ed.), Religion in Ancient Egypt, Ithaca 1991, 3: ‘they believed that the world needs to be maintained, and therefore to be stabilised by governmental imposition of order from above’. 89 Contrast J. Assmann, The Search for God in Ancient Egypt, Ithaca 2001, 158: ‘No Egyptian deity was ever identified on the basis of an event that had occurred in the past.’ 90 In similar fashion, Christianity’s developed eschatology has sometimes fostered acceptance of the status quo.

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which met with increasing challenge from the New Kingdom onwards. By contrast, Israel’s practice of simple interment without costly ornaments involved neither special respect nor disrespect for physical remains, and avoided disjuncture between belief and practice. In sum, death in Egypt was seen as the culmination of life, governing much of its activity and offering divinisation. By contrast, death in Israel was seen as the negation of life, disrupting its activity and bringing separation from the divine presence. To quote one of Israel’s famous sons (though in a different context), Yhwh was ‘God not of the dead but of the living’ (Mark 12:27).

Kenneth A. Kitchen

University of Liverpool – United Kingdom

The Hieroglyphic Inscriptions of the Neo-Hittite States (c. 1200–700 BC) A Fresh Source of Background to the Hebrew Bible

1 Preamble In response to the kind invitation of the SOTS, and OTW, under the presidency of Professor Robert Gordon in Cambridge in July 2003, and under the aegis of that year’s theme of ‘The Hebrew Bible against its Ancient Near Eastern Background’, it seemed good to offer to the Society and other fellow OT scholars something from a resource not readily accessible hitherto, that would be fresh and original in this context. I do this here, in the hope of rendering some small service, stemming from the happy occasion of confluence of the SOTS, OTW and SBL, whose members met in a beautifully summery Cambridge. Before beginning, perhaps I should quickly explain why a former professor of Egyptology should be presenting data drawn from Indo-European Syro-Anatolian inscriptions! It does not happen every day. The reason is historical; most of 50 years ago, after taking his BA degree in both Egyptian and Semitics, the writer began a PhD thesis on Western Asiatic lexemes in Ancient Egyptian, and not limited (as in more recent works) just to Semitic words and names, but covering items from other ancient languages as well. So, he then immersed himself in the study of the grammars, lexica, texts, history and cultures of most of the Ancient East (not least the Hittite world), with all manner of consequences ever since.

2 Introductory Matters Our theatre is the central zone of the Ancient Near East: North Syria, with its adjoining zones east of the Euphrates, south towards Damascus, and north into SE Anatolia. Our period is broadly 1200–700 bc, following on the collapse of the two great rival Hittite and Egyptian empires, in the first part of the 12th century bc. Between c. 1220 and c. 1170 bc, the political map of the western parts of the Ancient Near East changed rad-

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ically. These two empires had dominated the Levant and SE Anatolia, but by 1180/70 bc the central Hittite power had collapsed, leaving only its devolved provincial powers in Tarhuntassa (SE Anatolia), and in Carchemish (N Syria), while the Egyptian power under Ramesses iii first shrank to the coastlands of Phoenicia and Canaan (plus Jezreel), then by c. 1140 bc the Egyptians withdrew from Canaan completely. But before those changes, we return briefly to the late 13th century bc. The Egyptians, of course, spoke and wrote Egyptian (an Afro-Semitic language). But the Hittites spoke and (in cuneiform, wrote) in three related dialects of Anatolian Indo-European: Nesite (Hittite proper), Luwian, and the obscurer Palaic. Alongside this, the totally unrelated, agglutinative Hurrian language featured in religious usage. Contacts with Egypt stimulated the Hittite emperors or ‘Great Kings’ to carve rock-reliefs, and even an entire open-air temple at Yazilikaya, with the texts to the figures executed in their own system of hieroglyphic script, in the Luwian dialect – hence the popular name ‘Hittite Hieroglyphs’ culturally, but in strict linguistic terms, ‘Hieroglyphic Luwian’. By 1940, a skeleton grammatical analysis and the Indo-European nature of Hieroglyphic Luwian had been established; but without control of vocabulary, sound translations of texts of any length were practically impossible. The discovery in 1946 of the much later Hieroglyphic Luwian/Phoenician bilingual inscriptions at Karatepe enabled a full decipherment. This has by now reached a very advanced stage, making reliable translations possible, with only a residue of still-obscure vocabulary. During the Late Bronze Age, rulers of top rank claimed and were accorded the title ‘Great King’, an equivalent of ‘emperor’ in Roman down to modern times. Kings ruled a recognised territory, while Great Kings ruled over their own territory and also over vassals. With the eclipse of the ruling Hittite monarchy in Central Anatolia c. 1180 bc, the title of ‘Great King’ was annexed by two of its former viceroyalties - by the rulers of Tarhuntassa in south-east Anatolia (Taurus mountains area) and by the kings of Carchemish, former Hittite power-base in northern Syria. These men kept their local realms intact, when almost all around them vanished into a melting-pot, in the extensive disturbances that marked the period c. 1200-1180/70 bc. While Tarhuntassa and Carchemish survived in the north, further south only the

Hieroglyphic Inscriptions of the Neo-Hittite States 119 tenacious Phoenician seaports (such as Tyre, Byblos, etc.) and temporarily a reduced realm of Amurru survived effectively into the new Iron Age. Elsewhere, traditional Canaanites were ousted or hemmed in by Arameans (in the north), Philistines and other Sea-People groups (in the south-west, up the west coast to the north-west), and eastwards in the central Palestinian uplands by the earliest tribal Israel of Merenptah’s stela (cf. Judg.), plus emergent polities over in Transjordan. Up north, the old city-states such as Ugarit, Qadesh, Nuhasse, Niy, and Alalakh were swept away. Instead, new polities arose in which Luwian and (eventually) Aramean people-groups dominated, often under entirely new names: Gurgum, Melid, Hamath, Patina (Unqi), Bit-Adini, etc. Over these, the kings of Carchemish re-imposed their former overlordship, to become Great Kings, while up in the Taurus, other newer local groups became vassals of the parallel Great Kings of Tarhuntassa. A new age had begun.

3 The Transitional Era of Western Mini-Empires, c. 1180-950 bc Here, we consider four such mini-empires in this 200+ year period, often wrongly termed a ‘Dark Age’. (a) To the NW, we have No. 1, Tarhuntassa, later to be known as Tabal. Here, the kings of Tarhuntassa lorded it over their lesser neighbours (in Shinuhtu, Tyana, etc.) as vassals, and so could hold the title ‘Great Kings’, as in fact did their rulers Mursil, Hartapus, etc. (12th cent.), then after a 400-year gap in our dynastic data, so did Tuwatis and Wasu-sarruma (8th century). During that very long gap in our documentation, in 837 and 836 bc,1 in his Years 22, 23, Shalmaneser iii referred to ‘24 kings of Tabal’, giving us just a brief glimpse of those Tabalian vassals. No breakaway Arameans intervened, nor was there much external impact on Tabal from Mushki and/or Phrygia until late on, and it remained free of Assyrian interference until the mid-9th century, and of Assyrian conquest until the late 8th century bc. So, this ’mini-empire’ lasted the longest. 1

D.D. Luckenbill, Ancient Records of Assyria, vol. 1, Chicago 1926, 206, §§579-580; A.K. Grayson, Royal Inscriptions of Mesopotamia: Assyrian Periods, vol. 3: Assyrian Rulers of the Early First Millennium bc, ii, (858-745 bc), Toronto 1996, 67.

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(b) Second, we have the mini-empire of Carchemish, whence we have slightly more 12th /11th century data. Here, the surviving Hittite dynasty quickly reasserted sovereignty over their old North-Syrian domains, up NW & N into SE Anatolia (bordering on Tabal), and over the Euphrates east to Guzan, to the headwaters of the Habur. Around Carchemish, there arose thus a belt of subject-vassals, initially Luwian-ruled (‘Neo-Hittite’ in culture). So, justly, the Carchemishian rulers soon took the title ‘Great King’, as successors to their Central Hittite forebears. For 200 years, this polity continued. In about 1100, the inquisitive Tiglath-pileser i came west, and encountered ‘Great Hatti’ and its ruler Ini-Tesup (ii). This all lasted until c. 1000/920 bc, within which short space of time the whole thing broke up, suddenly shattering like a plate fallen to the floor. What happened? The answer was largely impact by the rising power of the Arameans, and the growing independence of local Neo-Hittite rulers. From c. 1000 bc, Melid, Gurgum and Hamath had their own dynasties that split off. Guzan became Aramean. Bit-Adini (older Masuwari) came under Aramean expansion, in the time of Assur-rabi ii of Assyria (as Shalmaneser iii tells us), almost certainly effected by the Hadadezer of the state Aram-Zobah whom we meet opposing David and pressurising Hamath. Samal, Unqi and Kummuh then broke off by c. 920 at the latest. The mini-empire of Carchemish was no more. The last-known Great King of Carchemish was Ura-Tarhuns; his sons and successors - Huwa-sarruma and Suhis i – henceforth bore only the title of plain ‘King’. On the stela Carchemish A4b, we have the last Great King Ura-Tarhuns sending out his army to quell revolt; the text was engraved by two officials, one being Arnu-[xxx], son of the governor Suhis, this latter name being that of the main founder of the new line of plain Kings (not ‘Great Kings’) of Carchemish. (c) Our third mini-empire is the Aramean one reported as expanding over the West-Euphrates fords c. 990 bc, in the time of Assur-rabi ii.2 This is precisely the time of David’s foe Hadadezer of north-central Syrian Aram-Zobah, who had clearly gained rule over Damascus, had cowed Hamath, and thus gained his way to the Euphrates, enabling his kith and kin (one, Adin?) to set up Mentioned by Shalmaneser iii; see Luckenbill, op. cit., 1, 218, §603; Grayson, op. cit., 18-19. 2

Hieroglyphic Inscriptions of the Neo-Hittite States 121 rule in Bit-Adini, perhaps only briefly. The Israelite ruler David brought Hadadezer’s ephemeral power (20 years at most?) to a rapid end, and a liberated Hamath then allied itself with him (cf. 2 Sam. 8:3-19; 10:6-19. Note 8:3 and 10:16). Meantime, over in Bit-Adini, Adin was quickly supplanted by a Neo-Hittite dynasty (Hapatilas onwards), who used Hieroglyphic Luwian for their invaluable series of inscriptions. (d) And so, fourthly, we come to our last mini-empire in this unique series: that reported in the OT for David and Solomon. David’s military expansion from c. 990 bc, lasting into Solomon’s reign (to c. 940 bc), perhaps some 50 years all told, presents us with a further ephemeral mini-empire, slightly longer-lasting than Hadadezer’s, but very much shorter-lived than the two northern examples. However, its political structure is basically the same as the others. Namely, a hard-core ‘homeland’, adjoined by conquered territories (which retained their individuality as vassals, under governors or subject-kings), and also by subject-allies. This latter status was the status of Melid in the Carchemishian mini-empire; of Bit-Adini in the Aram-Zobah mini-empire; and of Hamath, Maachah, Geshur and in part Ammon, in David’s miniempire. This contrasts sharply with the practice of the much later ‘maxi-empires’ – of Assyria, Neo-Babylonia, and Persia – wherein older units were increasingly broken up or re-combined into new regional units and districts, under governorates. Organisationally and morphologically, in no way can our four mini-empires (David’s included) be meaningfully compared with the massively vaster and differently-run conglomerates of Assyria, Babylon and Persia. Such fantasies must be abandoned once and for all, in the face of our contemporary, first-hand data. After 930 bc, the mini-empire phenomenon was gone forever; Aram-Damascus was en route to becoming a fifth mini-empire in the 9th century bc, but the brutal and persistent intervention of Assyria from the 850s bc onwards nipped that dream in the bud.3 3

More fully on the mini-empires, see K.A. Kitchen, ‘The Controlling Role of External Evidence in Assessing the Historical Status of the Israelite United Monarchy’, in: V.P. Long et al. (eds), Windows into Old Testament History, Grand Rapids 2002, 111-30, with set of maps. The current archaeological dispute over which Iron Age Palestinian strata might belong to the 10 th century bc is irrelevant to the existence of the Hebrew united monarchy, and bears only on what particular material culture it enjoyed then.

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4 The Cultural Background to Samuel-Kings/ Chronicles afforded by the HH Inscriptions (a) In General. The biblical narratives of the United and Divided Monarchies in Samuel, Kings, and Chronicles are peppered with notices of the activities of various kings of Israel and Judah during the 11th to 6th centuries bc. Wars, building-projects, involvement in religious cults, family affairs and successions, and other matters feature very largely in those accounts as transmitted to us. Are these concerns unique to biblical rulers and their reporters, or are they anomalous, out-of-step, or improbable in nature or scope? The newly-edited corpus of Hieroglyphic Luwian inscriptions, from the central to northern end of the selfsame Levant, can give us an external measuring-rod, whereby to seek to answer such questions. Now, our West-Semitic inscriptions from this same period (Phoenician, Old-Aramaic, Moabite) already bear on this, but they constitute a very slender corpus of barely two dozen relevant texts, whereas our Hieroglyphic Luwian corpus boasts over 220 usable texts and major fragments, leaving out a large shower of minor, unusable fragments. In other words, ten times as much textual data! This wealth of data, surely, is well worth our attention. This rich body of material has now been immaculately edited (text, translations, philological and other notes; plates) by Professor David Hawkins of London, in a four-volume work (with Halet C ¸ ambel for the fourth volume), namely J.D. Hawkins, Corpus of Hieroglyphic Luwian Inscriptions, Volume 1: Inscriptions of the Iron Age, Parts 1-3, Berlin 2000, along with H. C ¸ ambel, ibid., Volume 2: Karatepe – Aslantash, Berlin 1999. For simplicity’s sake, in what follows, the individual inscriptions will be cited by the names used in the Hawkins volumes, but Carchemish texts simply by their A-series numbers; citations as C 1/1, 1/2, and pages are those of the Corpus, Vol. 1, Parts 1 and 2, while C 1/3, pl(s). refers to plate(s) in Corpus, 1, Part 3. Thus, a reference such as A12, C 1/1, 113-4 = Carchemish A12, in Corpus, 1, Part 1, pages 113-114; G¨ ur¨ un, C 1/1, 296-7 = the inscription of (the place) G¨ ur¨ un, in the Corpus, 1, Part 1, 296-297, etc. Texts that escaped inclusion in the Corpus will be cited by individual references. The ‘Kings of the Hittites’ so fleetingly alluded to in 2 Kgs

Hieroglyphic Inscriptions of the Neo-Hittite States 123 7:6 as a possible threat (alongside Egypt), in c. 850/840 bc, are not named in Kings. But names of rulers in office just then might have included such kings as (for example): Urhilina of Hamath, or Astiruwas i of Carchemish, or Halparuntiyas of Unqi, or Halparuntiyas ii of Gurgum, or Lalli of Milid, or even Kuntashpi of Kummuh, or Kati of Que, all known from first-hand Hieroglyphic Luwian and/or Assyrian data. So let us proceed to survey the cultural backcloth from these Hieroglyphic Luwian texts, going through individual topics, in each case chronologically. (b) Wars and Expansion/Development. Not surprisingly, wars are a constant theme in this corpus, from c. 1200 bc down to c. 700. In Tarhuntassa, already (c. 1200) Great King Hartapus claims victory on all sides ‘by the goodness of the Storm-god of heaven, and of every god’ (Kizildag 4 and Karadag 1; C 1/2, 438), just as it is later said of David, that Yhwh gave him victory and rest all about (2 Sam. 7:1; 8:6). Late in the 11th century, c. 1000, Carchemish’s last Great King, Ura-Tarhuns, fell into dispute with the land Sura (Assyria?), sending out his forces; then the Stormgod and the goddess Kubaba gave him great courage, to end the dispute successfully; again, in the best ‘deuteronomic’ fashion, deity intervenes to give the deity’s presence in battle. In the 10th century (c. 920 bc; A1a, C 1/1, 88-89), King Suhis ii of Carchemish celebrated victory and conquests (heads rolled, as with Jehu in 2 Kings 10:6-8), and presenting 9ths (rather than tithes) of his booty and other gifts of victory to the gods (as did David for Yhwh with booty, 2 Sam. 8:11-12). King Suhis ii’s gods accompanied him in his goings (A1a, §18 - cf. 2 Sam. 5:22-25, for David’s deity preceding him). About this time, c. 910 bc or later, in Tell Ahmar 6 (Hawkins, in press4 ), Hamiyatas of Bit-Adini boasts of destroying his father’s enemies and also his own, to east and west (a good biblical phrase in war, cf. Josh. 11:3; 1 Chron. 12:15), and with the gods (especially his patron Tarhuns of the Army) again going before him. In the early 9th century (c. 890) wars at Carchemish involved revolts to be suppressed, in the early years of Katuwas, possibly stirred up by members of other branches of the older royal family (A11a, A11b-c; C 1/1, 95-96, 103-104), Katuwas succeeding with Proceedings, 49th Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale, forthcoming. Cited hereafter simply as 49. RAI. 4

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divine help. One is reminded of the family conspiracies against David (2 Sam. 15; 1 Kgs 1), and fleeting traces of Saulide disaffection from adherents of the previous line (cf. 2 Sam. 16:1-4, for gain, and 16:8, politics; cf. §[e] below). But Katuwas also warred against foreign foes, destroying cities (A12, C 1/1, 113-4), with deities delivering foes to him, not him to them (A23/26, C 1/1, 119; cf. 2 Sam. 5:10, 19; 7:1, 9, 11). Early in the 8th century, Kamanis of Carchemish (c. 780) subdued a place, then redeveloped it (A31+; C 1/1, 141-2). Later (c. 750 bc) Wasu-sarruma, Great King in Tabal, achieved victories with the help of his gods, against up to 8 lesser kings, in a three-year period; Tarhuns took away victory from an opponent, and gave it to Wasu-sarruma (Topada; C 1/2, 453-4). Indeed, in another text (Sultanhan, §§ 8-9, in C 1/2, 466), the god Tarhuns gave the king mighty courage, putting his enemies under his feet (cf. on courage, above; for foes set under one’s feet, cf. Josh. 10:24 [as in an Egyptian scene, 15th century bc5 ], and Ps. 47:3; for the more general concept, see Ps. 8:6). Finally, at the turn of the 8th century into the 7th , we come to the bilingual texts from Karatepe and Adana. In the latter6 (c. 705 bc) Urikki of Que speaks of conquering forts, and building others of his own, 8 to his east and 7 to his west (CRAIBL2000, 972, 994). Around c. 700/696 bc, his successor’s vassal, Asitiwata (in his Karatepe bilingual; C 1/1, 49ff., and C ¸ ambel) likewise built border-forts, and set his foes under his feet (§§xix, xxi/xxiii), and to east and west (§§xxv-xxxii). During the same centuries, Hebrew kings did likewise, so Rehoboam (2 Chron. 11); Jeroboam (1 Kgs 12:25); Jehoshaphat (2 Chron. 17:12); and Ahab (1 Kgs 22:39). With this long series, the West-Semitic corpus can only offer (later 9th century) Mesha of Moab, given victory by Kemosh (Mesha stela; ContS, 27 , 137-8) and the Aramaic Tel Dan stela 5 Under Amenophis ii, Theban Tomb 93 of Qenamun; published by N. de Garis Davies, The Tomb of Ken-amun at Thebes, New York 1930, 1, plate 9; and 2, plate 9A (in colour). 6 R. Tekoglu, A. Lemaire, ‘La bilingue royale louvito-phénicienne de C ¸ inek¨ oy’, Comptes-rendus de l’Académie des Inscriptions et Belles-lettres, 2000, iii (2000/01), 961-1006. Cited hereafter as CRAIBL-2000 and page/figure. 7 = W.W. Hallo, K.L. Younger (eds.), The Context of Scripture, vol. 2, Leiden 2000; cited hereinafter as ContS, 2).

Hieroglyphic Inscriptions of the Neo-Hittite States 125 (probably Hazael of Damascus;8 ContS, 2, 161-2), then (8th century) Zakkur of Hamath, delivered from siege by his god Baalshamain (ContS, 2, 155), plus the internal conflicts of Panamuwa ii and Bar-rakib of Sam’al (ContS, 2, 158-9). (c) Building-projects and Development. This theme outstrips even wars in the Hieroglyphic Luwian corpus. Again, from c. 1200, Hartapus, Great King of Tarhuntassa, ‘has built this city’ (Kizildag 3; C 1/2, 438). Soon after (c. 1130 bc) an official of Great King Ir-Tesup (of either Carchemish or Tarhuntassa) records his master refurbishing the town and district (new housing, etc.), while his official made gifts of towns within his territory to the gods (Karahöy¨ uk-Elbistan, C 1/1, 289-290; west of Melid), presumably to provide resources for cults and officiants (cf. cities and land assigned for Levites in the OT). Then, in the 11th century (c. 1030 bc), up north in Melid, king Runtiyas settled a city (G¨ ur¨ un; C 1/1, 296-7) and probably built a stone-paved(?) road, if not also a tunnel (K¨ ot¨ ukale; C 1/1, 30; cf. Hezekiah’s water tunnels at Jerusalem, in 2 Kgs 20:20; 2 Chron. 32:30). Runtiyas also settled a city (Darende; C 1/1, 305), while a later successor Taras (c. 970) extended his territories and settled or re-settled three or more named towns. By c. 950, down in Carchemish, king Astuwatimanzas dedicated gateways, one flanked by inscribed lions in the lower city (A14b; C 1/1, 85-86). Then Suhis ii and his son did more work, setting up images of the gods (c. 935; A1a, C 1/1, 88-89). Back up north in Gurgum, Laramas i (c. 940) restored burnt buildings, and planted vineyards. Over the Euphrates, around 910, Hamiyatas of Bit-Adini also built a city (Borowski 3; C 1/1, 230-1) and granaries. During the 10th century (as also later), the kings of Carchemish built extensively. Building towns and settlements was also a Hebrew royal habit, as with Solomon (1 Kgs 9:15-20) and, later on, Azariah/Uzziah (2 Kgs 14:22; 2 Chron. 26:2, 6, 9). At Ain Dara, north-west of Aleppo, we have the ancient site of a city and its citadel, within which was a temple and other buildings (cf. Jerusalem’s city of David plus Solomon’s citadel complex of temple and palace). There was 8 For differing arrangements and datings (not wholly convincing), see G. Galil, ‘A Re-arrangement of the Fragments of the Tel Dan Inscription and the Relations between Israel and Aram’, PEQ 133 (2001), 16-21; G. Athas, The Tel Dan Inscription: A Reappraisal and a New Interpretation, London 2003.

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found a fine temple of the 13th , 10th and 9th centuries bc with much the same layout as Solomon’s, with inner Sanctum, outer Hall, & pillared Portico, plus chambers round the back and sides of the temple.9 Moving into the 9th century: Katuwas of Carchemish (c. 890) was very active. He built a luxurious temple for the Storm-god, gateways with lining slabs (‘orthostats’), and apartments for his wife, the queen (A11a; C 1/1, 95-96; A2+3, C 1/1, 109), as well as a temple for the goddess Kubaba (A23/A26a,1+2/A20a,1; C 1/1, 119-120). Then c. 835, Astiru(wa)s i built workshops (K¨ ork¨ un; C 1/1, 172). Down in contemporary Hamath, Urhilina set up a pedestal for his goddess Baalat (Hama 4; C 1/2, 405), while Uratamis has left us at least five inscriptions from the bastions of Hamath, his citadel-fortress (Hama 1-3, 6-7; C 1/2, 413). By c. 810, Yariris, regent of Carchemish, was building a temple (A15b; C 1/1, 131), while Suppiluliuma of Kummuh [Commagene] set up two massive stone podia for his gods and tithe(?) (= Boybeypinari 1+ 2 [C 1/1, 336-7]). In the 8th century, Kamanis (c. 770) built a temple and a precinct for Kubaba of Carchemish (A31+; C 1/1, 141-2). Meanwhile, up in Gurgum, Halparuntiyas iii (c. 790) redeveloped devastated settlements (Marash 1; C 1/1, 262-3); and c. 760 bc officers of Tuwatis of Tabal rebuilt housing (Kululu 1; C 1/2, 443). Finally, c. 705-696 bc, Urikki of Que built border-forts (CRAIBL:2000, 972, 994), as did Asitiwatas for his son and successor (Karatepe; C 1/1, 51, 53-4), as noted above, under ‘War’, §[b]. Alongside all this, our known West-Semitic epigraphic sources can offer a few specimens. In the 10th century, at Byblos, Yehimilk’s stela commemorates temple-building there (ContS, 2, 146), c. 950 bc, very close in time to Solomon’s temple-building activities. By c. 900, Shipitbaal was building a wall.10 Coming down to c. 830: Mesha of Moab was a very active builder (ContS, 2, 137-8), including a high place for Kemosh. For the 8th cenOfficial publication by A.A. Assaf, Der Tempel von Ain Dara, Mainz 1990; for a well-illustrated comparison with the Solomonic temple, see J. Monson, BArR 26/3 (May/June 2000), 20-35, 67; L.E. Stager, ibid., 46-47, and in Eretz-Israel 26 (1999), 186*-187*. 10 See J.C.L. Gibson, Textbook of Syrian Semitic Inscriptions, vol. 3: Phoenician Inscriptions, Oxford 1982, 23-4. 9

Hieroglyphic Inscriptions of the Neo-Hittite States 127 tury, we have Zakkur of Hamath (c. 780) building in Hatarikka, with defence-works and shrines (ContS, 2, 155). Up in Samal, Panammu i (c. 750) built settlements and family tombs (ContS, 2, 156), and c. 725 Bar-Rakib added a new palace in Samal (ContS, 2, 160-1). In the 7th century (c. 680) Achish of Ekron built a temple for his goddess (ContS, 2, 164), while c. 630 Amminadab ii of Ammon established gardens and vineyards (ContS, 2, 139-140). With all this, both Neo-Hittite and West-Semitic, one may profitably compare the very similar range of activities recorded for Israelite and Judean kings not only in Samuel–Kings but also in various valuable (and often non-theological) notices in the unfairly despised pages of the book of Chronicles. (d) Religious/Cult Activities. Neo-Hittite kings were very concerned with religious cults, whether building temples (cf. above, already), dedicating stelae, bases and statues, or instituting regular offering-rites. Official stelae could be dedicated to deities, as uk-Elbistan (C 1/1, 289), in the early 12th century bc at Karahöy¨ including the dedication of settlements to the storm-god, presumably for the officiants of the local cult (cf. Levitical towns), and likewise by Arnuwantis ii of Melid, early 10th century (Darende, C 1/1, 305), with concern for performance of regular rituals (Izgin 1-2; C 1/1, 316). ). Back in the 11th century, king ‘Sulumal’ i or ii of Melid appears, pouring a ceremonial libation to the Stormgod (who has just arrived on his chariot); on the right, an animal awaits its turn to be sacrificed (Malatya 8; cf. 9 and 10; C 1/1, 309-12, and C 1/3, pls. 149-150). Such ‘P(riestly)’-type rites were celebrated from 3,000 bc down into Roman times throughout the biblical Near East. In the late 10th century, Hamiyatas of Bit-Adini spoke of building a city by Tarhuns’ divine authority (Borowski 3; C- 1/, 230-1); and he promised a thank-offering of 9 oxen, seemingly as a continuing cult-practice (Tell Ahmar 6; Hawkins, 49. RAI, forthcoming), and acting on a message from the god Tarhuns through a prophet (lit., a ‘god-inspired [man]’). In the early 9th century, Katuwas of Carchemish (A11a; C 1/1, 95) not only built a fine temple (he says!) but also established bread-offerings. By the mid-9th century, we have Urhilina king of Hamath refurbishing the temple of the goddess Baalat, and increasing its endowments

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to restore the full roster of offerings, after lean times (Hama 4; C 1/2, 405). Like their Syro-Hittite contemporaries, Hebrew kings built temples: Solomon (1 Kgs 5-6); Jeroboam at Bethel and Dan (1 Kgs 12:29-31); and Ahab, for Baal (1 Kgs 16:32), or they restored them and their cults, as with Asa (2 Chron. 15:8), Joash of Judah (2 Kgs 12:1-16; 2 Chron. 24:1-14), Hezekiah (2 Chron. 29), whether Yahwistic or foreign (Kings/Chronicles, passim). In the limited West-Semitic sources, 10th-century Yehimilk built temples at Byblos, and in the 9th century, Mesha a high place for Kemosh, dedicating Israelite vessels to him (cf. §[c], above). From the 8th century, Zakkur of Hamath speaks of Baalshamain raising him to the throne, and delivering him from his bevy of foes, his prayers to Baal-shamain being answered through seers and diviners (ContS, 2, 155). Religion and deities also enter into royal family affairs; cf. next section. (e) Family Affairs and Legitimacy of Succession. A favourite theme in the Hieroglyphic Luwian royal inscriptions is a ruler’s succession to the paternal throne, with divine choice, help or support. So, in the 10th century (c. 970), Taras mentions Tarhuns standing by him at his accession (Izgin 1+2; C 1/1, 315); about then (c. 950), Astuwatimanzas of Carchemish also claims divine support at his accession and onwards (A14; C 1/1, 85-86), while Laramas i of Gurgum (c. 940) perhaps led his gods in procession to the river (Marash 8; C 1/1, 253). Suhis ii of Carchemish involved his son in building-works, honoured his own wife (A1a, A1b; C 1/1, 88, 92), and arranged the marriage of his daughter to a king Tudkhalia (perhaps of Melid; Kelekli; C 1/1, 93); we may compare the royal marriage of Tyrian Ittobaal’s daughter Jezebel to Israelite Ahab, or (earlier) of a pharaoh’s daughter to Solomon. Later (c. 910 and onwards), as servant of Tarhuns, Hamiyatas of Bit-Adini boasts of being given his paternal power by the gods (Tell Ahmar 2; C 1/1, 228; Tell Ahmar 6; Hawkins, 49.RAI, forthcoming), of having been exalted by them (Tell Ahmar 5, C 1/1, 232), and of building a city by Tarhuns’ divine authority (Borowski 3; C 1/1, 230-1). His ambitious brother Arpas claimed the company of the gods (Aleppo 2; C 1/1, 236). In the early 9th century (c. 880), the author (=Ahuni ii?) of stela Tell Ahmar 1 (C 1/1, 240-1) in turn not only claimed divine support for his accession, but also that Tarhuns had answered

Hieroglyphic Inscriptions of the Neo-Hittite States 129 his prayer to defeat the opponent of his accession. His nearcontemporary in Carchemish, Katuwas, firmly asserted that the gods kept him on the paternal throne, despite familial rivalries and rebellion (A11a; C 1/1, 95; cf. David in 2 Sam. 15; 20; 1 Kgs 1), smiled on him, and brought prosperity (A2+3; C 1/1, 109). In later 9th -century Carchemish, the regent Yariris brought up the young royal heir Kamanis until his full accession, along with the other royal children (A6, A7, A15b; C 1/1, 124-5, 129, 131). A much more peaceful pendant to the priest Jehoiada’s bringing-up and installing Jehoash of Judah (2 Kgs 11) about this time! By c. 800 bc, we find in Kummuh [Commagene], Suppiluliuma’s queen and officers dedicating a pair of stone bases and offering-tables for worship (Boybeypinari 1 and 2; C 1/1, 336-7). Wives of NeoHittite rulers played a definite part in the conduct of internal affairs at least. The West-Semitic texts of this period11 have very little to say about family matters; Panammu ii narrowly escaped assassination (cf. Joash, again), whereas ‘70 brothers of his father’ (ContS, 2, 158) did not; cf. the earlier massacre in Ahab’s family in 2 Kgs 10:6-8. (f ) Acts of Officials. Royal officers could dedicate stelae for their king, as did Arma-nanis for the Great King Ir-Tesup, c. 1140 bc (Karahöy¨ uk-Elbistan, C 1/1, 289-290); this man both received towns from his master and presented some to the Stormgod, claiming also divine favour. In the 11th century, the victorystela of Great King Ura-Tarhuns (c. 1000) was set up by younger members of the royal family (A4b; C 1/1, 80). In the mid-9th century, as regent of Carchemish for the boy-king Kamanis, Yariris claimed fame from west and east alike (A6, C 1/1, 124; and cf. skills, below), while others bought and sold townships (Cekke; C 1/1, 145-6). Much later, in the 8th century, a series of high officials inscribed texts in honour of the Great Kings Tuwatis and Wasu-sarruma of Tabal (Kululu 1, 4; C ¸ iftlik, Topada [end], Suvasa, Sultanhan, Kayseri, C 1/2, 442-475 passim). And soon after c. 700 bc, we owe the great Karatepe bilingual to the pride of Asitawata, local vassal of Urikki of Que and his successor (C 11

In contrast to earlier testimony from Mari, Ugarit and Emar, cf. J.C. de Moor, ‘The Rebel in Bible Lands’, in: J.C. Exum, H.G.M. Williamson (eds), Reading from Right to Left: Essays on the Hebrew Bible in Honour of David J.A. Clines (JSOT.S, 373) London 2003, 329-46.

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1/1, 48; C ¸ ambel, C 2, passim). Acts of officials hardly occur in the West-Semitic group of texts, so far. (g) Skills, Fame, Wealth, etc. Of merits and skills valued by Neo-Hittite kings and officials, practice of justice is the most prominent – as in the records of a David or a Solomon. Compare the brief claims in Carchemish by Katuwas (c. 900 bc), whose justice brought him divine support and prosperity (which he invested in temple-building, A11a; C 1/1, 95; A2+3, C 1/1, 109), and also territorial expansion, for which he rewarded the gods with sacrifices and bread-offerings (A11b/c; C 1/1, 103). Katuwas earned divine favour by his righteousness, seeking skill, protection and even profit from his god (A12; C 1/1, 113-4). Then, later (c. 820), the regent Yariris claims that his justice was such that it reached up to heaven, and his fame reached even to ‘Egypt and Babylon’, besides other distant peoples (A6, C 1/1, 124). Elsewhere (A15b; C 1/1, 131), he says, ‘I knew 12 languages’, being [skilled?] ‘in the City’s writing, in the writing of Sura, in the Assyrian writing [cuneiform?], and in Taimani writing’ [N.-Arabian?]. In the early 8th century, Halparuntiyas iii of Gurgum (c. 790) considered himself ‘famed abroad’, and his justice earned divine notice (Marash 1; C 1/1, 263). Late that century (c. 718), Kiakki king of Shinuhtu in Tabal was loved by the gods for his justice (Aksaray; C 1/2, 476). And c. 700, Asitawata of the Karatepe bilingual claimed that all looked up to him for his justice and wisdom, and his promotion of prosperity (C 1/1, 51, 53). Solomon was not the only wise ruler in the Syro-Palestinian world. Royal officers and vassals might profess loyalty to their royal masters, as did Ruwas to his master the great king Tuwatis, c. 760 bc (Kululu 1, 4; C 1/2, 443, 445-6), likewise Asitawata of Karatepe in Que, some 60 years later (Karatepe; C 1/1, 50). The WestSemitic group of texts has some traces of this, but here said of the vassals Panammu ii and Bar-Rakib as loyal to their Assyrian master, and prospering therein (ContS, 2, 158-161). (h) Finally – Curses! These abound in our Neo-Hittite texts. They are mainly against any who would damage or destroy the inscriptions. Here, king after king fulminates against offenders, and I must be brief with this catalogue of venom! In the 12th century bc, Ir-Tesup’s officer invokes the Storm-god to prosecute

Hieroglyphic Inscriptions of the Neo-Hittite States 131 any offender (C 1/1, 290); similarly, the gods are frequently invoked to litigate against offenders in the 11th and 10th centuries bc (Melid, Runtiyas, G¨ ur¨ un text; C 1/1, 296; Carchemish, Astuwatimanzas, A14a/b; C 1/1, 86), or to attack them (A1a; C 1/1, 89); or offenders lose their power and perhaps family (Gurgum, Laramas i, Marash 8; C 1/1, 253). Others invoke divine destruction (Tell Ahmar 2; C 1/1, 228). un, C In the 9th century, again the gods will litigate (Körk¨ 1/1, 173), prevent offspring (A11b/c, C 1/1, 104), and also refuse the offender’s offering-bread and libation (Carchemish; Katuwas, A11a, C 1/1, 96); or, if offerings be refused, it will go ill with offenders (A4d; C 1/1, 101), or they will simply be accursed (A2+3, C 1/1, 110). The 8th century provides a steady stream of curses; whether from Melid (Sirzi, C 1/1, 322), or Carchemish (Cekke, with death, loss of abundance [C 1/1, 146]; A4d, litigation and destroying one’s head [C 1/1, 152]; or being prosecuted [A25b, C 1/1, 157]; or litigation and deprivation [Kummuh, Boybeypinari, C 1/1, 337]). Great King Wasu-sarruma (c. 760) invokes the gods to smash the hostile person and his house (Topada, C 1/2, 454), while an officer invokes the gods to attack an offender from behind, or eat him up, or the Moon god of Harran may hook him up on his horn! (Sultanhan, C 1/2, 466). Another text (Karaburun, C 1/2, 481) has the gods swallow up the offender’s eyes and/or feet. And c.700 bc, Asitawatas of Karatepe asks for an offender, ‘may the gods erase his kingdom, his king and yon man!’ (C 1/1, 58). In the small West-Semitic corpus, one may find curses with Hadad-yisi of Guzan (a god as adversary, ContS, 2, 153-4), Kilamuwa of Samal (deity strike one’s head, ContS, 1, 147-8), Zakkur of Hamath (penalty lost, ContS, 2, 155), and Panammu i of Samal (object of divine wrath, of terror and to be stoned, ContS, 2, 156-8).

5 In Conclusion Looking back over this very bald summary of the data in over 220 Hieroglyphic Luwian inscriptions, in comparison with both the small (but still valuable) clutch of West-Semitic texts and with the narratives and sundry notices in Samuel-Kings and Chronicles, in the Hebrew Bible, it is very clear, I think, that the three corpora have a great deal in common, in wars, buildings, care for religion and ritual, serving deities or being affected by them; and

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in family matters including royal successions, the roles of high officials, and of learning, wisdom and loyalty, and in sanctions on the malevolent through curses. So, this is a useful and helpful positive resource. But we have not finally finished with curses. For our last pair, we end with the dogs, as in the story of Jezebel (2 Kgs 9:36; c. 852 bc). In c. 760 bc, a servant of Tuwatis king of Tabal invokes the curse on an offender: ‘May the Hasami-dog of the goddess Kubaba go after him, may it eat up his . . . , and his very person!’ (Kululu 1; C 1/2, 443). But, far more graphically, we may go back to the time of Yariris, regent of Carchemish who, at the end of his splendid inscription, quoted several times already (A6, C 1/1, 125, pl. 31-33; see Fig. 3 below), fulminates against any offender: ‘May the dogs of Nikarawas eat his head off!’ – with a superb hieroglyph of a suitably fierce dog! However, this writer would prefer that his colleagues and readers might, rather, gain blessings, not curses, from utilisation of these notable inscriptions in their own works in times to come!

Fig. 1 The Curse of Yariris (A6), c. 810 bc

Hieroglyphic Inscriptions of the Neo-Hittite States 133

Fig. 2 The Neo-Hittite States, c. 1200-700 bc

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Selected Neo-Hittite Rulers carchemish melid que Gt Kgs: Kuzi-Tesup i, Runtiyas, c. 1030 Kati, c. 850 c. 1180 Ir-Tesup?, c. 1140 “Sulu”mili ii, c. 1010 Urikki, c. 700 Ini-Tesup ii, c. 1100 Arnuwantis ii, c. 990 (& vassal, Asitiwata) Kuzi-Tesup ii, c. 1060 Taras(?), c. 970 bit-adini Ura-Tarhuns, c. 1000 Tudkhalias?, c. 910 Hamiyatas, c. 910 Kgs: Suhis i, c. 970 Lalli, c. 840 gurgum Astuwatimanzas, c. 950 unqi / patina Laramas i, c. 940 Suhis ii, c. 920 Halparuntiyas, c. 850 Halparuntiyas iii, c. 790 Katuwas, c. 890 Tarhuntassa / tabal kummuh Astiruwas i, c. 830 Mursil, c. 1210 Kuntashpi, c. 850 (Yariris, rgt, c. 810) Hartapus, c. 1190 Suppiluliuma, c. 800 Kamanis, c. 780 (large gap, c. 400 yrs) hamath Pisiris to 717 Tuwatis, c. 760 Urhilina, c. 850 Wasu-sarruma, c. 750 Uratamis, 830

Marjo C.A. Korpel

Utrecht University – The Netherlands

Disillusion among Jews in the Postexilic Period 1 Introduction In most accounts of the aftermath of the destruction of the Solomonic temple and the Babylonian Exile emphasis is laid on the aspect of restoration.1 Hardly ever attention is paid to the pessimism, disillusion and even nihilism that were also found among Jews in the Neo-Babylonian and Persian periods.2 In order not to complicate matters, I will describe the survivors of the fall of Jerusalem in 587/586 bce and their descendants as ‘Jews’ in this paper. Of course I do know that it is hardly possible to speak of a coherent entity one might call ‘the Jews’ at the time, but ‘Judaeans’ or ‘Yehudites’3 would create the false impression that we are able to determine every person’s tribal or geographic origin, whereas in reality we often have little more than theophoric personal names to go by. The bearers of those names might just as well be descendants of Northern Israel. Or have no ties at all to Judah or Persian Yehud.4

2 A Depressing Sense of Guilt The circumstance that history had put the preexilic prophets of doom in the right led to a rigorous application of the doctrine of divine retribution after the fall of Jerusalem in 587 bce. If one strictly obeyed God’s commandments, such pious beha1

Compare a characteristic title like P.R. Ackroyd’s Exile and Restoration: A Study of Hebrew Thought of the Sixth Century BC, London 1968. For some criticism of this kind of representation see H.M. Barstad, The Myth of the Empty Land: A Study in the History and Archaeology of Judah During the “Exilic” Period (SO.S, 28), Oslo 1996, 13; R. Albertz, ‘The Thwarted Restoration’, in: R. Albertz, B. Becking (eds), Yahwism after the Exile: Perspectives on Israelite Religion in the Persian Era (STAR, 5), Assen 2003, 1-17 (1). 2 Not even in L.L. Grabbe’s excellent work, Judaic Religion in the Second Temple Period: Belief and Practice from the Exile to Yavneh, London 2000, are these topics dealt with in sufficient detail. 3 See the proposal of D.V. Edelman (ed.), The Triumph of Elohim: From Yahwisms to Judaisms, Grand Rapids 1995, 7. 4 For a fine synthesis of what is known archaeologically about Yehud see C.E. Carter, The Emergence of Yehud in the Persian Period: A Social and Demographic Study (JSOT.S, 294), Sheffield 1998.

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viour would be rewarded with prosperity, but sinful behaviour would lead to the most horrible plagues and suffering. Such, for example, is the theology of the undoubtedly postexilic Epilogue to the Holiness Code (Lev. 26) which sets forth the Deuteronomic/Deuteronomistic theology of retribution,5 also maintaining the principle of collective guilt: the present generation has to atone not only for its own guilt, but for the sins of the fathers as well (Lev. 26:40).6 The latter doctrine had generated a feeling of hopelessness, especially among young people who asked themselves why they had to suffer for sins they had not committed. One or two generations after the destruction of the temple they complain, ‘Our fathers have sinned, but they are no more. We, however, bear their iniquities’ (Lam. 5:7). ‘The fathers have eaten sour grapes and the children’s teeth are blunted’ (Jer. 31:29; Ezek. 18:2). The prophets of the Exile tried to rebut this kind of reasoning (e.g. Isa. 40:29-31; Jer. 31; Ezekiel 18; 33), but to no avail. The postexilic community suffered under the burden of the sins of previous generations, and many penitential fastings and prayers, above all the pessimistic Book of Lamentations,7 but also chapters like Ezra 9, Nehemiah 98 and Zechariah 7,9 testify to this deep consciousness of collective guilt. The general feeling seems to have been that one of the main reasons for the destruction of the temple and the end of the monarchy had been idolatry. There are clear indications not only in the Bible but also from the side of archaeology that people 5 See on the latter A. Laato, ‘Theodicy in the Deuteronomistic History’, in: A. Laato, J.C. de Moor (eds), Theodicy in the World of the Bible, Leiden 2003, 183-235. 6 Cf. M.C.A. Korpel, ‘The Epilogue to the Holiness Code’, in: J.C. de Moor, W.G.E. Watson (eds), Verse in Ancient Near Eastern Prose (AOAT, 42), Neukirchen-Vluyn 1993, 123-50. 7 See J. Renkema, Lamentations (HCOT), Leuven 1998; Idem, ‘Theodicy in the Book of Lamentations?’, in: Laato, De Moor (eds), Theodicy in the World of the Bible, 410-28. 8 See on the pervading feeling of guilt in both chapters S. Japhet, ‘Theodicy in Ezra-Nehemiah and Chronicles’, in: Laato, De Moor (eds), Theodicy in the World of the Bible, 432-5 (with bibliography). 9 Cf. M.J. Boda, ‘Zechariah: Master Mason or Penitential Prophet?’, in: Albertz, Becking (eds), Yahwism after the Exile, 49-69; Y. Hoffman, ‘The Fasts in the Book of Zechariah and the Fashioning of National Remembrance’, in: O. Lipschits, J. Blenkinsopp (eds), Judah and the Judeans in the NeoBabylonian Period, Winona Lake 2003, 169-218.

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in Yehud attempted to purify the cult of polytheistic elements. This necessitated changes in the cult of the dead10 and repression of iconic worship.11 Although aniconic worship has very ancient roots in Israel, programmatic iconoclasm seems to be a postexilic phenomenon.12 Asherah, still venerated in preexilic Israel,13 was symbolically carried off to Babylon (Zech. 5:5-11).14 Postexilic prophets like Haggai and Malachi were preoccupied with cultic purity.15 Trito-Isaiah criticises the lax observation of the sabbath and fasting (Isa. 56; 58). No doubt all this will have satisfied the religious leadership of the postexilic period, but others, especially women, will have deeply deplored this loss of religious practices which had played an important part in the family cult.

3 Disillusioned Monotheists One might think that in the wake of the fall of Jerusalem the advocates of strict monotheism carried the day. But they too must 10 T.J. Lewis, Cults of the Dead in Ancient Israel and Ugarit (HSM, 39), Atlanta 1989, 100-4, 172, 176-7; H. Niehr, ‘The Changed Status of the Dead in Yehud’, in: Albertz, Becking (eds), Yahwism after the Exile, 136-55. 11 Cf. E. Stern, Material Culture of the Land of the Bible in the Persian Period 538-332 B.C., Warminster 1982, 158-82; Idem, ‘Religion in Palestine in the Assyrian and Persian Periods’, in: B. Becking, M.C.A. Korpel (eds), The Crisis of Israelite Religion: The Transformation of Religious Tradition in Exilic and Post-Exilic Times (OTS, 42), Leiden 1999, 245-255 (253-5). R. Schmitt, ‘Gab es einen Bildersturm nach dem Exil?’, in: Albertz, Becking (eds), Yahwism after the Exile, 186-98, unsuccessfully tries to play down the relevance of Stern’s observations. 12 Cf. T.N.D. Mettinger, No Graven Image? Israelite Aniconism in its Ancient Near Eastern Context (CB.OT, 42), Stockholm 1995, esp. 195-7. 13 See (e.g.) B.(J.E.H.) Becking et al., Only One God? Monotheism in Ancient Israel and the Veneration of the Goddess Asherah (BiSe, 77), London 2001. 14 Cf. H.J. Marsman, Women in Ugarit and Israel: Their Social and Religious Position in the Context of the Ancient Near East (OTS, 49), Leiden 2003, 485, with earlier literature. 15 See on Malachi, L.L. Grabbe, Judaism from Cyrus to Hadrian, vol. 1: The Persian and Greek Periods, Fortress Press: Minneapolis 1992, 45: ‘Malachi’s value is primarily for the religious and social issues which were important to the community at the time. Its major aim seems to be that of assuring the community of God’s continuing love and concern for them. Because many Jews seemed to be looking in vain for evidence of that love, however, an explanation of why the promises were not being fulfilled was needed (1:25; 2:17; 3:13-18). The reason given is lack of obedience and reverence on the part of the community. The criticisms focus especially on proper cultic observance, with the priests themselves being strongly taken to task along with the people (1:6–2:9; 3:6-12).’

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have been dissatisfied with their failure to convert every more or less polytheistic Israelite. Their problem was the problem of every monotheistic religion: the origin of evil. How could it be explained that God seemed to have abandoned the people, the Davidic king and the priesthood he himself had chosen? Many lost faith in the God of their fathers who in their view had punished them beyond reasonable measure. Allow me a very incomplete overview of quotations from these staunch monotheists: ‘Look, O Lord, and see! With whom have you dealt thus? Should women eat their own offspring, the children of their tender care? Should priest and prophet be slain in the sanctuary of the Lord?’ (Lam. 2:20). ‘The breath of our nostrils, the Lord’s anointed, was taken in their pits, he of whom we said, “Under his shadow we shall live among the nations” ’ (Lam. 4:20). ‘My way is hidden from the Lord, and my right is neglected by my God’ (Isa. 40:27). ‘Why are we fasting, if you do not see it? (Why) do we humble ourselves, if you do not take note of it?’ (Isa. 58:3). ‘We await justice, but there is none, salvation, but it is far away from us’ (Isa. 59:11). ‘Where is he who brought them up from the sea, (where are) the shepherds of his flock? Where is he who puts his holy spirit in their midst?’ (Isa. 63:11). ‘Where are your zeal and your might?’ (Isa. 63:15). ‘We have become like those over whom you have never ruled, like those who are not called by your name’ (Isa. 63:19). ‘Awake! Why do you sleep, O Lord? Awake! Do not cast us off for ever!’ (Ps. 44:23). ‘Where is the God of justice?’ (Mal. 2:17). Not the Israelites but God himself is held responsible for the rampant neglect of worship: ‘the Lord has brought to an end in Zion appointed feast and Sabbath’ (Lam. 2:6). ‘How can we sing a song of the Lord on alien soil?’ (Ps. 137:4). ‘It is useless to serve God. What have we gained by keeping his charge and walking in abject awe of the Lord of Hosts?’ (Mal. 3:14). Undoubtedly some of these cries of distress were exaggerated, as complaints tend to be. Although the deportations to Babylonia and the ensuing famines must have seriously weakened the population of Judah after the fall of Jerusalem, a total breakdown of all social structures during the Neo-Babylonian occupation is unlikely, especially not in rural areas.16 But to deny these bitter 16

Though the textual evidence for this statement is scant, archaeological finds support it. Cf. G. Barkay, ‘The Iron Age II-III’, in: A. Ben-Tor (ed.),


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complaints any historical basis would be begging the question in my opinion. We have seen that especially the young suffered under the theological doctrine of collective guilt. Was it a consolation when the poet of Lam. 3:27 intoned, ‘It is good for a man that he bear the yoke in his youth’ ? Apparently not, according to the poet of Lam. 5:13, ‘boys stagger under loads of wood’. The destruction of the temple, the deportations of the Judahite elite to Babylonia in 597 and 587, and the harsh regime of the new masters apparently created widespread despair and apathy. People seriously doubted whether it was sensible to serve their God Yhwh any longer. Many documents in the Murashˆ u archives were issued on Jewish holidays which any observant Jew would try to avoid.17 Both in Elephantine and Babylonia Jews married foreign men and women.18 The same practice is attested for Achaemenid Palestine and had to be redressed by Ezra and Nehemiah (Ezra 9–10; Neh. 13:23-28; see also Mal. 2:11).19 So Esther’s marriage to an uncircumcised man was by no means exceptional. As in Mesopotamia and Egypt, Sabbath and religious festivals were not kept meticulously in Achaemenid Palestine (Isa. 58; Zech. 7; Neh. 13:15-18) and Achaemenid Egypt (see below). The dietary and sacrificial laws were abandoned by most people (Isa. 65:1-11). When Esther asked the Jews on the thirteenth Nisan to fast for three days (Est. 4:16) she effectively asked them to ignore the prescriptions The Archaeology of Ancient Israel, New Haven 1992, 302-73 (372); E. Stern, Material Culture of the Land of the Bible in the Persian Period, 538-332 BC, Warminster 1982, 229; Carter, The Emergence of Yehud; Barstad, The Myth of the Empty Land, esp. 47-55. 17 Cf. R. Zadok, The Jews in Babylonia in the Chaldean and Achaemenian Periods According to Babylonian Sources (Studies in the History of the Jewish People and the Land of Israel Monograph Series, 3), Haifa 1979, 49, 82. 18 In Babylonia only marriages between Babylonian men and foreign women are attested; cf. R. Zadok, ‘The Representation of Foreigners in Legal Documents (Eighth through Second Centuries b.c.e.)’, in: Lipschits, Blenkinsopp (eds), Judah and the Judeans in the Neo-Babylonian Period, 471-589 (483). At the International Meeting of the SBL at Groningen 2004 Kathleen Abraham read a paper on ‘Mixed Marriage: Cuneiform Marriage Contracts from the 5th Century bce with Hebrew Names’ that might be relevant to this topic but which due to other duties I was unable to attend. 19 It seems to me that this is an argument for the third possibility mentioned by B. Becking, ‘Continuity and Community: The Belief System of the Book of Ezra’, in: Becking, Korpel (eds), The Crisis of Israelite Religion, 256-75 (274-5).

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for Passover.20 In contrast to Daniel (Dan. 1:8, 12, 16) and to Judith (Jdt. 12:1-2), Esther shows no concern whatsoever for the Jewish dietary laws when she is eating with gentiles (Est. 2:9, 18; 5:4-6, 8, 12, 14; 7:1-2, 7-8). The Jews in Palestine were slow to rebuild the temple in Jerusalem (Hag. 1:2). James Trotter has argued plausibly that this was due to a lack of motivation on the part of the local population.21 Even when the Second Temple had been erected, religious duties were still neglected (Mal. 1:6-14; 2:8; 3:5, 8; Neh. 13:10-13; perhaps also Joel 1:13, if dated in the Persian period). Apparently monotheistic Jews had a hard time to observe their basic responsibilities towards their God Yhwh. Other Jews opted for a return to polytheism. Jeremiah (e.g. Jer. 7:18; 44) and Ezekiel (e.g. Ezek. 8;22 13:17-2323 ) denounce pagan religious practices not only among exiles in Egypt and Babylonia, but also among the survivors in Palestine itself. As we shall see, theophoric personal names and documents from Egypt testify to the fact that at least some Jews lost interest in the worship of Yhwh alone.

4 Jonah’s Disappointment The Book of Jonah is a product of the Persian period.24 It shares the universalism granting gentiles access to the God of Israel, on condition that they convert to him, that is found in other biblical books belonging to the Persian period, such as Trito-Isaiah, especially ch. 56; Jer. 3:17; 4:2; Mic. 4:2 Isa. 2:3; and the Book of Ruth, which I date in the Persian period.25 It seems justified 20

I. Kalimi, ‘The Book of Esther and the Dead Sea Scrolls’ Community’, ThZ 60 (2004), 101-6 (105-6). 21 J.M. Trotter, ‘Was the Second Jerusalem Temple a Primarily Persian Project?’, SJOT 15 (2001), 276-94. 22 Cf. M. Dijkstra, ‘Goddess, Gods, Men and Women in Ezekiel 8’, in: B. Becking, M. Dijkstra (eds), On Reading Prophetic Texts: Gender-specific and Related Studies in Memory of Fokkelien van Dijk-Hemmes, Leiden 1996, 83114. 23 Cf. M.C.A. Korpel, ‘Avian Spirits in Ugarit and in Ezekiel 13’, in: N. Wyatt et al. (eds), Ugarit, Religion and Culture (UBL, 12), M¨ unster 1996, 99-113. 24 See Grabbe, Judaism from Cyrus to Hadrian, vol. 1, 46; Idem, Judaic Religion in the Second Temple Period, 17-8; E. Ben Zvi, Signs of Jonah: Reading and Rereading in Ancient Yehud (JSOT.S, 367), London 2003, esp. 8, 15-18, 116-26. 25 M.C.A. Korpel, The Structure of the Book of Ruth (Pericope, 2), Assen


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that Jonah applies the doctrine of severe retribution to a foreign enemy who does not repent and does not convert to the God of Israel. But at the end of the Book of Jonah God is depicted as having compassion on Israel’s oppressors when they do repent and pray to him (Jon. 3:8), despite the many prophecies announcing merciless doom over Assyria and Babylonia (e.g. Nahum; Isa. 10:5-19; 13–14; 47; Jer. 50–51). It is only after the sailors pray to the God of Israel (Jon. 1:14), and not to their own gods any more (cf. 1:5), that they are saved. The king of ‘Nineveh’ too exhorts his subjects to pray to the God of Israel26 (Jon. 3:7-9). Jonah, however, personifies disobedient Jews who did not want to accept that the universal rule of the ‘God of heaven’ (Jon. 1:9)27 implies that there is also salvation for non-Jews who repent and convert. The Ninevites are clearly depicted as more obedient to the Lord than Jonah.28 Like other Jews at the time, the author of this book takes the view that strict observance of the letter of the law is subordinate to a pious attitude towards the Lord. The heathen sailors sacrificed and made vows outside the temple (Jon. 1:16), whereas Jonah promises to sacrifice and to fulfil vows in the temple (Jon. 2:9), but does not. No doubt the booklet of Jonah was aimed at those who were deeply disappointed that the Persians did not destroy ‘Nineveh’ – apparently a fictitious name for Babylon – and even continued to control Yehud from this hated city with the help of officers bearing Babylonian names.29 This must have been extremely painful to Jews who had been convinced that God would take speedy revenge for the destruction of his temple. The Book of Jonah does not say that ‘Nineveh’/Babylon will escape the destruction that the prophets, including Jonah, had announced, but the booklet 2001, 224-33. On Isa. 19:19-22, see my comments below. 26 Not his own god(s), as follows from Jon. 3:1 and the sequel. 27 This designation of the universal deity is typical of the Persian period and may well reflect the influence of Persian religion. Cf. J.M. Trotter, Reading Hosea in Achaemenid Yehud (JSOT.S, 328), London 2001, 149-53, with bibliography. 28 Contra Ben Zvi, Signs of Jonah, 123-6, who unsuccessfully tries to defend the view that even in the Book of Jonah Israel retains a privileged position in comparison to the nations. 29 Cf. K.R. Veenhof, ‘History of the Ancient Near East’, in: A.S. van der Woude (ed.), The World of the Bible, vol. 1, Grand Rapids 1986, 316-8; M.A. Sweeney, The Twelve Prophets (Berit Olam), vol. 1, Collegeville 2000, 306.

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tries to explain the postponement of its judgment. Whether this solution will have satisfied many is extremely doubtful. Jonah at least does not reply to God’s final rhetorical question, ‘Should not I pity Nineveh, that great city, in which there are more than a hundred and twenty thousand persons who do not know their right hand from their left, and also much cattle?’ Jonah is the prototype of vengeful disillusioned Jews in the Persian period. They must have formed a sizeable portion of the population of Yehud.30

5 No Davidic King Second Isaiah especially wanted to put an end to the depressed mood which had been caused by the preaching of an immense collective guilt that justified merciless divine retribution (Isa. 40:1-2; cf. 50:9, etc.). Even the innocent suffering of the young he tries to explain as a meritorious self-sacrifice (Isa. 53).31 Yet this prophet too had to suffer a deep deception. He had put great hopes on Cyrus whom he expected to rebuild Zion and bring back the exiles (Isa. 44:28). He had even entertained the grandiose idea that Cyrus might eventually accept Yhwh as his sole deity (Isa. 41; 45–46). But the years went by and his prophecy seemed to have failed. When Cyrus did not become the new ‘Anointed’ he had envisaged (Isa. 45:1), Second Isaiah did not return to the old ideal of a Davidic Messiah. He no longer supported the nationalistic ideal of a restoration of the Davidic dynasty, but instead opted for a collective salvific role for Israel (Isa. 55).32 The hope of some that Jehoiachin would be restored to the Davidic throne (Jer. 28:1-4) had ended with his deportation and death (Jer. 22:20-30; 52:3134; Lam. 4:20). Messianic expectations may have risen again with the appointment of Zerubbabel as governor of Judah (Hag. 2:2023, with 2:23 clearly an attempt to neutralise Jer. 22:24; Zech. 30 Cf. Hag. 2:22; Zech. 1:15. And with regard to the necessity to sacrifice in the temple, Hag. 2:14. 31 Cf. A. Laato, J.C. de Moor, ‘Introduction’, in: Laato, De Moor, Theodicy in the World of the Bible, xlv, l-liii. 32 Cf. J.C. de Moor, M.C.A. Korpel, The Structure of Classical Hebrew poetry: Isaiah 40–55 (OTS, 41), Leiden 1998, 629-30, n. 2; M.C.A. Korpel, ‘Metaphors in Isaiah LV’, VT 46 (1996), 43-55 (49); Idem, ‘Second Isaiah’s Coping with the Religious Crisis: Reading Isaiah 40 and 55’, in: Becking, Korpel (eds), The Crisis of Israelite Religion, 90-113 (99-101).


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4:1-6, 10-14), but if so, these hopes were shattered again. Zerubbabel was quickly removed from the political stage.33

6 No Temple for All Israel Rainer Albertz deems it likely that by way of compromise the Persians allowed the rebuilding of the temple in Jerusalem to proceed.34 However, this ambition too was only partially realised. There was a lot of opposition to this costly project in Yehud itself (Ezra 4; Hag. 1:2). The ideal of a new temple on Mt. Zion was shared by many Jews in exile, even if they had their own sanctuary abroad, as was the case in Elephantine, and possibly also in Babylonia (Ezek. 11:16; see also Isa. 55:6). Those who saw themselves as heirs of Northern Israel, notably the Samaritans, were at first willing to participate in the building of a new temple on Zion (Ezra 4:1-5), but when their proposal met with a haughty rebuff from the side of the Yehudite leadership, they decided to build their own temple on Mt. Gerizim. We now know that they erected a huge sanctuary for Yhwh alone there, after the model described in the Book of Ezekiel (Ezek. 40–42), and undoubtedly with the support of the Persian authorities.35 Josephus knows of a Samaritan temple built on Mt. Gerizim under a certain Sanballat with the consent of ‘Darius the king’ (Josephus, Ant. Jud. XI.8 [§§ 302-347]). Probably he means Sanballat III and Darius III (336-330), but it may well be that he misunderstood his sources.36 Perhaps Sanballat I had started the plans for the 33 See Albertz, ‘The Thwarted Restoration’, 7-9. According to Wolter Rose these passages would not even have anything to do with restoration of the monarchy. Cf. W.H. Rose, Zemah and Zerubbabel: Messianic Expectations in the Early Postexilic Period (JSOT.S, 304), Sheffield 2000. 34 See Albertz, ‘The Thwarted Restoration’, 9-10. It was a general policy of the Achaemenids to support local cults because this offered the Persian supervisors an easy method of exacting tribute from them. Cf. J. Blenkinsopp, ‘Temple and Society in Achaemenid Judah’, in: P.R. Davies (ed.), Second Temple Studies 1: The Persian Period (JSOT.S, 117), Sheffield 1991, 22-53. 35 Y. Magen, ‘Mount Gerizim and the Samaritans’, in: F. Manns, E. Alliata (eds), Early Christianity in Context: Monuments and Documents (SBF.CMa, 38), Jerusalem 1993, 91-148. 36 Cf. F.M. Cross, ‘Aspects of Samaritan and Jewish History in Late Persian and Hellenistic Times’, HTR 59 (1966), 201-11 (esp. 203-5); H.G. Kippenberg, Garizim und Synagoge: Traditionsgeschichtliche Untersuchungen zur samaritanischen Religion der aram¨ aischen Periode (RVV, 30), Berlin 1971, 50-7; M.Z. Segal, ‘Die Heirat des Sohnes des Hohenpriesters mit der Tochter

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new temple or Sanballat III resumed the building activities after a period of interruption. Whatever the truth in this regard, the mere fact that not a single Hebrew or Aramaic document from the postexilic period mentions this competing Samaritan sanctuary testifies to the deep resentment this building must have caused the Jews. The Deuteronomic dream of one central temple for all Jews was impossible to realise as long as this Samaritan sanctuary existed.37

7 The Loss of Names In the Neo-Babylonian empire it was the policy to give foreigners who got a permanent function in public or economic life a new Babylonian name symbolising their loyalty to their new masters. Daniel and his friends got Babylonian names when they became officers in the Neo-Babylonian empire (Dan. 1:7). Even if this is pure fiction, it does reflect the custom of the time accurately.38 When the Persians conquered the ancient Near East, many of their subjects took over the Neo-Babylonian system of renaming. As long as Babylonian was still the lingua franca for international contacts they opted for Babylonian names, later on when Aramaic became the official language of the Persian empire Aramaic names became increasingly popular. Apparently many Jews had successfully adapted to the Babylonian way of life, as Jeremiah had encouraged them to do (Jer. 29:4-7). It was one of the reasons why the prophetic admonitions to leave Babylonia had little effect (Isa. 48:20; 52:11; Jer. 51:6, 45; Zech. 2:10-11 [tr. 2:6-7]). The Book of Second Isaiah (Isa. 40–55) contains scarcely veiled criticism of apostates who are said to have served Babylonian ‘idols’ and resisted the prophet’s call to return to Zion.39 des Sanballat und der Bau des Heiligtums auf dem Garizim’, in: F. Dexinger, R. Pummer (eds), Die Samaritaner (WdF, 604), Darmstadt 1992, 198-219. 37 Later on others who opposed the priesthood in Jerusalem also felt free to build temples elsewhere. Cf. Cross, ‘Aspects of Samaritan and Jewish History’, 207. 38 M.D. Coogan, West Semitic Personal Names in the Muraˇsu ˆ Documents (HSM, 7), Missoula 1976, 124-5; Zadok, The Jews in Babylonia in the Chaldean and Achaemenian Periods, 41-78, 85-6. 39 I cannot accept the thesis that Deutero-Isaiah would be another product of the elite in Persian Yehud; cf. P.R. Davies, In Search of ‘Ancient Israel’ (JSOT.S,148), Sheffield 1992, 118-9. But for my argument here it makes no difference where the author and/or the Jewish apostates lived.


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From the fact that some of them were buried in graveyards next to pagan wealthy people (Isa. 53:9) it may be inferred that at least some of them became fairly rich in their new surroundings.40 Moreover, Ezra 1 creates the impression that many exiles in Persian Babylonia had become men of substance (Ezra 1:4, 6). Three wealthy Jews from Babylonia are mentioned in Zech. 6:915. Daniel (Dan. 8:2) and Nehemiah (Neh. 1:1) were among those who purportedly served at the Persian court in Susa in fairly high positions. Mordecai and Esther are credible representations of the type of successful Jewish exiles in Persia. The Murashˆ u archives, dating from 455/54 and 404/03 bce, prove that these Israelites also had to conform, to some extent at least, to Babylonian religious practice.41 Next to a Jewish name they often bore a Babylonian or Persian name, in several cases a name honouring a pagan deity.42 How many of them gradually allowed their Jewish name to fall into disuse, as Esther and Mordecai apparently did, cannot be established any more. The name of Mordecai contains the name of the Babylonian national god Marduk. It occurs frequently as Mar-duk-a in the Murashˆ u archives, although it is unlikely that one of these persons is identical to the biblical Mordecai.43 The name of Esther too was a non-Jewish name (cf. Est. 2:7). It might be derived from the name of Ishtar, the Babylonian goddess of love and war.44 So both of them seem to have belonged to the group of 40

Cf. Barstad, The Myth of the Empty Land, 75-6. This is not contradicted by the relatively low position of most Jews in the Nippur region; cf. R. Zadok, On West Semites in Babylonia During the Chaldean and Achaemenian Periods: An Onomastic Study, Jerusalem 1978, 86-7. 41 In accordance with their general policy of leaving as much as possible of the local cultures of subjected nations intact, the Persians, the new masters of Mesopotamia, had allowed the Babylonians to continue their culture and religion. Cf. M.W. Stolper, Entrepreneurs and Empire: The Muraˇsu ˆ Archive, the Muraˇsu ˆ Firm, and Persian Rule in Babylonia, Istanbul 1985. So Cyrus’s lenient treatment of the Jews was in no way exceptional. Cf. P. Briant, From Cyrus to Alexander: A History of the Persian Empire, tr. P.T. Daniels, Winona Lake 2002, 47-8. 42 Coogan, West Semitic Personal Names in the Muraˇsu ˆ Documents, 124-5; Zadok, The Jews in Babylonia, 41-78, 85-6. In one case a Jewish father gave u-ˇsarra his son a name praying Yhwh to protect the (Persian) king, d Ia-hu-´ `). Cf. Zadok, ‘The Representation of Foreigners’, 487. (lugal)-us.ur (uru 43 Coogan, West Semitic Personal Names, 125; Zadok, On West Semites in Babylonia, 70. 44 M. Noth, Die israelitischen Personennamen im Rahmen der gemein-

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Jewish exiles who had adapted to their pagan surroundings, even accepting Babylonian theophoric names. The Hermopolis papyri from the late 6th – early 5th century bce (TAD, A2.1-7, pp. 9-23) show that under Persian rule Babylonian theophoric personal names continued to be in use even in Egypt. TAD, A6.9, p. 114, from the late 5th century bce, shows that this was also the case in Syria and Palestine. This is confirmed by archaeological finds. A seal from the 6th century is inscribed with the Yahwistic name Yehoshima (yhwˇsm ), daughter of a father bearing the Babylonian name ˇswˇsˇsr’s.r which means ‘may (the Sun god) Shamash protect’.45 Either he himself or his wife must have been Jewish. The name Sanballat, or rather Sin’uballit., ‘May (the Moon god) Sin keep alive’ (sn blt.), is known from the Old Testament as that of an opponent of Nehemiah (Neh. 2; 13:28) and occurs in a letter from Elephantine (TAD A4.7, pp. 68-71). It is now also attested by a bulla sealing one of the Samaria papyri from Wadi Daliyeh.46 All these documents contain evidence that the governors of Samaria called Sanballat were servants of Yhwh.47 So they must have felt it expedient to exchange their Jewish name for a Babylonian one honouring a Babylonian god. The papyri and ostraca from Elephantine prove that it is often difficult to distinguish Jews from foreigners, as the following tables demonstrate:48 Jewish names of offspring of foreigners TAD A3.3; B2.2 Hosea/Osea, son of Pet.ekhnum (Egypt.). TAD B3.10; 3.11; 3.13 H . aggai, son of Mardu (Babyl. or Aram.). semitischen Namengebung, Stuttgart 1928, 11. Compare the name of the abat-d Iˇstar at Sippar; cf. Zadok, On West Semites in BabyJewish woman f T .¯ lonia, 44. Others prefer a derivation from a Persian or Greek word meaning ‘star’; cf. HAHAT, 86. 45 J. Renz, W. R¨ ollig, Handbuch der althebr¨ aischen Epigraphik, Bd. 2/2, Darmstadt 2003, 239, No. 10.30. 46 N. Avigad, B. Sass, Corpus of West Semitic Stamp Seals, Jerusalem 1997, No. 419 (p. 176; for other Babylonian PNN in Palestine, see 539-43); Renz, R¨ ollig, Handbuch der althebr¨ aischen Epigraphik, Bd. 2/2, 262 (No. 10.100). 47 See also Cross, ‘Aspects of Samaritan and Jewish History’, 204-6. 48 I exclude TAD B6.4 Bethelnathan, son of Jehonathan, and TAD C3.15 Hosea, son of Bethelnuri. Porten regards names containing the element ‘Bethel’ as Aramaic, but it is possible that (some) Jews at Elephantine identified Yhw with the god Bethel.


TAD TAD TAD TAD TAD

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B5.3 Zekaryah, son of Psami (Egypt.). C3.15 Miptah., daughter of T.isati (Egypt.). D3.17 Mauzziyah, son of Pawosi (Egypt.). D3.17 Menah.em, son of Pawosi (Egypt.). D8.7 Berukhah, daughter of Pasi (Egypt.).

Foreign names of offspring of Jews ˇ (Aram.), son of Zechariah. TAD A3.9; C4.6 Sewa TAD B5.5 Eswere (Egypt.), daughter of Gemariah. TAD C3.15 Syamaka (Pers.), son of Meˇsullam. TAD C3.28 Tasi (Egypt.), daughter of H . anniyah. TAD C4.6 H or (Egypt.), son of Pedayah. . The case of Ash.ur (Egyptian) who appears to be identical with the Jew Nathan renders it likely that, also, in Persian Egypt at least some Jews bore two names, a Hebrew one and an Egyptian one.49 The name of Pet.ekhnum indicates that even the Egyptian god Khnum could be honoured in the personal name of a Jew. In some cases intermarriage may have been an incentive to adopt such a foreign name,50 though endogamy was the rule among the Jews of Elephantine.51 Unfortunately, however, we shall never know how many Jews gave up their Hebrew name permanently to further their career in Egypt.52 Most Jewish personal names on Neo-Babylonian tablets,53 as well as in the Elephantine and Samaria papyri,54 prove that it 49

Cf. B. Porten, Archives from Elephantine: The Life of an Ancient Jewish Military Colony, Berkeley 1968, 252. Attestations: B. Porten, J.A. Lund, Aramaic Documents from Egypt: A Keyword-in-Context Concordance, Winona Lake 2002, 323-4. 50 The Egyptian woman Tapmet, for example, was married to Ananyah, son of Azaryah. Attestations: Porten, Lund, Aramaic Documents from Egypt: A Keyword-in-Context Concordance, 420. 51 Porten, Archives from Elephantine, 133-50. 52 The process of exchanging Jewish names for foreign ones continued under the Ptolemies; cf. J.M. Modrzejewski, The Jews of Egypt: From Rameses II to Emperor Hadrian, tr. R. Cornman, Princeton 1997, 83-7. 53 Cf. D. Vanderhooft, ‘New Evidence Pertaining to the transition from Neo-Babylonian to Achaemenid Administration in Palestine’, in: Albertz, Becking (eds), Yahwism after the Exile, 219-35 (223-4, 226). 54 The Samaria papyri from the 4th century bce contain mostly Yahwistic personal names. Cf. J. Zsengellér, ‘Personal Names in the Wadi ed-Daliyeh Papyri’, ZAH 9 (1996), 182-9; D.M. Gropp, Wadi Daliyeh II: The Samaria Papyri from Wadi Daliyeh (DJD, 28), Oxford 2001. Twice the name of the Edomite god Qaus occurs in PNN (Nos. 2 and 9), and one slave bearing a

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was certainly possible to keep a Yahwistic personal name in the Persian empire.55 Next to the governors of Persian Yehud with Babylonian names like Sheshbazzar, Zerubbabel and Sanballat, a governor called Yeho‘ezer is known.56 Nehemiah, too, kept his Yahwistic name when Artaxerxes appointed him governor of Yehud (Neh. 5:14). So it was not absolutely necessary to adopt a foreign name to please the Persians. Those who adopted a foreign theophoric name must have done so deliberately and ipso facto distanced themselves more or less from the religion of their ancestors.

8 Disillusion among Jews at Elephantine The Jewish military garrison at Elephantine suffered under the hate of the Egyptian priests of Khnum. TAD A4.3 (late 5th century) states, ‘To you it is known that Khnum is against us since Hananiah has been in Egypt until now.’ This Hananiah was probably the sender of the so-called Passover letter TAD 4.1, dated in 419 bce. Since this letter is a reply to an earlier letter from Elephantine asking for precise instructions on how to observe the Passover/Mas.s.ot rites, it is likely that Hananiah had visited Egypt before 419. Another conflict with the priests of Khnum is documented by A4.5 (p. 62, dated 410 bce or slightly later). It is a draft petition intended for Vridanga’s superior(s) asking for the demolition of a wall which had been built in the middle of the fort, apparently at the instigation of the priests of Khnum, and which had stopped up a well which would have served the garrison in case of a siege. TAD A4.7 (pp. 68-71, dated 25 November 407 bce), is a first draft of a letter of recommendation to the Persiannamed bgwhy ph.t yhwdh, ‘Bagavahya, governor of Judah’, from Jedaniah and his colleagues, the priests.57 The Egyptian priests of the god Khnum had bribed the interim Persian commander Vidranga to order the temple of Yhw to be removed from Elephantine. This was contrary to an earlier agreement with the Persian name appears to have a Semitic father called Eli (No. 10), but the latter may just as well be a non-Jewish Semite. 55 For other indications that most inhabitants of Yehud remained loyal Yahwists, see Trotter, Reading Hosea in Achaemenid Yehud, 145-149, with bibliography. 56 Vanderhooft, ‘New Evidence’, 231. 57 TAD A4.8 (pp. 74-5) is a second, almost identical draft of this petition, dated the same day.


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Persians, because Cambyses had allowed the Jews of Elephantine to keep their temple and continue the worship of their God Yhw.58 Nevertheless, the Egyptians now destroyed the Jewish temple on Vidranga’s orders. The whole episode reminds one of the hatred Diaspora Jews sometimes encountered from certain Persian officials, according to the Book of Esther. The destruction of their sanctuary caused the Jews at Elephantine deep sorrow. For three years on end they tried to move their God by prayer, mourning and fasting. They stopped offering the meal-offerings, incense and holocaust. All in vain. A request for help sent to Jehohanan the High Priest in Jerusalem and other religious and political authorities in Yehud remained unanswered. This too must have been a bitter disappointment to the Jews of Elephantine. We can only guess at the reason for the silence of the Jerusalemites, but it may well be that the rebuilding of the temple in Jerusalem that had started some 12-15 years earlier (Hag. 1) made it difficult for them actively to support a request to rebuild a Yahwistic temple outside Jerusalem.59 The letter seeking help for the restoration from Bagavahya, the governor of Judah, would also be sent to the sons of Sanballat the governor of Samaria. We do not know whether the latter reacted but, according to TAD A4.9 (p. 76), Bagavahya reacted positively, instructing the Jews at Elephantine to inform the Egyptians that the temple had to be rebuilt and that offering could be resumed, albeit it is hardly accidental that he mentions only meal offerings and incense. Presumably animal victims were 58

This argument cannot have been invented pour besoin de la cause, because in that case it would have backfired. Both Jews and Persians must have been convinced that Cambyses had allowed them to build their temple, although it is unlikely that this was sanctioned by an official decree. Cf. I. Kottsieper, ‘Die Religionspolitik der Achämeniden und die Juden von Elephantine’, in: R.G. Kratz (ed.), Religion und Religionskontakte im Zeitalter der Ach¨ ameniden (VWTG, 22), G¨ utersloh 2002, 150-78 (160, 168). Also Briant, From Cyrus to Alexander, 55, considers this information reliable, despite Cambyses’s destruction of other temples in Egypt. 59 Cf. Briant, From Cyrus to Alexander, 586. Modrzejewski, The Jews of Egypt, 42, has a different explanation: ‘For the Jewish leaders in Jerusalem, the sack of the Elephantine temple could be readily interpreted as a form of divine justice, a fit punishment for their dissident coreligionists. It was hardly surprising that the pressing letters from Elephantine went unanswered.’ The weakness of this idea is that it does not take into account that earlier (419 bce) Jerusalem did answer a request from Elephantine.

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henceforth forbidden, perhaps in order not to irk the priest of the theriomorphic god Khnum60 , or to please the Persians who were not in favour of bloody sacrifices,61 or by way of compromise with the Judahite priesthood which claimed exclusive sacrificial rights for the temple in Jerusalem (cf. Deut. 12:11, 13-14). Did Bagavahya’s influence really extend as far as Egypt? We do not know. In any case, TAD A4.10 (p. 78) is a declaration by several Jews at Elephantine that they were willing to pay for the restoration. However, apparently no contributions from Jerusalem or Samaria came forward, or they would, no doubt, have been recorded in this document.62 The Aramaic documents cited thus far may create the impression that the Jews at Elephantine were zealous followers of Yhw, but, in reality, at least some of them appear to have retained or adopted a mild form of syncretism.63 A Jewish man called Hosea wishes that ’lhy’ kl, ‘all the gods’, will seek the welfare of a lady Shalwah (letter dated in the last quarter of the 5th century, TAD A3.7, p. 40). A certain Shewa son of Zechariah wishes that ‘all the gods’ will seek the welfare of his lord Islah. (letter dated 399 bce, TAD A3.9, p. 46). Similar cases are TAD A4.2, p. 56 and A4.4, p. 60. A4.3 (dated late 5th century bce) seems to prove that the sender, Mauziah son of Nathan, equated yhw lh , ‘Yhw the God’, with lh ˇsmy , ‘the God of Heaven’, who had helped him in a conflict with the Persian commander Vidranga and the 64 Egyptian officer H . ornufi. One document from Elephantine even points to an assimilation of Yhh = Yhw to the Egyptian god Khnum, the very deity whose priests brought about the destruction of Yhw’s temple (TAD D7.21, p. 172, first quarter of the 5th century): ‘I bless you by Yhh and Khnum’. The speaker is a 60 So B.E.J.H. Becking, ‘Joods syncretisme in Elefantine?’, NedThT 56 (2002), 216-32 (223). 61 So Albertz, ‘The Thwarted Restoration’, 15, n. 58; Kottsieper, ‘Die Religionspolitik der Achämeniden, 172-5. 62 Despite Isa. 19:19-22, which testifies to a different, possibly later, attitude towards Jewish sanctuaries in Egypt. Cf. J. Blenkinsopp, Isaiah 1–39: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AncB, 19), New York 2000, 318-9. 63 With Becking, ‘Joods syncretisme in Elefantine?’, 216-32. See also E.A. Knauf, ‘Elephantine und das vor-biblisch Judentum’, in: Kratz (ed.), Religion und Religionskontakte im Zeitalter der Ach¨ ameniden, 179-88. 64 See also TAD A4.7 (pp. 68-71), where Yhw is called dwn hˇsmym, ‘the Lord of Heaven’.


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certain Gdl, possibly a hypocoristic for Gedaliah. In TAD D7.30, p. 178 (first quarter of the 5th century) a certain Yarh.u wishes his brother well in the name of four Babylonian gods. It is not certain, however, that this man was a Jew. In 440 bce the undoubtedly Jewish woman Mibtahiah swore an oath by the Egyptian goddess Sati to satisfy her Egyptian opponent in a lawsuit (TAD B2.8).65 Her choice of a female deity may well have had to do with a certain longing for a goddess as a cultic ‘Gegen¨ uber’ in her litigation with a man. According to TAD B7.3 (pp. 146-7, late 5th century), a Jewish man called Menah.em took an oath 66 by the deities H . erem and Anath-Yhw. A long list of Jewish persons who spent money for the temple of Yhw, dated 1 June 401, surprisingly ends with the dry observation that only 126 shekels went to Yhw, but 70 shekels to Eshembethel and 120 shekels to Anathbethel (TAD C3.15, pp. 226-34). The latter deity is also known as a Phoenician goddess.67 This summation is not in accordance with the heading of the list, which names Yhw as the sole intended recipient. It seems likely that the organisers of the collection deliberately kept the true destination of the money from the spenders. It is possible that the lines mentioning the true destination of the silver were appended to the document only later on.68 This would seem the most logical conclusion since the summation was written on a fresh page, and only afterwards were some late benefactors added below it. Why would they do that? If polytheism was their normal religion, why not mention Eshembethel and Anathbethel in the heading too? In my opinion the Jewish community at Elephantine was in a period of spiritual transition. On the one hand they felt compelled to follow the strict monotheistic guidelines they received from Jerusalem. The so-called ‘Passover letter’ TAD A4.1 (p. 54, dated 419 bce) shows remarkable conformity with the rules laid down in the Priestly Code for Passover and the Festival of Unleavened Bread (Lev. 23:5-8), but at the same time 65

Note the disbelief expressed by B. Porten, The Elephantine Papyri in English: Three Millennia of Cultural Continuity and Change, Leiden 1996, 189, n. 14. 66 Cf. Porten, The Elephantine Papyri in English, 266, n. 7. 67 Cf. Becking, ‘Joods syncretisme in Elefantine?’, 227-30. 68 The lines in question have been written between two horizontal lines. See TAD III, foldout No. 32, Col. 7.

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indicates that earlier the Jewish priests in Elephantine had been uncertain about the date and correct celebration of these festivals. Also, according to TAD D7.6 (p. 158, first quarter of the 5th century), there was uncertainty among the Jews at Elephantine about the time when the Passover rites should be observed. The sabbath too was observed at Elephantine (TAD D7.10, p. 162; D7.16, pp. 168-9). The threats a man has to utter to urge his wife to violate the sabbath would seem to indicate that it was already supposed to be kept rigorously, but that this commandment could be transgressed for purely economic reasons. All this points on the one hand to a tendency to conform to the strict rules dictated by the Jerusalemite priesthood. The emphasis on monolatry or monotheism may well have been the reason why the Jews at Elephantine came into conflict with the priests of Khnum.69 This is one side of the coin. On the other hand, other Jews at Elephantine apparently did not see much harm in polytheism and secretly transferred most of the money collected for the temple of Yhw to other deities. However, they did not dare to collect money openly for a polytheistic purpose. What this means is that they were torn between two incompatible belief systems. Bezalel Porten dates the founding of the Jewish temple in Elephantine around 650 bce, assuming that priests fled Jerusalem because Manasseh had defiled the temple on Zion with a cult image of Asherah.70 If this is true, the original community at Elephantine must have been fairly monolatric or even monotheistic. However, evidently their polytheistic surroundings in Egypt, the inexplicable destruction of the temple in Jerusalem and the lack 69

Compare once again TAD A4.3 (late 5th century) stating, ‘To you it is known that Khnum is against us since Hananiah has been in Egypt until now.’ This Hananiah had been trying to enforce strict observance of the Priestly Code in Elephantine. 70 B. Porten, ‘Settlement of Jews at Elephantine and Arameans at Syene’, in: Lipschits, Blenkinsopp (eds), Judah and the Judeans in the NeoBabylonian Period, 451-70. On the historical reliability of the essential parts of 2 Kgs 21:1-18, see P.S.F. van Keulen, The Manasseh Account (2 Kings 21:1-18) and the Final Chapters of the Deuteronomistic History (OTS, 38), Leiden 1996, 207-12. Another possibility has been suggested on the basis of Greek sources. The Jewish garrison would have been established under Psammetichus II (595589 bce), i.e. after Josiah’s reform. Cf. Modrzejewski, The Jews of Egypt, 23-6. For my argument above this would make little difference.


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of support from Jerusalem when they themselves were confronted with the destruction of their own temple must have led to serious doubt as to the viability of a continued concentration on the worship of Yhw alone. It seemed much more reasonable to assimilate slowly to their environment and accept the polytheism of the Egyptians and Arameans with whom they had to deal on a daily basis. The Papyrus Amherst 63, which is slightly younger than the Jewish documents from Elephantine, seems to indicate that soon afterwards at least some Jews in Egypt decided to adopt a syncretistic form of polytheism.71 The violation of the sabbath mentioned earlier and also the adaptation to Egyptian law with regard to a woman’s right to initiate a divorce,72 a right she did not have in ancient Israel,73 point to an eroding sense of loyalty to traditional values.

9 The Nihilism of the Book of Esther There is little doubt that in a general way the Book of Esther reflects the historical circumstances of the Persian era.74 Several descriptions of customs and administration in the Persian empire as well as quite a number of Babylonian and Persian loan-words lend a feeling of authenticity to the Book of Esther.75 In contrast to other late books, Greek loan-words are absent – which argues for a date not too far removed from Persian era. However, the number of inconsistencies with the details of Persian history is so great that the author must have lived far removed from the time and places described.76 The Book of Esther is a masterful work of literary fiction, not an accurate historical record. It creates a first impression of unbelievable and, certainly to 71 Cf. S.P. Vleeming, J.W. Wesselius, Studies in Papyrus Amherst 63, 2 vols, Amsterdam 1985-1990. 72 TAD B2.6; B3.3; B3.8. 73 Marsman, Women in Ugarit and Israel, 188. 74 Grabbe, Judaism from Cyrus to Hadrian, vol. 1, 51-2. 75 Cf. M. Ellenbogen, Foreign Words in the Old Testament: Their Origin and Etymology, London 1962, 175; E.M. Yamauchi, ‘Mordecai, the Persepolis Tablets, and the Susa Excavations’, VT 42 (1992), 272-4; P.V. Mankowksi, Akkadian Loanwords in Biblical Hebrew (HSS, 47), Winona Lake 2000, 225. 76 Cf. (e.g.) J.A. Loader, Das Buch Ester (ATD, 16/2), G¨ ottingen 1992, 207-9; J.D. Levenson, Esther: A Commentary (OTL), Louisville 1997, 237; K.H. Jobes, Esther (The NIV Application Commentary), Grand Rapids 1999, 31.

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modern Western readers, unacceptable cruelty. This and the absence of any open reference to God have often given rise to depreciating remarks about the book’s religious value. The common way to avoid this is to point out that Esther is part of the Hebrew canon. Therefore we should read the book within the context of the canonised literary heritage of ancient Israel, constantly looking for intertextual links with other parts of the Hebrew canon.77 Since it is clear that the Book of Esther itself presupposes knowledge of other parts of the canon this is certainly a legitimate approach. However, the dubious canonical status of the book – it is not present among the biblical books at Qumran78 – weakens the force of this type of argument. Moreover, when it comes to defining the specific theological thrust of the Book of Esther,79 most authors confine themselves to stating that its purpose is to stress God’s hidden protection of Israel. But why would God be hiding, whereas He is prominently present in all other biblical books describing his mighty acts of deliverance in the past? If so, it would make God all the more responsible both for endangering the Jewish people and for the massacre among the Persians. In a different context I have recently defended the thesis that Esther is a book that avoids mentioning God deliberately because it ascribes to him gross injustice, especially by allowing the disastrous outcome of the casting of lots which might have meant the total annihilation of all Jews in the Persian empire.80 According to all religions of the ancient Near East, casting lots was an act by which people left a decision to the deity. It was the deity – according to the monotheistic Jews, undoubtedly their own God (cf. Prov. 16:33) – who decided to give permission for their annihilation. It is an undue mitigation of this terrible truth 77

So (e.g.) B.S. Childs, Introduction to the Old Testament, Philadelphia 1979, 598-607; A.M. Rodriguez, Esther: A Theological Approach, Berrien Springs 1995, 38-43; P.R. House, Old Testament Theology, Downers Grove, 1998, 490-6. Jobes, Esther, even inserts a special section ‘Bridging Contexts’ after the ‘Original Meaning’ of every passage. 78 For a plausible theory about the reasons why the Qumran sect rejected the book see Kalimi, ‘The Book of Esther and the Dead Sea Scrolls’ Community’, 101-6. 79 A good survey of opinions is provided by Rodriguez, Esther, 81-90. 80 M.C.A. Korpel, ‘Theodicy in the Book of Esther’, in: Laato, De Moor (eds), Theodicy in the World of the Bible, 401-24.


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to state that God ‘allows Israel to endure danger’81 – it was much more serious. There are many other pointers to the incomprehensible cruelty on the part of God in the book; I discussed them in the same study and will not repeat them here. If God had been mentioned in Esther, He would have stood accused of gross injustice which was only undone by brave human intervention. In my opinion the Book of Esther should be read as a protest against the religious indifference among Jews still living in exile in the late postexilic period. Those who were succesful in closing a pact with the new rulers of the ancient Near East, the Persians, on the one hand did not want to adopt the religion of the conquerors. But on the other they felt betrayed by their own God. Esther and Mordecai stand for people who rely on themselves because they feel that God has abandoned them. They courageously take their future in their own hands, not unlike many people in our own times. The Book of Esther in its canonical Hebrew form compels the reader to reflect on the question whether this is a viable option. Are human beings themselves capable of making just decisions if they are forced to give up the idea of a righteous divine Judge protecting the world? It is my conviction that the author of Esther wanted us to answer this question negatively. If human beings stop trusting in a good God they all become merciless murderers.82 In common judgement, they may achieve much, but if so, it is ultimately not by their own doing. Even a lovely girl like Esther becomes just as cruel as the evil Haman. The traditional Jewish way of celebrating Purim up to the point where the drunken participants are no longer able to distinguish the ‘evil’ Haman from the ‘good’ Mordecai (b. Meg. 7b) aptly expresses this idea. Where so much killing is involved, it would be arrogant to claim to know exactly what is ‘good’. Deeply disappointed in their God who seemed to have abandoned his people and alienated them from their own roots through the foreign cultures they had had to absorb, neither Esther nor Mordecai knows how to address this ‘good’ God any more. Yet Esther vindicates God in spite of his cruelty. She risks her own life for others, thus show81

So House, Old Testament Theology, 492-3. Cf. Paulo Coelho’s thought-provoking novel The Devil and Miss Prym, Eng. tr. A. Hopkinson, N. Caistor, London 2002. 82

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ing the God who hides himself that human beings can decide for themselves what is good. In doing so she invites God to come out and side with what is good. Esther’s brave gamble annulled Haman’s Purim. But at the same time the Book of Esther shows how easily human goodness can come to an end. Nihilism is not the solution.

10 Conclusion The destruction of the temple on Mt. Zion in 587/586 and the deportation of the Judaean elite to Babylonia created a feeling of hopelessness in the hearts of many Jews in the Persian period. Not all were immediately ready to dream about a glorious restoration. One of the reasons for this gloom was the interpretation of the disastrous events as the well-deserved punishment for the sins of the fathers. Especially the youth in the postexilic era suffered under this harsh doctrine of divine retribution which was supposed to span the generations. The most terrible preexilic prophecies of doom had come true (e.g. Mic. 3:12), and, since the prophets had warned time and again against serving other gods, the general feeling seems to have been that one of the main reasons for the destruction of the temple and the end of the monarchy had been idolatry. There are clear indications not only in the Bible but also from the side of archaeology that people in Yehud attempted to purify the cult of polytheistic elements. Asherah, still venerated in preexilic Israel, was symbolically carried off to Babylon (Zech. 5:5-11). This must have had a detrimental effect on family religion and will have been deplored especially by women. They were by no means the only ones, however, who were disillusioned. Those who still trusted in Yhwh alone also felt abandoned by him, as many cries of anguish from sources which, with more or less certainty, can be dated in the Persian period reveal. Many doubted that it was still sensible to worship this God. Others, like Jonah, asked themselves why God did not punish the gentile aggressors, but seemed to deny his chosen people their exclusive rights. The hope that God would restore his chosen Davidic king soon vanished. The rebuilding of the temple on Mt. Zion met with a lot of opposition, and the erection of a huge Samaritan temple on Mt. Gerizim shattered the hope of a centralised cult for all Israel.


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This feeling of despair and apathy is not only documented by biblical sources. There is evidence of a Jewish identity crisis throughout the Persian empire. The Murashˆ u archives show that in Persia and Persian Babylonia Jews who became fairly prosperous in their new surroundings began to neglect their religious holidays, scorned the dietary laws, married Babylonians, and took on Babylonian names, including names honouring Babylonian deities. Apparently some went even as far as returning to mild forms of polytheism. The same phenomena may be observed in Persian Yehud and with the Jewish garrison in Elephantine in Egypt. Of course, adoption of a foreign name need not mean that one had dropped the Jewish name, let alone that it meant denouncing one’s religion. But we also know that it was not imperative to use a foreign name in the Persian empire. Most Jews kept their own name, even in official documents. But a considerable number of Jews allowed their original names to fall into disuse and felt no scruples in swearing in the name of other deities or in sharing money collected for Yhw with worshippers of other deities. Lack of support from Jerusalem, which was still pursuing the Deuteronomic/Deuteronomistic ideal of a unified central cult on Mt. Zion, may have discouraged Jews abroad from supporting their own satellite sanctuaries.

Nathan MacDonald

University of St Andrews – Scotland

Whose Monotheism? Which Rationality? Reflections on Israelite Monotheism in Erhard Gerstenberger’s Theologies in the Old Testament It is well known that monotheism has been a central concern of recent biblical scholarship, in both Old and New Testaments. The perception of Israelite religion has been revolutionised by the debate that was initiated by the discoveries at Kuntillet Ajrud and Khirbet el-Qom.1 The Albrightian consensus (at least such it was in North America) with its polarisation of Canaanite and Israelite religion has been replaced by a picture of pre-exilic religious diversity with a ‘monotheistic breakthrough’ as the result of a long process climaxing in the exile. New Testament studies has had its own discussion about monotheism. What kind of divinity did the New Testament authors attribute to Jesus of Nazareth, at what point did this occur, and how could this be squared with first-century Jewish monotheism?2 As has been the case with the Old Testament, older ‘canons’ (I use the term broadly) have been treated with suspicion and a new hearing given to previously marginal voices. In the study of the New Testament also, this decentring has destroyed the monochromatic picture of earlier scholarship. The changing shape of these debates has been documented in a number of places, and I do not wish to rehearse the state of the question.3 Instead, I wish to allow light from an oft-neglected area to shine on the discussion: that of theological scholarship. For, 1

For an accessible summary of the discoveries, see M. Dijkstra, ‘I Have Blessed You by Yhwh of Samaria and His Asherah: Texts with Religious Elements From the Soil Archive of Ancient Israel’, in: B. Becking et al. (eds.), Only One God? Monotheism in Ancient Israel and the Veneration of the Goddess Asherah (BiSe, 77), London 2001, 17-44. Detailed analysis and bibliography are found in J.M. Hadley, The Cult of Asherah in Ancient Israel and Judah: Evidence for a Hebrew Goddess (UCOP, 57), Cambridge 2000. 2 Recent contributions to the New Testament debate may be found in C.C. Newman et al. (eds.), The Jewish Roots of Christological Monotheism: Papers from the St Andrews Conference on the Historical Origins of the Worship of Jesus (JSJ.S, 63), Leiden 1999. 3 The Old Testament debate has been traced, for example, by R.K. Gnuse, No Other Gods: Emergent Monotheism in Israel (JSOT.S, 241), Sheffield 1997, 62-128.

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monotheism has not been absent from discussion in Systematics. Here the presumed significance and centrality of monotheism has been put into question. We may pass over those who favour a move towards polytheism, not because their questions are not urgent and cogent, but because this seems to me to short-cut the Judaeo-Christian complex of which the Bible is necessarily part (even if the Old Testament might appear to some degree to be urgen a co-opted part).4 A very directed attack has come from J¨ Moltmann who favours abandoning monotheism with its unsavoury political implications for trinitarianism.5 In more general terms it is clear that there are many Christian theologians who see the Trinity as something to be strongly affirmed and worthy of exploration, and for whom monotheism is wooden, even of dubious value. This is, of course, almost exactly the reverse of the situation that existed twenty or thirty years ago. I have no wish to follow Moltmann with a straightforward rejection of monotheism, though the political appropriation of the oneness of God, made by Eusebius if not before, is problematic. Instead I wish to note what seems to me a more suggestive approach to the question, based on observations made by both David Tracy and Nicholas Lash that monotheism is the coinage of the English Enlightenment, more specifically the Cambridge Platonist Henry More, and its coinage is in no small measure associated with a particular rationality and approach to religion. Tracy observes that ‘ “monotheism” is an Enlightenment invention that bears all the marks of Enlightenment rationalism. Monotheism, in this not so secretly evolutionary view, is a contrast word to “polytheism”; that is, by Enlightenment standards, monotheism is a more rational understanding of the logic of the divine as implying a unicity of divine power, not a dispersal of the power into many gods and goddesses. Like the other famous “isms” ¨ Famously, O. Marquard, ‘Lob des Polytheismus: Uber Monomythie und Polymythie’, in: Idem, Abschied vom Prinzipiellen: Philosophische Studien, Stuttgart 1981, 91-116. Note also the sharp criticisms of monotheism in R. Schwartz, The Curse of Cain: The Violent Legacy of Monotheism, Chicago 1998. 5 See J. Moltmann, The Trinity and the Kingdom of God, London 1981, 197. Critiques of Moltmann can be found in C. Schwöbel, ‘Radical Monotheism and the Trinity’, NZSTh 43 (2001), 54-74, and R. Otto, ‘Moltmann and the Anti-Monotheism Movement’, International Journal of Systematic Theology 3 (2001), 293-308. 4

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of the Enlightenment (deism, pantheism, theism, panentheism), modern philosophical “monotheism” is, above all, “rational” and “ethical” ’.6 The quote from Tracy outlines essential features of the term ‘monotheism’ as commonly used from the Enlightenment onwards. It takes its explanatory power from a bifurcation of ideas of the divine. On the one side are ranged monotheism, rationality and morality, and on the other polytheism. Simply and effectively the opposite position is demonised (though, of course, there are no demons in this world view). Lash provides a similar reflection but provides a more detailed analysis based on the work of Peter Harrison.7 In his ‘Religion’ and the Religions in the English Enlightenment Harrison shows that the initial steps towards a science of religion took place in seventeenth century England.8 This fell far short of the descriptive ideal of the nineteenth century, for the growing knowledge about the world’s religions was frequently used as a foil for the religious controversies that convulsed Europe at the time. Henry More’s neologism, ‘monotheism’, belongs to an attempt to organise religious knowledge along the lines of the species and genus model of the sciences. With an attenuated concept of religious experience, he quantified religions according to the number of deities. In this schema there were monotheism and atheism (of which polytheism was a disguised form). This was married to a particular conception of knowledge in which truth was purely cognitive and immediately accessible to the rational mind. The failure to perceive rightly the existence of only one self-sufficient and eternal Being could be blamed on the enemies of rationality: the priesthood, sacrifice and idolatry which benighted one’s faculties.9 More’s intellectualised account of religion and his naive taxonomising of the world’s religions is nicely summarised by Lash as ‘a simple strategy for a complex world’.10 6

D. Tracy, ‘The Paradox of the Many Faces of God in Monotheism’, in: H. Haring, J.B. Metz (eds.), The Many Faces of the Divine (Conc, 1995/2), London 1995, 30-8, here 30. 7 N. Lash, ‘The Beginning and End of “Religion” ’, in: Idem, The Beginning and End of ‘Religion’, Cambridge 1996, 3-25. 8 P. Harrison, ‘Religion’ and the Religions in the English Enlightenment, Cambridge 1990. 9 For a detailed account of More’s coinage of ‘monotheism’ contextualised in the debates about reason and revelation in seventeenth century England see N. MacDonald, Deuteronomy and the Meaning of ‘Monotheism’ (FAT, II/1), T¨ ubingen 2003. 10 Lash, ‘Beginning’, 10.

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All this would be of little interest to those in the discipline of Old Testament had it not been for the persistent practice of reading large parts of this package back into the biblical text. An analogous example, which may be instructive, is the Western perception of ancient Egyptian religion. The Egyptologist Jan Assmann has shown in his Moses the Egyptian the degree to which Egyptian religion became a self-projection of the radical Enlightenment. Distinguishing the educated priestly elite from the Egyptian hoi polloi, intellectuals of the eighteenth century managed to convince themselves that behind the crass polytheism of Egyptian religion lay an esoteric and enlightened monotheism. The mysterious hieroglyphs were believed to preserve accounts of this primeval religion. This true religion of the one God was ethical, universal, non-mythological, rational, aniconic and nonsuperstitious.11 This intellectual tradition, with its strange picture of Egyptian religion, melted away with Champollion’s decipherment of the hieroglyphs in the early nineteenth century. The projection of Enlightenment ‘monotheism’ on to biblical texts has been a far more complex affair, less easily untangled. This is the case not only because both testaments contain statements about Yhwh’s uniqueness, but also because the Enlightenment belongs to the Bible’s enormous history of influence. Modern views of God, as numerous Old Testament scholars have sought to emphasise, trace their roots back to ancient Israel, albeit through a complex history also influenced by the New Testament, Greek philosophy, the rise of Islam, Renaissance and Reformation, and the scientific revolution, amongst other things. Further, the Bible has always been read, to a greater or lesser degree, through the lenses of the changing view of God. In the rest of this paper I want to consider characterisations of ‘monotheism’ in Old Testament scholarship. The first example is a classic and exploits the monotheism-polytheism dichotomy. Its roots lie clearly in the Enlightenment. The second example is more recent and nuanced, evidencing continuity with what precedes, but clearly also a step away from Enlightenment ‘monotheism’. The first characterisation of ‘monotheism’ is Albright’s famous and controversial definition of ‘monotheism’: 11

J. Assmann, Moses the Egyptian: The Memory of Egypt in Western Monotheism, Cambridge 1997.

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Was Moses a true monotheist? If by ‘monotheist’ is meant a thinker with views specifically like those of Philo Judaeus or Rabbi Aqiba, of St. Paul or St. Augustine, of Mohammed or Maimonides, of St. Thomas or Calvin, of Mordecai Kaplan or H.N. Wieman, Moses was not one. If, on the other hand, the term ‘monotheist’ means one who teaches the existence of only one God, the creator of everything, the source of justice, who is equally powerful in Egypt, in the desert, and in Palestine, who has no sexuality and no mythology, who is human in form but cannot be seen by human eye and cannot be represented in any form - then the founder of Yahwism was certainly a monotheist.12

Albright maintains the appearance of historical differentiation, noting the distance between Mosaic monotheism and that of Philo and onwards. Nevertheless, by introducing a critical and basic division between polytheism and monotheism, the location of Mosaic religion is predetermined. Note also that there is some shifting of definitions: ‘equally powerful in Egypt, the desert, and in Palestine’ takes the place of universalism. This represents, on the one hand, a careful attendance to the particularities of the biblical text, but, on the other hand, the shape of Mosaic belief is brought into conformity with a particular conception of ‘monotheism’ which is not easy to justify as a descriptive account of Israelite religion according to the Pentateuch. To echo Lash: Albright provides a ‘simple strategy to a complex world’. Or, better, a simple strategy to complex worlds, for Albright’s argument ranges across religious thinkers of enormous diversity. The recent restatement of the same strategy in Robert Gnuse’s No Other Gods strikes me as being as questionable as it was in Albright’s work. Gnuse argues for the restoration, in nuanced form, of the theories of the ‘Heilsgeschichte theologians’. The contrast between ancient Near Eastern religion and early Judaism is that between post-cyclical and pre-linear thought. The latter entails a more developed portrayal of God’s action in history, a deity free from nature, an emphasis on ethics rather than purity, a stress on human freedom with disappearance of magic and superstition, centrality of social justice and egalitarianism, and a universality from below. The modernistic assumptions underlying Gnuse’s approach are revealed in numerous ways: his 12

W.F. Albright From the Stone Age to Christianity: Monotheism and the Historic Process, Garden City 219-57, 271-2.

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description of early Jewish thought (note the intellectualism implicit in the decision to analyse in terms of thought) as pre-linear and of post-renaissance thought as linear, his strong contrast of ethics and cult, his talk of human rights and social justice. Strong evidence of continuity with the English Enlightenment is also found in the conceptualisation of sin. As Margalit and Halbertal note, ‘different concepts of God create, when reversed, different concepts of idolatry’.13 For Henry More, polytheism or atheism was an intellectual error, easily corrected by an attentive reading of his apology for the Christian religion. According to Albright, after the Mosaic revolution only the ‘ignorant and moronic’ failed to be monotheists; and I have already noted the significance of Gnuse’s use of ‘thought’. All of this is far removed from the centrality of idolatry in the Old Testament – a sin frequently portrayed as adultery, an act of betrayal. The second example I wish to examine is derived from Erhard Gerstenberger’s Theologies in the Old Testament, a work that is a substantive and challenging contribution to the discipline of Old Testament theology.14 I will not review the work (which I have done elsewhere),15 but will, rather, examine a number of quotations indicative of the sort of problem with which I am concerned. First of all, I should note a number of moves by Gerstenberger that strike me as promising. He notes that ‘the dispute over the one God takes place first at the level of practical life and the lived worship of God, not in theory’.16 The contrast implied by the ‘not’ is, I think, overstated, but justifiable in the face of the intellectualism demonstrated in many discussions of ‘monotheism’. In the same section he argues that ‘fundamentally the whole monotheism of the early Jewish community is a great, impressively presented monolatry which arose in a situation of confession and at a few points is theoretically supported by statements of uniqueness verging on an ontology’.17 This captures nicely a recent reluctance amongst some scholars to claim a heavy ontological significance for Deutero-Isaiah’s rhetoric.18 13

M. Halbertal, A. Margalit, Idolatry, Cambridge 1992, 1. E.S. Gerstenberger, Theologies in the Old Testament, Minneapolis 2002 (ET of Theologies im AT: Pluralit¨ at und Synkretismus alttestamentlichen Gottesglaubens, Stuttgart 2001). 15 ‘Review of E.S. Gerstenberger, Theologies in the Old Testament’, in: Biblical Interpretation (forthcoming). 16 Gerstenberger, Theologies, 274. 17 Gerstenberger, Theologies, 275. 18 M. Smith, The Origins of Biblical Monotheism: Israel’s Polytheistic 14

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Elsewhere, however, the idea of ‘monotheism’ that Gerstenberger delineates justifies us in asking, ‘Whose monotheism? Which rationality?’ In a discussion of Torah and the ethic of the postexilic community Gerstenberger makes the following observations. ‘There are duties to God and duties to fellow human beings in one’s own community. No more than this is to be found in the Torah. There are no state laws and (in contrast to the wisdom literature) there are no international laws or human rights. In a community which claims to be confessing the one and universal God, that of course is a defect.’19 That the same idea is also found in Gnuse is worth noting. He writes: ‘concomitant with the belief in one universal deity is a stress on human rights and dignity in some egalitarian world view’.20 Now it is certainly the case that human rights may be seen to derive, by a convoluted and extended historical process, from the Bible (though, interestingly enough, the American Declaration of Independence appeals to Nature’s God and self-evident truth), but I question whether they are useful, in a straightforward sense, as categories for describing the beliefs of early Judaism, still less for judging them defective. A more subtle example is found in Gerstenberger’s discussion of popular beliefs in early Judaism. ‘We might remember the sometimes incredibly archaic theological notions in the Priestly Writing: “That is a burnt offering, a gift offering, a fragrant savour for Yahweh” (Lev 1.9). The direct feeding of the image of God . . . is not presupposed. But by being burnt, this same food offering for the invisible God goes up in smoke and he can accept it with his sense of smell. The age-old taboo regulations about eating meat, sexual practices, striking skin diseases or mould on buildings or textiles, and the fear of deformed human beings and animals, which are certainly pre-Israelite, are quite incompatible with the strict belief in Yahweh inculcated by Deuteronomy or Deutero-Isaiah.’21 How very strange that this incompatibility went unnoticed for nearly two thousand years! For I do not count Background and the Ugaritic Texts, Oxford 2001. Cf. C.R. Seitz, ‘The Divine Name in Christian Scripture’, in: Idem, Word without End: The Old Testament as Abiding Theological Witness, Grand Rapids 1998, 251-63. 19 Gerstenberger, Theologies, 264. 20 R.K. Gnuse, ‘The Emergence of Monotheism in Ancient Israel: A Survey of Recent Scholarship’, Religion 29 (1999), 315-36, here 315. 21 Gerstenberger, Theologies, 261.

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the reconfigurations of these practices that took place in Christianity and Rabbinic Judaism as evidence of intellectual unease, but as arising from a sense of a new state of affairs resulting from the death and resurrection of Jesus and the destruction of the Temple. On this logic are we to judge that the Priestly writer had a less strict belief than that found in Deuteronomy or Isaiah, or are we to judge that the author of Deuteronomy somehow fell short of his basic convictions when he decided to include chapter 14 (to choose the most obvious example) with its ‘age-old taboo regulations’ ? The case against the so-called secularisation in Deuteronomy and the idea that the book prohibits all ‘superstitions’ (another modern idea) has been made by others and does not demand repeating.22 A further example is Gerstenberger’s discussion of particularism and universalism. In this dichotomy it is clear where monotheism lines up: ‘Alongside nationalist encapsulation there is sometimes an amazing openness to the outside world, which corresponds completely to the monotheistic universalism of Deutero-Isaiah. God’s power may no longer be commandeered by one group . . . Anyone who lives in the power of the one God and creator must learn to renounce the exercise of imperial or spiritual power on others. There is one and the same undivided peace for all.’23 The extent to which universalism – a term rarely given any definition, as Jon Levenson rightly notes24 – is found in the Old Testament is disputed, and Deutero-Isaiah is, of course, at the centre of such discussions. Specific exegesis of passages aside, to what degree is the well-established logic of ‘one God, one world’, so frequently appealed to by Gerstenberger, evidenced in the Bible? It is well-known that in Deuteronomy and other parts of the Bible, one God entailed not one world, but one chosen people from that world. In Deutero-Isaiah this election revolves around the mysterious servant-figure. Whatever role either 22 For these two issues see respectively, N. Lohfink, ‘Opfer und Säkularisierung im Deuteronomium’, in: A. Schenker (ed.), Studien zu Opfer und Kult im Alten Testament mit einer Bibliographie 1969–91 zum Opfer in der Bibel (FAT, 3), T¨ ubingen 1992, 15-43 and F.H. Cryer, Divination in Ancient Israel and its Near Eastern Environment: A Socio-Historical Investigation (JSOT.S, 142), Sheffield 1994. 23 Gerstenberger, Theologies, 247. 24 J.D. Levenson, ‘The Universal Horizon of Biblical Particularism’, in: M.G. Brett (ed.), Ethnicity and the Bible, Leiden 1996, 143-69.

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elect nation or servant has vis-à-vis the world it does not see the dissolution into wider humanity of their unique relationship to God (‘one and the same undivided peace for all’). But presumably, on Gerstenberger’s requirement of renouncing the exercising imperial or spiritual powers on others, it should. The continuity of Gerstenberger’s ‘monotheism’ with earlier ideas is clear, but the conceptualisation of sin has a distinctive post-modern turn. It is the exercise of imperial and spiritual power over others. Idolatry is not betraying Israel’s God for some other deity, it is not a failure to discern the obvious; it is oppression. We might characterise this as the idolisation of self. Since this comes close to traditional Judaeo-Christian concerns and is combined with a powerful ethical critique, this strikes me as an important development beyond Enlightenment intellectualism. Nevertheless, it is still distant from the biblical portrayal of monotheism as Gerstenberger’s own act of renouncement demonstrates. ‘In the light of our claim, grounded in the Old Testament, to confess the one God, we cannot in principle exclude any other religion.’25 Christopher Seitz’s observations at this point are pertinent: ‘the notion that there is only one God has ironically led in the modern period to a curious quasi-polytheism . . . we have a theoretical monotheism conjoined to a functionally polymorphous religiosity, summarised nicely by the phrase “We all worship the same God” ’.26 Gerstenberger has not only renounced the exercise of spiritual power, but also the Old Testament’s presentation that Israel must worship a particular deity known as Yhwh, whom all nations must also acknowledge. Again, I want to suggest that there is a danger of distortion when this idea of monotheism is used as a measure of the biblical texts.

Conclusion Brevard Childs describes ‘monotheism’ as ‘theologically inert’, failing ‘to register the basic feature of God’s self-revelation to Israel’.27 Claus Westermann warns that Isaiah’s polemic against the foreign gods is ‘not to be taken in terms of our present-day concept of monotheism. They [the Isaianic texts] do not mean 25

Gerstenberger, Theologies, 298. Seitz, ‘Divine Name’, 256. 27 B.S. Childs, Biblical Theology of the Old and New Testaments, London 1992, 355-6. 26

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uniqueness as regards existence.’28 Von Rad too distances the biblical text from the modern notion of ‘monotheism’: ‘this conception of monotheism as a more or less general human stage of knowledge reached by Judaism, secured and propagated by Christianity, from which one can no longer politely retreat, first arose in the period of the Enlightenment and haunts many heads today’.29 My argument, then, is not novel, but I hope to have highlighted a perennial temptation. Exorcising this ghost requires something other than reappraising the date at which ‘monotheism’ finally makes its breakthrough in ancient Israel, however attentive this is to archaeological finds or the latest movements in dating biblical texts. What is needed is the sort of approach that Larry Hurtado recommended for New Testament scholarship: ‘there is a tendency to proceed as if we can know in advance what “monotheism” must mean, which turns out to be a very modern, monistic form of monotheism . . . in place of this rather Aristotelian approach, I urge us to work more inductively, gathering what “monotheism” is on the ground, so to speak, from the evidence of what self-professed monotheists believe and practice’.30

28

C. Westermann, Isaiah 40–66 (OTL), London 1969, 16-7. G. von Rad, ‘The Origin of Mosaic Monotheism’, in: Idem, God at Work in Israel, Nashville 1980, 128-38, here 128. 30 L. Hurtado, ‘What Do We Mean by “First-Century Jewish Monotheism”?’, in: E.H. Lovering (ed.), Society of Biblical Literature 1993 Seminar Papers, Atlanta 1993, 348-68, here 354. For my own attempt to work ‘inductively’ with the book of Deuteronomy, see MacDonald, Deuteronomy. 29

Mervyn E.J. Richardson

Leiden University – The Netherlands

Textual Modification Some Examples from Egypt The fact that the text of almost every book of the Hebrew Bible is the result of a sometimes lengthy and potentially fluctuating oral tradition is unlikely ever to be seriously questioned. But the written Hebrew text that has subsequently emerged is somewhat impervious to change. With one or two important exceptions, the narratives of the biblical manuscripts dated in the last centuries of the last era are essentially the same as those written something like one millennium later. However, the fact that there are some significant variants, and that such variants are even more evident in the earliest translations of the Hebrew text into Greek, suggests that the traditional fixed text known today has emerged from a time when variant renderings of kernel literature were normally to be expected. There are several examples of ancient literature from the Near East the subject matter of which suggests that the written text has, like the Bible, emerged from a long process of oral transmission. Some of these texts may be read in alternative manuscripts, and an examination of the variant readings in those manuscripts will show the extent to which they have been subjected to a process of editorial change. By looking at these changes in detail it should be possible to classify those that occur regularly and those that are unusual. The present paper will look only at documents from Egypt, and it is hoped on another occasion to examine similar documents from those parts of the ancient Near East where cuneiform, rather than hieroglyphic and hieratic, was the normal ductus.1

1 Coptic Traditions It should not, of course, be forgotten that whatever the oral traditions from which a written text has emerged, the written text itself can be the inspiration for further oral traditions. One of 1

This paper is a shortened version of the original oral presentation in January 2003, which had the title ‘Characteristic Features of Peripherally Biblical Traditional Literature’. On that occasion more references were made to the literature from other areas.

Textual Modification: Some Examples from Egypt 169 the rich sources for this phenomenon in Egypt today is the iconography of Coptic churches and the folklore of the monks associated with them. During the feasts of Christmas and Epiphany (the time when this paper was presented) it is perhaps appropriate to recollect some of the Coptic traditions commemorating the flight of the Holy Family to Egypt. The rock impression by the church of St Mary at Sakha known as ‘the footprint of Jesus’ (bikha iys¯ us) is regarded by many as proof that this was a place where the young son of Mary and Joseph actually walked. Similarly the balsam bushes that grow around Matariyah are said to have grown from the fragments of a walking stick that the holy child took from the hand of his father and broke, and today it is from those same bushes that the oil for the chrism is extracted. The Virgin’s Tree at Matariyah, which is supposed to have provided enough foliage to conceal the whole family when Herod’s assassins were out hunting for them, was even illustrated on an Egyptian postage stamp in 1967. Ethiopian Christians still drink water from the well in the church of St Mary the Virgin at Haret Zuwaila, near Cairo, when they celebrate the feast of the Blessed Virgin on 28 June (Baounah 21), for it is said that the Holy Family rested there; and the nuns relate how Jesus blessed that well so that his mother could drink water from it. Even today Deir al-Adra, to the west of Asyut, is the focus of a great pilgrimage every year in the middle of August, for it is supposed to be the most southerly place visited by Jesus.2 These are just a few of the examples of oral tradition that have developed from the narrative of the Nativity in the New Testament. In order to counter any doubts about authenticity they are often supported by citations from the Old Testament. This can be seen particularly well in the decorated western semidome of Deir al-Suryan, where the central figures of the scene of the Annunciation, Mary and Gabriel, are shown to have been accompanied also by Isaiah and Moses (with the Burning Bush) to the right, and Ezekiel and Daniel to the left; these figures are accompanied by relevant Coptic scriptures: Exod. 3:2-6; Isa. 7:14; Ezek. 44:2; Dan. 2:34, 35-45. Such citations are taken as confirmation that these events were all preordained. The perpetuation 2

A convenient though popular gazetteer of these places, with copious colour photographs, can be found in E. Lambelet, N.S. Atalla, The Escape to Egypt, Barcelona 1993.

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of some of these traditions through the observance of ceremonial activities is an added element to the importance in which they are held by the modern local community.

2 Pharaonic Traditions Those Coptic traditions represent later modifications, in one way or another, of what can easily be identified as an essentially simple motif in the birth narrative of Jesus. However, very often an ancient text will show signs of being traditional, but the written text (if there ever was one) on which that tradition is based is no more than a hypothesis. One of the stories that well illustrates the importance of oral tradition in ancient Egypt is the account of the miracles performed in the time of some of the earliest pharaohs, as preserved on Papyrus Westcar.3 The reason why this text has not been included in any of the anthologies of ancient Near Eastern texts relating to the traditions of the Bible is presumably because the subject-matter of these miracles has only a tangential relationship to any Biblical narrative; even so, its fairy-tale motifs seem so obviously designed to entertain as much as to provide historical fact that they make Biblical Hebrew accounts of miracles look positively sober, and the final prophecy that descendants of the priestly line will be born to mark the beginning of a new age seems particularly apposite for such anthologies.4 3

Pap. Berlin 3033. It is not included in J. B. Pritchard (ed.), Ancient Near Eastern Texts Relating to the Old Testament, 3 Princeton 1969 (henceforward ANET ); or in W.W. Hallo, K.L. Younger (eds.), The Context of Scripture, three volumes, Leiden 1997, 2000 and 2002 (henceforward ContS ); or in O. Kaiser (ed.) Texte aus der Umwelt des Alten Testaments, four volumes, G¨ utersloh 19822001 (henceforward TUAT ). The first translation of the text into English was by E.A.W. Budge, Egyptian Tales & Romances, London 1931 (reprinted 1935), 35-47, who entitled it ‘Stories of the Marvellous Deeds Wrought by the Magicians of the Old Kingdom’. It had been published some forty years earlier by A. Erman in 1890, with the slightly more subdued title ‘Die M¨ archen des Papyrus Westcar’ (see Budge, op. cit., 35) and subsequently in his anthology Die Literatur der Aegypter, Leipzig 1923, 64-77, with the title ‘K¨ onig Cheops und der Zauberer’. After Budge, a French translation was made by G. Lefebvre, Romans et contes égyptiens, Paris 1949. A more upto-date translation of the best preserved passages has been provided by M. Lichtheim, Ancient Egyptian Literature, vol. 1, Berkeley 1975, 215ff.; see also W.K. Simpson, The Literature of Ancient Egypt, New Haven 1972, 15-30. 4

Textual Modification: Some Examples from Egypt 171 Budge’s interest was apparently as much sociological as literary, for he presented not only some tales from Ancient Egypt but also others from modern story tellers. Very often they have very close parallels with elements of the Biblical narratives. This is only to be expected, seeing that they may well have been inspired indirectly from the Bible through the Qur¯an; in this respect such material merits further study. He was also keen to stress the elements of what he called paganism in these tales which he, as well as others who could assert influence in cultural matters at the time, found unacceptable. He says: When I was in Cairo, and Baghdad, and at many places in Upper Egypt and the S¯ ud¯an, I collected a few popular stories, but to print anything like literal translations of them in England is impossible, because we have a censor. In the early eighties Spitta Bey collected a number of ‘respectable’ stories which were very popular among Europeans as well as natives.5

The events described on the papyrus itself, which has been dated to the Hyksos period (before Dynasty xviii), are said to have occurred in Dynasty iv, representing a gap of many centuries. The schematic arrangement of the tales, told by the sons of Cheops one after the other, could be taken as evidence that the stories may at one time have circulated separately, and that this represents an edited collection. The language of the narratives has been described as Middle Egyptian, which would have suggested that the writing on the papyrus has been copied from an earlier manuscript. However, it has now been suggested that the papyrus could be using contemporary language.6 The story of the first son is lost, but that of the second son Khefren, famous for building the second pyramid at Gizeh after the Great Pyramid which his father had built, concerns the wife of a courtier who seduces a man she fancies while her husband is away; this is a motif clearly echoed in the narrative of Joseph 5

Budge, op.cit., 14; W. Spitta, Contes arabes modernes, Paris 1883. See S.G. Quirke, ‘Narrative Literature’, in: A. Loprieno, Ancient Egyptian Literature: History and Forms, Leiden 1996, 271 n. 50; he says that the language could be dated ‘possibly to the same period as the manuscript itself’; I myself have not been able to identify the remark, attributed to Blackman, in: A.M. Blackman, The Story of King Kheops and the Magicians, Reading 1988. 6

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and Potiphar’s wife, though the biblical episode did not end quite so violently as the Egyptian narrative: there the unfaithful wife is burned to death and the cuckold is swallowed by a crocodile, while the pharaoh looks on to see justice done. The third son relates in sexually evocative language how Snefru was entertained by a crew of topless girls; while they are rowing his pleasure boat across a lake one of them loses her favourite necklace over the side. The motifs of the waters being miraculously divided so that the precious ornament could be retrieved, and then of them being miraculously restored to their place and becoming twice as deep as before, have more than one echo in the biblical narrative. The fourth son prefers not to rely so much on the power of narrative as on a live demonstration, in which the skills of a modern magician can be demonstrated. The aged Djedi is brought into the presence of the pharaoh and gives a live performance of how he could reconnect the severed head of a bird to its neck, and also, apparently, miraculously tame a lion. But the climax of the story, and perhaps also of the other stories in the set, is seen when it comes to understanding divine mysteries. At this point the wise old Djedi prophesies that three children are going to be born who will in turn establish a new dynasty marking the end of the line of King Cheops. Here we have yet another motif for which it is not hard to find a biblical parallel.

3 Pharaonic Autobiography The fact that the pharaoh Merenptah mentioned the name Israel on the stele in his mortuary temple at Thebes is well-known, for that is the earliest citation of that proper name, dating to the latter part of the 13th century.7 But it is sometimes forgotten that, from a literary point of view, this inscription cannot be regarded as simple narrative history. It was discovered in 1897 by Petrie, who correctly noted that it had been erected in celebration of the victories of the Pharaoh. His identification of the name Israel was fortunate, inasmuch as the nineteenth century excavator was being financed by funds raised by biblical archaeologists who were looking for proof of Israel’s sojourn in Egypt. In ANET it has not been included in the section devoted to Egyptian his7

The most recent annotated translation of this document has been prepared by K.A. Kitchen, Ramesside Inscriptions: Translated and Annotated, vol. 4: Merenptah & Late Nineteenth Dynasty, Oxford 2003.

Textual Modification: Some Examples from Egypt 173 torical inscriptions, but it is, quite correctly, placed under the section headed ‘Hymns and Prayers’. John A.Wilson, the translator, notes in his introduction that ‘it is not historical in the same sense as two other records of that victory, but is rather a poetic eulogy of a universally victorious Pharaoh’.8 He explains that the text as a whole is primarily concerned not with any expedition to Palestine, but with the famous victory of Merenptah over the th.nw, the Libyans. For the biblical scholar these two points are of fundamental importance in assessing the significance of the mention of the name Israel. However interesting the conflicts with her western neighbour may be for the historian of Egypt, a reader of ANET is expected to be primarily interested in the name Israel right at the end. Nonetheless, Wilson has translated the text as a whole so that the reader can appreciate that the emphasis is almost always on Libya and the mention of Israel can be seen as something of an afterthought. A significantly different treatment is given to the stele in ContS, where it is presented with all the other Egyptian royal monumental inscriptions of Dynasty xix. Those were translated by our colleague K.A. Kitchen, but, for one reason or another, the translation of the Merenptah stele was left to James K. Hoffmeier, who decided that only the last two lines were worth translating for the readers of ContS.9 In his introductory paragraphs Hoffmeier shows that he is happy to accept that the hymnic nature of the text in no way implies that there is any elaboration of the historical facts. He forms the conclusion that ‘the king’s sortie into the Levant, in which the Israelites were encountered, must have occurred no earlier than year 2 and before the Libyan campaign (1211-1208 bce)’, and he asserts that the famous reference, ‘the earliest occurrence of Israel outside of the Bible’, counters the recent attempts of minimalists ‘to explain Israel’s origins in Canaan apart from the Bible’.10 There are one or two further points which must be remembered when considering the historical reliability of this text. The 8

ANET, 376b, lines 1-4. ContS, vol. 2, 40-1; the editors had given Hoffmeier the responsibility of translating the inscriptions of Dynasty xviii; see pp. 5-23. 10 Kitchen’s introductory paragraphs for the other texts in this section of the book, by contrast, have no trace of any such polemic, although his views on this question are well known; he has presumably thought that there are better times and places for such remarks to have the desired effect. 9

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first is that this particular stele, now in the Cairo Museum, was discovered at Thebes, but the text is duplicated on a second stele, part of which was discovered earlier at Karnak, and this was supplemented later by two further fragments. It is one of those unfortunate accidents of fate that anyone seeking confirmation of the occurrence of the name of Israel on this duplicate stele will be disappointed, because that is just the point where the stele is broken.11 In fact, this duplicate stele, despite its appalling state of preservation compared with the one from Thebes, could claim to have greater authority, in that the stone has been selected specifically for that inscription. By contrast, the Thebes stele was first used as the Great Stele of Amenhotep iii (1410-1372), and it is on the rough side of that stele that the inscription of Merenptah (1237-1226) was carved.12 That primary inscription records the great building activity Amenhotep iii undertook at Thebes as well as a commemoration of the previous restoration work undertaken by Seti after the destruction brought about by Akhnaten. The eulogy to Horus with which that text begins includes the divine epithet ‘He who pacifies both lands and conquers the Asiatics’. It continues systematically to list the work undertaken at Thebes on the West Bank on the temple of Amenhotep iii, then on the temples at Luxor, Karnak and Soleb, and concludes with the majestic speech of Amun, in which he addresses Amenhotep as his son, who is honoured by the tribute of the nations from the four points of the compass (Ethiopia to the south, Asia to the north, Libya to the west, and Punt to the east: such instances of approximation in cartographical dimensions need not concern us here). Undertakings such as these can be validated by secondary evidence, and this text is a marvellous example of the lyrical look at the achievements of the past coupled with a utopian view of the present that convinced the world of the splendour of Egypt 11 The first fragment of this parallel text was published in 1867, before Petrie’s discovery, by D¨ umichen; a second fragment, published by Legrain in 1901, has now disappeared; the rest of the text, together with a summary of previous work, can be found in C. Kuentz, ‘Le double de la stèle d’Israël ` a Karnak’, BIFAO 21 (1923), 113-17. 12 The dates for the rulership of Amenhotep and Merenptah are taken from D.B. Redford (ed.), The Oxford Encyclopaedia of Ancient Egypt, New York 2001; these are a little earlier than the dates given for Merenptah in ContS (see p.41) by Hoffmeier, who gives 1213 for the beginning of his rule.

Textual Modification: Some Examples from Egypt 175 in its Golden Age. It could well be that in re-using this ancient stele there was a deliberate attempt to perpetuate this idealism into the reign of Merenptah. No doubt he would, like his predecessors, have very much liked to make an expedition to terrorise the Asiatics, as he had terrorised the Libyans, but confirmation that he did undertake such an expedition will have to be based on more than a poetic listing of the names of territories and peoples reputed to live there. The glory of the victories of his predecessor Ramesses ii, including his Palestinian campaigning, may well have been longed for by Merenptah, but clearly he did not manage to rise to the same heights of power, even though his victory over the Libyans on the Western border of the Nile Delta was significant. It has now been proposed that the associated illustrations portraying his campaigns actually belong to a cycle of scenes depicting episodes from the campaigns undertaken earlier against the Asiatics by his predecesssor Ramesses ii (1304-1237).13 Even though clear evidence for an actual expedition by Merenptah to Israel may be considered weak, the fact that he is able to list the name among other inhabitants of Western Palestine is sufficient confirmation that by the middle of the thirteenth century a people with this name was a recognised element of the local population.14

4 An Egyptian Living in Palestine The story of Sinuhe is concerned with life in Palestine, so a translation of the whole story has been provided in both ANET and ContS : in ANET it was translated by John A.Wilson, and classified as one of the ‘Egyptian myths and mortuary texts’; in ContS it was translated by Miriam Lichtheim, and classified as one of the Egyptian ‘Canonical compositions focusing on the individual’.15 But although Wilson draws attention to the fact that there are several manuscripts of the text available, viz. five papyri 13

H. Sourouzian, ‘Merenptah’, in: D.B. Redford (ed.), op.cit., 2, 381a. A balanced assessment of the position in the light of recent research can be found in J.C. de Moor, The Rise of Yahwism, Leuven 2 1997, 213-14, note 24; see also p. 186, note 404. 15 See ANET, 18-22; ContS, vol. 1, 77-82. For the most recent authoritative edition of this text see R. Koch, Die Erz¨ ahlung des Sinuhe (BAeg, 17), Brussels 1990. A copiously annotated new translation has been made by R.B. Parkinson, The Tale of Sinuhe and Other Ancient Egyptian Poems 1940-1640 bc, Oxford 1997, 21-53. 14

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and seventeen ostraca to be dated ‘from the late Twelfth Dynasty (about 1800 b.c.) to the Twenty-First Dynasty (about 1000 b.c.)’, in his translation he never refers to any variant reading. Lichtheim, on the other hand, is careful to point out which manuscript she has taken as her exemplar, and there are several references in the notes to items where she considers another manuscript has a better reading. A variant manuscript that has attracted considerable attention in more recent years is the ostracon now in Oxford at the Ashmolean Museum of Art and Archaeology.16 The history of its discovery is particularly interesting. First a broken piece of the text was presented to the Ashmolean in 1940 by Alan Gardiner, the doyen of British Egyptology. Then the other part of the inscription was identified in a shop in Cairo by ˇ Jaroslav Cerny, and, shortly afterwards, it was purchased for the museum through the generosity of Gardiner. Because of transport difficulties during the war years it was kept in safe custody in Durban before being delivered to the Ashmolean in 1945. The whole piece measures 31.5 cm x 88.5 cm, but only half of it has a smooth surface, so the writing, described as ‘small, neat, regular’, becomes rougher as the surface becomes rougher. On the lower half of the verso it is described as ‘a coarse scrawl’; tiny blots add to the impression of someone writing in careless haste. Acccording to Wilson this ostracon should be seen as ‘the most imposing of these new copies’, and Lichtheim describes it as the ‘third major copy’, after the two principal manuscripts in Berlin used in ANET. It has been given the siglum Ashm. The detailed examination which Barns gave to this manuscript enabled him to make some important conclusions about the transmission of this well-known text. He has no hesitation in recognising it as the work of a student, because texts on ostraca, whether Egyptian or Greek, have invariably been produced in a school; here the school in question was probably the one at Deir el Medinah. The student in question, he observes, was clearly ‘a fluent and competent hieratic scribe’, but, even so, it has to be described as an example of a bad text inasmuch as every kind of mistake can be found in it: ‘misspellings, confused constructions, and senseless interpolations’; in fact, ‘if we had to rely upon it and 16

Published by J.W.B. Barns, The Ashmolean Ostracon of Sinuhe, London 1952.

Textual Modification: Some Examples from Egypt 177 its nearest relatives . . . much of the story would be unintelligible to us’.17 The Berlin papyri are still, therefore, our exemplars, with Ashm providing some of the more significant variant readings. The conclusion he draws from this paradoxical manuscript, with its capacity for both elegant script and also poor grammar, is that the scribe of Ashm did not completely understand what he was writing, for the focus of the instruction he had received was on calligraphy rather than grammar. He takes these features to mean, in his words, that ‘the writer did not know, and . . . that he and his instructors did not care, what the words which he was writing meant’.18 This conclusion is certainly sufficient to explain the misspellings, such as the frequent occurrences of the negative particle nn instead of the preposition n, and also the irregular punctuation which, as it stands, often makes no sense. It will also go a long way to explaining the fact that some obscure words in the earlier manuscript have been exactly preserved in Ashm, so that Barns has been obliged to look further into the question of whether such difficult readings are superior to any conjectural emendation. It was clearly not without difficulty that the first editors, as well as Wilson in ANET, concluded that the hero of the story could enjoy the bread ‘made for me as daily fare’; but by more closely following the text as written, and with further lexicographical probing, Lichtheim is able to offer an alternative translation based on the work of Barns on Ashm: she suggests that it may be as well to read ‘and supplies of m int-drink’ instead of ‘as daily fare’.19 With even more confidence, inasmuch as the change is incorporated into her text, she accepts the suggestion of Barns that t t should be interpreted as ‘progeny’ instead ¯ of ‘viziership’. This means that the sentence, ‘This servant will hand over the viziership that this servant has exercised in this place’ (words that were highlighted in red in the exemplar), can be changed to, ‘This servant will hand over his possessions to the brood which this servant begot in this place’.20 17

See Barns, op.cit., xxx. Ibid. 19 Compare J.A. Wilson, ‘The Story of Sinuhe’, in: ANET, 20a, lines 85-90 with M. Lichtheim, ‘Sinuhe’ in: ContS, vol. 1, 79a, n. 6. 20 Compare ANET, 21b, line 235 with ContS, vol. 1, 81b, lines 234-5 and n. 18. 18

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But other changes show that the text had been modified over time by replacing obsolete references to comparable contemporary ones. One of the first foreign city names to be mentioned occurs in line 20, ‘at dawn I reached ptn’; this is followed a few lines later by the better known name of Byblos, which in Egyptian is spelled as kpn (line 29). Whoever wrote Ashm seems not to have known the first place-name as well as Byblos, so that while we read in the exemplars ptn, in Ashm the spelling is pn , clearly representing a variation of the much better known kpn , Byblos. Similarly, the name k.dm is replaced by the name k.dˇs , a place that was probably much better known at the time of writing this particular manuscript. There is also some evidence that clarification of some of the grammatical obscurities in the exemplar has been undertaken. An example of this is the way that Sinuhe hides himself away in the bushes when the splendour of the royal procession is about to pass along the way, which it is much easier to understand from the reading of Ashm than from that of the exemplar.21 But, as is the way with such texts, the editor recognises that ‘there are also some errors for which I find it hard to account and some of which might be ultimately due to a misapplied desire to make sense of the unintelligible’.22 The parallel passages in the text exhibit a number of harmonisations (between 20 and 30); this is not surprising for ‘there is a general tendency in these late texts to make superficially similar passages identical’.23 When the variations from the exemplar are considered as a whole it seems reasonable to conclude that the scribe to whom we owe this manuscript had probably been required to learn the text by heart as part of his scribal training. The number of variant readings that can more easily be explained as arising from a memorised text (some may equally well be mistakes in seeking to record a passage from dictation) far exceed those that were more likely to have arisen from a visual copying mistake. Memorising long passages was a practice repeated by generations of scribes over the years.24 Furthermore, there is no evidence of any 21 For a full grammatical discussion see Barns, op. cit., 2a-b; cf. ANET, 19a, lines 5-8; ContS, vol. 1, 77b, second paragraph. 22 See Barns, op. cit., [35b], lines 1-4. 23 Ibid., 4b, last paragraph. 24 Much more detailed information on pedagogy in Ancient Egypt can be

Textual Modification: Some Examples from Egypt 179 developed exegesis of the text, at least not any more developed than would be expected from probably unwittingly substituting into an ancient text items of greater relevance to the contemporary world than what had been written in the past. What is absent is reinterpretation, ‘the most discouraging and intractable kind of textual corruption’, and ‘the falsification of the reading of an obscure passage by one who is determined to make sense of it’.25 Reading such datable texts together with the information that makes it possible to see the evolutionary process must surely be a good discipline for one who wishes to understand the evolution of the Hebrew scriptures.

5 Exotic Words and Customs The most recently published volume of ContS is devoted to ‘Archival Documents’, and under this heading has been included a collection of Egyptian letters. After a presentation of the three letters of Heqnakht, which are undoubtedly archival material, we have a new translation of Papyrus Anastasi I, together with a few other ‘model letters’. While letters in the general sense can hardly be regarded as anything other than ‘archival’, these ‘model letters’ have to be regarded as more literary than archival.26 Pap. Anastasi I has long been known to contain the famous instructions, presented in the form of a letter, for a model state employee who was required to perform his duty as a mahir, that is to say something akin to an intelligence scout and logistics expert. It is the response from a master of the art named Hori (possibly a symbolic name derived from the name of the deity Horus, god of the pharaoh himself) to a letter from Amenemopet, a mahir who is represented as working in Palestine, in the territory of the Asiatics, during the reign of Ramesses ii (1304-1237, Dynasty xix). The master upbraids the mahir for being badly prepared for fulfilling the task allotted to him, and tells him how better to fulfil his function. Because there are so many Western Semitic names transcribed into Egyptian characters in the letter it has always been of considerable interest to those who wish to have literary found in B. van de Walle, La transmission des textes littéraires égyptiens, Brussels 1948, where Sinuhe is selected for special treatment. 25 See Barns, op. cit., [35a], third paragraph. 26 See ContS, vol. 3, 5-9 (Heqnakht); 9-14 (Pap. Anastasi I); 15-7 (the other selected ‘model letters’).

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evidence of what Palestine was like before the biblical records began. In fact, it contains the earliest description of what was to become the land of the Hebrews, albeit seen through foreign eyes. In ANET it was translated by John A. Wilson;27 in ContS the translator was James P. Allen.28 Both editors note the fact that there are at least 84 other inscriptions on which parts of this text are recorded. Clearly it was very well known among the literati living in the valley of the Nile. Although Wilson said in his introduction that ‘a particular value for our purposes is the summary catalogue of places in the Egyptian empire in Asia’, it falls to Allen in ContS to provide an adequate transliteration of the place-names and all the loanwords that he can identify in the text. These comprehensive notes are of tremendous philological interest. By identifying so many Northwest Semitic words written in Egyptian syllabic writing, and by providing transcriptions of those writings, it is now possible for those of us who hesitate to include Egyptian in our repertoire to begin to assess the importance of the inventory of words collected here. It can hardly be doubted that they are as significant for Classical Hebrew lexicography as the glosses in the correspondence between Palestine and Tell el-Amarna. At first sight it seems that we have evidence for phonological patterns that have hitherto demanded extra support. A morphological analysis immediately shows that the normal Egyptian plural marker – u is preferred to Northwest Semitic -¯ım/nm/n (suggesting that we have hybrid forms), and that the nominal determinative –¯ a -, primarily associated with Aramaic rather than Canaanite, is regularly used in citation forms. The spectrum of lexemes includes flora, fauna and occupations, which means that vocabulary acquisition had extended beyond the basics; and there are several instances where a cognate in Biblical Hebrew has hitherto lacked adequate (sometimes it has lacked any) etymology. Here it is not possible to begin to apply closer examination to this rich resource, but it almost goes without saying that if we were to accept that the duties expected of a mahir like Amenemhotep by a master like Hori were applied to our understanding of the quality of Ezra’s professionalism, the word ‘scribe’ is hardly adequate to translate s¯ of¯er in the phrase s¯ of¯er m¯ ahˆır in Ezra 7:6. Further27 28

See ANET, 475-9. ContS, vol. 3, 9-14.

Textual Modification: Some Examples from Egypt 181 more, the fact that the speaker of Psalm 45 identifies himself with the same title may well do something to explain the frequent references to the military achievements of the king whom he eulogises.

6 Concluding Remarks I have attempted in this overview to draw attention to the importance of a few, sometimes neglected, elements in non-biblical literature, elements which can often in one way or another shed light on the overall comprehension of biblical narratives. When it comes to oral tradition it is not enough just to look at ancient texts for our sources of inspiration; what must also be taken into consideration are the traditions that have developed from the biblical narratives; that is why reference was made to the traditions of the Coptic church. Some narratives, such as the one describing miracles performed in the time of the great pharaohs of the Old Kingdom, certainly seem to have had their own oral tradition and include literary motifs found also in the Bible, but for reasons which are not yet apparent they have not been included in the standard anthologies of ‘ancient Near Eastern texts relating to the Old Testament’. And sometimes a text that has been included in such an anthology and which is often understood to have more historical credibility than the Bible narrative, such as the Merenptah stele, is itself seen to be capable of being understood as rhetorical and exaggerated. Those literary texts that are as a matter of course included in these anthologies often have their own textual tradition, which shows that they had achieved sufficient literary status to be used in schools as standard exercise material. But the evidence from these is that an excellent standard of calligraphy was as high a priority for the school-teachers as ensuring textual infallibility; the many, many variants in the story of Sinuhe are more than enough to substantiate this argument. It is also of importance to remember that ancient Israel was an economically under-developed society in the Near East when compared with those of Egypt, Babylonia, Hatti and Assyria, the empire builders of the last two millennia b.c. Therefore, it could easily happen that such Israelite literati as there were found themselves influenced by their neighbouring cultures. But they may well have become an object of interest and then in turn have begun to influence others. The letter from Hori to

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Amenemopet was probably never actually set into the hands of a messenger and despatched to Palestine, but it was copied and copied so much in the Egyptian schools that at least some of the pupils could hardly have failed to become interested in the quality of the grass on the other side of their fence. We do well to do likewise.

Janet E. Tollington

Westminster College, Cambridge – United Kingdom

Abraham and his Wives Culture and Status The purpose of this paper is to consider the texts of Genesis that present the stories of Abraham and his three wives, Sarah, Hagar and Keturah, and to reflect on his relationships with them in several ways. I intend to consider linguistic, literary and theological questions posed by the texts. I will argue both on the basis of the final form of the text and with regard to the view that distinctive traditions underlie specific sections of the material. My aim is to reveal the roles that the women play in these stories alongside Abraham, and to consider whether the perspective of the texts is quite as patriarchal as is generally presumed. Taking Genesis 11:26–25:11, the section focusing on Abraham’s life, as a continuous narrative, we encounter a story about what is known as the ‘patriarchal’ period. It portrays a family group living a semi-nomadic, unsettled lifestyle, moving by stages from Ur of the Chaldeans, through Haran, the land of Canaan, Egypt and the Arabian peninsula. It tells of their encounters with other peoples living in those regions and implies certain things about cultural norms pertaining in a particular area or at a particular time, for example beliefs about marriage and adultery; but we need to beware against assuming that these texts provide insights into the actual society of those days.1 Whatever the origins of each section of this narrative, the continuous story comes to us from the perspective of a community whose people had lived through the process of establishing themselves as a nation, through monarchy, through the experience of exile and probably of living as a small province in a large foreign empire. With the benefit of hindsight the narrative has been shaped so that it reflects the beliefs and hopes of a much later period than that to which it refers; and no matter whether or not the writer(s) intended to record the ancient period faithfully (and we can never know the answer to this), at best the canonical narrative offers a post-exilic interpretation of the patriarchal period. Similarly, I 1

Contra C. Meyers, ‘Women and the Domestic Economy of Early Israel’, in: A. Bach (ed.), Women in the Hebrew Bible: a Reader, London 1999, 33-43.

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would suggest that none of the underlying traditions responsible for specific sections of the text comes directly from the patriarchal period. Rather, they are the product of a process of reflection on remembered (or created) history and experience, telling their stories for the communities of their own time and thus coloured by the norms and beliefs of the time of each stage of writing.2 A literal reading of the narrative reveals Abram as a son of Terah, who was born in Ur of the Chaldeans, and who married Sarai, about whose ancestry the text is silent. They are childless at this point, she is described as barren,3 and there is no mention of there being any servants in the family household. Terah’s family moves to Haran and settles there for a time until Terah dies (11:26-32). When Abram is seventy-five years old, with Sarai, his nephew Lot, and ‘the persons whom they had acquired in Haran’ (12:5) – the text says nothing about their identity or status – he sets off for Canaan, where he, Abram, receives a divine promise to the effect that he, Abram, will have descendants who will one day inherit that land (12:7). The promise is specifically related to Abram as an individual and makes no mention of a wife. When famine strikes Canaan the family moves on to Egypt, and at the border4 Abram instructs Sarai, whom he describes as beautiful and sexually attractive to men, to say that she is Abram’s sister, not his wife, in order that his, Abram’s, life may be spared. The implication is clear: Abram fears that the Egyptians will want Sarai as a sexual partner, that they will be unwilling to commit adultery with her if they realise that Abram is her husband, and that they will therefore kill him in order to obtain her as a widow. As a sister she can be taken by the Egyptians without any harm being done to Abram. Either way Sarai, a legal wife, will be violated by the Egyptians, but Abram’s concern is 2

Within the scope of this paper there is no room to discuss the complex history of the text’s development. Suffice it to say that whilst the underlying stories may have early folk origins, I believe that the literary traditions all reflect the experience of exile and that it is not possible to get back to previous layers of text with any certainty. 3 The word used (hr:q:[)} does not imply an inability to bear a child, or sterility; only that the woman has not yet done so. In both Exod. 23:26 and Deut. 7:14 it occurs in contexts that imply that barrenness equates to the absence of God’s blessing. 4 I recognise that this is an anachronistic term to describe the point of transition into territory ruled by the Pharaoh.

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about the preservation of his own life. Of course, it is essential that Abram lives if the divine promise is to be fulfilled. However, it appears that Sarai is regarded, not primarily as the potential mother of Abram’s children, but, rather, as someone who can be used to satisfy the desires and well-being of others – in this case others who are all men (12:11-13).5 Sarai’s silence suggests submission, and the text reveals that events unfold as Abram expects. However, not only is Abram’s life spared, the Egyptian Pharaoh bestows animals and slaves on Abram, which may be interpreted as the payment of a ‘bride price’ to him as Sarai’s brother, in the absence of a father to whom it would presumably be due; or in Westermann’s view, ‘the gifts are to compensate the brother for the loss of his sister’.6 The text implies in 12:19 that the Pharaoh does have intercourse with Sarai, and the narrator states that the Lord afflicts the Egyptians with plagues ‘because of’ (that is, because of the wrong being done to) ‘Sarai, Abram’s wife’, (12:17).7 Somehow the plague causes Pharaoh to realise the deception that has been practised upon him. He summons Abram, accuses him of having caused him to act wrongly, asks ‘Why?’. He receives no answer, gives Abram’s wife back and ejects them from the land, letting Abram retain all his possessions, including apparently the ‘bride price’. The family group return to the Negeb region in the south of Canaan (Gen. 12:1813:1). The story shows the Egyptians in a good light. They did not use hostility against Abram even when he was proved guilty of trickery and self-interest. The end of the story implies that Sarai would have been respected as a married woman if the truth had been told at the outset. The only one who was abused and oppressed in this story is Sarai, whose worth as a human being is denied by all concerned, even by Sarai herself, since she accepts her rejection as a wife – effectively twice, by Abram and the Pharaoh – without demur. Abram is shamed and humiliated in the story, but comes out of it still with his wife and materi5

S. Niditch, ‘Genesis’, in: C. A. Newsom, S. H Ringe (eds.), Women’s Bible Commentary: Expanded Edition, Louisville 1998, 13-29, argues forcefully concerning the ‘crass, male-centered way’ (22) in which this narrative is presented. 6 C. Westermann, Genesis, Edinburgh 1988, 103. 7 Contra Westermann, op. cit., 149, who argues that the plague is sent to prevent adultery taking place.

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ally enriched. Theologically this story prefigures the enslavement of the Hebrew people in Egypt and their rescue by the Lord by means of a plague (Exod. 1–12). Here Sarai represents the oppressed people, and Abram, who is revealed as the promised father of the nation trying to safeguard his own life, and who represents authority, leadership, and perhaps kingship, is portrayed as the cause of the oppression. From the perspective of exile, or any time of national downfall, the story suggests that Israel’s oppression is largely the fault of her own (male) leaders who put self-interest and self-reliance before trust in God; but nonetheless there is assurance that the Lord will always come to the rescue of the chosen people. The narrative in Genesis ignores Sarai for a time while relating several incidents involving Abram. In 15:2-5 Abram raises the question of his childlessness, and the Lord assures him that he will father his own heir and have many descendants; but there is no mention of who will be mother. In 16:1 the narrator reminds us that Sarai, Abram’s wife, has borne him no children. The emphasis is solely on the absence of a descendant for Abram, the patriarch. We are then told that Sarai has an Egyptian slave girl called Hagar. The Hebrew word for ‘slave girl’ here is hj;p]v,i and many have argued over the precise meaning of this word. Westermann suggests that it implies ‘a servant of a married woman to whom alone she is responsible’,8 but it should be noted that the same word was used in 12:16 for the female slaves given to Abram as part of the ‘bride price’ for Sarai, which undermines this argument. Meyers argues that it always means a servile, menial female slave, in contrast to hm;a; ‘maidservant’, which denotes a more honourable female servant.9 This distinction is supported by BDB,10 whereas Skinner11 implies, on the contrary, that this hm;a; means a very lowly, menial household slave girl. I suggest that usage of both these words in the Hebrew Bible does not permit us to determine precisely Hagar’s status (cf. Gen. 30:3 where hm;a; is 8

Westermann, op. cit., 124. C. Meyers, ‘Female (and Male) Slaves’, in: C. Meyers et al. (eds), Women in Scripture, New York 2000, 178-9. Although both terms are used by women to indicate the speaker’s humility, she notes that only the latter term is used to denote personal humility before God, for example Hannah (1 Sam. 1:11). 10 F. Brown et al., A Hebrew and English Lexicon of the Old Testament, Oxford 1906, 51, 1046. 11 J. Skinner, Genesis (ICC), Edinburgh 1910, 1963, 322. 9


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used of Rachel’s maid Bilhah and 30:9, 12 where hj;p]vi is used of Leah’s maid Zilpah).12 What is more interesting is that Hagar is Egyptian, a fact which makes it improbable that she was Sarai’s servant from the time of her marriage. It is more likely that the events of ch. 12 reveal the origins of Hagar.13 Dennis notes that some rabbis suggested that Hagar had in fact been the daughter of Pharaoh – a literal princess, given to Sarai, whose name may mean ‘princess’.14 Whatever her birth and technical status, the text indicates that Hagar is under Sarai’s control, for she instructs Abram, ‘Go in to my slave-girl; it may be that I shall obtain children by her’, after declaring that ‘the Lord has prevented me from bearing children’ (Gen. 16:2). Here the emphasis is solely on a child/descendant for Sarai. It is interesting to note that neither Sarai nor Abram ever refers to Hagar by name, but only as a ‘slave-girl’. We still are told nothing about Sarai’s age but 16:3 indicates that Abram had lived ten years in the land of Canaan, making him at least eighty-five years old, (cf.12:4). Presumably this extended period of barrenness confirmed in Sarai’s mind that she would never bear a child herself. The idea of this ancient form of surrogate motherhood seems to be attested in the Code of Hammurabi § 146,15 although there it applies to the marriage of a nad¯ıtu, a woman who was attached to a temple and not permitted to bear children. Such a woman’s husband could take a second wife to be the mother of his children, but this situation could be forestalled if she gave him a slave who would be regarded as an ‘incubator’ in place of the real wife. Any children would be deemed to belong to the wife.16 The idea that the Gen12

For a recent survey of the discussion see H.J. Marsman, Women in Ugarit and Israel: Their Social and Religious Position in the Context of the Ancient Near East (OTS, 49), Leiden 2003, 437-54, who concludes that the terms are synonyms (448). 13 S. P. Jeansonne, The Women of Genesis: From Sarah to Potiphar’s Wife, Minneapolis 1990, 18. 14 T. Dennis, Sarah Laughed: Women’s Voices in the Old Testament, London 1994, 62. On p.182 (n. 13) he acknowledges the alternative translation ‘my princess’ suggested by M.P. Korsak, At the Start . . . : Genesis Made New, Louvain 1992, 54. 15 Westermann, op. cit., 124; G. von Rad, Genesis (OTL), London 1961, 2 1981, 192. 16 T. Frymer-Kensky, ‘Hagar’, in: Meyers et al. (eds), Women in Scripture, 86-7. She also refers to a cuneiform marriage contract from the Old Assyrian colony in Anatolia around 1900 bce which states that if a wife does not give

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esis account is linked to the Hammurabi material is supported by Sarai’s treatment of Hagar as an ordinary slave, which accords with the expectations of law CH § 146.17 The occurrence of this form of surrogacy in ancient Israel is also attested in Gen. 30:1-12 in relation to Rachel and Leah, and Bilhah and Zilpah, where the children of the latter pair are regarded as belonging to the ‘real’ wives of Jacob. Abram submits to Sarai’s suggestion without question and Hagar conceives; but then the narrator indicates in 16:4 that Hagar displays superiority towards Sarai.18 According to the text Sarai regards authority over Hagar to have passed to Abram when the slave girl herself was handed over to him; and Sarai turns to Abram to judge who is in the right in the situation.19 Abram’s answer is simply to pass authority over Hagar back to Sarai. Dennis states, ‘Abram remains detached, aloof from both her (Sarai) and his new wife. His detachment is most cruel, and results, not surprisingly, in more cruelty.’20 The text reports that Sarai acted with violence sm;j;, a word which could imply physical violence or the use of injurious harsh words, causing Hagar to flee (16:6). In 16:7-14 the narrator relates an encounter between Hagar and the Lord who addresses her by name. The Lord also refers to her as Sarai’s slave girl, whereby her individual humanity, status and relationship to the other characters are all being expressed. This passage includes a promise about the son whom she is soon to bear, which has much in common with the promise to Abram about his son (cf. 15:5) and foretells the destiny of Ishmael in a way that clearly indicates alienation from all his kin. Most commentators agree that verse 9, which instructs Hagar to return and submit to Sarai, is a later addition to the text to harmonise with the events of ch. 21. However, her return is also necessary for the next stage of this story, because it continues by reporting (twice) her husband a child in two years then she can purchase a slave woman for her husband. 17 Von Rad, op. cit., 192. 18 Cf. Prov. 30:23. Westermann, op. cit., 124, refers to this as ‘maternal pride’ rather than ‘contempt’ as in NRSV. We note here Davidson’s suggestion that in fact the name Sarai means ‘mockery’, rather than ‘princess’. R. Davidson, Genesis 12–50 (CBC), Cambridge 1979, 59-60. 19 Westermann, op. cit., 124, suggests that ‘women quarrel over social position whereas men quarrel over food’ (cf. Abram and Lot in Gen. 13). 20 Dennis, op. cit., 45.


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in 16:15 that Hagar bore Abram a son, whom he named Ishmael. What is interesting to note here is that nothing is said about the status of the child. Gen. 16:2 implies that both Sarai and Abram would regard any child borne by Hagar as Sarai’s, but that understanding is not adopted here and it receives no more comment from anyone in the narrative. The Lord’s word to Hagar rejects the concept that the child will be regarded as Abram’s heir. As noted above, this represents a different understanding of Hagar’s child from those born to Bilhah and Zilpah who become founding fathers of Israel’s tribes alongside the ‘legitimate’ sons of Jacob (Gen. 49). Sarai makes no claim on the child as ‘hers’, and Abram says nothing. Theologically this passage emphasises the futility of human attempts to bring about God’s promises by ingenious means; indeed, it suggests that God frustrates any such schemes. As a story, during the monarchy it would challenge the making of political alliances with the intention of thereby ensuring the nation’s security; and in exile it warns God’s people of the need for patience. Continued trust in God and obedience to God’s will are the required response whenever a situation seems impossible from the human perspective. Genesis 17 leaps forward another thirteen years to when Abram is ninety-nine years old and records the making of the covenant between the Lord and Abraham. His re-naming reflects the substance of the covenant promise, and the practice of male circumcision is inaugurated (17:1-14). In its literary context the narrative appears at first to offer Abraham the hope that the promises will be fulfilled through his son Ishmael, since he does not know what the Lord had said to Hagar. Then in 17:15 Sarah, his wife, is renamed by God in her absence.21 Abraham is told that God will give him a son through her and that this son will be the one through whom nations and kings will come into being. His response is laughter of disbelief on the basis of his own age and that of Sarah, who would be ninety by the time she had conceived and given birth. Abraham wishes God to bless Ishmael, but no, Sarah will bear a son to be named Isaac, meaning ‘he laughs’, and the covenant blessings will in turn be his. Ishmael will also be blessed and will father a great nation, but a different 21

No explanation for the renaming of Sarai is offered; but Davidson’s suggestion that it marks a transition from ‘mockery’ to ‘princess’ is credible; see n. 18 above.

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one. 17:21 reiterates that Sarah will bear Abraham a son ‘at this season next year’, implying that a natural birth through conception and normal pregnancy is envisaged. The chapter ends with an account of Abraham, his son Ishmael, now aged thirteen years, and all the males of the household being circumcised (17:23-27), suggesting that Abraham still perceives Ishmael as a member of the covenant community that will become Israel. In 18:1-8 the story of the visitors by the oaks of Mamre is told. Abraham displays the required hospitality and instructs Sarah, inside a tent, to make cakes while he takes charge of arranging the meats; there is no mention of Hagar at all in this narrative. When the meal is served, the visitors, surprisingly in the context of a patriarchal society, ask by name about the whereabouts of Sarah, his wife. They are told that she is in the tent – culturally men ate alone. One of the visitors then reiterates the promise that Sarah will bear a son, in language that implies divine authority. The narrator informs us that Sarah overhears from within the tent, reminds us that she has reached the menopause, and records that ‘she laughed to herself’ (18:12), doubting that she would have pleasure, that is a child, now that both she and her husband were old. Her reaction and reasoning parallel that of Abraham in 17:17. The Lord – in this way the speaker’s true identity is revealed – then questions Abraham about Sarah’s (silent) laughter and her expression of disbelief, asking rhetorically whether anything is beyond the power of the Lord. The promise of a son is repeated. Sarah, who by this time appears to have discerned the identity of the visitor(s), denies laughing because she is afraid,22 a denial which is rejected by the Lord. This final statement is directed to Sarah (‘you did laugh’), although neither party has apparently changed location; nor does the narrator attempt to describe how Abraham reacted to being drawn into an otherwise private, telepathic conversation between Sarah and the Lord. Gen. 18:22-19:38 concerns the destruction of Sodom and ends with Lot’s incestuous relationships. In 20:1-18 we find the second version of what is called the thrice-told tale,23 this time located 22

No reason is offered for her fear. It may refer to the belief that no-one could see God and live (Exod. 33:20). Cf. Judg. 6:22-3; 13:22-3. 23 The other versions are 12:10-20; and 26:6-11 which relates to Isaac and Rebekah.


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in Gerar. The idea that a ninety year old woman would incite sexual passion is somewhat incredible, but the narrative implies that Abraham fears this and declares Sarah to be his sister, again, although his motivation for doing so is not spelled out at this point. King Abimelech takes Sarah into his household, but God intervenes immediately through a dream to warn Abimelech that Sarah is married. The text indicates, twice, in Gen. 20:4 and 6, that intercourse had not taken place this time; there was no danger that Sarah had become pregnant through a foreign king. Abimelech debates with God his innocence, indicating that both Abraham and Sarah had confirmed to him her status as sister (v. 5). He is told to restore Abraham’s wife, which he does, and he challenges Abraham about his behaviour. In 20:11 Abraham defends himself partly on the grounds that there was ‘no fear of the Lord’ in Gerar (paradoxically Abimelech has shown greater ‘fear of the Lord’ than Abraham in this incident) and by claiming that Sarah is in fact his half-sister through his father. This is new information within this narrative and there has been much scholarly debate about whether marriage between such near relatives is a possibility.24 The issue cannot be definitively resolved on the basis of the information available, nor can any question about the historicity of the event portrayed;25 but it is important to note that Abraham pushes responsibility on to the gods who ‘caused me to wander from my father’s house’ (v. 13) and replies that he instructed Sarah ‘at every place to which we come’ to say he was her brother. He declares that ‘this is the kindness 24 Skinner, op. cit., 318, cites 2 Sam. 13:13 as indicative that the practice was frequent among Semites in early Israel and only prohibited by later legislation (Lev. 18:9, 11; 20:17; Deut. 27:22). E.A. Speiser, Genesis (AB), New York 1964, 91-2, argues for the legitimacy of the wife/sister motif on the basis of Nuzi documents and Hurrian practice, but his interpretation of these has been convincingly challenged; see G.J. Wenham, Genesis 115 (WBC), Waco 1987, 273, and scholars cited there. W. Brueggemann, Genesis, Louisville 1982, 127, argues that Gen. 12:10-20 requires that Abram was lying about the relationship then and therefore must be doing so again here. T. Frymer-Kensky, ‘Sarah 1/Sarai’, in: Meyers et al. (eds), Women in Scripture, 150-1, notes that suggestions that Sarai be equated with Iscah, Haran’s daughter, in 11:29 do not help resolve the matter as that would make her Abram’s niece, not his sister. Some pharaohs married their sister or half-sister, but this was exceptional and does not reflect common practice. Cf. Marsman, op. cit., 243-4. 25 Westermann, op. cit., 148, argues that this is theological reflection on 12:10-20.

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ds,j,, (h.esed ) you must do me’ – so once again self-interest is to the

fore. As Dennis notes,26 there is no h.esed being shown to Sarah by Abraham as he, time and again, if the text is taken at face value, rejects her status as wife to safeguard himself. Taken literally the text implies that Sarah is undoubtedly the most frequently abused identifiable woman in the Bible. However, the narrative reports that Sarah is restored to Abraham and that Abraham is given wealth ‘to exonerate’ Sarah (v. 16). It is Sarah’s honour that is vindicated27 and according to the narrator Sarah, not Abraham, is told this directly by Abimelech. It is quite clear that Sarah is in no way guilty of anything wrong in this passage, and the passage ends (v. 19) with a statement that the Lord had also intervened on behalf of Sarah, Abraham’s wife. Sarah is in receipt of h.esed here; but from everyone except her husband. In 21:1-7 the birth of Isaac is reported in terms that emphasise that the Lord is fulfilling promises to Sarah – not Abraham. Sarah conceives and bears a son to Abraham, who names him Isaac; he is duly circumcised. Fulfilment of promise and obedient response are stressed at every point in the text, and Abraham’s age, one hundred years, is confirmed. Again Sarah laughs (v. 5) because of God’s goodness in giving her a son; and all will laugh with her – laughter of joy is implied here. Her amazement at what has happened for her and Abraham in his old age is expressed in verse 7. The text moves on, presumably about three years, to the feast organised by Abraham to celebrate Isaac’s weaning (21:8-14)28 , and Hagar and Ishmael reappear within the narrative as though they have always been part of the family group. Verse 9 states: ‘Sarah saw the son of Hagar the Egyptian, whom she had borne to Abraham, playing’, or, to note the force of qjex'm] we might translate ‘isaac-ing’.29 It is important to recognise that the addition of the phrase ‘with her son Isaac’ in NRSV and other English versions comes from the Ì not the ˜. There is no suggestion that Ishmael is in any way abusing Isaac, nor 26

Dennis, op. cit., 55-6. J. C. Exum, ‘Who’s Afraid of the “Endangered Ancestress”?’, in: Bach (ed.), Women in the Hebrew Bible, 141-56, notes the distinction that Sarah’s honour is in danger in Genesis 20 whereas the promise was endangered in ch. 12. 28 2 Macc. 7:27; cf. 1 Sam. 1:22-25. 29 Dennis, op. cit., 58-9. 27


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any that Hagar eggs on her son;30 indeed, the text is entirely vague about what is happening. Is the implication that Ishmael, theoretically fifteen or sixteen years old, is acting like, pretending to be, Isaac? Is it that Sarah sees the older boy, the firstborn son of Abraham, and even fears that he will inherit instead of her own son? Again we see no hint of the idea that Hagar’s son could be construed as Sarah’s. Sarah’s response is immediate, and she directs Abraham31 to cast out ‘this slave woman and her son’ – note that neither name passes Sarah’s lips – to prevent him inheriting ‘along with my son Isaac’. We note that the text does not say ‘instead of’: a shared inheritance is Sarah’s fear. Gen. 21:11 depicts Abraham being distressed on account of his son – but which one? Most commentators favour Ishmael, implying a compassionate response by Abraham, although Dennis32 rightly says that at this point in the text it could be either. Abraham would himself fear that the promises through Isaac would not be fulfilled if Ishmael remains within the family. Neither Sarah nor Abraham shows any regard whatsoever for Hagar, who actually has done nothing at all in this incident; her only ‘offence’ is that she bore Ishmael to Abraham. God’s response in verse 12, according to the narrator, resolves the ambiguity, for it appears to focus on Ishmael, since the ‘boy’ (r['n") is coupled with ‘your’, that is Abraham’s, slave woman (hm;a;). Whilst this response is surprising, implying ‘do not be concerned with either’, at least Abraham is prompted to consider the fate of his secondary wife as well as his firstborn son, although it is noted that God also fails to honour Hagar with her name here. God tells Abraham to obey his wife Sarah in this matter, a very unusual suggestion for a patriarchal society, and to trust God to fulfil the promises through Isaac. An assurance is added that his chronological firstborn will also become a nation. In 21:14 Abraham sends Hagar and her child, here presented as though he is still an infant (dl,y)< , away into the wilderness. Frymer-Kensky refers to this as the emancipation of Hagar, her being freed from slavery,33 but, whilst this may technically be 30

Cf. Rebekah and Jacob (Gen. 27:5-17, 41-46). Westermann, op. cit., 154, correctly notes that there is no suggestion of any relationship between Sarah and Hagar here. 32 Dennis, op. cit., 74. 33 Frymer-Kensky, ‘Hagar’, in: Meyers et al. (eds), Women in Scripture, 87. 31

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the result of Abraham’s actions, the text does not suggest that his motivation was to give her freedom. The minimal supplies that were offered, bread and water, and the fact that Hagar and Ishmael were sent away on foot, indicate rejection with virtually no apparent concern for their safety or survival. The following passage, 21:15-21, parallels Hagar’s encounter with God in 16:7-14 in many ways. Here once again God addresses Hagar by name, provides for her needs, reiterates the promise about her son’s future and offers her hope. Hagar is promised that God will make a ‘great nation’ from Ishmael. This is the same phrase used in the promise to Abraham about Isaac’s descendants in 17:20, whereas in 21:13 the promise to Abraham about Ishmael refers only to a ‘nation’. It is noted that although Hagar wept aloud in her initial distress, indicating that she did not interpret her release as emancipation, God responds to the voice of the boy, though this is not mentioned in the text. She is then encouraged to fulfil her maternal responsibilities to Ishmael, and the passage ends with him living in the wilderness of Paran (SW of the Negeb) with a wife acquired for him from the land of Egypt. Neither Abraham nor Sarah makes any further mention of Hagar or Ishmael. Theologically the story of Isaac’s birth and the expulsion of Ishmael, whereby Isaac is enabled to assume the status of Abraham’s firstborn son, demonstrates that God’s promises can always be trusted. God will bring about what has been promised even when the obstacles appear insuperable from a human perspective. This acts as an encouragement to faithfulness in any situation that seems hopeless, especially at times when the survival of the nation itself seemed threatened. However the story also works at another level. God’s instruction to Abraham to expel Hagar and Ishmael not only fulfils an aspect of God’s promise to Hagar in Gen. 16:12 but also appears to account for, and justify, the animosity that existed between Israel and her neighbours in the Arabian peninsula through much of their history. During the Babylonian exile it is thought that the territory of Judah was occupied by peoples from Edom and other areas to the south in Arabia. In that context this story offers hope that God will once again expel anyone, even kindred people, who threaten to usurp Israel’s status as the chosen nation, or to possess her inheritance, the promised land. The injustice done to Hagar and


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Ishmael in this presentation of the story (and its interpretation) raises serious theological questions about the nature of God; but perhaps the very obvious chronological inconsistencies between Gen. 21:1-9 and 21:14-19 concerning Ishmael’s age indicate a deliberate editorial decision. As the text has been transmitted, it offers hope to the exilic community that desperately needed encouragement to believe that they had a future back in the land. However anyone reading the text is forced to acknowledge its inconsistencies and composite nature. If Gen. 21:9-21 was originally a parallel account to that presented in Genesis 16,34 about the rejection of Hagar before the conception and birth of Isaac, but has been moved from its earlier context, then it is possible to interpret it primarily as evidence of divine rejection of the whole scheme to use Hagar as a surrogate mother. In that context the story would teach that God’s people need to acknowledge the human tragedy that results when self-reliance replaces trust and obedience towards God. The consequences are real both for the innocent victims – in this case Hagar and Ishmael – and for those who recklessly initiated the situation – in this case Abraham who bears the pain of having personally to expel his son Ishmael. Read in this way the story portrays God disciplining the chosen people and at the same time acting with compassion towards those who have been alienated by Israel and are consequently in need. In Genesis 22, the chapter often titled ‘The Sacrifice of Isaac’, not only does Abraham appear to have put Hagar and Ishmael completely out of mind, so too does God, who refers to Isaac as ‘your only son’ (22:2). Thus the rejection of Ishmael is complete. Likewise Sarah is ignored, and although she lives until she is one hundred and twenty-seven years and Isaac thirty-seven years old, the text is silent about her except when it records that she died at Hebron and Abraham ‘went in to mourn for’ her (23:2). The remainder of the chapter concerns the purchase of the cave in the field of Machpelah so that Abraham can bury Sarah, his wife, there.35 Chapter 24 records the arrangements to obtain a wife for 34

This is a commonly held view among traditional scholars, for example Westermann, op. cit., 154, and Von Rad, op. cit., 232. 35 Westermann, op. cit., 166, notes that the story makes no sense in the context of the patriarchal, nomadic age but only in the context of exile, when the idea of land attained such importance. Cf. Jeremiah buying a field (Jer 32:6-15).

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Isaac carried out by Abraham’s male servant, and I agree with Wenham36 that the text implies that Abraham died before the servant returned with Rebekah. She in turn becomes a comfort to Isaac after his mother’s, that is Sarah’s, death (24:6). However, in Genesis 25:1-2 we are told that Abraham took another wife (hV;a)i Keturah37 who bore him six sons, one of whom was Midian.38 Von Rad notes that in 17:17, 18 Abraham thought himself too old to father a child and yet here the text suggests we are a further forty years on in time.39 Steinberg40 states that it is impossible to tell whether this secondary union took place before or after the death of Sarah, and Skinner41 cites the views of Wellhausen and some Jewish traditions which hint that Keturah is a variant story about Hagar. The only support for this latter idea lies in the association of the tribes which descend from this union being located in the same Syro-Arabian area as descendants of Ishmael (cf. 25:2-4 with 12-16). Skinner goes on to note that this led some to argue that Keturah was originally identified as the wife of Ishmael, not Abraham; but this must remain a matter of conjecture. The text continues in 25:6 by referring to Abraham’s concubines, in the plural (μyvig“l'yPi), and emphasising that whilst he was alive he gave gifts to their sons whom he sent away eastwards, away from his son Isaac to whom he gave all he had as his inheritance. Paradoxically, Isaac’s gift from his father was only received at the death of Abraham when aged one hundred and seventy-five years, one hundred years after he entered Canaan. In 25:9 the text, usually ascribed to the P tradition, indicates that both Isaac and Ishmael attend to their father’s burial alongside Sarah, his wife, in the cave of Machpelah, which appears to deny the expulsion of Ishmael. Wenham takes a positive view of this verse, indicating that it refers to the coming together again of the brothers for this event,42 but this suggestion seems to ignore 36

G.J. Wenham, Genesis 16-50 (WBC), Dallas 1994, 158. The name means ‘incense’ – a commodity which comes from Arabia, the area where the tribes descended from Keturah live. 38 Midian subsequently plays an important part in the Moses/Yahweh traditions in Exodus 3; 18; but note also the more negative tradition about the Midianites in the Joseph narratives in Gen. 37:28, 36. 39 Von Rad, op. cit., 261. 40 N. Steinberg, ‘Keturah’, in: Meyers et al. (eds), Women in Scripture, 108. 41 Skinner, op. cit., 349-51 and n. *. 42 Wenham, op. cit., 160. See also J.G. Janzen, Genesis 12-50 (ITC), Edinburgh 1993, 93. 37


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the finality of the separation implied by Gen. 21:20-21 and 16:12. How Keturah, Abraham’s third wife, is to be understood in terms of her status (and that of her six sons), location and significance in the unfolding narrative of Abraham and his descendants, is open to question, but the tradition in 1 Chronicles 1:32 has downgraded her memory to that of concubine rather than wife. Nothing more is said about her life, death or final resting place and on the whole biblical traditions ignore her completely. Theologically the story of Abraham, Keturah and their six sons serves to emphasise that the unique significance of Isaac attaches to his mother, Sarah, rather than his father. It highlights the promise to Abraham and Sarah expressed in Gen. 18:9-15 (also 17:15-21) as the crucial one and demonstrates that God’s will achieved fulfilment through the unlikely channel, according to patriarchal understandings, of a humble, fearful woman. The maternal line remains important in terms of Jewish identity to the present day. However, I suggest that these stories are mainly about the faithfulness of God and the need for humans to recognise that God chooses to work through the lowly, not the powerful, and often through women rather than (or, as well as) men. They are less about family blood lines. We have heard the stories of the three women Sarah, Hagar and Keturah, all of whom have been accorded the status of wife to Abraham in some parts of the narrative; but only the first, Sarah, retains that title throughout and also in death. Predominantly Hagar is referred to, regarded as, and used as, a slave, even at times by God, although her well-being is ultimately ensured through divine intervention on her behalf. Keturah is identified only as a mother of six sons; the narrative reveals nothing about her status or character and the tradition also remains silent. Each of them has importance in terms of demonstrating the complex web of kinship relationships that existed between ancient Israel and her neighbours. Each of their stories also contributes to the unfolding theological traditions in the Hebrew Bible. The relationship between Abraham and Sarah is an interesting one that challenges traditional views about the patriarchal bias of this material. The two characters talk together as equals and Sarah instructs Abraham on what to do as frequently as she is instructed by him. There is mutuality in their relationship as they share life together, its dangers, its joys and its divine

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blessing. They are portrayed as real characters and in both cases their flawed humanity is acknowledged alongside their acts of faith and obedience towards God. They both also have direct personal encounters with God, although Sarah’s ‘conversation’ is described in somewhat remote terms (Gen. 18). They are both clearly identified, jointly and separately, as the couple through whom God intends to fulfil the divine promise of a son and future descendants; but I suggest that the final text in the end gives greater significance to Sarah’s role in the divine fulfilment. A close reading indicates that neither patriarchy nor matriarchy is the appropriate authority for God’s people, for God is in control and at work through those who have faith and respond to divine initiatives with humble obedience. In the relationship between Abraham and Hagar the former is always dominant and the one with authority, and the presentation of their story conforms to patriarchal norms. Hagar is talked about by both Abraham and Sarah and she is instructed by them both; but the narratives contain no dialogue between her and either of these characters. Words put in Hagar’s mouth are all communication with God and in response to divine initiatives towards her. She personally receives words of promise and blessing from God which present her as the matriarch of an unnamed great nation through Ishmael; but as a participant in the story of Abraham she is presented somewhat as a non-person, a rejected slave, who, in becoming a mother, threatened the divine promises concerning Israel. Theologically her identification as an Egyptian resonates with ideas about that nation as an enemy oppressor which threatened the very existence of Israel; and her story prefigures and ‘justifies’ that of the enduring animosity between Israel and the Ishmaelites (cf. Gen. 37:27, 28). Nonetheless her story affirms that all her descendants are, like Israel, children of Abraham; that they too are children of promise, promised by the one God, the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob; and even that they are members of the same covenant community (Gen.17:7-14, 23-26). Nothing can be said about the relationship between Abraham and Keturah. She is not presented as a real character in relationship with anyone. No-one speaks to her, or about her, and God is totally absent from the account of her existence. To this extent perhaps we can say that this story is the most patriarchal of the three.


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One final comment can be made. A straightforward reading of the narratives with the presumption of a patriarchal bias may suggest that Abraham is the main character, with his wives playing necessary but secondary roles. A closer reading reveals a more complex reality in which the theological importance of Sarah and Hagar comes to the fore. In both cases the women are presented as very aware of the divine presence (Gen. 16:7-13; 18:9-15; 21:1719), and of God’s power at work in their lives. Similarly, in both cases it is their submission to the will of God that leads to the fulfilment of the divine promise. Perhaps it is these women characters, rather than Abraham, who embody Israel’s experience and model appropriate responses to God.

Pierre J.P. Van Hecke

Tilburg Faculty of Theology – Netherlands

Pastoral Metaphors in the Hebrew Bible and in its Ancient Near Eastern Context1 1 Introduction It is a common insight that much – if not everything – of what is said about God in the Hebrew Bible is metaphorical in nature: people tend to speak about the divine in terms of more concrete domains of experience with which they are well acquainted. One of the best-known biblical metaphors is that of God as a shepherd, and it definitely is one of the most studied.2 All studies 1 This article was first read to the 2003 Joint Meeting of SOTS and OTW in Cambridge; a slightly adapted version was presented at the 2003 EABSMeeting in Copenhagen. The author wishes to thank the participants at both meetings for the discussions that followed and for their valuable remarks. A special word of thanks is due to Dr Regine Hunziker who was so kind as to deliver a thought-provoking response to this paper during the EABS-Meeting. Finally, thanks are due to Dr Ron Pirson for his helpful remarks on an earlier version of this written text. 2 Recently, R. Hunziker-Rodewald has added a new, comprehensive study of the metaphor (Hirt und Herde: Ein Beitrag zum alttestamentlichen Gottesverst¨ andnis [BWANT, 155], Stuttgart 2001) to the earlier monographs by P. de Robert (Le berger d’Israël: Essai sur le thème pastoral dans l’Ancien Testasment [CTh, 57], Neuchˆ atel 1968) and B. Willmes (Die sogenannte Hirtenallegorie Ez 34: Studien zum Bild des Hirten im Alten Testament [BET, 9], Frankfurt 1984). Next to these monographs, the metaphor has also been studied in a large number of articles and book sections: L. D¨ urr, Ursprung und Ausbau der israelitisch-jud¨ aischen Heilantserwartung: Ein Beitrag zur Theologie des Alten Testaments, Berlin 1925; V. Hamp, ‘Das Hirtenmotiv im Alten Testament’, in: P.H. Freising (ed.), Festschrift Kardinal Faulhaber zum 80. Geburtstag, M¨ unchen 1948, 7-20; J. Thomson, ‘The Shepherd-Ruler Concept in the OT and its Application in the NT’, SJTh 8 (1955), 40618; V. Maag, ‘Der Hirte Israels: Eine Skizze von Wesen und Bedeutung der V¨ aterreligion’, SThU 28 (1958), 2-28; G.J. Botterweck, ‘Hirt und Herde im Alten Testament und im alten Orient’, in: W. Corsten et al. (eds), Die Kirche ¨ und ihre Amter und St¨ ande (FS Frings), K¨ oln 1960, 339-52; J.C. de Moor, ‘De goede herder: Oorsprong en vroege geschiedenis van de herdersmetafoor’, in: G. Heitink (ed.), Bewerken en bewaren (FS Runia), Kampen 1982, 3645; E. Bosetti, ‘La terminologia del pastore in Egitto e nella Bibbia’, BeO 140 (1984), 75-102; J. Beutler, ‘Der alttestamentlich-j¨ udische Hintergrund der Hirtenrede in Johannes 10’, in: J. Beutler, R. Fortna (eds), The Shepherd Discourse of John 10 and its Context (MSSNTS, 67), Cambridge 1991, 18-32; T. Hieke, Psalm 80: Praxis eines Methodenprogramms – Eine litera-

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of this metaphor are limited, however, to an analysis of the biblical texts in which God is either explicitly called shepherd or described as performing pastoral activities. In this article, I will state that, if one wishes to obtain a correct picture of the use and development of the metaphor, it is imperative to study the texts in which God’s shepherdship is questioned, denied or reversed as well.3 In the introduction to her recent monograph, Hunziker rightly announced that she would gather the various ‘Bl¨ uten’ of the pastoral metaphor and bind them to form a variegated bouquet.4 Continuing the same image, it will be my contention that not only the flowers, but also the thorns, should be studied, i.e. the texts in which the pastoral metaphor is turned upside down. Since, in recent literature, the flowers have been described in detail, I will, in this article, turn to the thorns. First, I will treat the biblical texts in which the pastoral metaphor is reversed, after which I will deal with some Egyptian and Mesopotamian texts in which the same phenomenon can be observed.5 Before doing so, however, I will make some methodological observations indicating the importance of studying the instances in which the pastoral metaphor is denied or reversed.

2 Methodological Observations Contemporary metaphor studies claim that metaphor fundamentally consists in making use of one domain of knowledge in order to gain insight into a different, less accessible domain.6 Rather turwissenschaftliche Untersuchung mit einem gattungsgeschichtliche Beitrag zum Klagelied des Volkes (ATSAT, 55), Sankt-Ottilien 1997, 339-46. 3 I do not include in the present article an analysis of the biblical instances in which earthly rulers or other important characters are called shepherds. 4 Hunziker-Rodewald, Hirt und Herde, 12: ‘Diese “Bl¨ uten” zu sammeln ¨ und zu einem Strauss zu binden, in dem “Uberlangen” nicht sofort zugunsten der Einheitlichkeit zur¨ uckgestutzt werden, ist das Ziel der vorliegenden Arbeit.” 5 Non-biblical texts from the Northwest Semitic world have been left out of consideration. Pastoral metaphors are very rare in these texts (see De Moor, ‘Goede herder’, 42-4), and reversals of this metaphor are not attested. 6 For an elaborate treatment of metaphor as speaking and thinking about one domain in terms of another, see G. Lakoff, M. Johnson, Metaphors We Live By, Chicago 1980, esp. 5; G. Lakoff, M. Turner, More Than Cool Reason: A Field Guide to Poetic Metaphor, Chicago 1989; W. Croft, ‘The Role of Domains in the Interpretation of Metaphors and Metonymies’, Cognitive Linguistics 4/4 (1993), 335-70.

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than as a figure of speech or a nicety of language, metaphor is thus regarded as a cognitive phenomenon, i.e. as a way in which people think. Studying pastoral metaphors, then, entails asking the question how people conceptualised the relationship between God and man with the help of what they knew of animal husbandry. For lack of native speakers, the only way to trace these conceptualisations is, firstly, to study thoroughly the pastoral vocabulary used in the Hebrew Bible and, secondly, to analyse the way in which these terms are used metaphorically. On the basis of these methodological assumptions, I have studied all the texts in which the relationship between God and man is described in terms belonging to the domain of pastoralism, without exception.7 This means – and here my analysis differs from that of other authors – that I have not only studied the texts in which God is described as a shepherd, but also the pericopes in which he is depicted as a sheep owner8 and even as an anti-shepherd, as a wild animal threatening the flocks or as a slaughterer of animals. The metaphors of God as a lion or a butcher have, obviously, been taken into consideration only to the extent that they are part of the domain of pastoralism, i.e. in those texts in which the lion or slaughterer is described in relation to herd animals. Yet, one could object that these metaphors are quite different from or, indeed, the opposite of, the image of God as shepherd and, thus, do not contribute to the understanding of the latter. The reason for including them in my analysis of pastoral metaphors is the fact that, in biblical texts, different, and even opposing, metaphors very often co-occur and interact, as I will show below. To give just one preliminary example, in Jer. 51:38-40, Babylon is first described as a lion in search of food (see also 50:17), only to be depicted as a lamb brought to slaughter a mere two verses later.9 Metaphorical interactions like this one take their strength 7

The results of this analysis are laid down in my hitherto unpublished doctoral dissertation: P.J.P. Van Hecke, ‘Koppig als een koe is Israël, en JHWH zou het moeten weiden als een schaap in het open veld?’ (Hos 4,16): Een cognitief-lingu¨ıstische analyse van de religieuze pastorale metaforiek in de Hebreeuwse bijbel, Leuven 2000. 8 The metaphor of God as owner of the flock has been studied in earlier publications, as in Hunziker’s monograph (Hunziker-Rodewald, Hirt und Herde, 73-116), but also already in Botterweck, ‘Hirt und Herde im Alten Testament und im alten Orient’, 352. 9 For an elaborate treatment of these verses and of the pastoral metaphors


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and their raison d’être from the fact that the metaphors’ vehicles (i.e. lions and lambs) co-occur in a single cognitive domain (i.e. that of pastoralism) in which they play opposite roles. In order to understand fully the metaphors in this and other texts, it is, therefore, important to study their opposites and their mutual interrelations. What is true for individual texts is also true for the Hebrew Bible as a whole: the instances in which the authors intentionally departed from the traditional, canonical use of the pastoral metaphor are very interesting in assessing the way in which this metaphor was used in the Hebrew Bible, and indeed in understanding how biblical authors dealt with the available stock of religious metaphors in general. For the reasons adduced in the present paragraph, I now turn to an analysis of the different biblical texts in which the pastoral metaphor is denied any validity or in which it is reversed.

3 Reversed Pastoral Metaphors in the Hebrew Bible 3.1

Hosea 4:16

A first group of biblical texts in which the metaphor of God as shepherd is reversed is found in the prophetic books of Hosea and Amos, both of which are set in the Northern Kingdom. In Hos. 4:16, to begin with, the prophet expresses his doubt whether God will truly shepherd his people as a sheep in the open field if the people keep behaving like a stubborn cow. In Hebrew, the verse reads as follows:

laer:c]yI rr"s; hr:rEso hr:p;K] yKi .bj;r“M,B' cb,k,K] hw:hy“ μ[er“yI hT;[' As I have indicated in more detail elsewhere,10 I agree with the majority of scholars that the second clause of the verse should not be read as an assertion, viz., that God will shepherd them in the Oracle against Babylon (Jer. 50–51) in general, see my recent article: P.J.P. Van Hecke, ‘Metaphorical Shifts in the Oracle against Babylon (Jeremiah 50-51)’, SJOT 17 (2003), 68-88. 10 P.J.P. Van Hecke, ‘Conceptual Blending: A Recent Approach to Metaphor, Illustrated with the Pastoral Metaphor in Hos 4,16’, in: P.J.P. Van Hecke (ed.), Metaphor in the Hebrew Bible (BEThL), Leuven, forthcoming.

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(allegedly with some hostile intention),11 but rather as an ironical statement or as a rhetorical question.12 The gist of Hosea’s argument is that people should not expect to experience the luxury of grazing in the open field, if they behave like stubborn cows that need to be kept on the right track. Hosea, thus, reacts vehemently against the casualness with which pastoral metaphors were apparently used in his days.13 On the basis of this and quite a number of other texts,14 some authors have argued that the biblical metaphor of God as shepherd had its origin in the Northern Kingdom.15 Although a reconstruction of the metaphor’s origin must remain hypothetical, this proposal does make sense, since the textual links between a number of instances of the metaphor, on the one hand, and literary traditions about Jacob, Ephraim and Manasseh and about Bethel, which are all situated in the North, on the other, cannot be denied. I do not mean to say that all the texts mentioned in note 14 are necessarily old, although some authors have argued so. However, even if these texts were relatively young, this would not do away with the fact that the metaphor is regularly brought into relation with the Northern Kingdom. Therefore, it is far from improbable, to my mind, that pastoral metaphors were part of the religious traditions against which Hosea reacts in the present text, and that Hosea questions precisely the validity of his contemporaries’ trust in God as shepherd : ‘Will the Lord truly shepherd Israel like a sheep if they behave like a balking heifer?’

11

So C. van Gelderen, W.H. Gispen, Het boek Hosea (COT), Kampen 1953, 127; Hunziker-Rodewald, Hirt und Herde, 14 n.18. 12 So H.W. Wolff, Dodekapropheton 1: Hosea (BK, 14/1), NeukirchenVluyn 1965, 114; W. Rudolph, Hosea (KAT, 13/1), G¨ utersloh 1966, 107; F.I. Andersen, D.N. Freedman, Hosea: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AncB, 24), Garden City 1980, 377. 13 See A. Weiser, Das Buch der zw¨ olf kleine Propheten I: Die Propheten Hosea, Joel, Amos, Obadja, Jona, Micha (ATD, 24/1), G¨ ottingen 1949, 37; Wolff, Hosea, 115; C. van Leeuwen, Hosea (PredOT, Nijkerk 1978, 115. 14 Gen. 48:15; 49:24; Amos 3:12; Pss. 74:1; 77:20f; 78:52f; 79:13; 80:2. 15 See notably de Robert, Berger d’Israël, 43. Some authors have contended that this relation between some textual traditions dealing with the Northern Kingdom and pastoral metaphors indicates that the metaphor originated in ‘patriarchal’ times, see e.g. Maag, ‘Hirte Israels’, 115-6; 121. For lack of more precise historical data, this suggestion must, obviously, remain hypothetical (see Willmes, Bild des Hirten, 284).

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3.2

Hosea 13:5-8

A more blunt reversal of the pastoral metaphor is found in Hos. 13:5-8, which reads as follows in the Hebrew:

.ynIWjkev] ˆKeAl['

.twbøaul]T' ≈r
5 6 7 8

With regard to these verses, a small text-critical problem, which has some bearing on the issue of pastoral metaphor, should be noted. In verse 5, the Septuagint apparently read – or misread – ÚyTi[]d"y“ (‘I have known you’) as Úytiy[ir“ (‘I have shepherded you’), as the translation ejgw; ejpoivmainovn se indicates. If one would adopt this reading, it would provide a first indication of the use of pastoral metaphors in this pericope. But even if, with Barthélemy,16 one does not follow the Ì reading, it is clear from the first colon of verse 6 that Israel is conceptualised as a flock, and God – at least implicitly – as its shepherd.17 After the description of Israel’s apostasy in the third colon of verse 6, God, in verses 7 and 8, turns into a mauling predator, in this case, a lion, leopard or bear bereft of young. The reversal could not be more abrupt: from a shepherd providing satisfying food, God becomes a predator that uses the people as food for itself, as verse 8c explicitly states.18 In this pericope, God’s behaviour as a predator is directly juxtaposed to his former intervention as a shepherd. It is noteworthy that most of the cases in which God is called a lion in relation to his people – and also when this metaphor is not directly related to pastoral images – 16

See D. Barthélemy, Critique textuelle de l’Ancien Testament, t. 3: Ezéchiel, Daniel et les 12 Prophètes (OBO, 50/3), Freiburg 1992, 610-1. 17 It has been proposed to read the first word of verse 6 μt;y[ir“m'K] ‘in accordance with their pasture’) as μytiy[ir“ wmøK,] ‘when I shepherded them’ (so Andersen, Freedman, Hosea, 634-5). However, the masoretic reading can satisfactorily be interpreted as ‘the better their pasture, [the more they became satiated]’ (so Van Leeuwen, Hosea, 259, and, in the same sense, Barthélemy, Critique textuelle, t. 3, 610-1). 18 I do not follow the proposal made by the editors of BHS and by Wolff, Hosea, 287, to read this colon as μybil;K] μv; μWlk]ayo, ‘dogs will eat them there’.

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are found in the books of Hosea and Amos.19 It has been proposed that the reason for this imagery lies in the fact that the executors of God’s punishments, viz., the Assyrian kings Tiglat-Pileser III and Shalmaneser V, were often depicted as ferocious lions.20 God as the one commissioning them would, then, have been conceived in a comparable fashion. I do not want to exclude this possibility, but I would like to suggest that the predilection for this metaphor in Hosea and Amos might also have been inspired by the apparently traditional faith in God as a caring shepherd, against which both prophets wanted to react. This reaction takes an ironical form in the present pericope, in which God’s behaviour is perceived as evolving from that of a shepherd into that of a predator.21

3.3

Amos 3:12

The most ironic reversal of the shepherd-metaphor is found in Amos 3:12. In this verse, God announces that the sons of Israel will be saved in the way that a shepherd saves some shin bones or the tip of a sheep’s ear from the mouth of a lion:22 19

Amos 1:2; 3:4-8; [5:19]; Hos. 5:14; 11:10; 13:7-8. Other texts: [Isa. 31:4]; Jer. 31:4; 49:19-20 = 50:44-45; Ps. 50:22; Lam. 3:10. 20 See ThWAT, Bd. 1, 404-18 (Botterweck), here 413. 21 In passing, it should be noted that this reversal, which pivots on the description of Ephraim’s apostasy in 6b-c, is surrounded by military metaphors in verses 4 and 9: God used to be Israel’s saviour (v. 4: ['yviwmø) and help (v. 9: rz<[e), terms which are often used in prophetic texts to denote deliverance from military trouble. (See ThWAT, Bd. 3, 1035-59 [Fabry, Sawyer], 1051; K. M. Yri, My Father Taught Me How to Cry, But Now I Have Forgotten: The Semantics of Religious Concepts with an Emphasis on Meaning, Interpretation, and Translatability [Acta Humaniora, 29], Oslo 1998, 48-55 on [vy, and ThWAT, Bd. 6, 14-20 [Lipi´ nski], 17-8 on rz[. See also other texts in which the two terms are used in the description of God’s activities, with clear military allusions: Deut. 33:29; Josh. 10:6; Isa. 63:5; Job 26:2.) After Ephraim’s apostasy, God turns out to be the reason for their destruction. The term for destruction (tjv) is usually related to military action where it denotes the destruction of a city or area by foreign armies. (See ThWAT, Bd. 7, 123345 [Conrad] 1235: ‘Zerst¨ orischeres und auf Vernichtung abzielendes Handeln vollzieht sich vor allem im Krieg. Auf dieses Thema ist das Verb denn auch besonders h¨ aufig bezogen.’) A similar reversal to that in the pastoral metaphors therefore seems to occur here: God turns from military protector to military destroyer. 22 For present purposes, I leave out of consideration the end of the verse in which the sons of Israel are compared to the corner or the foot of a bed. For the best treatment of this comparison, see S. Mittmann, ‘Amos 3,12-15 und


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hw:hy“ rm'a; hKo ˆz
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quently – though not exclusively – to describe God’s salvation.25 It is quite probable, then, that Amos would ironically take up the term for God’s salvation – in which his contemporaries trusted so much –, and use it in a very specific pastoral sense which reverses the outcome for Israel: no salvation, but only destruction. The texts discussed above indicate that the Northern prophets Hosea and Amos not only criticised the casualness with which their contemporaries trusted in their own conceptualisations of God, but also straightforwardly rejected the validity of these metaphors.

3.4

Lamentations 3:1-6

The most extended reversal of pastoral metaphors is found in the opening six verses of Lamentations 3, as I have discussed at full length elsewhere.26 The authors of Lamentations – who were probably temple-singers left behind in a destroyed Jerusalem after 587 bce27 – conceived the beginning of Lamentations 3 as the reversal of Psalm 23, as many thematic and lexical links between the two texts demonstrate. To name just one example: whereas, in Psalm 23, the author is comforted by God’s shepherd rod while walking ‘through a valley of deepest darkness’ (Ps. 23:4), in Lam. 3:1 God’s rod is the instrument of his wrath as he drives man into darkness. The crude reality of the destruction of the city and its temple led the authors of Lamentations to question openly and reject the claim that God was their shepherd. Remarkably enough, in Lamentations 3, God is described not only as an anti-shepherd and a ruthless driver (in the first six verses), but also, in verse 10, as a predator in relation to his people – one of the rare instances of this metaphor outside the books of Hosea and Amos.

3.5

Conclusion

What all the preceding texts show is that, next to the many instances in which the biblical authors explicitly or implicitly 25

See ThWAT Bd. 5, 570-7 (Hossfeld/Kalthoff), 573. P.J.P. Van Hecke, ‘Lamentations 3,1-6: An Anti-Psalm 23’, SJOT 16/2 (2002), 264-282. See also U. Berges, Klagelieder (HThK), Freiburg 2002, 18790. 27 See J. Renkema, ‘Misschien is er hoop ...’: De theologische vooronderstellingen van het boek Klaagliederen, Franeker 1983, 217-60. 26


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conceptualised God as a shepherd, they also sometimes critically questioned and rejected the validity of the metaphor if their historical or socio-political context urged them to do so. The analysis of the above texts provides a more nuanced picture, not only of biblical pastoral metaphors, but also of the way in which biblical authors made use of the stock of religious metaphors in general. The authors apparently had no problems in juxtaposing conflicting metaphors in a single text. Moreover, when they felt the urge to do so, they did not hesitate to treat their religious metaphors in a rather undogmatic and even iconoclastic way.

4 Reversed Pastoral Metaphors in the Ancient Near East The phenomenon of reversing described above is not limited to pastoral metaphors, as the most recent work of different scholars in the field of biblical metaphor convincingly shows,28 nor is it confined to the Hebrew Bible. It would, therefore, be false to assume that the questioning of metaphors was typical of the self-critical attitude of the biblical authors, as opposed to a supposedly rigid and formulaic use of religious metaphors in the surrounding cultures. In the present paragraph, I will mention a number of striking instances of Ancient Near Eastern texts in which similar questioning and reversing of pastoral metaphors occurs. Given the vast variety of Ancient Near Eastern texts, I do not make any claims to being exhaustive in this regard.29 28 See (e.g.) the contributions of P. Riede, B. Doyle, G. Eidevall, A.R. Diamond, E. Holt and M.B. Szlos in the forthcoming volume on Metaphors in the Hebrew Bible: P.J.P. Van Hecke (ed.), Metaphor in the Hebrew Bible, forthcoming. 29 Since the subject of this article is limited to pastoral metaphors in the description of the relation between men and God/the gods, other applications of pastoral metaphors are left out of consideration. For example, in different ancient cultures, the moon was considered to be shepherding the stars, which in turn were thought to represent the deceased (see D. M¨ uller, ¨ 86 ‘Der gute Hirt: Ein Beitrag zur Geschichte ¨ agyptischer Bildrede’, ZAS (1961), 126-44, here 128-9; De Moor, ‘Goede herder’, 41-5; W. Heimpel, ‘The Babylonian Background of the Term “Milky Way” ’, in: H. Behrens et al. oberg) (Occasional Publications of the (eds), DUMU-E2 -DUB-BA-A (FS Sj¨ Samuel Noah Kramer Fund, 11), Philadelphia 1989, 249-52. It is noteworthy that in recent astronomy a similar pastoral metaphor has been introduced. In the late 1970s, the astronomers Goldreich and Tremaine hypothesised that the fact that the rings around the planets Saturn and Uranus are so narrow

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Egypt

In Egyptian literature, pastoral metaphors are relatively rare.30 Nonetheless, an interesting example of metaphorical reversal can be mentioned, viz., in the famous Admonitions of Ipu-wer. The second part of these Admonitions consists of a dialogue between Ipu-wer (or Ipu-ur) and his creator god. In this context, the sage asks whether what people say is really true, viz., that the god is the shepherd of all, and that there is no evil in his heart (Adm. 12:1). Ipu-wer confronts this traditional faith in the shepherdship of his god with the contemporary crisis in the land (probably during the First Intermediate Period [ca. 2130-1940 bce]),31 and concludes that the god cannot possibly be a shepherd, since a shepherd would not love the death of his subjects (Adm. 12:14– 13:2). In the same passage, the sage goes one step further and maintains that the god has cheated him and must be sleeping (Adm. 12:5-6).32 What one witnesses in the present text is similar to what happened in Lamentations 3: if the disparity between one’s experiences, on the one hand, and one’s conceptualisations of how reality should be, on the other, becomes irreconcilable, the latter are rejected, even if this results in quite iconoclastic language.

4.2

Mesopotamia

In a number of Mesopotamian texts, similar phenomena can be observed. There can be little doubt that in Mesopotamia, unlike Egypt, pastoral metaphors belonged to the traditional ways and well defined is the result of the presence of ‘shepherd moons’ that by their gravitational forces keep together the particles of which these rings are made up. Photographs returned by space probe Voyager 2 in the mid-80s confirmed the existence of such ‘shepherd moons’. 30 The classical and unsurpassed treatment of the use of pastoral metaphors in Egyptian literature remains M¨ uller, ‘Der gute Hirt: Ein Beitrag zur Geschichte ¨ agyptischer Bildrede’; see also Bosetti, ‘La terminologia del pastore’. 31 The dating of the Admonitions is not unproblematic. The extant manuscript dates from the 19th Dynasty. The main body of the work must have originated in the First Intermediate Period, although later additions have been made to the text (see G. Fecht, Der Vorwurf an Gott in den ‘Mahnworten des Ipu-wer’: Zur geistigen Krise der ersten Zwischenzeit und ihre Bew¨ altigung [AHAW, 1], Heidelberg 1972, 10-27). 32 Compare with Ps. 44:24.


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of conceptualising both gods and kings. The majority of earthly rulers in all periods of Mesopotamian history have been called ‘shepherd’,33 whereas many of the gods, although mainly the chief god Enlil/Marduk, have also been described in the same terms. In the scholarly literature, it is often stated that these metaphors had become mere formulaic expressions in Mesopotamian literature.34 It is true that, in many cases, pastoral metaphors are used in a conventional way in Mesopotamian literature: both kings and gods are called sipa or reu without further details being given. As contemporary metaphor studies have shown, however, this does not mean that conventional metaphors are dead, since they can always be actualised and revived in metaphorical elaborations,35 as is the case with the metaphor under investigation. In quite a number of texts, different elements of the knowledge of the pastoral domain are explicitly used to conceptualise the relationship between gods and men – or, for that matter, between kings and men – in a way that is anything but formulaic. Moreover, on a number of occasions, the validity of the conceptualisation of the gods as shepherds is questioned, as we will see below, witnessing to the conceptual vitality of this metaphor and challenging the view that this metaphor was formulaic and ‘dead’ in Mesopotamian literature. However conventionalised pastoral metaphors often were in Mesopotamia, they were not petrified into dead formulas. Before turning to the instances in which the pastoral metaphor is reversed and questioned, the principal subject of the present article, I first turn to the elaborations of the same metaphor which form the background against which the reversals 33 For an extended, but not exhaustive, list, see M.-J. Seux, Epithètes royales akkadiennes et sumériennes, Paris 1967, 243-50, 441-6. 34 See Botterweck, ‘Hirt und Herde im Alten Testament und im alten Orient’, 351; I. Seibert, Hirt – Herde – K¨ onig: Zur Herausbildung des K¨ onigtums in Mesopotamien (SSA, 53), Berlin 1969, 2. 35 See (e.g.) Lakoff, Turner, More Than Cool Reason, 49-56; 67-72, et passim. Moreover, it has been argued that there is no reason to call conventional metaphors ‘dead’; the fact that metaphors may become conventional and effortless indicates that they are not dead at all, but have become deeply entrenched and influential in our daily speech; see Lakoff, Johnson, Metaphors We Live By, 129. Pace M. Black, ‘More about Metaphor’, in: A. Ortony (ed.), Metaphor and Thought, Cambridge 1979, 19-45, here 26, and J. Soskice, Metaphor and Religious Language, Oxford 1985, 72-3.

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should be understood.36 It is far beyond the intention of the current article to present an exhaustive treatment of the way in which pastoral metaphors were used in Mesopotamian literature. As a very preliminary preamble to such an analysis, I surveyed the materials presented in the Electronic Text Corpus of Sumerian Literature,37 since they form a linguistically welldefined corpus which is, moreover, easily accessible to the nonSumerologist in translation. In these Sumerian texts, the pastoral metaphor is elaborated in different ways, making use of different aspects of the domain of pastoralism to describe both kings and gods. Firstly, the king is very often said to receive his task of shepherdship from the gods.38 Seibert has argued that this vocation actually legitim36

If one wishes to gain insight into the way in which pastoral metaphors were used in Mesopotamian literature, it stands to reason to study closely these elaborated conceptualisations, rather than surveying the textual contexts in which these metaphors occur, as Hunziker has done in her recent monograph. On the basis of this analysis, she concluded that the shepherdship of the Mesopotamian kings found its apogee in the building or restoration of temples for the gods (Hunziker-Rodewald, Hirt und Herde, 30-1, ¨ 34: ‘Entsprechend wird gute Hirtenschaft in Agypten prim¨ ar im erfolgreichen milit¨ arischen Schutz manifest, und verlässliche Hirtenschaft in Mesopotamien in dem als Gehorsamsakt gewerteten Tempelbau.’). Although it is true that, in certain cases, the shepherd-metaphor occurs in texts dealing with temple construction, I do have a number of questions regarding this conclusion. Firstly, the texts in which the pastoral metaphors are in no way related to temple construction greatly outnumber the texts in which they are, which already calls for some caution. Secondly, if the shepherd-metaphor is primarily related to temple building, why did the authors bother to use a pastoral metaphor rather than an architectural one? Establishing a textual relationship between the metaphor and the context of temple construction does not explain at all in what way the king was understood as a shepherd. 37 Accessible via the following url: http://www-etcsl.orient.ox.ac.uk. All translations of Sumerian texts are taken from this electronic text corpus. 38 So in many of the Sumerian royal hymns: Shulgi D,60; Shulgi E,64; Shuilishu A,59; Iddin-Dagan B,3; Ishme-Dagan A,48; Ishme-Dagan M,b.8; UrNinurta A,10, 20; Rim-Sin C,1; Rim-Sin E,4; Hammurabi D,8-13; Samsuiluna F,9. See also the Debate between Bird and Fish, 11, and the Debate between Silver and Copper, Segment I, 30-36. That shepherdship was bestowed by the gods is even acknowledged by the opponents of these ‘shepherds’, as in a letter from king Ibbisin of Ur to his governor Puzurnumushda (=Puzur-Shulgi?), hoping for the downfall of Ishbi-Erra who had assumed power in Isin (lines 15-6): ‘Today Enlil loathes Sumer and has elevated to the shepherdship of the Land an ape which has descended from those mountain lands.’ (see A. Falkenstein, ‘Ibbisˆın – Ishbi’erra’, ZA 49 (1950), 59-79; W.H.P. Römer, ‘Literaire brieven van en aan Ibbisuen, koning van Ur’, in:


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ated both the superiority of the king over his subjects and the evident use of his people’s products.39 Though a prolonged and formulaic use of the pastoral metaphor may, of course, have led to the conviction that the king had evident rights to the possessions and man-power of his subjects, the metaphor itself is, to my knowledge, nowhere explicitly used in order to legitimate any such claim.40 The vocation by the gods just as much implies responsibility vis-` a-vis the gods41 as it provides the king with self-evident supremacy over his people.42 Moreover, many elaborations of the pastoral metaphor indicate that the king’s shepherdship was primarily understood as a caring task with regard to the people.43 On several occasions it is stressed that it belongs R.J. Demarée, K.R. Veenhof (eds), Zij schreven geschiedenis: Historische documenten uit het Oude Nabije Oosten (MEOL, 33), Leiden 2003, 33-43). 39 Seibert, Hirt – Herde – K¨ onig, 3: ‘Doch bei Verwendung dieser Vergleiche zur Kennzeichnung gesellschaftlicher Gegebenheiten ist der andere Aspekt von ebenso großer Bedeutung: er betrifft den als nat¨ urlich und gottgewolt deklarierten F¨ uhrungsanspruch des Hirten und schließt die Nutzung der Produkte und der Arbeitskraft der Herde als selbstverst¨ andliches Recht des Hirten mit ein.’ In a much more recent article, Rainer Kessler has adopted this idea with regard to biblical pastoral metaphors (see R. Kessler, ‘ “Ich rette das Hinkende, und das Versprengte sammle ich”: Zur Herdenmetaphorik in Zef 3’, in: W. Dietrich, M. Schwantes (eds), Der Tag wird kommen: Ein interkontextuelles Gespr¨ ach u ¨ber das Buch des Propheten Zefanja (SBS, 170), Stuttgart 1996, 93-101, here 97). The ambiguity of pastoral metaphors (expressing both care and abuse) explains, according to Kessler, why the biblical authors avoided the honorific title ‘shepherd’, and used more specific descriptions of pastoral activities, instead. 40 One might object that this evident right is part and parcel of being a shepherd and, therefore – at least implicitly – resonates whenever pastoral metaphors are used. However, metaphors are by definition limited in their applicability: when making use of one (source) domain in order to gain insight in a different (target) domain, not all our knowledge from the source is mapped on to the target, but only part of it. If, for example, I call my love a red rose, I do not normally mean to say that she is just as thorny, nor that I have to prune her before the spring. 41 So, correctly, Hunziker-Rodewald, Hirt und Herde, 30. 42 In some texts the supremacy of the shepherd-king over the flock-people is explicitly expressed, see (e.g.) in Shulgi P,a.14; Shu-ilishu A,34; Ishme-Dagan M,b.1-8; Lipit-Eshtar A,17-22. 43 The different aspects of shepherdship described below display strong structural parallels with the probable reasons for the development of centralised government in Mesopotamia. One generally assumes that the rise of concentrated settlements along the Mesopotamian riverbanks necessitated the development of a centralised administration. Since these settlements depended on a highly vulnerable system of irrigation, there was a strong need

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to the king’s office as a shepherd to make the people multiply,44 to provide food and drink,45 to guarantee stability and rest,46 to defend the country against rebel lands,47 but also to keep the people on the right track and to safeguard the bond between gods and men.48 In this latter respect, the king’s shepherdship sometimes had liturgical connotations and was also related to the care for, and building of, temples, as Hunziker has correctly observed.49 So, even though the repeated use of the metaphor may have led to the abuse of royal power, the metaphor itself was never used to legitimate such an abuse in the Sumerian literature. The numerous elaborations of the metaphor indicate that it was primarily aimed at conceptualising the responsibility of the king for the well-being of the people. The same elaborations of the pastoral metaphor are found in for internal stability and peace, for a fair distribution of the available water resources and for protection against external threats. The best guarantee for these circumstances was a central government taking charge of these needs (see H. Nissen, Geschichte Alt-Vorderasiens (Oldenburg Grundriss der Geschichte, 25), M¨ unchen 1998, 51-2). The task of this government is to some extent similar to that of a shepherd, who needs to maintain the internal order of the flock, to protect the flock from external threats and to provide food and, especially, water for the flock. These structural similarities might have been the reason for adopting a pastoral metaphor for the king, a metaphor that became conventionalised at a very early stage of Mesopotamian history (see Seibert, Hirt – Herde – K¨ onig, 1), and that remained one of the leading metaphors in speaking about kings throughout this history. 44 So in one of the songs of Inana and Dumuzi (D1,47); see Y. Sefati, Love Songs in Sumerian Literature: Critical Edition of the Dumuzi-Inanna Songs (Bar Ilan Studies in Near Eastern Languages and Culture), Ramat Gan 1998, 301-11. See also the royal hymn Ur-Nammu C,77-78. 45 See (e.g.) the royal hymns Iddin-Dagan B,7-8: ‘let the people eat noble food and drink fresh water’, and Ur-Ninurta A,25-26: ‘May he search food out for them to eat as if for sheep, and may he get them [. . . ] water to drink.’ 46 Iddin-Dagan B,6; Lipit-Eshtar B,10: ‘who leads the people to let them relax’; Samsu-iluna B,12. 47 Ur-Ninurta A,23-24: ‘May his shepherd’s crook make the rebel lands bow low; may he let them have stable governance. From the south to the uplands may he clamp down upon the land like a neck-stock.’ 48 Iddin-Dagan B,6-7: ‘Enlil has commanded you to keep firm the cosmic bond in Sumer, to keep the people on the track.’ 49 Hunziker-Rodewald, Hirt und Herde, 30. As Prof. P. Machinist has pointed out to me, the temple is often referred to as a sheepfold. This fact may have to do with the identification of the ruling king with the fertility god and shepherd Dumuzi (see [e.g.] Shulgi-hymn X in which the king is directly called ‘shepherd Dumuzi’).


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the descriptions of Mesopotamian gods: some lesser gods are said to be appointed as shepherds by more important gods;50 and, as shepherds, the gods assume both the protection of, and control over, the people.51 In the case of the gods, making the people grow numerous also seems to have been an essential aspect of their shepherdship.52 As in the Hebrew Bible, however, pastoral descriptions of the gods are not only expanded and elaborated in Mesopotamian literature, but are questioned and rejected too. In the well-known Lament for the Destruction of Sumer and Ur,53 the destruction of the country is first described in full detail, after which the conclusion is reached: ‘The god of the city turned away, its shepherd vanished’ (line 68). A few lines later, after yet another description of disaster, it is formulated in even more reproachful terms: ‘and what did Enlil, the shepherd of the black-headed do?’ (line 72). In the similar Lament for the Destruction of Ur,54 the city is repeatedly described as a haunted sheepfold. The reason for this disaster is given by the goddess Ningal in the sixth song of this lamentation: ‘My city no longer multiplies like good ewes, its good shepherd is gone.’ In these laments, the gods are depicted as disaffected, and more specifically as negligent shepherds who fail to execute their office, causing the destruction of the flock and the fold for which they are responsible. This reproach does not only occur in the communal laments just mentioned, but also in a short individual text known as the For example in the balbale to Nanna (Nanna A,49): ‘An has conferred on you the shepherding of the land.’ 51 See the divine hymn Ningishzida A,12-14: ‘Shepherd, you understand how to keep a check on the black-headed. The sheep and lambs come to seek you out, and you understand how to wield the sceptre over the goats and kids, into the distant future.’ In the royal hymn Ishme-Dagan X, Enki is addressed as the settled people’s shepherd who seeks out food for them. See also two maxims from the collection of Sumerian proverbs, describing man’s personal god: ‘A man’s personal god is a shepherd who finds pasturage for the man. Let him lead him like sheep to the food they can eat. 52 See the divine hymns Enlil A,93-4 and Ninazu A,1-6. 53 See P. Michalowski, The Lamentations over the Destruction of Sumer and Ur (Mesopotamian Civilizations, 2), Winona Lake 1989. 54 See S. N. Kramer, Lamentations over the Destruction of Ur (AS, 12), Chicago 1940, 16-71; J. Klein, ‘Sumerian Canonical Compositions: A. Divine Focus – 4. Lamentations: Lamentation over the Destruction of Sumer and Ur (1.166)’, in: W.W. Hallo (ed.), The Context of Scripture, vol. 1: Canonical Compositions from the Biblical World, Leiden 1997, 535-9. 50

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Letter of Gudea to his god.55 The complete text runs as follows in translation:56 1-2 3-4 5-6

7-9

10

Speak to my god: this is what Gudea, your servant, says: I am like a sheep who has no reliable shepherd; there is no reliable herdsman to lead me on. An unintelligent merchant transported me (?) for trading purposes. With a vicious whip he . . . me cruelly like a donkey. I am noble (?) but do not utter a word, being vigilantly (?) ....... Seven times . . . has not . . . my accomplishments. Seven times my god (?) has not been able to find out about their extent. My god, I am not one to be hostile. May you show sympathy towards me once again.

In this letter addressed to his patron god – probably Ningishzidu – Gudea, king of Lagash, blames his god for being an unreliable shepherd (3-4). The desiderated reliable shepherd is directly opposed to an unintelligent merchant, relentlessly driving the supplicant with a whip (5-6). It is not clear whether verses 5-6 also describe Gudea’s vision of how his god treats him. If they do, we are presented with a close parallel to the reproach of Lam. 3:3, which, in my opinion, describes God as a ruthless and relentless driver of animals, instead of being a good shepherd. The ‘turning of the hand’ described in this verse of Lamentations should, to my mind, be understood as a description of the relentless spurring on of an animal, much in the same way as in Gudea’s prayer.57

55

B. B¨ ock, ‘ “Wenn du zu Nintinuga gesprochen hast”: Untersuchungen zu Aufbau, Inhalt, Sitz-im-Leben und Funktion sumerischer Gottesbriefe’, Altorientalische Forschungen 23 (1996), 3-23, here 11-2, 19. It should be noted that also in the famous Man and his God text, which has often been compared to the biblical book of Job, the god is called a shepherd who has become angry and looks upon man with hostility (35-6). Since the metaphor as such is not reversed here, the text is not treated in the present article. 56 Translation as presented in the Electronic Text Corpus of Sumerian Literature prepared by the University of Oxford, see http://www-etcsl.orient.ox.ac.uk/section3/tr3320.htm. 57 See J. Renkema, Lamentations (HCOT), Kampen 1998, 354; Van Hecke, ‘Lamentations 3,1-6’, 269-70. (Obviously, the Hebrew expression is dy ˚ph, with kaf and not with h.et, as has been printed erroneously in the latter article.)


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Conclusion

As the above texts from Egyptian and Mesopotamian literature make clear, dealing critically with traditional religious metaphors is by no means an exclusively biblical phenomenon. If personal or socio-political crises occurred, the pastoral metaphor was questioned and reversed, resulting in novel and, at times, iconoclastic metaphorical expressions. Paying attention to these reversals throws new light on this metaphor and on the use of religious metaphor in general, both in the Hebrew Bible and in its Ancient Near Eastern context.

Jan A. Wagenaar

Utrecht University – Netherlands

The Priestly Festival Calendar and the Babylonian New Year Festivals Origin and Transformation of the Ancient Israelite Festival Year

1 Introduction The ancient Israelite festival calendars preserved in the Old Testament differ considerably in the dates specified for the celebration of the three pilgrimage festivals: passover and the subsequent festival of unleavened bread (Pesah.-Mas.s.ot), the festival of weeks (Shavuot ) and the festival of huts (Sukkot). The pre-priestly festival calendars recorded in Exod. 23:14-19; 34:18-26 and Deut. 16:1-17 fix the dates of the pilgrimage festivals in accordance with the state of the crops in the field. Mas.s.ot – and as a consequence Pesah. once the two were combined – was celebrated at the beginning of the barley harvest (Exod. 23:15; 34:18; Deut. 16:1-8), Shavuot at the conclusion of the wheat harvest seven weeks later (Exod. 23:16a; 34:22a; Deut. 16:9-12) and Sukkot after the completion of the harvest of the grapes and the summer fruit at the end or the turn of the year (Exod. 23:16b; 34:22b; Deut. 16:1315). The priestly festival calendar in Leviticus 23, on the other hand, provides fixed dates for the pilgrimage festivals: Pesah. falls on the fourteenth, and the beginning of Mas.s.ot on the fifteenth day of the first month (Lev. 23:5-8), Shavuot – at least in the mind of the tradition1 – exactly fifty days later (Lev. 23:9-22), and the beginning of Sukkot on the fifteenth day of the seventh month (Lev. 23:33-36, 39-43). The same dates are presupposed by the priestly passover regulation in Exod. 12:1-13 and the two 1 The identity of the sabbath from which the fifty-day count should start, however, remained a matter of great controversy: the first day of Mas.s.ot (Philo, Josephus, Pharisees), the weekly sabbath in the passover week (Boethusians, Samaritans, Karaites), the last day of Mas.s.ot (Falashas) or the weekly sabbath following the passover week (Qumran); see J. van Goudoever, Biblical unwaldt, Das Heiligkeitsgesetz LevitCalendars, Leiden 2 1961, 15-29; K. Gr¨ icus 17-26: urspr¨ ungliche Gestalt, Tradition und Theologie (BZAW, 271), Berlin 1999, 81-2; J. Milgrom, Leviticus 23-27: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AncB, 3B), New York 2001, 2056-63.

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lists of festival sacrifices in Numbers 28-29 and Ezek. 45:18-25. The different ways of defining the dates for the pilgrimage festivals, in addition to an increasing tendency to provide historical explanations for the celebration of the festivals, occasioned Julius Wellhausen to extrapolate a process of ongoing denaturation or historicisation in the ancient Israelite festival calendar.2 The three major pilgrimage festivals are progressively celebrated on fixed dates and become more and more detached from their agricultural background. The festival calendar of the Jehovist is still exclusively based on the cycle of the agricultural year: Die einfachsten, nat¨ urlichsten und allgemeinsten Opfer, deren Anlässe sich regelmässig mit den Jahreszeiten wiederholen, die Erstlinge von den Erzeugnissen des Ackerbaues und der Viehzucht, sind die Grundlage der Feste . . . Mit der Fundirung der Feste auf die Erstlinge hängt es zusammen, dass die Termine nur ungefähr bestimmt sind, mehr auf eine Jahreszeit als auf einen festen Monatstag.3 In Deuteronomy the dates of the festivals are already more specific: Das Deuteronomium tut einen Schritt zu grösserer Fixirung der Fristen . . . Im Deuteronomium sieht man die ersten stärkeren Spuren einer Vergeschichtlichung der Religion und des Kultus.4 In the Priestly Code, however, the separation of the festival calendar from the course of nature reaches its climax: Ein weiterer wichtiger Punkt, wodurch sich der Priesterkodex underscheidet, ist die Datierung der Feste nach Monatstagen . . . Eine Gegenprobe f¨ ur die behauptete Denaturirung der Feste im Priesterkodex liegt darin, dass die ... geschichtliche Deutung derselben hier ihre Spitze erreicht hat.5 2

J. Wellhausen, Prolegomena zur Geschichte Israels, Berlin 6 1927, 80-107. Wellhausen, Prolegomena, 85-6. 4 Wellhausen, Prolegomena, 86-7. 5 Wellhausen, Prolegomena, 96-7. 3

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The Wellhausenian scheme has laid the foundation for the historical critical reconstruction of the ancient Israelite festival calendar.6 The process of ongoing denaturation or historicisation postulated by Wellhausen may, however, be questioned. The calculation of the date for Mas.s.ot and the historical motivation for its celebration in Exod. 23:15; 34:18: ‘You shall observe the festival of unleavened bread . . . at the suitable time in the bybia;h; vd
E.g. R. de Vaux, Les institutions de l’Ancien Testament, t. 2, Paris 1960, 383-407; H. Ringgren, Israelite Religion, London 6 1981, 185-90.


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Im Deuteronomium sieht man die ersten stärkeren Spuren einer Vergeschichtlichung der Religion und des Kultus, die sich aber noch in bescheidenen Grenzen hält.7 In order to uphold his scheme of denaturation or historicisation he has to have recourse to the supposed sources of the Jehovist. The historicisation of Pesah. has not come about in one of the sources, but is the work of a later editor: Damit gelangen wir zu dem Ergebnis, dass die geschichtliche Motivirung des Pascha erst vom Deuteronomium vollzogen ist.8 The reconstruction of festivals exclusively concerned with agricultural conditions, however, seems to presuppose the gradual evolution of the festivals rather than prove it. A tangible denaturation or historicisation of the ancient Israelite festival calendar may first be observed in the historical explanation given for Sukkot in the appendix to the priestly festival calendar in Leviticus 23: ‘You shall live in huts for seven days . . . so that your descendants may know that I made the Israelites live in huts, when I brought them out of the land of Egypt’ (Lev. 23:42-43). The historicisation of Shavuot as the commemoration of the giving of the law in turn does not predate the rabbinic era.9 The fixed dates stipulated for the pilgrimage festivals by the priestly festival calendar in Leviticus 23, the passover regulation 7

Wellhausen, Prolegomena, 86-7. Wellhausen, Prolegomena, 84-5. 9 Cf. Wellhausen, Prolegomena, 98; De Vaux, Institutions, 397; see especially Van Goudoever, Biblical Calendars, 139-44. The date mentioned in Exod 19:1: ‘In the third month after the Israelites had gone out of the land of Egypt, on the same day, they came to the wilderness of Sinai’, may well have facilitated the identification of Shavuot and the giving of the law at Mount Sinai, but is too imprecise to support the claim that the text fixes the promulgation of the law – in accordance with the rabbinic tradition – on the sixth or seventh day of the third month. Even if ‘the same day’ would refer to the first day of the month, the period from the arrival at Mount Sinai to the promulgation of the law could vary from three days to well over a week (pace W. Johnstone, ‘The Revision of Festivals in Exodus 1-24 in the Persian Period and the Preservation of Jewish Identity in the Diaspora’, in: R. Albertz, B. Becking (eds), Yahwism after the Exile: Perspectives on Israelite Religion in the Persian Era (STAR, 5), Assen 2003, 105-6 with n. 20). 8

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in Exod. 12:1-13 and the lists of festival sacrifices in Numbers 28-29 and Ezek. 45:18-25, however, may not so much presuppose a gradual process of denaturation or historicisation, but rather reveal a fundamental change in the way the dates for the pilgrimage festivals were calculated in the days of the Babylonian exile. The ancient Israelite festival calendar may have been influenced by the Babylonian festival calendar. The influence of the Babylonian festival calendar upon the ancient Israelite festival calendar may be demonstrated by comparing the composition of the priestly festival calendar in Leviticus 23 with the overall structure of the Babylonian festival year. The composition of the list of festival sacrifices in Numbers 28-29 does admittedly agree with the lay-out of the priestly festival calendar in Leviticus 23. The list of festival sacrifices in Numbers 28-29, which lists daily, weekly and monthly offerings in addition to the festival offerings, however, seems to elaborate upon the priestly festival stipulations and may well present the latest festival calendar in the Old Testament.10

2 The Priestly Festival Calendar The festival calendar in Leviticus 23 presents – with the notable exception of the weekly sabbath in vv. 2abg-3 – a list of annual festivals stipulating their dates, customs and festival offerings. The almost verbatim repetition of the initial introduction in v. 2abgb: ‘(These are) the times appointed by Yhwh, which you shall proclaim as holidays – these are the times appointed by me’, in v. 4: ‘These are the times appointed by Yhwh, holidays, which you shall proclaim at their appropriate times’, demonstrates that the festival calendar has been revised in the course of time.11 Traces of a later revision may also be observed in the unexpected resumption of the regulations dealing with Sukkot in vv. 39-43 10

See M. Noth, Das vierte Buch Mose: Numeri (ATD, 7), G¨ ottingen 2 1973, 190-1; see also Gr¨ unwaldt, Heiligkeitsgesetz, 297; K. Körting, Der Schall des Schofar: Israels Feste im Herbst (BZAW, 285), Berlin 1999, 213; B. Levine, Numbers 21-36: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AncB, 4A), New York 2000, 394-5. 11 Cf. M. Noth, Das dritte Buch Mose: Leviticus (ATD, 6), T¨ ubingen 3 1973, 144; K. Elliger, Leviticus (HAT, 1/4), T¨ ubingen 1966, 304; I. Knohl, The Sanctuary of Silence: The Priestly Torah and the Holiness School, Minneapolis 1995, 14-5; Gr¨ unwaldt, Heiligkeitsgesetz, 77; K¨ orting, Schall des Schofar, 96-7; Milgrom, Leviticus, 1954-5.


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after the apparent conclusion of the list in v. 37aba: ‘These are the times appointed by Yhwh, which you shall proclaim as holidays to bring a gift to Yhwh.’12 The twofold introduction and the conspicuous exception of the sabbath offerings in a digression appended to the conclusion: ‘These are the times appointed by Yhwh, which you shall proclaim as holidays to bring a gift to Yhwh . . . apart from the sabbath offerings’ (Lev. 23:37-38a), suggest that the list of annual festivals has secondarily been expanded in order to include the weekly sabbath in a kind of prologue: ‘(These are) the times appointed by Yhwh, which you shall proclaim as holidays – these are the times appointed by me. Work may be done for six days, but on the seventh day there shall be a festive sabbath, a holiday: you shall do no work at all. This is a sabbath for Yhwh in all your settlements’ (Lev. 23:2abg-3).13 The original festival calendar merely comprised the list of annual festivals preserved in vv. 4-37aba and perhaps vv. 39-43.14 The annual festivals listed in Lev. 23:4-43* are – again with one exception – clustered in two groups: festivals celebrated in the first and festivals celebrated in the seventh month of the year. The first group comprises Pesah. on the fourteenth day and Mas.s.ot from the fifteenth until the twenty-first day of the first month (Lev. 23:5-8), and the second group the memorial day marked by the blowing of a horn on the first day (Lev. 23:2325), the Day of Atonement on the tenth day (Lev. 23:26-32) and Sukkot from the fifteenth until the twenty-first day, or rather 12

See Noth, Leviticus, 144; Elliger, Leviticus, 304-6; Knohl, Sanctuary of Silence, 10; Gr¨ unwaldt, Heiligkeitsgesetz, 77-8; K¨ orting, Schall des Schofar, 99; see also Milgrom, Leviticus, 2033, 2036-38. 13 See Noth, Leviticus, 146; Elliger, Leviticus, 310-1; Knohl, Sanctuary of Silence, 14-5; Gr¨ unwaldt, Heiligkeitsgesetz, 78; K¨ orting, Schall des Schofar, 96-7; see also Milgrom, Leviticus, 1954-64. The exception of the sabbath offerings is not so much part of the original conclusion demonstrating the secondary nature of the sabbath legislation in the festival calendar (pace Noth, Leviticus, 152-3; Elliger, Leviticus, 304-5; Gr¨ unwaldt, Heiligkeitsgesetz, 89; K¨ orting, Schall des Schofar, 100-101), but a later digression appended to the conclusion simultaneously with the introduction of the prologue that included the sabbath in the festival calendar; see also E. Kutsch, ‘Erwägungen zur Geschichte der Passafeier und des Massotfestes’, ZThK 55 (1958), 15 with nn. 2, 4; and Knohl, Sanctuary of Silence, 37, 56-58, who demonstrates that clauses introduced by db'L]m,i ‘apart from’, are characteristic of the editor who revised the priestly corpus. 14 The exact relation of the appended Sukkot legislation in vv. 39-43 to the festival calendar in vv. 4-37aba will be established below.

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the twenty-second day of the seventh month (Lev. 23:33-36, 3943). The festival discussed in Lev. 23:9-21 does not seem to fit the lay-out of the festival calendar in Lev. 23:4-43*. The festival in question – which remains unnamed – is, in marked contrast to the festivals of the first and seventh month, not fixed to a certain date. The festival date is determined in accordance with the presentation of the first omer of the new harvest: ‘You shall count seven sabbaths from the day after the sabbath: the day on which you bring the omer as a raised offering . . . you shall count fifty days until the day after the sabbath and bring a new cereal offering to Yhwh’ (Lev. 23:15-16).15 The presentation of the first omer of the new harvest, however, is likewise not fixed to a particular date, but is dependent upon the beginning of the harvest: ‘When you enter the land that I am about to give you and you reap its harvest, you shall bring the first omer of your harvest to the priest. He shall raise the omer before Yhwh – on your behalf – the priest shall raise it on the day after the sabbath’ (Lev. 23:10-11). As the harvest does not commence on a fixed date, but, owing to climatical variations, on a different day from year to year, the date for the festival remains flexible. The fifty-day interval between the beginning of the harvest and the celebration of the festival is in this respect similar to the calculation of the date of Shavuot in Deut. 16:9-10: ‘You shall count seven weeks: from the moment when the sickle is put to the standing grain, you must begin to count seven weeks, and keep the festival of weeks for Yhwh, your God.’ The date for the celebration of the – in all likelihood – identical festival in Lev. 23:9-21 is, therefore, just as in the pre-priestly festival calendars primarily dependent on agricultural conditions.

3 Sukkot and ‘the end of the year’ The marked difference between a flexible date for Shavuot dependent on the beginning of the harvest, on the one hand, and the fixed dates for Pesah.-Mas.s.ot and Sukkot, on the other, raise 15

The word rm,[o may denote both a ‘sheaf’ (Deut. 24:19; Job 24:10; Ruth 2:15) and a dry measure (Exod. 16:16, 18, 22, 32, 33, 36). In the priestly literature tyviarE usually refers to the first prepared grain (ThWAT, Bd. 7, 2923), and tyviarE rm,[o may, therefore, have a certain quantity of the first barley in mind (pace ThWAT, Bd. 7, 293, which makes an unwarranted exception for Lev. 23:10-12, 15: ‘die Garbe vom Beginn eurer Ernte’).


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the question of the relation between the dates of the priestly festival calendar and the agricultural seasons. In the pre-priestly festival calendars Sukkot concludes the list of pilgrimage festivals and seems to mark the end of the agricultural cycle of sowing, reaping and processing the harvest. The festival calendar in Deut. 16:1-17 does not refer to a particular time of the year, but assumes that the yield of the grain and the grape harvest has been processed: ‘You shall keep the festival of huts, when you have gathered in the produce from your threshing floor and your wine press’ (Deut. 16:13). The ‘festival of ingathering’ mentioned in the festival calendars in Exod. 23:14-19 and 34:18-26 is celebrated at the same time of the year and may thus be equated with Sukkot: ‘You shall observe . . . the festival of ingathering at the end of the year, when you have gathered in your produce from the field’ (Exod. 23:16b), or, ‘You shall keep . . . the festival of ingathering at the turn of the year’ (Exod. 34:22b). The date of the festival, however, is not only determined by agricultural conditions, but – as may be clear from the expression of time taxeB] hn:V;h' and hn:V;h' tp'WqT] – is also subordinated to a point in time independent of the agricultural cycle. The latter festival calendars admittedly list the three pilgrimage festivals – just as the former – in accordance with the course of the agricultural cycle, but do not seem to have some ‘agricultural year’ in mind.16 The controversial hn:V;h' taxeB] in Exod. 23:16b may, in accordance with its Akkadian counterpart m¯ us.¯e ˇsatti, ‘the end of the year’, refer to the conclusion of a calendrical cycle and not a seasonal cycle.17 16

Pace D.J.A. Clines, ‘Evidence for an Autumnal New Year in Pre-exilic Israel Reconsidered’, JBL 93 (1974), 26-9, who rightly emphasises that the pre-priestly festival calendars reflect the agricultural year of sowing, harvest and gathering in, but prematurely concludes that the ‘references to the “end” or the “turn” of the year in the autumn invariably have to do with the cycle of the agricultural year or of the festival calendar insofar as it is based on the agricultural seasons, and therefore . . . are irrelevant to the questions of the beginning of the calendar year of months.’ Clines discards the possibility that ‘the end of the year’ and ‘the turn of the year’ refer to a point of time in the calendar year irrespective of the course of the agricultural year. 17 Pace Clines,’Evidence’, 26-7, who admittedly endorses the conclusion drawn by E. Kutsch, ‘ “. . . am Ende des Jahres”: Zur Datierung des israelitischen Herbstfestes in Ex 23 16’, ZAW 83 (1971), 15-21, that the expression hn:V;h' taxe does not mean ‘the beginning of the year’, as has occasionally been assumed (HALAT, 406-7), but in accordance with Akkadian m¯ us.¯e ˇsatti, ‘the end of the year’ (AHW, 680; CAD, vol. 10/2, 249: ‘mng. uncert., perhaps the

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The equally difficult hn:V;h' tp'WqT] in Exod. 34:22b, on the other hand, refers to a major turning point in the year, and such a major watershed in the season of ingathering can only be the autumnal equinox.18 The autumnal equinox more or less coincides with the conclusion of the grape harvest. The grape harvest which begins in late June reaches its climax in the second half of August and the beginning of September about the same time as the ingathering of the summer fruit. Although the harvest of the late figs and the olives has not yet been brought in, the time around the autumnal equinox – which provides a natural break between the harvest of the grain and grapes, on the one hand, and ploughing and sowing, on the other – is certainly a suitable period to celebrate the conclusion of the agricultural cycle. The moment for the celebration, however, is ultimately determined by the calendar and not by agricultural conditions. The significance of the autumnal equinox is confirmed by the list of agricultural activities distributed over the twelve months of the year recorded in the Gezer calendar.19 The list begins with the two months end of the year’) refers to ‘the end of the year’ (HALAT, 1478; ThWAT, Bd. 3 , 799; ThWAT, Bd. 8, 333-4), but assumes that the year in question may be ‘an agricultural year’. The use of as.u ˆ to refer to the end of a ‘(twenty-four hour) day’ or ‘lunar month’ in Akkadian (AHW, 1480; CAD, vol. 1/2, 385: e.g. ‘may the outgoing month take the evil away [and] the incoming year show me favor’), as well as the use of axy to refer to the end of a ‘(sabbath) day’ or a ‘(sabbath) year’ in post-biblical Hebrew, however, suggests, that the expression may have been intended to indicate the end of a ‘calendar year’. 18 Pace Clines, ‘Evidence’, 27-8, who hesitates to introduce the notion of ‘solstice’ or ‘equinox’ that hp;WqT] received in rabbinic texts into Old Testament texts, and tries to clarify the meaning of the word by referring to Ps. 19:7 μt;wxøq]Al[' wtøp;Wqt]W waøx;wmø μyIm'V;h' hxeq]m,i ‘at one end of the sky is his exit, and his turning point is at the other end’, where hp;WqT] presents the furthest point in the course of the sun before it begins its subterranean return to the east (HALAT, 1641), taking ‘turning point’ in Exod. 34:22b in a seasonal sense as the ‘time of transition from summer to winter’. The general meaning of hp;WqT] may well be ‘turning point’, but as a year has no furthest point from where to begin a ‘subterranean’ return, this turning point may well be the end of one year and the beginning of the next (HALAT, 1641; ThWAT, Bd. 8, 333-4). The only observable turning point in the course of a year would in the meantime be a solstice or equinox when the days or nights start to shorten or are of equal length. 19 See for a recent edition of the Gezer calendar J. Renz, W. Röllig, Handbuch der althebr¨ aischen Epigraphik, Bd. 1/1: Die althebr¨ aischen Inschriften – Text und Kommentar, Darmstadt 1995, 30-7; see also G.I. Davies, Ancient


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of ingathering of late figs and olives throughout October and the beginning of November, and not with the sowing season following the arrival of the first rains in early November as would have been logical from a farmer’s point of view.20 The Gezer calendar runs from late September/early October to late August/early September and thus reckons with a period – in all likelihood a calendar year – that begins independently of the agricultural cycle at the autumnal equinox.21 Sukkot is celebrated after the harvest of the grapes and the summer fruit has been brought in, and as a consequence follows the autumnal equinox. The festival calendars in Exod. 23:14-19 and 34:18-26 put the ‘festival of ingathering’, i.e. Sukkot, therefore, at the beginning of a new year: ‘You shall observe/keep . . . the festival of ingathering from the end or the turn of the year onwards ’ (Exod. 23:16b; 34:22b).22 Sukkot may Hebrew Inscriptions: Corpus and Concordance, Oxford 1991, 85. The text of the Gezer calendar and the relation of the agricultural activities to the calendar year will be discussed in greater detail below. 20 Pace Clines, ‘Evidence’, 38, who argues that the Gezer calendar being a list of agricultural seasons instead of a calendar does not need to begin at a particular time of the year, but is nevertheless likely to begin about the time of the autumn, i.e. ‘the most conspicuous transitional point in the seasonal year’, but fails to take into account that the Gezer calendar does not begin at the most conspicuous transitional point in the year, but about two months earlier; Körting, Schall des Schofar, 75, who admits that the Gezer calendar begins with the harvest that takes place about the time of the autumnal equinox instead of the subsequent winter rains, but nevertheless refuses to draw any conclusions from this list of agricultural seasons with regard to the beginning of the calendar year, because she assumes that the two months of ingathering in which the bulk of the harvest is reaped are listed first for administrative reasons. However, the harvest of late figs and olives may hardly qualify as the bulk of the harvest. 21 As a lunar month averages 29,5 days and twelve lunar months make only 354 days, the next year is due to start about 11 days early and, without some form of compensation, i.e. the intercalation of a thirteenth month every two or three years, the beginning of the calendar year will soon be completely out of step with the autumnal equinox. The (ir)regular intercalation of a thirteenth month every two or three years of course means that the beginning of the calendar year will hardly ever coincide with the autumnal equinox, but actually varies from year to year, preceding or following it by a few days or even weeks. 22 Pace E. Auerbach, ‘Das Fest der Lese am Abschluss des Jahres’, VT 3 (1953), 186-7, who argues that the sequence of the pilgrimage festivals in the pre-priestly festival suggests that Sukkot is celebrated towards the end of the calendar year and consequently precedes the new year. As hn:V;h' taxe and hn:V;h' tp'WqT] hardly were intended to indicate a specific time span, however,

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to all intents and purposes have been a new year festival.23 The priestly festival calendar in Lev. 23:4-43* dates Sukkot to the seventh month of the year: ‘On the fifteenth day of the seventh month there shall be a seven-day festival of huts for Yhwh’ (Lev. 23:34). As the priestly festival calendar counts the months, in accordance with the Babylonian calendar, from the vernal equinox, the seventh month of the year equals the first month of a calendar year starting at the autumnal equinox. The priestly festival calendar thus envisages the celebration of Sukkot just as the pre-priestly festival calendars in the period following the harvest of the grapes and the summer fruit: late September/early October. The coincidence of the date specified in the priestly festival calendar and the agricultural conditions is confirmed by the introduction to the additional provisions for Sukkot in Lev. 23:3943: ‘On the fifteenth day of the seventh month, when you have gathered the yield of the land, you shall celebrate the festival of Yhwh for seven days.’ The festival date is in the priestly festival calendar admittedly first and foremost determined in accordance with the calendar year, but the link with the agricultural cycle is not entirely severed.

4 Pesah.-Mas.s.ot and ‘the season of ears’ The same does not hold true for the date specified for Pesah.Mas.s.ot. The pre-priestly festival calendars stipulate a rather vague date for the celebration of Mas.s.ot. The combined regulations for Pesah.-Mas.s.ot in Deut. 16:1-17 read: ‘Observe the vd

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days’ (Deut. 16:1-3). The festival calendars in Exod. 23:14-17 and 34:18-26 stipulate the same date for Mas.s.ot: ‘You shall observe the festival of unleavened bread: you shall eat unleavened bread for seven days . . . at the suitable time in the bybia;h; vd
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to year because of climatical variations, the word vd
Cf. HALAT, 283; DCH, vol. 3, 165; see especially Jer. 2:23-24: ‘a restive young camel interlacing her tracks, a wild ass at home in the wilderness, in her heat sniffing the wind. Who can restrain her lust? None who seek her need weary themselves, in her month they will find her’, where vd

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after the beginning of the barley harvest. In the mountainous regions the wheat generally ripens in the beginning of June, in the Jordan valley and the coastal plain about two weeks earlier.34 The period from the beginning of the barley harvest in the valleys or the coastal plain at the end of April until the conclusion of the wheat harvest in the mountainous regions towards the middle of June just about covers the seven-week interval which separates Mas.s.ot from Shavuot in the pre-priestly festival calendars. The dates provided by Dalman are confirmed by the date for the barley harvest supposed by the list of agricultural activities in the Gezer calendar:35 I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX X XI XII

two months of ingathering two months of sowing two months of late seed one month of cutting flax one month of barley harvest one month of harvesting and measuring two months of gleaning one month of summer fruit

September/October October/November November/December December/January January/February February/March March/April April/May May/June June/July July/August August/September

The calendar opens as mentioned with the two months of ingathering of late figs and olives in October and early November.36 The calendar then continues with the four months of the sowing season following the arrival of the first rains in November.37 34 Dalman, Arbeit und Sitte, Bd. 1/2, 415: ‘Im allgemeinen d¨ urfte f¨ ur das Gebirgsland . . . der Beginn der Weizen ernte um Anfang Juni als zutreffend gelten . . . In K¨ ustenland und Jordanebene wird der Beginn um etwa 14 Tage fr¨ uher liegen’; see also Idem, Arbeit und Sitte, Bd. 3, 2; the table on pp. 4-6 puts the wheat harvest in June. 35 See Wagenaar, ‘Calendar Innovations’, 14-6; the present-day equivalents of the one- or two-month periods of the agricultural activities listed in the Gezer calendar are determined on the basis of the observations made by Dalman, Arbeit und Sitte, passim (see below). The dates of the Gezer calendar provided by O. Borowski, Agriculture in Iron Age Israel: The Evidence from Archeology and the Bible, Winona Lake, 1987, 31-44 with tables 1, 3, however, tend to be one month out of step, because his reconstruction suffers from a premature equation of bybia; and the month of the barley harvest with the first month after the vernal equinox. 36 Dalman, Arbeit und Sitte, Bd. 1/2, 561; Idem, Arbeit und Sitte, Bd. 4, 190-3. 37 Dalman, Arbeit und Sitte, Bd. 1/1, 115-30.

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The sowing season is divided into two periods: the first period lasts from the end of November until the end of January, and the second period following the heavy January rains lasts until the middle of March.38 The harvest of flax seed for the production of oil falls in the second half of March and the first half of April.39 The barley harvest consequently begins towards the end of April or the beginning of May, and the wheat harvest follows in the second half of May and the first half of June.40 The two consecutive months reckoned in the Gezer calendar for the barley harvest and ‘harvesting and measuring’ of wheat again match the seven-week interval between Mas.s.ot and Shavuot laid down in the pre-priestly festival calendars. The calendar concludes with the harvest of the grapes and the summer fruit: the grape harvest begins as mentioned earlier in the second half of June and lasts throughout the summer, but does not reach its climax before the ingathering of the summer fruit in August and the first half of September.41 The pre-priestly festival calendars thus seem to suppose that Pesah.-Mas.s.ot was celebrated at the end of April or the beginning of May. The priestly festival calendar in Lev. 23:4-43*, however, dates Pesah.-Mas.s.ot to the first month of the year: ‘In the first month on the fourteenth day of the month . . . there shall be a passover for Yhwh, and on the fifteenth day of the same month a festival of unleavened bread for Yhwh: you shall eat unleavened bread for seven days’ (Lev. 23:5-6). The first month of the priestly festival calendar which reckons the months, in accordance with the Babylonian calendar, from the vernal equinox, roughly coincides with the latter part of March and the better part of April. The end of March or the beginning of April, however, is about a month early for the barley harvest. The untimely date for Pesah.-Mas.s.ot in the priestly festival calendar is confirmed once again by the list of agricultural activities recorded in the Gezer calendar.42 The Gezer calendar lists the barley harvest in the eighth month of the year. 38

Dalman, Arbeit und Sitte, Bd. 2, 174-6. Dalman, Arbeit und Sitte, Bd. 2, 298-9; Idem, Arbeit und Sitte, Bd. 5, 19-20, has not observed the actual cultivation of flax, but notes that in the spring the flowers of the wild varieties can be seen everywhere. 40 Dalman, Arbeit und Sitte, Bd. 1/2, 415; Idem, Arbeit und Sitte, Bd. 3, 2, 4-6 (see above). 41 Dalman, Arbeit und Sitte, Bd. 4, 335-9. 42 See Wagenaar, ‘Calendar Innovations’, 18. 39


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The eighth month of a year beginning with the autumnal equinox, however, would equal the second month of a year beginning with the vernal equinox. The priestly festival calendar seems to have advanced the celebration of Pesah.-Mas.s.ot from the second month to the first month of the year.43 The priestly festival calendar thus not only fixes a particular date for the celebration of Pesah.-Mas.s.ot, but also severs the link between Pesah.-Mas.s.ot and the agricultural seasons.

5 Shavuot: A Post-priestly Addition The differences in the priestly festival calendar in Lev. 23:4-43* between Pesah.-Mas.s.ot and Sukkot fixed to a particular day and month, on the one hand, and Shavuot celebrated on a flexible date dependent upon the beginning of the harvest, on the other, match a different relation of these festivals with the agricultural seasons. The date of Shavuot is, in accordance with the prepriestly festival calendars, dependent upon agricultural conditions, whereas the link between Pesah.-Mas.s.ot and Sukkot with the agricultural seasons is more or less completely severed. The stipulations regarding Shavuot are incompatible with those for Pesah.-Mas.s.ot and Sukkot and may, therefore, originally not have been part of the priestly festival calendar. The contrast between the festivals celebrated on a fixed day in the first and seventh month and the single festival celebrated in accordance with the agricultural seasons corresponds with a series of formal differences in the text of the festival calendar in Lev. 23:4-43*.44 The stipulations for Pesah. (Lev. 23:5), Mas.s.ot 43

The (ir)regular intercalation of a thirteenth month every two or three years because the next lunar year of 12 times 29,5 days is bound to start 11 days early would admittedly put the barley harvest once in a while in the first month of the year, but as a year may on occasion begin well in advance of the vernal equinox, the barley harvest may at other times not start before the third month of the year (the dates listed for the beginning of the year in the Neo-Babylonian era by R.A. Parker, W. Dubberstein, Babylonian Chronology 626 B.C.-A.D. 75, Providence 1956, 25-47, vary from 6 March to 30 April); on average, however, the barley harvest will begin in the second month of the year. 44 Cf. Noth, Leviticus, 144-5; Kutsch, ‘Erw¨ agungen’, 14-5; Elliger, Leviticus, 304-12; A. Cholewinski, Heiligkeitsgesetz und Deuteronomium (AnBib, 66), Rome 1976, 82-94; K¨ orting, Schall des Schofar, 95-105, who distinguish between two sets of instructions with their own form and phraseology: vv. 5-8, 23-25, 33-36 are characterised by (1) an exact date, (2) the name of the

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(Lev. 23:6-8), the memorial day marked by the blowing of a horn (Lev. 23:23-25), the Day of Atonement (Lev. 23:26-27) and Sukkot (Lev. 23:33-36) specify the entire day or the first and last days of the festival as a vd

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the time of the harvest: ‘Moreover, on the fifteenth day of the seventh month, when you have gathered the yield of the land, you shall celebrate the festival of Yhwh for seven days’, and the instructions stipulated for the celebration of the festival are again labelled μk,yterodol] μl;w[ø tQ'ju, ‘an eternal statute throughout your generations.’ The formal differences between the two groups of rules and regulations suggest that the list of annual festivals preserved in Lev. 23:4-43 is the result of a combination of two kinds of festival instructions.47 The relationship between these two kinds of instructions, however, is difficult to establish.48 The time-honoured way of determining the dates for Shavuot in vv. 9-21 and Sukkot in vv. 39-43 in accordance with agricultural conditions has traditionally been taken as an indication that these passages present the remains of an earlier festival calendar that has been revised by the addition of a series of festivals fixed to an exact day and time.49 The date specified for the beginning of Sukkot in v. 39aa, ‘the fifteenth day of the seventh month’, is likewise taken as a later addition to the Sukkot legislation in vv. 39ab-43. The date in v. 39aa may, however, only be taken as a later addition once it has been established by other criteria that vv. 39-43 are the remains of an earlier festival calendar. The date, ‘the fifteenth day of the seventh month’, and the specification of the agricultural conditions, ‘when you have gathered the yield of the land’, can after all not be played off against each other, as the date listed by the priestly festival calendar matches the period envisaged for the celebration of the festival of huts in the pre-priestly festival calendars. Moreover, the label given to the instructions for the 47

Cf. Kutsch, ‘Erw¨ agungen’, 14-5; Elliger, Leviticus, 304-12; Cholewinski, Heiligkeitsgesetz und Deuteronomium, Rome 1976, 82-94; Körting, Schall des Schofar, 95-105; see also Knohl, Sanctuary of Silence, 8-40. 48 Noth, Leviticus, 145-6, infers from the festivals dated to the first and seventh months of the year a ‘Zweierrhythmus’, which may also be found in the list of festival sacrifices in Ezek. 45:21-25, whereas the set of three pilgrimage festivals Pesah.-Mas.s.ot, Shavuot and Sukkot represent a ‘Dreierrhythmus’, known from the festival calendars in Exod. 23:14-19; 34:18, 22-23; Deut. 16:1-17, but he hesitates to attribute these to different literary ‘sources’, and prefers to consider the festival calendar in Leviticus 23 as an amalgam of a Jerusalem cult tradition with the Deuteronomic series of agricultural festivals forged in the exilic era. 49 See the summary of the traditional consensus by W. Thiel, ‘Erwägungen zum Alter des Heiligkeitsgesetzes’, ZAW 81 (1969), 57-9.

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rituals performed on the first and fiftieth days of the period that separates the presentation of the first omer of the new harvest from Shavuot as well as the instructions for the festivities during Sukkot: ‘an eternal statute – in all your settlements – throughout your generations’ (Lev. 23:14, 21, 41), agrees with the conclusion of the post-priestly prologue introducing the weekly sabbath into the priestly festival calendar: ‘This is a sabbath for Yhwh in all your settlements.’50 Finally, the identification of the first and eighth days of Sukkot as a ˆwtøB;v,' ‘festive day’, in v. 39b, likewise resembles the identification of the weekly festival day as a tB'v' ˆwtøB;v', ‘festive sabbath’.51 The same incidentally holds true for the label given to the rituals performed on the Day of Atonement: μk,ytebov]mo lkoB] μk,yterodol] μl;w[ø tQ'ju, ‘an eternal statute throughout your generations in all your settlements’, and for the identification of the Day of Atonement as a ˆwtøB;v', ‘festive day’, in the secondary elaborations on the provisions for the Day of Atonement in vv. 28ab-32 which are appended to vv. 26-28aa.52 The conclusion, therefore, seems to be justified that the provisions for Shavuot in vv. 9-21 and the additional instructions for the Day of Atonement in vv. 28ab-32 as well as Sukkot in vv. 3943 were added to the festival calendar simultaneously with the post-priestly prologue that introduced the weekly sabbath into the priestly festival calendar.53 50 Cf. Elliger, Leviticus, 310-1; Cholewinski, Heiligkeitsgesetz und Deuteronomium, 90-1; K¨ orting, Schall des Schofar, 101; see also Knohl, Sanctuary of Silence, 46-55, who demonstrates that the phrase (μk,ytebov]mo lkoB)] μl;w[ø tQ'ju μk,yterodol] is characteristic of the editor who revised the priestly corpus. 51 Cf. Elliger, Leviticus, 310-1; Cholewinski, Heiligkeitsgesetz und Deuteronomium, 90-1; K¨ orting, Schall des Schofar, 101; see also Knohl, Sanctuary of Silence, 35 with n. 73, who argues that ˆwtøB;v' only occurs in texts that stem from the editor who revised the priestly corpus. 52 Cf. Kutsch, ‘Erw¨ agungen’, 14-5; Knohl, Sanctuary of Silence, 13-4, 27-34; K¨ orting, Schall des Schofar, 101, 112-7, who distinguish between an original Day of Atonement legislation in vv. 26-28aa, that resembles the lay-out of vv. 5-8, 23-25, 33-36, and additional instructions in vv. 28ab-31(32), that mirror vv. 2abg-3, 9-21, 39-43; pace Elliger, Leviticus, 309-10; Cholewinski, Heiligkeitsgesetz und Deuteronomium, 88-90, who hesitate to attribute vv. 26-31(32) to one of the two categories, because it combines features of both kinds of festival instructions, but in the end consider vv. 26-31(32) in their entirety as a later addition. 53 Cf. Kutsch, ‘Erw¨ agungen’, 14-5; Elliger, Leviticus, 304-12; Cholewinski, Heiligkeitsgesetz und Deuteronomium, 82-94, esp. 94; Körting, Schall des Schofar, 95-105, esp. 102 n. 63, who nevertheless reckon with the possibility


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In contrast to the additional instructions for Sukkot in vv. 39-43, which are appended to the original provisions for Sukkot in vv. 33-36, the instructions for Shavuot in vv. 9-21 are not added to a previous Shavuot legislation. The absence of original Shavuot legislation in the priestly festival calendar is often explained by the supposition that the original instructions have been reworked or even completely replaced by the new legislation, leaving only traces of the original text in v. 21.54 The original festival calendar in Lev. 23:4-43* may, however, just as well never have included provisions for Shavuot. The specification of the fiftieth day after the presentation of the omer as a vd
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the sabbath and the Day of Atonement. The specification of the fiftieth day after the presentation of the first omer of the new harvest as a vd

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however, restored once the priestly passover regulation in Exod. 12:1-13 is taken into account. The festival dates stipulated for the first month of the year are thus matched by festival dates cited for the seventh month.58 The first day of the year supposed by Exod. 12:2: ‘This month shall be the first of your months: it shall be the first month of the year for you’, mirrors ‘the memorial day marked by the blowing of a horn’ on the first day of the seventh month (Lev. 23:23-25). The selection of the passover lamb on the tenth day of the first month (Exod. 12:3-5) has a counterpart in the Day of Atonement on the tenth day of the seventh month (Lev. 23:26-28ab). The slaughter, preparation and consumption of the passover sacrifice on the fourteenth day (Exod. 12:6-11; Lev. 23:5) and the celebration of Mas.s.ot from the fifteenth until the twenty-first day of the first month (Lev. 23:6-8) match the celebration of Sukkot from the fifteenth until the twenty-first day, or rather the twenty-second day of the seventh month (Lev. 23:33-36). The omission of the dates leading up to the passover day and the concise instructions for its celebration in Lev. 23:5 suggest that Exod. 12:1-13 and Lev. 23:4, 5-8, 23-25, 26-28aa, 3336, 37aba were from the outset intended as comprehensive parts of a single priestly festival calendar.

6 Ezekielan Calendar Innovations The origin of the priestly festival calendar – and the reasons for advancing Pesah.-Mas.s.ot by about a full month – may be elucidated by comparing the priestly festival calendar in Exod. 12:1-13; Lev. 23:4-8, 23-37aba* with the list of festival sacrifices recorded in Ezek. 45:18-25. The semi-annual lay-out of the list of festival sacrifices in Ezek. 45:18-25 seems to reflect the composition of the priestly festival calendar. The text of Ezek. 45:18-25 is, unfortunately, so corrupt that it cannot be understood without a number of radical emendations. Verses 21-25 list a series of sacrifices to be offered on festivals beginning – in accordance with the dates fixed for Pesah.-Mas.s.ot and Sukkot in the priestly festival calendar – on the fourteenth day of the first month and the fifteenth day of the seventh month. The festival mentioned in v. 25 beginning on the fifteenth day of the seventh month lasts for 58

E.g. I. Willi-Plein, Opfer und Kult im alttestamentlichen Israel: Textbefragungen und Zwischenergebnisse (SB, 153), Stuttgart 1993, 134-6.

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seven days: ‘In the seventh month, on the fifteenth day of the month, at the festival, he shall do the same for seven days.’ The festival in question may well be identical with Sukkot, but remains conspicuously anonymous. The festivals discussed in vv. 21-24 beginning on the fourteenth day of the first month, on the other hand, are apparently called by name: ‘In the first month, on the fourteenth day of the month you shall have the passover.’ However, the phrase lkea;yE twXøm' μymiy: tw[øbuv] gj; in the remainder of v. 21 cannot be rendered in a comprehensive way. The present text seems to refer to Shavuot and the custom of eating unleavened bread. As gj; is in the absolute state and the subsequent tw[øbuv] in the construct state, the vocalised text may nevertheless not have Shavuot in mind. The construct chain μymiy: tw[øbuv], ‘(seven) weeks of days’, may better be interpreted as the period in which unleavened bread has to be eaten: ‘unleavened bread shall be eaten for seven full weeks.’59 The occurrence of tw[bv gj, ‘the festival of weeks’, in the consonantal text may in turn be the result of a freak accident in the course of the transmission of the text, rather than a deliberate attempt to include this festival in a festival calendar in which it would otherwise be lacking.60 In this case an editor would have included Shavuot in between Pesah. and the stipulation to eat unleavened bread for an otherwise unspecified number of days.61 The text may in accordance with the Ì, eJpta; hJmevra" a[zuma e[desqe, the ◊, septem diebus azyma comedentur, and other versions originally have read lkea;yE twXøm' μymiy: t['b]vi, ‘unleavened bread shall be eaten for seven days.’62 The stray gj at the beginning of the clause may – in accordance with the vo59

Cf. the expression μymiy: jr"y,< ‘a full month’, in Deut. 21:13; 2 Kgs 15:13; the Masoretes may nevertheless have read the plural tw[øbuv] as a plural of extension: ‘unleavened bread shall be eaten for one full week’. 60 Pace H. Gese, Der Verfassungsentwurf des Ezechiel (Kap. 40-48) traditionsgeschichtlich untersucht (BHTh, 25), T¨ ubingen 1957, 80 n. 2; W. Zimmerli, Ezechiel, Bd. 2: Ezechiel 25-48 (BK, 13/2), Neukirchen-Vluyn 2 1979, 1159: ‘ohne dass doch ein syntaktisch möglicher Text hergestellt w¨ urde’; H.J. Ebach, Kritik und Utopie: Untersuchungen zum Verh¨ altnis von Volk und Herrscher im Verfassungsentwurf des Ezechiel (Kap. 40-48), Hamburg 1972, 119. 61 See also K¨ orting, Schall des Schofar, 147 n. 290. 62 Cf. Gese, Verfassungsentwurf, 80 n. 2; Zimmerli, Ezechiel, 1159; Ebach, Kritik und Utopie, 119; K¨ orting, Schall des Schofar, 147 n. 290; K.-F. Pohlmann, Der Prophet Hesekiel/Ezechiel 20-48 (ATD, 22/2), G¨ ottingen 2001, 603, 608.


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calisation – be some sort of caption introducing the following stipulation: ‘as far as the festival is concerned: unleavened bread shall be eaten for seven days.’ The entire clause is probably a marginal gloss to the ‘seven days of the festival’ mentioned in v. 23 which seem to lack a proper reference to the custom of eating unleavened bread. The first part of v. 21, ‘In the first month, on the fourteenth day of the month you shall have the passover’, is continued in v. 22, ‘on that day the prince shall provide a bull as purification offering’, as the expression of time aWhh' μwYoB' in v. 22 refers back to the passover day only without taking the sevenday period of eating unleavened bread mentioned in v. 21b into consideration.63 The provisions for the sacrifice on passover day are followed in v. 23 by stipulations regarding the offerings to be brought on the seven days of the subsequent festival, which may be identical with Mas.s.ot – and thus provoked the gloss preserved in v. 21b – but, like the festival in the seventh month, remains conspicuously anonymous: ‘For the seven days of the festival he shall provide as a burnt offering to Yhwh . . . and as a purification offering.’ The list of festival sacrifices recorded in vv. 21-25 may, therefore, originally – with the exception of Pesah. – merely have referred to unnamed festivals being celebrated in the first and seventh months of the year. The sacrifices stipulated for Pesah. and the unnamed festival on the fourteenth day of the first month and the seven days following are preceded in Ezek. 45:18-20 by a sacrifice to be brought on the first day of the first month: ‘In the first month, on the first day of the month you shall take an unblemished bull and purify the sanctuary’ (Ezek. 45:18-19). The sacrifices stipulated for the period from fifteenth day until the twenty-first day of the seventh month may likewise have been preceded by a sacrifice on the first day of the seventh month: ‘You shall do the same in the seventh month, on the first day of the month.’ The date vd
See also Gese, Verfassungsentwurf, 80; Zimmerli, Ezechiel, 1162; Ebach, Kritik und Utopie, 120; K¨ orting, Schall des Schofar, 147; Pohlmann, Hesekiel/Ezechiel, 607-8.

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to refer to the septime of a seven-day atonement ritual.64 However, unlike the seven-day inauguration of the altar mentioned in Ezek. 43:18-27, the list of festival sacrifices in Ezek. 45:18-20 does not seem to be intended for a seven-day atonement ritual.65 The inexplicable vd
Cf. Gese, Verfassungsentwurf, 77-8; Zimmerli, Ezechiel, 1161; Ebach, Kritik und Utopie, 109-10 with n. 5; Pohlmann, Hesekiel/Ezechiel, 603, 605. 65 See also K¨ orting, Schall des Schofar, 145-7. 66 See also K¨ orting, Schall des Schofar, 145-7. 67 Cf. Gese, Verfassungsentwurf, 75-6, 79-80; Zimmerli, Ezechiel, 1159-66; Ebach, Kritik und Utopie, 108-9; K¨ orting, Schall des Schofar, 137-8; Pohlmann, Hesekiel/Ezechiel, 604-5. 68 See also K¨ orting, Schall des Schofar, 137-138; pace Ebach, Kritik und Utopie, 112-3, who argues that the person addressed in the second person singular is the prince; Gese, Verfassungsentwurf, 79; Zimmerli, Ezechiel, 1159; Pohlmann, Hesekiel/Ezechiel, 605, who consider the second person plural address in v. 20b as an editorial ploy to link vv. 18-20a to vv. 21-25.


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take an unblemished bull and purify the sanctuary: the priest shall take some of the blood of the purification offering and apply it to the doorposts of the temple, the four corners of the rim of the altar and the posts of the gate to the inner court. You shall do the same in the seventh month on the first day of the month . . . and so the two of you shall make atonement for the temple’ (Ezek. 45:18-20). The sacrifices listed in vv. 21-25 are offered in the course of the major festivals in the first and seventh months. Nevertheless, the sacrifices stipulated for the purification of the sanctuary on the first day of the first and seventh months in vv. 18-20 may not be interpreted as a later addition to an independent list of festival sacrifices in vv. 21-25.69 The purpose of the sacrifices envisaged on passover day and the seven days following, like the sacrifices brought on the first day of the first and seventh months, was purification: ‘In the first month, on the fourteenth day of the month, you shall have the passover: on that day the prince shall provide a bull as a purification offering for himself and for all the people of the land. For the seven days of the festival he shall provide as a burnt offering . . . and as a purification offering: a male goat each day’ (Ezek. 45:21a, 22-24). The same holds true for the seven days of the festival in the seventh month: ‘In the seventh month, on the fifteenth day of the month, at the festival, he shall do the same for seven days’ (Ezek. 45:25). The list of festival sacrifices in Ezek. 45:18-25 thus envisages two series of related purification rituals performed in the first and seventh months: on the first day of the first and seventh months sacrifices are brought for the purification of the sanctuary, from the fourteenth/fifteenth until the twenty-first day of the first and seventh months sacrifices are brought for the purification of the people.70 The presentation of the festival sacrifices as purification offerings to be brought in the first and seventh months of the year may have been inspired by the overall structure of the Babylonian festival calendar. The Babylonian festival year is divided into two equal halves by new year festivals in the first and seventh months of the year. An integral part of the eleven-day Babylonian new 69

See also Ebach, Kritik und Utopie, 116-8; pace Zimmerli, Ezechiel, 1165; Pohlmann, Hesekiel/Ezechiel, 604-5. 70 See also Ebach, Kritik und Utopie, 144; K¨ orting, Schall des Schofar, 141 with n. 262.

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year festival is the purification of the temple of Marduk on the fifth day of the festival.71 The purification of the sanctuary on the first day of the first and seventh months of the year in Ezek. 45:1820 may likewise be understood as part of a new year ritual.72 The sacrifices for the purification of the people offered in the course of Pesah. and the anonymous seven-day festivals later in the first and seventh months complement the purification rituals performed on the first day of these months and may present the conclusion of the two new year rituals. The list of festival sacrifices in Ezek. 45:18-25 thus transforms Pesah.-Mas.s.ot and Sukkot into unnamed new year festivals celebrated six months apart. The inclusion of two new year festivals in Ezek. 45:18-25 may have been facilitated by the formal, temporal and political similarities between the Babylonian new year festival and the traditional ancient Israelite new year festival celebrated around the autumnal equinox.73 The similarities between the two autumnal new year festivals may have provoked the transformation of Pesah.-Mas.s.ot into a new year festival celebrated around the vernal equinox. In order to transform Pesah.-Mas.s.ot into a new year festival celebrated in the first month of the year, however, the combined festivals had to be severed from their agricultural background and advanced by about a full month.

71

Cf. F. Thureau-Dangin, Rituels accadiens, Paris 1921, 127-54, esp. 13641; H. Ringgren, Die Religionen des Alten Orients (GAT, Sonderband), G¨ ottingen 1979, 145-6; Cohen, Cultic Calendars, 441-7; Van der Toorn, ‘Babylonian New Year Festival’, 332-5. 72 See also Zimmerli, Ezechiel, 1160; Ebach, Kritik und Utopie, 149-50; pace K¨ orting, Schall des Schofar, 202-4, who discusses the similarities between the purification of the temple of Marduk in the course of the Babylonian Akitufestival and the purification of temple, high priest and people on the Day of Atonement (sic), but denies a link between the two, because the Day of Atonement is a separate festival in ancient Israel celebrated ten days after New Year. In the case of the purification of the temple on the first day of the first and seventh months of the year in Ezek. 45:18-20 the link with the purification of the temple of Marduk in the course of the two Babylonian new year festivals may, however, be much clearer. 73 Van der Toorn, ‘Babylonian New Year Festival’, 339-43, lists the following similarities: (1) the agrarian origins of Sukkot/the Akitu-festival, (2) a solemn procession of the ark/the statue of Marduk, (3) the reaffirmation of the kingship of Yhwh/Marduk, (4) the religious legitimation of the king of Judah/Babylon.


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7 The Babylonian New Year Festivals The transformation of Pesah.-Mas.s.ot into a new year festival seems to mirror a similar transformation in the Babylonian new year festivals. The origin of the Babylonian new year festivals may be found in the Sumerian Akitu-festival celebrated twice a year around the vernal and autumnal equinoxes.74 The Akitufestival celebrated in the first month of the year was known in Ur in the Ur III period as ´ a-ki-ti ˇ se-kin-ku5 , ‘the Akitufestival of the barley harvest’, whereas the Akitu-festival celebrated in the seventh month of the year was known as ´ a-ki-ti ˇ su-numun, ‘the Akitu-festival of the sowing season.’75 The different designations of the two Akitu-festivals match the names of the months in which they were celebrated: the first month is a-ki-ti called ˇ se-kin-ku5 , whereas the seventh month is called ´ or ˇ su-numun. The festival calendars from Ur, Drehem and Umma in the Ur III period list ˇ se-kin-ku5 as the twelfth or, later on, as the first month of the year and ´ a-ki-ti or ˇ su-numun as the sixth or, later on, as the seventh month of the year accordingly.76 The two Akitu-festivals, therefore, mark the beginning of the harvest season or sowing season. The designation of the Akitufestivals and the names of the months in which they are celebrated may well hint at the agricultural background of these festivals.77 The present semi-annual lay-out of the festival year, 74

Cf. A. Falkenstein, ‘akiti-Fest und akiti-Festhaus’, in: R. von Kienle et al. (eds), Festschrift Johannes Friedrich zum 65. Geburtstag am 27. August 1958 gewidmet, Heidelberg 1959, 151-3; J. Klein, ‘Akitu’, AncBD, vol. 1, New York 1992, 138-40 (138); W. Sallaberger, Der kultische Kalender der Ur IIIZeit, Teil 1 (UAVA, 7/1), Berlin 1993, 174-5; Cohen, Cultic Calendars, 400-6; Van der Toorn, ‘Babylonian New Year’, 332. 75 Cf. Falkenstein, ‘akiti-Fest’, 151-2; Klein, ‘Akitu’, 138; Cohen, Cultic Calendars, 140-4, 150-3; Sallaberger, Kultische Kalender, 179-90. 76 Cf. Sallaberger, Kultische Kalender, 7-9; see also Cohen, Cultic Calendars, 125-60; the shift of ˇ se-kin-ku5 from the twelfth month to the first month of the year and of ´ a-ki-ti from the sixth month to the seventh month of the year occurred in the course of a calendar reform in which the ˇ year was moved up a whole month during the reign of king Su-Sin. 77 Cf. Falkenstein, ‘akiti-Fest’, 166; Klein, ‘Akitu’, 138; Van der Toorn ‘Babylonian New Year’, 332; but see Cohen, Cultic Calendars, 141-2, who insists that the Akitu-festivals were intricately bound up with the equinoxes as the time of the year in which the sun and the moon relieved each other: ‘During [the six months] between the seventh and the first month the moon was visible longer in the skies, the reverse during the other [six months].’

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with Akitu-festivals celebrated exactly six months apart in the first and seventh months of the year, however, means that the festivals have been detached from their agricultural roots. The designation of the Akitu-festival in the first month as ´ a-ki-ti ˇ se-kin-ku5 , ‘the Akitu-festival of the barley harvest’, or of the name of the month in which it is celebrated as ˇ se-kinku5 , ‘month of the barley harvest’, might give the impression that in ancient Mesopotamia the barley was ripe in the first month of the year. However, just as in ancient Israel, the barley may not have been ready for harvesting before the end of April or even the beginning of May. The precise dates of the barley harvest for ancient Mesopotamia may be determined with the help of Robert McC. Adams’ study Land behind Baghdad, whose observations for pre-industrialised mid-twentieth century Iraq may still reflect the unaltered agricultural conditions of the late third, second and first millennia bce.78 He lists – the end of April and – May as the time of the barley harvest and the latter part of May and June as the time of the wheat harvest.79 These dates are confirmed by the list of seasonal labour requirements, which jumps from only 2 men in the second half of April to 14 men in the first half of May and 25 men in the second half of May, to drop again to an average of about 15 or 16 men per twelve hectares in the remainder of the harvest season and the beginning of the sowing season in October and November.80 The beginning of the barley harvest thus in all likelihood fell in the second month of the ancient Near Eastern calendar. The ´ a-ki-ti ˇ se-kin-ku5 , the Akitu-festival of the barley harvest, and ˇ se-kin-ku5 , ‘the month of the barley harvest’, may, therefore, in the course of time have been advanced by about a full month from the time of the barley harvest to the time of the vernal equinox. The transfer of the Akitu-festival of the barley harvest and ˇ se-kin-ku5 , ‘the month of the barley harvest’, from the second 78 R. McC. Adams, Land behind Baghdad: A History of Settlement on the Diyala Plains, Chicago 1965, 13-20, esp. 13: ‘Far-reaching changes are under way in the traditional agricultural systems which have been followed in the lower Diyala region since times of remote antiquity . . . Hence it is fortunate that the engineering studies . . . were accompanied by the first close and systematic description of the earlier patterns still prevailing in the region.’ 79 Adams, Land behind Baghdad, 16, table 5. See also B. Landsberger, ‘Jahreszeiten im Sumerisch-Akkadischen’, JNES 8 (1949), 251-2, 261, 284. 80 Adams, Land behind Baghdad, 15, table 2.


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to the first month of the year may not, on the other hand, be the result of advancing all twelve months of the year simultaneously. The designation Akitu-festival of the sowing seasons or the name ˇ su-numun, ‘the month of sowing’, fit the seventh month of the year reckoned from the vernal equinox quite well. October is the month in which the land is prepared with irrigation and ploughing and the barley is sown.81 The interval between the beginning of the barley harvest at – the end of April or – the beginning of May and the beginning of the sowing season in October actually amounts to about five months. A five-month interval between the barley harvest and the sowing season is also attested in the calendar of Umma which lists ˇ se-kin-ku5 , ‘the month of the barley harvest’, as the first month and ˇ su-numun, ‘the month of sowing’, as the sixth month of the year.82 The original interval of five months between the barley harvest and the sowing season seems to have been abandoned in the course of time in favour of a schematic celebration of the Akitu-festivals exactly six months apart. In the first millennium bce Babylon – and for example Uruk – continued to celebrate two Akitu-festivals: one in Nisan, the first month, and one in Tashritu, the seventh month of the year.83 After the transformation of the Akitu-festival of the barley harvest into a new year festival some idea of its agricultural roots may well have survived in the consciousness of the people. The original link between the Akitu-festival and the barley harvest may thus have contributed to the transformation of Pesah.-Mas.s.ot from a harvest festival celebrated in the time of the new barley into a new year festival celebrated about a month earlier. The list 81

Adams, Land behind Baghdad, 16, table 5 with n. *, who emphasises that the time of the autumn ploughing is dependent upon the arrival of the first rain or the availability of irrigation water, but notes that there is a strong preference for early sowing, as an early ripened crop is less susceptible to losses from insects or diseases, but nevertheless has to admit that first ploughing occasionally must be postponed until late January. 82 Cf. Sallaberger, Kultische Kalender, 9-10; Cohen, Cultic Calendars, 161200. 83 Cf. S. Parpola, Letters from Assyrian Scholars to the Kings Esarhaddon and Assurbanipal, Part 2: Commentary and Appendices (AOAT, 5/2), Kevelaer/Neukirchen-Vluyn 1983, 186-7; Van der Toorn, ‘Babylonian New Year’, 332 with n. 4; Cohen, Cultic Calendars, 451; for the vernal and autumnal Akitu-festivals celebrated in first millennium Uruk see Thureau-Dangin, Rituels accadiens, 86-111; Cohen, Cultic Calendars, 427-37.

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of festival sacrifices in Ezek. 45:18-25 may in the days of the Babylonian exile have adopted the structure of the Babylonian festival calendar with two new year festivals a year. Although the months are counted from the vernal equinox in accordance with the Babylonian calendar, one new year festival does not necessarily take precedence over the other. Both the first month and the seventh month of the year are known as sag mu-an-na, ‘the beginning of the year’. Throughout the ancient Near East festival calendars are attested that celebrated parallel major festivals in the first and seventh months of the year, suggesting that neither one of these festivals marked the beginning or middle of the year, but, rather, that both were viewed as the beginning of equal equinox years of six months.84 In the list of festival sacrifices in Ezek. 45:18-25 the tripartite pre-priestly festival calendar has been abandoned in favour of this ancient Near Eastern concept. Pesah.-Mas.s.ot has been detached from its agricultural background, moved up from the second month to the first month of the year and is – like Sukkot – henceforth celebrated as a new year festival. The third major agricultural festival, Shavuot, however, does not seem to fit this semi-annual lay-out and must have been eliminated from the ancient Israelite festival calendar.

8 The Transformation of the Ancient Israelite Festival Year The semi-annual lay-out of the list of festival sacrifices in Ezek. 45:18-25 has been preserved in the priestly festival calendar in Exod. 12:1-13; Lev. 23:4-8, 23-37aba*. The new structure of the festival year has not , however, been taken up without substantial alterations. The custom of celebrating two new year festivals a year is not upheld in the priestly festival calendar and gives way to a single new year fixed around the vernal equinox: ‘(Hence84

See especially Cohen, Cultic Calendars, 6-7: ‘[The] concept of a six-month equinox year appears to have been a major factor in the establishment of the cultic calendar throughout the Near East. In many locations there were parallel major festivals in the first and seventh month – suggesting that rather than considering one of these festivals as marking the beginning and the other the half-way point of the year, the ancients viewed each as a beginning, the onset of this six-month equinox year’; see also Sallaberger, Kultische Kalender, 175: ‘Anstatt von einem einzigen “Jahresanfang” zu sprechen, m¨ ussen wir eher von zwei Polen, die jeweils f¨ ur sich einen “Jahresanfang” bilden, ausgehen.’


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forth) this month shall be the first of your months: it shall be the first month of the year for you’ (Exod. 12:2). The blowing of a horn on the memorial day on the first day of the seventh month is all that reminds of the parallel new year once celebrated around the autumnal equinox: ‘In the seventh month on the first day of the month you shall have . . . a memorial day marked by a (short) blast on the horn’ (Lev. 23:24). The semi-annual purification of the sanctuary presupposed in Ezek. 45:18-20 has been replaced by a single annual ritual of atonement for the temple, the priesthood and the people on the tenth day of the seventh month: ‘On the tenth day of this seventh month – i.e. the Day of Atonement – you shall have . . . ’ (Lev. 23:27). The blood of the purification offering, however, is no longer applied to the doorposts of the temple, the rim of the altar or the posts of the gate to the inner court as in Ezek. 45:18-20, but sprinkled on the lid of the ark of the covenant in the holy of holies (Lev. 16:1-28). The stipulation to apply the blood of the purification offering to the doorposts of the temple is in a fine legend about the origins of Pesah. transformed into an instruction to smear the blood of the passover lamb on the doorposts and the lintel of the houses of the Israelites on the eve of the exodus from Egypt: ‘The whole congregation of Israel shall slaughter it . . . : they shall take some of the blood and put it on the two doorposts and the lintel: i.e. on the houses in which they eat it ’ (Exod. 12:6-7).85 The ritual is no longer part of a regular purification of the temple performed at the beginning of each six-month period, but henceforth marks a single event in a distant past. The transformation of the sacrifices offered for the purification of the temple in the course of the vernal new year festival into a one-time passover sacrifice offered on the eve of the exodus may also explain the segmentation of the priestly festival calendar. The passover regulation intended for ‘single use’ is included in the narrative sections of Exodus 1-15, whereas the remainder of the festival calendar is recorded in the legislative parts of Exodus-Leviticus-Numbers. In any case, the 85

See also B.N. Wambacq, ‘Les origines de la Pesah. israelite’, Bib. 57 (1976), 207-9, 321-3, who argues that the blood rite in Exod. 12:1-13, 2127 is hardly an old nomadic custom performed at the eve of a long journey to ward off ubiquitous dangers – comparative sources make clear that such blood rites were not so much performed before leaving the old residence, as upon arrival in a new one – but may rather be derived from the ritual purification of the temple in Ezek. 45:18-20.

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Ezekelian presentation of Pesah.-Mas.s.ot and Sukkot as new year festivals is given up in the priestly festival calendar, but – as may be clear from the dates fixed – without restoring their link with the agricultural seasons. In a festival calendar without a clear relation to the agricultural seasons, however, there would still have been no room for Shavuot. The introduction of Shavuot into the priestly festival calendar of Leviticus 23 may be attributed to a post-priestly editor who wished to reconcile the tripartite prepriestly festival calendars with the semi-annual lay-out of the priestly festival calendar. However, as the date of Shavuot in the pre-priestly festival calendars was determined in accordance with the agricultural conditions, the date of the festival cannot be derived from the date fixed for Pesah.-Mas.s.ot without further ado. The barley would not be ripe for harvesting in the middle of the first month (early April), whereas the wheat harvest would be far from complete seven weeks later (late May). The sevenweek interval between the beginning of the barley harvest and the conclusion of the wheat harvest is, therefore, calculated independently: ‘When you enter the land that I am about to give you and you reap its harvest, you shall bring the first omer of your harvest to the priest. He shall raise the omer before Yhwh . . . on the day after the sabbath . . . You shall count seven sabbaths from the day after the sabbath: the day on which you bring the omer as a raised offering . . . you shall count fifty days until the day after the sabbath and bring a new cereal offering to Yhwh’ (Lev. 23:10-11, 15-16). In sharp contrast to the pre-priestly festival calendars, the beginning of the barley harvest no longer coincides with Pesah.-Mas.s.ot. The beginning of the barley harvest is henceforth marked by a ritual presentation of the first omer of the new harvest as soon as the barley is ripe, and the conclusion of the wheat harvest seven weeks later by a similar presentation of a new cereal offering.86 In the list of festival sacrifices in Numbers 28-29, however, the ritual presentation of the first omer of the new harvest is no longer mentioned. The festival offerings laid down for ‘the 86 In view of the importance attached to the sabbath by the post-priestly editor who revised the priestly festival calendar in Lev. 23:4-8, 23-25, 26-28aa, 33-37aba, it may not come as a surprise that he relates the presentation of the first omer of the new harvest to the first day after the sabbath following the beginning of the barley harvest.


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day of the first fruits’ in Num. 28:26-31 immediately follow on the sacrifices stipulated for Pesah.-Mas.s.ot in Num. 28:16-25: μwyob]W μk,yte[obuv;B] hw:hyl' hv;d:j} hj;n“mi μk,b]yrIq]h'B] μyrIWKBih', ‘On the day of the first fruits, when you bring a new cereal offering to Yhwh: after seven weeks’ (Num. 28:26). The elimination of the presentation of the first omer of the new harvest as a separate festival from the list of festival sacrifices in Numbers 28–29 is still given away by the reference to the ‘new cereal offering’ on the ‘day of the first fruits’ in v. 26, which presupposes a previous cereal offering no longer mentioned.87 The word μk,yte[obuv;B] in v. 26 is often interpreted as the name of the festival in question: ‘on your festival of weeks’. However, as the list of festival sacrifices does not call Mas.s.ot in Num. 28:17 or Sukkot in Num. 29:12 by name, but merely alludes to them as a gj', ‘festival’, and as the title gj' is conspicuously lacking in Num. 28:26, the word μk,yte[obuv;B] may simply refer to the seven-week period that separates this ‘festival’ from the previous one: ‘after you have counted seven weeks’. The ‘festival’ in question, on the other hand, is merely referred to as μyrIWKBih' μwyo, ‘the day of the first fruits’. In any case, the list of festival sacrifices in Numbers 28-29 seems to reckon the beginning of the seven-week interval between Pesah.-Mas.s.ot and ‘the day of the first fruits’ from the fourteenth/fifteenth until the twenty-first day of the first month. The difficulties that arise from moving up the ritual presentation of the first omer of the new harvest to the time of Pesah.-Mas.s.ot are well attested in the rabbinic discussions of the first centuries C.E.: the rabbis often have to settle for semi-ripe barley.88 The same holds true for the celebration of Shavuot: the wheat harvest would not yet be complete seven weeks after Pesah.-Mas.s.ot, and in some cases 87 Pace Knohl, Sanctuary of Silence, 8-40; Milgrom, Leviticus, 1950-2053, who insist that the list of festival sacrifices in Numbers 28-29 antedates the festival calendar in Leviticus 23. 88 See Dalman, Arbeit und Sitte, Bd. 1/2, 455-7: ‘F¨ ur die praktische Ausf¨ uhrung bedeutete die vorgeschriebene Form der Ausf¨ uhrung der gesetzlichen Pflicht, dass die K¨ orner der Erstlingsgarbe nicht erntereif sein mussten, womit ihre Verkn¨ upfung mit der Passawoche noch mehr erleichtert wurde. Der Fall war dann nicht denkbar, dass Palästina . . . die nötige halbreife Gerstengarbe nicht geliefert h¨ atte’; see also Milgrom, Leviticus, 1983, 1989, who readily admits that the barley is not yet ripe in the middle of the first month, but tries to come to terms with an early date for the presentation of the first omer of the new harvest by arguing that the first omer was not a sheaf of ripe barley, but a sheaf with the colour of ripe barley.

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would not even have begun: the rabbis are well aware of years when no wheat had ripened before Shavuot and they had to sanction the use of ‘old wheat’ for the presentation of the new cereal offering (t. Men. 10:33).89 However this may be, in marked contrast to the ritual presentation of the first omer, the presentation of the new cereal offering did not lose its place as a separate festival in the list of festival sacrifices in Numbers 28–29. In accordance with the post-priestly additions to the priestly festival calendar of Leviticus 23, however, the festival remained anonymous. Shavuot thus won back the place it once occupied in the tripartite ancient Israelite festival calendar – a place it all but lost under the influence of the Babylonian festival calendar – but seems never to have regained its original status as being equal to Mas.s.ot and Sukkot.90

89

See Milgrom, Leviticus, 1991, who argues that the rabbinic literature reckons with a three-month period from the beginning of the barley harvest until the end of the wheat harvest (Ruth R. 5), but fails to take the possibility into account that this unrealistic long period is caused by performing the ritual presentation of the first omer of the new harvest about a month early in order to let it coincide with Pesah.-Mas.s.ot; see also Dalman, Arbeit und Sitte, Bd. 1/2, 465-6, who noticed that on 26 May 1926, when Shavuot was celebrated in Jerusalem, the wheat harvest had not yet begun. 90 The lesser status of Shavuot over against Pesah.-Mas.s.ot and Sukkot may be clear from the fact that neither ‘the presentation of the new cereal offering’ in Lev. 23:15-21 nor ‘the day of the first fruits’ in Num. 28:26-31 is classified as gj', ‘pilgrimage festival’ (see Levine, Numbers, 384: ‘we have, therefore, three festivals but only two pilgrimage festivals’); see also Milgrom, Leviticus, 1991, who notes that in the rabbinic era Shavuot no longer required an overnight stay at the temple of Jerusalem (b. Rosh Hash. 5a).

Jan-Wim Wesselius

Kampen Theological University – Netherlands

Language Play in the Old Testament and in Ancient North-West Semitic Inscriptions Some Notes on the Kilamuwa Inscription1

1 Introduction In recent years there has been considerable interest in the phenomenon of word-play in its various forms in the ancient Near East, especially but not exclusively in the light of parallel phenomena in the Hebrew Bible. There has been, however, one interesting lacuna beside the numerous studies devoted to wordplay in the Bible, at Ugarit, in Mesopotamian literature and in Egypt.2 The inscriptions on stone stelae and statues in the various West-Semitic dialects of the ancient Near East are rarely, if ever, mentioned in this connection,3 apart from two characteristic aspects. Firstly, the question whether some or all of them may be considered as poetry rather than prose has been discussed a number of times, though even this interest has left some issues unattended, as we shall see. Secondly, the linguistic congruence between feared wrongful acts against the monument or the place where it stands and the punishment for the person who perpetrates them has been noted in the literature which deals with the closing parts of the inscriptions. In this article I will demonstrate 1 An earlier short version in Dutch, ‘Taalspel in een Phoenicische inscriptie en in het Oude Testament’, appeared in J.W. Wesselius (ed.), Een handvol koren: Opstellen van enkele vrienden bij het vertrek van Dr. F. Sepmeijer van de Theologische Universiteit Kampen, Kampen 2003, 61-4. Biblical texts are quoted according to the Revised Standard Version. 2 See, for example, the bibliography mentioned in Scott B. Noegel, Janus Parallelism in the Book of Job, Sheffield 1996, in the volume edited by him, Puns and Pundits: Wordplay in the Hebrew Bible and Ancient Near Eastern Literature, Bethesda 2000, and also his online bibliography ‘Bibliography on Word Play in the Hebrew Bible and Other Ancient Near Eastern Literature’, at http://faculty.washington.edu/snoegel/wordplay.html. 3 It is characteristic of this situation that Yitzhak Avishur, Phoenician Inscriptions and the Bible: Select Inscriptions and Studies in Stylistic and Literary Devices Common to the Phoenician Inscriptions and the Bible, Tel Aviv 2000, does not refer to cases of language-play in his otherwise comprehensive discussion of the literary relations between Phoenician inscriptions and the Bible.

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that, surprisingly, language play in its manifold aspects is an essential part of such inscriptions and apparently belonged to the stock repertoire of the scribes who composed them.

2 The Kilamuwa Inscription We shall treat this theme in the Phoenician Kilamuwa inscription from about 825 bce, because it is very rich in elements which have a parallel in the Hebrew Bible and may well serve as an example of what can be gained for biblical studies from a comparative study. I shall first give the translation of the Kilamuwa inscription according to John Gibson in the third volume of his Textbook of Syrian Semitic Inscriptions,4 and then contrast it with my proposed new translation, indicating by means of underlining where I would translate differently in view of the peculiar language play in the inscription, and dividing the text into lines of poetry, more or less along the lines of the proposal of Johannes de Moor in his article ‘Narrative Poetry in Canaan’ in Ugarit-Forschungen 20, 1988.5 1. 2. 3.

4. 5. 6. 7.

4

I am Kilamuwa, the son of Hayya. Gabbar became king over YDY, but he accomplished nothing. There was BMH, but he accomplished nothing. Then there was my father Hayya, but he accomplished nothing. Then there was my brother ˇL, but he accomplished nothing. But I Kilamuwa, the S son of TM-, what I accomplished not (even) their predecessors accomplished. My father’s house was in the midst of powerful kings, and each put forth his hand to eat it; but I was in the hand(s) of the kings like a fire that consumes the beard or like a fire that consumes the hand. The king of the Danunians lorded it over me, but I

J.C.L. Gibson, Textbook of Syrian Semitic Inscriptions, vol. 3: Phoenician and Punic Inscriptions, Oxford 1982, 30-39. 5 J.C. de Moor, ‘Narrative Poetry in Canaan’, UF 20 (1988), 166-71. See on the poetical or semi-poetical character of this inscription also T. Collins, ‘The Kilamuwa Inscription: A Phoenician Poem’, WO 6 (1971), 181-8; M. O’Connor, ‘The Rhetoric of the Kilamuwa Inscription’, BASOR 226 (1977), 15-30; Avishur, op. cit., 156-8.

Language Play in the Old Testament 8.

9. 10. 11.

12.

13.

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hired against him the king of Assyria. He gave a maid for the price of a sheep, and a man for the price of a garment. I Kilamuwa, the son of Hayya, sat upon my father’s throne. In face of the former ˇ kings the MSKBM used to whimper like dogs. But I – to some I was a father, and to some I was a mother, and to some I was a brother. Him who had never seen the face of a sheep I made owner of a flock; him who had never seen the face of an ox, I made owner of a herd, and owner of silver and owner of gold; and him who had never seen linen from his youth, in my days they covered ˇ with byssus. I grasped the MSKBM by the hand, and they behaved (towards me) like an orphan towards (his) mother. Now, if any of my sons . . . [lines 14-16 skipped]

Proposed new translation: 1 2 3

5

6

I (am) Kilamuwa, the son of Hayya – Gabbar became king over YDY, but he accomplished nothing / did not accomplish – There was BMH, but he accomplished nothing / did not accomplish – Then there was my father Hayya, but he accomplished nothing / did not accomplish – ˇL, but he accomplished Then there was my brother 4 S nothing / did not accomplish – But I Kilamuwa, the son of TM-, what I accomplished the predecessors did not accomplish. My father’s house was in the midst of powerful kings, and each put forth his hand to eat it / to fight / for bread / to the jaws; but I was in the hand(s) of the kings like a fire that consumes 7 the beard or like a fire that consumes the hand.

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J.-W. Wesselius The king of the Danunians lorded it over me, but I 8 hired against him the king of Assyria. He gave a maid for the price of a sheep, and a man for the price of a garment. 9

11

I Kilamuwa, the son of Hayya, sat upon my father’s throne. ˇ used to In face of the former 10 kings the MSKBM whimper like dogs. But I – to some I was a father, and to some I was a mother, and to some I was a brother. Him who had never seen the face of a sheep I made owner of a flock; him who had never seen the face of an ox, I made owner 12 of a herd, and owner of silver and owner of gold; and him who had never seen linen from his youth, in my days they covered 13 with byssus. ˇ I grasped the MSKBM by the hand, and I made them a spirit (towards me) like the spirit of an orphan towards (a) mother.

We shall not discuss the interesting historical aspects of this inscription, nor reflect on the complex linguistic and cultural situation in the kingdom of Yaudi or Samal, the capital of which is modern Zindjirli in southern Turkey, near the sea and the border with Syria.6 Instead, we shall concentrate on the purely literary aspects related to language play. The question whether this inscription can be described as poetry much depends on our definition of the genre, but we will see that it indeed has certain traits in common with Biblical Hebrew poetry. 6

See especially Josef Tropper, Die Inschriften von Zin¸cirli: neue Edition und vergleichende Grammatik, M¨ unster 1993).

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3 A Surprise to Start With The first lines of this inscription pose some extraordinary difficulties. Are we to suppose that Kilamuwa really wanted to say that his predecessors, including his father and brother, did absolutely nothing for his country? This would be a very curious statement for a king in antiquity, who usually derived part of his status from his noble descent, and had a lot to compensate for if he happened to be a usurper, a ‘son of nobody’ in the language of the Assyrians. The solution in my opinion comes from the recognition that both the sentences ‘I (am) Kilamuwa’ and ‘PN did not act / accomplish’ are ambiguous. As is well known, the first sentence, the common beginning of ancient North-West Semitic royal inscriptions, can be used both absolutely and as the beginning of a sentence, while the second can have, or lack, the object of what was or was not done. Once we see that both return in the sentence in lines 4-5, ‘But I Kilamuwa, the son of TM-, what I accomplished 5 the predecessors did not accomplish’,7 we realise that both are cases of what traditional grammars call casus pendens, part of the sentence being placed outside the sentence proper. Examples abound in both Hebrew prose and poetry. What is remarkable here is that apparently both sentence parts in casus pendens are repeated in the main sentence. Even this is hardly remarkable in view of Hebrew poetical idioms such as Ps. 92:9 and many other places, ‘For, lo, thy enemies, O Lord, for, lo, thy enemies shall perish; all evildoers shall be scattered’.8 What is apparently happening here is that modern readers experience the same surprise as the original readers of this inscription must have had: ‘This Kilamuwa does not really mean that his predecessors did nothing at all, does he?’ And, indeed, in the next sentence it becomes clear that the scribe just made fun of his readers by turning in a completely different direction: whatever his predecessors had done, he did incomparably more. As we shall see further on, the author of the Kilamuwa inscription must have been rather fond of surprising his readers. 7

With most commentators, for example Tropper, op. cit., 33-35, I delete the superfluous second letter h in μhynplh. 8 See the discussion of repetition in Wilfred G.E. Watson, Classical Hebrew Poetry: A Guide to its Techniques, Sheffield 1984, 275-9.

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4 Trapdoor Construction and Deliberate Ambiguity We shall now study the sentence which is generally experienced as the most difficult one of the entire inscription, namely the one which begins with ‘and each put forth his hand’, in line 6. The Phoenician word μjl, with the consonants lamed, h.eth and mem can be translated in at least four different ways, yielding the following four alternative translations of the sentence: ‘and each put forth his hand to fight’ (against Kilamuwa’s kingdom); ‘and each put forth his hand to eat’ (Kilamuwa or his kingdom); ‘and each put forth his hand to the jaws’ (as a gesture of horror); ‘and each put forth his hand for bread’ (of the people of his kingdom, because of their poverty).

All these translations can be, and most have been, defended, because each of them seems to have some sort of attachment in the sequel.9 One may wonder, however, whether it is really necessary to make a choice. There are a fair number of cases in the Hebrew Bible where the text seems to be playing with the well-known polysemy of many roots and words in the Semitic languages. Sometimes this is very clear, as in the case of the well-known Janus-parallelism, where each of the meanings has its own parallel in what precedes or follows.10 In other cases, one can still suspect that both meanings must have sounded in the ears of the early readers or hearers, as in the case of the beginning of the Song at the Sea in Exod. 15:2. The Hebrew words ozzˆı at y¯ ah can be translated as ‘the Lord is my strength and we zimr¯ my song’ (for example, AV and RSV) or as ‘The Lord is my strength and might’ (as in the 1985 JPS version), depending on which of the two meanings of the root rmz one chooses, but it seems likely that both were present in the head of the author, and offered to the intended reader. With such examples in mind one starts to think whether this may not also have been the case with the word under discussion, especially as it seems likely that for Kilamuwa’s contemporaries the text was almost as ambiguous as for us. It seems likely that this is also a case of polysemy, where the sequel continues 9

See the literature mentioned in J. Hoftijzer, K. Jongeling, Dictionary of the North-West Semitic Inscriptions, vol. 1, Leiden 1995, 572; the allusion to the jaws (Hebr. yjl) is my own addition to these proposals. 10 See Noegel, Janus Parallelism (cited above).


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each of the meanings of the word lamed-h.eth-mem separately and together. In addition, something else in the field of language play seems to be going on in our passage. The words ‘each put forth his hand’ at first sight seem to be continued by the following ‘I was in the hand(s) of the kings’, but after that the account suddenly takes a positive swing: the image which expressed a highly negative situation is unexpectedly transformed into the expression of a positive one. The reader is taken along in a certain direction that raises expectations for the sequel, but this direction is suddenly reversed because some ambiguous words are continued in a completely different direction: the house of Kilamuwa is in the midst of powerful kings, everybody stretches out his hand, the king himself is caught in it . . . At that moment we see a literary explosion in which Kilamuwa himself is the answer to the four threatening images: he scorches the hand and the beard which had been brought together to eat or to express horror, he defeats his enemies through hiring the king of Assur, and through the spoils of war every commodity comes within reach for his people.

5 Trapdoor Construction in the Bible Such a literary trapdoor is also found several times in the Hebrew Bible, and I will mention two characteristic instances of them. Let us read the well-known story of the butler and the baker in Genesis 40:6-19; the sentences preparing for the trapdoor are underlined. When Joseph came to them in the morning and saw them, they were troubled. 7 So he asked Pharaoh’s officers who were with him in custody in his master’s house, ‘Why are your faces downcast today?’ 8 They said to him, ‘We have had dreams, and there is no one to interpret them.’ And Joseph said to them, ‘Do not interpretations belong to God? Tell them to me, I pray you.’ 9 So the chief butler told his dream to Joseph, and said to him, ‘In my dream there was a vine before me, 10 and on the vine there were three branches; as soon as it budded, its blossoms shot forth, and the clusters ripened into grapes. 11 Pharaoh’s cup was in my hand; and I took the grapes and pressed them into Pharaoh’s cup, and placed the cup in Pharaoh’s hand.’ 12 Then Joseph said to him, ‘This is its interpretation: the three branches are three days; 13 within three days Phar-

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aoh will lift up your head and restore you to your office; and you shall place Pharaoh’s cup in his hand as formerly, when you were his butler. 14 But remember me, when it is well with you, and do me the kindness, I pray you, to make mention of me to Pharaoh, and so get me out of this house. 15 For I was indeed stolen out of the land of the Hebrews; and here also I have done nothing that they should put me into the dungeon.’ 16 When the chief baker saw that the interpretation was favorable, he said to Joseph, ‘I also had a dream: there were three cake baskets on my head, 17 and in the uppermost basket there were all sorts of baked food for Pharaoh, but the birds were eating it out of the basket on my head.’ 18 And Joseph answered, ‘This is its interpretation: the three baskets are three days; 19 within three days Pharaoh will lift up your head – from you! – and hang you on a tree; and the birds will eat the flesh from you.’

We see here more or less the same type of surprise for the reader, shielded from him or her at first because of the ambiguity of the idiom of lifting up of the head. Somewhat different and less explicit, but still very effective, is the trapdoor in 1 Kings 2:5-6. [David to Solomon:] ‘Moreover you know also what Joab a´s¯ a lˆı), how he dealt the son of Zeruiah did for / to me ( ¯ with the two commanders of the armies of Israel, Abner the son of Ner, and Amasa the son of Jether, whom he murdered, avenging in time of peace blood which had been shed in war, and putting innocent blood upon the girdle about my loins, and upon the sandals on my feet. 6 Act therefore according to your wisdom, but do not let his grey head go down to Sheol in peace.’

As attentive readers of this story, we are fully aware that David was the one who cold-bloodedly let Uriah the Hittite, the husband of Solomon’s mother Bathsheba, be killed through the intervention of Joab (2 Sam. 11:14-17). We expect David to refer to it when he starts to speak to Solomon about what Joab has done for him, and think that this is hardly possible . . . And, indeed, from what follows we understand that David instead speaks about what Joab did against his direct interests, though the reminiscence of Uriah’s death surfaces at the end of verse 5.11 11

J.W. Wesselius, ‘Joab’s Death and the Central Theme of the Succession Narrative (2 Samuel ix – 1 Kings ii)’, VT 40 (1990), 336-51.


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6 Comparable Cases of Polysemy in Biblical Prose Texts? As is well known, polysemy in biblical Hebrew texts is commonly used as an exegetical device in classical rabbinic literature. Modern scholars usually suppose, and in many cases rightly, that through the application of their exegetical techniques the rabbis usually read something new in the text, something not intended by the author and not to be used for understanding the text itself.12 There are, however, also cases where the very precise reading of the rabbis and their view of the biblical text as loaded with meaning may well uncover intertextual relations or cases of language play which have not been recognised as such by modern scholarship. A case in point is Gen. 38:25, where Tamar, Judah’s daughterin-law, has just been condemned by Judah to be burned for her supposed adultery (in reality she is pregnant from Judah himself, as only she and the readers know). The Revised Standard Version translates 38:24-26 as follows: About three months later Judah was told, ‘Tamar your daughter-in-law has played the harlot; and moreover she is with child by harlotry.’ And Judah said, ‘Bring her out, and let her be burned.’ 25 As she was being brought out, she sent word to her father-in-law, ‘By the man to whom these belong, I am with child.’ And she said, ‘Mark, I pray you, whose these are, the signet and the cord and the staff.’ 26 Then Judah acknowledged them and said, ‘She is more righteous than I, inasmuch as I did not give her to my son Shelah.’ And he did not lie with her again.

The rabbis supposed that taxwm, vocalised in the Masoretic Text as mˆ us.¯et, ‘she (was) being brought out’, really represents three different verbal forms with identical (or potentially identical) consonantal spelling which are to be understood in this verse: firstly the one supposed above, the participle of the hofal of axy, ‘to be brought out’, secondly the participle of the hofal of txy, ‘to be set 12

Cf. the enumeration of such cases in Zvi Malachi, ‘ “Creative Philology” as a System of Biblical and Talmudic Exegesis: Creating Midrashic Interpretations from Multi-Meaning Words in the Midrash and the Zohar’, in: Noegel (ed.), Puns and Pundits, 269-87.

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alight’, referring to Judah’s verdict, and finally the participle of the qal of axm, ‘to find’, namely the three securities provided by Judah for her services, which to our surprise she did not produce at once when she was accused.13 Of course, there is nothing inherently difficult about the usual interpretation, but the mere presence of the form mˆ us.¯et is somewhat unexpected (why not simply something like: ‘They brought her out’ ?), as is the timing of Tamar’s ‘sending word’ (Hebr. jlç) to her father-in-law. This is not the right place to discuss in detail this passage and its ambiguities and intertextul relations, especially with Gen. 37:32-33, or to attempt a final verdict on this case and others like it.14 A collection of as many instances as possible of potential polysemy in prose texts, and a survey of the contexts in which they are found would be necessary to establish whether we are indeed dealing with polysemy here. But if this turns out to be the case, we can say with some confidence that it has a close parallel in the Kilamuwa inscription.

7 Ambiguity in Central Passages A possible cause for hesitation about this view of lines 6-7 of the Kilamuwa inscription could be its central place within the entire text. We are naturally inclined to see polysemy and ambiguity merely as a kind of embellishment of the text, as is the case to a considerable degree in all the instances mentioned above, and we are naturally reluctant to admit that what to all appearances is the central message of a text should be expressed in a more or less ambiguous way.15 In the Hebrew Bible, however, there 13

See about the rabbinical interpretation of Genesis 38, especially: Esther Marie Menn, Judah and Tamar (Genesis 38) in Ancient Jewish Exegesis: Studies in Literary Form and Hermeneutics, Leiden 1997; Yair Zakovitch, Avigdor Shinan, The Story of Judah and Tamar: Genesis 38 in the Bible, the Old Versions and the Ancient Jewish Literature (in Hebrew), Jerusalem 1992 (not quoted by Menn). 14 Note that Zakovitch and Shinan, The Story of Judah and Tamar, 217, already pointed out the word-play on the roots axy and axm in this verse. 15 Note that this is not the same situation as an ambiguous statement at a central position in the narrative which turns out to mean something completely different from what was expected, as in the case of J.C. de Moor’s interesting proposal to understand the words which Ilu speaks to Keret in KTU 1.15:III.16 as meaning on the surface that his youngest daughter will be as wealthy as his oldest son, but in reality that she will be the only one of his children to survive: J.C. de Moor, ‘Theodicy in the Texts of Ugarit’,


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is a parallel for this phenomenon which we all happen to know, but usually do not recognise as such. It is generally known that at certain places in the prose narrative of the Primary History we find two versions of an event side-by-side which appear to contradict each other, though with some effort they can also be reconciled and read as subsequent episodes. Famous examples are the creation of mankind in Genesis 1-2 (man being made at the beginning or the end of creation, and male and female or only male at first), the reason why Jacob goes to Laban in Genesis 2829 (out of fear of his brother Esau or in order to find a wife there), the question who sells Joseph to Egypt in Genesis 37 (either his own brothers or a group of Midianites who find him in the pit where his brothers had put them), the way in which Saul becomes king in 1 Samuel 9-10 (anointed by Samuel when he passes by his town or chosen in a kind of royal lottery) and the way in which David makes the acquaintance of King Saul in 2 Samuel 16 and 17 (either as a musician who is chosen to alleviate Saul’s depressions or as the man who defeated and killed the Philistine giant Goliath). In all these cases there are attachments in what follows for both alternatives, and, interestingly, one of the two appears to be contradicted at or near the end of the episode of the history of Israel in which they appear. I commented on some of these cases in a brief article in the Deurloo Festschrift,16 not yet realising that they, and others like them, appear to be a fixed element in the introduction of main persons in the first eight books of the Primary History: mankind, Abram, Jacob, Joseph, Moses, Saul and David; only Samuel is introduced in a completely different manner and Joshua not at all.17 This is not in: A. Laato, J.C. de Moor (eds.), Theodicy in the World of the Bible, Leiden 2003, 108-150 (118). In this Ugaritic text the ambiguity functions within the narrative, in the biblical texts adduced here, and in the Kilamuwa inscription as well, the ambiguity is directed at the reader of the text. 16 J.W. Wesselius, ‘Collapsing the Narrative Bridge’, in: J. W. Dyk et al. (eds.), Unless Some One Guide Me: Festschrift for Karel A. Deurloo, Maastricht 2001, 247-55; see also my ‘Towards a New History of Israel’, Journal of Hebrew Scriptures [www.arts.ualberta.ca/JHS or www.purl.org/jhs] 3 (20002001), article 2; PDF version pp. 1-21. 17 Joshua is not formally introduced when he first appears in Exod. 17:19, while the introduction of Samuel is completely different, though also very characteristic; see J.W. Wesselius,The Origin of the History of Israel: Herodotus’ Histories as Blueprint for the First Books of the Bible, London 2002, 106-16. The observation of this common literary pattern lends additional sup-

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the right place to give a full discussion of this important and farreaching observation (most of these cases traditionally served as a kind of litmus test for the Documentary Hypothesis and related critical approaches of the text of the Pentateuch and the historical books),18 but it should in any case be noted that polysemy in some form, not of separate words or expressions, but of entire sentences, is an essential ingredient of this literary strategy. As I intend to discuss this phenomenon at length elsewhere,19 I will only mention two striking cases, which I have already discussed elsewhere.20 It is fairly generally recognised that there are two scenarios for Joseph being sold to Egypt. The first one is that the brothers, acting on the advice of Judah, sell him to a passing caravan of people who are alternatively called Ishmaelites and Midianites, the second that his brothers threw him into a pit from which passing Midianites took him to sell him to the Ishmaelites of the caravan. It is hardly accidental that the sentence which describes the actual drawing Joseph out of the pit and selling him is ambiguous: ‘Then Midianite traders passed by; and they drew Joseph up and lifted him out of the pit, and sold him to the Ishmaelites for twenty shekels of silver; and they took Joseph to Egypt’ (Gen. 37:28). It is very likely that this sentence deliberately leaves both options open.21 More or less the same phenomenon of an ambiguous sentence connecting two alternative accounts is found in the story of David and Goliath. It is well known that the stories in 1 Samuel 16, port to the thesis of this book that the Primary History in its final form was written as a unitary work, a literary emulation of the Histories of Herodotus of Halicarnassus. 18 See, for example, a relatively popular account in R.E. Friedman, Who Wrote the Bible?, New York 1987, a full survey in C. Houtman, Der Pentateuch: Die Geschichte seiner Erforschung neben einer Auswertung, Kampen 1994, and a careful eclectic presentation in Jean-Louis Ska, Introduction ` a la lecture du Pentateuque: Clés pour l’interprétation des cinq premiers livres de la Bible, Brussels 2000; in all these works most of these cases play a more or less prominent role. 19 In my forthcoming monograph, God’s Election and Rejection: The Literary Strategy of the Historical Books at the Beginning of the Bible. 20 Among other places in my ‘Collapsing the Narrative Bridge’ (see above). 21 See on this episode and its importance for the Documentary Hypothesis the survey in Ska, Introduction ` a la lecture du Pentateuque, 98-101, and in particular Houtman, Der Pentateuch, 414-8; cf. his ‘intertwining of two narrative threads’ (Verflechtung zweier Erz¨ ahlf¨ aden) on p. 414.


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where Samuel arrives in Bethlehem to anoint David in secret, and David is subsequently invited to Saul’s court to play music before the king, and 1 Samuel 17, where he defeats Goliath, do not refer to each other, and even contain contradictory information. There is, however, a highly ambiguous link between the two in 1 Sam. 17:15, where we read that ‘David went back and forth from Saul to feed his father’s sheep at Bethlehem’, without being able to say whether this happened during the war with the Philistines or as an interruption of his acting as Saul’s musician.22 Summarizing, we can say that the Kilamuwa inscription contains a number of interesting parallels to various kinds of wordplay in the Hebrew Bible, and that the two types of literature probably trace their origin to a common literary culture, in which word-play was a very serious element in composing official texts. A full survey of the possible relations between word-play in North-West Semitic inscriptions and the Hebrew Bible is highly desirable.

22

Of the enormous literature dealing with the problem of these two chapters I mention only D. Barthélemy et al., The Story of David and Goliath: Textual and Literary Criticism – Papers of a Joint Venture, Freiburg 1986.

P.J. Williams

University of Aberdeen – Scotland

Are the Biblical Rephaim and the Ugaritic RPUM Healers?1 The biblical Rephaim and their Ugaritic colleagues the RPUM have already received considerable scholarly attention.2 This essay addresses but one of many aspects of their identity, namely their role as healers. The textual data for these shady figures are as follows: leaving aside related singular forms, there are 25 occurrences of the plural form μyaip;r“ in the Masoretic Text. Except in the expression ‘the valley of Rephaim’ (Josh. 15:8; 18:16; 2 Sam. 5:18, 22; 23:13; Isa. 17:5; 1 Chron. 11:15; 14:9), the occurrences are split between prose texts talking about an extinct vertically prominent people group from of old (Gen. 14:5; 15:20; Deut. 2:11, 20; 3:11, 13; Josh. 12:4; 13:12; 17:15), and poetic texts referring to figures among the dead (Isa. 14:9; 26:14, 19; Ps. 88:11; Prov. 2:18; 21:16; Job 26:5). There are then three occurrences in Phoenician and Neo-Punic, and a number of occurrences and restorations in Ugaritic texts (KTU 1.6, 1.15, 1.20–22, 1.82, 1.108, 1.124, 1.161), three of which (KTU 1.20–22) have the RPUM as their main protagonists. In the Ugaritic corpus it is not possible to make an indisputable division between the singular and plural occurrences, and the texts are also rather obscure. Of the three main RPUM texts it has been estimated that less than a quarter and perhaps as little as a tenth survives.3 Despite some clear links between them, the characterisations in the biblical and Ugaritic texts diverge significantly: the biblical prose texts present an ethnic group of giant former inhabitants of the land of Canaan and Transjordan. The biblical poetic texts, where the Rephaim are connected with death, have a more obvious link with the Ugaritic ones. In KTU 1.20–22 the RPUM spend a lot of their time going round in chariots on the way to 1

A previous version of this paper was read at the meeting of the Society for Old Testament Study in Birmingham on 8th January 2003. I am grateful for the feedback I received as a result of that meeting and especially to Dr John Day and Professor A.R. Millard for their comments. 2 A useful survey of the state of play and of recent bibliography on the subject can be found in W.T. Pitard, ‘The Rpum Texts’, in: W.G.E. Watson, N. Wyatt (eds), Handbook of Ugaritic Studies, Leiden 1999, 259-69. 3 Pitard, art. cit., 260.

Are Rephaim and RPUM Healers?

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feasting, a feature not paralleled within the Bible. According to a recent survey, the main identifications of the Ugaritic figures are:4 1. (deified) spirits of the dead 2. deities who join Ilu in special gatherings and are called upon to protect the king and city 3. living members of the elite 4. more than one of the above in combination The interpretation as deified spirits of the dead is supported by the funerary text KTU 1.161, but invocation of RPUM in this setting does not conclusively establish that the underworld was their realm, though such a setting does seem plausible. In terms of how the word RPUM is understood, most seem to connect it with the root rp ‘heal’. De Moor argues that ‘healing’ is essentially linked with ‘saving’,5 and thus translates a passage involving the RPUM : May the Saviours flutter to the holy place, may the ghosts flutter to the holy place!6

Similarly, Wyatt gives us: To his sanctuary, saviours, hurry indeed, to his sanctuary hurry indeed, divinities.7

Such renderings involve several suppositions about which this essay will raise questions. First, that in this case the root rp means ‘heal’; secondly, that the form is an active participle; thirdly, that the root meaning ‘heal’ probably implies the meaning ‘save’. To begin with the second supposition, the grammatical form of rp , we must enter the realm of conjecture, because we must deal with the vocalisation of Ugaritic. If one consults standard works one sees that the RPUM are most commonly vocalised 4 5

Pitard, art. cit., 264. J.C. de Moor, ‘R¯ api u ¯ma – Rephaim’, ZAW 88 (1976), 323-45, esp. p.

323. 6

J.C. de Moor, An Anthology of Religious Texts from Ugarit, Leiden 1987,

268. 7

N. Wyatt, Religious Texts from Ugarit: The Words of Ilimilku and His Colleagues, Sheffield 1998, 318-9.

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r¯ api u ¯ma, an active participle equivalent to the Hebrew plural participle μyaip]ro.8 The Ugaritic participial form is thought to be the same as the reconstructed Proto-Semitic participle *q¯ atil+ case ending. Proto-Semitic *q¯ atil- gives Hebrew q¯ ot¯el. Thus the standard vocalisation of Ugaritic RPUM as r¯ api u ¯ma creates a distance between the Ugaritic term and the Hebrew ap;r:, pl. μyaip;r.“ It is, of course, possible that literature from Israel and Syria, represented by the Bible and Ugaritic texts respectively, designated the same group with different vocalisations, but this seems a less natural supposition. It has therefore been widely held that the biblical (i.e. Masoretic) vocalisation represents an innovation, and that the figures in the biblical text should be vocalised in line with the reconstructed Ugaritic pronunciation. The following quotations illustrate this approach: De Moor: . . . it became increasingly embarrassing to call the spirits of the dead r¯ of e ¯im, ‘healers, saviours’. . . . Apparently equating the root rp with the root rph ‘to be feeble’, people began to read r e f¯ a ¯ım, ‘the feeble ones’.9

Koehler and Baumgartner: . . . the traditional vocalisation [r e f¯ a ¯ım] may have come e secondarily from an original r¯ of ¯ım ‘healers’ . . . 10

Liwak: Es [r e f¯ a ¯ım] kann eine Analogiebildung beabsichtigt sein, a ¯ım (“Frevler”; Caquot, DBS die negativ bewertend r eˇs¯ X 349) oder, weniger wahrscheinlich, die Schwäche erläua ¯ım (“zarte Lämmer”; de Moor, ZAW 88, 341 ternd, .t e l¯ Anm. 107) assoziieren läßt.11

Rouillard: The theological circles that wished to interpret the Rephaim on the basis of the root rph, pejoratively vocala ¯ım, ‘wicked’ (Liwak izing the word in analogy with reˇs¯ E.g. W. Pitard, ‘A New Edition of the“R¯apiu ¯ ma” Texts: KTU 1.20–22’, BASOR 285 (1992), 33-77; De Moor, ‘R¯ api u ¯ma – Rephaim’. 9 De Moor, ‘R¯ api u ¯ma – Rephaim’, 340-1. 10 L. Koehler, W. Baumgartner, The Hebrew and Aramaic Lexicon of the Old Testament, p–v (tr. and ed. by M.E.J. Richardson), Leiden 1996, 1274b. 11 R. Liwak, μyaip;r,“ in: ThWAT, Bd. 7, 625-36, esp. 629. 8


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1990:629; cf. de Moor 1976:341 n. 107), are also responsible for deforming the term Rephaim into teraphim. Inimical against a cult of ancestors with its attendant apparel of images and offerings, they invented the term Teraphim on the basis of the pejorative root trp, the vocalisation being the same as for Rephaim. . . 12

De Moor sees Greek ijatroiv ‘doctors’, the rendering of the Ì in Isa. 26:14; Ps. 88 (87):11 as evidence that the participial vocalisation was known at the time of the Ì.13 However, a translator presented with a consonantal text might simply have vocalised according to a common word that he knew. This need not attest any preexisting vocalisation tradition.14 In fact the Greek translations generally support the Masoretic vocalisation and show that, if it is an innovation, it predates the turn of the era. If we ignore vowel quantity, we can say that the vocalisation rapha im is reflected in a number of early Greek biblical translations: the Old Greek to Deut. 2:20 (2x); 3:13 [Rafain]; Aquila (Job 26:5 [Rafaein]; Isa. 14:9 [Rafaeim]; 26:14 [Rafain], 19 [Raphaim]); and Theodotion (Isa. 14:9 [Rafaeim]). The Masoretic vocalisation also agrees with that of the Samaritans: a m.15 Thus the approximate pronunciation of r¯ af¯ a m or r¯ef¯ this form as rapha im, i.e. a qatal plural, was spread across a variety of religious or social groupings by the second century of our era. Any hypothesised revocalisation would need to have occurred early enough to allow this uniform pattern to arise. De Moor, Liwak and Rouillard have in common the suggestion that μyaip;r“ is a theologically motivated revocalisation, for Liwak and Rouillard by association with μy[iv;r“. The problem with e

e

12 H. Rouillard, ‘Rephaim’, in: K. van der Toorn et al. (eds), Dictionary of Deities and Demons in the Bible, Leiden 2 1999, 692-700, esp. 700a. 13 De Moor, ‘R¯ api u ¯ma – Rephaim’, 340-1. 14 The way the translator of the Ì at the end of Isa. 26:14 misreads rkz as ‘male’ rather than ‘memory’ gives further illustration of the lack of a vocalisation tradition. 15 Koehler, Baumgartner, Hebrew and Aramaic Lexicon, 1274b-1275a. The initial two vowels of r¯ef¯ a m are marked in the printed edition of Sadaka at Genesis 14:5 (Abraham Sadaka, Samaritan Version of the Pentateuch, Tel Aviv 1959, page kaph-h.eth, line 16). However, as three manuscripts of the thirteenth century or earlier in the author’s locality (Cambridge University Library’s Add. 713, Add. 714 and Add. 1846) showed no such marks ad loc., it has been impossible to confirm the antiquity of these signs.

e

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P.J. Williams

this theory is that the vocalisation pattern is too bland for associations readily to form.16 The Tiberian pattern shewa–qametz followed by -¯ım is among the least distinctive of all Hebrew vowel patterns. It is the regular plural for words like rb;D:, and also for a large number of segholates like Ël,m,, rp,se, and r['n". It is not a vowel pattern which invites association with any particular word, since it is used by so many words. By contrast, the theory that Ël,mo ‘Molek’ is vocalised by association with tv,Bo ‘shame’, or lWLGI ‘idol’ by analogy with ≈WQvi ‘detestable thing’17 is conceivable since the distinctiveness of these pointing patterns makes it possible to imagine how they might be transferred to create negative associations. Yet all such proposed polemic revocalisations must be regarded as uncertain, given questions recently raised about the prime example of word deformation, namely the substitution of tv,Bo for l['B' in proper names.18 The element bˇst has now been plausibly proposed as a positive element in a range of extrabiblical names (Amorite, Egyptian Aramaic and Punic), so that, whatever the relationship between l['B' and tv,B,o it is more complex than has been previously imagined. Though tv,Bo may be used polemically by prophets,19 and was highly felicitous to later synchronic readings of the biblical texts in its activation of negative overtones, there is little evidence of its pejorative substitution. Substitution of tv,Bo for l['B' is indisputable, but pejorative substitution, unproven. With this supreme example of pejorative substitution in question, a fortiori other examples must be re-examined. Moreover, pejorative consonantal substitution restricted to particular sections of the Hebrew Bible (like tv,Bo for l['B') is much easier to achieve than pejorative vocalic substitution over the 16

The representation of μyapr by the word ‘wicked’ in early Bible translations (Ì Isaiah 26:19; ◊ to Proverbs 2:18) need not testify to an association between μyapr and the actual word μy[çr. Ì Isa. 26:19 is seeking to contrast the fates of the righteous and unrighteous, and ◊ Prov. 2:18 merely confirms that the Rephaim are wicked. 17 Koehler, Baumgartner, Hebrew and Aramaic Lexicon, 192. 18 G.J. Hamilton, ‘New Evidence for the Authenticity of bˇst in Hebrew Personal Names and for Its Use as a Divine Epithet in Biblical Texts’, CBQ 60 (1998), 228-50; S. Schorch, ‘Baal oder Boschet? Ein umstrittenes theophores Element zwischen Religions- und Textgeschichte’, ZAW 112 (2000), 598-611. 19 Jer. 3:24; 11:13; Hos. 9:10.


271

whole Hebrew Bible. Once a consonantal change is introduced in written form it perpetuates itself. But to effect a change in vocalisation is more difficult than to effect one in the consonants, particularly if it is going to affect a disparate body of literature like the Hebrew Bible, some of which may have been liturgically recited, and some not. It is difficult to envisage any time during the Second Temple Period in which it would be possible to effect a universal alteration in the pronunciation of a biblical word whose occurrences spanned many locations. Hebrew itself was disparate, communities were distinct, and the corpus needing to be affected lacking precisely the uniformity of transmission necessary to perpetuate change. If one envisages a change to a tradition of public recitation, how could this affect all groups? If one envisages a change in the way a word was pronounced in the system of language, how would the altered pronunciation replicate itself without mass media? Pronunciation of known words is conservative. Even access to mass media does not guarantee that polemically altered pronunciation will catch on. Winston Churchill’s pronunciation of the word Nazi with an English z as opposed to the German ts sound was widely heard, and widely appreciated, but rarely replicated, and certainly not perpetuated. I suggest, therefore, that the theory that μyaip]ro was changed to μyaip;r“, like many but not all revocalisation theories, lacks a plausible mechanism. To suppose that rare words were revocalised is unproblematic. Pronunciation might be simply forgotten and then reinvented. Revocalisation of a written Hebrew sentence can similarly be conceived. There were two ways of doing it: a tradent ancestral to the Masoretic Text read the consonants one way, the translator of the Ì another. What is being questioned here is the revocalisation of a non-peripheral item of vocabulary within a language (and μyaip;r“ with 25 biblical occurrences is certainly not peripheral). One possible mechanism for the generalisation of a secondary pronunciation in the Masoretic Text might be the suggestion that the revocalisation μyaip;r“ began in isolated cases and then was generalised artificially by those who were responsible for the early representation of the vowels by written signs. Thus it might be held that the revocalisation was introduced originally in only a few cases and that both the vocalisations, μyaip;r“ and μyaip]ro,

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were known to those who reduced the pronunciations to written form in the earliest Hebrew texts with written vowel signs, but that those editing these written texts to produce the various traditions of vocalisation (e.g. Tiberian, Babylonian) generalised one rather than the other. This theory founders on the problem that, according to the early versions, it is many centuries before this point that the approximate pronunciation as rapha im is in overwhelming predominance over the participial understanding, and of those instances where the versions seem to presuppose a participle all could be attributed to a simple misunderstanding. The ‘generalisation’ of the pronunciation rapha im must therefore have preceded the time when there was a mechanism for such a generalisation. Liwak, however, gives a further piece of evidence to support the theory of revocalisation, which, if correct, would be very significant. This is the first century AD Latin–Neo-Punic bilingual inscription from El-Amruni in Libya, which begins:20

μapara ?μn¿l[l The Ayin is a vowel letter, and stands where an etymological Aleph would have stood. The first word is thus lalonim ‘to the gods’. The second begins with Aleph for the definite article, followed by the Neo-Punic cognate of the Hebrew μyaip;r“. Liwak argues that the vowel letter Aleph occurring after the Resh probably marks the vowel /o/: ¨ ¨ Im Blick auf die Ubersetzungen, die Uberlegungen zur Etymologie und angesichts der Inschrift von El Amruni, bei der die Rephaim in der Form r p m begegnen, deren erstes Aleph als Vokalzeichen auf ein o schließen läßt . . . , muß damit gerechnet werden, daß eine q¯ a.til-Form bekannt war, die rope ˆım (“Heilende”) im Blick hatte . . . 21 ¯

If Liwak is right, the inscription supports the participial understanding of the term. Since the meaning is clearly connected with the dead or death (the Latin text gives the equivalent as D(is) 20

H. Donner, W. R¨ ollig, Kanaan¨ aische und Aram¨ aische Inschriften, Wiesbaden 1962, text 117. 21 Liwak, μyaip;r“, 629.


273

M(anibus)), it is only natural to associate the Rephaim of biblical poetic texts with the Neo-Punic word. It therefore becomes implausible that the biblical word was other than a participle. This is an important argument that requires full investigation. As noted earlier, the Proto-Semitic participial form q¯ atil- develops into Hebrew q¯ ot¯el. In Punic the first vowel has gone a step further with a general shift in the language from ¯ o to u (probably u ¯ ). This is attested in a number of Latin and Greek transcriptions of Punic names or words. In Plautus’ play Poenulus the Punic word for ‘doctor’ is rufe (line 1006). But the information for the pronunciation of the plural participle is a bit more ambiguous. Krahmalkov maintains that the ‘original’ /o/ vowel is retained in the plural participle when the syllable is closed.22 For this he cites sidobrim (Poenulus, 935) paralleling Tiberian *μyrIb]Dov, ‘those who were saying’. ap;r: is, however, a III-Aleph verb. The closest parallel we can find to this is Neo-Punic iusim (Poenulus 939; ms lusim) paralleling Tiberian μyaix]yO ‘those going out’. Krahmalkov thus posits, for Neo-Punic, /o/ in the first syllable of strong plural participles, and /u/ in the first syllable of weak plural participles (e.g. bunem ‘building’). Krahmalkov’s position must be treated as tentative, given the evidence and the fact that Neo-Punic is not consistently transcribed. That said, given the wide /o/ → /u/ shifting in Phoenician, the most likely pronunciation of the Neo-Punic plural participle of the verb ‘heal’ would be approximately rufim. Although /u/ can be transcribed by Aleph in Neo-Punic,23 this is not the system of vocalisation used within the El-Amruni inscription. Spelling conventions vary, but there are certain conventions internal to the inscription that suggest that Aleph would represent /o/ or /e/, and therefore would not be used for the expected participial form rufim. Though the El-Amruni inscription may still look a long way from Tiberian μyaip;r“, it must be remembered that the glottal stop at the beginning of a syllable was no longer pronounced in Neo-Punic.24 Consequently, μapar is disyllabic; the second Aleph is either a historical spelling or a vowel letter. We do not know how the word might have been 22

C.R. Krahmalkov, A Phoenician–Punic Grammar, Leiden 2001, 198-9. Donner, R¨ ollig, Kanaan¨ aische und Aram¨ aische Inschriften, text 121, spar = Rufus. 24 Krahmalkov, A Phoenician–Punic Grammar, 20. 23

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pronounced. But if it were the equivalent of Masoretic μyaip;r“, the initial syllable of the word (excluding the article) is no longer propretonic. It would probably therefore not be reduced. Therefore we are in a phonetically unknown situation where the material from ‘vocalised’ Punic and Neo-Punic texts does not guide us. On the Masoretic model, the first vowel in the singular is Proto-Semitic [a], which produces Hebrew [¯ a ], which might shift to Phoenician [¯ o ]. It is not unreasonable to suppose that the vowel of the singular is restored when the reducing conditions of the plural are removed. Consequently, I would argue that the El-Amruni inscription is ambiguous, and gives us no clear indication of the vocalisation of the noun involved. It might represent a participle, or the form behind the Masoretic Text. Although one cannot conclude from Phoencian and Hebrew evidence how a Ugaritic term must have been pronounced – the evidence is only circumstantial – it is simplest to conclude that the figures in Ugaritic, Phoenician and Hebrew religion shared a single noun pattern. The fact that, when revocalisation theory has been discarded, the Hebrew form was not participial significantly reduces any evidence for the Ugaritic figures as healers. But to leave the issue of pointing aside, perhaps the most significant piece of evidence against the healing role of the Rephaim is that there is not a single text, in Hebrew, Phoenician or Ugaritic, which clearly suggests such a role for them.25 There are now enough texts extant for this lack of explicit attestation to take on significance. Of course, future discoveries may reveal that they did have a healing role. Nevertheless, without denying what future discoveries may show, we may at least ask whether present evidence is enough to require that we have faith in their healing powers. At the same time, perhaps the lack of clear attestation of the Rephaim as ‘healers’ can be explained on the basis of De Moor’s hypothesis that the Rephaim are actually ‘saviours’. It is beyond question that ‘saving’ and ‘healing’ can be linked, as they are in many languages. The problem here is how ‘saving’ is going to be recognised. Simply finding tutelary functions for the Rephaim is not enough. Most gods are expected to help someone at some stage, but not all gods are characteristically ‘saviours’. Without clear evidence that the Rephaim or RPUM ‘save’ ha25

This point is made forcefully by M.L. Brown, ‘Was There a West Semitic Asklepios?’, UF 30 (1998), 133-54.


275

bitually, we have insufficient grounds for calling them ‘saviours’. Healey has made the plausible suggestion that the name Rephaim be connected with the Safaitic root rp meaning ‘safeguard, protect’.26 This would strengthen the possibility of the Rephaim having some saving and helping role, but it is still only a suggestion without textual evidence. ‘Saviours’ is a rendering based on the method of ‘theology by etymology’. It is not that etymology could never lead us correctly to a meaning, but, rather, that we must beware of it playing a dominant role. In my opinion, based on our present knowledge of the Rephaim, the weak etymological rendering has assumed over large proportions. The safest thing for a translator to do is to resurrect the practice of transliteration and to give up on translation.

26

J.F. Healey, ‘Ugarit and Arabia: A Balance Sheet’, Proceedings of the Seminar for Arabian Studies 21 (1991), 69-78.

INDICES

.

Abbreviations All abbreviations of series, handbooks and journals in this volume are according to: S.M. Schwertner, Internationales Abk¨ urzungs2 verzeichnis f¨ ur Theologie und Grenzgebiete, Berlin 1992 (= S.M. Schwertner, Theologische Realenzyklop¨ adie: Abk¨ urzungsverzeich2 nis, Berlin/New York 1994). For Judaic literature abbreviations current in English are used. In addition the following abbreviations occur. AncBD AssBabC BBR BZAR CBET ContS DCH FGH Fs. HCOT HKL ICret IG JSJ.S KTU

D.N Freedman (ed.), Anchor Bible Dictionary, New York 1992. A. K. Grayson, Assyrian and Babylonian Chronicles (TCS, 5), New York 1975. Bulletin for Biblical Research (Winona Lake). Beihefte zur Zeitschrift f¨ ur Altorientalische und Biblische Rechtsgeschichte (Wiesbaden). Contributions to Biblical Exegesis and Theology (Kampen/Leu/-ven). W.W. Hallo (ed.), The Context of Scripture, vol. 1– , Leiden 1997– . D.J.A. Clines (ed.), The Dictionary of Classical Hebrew, Sheffield 1993– . F. Jacoby, Fragmente der griechischen Historiker, Leiden 1956ff. Festschrift. The Historical Commentary on the Old Testament (Kampen/Leuven). R. Borger, Handbuch der Keilschriftliteratur, 3 Bde, Berlin 1967-1975. Inscriptiones Creticae. Inscriptiones Graece. Journal for the Study of Judaism: Supplement (Leiden) M. Dietrich, O. Loretz, J. Sanmart´ın, The Cuneiform Alphabetic Texts from Ugarit, Ras Ibn Hani and Other Places (KTU: second, enlarged edition), Neukirchen 1995.

280 LSJ

NRSV PredOT SAA SAAS SBL.WAW SBTAU SJOT TAD

VWGT WAW WBC

Abbreviations

H.G. Liddell, R. Scott, H.S. Jones (eds.), A Greek– English Lexicon, with a Revised Supplement, Oxford 1996. The New Revised Standard Version. De Prediking van het Oude Testament (Nijkerk). State Archives of Assyria (Helsinki). State Archives of Assyria Studies (Helsinki). Society of Biblical Literature: Writings from the Ancient World (Atlanta). H. Hunger, Sp¨ atbabylonische Texte aus Uruk, Teil 1 (ADFGUW, 9), Berlin 1976. Scandinavian Journal of the Old Testament (Copenhagen). B. Porten, A. Yardeni, Textbook of Aramaic Documents from Ancient Egypt, 4 vols, Jerusalem 19861999. Veröffentlichungen der Wissenschaftliche Gesellschaft f¨ ur Theologie (G¨ utersloh). Writings from the Ancient World (SBL, Atlanta) Word Biblical Commentary (Waco).

Index of Authors Abraham, K. 138 Abusch, T. 22 Ackroyd, P.R. 135 Adams, R. McC. 246f. Aharoni, Y. 80 Ah.ituv, S. 113 Albertz, R. 135-137, 143, 147, 150, 221 Albrektson, B. 16, 46f. Albright, W.F. 9, 90, 161f. Allen, J.P. 180 Alliata, E. 143 Alonso Sch¨ okel, L. 8 Al-Rawi, F.N.H. 35, 40 Alt, A. 90 Alter, R. 56f., 60 Andersen, F.I. 66, 204f., 207 Ankersmit, F.R. 19 Arbeitman, Y.L. 7 Arnold, B.T. 35 Aro, S. 69 Assaf, A.A. 126 Assmann, J. 74, 95, 115, 161 Atalla, N.S. 169 Athas, G. 125 Auerbach, E. 227 Averbeck, R.E. 20f. Avery-Peck, A.J. 105, 107 Avigad, N. 146 Avishur, Y. 253 Bach, A. 183, 192 Bagg, A.M. 17-19 Baines, J. 67, 96, 98f. Baneth, D.H. 5 Barkay, G. 138 Barns, J.W.B. 176-179 Barr, J. 1-3, 9, 13, 18, 47 Barstad, H.M. 135, 145 Barthélemy, D. 205, 265 Baumgartner, W. 11, 268270 Becking, B.E.J.H. 17-19, 30, 135-140, 142, 147, 150f., 158, 221 Behrens, H. 209 Bengel, A. 683 Bennett, W.J. 86 Ben-Tor, A. 138f.

Ben-Zvi, E. 139, 141 Berges, U. 208 Betalli, M. 80 Beuken, W.A.M. 30 Beutler, J. 200 Bikai, P.M. 88 Birch, S. 47 Black, J. 5 Black, M. 211 Blackman, A.M. 171 Blakeley, J.A. 86 Blenkinsopp, J. 136, 139, 143, 150, 152 Bloch-Smith, E. 106 Boardman, J. 71, 75, 85, 87, 89 Boda, M.J. 136 B¨ ock, B. 216 Boiy, T. 25, 44 Borell, B. 68 Borger, R. 27, 36f., 43 Borghouts, J.F. 98 Borowski, O. 231 Bosetti, E. 200, 210 Botterweck, G.J. 200, 202, 206, 211 Boyce, M. 55 Braudel, F. 17 Brett, M.G. 165 Brettler, M. 18f. Briant, P. 145, 149 Bright, W. 4 Brinkman, J.A. 22, 83 Brown, F. 186 Brown, M.L. 274 Brueggemann, W. 191 Budge, E.A.W. 170f. Burkes, S. 103 Burkert, W. 68 C ¸ ambel, H. 122 Cameron, G.G. 70 Camp, L. 29 Campbell, D.A. 76, 78 Carter, C.E. 135, 139 Cathcart, K.J. 1-13 ˇ Cern´ y, J. 176 Childs, B.S. 154, 166 Cholewinski, A. 233-238

282

Index of Authors

Christianson, E.S. 103 Civil, M. 17, 62 Clark, K. 58 Clines, D.J.A. 9, 48, 66, 129, 225-227 Coelho, P. 155 Cogan, M. 45, 70 Cohen, H.R. 5 Cohen, M.E. 229, 244f., 247f. Coldstream, J.N. 69, 87f. Collins, T. 254 Conrad, D. 206 Coogan, M.D. 144f. Cook, R.M. 84 Cooke, G.A. 6 Corsten, W. 200 Courbin, P. 87 Croft, W. 201 Cross, F.M. 48, 50, 143f., 146 Cryer, F.H. 165 Currid, J.D. 97, 113 Dahood, M.J. 1, 8 Dalley, S. 69 Dalman, G. 230-232, 251f. Damrosch, D. 45 Daniels, P.T. 3f., 145 Davidson, R. 188 Davies, G.I. 226f. Davies, P.R. 143f. Day, J. 55, 266 De Angelis, F. 75, 87 Deden, D. 30 De Garis Davies, N. 124 De Jong Ellis, M. 16, 22 De Liagre B¨ ohl, F.M.T. 36 Demarée, R.J. 21, 25, 213 De Moor, J.C. 52, 55, 61, 63, 75, 81, 129, 136, 142, 154, 175, 200f., 209, 228, 254, 262f., 267-269, 274 Demsky, A. 90 Dennis, T. 187f., 192f. Dentan, R.C. 35 De Robert, P. 200, 204, 207 De Roos, H. 21 Deurloo, K.A. 263 De Vaux, R. 220f. Dezinger, F. 144 Dhorme, P. 30 Diamond, A.R. 209

Dickinson, O. 90 Dietrich, M. 63 Dietrich, W. 29, 213 Dijkstra, M. 14-44, 63f., 140, 158 Dindorf, W. 73 Dion, P.E. 80 Dobbs-Allsopp, F.W. 86 Donlon, P. 4 Donner, H. 272f. Dothan, T. 91 Dover, K. 73 Doyle, B. 209 Driver, G.R. 5, 9, 12 Dubberstein, W. 233 D¨ urr, L. 200 Dupont, P. 84 Dyk, J. 263 Ebach, H.J. 240-244 Edelman, D.V. 135 Edwards, D.L. 58 Edzard, D.O. 20 Ehrman, A. 7 Eidevall, G. 209 Ellenbogen, M. 153 Elliger, K. 222f., 233-237 Emerton, J.A. 4, 228 Ephal, I. 45 Erman, A. 170 Exum, J.C. 129, 192 Fabry, H.-J. 206 Fales, F.M. 17 Falkenstein, A. 212, 245 Fantalkin, A. 71, 83-86 Fecht, G. 210 Finkel, I.L. 35, 40 Finkelstein, J.J. 22 Fischer, S. 102f. Fisher, N. 79 Fitzmyer, J.A. 5, 10-13 Fleming, D.E. 48 Fokkelman, J.P. 2 Fortna, R. 200 Fossey, J.M. 80 Frahm, E. 71 Freedman, D.N. 66, 204f., 207 Freising, P.H. 200 Friedman, R.E. 264 Friedman, S.D. 107

Index of Authors

Friedrich, J. 245 Fritz, V. 70 Frymer-Kensky, T. 187, 191, 193 Fuchs, A. 79 Galil, G. 125 Galling, K. 90 Gantz, T. 74 Garc´ıa Mart´ınez, F. 13 Gardiner, A.H. 96, 100, 176 Garfinkel, Y. 83 Gauer, W. 93 Gehrke, H.-J. 20 Geller, S.A. 49, 54, 59 Gerstenberger, E.S. 158, 163-166 Gese, H. 240-242 Geva, S. 71 Gevirtz, S. 9 Gibson, J.C.L. 9, 126, 254 Gispen, W.H. 204 Gitin, S. 90f. Gittlen, B.M. 105, 108 Glassner, J.-J. 22f., 28 Gnoli, G. 55 Gnuse, R.K. 55, 158, 162, 164 G¨ org, M. 112f. Goelet, O. 99 Goetze, A. 48 Gordon, C.H. 113 Gordon, R.P. 12, 45-67 Gottlieb, C. 113 Grabbe, L.L. 17, 135, 137, 140, 153 Grayson, A.K. 15f., 19f., 22-25, 27f., 30, 35f., 40, 43, 119f. Greenspahn, F.E. 2 Gropp, D.M. 147 Gr¨ unwaldt, K. 218, 222f. G¨ uterbock, H.G. 15, 20, 37 Gunn, B. 96 Gunn, D.M. 57 Hadley, J.M. 158 H¨ agg, R. 68 Hagedorn, A.C. 68-93 Haider, P.W. 78, 86 Halbertal, M. 163 Hallo, W.W. 17, 20f., 23, 30, 80f., 124, 170, 215 Halpern, B. 18 Hamilton, G.J. 270

283

Hamp, V. 200 Haring, H. 160 Harrison, P. 160 Hartmann, B. 207 Hawkins, J.D. 122f. Healey, J.F. 275 Heimpel, W. 209 Heitink, G. 200 Helck, W. 75, 98 Herzfeld, M. 74 Herzog, Z. 80 Hess, R.S. 113 Heym, P.R. 79 Hieke, T. 200 Higginbotham, C.R. 113 Hillers, D.R. 10 Hincks, E. 3-5 Hirschon, R. 92 Hoffmann, G.L. 69 Hoffman, Y. 136 Hoffmeier, J.K. 173f. Hoffner, H.A. 21 Hoftijzer, J. 48, 63f., 258 Hollis, S./ 113 Holt, E. 209 Hossfeld, F.-L. 80, 208 House, P.R. 154f. Houtman, C. 264 Huehnergard, J. 48 Huizinga, J. 18f. Humphries, S.C. 94 Hunger, H. 25, 35, 37 Hunziker-Rodewald, R. 200-202, 204, 212-214 Hurtado, L. 167 Ishida, T. 50 Israelit-Groll, S. 113 Jacobsen, T. 63 Jacoby, F. 68 Janzen, J.G. 196 Japhet, S. 136 Jeansonne, S.P. 187 Jeffrey, L.H. 75 Jepsen, A. 29 Jobes, K.H. 153f. Jobling, D. 66f. Johnson, M. 201, 211 Johnston, P.S. 94-116

284

Index of Authors

Johnstone, W. 221 Jones, H.S. 68 Jongeling, K. 258 Kaiser, O. 69, 170 Kalimi, I. 140, 154 Kalthoff, 208 Kaltner, J. 112 Kasher, R. 61 Kaufman, S.A. 10 Keller, S.R. 96 Kempinski, A. 89 Kessler, J. 30f. King, H. 94 Kippenberg, H.G. 143 Kitchen, K.A 96, 117-134, 172f. Klein, J. 215, 245 Klinger, J. 22 Klinkott, H. 84 Klostermann, A. 30 Knauf, E.A. 150 Knohl, I. 222f., 235-237, 251 Koch, R. 175 K¨ ockert, M. 68 K¨ ohler, L. 11, 268-270 K¨ orting, K. 222f., 227, 233-237, 240244 Koffmann, E. 229 Koole, J.L. 30 Korpel, M.C.A. 30, 61, 135-156 Korsak, M.P. 187 Kottsieper, I. 63, 149f. Krahmalkov, C.R. 273 Kramer, S.N. 215 Kratz, R.G. 149f. Kraus, F.R. 17, 233 Krispijn, T.J.H. 21 Kr¨ uger, T. 16 Krul, W.E. 19 Kuentz, C. 174 Kuhrt, A. 69 Kurke, L. 76 Kutsch, E. 233, 225, 233, 235-237 Laato, A. 55, 136, 142, 154, 263 Lacovara, P. 98f. Lakoff, G. 201, 211 Lambelet, E. 169 Lambert, W.G. 16, 36, 49, 52, 62 Landsberger, B. 246

Lanfranchi, G.B. 69 Lang, B. 51 Laroche, E. 21 Larsen, M.T. 4, 17 Lash, N. 159f., 162 Leene, H. 15 Lefebvre, G. 170 Legrain, L. 174 Lemaire, A. 10, 81, 124 Lesko, L.H. 97-100 Levenson, J.D. 153, 165 Levin, C. 80 Levine, B.A. 222, 252 Lewis, C.S. 54 Lewis, D. 75, 80 Lewis, T.J. 50, 108, 137 Lichtheim, M. 103, 170, 175-177 Liddell, H.G. 68 Lindenberger, J.M. 78, 81 Lipi´ nski, E. 206 Lipschits, O. 136, 139, 152 Liverani, M. 17 Livingstone, E.A. 66 Liwak, R. 268, 270 Loader, J.A. 153 Loewenstamm, S.E. 8 Lohfink, N. 31, 165 Long, V.P. 121 Loprieno, A. 171 Lorenz, C. 17 Loretz, O. 55, 63 Lovering, Jr., E.H. 167 Lubetski, M. 113 Luckenbill, D.D. 119f. Lund, J.A. 147 Maag, V. 200, 204 MacDonald, N. 158-167 Machinist, P. 19, 45f., 58, 214 Magen, Y. 143 Magness, J. 84, 89 Maher, M. 10 Malachi, Z. 261 Malkin, I. 69 Mankowski, P.V. 6, 153 Manns, F. 143 Margalit, A. 163 Margalith, O. 90 Marquard, O. 159

Index of Authors

285

Marsman, H.J. 137, 153, 187, 191 Mason, R.A. 30-32 Mayer, W. 17, 19, 79 Mayes, A.D.H. 57 Mazar, A. 87 McKane, W. 8 McKay, H.A. 48 McKenzie, S.L. 32, 112 McMahon, G. 21f. McNamara, M. 10 Meiggs, R. 75, 80, 91 Menn, E.M. 262 Mettinger, T.N.D. 51-53, 137 Metz, J.B. 160 Meyers, C.L. 183, 186f., 191, 196 Michalowski, P. 215 Milgrom, J. 218, 222f., 238, 251f. Millard, A.R. 17f., 20, 23, 27f., 35f., 62, 113, 266 Mittmann, S. 74, 206f. Modrzejewski, J.M. 147, 149, 152 M¨ oller, A. 20, 85 Moltmann, J. 159 Monson, J. 126 Moore, S.D. 59 Moran, W.L. 1, 22 Morenz, S. 94, 101-104 Morris, I. 79, 90 Morris, S.P. 69 M¨ uller, D. 209f. M¨ uller, H.-P. 63f. M¨ uller, M. 94f., 101, 103 Mullen, Jr., E.T. 62 Myres, J.L. 69, 71

Ollenburger, B.C. 110 Oppenheim, A.L. 17 Oren, E.D. 85, 112 Ortony, A. 211 Osborne, R. 76 Otto, E. 15, 50f. Otto, R. 159 Overton, S.D. 107

Naveh, J. 83, 86 Neusner, J. 18, 105, 107 Newman, C.C. 158 Newsom, C.A. 185 Niccacci, A. 103, 114 Niditch, S. 185 Niehr, H. 137 Nielsen, F.A.J. 26, 34 Niemeier, W.-D. 71, 85-87, 89 Nissen, H. 214 Nissinen, M. 16 Noegel, S.B. 253, 258, 261 Noth, M. 26, 145, 222f., 233-235

Raaflaub, K. 69 Rainey, A.F. 74 Rawlinson, H.C. 3f., 47 Redford, D.B. 112f., 174f. Reeves, J.C. 228 Reich, R. 84 Rendtorff, R. 32f. Renger, J. 20 Renkema, J. 136, 208, 216 Renz, J. 81, 83f., 146, 226 Richardson, M.E.J. 11, 168-182, 268 Ridgway, D. 75 Riede, P. 209 Riis, P.J. 85f., 88f. Ringe, S.H. 185

O’Connor, M. 254

Page, D. 76-78 Pardee, D. 8f., 80f. Parker, R.A. 233 Parkinson, R.B. 101f., 175 Parpola, S. 48-50, 247 Patzek, B. 72 Paxman, J. 58 Penglase, C. 69 Petersen, D. 31 Pinch, G. 98 Pinches, T.G. 47 Pirson, R. 200 Pitard, W.T. 105f., 266-268 Pohlmann, K.-F. 240-243 Pope, M.H. 10f. Popham, M. 87 Porten, B. 146f., 151f. Porter, B.N. 49, 67 Postma, F. 15 Powell, B. 90f. Pritchard, J.B. 170 Pummer, R. 144 Quinn, J.D. 78 Quirke, S.G. 171

286

Index of Authors

Ringgren, H. 220, 244 Risser, M.K. 86 Rittig, D. 68 Rittner, R.K. 98 Roberts, J.J.M. 12, 46f. Rodriguez, A.M. 154 R¨ ollig, W. 81, 83f., 146, 226, 272f. R¨ omer, T. 29, 32 R¨ omer, W.H.P. 212 Rollinger, R. 71, 78f., 83, 93 Rose, W.H. 143 Rothstein, J.W. 30 Rouillard, H. 268f. Rudolph, W. 204 Ruzé, F. 75 Sachs, A.J. 25 Sadaka, A. 269 Sadek, A.I. 96 Sallaberger, W. 245, 247f. Sancisi-Weerdenburg, H. 69 Sass, B. 146 Sasson, J.M. 97f. Sawyer, J.F.A. 109, 206 Sch¨ afer-Lichtenberger, C. 90 Schearing, L.S. 32 Schenker, A. 165 Schmitt, R. 137 Schorch, S. 270 Schroeder, R.V. 83 Schwantes, M. 213 Schwartz, R. 159 Schw¨ obel, C. 159 Scott, R. 68 Seeligmann, I.L. 207 Sefati, Y. 214 Segal, M.Z. 143 Seibert, I. 211, 213f. Seidlmayer, S.J. 97, 99f. Seitz, C.R. 31, 64, 164, 166 Sepmeijer, F. 253 Sethe, K. 96 Seux, M.-J. 211 Shafer, B.E. 96, 115 Shinan, A. 262 Shiran-Grumach, I. 113 Sickenberger, J. 675f. Simpson, W.K. 170 Sj¨ oberg, A.W. 209

Ska, J.-L. 264 Skinner, J. 186, 191, 196 Smend, R. 26, 29 Smith, G. 47 Smith, M.S. 163f. Soskice, J. 211 Sourouzian, H. 175 Speiser, E.A. 35, 191 Spencer, A.J. 99 Spitta, W. 171 Spronk, K. 7, 15, 108 Stager, L.E. 78, 126 Steinberg, N. 196 Stern, E. 83, 85, 90f., 137, 139 Stolper, M.W. 145 Sweeney, M.A. 141 Szlos, M.B. 209 Tadmor, H. 17, 20, 22, 45 Talmon, S. 2, 56f. Talstra, E. 15 Taylor, J.H. 95 Tekoglu, R. 124 Thiel, W. 235 Thomas, R. 74 Thomson, J. 200 Thureau-Dangin, F. 244, 247 Tietz, W. 84 Tigchelaar, E.J.C. 13 Tollington, J.E. 30f., 183-199 Torczyner, H. 7 Tov, E. 2 Tracy, D. 159f. Tromp, N.J. 111 Tropper, J. 75, 107, 256f. Trotter, J.M. 139, 141, 148 Tsetskhladze, G.R. 75, 87 Turner, M. 201, 211 Ucko, P.J. 94 Uehlinger, C. 51, 71 Ulf, C. 78 Van de Mieroop, M. 15, 18, 20, 25, 38 Van den Hout, T.P.J. 21 Vanderhooft, D. 147f. Van der Kooij, G. 48, 63f. Van der Toorn, K. 16, 52f., 107, 228, 244f., 247, 269 Van der Woude, A.S. 26, 30, 32f., 141

Index of Authors

287

Van de Walle, B. 179 Van Dijk, J. 50 Van Driel, G. 17, 23 Van Effenterre, H. 75 Van Gelderen, C. 204 Van Goudoever, J. 218, 221 Van Hecke, P.J.P. 200-217 Van Keulen, P.S.F. 152 Van Leeuwen, C. 204f. Van Seters, J. 15f., 19, 21-23 Van Wees, H. 79, 90 Veenhof, K.R. 21, 141, 213 Veijola, T. 26, 29 Vleeming, S.P. 153 Von Kienle, R. 245 Von Rad, G. 56, 167, 187f., 195f. Von Schuler, E. 21 Vriezen, T.C. 26, 30, 33

Wenning, R. 71, 80, 83, 85-87, 91 Wente, E.F. 96f. Wesselius, J.W. 34, 153, 253-265 West, M.L. 69, 73, 78, 92 Westermann, C. 166f., 185-188, 191, 193, 195 Wheatley, P. 44 Whiting, R.M. 69, 71 Whybray, R.N. 48, 57 Williams, P.J. 266-275 Williamson, H.G.M. 33, 129 Willi-Plein, I. 239 Willmes, B. 200, 204 Wilson, J.A. 175-177, 180 Wiseman, D.J. 24, 43 Wolff, H.W. 204f. Wright, J.E. 53 Wyatt, N. 46, 266f.

Wagenaar, J.A. 218-252 Waldbaum, J.C. 84f., 87-90, 92 Walker, C.B.F. 23 Wambacq, B.N. 249 Watson, W.G.E. 136, 257, 266 Watts, J.D.W. 55f. Weinfeld, M. 20 Weippert, H. 85, 207 Weippert, M. 48, 63f. Weiser, A. 204 Wellhausen, J. 219-221 Wenham, G.J. 64, 191, 196

Yamauchi, E. 153 Yamit, Y. 26 Yri, K.M. 206 Younger, K.L. 124, 170 Zadok, R. 139, 144-146 Zakovitch, Y. 262 Zandee, J. 100f. Zevit, Z. 50 Zimmerli, W. 32, 240-244 Zimmern, H. 6 Zsengellér, J. 147

Index of Biblical Texts Genesis 1–2 263 1:1–2:4 60f. 1:26 61 1:27 61 5:24 109 10:2 71, 83 10:4-5 71, 83 10:4 83, 187 11:5 65 11:26–25:11 183 11:26-32 183 11:29 191 12 187 12:5 184 12:7 184 12:10-20 190f. 12:11-13 185 12:16 186 12:17 185 12:18–13:1 185 12:19 185 13 188 14:5 266, 269 15:2-5 186 15:5 188 15:9 188 15:20 266 16 195 16:1 186 16:2 187, 189 16:3 187 16:6 188 16:7–14 188, 194 16:7–13 199 16:12 194, 197 16:15 189 17 189 17:1-14 189 17:7-14 198 17:15-21 197 17:15 189 17:17-18 196 17:17 190 17:20 194 17:21 190 17:23-27 190

17:23-26 198 18 60, 64f., 198 18:1-8 190 18:9-15 197, 199 18:12 190 18:13 60 18:16 65 18:17-21 65 18:17 60, 65 18:21 65 18:22–19:38 190 18:22 65 18:27 65 19:1 60, 65 19:15 60 20 65, 192 20:1-18 190 20:4 191 20:5 191 20:6 191 20:7 65 20:11 191 20:13 191 20:16 192 20:19 192 21 188 21:1-9 195 21:1-7 192 21:5 192 21:7 192 21:8-14 192 21:9-21 195 21:9 192 21:11 193 21:12 193 21:13 194 21:14-19 195 21:14 193 21:15-21 194 21:17-19 199 21:20-21 197 22 195 22:2 195 23:2 195 24 195f. 24:6 196 25:1-2 196

25:2-4 25:6 25:9 26:6-11 25:12-16 27:5-17 27:41-46 28–29 30:12 30:3 30:9 30:12 31:39 37 37:27-28 37:28 37:32-33 37:36 38:24-26 38:25 40:6-19 49

196 196 196 190 196 193 193 263 188 186f. 187 187 207 263 198 196, 264 262 196 261 261 259f. 189

Exodus 1–24 1–15 1–12 3 3:2-6 3:14 9:31-32 12:1-13

221 249 186 196 169 114 230 218, 222, 238f., 242, 248f. 12:2 239, 249 12:3-5 239 12:6-11 239 12:6-7 249 12:14-20 238 12:21-27 249 13:4 230 15:2 258 16:16 224 16:18 224 16:22 224 16:32 224 16:33 224

289

Index of Biblical Texts

16:36 17:19 18 19:1 23:14-19

224 263 196 221 218, 225, 227, 235 23:14-17 229 23:15 218, 220, 229 23:16 218, 220, 225, 227, 230 23:26 184 29:23 81 32:30 60 33:20 190 34:18-26 218, 225, 227, 229 34:18 218, 220, 229f., 235 34:22-23 235 34:22 218, 220, 225-227 Leviticus 1:9 13:23 13:28 16:1-28 17–26 18:9 18:11 20:17 23–27 23 23:2 23:3 23:4-43

23:4-37 23:4-8 23:4 23:5-8

23:5-6 23:5 23:6-8 23:9-22

164 4f. 4f. 249 218 191 191 191 218 218-252 237 222f., 238 223f., 228, 232-235, 237f. 223 239, 242, 248, 250 222, 238f. 151, 218, 223, 233, 236, 238f. 232 230, 239 234, 238f. 218

23:9-21 23:10-11 23:10-12 23:13 23:14 23:15-21 23:15-16 23:15 23:16 23:18-19 23:21 23:23-37 23:23-25

23:24 23:26-32 23:26-28 23:26-27 23:27 23:28-32 23:28-31 23:31 23:32 23:33-37 23:33-36

23:34 23:35-36 23:37-38 23:37 23:39-43 23:39 23:41 23:42-43 26 26:40

224, 234-237f. 224, 250 224 234 236, 238 252 224, 250 224 237 234 236-238 239, 242, 248 223, 233f., 236, 238f., 250 238. 249 223 236, 238f., 250 234 249 236 236 237 238 250 218, 224, 233f., 236239 228 237 223 223, 238f. 218, 222-224, 228, 234-237 235f., 238 236 221 136 136

Numbers 16:30 16:33 21–36 21:14 23:9 24:24

105 105 222 14 9f. 83

25:2 28–29

108 219, 222, 234, 250-252 28:16-25 251 28:17 251 28:26-31 251f. 28:26 251 28:27-30 234 29:12 251 Deuteronomy 2:11 2:20 3:11 3:13 4:12 4:15 4:36 7:14 8:9 12:11 12:13-14 14 16:1-17

266 266, 266 266, 59 59 59 184 6 150 150 165 218, 228, 16:1-8 218 16:1-3 229 16:1 220, 16:9-12 218 16:9-10 220, 16:13-15 218 16:13 220, 21:13 240 24:19 224 26:3-10 18 26:14 109 27:22 191 30:19-20 114 32:7 18 32:39 110 33:29 206 Joshua 1:10 3:2 10:6 10:13 10:24 11:3 12:4

7 7 206 14 124 123 266

269 269

225, 235

230 224 225

290

13:12 15:8 17:15 18:16


266 266 266 266

Judges 6:11-24 6:14 6:22-23 6:22 8:5 13:3 13:6 13:9 13:13 13:19-22 13:22-23

60 60 190 60 81 60 60 60 60 60 190

1 Samuel 1:11 1:22-25 2:6 2:36 4:4 9–10 10:3 16–17 17:4-7 17:12 17:15 17:35 21:1 28 28:20-25 30:14

186 192 110 81 59 263 81 264f. 90 28 265 207 28 106f. 108 90

2 Samuel 1:18 1:21 5:10 5:18 5:19 5:22-25 5:22 7:1 7:9 7:11 8:6 8:11-12 8:14

14 2 124 266 124 123 266 123f. 124 124 58, 123 123 58

8:18 90 9–1 Kings 2 260 11:5 260 11:14-17 260 13:13 191 15 124, 129 15:18 90 16–17 64, 263 16:1-4 124 16:8 124 20 129 20:7 90 20:23 80, 90 23:13 266 1 Kings 1 1:38 1:44 2:5-6 5–6 6:1 6:37 6:38 7:13-50 7:13-14 8:2 9:15-20 10:21 11:41 12 12:25 12:29-31 14:19 14:29 15:23 16:5 16:27 16:32 16:34 17:22 22 22 22:39 22:46 22:47

124, 129 90 90 260 128 229 229 229 70 70 229 125 28 14, 26 64 124 128 14, 26 14, 26 29 29 28 128 28 110 64 63 124 29 28

2 Kings 2:11 3–10

109 29

4:35 110 7:6 123 8:20 28 9:36 132 10:6-8 123, 129 11 129 11:4 80 11:19 80 12:1-16 128 13:21 110 14:22 125 15:1-7 38 15:13 240 15:29 28 18:13-19:37 32 20:20-21 29 20:20 125 21:1-18 152 21:17 29 21:25 29 22:3–23:30 32 23:28-30 29 23:29 28 24:1 28 24:5 29 25:7 29 25:27-30 29 Isaiah 2:3 6:1-13 6:1 6:5 6:8 6:11 7 7:11 7:14 10:5-19 13–14 14:9-11 14:9 14:19 17:5 18 19:3 19:18 19:19-22 23:1

140 63 32 63 63 63 32 107 169 141 141 115 266, 269 107 266 113 107 113 141, 150 83

291


23:12 26:13 26:14 26:19

83 111 107, 266, 269 107, 110f., 266, 269f. 28 107 31:4 206 33:18 7 38:18 114 40–66 52 40–55 52, 144 40 142 40:1-2 142 40:6 63 40:27 137 40:29-31 136 41 142 41:4 15 44:28 142 45–46 142 45:1 142 45:1-6 55 45:7 55f. 45:21 49 47 141 48:20 144 50:9 142 52:11 144 53 142 53:9 145 55 142 55:3 51 55:6 143 56 137, 140 57 108 58 137, 139 58:3 137 59:11 138 63:5 206 63:11 138 63:15 138 63:19 138 65:1-11 139 66:19 83 Jeremiah 2:10 2:23-24 3:17

83 230 140

3:24 4:2 5:7-9 7:18 11:13 16:5-9 21:8 22:20-30 22:24 28:1-4 29:4-7 31 31:4 31:29 32–34 32:6-15 36:1–45:5 36–45 37:21 39:13 41:1 44 47:5 49:19-20 50–51 50:17 50:44-45 51:6 51:27 51:35 51:38-40 52:31-34

270 140 66 140 270 108 114 142 142 142 144 136 206 136 32 195 31 31 81, 83 13 13 140 78 206 141. 203 202 206 144 6f. 75 202 142

Ezekiel 8 11:16 13:17-23 16:30 18 18:2 20–48 21:3 25:16 27:6 27:13 27:19 32:17-32 33 37:1-14

140 143 140 5 136 136 240 4f. 90 83 83 83 115 136 110

37:9-10 40–48 40–42 43 43:7 43:9 43:18-27 44:2 45:18-45 45:18-25

45:18-20 45:18-19 45:20 45:21-24 45:21-25 45:21 45:22-24 45:22 45:23 45:25

110 240 143 108 108 108 241f. 169 242 219, 222, 239, 241-244, 248 241-244, 249 241 242 240 235, 239, 241-243 240f., 243 243 241 241 243

Hosea 2 2:2-23 2:4-25 4:16 5:14 6:1-3 6:4 9:10 11:8 11:10 13:4 13:5-8 13:7-8 13:9

66 66 66 202-204 206 110 65 270 65 206 206 205f. 206 206

Joel 1:13 4:6

140 83

Amos 1:2 3:4-8 3:7 3:12-15 5:14

206 206 64 206f. 207

292

5:19 5:22 6:7 7 7:2 7:4 7:5 7:10-17 9:2


206 12 108 32, 64 64 64 64 64 110

Jonah 1:5 1:9 1:14 1:16 2:4 2:9 3:1 3:7-9

141 141 141 141 114 141 141 141

Micah 2:4 3:12 4:2

7 156 140

Nahum 2:2 2:14 3:14 3:17

7 12f. 13 6f.

Habakkuk 2:1-4 2:3

8 8

Zephaniah 2:5

90

Haggai 1 1:2 2:20-23 2:22 2:23

149 140, 143 142 142 142

Zechariah 1:1-17 1:15 2:6-7 2:10-11 3:5

33 142 144 144 64

4:1-6 4:10-14 5:5-11 6:9-15 7 7:1-14 7:14 9:13

142f. 142 137, 156 145 136, 139 33 33 83

Malachi 1:2-5 1:6–2:9 1:6-14 2:8 2:11 2:17 3:5 3:6-12 3:8 3:13-18 3:14

137 137 140 140 139 137f. 140 137 140 137 138

Psalms 6:5 8:6 16 19:7 23 23:4 36:9 44:23 44:24 47:3 49 50:22 73 78:3-4 82 87:11 88:5 88:11 88:12 92:2 106:28 137:4 139:8

114 124 109f. 226 208 208 114 138 210 124 110 206 110 18 62 269 114 266, 269 114 257 108 138 110

Job 1:15-16 1:21

13 115

3:18-19 12:10 19:25–27 24:10 26:2 26:5 26:6 30:3 30:17 31:6 42:5

115 114 109 224 206 266, 269 110 10 10f. 111 109

Proverbs 2:18 6:26 12:17 14:5 16:2 16:27 16:33 21:2 21:16 24:12 30:23

266, 270 81 8 8 111 4f. 154 111 266 111 188

Ruth 2:15

224

Qohelet 4:13 6 9:115-16 6 Lamentations 2:6 2:20 3 3:1-6 3:1 3:10 3:27 4:20 5:7 5:13

138 138 208 208 208 206 139 138, 142 136 139

Esther 2:7 2:9 2:18 4:16 5:4-6 5:8

145 140 140 139 140 140

293


5:12 5:14 7:1-2 7:7-8

140 140 140 140

Daniel 1:7 1:8 1:12 1:13 2:34 2:35-45 7–12 8:2 8:21 10:20 11:2 11:30 11:33 12:2

144 140 140 140 169 169 111 145 83 83 83 83 111 111

Ezra 1:4 1:6 4 4:1-5 4:4 4:7–6:18 4:8–6:18 4:8-23 4:12

145 145 143 143 33 33 33 33 34

4:23 4:24–6:18 4:24 5:1 5:5 6:7-8 6:14 9–10 9

34 33 33 34 34 34 33f. 139 136

Nehemiah 1:1 1:2 2 2:16 3:33-34 4:6 5:14 9 13:10-13 13:15-18 13:23-28 13:28

145 34 146 34 34 34 148 136 140 139 139 146

16:3 18:17

2 Chronicles 11 15:8 17:12 23:1 24:1-14 26:1-4 26:2 26:5-20 26:6 26:9 26:21-23 29 32:30

124 128 124s 80 128 38 125 38 125 125 38 128 125

2 Maccabees 7:27

192

Mark 12:27

116

John

1 Chronicles

10

1:5 1:7 1:32 11:15 12:15 14:9

Acts

83 83 197 266 123 266

81 90

7:30-34

200 60

Revelation 22:11 22:17

67 67

Old Testament in Its World

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