LIBRARY OF HEBREW BIBLE/

OLD TESTAMENT STUDIES

680
Formerly Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Supplement Series

Editors
Claudia V. Camp, Texas Christian University, USA
Andrew Mein, University of Durham, UK

Founding Editors
David J. A. Clines, Philip R. Davies and David M. Gunn

Editorial Board
Alan Cooper, Susan Gillingham, John Goldingay, Norman K. Gottwald,
James E. Harding, John Jarick, Carol Meyers,
Daniel L. Smith-Christopher, Francesca Stavrakopoulou,
James W. Watts
ii
 BIBLICAL NARRATIVES,
ARCHAEOLOGY AND HISTORICITY

Essays in Honour of Thomas L. Thompson

Edited by

Łukasz Niesiołowski-Spanò
and
Emanuel Pfoh
 T&T CLARK
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Thomas L. Thompson
vi
 C on t en t s

List of Figures xi
List of Contributors xiii
List of Abbreviations xv

Introduction
Łukasz Niesiołowski-Spanò and Emanuel Pfoh xix

The Publications of Thomas L. Thompson xxiii

Part 1
Method

The City of David as a Palimpsest

Margreet L. Steiner 3

Living in the Past?Keeping Up-To-Date in

Ancient Near Eastern Studies
Raz Kletter 10

What People Want to Believe: Or Fighting against

‘Cultural Memory’
Niels Peter Lemche 22

The Need for a Comprehensive Sociology of Knowledge

of Biblical and Archaeological Studies of the Southern Levant
Emanuel Pfoh 35

Part 2
History, Historiography and Archaeology

The Abraham and Esau-Jacob Storiesin the Context

of the Maccabean Period
Łukasz Niesiołowski-Spanò 49
viii Contents

Tell Balata (Shechem):

An Archaeological and Historical Reassessment
Hamdan Taha and Gerrit van der Kooij 62

‘Solomon’ (Shalmaneser III) and the Emergence of Judah

as an Independent Kingdom
Russell Gmirkin 76

On the Pre-Exilic Gap between Israel and Judah

Étienne Nodet 91

Perceptions of Israel’s Past in Qumran Writings:

Between Myth and Historiography
Jesper Høgenhaven 101

Is Josephus’s John the Baptist Passagea Chronologically

Dislocated Story of the Death of Hyrcanus II?
Gregory L. Doudna 119

Thompson’s Jesus: Staring Down the Wishing Well

Jim West 138

The Qur’an as Biblical Rewriting

Mogens Müller 145

Part 3
Biblical Narratives

The Food of Life and the Food of Deathin Texts from

the Old Testament and the Ancient Near East
Ingrid Hjelm 159

A Gate in Gaza: An Essay on the Reception of Tall Tales

Jack M. Sasson 176

Deborah’s Topical Song: Remarks on the Gattung of Judges 5

Bob Becking 190

How Jerusalem’s Temple Was Aligned to Moses’ Tabernacle:

About the Historical Power of an Invented Myth
Rainer Albertz 198

Can the Book of Nehemiah Be Used as an Historical Source,

and If So, of What?
Lisbeth S. Fried  210
 Contents ix

Chronicles’ Reshaping of Memoriesof Ancestors

Populating Genesis
Ehud Ben Zvi 225

The Book of Proverbs and Hesiod’s Works and Days

Philippe Wajdenbaum 248

The Villain ‘Samaritan’:

The Sāmirī as the Other Moses in Qur’anic Exegesis
Joshua Sabih 258

Index of References 274

Index of Authors 284
x
 F i g ur es

Figure 0.1 Thomas L. Thompson, photo by Ingrid Hjelm.

Figure 6.1 Tell Balata in its recent urban setting, after clearance in
2010, view to south (courtesy Tell Balata Archaeological
Park). Photo taken by Hamdan Taha and Gerrit van der
Kooij.
Figure 6.2 Tell Balata plan showing the excavated parts with numbered
areas of special attention. It also shows the location of the
new entrance and the ‘Interpretation Center’ for visitors
(courtesy Tell Balata Archaeological Park, drawing based on
G. R. H. Wright 2002: Ill. 2). Photo taken by Hamdan Taha
and Gerrit van der Kooij.
xii
 C on t ri b u tor s

Rainer Albertz, University of Münster, Germany

Bob Becking, Utrecht University, the Netherlands

Ehud Ben Zvi, University of Alberta, Canada

Greg Doudna, Independent Scholar, USA

Lisbeth S. Fried, University of Michigan, USA

Russell Gmirkin, Independent Scholar, USA

Ingrid Hjelm, University of Copenhagen, Denmark

Jesper Høgenhaven, University of Copenhagen, Denmark

Raz Kletter, University of Helsinki, Finland

Niels Peter Lemche, University of Copenhagen, Denmark

Mogens Müller, University of Copenhagen, Denmark

Łukasz Niesiołowski-Spanò, University of Warsaw, Poland

Etienne Nodet, École biblique et archéologique française de Jérusalem,

Israel

Emanuel Pfoh, National Research Council (CONICET) / National

University of La Plata, Argentina

Joshua Sabih, University of Copenhagen, Denmark

Jack Sasson, Vanderbilt University, USA

xiv Contributors

Margreet Steiner, Independent Scholar, the Netherlands

Hamdan Taha, former Deputy Minister of the Ministry of Tourism and

Antiquities, Palestine

Gerrit van der Kooij, University of Leiden, the Netherlands

Philippe Wajdenbaum, Independent Scholar, Belgium

Jim West, Ming Hua Theological College, Hong Kong

 A b b rev i at i ons

AAR American Academy of Religion

ÄAT Ägypten und Altes Testament
ABRL Anchor Bible Reference Library
ABS Archaeological and Biblical Studies – Society of Biblical
Literature
ACR Archaeological Review from Cambridge
ADAJ Annual of the Department of Antiquities of Jordan
AfO Archiv für Orientforschung
AMI Archäologische Mitteilungen aus Iran
ANET3 Ancient Near Eastern Texts Relating to the Old Testament.
Edited by James B. Pritchard. 3rd ed. Princeton: Princeton
University Press, 1969
AOAT Alter Orient und Altes Testament
ARM Archives Royales de Mari
ArOr Archiv Orientální
ASOR American Schools of Oriental Research
ASORAR American Schools of Oriental Research, Archaeological Reports
AuOr Aula Orientalis
BA Biblical Archaeologist
BAR Biblical Archaeology Review
BASOR Bulletin of the American Schools of Oriental Research
BEATAJ Beträge zur Erforschung des Alten Testaments und des antiken
Judentums
BEThL Bibliotheca Ephemeridum Theologicarum Lovaniensium
BI Biblical Intersections
Bib Biblica
BJS Brown Judaic Studies
BJSUCSD Biblical and Judaic Studies
BK Biblischer Kommentar
BN Biblische Notizen
BTAVO Beihefte zum Tübinger Atlas des Vorderer Orients
BTB Biblical Theology Bulletin
BZAW Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft
CBÅ Collegium Biblicum Årskrift
CBET Contributions to Biblical Exegesis and Theology
CBQ Catholic Biblical Quarterly
CIS Copenhagen International Seminar series
xvi Abbreviations

CRAIBL Comptes-rendus de l’Académie des inscriptions et belles-lettres

DJD Discoveries in the Judaean Desert
DSD Dead Sea Discoveries
DTT Dansk Teologisk Tidsskrift
EdF Erträge der Forschung
EI Eretz Israel
EncJud Encyclopaedia Judaica
ESHM European Seminar in Historical Methodology
FAT Forschungen zum Alten Testament
FBE Forum for Bibelsk Eksegese
FRLANT Forschungen zur Religion und Literatur des Alten und Neuen
Testaments
HAT Handbuch zum Alten Testament
HLS Holy Land Studies. A Multidisciplinary Journal
HThKAT Herders Theologischer Kommentar zum AT
HTR Harvard Theological Review
IAA The International Association for Assyriology
IEJ Israel Exploration Journal
IES Israel Exploration Society
INR Israel Numismatic Research
JANES Journal of the Ancient Near Eastern Society
JAOS Journal of the American Oriental Society
JBL Journal of Biblical Literature
JBS Journal of Biblical Studies
JBTh Jahrbuch für Biblische Theologie
JES Journal of Ecumenical Studies
JESHO Journal for the Economic and Social History of the Orient
JETS Journal of the Evangelical Theological Society
JJS Journal of Jewish Studies
JQR The Jewish Quarterly Review
JR The Journal of Religion
JRA Journal of Roman Archaeology
JSHJ Journal for the Study of the Historical Jesus
JSJ Journal for the Study of Judaism
JSJSup Journal for the Study of Judaism Supplement Series
JSOT Journal for the Study of the Old Testament
JSOTSup Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Supplement Series
JSS Journal of Semitic Studies
JTS The Journal of Theological Studies
LAI Library of Ancient Israel
LAR D. D. Luckenbill, Ancient Records of Assyrian and Babylonia,
2 vols, Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1926
LHBOTS Library of Hebrew Bible and Old Testament Studies
NEB Neue Echter Bibel
NTT Norsk Teologisk Tidsskrift
OA Oriens Antiquus
OBO Orbis Biblicus et Orientalis
 Abbreviations xvii

OTL Old Testament Library

OTR Old Testament Readings
OTS Oudtestamentische studiën
PEQ Palestine Exploration Quarterly
RB Revue Biblique
RBL Revue of Biblical Literature
REA Revue des Études Anciennes
RevQ Revue de Qumrân
RIHAO Revista del Instituto de Historia Antigua Oriental ‘Dr Abraham
Rosenvasser’
SBL Society of Biblical Literature
SBTS Sources for Biblical and Theological Study
SHANE Studies in the History of the Ancient Near East
SHCANE Studies in the History and Civilizations of the Ancient Near
East
SJOT Scandinavian Journal of the Old Testament
SPB Studia Post Biblica
STDJ Studies on the Texts of the Desert of Judah
StTh Studia Theologica
SWABS The Social World of Biblical Antiquity, Second Series
TA Tel Aviv
TSAJ Texts and Studies in Ancient Judaism
UF Ugarit Forschungen
VT Vetus Testamentum
VTSup Supplements to Vetus Testamentum
WBC Word Biblical Commentary
WHJP World History of the Jewish People
WMANT Wissenschaftliche Monographien zum Alten und Neuen
Testament
WUNT Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament
ZAR Zeitschrift für Altorientalische und Biblische Rechtsgeschichte
ZAW Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft
[Link] Zürcher Bibel Kommentar – Altes Testament
ZDPV Zeitschrift des Deutschen Palästina-Vereins
ZEP Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik
xviii
 I n t rod uct i on

Łukasz Niesiołowski-Spanò and Emanuel Pfoh

Thomas L. Thompson has been, for the past five decades, behind
some of the – if not all – major changes in Old Testament historio­
graphy, if we consider that his criticism of the patriarchal narratives, the
exodus and settlement and the United Monarchy were each at their own
time forerunners of what later on would become accepted in the field
(Thompson 1974, 1987, 1992, 1999). His work from the 1970s through
the 1990s was certainly decisive in crafting a critical understanding of
that now infamous creature ‘ancient Israel’ – a task he, along with Philip
R. Davies, Niels Peter Lemche and Keith W. Whitelam, deconstructed in
different ways within the field of Old Testament studies. The grouping
of these four scholars is not innocent, of course, as already during the
1990s they were thrown together under the tag of ‘biblical minimalists’
by scholarly adversaries (the so-called, by opposition, ‘maximalists’).
As has been noted elsewhere (Whitelam 2002), understanding these four
scholars under this epithet is not only misinformed but eventually wrong,
since they did not agree on every point nor were they addressing the same
issues from the same perspective. However, on many issues they agreed,
if not on the results, certainly on the methodology and the ways in which
to conduct historical research in Old Testament studies. And the arrival at
such a situation in the 1990s has a lot to do with Thomas’s career.
Thomas was born on 7 January 1939 in Detroit (Michigan, United
States); however, some fifty years later he ended up becoming a European
citizen. This latter event resulted not only from the objective aspects of
academia’s international movements of scholars in the field of biblical
studies, but also reflects a historiographical declaration by Thompson: an
appreciation of the European academic tradition and the European way
of conducting scholarly debates. Thomas’s early experiences in Europe
were not typical. Initially, after his early university studies at Duquesne
xx Introduction

University in Pittsburgh, he continued his education in Oxford and

Tübingen. The period spent in Tübingen was paramount in his scholarly
training as it was precisely there that he worked on his doctoral disser-
tation and became involved in the collective efforts of the ‘Tübinger
Bibelatlas’.
Between 1967 and 1971, Thompson prepared his PhD thesis on the
historicity of the patriarchal narratives, and his fate in relation to this
work is now well known in the scholarly field (something evocated in
one of his own books, in which Thompson narrates his scholarly odyssey
much better than we do here: Thompson 1999: xi–xix). The dissertation
was not accepted in the Faculty of Catholic Theology of the University
of Tübingen, and he would end up earning his doctorate with a summa
cum laude across the Atlantic, in Temple University in 1976. Nonetheless,
Thompson had by then already published the undefended dissertation
in 1974 as The Historicity of the Patriarchal Narratives: The Quest for
the Historical Abraham, and the book now constitutes a pivotal event
in Old Testament studies regarding discussions on the historicity of the
biblical narratives while also aiming to develop the critical methodologies
of the 1990s. But this is the perspective we have now after more than
four decades! In the context of the academia of the 1970s, Thompson’s
thesis was – apart from a few exceptions – generally rejected as standard
knowledge and results, and he started a period of his life in which he
would find himself, in his own words, ‘unemployed and unemployable
for ten years’.
Thomas’s second scholarly life started in the mid-1980s, with a visiting
professorship at the École Biblique et Archéologique in Jerusalem. His
next few years would have been typical of an early-stage-career post-doc
employment structure. Paradoxically, the author of an already ground-
breaking and by then widely quoted work was offered only short-term
rather than tenure-track positions, and when finally in 1992 he was about to
get tenure at Marquette University, the publication of his Early History of
the Israelite Peoples caused controversy within the university’s religious
establishment and once again academia reacted against his challenging
ideas by expelling one of the trouble-makers. But Thomas’s story did not
end there; quite the contrary, it was about to have another new beginning.
Supported by Niels Peter Lemche, in 1993 he was awarded a chair as
Professor of Old Testament at the Faculty of Theology of the University
of Copenhagen. At 54 years old, Thompson had found his stable place
for good. He was employed at the University of Copenhagen for sixteen
years, and retired in 2009, becoming a professor emeritus thereon.
 Introduction xxi

The fact that Thomas had to start his academic career twice (or three
times!) made his profile unique in the best of ways. In spite of all the years
that have passed since his early involvement in academia, he continues
to be a young scholar in thought and enthusiasm. Thomas’s research also
continues to be uncompromising in a very particular way: he resists the
influence of routine and avoids falling into academic ruts – a danger that
lurks at the door of every professor sitting comfortably in his or her chair
and enjoying academic stability.
Another characteristic of Thomas is that he has always sympathised
with the rejected ones and the ‘weaker’ in academia. As noted above, he
himself had a varied experience with rejection by the scholarly estab-
lishment in spite of being correct in many of his insights, as time was sure
to prove. The current, should we say, undisputed impact of his PhD thesis
on the ahistoricity of the patriarchal narratives in biblical scholarship,
in the light of its initial opposition, illustrates the triumph of a resolute
ethics of research. The fate of Thomas’s doctorate also shows the preva-
lence of integrity in scholarship, against the submission to the demands
of academic authority and the expectations of the scholarly majority.
Giovanni Garbini – another uncompromising ally of Thomas’s – used to
say that his early teachers would tell him that it was better to agree with
the scholarly environment than to be right. Unsurprisingly, Garbini added
that he always acted in opposition to this advice. This attitude also charac-
terises Thomas’s scholarship. He does not intend to please his readers
and side with the mainstream. His work is often set against the communis
opinio and never goes uncritically with the flow.
Thomas is also an engaging person, a protective friend and a true
believer in peaceful resolutions. Even during the harshest moments of
the debate between the so-called biblical maximalists and minimalists,
Thomas served as an emissary of dialogue. While some of his colleagues
were irritated by absurd and sometimes painful accusations, Thomas was
able to sit over a glass of wine or a cup of coffee with the adversaries
and talk. Thomas always separates – something not common enough –
scholarly polemics from personal relationships.
We wish to honour this eminent scholar in the year of his 80th birthday
by paying homage to his scholarly achievements with a set of studies
dealing with the archaeology of the Levant, questions of history and
historiography and themes related to the biblical narratives (in plural,
from the Old Testament to Qumran to the New Testament and the Qur’an),
all topics that have been of interest to Thomas during the more than five
xxii Introduction

decades of his career.1 We hope that this volume serves as a fitting tribute
in honour of a great scholar who is also a great and a most generous
person.

References
Thompson, T. L. (1974), The Historicity of the Patriarchal Narratives: The Quest for the
Historical Abraham, BZAW 133, Berlin: de Gruyter.
Thompson, T. L. (1987), The Origin Tradition of Ancient Israel, I: The Literary Formation
of Genesis and Exodus 1–23, JSOTSup 55, Sheffield: JSOT Press.
Thompson, T. L. (1992), Early History of the Israelite People: From the Written and
Archaeological Sources, SHANE 4, Leiden: E. J. Brill.
Thompson, T. L. (1999), The Bible in History: How Writers Create a Past, London:
Jonathan Cape = The Mythic Past: Biblical Archaeology and the Myth of Israel, New
York: Basic Books.
Whitelam, K. W. (2002), ‘Representing Minimalism: The Rhetoric and Reality of
Revisionism’, in Sense and Sensitivity: Essays on Reading the Bible in Memory of
Robert Carroll, ed. A. G. Hunter and P. R. Davies, JSOTSup 348, 194–223, Sheffield:
Sheffield Academic Press.

1. While this volume was in preparation, we learned of the untimely death of

Philip R. Davies, who was to contribute with a paper on ‘Genesis to Kings as a
“Primary History” ’, a topic very close to Thomas’s interests.
 T he P u bl i cat i on s of T h om as L. T hompson *

Books
1. The Historicity of the Patriarchal Narratives: The Quest for the Historical
Abraham, BZAW 133, Berlin: de Gruyter, 1974. Repr. Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press
International, 2002, 392 pp.
2. The Settlement of Sinai and the Negev in the Bronze Age, BTAVO 8, Wiesbaden: Dr.
Ludwig Reichert Verlag, 1975, xi + 210 pp.
3. The Settlement of Palestine in the Bronze Age (with technical assistance from
Maniragaba Balibutsa and Margaret M. Clarkson), BTAVO 34, Wiesbaden: Dr.
Ludwig Reichert Verlag, 1979, xiv + 495 pp.
4. The Origin Tradition of Ancient Israel: I. The Literary Formation of Genesis and
Exodus 1–23, JSOTSup 55, Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1987, 221 pp.
5. (with F. J. Gonçalves and J. M. van Cangh) Toponymie Palestinienne: Plaine de
St Jean D’Acre et Corridor de Jérusalem, Publications de L’Institut Orientaliste
Louvain, 37, Louvain La Neuve: Université Catholique de Louvain, 1988, 132 pp.
6. Early History of the Israelite People. From the Written and Archaeological Sources,
SHANE 4, Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1992, 1994, 2000, xv + 482 pp.
7. (with Niels Hyldahl [eds]) Dødehavsteksterne og Bibelen, FBE 8, Copenhagen:
Museum Tusculanums Forlag, 1996, 159 pp.
8. (with Fred H. Cryer [eds]) Qumran Between the Old and New Testaments, CIS 6,
Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1998, 398 pp.
9. The Mythic Past: Biblical Archaeology and the Myth of Israel, New York: Basic
Books, 1999, 2000; published also as The Bible in History: How Writers Create
a Past, London: Jonathan Cape, 1999; London: Pimlico, 2000, 431 pp. Arabic
translation: Damascus: Cadmus Press, 2001, 620 pp.
10. (ed.) Jerusalem in Ancient History and Tradition, CIS, London: T&T Clark
International, 2003, xxii + 301 pp. Arabic translation: T. L. Thompson and S. K.
Jayyusi (eds), Al-Quds, Urūshalīm al-’adūr al-qadīma bīn altūrāh wa al-tārīkh
[Al-Quds, The Ancient City of Jerusalem Between Tradition and History], Beirut:
Centre for Arab Unity Studies, 2003, 381 pp.
11. (with Henrik Tronier [eds]) Frelsens biografisering, FBE 13, Copenhagen: Museum
Tusculanums Forlag, 2004, 307 pp.

* This bibliographical list builds upon the one compiled by Ingrid Hjelm in SJOT,
23 (1) (2009): 149–59, and updates the data to December 2018.
xxiv The Publications of Thomas L. Thompson

12. (with Keith Whitelam, Niels Peter Lemche, Ingrid Hjelm and Ziad Muna), Al Ìadīd
fī tārīkh filasìīn alqadīmah rīkh filasìīn alqadīmah [New Information about the
History of Ancient Palestine], Damascus and Beirut: Cadmus Press, 2004, 249 pp.
13. (with Mogens Müller [eds]) Historie og konstruktion. Festskrift til Niels Peter
Lemche i anledning af 60 års fødselsdagen den 6. september 2005, FBE 14;
Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum Forlag, 2005, 444 pp.
14. The Messiah Myth: The Near Eastern Roots of Jesus and David, New York: Basic
Books, 2005; London: Jonathan Cape, 2006; London: Pimlico, 2007; Damascus and
Beirut: Cadmus Press. 2006 (in Arabic), 414 pp.
15. (with Thomas S. Verenna [eds]) ‘Is This Not the Carpenter?’ The Question of the
Historicity of the Figure of Jesus, CIS, Sheffield: Equinox, 2012, viii + 280 pp.
16. Biblical Narrative and Palestine’s History: Changing Perspectives 2, CIS, Sheffield:
Equinox, 2013, xv + 352 pp.
17. (with Philippe Wajdenbaum [eds]) The Bible and Hellenism: Greek Influence on
Jewish and Early Christian Literature, CIS, Durham: Acumen, 2014, x + 297 pp.
18. (with Ingrid Hjelm [eds]) History, Archaeology and the Bible Forty Years after
‘Historicity’: Changing Perspectives 6, CIS, London: Routledge, 2016, xvi + 229
pp.
19. (with Ingrid Hjelm [eds]) Biblical Interpretation Beyond Historicity: Changing
Perspectives 7, CIS, London: Routledge, 2016, xiv + 208 pp.

Articles
1. ‘Notes Toward a Theology of Existence’, Philosophy Today, 6 (2) (1962): 125–32.
2. (with Dorothy Irvin) ‘Some Legal Problems in the Book of Ruth’, VT, 18 (1968):
79–99.
3. ‘A Catholic View on Divorce (Mt 19,9; 1 C 7)’, JES, 6 (1969): 53–67.
4. ‘The Dating of the Megiddo Temples in Strata XV-XIV’, ZDPV, 86 (1970): 38–49.
5. ‘The Settlement of Early Bronze IV-Middle Bronze I in Jordan’, ADAJ (1974):
57–71.
6. ‘Corrections to the Coordinates in Glueck’s Negev Surveys’, ZDPV, 91 (1975):
77–84.
7. (with Dorothy Irvin) ‘The Joseph and Moses Narratives’, in J. H. Hayes and J. M.
Miller (eds), Israelite and Judaean History, 147–212, London: SCM Press, 1977.
8. ‘The Divine Plan of Creation: 1 Cor 11:7 and Gen 2:18–24’, in L. Swidler (ed.),
Woman Priests: A Catholic Commentary on the Vatican Declaration, 209–11, New
York: Paulist, 1977.
9. ‘A New Attempt to Date the Patriarchal Narratives’, JAOS, 98 (1978): 76–84.
10. ‘Historical Notes on “Israel’s Conquest of Palestine: A Peasants’ Rebellion?” ’,
JSOT, 7 (1978): 20–7.
11. ‘The Background of the Patriarchs: A Reply to William Dever and Malcolm Clark’,
JSOT, 9 (1978): 2–43.
12. ‘Palästina in der Frühbronzezeit’, Tübinger Atlas des Vorderen Orients, map B II
11a, Wiesbaden: Dr. Reichert Verlag, 1978.
13. ‘Palästina in der Übergangszeit der Frühbronze/Mittelbronzezeit’, Tübinger Atlas
des Vorderen Orients, map B II 11b, Wiesbaden: Dr. Reichert Verlag, 1978.
14. ‘Conflict Themes in the Jacob Narratives’, Semeia, 15 (1979): 5–26.
 The Publications of Thomas L. Thompson xxv

15. ‘Palästina in der Spätbronzezeit’, Tübinger Atlas des Vorderen Orients, map B II
11d, Wiesbaden: Dr. Reichert Verlag, 1980.
16. ‘Palästina in der Mittelbronzezeit’, Tübinger Atlas des Vorderen Orients, map B II
11c, Wiesbaden: Dr. Reichert Verlag, 1980.
17. ‘History and Tradition: A Response to J.B. Geyer’, JSOT, 15 (1980): 57–61.
18. ‘Sinai und Negev in der Übergangszeit der Frühbronze-Mittelbronzezeit’, Tübinger
Atlas des Vorderen Orients, map B II 10b, Wiesbaden: Dr. Reichert Verlag, 1982.
19. ‘Sinai und Negev in der Spätbronzezeit’, Tübinger Atlas des Vorderen Orients, map
B II 10c, Wiesbaden: Dr. Reichert Verlag, 1982.
20. ‘Sinai und Negev in der Frühbronzezeit’, Tübinger Atlas des Vorderen Orients, map
B II 10e, Wiesbaden: Dr. Reichert Verlag, 1982.
21. ‘Text, Context and Referent in Israelite History’, in D. V. Edelman (ed.), The Fabric
of History: Text, Artifact and Israel’s Past, 65–92, JSOTSup 127, Sheffield: JSOT
Press, 1991.
22. ‘Palestinian Pastoralism and Israel’s Origins’, SJOT, 6 (1) (1992): 1–13.
23. ‘From the Stone Age to Israel’, Proceedings of the Eastern Great Lakes and
Midwest Bible Societies, 11 (1991): 9–32.
24. ‘Martin Noth and the History of Israel’, in S. L. McKenzie and M. P. Graham (eds),
The History of Israel’s Traditions: The Heritage of Martin Noth, 80–91, JSOTSup
182, Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1994.
25. ‘Some Exegetical and Theological Implications of Understanding Exodus as a
Collected Tradition’, in N. P. Lemche and M. Müller (eds), Fra dybet. Festskrift til
John Strange i anledning af 60 års fødselsdagen den 20. juli 1994, 233–42, FBE 5,
Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanums Forlag, 1994.
26. ‘Hvorledes Jahve blev Gud. Exodus 3 og 6 og Pentateukens Centrum’, DTT, 57 (1)
(1994): 1–19.
27. ‘Det gamle Testamente som teologisk disciplin’, DTT, 57 (3) (1994): 177–98.
28. (with Niels Peter Lemche) ‘Did Biran Kill David? The Bible in the Light of
Archaeology’, JSOT, 64 (1994): 3–21.
29. ‘A Neo-Albrightean School in History and Biblical Scholarship’, JBL 114 (4)
(1995): 683–705.
30. ‘Gösta Ahlström’s History of Palestine’, in S. W. Holloway and L. K. Handy (eds),
The Pitcher is Broken: Memorial Essays for Gösta W. Ahlström, 420–34, JSOTSup
190, Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1995.
31. ‘Dissonance and Disconnections: Notes on the BYTDWD and HMLK, HDD
Fragments from Tel Dan’, SJOT, 9 (1995): 236–40.
32. ‘Das alte Testament als theologische Disziplin’, in B. Janowski and N. Lohfink
(eds), Religionsgeschichte Israels oder Theologie des alten Testaments, 157–73,
JBTh 10, Neukirchen–Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1995.
33. ‘How Yahweh Became God: Exodus 3 and 6 and the Heart of the Pentateuch’, JSOT,
68 (1995): 57–74.
34. ‘House of David: An Eponymic Referent to Yahweh as Godfather’, SJOT, 9 (1995):
59–74.
35. ‘Offing the Establishment: DBAT 38 [sic] and the Politics of Radicalism’, BN, 79
(1995): 71–87.
36. ‘The Intellectual Matrix of Early Biblical Narrative: Inclusive Monotheism in
Persian Period Palestine’, in D. V. Edelman (ed.), The Triumph of Elohim: From
Yahwisms to Judaisms, 107–26, CBET 13, Kampen: Kok Pharos, 1995.
xxvi The Publications of Thomas L. Thompson

37. ‘4 Q Testimonia og Bibelens affattelse. En Københavnsk lego-hypotese’, in N.

Hyldahl and T. L. Thompson (eds), Dødehavsteksterne og Bibelen, 112–28, FBE 8,
Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanums Forlag, 1996.
38. ‘ “He is Yahweh; He Does What is Right in his own Eyes”: The Old Testament
as Theological Discipline, II’, in L. Fatum and M. Müller (eds), Tro og Historie:
Festskrift til Niels Hyldahl, 246–63, FBE 7, Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanums
Forlag, 1996.
39. ‘Historiography of Ancient Palestine and Early Jewish Historiography: W. G. Dever
and the Not So New Biblical Archaeology’, in V. Fritz and P. R. Davies (eds), The
Origins of the Ancient Israelite States, 26–43, JSOTSup 228, Sheffield: Sheffield
Academic Press, 1996.
40. ‘Defining History and Ethnicity in the South Levant’, in L. L. Grabbe (ed.), Can
a ‘History of Israel’ Be Written?, 166–87, ESHM 1 / JSOTSup 245, Sheffield:
Sheffield Academic Press, 1997.
41. ‘Historie og teologi i overskrifterne til Davids salmer’, in O. Davidsen (ed.), Den
poetiske litteratur i Gammel og Ny Testamente, 88–102, Collegium Biblicum
Årsskrift, Århus: Collegium Biblicum, 1997.
42. ‘The Background of the Patriarchs: A Reply to William Dever and Malcolm Clark’,
in J. W. Rogerson (ed.), The Pentateuch: A Sheffield Reader, 33–74, The Biblical
Seminar 39, Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1997.
43. ‘4Q Testimonia and Bible Composition: A Copenhagen Lego Hypothesis’, in F. H.
Cryer and T. L. Thompson (eds), Qumran Between the Old and New Testaments,
261–76, CIS, Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1998.
44. ‘Creating the Past: Biblical Narrative as Interpretive Discourse’, CBÅ (1998): 7–23.
45. ‘The Exile in History and Myth: A Response to Hans Barstad’, in L. L. Grabbe (ed.),
Leading Captivity Captive: The Exile as History and Ideology, 101–19, ESHM 2 /
JSOTSup 278, Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1998.
46. ‘Salmernes bogs’enten-eller’ spørgsmål’, in T. Jørgensen and P. K. Westergaard (eds),
Teologien i samfundet. Festskrift til Jens Glebe-Møller, 289–308, Frederiksberg:
Anis, 1998.
47. ‘Kritiske synspunkter på religion – også vor egen. Eller: Hvordan man studerer
islam i Jordan’, Chaos: Dansk-Norsk Tidsskrift for religionshistoriske studier, 30
(1998): 111–30.
48. ‘Hidden Histories and the Problem of Ethnicity in Palestine’, in M. Prior (ed.),
Western Scholarship and the History of Palestine, 23–39, London: Melisende, 1998.
49. ‘Etnicitet og Bibel: Flere “jødedomme” og Det nye Israel’, in N. P. Lemche and H.
Tronier (eds), Etnicitet i Bibelen, 23–42, FBE 9, Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum
Forlag.
50. ‘Yahweh as Godfather’, Biblicon, 1 (1) (1999): 7–17.
51. ‘The Bible in History: How Writers Create a Past’, Religious Studies News (Nov.
1999).
52. ‘Historical and Christian Faith’, in V. P. Long (ed.), Israel’s Past in Recent Research:
Essays on Ancient Israelite Historiography, 354–59, SBTS 7, Winona Lake, IN:
Eisenbrauns, 1999.
53. ‘Historical Notes: The Bible Has No Need of Archaeology’, The Independent,
London 15.2.1999, p. 9.
54. ‘Historiography in the Pentateuch: Twenty-Five Years after “Historicity” ’, SJOT, 13
(2) (1999): 258–83.
 The Publications of Thomas L. Thompson xxvii

55. ‘Historieskrivning i Pentateuken: 25 år efter “Historicity” ’, in G. Hallbäck and

J. Strange (eds), Bibel og historieskrivning, 67–82, FBE 10, Copenhagen: Museum
Tusculanums Forlag, 1999.
56. ‘Eksilet i historien og i historier’, Bibliana 1. årg. Nr. 1 (1999): 19–30.
57. ‘The Search for History in the Bible’, BAR, 26 (2) (2000): 36–7.
58. ‘Tradition and History: The Scholarship of John Van Seters,’ in S. L. McKenzie and
T. Römer (eds), Rethinking the Foundations: Historiography in the Ancient World
and in the Bible. Essays in Honour of John Van Seters, 9–21, BZAW 294, Berlin/
New York: de Gruyter, 2000.
59. ‘Reply from Thompson’, in C. D. Isbell (ed.), God’s Scribes: How the Bible Became
the Bible, 260–2, Warren Center Pennsylvania: Shangri La Publications, 2000.
60. ‘Lester Grabbe and Historiography: An Apologia’, SJOT 14, no. 1 (2000): 140–61.
61. ‘Problems of Sense and Historicity with Palestine’s Inscriptions’, in A. Lemaire and
M. Sæbø (eds), Congress Volume – Oslo 1998, 321–6, Leiden: E. J. Brill, 2000.
62. ‘If David Had Not Climbed the Mount of Olives’, in J. C. Exum (ed.), Virtual
History and the Bible, 42–58, Biblical Interpretation 8/1–2, Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1999.
63. ‘A View from Copenhagen: Israel and the History of Palestine’, Bible and
Interpretation, 3 (2001): 8 pp.
64. ‘The Messiah Epithet in the Bible’, SJOT, 15 (1) (2001): 57–82.
65. ‘Methods and Results: A Review of Two Recent Publications’, SJOT, 15 (2) (2001):
306–25.
66. ‘The Bible and Hellenism: A Response’, in L. L. Grabbe (ed.), Did Moses Speak
Attic? Jewish Historiography and Scripture in the Hellenistic Period, 274–86,
ESHM 3 / JSOTSup 317, Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2001.
67. ‘On Reading the Bible for History’, JBS, 1 (3) (2001), 6 pp.
68. ‘Kongedømme og Guds vrede eller at lære ydmyghed’, in G. Hallbäck and N. P.
Lemche (eds), ‘Tiden’ i bibelsk belysning, 65–100, FBE 11, Copenhagen: Museum
Tusculanum Forlag, 2001.
69. ‘Jerusalem as the City of God’s Kingdom: Common Tropes in the Bible and the
Ancient Near East’, Islamic Studies, 40 (3) (2001): 631–47.
70. ‘Hal nistati’a kitabat tarikh falastin al-qadim?’, Al Karmel, 14 (2) (2001): 27–39.
71. ‘A History of Palestine: The Debate’, The Journal of Palestinian Archaeology, 2
(2002): 18–24.
72. ‘La guerra santa al centro della teologica biblica. “Shalom” e la purificazione di
Gerusalemme’, Studi Storici, 3 (2002): 663–92.
73. ‘Kingship and the Wrath of God, or Teaching Humility’, RB, 109 (2002): 161–96.
74. ‘From the Mouth of Babes, Strength: Psalm 8 and the Book of Isaiah’, SJOT, 16 (2)
(2002): 226–45.
75. ‘Bibelens relevans for the moderne verdenssamfund’, TEOL-information, 25 (2002):
19–23.
76. ‘At sætte det guddommelige i verden’, Bibliana 3. årg. nr. 2 (2002): 45–59.
77. (with Ingrid Hjelm) ‘The Victory Song of Merneptah: Israel and the People of
Palestine’, JSOT, 27 (2002): 3–18.
78. ‘An Introduction: Can a History of Ancient Jerusalem and Palestine Be Written?’,
in T. L. Thompson (ed.), Jerusalem in Ancient History and Tradition, 1–15, CIS,
London: T&T Clark International, 2003.
79. ‘Holy War at the Center of Biblical Theology: Shalom and the Cleansing of
Jerusalem’, in T. L. Thompson (ed.), Jerusalem in Ancient History and Tradition,
223–57, CIS, London: T&T Clark International, 2003.
xxviii The Publications of Thomas L. Thompson

80. ‘The Bible’s Context as a Problem of Knowledge’, CBÅ, 7 (2003): 7–13.

81. ‘An Introduction: Can a History of Ancient Jerusalem and Palestine Be Written?’ [in
Arabic], in T. L. Thompson and S. K. Jayyusi (eds), Al-Quds, Urūshalīm al-’adūr
al-qadīma bīn altūrāh wa al-tārīkh [Al-Quds, The Ancient City of Jerusalem
Between Tradition and History], 23–42, Beirut: Centre for Arab Unity Studies,
2003.
82. ‘Shalom and the Cleansing of Jerusalem’ [in Arabic], in T. L. Thompson and
S. K. Jayyusi (eds), Al-Quds, Urūshalīm al-’adūr al-qadīma bīn altūrāh wa
al-tārīkh [Al-Quds, The Ancient City of Jerusalem Between Tradition and History],
307–29, Beirut: Centre for Arab Unity Studies, 2003.
83. ‘Should We Leave History to the Archaeologists?’ [in Arabic], in K. W. Whitelam,
T. L. Thompson, N. P. Lemche, I. Hjelm and Z. Muna, Al Ìadīd fī tārīkh filasìīn
alqadīmah rīkh filasìīn alqadīmah [New Information about the History of Ancient
Palestine], 47–71, Damascus and Beirut: Cadmus Press, 2004.
84. ‘From the Stone Age to Israel’ [in Arabic], in K. W. Whitelam, T. L. Thompson,
N. P. Lemche, I. Hjelm and Z. Muna, Al Ìadīd fī tārīkh filasìīn alqadīmah rīkh
filasìīn alqadīmah [New Information about the History of Ancient Palestine],
73–102, Damascus and Beirut: Cadmus Press, 2004.
85. (with Ingrid Hjelm) ‘The Victory Song of Merneptah: Israel and the People of
Palestine’ [in Arabic], in K. W. Whitelam, T. L. Thompson, N. P. Lemche, I. Hjelm
and Z. Muna, Al Ìadīd fī tārīkh filasìīn alqadīmah rīkh filasìīn alqadīmah [New
Information about the History of Ancient Palestine], 163–77, Damascus and Beirut:
Cadmus Press, 2004.
86. ‘Is the Bible Historical? The Challenge of “Minimalism” for Biblical Scholars and
Historians’, HLS, 3 (1) (2004): 1–27.
87. ‘Job 29: Biography or Parable?’, in T. L. Thompson and H. Tronier (eds), Frelsens
biografisering, 115–34, FBE 13, Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanums Forlag, 2004.
88. ‘A Problem in Historical Method: Reiterative Narrative as Supersessionist
Historiography’, in M. Liverani and G. Garbini (eds), Recenti tendenze nella
ricostruzione della storia antica d’Israele (Roma, 6–7 marzo 2003) (Rome:
Accademia Nazionale dei Lincei, 2005): 183–96.
89. ‘At skabe bibelske figurer’, Teol-information, 32 (2005): 45–9.
90. ‘The Role of Faith in Historical Research’, SJOT, 19 (1) (2005): 111–34.
91. ‘How the Heroes Have Fallen!’, in M. Müller and T. L. Thompson (eds), Historie
og konstruktion. Festskrift til Niels Peter Lemche i anledning af 60 års fødselsdagen
den 6. september 2005, 374–86, FBE 14, Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum, 2005.
92. ‘Bibliography of Niels Peter Lemche’, in M. Müller and T. L. Thompson (eds),
Historie og konstruktion. Festskrift til Niels Peter Lemche i anledning af 60 års
fødselsdagen den 6. september 2005, 421–38, FBE 14, Copenhagen: Museum
Tusculanum, 2005.
93. ‘ “Minimalism” and the Context of Scripture: Reassessing Methods and Assumptions
– A Review and Reply’, Review of Biblical Literature, 04 (2006).
94. ‘Archaeology and the Bible Revisited: A Review Article’, SJOT, 20 (2) (2006):
286–313.
95. ‘The Comparative Method: Canon and the Interpretive Context’, in T. Engberg-
Pedersen, N. P. Lemche and H. Tronier (eds), Kanon. Bibelens tilblivelse og
normative status. Festskrift til Mogens Müller i anledning af 60 års fødselsdagen
den 25. januar 2006, 212–28, FBE 15, Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum Forlag,
2006.
 The Publications of Thomas L. Thompson xxix

96. ‘Mesha and Questions of Historicity’, SJOT, 21 (2) (2007): 241–60.

97. ‘La arqueologia y la Biblia reconsideradas: Un artículo de reseña’, RIHAO, Tercera
Serie, 14 (2007): 179–216.
98. ‘A Testimony of the Good King: Reading the Mesha Stele’, in L. L. Grabbe (ed.),
The Rise and Fall of the Omri Dynasty, 236–92, ESHM 6 / JSOTSup 421, London:
T&T Clark, 2007.
99. ‘The Politics of Reading the Bible in Israel’, HLS, 7 (1) (2008): 1–15.
100. ‘Imago Dei: A Problem in Pentateuchal Discourse’, SJOT, 23 (2) (2009): 137–52.
101. ‘Clarel, Jonah, and the Whale: A Question Concerning Rachel’s Missing Children’,
Leviathan: A Journal of Melville Studies 12 (2010): 53–65.
102. ‘Reiterative Narratives of Exile and Return: Virtual Memories of Abraham in the
Persian and Hellenistic Periods’, in P. R. Davies and D. V. Edelman (eds), The
Historian and the Bible: Essays in Honour of Lester L. Grabbe, 46–54, LHBOTS
530, London: T&T Clark, 2010.
103. ‘Genesis 4 and the Pentateuch’s Reiterative Discourse: Some Samaritan Themes’, in
J. Zsengellér (ed.), Samaria, Samarians, Samaritans: Studies on Bible, History and
Linguistics, 9–22, Berlin: de Gruyter, 2011.
104. ‘The Bible, Zionism and the Heritage of an Empty Land’, HLS, 10 (1) (2011):
97–108.
105. ‘Memories of Esau and Narrative Reiteration: Themes of Conflict and Reconcili-
ation’, SJOT, 25 (2) (2011): 174–200.
106. ‘Introduction’, in J. Van Seters, Studies in the History, Literature and Religion of
Biblical Israel: Changing Perspectives 1, 1–14, CIS, London: Equinox, 2011.
107. ‘Memories of Return and the Historicity of the “Post-Exilic” Period’, in P. Carstens
and N. P. Lemche (eds), The Reception and Remembrance of Abraham, 103–30,
Perspectives on Hebrew Scriptures and its Contexts, Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias Press,
2011.
108. (with Thomas S. Verenna) ‘Introduction’, in T. L. Thompson and T. S. Verenna (eds),
‘Is This Not the Carpenter?’ The Question of the Historicity of the Figure of Jesus,
1–23, CIS, Sheffield: Equinox, 2012. Also online: also online in: ‘Is This Not the
Carpenter’s Son?’, The Bible and Interpretation (July 6, 2012), [Link].
com/articles/[Link].
109. ‘Psalm 72 and Mark 1:12–13: Mythic Evocation in Narratives of the Good King’,
T. L. Thompson and T. S. Verenna (eds), ‘Is This Not the Carpenter?’ The Question
of the Historicity of the Figure of Jesus, 185–201, CIS, Sheffield: Equinox, 2012.
110. ‘Without Evidence or Method’, in D. Burns and J. W. Rogerson (eds), Far from
Minimal: Celebrating the Work and Influence of Philip R. Davies, 429–58, LHBOTS
484, London: T&T Clark, 2012.
111. ‘An Allegorical Discourse on the “Fear of God”: The Bible’s Contemporary
Theology’, in T. Davidovich (ed.), Plogbillar & svärd: En festskrift till Stig Norin,
Uppsala: Molin & Sorgenfrei, 2012.
112. ‘Response to Diana Edelman’s “Writing a History of Yehud in the Persian Period” ’,
in A. Hunt (ed.), Second Temple Studies IV: Historiography and History, 46–9,
LHBOTS 550, London: T&T Clark, 2012.
113. ‘Palestine’s Pre-Islamic History and Cultural Heritage: A Proposal for Palestinian
High-School Curriculum Revision’, HLS, 12 (2) (2013): 207–33.
114. ‘Your Mother Was a Hittite and Your Father and Amorite: Ethnicity, Judaism and
Palestine’s Cultural Heritage’, SJOT, 27 (1) (2013): 76–95.
xxx The Publications of Thomas L. Thompson

115. ‘What We Do and Do Not Know about Pre-Hellenistic Al-Quds’, in E. Pfoh and
K. W. Whitelam (eds), The Politics of Israel’s Past: The Bible, Archaeology and
Nation-Building, 49–60, SWBAS 2/8, Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press, 2013.
116. ‘The Faithful Remnant and Religious Identity: The Literary Trope of Return – A
Reply to Firas Sawah’, in E. Pfoh and K. W. Whitelam (eds), The Politics of Israel’s
Past: The Bible, Archaeology and Nation-Building, 77–88, SWBAS 2/8, Sheffield:
Sheffield Phoenix Press, 2013.
117. ‘Reflections of a Stranger in the Land (Lev 19:34): Celebrating Temple University’s
Department of Religion’s 50th Anniversary’, Bible and Interpretation (December
12, 2013), [Link]/articles/2013/12/[Link].
118. ‘Why Talk About the Past? The Bible, Epic and Historiography’, The Bible and
Interpretation (March 2013), [Link]/articles/2013/[Link].
119. ‘Politics and the Bible’, HLS, 13 (2) (2014): 223–7.
120. (with Philippe Wajdenbaum) ‘Introduction: Making Room for Japhet’, in T. L.
Thompson and P. Wajdenbaum (eds), The Bible and Hellenism: Greek Influence
on Jewish and Early Christian Literature, 1–15, CIS, Durham: Acumen, 2014.
Also online: The Bible and Interpretation (15 May 2014), [Link]/
articles/2014/[Link].
121. ‘Narrative Reiteration and Comparative Literature: Problems in Defining Depend-
ence’, in T. L. Thompson and P. Wajdenbaum (eds), The Bible and Hellenism: Greek
Influence on Jewish and Early Christian Literature, 102–13, CIS, Durham: Acumen,
2014.
122. ‘Biblical Archaeology: The Hydra of Palestine’s History’, DTT, 78 (2015): 243–60.
123. ‘Sheep without a Shepherd. Genesis’ Discourse on Justice and Reconciliation as
Exile’s raison d’être’, in A. K. de Hemmer Gudme and I. Hjelm (eds), Myths of
Exile: History and Metaphor in the Hebrew Bible, 101–24, CIS, London: Routledge,
2015.
124. ‘Giovanni Garbini and Minimalism’, in Ł. Niesiołowski-Spanò, C. Peri and J. E.
West (eds), Finding Myth and History in the Bible: Scholarship, Scholars and
Errors, 1–14, Sheffield: Equinox, 2016.
125. ‘Ethnicity and the Bible: Multiple Judaisms’, in Ł. Niesiołowski-Spanò, C. Peri and
J. E. West (eds), Finding Myth and History in the Bible: Scholarship, Scholars and
Errors, 223–32, Sheffield: Equinox, 2016.
126. (with Ingrid Hjelm) ‘Introduction’, in I. Hjelm and T. L. Thompson (eds), History,
Archaeology and the Bible Forty Years after ‘Historicity’: Changing Perspectives 6,
1–14, CIS, London: Routledge, 2016.
127. ‘Ethnicity and a Regional History of Palestine’, in I. Hjelm and T. L. Thompson
(eds), History, Archaeology and the Bible Forty Years after ‘Historicity’: Changing
Perspectives 6, 159–73, CIS, London: Routledge, 2016.
128. (with Ingrid Hjelm) ‘Introduction’, in I. Hjelm and T. L. Thompson (eds), Biblical
Interpretation beyond Historicity: Changing Perspectives 7, 1–12, CIS, London:
Routledge, 2016.
129. ‘The Problem of Israel in the History of the South Levant’, in L. L. Grabbe (ed.),
‘Even God Cannot Change the Past’: Reflections on Seventeen Years of the
European Seminar in Historical Methodology, 70–87, LHBOTS 663 / ESHM 11,
London: T&T Clark, 2018.
 The Publications of Thomas L. Thompson xxxi

130. ‘ “Rewritten Bible” or Reiterative Rhetoric: Examples from Yahweh’s Garden’, in

J. Høgenhaven, J. Tang Nielsen and H. Omerzu (eds), Rewriting and Reception in
and of the Bible, 49–63, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2018.

Book Reviews
1. H. Schwager, Schriften der Bibel literaturgeschichtlich geordnet. Band I: Vom
Thronfolgebuch bis zur Priesterschrift (Stuttgart: Calwer Verlag & Munich: Kösel-
Verlag, 1968), CBQ, 31 (1969): 134–5.
2. H. Schmid, Mose: Überlieferung und Geschichte (BZAW 110; Berlin: de Gruyter,
1968), CBQ, 31 (1969): 607f.
3. W. F. Albright, Yahweh and the Gods of Canaan: A Historical Analysis of Two
Contrasting Faiths (London: Athlone Press, 1968), CBQ, 32 (1970): 251f.
4. P. R. Miroschedji, L’époque Pré-Urbaine en Palestine (Paris: Gabalda, 1971),
ZDPV, 90 (1974): 60f.
5. J. Mallet, Tell el-Far’ah (Region de Naplouse): L’installation du Moyen Bronze
antérieure au rempart (Cahiers de la Revue Biblique 14. Paris: J. Gabalda, 1973),
Die Welt des Orients, 8 (2) (1976): 328–9.
6. Ilona Skupinska-Løvset, The Ustinov Collection: The Palestinian Pottery (Oslo:
Oslo Universitetsforlag, 1976), JAOS, 98 (3) (1978): 344.
7. Stig L. Norin, Er spaltete das Meer: die Auszugzüberlieferung in Psalmen und
Kult des alten Israel (Coniectanea Biblica: Old Testament Series 9; Lund: C.W.K.
Gleerup, 1977), JAOS, 100 (1) (1980): 65.
8. John J. Bimson, Redating the Exodus and Conquest (JSOTSup 5; Sheffield: Almond
Press, 1981), JAOS, 100 (1) (1980): 66–7.
9. Frank S. Frick, The City in Ancient Israel (SBL Dissertation Series 36; Missoula:
Scholars Press, 1977), JSOT, 5 (1980): 66–7.
10. Paul Maiberger, Topographische und historische Untersuchungen zum Sinai-
problem: Worauf beruht die Identifizierung des Gebel Musa mit dem Sinai?, Orbis
Biblicus et Orientalis 54, Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht 1984), JAOS, 109 (1)
(1989): 117–18.
11. Hans J. Nissen with Elizabeth Lutzeier and Kenneth J. Northcutt, The Early History
of the Ancient Near East, 9000–2000 B. C. (Chicago: University of Chicago Press,
1988), JR, 70 (1990): 82f.
12. Matthias Köckert, Vatergott und Väterverheissungen: eine Auseinandersetzung mit
Albrecht Alt und seinen Erben (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1988), JBL,
109 (1990): 320–2.
13. Israel Finkelstein, The Archaeology of the Israelite Settlement (Jerusalem: Israel
Exploration Society, 1988), JBL, 109 (1990): 322–4.
14. Niels Peter Lemche, Ancient Israel: A New History of Israelite Society (The Biblical
Seminar; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1988), Bib, 71 (1990): 559–61.
15. Hallvard Hagelia, Numbering the Stars: A Phraseological Analysis of Gen 15
(Coniectanea Biblica: Old Testament Series 39; Lund: C.W.K. Gleerup, 1977),
SJOT, 8 (2) (1994): 311–13.
16. John van Seters, Prologue to History: The Yahwist as Historian in Genesis
(Louisville, KY: Westminster/John Knox Press, 1992), CBQ, 57 (1995): 579–80.
xxxii The Publications of Thomas L. Thompson

17. Hans Barstad, The Myth of the Empty Land: A Study of the History and Archaeology
of Judah during the ‘Exilic’ Period (Oslo: Scandinavian University Press, 1996),
NTT, 101 (1996): 150–1.
18. Gary N. Knoppers, Two Nations under God: The Deuteronomistic History of
Solomon and the Dual Monarchies (Harvard Semitic Monographs 52; 2 vols,
Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1993), JNES, 57 (2) (1998): 141–3.
19. Philip R. Davies, The Origins of Biblical Israel (Library of Hebrew Bible/Old
Testament Studies 485; London: T&T Clark, 2007), SJOT, 22 (2) (2008): 304–8.

Lexicon Articles
1. Biblisches Wörterbuch, ed. H. Haag, Freiburg: Herder, 1972: Abraham, Ächtungs­
texten, Esau, Isaak, Ismael, Jakob, Lea, Mari, Nuzi, Patriarchen, Rakel, Rebekka,
Sara
2. Biblisches Reallexikon, ed. K. Galling, Tübingen: J. C. B. Mohr, 1977: Beth-Sean,
Jerusalem, Megiddo, Samaria, Shechem, Thaanach.
3. Anchor Bible Dictionary, ed. D. N. Freedman, Garden City: Doubleday, 1992:
Historiography: Israelite.
4. Gads Bibelleksikon, ed. G. Hallbäck and H.-J. Lundager Jensen, Copenhagen:
G. E. C. Gads, 1998: Edom, Edomitter, Fønikien, Hyksos, Jemen, Megiddo,
Mesopotamien, Saba, Sabæere, Smed, Tanis, Tyrus, Østjordanlandet.
5. Dictionary of Biblical Interpretation, ed. J. H. Hayes, Nashville: Abingdon Press,
1999: Elliger, Karl, Galling, Kurt.
6. Den Store Danske Encyklopedi: Danmarks Nationalleksikon, 21 vols, Copenhagen:
Gyldendahl, 1994–2003: Moses, Pentateuk.
Part 1

Method
2
 T he C i t y of D av i d a s a P ali mpse st

Margreet L. Steiner

In Jerusalem the south-eastern hill, now called the City of David, contains
the oldest part of the ancient settlement. It is here that the earliest inhab-
itants built their houses and fortifications, worshipped their gods and
buried their dead, from the Early Bronze Age onwards. It is here that the
City of David Archaeological Park attracts thousands of visitors each
month who flock to the place to admire the biblical city and celebrate
their religious and nationalistic inclinations. As the Goldstein family from
France wrote on the park’s website: ‘We visited City of David and it felt
like we were taken back 3000 years’.1
In the Hebrew Bible the phrase ‘City of David’ occurs about 45
times, predominantly in the books 2 Samuel, 1 and 2 Kings and 1 and
2 Chronicles. Most of these texts are connected with King David, who
captured the settlement and went to live there, and with King Solomon
who built the palace and temple in Jerusalem. The other verses concern
kings that ‘were buried with their ancestors in the City of David’. In these
texts, City of David is obviously a reference to the settlement as a whole,
which was confined to the south-eastern hill in the Bronze and most of the
Iron Ages and in the Persian period.
In archaeological research the name was not often used. Early explorers
who tackled the hill, from Charles Warren in 1867 to Kathleen Kenyon
in 1960–67, did not call the area they were excavating the City of David.
Warren published his findings in Underground Jerusalem (1876), Bliss
and Dickie in Excavations at Jerusalem (1898), Macalister and Duncan
in Excavations at the Hill of Ophel (1926), Crowfoot and Fitzgerald in
Excavation in the Tyropoeon Valley (1929), while Kenyon’s excavations
have been reported in the series Excavations in Jerusalem (by Kathleen
Kenyon) 1961–67 (Tushingham 1985; Franken and Steiner 1990; Steiner

1. [Link]
4 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

2001; Prag and Eshel 1995; Prag 2008, 2017). Only Raymond Weill
mentioned the phrase ‘City of David’ in the title of his report, possibly
because he headed a ‘Jewish expedition’, according to the Jewish
Telegraph Agency of 20 November 1923 (Weill 1920/1947).2
It was only after excavations were resumed on the south-eastern hill in
the 1970s that is was called City of David in all publications and public
discourses (Shiloh 1984; Ariel 1990, 2000a, 2000b; de Groot and Ariel
1992; Ariel and de Groot 1996; de Groot and Bernick-Greenberg 2012a,
2012b). Of course, this label is an archaeological interpretation as well
as a financially viable move. Connect an excavation or even a single find
with the (in)famous king, and attention, money, volunteers and tourists
pour in. It is notable that publications of the most recent work on the
site refer to it as the south-eastern hill again, thereby sidestepping the
ideological connotations (Gadot and Uziel 2017).
However, there is more to the City of David than imposing ruins taking
visitors back to the time of King David. Both under and above the ancient
walls so proudly presented are remains that are now invisible, or barely
visible because of neglect. Some walls look ancient but are actually very
recent. Some buildings are imagined, others obliterated. Many remains
are deemed not important enough to be shown in the park, others too
politically charged. There is conflict and dispute over land, money and
interpretation, not immediately discernible. Besides overt triumph there
is hidden oppression. Yes, there is much more to the City of David than
meets the eye.

Visible and to Be Admired

What is visible for tourist and scholars alike is but a small part of what has
been excavated since the second half of the nineteenth century. Walking
from the south end of the hill to the northern tip the visitor can gaze at the
Siloam Pool, the so-called ‘tombs of the Judean kings’, the entrance to
Warren’s Shaft and finally the ‘Royal Quarter’, showing the stepped stone
structure with a series of houses built on top of it, all hugging the slope,
while on the top of the hill King David’s palace is located, next to the small
Persian tower and the large tower and city wall dating from the Hellenistic
period. A Herodian road leads from the Siloam Pool to the Temple Mount.
All impressive constructions, showing glorious Jerusalem, the Jeru-
salem that was the capital of the Judean kingdom, that was restored after
the Exile and again functioned as a capital, this time of the Maccabean
kings, and that eventually became the beautiful city of Roman times. To

2. [Link]
 Steiner The City of David as a Palimpsest 5

the north lies the Temple Mount, once crowned with a temple central to
the Judean and Jewish religion.
Here is tangible what is so eloquently described in the Bible and by
the classical writers: King David took the city through the ‘sinnor’ and
constructed a palace there, Nehemiah rebuilt the walls of Jerusalem, the
Maccabeans restored the ancient kingdom and once again fortified the
town, and King Herod built roads to access his beautiful new temple. This
is what the park is all about.

Visible but Imagined

Some remains, however, though prominently visible and visitable and
constituting the main attraction of the park, do not really exist: the walls of
the palace of David (Mazar 2006, 2009). You can walk over them, you can
admire them, but, quoting a recent president of the USA, ‘What you’re
seeing and what you’re reading is not what’s happening’.
The so-called palace of David is not a palace, it is not even a building,
as many archaeologists have noted (see for instance Finkelstein et al.
2007; Steiner 2009). It consists of a series of walls and some floors, not
belonging together and dating to various periods. However, archaeo-
logical evidence is not what is at stake. Imagination, religion, nationalism
and emotion set the tone here.

Visible but Not Ancient

Some clearly visible remains are not as ancient as they seem to be. Parts
of the stepped stone structure and of the terraces underneath it were
excavated by Macalister and Duncan in 1923–25 and were afterwards
restored and cemented by the then Department of Antiquities. On visual
inspection it seems they have been re-restored recently by the City of
David Archaeological Park organisation. Thus, although ancient remains
once existed at that same spot, what you see now is not ancient, and it is
unclear how accurate the restorations are.

Hardly Visible and Neglected

Walk from the glorified edifices on top of the hill down, down, down,
and you will find the MB II town wall that surrounded the settlement in
the eighteenth century BCE. The place is a dump, with bushes growing
between the stones of the wall and litter all around it, and it has been so
for the last sixty years. This part of the wall was uncovered by Kenyon
6 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

and although it is near the archaeological park, it is not part of it and thus
is not maintained. I have heard many times that it is just a matter of time
before this small piece of land will be added to the park, but so far this
has not happened.
Larger parts of the same wall were excavated by Shiloh further south,
and these are invisible too. To be fair, a more recently excavated MB II
structure has been kept and restored, and attracts many visitors. Located
at the end of Warren’s Shaft and covering the entrance to the spring, two
large towers have been excavated, made of gigantic blocks of stone. They
still stand up to 5 meters high and mark the end of what may have been
a covered procession way leading down from the town to the spring. The
buildings are dated to the MB II period, although new evidence led some
scholars to believe the complex was only built at the end of the ninth
century BCE (Regev et al. 2017).

Hidden from Sight

The earliest inhabitants of Jerusalem lived in the area in the centuries
just before the third millennium BCE, in the Early Bronze I period.
Traces of their presence, such as pottery, have been found in caves and
cavities in bedrock, deep under the remains of later periods (Steiner 2001:
7; Macalister and Duncan 1926: 177; Shiloh 1984: 25). Parker in his
ill-fated excavation found a grave with multiple burials accompanied by
EB I pottery (Vincent 1911: pls. IX, X). In Shiloh’s area E1 a small EB
I building was uncovered (Shiloh 1984: 11–12; de Groot and Bernick-
Greenberg 2012a). Stone benches lined the walls, which led to it being
interpreted as a (possible) shrine.
The pottery found by Kenyon in several caves proved to come from
various regions in Palestine, while only a small part was made from local
clays (Franken 2005: 19–21). This suggests a semi-nomadic population
that roamed the wider area, occasionally visiting the site to bury their dead
and pay homage to the deities that were worshipped in the local sanctuary.
None of this is visible in the park, nor is it mentioned in the park’s leaflet
or on the Time Line on its website.3

Not Visible
What is not visible may be the most interesting part of the area. When
the Babylonians took the city in 586 BCE, they destroyed city walls and
houses in a thorough manner. Wherever archaeologists dug on the slope of

3. [Link]
 Steiner The City of David as a Palimpsest 7

the south-eastern hill, they encountered thick layers of destruction rubble.

The houses were completely filled in with stones from their walls and
with broken objects that had fallen from upper stories and houses above.
This was the utmost and final destruction that ended the occupation of the
eastern slope of the hill.
The destruction of Jerusalem at the end of the Iron Age plays a major
role in the history of the city and gave rise to some of the most beautiful
verses of the Hebrew Bible, such as Psalm 137. However, none of this is
visible in the archaeological park.
Of course, excavators tend to clean out the rubble in a building and then
try to reconstruct the building as it was originally used, if only on paper.
Nevertheless, when telling the history of this small part of Jerusalem, it
seems contradictory to neglect the event that shaped the identity of the
Judahite people and plays such a vital role in Jewish thought and religion.

Invisible but oh so Present: The War on Jerusalem

The City of David Archaeological Park was established and developed
by the Ir David Foundation, an organisation ‘committed to continuing
King David’s legacy as well as revealing and connecting people to
Ancient Jerusalem’s glorious past’, according to its own website.4 All
recent excavations in the City of David, such as those of David’s Palace,
the Givati Parking Lot, the Spring House and the Herodian Road, are
sponsored by the Foundation.
These excavations, the website makes clear, are part of a plan to develop
and extend the area for ‘tourism development, educational programming
and residential revitalization’. Harmless as these words sound, the plan
includes the appropriation of Palestinian land and the relocation of its
Palestin­ian inhabitants; the building of the Kedem Center, which is so large
it will transform the city’s skyline and is meant to house a visitor’s centre
and a museum; the development of a cable car linking the area with West
Jerusalem; and the construction of parking areas and a synagogue in the
neighbourhood of Silwan.5
All this to ‘continue King David’s legacy’, focussing on the remains of
a (supposedly grandiose) Israelite and Jewish past, while the Palestinian
population of East Jerusalem and Silwan is not considered to have any

4. [Link]
5. For in-depth information, see the websites of Wadi Hilweh Alternative Infor�
-
mation Center: [Link] and Emek Shaveh: https://
[Link]/en/; as well as Meiron Rappoport’s report Shady Dealings in Silwan:
[Link]
8 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

connection with the site. Resistance to this colonial enterprise is put up by

Palestinian and Israeli organisations, such as the Wadi Hilweh Alternative
Information Center and Emek Shaveh, but nothing of this ‘war’ is visible
in the Archaeological Park.

A Palimpsest

The Merriam-Webster Dictionary gives a down-to-earth definition of the

term palimpsest: ‘Something having usually diverse layers or aspects
apparent beneath the surface’. In the City of David the term refers to the
multi-layered character of the remains at the site and the nature of their
cultural transmission. What is visible as well as what is invisible gives
testament to the many cultures that inhabit(ed) the south-eastern hill and
to the wars that were and are being fought over the city, both materially
and ideologically. For those with eyes to see, there is much to discover.

Bibliography
Ariel, D. T., ed. (1990), Excavations at the City of David 1978–1985, Vol. II. Imported
Stamped Amphora Handles, Coins, Worked Bone and Ivory, and Glass, Jerusalem: The
Institute of Archaeology, The Hebrew University of Jerusalem.
Ariel, D. T., ed. (2000a), Excavations in the City of David 1978–1985 Directed by Yigal
Shiloh, Vol. V: Extramural Areas, Jerusalem: The Institute of Archaeology, The Hebrew
University of Jerusalem.
Ariel, D. T., ed. (2000b), Excavations in the City of David 1978–1985 Directed by Yigal
Shiloh, Vol. VI: Inscriptions, Jerusalem: The Institute of Archaeology, The Hebrew
University of Jerusalem.
Ariel, D. T. and A. de Groot (1996), Excavations at the City of David 1978–1985, Vol.
IV: Various Report, Jerusalem: The Institute of Archaeology, The Hebrew University
of Jerusalem.
Bliss, F. J. and A. C. Dickie (1898), Excavations at Jerusalem 1894–1897, London:
Committee of the Palestine Exploration Fund.
Crowfoot, J. W. and G. M. Fitzgerald (1929), Excavations in the Tyropoeon Valley 1927,
London: Annual of the Palestine Exploration Fund.
Finkelstein, I., L. Singer-Avitz, D. Ussishkin and Z. Herzog (2007), ‘Has King David’s
Palace in Jerusalem been found?’, TA, 34 (2): 142–64.
Franken, H. J. (2005), A History of Potters and Pottery in Ancient Jerusalem: Excavations
by K. M. Kenyon in Jerusalem 1961–1967, London: Equinox.
Franken, H. J. and M. L. Steiner (1990), Excavations in Jerusalem 1961–1967, Vol. II: The
Iron Age Extramural Quarter on the South-east Hill, Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Gadot, Y. and J. Uziel (2017), ‘The Monumentality of Iron Age Jerusalem Prior to the 8th
Century BCE’, TA, 44: 123–40.
de Groot, A. and D. T. Ariel, eds. (1992), Excavations at the City of David 1978–1985,
Vol. III: Stratigraphical, Environmental, and Other Reports, Jerusalem: The Institute
of Archaeology, The Hebrew University of Jerusalem.
 Steiner The City of David as a Palimpsest 9

de Groot. A. and H. Bernick-Greenberg (2012a), Excavations at the City of David

1978–1985 Directed by Yigal Shiloh, Vol. VIIA: Area E: Stratigraphy and Architecture,
Jerusalem: The Institute of Archaeology, The Hebrew University of Jerusalem.
de Groot, A. and H. Bernick-Greenberg (2012b), Excavations at the City of David
1978–1985 Directed by Yigal Shiloh, Vol. VIIB: Area E: The Finds, Jerusalem: The
Institute of Archaeology, The Hebrew University of Jerusalem.
Macalister, R. A. S. and J. Garrow Duncan (1926), Excavations on the Hill of Ophel,
Jerusalem, 1923–1925, London: Palestine Exploration Fund Annual.
Mazar E. (2006), ‘Did I Find King David’s Palace?’, BAR, 32: 16−27, 70.
Mazar, E. (2009), The Palace of King David: Excavations at the Summit of the City of
David. Preliminary Report of Seasons 2005–2007, Jerusalem and New York: Shoham
Academic Research and Publication.
Prag, K. (2008), Excavations by K. M. Kenyon in Jerusalem 1961–1967, Vol. V:
Discoveries in Hellenistic to Ottoman Jerusalem Centenary volume: Kathleen M.
Kenyon 1906–1978, Oxford: Council for British Research in the Levant and Oxbow
Books.
Prag, K. (2017), Excavations by K. M. Kenyon in Jerusalem 1961–1967, Vol. VI: Sites on
the Edge of the Ophel, Oxford: Council for British Research in the Levant and Oxbow
Books.
Prag, K. and I. Eshel, eds. (1995), Excavations by K. M. Kenyon in Jerusalem 1961–1967,
Vol. VI: The Iron Age Cave Deposits on the South-East Hill and Isolated Burials and
Cemeteries Elsewhere, Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Regev, J., J. Uziel, N. Szanton and E. Boaretto (2017), ‘Absolute Dating of the Gihon
Spring Fortifications, Jerusalem’, Radiocarbon, 59 (4): 1–23.
Shiloh, Y. (1984), ‘Excavations at the City of David I, 1978–1982’, Interim report of the
First Five Seasons, Jerusalem: The Institute of Archaeology, The Hebrew University
of Jerusalem.
Steiner, M. L. (2001), Excavations in Jerusalem by K. M. Kenyon 1961–67, Vol. III: The
Settlement in the Bronze and Iron Ages, London: Sheffield Academic Press.
Steiner, M. L. (2009), ‘The “Palace of David” Reconsidered in the Light of Earlier
Excavations’, Bible and Interpretation, [Link]
[Link].
Tushingham, A. D. (1985), Excavations in Jerusalem 1961–1967, Vol. I, Toronto: Royal
Ontario Museum.
Vincent, L.-H. (1911), Jerusalem sous Terre – Les recentes fouilles d’Ophel, London:
Horace Cox.
Warren, Ch. E. (1876), Underground Jerusalem: An Account of Some of the Principal
Difficulties Encountered in Its Exploration and the Results Obtained. With a Narrative
of an Expedition through the Jordan Valley and a Visit to the Samaritans, London: R.
Bentley & Son.
Weill, R. (1920/1947), La Cité de David: Compte-rendu des Fouilles à Jérusalem sur la
Site de la Ville Primitive, Paris: Geuthner.
 L i vi n g i n t h e P ast ?
K eep i n g U p -T o -D ate
i n A n ci en t N ea r E a s t e r n S t udi e s

Raz Kletter

The Information Overload

Scholars agree that keeping up with the literature is crucial (Pontis et al.
2017: 23; Tenopir et al. 2009: 18–21; 2011: 11–12) – in some fields, such
as medical care, it can be a matter of life or death (Alper et al. 2004).
Studies have found a correlation between reading more and academic
success (Tenopir, Mays and Wu 2011: 7; Tenopir, Volentine and King
2012: 132), but reading is a demanding task.
An estimated 2.5 million scientific articles are now published every
year in c. 34,500 journals (Ware and Mabe 2015: 6, 27; Plume and van
Weijen 2014). The explosion of data preceded the digital age (Bush
1964; Edmunds and Morris 2000: 20; Blair 2010).1 Formerly, the library
was the domain for keeping up with the literature. Today it is the web,
and we create private libraries on our PCs (Dalton and Charnigo 2004;
Tenopir et al. 2009: 18; Pontis et al. 2017: 28).2 Yet while our ability to
locate bibliographic items has improved, our reading capacity remains
limited. Epidemiologists would need 627.5 hours to read the 8,265 articles

1. Some doubt that there is an information overload; but it exists (Tindale 1999;
Pijpers 2010: 20–5). After being criticized once for not reading a nineteenth-century
book, which – in the eyes of the critic – was a ‘must’, I tried to explain that reading
recent literature is a more pressing task (cf. Tenopir et al. 2009: 21–2). Reading
nineteenth-century scientific literature is a luxury – except for scholars of that period.
2. In a large recent survey, 93.5% of the scholars reported interacting with the
library electronically and only 1.7% reading in it physically (Tenopir, Volentine and
King 2012: 133). For keeping up to date with literature in the ancient Near East, see
Crown (1974).
 Kletter Living in the Past? 11

published in 341 relevant journals in just one month (June 2002) – or even
6,000 articles per day if a broader frame is considered (Alper et al. 2004;
Ford 2010). Complaints about the burden are common:

Trying to stay up to date with the literature is tremendously difficult… My

job is to not only do research but also to teach, obtain funding, do profes-
sional service including peer review, give talks, attend committee meetings,
and more.

I find that keeping up with the literature always comes with a trade-off: Do
I spend more time on my research projects, or do I read the latest papers?
(quotes from Paine 2016)

The first complaint seems typical of established scholars; but suppose

that professors are freed of all other duties, and even that family, friends,
and vacations are sacrificed on the altar of science – would it solve the
problem? Nobody can read ‘everything’. The issue is not reading ‘every-
thing’, but finding and reading what is important (Edmunds and Morris
2000: 22; Pontis et al. 2017: 22–3).
The literature (if you have the time to read it) does not lack advice as to
how to cope with information overload (Lively 1996; Edmunds and Morris
2000; Barr 2006; Cullis and Webster 2010; Haapoja 2013; Landhius 2016;
Paine 2016). Many studies (often by librarians) define and discuss the
information requirements and seeking behaviors of scholars (Ellis 1993;
Wilson 1996; Meho and Tibbo 2003; Dalton and Charnigo 2004: 403;
Palmer, Teffeau and Pirmann 2009; Pontis et al. 2017), including those
in the humanities and social sciences (Stone 1982; Benardou et al. 2010).
Students perhaps roam freely through the literature, but on the path to
becoming an established professional writing receives preference over
reading. Reading narrows: one leafs through many items, looking for
relevant bits, trying to ‘assess and exploit content with as little actual
reading as possible’ (Renear and Palmer 2009: 829). Publishers’ logs
indicate that users are ‘bouncing, flicking, or skittering: they move
rapidly along the digital surface’, performing ‘lite’ reading (Nicholas and
Clark 2012: 55–6). We ‘skim’ and ‘monitor’ and ‘scan’ tables of content,
abstracts, reviews, publishers’ alerts, etc. (Runnels 1994; Dalton and
Charnigo 2004; Palmer, Teffeau and Pirmann 2009; Nicholas and Clark
2012; Morgan and Winters 2015).
Scientists have practiced ‘lite’ reading since long before the digital age,
although some worry that it erodes ‘deep’ reading (Nicholas and Clark
2012). It is likely that ‘deep’ reading is not reflected in publishers’ logs,
because it is done separately. ‘Lite’ reading is a necessary, unavoidable
12 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

part of keeping up with the literature. The issue is not ‘lite’ reading per
se, but the balance between ‘lite’ and ‘deep’ reading. Due to the ‘publish
or perish’ reality and the difficulty of assessing quality (as opposed to
quantity), scholars might reduce ‘deep’ reading in order to increase the
quantity of publications – at the expense of quality. ‘Lite’ readers produce
‘lite’ papers. There are no easy remedies.
Surveys from the US suggest that scholars now read more articles
than ever before – numbers grew from 150 articles per year in 1977 to
280 in 2005. Yet the time spent on each article decreased from c. 47 to
31 minutes (Renear and Palmer 2009: 829; Tenopir et al. 2009: 12; 2011:
7; Davis 2014).3 This despite the average length of US scientific articles
increasing by 85% from 1975 to 2007 (Tenopir, Mays and Wu 2011: 6).
Recent surveys from England indicate that, on average, an academic staff
member reads for 37 hours per month (18 hours dedicated to articles, 12
to books and 7 to other publications). This equates to 448 hours every
year, that is, 56 working days (Tenopir, Volentine and King 2012: 132).
Adding the considerable time spent on finding, downloading, and sorting,
an average staff member spends an impressive 600 hours per year keeping
up with the literature, or 76 working days (Tenopir, Volentine and King
2012: 134).
We can now answer, perhaps, the second complaint (cited above): both
‘lite’ and ‘deep’ reading are required, in different proportions. A research
project requires more ‘deep reading’ than just keeping up with the liter-
ature. Finding a correct balance between ‘lite’ and ‘deep’ reading is one
key to integrity in scholarly life.
A quote in Paine (2016) claims that ‘it is of no use going through a
bunch of papers if you are unable to remember what you read in them’. Yet
scholars forget vast amount of data when moving from a completed study
to a new one. One does not have to remember every detail. Remembering
the author’s name and the subject, and sorting the file so that it can be
retrieved by subject/period (etc.), would enable re-finding it when needed.
Some suggest that the transition to the digital world in History has
been slower than in other disciplines, because of the importance of
primary sources and books (Dalton and Charnigo 2004; Holden 2016).
Holden (2016: 4) suggests that serendipity – ‘stumbling’ by chance on
useful information, for example, by looking in surrounding shelves in a

3. In a large survey from 2008, scholars reported citing one article for every 24
read (Tenopir, Mays and Wu 2011: 13). There are significant differences between
disciplines. For example, in 2005 the average reading of a medical faculty was
414 articles per year, but ‘only’ 233 in social sciences (Tenopir et al. 2009: 12–13;
Tenopir, Mays and Wu 2011: 6).
 Kletter Living in the Past? 13

library – is a peculiar habit of historians. However, this practice is neither

unique to historians, nor lost in the digital world (Solomon and Bronstein
2016). Holden suggests that:

Information seeking behaviours of classical scholars will vary vastly from

that of Cold War scholars where born-digital and digital archives provide
abundant resources. (Holden 2016: 8)

Yet digitisation of primary sources (e.g., the Dead Sea Scrolls) affects
all periods. Notice that in Holden’s (2016) own paper, only one out of
25 bibliographic items lacks a digital link. ‘Nolens volens, we are all
“DH-ers”, Digital Humanists’ (Clivaz and Gregory 2014: 8).4
Information seeking by archaeologists has rarely been discussed. The
studies that do exist are small in scope or not quantitative (e.g., Lönnqvist
2007; Huvila 2008, 2014). Other studies treat specific aspects, such as the
use of archives, information practices of excavators or improving online
resources (e.g., Borchardt 2009; Sufian 2009; Olsson 2016; Power et al.
2017). Much attention is given to digitization of archaeological materials
(e.g., Vlachidis and Tudhope 2015; Averett, Gordon and Counts 2016; for
biblical studies see Clivaz and Gregory 2014).
In tandem with the explosion of data/literature, disciplines (cf. Menken
and Keestra 2015: 27–8) have been divided into ever smaller segments.
A hundred years ago one scholar could ‘cover’ the Archaeology of the
Levant as a whole. Fifty years ago, even for a small area like Palestine/
Israel, there were Prehistorian, ‘Biblical’ (Bronze-Iron), Classical, and
a few ‘Post-Classical’ archaeologists. Today the Early Bronze Age is
drifting away from the Iron Age; although one can still find a rare scholar
that deals with both, this can be at the expense of periods in between, or
else there is a focus on specific aspects within periods (figurines, archi-
tecture, pottery, etc.).

Gaps of Updating

We are hopefully fluent in the literature of our discipline, or rather, the

limited segments of it that form our expertise. Some news reaches us
fast via web-based networks and media. Newsletters and journals carry
preliminary publications and articles, and these come to our knowledge
fairly quickly. For example, the journal Excavations and Surveys in Israel
(ESI) allows us to ‘cover’ almost all the new excavations carried out in

4. Holden (2016) reports little change in historians’ information habits in recent

years (but see Blevins 2016).
14 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

Israel, though there can be a hiatus of a year or two between excavation

and publication of reports (more in the case of large excavations). Social
media generates ‘breaking news’, but not necessarily important news, or
all the important news. We use conferences, emails, publishers’ alerts,
database searches – and a lot of reading. This takes time, so even in our
own discipline we lag behind ‘real time’, although perhaps not much
(especially concerning ‘dramatic’ discoveries).
Sorting out ‘important’ literature is a delicate art. It is hard to define
‘important’ (one’s garbage is another’s treasure). We have powerful
searching tools, but the immense scope of the literature is challenging.5
One cannot be certain about the quality of an article without reading it.
When it comes to ‘news’ or theories from other disciplines, the gaps
are wider. In theory, we may join the social media networks of another
discipline and start reading a few of its leading journals. Yet if we are
unfamiliar with the other discipline – its history, theories and methods
– we cannot judge if an article is important or just aspires to be so. If
keeping up with the literature of one discipline is a burden, adding another
discipline means doubling that burden.
The discourse on interdisciplinarity (for definitions see Klein 2010;
Menken and Keestra 2015: 31) assumes that one can feel at home in more
than one discipline (e.g., Wilson 1996: 196; Ivakhiv 2004). Yet studies on
the information-seeking requirements of interdisciplinary scholars suggest
that they are particularly ‘plagued by problems’ (Bates 1996: 157). Such
studies analyze the scatter of literature used from each discipline, and
advise scholars and librarians (Bates 1996; White 1996; Spanner 2001;
Palmer et al. 2002; Jamali and Nicholas 2010; Lyall 2011). However, new
‘interdisciplinary’ disciplines tend at some point to become established
disciplines. While it is not unusual to find interdisciplinary undergraduate
students (e.g., in the US, undergraduate archaeology is subsumed within
anthropology), higher up the roads bifurcate. Aspiring to be interdisci�-
plinary also means adding to the burden.

5. Suppose that one comes up with the (absurd) idea that 2 Samuel 6 shows three
different arks of God. To check if this idea is ‘new’, and find relevant literature, both
specific and general searches are necessary. A search of ‘three arks in 2 Samuel 6’
might bring zero relevant results, or thousands of irrelevant results, depending on the
search engines and their databases (Google Scholar, PubMed, [Link], etc.),
search options (e.g., full text or titles), and terms (e.g., II Samuel, 2 Sam. – performing
various searches maintains serendipity). In Google Chrome this search proudly
yielded 142,000 results in 0.50 seconds, which included everything from the ‘Raiders
of the Lost Ark’ to ‘Piglets for sale Kent’. A search in Helsinki University Library
resources (books) yielded zero results.
 Kletter Living in the Past? 15

The best solution to this situation is cooperation with scholars from

other disciplines (Wilson 1996; Landhuis 2016; Green et al. 2017). It
should be meaningful cooperation, not merely adding together sections in
articles (or the recent habit of writing the names of entire teams on articles
in the humanities, Plume and van Weijen 2014). Until recently, at least,
scholars in the humanities tended to work alone (Wilson 1996), drawing
on models from other disciplines (Stone 1982; Benardou et al. 2010: 20).
While quantitative data is missing, the following examples suggest that
gaps of 20–30 years in ‘adapting’ new theories and methods from another
discipline are not unusual:

1. Ethnicity. Anthropologist Fredrik Barth (1969) and sociologists like

Anthony Smith (1981) turned the common consensus on ethnicity
upside-down, leading to the near abandonment of ‘primordial’
definitions of ethnicity in favor of those that stress feelings and
awareness. In Biblical Studies and Archaeology of the Southern
Levant, however, this was first noticed twenty-three years later, by
Skjeggestad (1992). Wishing to preserve an early Iron Age ‘ethnic
Israel’, some scholars still hold pre-Barthian, primordial views,
even if they cite Barth (Kletter 2014).
2. Nationalism and Nations. Since the 1960s Ernest Gellner (1983)
and others (Smith 1971, 1986) have shown that nationalism and
nations are a recent phenomenon. This knowledge only reached
archaeologists of the Southern Levant in the 1990s, but some
scholars continue using ‘nations’ as if their existence in ancient
periods is a natural given (Kletter 2006: 573 n. 5).
3. The ‘Neo-Evolutionary Model’. Scholars introduced this model to
anthropology in the 1960s–70s (Fried 1967; Service 1962, 1975;
Claessen and Skalník 1978). According to this model societies
climb a linear ladder of evolution/complexity from bands to tribes,
chiefdoms and states. Adapted for biblical studies, archaeology,
history – and various other fields of study – this model became
widely used. Yet anthropologists could not find stable definitions
for ‘tribe’, ‘chiefdom’ or ‘state’. They modified the model time and
again, but reality refused to conform: the assumed ‘steps’ slotted
together a wide variety of societies that had little in common with
each other. Other societies (‘tribal kingdoms’) crossed the ladder
from bottom to top. By the late 1980s it became clear that this
model was popular only because it was easy to use: it allowed
finding whatever one wanted to find (Yoffee 1993). Even Claessen
16 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

(2000) ‘repented’ and criticised sharply the simplistic uses of the

original model. Still, in biblical studies and archaeology, scholars
continue using this model. Some use it to show that Saul funded a
‘chiefdom’ and David a ‘state’, while others prove that David was
a ‘chief’ and Omri a ‘statesman’. Scholars also abused the model,
replacing aspects of it with imaginary creations like ‘full-blown
states’ in order to ‘prove’ their pre-conceptions (Kletter 2004:
16–28).

Probably for every successful or influential ‘adoption’ from one disci-

pline to another there are many that fail. Failures usually make no ‘buzz’,
leaving few traces in the literature. An example concerns the ‘riverine’ or
‘upstream–downstream’ model developed by Bronson (1977) for areas in
Asia where human occupation and transportation (before airplanes) were
limited to narrow river gorges divided by steep, high mountains. Bronson
warned that this model would not be applicable to other geographical
areas. Nevertheless, almost 25 years later, Stager (2001) imported this
model to Ashkelon under the name ‘Port Power model’ (see also Schloen
2009: 7, 43–4, 449). The model is inapplicable to Palestine: some ‘rivers’
are dry for most of year and even in winter access by boat is limited to
a short distance inland. There are no steep mountain ranges that limit
passage in any direction. Agriculture is not limited to river valleys (add to
this that Ashkelon is located far from any river) (Kletter 2010).
Twenty- or thirty-years gaps in keeping up with the literature can occur
even within the same discipline, especially when it comes to complex
theories/methods in areas or sub-disciplines with limited contacts. For
example, ‘New Archaeology’ caused a revolution in 1960s’ USA and
England. It took 20 years for it to reach the Levant (Dever 1981;
Bunimovitz 2000: 28–32), where its influence remained limited. Another
example is the Wheeler-Kenyon method of excavation, invented in 1920s’
India. It was first employed in Palestine in 1938, and by British archae-
ologists in 1950s’ Jordan. Awareness of it grew in the 1960s, thanks to
debates between British and American excavators (the latter were using
the ‘Locus to Stratum’ method). Following this debate, Aharoni (1973)
wrote a polemic against the Wheeler-Kenyon method, claiming that there
existed an equal or even superior ‘Israeli method of excavation’. This
myth persisted for a long time; the replacement of the Locus to Stratum
method by the Wheeler-Kenyon method was presented as an amalga-
mation of two equal methods: the Israeli and the Wheeler-Kenyon ones
(Kletter 2015).
 Kletter Living in the Past? 17

One reason for these gaps is that it usually takes time for a new theory
to make an impact in its original discipline. A discourse must be formed
about it, as followers carry the message forward and try to win over the
unconvinced. Several ‘rounds’ of publications may be necessary, forming
ever-widening ripples. It is only at this point that signals can be easily
noticed in other disciplines.
Quantitative studies are lacking, so it is difficult to say if the above-
mentioned examples are typical. Examples of gaps of 20–30 years are
still related to the pre-digital world. Would such gaps disappear in the
faster digital world, where the pace of publication is accelerated and in
some fields articles more than a couple of years old are considered ancient
(Pontis et al. 2017: 28)? In the humanities paradigms may live side by
side and articles maintain their relevance for longer. If the gaps discussed
above indicate inherent limitations in the human ability to read, one
doubts that they can be solved by digital tools.
In sum, when a family member tells you next time that ‘you live in the
past’, she/he may be right. In terms of keeping up with the literature, we
all live in the past.

Acknowledgment

It is an honor to be invited to contribute to this book. I wish to warmly

thank Łukasz Niesiołowski-Spanò and Emanuel Pfoh for their assistance
and for the invitation to participate in this volume. I have benefitted from
comments on a lecture given at the Annual Meeting of the Centre of excel-
lence ANEE of Helsinki University in October 2018.

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 W h at P eop l e W a n t to B e li e ve :
O r F i gh t i n g a g a i n s t ‘C ult ur al M e mory ’

Niels Peter Lemche

In his address at the celebrations marking 400 years of the University of

Copenhagen in 1879, the vice-chancellor demanded from the members
of the Theological Faculty the same scholarly critical methods that were
common to all faculties – apart from theology, or so it seemed. The dean
of the Theological Faculty, who of course was present, became so upset
with the chancellor’s attack on theology that he threatened to withdraw the
faculty from the university and establish an independent school. Happily
his threat did not materialize and the faculty still has its place among the
other faculties of the university (the story can be found in Müller 2013:
3). But of course the dean was right. It was impossible to demand that the
same scholarly standards be used in theology as in, for example, medicine
or natural science. It was not that the dean was defending scholarship as
such – he was not – but he knew that theological scholarship had to accom-
modate the demands of its public, the faithful members of the Church of
Denmark. In the theology of his day, scholarly criteria were very different
from the ones used elsewhere in academia. It was not so much the subject
itself that enforced the methods to be employed by theological scholars,
but the expectations of the public.
It goes without saying that at that time the Theological Faculty at the
University of Copenhagen was not exactly among the frontrunners of
scholarly progression; it was basically a very conservative theological
establishment with a view on scripture almost bordering on fundamen-
talism. Of course it was still accused by the leader of the Inner Mission,
Wilhelm Beck, of destroying the word of God with critical studies of the
texts of the Old and New Testament. ‘On your knees in front of the Bible,
professors’ he shouted from the pulpit, but he was wrong: the professors
were not kneeling in front of the Bible, they were already lying prostrate
 Lemche What People Want to Believe 23

in front of it.1 Wilhelm Beck, however, understood very well that his
appeal to the professors would find a public, not at the university but
among his own followers. These were people who were not the least inter-
ested in critical scholarship; on the contrary, they instinctively reacted
against anything that could be interpreted as a threat to their accepted
beliefs and ideas.

Conservative Scholarship – Critical Scholarship

After almost 150 years of intensive critical scholarship, we have to accept

that the negative view of critical biblical studies has not really changed
among traditionally minded spectators. It is as if the hostile reaction to
biblical criticism only intensifies rather than diminishes whenever criti-
cism of the historicity of biblical events and personalities attracts attention
from the public. It is also obvious that it is a common praxis in certain
parts of biblical studies to appeal to this general hostility to critical schol-
arship through attacks on critical scholars, such as we witnessed during
the so-called minimalist–maximalist controversy some twenty to fifteen
years ago, even if none of the parties involved in that discussion would
accept being counted among the most conservative propagators of biblical
truth.
In this connection we may distinguish between different reactions
to critical scholarship. We have, for example, an almost totally isolated
discourse among the most conservative elements of biblical scholarship,
between scholars who will accept nothing that is in disaccord with the
words of the Bible itself. It is not really worth giving such discourse
much attention, although the personal experience of this writer says that
it is definitely possible to entertain an interesting and rewarding dialogue
about biblical theology as long as historical questions are left out of the

1. The faculty was not involved in a scandal of the kind that hit the Scottish Old
Testament scholar W. Robertson Smith, whose career was cut short because of his
too liberal ideas and his support of Wellhausen, whose Prolegomena he translated
into English. Yet a similar fate hit the well-known Danish biblical scholar Frantz
Buhl, who as a lecturer in Copenhagen took up a position as professor in Leipzig.
When Buhl returned to Copenhagen, he was not admitted to the Faculty of Theology
but instead became professor of Semitic Philology. Here he could do less harm, or at
least this seemed to be the reason for his rejection (on this, Lindhardt 1970). Buhl is
generally regarded as the scholar who introduced historical-critical methodology to
the study of the Old Testament in Denmark. In New Testament studies, it took another
generation before the same level of methodology became generally accepted.
24 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

conversation.2 The attitude of scholars like Kenneth A. Kitchen to critical

scholarship says everything: Kitchen has never been interested in any
discussion with the critical part of scholarship but has often expressed his
absolute contempt of his opponents. From his first book on biblical history
(1966) to his last one (2003), he has made it abundantly clear that we have
nothing to learn from critical analyses of biblical texts, and this he does
in a fashion that was claimed by the late James Barr (1977: 130–1) to be
a hundred percent fundamentalist.
Kitchen has never tried to endear himself to critical biblical schol-
arship. Whatever you think of his attitude, he never falters in his contempt
for critical analysis. Accordingly, he is not a problem to critical scholars:
they know where to find him. Another trend in conservative scholarship
is a much more serious problem to critical scholarship. This is a fairly
recent type of conservative scholarship that tries to present itself as an
alternative to critical scholarship by using the same kind of language as
critical scholars, thereby pretending to be critical scholars. Scholars of
this category present themselves as critical alternatives to mainstream
historical-critical scholars by employing a strange combination of fake
arguments and methodological refinement in order to persuade the general
public to believe that they have a legitimate scholarly case. Any critical
student of their methodology would have to dismiss their arguments as
based on an illegitimate reasoning, flawed logic and twisted presenta-
tions of facts. Several years ago I dealt extensively with this trend (2005),
which among other things had resulted in a major ‘history’ of Biblical
Israel, and several seemingly critical discussions with accepted method-
ology and its advocates (Provan, Long and Longman III 2003).3
It is obvious that this group of conservative biblical scholars are
presenting themselves as an alternative to critical scholarship at large.
Their position is, however, not really far away from that of Kitchen and
his evangelical supporters. They only differ from Kitchen in that they
seemingly accept the presence of critical scholarship in order to present
the general public with two alternative scholarly positions to choose
between – but it is only a screen. In fact their position is more or less
the same as those of the evangelical scholars of the category of Kitchen.

2. In this way it has been possible to entertain a fruitful theological conversation

with members of staff of the Danish Bible Institute (Dansk Bibelinstitut). It is my
experience that a meaningful discussion will always have to begin where contacts are
to be found. Matters of dispute will pop up soon enough.
3. This writer wrote a review of the first edition (2003b). Studies within this
category include Long, Baker and Wenham (2002) reviewed by this writer (2003a)
and Kofoed (2005); cf. also my discussion (2011).
 Lemche What People Want to Believe 25

It would therefore be correct to dismiss their position as false: evangelical

endeavours masquerading as critical scholarship.
Such scholars can, or could until recently, rely on the cultural memory
of ordinary people brought up with Bible history from Sunday schools
and primary school in religious communities. Their viewpoint is based
on the messages presented to them by the lay preachers visiting their
home towns – though nowadays more likely from preachers on religious
television channels or even on the internet. One could say that they have
been brainwashed since early childhood. This is something conservative
scholars have always been well aware of, and no matter what arguments
critical scholars put forward, the conservative mind is extremely difficult
to penetrate.
A full-scale attack on traditional biblical scholarship based on the
memory, i.e. indoctrination of evangelical groups, was published some
ten years ago by Hector Avalos (2007). Avalos failed to make much of an
impression, at least among biblical scholars, simply because he overstated
his case and presented an almost total rejection of biblical scholarship that
showed too little awareness of the dividing lines in existence between
different congregations of biblical scholars. He was, however, correct in
stressing the importance of the religious background of most scholars, and
how decisive it has been for their attitude to a critical discourse within
biblical studies.
The conservative impetus is still very much in evidence, and is continu-
ously producing textbooks and collections presented as alternatives to
critical scholarship (cf. recently Arnold and Hess 2014). Conservative
scholars certainly know to tell their audience what it wants to hear. In
parts of the Western establishment, the blind acceptance of biblical truth
may recede but this development does not change much, since both
critical studies and conservative tracts are under the influence of the
diminishing importance of accepted religion today in the Western world.
It could be said that the conservative idea about how to understand the
Bible will probably survive indefinitely but it will at the same time lose
its importance as an alternative to other types of religious speculation.
Therefore the general situation remains the same. Critical scholarship is
not in any way victorious. Conservative scholarship is still around and
intends to stay, but its importance is increasingly marginal and limited to
specific religious groups. Conservative scholars know this all too well,
and their tactics have increasingly been to cover up for the deficiencies as
far as method goes by directing their activity directly to the public through
the media, knowing very well that the majority of the laity will not be
able to distinguish between proper scholarship and religious propaganda
presented as ‘scholarship’.
26 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

W. G. Dever and His Repeated Showdowns

with Modern Biblical Scholarship

A special case of scholarship originating in conservative circles but

liberating itself more and more from this background is presented by
the well-known North American archaeologist William G. Dever. Dever
comes as he himself admits it from a fundamentalist environment (his
father was a lay preacher) but nowadays presents himself as the scion of
critical scholarship.
His background sometimes becomes very clear in his various clashes
with critical scholarship, where he frequently employs a vocabulary
more suited to street fighting than to proper academic exchange. A
reading of Dever will tell you that he has no interest in engaging in a
serious discussion with critical scholars, an attitude that definitely has its
background in his religious upbringing. Instead of exchanging arguments
with his opponents, he rhetorically often presents his case only in order to
obtain approval for his position from the lay community, which will not
normally be in the position to differentiate between critical positions and
religiously inspired propaganda.4
Dever evidently borrowed his style of ‘argumentation’ from his father,
a lay preacher, visiting various conservative communities and never both-
ering to present a balanced view on his opponents, the not so pious part
of the community. Inspired by his background, taking on critical scholar-
ship became a personal matter for Dever. Examples of the Dever method
of argument became legion during the so-called minimalist–maximalist
controversy, which raged for about fifteen years, running roughly from
c. 1992 to 2007 or 2008 – although in some ways it has never ended.
Dever’s approach somehow appeared to be a continuation of the way that
the students of William Foxwell Albright handled their opponents, who,
doubtlessly inspired by their master, had no qualms in dubbing German
scholars of the Noth–Alt circle ‘nihilist’, if not worse. Albright himself
had called Martin Noth a nihilist, which shows where the language of his

4. The problem is simply that the lay person who has never been trained to
participate in a debate among scholars/scientists does not have the logical tools that
would enable them to distinguish between postulates and arguments. The lay person
will simply not be able to initiate a falsification process of the assertions presented to
them. This is of course not a phenomenon restricted to theology and biblical studies;
it is a general problem made painfully obvious by modern discussions about fake
news, where messages are hammered into among a defenceless public left without
guidance.
 Lemche What People Want to Believe 27

students originated.5 Dever once described the difference between North

American scholars and their German colleagues in this way: The North
Americans are maximalists, the Germans minimalists (Dever 1977: 77)!
It is, however, characteristic the way that Dever, after an initial outburst
of anger because of his opponents ‘nihilistic’ positions, has adjusted to the
ideas of those same scholars, probably too often without acknowledging
it himself. Thus in his contribution to John H. Hays and Maxwell Miller’s
Israelite and Judaean History (Dever 1977), Dever defends the basic
historicity of the patriarchs, although accepting – or so it seems – the
reservations of Thomas L. Thompson (1974), a study he may have read
but only partially understood. In more recent times he has given up the
idea of seeing the patriarchs as historical persons, echoing almost exactly
Thompson’s position from more than forty years ago.
When Dever launched his campaign against the minimalists, he had
already adopted the essential positions of the German ‘minimalists’,
especially the positions of Albrecht Alt and Martin Noth, at least as far
as the exodus and the conquest of Canaan are concerned (Dever 1990).6
However, when the minimalists questioned the historicity of the united
monarchy of David and Solomon, he bolted and began his campaign
with an atrocious volley of accusations. He has never been satisfied with
pointing out that the other party is wrong on single issues, but instead
keeps stating that we so-called minimalists have no case, or even that we
have a counter-cultural agenda. In this way the minimalists become:

• Philologians – with no pertinent texts

• Historians – with no history
• Theologians – with no empathy to religion
• Ethnographers – with no recognizable ‘ethnic groups’, no training and
no field experience
• Anthropologists – with no theory of culture and cultural change
• Literary critics – with little coherent concept of literary production
• Archaeologists – with no independent knowledge or appreciation of
material cultural remains. (Dever 2001: 40)

5. On this cf. the trenchant discussion of the politics of the Baltimore School
of Albright and his students, notably G. Ernest Wright and John Bright (Thompson
1974: 5–7). Burke O. Long (1997) also made the politics of the Albright circle very
clear; on Albright’s view of the German scholars see Long (1997: 53–9).
6. In many ways the most balanced work by Dever. Here Alt is introduced as
‘Europe’s Albright’ (Dever 1990: 53); Noth’s history, denounced by Albright and
John Bright, is called ‘great’ (Dever 1990: 53), evaluations that would hardly have
endeared Dever to his mentors.
28 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

There is no reason to discuss any of these accusations in detail. However,

when he describes himself as a non-maximalist he sounds rather hollow:

My view all along – and especially in the recent books – is first that the
biblical narratives are indeed ‘stories’, often fictional and almost always
propagandistic, but that here and there they contain some valid historical
information. That hardly makes me a ‘maximalist’. (Dever 2003)

He is basically saying here exactly the same as the people he opposes.

This writer would thus never say ‘there is no history in the Old Testament,
only that what there may be has to be confirmed by external evidence,
including archaeological evidence. That hardly makes me a maximalist!’
Thomas Thompson has written extensively on history. Thompson’s ‘sin’
is that he is not writing in the same style as Dever.
The most aggravating part of this discussion, and the reason I have
wasted too much space on it here, has to do with the way Dever on one
side misrepresents his opponents, while on the other appropriates their
ideas and positions. Coming from the school of Albright through his
mentor, G. Ernest Wright, he inherited the habits of that school, but has
since then adopted practically all the ideas nourished by the first German
scholars of the mid-twentieth century, and toward the end of that century
the ideas of the very people whom he attacks. For obvious reasons some
may be in doubt as to the integrity of this North American archaeologist.
In his recent comprehensive book on biblical archaeology Dever has
done it again (Dever 2017), and this is the real and only reason that I take
up the issue of William G. Dever one more time. In this new monograph,
Dever promotes the idea that without archaeological evidence you can do
very little as far as historical investigations are concerned. While this is
indeed true, it is not his idea but instead has its roots in the very arguments
put forward by Thompson and this writer over many years. Our main
argument has for a generation been that so-called historical information
in the Bible does not verify itself. In order to establish a biblical text as a
historical source we need external evidence of the events narrated in the
Bible, either written documents or physical remains. Maybe we should
congratulate Dever on his late ‘discovery’, if this would not also sound
hollow. As a matter of fact, reading his new book shows that little has
changed.
Dever devotes his chapters on the earliest Israelite history to a model
of the Israelite settlement that was prepared by this writer in Early
Israel (Lemche 1985). He attacks Israel Finkelstein because of his low
chronology (among the relatively new discussion of the low chronology,
see Finkelstein 2005), which would effectively remove Jerusalem from
 Lemche What People Want to Believe 29

the tenth-century BCE scene, as if Finkelstein is the only person to

support it, though it is indeed a dating that is supported by a series of
Israeli archaeologists from the University of Tel Aviv, including David
Ussishkin and Ze’ev Herzog, not forgetting the late Orna Zimhoni. This
he does in his usual fashion, with the addition of derogatory comments
and without much discussion (or maybe he will consider his bias against
Finkelstein to be arguments?).7 In his new book, though, he mostly
attacks Finkelstein on the basis of anthropology, accusing Finkelstein
of interpreting the archaeological evidence in the wrong way. He is
here referring to Finkelstein’s study on the Israelite settlement (1988).
He claims Finkelstein’s position to be outdated in the light of modern
anthropological knowledge on the relation between the desert and the
sown, but he has totally misunderstood the basis of Finkelstein’s position,
namely, the idea of the cultural continuum that Finkelstein takes from my
aforementioned study. Accordingly he claims a position close to George
E. Mendenhall (1962, 1973) and Norman K. Gottwald (1979), arguing for
an inner Canaanite (he still uses this obsolete term) development. He puts
forward a scenario of peasants and city-dwellers on the one hand vis-à-vis
a nomadic tribal population on the other, and thus perpetuates the old
misconceptions that we are speaking about two cultures in a dimorphic
society as described in a series of articles by Michael B. Rowton (1973,
1974, 1976, 1977) that appeared more than forty years ago.8 Rowton’s
model was partly wrong. The nomads are not living in a dimorphic
society, but represent an encapsulated life form as described by Fredrik
Barth (e.g. Barth 1973). Nomads do not automatically represent a different
ethnos from the one found among the villagers and city-dwellers in the
region, where all life forms co-exist at the same time. So in conclusion
Dever’s model is in no way ‘new’. It is close to my explanation of societal
development in the highland of central Palestine published in Early Israel
but at the same time forgetting the criticism here of especially Gottwald’s
reconstructions. It is almost the same model, but any reference to Early
Israel is absent.
It is obvious that biblical studies is in many ways handicapped by
having to fulfil the expectations of the religious groups that form its basis.
If you are brought up within a religious group, which would often have
strong ideas about the historical foundation of its religion, and the same
group is also providing economic support for your scholarly activities, it

7. E.g. Dever 2017: 261: ‘Finkelstein’s idiosyncratic low chronology’.

8. Dever duly mentions Michael B. Rowton but does not seem to know of the
criticism of Rowton’s position, which from an anthropological point of view is hardly
tenable.
30 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

is clear that you should not or could not break with your own background.
It would be expected that your scholarly activity should enhance rather
than destroy the beliefs of your back-up group.
When a scholar like Dever has for decades attacked his minimalist
opponents and accused them of destroying Western civilization, of being
counter-cultural, and especially of simply being not honest scholars,
these accusations are themselves particularly dishonest, because it was
never intended that his diatribes should be read by other critical scholars,
for whom such words are intolerable. The allegations are put forward
for the pleasure of his religious back-up group, and have one important
aim; namely, to discourage the members of this group from becoming
acquainted with the arguments of the minimalists, a move that is typical
of conservative or fundamentalist congregations.9
When we were young, we – the scholars belonging to the critical group
that encompassed Thomas Thompson as well as me – did not know, or
were not concerned about the effect that our scholarship would have had
on the lay person. Of course the respective backgrounds of Thompson and
me are very different. Thompson grew up a Catholic of Irish extraction in
Detroit, while my home was in the most wealthy part of Denmark, solidly
Lutheran-evangelical. When I was at a very early stage in my studies, and
presented with the conflict between fundamentalists and critical positions
as found in protestant environments, I naturally found the fundamentalist
position ridiculous and of no scholarly value at all. It never occurred to
me that the fundamentalists had something to contribute to critical schol-
arship. This was a mistake, although their contribution was mostly very
negative in nature. My position was practically identical to the one James
Barr presented in his work on fundamentalism. Barr’s view on fundamen-
talism very much covered what a critical scholar of my generation would
have thought about the phenomenon (Barr 1977).
For Thomas Thompson, the realization that he had challenged a domi-
nant Protestant religious set-up became abundantly clear when, for several
years after the publication of his Historicity, he was cut off from the
academic world, and only in a fairly advanced age allowed to return to it,
albeit not in his own country but in faraway Thule, in icy Scandinavia. The
absolutely free and unbiased academic environment that the University of
Copenhagen provided made it possible for Thompson, as it had for me for
many years, to unfold an enormous range of provocative new ideas and
theories. One could say that Thomas Thompson went into exile, but not
one from which he would some day return.

9. On this ‘technique’, cf. Barr 1977: 120–59.

 Lemche What People Want to Believe 31

Reviewing the field of Old Testament studies today, it is very clear that
many scholars of the present have changed their positions considerably,
at least as far as the history of ancient Israel is concerned. The traditional
positions have been undermined by developments in biblical studies
and Palestinian archaeology among their more progressive exponents.
Nothing is really as it used to be. Among the scholars who have been
spearheading the progress in scholarship over the last twenty-five years,
practically none of them accept today the positions that dominated Old
Testament scholarship fifty years ago. It is not necessary to mention them
all, and details are immaterial. However, it could well be argued that it is
the general environment that has changed. To illustrate the changes one
example is enough: while a generation ago almost every critical scholar
placed the composition of the various parts of the Old Testament between
c. 1000 and 400 BCE, today the discussion centres on the period from c.
500 to 100 BCE (if not later). The relations between the biblical tradition
and the culturally superior Greek-Hellenistic world are today one of the
real hot spots in biblical studies.

Cultural Memory:
The Reliance on Tales instead of Historical ‘Facts’
Still, the basic conditions have not changed (very much). Whatever
advances scholars make, we are still met on the street with reactions that
seemingly deny that any changes have occurred at all. Although we are
in this case talking about religious people who are afraid of losing their
tradition, i.e., their faith, the problem should not be seen as exclusively
a religious one. On the contrary, it reflects a general attitude among
people from all backgrounds. In several articles over the last years, I
have stressed that when we discuss history writing in ancient times, we
must never make the mistake of taking it to be anything like modern
history writing (Lemche 2012a, 2012b, 2012c, 2013a, 2013b). It was not,
and it never tried to be. It was cultural memory, a term that refers not
to the memory of individuals, but to a memory nourished by a special
population about its past. How it came about may be a point of discussion,
but cultural memory is not made up of recollections by individuals living
in the periphery; it depends on the elite in the society being able to write
and read and accordingly controlling the exchange of ideas inclusive of
the recollections of their own society. Collective memory is not history
in the modern meaning of the word, and as memory it is not bound by
the rules of history that it should present the past as it really was. It was
something taught to people. History is a weapon of mass instruction, to
use an expression coined by John Gatto (2008).
32 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

We may think of history writing today as reporting in writing something

that really happened in the past. It is certainly not. History writing is
related to cultural memory by being a kind of national propaganda
aiming at creating a common basis for the new national states of the
last two hundred years. It was always highly selective and partial. But it
was expected that the historians who were entrusted with the historiog-
raphy did not invent events that are not reflected by surviving evidence,
especially written sources. That is the big difference between former
chronicles and methodically controlled history writing from, say, 1800.
As the general public at the same time in most Western countries learned
history in the elementary schools that sprang up everywhere, it was at
the same time the ‘victim’ of the historical constructions presented to
them from childhood onwards. History became a means of national
self-identification, reflecting the prevailing ideology of the many national
states that appeared around the same time as critical historiography arose.
We have many examples even in recent times of what may happen
when an accepted and official history is challenged, especially in the
media. A recent television program, in several parts, retelling the history
of Denmark from ancient times to the present, created a stir because many
people were unable to identify with the producer’s perhaps somewhat
left-leaning reconstructions. It turned out that there were several inter-
pretations of Danish history in existence at the same time. Only very few
commentators – mostly in the media – presented a detailed criticism based
on historical research. In general, most commentators fell back on their
own ideas about Danish history and did not understand the point, namely
that all historical reconstruction is construction; historical reconstruc-
tions represent the way certain people understand history. You might say
that the ‘official’ Danish history, the one that meets you, for example, at
the National Museum in Copenhagen, has become the cultural memory
of most Danes, and they don’t want to be challenged by new ideas and
reconstructions. This is of course only one among many examples, but
nonetheless a telling one: When people have accepted a certain tale as
theirs, they are not at all inclined to exchange this tale that has become
their collective cultural memory with another story. Not particularly inter-
ested in how and why a new historical construction came about, they often
react angrily to ideas that are seen as revisionist and foreign – in my own
country as those ideas that are ‘un-Danish’.
It seems that this is the situation whenever the general public has
accepted a certain version of a story created by the specialists as its
‘history’. This public is not likely to accept changes out of hand and it will
instinctively try to fight such changes, not by scholarly arguments, which
would be beyond its capabilities, but with rejection and ridicule. However,
 Lemche What People Want to Believe 33

national histories – especially in Europe with so many conflicting national

narratives – are of course highly indicative when it comes to gauging
ordinary people’s reactions to change. My argument is that this type of
reaction is not limited to critical issues like religion or national history;
it is a general attitude to change found among those parts of a population
that have not been trained to critically assess what they have been told.

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Arnold, B. T. and R. S. Hess, eds. (2014), Ancient Israel’s History: An Introduction to
Issues and Sources, Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic.
Avalos, H. (2007), The End of Biblical Studies, Amherst, NY: Prometheus Books.
Barr, J. (1977), Fundamentalism, London: SCM Press.
Barth, F. (1973), ‘A General Perspective of Nomads-Sedentary Relations in the Middle
East’, in C. Nelson (ed.), The Desert and the Sown: Nomads in the Wider Society,
11–21, Berkeley: Institute of International Studies, University of California.
Dever, W. G. (1977), ‘The Patriarchal Traditions’, in J. H. Hayes and J. Maxwell Miller
(eds), Israelite and Judaean History, 102–19, London: SCM Press.
Dever, W. G. (1990), Recent Archaeological Discoveries and Biblical Research, Seattle:
University of Washington Press.
Dever, W. G. (2001), What Did the Biblical Writers Know and When Did They Know it?
What Archaeology Can Tell Us about the Reality of Ancient Israel, Grand Rapids, MI:
Eerdmans.
Dever, W. G. (2003), ‘Contra Davies’, Bible and Interpretation (January), [Link]
[Link]/articles/Contra_Davies.shtml.
Dever, W. G. (2017), Beyond the Texts: An Archaeological Portrait of Ancient Israel and
Judah, Atlanta: SBL Press.
Finkelstein, I. (1988), The Archaeology of the Israelite Settlement, Jerusalem: Israel
Exploration Society.
Finkelstein, I. (2005), ‘A Low Chronology Update: Archaeology, History and Bible’, in
T. E. Levy and T. Higham (eds), The Bible and Radiocarbon Dating, 31–42, London:
Equinox.
Gatto, J. T. (2008), Weapons of Mass Instruction: A Schoolteacher’s Journey Through the
Dark World of Compulsory Schooling, Gabriola, BC: New Society Publishers.
Gottwald, N. K. (1979), The Tribes of Yahweh: A Sociology of Liberated Israel, 1250–1050
BCE, Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books.
Kitchen, K. A. (1966), The Ancient Orient and Old Testament, London: The Tyndale Press.
Kitchen, K. A. (2003), On the Reliability of the Old Testament, Grand Rapids, MI:
Eerdmans.
Kofoed, J. B. (2005), Text and History: Historiography and the Study of the Biblical Text,
Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns.
Lemche, N. P. (1985), Early Israel: Anthropological and Historical Studies on the Israelite
Society before the Monarchy, VTSup 37, Leiden: E. J. Brill.
Lemche, N. P. (2003a), ‘Review of Long, V. H., Baker, D. W., Wenham, G. J. (2002),
Windows into Old Testament History’, JAOS, 123: 386–8.
Lemche, N. P. (2003b), ‘Review of Provan, I., Long, V. P., Longman III., T. (2003),
A Biblical History of Israel’, JAOS, 123: 925.
34 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

Lemche, N. P. (2005), ‘Conservative Scholarship on the Move,’ SJOT, 19: 203–52

(= ‘Conservative Scholarship-Critical Scholarship: Or How Did We Get Caught by This
Bogus Discussion: On Behalf of the Dever-Davies Exchange’, Bible and Interpretation
(Sept. 2003), http:// [Link]/articles/Conservative_Scholarship.shtml.
Lemche, N. P. (2011), ‘Evading the Facts: Notes on Jens Bruun Kofoed: Text and History:
Historiography and the Study of the Biblical Text (2005)’, in L. L. Grabbe (ed.),
Enquire of the Former Age: Ancient Historiography and Writing the History of Israel,
139–63, LHBOTS 554, London: T&T Clark.
Lemche, N. P. (2012a), ‘How to Do History? Methodological Reflections’, in A. Hunt
(ed.), Second Temple Studies IV: Historiography and History, 6–16, LHBOTS 550,
New York: T&T Clark.
Lemche, N. P. (2012b), ‘The Copenhagen School and Cultural Memory’, in P. Carstens,
T. Bjørnung Hasselbalch, and N. P. Lemche (eds), Cultural Memory in Biblical
Exegesis, 81–94, Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias Press.
Lemche, N. P. (2012c), ‘Cultural Amnesia’, in P. Carstens, T. Bjørnung Hasselbalch and
N. P. Lemche (eds), Cultural Memory in Biblical Studies, 159–72, Piscataway, NJ:
Gorgias Press.
Lemche, N. P. (2013a), ‘Historie og Kulturel erindring i Det Gamle Testamente’, DTT,
76: 18–30.
Lemche, N. P. (2013b), ‘History as an Argument for Land Possession’, in E. Pfoh and
K. W. Whitelam (eds), The Politics of Israel’s Past: The Bible, Archaeology and
Nation-Building, 102–19, Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press.
Lemche, N. P. (2017), ‘A Sectarian Group Called Israel: Historiography and Cultural
Memory’, in J. West and J. Crossley (eds), History, Politics and the Bible from the Iron
Age to the Media Age: Essays in Honour of Keith W. Whitelam, 72–96, LHBOTS 651,
London: Bloomsbury T&T Clark.
Lindhardt, P. G. (1970), ‘To breve fra Frants Buhl til Peder Madsen’, DTT, 33: 55–61.
Long, B. O. (1997), Planting and Reaping Albright: Politics, Ideology, and Interpreting
the Bible, University Park, PA: The Pennsylvania State University Press.
Long, V. H., D. W. Baker and G. J. Wenham, eds (2002), Windows into Old Testament
History: Evidence, Argument, and the Crisis of ‘Biblical Israel’, Grand Rapids, MI:
Eerdmans.
Mendenhall, G. E. (1962), ‘The Hebrew Conquest of Palestine’, BA, 25: 65–87.
Mendenhall, G. E. (1973), The Tenth Generation: The Origins of the Biblical Tradition,
Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press.
Müller, M. (2013), Det Teologiske Fakultet i det 20. Århundrede: En Skitse, Copenhagen:
Det Teologiske Fakultet.
Provan, I., V. P. Long and T. Longman III (2003), A Biblical History of Israel, Louisville,
KY: Westminster John Knox Press.
Rowton, M. B. (1973), ‘Urban Autonomy in a Nomadic Environment’, JNES, 32: 201–15.
Rowton, M. B. (1974), ‘Enclosed Nomadism’, JESHO, 17: 1–30.
Rowton, M. B. (1976), ‘Dimorphic Structure and Topology’, OA, 15: 17–31.
Rowton, M. B. (1977), ‘Dimorphic Structure and the Parasocial Element’, JNES, 36:
181–98.
Thompson, T. L. (1974), The Historicity of the Patriarchal Narratives: The Quest for the
Historical Abraham, BZAW 133, Berlin: de Gruyter.
 T he N e e d f or a C om p r eh en si ve S oci ology
of K n owl ed g e  of B i bli cal
a n d A rch a eol og i c al S tudi e s
of t h e S ou t h ern L e vant *

Emanuel Pfoh

A Prelude

‘In the social sciences, the progress of knowledge presupposes progress in

our knowledge of the conditions of knowledge’ (Bourdieu 1992: 1). Thus
opened the renowned French sociologist Pierre Bourdieu’s study on the
logic of social practice. Bourdieu has also contributed – especially relevant
for the present discussion – with a sociology of the academic realms,
namely its production and reproduction in France during the 1980s,
coining the term Homo academicus to refer to the agent/s responsible
for the logic of producing and reproducing knowledge in the scholarly
field (Bourdieu 1984). Such a sociological study has never, at least in a
systematic and comprehensive manner, been attempted in biblical studies –
including here biblical archaeology, which in many ways, and in spite
of its many methodological improvements in the last decades, can still
be considered in terms of epistemology a central part of biblical schol-
arship (cf., for instance, Hoffmeier and Millard 2004; Levy 2010) rather
than a part of the international discourse of archaeology. Nonetheless,
and in sight of future endeavours, we may already hypothesise about the

* It is with great pleasure that I dedicate this essay to Thomas in honour of his 80th
birthday and in recognition of his scholarship. His 1999 book The Bible in History
(Thompson 1999) was decisive in my career choices while I was an undergraduate.
Ever since we first met in Copenhagen in February 2009 – and I should say much
before then, if we consider e-mail exchanges – he has always been a source of support
and encouragement. I am happy to count myself among his intellectual children.
36 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

existence of a Homo biblicus occidentalis, with distinct regional varia-

tions: the Homo biblicus europaeus and the Homo biblicus americanus.1
This species has some two hundred years of existence, and in more recent
times has produced a third variation, the Homo biblicus israelensis, of
some seventy years of existence now. These academic creatures, their
living and reproductive conditions, the changes in their intellectual habits,
together with the discourses they create and produce, need indeed to be
sociologically explored.

Calling for a Sociology of Knowledge

I would like in this article to make a call for a serious and comprehensive
study of the conditions by which institutional knowledge about the
biblical texts and the history of ancient Israel/Palestine is manufactured
as an international discourse through universities, academic societies
(ASOR, IAA, SBL, AAR, IES, etc.)2 and meetings, research projects,
journals, media and popular culture, etc., touching upon issues of national
memories, cultural heritage and religious identities, as well as past and
current politics in the Middle East. Furthering such an approach may
in effect contribute, firstly, to grasping a clearer understanding of the
concept of ancient Near Eastern and biblical intellectual heritage in the
modern Western world, and secondly, to providing current biblical schol-
arship with more critical epistemologies, with a scholarly self-awareness
precisely of how knowledge is produced and reproduced, where this
knowledge is located and contextualized, for what purposes, and which
are the potential political implications – in the face of the current political
situation in Israel/Palestine and the Middle East – of such a research.
This proposal, being ambitious in research scope and resources, should
definitely be carried out by a collective effort of scholars over a considerable
amount of time. The task should also be divided into national traditions
and within them into universities and institutes’ traditions. Research on
the conditions affecting the production of knowledge, as it has developed
in other fields of the humanities and the social sciences, and no less in
the archaeology of the ancient Near East, is most necessary to transcend
an empirical level of documentation – and here we might attend for

1. My memory indicates that it was Philip R. Davies who was one of the first to
use the term Homo biblicus americanus in a forum on the internet in the mid-2000s,
although this might be disputed, of course.
2. On the SBL, see preliminarily the critical notes in Avalos 2007: 307–24. Further,
Avalos’s insights on the ‘infrastructure of biblical studies’, beyond his particular
conclusions, are relevant to the present discussion; cf. Avalos 2007: 289–342.
 Pfoh The Need for a Comprehensive Sociology of Knowledge 37

instance to recent important contributions with epistemological concerns

by Reinhard Bernbeck and Susan Pollock (2004), regarding the political
economy of ancient Near Eastern archaeology, or by Zainab Bahrani
(1998, 2003, 2006), regarding Mesopotamia’s imaginative geographies,
Iraq’s cultural heritage, questions of race and ethnicity in Mesopotamia,
to name but a few interests and problem-oriented topics. These insights
provide paramount guidance for the task in biblical scholarship.
In the field of Middle East studies, two recent comprehensive studies
worth being attended to for their orientation are Zachary Lockman’s book
Field Notes: The Making of Middle East Studies in the United States
(2016), documenting the creation of areas studies between the 1920s and
the 1980s and relating political needs in the US and geopolitical conditions
in the Middle East to the process of knowledge production by specialists
in this area, and Lara Deeb and Jessica Winegar’s Anthropology’s Politics:
Disciplining the Middle East (2016), exploring the (usually concealed)
politics and the institutionalization of American anthropology of Middle
Eastern societies. Apart from some exceptions – which I shall be referring
to later – in general, as noted before, we have so far nothing of the like in
biblical studies or in the archaeology of the Southern Levant.3
Besides national traditions of research, and apart from distinctive
locations in which research is carried out, the question of funding research
projects should be addressed as well in a critical fashion. American
and European excavations in Israel/Palestine have at least for the last
hundred years received financial support from universities but also from
private investors and associations, usually of some religious orientation
and interest. Let us then imagine a private organization, or a private
individual, openly religious and willing to contribute to find material
evidence of some biblical event or situation: can we think that such
private, religious funding does not produce a certain expectation or bias
in the archaeologists working regarding what to find?4 A very clear, and
concrete example of this is ELAD, an American real estate development
company which is funding archaeological digs in East Jerusalem in order

3. We do have ‘histories of scholarship’, for instance, of biblical archaeology (i.e.,

Moorey 1991) or of American archeology in the Middle East (i.e., King 1983), but we
do not have thorough sociologies of such disciplines yet.
4. Cf. notably Zevit 2004: 7 n. 9, who observes: ‘As recently as summer 2001,
archaeologists from denominational institutions indicated to me that they would
procure neither private nor denominational institutional financial support unless
they could make significant connections between their site and the Bible. Electing to
excavate Iron Age levels of an identified biblical city was the safest route to financial
support.’
38 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

to reveal the historicity of the biblical City of King David and with that
reclaiming the materiality of Jewish heritage in that place: in this situation
the sociology of the production of knowledge by scholars associated
with this organization is not so hard to guess.5 This is just one example
related to Israel/Palestine but, similarly, the situation can also be found in
different locations of the Middle East, be it Egypt, Turkey, Syria or Iraq.
That politics, religion and other personal beliefs affect in some way and
to some degree the scholars interpreting evidence in the world is a fact
that has been very well known in the sociology of knowledge since the
pivotal publication of Peter Berger and Thomas Luckmann’s The Social
Construction of Reality in 1966 (Berger and Luckmann 1991 [1966]).
Of course, this condition can be traced back to previous developments
by modern thinkers and scholars like Max Weber, Karl Marx, Immanuel
Kant, David Hume and Rene Descartes; but Berger and Luckmann were
pioneers in detailing the workings of – as they called it – institution-
alization, legitimization and internalization processes of knowledge in
society. In this landmark work, we have in effect a clear theoretical basis
to analyse the functioning of both academic and popular knowledge about
ancient Israel and the archaeology of Palestine in modern times.
All these preliminaries are of course but a search for orientation and
a commentary on the need to study the scholars who study the ancient
Near East (including here, of course, biblical scholars and historians and
archaeologists of ancient Israel/Palestine/Southern Levant), where they
do it, in what socio-economic conditions, where the funding comes from,
what is their implicit and explicit relation to politics, religion and other
institutions, how the produced knowledge is processed and transmitted
institutionally and academically by universities and academic associa-
tions, etc. (see already Pfoh 2013: 2–4; 2018: 93–5; Ben Zvi 2018: 34–40).

Some Precedents in Old Testament Studies

In what follows, I would like to present now some examples of how a

sociologically informed enquiry about ancient Near Eastern and biblical
knowledge production operates, presenting only criticism about results –
the manner in which such knowledge is produced is only assumed in this
instance, mostly because no proper research has been conducted yet.

5. Cf. Greenberg 2018: 82–5. Reference must be made here to a thorough study
by Raz Kletter on the recent archaeology of the Western Wall Plaza in Jerusalem,
uncovering the politics of scientific research in that location (Kletter 2019). See also
on these issues, from a broader historiographical perspective, Pfoh (in press).
 Pfoh The Need for a Comprehensive Sociology of Knowledge 39

Perhaps Jack M. Sasson was one of the first ancient Near Eastern and
biblical scholars who noted in a seminal article from 1981 that the idea
of ancient Israelite statehood as treated by late nineteenth- and early
twentieth-century American and German biblical scholars was crafted
upon the idea of either national independence, in the first case, or the
national unification realised by Bismarck, in the second, and that the
idea of Israelite peoplehood was very much dependent on the model
of the Western European nation-state (Sasson 1981). Later on, during
the 1990s, in a context of harsh debate between the so-called biblical
maximalists and minimalists in Old Testament studies, several critical
voices appeared. Although not fully addressing the question of the
sociology of knowledge in biblical studies, already Thomas Thompson,
along with the rest of the ‘minimalist’ scholars, made clear the need for
having clear epistemologies, in particular regarding our construction of
knowledge about ‘ancient Israel’ and the history of the Southern Levant.6
In particular, Philip Davies and Robert Carroll provided in a couple of
papers presented in the context of the European Seminar in Historical
Methodology (1996–2012), chaired by Lester L. Grabbe,7 some guiding
questions, problematizations and answers orientated towards some socio-
logical criticism of biblical studies (Davies 1997; Carroll 1997), and so
also did Niels Peter Lemche when discussing the politics and ideologies
in Old Testament historical scholarship (Lemche 2000, 2005). Equally,
already in 1997, Burke O. Long published a socio-historical study,
based on a wealth of private archival data, on William F. Albright and
his ‘Baltimore school’, detailing the matrix of biblical archaeology in
the US in the twentieth century and advancing a perspective fitting to
what is called for in this paper (Long 1997). Also most relevant in this
connection is Nadia Abu El-Haj’s anthropology of early Israeli archae-
ology (Abu El-Haj 2001) and Raz Kletter’s study on the inception
of Israeli archaeology in the 1950s and 1960s, working with archival
documents (Kletter 2006).

6. See especially the following early examples of ‘minimalist’ epistemology and

methodology aiming at a change of historical paradigm in Old Testament studies –
building their criticism here (except for Davies) in the then recently discovered Tel
Dan stele – in Davies 1992; Lemche and Thompson 1994; Lemche 1995; Thompson
1995; Whitelam 1995; Cryer 1996; more recent evaluations are found in Lemche
2008; Thompson 2013, 2018; Pfoh forthcoming.
7. Regarding the European Seminar on Historical Methodology, it is useful in this
regard to check the anthology and evaluation in Grabbe 2019.
40 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

However, it was in effect Keith W. Whitelam who published, right in

the middle of the debates of the 1990s in Old Testament historical studies,
what is probably the most radical and controversial critique of the ways
the history of ancient Israel has been reconstructed by Western scholars:
The Invention of Ancient Israel: The Silencing of Palestinian History
(Whitelam 1996). Beyond the criticism – mostly ideological, rather than
properly ‘scientific’ or historiographical – that this book received,8 it is
clear that Sasson’s critical insights were developed by Whitelam into
full scale. In perspective, Whitelam’s book marked a watershed in Old
Testament studies regarding the potentialities of a sociological perspective
in the construction of knowledge about the ancient past of Israel/Palestine.
It is relevant, for instance, to quote at length Whitelam’s opinion of the
matrix of one of the classical origins’ models for explaining the emergence
of ancient Israel in Canaan/Palestine:

Albrecht Alt’s seminal essay ‘Die Landnahme der Israeliten in Palästina’,

published in 1925 […], led to the development of what has come to be
called the Infiltration or Immigration model of Israelite origins, frequently
characterized as the peaceful infiltration/immigration of Israelites into
Palestine. This hypothesis, associated with German scholarship, notably Alt,
Noth, and M. Weippert, has been very influential in the discourse of biblical
studies, nearly three-quarters of a century after its classic formulation by
Alt, not only in current reformulations of the hypothesis, but through a
series of ideas which have been taken for granted in the discourse of biblical
studies and therefore rarely articulated. It still retains considerable support,
most notably in the recent important work of the Israeli archaeologist Israel
Finkelstein (1988). However, it is a construction of the past, an invention
of Israel, which mirrors perceptions of contemporary Palestine of the
1920s at a time of increasing Zionist immigration. (Whitelam 1996: 74, my
emphasis)

Also:

Alt’s work is set in one of the most crucial periods of modem Palestinian
history: a period of increasing Zionist immigration into the area in the early
decades of the century, along with aspirations of a national homeland, which
completely changed the social, political, and demographic characteristics

8. And for sure it received criticism when it appeared: see, for instance, Levine
1996; Provan 1997; Dever 1998: 44–6; 1999. It also received more balanced and
even praiseful criticism, as found in Lemche 1996 and Holloway 2000. Whitelam
addressed in general the critique of ‘minimalism’ in Whitelam 2002. Further on the
historiographical possibilities that his initial outlook opened, see Whitelam 2013.
 Pfoh The Need for a Comprehensive Sociology of Knowledge 41

of the region […] The central feature of Alt’s construction, significant

immigration of groups in search of a national homeland, needs to be
considered in the context of these dramatic developments in Palestine at
the time he was conducting his research – developments of which he could
hardly have been ignorant. (Whitelam 1996: 76, my emphasis)

This kind of critique proper of the sociology of knowledge, focuses not

on the question of data interpretation but rather on the crafting of models
for interpreting data and on the influence of the historical, social, national,
religious and political contexts of the scholar at work and his/her produc-
tions. As such, Whitelam’s critique produced a clear precedent to rethink
the epistemologies current in Western biblical scholarship.
A more recent example of how well-researched archaeological data
can lead to the proposition of social institutions and practices that result
in not only historical anachronisms but that also politically legitimate
modern historical situations, also related to national and identity issues, is
provided by the work of Avraham Faust, a prominent archaeologist from
Bar Ilan University in Israel. Faust, in two major studies (2006, 2012) and
in many scholarly papers, has advocated for an understanding of early
Israelite society (c. 13th–11th centuries BCE) as essentially egalitarian
and democratic, first in its social structure, and then, when class differ-
ences appeared with statehood, with a surviving egalitarian ethos. Faust
indicates in his Israel’s Ethnogenesis:

The almost complete lack of decoration on pottery manufactured during the

Iron Age II in the kingdoms of Israel and Judah, and earlier in the territories
presumably inhabited by Israelites or Proto-Israelites, must therefore be
very meaningful. Its mere absence is a powerful statement, which might
be directed to within the group or in relation with the outside world.
Deciphering it is a complex endeavor. What were the messages transmitted
by a lack of decoration? Internally, the lack of decoration could indicate an
ideology of simplicity and egalitarianism […]. (Faust 2006: 45)

Further:

Four-room houses, by the very uniformity of their plans, the egalitarian

ethos reflected by them, and their dominant position within the society
discussed, were used to reinforce the community’s values and ideology,
and to strengthen the sense of togetherness of the population; by building a
house according to the traditional code of the society, the inhabitants transit
of a message of ‘we are part of the community’, and therefore enhance the
coherence of that community. At the same time, however, the differences
in size and quality of the houses sent indexical messages of superiority and
wealth. (Faust 2006: 81)
42 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

And finally:

It is clear in light of the above that the Israelite society had a strong
egalitarian/democratic ethos, resulting from its location among similarly
disposed Near Eastern societies, the specific circumstances through which
it evolved, and the fact that it emerged through interaction (and hostility)
with other groups seen by the Israelites as hierarchical. The egalitarian ethos
became for the Israelites an important part of their distinct identity vis-a-vis
other groups […]. It is even likely that in Israel, more than in many other
similar societies, the ethos had some impact on social reality (which still
remained, nevertheless, hierarchical). It is also clear that this ethos had an
impact on many facets of material culture that were discussed earlier, both
during the Iron Age I, when the discrepancy between the ethos and social
reality was small, and Iron Age II, when the disparity was great. (Faust
2006: 106–7; cf. also Faust 2012: 9, 28–38, 220–3)

Of course, as Faust himself acknowledges, he is not the first scholar

to refer to ‘democratic’ situations in the ancient Near East: more than
seventy years ago, Thorkild Jacobsen famously proposed in a paper to
understand prehistoric Mesopotamia in terms of a ‘primitive democracy’,
a situation later replaced by the appearance of ‘autocracy’ with the devel-
opment of Mesopotamian statehood (Jacobsen 1943). Closely following
Jacobsen in its model, Faust proposed an ideal egalitarian and democratic
social situation during the Iron Age I, subsumed later by the appearance of
the state but – as noted – with a surviving force as a social ethos.
Kletter has recently criticized Faust’s understanding of early Israelite
society, correctly in my opinion, by noting the transference of modern
diacritics (like egalitarianism and democracy) into a pre-modern, Near
Eastern context:

Faust raises an imaginary vision of ancient Israel as a democratic, egali-

tarian, pure and simple society. This ideal picture may bear relation to the
life of those of us who, like Faust, saw childhood in modern Israel of the
1950–60s: a young, relatively socialist state. Houses did not have high
fences and differences of wealth were fewer (and less pronounced) than
today. However, this nostalgic picture must also be set against the present
capitalist state, where gaps between rich and poor are vast and where
democracy is limited to only one side of the fence. (Kletter 2016a: 124; see
further Lemche 2010; Kletter 2016b)

Like Whitelam’s criticism of Alt’s articulation of his explanation for

early Israel’s appearance as mirroring Zionist colonisation in Palestine in
the early twentieth century, Kletter’s insight on Faust’s reconstruction of
social structure and ancient Israelite ethos hits precisely at the core of a
 Pfoh The Need for a Comprehensive Sociology of Knowledge 43

scholar’s analytical choices: we most probably cannot escape our cultural

and socio-economic upbringing, but we always can be epistemologically
conscious about it in order to ponder how much our reconstructions of
historical realities depend on critical method and sound data or on distor-
tions of a personal past into a historical landscape.

Concluding Remarks

The insights and examples considered in this brief contribution show but a
glimpse of a matter that, once again, needs undoubtedly further systematic
and comprehensive study and development in the field of biblical studies.
Discussions among scholars and different historiographical models are
not a novelty at all, of course, but the implicit reasons why scholars adopt
theoretical positions and are led to make particular conclusions are often
ignored or left aside because they are usually unknown – in the sense of
not being scientifically explored. Sometimes these issues are understood
simply as political bias in scholarship, be it from the right, or of nation-
alist-religious or liberal or leftist orientations, all of which without a doubt
exists, as all scholarship is political in one way or the other. However,
just noting the politics – and condemning or blissfully discarding them
accordingly – and interpreting them seriously and scientifically, engaging
them epistemologically, are two quite different approaches and attitudes
to the question. My point therefore is that the context for the production
of knowledge should at least be considered by everybody as a necessary
moment of any research, a moment of reflexivity in which we think about
our own categories and models and our own social locations to understand
and explain our production of knowledge. To gain consciousness of such
an epistemological situation would unquestionably make our research
processes not only more explicit and scientific but also more honest.

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 Part 2

History, Historiography and Archaeology

48
 T he A b ra h a m a n d E s a u - J acob S tor i e s
i n t he C on t ex t of t h e M a c cabe an P e r i od *

Łukasz Niesiołowski-Spanò

One of the most important achievements of Thomas L. Thompson was

the falsification of the hypothesis of the historical validity of the context
of the patriarchal narratives in Genesis. His seminal book (Thompson
1974), next to the work of John Van Seters (1975), changed the scholarly
paradigm for good. After publication of these two studies, it was practi-
cally impossible to claim – in line with the scholarly consensus – that
narratives about the Patriarchs in Genesis contain any traces of the
historical memory originating in the Bronze Age.
One might say that Thompson’s ground-breaking study is dominated
by pars destruens, it being argumentation against the former scholarly
paradigm. Thomas Thompson in his later works (as well as other scholars)
expressed his view on the possible historical context of the so-called
patriarchal narratives preserved in Genesis; however, less systemati-
cally (cf. Thompson 2011; 1992: 356, 365–6). Thompson claims that
it was the Hellenistic era which fits best the historical context of the
stories written in Genesis. This claim may not look like the result of
systematic studies of the Hellenistic history of the Jews and development
of Jewish writings in this period. It seems rather to be the natural effect
of the shifted paradigm, accepted by Thompson, expressed in its best-
known form by Niels Peter Lemche, in his – already classic – article
(1993). This contribution is intended as an addendum to the claims about
the possible creation / rewriting of the key elements in the Abraham and
Jacob-Esau stories during the second century BCE.

* This paper originated in studies made possible thanks to research grant number
2016/23/B/HS3/01880 funded by the National Science Centre, Poland.
50 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

This is not the right place to discuss in depth the possible origins of
the traditions about Abraham and Jacob-and-Esau. I am also not going
to discuss the historical period of the earliest attestation of these biblical
figures, which incidentally still remains a very complicated issue. The
aim of this study is to look at these two stories from Genesis and inves-
tigate their possible role in the late second century BCE (cf. my earlier
work, dealing with a similar topic, but from a different point of departure:
Niesiołowski-Spanò 2006). Therefore, I am not going to discuss how old
the stories are or the figures of the patriarchs and where they came from.
I may, however, try to shed light on the possible historical context that
might have influenced and inspired the current version of these stories and
their place within the framework of Genesis.

***
The main focus of this article will be on the account of Abraham as the
father of multiple nations, and on the story of Jacob and Esau’s conflict
and their reconciliation, in the light of the process leading to the creation
of the identities of the groups living in Palestine. In both these cases we
will deal with the classical aetiological myths of ethnogenesis but of a
contradictory nature. The story about Abraham, as the father of Ishmael
and Isaac, clearly includes others in the community. Both the groups that
claim to be descendants of Isaac and Jacob-Israel, as well as the group
supposed to descend from Ishmael (regardless of whether they really
knew they were Ishmaelites, or whether they were described as such)
are depicted as kin. On the other hand, the story about the competition
between Jacob and Esau, described in Genesis, with an important variant
in Jubilees, looks rather like the aetiology of the relationship between
two real, existing groups, for which the biblical authors try to fix family
bonds. The issue which deserves further attention concerns whether those
relationships illustrate friendly or hostile attitudes, or rather, represent
biblical authors’ positions on including or excluding other groups.
Abraham has been depicted as the figure disconnected from any
historical realities, by being alien and of a nomadic way of life. The
stories connected with Abraham are set within the mythical illo tempore,
in the same way as Greek heroes are described in un-historical realities of
the tragedies or Homeric epic for which a coherent historical background
does not exist. The realities of myth are usually different from the real
world or what may be realised by the creation of an unreal world, e.g. of
the Amazons, the Lotophagi, or the unreal past-time, regardless of nuclei
of realistic realities used in the description. In this light one shall consider
 Niesiołowski-Spanò The Abraham and Esau-Jacob Stories 51

mythical the realities of Exodus, of the conquest of Palestine by Joshua,

of the so-call period of Judges, David, Solomon, and the subsequent kings
of Israel and Judah, as well as the court of Nebuchadnezzar in the book of
Daniel. If one accepts such a definition of myth, it therefore constructs the
realities far from those considered unreal and as such false and deceptive.
The reality of myth is not a lie, but a truth; truth par excellence – the
object of undisputed faith (on the theme of the use of myth in the Hebrew
Bible see recently Wajdenbaum 2010; cf. Niesiołowski-Spanò 2011: 1–5).
As a matter of fact, the quest for the historical realities of most of the
biblical stories is baseless. As mythical, i.e. being the object of religious
beliefs, they may have been filled with real historical information, but
they are still un-historical in the scholarly sense of the word. The realities
of the biblical stories shall not determine their historical trustfulness or
lack thereof, because they were composed for different reasons: as stories
for believers (cf. Niesiołowski-Spanò 2018).
I consider two issues in the biblical story of Abraham the most
important: (1) the covenant between God and Abraham, and through him
with the promised multitudes of Abraham’s descendants, who become
the chosen people of God, i.e. the community of faithful ones, and (2)
the sacrifice of Isaac (Akedah). The Akedah (Gen. 22:1-13) has notably a
gnomic nature, and evokes the philosophical and etic reflections similar
to those intended by the book of Job and Ecclesiastes. Are there limits to
trust in God? Shall the believer expect reward for his/her pious life, and if
so, would it be an earthly or eternal reward? This is not the proper place to
discuss this issue in depth, so let us conclude with the general remark that
the Akedah looks like one of the biblical voices focused on philosophical
questions, along with other biblical wisdom texts. I would not consider
this tradition as having originated in popular thought, so thus not based on
folkloristic stories (for example the Akedah does not reflect the original
aetiology for sacrifice), but rather it is a reflection of the Jewish elites of
the late Hellenistic period (second–first century BCE), an expression of
their intellectual, highly sophisticated interest.
The key element in the Abraham story is therefore the covenant
between God and Abraham, and his (expected, and promised) offspring.
Abraham – in contrast e.g. to Jacob – is deprived of any distinctive aspects
linking him with any particular group. Abraham is a figure pure in nature,
and as such more of a model figure than one that is concrete. As a matter
of fact, the intended aspect of Abraham may be interpreted in the light of
the well-defined aspects of his sons: Ishmael, standing for Ishmaelites,
Isaac, personifying Jews, and sons born by Keturah (Gen. 25:1-4) openly
52 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

linked with the inhabitants of Arabia. As the offspring of Abraham clearly

indicates certain peoples, of clear and distinctive nature and dwellings,
Abraham undoubtedly deserves the name of the ecumenical patriarch
(de Pury 2000) as well as the pan-ethnic patriarch.
In the Abraham story, or precisely in the Isaac-Ishmael part, the narrative
is far from clear and the plot is not straightforward. If one expected here a
typical mythical narrative about the origins of the group, written down by
those claiming to be descendants of Isaac, then some distinctive aspects
of Isaac should be expected. In some cases the narrative fulfils the need
to describe the ‘our’ hero in the typical way: the child is born in unusual
conditions, as the result of God’s will, which is a well-known literary
device to mark the unparalleled hero (cf. Moses, Exod. 2:1-10; Samson,
Judg. 13:2-24; Jesus, Matt. 2:1-16). The miraculous origin of Isaac is also
strengthened by the Akedah story, i.e. the miracle of Isaac’s life being
saved by the direct intervention of God. These aspects of Isaac clearly
show his particular role in the narratives, allowing the audience to identify
with Isaac as their mythic forefather.
On the other hand, Isaac is Abraham’s younger son. In the entire
narrative it is the older son – Ishmael – who is treated by Abraham as
legal and a full-fledged son. Despite the fact that Hagar is called Sarah’s
slave, which may indicate the lower status of her son, the biblical texts
(e.g. Heger 2014: 113–24), as well as numerous attestations from extra-
biblical sources (Ze’evi 2000), indicate that a son born by the wife’s slave
get the status equal to legal sons. It is even openly stated that Abraham did
not want to treat Ishmael as the lesser son (Gen. 21:9-11). Moreover, the
Egyptian identity of Hagar may indicate an ambivalent meaning: in the
light of the xenophobic view every stranger is bad, but on the other hand,
in confronting the historical realities, regardless of the period, Egyptian
origins may have pointed to the elevated economic and political position
of Ishmael. Casting out Hagar and Ishmael comes about because of the
will of jealous Sarah, and is initially conducted in spite of Abraham’s
objections (Gen. 21:8-21). The text openly states that ‘God was with the
boy [Ishmael], and he grew up’ (Gen. 21:20) and Abraham wanted the
best for his first-born son: ‘And Abraham said to God, “O that Ishmael
might live in your sight!” ’ (Gen. 17:18). The legal status of Ishmael, not
lower than Isaac’s, can be seen at the scene of Abraham’s burial, where
both brothers act hand in hand (Gen. 25:9).
Therefore, what was the purpose of complicating the plot and instead
of making Isaac the apparently chosen hero, making Ishmael the first-born
son of Abraham?
 Niesiołowski-Spanò The Abraham and Esau-Jacob Stories 53

It looks like the ecumenical Abraham, and the semi-equal positions

of Isaac and Ishmael, serve to declare the open attitude of the Jewish
community (Isaac) toward these people who may be understood as the
descendants of Ishmael, Hagar and Keturah. If such was the case, this
sophisticated, and in a way twisted narrative device, might have served a
few different purposes. Firstly, it might have served as inter-propaganda
directed to members of the Jewish community, with the statement about
Arabs, who shall not be treated as aliens. This may have served certain
political needs. Secondly, the Abraham-Isaac-Ishmael tradition might
have been addressed to the Arab population with the same friendly
information. In this case, we would be dealing with the declaration of
friendship, which in the reality of politics might have been understood as
an invitation toward the Arab population to join the political unity of the
Jews.
One may ask the question about the circumstances in which both
scenarios might have been possible. Up for consideration – I assume –
are only cases when the Jews might have favoured an improvement in
relations with the Arabs. Did this condition occur in the period of the
Judahite monarchy (e.g. 7th–6th century BCE), when the Arab population
inhabited southern regions of Judah, and territories South and South-East
of it? I see no clear reasons why the state of Judah, with its function-
aries, state and royal ideology, its formal ways of extending political and
fiscal control over inhabitants, and its system of military service, had to
call for any improvements in the relations between Judahites and Arabs.
The state had enough means by which keep the inhabitants loyal (in this
regard see e.g.: Niesiołowski-Spanò 2016). In the past, during the stateless
period in the history of the Jews – a time when the consolidating means
of the state obviously did not exist – there perhaps was a motivation
to convince populations of different origins and cultures, including the
neighbouring Arabs, to reassess and improve relations, or even to include
them within the community. One may assume that as the community was
not guaranteed by the state, it was possible to use other tools for extending
this ‘imagined community’.1
Whatever the most plausible period when the Abraham-Isaac-Ishmael
story might have been used for propagandistic purposes, aiming to better
the relationships between the Jews and the Arabs, one should ask the
question whether the patriarchal figures were invented out of nothing or
adopted out of the older ‘proto-historical’ tradition? In offering such stark
contrast between the invented heroes and traditional figures, I am inclined

1. This is an intended allusion to Benedict Anderson’s book (1983).

54 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

to opt for the second. The most efficient propaganda is usually constructed
on the basis of plausible elements which do not appear coarse or brazen.
Furthermore, having traditional, popular and well-known figures involved
in the new propagandistic content would strengthen the significance of the
message. It would even authenticate the story.
On the other hand, one cannot overlook the fact that Abraham and
his sons are almost absent from the Hebrew Bible outside Genesis. This
fact does not, naturally, allow us to rule out the possibility of the early
existence of the tradition of Abraham, but it may suggest the sudden,
and even momentous ‘career’ of this figure. It is certainly not accidental
that Abraham became very popular in New Testament literature as the
patriarch who made a covenant with God (in contrast to Moses, the
law-giver). I suppose it is mostly because Abraham represents the person
included in God’s community. Although he was born outside of it, he was
included in the group of the chosen ones. Moses and Jacob-Israel were
born as members of the community, bound by the covenant with God.
This may explain why the New Testament authors made extensive usage
of this figure in their writings.

***
The second story to be dealt with here is typically etiological in nature.
Two figures, whose names directly link them to certain populations,
Jacob/Israel-the Jews and Esau/Edom-the Idumaeans (and earlier the
Edomites), set their bilateral relationships (Gen. 25:23): ‘And the Lord
said to her, “Two nations are in your womb, and two peoples born of you
shall be divided; the one shall be stronger than the other, the elder shall
serve the younger” ’. This brotherhood clearly evokes the relation between
another pair: Isaac-Ishmael. In both cases, the ‘other’ brother – Ishmael
and Esau – is a first-born son, with the apparent favour of their fathers
(Gen. 21:10-11; 25:28).
The relationship between Esau and Jacob, the selling of Esau’s birth-
right, in a way a kind of cheating, and reconciliation between the two
brothers, seems to construct the centre of the narrative about Isaac’s sons.
Here also the reader may be surprised as to why ‘our’ hero – Jacob – is not
the better of the two from the very beginning of the story. Such a literary
device was used a few chapters later to underline the position of Jacob’s
chosen sons. In the story about Jacob’s sons, the reader knows from the
beginning what the attitude of the father is toward his sons, and what the
hierarchy and mutual relations are between them. In the case of the story
of Jacob-Israel his non-dominant position at the beginning of the story
 Niesiołowski-Spanò The Abraham and Esau-Jacob Stories 55

cannot be accidental. Jacob identifies, therefore, as the eponymic hero par

excellence, evoking imagined community. Hence, Israel is to be equated
with Jacob and does not refer to the kingdom of Samaria, but to the virtual
and literary entity constructed on the mythical basis of common origins.
Therefore, why is Jacob not simply the only child, and as one of two
brothers, why is he not the more important one from the very beginning?
There are – in my opinion – two ways to explain this issue. According
to one explanation, we have to do here with a literary device of
diminishing the importance of the protagonist, allowing his subsequent
exaltation. Such a narrative tool was used in the Joseph story, whose poor
faith contradicts with his sudden success at the Pharaoh’s court (Gen. 37
and Gen. 41:37-57). Similarly, Gideon presents himself as the youngest
son of his father, originating from within the weakest clan of his tribe
(Judg. 6:15), but this does not preclude his possessing servants (Judg.
6:27), and having a royal-like nature (Judg. 8:22-26). The same device
was used to signal the humble origins of David (1 Sam. 16:4-13), which
– by contrast – underscores the later David’s career. Yet if this device has
been used in the Jacob story, a clear and more straightforward message
should be expected. Being the younger twin-brother makes much less of
an impact than being the youngest out of many. Still, the entire story does
not represent the clear Rocky Balboa-like scenario. Jacob depicted in
Genesis is not the hero who falls, and loses, to rise to a triumphal victory.
He is rather described as the lucky dodger. The stories about Jacob strug-
gling with an angel, staying at Laban’s house and especially competing
with his brother do not represent the typical plot of the falling-and-rising
hero. The Jacob story – in the light of the narrative devices used in similar
cases – does not represent a simple and straightforward account.
The second way to explain the narrative structure would be based
on emphasising the appreciation of the second brother – Esau. Readers
obviously sympathise with Jacob, yet it might have been Esau who was
intended to be the central figure of this part of the story. Therefore, the
story allows the interplay of the protagonists’ successes and failures. In
this way, the narrative’s attractiveness and the intellectual value of the
story are proportionally higher since the story is less straightforward. The
demanding reader needed more sophisticated accounts.
Special attention must be paid not only to the account about the broth-
ers’ relationship in Genesis, but also in the version preserved in Jubilees.
Interestingly, the account in Jubilees in general follows the Jacob-Esau
story from Genesis, with one important exception: the Jacob-Esau story
ends in Genesis, rather surprisingly, with the brothers’ reconciliation
56 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

(pointing to the generosity of Esau versus Jacob being a lucky imposter),

while in Jubilees the tension culminates with the violent struggle between
Esau and his clan and Jacob and his sons, fighting in the name of the
whole of Israel. The version in Jubilees seems to be better-constructed in
regard to the narrative’s dynamics: Jacob’s fears, leading him to protect
the most beloved ones by placing them at the end of the caravan (Gen.
33:1-3), does not find a logical culmination in Genesis. The canonical
version, in which two brothers hug one another (Gen. 33:4), is dramaturgi-
cally less natural than the version in Jubilees, where the tension ends with
war as the narrative climax:

And afterward Judah spoke to Jacob, his father, and he said to him, ‘O
father, stretch your bow and shoot your arrows and strike down the enemy
and kill the adversary. And may you have might because we will not kill
your brother (inasmuch as) he is near to you and with us he is like you with
respect to honor’. And then when Jacob drew his bow and shot an arrow
and stuck Esau, his brother, on his right breast, he killed him. (Jub. 38:1-3)

Furthermore, this conflict is openly depicted in Jubilees as the conflict

between two populations:

And Jacob’s sons besieged the children of Esau on the mountain of Seir. And
they bowed down their necks to become servants of the children of Jacob.
(…) And Jacob sent notice to his sons to make peace. And they made peace
with them and placed a yoke of servitude upon them so they might pay
tribute to Jacob and his sons always. And they continued paying tribute to
Jacob until the day that he went down to Egypt. And the children of Edom
have not ceased from the yoke of servitude, which the twelve sons of Jacob
ordered upon them until today. (Jub. 38:10. 12-14) (trans. O. S. Wintermute)

General scholarly consensus points to the late second century BCE as

the date of Jubilees, which is interpreted as depending on the canonical
Genesis. In this light the key difference between the two texts of the
Jacob-Esau story may suggest two phenomena. Firstly, in Maccabean
Judah there was a group which did not accept the peaceful message
presented in Genesis, interpreted as the postulate of friendly relation-
ships between the Jews and the Idumaeans. Their view, presented in
Jubilees, postulated instead a violent conquest of Idumaea, leading to
‘a yoke of servitude upon them so they might pay tribute to Jacob and
his sons always’. According to Jubilees the sons of Esau are strangers to
Israel, and deserve to be conquered and subdued (Mendels 1987: 57–8).
Secondly, despite very close narrative similarities between the two texts,
 Niesiołowski-Spanò The Abraham and Esau-Jacob Stories 57

the differences in the conclusions of the Jacob-Esau story are striking.

Hence, one may argue that this deviation in narratives was possible not
only because of a difference of worldviews, but also because the canonical
version was not as stable as might be assumed. While a large majority of
Jubilees’ narrative faithfully agrees with Genesis, divergences in narrative
plot do occur, albeit rarely. The version in Genesis might have been
challenged by a different frame of reference, which may suggest that the
Genesis version did not have the status of unchangeable truth-text. The
unstable status of the narrative may suggest a recent date. The Genesis
version of the Jacob-Esau story was not an old, covered with patina, holy,
unquestionable text, but rather a recently elaborated version which might
have been rejected and transformed by Jubilees. The author of the Genesis
version of the Jacob-Esau story inserted there his worldview and his
agenda, while the author of Jubilees disregarded them and replaced them
with his own propagandistic demands – in place of brotherly love, he
placed the decisive military struggle, followed by the political domination
of the Jews over the Idumaeans.
The Jacob-Esau case, in an even more obvious way than in the case of
Abraham and his sons, points to the fact that we deal here with archaic,
legendary figures. It is impossible to establish when these legendary
figures were invented, or even when they were mentioned for the first time
(cf. i.e.: Deut. 32:9; 33:10; Pss. 14:7; 78; Isa. 9:7; Hos. 12:13). Suffice it
to say that – with a high degree of plausibility – they originated in the
pre-Hellenistic period. Thus Jacob and Esau may serve as good examples
of figures originated in the old mythical tradition, which were used in a
later time for propagandistic purposes.
Is it possible to establish the period when certain Jewish commu-
nities might have advocated the improvement of relationships with the
Idumaeans? Through the centuries the relations between the neighbours
were typically dominated by either violence or peaceful tension, as well as
ongoing competition. Border disputes and double-sided attacks on a local
scale were supplemented by wars, some of which are referred to in the
Hebrew Bible (cf. Isa. 34:9-13; 1 Sam. 14:47; 1 Kgs 11:15-16; Mal. 1:4).
This must have been typical of neighbourly relationships in the monarchic
period. It is, however, not impossible that in the monarchical period there
were people in Judah who might have postulated good relationships with
the Edomites. Such a postulation – for political reasons – must not have
been accepted by the state politicians, who plausibly preferred the solid
military-based relationship. If the idea of Jacob and Esau being kin origi-
nated in the monarchical period, it most likely remained on the fringe of
official state discourse.
58 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

The most obvious event that points to hostile relationships is remem-

bered in the guilt of Edom, that is, participation in the destruction of
Jerusalem, along with the Chaldeans (Lam. 4:21-22; Obadiah). Despite
the fact that Obadiah equates Esau with Edom and makes use of the notion
of an Esau-Jacob brotherhood, hardly anyone would have postulated good
relationships with Edomites in these times (cf. Ben Zvi 1996: 230–46).
The period after the fall of Jerusalem may provide the ideal circum-
stances for the possibility of improving relations with the Edomites.
The remnants of the Judahites, living under Chaldean rule, might have
considered the Edomites – the allies of the Babylonians – as appropriate
allies. Such a situation makes sense, but one could question whether the
Judahites, living on the poor remnants of the destroyed kingdom of Judah,
would still identify themselves with Jacob. In particular, would they be
inclined to identify with such a Jacob as is depicted in Genesis? One may
doubt that this would be the case.
During the Persian period one may expect the postulates about neigh-
bourly peaceful relations between the Idumaeans and Judahites. These
may have come down from the ruling Persian authority, aiming to calm
local tensions. The Persians wanted the local communities to obey the
local authorities, and any local conflict, especially close to the Egyptian
border, might weaken the strategic situation of Achaemenid Persia in
the region. In this light it could be concluded that any possibility of
improvement of the relationship between the Jews and the Idumaeans
expressed during the fifth or fourth century BCE first of all might serve
the strategic needs of the Persians (cf. Ben Zvi 2006; 2014: 26–7).
Nonetheless, one may posit the idea that the only well-dated attestation
about Jewish-Idumaeans relationships points to strong antagonism: the
effort to establish an administrative centre in Jerusalem, referred to in the
book of Nehemiah, which causes a hostile reaction from the neighbours,
including Geshem the Arab. Here also it would be difficult to accept the
Genesis-like version of Jacob as the ideal eponymic figure for the inhab-
itants of the province of Yehud.
On the other hand, while Ammonites and Moabites were not supposed
to be admitted to the assembly (Deut. 23:3-6), the Edomites and Egyptians
may have been permitted: ‘You shall not abhor any of the Edomites,
for they are your kin’ (Deut. 23:7). This statement may well fit with the
political realities of the fifth century BCE, when the Persians extended
their rule over Egypt, and Southern Judah and the region of the Northern
Negev became strategic zones for military reasons. This was the period
when the inhabitants of Yehud might have disregarded the people in
Transjordan, but were obliged to keep good relationships with the people
 Niesiołowski-Spanò The Abraham and Esau-Jacob Stories 59

of the South. This may have been the possible period when the idea of the
Jacob-Esau brotherhood was promoted (or invented) for political reasons
to ensure a safe border.
The historical data about the relationships between the Jews and the
Idumeans from the third century BCE are practically absent. The lack of
decisive data does not allow for unequivocal hypotheses; however, one
cannot rule out the possibility that proposals for peaceful relations with the
Idumaenas might have been expressed among the Jews. This hypothesis,
without any firm sources supporting it, has to remain, however, purely
speculative.
Jewish-Idumaean relations are better known only from the late
Maccabean period, when the Jews under the Hasmonaeans expanded their
state southward. Josephus reports the conquest of Idumaea, pointing to
the regions of Adora and Marisa (Ant. 13.257-258), followed by the note
about the religious conversion of the Idumaeans to Judaism. This account
sheds new light on relations between the neighbours. The possibility of
the normalization and improvement of relations between the Jews and the
Idumaeans might have been expressed as well in the imperialistic propa-
ganda before the conquest of John Hyrcanus, or after it.
All of the chronological scenarios mentioned above may find support
and respective followers. It is, however, difficult to deny that the political
expansions of John Hyrcanus provide a kind of ‘game-changer’ in relations
between the Jews and the Idumaeans. It is not difficult to imagine the
importance and relevance of the probability of friendly relations between
these two peoples, especially in the context of these military events during
their preparation and planning before as well as after the conquest. The
propagandistic and political value of the biblical story would thus be very
apparent.
I am inclined to say that the military expansion under John Hyrcanus
provides the most plausible historical context for the possibility of
improvement in the relations between the Jews and the Idumaeans,
turned into literary form in the story of Jacob and Esau’s reconciliation
(Niesiołowski-Spanò 2016: 198–200). According to this reconstruction,
the late Hasmonaean period would offer the political background for the
literary intervention of the older Jacob-Esau tradition (possibly originating
in the Persian period). This literary invention was based on the insertion of
the friendly peace-making motif, replacing the version of a military clash
between the brothers, which nonetheless was preserved in Jubilees.
The same period, c. 130–80 BCE, seems to be the suitable political
background for the creation of the international and ecumenical figure
of Abraham also. This was the period when Judaism was reshaped
60 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

considerably. The changes in ritual and the new position claimed by the
Scriptures provide an adequate context for that deep theological reflection.
In both cases, the changes in the Jacob-Esau story, from military conflict
to friendly peaceful reconciliation, as well as the new figure of Abraham,
father of all nations, fit well into the political situation of this period. The
turn of the second century and the beginning of the first century BCE was
the time when politics mixed heavily with theology, of which the latter
considerably influenced the rewriting of the Hebrew Bible.

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 T el l B a l ata (S h eche m ):
A n A r c h a eol og i c a l a nd H i stor i cal
R ea s s es s m en t

Hamdan Taha and Gerrit van der Kooij

Introduction

The establishment of the Tell Balata Archaeological Park was a major

project of the Palestinian Ministry of Tourism and Antiquities (MoTA),
especially its Department of Antiquities and Cultural Heritage (DACH).
This Park-project was designed and realized jointly with Leiden University
and the UNESCO-Ramallah office. Its goal was the management of this
significant heritage site of Tell Balata, identified with historical Shechem,
which was realized between 2010 and 2014. In terms of the management
aspect, a reassessment of the results of previous research was an essential
part of this in order to deal with the variety of ‘values’ attributed to the
site. The assessment concerned study of the excavations and their results,
not only those that had been published and documented in archives, but
also those currently visible on site. In terms of the latter, two field seasons
of clearance and excavation were included in 2010 and 2011. After assess-
ment the attributed values were used to guide the physical management
of the site, among these being preventive conservation, accessibility and
being ‘visitor friendly’, as well as ‘educating’ the public through the
dissemination of information in a variety of different ways.
Considering the context of the Festschrift, this contribution has its
focus on the values attributed to the site and the excavated remains of past
societies, in particular as a function of biblical and historical studies and
of archaeological research. For that reason a good starting point would be
the history of research and interpretations of Tell Balata, in order to better
understand what informs the management of the site.
 Taha and van der Kooij Tell Balata (Shechem) 63

History of Research: Goals and Results

Discovery of the Site

Archaeological interest in the site of Tell Balata, two kilometers ESE of
the old centre of Nablus, began when remains of a large ancient stone wall
were found there and identified as part of the historical city of ‘Shechem’.
On a fieldtrip in 1903, Thiersch and Hölscher observed the low tell-
mound with this wall at the western edge (‘ein Stück guter kyklopischer
Umfassungsmauer’). The site had already been indicated as ‘ruins’ on the
British map of The Survey of Western Palestine in 1882, lying close to
Joseph’s Tomb and Jacob’s Well. Already in 1697 Maundrell had noted
‘pieces of very thick wall’ there, but took it to be the eastern extension of
ancient Shechem, because for him, following Hieronymus, Nablus was
the site of the biblical city. This was common knowledge in the nineteenth
century, as discussed by Robinson (1856: 292). Thiersch, however, used
Eusebius’s view (and the Madaba map) to site the city east of (Roman)
Nablus. This apparent connection between a historical city and an archae-
ological site gave biblical scholars-archaeologists a reason to raise money
and explore the archaeological site through excavations.

Austrian-German-Dutch Excavations
The German Old Testament scholar and archaeologist, Ernst Sellin,
professor in Vienna, began excavations in 1913 and 1914. He hoped to
verify the identification of the site, and was also motivated not least by
the discovery in 1908 of a hoard of MB-Age metal tools and weapons.
He began by exposing more of the visible city wall and the NW city gate,
and by making test trenches. When based in Berlin, Sellin continued to
oversee large-scale excavations in 1926, 1927 (both with the Dutch Old
Testament scholar and Assyriologist Franz Böhl), and 1928 (directed by
the archaeologist Gabriel Welter). German fieldwork ended in 1934.
The excavation method consisted of two principles: vertical trenching
to detect strata and building remains, and a horizontal method that was
used to expose buildings completely and give ‘contemporary’ contexts to
objects found in soil-layers, thus supposedly giving a synchronic picture
of ancient inhabitants’ lives (a method preferred by Welter and Böhl).
The digging was roughly done, with little attention paid to non-stone
details of architecture and stratigraphy, a result of the limited goals and
questions asked at that time. Consequently the results were chronologi-
cally and functionally highly vulnerable for all sorts of interpretation and
manipulation.
64 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

Funding came from German public and religious sources, from

American Methodists (Bishop Du Bose for 1926) with religious motives
(the ruined buildings being regarded as a setting for biblical stories), and
from the Dutch Sichem-comité which was organized by Böhl and had
biblical-historical goals – one of the main goals being ‘how the Israel-
tribes obtained a firm footing in Canaan for the first time’, considering
the Abimelech story and the ‘entrance of the “Lea-tribes” from the East’.
Like Sellin, Böhl optimistically expected ‘the answer from the ruins of
the old city of Shechem’ (Böhl 1926: 7). Böhl was also interested in the
fourteenth-century BCE rebellious person Labaya, who features in the
Amarna Letters as king of Shikmu.
Sellin wrote his preliminary excavation reports in a descriptive way
and with archaeological interpretations. The few historical or biblical
references included were for dating purposes, e.g. the identification of the
large temple of Tell Balata with the biblical temple of Shechem (the house
of El-berith) that was destroyed by Abimelech (Sellin 1926: 311, 316).
At this time, archaeological outcomes served historical research, as
can be seen in this quote from Böhl (1927: 6): in biblical studies ‘we are
looking for the facts, the historical background… How did the people
live in this remote past, and what did they experience? Archaeological
excavations provide building materials towards this synthesis.’ However,
some archaeologists, for example Peter Thomsen in Tübingen, preferred
a separation of archaeological sources from written ones, and an
‘Archaeology of Palestine’ that does not favour a specific period or ethnic
label that is suggested through the written sources (Thomsen 1913: 1).

American Excavations
In 1956 George Ernest Wright and Bernard Anderson, theologians at
McCormick Theological Seminary and Drew University respectively,
began field campaigns to continue Sellin’s work at the site. Wright’s
specialism in pottery chronology and his interest in stratigraphy, together
with the fact that he was assisted by three foremen trained at Kenyon’s Tell
es-Sultan excavations, led to the expectation that the additional excava-
tions he would carry out would be more precise about dating the exposed
ruins. The purpose of the dating was to connect the history of the site with
biblical and secular histories (and vice-versa). Additional excavation at
the East Gate ‘gave’ precisely that dating result. The subsequent series of
excavations, involving many staff, continued until 1968, with a smaller
staff team remaining until 1973 to resolve some outstanding issues and
to prepare the site for conservation and visitors, in particular by William
Dever and the local foreman Nasr Diab Mansour.
 Taha and van der Kooij Tell Balata (Shechem) 65

The excavations used a much more stratigraphic analysis and record-

ing, especially evident in the work of some supervisors trained by
Kenyon, such as Larry Toombs and Joseph Callaway, but also Siegfried
Horn and a younger generation (e.g. Paul Lapp). This made it possible to
reconstruct a detailed relative chronology of the strata, supplemented by
Wright’s stylistic pottery analysis (apart from other artifacts), which it was
hoped would supply more absolute chronological points in the relative
time-line, and was expected to be less dependent on historical projections
on the site’s chronology.
It was not only the archaeological interpretations but also the historical
and biblical ones that were the subject of continuous staff discussions
(Campbell 2002: 5), and staff members published these ongoing debates
in a series of articles, following Wright’s 1965 influential volume
Shechem. Wright wanted to teach a lesson to those in ‘theological circles’
who claimed not to be interested in archaeology, and show them that they
should be ‘deeply concerned with history for religious reasons’, because
‘the recovery of the biblical world and the vast scholarly attempt to place
the Bible in its proper context in ancient history have revolutionized the
understanding and teaching of it…’ (Wright 1965: xvii).
In his book the archaeological conclusions are strongly combined
with historical and biblical events; for example, the phasing of the city’s
fortifications is connected with Egyptian destructions and biblical narrative
(phase 6: ‘The East Gate of Lab’ayu and Abimelech, ca. 1550–1100 B.C.’
[Wright 1965: 75–6]). In Chapter 8 Wright connects ‘the sacred area of
Shechem’ with an ‘early Biblical tradition’. The broad-room ‘temple 2’
(LB) is connected with Abimelech, with the migdal (fortress) and the
name ‘house of El-berith’ being identified as temples 1 and 2 respectively.
Wright also identified a temenos and temple tradition just east of the
‘fortress temple’. This he dated to the eighteenth–seventeenth century
BCE, and named the ‘courtyard temples’ (Wright 1965: 110–22). Thus,
the biblical cultic tradition (the maqom) of Shechem, appearing in the
narratives about Abraham/Jacob, Joshua and Abimelech, including a
‘terebinth’ tree and a ‘great stone’ (‘pillar’), has been rediscovered in this
part of Tell Balata.
In the Iron Age remains of ‘Israelite Shechem’ Wright sees proof of a
state-system attributed to the reign of David and Solomon, with provinces
and districts. A role for Shechem is indicated by the ‘granary’ (rebuilt
‘temple 2’). According to biblical narrative Shechem was essential to the
successors of Solomon, ‘as the old religious centre of the north…the place
for solemn meeting and covenant with the new monarch’ (1965: 22).
66 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

However some younger staff members became very critical of Wright’s

claim that his results were scientific and not connected to his religious
choices. Paul Lapp, for example, wanted methodological rigor and trans-
parency, as described in this passage from Sherrard (2001: 163): ‘Rather
than determine what a given dig had to do with the Bible, develop an
interpretation of what that meant for faith, and push that thesis – Wright’s
methodology – Lapp explored various points of view to impress upon his
non-specialist audience the inability of archaeologists to provide incon-
trovertible proof of anything, only to advance hypotheses they felt best
fit the data and to welcome the development of better hypotheses’ (cf.
Lapp 1975: 56). Wright believed that the Old Testament had ‘an eternal
validity’; Israelite religion was unchanging, rather than the result of
historical development (Sherrard 2011: 134). This mono-vocal view on
biblical narrative, which had already been voiced in his contribution to
The Westminster Historical Atlas to the Bible concerning the value of the
conquest of Canaan, was completely opposed to Lapp’s view on society,
especially when it is used to justify Zionist colonization (cf. e.g. Sherrard
2011: 147),

We have thus seen that when Israel under Joshua entered Palestine during
the thirteenth century B.C., Canaanite civilization was weak and decaying.
It was small loss to the world when in parts of the Palestinian hill country
it was virtually annihilated. The purity and righteous holiness of the God of
Israel were now to be demonstrated against this background of pagan and
immoral religion. The intransigence and hostility of the religious leaders
of Israel toward the people and religion of Canaan is thus to be seen in its
true perspective. There could be no compromise between Jehova and Baal.
(Wright and Filson 1945: 36)

Interestingly the American team had also discussed the site’s ‘historical’
connections with local workers (cf. Ammons 1978: 121–23), for example
foreman Abu Isa (Nasr Diab), who also worked on the Park project in
2010 and clearly remembered the historical associations attributed to
the site by the American Expedition. Furthermore at least one copy of
Wright’s Shechem was still around and being read in the village in 2010.
However, as was usual at that time, the local community was not aware
of the archaeological nature of the expedition.

‘Maximalism and Minimalism’

Outside of the archaeological team, Karl Jaroš maximally combined Tell
Balata’s archaeological remains with biblical narrative, within the frame-
work of the classical source distinction J, E, P, D, etc. He did this in a
 Taha and van der Kooij Tell Balata (Shechem) 67

critical and dialectic way: first, he tried to establish the biblical picture of
‘the political and religious value of Shechem’ which would then be ‘useful
to connect with archaeological results, confront with the texts and finalize
the picture’ (1976: 67 n. 1). He accepted Thompson’s 1974 critical view
on the historicity of Abraham, but gave the ‘co-existence’ of Jacob/Israel
and Josef with Shechem ‘geschichtliche Glaubwürdigkeit’.
The theoretical background to Wright and Jaroš is the scholarly tradi-
tion of considering the biblical narratives as basically of historical value,
to be confirmed by results from archaeology as an ‘independent witness’.
This is an example of value-testing through ‘the balance of probability’
(in John Bright’s words). Claiming to use independent research tracks,
as Jaroš had, does not necessarily equate to independence from scholarly
bias.
Edward Campbell, assistant director among the excavation staff, was
placed in charge of the American Joint Project and its publications after
Wright’s death in 1974. Dealing with the general excavation results
(stratigraphy and architecture), he took some of the historical discussions
into consideration for the interpretation of the discovered remains, but
he could not accept Wright’s ‘courtyard temples’ of the MB IIB period
as temples, except to say that perhaps one building may have been a
‘sanctuary room of some sort’, and so he saw no relevance here for the
Abraham narratives (1993: 1349). However, in his more detailed final
excavation report (2002, with G. R. H. Wright) Campbell was more
cautious: ‘Text and archaeology may converse’ for interpretation (e.g.
2002: 232). But again later (2014) he concluded that a ‘paradigm shift’
had taken place since the Joint Expedition at Tell Balata, in terms of
interpretations and data collecting, with ‘a deepened mistrust of written
sources…’ Abraham no longer played a role and that of David–Solomon
became uncertain. On the other hand, Campbell referred to Lawrence
Stager, who adapted the archaeological dating of use of the migdal-temple
(built in MB IIC, ‘temple 1’) to fit the biblical story of the temple of El/
Ba‘al-berith and Abimelech being declared king at the ‘Oak-of-the-Pillar
in Shechem’ (Stager 2003: 28), ‘so well into Iron Age’, not accepting the
archaeological reconstruction by Bull of ‘temple 2’.

A New Paradigm in Archaeology and Historiography

In archaeology the old claim of arriving at independent historical results
had been challenged since the 1960s by ‘New Archaeology’ and other
theoretical movements (e.g. Lewis Binford and David Clarke), which
included social sciences and philosophy of science. This challenge has
sharpened archaeological data collecting and interpreting.
68 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

Historiographers noticed this change in the archaeological disci-

pline and so the difficulty of using archaeology. They also realized that
biblical studies needed additional input from sociological studies and the
philosophy of science, becoming aware of biases of biblical scholars that
were not only religious but also political. The reconstructions of historical
realities were taken as ‘constructions’ that had to be deconstructed as part
of the methodology.
After Thompson’s early impetus, most comprehensive studies with
this approach, published in the 1990s, were skeptical about distilling a
historical reality from the biblical narratives (the so-called ‘minimalistic’
approach). According to Niels Peter Lemche (1998) we have to regard
the Old Testament as a compilation of searching for self-identities, rather
than taking it as a text where real history is to be found. As is the case for
many populations, a largely created history is only useful for the group that
is serves (Lemche 1998: 148–56). This is referred to as the ‘crisis in Old
Testament studies’ (see e.g. Zwelling 2000; Long 2002; and Kofoed 2002).

Archaeology and Historiography as Factors

for Heritage Management

The Tell Balata Archaeological Park project was funded by the Dutch
Ministry of Foreign Affairs, in line with UNESCO and ICOMOS policies.
The Palestinian Ministry and Department (established in 1995 following
the Oslo agreement) had published, together with UNESCO, the Inventory
of Cultural and Natural Heritage Sites of Potential Outstanding Universal
Value in Palestine (Taha 2005). This inventory included Tell Balata as
part of the Old Town of Nablus and its Environs, because of the value of
the site (see below) and due to it being endangered by long-term neglect
and current population pressure (see site photo, Fig. 6.1). For the UN
(UNESCO), all archaeological and historical objects and materials are
public property in the hands of a Department of Antiquities that not only
has to take care of them, but also to develop public interest and respon-
sibility for them. For the first time in history Palestinian society became
responsible for its past, to study it and to teach it.
Thus the project was not only set within the domain of Archaeology,
a discipline meant to develop a view of the past scientifically, but also
in the domain of Heritage Management – a term designed by UNESCO
and ICOMOS – in order to provide sustainable care for items of archaeo-
logical and cultural heritage. The basic question of ‘who owns heritage?’
involves decolonization and focusing on the sustainable ‘economic and
social development’ of local population groups. This has a parallel with
 Taha and van der Kooij Tell Balata (Shechem) 69

recent developments in archaeology, which deal with the social factors

around current research and its biases in reconstructing the past (‘who
owns the past?’).
Heritage management has to take all possible stakeholders into account,
including their interests. This implies multi-vocality concerning heritage.
Multi-vocality is in opposition to mono-vocality, which means that one
stakeholder-group uses heritage (and an interpretation of it) for its own
benefit at the expense of other, underrepresented groups. Multi-vocality
gives importance to alternative interpretations of remains from the past.
This social aspect was further developed in the ICOMOS Ename-Charter
2008 and the ICOMOS Paris-Declaration 2011 (cf. Van den Dries and Van
der Linde 2014: 128–9, etc.).
Applying these international standards and procedures to the
Archaeological Park came under the direct responsibility of MoTA-DACH,
at that time represented by the first author. MoTA-DACH’s heritage
policy was indeed neutral/scientific, without preference towards specific
periods, historic population groups and religions, but instead accepting
the value of all historical periods represented at the site. The intrinsic
archaeological value of the site may be supplemented by written sources
if the identification of the site is successful. Some periods of Tell Balata
are hypothetically identified with historic Shechem/Shikmu and applied
as long as no alternative identification is preferred. The intrinsic archaeo-
logical value and view of the last phase of the MB- and LB-periods
may be supplemented by information from a ‘direct’ literary source, the
Amarna archive.

Figure 6.1 Tell Balata in its recent urban setting, after clearance in 2010,
view to south (courtesy Tell Balata Archaeological Park).
Figure 6.2 Tell Balata plan showing the excavated parts with numbered areas of
special attention. It also shows the location of the new entrance and the
‘Interpretation Center’ for visitors (courtesy Tell Balata Archaeological Park,
drawing based on G. R. H. Wright 2002: Ill. 2).
 Taha and van der Kooij Tell Balata (Shechem) 71

Effect on Archaeological Results

Tell Balata and its exposed remains have been studied by Western scholars
within a research framework of biblical studies (and connected religions)
and during a period within which biblical studies moved from optimism
towards skepticism with regard to finding a historical reality behind the
texts’ narratives. At the same time archaeology became a discipline that
tries to produce a defensible (and non-refutable) view of a historical
reality, independent from textual information, especially if the texts are
difficult to read as historical sources. For the Park project this meant a
‘deconstruction’ of many published constructions of the historical reality
of Tell Balata. This assessment was done partly by studying the archives
of Tell Balata fieldwork (in the Semitic Museum of Harvard University,
the Palestine Archaeological Museum in Jerusalem, the Museum of
Antiquities and the Netherlands Institute for the Near East, both in
Leiden), and by excavation in four areas (see site map, Fig. 6.2). The
archival documents and the excavations led to some alternative conclu-
sions of which three may be mentioned here (see Taha and van der Kooij
2014c for details):

• (Area 1) The German-excavated ‘marl’ over the ruins of the

acropolis is not the ‘covering’ thrown over the Hellenistic city after
destruction by Hyrcanus (Wright 2002: 184), but the disintegrated
remains of MB walls;
• (Areas 1 and 2) The Park excavations made clear, combined with
archived documents, that the lime-grit ramp was made during the
construction of ‘wall A’ (the probably MB IIC ‘cyclopean’ wall)
and kept as a ramp;
• (Area 14) New excavations made clear that the current chrono-
logical view about the LB and Iron I period has to change to one of
a direct transition from a fierce fire destruction of the town at the
end of LB to a new settlement at the beginning of Iron Age I (e.g.
dating of strata by two consecutive types of collared rim pithos).

Challenge of the Site’s Values

In modern site management all stakeholders of a specific heritage item
should be involved with its management, because each one would give
it a value (a key-word in this domain) that may be neglected by others,
sometimes intentionally. For the Tell Balata Archaeological Park project
this meant that all stakeholders should be identified and that the value
they attribute to the site should be described, understood and taken into
account. This would give them a connection with the site and a sense of
72 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

responsibility for it – all ingredients of sustainable management. With

some stakeholders this may generate economic benefits, for example
pilgrimage and general tourism.
In the framework of this article we may focus on three stakeholders:

• Archaeologists (researchers/the academic world): for them the site

and uncovered remains from the past have the value of research
objects aiming at knowledge about past societies. Depending on
their framework their results are more or less biased, but they
should be arrived at only after determining the intrinsic historic
value of the remains, and by using the best tested theory and
method of excavation and interpretation, which indicate the quality
of retrieval of materials and their contexts and interpretations.
DACH, directed by the first author, adopted this value (see Taha
and Van der Kooij 2014c).
• The local community may include several stakeholders, but
common values come from those living near to the site. Its use as
a stone quarry (during the 1914–18 war) or as a rubbish dump are
not in line with sustainable management, but other values are (to
some extent): as a park-oasis and children’s playground (kites) and
stage (plays) in a cramped urban setting; as a source of historical
knowledge and self-identity (including knowledge about interpre-
tations by the American Expedition, referred to above, such as the
role of Ibrahim); as a resource for local jobs and income through
tourism, etc. (see Taha and Van der Kooij 2011 for local value-
opinions, 2014a for heritage items, 2014b for education, and 2014d
for site management; see also Van den Dries and Van der Linde
2014). After the project, additional study of the local community
in relation to the site was made by MoTA and Leiden University,
directed by Jehad Yasin and Monique van den Dries, funded by the
EU (NEARCH-project).
• External visitors, tourists: Visitors vary greatly in their appre-
ciation of the site, be it for archaeological interest or for religious/
pilgrimage purposes, including religious experiences (see Van den
Dries and Van der Linde 2014: 158–9). Their views on history in
relation to Tell Balata vary between those of maximalists and of
minimalists. The religious tourists that come as groups often have
a maximalist’s view and tend to limit their visit to the large temple
and its forecourt as partly constructed for that purpose by the
American Joint Expedition.
 Taha and van der Kooij Tell Balata (Shechem) 73

Applying the focus of the Palestinian Department of Antiquities and

Cultural Heritage, the University of Leiden and UNESCO on education,
the Park project established an ‘Interpretation Centre’ to bring infor-
mation, discussions, and a variety of values to the attention of the local
visitor as well as those from further afield. This is supported by a meeting
room, museum room, small library, an introductory documentary movie
with 3D animations of the MB IIC city, a timeline and illustrative wall
pictures, as well as a corner for interactive searching. Project books and
leaflets are available for distribution and viewing.
These values also determine the way the site and its excavated remains
from the past are treated. To this end, the project has implemented the
following:

• Damage prevention, such as consolidations (also by the American

Joint Expedition), and partial restoration (to prevent collapse, etc.);
refilling of excavation pits and trenches if not needed for any other
‘value’; control of tree-roots and rain-water, etc.
• Measures to make the site accessible and ‘visitor friendly’ were: a
visitors trail with signs (together with the Guidebook) and fencing,
as well as information panels and leaflets; measures to make the
trail partially accessible for wheelchairs, etc.

The application of values may result in dilemmas: which stakeholder’s

value takes preference in these decisions? The answer is to be found in
the local community that has been disconnected from archaeological work
on the site, and in the missing stakeholder, namely, the ancient societies
represented in the site. They left behind this heritage, and it is the archae-
ologist who has the task of retrieving and interpreting the remains in such
a way that he or she comes closest to what that society was and did, and
defend that, in the same way that a solicitor would.

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 ‘ S ol om on ’ (S h a l m ane se r I I I )
a n d t h e E m erg en ce of J udah
a s a n I n d ep en d en t K i ngdom

Russell Gmirkin

In the past, under the scholarly approach now known as Maximalism,

the history of the monarchies of Judah and Israel relied heavily on an
uncritical use of the biblical text, especially Samuel–Kings, as a collection
of ancient texts purportedly containing reliable, near-contemporary data
about ancient times in the biblical lands. Thompson L. Thompson observed
that the biblical historiographical texts contained considerable story
elements and may have been written as late as the Persian or Hellenistic
eras, which rendered their usefulness as historical sources questionable.
The criticisms of the high regard for the historical value of biblical texts
under Maximalism by Thompson and other Minimalist voices of the
Copenhagen School necessitated a new approach to history-writing about
the monarchic period. One of Thompson’s most important contributions
to the study of ancient history and literature was to construct a history
of the southern Levant, including the Iron II kingdoms of Israel and
Judah, independent of the later literary and religious stories of the biblical
text. Thompson sought to write histories of the region relying solely on
archaeological, climatological, sociological and other non-literary data
(Thompson 1992, 1999).
In the current article I seek to assemble and analyze evidence relevant
to the emergence of the ancient kingdom of Judah and the construction of
Jerusalem’s temple using methods allied to those of Thompson, although
my efforts rely more heavily on documentary sources. First I survey and
discuss ancient contemporary Iron II inscriptional sources that touch on
political and religious developments in Judah, Israel and the nearby areas.
Next, in somewhat of a departure from traditional Minimalism – I would
 Gmirkin ‘Solomon’ (Shalmaneser III) and the Emergence of Judah 77

label myself a post-Maximalist – I discuss Iron II source documents cited

in the Hellenistic-era book of Kings, namely the Royal Annals of Israel
and Judah and the Acts of Solomon.
This article’s major conclusions may be summarized as follows:

• That the area later known as the kingdom of Judah was under direct
rule from Samaria from c. 875 to c. 735 BCE.
• That Yahweh worship was also centered at Samaria during this
early period and only appeared at Jerusalem as a result of Samarian
regional influences.
• That Judah only emerged as an independent political entity in the time
of Tiglath-pileser III under Jehoahaz of Judah in c. 735 BCE.
• That the Acts of Solomon originated in the Neo-Assyrian province
of Samaria to celebrate Shalmaneser III as legendary conqueror and
founder of an empire south of the Euphrates.
• That old local monumental architecture that the Acts of Solomon
attributed to Shalmaneser III, including Jerusalem’s temple, is best
understood as reflecting Omride building activities c. 875–850 BCE.

1. A Survey of Sources

In this investigation of the historical origins of the kingdom of Judah

and of Jerusalem’s temple, primary weight must be assigned to contem-
porary and near-contemporary1 references to Judah, its kings, and Yahweh
worship in inscriptional sources. I will open this article with a survey of
kings of Judah and Israel (Bit Humri, Samaria) in Assyrian, Babylonian
and (in one instance) Moabite inscriptions, noting in passing (but not
relying upon) their mention in biblical sources.2

Event Ruler Date Reference Biblical parallel

Ahab at Shalmaneser III 853 BCE LAR, I, §611 omitted
Qarqar
Jehu at Shalmaneser III 841 BCE LAR, I, §590, omitted
Ba’li-ra’si 672

1. By near-contemporary, I mean retrospective reference to earlier events in a

king’s reign published during that king’s lifetime. It goes without saying that all royal
monumental inscriptions served propagandistic purposes and in this light must be
read critically.
2. For a survey of inscriptions mentioning rulers of Judah and Israel, see Millard
1990: 271–3; Galil 1996: 153–4; Kelle 2002.
78 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

Omri + son Mesha c. 825 BCE Mesha Stele 2 Kgs 3:1-27

of Omri 4-11,18-19
Jehoash Adad-nirari III 803 BCE LAR, I, §739 omitted
tributary
Menahem Tiglath-pileser 738 BCE LAR, I, §772 2 Kgs 15:19-20
tributary III
Jehoahaz Tiglath-pileser c. 735 BCE LAR, I, §801 2 Kgs 16:7-10
tributary III
Pekah + Tiglath-pileser 732 BCE LAR, I, 2 Kgs 15:29-30
Hoshea III §815-816
Siege of Shalmaneser V 722 BCE Chronicle 2 Kgs 17:3–18:10
Samaria no.1, i.28
Fall of Sargon II 720 BCE LAR, I, §§55, omitted
Samaria 99
Judah Sargon II 720 BCE LAR, II, omitted
tributary §§137, 194
Hezekiah Sennacherib 701 BCE LAR, II, 2 Kgs 18:13;
tributary §§240, 312 19:19
Manasseh Esarhaddon 674 BCE ANET 3 291 omitted
tributary
Manasseh Assurbanipal 668 BCE LAR, II, §876 omitted
tributary
Jehoiachin Nebuchadnezzar 597 BCE ANET 3 308 2 Kgs 25:27
captive II
Fall of Nebuchadnezzar 586 BCE Chronicle 2 Kgs 24:10-16
Jerusalem II no. 5, r. 11-13

The most striking fact that emerges from this survey of inscriptional
sources is that while several ancient inscriptions refer to kings of Israel
starting with Omri and Ahab, there is no mention of Judah, as either a
kingdom or as a geographical region, prior to the annals and inscriptions
of Tiglath-pileser III (c. 735 BCE), Sargon II (720 BCE) and Sennacherib
(701 BCE). This leads to the hypothesis that the kingdom of Judah first
emerged under Jehoahaz (‘Ahaz’) in c. 735 BCE and was directly ruled
in earlier times from Samaria, likely beginning no later than the time of
Omri or Ahab.
A second striking fact also emerges from this survey of ancient sources,
namely that the names and biblical regnal data of the kings of Israel
starting with Omri and Ahab, and of Judah starting with Jehoahaz and
Hezekiah correspond closely in sequence and absolute chronology to the
kings of Israel and Judah as determined from contemporary ancient Near
 Gmirkin ‘Solomon’ (Shalmaneser III) and the Emergence of Judah 79

Eastern inscriptional sources. Although the books of Samuel–Kings were

composed in the early Hellenistic era,3 it seems clear that the regnal data
found in the Royal Annals of Judah and Israel in Kings traced back in
large part to authentic Iron II royal traditions, broadly corroborated from
the time of Omri in Israel and Jehoahaz in Judah to the fall of the northern
and southern kingdoms.4 Excerpts directly quoted from these two Iron II
sources (as opposed to other late and highly dubious content in Kings,
such as the novelistic Tales of the Prophets) may in some cases provide
useful information that supplements earlier inscriptions.

2. Inscriptional Sources

The key inscriptions for the period prior to Tiglath-pileser III and the first
mention of Judah as an independent kingdom are as follows.
The Kurkh Monolith Stele. The battle of Qarqar took place in 853
BCE between the armies of Shalmaneser III of Assyria and those of the
assembled members of the South Syrian league that had formed to prevent
Assyria from extending its territory south of the Euphrates. The third
member of the list of allies was Ahab of Israel who contributed 2,000
chariots and 10,000 soldiers.
The Black Obelisk. In the year 841 BCE, the Assyrian king Shalmaneser
III mounted another western offensive in the Hauran, details of which
were recorded on the Black Obelisk. This text mentions (and pictures)
Shalmaneser III receiving tribute from five kings of the southern Levant,
including Jehu the son of Omri.
The Mesha Stele. As a memorial inscription (Drinkard 1989), the
Mesha Stele was likely erected near the end of Mesha’s reign, sometime c.
840–800 BCE. The Mesha Stele mentions Israel as a prominent regional
power ruled by ‘Omri, king of Israel’ and his sons, who had conquered
and ruled parts of northern Moab east of the Dead Sea.

3. The Hellenistic-era date of Kings is demonstrated by the use of the Pentateuch

(c. 270 BCE) and Berossus (c. 280 BCE), notably at 2 Kgs 19:35-37, which draws
directly on a fragment of the Babyloniaca at Josephus, Ant. 10.20-21.
4. Tyrian royal annals quoted in Josephus (Apion 1.106-27) go back to c. 1000
BCE. It is likely that this palace literary genre was adopted in Omride Samaria,
along with the Phoenician script, as a result of close political and economic ties with
Phoenician (cf. 1 Kgs 16:31). These in turn were transmitted to Jerusalem as a result
of Omride rule in Jerusalem.
80 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

The Inscriptions at Kuntillet ‘Ajrud. The archaeological remains at

Kuntillet ‘Ajrud on an isolated hilltop in the eastern central Sinai consist
of a single layer of occupation (in two phases) dated to c. 820–750
BCE. The inscriptions at Kuntillet ‘Ajrud famously mentioned ‘Yahweh
of Teman and his Asherah’ and ‘Yahweh of Samaria and his Asherah’
(Meshel 2012: 3.1, 3.6, 3.9, 4.1.1), but omitted Jerusalem and its temple.
Al-Rimah Stele and Nimrud Slab. In a campaign of 805 or 803 BCE,
Adad-Nirari brought into subjection ‘Hatti, Amurru in its totality, Tyre,
Sidon, the land of [Bit]-Humri, Edom, Philistia, as far as the great sea of
the setting sun’ (Kelle 2002: 652). Jehoash of Bit-Humri was mentioned
as a tributary.
Neither Judah, Jerusalem or its temple was mentioned in any of these
sources. Their omission in the inscriptions at Kuntillet ‘Ajrud and in the
Nimrud Slab seem particularly telling.
Inscriptions mentioning Judah or Israel do not appear in the period c.
800–740 BCE. The land of Judah is first mentioned in connection with
campaigns of Tiglath-pileser III in the 730s BCE, when both Menahem
of Bit-Humri and Jehoahaz of Judah made tribute payments. Samaria’s
weakened military power after Tiglath-pileser conquered significant
territory in Galilee likely allowed Judah to emerge as an independent
kingdom c. 735 BCE (cf. Kelle 2002: 657). Earlier figures appeared in
the Royal Annals of Judah, but one may question their status as kings.5

3. Omri and the Inscriptions

An analysis of the inscriptional evidence from c. 850–800 BCE supports

the hypothesis that Judah was under direct rule from Samaria during this
period. The prominence of Israel under Omri and Ahab as a regional
power of the southern Levant has been extensively discussed elsewhere
(e.g. Finkelstein 2013: 83–117). In economic and political alliance with
the Phoenicians, Ahab’s Israel controlled the coastal route through the
(‘Solomonic’) chariot cities of Gezer and Megiddo, the northern inland
trade route through Hazor, portions of the King’s Highway from Gilead
through northern Moab (Dearman 1989: 159, 169), and the southern trade
to the Red Sea (Meshel 2012: 69). The zenith of Omride military power

5. It was not uncommon for the founder of a new dynasty to give themselves
a royal or divine ancestry to legitimize their reigns (Bienkowski and Millard 2000:
97 s.v. ‘Dynasty’). Compare Jehu, who was described as a usurper who ended the
Omride dynasty in the biblical text, but was called ‘Jehu the son of Omri’ in Assyrian
texts (LAR I, §§590, 672; 2 Kgs 9:2; Na’aman 1998).
 Gmirkin ‘Solomon’ (Shalmaneser III) and the Emergence of Judah 81

and territorial expansion was during the reign of Ahab (874–853 BCE),6
whose activities as a builder is attested by monumental architectural
remains at Samaria, Jezreel, Megiddo, Gezer, Hazor and elsewhere.
Omride interest in controlling trade routes in both the Transjordan and
the Negev in this period calls into question the existence of a kingdom
centered at Jerusalem in this period. The geographical territory of Judah
was adjacent to the hills of Ephraim and immediately opposite Ammon
and Moab. It is difficult to imagine a strong military power such as Israel
under Omri and Ahab having overlooked Judah, a relatively easy target
whose possession would consolidate Omride control of Ammon and
northern Moab as well as giving Samaria full control of the fertile Jericho
plain (cf. 1 Kgs 16:34). Omride rule of Jerusalem and Judah would also
have given Israel control of the trade route that ran south from Samaria
through Judah and the Negev to the Red Sea. Indeed, the royal estab-
lishment of the site of Kuntillet ‘Ajrud as a Samarian outpost indicated
to excavator Meshel that Israel must have ruled Judah during the period
Kuntillet ‘Ajrud was occupied (Meshel 2012: 69).
The above discussion points to the strong likelihood that Samaria ruled
Judah and Jerusalem during the period c. 875–800 BCE. Construction of
the Temple Mount’s palace and temple in the ninth century BCE, modeled
on the royal compounds on the artificially leveled acropolises at Samaria
and Jezreel (Wightman 1993: 29–31; Ussishkin 2003: 535; 2011: 18–21;
Finkelstein and Silberman 2006: 105), is best attributed to the Omrides
in line with their building activities (Omri at 1 Kgs 16:24, Ahab at 1 Kgs
22:39) well-documented in other cities such as Megiddo, Gezer and Hazor
(Finkelstein and Silberman 2006: 163–7, 275–81). Several of these cities
had a palace for the governor of the city. Jerusalem in the ninth century
BCE is best understood as another such Omride city with governor’s
palace and temple (like the temples at nearby ninth-century BCE Tel
Motza and eighth-century BCE Arad; cf. Garfinkel and Mumcuoglu 2016:
166–72).
Likewise, archaeological evidence for a ninth-century BCE temple
at Jerusalem admits an interpretation as a religious outpost of Samaria
rather than a local ‘Jewish’ (Judahite) construction. Inscriptional evidence
indicates that the territorial expansion of the Omrides was accompanied
by an exportation of Yahweh worship to regions conquered and controlled
by Samaria. Vessels of Yahweh seized by Mesha at Nebo (Mesha Stele
vv. 17-18) point to the establishment of Yahweh cult sites in territories

6. Ahab’s regnal dates are usually fixed by his death at the battle of Qarqar in
853 BCE.
82 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

under Omride rule. Indeed, an identification of Yahweh as the primary

national god of Omri’s Israel is suggested by the opposition of Yahweh
and Kemosh, the national god of Moab, in the Mesha Stele. The expor-
tation of Yahweh worship to regions under Samarian control is reinforced
by the discoveries at Kuntillet ‘Ajrud, which its excavator interpreted as a
Yahwistic cultic center occupied by priests and founded on royal authority
from Israel (Meshel 2012: 66–9).
Important finds at Kuntillet ‘Ajrud included pictorial representations of
the gods on pithoi and other scenes and decorative materials on plastered
walls along with priestly writings of a religious character that mention
Yahweh, Baal and El. The blessing inscriptions from Kuntillet ‘Ajrud
constitute the oldest Hebrew dedicatory inscriptions discovered to date.
The only place names mentioned were Teman and Samaria, which appear
within the phrases ‘Yahweh of Teman and his Asherah’ and ‘Yahweh
of Samaria and his Asherah’ (Meshel 2012: 3.1, 3.6, 3.9, 4.1.1). It is
striking that there is no mention of a ‘Yahweh of Jerusalem’. However,
the inscribed letters ‫( קר‬thought to be an abbreviation for qorban or
sacrifice) on a pithos made of Motza marl clay from the vicinity of
Jerusalem indicates that offerings collected at Motza or Jerusalem were
sent to supply the priests resident at Kuntillet ‘Ajrud (Meshel 2012: 67–8,
291–83). This suggests cultic activities that took place at Motza and
Jerusalem’s temples were under Samarian control. A temple to Yahweh
likely existed at Jerusalem in the ninth century BCE as a religious satellite
of ‘Yahweh of Samaria’ but was evidently neither significant nor well
known in its own right.
Based on comparisons with Kuntillet ‘Ajrud, one may hypothesize that
Jerusalem’s temple functioned primarily for the worship of Yahweh and his
Asherah, but also accommodated the worship of other ‘Canaanite’ deities
such as El and Baal (cf. Meshel 2012: 110, 131), and was likely operated
by priests from Samaria (cf. Meshel 2012: 67–8) who incidentally brought
with them the basics of temple scribal culture to Jerusalem (cf. Meshel
2012: 68, 102–3). The absence of cultic apparatus at Kuntillet ‘Ajrud,
perhaps removed when the site was abandoned (Meshel 2012: 68–9),
allows little inference about religious activities at Jerusalem, except to
suggest the existence of a bamah and massebot (cf. Meshel 2012: 66). But
a more complete picture may be provided by the Royal Annals of Judah
in 2 Kings 21–25, especially the description of Jerusalem’s temple under
Manasseh, which was likely taken from our Iron II source. This described
the house of Yahweh at Jerusalem as a high place with asherah and altars
where incense was burned to Baal and other gods. The comparison of
the religious practices at Jerusalem’s temple with those of ‘Ahab king
 Gmirkin ‘Solomon’ (Shalmaneser III) and the Emergence of Judah 83

of Israel’ (2 Kgs 21:3) seems particularly telling if this derived from the
Royal Annals of Judah, suggesting the existence of an Iron II tradition
that Jerusalem’s temple was founded by Ahab, and perhaps operated by
cultic personnel from Samaria like Kuntillet ‘Ajrud. One may take the
description of Jerusalem’s temple under Manasseh as typifying the cultic
practices of the Iron II temple at Jerusalem throughout its existence from
the time of Ahab to the destruction of Jerusalem’s temple in 586 BCE.
The evidence for Jerusalem’s temple as a cultural outpost of Samaria as
found in the Royal Annals of Judah scandalized the Hellenistic-era Jewish
authors of Kings, who viewed the polytheistic and idolatrous practices in
Jerusalem’s temple as having provoked the wrath of Yahweh and caused
the fall of Jerusalem. One may discount the accounts of Hezekiah and
Josiah as Yahwistic reformers as late, Hellenistic-era literary fictions in
which idealized Davidic kings briefly overthrew the apostate religious
practices imported there from Samaria.7

4. The Acts of Shalmaneser

Another Iron II source document cited in Kings was the Acts of Solomon.
Under the usual Maximalist interpretation, the description of Solomon’s
empire from the Euphrates to the River of Egypt is discounted as
legendary, while a limited rule at Jerusalem as Jewish king and builder of
Jerusalem’s temple c. 970–930 BCE is credited as historically possible.
This article takes a contrary position: that Solomon’s reign in Jerusalem is
the stuff of legend, and that his rule over vast territories in trans-Euphrates
is historical.
One can detect three literary strata of different dates in the account
in 1 Kings 3–11 that 1 Kgs 11:41 attributed to the Acts of Solomon.8

7. The earliest portrayal of the kings of Judah from Manasseh to Zedekiah (the ‘era
of Manasseh’) was uniformly negative in the books of Kings, Zephaniah, Jeremiah
and Ezekiel. The original negative portrayal of Josiah in 2 Kings 22–23 was later
revised and supplemented with a positive depiction of Josiah as reformer, as I argued
in Gmirkin 2011. I assigned 2 Kgs 21:1–22:1; 22:3-10, 12-17; 23:26–25:26 to the
earlier DtrM or Manasseh redaction, and restricted the later DtrJ or Josiah redaction
to 2 Kgs 22:2, 11, 18-20; 23:1-25. As so assigned, DtrJ materials display consistent
literary dependence on DtrM, while DtrM shows none on DtrJ, demonstrating the
chronological priority of DtrM. It is also apparent that 2 Kgs 22:2 originally contained
a negative formula that described Josiah as wicked like his forefathers, a formula also
found at 2 Kgs 21:20; 23:32, 37; 24:9, 19.
8. A detailed literary and historical analysis of 1 Kings 3–11 will eventually
appear in Berossus and Kings (forthcoming).
84 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

The oldest literary stratum of the Acts of Solomon (1 Kgs 4:26-28; 5:13-18;
10:28-29; cf. 2 Sam. 8; 10), which described campaigns and empire-
building in the vicinity of the Euphrates river, conforms closely to the
well-known genre of monumental inscription, recounting the impressive
deeds of a single king, published during his lifetime. The Acts of Solomon
contains many political references anachronistic prior to c. 840 BCE, and
arguably was based on the inscriptions of Shalmaneser III (likely the one
set up at Ba’li-Ra-sa near Mount Carmel in 841 BCE, the oldest royal
monumental inscription of any king in the region; cf. Drinkard 1989:
140–54).9 The description of Solomon in this literary stratum closely
resembles the aggrandized picture of Shalmaneser III in Assyrian inscrip-
tions: his vast empire, his chariot forces, his harems, and his acquisition
of chariots and horses from Egypt, Que, Aram and the Neo-Hittite states
at the battle of Qarqar in 853 BCE.10 Shalmaneser appeared as ‫ שלמו‬in the
biblical text (Hos. 10:14), very close to the spelling of Solomon as ‫שלמה‬
(LXX Σολομών) in 1 Kings 3–11. The appearance of Shalmaneser III in
the biblical text as a mighty king who ruled the territories south of the
Euphrates is easily accounted for as a local tradition among the Assyrian
ruling class in the later province of Samerina.

5. The Neo-Assyrian Edition of the Acts of Shalmaneser

The second literary stratum of the Acts of Solomon (1 Kgs 4:20-28;

6:1-10, 14-38; 7:1-51; 9:15-24, 26-28; 10:1-27; 11:14-25), in which Shal-
maneser III (Solomon) was portrayed as a great builder of monumental
works of architecture in the southern Levant, has several chronological
indicators pointing to the time of Assyrian rule over Samerina, perhaps
as late as the time of Sennacherib. These include the correspondence of
Solomon’s territorial holdings with Assyrian provinces in the southern
Levant (1 Kgs 4:7-19, in which Assyrian provincial centers such as
Megiddo, Gezer and Gilead figure prominently, but no sites from Judah
appear); the prominence of trade with Arabia;11 and the affinities of the

9. The identity of Solomon and Shalmaneser III was first suggested by Greg
Doudna in private conversation c. 2000.
10. The Kurkh Monolith lists the first five members of the South Syrian league as
Adad-’idri of Aram, Irhuleni of Hamath (named as a Hittite city at LAR, II, §§55, 92),
Ahab of Israel, and the rulers of Guea (Que) and Musri (Egypt; cf. Tadmor 1961; Ash
1999: 119 n. 64). The mention of these same countries in connection with Solomon’s
horses and chariots at 1 Kgs 10:29-29 is striking.
11. References to the Arabs in Assyrian records begin in the eighth century BCE
(LAR, I, §§772, 778, 817; LAR, II, §§18, 55).
 Gmirkin ‘Solomon’ (Shalmaneser III) and the Emergence of Judah 85

Solomon building account with Sennacherib’s Palace Without Rival

(discussed below). The monumental architecture attributed to Solomon
in this later literary strata appears to reflect actual constructions under
King Ahab of Bit Omri, building projects which included the monumental
gates and fortifications at the chariot cities of Megiddo, Gezer and Hazor
(Finkelstein and Silberman 2006: 163–7, 275–81; cf. 1 Kgs 9:15-19), and
the temple of Yahweh and other impressive buildings at Jerusalem, which
was arguably ruled from Samaria in earlier times. The Acts of Solomon
is best understood as a Neo-Assyrian composition that incorporated
translations of the cuneiform inscription at Ba’li-Ra’si into Aramaic and
contained amplifications that included legendary accounts of international
relations and his regional achievements as builder. This Neo-Assyrian
text, authored and locally preserved by the educated ruling class of Neo-
Assyrian Samerina, celebrated Shalmaneser III as the first great Assyrian
king whose rule extended to this region.

6. Jerusalem’s Temple as Solomonic Foundation

It is widely accepted that the accounts of Solomon’s royal residence and

temple in Jerusalem at 1 Kings 5–8 broadly conform to ancient Near
Eastern building accounts (Hurowitz 1992: 106–310). The architectural
details generally correspond to building features at various tenth- to
eighth-century BCE sites in Syria and Israel, pointing to an authentic
source underlying the biblical description of the temple in the Iron II
period.12 Most recently, the discovery of two small clay models of temples
at Khirbet Qaiyafa, datable to the tenth century BCE, and sharing some
features of the description of Solomon’s residence and temple, has been
touted as a triumph of Maximalism, showing that the biblical account
derives from an authentic ancient Jewish source on Solomon’s building
activities (Garfinkel and Mumcuoglu 2016: 37–69).
The building account of the temple follows Assyrian rather than
Neo-Babylonian patterns, showing that this account predated the fall of
Nineveh in 614 BCE (Hurowitz 1992: 313–16). The prominent Assyrian
influences on the biblical description of the temple point specifically
to 1 Kgs 5:13–7:51 as originally a seventh-century BCE composition
of Assyrian authorship. Many details in the description of Solomon’s
temple directly parallel Sennacherib’s description of his Palace Without
Rival in inscriptions dating to 694 BCE. Parallels in the two building
accounts include: the emphasized use of forced labor for quarry work

12. Archaeological parallels are conveniently assembled at Dever 2001: 144–57.

86 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

(1 Kgs 5:15; cf. LAR, II, §§364, 383, 407); description of quarrying and
hewing of stone (1 Kgs 5:17-18; 6:7; LAR, II, §§390, 408, 411, 421, 426),
felling of cedar trees from Syria (1 Kgs 5:6, 14, 18; cf. LAR, II, §§366,
388, 392, 410–11, 426, 430), the difficult transport of building materials,
partially by raft (1 Kgs 5:9; cf. LAR, II, §§366, 384, 408); the description
of building dimensions and other architectural features (1 Kgs 6:2-9,
15-38; 7:1-12; cf. LAR, II, §§365, 372, 384, 388, 392, 410, 413, 426, 430,
432); dedication ceremonies accompanied by sacrifices (1 Kgs 8:63-65;
cf. LAR, II, §§370, 416); the decorative motif of lions, bulls and cows
(1 Kgs 7:25, 27, 36, 43; cf. LAR, II, §§390–92, 411–13), the twelve lion
sculptures leading to Solomon’s throne, six on a side (1 Kgs 10:18-20),
and the twelve lion colossi similarly arranged in pairs at the entrances to
Sennacherib’s palace (LAR, II, §391); ‘a portico, patterned after a Hittite
(Syrian) palace, which they call in the Amorite tongue a bît-hilâni’ (LAR,
II, §§366, 425) like that of Solomon’s temple (1 Kgs 6:3; 7:6-8, 12, 21; cf.
Ussishkin 1966: 174–9); and innovative bronze-working as an expression
of royal wisdom and cunning (LAR, II, §§407, 412; cf. 1 Kgs 7:13-14).
The close correspondence between Sennacherib’s building account of
Solomon’s temple and palace suggests that the biblical authors were not
only broadly familiar with the literary conventions of Mesopotamian
building accounts but had actually read the cuneiform inscriptions at
Sennacherib’s Palace Without Rival. One may posit Assyrian authorship
of the building account in Kings by educated Assyrian or Babylonian
scribes from Samerina who travelled back to Nineveh for the international
celebrations associated with the Palace Without Rival (LAR, II, §§367,
394, 413, 424; cf. Russell 1991: 260–2).
Although the Acts of Solomon credited Shalmaneser III with a build­ing
program of ancient monumental architecture that included chariot cities
at Gezer, Megiddo and Hazor, and Jerusalem’s temple and palace, these
fortresses and impressive buildings of an earlier era are best understood
as historically having been constructed by Ahab of Israel. Archaeological
evidence pointing to correlations between the temple building account
and temple architecture of the tenth to eighth centuries BCE in the south-
ern Levant fully supports the construction of Jerusalem’s temple by Ahab
rather than a construction by a local king of Judah (much less Solomon).
The attribution of Jerusalem’s temple and other ancient monumental
constructions in the southern Levant to the legendary ruler Shalmaneser
III (Solomon) was an expression of local patriotic pride among the
Mesopotamian (Assyrian and Babylonian) ruling class of Neo-Assyrian
Samerina.
 Gmirkin ‘Solomon’ (Shalmaneser III) and the Emergence of Judah 87

7. The Survival of Neo-Assyrian Samarian Literary Traditions

With the fall of Samaria and the deportation of local Israelite elites,
Assyrian officials and Babylonian colonists became the new educated
ruling class elites of Neo-Assyrian Samerina. According to prevailing
modern scholarly theories, these Mesopotamian educated elites were
gradually assimilated by intermarriage and cultural intermixing into the
dominant Yahweh-worshipping local Samaritan culture and had effec-
tively disappeared by Persian and Hellenistic times (Levin 2013). This
seems to be based on little more than assumption and is contradicted
by network theory, which supports a strong persistence of educated and
ruling class elites guarding their privileged positions and intellectual tradi-
tions down through time (cf. Popović 2014). Although Mesopotamians in
Samaria eventually adopted the local worship of Yahweh (cf. 2 Kgs 17:24-
34), they still remained a strong intellectual and cultural force. Several
lines of evidence point to Babylonian and Assyrian traditions having
been preserved intact by educated ruling class elites in Samaria across
the Neo-Babylonian and Persian eras into the early Hellenistic era, where
these same elites exerted a strong literary influence on the biblical texts of
Genesis–Kings. Indications of local Mesopotamian traditions infiltrating
the Pentateuch include the following:

• A significant body of Babylonian traditions set in primordial times

(Gen. 1–11).
• Strong traditions about their ancestors originally having lived in
Mesopotamia and later having emigrated to the southern Levant.
Both Jews and Israelites were autochthonous people of the southern
Levant, but the Babylonians resettled in Neo-Assyrian Samerina
did in fact come from Chaldea, as Genesis narrates.
• Mesopotamian calendrical and legal traditions, including provi-
sions taken from the Law of Hammurabi and other Old Babylonian
and Middle Assyrian law collections (Gmirkin 2017: 144, 175 n.
366).

There is thus no need to invoke Jewish exiles returning from Babylonia to

account for pervasive Mesopotamian influences on the Pentateuch, when
such influences are more economically and persuasively explained as
cultural artifacts preserved by the Babylonian and Assyrian educated elites
who still exerted a persistent influence in Hellenistic-era Samaria. These
educated Mesopotamian ruling class elites preserved and transmitted the
Acts of Solomon down to the Hellenistic era, much as local native Jewish
88 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

and Samaritan elites of royal descent transmitted the Royal Annals of

Judah and Israel. The authors and editors of the Jewish, Jerusalem-centric
books of Samuel and Kings found all three of these source documents
problematic. Although approving of the kings of Judah down to Hezekiah,
they rejected the entire line of northern kings as uniformly wicked, as well
as the line of later kings of Judah starting with Manasseh, in light of the
scandalous description of Jerusalem’s temple in the Royal Annals of Judah.
Lacking any tradition about a local Jewish construction of Jerusalem’s
ancient temple and palace, but finding a ready-made building account in
the Acts of Solomon preserved among the Samaritans, the Hellenistic-era
authors of Kings appropriated this Iron II source document and adapted it
to their own purposes, claiming that Solomon was the son of David, the
fictional heroic founder of Jerusalem. The final Hellenistic-era literary
stratus of the Acts of Solomon (1 Kgs 3; 4:1-6; 5:1-12; 6:11-13; 8; 9:1-14,
25; 11:1-13, 26-43; 12:1-31) incorporates artificial literary connections
between David and Solomon, and between Solomon and the later kings
of Judah and Israel. Additional connections were inserted into the earlier
novelistic David stories in 2 Samuel, where Shalmaneser III’s conquests
in trans-Euphrates were credited to David (2 Sam. 8 and 10; cf. Na’aman
2002: 207–10) and where David was only prevented by God’s prophet
Nathan from constructing Jerusalem’s temple and palace as he desired
(2 Sam. 7), leaving that task to Solomon. In this new literary tradition,
Solomon was transformed from a famous Assyrian ruler and Samaritan
hero to a Jewish king at Jerusalem, the son of David and ancestor of the
royal house of Judah. The artificial grafting of Solomon into the Jewish
tradition between David and Rehoboam had the effect of transferring
Neo-Assyrian traditions about Shalmaneser III from c. 850 BCE to c.
970–930 BCE, when Maximalists still seek archaeological evidence for
the mythical Jewish kingdom of Solomon.
A serious consideration of the Acts of Solomon as an Iron II source thus
leads to the complete deconstruction of the notion of a United Monarchy
under Jerusalem’s rule, but ironically confirms the existence of Solomon’s
kingdom. Solomonic building activities in Jerusalem, however, evaporate
under close inspection. It is likely that Jerusalem’s temple and the gover-
nor’s house that later served as palace were indeed ninth-century BCE
constructions, as broadly confirmed by archaeological evidence, but are
best attributed to Ahab, Jerusalem’s ruler at that time.
 Gmirkin ‘Solomon’ (Shalmaneser III) and the Emergence of Judah 89

Bibliography
Ash, P. S. (1999), David, Solomon and Egypt: A Reassessment, JSOTSup 297, Sheffield:
Sheffield Academic Press.
Bienkowski, P. and A. Millard, eds (2000), Dictionary of the Ancient Near East,
Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press.
Dearman, A. (1989), ‘Historical Reconstruction and the Mesha Inscription’, in A.
Dearman (ed.), Studies in the Mesha Inscription and Moab, 155–210, ABS 2, Atlanta:
Scholars Press.
Dever, W. G. (2001), What Did the Biblical Writers Know and When Did They Know It?
What Archaeology Can Tell Us about the Reality of Ancient Israel, Grand Rapids, MI:
Eerdmans.
Drinkard, J. (1989), ‘The Literary Genre of the Mesha Inscription’, in A Dearman (ed.),
Studies in the Mesha Inscription and Moab, 131–54, ABS 2, Atlanta: Scholars Press.
Finkelstein, I. (2013), The Forgotten Kingdom: The Archaeology and History of Northern
Israel, Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature.
Finkelstein, I. and N. A. Silberman (2006), David and Solomon: In Search of the Bible’s
Sacred Kings and the Roots of the Western Tradition, New York: Simon & Schuster.
Galil, G. (1996), The Chronology of the Kings of Israel and Judah, SHCANE 9, Leiden:
E. J. Brill.
Garfinkel, Y. and M. Mumcuoglu (2016), Solomon’s Temple and Palace: New Archaeo-
logical Discoveries, Jerusalem: Bible Lands Museum.
Gmirkin, R. (2011), ‘The Deuteronomistic History: A Hellenistic Era Composition in Two
Redactions’, unpublished paper presented at SBL.
Gmirkin, R. (2017), Plato and the Creation of the Hebrew Bible, CIS, London: Routledge.
Hurowitz, V. (1992), I Have Built You an Exalted House: Temple Building in the Bible
in Light of Mesopotamian and Northwest Semitic Writings, JSOTSup 115, Sheffield:
Sheffield Academic Press.
Kelle, B. (2002), ‘What’s in a Name? Neo-Assyrian Designations for the Northern
Kingdom and Their Implications for Israelite History and Biblical Interpretation’, JBL,
121: 639–66.
Levin, Y. (2013), ‘Bi-Directional Forced Deportations in the Neo-Assyrian Empire and the
Origins of the Samaritans: Colonialism and Hybridity’, ACR, 28: 217–40.
Luckenbill, D. D. (1926), Ancient Records of Assyrian and Babylonia, 2 vols, Chicago:
University of Chicago Press.
Meshel, Z. (2012), Kuntillet Ajrud (Horvat Teman): An Iron Age II Religious Site on the
Judah-Sinai Border, Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society.
Millard, A.R. (1990), ‘Israelite and Aramean History in the Light of Inscriptions’, Tyndale
Bulletin, 41: 261–75.
Na’aman, N. (1998), ‘Jehu Son of Omri: Legitimizing a Loyal Vassal by his Overlord’,
IEJ, 48: 236–8.
Na’aman, N. (2002), ‘In Search of Reality Behind the Account of David’s Wars with
Israel’s Neighbours’, IEJ, 52: 200–224.
Popović, M. (2014), ‘Networks of Scholars: The Transmission of Astronomical and
Astrological Learning between Babylonians, Greeks and Jews’, in J. Ben-Dov and S.
L. Sanders (eds), Ancient Jewish Sciences and the History of Knowledge in Second
Temple Literature, 153–93, New York: New York University Press.
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Russell, J. (1991), Sennacherib’s Palace Without Rival at Nineveh, Chicago: University

of Chicago Press.
Tadmor, H. (1961), ‘Que and Musri’, IEJ, 11: 143–50.
Thompson, T. L. (1992), Early History of the Israelite People: From the Written and
Archeological Sources, SHANE 4, Leiden: E. J. Brill.
Thompson, T. L. (1999), The Bible in History: How Writers Create a Past, London:
Pimlico.
Ussishkin, D. (1996), ‘King Solomon’s Palace and Building in Megiddo’, IEJ, 16: 174–9.
Ussishkin, D. (2003), ‘Jerusalem as a Royal and Cultic Center in the 10th–8th Centuries
BCE’, in W. G. Dever and S. Gitin (eds), Symbiosis, Symbolism, and the Power of the
Past: Canaan, Ancient Israel and their Neighbors from the Late Bronze Age through
Roman Palestina, 529–38, Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns.
Ussishkin, D. (2011), On Biblical Jerusalem, Megiddo, Jezreel and Lachish, Chuen King
Lecture Series 8, Hong King: Chinese University of Hong Kong.
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Mediterranean Archaeology Supplement 4, Sydney: University of Sydney.
 O n t h e P re -E x i l i c G a p be twe e n
I s ra el a n d J u dah

Étienne Nodet

The starting point of this paper is a question about the pre-exilic period:
After the fall of the Northern Kingdom, why did the new settlers ask for
an Israelite priest from the exiles, rather than a sage from Jerusalem? A
related question is: Why was that kingdom called Israel, since the true
Israel, under the legitimate Davidic dynasty, should have been in Judah
(and Benjamin)?
The tentative answer will be a retrospective effect of the emergence
of Judaism in the Persian period and later, that is, the Babylonian reform
brought in by Ezra and Nehemiah, which rejected the local Israelites.
Several steps are involved: a reassessment of the religion of the settlers;
an examination of the tenets of the reformers Ezra and Nehemiah; some
higher criticism of 1–2 Kings. The main sources are well known, but
Josephus Flavius is to offer a significant contribution.

Assyria Resettles Samaria

The story has major version variants in the Bible, as well as in Josephus’s
paraphrase. After the deportation of Samaria, new settlers were sent
(2 Kgs 17:24-28): ‘And the king of Assyria brought people from Babylon,
Kuthah, Avva, Hamath, and Sepharvaim, and placed them in the cities of
Samaria instead of the sons of Israel’. But they did not know the god of
the land, and Yhwh sent lions, which killed them. Then one of the exiled
priests was sent by the king to Bethel (and not to the city of Samaria) and
this priest taught them how to worship Yhwh, which incidentally indicates
that there was a form of Yahwism in the Northern Kingdom. As a result,
the five nations practiced a kind of syncretism, for they put their own gods
in the shrines, and they feared Yhwh as well (vv. 29-33).
We observe in the next section (vv. 34-41) an interesting difference
between the LXX and MT, in two separate places.
92 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

v. 34 ‫עד היום הזה הם עשׂים‬ ἕως τῆς ἡμέρας ταύτης αὐτοὶ ἐποίουν
‫כמשׁפטים הראשׁנים‬ κατὰ τὸ κρίμα αὐτῶν (= ‫)כמשׁפטם‬
‫אינם יראים את־יהוה ואינם עשׂים‬ αὐτοὶ (= ‫ )הינם‬φοβοῦνται καὶ αὐτοὶ
ποιοῦσιν
‫ כחקתם‬... ‫אשׁר צוה יהוה את־בני‬ κατὰ τὰ δικαιώματα αὐτῶν…
‫יעקב אשׁר־שׂם שׁמו ישׂראל‬ ἐνετείλατο κύριος τοῖς υἱοῖς Ιακωβ…

MT: To this day they do according to the earlier customs: they do not fear
Yhwh, nor do they follow their statutes…which Yhwh commanded the sons
of Jacob, whom he named Israel.

LXX: To this day they do according to their customs: they fear Yhwh, they
follow their statutes…which Yhwh commanded the sons of Jacob, whom
He named Israel.

The next five verses (35-39) are common to both versions: ‘…and with
whom Yhwh made a covenant and commanded them, saying: “You shall
not fear other gods, nor bow down yourselves to them nor serve them nor
sacrifice to them”. But Yhwh, who brought you up from the land of Egypt
with great power and with an outstretched arm, him you shall fear’, etc.
Then the next verse is different:

v. 40 ‫ולא שׁמעו כי אם‬ καὶ οὐκ ἀκούσεσθε (= ‫)ולא תשמעו‬

‫כמשׁפטם הראשׁון הם עשׂים‬ ἐπὶ τῷ κρίματι αὐτῶν, ὃ αὐτοὶ ποιοῦσιν

MT: And they did not listen, but according to their earlier custom they did.

LXX: And you shall not listen to their custom, which they do.

These variants convey very different meanings. According to the MT, the
settlers, after a period of mixed worship, have abandoned Yhwh. For the
LXX, by contrast, ‘they’ are faithful, as if they were a kind of remnant
from the time before the deportation, since they are ordered not to follow
the settlers and their mixed cult. Their identity is not clear, however, all
the more since the final verse (v. 41 MT and LXX) returns to syncretism
and blurs the picture: ‘So while these nations feared Yhwh, they also
served their idols…so they do to this day’.
The inescapable conclusion is that Samaritanism is at best a degraded
Yahwism or even a second-class Judaism, although the LXX introduces
some unexplained doubts. This is the common interpretation, but it can
hardly be reconciled with other sources, and particularly later rabbinic
views. The Rabbis of old cannot be suspected of having been fond of
Samaritanism, but they had interesting sayings: according to b. Sanh.
21b, Israel first received the Torah in Hebrew script (‫)כתב עברי‬, then by
 Nodet On the Pre-Exilic Gap between Israel and Judah 93

Ezra’s time it was given again in Aramaic script (‫)כתב אשורי‬, while the
ancient one was left to the people of Flavia Neapolis (Nablus), that is,
the city built by Vespasian after 70 on the ruins of Shechem. Of course,
this entails an anachronism, since both scripts were in use together until
the Hasmonean period, as can be seen on the coins, but the statement is
clear: the Samaritans had the Torah before Ezra’s reform, namely, the
beginning of Judaism proper. In another context, there was a controversy
about unleavened bread, and the ethnarch Simon b. Gamliel stated (t. Pes.
1:15): ‘For every commandment that the Samaritans observe, they are
more meticulous than Israel’, that is, ‘than the Jews’. In other words, he
appreciated their biblical accuracy, while rabbinic Judaism includes ‘oral
Torah’ of Mosaic authority, poorly connected to Scripture. This is obvious
in the classical Midreshei Halakhah.
Now Josephus, who loathed the Samaritans, involuntarily gives us a
solution. For his biblical paraphrase in the Antiquities, he did not use
a previous Greek translation, as it is usually thought, but only Hebrew
scrolls, though unfortunately in a loose way.1 Here, he first paraphrases the
biblical account of the fall of Samaria, the deportation of the population
and the settling of foreigners (Ant. 9.277-789). These people were then
destroyed by ‘pestilence’ (instead of biblical ‘lions’), so that the king
of Assyria sent ‘priests’ (instead of biblical ‘priest’). Then, Josephus’s
account diverges:

Ant. 9 2 Kgs 17 LXX

(290) And they, after being instructed in 28 (The priest) taught them how they
the ordinance and religion of this God, should fear Yhwh.
worshipped him with great zeal, and
were at once freed from the pestilence.
29-33
But every nation still made gods of
its own and put them in the high places,
which the Samaritans had made […]
They feared Yhwh and served their
own gods according to the custom of
the nations.
These same rites have continued in use 34 To this day they do according to
even to this day, their customs: they fear, and they do
according to the statutes […],
among those who are called Kuthim in
Hebrew, Samaritans in Greek.

1. For a study of all his paraphrase, see Nodet 2018, with bibliography; Josephus’s
source came from the Jerusalem temple archives.
94 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

(291) When they see the Jews 35-39

which Yhwh commanded the sons
prospering, they call them their kinsmen of Jacob, whom he named Israel, and
as descending from Joseph, with whom Yhwh made a covenant and
commanded them, saying: ‘You shall
not fear other gods […]
40
And you shall not listen to their
custom, which they do’.
but, when they see the Jews in trouble,
they declare to be aliens of another race.

Elsewhere, Josephus scorns the opportunism of the Samaritans, who

claim to be either related to the Jews as sons of Joseph, or aliens of
another race, depending on the circumstances (e.g. Ant. 11.302; 12.257,
see Pummer 2009: 122–62). However, he recognizes here that they have
replaced the ancient Israelite tribes, and he never suggests that they had
any kind of non-Yahwistic worship, in contrast to 2 Kgs 17:29-33. We
may surmise that he would have been glad to accuse them of syncretism,
but elsewhere he only says that they practice a downgraded Judaism (Ant.
11.302-311). He obviously did not know this passage. In fact, until the
Maccabean crisis (167–164 BCE), the Israelite nation had its two temples,
Gerizim3 and Jerusalem (see 2 Macc. 5:22). Some Delos shrine inscrip-
tions of that period show that the Samaritans considered themselves to be
true Israelites.4
In terms of literary criticism, we may conclude: first, that 2 Kgs
17:29-33 and 41 are later Jewish insertions introduced to disparage the
Samaritans, and second that the LXX variants at vv. 34 and 40 reflect the
text as it was before the Jewish additions. In other words, Josephus did
read the original version of the whole story: the Samaritans were (and
still are) true Yahwists, whatever their origins. As for the ‘downgraded
Judaism’ he stigmatizes, we have to consider the reforms of Ezra and
Nehemiah.

2. The prejudice against the Samaritans (because of the MT story) is so strong that
some say that Josephus could not have written Ant. 9.290, e.g. Egger 1986: 48–50.
3. The excavations at Mount Gerizim have shown that the shrine was built
earlier than the fourth century, with an important transformation around 200 BCE;
see Magen 2007. Dušek 2012 shows that the numerous Hebrew inscriptions are not
earlier than this transformation.
4. See Bruneau 1982; White 1987.
 Nodet On the Pre-Exilic Gap between Israel and Judah 95

The Reformers: Ezra and Nehemiah

The books of Ezra and Nehemiah are notoriously difficult and entail
inextricable chronological problems. Here, we will consider only some
aspects. As for Ezra himself, we see him in two capacities that hardly
fit together. First, he is a teacher, well trained in the law of Moses, who
opens the holy book and reads it aloud before the returnees from exile,
who do not know it (Neh. 8:1-8; 1 Esd. 9:37-55). Second, on his arrival
in Jerusalem, his only major deed as a leader is to expel the foreign wives
and their children, which has nothing to do with the laws of Moses, for he
does not take circumcision into account. An interesting list of the culprits
is given, for it includes sons of the high priest Jeshua and his brothers,
priests, Levites and lay people (Ezra 10:18-44). Jeshua, together with
Zerubbabel, was the restorer of the Temple, but Ezra’s genealogy puts
him above him. According to Ezra 7:1, Ezra was the son of the high priest
Seraiah, of Aaronide descent, but in Aaron’s genealogy (1 Chron. 6:3-15),
Seraiah’s son was Jozadak, who was sent into exile by Nebuchadnezzar.
From this we learn first that Jeshua was a legitimate high priest, and
second that Ezra was a would-be high priest, as an uncle of Jeshua, which
means that his authority is deemed to be higher. All this simply cannot
be accurate (Zadok 2012: 151–81). Now, in Artaxerxes’ very favorable
Aramaic letter to Ezra (Ezra 7:11-26), the king allows any one of the
sons of Israel to go with him to Jerusalem, offers considerable gifts for
the temple worship, and urges him to make sure that everyone in the
province Beyond the River knows the laws of his God – or incurs major
penalties. Such a benevolence is not explained, but the king enforces
Ezra’s authority over all of his kingdoms.5
Before concluding about Ezra, it is useful to consider some of
Nehemiah’s works, extracted from the tortuous stories of the book. Upon
his arrival at Jerusalem, he secretly inspects the walls, but only over a
small portion of the city, the Ophel hill, which broadly corresponds to the
ancient City of David (Neh. 2:11-19). The rebuilding of the walls is then
launched by the high priest Elyashib, but on a much larger scale. The work
is divided into sections that are entrusted to many inhabitants from the
surrounding towns, but Nehemiah himself does not appear in the picture
(3:1-32). Later, we learn that the wall is finished in 52 days, despite the
fact that Nehemiah has plenty of enemies within the city and outside who

5. There is a similarity between this letter and Antiochus III’s decrees concerning
the Jews (Ant. 12.138-146), after he conquered Coele-Syria around 200 BCE. His
political motivation is apparent. But this topic is beyond the scope of this study.
96 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

try to frighten him. He then sets the doors of the wall in place, and appoints
gate-keepers, Levites and singers, thus creating a holy space for observing
the Sabbath day, but he complains that there are almost no dwellers within
the area (6:15–7:4; cf. 13:15-22). The position looks strange, but in his
paraphrase, Josephus provides a clue, for he says that the work on the wall
was completed in 2 years and 4 months (Ant. 11.179, see Nodet 2018:
247). This variant allows us to disentangle two very different projects: a
big one, led by Elyashib, and a much smaller one, by Nehemiah, who was
obviously a Babylonian reformer. Later the latter finds that a grandson of
the high priest Elyashib has married a Samaritan woman and expels both.
Such a policy is akin to Ezra’s, and we find a very similar story in Ant.
11.306-312: some Jerusalem elders chase away to Samaria the numerous
priests, Levites and lay people who have married Samaritan women. In
fact, the two main tenets enforced by those elders are genealogical purity
and a strict observance of the Sabbath.
As for Nehemiah’s view about Scripture, we have a meaningful story
(Neh. 13:1-3):

On that day they read aloud from the book of Moses in the hearing of the
people; and there was found written in it that no Ammonite or Moabite
should ever enter the assembly of God, because they did not meet the sons
of Israel with bread and water […]. So, when they heard the law, they
separated all ‘mixture’ from Israel.

The passage quoted is Deut. 23:3-5, which was never intended to imply
this kind of ethnic cleansing. This means that the Babylonian rule is put
under the authority of Scripture, though it is obviously unrelated. Quoting
Deut. 7:3-4 (prohibition of intermarrying with the Canaan nations) would
have hardly been better.
We have elsewhere a glimpse of Nehemiah’s library, which was
inherited by Judas Maccabee. According to 2 Macc. 2:13, Nehemiah
‘gathered together the books of the kings and prophets, and those of
David, as well as the letters of the kings concerning the offerings’. The
‘letters’ may have included King Darius’s decree about the rebuilding of
the Jerusalem temple, which includes significant aid for the cult (Ezra
6:1-12), or the letter of Artaxerxes to Ezra (7:11-26). The other items may
cover a part of the biblical books, but Moses is conspicuously absent,
which is in some ways consistent with Nehemiah’s action.
It would also be pertinent at this point to mentions something about
Sabbath warring. At the beginning of the Maccabean crisis, some faithful
Jews were killed in the wilderness by the Syrians on a Sabbath, and the
rebels decided to allow armed defense on the Sabbath day, but without
 Nodet On the Pre-Exilic Gap between Israel and Judah 97

invoking any precedent (1 Macc. 2:29-41). This peculiar decision was

kept in the Hasmonean state. This is close to Nehemiah’s Babylonian
views, since, for him, although city walls offer some protection on the
Sabbath day, it is impossible to protect the entire state in this way.
Ezra and Nehemiah shared the same special Babylonian culture, and,
like the Jerusalem elders of Josephus, thought that they represented
the true Israel, against the local Israelites of Judea and Samaria. Thus,
we can conclude the following about Ezra: first, his skill in the laws of
Moses is a literary device;6 second, the foreign women he chases are
not pagan Canaanites, but local Israelites; third, Ezra may have been a
fictitious character, whose task was to combine the laws of Moses with
the Babylonian reform. In fact, in Ben Sirach’s series of biblical portraits,
we read at the end that Zerubbabel and Jeshua built the Temple, then
Nehemiah raised the walls, but Ezra is ignored (Sir. 49:11-13).

On the Books of Kings

These books certainly depend on ancient archives, local or otherwise, but

this does not preclude some reworking. We may observe, for instance, that
the position of King Solomon is somewhat shaky. According to 1 Kgs 5:15
LXX, after David’s death, ‘Hiram, king of Tyre, sent his servants to anoint
Solomon instead of David his father, for Hiram had always loved David’,
but the MT conceals the dependence. This friendship refers to 1 Sam.
5:11-12, after David’s conquest of Jebus-Jerusalem: King Hiram sent
cedar trees and workers to build a house for David, so that ‘David knew
that Yhwh had established him as king over Israel’. Phoenician influence
(or rule) appears, too, when Solomon builds the temple: the same Hiram
helps with workers and materials, and the chronology is given in the
Phoenician calendar (1 Kgs 6:1, 37). Moreover, after Solomon’s death,
all Israel come to Shechem to make his son Rehoboam king (1 Kgs 12:1).
This indicates at least that Jerusalem was not very important for ‘all
Israel’. Then, after the secession, it is stated that ‘Israel has been in rebel-
lion against the house of David to this day’ (12:19; see 2 Kgs 17:21). So,
Israel’s identity was detached from Judah.
After this, the Northern Kingdom was ruled by Jeroboam, who organ-
ized a dissident worship, with high places and golden calves. After him,
several dynasties reigned until the fall in 722 BCE and the deportation of

6. In spite of a common view since Wellhausen, that they were finalized at

Babylon, but this is not the place for an in-depth discussion on this point.
98 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

the population.7 However, the very name ‘Israel’ remained attached to that
kingdom, while the domain of David’s heirs was simply ‘Judah’ (some-
times including Benjamin).
Another story of the deportation is given in 2 Kgs 18:11-12, after
Samaria was taken:8 ‘And the king of Assyria carried away Israel to
Assyria […], because they did not obey the voice of Yhwh their God,
but transgressed his covenant, even all that Moses the servant of Yhwh
commanded’. We may wonder why such a punishment happens after
so many years of idolatry, all the more that the foreign settlers are not
mentioned. But if we compare this with the first account, we have some
understanding of why the newcomers asked for a priest from among the
exiled Israelites and not from Jerusalem. If we bring together that event
and the Jewish reformers Ezra and Nehemiah, we see that the priest was
supposed to convey a true Mosaic Yahwism, while Judah was the home
of Babylonian Judaism.
This may seem fanciful, but the subsequent Hasmonean dynasty, which
surfaced in Judea after the Maccabean crisis (167–164), provides us with
an actual illustration. Judas Maccabee himself was Nehemiah’s heir, and
the problem of armed defense on the Sabbath day belongs to his doctrines.
A letter preserved in 2 Macc. 1:1-9 shows that some forty years after
the crisis, the Jews of Egypt still would not accept Hasmonean rule and
notably its founding feast (Hanukkah). As for the Samaritans of Mount
Gerizim, Josephus reports that around 150 BCE they tried to obtain from
King Ptolemy VI of Egypt the destruction of the Jerusalem Temple (Ant.
13.74-79). Later, when he saw that his power was firmly established, the
high priest John Hyrcanus (135–104) was careful to destroy the Gerizim
temple (around 111 BCE; see Pummer 2009: 250–5); he Judaized the
Idumeans (Ant. 13.255-258), but the Hasmonean rulers never attempted to
enforce Judaism upon the Samaritans. In other words, both the Egyptian
Jews, somehow connected with the Onias temple,9 and the Samaritans
were more faithful to the laws of Moses.

7. Finkelstein 2013 gives an excellent, updated archeological survey, but his

historical conclusions are skewed by a Judean prejudice.
8. For the relationship between the two parallel accounts, see Macchi 1994: 47–72.
9. See Taylor 1998, but her ‘Zadokite temple’ should be replaced with ‘Oniad
temple’, for there never was any Zadokite dynasty of Jerusalem high priests. See also
Kooij 2012: 51–69.
 Nodet On the Pre-Exilic Gap between Israel and Judah 99

Final Remarks

This short paper is just an outline of what should be a more detailed

study. That the books of Kings have been reworked in various ways
has long been well known, since the MT and LXX are quite different.
Concerning the origins of the Samaritans, we have identified two stages.
The final one, detected by a comparison with Josephus’s paraphrase, is a
large modification of 2 Kings 17, to the effect that Samaritanism is to be
recognized as a very poor Yahwism. Before this, something was intro-
duced to give substance to the good Yahwist teaching of the deported
priest who was sent to Bethel in order to teach the foreign settlers. The
two different accounts of the deportation of the Northern Kingdom, put
together, indicate that this teaching was the law of Moses, in connection
with ‘the sons of Jacob, whom he named Israel’. This may be related to
the ‘chosen place’, since the original reading of Deut. 12:4 (and after) is
‘the place that I have chosen, to make my name dwell there’ (cf. Neh.
1:9; see Schenker 2008). In the context, Mounts Ebal and Gerizim are
mentioned, which is suggestive. However, the issue is not simple, for the
‘place’ is not clearly named, and we know that until the Maccabean crisis
there were two legitimate temples, Jerusalem and Gerizim.
Broadly speaking, the overall narrative of 1–2 Kings is independent of
the law of Moses, though a ‘law of Yhwh’ frequently occurs. When the
‘Book of the Law’ or ‘Book of the Covenant’ was found in the Temple
and brought to King Josiah, it is stated that it was ignored since the time
of the judges, and during ‘all the days of the kings of Israel and the kings
of Judah’ (2 Kgs 23:22; see too Neh. 8:17). Following the previous line
of reasoning, we could suggest that the story of the discovery is a subtle
hint at the arrival in Judah of the law of Moses.10 As for the main ideas
of the author who introduced the two accounts of the deportation in their
original form (Josephus), we can say that he accepted being a Judean Jew
with both biblical and Babylonian traditions, but wished to remain faithful
to the Davidic dynasty.
All the considerations proposed so far involve various historical
problems, which cannot be dealt with here. The identity of the ancient
Israelites and the settlers is not clear. Both kingdoms had some kind of
Yahwism by the time of their deportations, but it is difficult to assess.11 In
the same way, we do not know the origins of the Babylonian reformers’

10. The usual view that it was the discovery of Deuteronomy cannot be maintained,
because of the Samaritan Yahwism of old.
11. E.g. an inscription of the eighth century bears a blessing of ‘Yhwh of Samaria
and his Ashera’; see Puech 2014.
100 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

sectarian views and the roots of their authority, since Nehemiah’s new
‘city’ was quite small. We could tentatively bring to the discussion the
case of the Qumran document 4QMMT, ascribed to the Sadducees, who
were faithful to Scripture (Nodet 2012): they humbly urge King Alexander
Janneus of Judea (103–76), after his rejection of Pharisean traditions, to
organize the temple worship according to Moses, the Prophets and the
Writings, but they do not invoke any precedent. This leads to a question
about the dating of priest Ezra’s synthesis of Scripture and Babylonian
traditions.

Bibliography
Bruneau, Ph. (1982), ‘Les “Israélites de Délos” et la juiverie délienne’, BCH, 106:
465–504.
Dušek, J. (2012), Aramaic and Hebrew Inscriptions from Mt. Gerizim and Samaria
between Antiochus III and Antiochus IV Epiphanes, Leiden: E. J. Brill.
Egger, R. (1986), Josephus Flavius und die Samaritaner. Eine terminologische Untersuchung
zur Identitätsklärung der Samaritaner, Freiburg (CH): Universitätsverlag.
Finkelstein, I. (2013), The Forgotten Kingdom: The Archaeology and History of Northern
Israel, Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature.
Kooij, A. van der and J. Cook (2012), Law, Prophets, and Wisdom: On the Provenance of
Translators and Their Books in the Septuagint Version, Leuven: Peeters.
Macchi, J.-D. (1994), Les Samaritains. Histoire d’une légende, Geneva: Labor et Fides.
Magen, Y. (2007), ‘The Dating of the First Phase of the Samaritan Temple on Mount
Gerizim in Light of the Archaeological Evidence’, in O. Lipschits, G. N. Knoppers
and R. Albertz (eds), Judah and the Judeans in the Fourth Century B. C. E., 157–212,
Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns.
Nodet, E. (2012), ‘Sadducéens, sadocides, esséniens’, RB, 119: 186–212.
Nodet, E. (2018), The Hebrew Bible of Josephus: Main Features, Leuven: Peeters.
Puech, E. (2014), ‘Les inscriptions hébraïques de Kuntillet ῾Ajrud (Sinaï)’, RB, 121:
161–94.
Pummer, R. (2009), The Samaritans in Flavius Josephus, TSAJ 129, Tübingen:
Mohr-Siebeck.
Schenker, A. (2008), ‘Le Seigneur choisira-t-il le lieu de son nom ou l’a-t-il choisi ?
L’apport de la Bible grecque ancienne à l’histoire du texte samaritain et massorétique’,
in A. Voitila and J. M. Jokiranta (eds), Scripture in Transition, 339–51, Leiden: E. J.
Brill.
Taylor, J. E. (1998), ‘A Second Temple in Egypt: The Evidence for the Zadokite Temple
of Egypt’, JSJ, 29: 297–321.
White, M. (1987), ‘The Delos Synagogue Revisited: Recent Fieldwork in the Graeco-
Roman Diaspora’, HTR, 80: 133–60.
Zadok, R. (2012), ‘Some issues in Ezra-Nehemiah’, in I. Kalimi (ed.), New Perspectives
on Ezra-Nehemiah: History and Historiography, Text, Literature, and Interpretation,
160–71, Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns.
 P er cep t i on s of I s r ae l ’ s P ast
i n Q u m ra n W r i ti ngs :
B e t ween M y t h a n d H i s tor i ogr aphy

Jesper Høgenhaven

Thomas L. Thompson, to whom this essay is dedicated in friendship and

gratitude, proposed in an article from 1998 what he termed a ‘Copenhagen
Lego hypothesis’ with regard to the manuscript 4QTestimonia (4Q175)
from Qumran, a text that appears to combine selected scriptural passages
in an otherwise unknown order (Thompson 1998). Thompson’s suggestion
is that literary traditions may have circulated as smaller more or less
finalized ‘Lego blocks’ which could be used and reused in a wide variety
of contexts.
In recent decades scholars have appreciated the variety and diversity
of the literary genres and compositions represented in the more than
900 fragmented Qumran scrolls. Passages dealing with past events and
figures are no rarity among these texts. Much attention has been given to
passages pertaining to the past of the so-called Qumran community itself.
Many scholars have attempted to reconstruct a history of the community
on the basis of various bits and pieces of information allegedly revealing
how Qumran authors envisaged their own past. The feasibility of such a
project, however, has also received strong criticism. The late Philip R.
Davies made the following pointed remark on scholars striving to collect
the elements necessary for writing a ‘sectarian history’ based on Qumran
scriptural commentaries (pesharim):

The first direction in exegesis of the pesharim must always be towards their
midrashic function, for until we understand how these commentaries work
– and that means as midrashim – we have no warrant to plunder them for
historical data, especially given that (a) no continuous tradition can be estab-
lished as lying behind them and (b) where they do contain – as we know
102 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

that they do (I think in particular of 4QpNah) – some historical information,

any kind of plausible analogy we could invoke would warn us that it will
be mixed up with invention, will be distorted, garbled and anachronistic.
(Davies 1989: 27–8)

The endeavor to establish a history of how the Qumran community must

have originated and developed, on the basis of possible hints scattered
among the retrieved documents, is not likely to produce reliable results,
regardless of whether or not the ancient Greek and Latin sources on the
Essenes are taken into account. In the following pages, however, we shall
look at the broader perspective of how the past of Israel is represented
and interpreted in Qumran scrolls, employing literary motifs from earlier
traditions.

Israel’s Past in the Damascus Document

An often-cited example of how the origins of the Qumran community are

written into a perception of scriptural traditions is found in the opening
admonition section of the Cairo Damascus Document (CD 1–8). Here,
past events that appear to be somehow linked to community origins and/
or background are merged into a scripturally based (or literature-based)
representation of Israel’s past, and, indeed, the past of humankind. The
admonitions set out, not at the outset of a chronologically organized
sequence but in medias res, with God in his wrath delivering Israel and his
sanctuary into the hands of Nebuchadnezzar, king of Babylon (CD 1.1-6).
However, after 390 years, God recalls his covenant with the ‘first ones’
(‫ )ברית ראשנים‬and, having left a ‘remnant’ (‫ )שארית‬for Israel, lets a ‘root
of planting’ (‫ )שורש מטעה‬grow forth from Israel and Aaron to inherit the
land (CD 1.7-8). He then after an initial twenty-year period of blindness
endows the remnant with a ‘Teacher of Righteousness’ (‫ )מורה צדק‬as their
guide. Regardless of how these lines may reflect or construct memories
of community origins, it is evident that, in the understanding of the
author, the remnant of Israel is the product of a coherent history of divine
actions and human responses. These opening lines set the scene for the
following recalling of Israel’s past, the overall theme being the inevitable
wrath of God caused by the continued acts of disobedience perpetrated by
humans, as stated in CD 1.2: ‘He has a dispute with all flesh and will make
judgment against all who scoff at him’ (‫כי ריב לו עם כל בשר ומשפט יעשה‬
‫)בכל מנאציו‬. The destruction of the temple seems here to be perceived as
the central and most tangible symbol in the literary tradition for God’s
dispute with all flesh.
 Høgenhaven Perceptions of Israel’s Past in Qumran Writings 103

As the admonition goes on to elaborate on the dualistic notion of how

God has chosen and raised up his elect (‘those called by name’, ‫קריאי‬
‫שם‬, CD 2.11), while causing those that he hated to stray, a series of
examples from the literary traditions of past events and figures is cited.
Representatives of those who walked ‘after the wantonness of their heart’
(‫בשרירות לבם‬, CD 2.17-18) are the Watchers, the sons of Noah, and the
sons of Jacob in several generations (CD mentions explicitly the Exodus
and desert generation, and their descendants who lived in the land). As a
positive counter-example, Abraham is introduced, followed by Isaac and
Jacob: Abraham ‘did not walk in it [the wantonness of heart]’ (‫אברהם לא‬
‫)הלך בה‬, CD 3.2). To the contrary, he observed God’s commandments,
and transmitted this way to Isaac and Jacob. Abraham, Isaac and Jacob are
accepted as ‘friends’ or, from a more active perspective, ‘lovers’ (‫)אוהבים‬,
CD 3.3-4) of God.
The next positive example of how God upholds his everlasting
covenant, building ‘a sure house in Israel’ (‫ויבן להם בית נאמן בישראל‬, CD
3.19), is presented in the words of Ezekiel, as ‘the priests and the Levites
and the sons of Zadok who kept the watch of my sanctuary when the
children of Israel strayed from me’ (CD 3.21–4.1, cf. Ezek. 44:15). Here
the priests and the prophets are introduced as a positive continuation of
the patriarchs’ line of conduct:

CD MS A 3
... ‫ואל ברזי פלאו כפר בעד עונם וישא לפשעם‬ 18
‫ויבן להם בית נאמן בישראל אשר לא עמד כמהו למלפנים ועד‬ 19
‫הנה המחזיקים בו לחיי נזח וכל כבוד אדם להם הוא כאשר‬ 20
‫הקים אל להם ביד יחזקאל הנביא לאמר הכהנים והלוים ובני‬ 21

CD MS A 4
‫צדוק אשר שמרו את משמרת מקדשי בתעות בני ישראל‬ 1
‫מעליהמ יגישו לי חלב ודם הכהנים הם שבי ישראל‬ 2
‫היוצאים מארץ יהודה והנלוים עמהם ובני צדוק הם בחירי‬ 3
‫ ישראל קריאי השם העמדים באחרית הימים‬... 4

CD MS A 3
18 But God in his wonderful mysteries atoned for their iniquity and forgave
their sin
19 and built them a sure house in Israel, such as never stood from their earliest
times until
20 now. Those who hold fast to it are to have eternal life, and all human glory is
theirs. As
21 God swore to them, through the hand of Ezekiel the prophet, saying, ‘The
priests and the Levites and the sons of
104 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

CD MS A 4
1 Zadok, who kept the watch of my sanctuary, when the children of Israel
strayed
2 from me, they shall present to me fat and blood’. The priests are the penitents
of Israel
3 who depart(ed) from the land of Judah, (the Levites are whose who)
accompany them, and the sons of Zadok are the chosen ones of
4 Israel, those called by name, who stand in the end of days…1

There is a verbatim correspondence between priests, Levites and sons of

Zadok, and Abraham and his descendants, who are said to have ‘kept’
(‫ )וישמרו‬God’s commandments, or to have ‘kept’ (‫ )שמרו‬the watch
(‫ )משמרת‬of his sanctuary. In this way, the text achieves an unbroken
chain between Abraham via Isaac and Jacob, and the priests, Levites and
Zadokites who embody God’s covenant. The passage goes on to identify
the latter groups using ‘exegetical’ terms known from the pesharim: The
priests are the ‘penitents of Israel’ (‫ )שבי ישראל‬or ‘those of Israel who
return (‫ )שבי ישראל‬who depart(ed) from the land of Judah’, with the
Levites accompanying them (a wordplay on the meaning of the root ‫ לוה‬is
intended). The Sons of Zadok are ‘the chosen ones of Israel, those called
by name’ (‫)קריאי השם‬, who stand ‘in the end of days’ (‫)באחרית הימים‬. Here
again, the text seems to intend some degree of identification between the
elect and the group associated with the author. The elect are represented
as the true descendants of Abraham and as the true priests and Levites.2
Israel’s past, in other words, is construed in terms of a coherent
meaningful narrative determined by God’s election of the righteous and
his rejection of the wicked. The patriarchs play an important part as prime
examples of righteousness and obedience, while, on the other hand, the
destruction of the temple and the exile is perceived as the central act of
divine punishment, which, however, also forms the background for God’s
renewed act of grace and his establishment of a ‘sure house’ in Israel.

Israel’s Past in the Reworked Pentateuch Texts

When we move outside this framework, we encounter in Qumran scrolls

a number of representations of the past without explicit ‘sectarian’ formu-
lations. Some Qumran compositions represent various forms of what
has been termed ‘scriptural rewriting’. The usefulness and definition of

1. Text and translation follow Baumgarten and Schwartz 1995.

2. I have dealt more extensively with this passage and the reference to the
Abraham tradition in Høgenhaven 2018b.
 Høgenhaven Perceptions of Israel’s Past in Qumran Writings 105

‘rewritten bible’ or ‘rewritten scripture’ has been a much-debated issue.

Thompson has made the observation that in the ancient world writing
literature was always a rewriting of existing texts and traditions, and
suggested that we speak of ‘reiterative rhetoric’ rather than ‘rewritten
bible/scripture’ (Thompson 2018). The so-called Reworked Pentateuch
texts comprise five manuscripts from Cave Four, 4Q158 and 4Q364-367.3
This group of Qumran manuscripts could be seen as a borderline case
between biblical transmission and biblical rewriting. However, attempting
to draw a precise line between composition and transmission would seem
to be a less fruitful endeavor. The Qumran scrolls document a great extent
of variety in the ongoing transmission and reshaping of literary material,
some of which eventually ended up forming the canonical biblical collec-
tions, and the Reworked Pentateuch manuscripts are interesting, above
all, because they demonstrate some of the concerns and mechanisms that
were driving forces behind this process (see Holst 2012). The manuscript
4Q158 seems to contain more expansions and additions to the textual
tradition than any of the other manuscripts in the group.4
4Q158 consists of 15 fragments of various sizes, which can be paleo-
graphically dated to the early first century BCE. Most of the preserved
text runs parallel to the book of Exodus. A number of passages have
text known from Genesis and Deuteronomy, but they seem to have been
worked into a common narrative framework based on the storyline from
Exodus. Some of the additions from Deuteronomy seem to be part of an
expansionist or harmonizing textual tradition similar to the Samaritan
Pentateuch.5

3. 4Q158 was published by John M. Allegro in 1968 under the title ‘Biblical
Paraphrase: Genesis, Exodus’ (Allegro 1968: 1–6). 4Q364-367 were published by
Emanuel Tov and Sidnie White Crawford in 1993 as ‘4QReworked Pentateuch’ (Tov
and White Crawford 1993: 187–351). Tov and White Crawford regard 4Q158 and
4Q364-367 as witnesses to the same literary composition (cf. Tov 1992). Michael
Segal has suggested that 4Q158 differs from 4Q364-367, which should be regarded as
‘biblical’ manuscripts (Segal 1998, 2000). George J. Brooke has challenged Tov’s and
White Crawford’s understanding of 4Q158 and 4Q364-367, and pointed out that in
cases where the preserved texts of these manuscripts actually overlap, they do in fact
exhibit textual differences. According to Brooke (2001), then, the five manuscripts
represent different literary compositions belonging to the same genre.
4. Moshe Bernstein characterizes 4Q158 as ‘more exegetical’ than 4Q364-367
(Bernstein 1998: 134 n. 7).
5. A new text edition of 4Q158 by Molly Zahn is under preparation (see Zahn
2011).
106 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

One of the longer passages in which 4Q158 goes beyond what is

known to us from other textual representations of the Pentateuch is found
in fragment 4, in a context that seems to be a paraphrase of Exod. 24:4-6,
where Moses celebrates the conclusion of God’s covenant with Israel:

4Q158, frag. 4
[‫]צוה לכה‬ 1
‫העם ממצרים תעבד[ון‬ 2
‫למספר שנים עשר שבטי[ישראל‬ 3
‫ויעל את העול[ה] על המזב[ח ויזבח זבחים שלמים ליהוה פרים‬ 4
‫בני בקר ויקח מושה חצי הדם וישם‬
‫באגונות וחצ[י ה]דם זרק על ה[מזבח ויקח ספר הברית‬ 5
‫[יצחק ואל יעקוב והקמותי את‬/// ‫אשר היראתי אל אברהם ואל‬ 6
]‫בריתי‬
‫אתם להי[ות] להמה ול[זרע]ם לאלוהים‬ 7

4Q158, frag. 4
1 …he commanded you…
2 the people from Egypt: You shall serve…
3 according to the number of the twelve tribes of [Israel]
4 And he offered the burnt offer[ing] on the alt[ar, and he
sacrificed peace offerings of oxen, the sons of cattle, to
the Lord. And Moses took half of the blood and put it]
5 in basins, and hal[f of the] blood he threw against the
[altar. And he took the book of the covenant …]
6 which I showed to Abraham and to [Isaac and to
Jacob…and I raised up my covenant]
7 with them to b[e] God for them and for their [offspring]

The preceding lines state that Moses built an altar at the foot of the
mountain, and erected twelve stones (cf. Exod. 24:4). After bringing
the sacrifices he divides the blood into two portions, casting one portion
on the altar. In all likelihood, the text once related how Moses read the
‘book of the covenant’ to the people, and sprinkled the remaining portion
of blood on the people as part of the covenant-making (cf. Exod. 24:8).
In the 4Q158 version of the narrative Moses is the sole subject of the
sacrificial act, which is in the Masoretic performed by the young men
of Israel. 4Q158 may be reflecting a general tendency to enhance the
importance and position of Moses, and, possibly, the author also wished
to avoid having lay people performing sacrificial rites. At any rate, the
first lines of fragment 4 (lines 1-2) do not reflect the Masoretic narrative
of Exodus 24. Rather, we have what looks like a reference to Exod. 3:12,
where God commands Moses to worship ‘on this mountain’ when he has
 Høgenhaven Perceptions of Israel’s Past in Qumran Writings 107

led the people out of Egypt. The events related in Exodus 24 may be seen
as the fulfilment of the divine command in this earlier part of the Moses
story. In 4Q158 the correspondence is made explicit and unambiguous (cf.
Zahn 2011: 20–1).
The last lines (lines 6-7) also do not resemble any known version of
the Exodus narrative. The reference to Abraham seems to echo Exod. 6:3
(‫וארא אל אברהם אל יצחק ואל יעקב באל שדי‬, ‘I appeared to Abraham, to
Isaac, and to Jacob, as El Shaddai’). In the biblical text, however, God
states that he appeared (‫וארא‬, niphal of ‫ )ראה‬to the patriarchs. 4Q158
has the verb in the active hiphil (‫)היראתי‬, implying that God showed or
revealed something to Abraham, and in all probability also to Isaac and
Jacob.6 The surviving text does not state what it was that God revealed
to the fathers. The subsequent reference to God as ‘God for them and for
their offspring’ could also be related to Exod. 6:3, and furthermore we
may have a hint at God’s covenant with Abraham, as described in Gen.
17:7-8 (cf. especially Gen. [Link] ‫והקמתי את בריתי ביני ובינך ובין זרעך אחריך‬
‫לדרתם לברית עולם להיות לך לאלהים ולזרעך אחריך‬, ‘And I will establish my
covenant between me and you and your offspring after you throughout
their generations for an everlasting covenant, to be God to you and to your
offspring after you’). Indeed, the covenant could be the idea connecting
the Exodus context (Exod. 24) and Gen. 17:7-8: the author of 4Q158 may
have intended to remind his readers that the covenant God concludes with
the Israelites at Sinai is a realization of what was already inherent in his
covenant with Abraham (Zahn 2011: 51–2). Read in this light, that which
God revealed to Abraham could have been the covenant itself or possibly
the possession of the land. In fact, the Promised Land is the only thing
God is explicitly said to have ‘shown’ to Abraham in Genesis (Holst 2012:
133). The reference to the ‘book of the covenant’, which Moses reads
to the people (Exod. 24:8) could have prompted the author of 4Q158 to
remind his readers of the earlier covenant with Abraham. Another possi-
bility, though, is that the focus of the passage is on the sacrificial act, and
that the object revealed to Abraham could have something to do with
sacrificial rules or practices, which were later communicated to Moses
(cf. Holst 2005: 184).

6. 4Q158 probably made mention here of all three patriarchs. After ‘Abraham’
and the preposition ‫ ל‬before the lacuna we find the remains of a word which was
erased. The original word here seems to be ‘Jacob’. The scribe, then, appears to
have jumped by mistake to Jacob, and then to have erased the name in order to write
‘Isaac’.
108 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

At any rate, the author of 4Q158 has achieved a creative combination

of tradition pieces documented in the Masoretic tradition in Gen. 17:7-8
and Exod. 6:3-7. A coherent narrative framework is construed, within
which the divine acts of grace are viewed as an unbroken chain of events
unfolding the promise to the patriarchs (I have treated this passage, and
the strategies and tendencies of 4Q158 at more length in Høgenhaven
2012a; see also Holst 2012).

Israel’s Past in Commentary on Genesis A (4Q252)

The so-called ‘commentaries on Genesis’ (4Q252-254a) would seem

to represent a highly interesting middle position between rewriting
and commenting.7 The best preserved manuscript, Commentary on
Genesis A (4Q252), combines extensive passages from Genesis, which
are interspersed with expansions that are not exegetical or as explicitly
interpretative as those found in Qumran pesharim, but rather explanatory
notes containing, e.g., calendrical information which could be regarded
as ‘missing’ in the Genesis text. These passages of 4Q252 resemble
reworking or rewriting more than the passage-by-passage interpretation
normally associated with the commentary genre. In several cases, 4Q252
supplements the source text by additional narrative passages, providing
extra details. At certain points, however, the composition inserts inter-
pretations of the pesher type, once using the term ‫( פשרו אשר‬4Q252 5 iv
5), identifying particular elements from the text with specific meanings,
which are generally associated with eschatology and the life of the
community in much the manner familiar to us from Qumran pesharim.8
4QCommentary on Genesis A (4Q252) consists of six fragments,
preserving text from six columns. The script is datable to the second
half of the first century BCE (Brooke et al. 1996: 190).9 The manuscript
quotes Genesis 6; 7–8; 9; 11; 15; 17; 18; 22; 28; 36; 49. Columns I-III
reproduce parts of the flood story and the Abraham narrative. Column IV
depicts the fate of Amalek, with Gen. 36:12 as its point of departure, and

7. Genesis Commentary A (4Q252) was edited by George J. Brooke (Brooke et

al. 1996: 185–207; cf. Trafton 2002).
8. Brooke argues that while the ‘implicit exegesis’ in 4Q252 represents ‘more
widely accepted and acceptable interpretations of tradition’, the explicit (pesher type)
exegesis is influenced by ‘the community’s eschatological perspective’ and represents
a ‘sectarian’ stance (Brooke 1996: 399–400).
9. Earlier scholars termed the scroll ‘Patriarchal Blessings’, and a fragment of the
text was published in 1956 by John M. Allegro under this title (Allegro 1956).
 Høgenhaven Perceptions of Israel’s Past in Qumran Writings 109

with reference to Deut. 25:19; 1 Sam. 14:48; 15:1-9. Column IV contains

Jacob’s blessing of Reuben (Gen. 49:3-9). Column V quotes and interprets
Jacob’s blessing of Judah (Gen. 49:10), and col. VI, of which only small
fragments have survived, seems to quote Jacob’s blessing of Gad.
Scholars have expressed different opinions with regard to the genre
of 4Q252, and the presence or absence of an inner thematic coherence.
Moshe Bernstein regards 4Q252 as an example of exegetical interest
properly speaking, focusing on biblical passages that are difficult to
understand, but with no specific common theme (Bernstein 1994,
1994/1995). George J. Brooke has argued that the selection of quota-
tions and interpretative passages reflects a specific interest in divine
blessings and curses that have not yet been fulfilled (Brooke 1994/1995).
Shani Tzoref has suggested that 4Q252 should be regarded as a ‘compi-
lation’, affiliated, as far as genre is concerned, with texts like Testimonia
(4Q175), Tanhumim (4Q176) and Eschatological Midrash (4Q174,
4Q177), and as far as contents are concerned, with Pesher on the
Periods (4Q180) and the Damascus Document (Tzoref 2012). Recently,
Émile Puech has presented an interpretation of 4Q252 as a coherent
composition with the theme ‘God’s blessing for the sons of Jacob
and their election’ (Puech 2013/2014). The theme, in Puech’s view, is
developed in a great narrative, which takes its point of departure from
God’s intervention in the age of Noah, and extends as far as the eschato-
logical fulfilment of the divine promise. The determining motifs are the
election of the righteous and the rejection of the wicked, and the author
exhibits a particular interest in the pure line of descent. The outlook
of 4Q252, then, reflects the situation and worldview of the Qumran
community, which regarded itself as the truly righteous as opposed
to the corrupt priesthood of Jerusalem.10 There is no need to assume
that the text was compiled from various sources, and there is, in fact,
no essential difference between the two parts of the manuscript, one
reflecting biblical rewriting, and the other biblical commentary (Puech
2013/2014: 247–9).
In 4Q252 as in the Damascus Document, no distinguishing line is
drawn between the mythological events of the Primeval History and the
patriarchal narratives. The text joins the Abraham story rather elegantly
to the flood story: As the conclusion to the part that concerns the flood,
we have a paraphrase of Gen. 9:1 and Gen. 9:27, referring to God’s

10. The text, according to Puech, seems to know 4QMMT, and should be regarded
as an Essene composition from around 100 BCE.
110 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

blessing of Noah’s sons, and to his dwelling ‘in the tents of Shem’. To this
reference, then, the mention of the land given to Abraham is added more
or less as an explanatory note:

4Q252, frags. 1 and 3, col. ii

‫ כי ברך אל את בני נוח ובאהלי שם ישכן‬... 7
‫ ארץ נתן לאברהם אהבו‬... 8

4Q252, frags. 1 and 3, col. ii

7 …because God blessed the sons of Noah and in the tents of Shem he will
dwell,
8 a land he gave to Abraham his friend.

The following passage then relates Terah’s departure from Ur, and
Abram’s departure from Haran. Apparently, the text goes on to paraphrase
the account of the covenant-making, as it is described in Gen. 15:10-17.
The text is fragmentary, but clearly mentions the animals heifer, ram, and
goat, as well as the fire passing in between the pieces. The next passage
(col. III, lines 1-6) deals with the story of Sodom and Gomorrah.
More text is preserved from the following passage, which refers to the
binding of Isaac. The narrative is reproduced in 4Q252 in a condensed
and abbreviated version, beginning with Abraham stretching out his
hand (Gen. 22:10), and being halted by the intervention of an angel from
the heavens (Gen. 22:11-12). There are two lines missing, then the text
refers to the blessing of El Shaddai, and to the ‘blessing of your father
Abraham’:

4Q252, frags. 1, 3-5, col. 3

‫ אל שדי יב[רך‬12
‫ [א]ת ברכת אביכה [אברהם‬13

4Q252, frags. 1, 3-5, col. iii

12 El Shaddai will bl[ess …
13 the blessing of your father [Abraham

The wording echoes Gen. 28:3-4, and the ‘you-addressee’ and recipient of
the divine blessing seems here as in Gen. 28:3-4 to be Isaac. His relation to
Abraham is made quite explicit as the latter is referred to as ‘your father’
(‫)אביכה‬. The combination of the Aqedah narrative and the motif blessing
directed towards Isaac is interesting, also because a similar phenomenon
may be registered in 4QPseudo-Jubileess (4Q225):
 Høgenhaven Perceptions of Israel’s Past in Qumran Writings 111

4Q225 frag. 2, col. ii

‫ ויברך אל יהוה את י̊ ̊ש[חק כל ימי חיו ויוליד את‬10
‫ יעקוב ויעקוב הוליד את לוי ̊דו̊ [ר שלישי ויהיו כול‬11
‫ ימי אברהם וישחק ויעקוב ולו̊ [י‬12

4Q225, frag. 2, col. ii

10 God the Lord blessed Is[aac all the days of his life. He became the father
of]
11 Jacob, and Jacob became the father of Levi, [a third generation… all
12 the days of Abraham Isaac, Jacob, and Lev[i …11

Here as in 4Q252, God bestows his blessing not on Abraham but on Isaac,
and the text explicitly enhances Isaac’s role as the forefather of Levi
through Jacob. The focus thus seems to be on the direct and unbroken
connection between the patriarchs and the priestly line. In a similar
fashion, as we have seen above, Abraham is represented in the Damascus
Document as the forefather of the true priests, Levites and Zadokites.
4Q252 should probably not be understood as either a commentary or
an example of ‘biblical rewriting’ but rather as a learned composition
dealing with the themes of divine blessings and curses, the election of the
righteous and the rejection of the wicked.12

Israel’s Past in Words of the Luminaries (4Q504, 4Q506)

The prayers prescribed for the days of the week in the liturgical compo-
sition Words of the Luminaries, and uttered by the voice of a collective
first person plural, are arranged in a sequence that appears to be chrono-
logical in the sense that it follows, or accords largely with, the narrative

11. Pseudo-Jubilees is the title given by the modern editors to three Qumran
manuscripts (4Q225, 4Q226, and 4Q227) which ‘employ language that is familiar
from and to some extent characteristic of Jubilees’ (Attridge et al. 1994: 142) without
actually being copies of Jubilees. The relationship between 4Q225 and Jubilees
remains unclear, however. Perhaps Jubilees is one among several sources used by the
author of 4Q225 (the text was edited in Attridge et al. 1994).
12. Cf. the acute remarks by Tzoref (2012: 357): ‘To mix the metaphors of our
common trade – the ancient scholar had both itches to scratch and axes to grind, and
for his work in these interrelated endeavours, he could rummage in a toolbox full of
traditions and intertexts, techniques and strategies. I see the compiler of 4Q252 and
those who produced his sources, as having engaged in a dynamic and fluid process,
using language and ideas from scripture and other corpora in active reading and
composition.’ On the coherence and tendencies in 4Q252 see also: Høgenhaven
2018a.
112 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

order known from scriptural tradition. Indeed, the prayer for each day
has a particular theme which is taken from this narrative, and elaborated
on as a motivation for the days’ address to the Deity. The prayer for the
first day focuses on the creation of man, whom God fashioned in the
image of his glory (‫יצרתה בדמות כבוד[כה‬, 4Q504 frag. 8 4) and then
goes on to dwell on God’s special relationship with Israel, which he has
elevated to a unique position over against all nations. The divine favour
granted to Israel is manifest through God’s revelation in the form of the
column of fire and the cloud (4Q504 frag. 6 10) and his appearance to
Moses (4Q504 frag. 6 12). Against the background of this summarizing
recapitulation of creation and election, the text pleads with God not to
hold the iniquities of the forefathers against his people, Israel (4Q504
frag. 4 5-8).
The prayer for the fourth day explicitly recalls the narrative of God’s
revelation and covenant-making at Horeb: He is said to have appeared
before the Israelites, spoken to them and established his covenant
through Moses (4Q504 frag. 3 ii 7-17). The prayer for the fifth day
mentions the rebellious behavior of the Exodus and desert generation,
and God’s declared intention to destroy them, and how Moses atoned for
their sin (‫כיא כפר מושה בעד חטאתם‬, 4Q504 frag. 1-2 ii 9-10) and makes
an appeal to God to turn his anger away from his people (4Q504 frags.
1-2 ii 11).
The subsequent preserved passages from the prayers for the fifth and
sixth day present Israel’s past viewed from the double perspective of
divine anger and punishment and divine blessing and favour. The text
explicitly states that the events referred to had already been foretold in
writing by Moses and the prophets sent by God (4Q504 frags. 1-2 iii
12-13). No detailed account is given of either the Israelites’ transgres-
sions or the divine acts of blessing, but a series of examples are given:
The mention made of ‘our kings’ who ‘acted perversely’ (‫וישחיתו‬, 4Q504
frags. 1-2 iii 15-16) would seem to constitute a general reference to
the iniquities committed by kings of Israel and Judah, according to
the literary tradition. Expressions of divine grace are God’s election of
Jerusalem as a ‘resting place’ (‫מנוחה‬, 4Q504 1-2 iv 2), his election of
the tribe of Judah and his everlasting covenant with David (4Q504 1-2
iv 5-8). The people, as a result of the peace and tranquillity granted to
them, ‘ate, were replete and became fat’ (‫ויוא[כ]לו וישבעו וידשנו‬, 4Q504
frags. 1-2 iv 14), and worshipped foreign gods. As a consequence, God
poured out his anger and their land became a wasteland (4Q504 1-2 v
3-6). Despite his destructive wrath, God still remembered his covenant,
redeemed his people, showed them favour among the countries where
 Høgenhaven Perceptions of Israel’s Past in Qumran Writings 113

he had scattered them and made them turn back and listen to his voice
(4Q504 frags. 1-2 v 6-14).
Within the narrative framework of Words of the Luminaries, the refer-
ence to the exile seems to constitute the decisive turning-point. The text
continues, stating that the ‘we’-group has indeed experienced God’s puri-
fying action, and is now capable of atoning for their iniquities including
those of their fathers and of recounting the mighty works of God ‘to
eternal generations’:

4Q504, frags. 1-2, col. vi.

̊ ‫[ע]לי̊ נ̊ ו כול פשעי̊ נ[ו]ו̊ ̊ת‬
‫[ט]ה ̊רנו‬ ̊ ‫[ותשלי]ך ̊מ‬°]
̊ [ 2
‫מחטתנו למענכה לכה אתה אדוניי הצדק‬ 3
‫עשית את כול אלה ועתה כיום הזה‬ ̊ ‫אתה‬ 4
‫אשר נכנע לבנו רצינו את עווננו ואת עוון‬ 5
‫אבותינו במעלנו ואשר הלכנו בקרי ולוא מאסנו‬ 6
‫בנסו̊ י̊ יכה ובנגיעיכה לוא געלה נפשנו להפר‬ 7
‫את בריתכה בכול צרת נישנו אשר השלחתה בנו את אויבינו כיא אתה‬ 8
‫ת‬
‫זקתה את לבבנו ולמען נספר גבורתכה לדורו‬ 9
‫עולם‬ 10

4Q504, frags. 1-2, col. vi

2 [… You have thrown awa]y f[r]om us all ou[r] failings and have [pu]rified us
3 from our sin for yourself. To you, to you, Lord, belongs the justice, for
4 you are the one who has done all this. And now, on this very day
5 on which our heart has been humbled, we atone for our iniquity and the
iniquity
6 of our fathers, for our disloyalty and our {their} rebellious behavior. We have
not rejected
7 your trials, and our soul has not despised your punishments to the point of
breaking
8 your covenant, in spite of all the anguish of our soul. For you, who sent our
enemies against us
9 have strengthened our heart so that we can recount your mighty works to
10 everlasting generations13

The presentation of Israel’s past in Words of the Luminaries is seamlessly

connected to the universal events of the primeval history, as is the case
with the overview in the Damascus Document. In Words of the Luminaries
it is the creation story known from Genesis 2–3 rather than the narrative
of the Watchers that forms the background for the recapitulation of God’s

13. 4Q504 was published in Baillet 1982: 137–68 + planches XLIX-LIII. The
translation here follows García Martínez and Tigchelaar 1998: 1016–17.
114 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

election of, and covenant with Israel. The liturgical text likewise presents
the past of Israel within a dualistic framework, but here no explicit refer-
ence to a ‘remnant’ is made. The ‘we’-group present in the text identifies
itself with ‘Israel’, and the identity is expressed in the words addressed
to God: ‘Remember, please, that all of us are your people’ (‫[ז]כור נא כיא‬
‫עמכה כולנו‬, 4Q504 frag. 6, l. 6).

Israel’s Past in Apocryphal Lamentations A and B

The liturgical composition Apocryphal Lamentations A (4Q179) depicts

the misery and desolation of a devastated Jerusalem and its inhabitants.
Intertextual points of contact with the book of Lamentations and the
prophetic books are numerous. The first, partly preserved column describes
the desolate city, focusing on the sanctuary, the streets and buildings, the
missing inhabitants and the land, which has become like a desert:

4Q179, frag. 1, col. I

[°] 1
‫ר כל עוונותינו ואין לאל ידנו כי לוא שמע[נו‬°°°]
̊ 2
[ ‫]יהו̊ דה לקרותנו כל אלה ברוע‬ ̊ 3
[‫ אוי לנו‬vacat ‫והפרנ]ו̊ את בריתו‬ 4
[ ‫] היה לשרפת אש והפכה‬ 5
‫תפארתנו וניחוח אין בו במז̊ [בח‬
̊ ‫]ר‬
̊ 6
‫]חצרות קדשנו היו‬ 7
‫ י̊ תום ירושלים עיר‬°] [ ̊‫כנ‬°] 8
‫מרב]ץ לחיה ואין ̊מ[חריד ]ורחובותיה‬ 9
‫]ן̊ הוי כל ארמונותיה שממו‬ 10
‫ ובאי מועד אין בם כל ערי‬°] 11
‫]נחלתנו היתה כמדבר ארץ לוא‬ 12
‫]לשמ[ח]ה לוא נשמשעה בה ודורש‬ 13
‫]ל[ ]אנוש למכאובתינו[ ]כול חובינו‬ 14
‫]חטאותינו‬̊ [ ̊‫פ]שעינו ינ‬
̊ 15

4Q179, frag. 1, col. I

2 … all our sins, and it is not in the power of our hand, for we did not obe[y
3 … Judah, so that all these things have happened to us because of the evil
4 … [we broke] his covenant. vacat Woe to us …
5 … has been burnt by fire, and an overthrow
6 … our beauty. And there is no pleasing odour in it on the al[tar …
7 … the courtyards of our sanctuary have become
8 … an orphan … Jerusalem, the city of
9 … a lair] for wild beasts, and there is no one [to frighten them away,]
and her streets
10 … Alas! All her palaces are desolated
11 … and those who come to the festival are not among them. All the cities
 Høgenhaven Perceptions of Israel’s Past in Qumran Writings 115

12 … our inheritance has become like a desert, a land not

13 … j[o]y is not heard in her, and he who seeks
14 … our wound is incurable … all our guilt
15 … our [t]ransgressions … our sins14

In 4Q179 literary images of a desolate and ruined city and a broken

and exiled people would seem here to have been transformed into a
metaphor for people experiencing marginalization and oppression.15
Scholars have debated whether or not the description should be linked to
any specific historical events, the destruction of Jerusalem in 587 BCE
or possibly some later occasion.16 However, in view of the importance
ascribed to the memory of the Babylonian exile as it was recalled and
constructed in literary traditions, it seems likely that the imagery of exile
of destruction is here extended to cover the entire notion of divine anger
and punishment against a guilty people. This metaphorization is further
developed in Apocryphal Lamentations B (4Q501), where images of
destruction and abandonment are explicitly applied to the lamenting
group itself:

4Q501
‫]י אל תתן לזרים נחלתנו ויגענו נכר זכור כיא‬ [ 1
‫ [אנחנו עצור]י עמכה ועזובי נחלתכה זכור בני בריתכה‬2
‫השוממים‬
‫ [ ]ה המנודבים תועים ואין משיב שבורים ואין חובש‬3

4Q501
1 …Do not give our inheritance to foreigners, nor our produce to the sons
of foreigners. Remember that
2 [we are the removed one]s of your people and the forsaken ones of your
inheritance. Remember the sons of your covenant, the desolate,
3 …the spurred ones, the wanderers, who no one brings back, the sorely
wounded, who no one bandages17

14. The text was published in Allegro 1968: 75–7. For the transcription and
translation see also Høgenhaven 2002.
15. Cf. Berlin’s expression (2003: 17) that 4Q179 and 4Q501 are ‘not poems of
mourning, they are poems of alienation’.
16. Maurya Horgan points to the siege and destruction of Jerusalem by Antiochus
IV Epiphanes in 169–167 BCE as a possible historical background for 4Q179
(Horgan 1973: 222–3). However, it is hardly fruitful to speculate about historical
events as the background for the composition (cf. Høgenhaven 2012b).
17. The text was published in Baillet 1982: 79–80 + planche XXVIII. The English
translation follows García Martínez and Tigchelaar 1998: 993–5.
116 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

Apocryphal Lamentations A does not contain any specific ‘sectarian’

terminology, but it has been suggested that the text might be interpreted
in light of polemics against the prevailing regime in Jerusalem known
from several Qumran texts (Berlin 2003: 16–17). Be that as it may, these
poetical lamentations corroborate the overall expression that Israel’s past
was construed in a variety of genres represented in the Qumran texts, as
a coherent narrative with God’s acts of blessing and of punishment as
the focal point, and with the destruction of Jerusalem, as perceived in the
literary tradition, as the central manifestation of divine anger.

Concluding Observations

We may sum up the tendencies characteristic of representations of the

past in the texts we have briefly surveyed here: In general, Israel’s past is
presented in Qumran texts as a coherent narrative, connecting seamlessly
with the Primeval History. No distinction is made between the ‘mytho-
logical’ events of the distant past (including the creation of mankind and
the fall of the Watchers) and the more recent ‘historical’ events. There
is a tendency to smooth out inconsistencies and apparent contradictions
occurring in earlier literary traditions.
At the same time, certain aspects of the narratives are emphasized
and enhanced. This is the case with the role of the patriarchs and the
priestly elements of the tradition. In particular, Abraham’s role as
forefather of Levi is underlined, so as to achieve an unbroken narrative
chain between the patriarchs and the priests and Levites. These figures
represent the elect of God in different phases of the narrative, both
groups standing out, by virtue of their righteous behavior, in contrast
to the evildoers whom God rejects and punishes. In these representa-
tions of the past, the division line between the elect and the doomed is
made more explicitly visible. Thus, the representation of Israel’s past is
characterized by a general tendency to include all parts of the narrative
in a comprehensive pointed ‘salvation history’ (or ‘perdition history’)
with a dualistic perspective. There are different nuances as regards the
identification of the elect with a renewed and repentant ‘Israel’ or the
faithful and obedient remnant of Israel. Nevertheless, the fundamental
features of how the past is perceived seem to be common to composi-
tions documented in the Qumran scrolls, regardless of whether they
belong to the ‘sectarian’ literature or not.
 Høgenhaven Perceptions of Israel’s Past in Qumran Writings 117

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and the Partridge: Essays from the Copenhagen Conference on Revising Texts from
Cave Four, 12–32, STDJ 96, Leiden – Boston: Brill.
 I s J os ep h us ’ s J oh n t h e B apt i st P assage
a C hr on ol og i ca l ly D i s locat e d S tory
of t h e D eat h of H y rcanus I I ? *

Gregory L. Doudna

On the one hand John the Baptist plays a central role in the Gospels. On
the other hand, neither rabbinic tradition nor, with one exception, ancient
historians seem to know anything of a first-century CE John the Baptist.
The exception is Josephus’s Antiquities of the Jews, produced in Rome in
the early 90s CE. John the Baptist appears in a passage at Ant. 18.117-119,
situated by Josephus in a context dated 35 CE, a few years after many
scholars understand Jesus to have been crucified.
This article proposes that Josephus’s ‘John the Baptist’ passage in
Antiquities is a chronologically displaced story of the death of Hyrcanus
II, the aged former high priest, by Herod the Great in either c. 34 or 30
BCE.
As a matter of method the Gospels are set completely to one side and
the focus is solely on analysis of the Josephus passage.

* Dedicated to Thomas L. Thompson, mentor, friend, teacher with conscience

and courage. I remember his first written comment on a paper of mine. I had written:
‘It could be argued that…’ Thompson in the margin: ‘Please do’. Another Thompson
aphorism: ‘When everyone is agreed on something, it is probably wrong’. In other
words, as Thompson has also put it, ‘in our fields, if all are in agreement, it signifies
that no one is trying to falsify the theory: an essential step in any scientific argument’.
I thought of what I have come to call Thompson’s Rule when I encountered this
scientific study showing that, as counterintuitive as it sounds, unanimous agreement
actually does reduce confidence of correctness in conclusions in a wide variety of
disciplines (Gunn et al. 2016).
120 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

The passage in Antiquities is in Josephus’s language and style, yet at

the same time the passage reads as an insertion into pre-existing text, like
an ancient excursus or footnote set into a text that would read perfectly
smoothly without it (Schwartz 2013: 106–9). This description does not
mean the passage is an interpolation by a later Christian scribe. For a
number of reasons the passage is unlikely to have come from a later
Christian forger, not the least of which is that Josephus’s John the Baptist
is not in any way portrayed as Christian.1 Rather, the insertion of a story
into preexisting narrative is a well-known phenomenon in the composition
process of Josephus.2 But this composition process results in precisely the
kind of passage that can be subject to Josephus making a chronological
mistake, in this case attaching an undated story from a source to the wrong
Herod. Here is the Josephus John the Baptist passage:3

But to some of the Jews it seemed that the army of Herod was destroyed by
God – indeed, God quite justly punishing [Herod] to avenge what he had
done to John, who was surnamed the Baptist.
For Herod killed him, although he was a good man and [simply] bade
the Jews to join in baptism, provided that they were cultivating virtue and
practicing justice toward one another and piety toward God. For [only] thus,
in John’s opinion, would the baptism [he administered] indeed be acceptable
[to God], namely, if they used it to obtain not pardon for some sins but rather

1. On the forgery issue see the discussion of Kirby (2015). A recent argument for
forgery (Nir 2012) identifies the ideology of Josephus’s John the Baptist passage as
that of 1QS and considers Qumran texts not part of mainstream Judaism, in contrast
to the Essenes considered to have been part of mainstream Judaism and unrelated to
the Qumran texts. Nir argues that Josephus could not have favorably portrayed a view
that purification would be effective only if moral sin was eliminated first, which Nir
argues was held only by fringe groups on the edges of Judaism such as represented
in the Qumran texts; therefore, Nir argues, the John the Baptist passage is a forgery
and interpolation. However each of these assumptions – that the Qumran texts were
fringe, that 1QS and the Essenes are unrelated and that Josephus could not have
represented the purification teaching of 1QS favorably – is doubtful.
2. As just one example, compare Noam (2018: 59–69), on an interpolation by
Josephus at Ant. 13.282-283 of a story from a Jewish source concerning a heavenly
voice in the temple heard by John Hyrcanus I, into a narrative otherwise following
War. Noam discusses the way in which the story was ‘interpolated into an existing
narrative in Antiquities…a further illustration of Josephus’s addition of sources with
parallels in rabbinic sources to his later work [Antiquities]’ (p. 69).
3. Translation of John Meier, with Meier’s explanatory comments in brackets
(Meier 1992: 233). Other translations from Josephus in this article are from Loeb
Classical Library editions (LCL).
 Doudna Josephus’s John the Baptist Passage 121

the cleansing of their bodies, inasmuch as [it was taken for granted that]
their souls had already been purified by justice.
And when the others [namely, ordinary Jews] gathered together [around
John] – for their excitement reached fever pitch as they listened to [his]
words – Herod began to fear that John’s powerful ability to persuade people
might lead to some sort of revolt, for they seemed likely to do whatever he
counseled. So [Herod] decided to do away with John by a preemptive strike,
before he sparked a revolt. Herod considered this a much better [course
of action] than to wait until the situation changed and [then] to regret [his
delay] when he was engulfed in a crisis.
And so, because of Herod’s suspicion, John was sent in chains to
Machaerus, the mountain fortress previously mentioned; there he was killed.
But the Jews were of the opinion that the army was destroyed to avenge
John, God wishing to inflict harm on Herod. (Ant. 18.116-119)

In this passage John is said to have been a righteous man. To those who
were practicing virtue and piety (which it is implied John teaches), John
instructed them βαπτισμῷ συνιέναι, to be ‘joined’ in immersing. But when
‘others’ (τῶν ἂλλων) – presumably not under religious discipline – also
heard John, ‘their excitement reached fever pitch as they listened to [his]
words’. When Herod, the ruler, saw that the people ‘seemed likely to do
whatever [John] counseled’, Herod ‘began to fear that John’s powerful
ability to persuade people might lead to some sort of revolt’. Herod
therefore arrested John in ‘a preemptive strike’ and sent John as a prisoner
to Machaerus (a fortress across from Qumran on the other side of the
Dead Sea). There, at Machaerus, Herod had John executed. The method
of execution is not stated. Following that Herod’s army was destroyed,
which many Jews believed was divine punishment for what Herod had
done to John. As part of the insertion Josephus added the cross-reference
to the mention of Machaerus.
This, then, is Josephus’s story of John. In this story there is no mention
of Galilee, asceticism or wilderness associated with John. There is no
criticism by John of Herod’s marital behavior. There is no mention of
strange dress or diet. Herod is presumed ruler over the area in which John
is active, and Herod controls Machaerus. John is portrayed favorably,
unlike Josephus’s negative portrayals of wilderness wonder-workers
of the first century CE. Josephus uses a word widely in use meaning
immersion, βαπτισμός, not the word used in the Gospels and the rest of the
New Testament as a terminus technicus for Christian baptism, βάπτισμα.
On the baptism of John in the Josephus passage, key points of inter-
pretation and/or assumptions (without going into detail to argue each of
these points) are: (1) The immersions are repeated, not one-time, and are
122 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

best understood in terms of a study of Étienne Nodet (2009), of initiation

to social levels of formal status and purity requirements as reflected
in Josephus’s description of Essene practices of War 2.129, 137-139,
150, and the haburim of rabbinic tradition.4 There is an initiatory, legal-
witnessing component to first-time purification upon entry but there is
also continuing purification following entry to that social circle. (2) The
immersions accomplish purification in Jewish terms, not removal of sin.
(3) The procedure is uncertain but may have been immersions done by
oneself with or without witnesses assisting, indistinguishable from Jewish
purification in the stepped-pool mikvehs found archaeologically in large
numbers. (4) John’s ideology of purification, in which purification is to
be done only by those already in a prerequisite state of moral sinlessness
accomplished through right behavior for the purification to be acceptable
to God, is exactly that of 1QS 3.6-12 and 1QS 5.13-14 of the Qumran
yachad texts. It is not Pharisaic/rabbinic (purification is for all without
precondition and unrelated to sin) or Christian (one time initiatory,
removes sin). (5) John’s instruction that observant Jews ‘be united (with
one another)’ in practicing purification suggests social organization;
compare access to communal food and drink of the Qumran Serekh texts
for which purification by immersion is a prerequisite for participation. (6)
Josephus or his source may be criticizing Christian baptism, but it is also
possible that Josephus, writing to gentiles, or his source is simply clari-
fying a common misunderstanding held by gentiles concerning Jewish
purification. (7) The surname, ‘the Baptist’, ‘the Immerser’ (Ἰωάννου τοῦ
ἐτικαλουμένου βαπτιστοῦ), carries no necessary connotation that John was
immersing other persons; the surname could come about because he was
known for being an immerser or bather, or a teacher of such or leader
of a disciplinary order practicing such. (8) It is not John’s purification-
immersion teaching which prompts Herod’s murderous response, but
rather John’s popularity among the public who are swayed by his words or
public sermons – the implication is John is an alternative locus of popular
authority raising the specter of insurrection – which is the issue to Herod.
The point of interest here is that every word of Josephus’s story of John
would read perfectly well in the time of Herod the Great (37–4 BCE). The
figure ‘Herod’ of the story, if the story were read in isolation, would read
perfectly well and naturally as Herod the Great.

4. Cf. War 2.150 speaking of the Essenes: ‘They are divided, according to the
duration of their discipline, into four grades; and so far are the junior members
inferior to the seniors, that a senior if but touched by a junior, must take a bath, as
after contact with an alien’ (also: Klawans 2006: 145–74; Sanders 1990: 37–8; and
Haber and Reinhartz 2008: 93–124).
 Doudna Josephus’s John the Baptist Passage 123

Meanwhile, Hyrcanus II, the aged ex-high priest executed by Herod

the Great, has long been presumed and understood to have been named
‘John’ on the basis of papponymy – the common Jewish practice of
naming a firstborn son after the paternal grandfather (on the prevalence of
papponymy, Hachlili 2005: 195). The paternal grandfather of Hyrcanus II
was John Hyrcanus I (high priest 135–104 BCE).
The name ‘John’ for Hyrcanus II has not, however, gone unchallenged.
In a 1987 article Tal Ilan noted that there is no ancient attestation of a
Hebrew name for Hyrcanus II, questioned whether Hyrcanus II had a
Hebrew name, and if he did, challenged the assumption that it must have
been ‘John’ (Ilan 1987). Yet while it is true there is no confirmed attes-
tation of a Hebrew name for Hyrcanus II, it seems unwarranted to suppose
he did not have one. If it were not for coins, it would not be known that
the final Hasmonean king, Antigonus, had a Hebrew name, Mattathias.
Hyrcanus II minted no coins according to the most current information.5
This means that Hyrcanus II’s Hebrew name cannot be discovered by
means of coins, yet just as Antigonus had a Hebrew name (known only
from coins), so it can be presumed Hyrcanus II (who had no coins) did
as well, given that other Hasmonean rulers certainly did and there is no
evidence or reason to suppose any did not.
As for the identity of Hyrcanus II’s Hebrew name, Ilan cites the example
of Jonathan Aristobulus III (War 1.438; Ant. 15.51) whose Hebrew name
was that of his great-grandfather Alexander Jannaeus (Jonathan), which
suggests that papponymy while common may not have been absolute.
Nevertheless, although not attested or certain, Yohanan or John is the
leading candidate for Hyrcanus II’s Hebrew name based on papponymy,
the same name as Josephus’s John the Baptist. In the end Ilan’s argument
is more of a demonstration of incompleteness of evidence in favor of, than
a falsification of, the prevalence of papponymy as it bears on Hyrcanus
II’s Hebrew name.
Hyrcanus II had a long history as high priest of the Jewish people,
76–67 and 63–40 BCE, ending in 40 BCE when he was overthrown,
cast out of his native land and taken prisoner to the Parthian Empire.

5. It has been conclusively ruled out that any of the ‘John high priest’ Hasmonean
coins can be attributed to Hyrcanus II (Hendin 1991: 6). It has also separately
nearly been ruled out that any of the ‘Jonathan high priest’ Hasmonean coins can
be attributed to Hyrcanus II (Hendin and Shachar 2008). Nor are any other coins
attributed to Hyrcanus II. A reasonable explanation for why Hyrcanus II minted no
coins is that, except for c. 67 BCE when he was king for only a few months according
to Josephus – too brief to mint coins – Hyrcanus II held no civil authority other than
as ethnarch and therefore was in no position to mint coins (see Sharon 2017).
124 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

According to Josephus the Jewish diaspora east of the Euphrates, at least

after the new Parthian ruler Phraates IV set Hyrcanus II free and honored
him, considered Hyrcanus II their legitimate high priest and king, even
though he was in exile.6

Hyrcanus II as Ethnarch (or, John the Authority on Purification)

According to a study of Nadav Sharon, Hyrcanus II was recognized as

ethnarch of Jews throughout the Roman empire by Julius Caesar in 47
BCE; the term ‘ethnarch’ meant ruler of a people in a territory, not ruler
of the territory; and, as ethnarch Hyrcanus II had formal authority under
Roman law over affairs of the Jewish people of the diaspora as well as in
Judea (Sharon 2017: 126–9, 260–80, 357–9).7
Julius Caesar honored Hyrcanus II in this way after commending
Hyrcanus II for providing military support to Julius Caesar in Egypt and
for bravery. Julius Caesar promised Hyrcanus II and his descendants the
ethnarchy of Jews empire-wide and the high priesthood in Jerusalem in
perpetuity, as part of a restoration of ancestral law and de facto self-rule
to the Jews following Roman conquest, in keeping with Julius Caesar’s
practice with other peoples who had been conquered by the Romans.8

6. Ant. 15.14-15: ‘When Hyrcanus was brought there, the Parthian king Phraates
treated him very leniently because he had learned of his distinguished and noble
lineage. For this reason he released him from his bonds and permitted him to settle
in Babylon, where there was a great number of Jews. These men honored Hyrcanus
as their high priest and king, as did all of the Jewish nation occupying the region as
far as the Euphrates.’
7. In Sharon’s analysis Hyrcanus II’s ethnarchy starting in 47 BCE related to the
Jews as a people throughout the Roman Empire, and there is no evidence Hyrcanus II
held civil authority over all people in any geographical area in the period of Roman
rule. If Sharon is correct it would not be expected that Hyrcanus II would have minted
coins, thus removing the mystery of the missing Hyrcanus II coins.
8. That the restoration of rights to practice ancestral customs and a return of de
facto self-rule to the Jews under the ethnarchy of Hyrcanus II in 47 BCE was in
keeping with the practice of Julius Caesar with other conquered peoples is discussed
in Pucci Ben Zeev (1995). Julius Caesar’s designation of Hyrcanus II as authoritative
in matters of halakhic law is illustrated at Ant. 14.192-195, described as a letter
from Julius Caesar to the magistrates of Sidon: ‘Whereas the Jew Hyrcanus, son of
Alexander, both now and in the past, in time of peace as well as in war, has shown
loyalty and zeal toward our state, as many commanders have testified on his behalf,
and in the recent Alexandrian war came to our aid with fifteen hundred soldiers,
and being sent by me to Mithridates, surpassed in bravery all those in the ranks, for
these reasons it is my wish that Hyrcanus, son of Alexander, and his children, shall
 Doudna Josephus’s John the Baptist Passage 125

In other words, Hyrcanus II, ‘high priest of the Most High God’ (Ant.
14.163), was legally recognized as lawgiver or law-decider for the Jewish
people throughout the Roman empire.
Although Hyrcanus II would have been ethnarch of the Jews formally
only within the territory of the Roman empire, he may also have been
regarded informally as authoritative by diaspora Jews outside the Roman
empire in light of his status within the Roman empire. In this light
Hyrcanus II’s high standing in the diaspora after his exile in 40 BCE
may have continued the status or authority he held before that time,
rather than representing something new. Sharon (2017: 279 n. 87) notes
that Hyrcanus II’s authority over Jews living outside Judea seemed to be
‘mainly in issues that have to do with religion – “manner of life” (Ant.
14.195)’.
Following the downfall of the Antigonus Mattathias regime in Jerusalem
(40–37 BCE), Hyrcanus II returned to Judea about 36 BCE, after which
he may have divided his time between Jerusalem and Jericho. Despite
the likelihood that Hyrcanus II remained until his death the single most
respected and esteemed religious authority to Jews throughout the ancient
world, never again would Hyrcanus II officiate as high priest in the temple
in Jerusalem.

Hyrcanus II’s Death and a Destruction of an Army of Herod

According to Josephus (Ant. 15.165-179), Herod – seeing the legitimacy

with which the returned Hyrcanus II was popularly regarded as a threat
in contrast to Herod’s own much more questionable legitimacy to rule –
treacherously executed Hyrcanus II on a legal pretext in 30 BCE in the
context of an unsuccessful attempted flight of Hyrcanus II to take refuge
with the Nabatean king Malichus I (reigned 59–30 BCE). Josephus
situates Herod’s execution of Hyrcanus II as occurring later than a
destruction of an army of Herod in 32 BCE – the only destruction of an
army of a Herod found in Josephus other than the one of Antipas of 36
CE (Ant. 18.114-115). According to Josephus, Herod invaded Nabatean
territory but Herod’s army was nearly annihilated at Canatha deep in
Coele-Syria, in 32 BCE.

be ethnarchs of the Jews and shall hold the office of high priesthood of the Jews for
all time in accordance with their national customs… And if, during this period, any
question shall arise concerning the Jews’ manner of life, it is my pleasure that the
decision shall rest with them.’
126 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

[Herod’s forces] suffered great losses…the Arabs…returned and killed them

after their rout. The Jews therefore suffered death in various forms, and only
a few of those who escaped found shelter in their camp. Then King Herod
in despair of the outcome of the battle rode off to get aid but in spite of his
haste he was not quick enough in bringing help, and the Jews’ camp was
taken…so unexpected a victory…in destroying a large part of [Herod’s]
force. (Ant. 15.112-120)

However, the failed escape attempt and execution of Hyrcanus II is

arguably better situated c. 34 BCE, preceding rather than following the
First Nabatean War of 32–31 BCE which Herod ultimately won, reflecting
a larger issue of systematic three-year offset errors in Josephus’s datings
of some events in the reign of Herod which have long been noticed. As
discussed by Thomas Corbishley (1935: 22–4) and others since:

Every one who has gone into the subject at all is aware that there are
obvious blunders in the chronology of Josephus [for the time of Herod]…
all the existing discrepancies [in the time of Herod] can be found on the
supposition that Josephus, in compiling his history, has failed to notice
that, whilst in general his sources used the ‘official’ method of dating [from
the start of Herod’s reign in 37 BCE], some document or documents used
a different scheme – regarding the year 40/39 B.C. as the first year of the
reign… Thus, having described the events of 40–34 B.C. with considerable
fullness, Josephus passes (Ant. 15.108) to the events of the seventh year, sc.
31/30 B.C., without apparently noticing that he has jumped three years…

Corbishley (1935: 24–5) noted similar unusual gaps of three years

in Josephus’s history-telling in two other places: from 20 BCE to 17/16
BCE, and 12/11 BCE to 9/8 BCE. Antiquities 15.380 has the rebuilding of
the Temple begun in the eighteenth year of Herod whereas War 1.401 has
the Temple rebuilding begun in the fifteenth year of Herod; Corbishley
reconstructed both as referring to 23/22 BCE reflecting the two methods
of dating. At Ant. 16.136 the building of Caesarea takes ten years, whereas
Ant. 15.341 has twelve years; Corbishley suggested the ten may have been
the accurate number and the twelve mistakenly calculated by Josephus
based on the two methods of reckoning.
A further example (not brought out by Corbishley): at Antioch in 37/36
BCE and at Alexandria in 34 BCE, in public ceremonies, Mark Antony,
ruler of the eastern Roman Empire, gave title to territories comprising
nearly the whole of the Eastern Roman Empire to a restored Egyptian
Ptolemaic dynasty of kings and queens. According to historian Hendrikus
van Wijlick (2013: 135–48), the Donations of Antioch of 37/36 BCE to
Cleopatra VII, consort of Mark Antony, included Coele-Syria, parts of
 Doudna Josephus’s John the Baptist Passage 127

Nabatea and the ‘balsam-producing parts of Judaea’ (Plutarch), which

Josephus identifies as within ‘the region about Jericho’ (Ant. 15.96). These
territories were given to Cleopatra ‘towards the end of 37 or at some point
in 36’ (van Wijlick 2013: 142). Cleopatra allowed Herod to lease back
her Judean territory starting in 36 BCE according to both Dio Cassius and
Plutarch. However Josephus in both War and Antiquities places the lease-
back from Cleopatra in 34 BCE, with Josephus’s date being erroneous in
van Wijlick’s opinion. Similarly, Plutarch and Dio have Lysanias, ruler of
Iturea, executed by Mark Antony at Cleopatra’s instigation in 36 BCE, but
Josephus (Ant. 15.92) has Lysanias’s execution in 34 BCE.
With this in mind, in the present case Herod’s army was destroyed
by the Nabateans with help from the forces of a general of Cleopatra in
32 BCE. A year later Herod (with a new army) was victorious over the
Nabateans in 31 BCE. After that is when Josephus situates in Antiquities
Hyrcanus II’s attempt to flee to the Nabateans which failed and ended
in Hyrcanus’s execution. Josephus has Hyrcanus II (concerning whom
Josephus has been completely silent in his history for four years prior
to this point) trying to flee to the Nabateans for sanctuary – with the
Nabatean ruler’s active assistance including promises to send a force
(δυναμιν, military power) to bring Hyrcanus’s party safely to Nabatea –
after the Nabateans, according to Josephus, had been defeated and had
acclaimed Herod ‘ruler (or, protector) of their nation’ (Ant. 15.160, 172).
Hyrcanus’s intended flight to the Nabateans and execution by Herod
arguably makes better sense dated c. 34 BCE in the context surrounding
Herod’s trip to Mark Antony in Laodicea – before rather than after
Herod’s defeat by and then victory over Malichus I in the First Nabatean
War of 32–31 BCE.
In 35 BCE Herod murdered the new, popular, eighteen-year old high
priest Jonathan Aristobulus III, grandson of Hyrcanus II. (At least the
family members believed Herod had had the young man murdered,
according to Josephus; Herod claimed it was an unfortunate accident in
a swimming pool.) A year earlier Herod had written to Mark Antony that
Jonathan was so well-liked that the whole land could very easily be filled
with disorder and war ‘because the Jews had formed hopes of an overturn
of the government and the rule of another king’ (Ant. 15.30). According to
Josephus, Herod feared that Hyrcanus II’s daughter Alexandra, Jonathan’s
mother, ‘would try to overthrow his government if she found an oppor-
tunity’ (Ant. 15.42).

[Herod] called a council of his friends and bitterly accused Alexandra of

having secretly plotted against his throne, saying that through Cleopatra
she was working to get Antony to deprive him of his power and have the
128 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

youth [Jonathan Aristobulus III] take over the government in his place. (Ant.
15.31-32)

After a complaint from the aggrieved mother, Alexandra, to Cleopatra,

following the death of her son, Herod was summoned by Mark Antony
to Laodicea in 34 BCE to answer for the death of Jonathan Aristobulus
III. The complaint from Alexandra seems to have been part of more
far-reaching moves and hopes for Herod’s removal by Mark Antony and
a restoration of the Hasmoneans to power at that time, whether by means
of Hyrcanus II himself or by having a Hasmonean woman as queen.
According to Josephus these moves included the governor of Idumea
and trusted general of Herod, Costabarus, conspiring with Cleopatra
to align with her and no longer be subject to Herod (Ant. 15.255-257;
cf. 15.79); Alexandra scheming to have Mark Antony become sexually
enamored with her beautiful daughter Mariamne (even though Mariamne
was currently inconveniently married to Herod) and by this means ‘they
might recover the throne’ (Ant. 15.73; cf. 15.23-28); and an escape attempt
by Alexandra and Mariamne from Herod’s house arrest to a Roman
military unit (Ant. 15.72), all in what Josephus portrays as a climate of
popular hostility to Herod and support for a Hasmonean restoration. The
alleged conspiracy of Hyrcanus II with Nabatean king Malichus I would
be well understood as one more element in this context. According to War
7.300 Herod’s building restorations at Masada c. 34 BCE were part of this
context as well:

Herod finished this fortress as a refuge for himself, suspecting a twofold

danger: peril on the one hand from the Jewish people lest they should depose
him and restore their former dynasty to power; the greater and more serious
from Cleopatra, queen of Egypt. For she never concealed her intention, but
was constantly importuning Antony, urging him to slay Herod, and praying
him to confer on her the throne of Judea.

But alas for these hopes, the meeting with Mark Antony in 34 BCE went
well for Herod. Herod came out of the meeting having ‘strengthened
Antony’s goodwill toward [Herod’s] throne and his government’ (Ant.
15.75). Either shortly before or shortly after Herod’s journey to Mark
Antony in 34 BCE makes the best sense for the attempted flight of
Hyrcanus II to the Nabateans and then failure of that attempt and
Hyrcanus II’s execution.
This date actually agrees with the picture given by Josephus in the
earlier War. At War 1.433-434 Josephus tells of Herod’s execution of
Hyrcanus II without dating it. But then Josephus mentions that Mariamne,
 Doudna Josephus’s John the Baptist Passage 129

on the eve of Herod’s trip to Mark Antony of 34 BCE, ‘openly upbraided

him [Herod] with the fate of her grandfather Hyrcanus and her brother
Jonathan’ (War 1.437, 439-444), thus situating Herod’s execution of
Hyrcanus II as having already occurred by that point, in agreement
with the reconstruction argued here. In Antiquities, which has redated
Hyrcanus II’s execution later, note that until Josephus’s story of Hyrcanus
II’s execution at the time of Herod’s trip to Octavian in Rhodes of 30
BCE, Josephus mentions only daughter Alexandra and granddaughter
Mariamne, never Hyrcanus, following 34 BCE. At Ant. 15.72-73, 80,
it is only Alexandra and ‘the women’ attempting to flee to the safety of
Roman forces in 34 BCE, with no mention of Hyrcanus II. Arguably,
Josephus when writing Antiquities did not know exactly when Hyrcanus
II was executed and mistakenly dated Hyrcanus II’s execution three or
four years late.

Themes of Hyrcanus II and John the Baptist in Josephus Compared

The themes in Josephus’s John the Baptist story of Herod fearing revolt,
and preemptively executing, agree extremely well with the portrayal
of Herod the Great of Josephus. Herod the Great’s executions of rivals
and threats to his rule, his paranoia and suspicions, are a major theme
in Josephus in a way that is not paralleled at all in Josephus for Herod
Antipas, with the sole exception of the John the Baptist passage at issue of
Ant. 18.116-119. That passage (Ant. 18.116-119) reads as if it were other
language for Josephus’s descriptions surrounding Hyrcanus II in the time
of Herod the Great.

Fearing that everyone would incline to Aristobulus [grandson of Hyrcanus

II], [Herod] put him to death at Jericho… (Ant. 20.248)

Herod began to fear that John’s powerful ability to persuade people

might lead to some sort of revolt…decided to do away with John…
Machaerus…there he was killed. (Ant. 18.118-119)

[Herod] believed…it would be safest not to have a man who was far worthier
than himself of obtaining the kingship wait to seize his opportunity…[he]
ordered the man [Hyrcanus II] to be strangled. (Ant. 15.164, 176)

[Herod] decided to do away with John by a preemptive strike, before

he sparked a revolt. Herod considered this a much better course of
action than to wait until the situation changed and then to regret his
delay. (Ant. 18:118)
130 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

Herod married Aristobulus’ sister Mariamme, hoping to capture the goodwill

of the people for himself, thanks to their recollection of Hyrcanus [II]…
(Ant. 20.248)

[John] was a good man… And when the others (ordinary Jews)
gathered together around John… they seemed likely to do whatever
he counseled… (Ant. 18.117-118)

Josephus’s John the Baptist story emphasizes condemnation by the Jews

at large for Herod’s unjust execution of John. Here is Josephus stating a
similar belief held by Jews concerning Herod’s perfidy and Hyrcanus II’s
innocence in the matter of Herod’s execution of Hyrcanus II.

And as proof that it was without committing any crime that [Hyrcanus II]
came to such an end they specify his mildness of character and the fact that
not even in his youth did he give any sign of boldness or recklessness…
[the] charges were a pretext invented by Herod… what was most painful of
all, as we have said before, was that in his old age [Hyrcanus II] came to an
unworthy end… That Antipater and Herod advanced so far was due to his
mildness, and what he experienced at their hands in the end was neither just
nor an act of piety. (Ant. 15.165-182)

For Herod killed him, although he was a good man and simply bade
the Jews to join in purification, provided that they were…practicing
justice toward one another and piety toward God. (Ant. 18.117)

Josephus’s story of the execution of John the Baptist corresponds with his
story of Herod’s execution of Mariamne, Hyrcanus II’s granddaughter,
both featuring a popular belief that divine punishment fell on Herod as a
result.

[T]here arose a pestilential disease which destroyed the greater part of the
people and also the most honored of [Herod’s] friends, and this caused all
to suspect that their misfortune had been brought upon them by God in His
anger at what had lawlessly been done to Mariamme. (Ant. 15.243)

But the Jews were of the opinion that the army [of Herod] was
destroyed to avenge John, God wishing to inflict harm on Herod.
(Ant. 18.119)

But is it plausible that Josephus would make a chronological mistake of

the nature suggested in the case of the John the Immerser passage – of
attaching an undated story from a source to the wrong Herod, over a half
century removed in time?
 Doudna Josephus’s John the Baptist Passage 131

The answer is yes it is plausible; the phenomenon has a number of

parallels.

Of Doublets and Chronological Dislocations

At Ant. 14.145-148 Josephus mistakenly wrote a Roman Senate decree

from 139 BCE as applying to Hyrcanus II in 47 BCE. At Ant. 14.150-155
Josephus mistakenly wrote a decree of Athens from 105 BCE as applying
to Hyrcanus II of 47 BCE (Eilers 2008). Following these two examples
Josephus then sets forth a further dossier of Caesarian documents (Ant.
14.190-264), which Josephus presents as all applicable to Hyrcanus
II. However some of those documents apply to John Hyrcanus I of
the preceding century, not Hyrcanus II. As Claude Eilers (2003: 194)
commenting on these errors of Josephus put it succinctly: ‘Unfortunately,
he had the wrong Hyrcanus’. Wrong Hyrcanus, wrong Herod, same
principle.
Daniel Schwartz has done work on doublets in Josephus from sources
in which, just as in biblical texts, variant versions of the same figure or
event are narrated in the text as if they are two persons or two events.
For example Josephus separately presents two accounts of a visit of the
Roman governor of Syria, Vitellius, to Jerusalem at the time of a Jewish
festival, which have usually been assumed in scholarly discourse, based
on Josephus’s portrayal, to be distinct historical visits (Ant. 18.89-122).
Schwartz argues convincingly that the two visits of Josephus are two
versions of a single visit of Vitellius and Herod Antipas to Jerusalem at
Passover 37 CE (Schwartz 2013: 100–104; cf. also Nodet 2014: 274–6).
Similar analysis has been done by David Goodblatt on what Josephus
presents as two unrelated sets of events in Parthian Babylonia following
successively in chronological sequence, commonly dated c. 20–35 CE
and 41 CE (Ant. 18.310-379). Goodblatt (1987) showed that these are
stories of the same context told different ways, with the correct datings
being 36–52 CE (rule of Asinaios and Anilaios in Nehardea) and 40/41
CE (pogrom in Seleucia) respectively.
The study of Corbishley (1935) referred to above showed a doublet
concerning Herod’s second trip to Rome of 12 BCE at Ant. 13.66-270. As
Josephus has it a series of events of 14–12 BCE is essentially repeated in
12–10 BCE. Josephus misunderstood two versions of the same events of
14–12 BCE as being different and consecutive in sequence and mistakenly
132 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

situated the second version of the same events in the following two years
of 12–10 BCE.9
A Judas son of Sepphoraeus, ‘unrivaled interpreter of the ancestral
laws…educated the youth…’, inspired an anti-Roman insurrection in
Jerusalem c. 4 BCE at a time of a removal of Joazar from the high
priesthood (Ant. 17.149, 207-208, 339). A Judas of Gamala, characterized
by Josephus as the founder of the Fourth Philosophy dedicated to liberty
from Rome, is said to have inspired another anti-Roman insurrection at
a time of removal of the same Joazar from the high priesthood again in
6 CE (Ant. 18.3-4, 23-26). Some scholars have held that this is too much
coincidence and reflects a doublet; if so, one of the variants is chronologi-
cally dislocated in Josephus by about nine years (Lagrange 1911; Rhoads
2011).
In the same way, Josephus’s John the Baptist story reads as a doublet
or different version of Hyrcanus II chronologically dislocated to the time
of the wrong Herod. In this case Josephus did not place the two versions
of the death of Hyrcanus II close together in the same time setting as in
some of the other cases of doublets. If Josephus had done that, the doublet
in this case would have been recognized before now. Instead, Josephus
mistakenly attached one of the traditions of the death of Hyrcanus II to
the wrong Herod, just as he separately mistakenly attached documents to
the wrong Hyrcanus.

Summary of Comparisons between Josephus’s

John the Baptist and Hyrcanus II
1. Same name: Hyrc. II: Though unverified, ‘John’ is suggested from
papponymy.
2. Judea sphere of activity: likely.
3. Popular support: Hyrc. II: Ant. 15.15; 20.248.
4. Herod fears threat to power: Hyrc. II: Ant. 15.178, 183.
5. Righteous man considered innocent: Hyrc. II: Ant. 15.174-178.

9. Corbishley (1935: 30): ‘The narrative of the quarrels in Herod’s family as

given in 13.66-135, taken by itself, is coherent, although incomplete… On the other
hand, the story of what Josephus calls the δευτέρα ἔρις in Herod’s family, as given in
13.189-270, is merely another version, from a different angle, of the former quarrel,
and its dislocation must be due to the fact that it was attributed in the sources to
the “twenty-seventh” and “twenty-eighth” years of the reign; and since Josephus
knew that Herod had gone to Rome in the “twenty-sixth” year (on his own dating)
he naturally presumed that this was a fresh quarrel, not another story of the earlier
quarrel dated on a different system.’
 Doudna Josephus’s John the Baptist Passage 133

6. Executed by Herod: Hyrc. II: Ant. 15.174-178.

7. Site of imprisonment/execution: Josephus’s John the Baptist:
Machaerus on the Judean/Nabatean border across from the Dead
Sea. Hyrc. II: unstated, but occurs when seeking refuge with the
Nabatean king who planned to send horsemen to escort Hyrcanus II’s
party from the Dead Sea and ‘bring them in safety’ to Nabatea (Ant.
15.167-173).
8. Herod condemned by Jews for the execution: Hyrc. II: Ant. 15.174,
182.
9. Execution is followed by a destruction of Herod’s army: Hyrc. II: Ant.
15.118-119 (with death of Hyrc. II in Josephus’s Antiquities redated
c. four years earlier, per argument).
10. Purification by immersion: Hyrc. II: purification by immersion central
to his practice as first-century BCE high priest and ex-high priest. As
ethnarch of Jews of the diaspora would have been the principal figure
known in the diaspora associated with purification by immersion.
11. Purification ideology and communal organization like that of 1QS:
Hyrc. II: both when he was high priest, and later as high priest
emeritus spending much of his time at the Royal Estate of Jericho,
it would be highly unusual if Hyrcanus II did not have a familiar
relationship with the site of Qumran and its purification installations
in physical proximity to Jericho.

Every element of the Josephus John the Baptist passage agrees with, or
can agree with, Hyrcanus II in relation to Herod the Great. On the one
hand there are these positive circumstantial indicators, cumulative in
impact. On the other hand there is no detail in Josephus’s John the Baptist
passage in contradiction to Hyrcanus II, apart from the single factor of
the chronological setting in which the story is found in Josephus. But that
chronological setting is neither internal to the story nor necessary to the
story. It was an ancient judgment of the historian, Josephus, known for
fallibility elsewhere on chronological matters.
Therefore the thesis should be considered.

Emic and Etic

Little is known of Hyrcanus II’s activity after his return to Judea c. 36

BCE. Josephus represents Hyrcanus II as esteemed by ‘all of the Jewish
nation’ east of the Euphrates as their legitimate high priest and king (Ant.
15.14-15). If after his return to Judea in c. 36 BCE Hyrcanus II lived
in the residences of previous Hasmoneans and now of Herod, at whose
134 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

invitation he had returned, he would have spent much of his time at the
royal estate in Jericho, at a time of peak activity of the scrolls later found
to have been placed in caves at the nearby site of Qumran.
In agreement with the point of view of some of the Qumran texts with
respect to the power center in Jerusalem, Hyrcanus II had been estranged
from a regime in control of Jerusalem which had driven him from Judea.
An adversary had seized the high priesthood by force. The usurper regime
had held power in Jerusalem before succumbing to a Roman invasion.
The usurper had died violently at the hands of the Romans, in his death
evoking the imagery of the fate of a ‘Wicked Priest’ in 1Q Pesher
Habakkuk. When Hyrcanus II, instead of being restored to power and
honor after his return to Judea in accord with Herod’s promises, was killed
by Herod and every male of Hyrcanus II’s lineage killed too (Ant. 15.266),
did that have anything to do with the end of all compositions of Qumran
texts which occurred at that time, for reasons no one knows?10

Hyrcanus II and Baptizing

Josephus says nothing of Hyrcanus II baptizing. Josephus also does not

mention that Hyrcanus II engaged in mystical rites of ascension to heaven,
issued halakhic rulings, was involved in calendric decisions, officiated
in temple administration, wrote or had issued in his name hymns and
liturgies, or corresponded with Jewish officials abroad and at home. Yet it
is likely that Hyrcanus II engaged in all of these things, because he was
high priest for thirty-two years and those are the kinds of things a high
priest is believed to have done. To this list can be added purification by
immersion. The immersions of Josephus’s John the Baptist are nothing
other than purification immersions, in running water or in the full-body-
immersion mikvehs, which have been abundantly attested archaeologically
in Judea and Galilee starting from about the beginning of the first century
BCE.11 If an identity of Josephus’s John the Baptist with Hyrcanus II is

10. Atkinson and Magness 2010: 340: ‘[T]he Essenes apparently stopped com� -
posing new religious texts after the middle of the first century B.C.E., as there are
no historical references in the scrolls [of Qumran] to events after 31 B.C.E.’; Wise
2003: 84: ‘[J]udging by the latest references [in an inventory of thirty-one historical
allusions in Qumran texts], all of the sectarian writings on the list were probably
composed between 60 and 30 B.C.E.’.
11. Arguing for a slightly later date than the c. 100 BCE date most commonly
judged for the start of mikvehs used for ritual immersions, Berlin 2005: 452, 469 n.
148: ‘mikva’ot first appear in contexts of the early–mid first century B.C.E.; there
is no evidence for such installations in Jewish settlements before then…there is no
 Doudna Josephus’s John the Baptist Passage 135

contested on the grounds that there is no ancient testimony that Hyrcanus

II baptized (immersed for purification), that reflects an underlying presup-
position that Josephus’s John’s immersions differed from the purification
practices of most Jews in first-century BCE Judea. Such assumptions can
arise from anachronistically reading into Josephus Christian conceptions
of what Josephus’s John the Baptist’s immersings must have been.
Josephus does not discuss Jewish purification practices much anywhere
in his works, perhaps because his attention was on political history.
Josephus obtained most of his information for Hyrcanus II from Herod’s
court historian Nicolaus of Damascus and other sources concerned with
political history. That Josephus did not make a point of stating that
Hyrcanus II, who as high priest was the leading Jewish figure in the world
involved with purification for over three decades, immersed himself for
purification, is not a significant omission.
But the question nevertheless remains in a different form: if purification
by immersion was not noteworthy for Hyrcanus II, why was it noteworthy
in the case of John the Baptist? A curious finding has been that the mikvehs
used by Jews for ritual immersions, so pervasive in Judea and areas under
the control of the Hasmonean state in the first century BCE, seem not to
have been found at all in the diaspora.12 Would Hyrcanus II in Babylon,
given the means and opportunity to do so, have resumed purification by
immersion as had been his practice in Judea?
According to Josephus the Parthian ruler, Phraates IV, when he came to
power in 38/37 BCE, ‘released [Hyrcanus II] from his bonds and permitted
him to settle in Babylon, where there was a large number of Jews’ (Ant.
15.14). Did Hyrcanus II, perhaps now in a house of his own, have mikvehs
installed? In first-century BCE Judea purification by immersion would
not be noteworthy. But in the diaspora, in Babylon, a Jewish practice of
purification by immersion in mikvehs, especially by Hyrcanus II, a public
figure, would have been unusual and noteworthy. Although hypothetical,

positive evidence for so early a date [late second century BCE] from any of these
locales [Jericho, Upper City of Jerusalem, Qumran, Gezer, Gamla]… Michael Wise
has recently proposed that the Teacher of Righteousness…should be dated to the
mid-first rather than the mid-second century B.C.E. If correct, then it is interesting
to note that this is the same period in which the more widespread but less rigorous
practices of “household Judaism” appear’.
12. E.g. Haber and Reinhartz 2008: 164 n. 13, 174: ‘As of yet, there have been no
mikvaot found in the Diaspora (…) The archaeological evidence suggests that ritual
ablutions were associated with synagogues in the Diaspora and that these purification
procedures did not involve immersion in a mikveh.’
136 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

this is one way Hyrcanus II could have become known as ‘the Immerser’,
with the name following him in certain circles back to Judea.

Conclusion and Implications

This article has proposed that Josephus’s John the Baptist is an independent
tradition of Hyrcanus II of the time of Herod the Great, which has been
chronologically displaced in Antiquities. Josephus’s John the Baptist story
is to be understood as in the class of additional material from Jewish
stories inserted by Josephus into the preexisting narrative of War in the
composition process of Antiquities. These are the same kinds of stories
that are found in later rabbinic traditions, although this particular story is
not attested in later rabbinic compilations.
If this analysis is correct – that Josephus misplaced this story to the
wrong Herod in Antiquities – then there is no attestation external to the
New Testament of the Gospels’ figure of John the Baptist of the 30s CE.
The implication would seem to be this: either the Gospels’ John the Baptist
has been generated in the story world of the Gospels, or he derives from
a different figure than Josephus’s John the Baptist, secondarily conflated
with Josephus’s John the Baptist. These issues are beyond the scope of this
paper.

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 T h om p s on ’ s J e sus :
S ta ri n g D own t h e W i shi ng W e ll *

Jim West

Historical Jesus scholars have each ‘looked down the long well of
history and [seen their] own face reflected at the bottom’1

This essay re-evaluates the book by Thomas Thompson titled The

Messiah Myth: The Near Eastern Roots of Jesus and David and discusses
the appropriateness of his methodology, the correctness of his interpre-
tation, and the continuing importance of his contribution on the topic of
the historical Jesus. In the present essayists view, this is Thompson’s most
important work and is critical to a correct understanding of his academic
agenda. It is, accordingly, quite surprising that it has not received either
adequate or even marginal attention. Nor, in the very few reviews it has
received, has it been correctly understood.
So, for instance, when Thomas Thompson’s volume appeared in the
United States in 2005 it was not charitably reviewed by all its readers.
Kirkus Reviews opined:

…the book is too technical to appeal to most general readers, since

Thompson presupposes a comfortable familiarity with Hebrew Scripture
and the New Testament that most nonspecialists lack. Even the sections
where he explicitly engages the academic landscape can be puzzling: in
his historiographic overview, he curiously fails to discuss the work of N.T.
Wright, arguably today’s most influential historian of the New Testament
and a scholar whose careful historical readings of the New Testament seem

* It is with heartfelt gratitude to Tom Thompson that I offer this small token of
my appreciation for both his scholarship and his friendship over the decades. I hope
that he finds it a joy to read.
1. Tyrell 1909: 44.
 West Thompson’s Jesus 139

an obvious point of engagement for Thompson. Finally, the production

team gets demerits for the impossibly tiny print. At turns tendentious and
stuffy. The Messiah Myth reads like nothing more and nothing less than a
promising doctoral dissertation.2

Publisher’s Weekly is equally nonplussed, writing:

For Thompson, Jesus and David emerge merely as characters in stories that
reveal the value of the good king. Although Thompson provides a valuable
service by situating the Jesus and David tales in the context of other ancient
Near Eastern literature, his argument that the biblical writers used such liter-
ature to write their fictions of David and Jesus is neither new nor startling. In
addition, the lack of a coherent structure and a definitive conclusion lessens
the effectiveness of Thompson’s book.3

Alongside respectable reviews were an army of ‘Jesus Mythicists’ who

latched onto Thompson’s work as support for their view that Jesus
actually never existed and who were bolstered by Thompson’s book.
Doing so, they misunderstood both Thompson and his work. Others
ignored Thompson’s work. Indeed, the Review of Biblical Literature, the
book reviewing ‘arm’ of the Society of Biblical Literature, never even
reviewed the book, as though it never existed.
In what follows the volume will be assessed more charitably and
carefully than has yet been done and its purpose and intent will be
described more fairly. In the quotation at the heading of this essay the
famous notion that scholars of the Historical Jesus are merely gazing
at themselves was cited. And in many instances that is true. Liberation
theologians see Jesus as a liberation theologian. Feminist theologians
see him as a feminist. LGBTQ scholars see Jesus as a homosexual male.
Protestant Theologians from nineteenth-century Germany saw Jesus as a
crusty Protestant. And on it goes.
But Thompson’s Jesus is not a liberal Catholic. Thompson’s Jesus is
a theological construct comprised of bits and pieces of Old Testament
theological historiography. Thompson’s Jesus is a real man who really
existed but he is a man about whom we know nothing at all aside from
the understanding foisted upon him by the theologians of the early Church
who wrote his story: the Gospels.

2. [Link]
-myth/, accessed 15 July 2018.
3. [Link] accessed 16 July 2018.
140 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

Thompson, in other words, does not see his own reflection at the
bottom of the well. He sees the reflection provided by the Old Testament.
And that reflection is very much worth considering. He, like Rudolf
Bultmann before him, rightly perceives the historian’s task. As Bultmann
(1934: 9–10) put it:

However good the reasons for being interested in the personalities of

significant historical figures, Plato or Jesus, Dante or Luther, Napoleon
or Goethe, it still remains true that this interest does not touch that which
such men had at heart; for their interest was not in their personality but in
their work. And their work was to them not the expression of their person-
ality, nor something through which their personality achieved its ‘form’,
but the cause to which they surrendered their lives. Moreover, their work
does not mean the sum of the historical effects of their acts; for to this
their view could not be directed. Rather, the ‘work’ from their standpoint
is the end they really sought, and it is in connection with their purpose that
they are the proper objects of historical investigation. This is certainly true
if the examination of history is no neutral orientation about objectively
determined past events, but is motivated by the question how we ourselves,
standing in the current of history, can succeed in comprehending our own
existence, can gain clear insight into the contingencies and necessities of
our own life purpose.

There is no doubt in my mind that Thompson would agree fully with this
assessment.
The book, for those who have not yet read it, begins in Part One, ‘The
Kingdom of God’, with a series of chapters which invite the reader to
consider the ancient Near Eastern background (or better, underpinning) of
the messianic concept. How are we to understand, historically, the person
of Jesus? What is a Prophet? Who are the children of the Kingdom of
God? How do ancient texts lay the groundwork for the fully developed
question of the messianic figure?
In Part Two, ‘The Royal Ideology’, Thompson questions the various
myths (used in the classical sense of the word and not the modern sense
of ‘falsehood’) connected to the messianic figure: the Good King, the
Conquering Holy Warrior and the Dying and Rising God.
The final section of the book draws all of what precedes it together
in what Thompson calls ‘The Never Ending Story’. In three successive
chapters he discusses Holy War, the Good King and the Bad King and
the figure of David in story and song. The volume concludes with a series
of appendices, notes, a bibliography, an index of biblical citations and a
subject index.
 West Thompson’s Jesus 141

Thompson’s book, long overlooked and very much worth a fresh

consideration is not an attempt to join him to the ‘Jesus Mythicist’ camp.
Nor is it a denial of the existence of Jesus of Nazareth. Thompson is far
too intelligent to fall into that category. Rather, the volume, in my view
Thompson’s most important, painstakingly and carefully shows readers
the various streams which make up the great river of Jewish messianism.
In his own words:

This book attempts to answer the question I first raised some five years ago:
What is the Bible if it is not history? (Thompson 2005: ix)

Furthermore:

Part I deals with the perspective of the gospels, which builds its narrative
figures on the basis of the myth drawn primarily from earlier Jewish
tradition. Part II considers three of the most central figures of ancient Near
Eastern royal ideology – the good king, the conquering holy warrior and
the dying and rising god – and discusses their reuse in biblical tradition and
especially in the Hebrew Bible. Part III describes the biblical revision of
holy war ideology and the way this tradition has affected the composition
of the narratives about the kings of Judah and Israel and finally the devel-
opment of the messiah figure in narrative and song. (Thompson 2005: x–xi)

How did ancient Judaism understand messianic figures and how did they
formulate their views based on precedent? That is the issue of the present
work. The importance of that question cannot be exaggerated.
The chief question at hand, though, is whether or not Thompson
accomplishes his goal. Does he lay bare the roots of messianic under-
standing in Early Judaism?
He certainly shows that Early Judaism’s understanding of a messianic
figure has roots in other ancient Near Eastern materials. As he shows:

The same or similar saying can be given to different figures in different narra-
tives without disturbing the conviction that it belongs to each. Nevertheless,
a particular saying out of its author’s context can hardly be identified as
belonging to Job, a Psalter’s David or Isaiah’s suffering servant. (Thompson
2005: 26)

The biblical authors, then, had a library of ideas to draw from when it
came to describing its heroes, and they used those materials with great
skill to weave together their stories of great men. This does not imply that
those great figures did not exist nor does it imply that they did not accom-
plish great deeds. It simply recognizes the fact that the historical bones of
142 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

great persons have been covered with muscle and flesh and decorations
drawn from the stories of other great heroes from other times and places.
Heroes are amalgams.
This also applies to the descriptions of Jesus in the Gospels. As
Thompson opines:

No author of the first century CE invented these roles [i.e., the roles
exemplified in the story of Jesus; JW]. Nor did he invent the figures that
bear them in his stories. One who wishes to separate and distinguish such
roles historically needs to begin much earlier than the gospels. The fabric
of the gospels was long in preparation. No author of merit – and Luke
is an extraordinarily gifted storyteller – has written apart from a literary
community and a common tradition. (Thompson 2005: 65)

Is this true? It seems undeniably so. Has Thompson proven his thesis? To
this point, he has. But he also has more evidence to muster. Next, then, he
turns to one of the most important hero story tropes: ‘The reversal of this
world’s power and wealth’.

It can be found in every major ancient Near Eastern wisdom tradition and in
nearly every ancient text tradition that gives voice to the ideology of kings
and kingship. As it has been transmitted and reinterpreted within biblical
tradition, this trope has played a decisive role in the development of the
Jesus story. It goes far in defining his character, personality and mission.
(Thompson 2005: 105)

Jesus was a hero figure and the stories told of him in the Gospels utilize
hero story tropes to give fullness and form to his life story. But not only
that, these tropes connect Jesus to an audience that can better understand
him because these tropes are utilized.
Thompson continues to develop his carefully constructed argument by
observing that

The process of biographical story creation is complex. It is especially

difficult to determine whether we are in fact dealing with the story of a
particular man’s life and a biography illustrating values we hold because
of him. We may be dealing with a narrative figure whose function is to
illustrate universal or eternal values. The difference between the two rests
on our ability to separate the bearing figure of a narrative from its message.
(Thompson 2005: 134–5)
 West Thompson’s Jesus 143

This, it seems, is the very heart of the issue. What material in the Gospels
stems from the unique behaviors and deeds of Jesus of Nazareth and what
stems from hero tropes adopted by the Gospel writers? The answer to this
critical question is that we simply do not have any way of disentangling
the threads and the Gospel authors would not wish us to do so.
What we can be sure of, however, is that the tropes adopted by the
Gospel writers have a long and firmly established history. When, for
instance, Jesus is likened to a king, it is because this trope was in place
long before even David came on the scene. And so was the kind of king.
As Thompson shows, ‘The virtues of humility, social justice and integrity
are all marks of a piety oriented toward an ideal kingdom’ (2005: 169).
The tropes that were applied to the life and kingdom of David are
also applied to the life and ministry of Jesus. The Near Eastern roots
of Jesus and David are in fact not simply Israelite or Judean tropes, but
nearly ‘universal’. Ancient Israel and the Early Church both made use of
materials found in their respective intellectual environments in order to
‘flesh out’ their heroic tales.
Does this imply that the tales told of David, and of Jesus, are ‘untrue’?
Quite the contrary. A trope can be true and it can be applied to a wide
range of persons and still be true. Such is the case of the borrowed tropes
applied to both David and Jesus. And what is the aim of the utilization of
such tropes to describe David and Jesus? Thompson observes:

The interactive roles of the messiah as prophet, king, judge and priest are
well-known aspects of the messiah’s profile. These roles of illustration
struggle constantly to maintain a doorway between transcendent and
ephemeral worlds. (Thompson 2005: 297)

The various tropes, in other words, are illustrations. In the same way
that preachers illustrate their sermons with stories that are sometimes a
mixture of historical fact and metahistorical fiction, so too the biblical
authors.
Does, then, Thompson have it right? Does the present book contribute
anything meaningful to our understanding of the great heroes of Judaism
and Christianity, David and Jesus? If we understand the biblical text as
‘history’ then the answer is no. If we take the Old Testament, and the
New, as simple recitations of historical fact then Thompson’s solution
to the problem of historicity will be extraordinarily unhelpful and even
frustrating and annoying.
144 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

Fortunately, though, the Old Testament and the New are not mere histor-
ical tales telling the bare facts of historical events. The Old Testament and
the New are theological works, which happily and unselfconsciously mix
historical remembrance with illustrative materials without any concern
that postmodern readers take them as something other than sermons.
If we take the text of the Bible seriously and on its own terms than we
will find Thompson’s disentangling of the disparate threads which make it
up both engaging and enthralling. Rather than standing at the edge of the
well and staring down to see a reflection which is his own, Thompson has
stared down the well and seen the reflection of the biblical authors. And
we should be grateful for it.
This key work of Thomas Thompson deserves a fresh hearing and a
fair hearing from those in the guild of biblical scholarship. On this, the
occasion of his 80th birthday, my humble hope is that this contribution to
his Festschrift encourages such a fresh hearing.

Bibliography
Bultmann, R. (1934), Jesus and the Word, trans. L. P. Smith and E. H. Lantero, New York:
Scribners.
Thompson, T. L. (2005), The Messiah Myth: The Near Eastern Roots of Jesus and David,
New York: Basic Books.
Tyrell, G. (1909), Christianity at the Crossroads, London: Longman, Green & Co.
 T he Q u r ’ a n a s B i b l i cal R e wr i t i ng

Mogens Müller

1. Introduction

Biblical studies has changed significantly from its earlier focus on history.
Not least, the Enlightenment set a new standard in claiming the Bible not
to be in itself revelation, but rather human testimonies about revelation,
including its interpretation. This way of resolving the claim of divine
infallibility opened the eyes of critical scholarship to a history behind the
texts and to the human efforts that created and collected the books, which
became the Pentateuch of Samaritanism, the TANAK of Judaism and the
Bible of Christianity.
From its beginning, the goal of Enlightenment scholarship was to
reconstruct the history behind the biblical story. The effort was to reach
the historical bedrock supporting all later interpretation and myth-making.
Such historical-critical scholarship, however, reduced the biblical message
by insistently asking the question of referentiality. Only what could be
proven or, at least, made likely, to render what really had happened, could
be labelled ‘truth’ and thereby be reckoned trustworthy.
It was in the 1970s that biblical studies effectively first shifted its focus
from creating a history behind the texts to interpreting the biblical story
itself. It was no longer primarily looked upon as a trustworthy source for
factual history. It was rather assessed as a narrative, the message of which
in principle was independent of its referentiality. Its truth value was more
to be ascertained from its ability to create faith and affect the behavior
of its readers and listeners. Thus, the biblical texts were fundamentally
viewed as sources for understanding the beliefs, convictions and inten-
tions of their creators.
146 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

2. The Introduction of the Concept ‘Biblical/Scriptural Rewriting’

This change of focus away from the question of eventual referentiality to

that of biblical authors and their intentions in producing their writings,
brought attention to the particular phenomenon of rewriting in the Bible
and a vast Apocryphal and Pseudepigraphic literature. Hitherto, variations
had mainly raised the question of which version could claim to be the
original or, at least, the most original among many variants. Now, such
variations acquired independent interests for reissuing a message in new
situations and changed circumstances.
It was the Jewish biblical scholar, Geza Vermes (1924–2013), who back
in 1961 coined the term ‘Rewritten Bible’.1 Much discussion has concen-
trated on the appropriateness of the very term, but this should not hide its
heuristic value in drawing attention to the extensive literature consisting
in rewriting existing books and stories. Obviously, these rewritings did
not owe their formation to new knowledge about a text’s referential
history, but rather to an interest in making existing stories suitable to new
contexts. In the Jewish Bible itself, Chronicles clearly consists of a later
rewriting of the stories told in the books of Samuel and Kings. Among
the Pseudepigrapha, the book of Jubilees, from the second century BCE,
stands out as a new version of Genesis and introduction to Exodus, while
Pseudo-Philo’s Liber Antiquitatum Biblicarum, from around the middle
of the first century CE, rewrites the biblical stories from Adam to King
David.
In regard to the New Testament, viewing the gospels as rewritten Bible,
or, what in this context is the more correct term, as biblical rewritings,
offers a fruitful approach. The Gospel of Matthew, from the 80s, for
example, stands out as a rewriting of the earliest gospel, of Mark, from
c. 70 CE, to be followed, c. 100, first by the Gospel of John and, still later,
some decades into the second century, by the Gospel of Luke. Although it
is an anachronism to speak about a Bible as a fixed collection of writings
so early, I would venture to label the New Testament gospels as biblical
rewritings, in the sense that their authors intend them to be seen as author-
itative stories to be used in Christian service alongside readings from the
Jewish Holy Scriptures.

1. See Vermes 1973. Vermes later developed the genre concept in numerous
articles and books. Of course, the phenomenon of interpreting by creative retelling
was noted long before and given various labels, among them Midrash. However, it
was only with Geza Vermes’s elaboration of the genre or interpretation strategy that it
became a heuristic tool in understanding the rewriting as creative reception.
 Müller The Qur’an as Biblical Rewriting 147

In comparing the development of the Jesus story through the variations

of the four gospels, with their expansions, shortenings, and often radical
restructuring, a reader detects a surprising freedom on the part of the
author not only to supplement existing stories with new characteristics,
but also to invent events and speeches. A biblical scholar has to work
with the concept of creative ‘fiction’. As critical scholarship increasingly
changed its perspectives towards the writing of the narratives, it ceased to
be as interested in eventual historical facts, which had been assumed to be
embedded in the texts. Eyes were opened towards viewing these stories
as vehicles for unfolding and maintaining beliefs and convictions rather
than history writing in our sense of the word. With reception history,
fiction became a legitimate category for understanding what occurs in
rewriting. At the same time, it exposes what those who rewrote thought
of their original.
It is of some interest in this context to introduce Aristotle’s definitions
in his Poetics, where (ch. 9) the philosopher distinguishes between poetry
as being more philosophical and serious than history writing. Where
history writing pertains to the particular, poetry relates to the common.
Thus, the poet depicts what is understood as real, what Aristotle calls
mimesis. In doing so, he created an awareness that literary texts could be
fictional, thereby contributing to the understanding of mimetic activity as
implying more than the alternatives of true and untrue. As expressions of a
legitimate and necessary human activity, mimesis first of all addresses the
reality of reception, opening such reality in a new way by letting what is
told become the receiver’s own experience. In this, Aristotle operates with
what we could call mimetic competence. Mimetic competence describes,
for instance, what the tragedian is doing when he presents the Homeric
myth that had almost lost its original meaning, in a manner that recreates
its impact for the audience.
This is exactly what the authors of the gospels did in their writing
and rewriting of the Jesus story (Müller 2014). This understanding of
the gospels in particular and the biblical story in general as at least
partly fictional, revisits pre-critical Bible reading.2 Its value is no longer
measured by its degree of referentiality. The truth of the story is free from
its dependence on the factuality of its content. However, this is not a

2. See the still important book by Frei, The Eclipse of Biblical Narrative (1974),
showing how the shift to a historical-critical understanding of the Bible involved a
serious reduction in the assumed biblical ‘truth’. The ‘narrative turn’ in the 1970s first
opened a way out of this confusion of historical truth and religious truth, not by giving
up a critical scholarship but by refining it.
148 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

return to an uncritical attitude, which today would mean fundamentalism.

Instead, the reading of a narrative occurs in respect to a truth that is only
accessible through what we today would understand as fiction; namely,
through myth, symbol and metaphor.
In reading biblical texts, we should not attend so exclusively to the
story’s tale as if it were a window into a world of the distant past. Far
more, we should attend to what the authors wanted to achieve in terms of
their readers or listeners – which beliefs, convictions and behavior they
aimed at creating in the lives of the congregations to which they owe their
existence and want to support. They did not primarily intend to inform us
about historical facts, but rather to convey a revelation, which does not
allow itself to be reduced to merely what can be neutrally acknowledged.
Their message is addressed rather to faith. For example, the author of the
Gospel of John closes with a declaration that what has been written in his
book was ‘recorded in order that you may hold the faith that Jesus is the
Christ, the Son of God, and that through this faith you may possess life in
his name’ (Jn 20:31).

3. ‘Rewritten Bible’ as a New Approach to Understanding the Qur’an

Reading the Qur’an as a biblical scholar in an age that is no longer neces-

sarily determined by polemics allows us to conceive much of what is
contained in its suras as a biblical rewriting of the Samaritan, Jewish and
Christian Bibles. By ‘biblical’ I mean a story or text that is conceived as
a religious, authority-bearing revelation. To a scholar of Samaritanism,
Judaism or Christianity, it is obvious that Muhammad, in creating the
suras of the written Qur’an, among other things, reformed a series of
biblical figures and their stories. The earlier, polemical interests of such
scholarship had primarily led to fault-finding through a comparison of the
Qur’an with the canonical scriptures and their versions. Today, however,
a reading formed by the concept of reception history would rather
concentrate on the modifying intention behind such revision. Historical
failures, such as, for example, the mistaking of Moses’ sister Miriam for
the mother of Jesus (sura 3.35-37, 19.28, and 66.12), were noticed by
Christian writers as early as the beginning of the eighth century.3 Such

3. As early as in the beginning of the eighth century John of Damascus (born

c. 650/675 and diad before 754), in the part concerning heresies in his great work
The Fountain of Wisdom, also has a chapter on the heresy of the Ishmaelites, as he
names the Muslims. Although John of Damascus is ridiculing and polemical against
what he conceived as an expression of Arianism, nevertheless he is well informed,
 Müller The Qur’an as Biblical Rewriting 149

‘mistakes’, however, find parallels in the Bible itself. Who, for instance,
was it that killed the giant Goliath? Was it David as told in 1 Samuel 17, or
was it one of David’s men, Elhanan, as in 2 Sam. 21:19 (the ‘reconciling’
of the two traditions in 1 Chron. 20:5 by letting it be a brother of Goliath
that was killed by Elhanan may seem nothing but a miraculous save)?
It is a remarkable fact that the Qur’an apparently does not reflect the
period between Jesus and Muhammad himself. Besides genuinely biblical
traditions, however, the Qur’an obviously also elaborates on interpreta-
tions and traditions known from Old Testament Pseudepigrapha and New
Testament Apocrypha and later traditions. Such dependence on pseudepi-
graphic material is also evident in the New Testament itself, where, for
instance, a wandering rock, to be identified as Christ in 1 Cor. 10:4, does
not stem from any canonical text, but rather from contemporary Jewish
interpretation – it is known from Pseudo-Philo, LAB 10:7, but is probably
older. Correspondingly, the picture of Abraham as a fanatic monotheist,
fighting the idolatry of his father and people, depicted in many suras in
the Qur’an, especially in sura 21.51-70, is not in accordance with what
is told in biblical Genesis, but in turn very similar to what the book of
Jubilees relates.
One also may ask from where the narrative additions and alterations
in the sura 12, Joseph, come, if not from retellings circulating in milieus
visited by Muhammad. And the only ‘deed’ of Jesus referred to in the
Qur’an, namely his creating a bird out of clay and making it come alive,
does not resemble anything in the canonical gospels, but, in turn, reminds
of a story from the apocryphal Gospel of Thomas, not to be mistaken with
the Gospel of Thomas from the Nag Hammadi find. Thus, the suras of
the Qur’an indirectly reflect various receptions of biblical stories from
the centuries from around the beginning of the Common Era and until
the time of Muhammad, just as an interaction with Jewish and Christian
biblical interpretation found its place in the following centuries, not least
thanks to the many converts from these religions to Islam. However, this
openness obviously came to an end in the eleventh century, when the
reading of Jewish and Christian Scripture by Muslims came to be regarded
with suspicion, if not simply forbidden (see Griffith 2012: 140–1).

knowing the Qur’an and the early Muslim traditions. See Sahas (1972), who also
states (p. 129): ‘What distinguishes John of Damascus as a Christian interlocutor in
the Muslim-Christian dialogue is that he was motivated to refute Islam as, primarily,
a theological heresy and as a “false” religious tradition, whereas the later Byzantine
writers were involved in anti-Muslim polemics which, more often than not, had
political dimensions and support’.
150 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

There has been a long scholarly discussion of how Muhammad became

acquainted with biblical and para-biblical traditions. More than a hundred
years ago, the Danish Semitist, Frants Buhl (1850–1932), who was also
an eminent expert on Islamic studies, wrote about the inclusion of biblical
figures in the Qur’an in a dictionary article from 1904:4

It can be viewed as fully certain, that he [Muhammad] has not collected

this material by reading books, because at that time, there did not exist any
Arabic literature with such content and he was able to read neither the Old
nor the New Testament in their original language. What he received, he
owed, as also the Qur’an itself and the historical reports suggest, exclusively
to conversations with Christians and Jews.

Frants Buhl goes on to claim that Muhammad arbitrarily changed the

traditions or distorted them because of either misunderstanding or failing
memory. Moreover, the material itself was often dubious, his informants
drawing from unclean sources such as Old and New Testament Apocrypha,
Talmudic literature and simple novels such as the The Alexander Novel.
This may come near to the historical truth. Nevertheless, I think
that Frants Buhl, at the same time, narrows our perspective by leaving
out the question about the possible theological creativity on behalf of
Muhammad. What was his aim in including the biblical stories and
figures in his ‘prophecies’? Instead of studying eventual discrepancies
between supposedly original versions of the traditions and his renderings,
one could ask what his intentions in rewriting were, if not to bring –
according to his conviction – the true message of the stories. It is possible
to consider the changes as Muhammad adapting the traditions to align
with the message the he wished to convey. In his own self-perception,
he was not a ‘rewriter’ of existing written traditions, but the recipient
of the final revelation, ‘God’s envoy and the seal of the prophets’ (sura
33.40). As such, he had access to parts of the heavenly Qur’an only partly
revealed to the earlier prophets of which Jesus was the last and greatest
before Muhammad himself. This construction, of course, serves the goal
of securing the primacy of the Qur’an against the Jewish Holy Scriptures
and the Christian Bible. Modern scholarship speaks rather of creative
reception and interpretation.5

4. Buhl 1904: 840 (my translation from Danish).

5. This is also remarked by Neuwirth (2012: 738): ‘It is no strong exaggeration…
to classify the Qur’ān – in addition to its being prophecy – as “exegesis” ’.
 Müller The Qur’an as Biblical Rewriting 151

4. Jesus in the Qur’anic Rewriting

Readers of the Christian Bible know most of the figures in the Qur’an.
However, because of the Qur’anic rewriting, they are all more or less
transformed, to serve the special interest of Muhammad’s preaching and
teaching.6 The Qur’an, however, does not normally seek to achieve this by
expanding the biblical traditions through adding new narrative elements.
Where it happens as, for instance, in the introduction of a fourth son of
Noah (sura 11) and in the sura Joseph (sura 12), where for once the
narrative is given free rein, the non-biblical narrative material often stems
from para-biblical writings or traditions either Jewish or Christian.
A very clear example of rewriting in the Qur’an is, of course, the trans-
formation of the Jesus figure.7 While it retains some of the central gospel
features such as the virgin birth, the bringing of the gospel – though without
much indication of its content – wonder-working and resurrection, it all
the same emphasizes that in all his uniqueness, even as the greatest of the
prophets before Muhammad, Jesus is not Son of God. It should be noted,
though, that the Qur’anic story about Jesus never gives the impression of
employing written sources other than the heavenly book.
A series of places mentioning Jesus simply offer a short character-
istic of him as prophet, son of Mary, and receiver of the Spirit of God
(for instance 2.87, 136, 253). His being one of the prophets is repeated
several times (2.136; 3.84; 4.163; 6.85; 33.7; 42.13; 57.27), and twice it
is mentioned that he is one of those with whom God has made a covenant.
At several places, we find summaries of Jesus’ activities. The first time,
3.48-49, occurs in words uttered by Jesus himself:8
49
I have come to you with a sign from your Lord: I will make the shape of
a bird for you out of clay, then breathe into it and, with God’s permission,
it will become a real bird; I will heal the blind and the leper, and bring the
dead back to life with God’s permission; I will tell you what you may eat
and what you may store up in your houses. Another possible translation is
‘to tell you what you eat and what you store…’ There truly is a sign for you
in this, if you are believers. 50I have come to confirm the truth of the Torah
which preceded me, and to make some things lawful to you which used to

6. See, for a nearly complete overview of the Qur’anic reception of the biblical
gallery of characters, Müller 2012, an article which, regrettably, only exists in Danish.
7. The following reproduces the paragraph about Jesus in the article mentioned
in the note above (Müller 2012: 408–11). Of the relevant literature I only mention
Parrinder 1965; Räisänen 1971; and Robinson 2003.
8. The translation here and in the following is according to Abdel Haleem 2010.
152 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

be forbidden. I have come to you with a sign from your Lord. Be mindful
of God, obey me: 51God is my Lord and your Lord, so serve Him – that is
a straight path.

In the following (3.52-53) it is told that Jesus feels people’s disbelief and
asks who helps him. Suddenly, the disciples turn up declaring: ‘We will be
God’s helpers; we believe in God – witness our devotion to Him. 53Lord,
we believe in what You have revealed and we follow the messenger:
record us among those who bear witness [to the Truth].’
Sura 5 also contains two other statements about Jesus spoken by God
himself. Thus in 5.46-47:
46
We sent Jesus, son of Mary, in their footsteps, to confirm the Torah that
had been sent before him: We gave him the Gospel with guidance, light, and
confirmation of the Torah already revealed – a guide and lesson for those
who take heed of God. 47So let the followers of the Gospel judge according
to what God has sent down in it. Those who do not judge according to what
God has revealed are lawbreakers.

The description in 5.110-111 is more elaborate and repeats motifs to be

found in other places:

Then God will say, ‘Jesus, son of Mary! Remember My favour to you
110

and to your mother: how I strengthened you with the holy spirit, so that you
spoke to people in your infancy and as a grown man; how I taught you the
Scripture and wisdom, the Torah and the Gospel; how, by My leave, you
fashioned the shape of a bird out of clay, breathed into it, and it became,
by My leave, a bird; how, by My leave, you healed the blind person and
the leper; how, by My leave, you brought the dead back to life; how I
restrained the Children of Israel from [harming] you when you brought
them clear signs, and those of them who disbelieved said, “This is clearly
nothing but sorcery”; 111and how I inspired the disciples to believe in Me and
My messengers – they said, “We believe and bear witness that we devote
ourselves [to God]”.’

The motif that Jesus has received the Gospel also turns up in 57.27, and
the idea that he has got clear evidence and has been strengthened by the
Holy Spirit is repeated in 2.87, 253 and 43.63, where also Wisdom is
mentioned. The story of Jesus creating a bird of clay and giving it life has
– as mentioned above – an ‘original’ in the Gospel of Thomas 2, where,
however, it pertains to the child Jesus and to twelve sparrows which he
even causes to fly.
Sura 5 has its name, ‘The Table’, because of what is told in 112-115:
 Müller The Qur’an as Biblical Rewriting 153

When the disciples said, ‘Jesus, son of Mary, can your Lord send down a
112

feast to us from heaven?’ he said, ‘Beware of God if you are true believers’.
113
They said, ‘We wish to eat from it; to have our hearts reassured; to know
that you have told us the truth; and to be witnesses of it’. 114Jesus, son of
Mary, said, ‘Lord, send down to us a feast from heaven so that we can have
a festival – the first and last of us – and a sign from You. Provide for us: You
are the best provider.’ 115God said, ‘I will send it down to you, but anyone
who disbelieves after this will be punished with a punishment that I will not
inflict on anyone else in the world’.

This story seems to reflect the institution of the Last Supper, mixed with
elements from the ‘Eucharist speech’ in John 6.
It is remarkable that the Qur’an, with the few exceptions mentioned
above, does not include Jesus sayings.9 The Gospel is something that
Jesus received; it is not, as in the New Testament, the message about him.
We hear nearly nothing about the content of his teaching and preaching,
nor what his distinct contribution as a prophet was, other than being the
last of the great prophets before Muhammad. The nearest we come to
the ‘content’ of the Gospel is perhaps in sura 57.27, where the statement
about God giving Jesus the Gospel is followed by the declaration: ‘We
gave him the Gospel and put compassion and mercy into the hearts of his
followers’. However, it is followed by the statement: ‘But monasticism
was something they invented – We did not ordain it for them – only to
seek (Alternatively, “only that they should seek”) God’s pleasure, and
even so, they did not observe it properly’.
It is also part of the Qur’anic picture of Jesus that he is not killed by the
Jews.10 In 4.157-159 we read that the Jews said,

‘We have killed the Messiah, Jesus, son of Mary, the Messenger of God’.
157

(They did not kill him, nor did they crucify him, though it was made to
appear like that to them; those that disagreed about him are full of doubt,
with no knowledge to follow, only supposition: they certainly did not kill
him – 158God raised him up to Himself. God is almighty and wise. 159There
is not one of the People of the Book who will not believe in [Jesus] before
his death, and on the Day of Resurrection he will be a witness against them.)

9. This is in contrast to the relatively extensive Jesus-tradition that arose later in

Islam. See for instance the collection edited and translated in Khalidi 2003.
10. The medieval Muslim rewriting of especially the Gospel of Matthew under
the title Gospel of Barnabas solves this problem by the introduction of four angels
helping Jesus away, while the traitor, Judas, is changed by God to look like Jesus and
so himself suffering the death he had planned for Jesus.
154 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

That God took Jesus directly up to himself in this way reflects a docetic
Christology and resembles what we find in gnostic texts. On the other
hand we see in 5.75 an anti-docetic feature in a remark about Jesus and
Mary as both taking food.
At the same time as Jesus occupies an exceptional place in the Qur’an,
it is also emphasized that he is not divine, but a servant, made of earth just
as Adam (see sura 3.59). In sura 4.171-172, it is said:

People of the Book, do not go to excess in your religion, and do not say
171

anything about God except the truth: the Messiah, Jesus, son of Mary, was
nothing more than a messenger of God, His word, directed to Mary, a spirit
from Him. So believe in God and His messengers and do not speak of a
‘Trinity’ – stop [this], that is better for you – God is only one God, He is
far above having a son, everything in the heavens and earth belongs to Him
and He is the best one to trust. 172The Messiah would never disdain to be a
servant of God, nor would the angels who are close to Him.

Further, one could also further refer to sura 5.72-5, 9.30-31 and 43.57-59
in this regard. Finally, in the Qur’an, we find Jesus himself openly
confessing this (sura 5.116-118):
116
When God says, ‘Jesus, son of Mary, did you say to people, “Take me and
my mother as two gods alongside God”?’ he will say, ‘May You be exalted!
I would never say what I had no right to say – if I had said such a thing You
would have known it: You know all that is within me, though I do not know
what is within You, You alone have full knowledge of things unseen – 117I
told them only what You commanded me to: ‘Worship God, my Lord and
your Lord’. I was a witness over them during my time among them. Ever
since You took my soul, You alone have been the watcher over them: You
are witness to all things 118and if You punish them, they are Your servants; if
You forgive them, You are the Almighty, the Wise.’

When Jesus finally speaks in the Qur’an, just as in the Gospel of John, it
is essentially about himself.

5. Conclusion

The extensive reception of stories and characters in the Qur’an, from the
Samaritan and Jewish Holy Scriptures and the Christian Bible, shows that
the forming of religious consciousness and beliefs took place primarily in
the manner of a transforming reinterpretation of existing tradition. In this
connection the employment of the genre or interpretation strategy known
as ‘rewritten Bible’, especially in the version of ‘biblical rewriting’,
 Müller The Qur’an as Biblical Rewriting 155

intending to produce new authoritative religious texts, is helpful, not

only in perceiving what is going on in the New Testament, but also in the
Qur’an. In both cases, existing religious or theological universes are trans-
formed in several respects, the most important being that a new character
of fundamental significance is introduced with the effect of changing the
existing hierarchy. From the perspective of the understanding formed
in the tradition of historical criticism and its repeated question about
the referentiality of what is narrated, this transforming change in our
perspective is a challenge, not to say a problem. However, when schol-
arship takes into consideration that religious truth never converges with
historical truth but always arises out of an interpretation of certain events,
and that this interpretation can take place in the shape of story-telling,
many things become more understandable. It is extremely important not
to mistake story for history. The religious message is not necessarily
subverted by the eventual fictionality of its narrative. It is the intended
message that determines what is to be told and how. The tertium compa-
rationis between history and story is not the historical facts that can be
proved to lie within the narrative, but the belief and behavior the message
intends to create in its audience. That becomes far clearer in the Qur’an
than in the Samaritan and Jewish Scriptures or the Christian Bible, as the
Qur’an does not, itself, consist of a continuing narrative or a coherent
salvation history. Rather, such is presupposed in a way that often demands
more knowledge than what is contributed by the suras of the Qur’an.
Because of the relationship between history and creative interpretation,
it is in my mind the intended effect on belief and behavior that should
rouse our interest when comparing the traditions of the Pentateuch, the
TANAK, the New Testament and the Qur’an. Such an approach will
further make it clear that no generation is excluded from reinterpreting its
traditions in a responsible way, and that nobody can reinterpret traditions
without relating them to their own horizons of understanding. When such
‘rewriting’ no longer produces new authoritative religious writings, the
role will be given over to preaching and teaching, which is fully aware of
its character as an interpretive discourse. The Samaritan and Jewish Holy
Scriptures, the Christian Bible and the Qur’an all live through their inter-
preters – and no religion is neither better nor worse than their interpreters.

Bibliography
Abdel Haleem, M. A. S., trans. (2010), The Qur’an, Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Buhl, P. (1904), In Kirke-Leksikon for Norden, vol. II, 839–41, Aarhus: Albert Bayer.
Frei, H. W. (1974), The Eclipse of Biblical Narrative: A Study in Eighteenth and Nineteenth
Century Hermeneutics, New Haven and London: Yale University Press.
156 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

Griffith, S. H. (2012), ‘The Bible in Arabic’, in R. Marsden and E. A. Matter (eds), The
New Cambridge History of the Bible: Vol. 2, From 600 to 1450, 123–42, Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press.
Khalidi, T. (2003), The Muslim Jesus: Sayings and Stories in Islamic Literature,
Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.
Müller, M. (2012), ‘Koranen som “bibelsk genskrivning” ’, in J. Høgenhaven and M.
Müller (eds), Bibelske genskrivninger, FBE 17, 377–412, Copenhagen: Museum
Tusculanum Forlag.
Müller, M. (2014), ‘The New Testament Gospels as Biblical Rewritings: On the Question
of Referentiality’, StTh, 68: 21–40.
Neuwirth, A. (2012), ‘The Qur’ān and the Bible’, in R. Marsden and E. A. Matter
(eds), The New Cambridge History of the Bible, Vol. 2: From 600 to 1450, 735–52,
Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Parrinder, G. (1965), Jesus in the Qur’an, London: Sheldon Press.
Räisänen, H. (1971), Das Koranische Jesusbild, Helsinki: Schriften des Finnischen
Gesellschaft für Missiologie und Ökumenik.
Robinson, N. (2003), ‘Jesus’, in Jane McAuliffe (ed.), Encyclopaedia of the Qur’an,
Vol. III, 7–20, Leiden: E. J. Brill.
Sahas, D. J. (1972), John of Damascus on Islam: The ‘Heresy of the Ishmaelites’, Leiden:
E. J. Brill.
Vermes, G. (1973 [1961]), Scripture and Tradition in Judaism, SPB 4, Leiden: E. J. Brill.
 Part 3

Biblical Narratives
158
 T he F ood of L i f e a n d t h e F ood of D e at h
i n T ex t s f rom t h e O l d T e stame nt
a n d t h e A n c i en t N e ar E ast *

Ingrid Hjelm

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, who lived from 1749 to 1832, pronounced
that ‘Anyone who cannot give an account to oneself of the past three
thousand years remains in darkness, without experience, living from day
to day’.1 One must remember that Goethe’s dictum was uttered before the
archaeological discoveries of the northern and eastern Orient from the
mid-nineteenth century, but after the Egyptian and Hellenistic booty from
Napoleon’s wars gave inspiration to the ever more intensified search for
historical warrant in biblical tradition. This search concerns not only the
historical validity of the Bible’s narratives per se, but also its reception
as basis for theology and dogmatism. Who meant and said or wrote what
and when? Goethe’s 3,000 years take him back to biblical Israel’s golden
age, the settlement of the tribes in the Promised Land and the fulfilment
of Yahweh’s promise to the Patriarchs. It is biblical Israel, and not Greece,
the Near East or Palestine as such, which is the cradle of European
history. This has been convincingly argued by Keith Whitelam in his

* It is my outmost pleasure to contribute to the celebration of Thomas’s more than

50 years of pursuit of knowledge and wisdom, which he has graciously distributed
in innumerable lectures and publications worldwide. As founder and editor of the
Copenhagen Seminar Series (1996–2016), he has furthered the works of many
scholars. This article is a translation with minor revisions of Hjelm 2015, which
is reproduced here with permission of the University of Copenhagen’s Faculty of
Theology.
1. ‘Wer nicht von dreitausend Jahren sich weiss Rechenschaft zu geben bleib im
Dunkeln unerfahren. Mag von Tag zu Tage leben’ (Goethe 1819). The translation into
English is mine.
160 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

much criticized book, The Invention of Ancient Israel from 1996. The
book’s most important matter, however, is represented by its subtitle: The
Silencing of Palestinian History. This silencing results from the devel-
opment of a Western self-understanding that based itself in an ecclesiastical
authorization of biblical narrative and in biblical scholars’ reconstruction
of an ancient Israel that might serve Western identity and ideology. None
of these narratives represent the real and complex history of the region or
take seriously the fact that the purpose of biblical narratives was to develop
and prescribe contemporary theology rather than being history writing in a
modern sense of the term. The adoption and development of the ‘Bible’ in
Western culture have impacted interpretation of some of the most valued
biblical texts and the Old Testament as a whole.
The title ‘the Old Testament’ in itself designates that it has been replaced
or fulfilled with something new, ‘the New Testament’, an expression of
a Christian covenant that artificially combines Jer. 31:31’s new covenant
for Israel and Judah with Isaiah’s vision for all nations wandering to Zion
(Isa. 2; 60 and 66). Anne Gudme and Jesper Høgenhaven’s very fine
presentation of Old Testament exegesis in Fønix 2009 gives examples of
such interpretations, with their reading of Genesis 2–3’s Garden story,
which draws on the New Testament, dogmatics and practical theology.
The narrative is clearly mythological and, as stated by the authors, less
oriented towards the Fall paradigm, which its reception traditionally
claims. Nevertheless, their interpretation remains within the ‘Christian’
‘sin and redemption’ pattern in a demythologized socio-anthropological
reading, which seeks to explain humanity’s hardship in an unwelcoming
world. This reception’s authoritative status is most obvious in dogmatic
theology’s thematic understanding of Genesis 1–3 as ‘creation and fall’.
One may ask if this traditional interpretation discloses the Garden story’s
theological potential. We may perhaps gain a better grip on the text by
looking behind the myth and drawing on its antecedents and function in
the intellectual world of the ancient Near East.
I here offer an interpretation that reads Genesis 1–3 together with
the Mesopotamian myth of Adapa, the book of Proverb’s discourse on
Wisdom and Folly and 1 Samuel 25’s story about Nabal and Abigail,
focusing on how these texts play with motifs of wisdom, divinity and
immortality.2

2. My former students, now Cand. theol. Jonatan Dyre and Cand. theol. Lotte
Broberg, made me aware of the possibilities of an intertextual reading of these biblical
texts.
 Hjelm The Food of Life and the Food of Death 161

The Myth of Adapa

Libraries already existed in Sumer in the fourth millennium BCE. These

were unknown to Goethe. As mentioned above, it was ancient Egypt’s
literary, pictorial and cultural world that first became part of Western
culture, leading to a strong interest in the Moses tradition’s connection
to Egypt and Egyptian parallels to the biblical creation stories. With
intense archaeological activity in Mesopotamia, Syria and Palestine
since the middle of the nineteenth century, and a better understanding
of the Egyptian material, biblical scholars received a lot of new material
to work with. From the libraries in Mesopotamia we now have the
well-known creation myths, Enuma Elish, Atrahasis and Gilgamesh,
which all have strong parallels to Old Testament myths and ideas that
we find in Genesis 1–11. A lesser known myth is the Mesopotamian
Adapa myth, which is known from the Egyptian El-Amarna archive
(fr. B; fourteenth century BCE), and the Assyrian King Ashurbanipal’s
library in Nineveh (frr. A and C-D; seventh century BCE).3 Up to now,
the tale has been found in six Akkadian fragments, of which the Amarna
fragment is the longest. It lacks the introduction (fr. A), and possibly
also the ending found in fragment D. Recently, a Sumerian version from
the old Babylonian period has appeared. By and large, it parallels the
later versions mentioned above (Cavigneaux and Al-Ravi 1993). Apart
from these fragments, we also find several references to the myth in
Mesopotamian literature (Picchioni 1981: 82–101; Wilcke 1991: 263–9;
cf. Mettinger 2007: 100).
In fragment A, l. 1-21 (ANET: 101), the story begins with a description
of Adapa as the wisest (atra-ḫasīsu) of the seven semi-divine sages
(apkallu) from before the flood. His creator, [the water god] Ea [father
of Marduk] perfected him with wide understanding to disclose the
design of the land. He has given him wisdom, but not eternal life (l.
4). Ea has created him as a model of men, whose command no one can
corrupt. He is blameless, pure of hands and responsible for the daily
offering and rites on behalf of Ea in Eridu [near the Persian Gulf]. One
day, when Adapa is in his sailboat catching fish for the offering, the wind
rises and he drifts into open sea. Here fr. A breaks off, but fortunately

3. The fragments A-D can be found in E. A. Speiser’s translation in ANET

(Pritchard 1969: 101–3). A recent English translation of all the Akkadian fragments
can be found in Izre’el 2001. Summaries can be found in Foster 1997: 449. References
to other editions can be found in Liverani 2004: 4–5 and Mettinger 2007: 100.
162 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

fr. B continues the narrative to its apparent conclusion.4 The south wind
(Shutu) casts him overboard and Adapa curses the wind and breaks its
wing. The stilling of the wind for seven days causes drought, hunger and
disease. Anu [god of the cosmos] summons him to explain his act to the
heavenly council of gods. Ea advises Adapa to appear in mourning garb
and with unkempt hair before Tammuz and Gizzida [gods of vegetation],
who have left Eridu and may be persuaded to speak ‘a good word’ to
Anu when they see him in mourning. Furthermore, when Anu offers
him bread and water, he should refuse, because, says Ea, it is the food
of death (a-ka-la ša mu-ti) and the water of death (me-e mu-u-ti), but he
shall accept a garment and oil for his body. It goes as predicted by Ea.
Adapa explains how he was cast into the sea and spent the rest of the
day in the world of the fish. Tammuz and Gizzida plead ‘mercy’, and
Anu takes pity on him. He considers what to do to a man, an uncouth
mortal, to whom Ea has disclosed what pertains to heaven and earth.
He decides to bring him the food and water of life, as well as clothing
and oil. Adapa accepts the clothing and oil, but refuses to eat and drink,
because Ea had forbidden it. Anu laughs at Adapa’s ignorance and sends
him back to earth:

His [Anu’s] heart grew calm, he became quiet.

‘Why did Ea disclose what pertains to heaven and
Earth to an uncouth mortal,
And give him a violent temper?
Since he has so treated him,
(75) What, for our part, shall we do for him?
Bring him food of life, let him eat.’

They brought him food of life (a-ka-al ba-la-ṭi), he did not eat.
They brought him waters of life (me-e ba-la-ṭi), he did not drink.
They brought him a garment, he put it on.
(80) They brought him oil, he anointed himself.

Anu stared and burst out laughing at him,

‘Come now, Adapa, why did you not eat or drink?
Won’t you live? Are not people to be im[mor]tal?’

4. Although fr. B is the earlier, both Izre’el (2001: 111–19) and Mettinger (2007:
101) consider that fr. A must belong to the original narrative, because of its focus on
wisdom and eternal life.
 Hjelm The Food of Life and the Food of Death 163

Ea my lord told me,

‘You must not eat, you must not drink’.

(85) ‘Let them take him and [ret]urn him to his

earth’.5

Fragment D from Ashurbanipal’s library contains an incomplete continu-

ation, which may suggest that the myth has been used as an incantation
against sickness, because the curse of Eridu caused by the absence of the
vegetation gods, Tammuz and Gizzida, is lifted (Liverani 2004: 4). The
fragment also contains a critique of Ea for exceeding Anu’s command:

Anu laughed aloud at the doing of Ea [saying]:

‘Of the gods of heaven and earth, as many as there be,
Who [ever] gave such a command,
So as to make his own command exceed the command of Anu?’6

This continuation, which is missing in the other fragments, adds an

element to the myth that presents Ea as revolting against Anu. This detail
is significant when reading the myth in the light of Genesis 2–3. Attempts
at interpreting Ea as consciously misleading Adapa in order to keep his
humanity and prevent him from gaining divinity so that he may remain in
the service of the temple at Eridu, presents Ea as a trickster figure. Such
is also Ea’s role in tradition and legends (esp. Atrahasis and Gilgamesh):
‘the cleverest of gods, the one who can plan and organize and think of
ways out when no one can’, ‘who persuades, tricks and evades to gain
his ends’ (Jacobson 1976: 116). It was Ea who came up with the idea of
creating humans when the gods got tired of working. Against the will of
the gods, he also saved humankind when their increasing noise forced the
gods to annihilate the entire creation with a flood, from which Ea saved
a single wise man, Atrahasis/Utnapishtim. Instead, he suggested ways
of limiting human life (Mettinger 2007: 105). This cunning, which is a
general characteristic of Ea, fits badly the suggestion by some scholars
that Ea had misread the situation and expected that Anu would give
Adapa a death penalty.7 Fragment D in ANET’s version can be read as
a confirmation of Ea’s cunning, which ensured that Adapa remained in
his office of priesthood forever (l. 10-11). However, the text is uncertain

5. Foster’s section of fr. B in Hallo (1997: 445). Reproduced with

permission – see bibliography for full details.
6. Fr. D in ANET, 102–3.
7. References to the bibliography in Liverani (2004: 5).
164 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

and full of ambiguities. Based on Izre’el’s translation, ‘Anu se[t] Adapa

at his service […] he established his freedom from Ea’ (l. 9-10; Izre’el
2001: 39), we rather find a structural similarity with Genesis 3’s curse
and dethronement of the snake, suggesting that Ea did not get away with
challenging the supreme god.
Ea’s role reflects the ambiguity in portraits of the snake in Egyptian and
Mesopotamian iconography and literature: as threat and salvation, fertility
and chaos, life and death, rebirth, protection and sexuality. We also find
such ambiguity in Num. 21:8-9, when Moses orders the Israelites to make
a copper snake and put it on a stake so that they will survive a snake bite.
The snake is endowed with supernatural powers, and it is telling that the
Hebrew word ‫ נחש‬also means to divinize and make sorcery. Snakes were
symbols of eternity, because they could renew their skin, but snakes can
be deadly, so they were also symbols of death, disaster and evil. The Old
Testament does not view snakes as representing wisdom and this is not
the role of the snake in Genesis 3. Its role is as the shrewdest of creatures,
the seducer and the trickster, which is not recognised until it is too late.
It is hardly incidental that it is a snake that snatches the plant of life, by
Gilgamesh called ‘man becomes young in old age’, when he is momen-
tarily unaware. As a mockery, it leaves its skin behind (Gilgamesh XI;
ANET, 96; Westenholz and Westenholz 1997: 134).

Limits of Divinity

Both the myth of Adapa and Genesis 2–3 seek to answer questions about
man’s divinity. Liverani is hardly right when he argues that Adapa is not a
human archetype (Liverani 2004: 17). Adapa is presented as a model for
man in fr. A, l. 6, and Anu calls him an ‘uncouth mortal’ (l. 72 in Foster
1997) and a ‘worthless human’ (ANET fragment B, l. 57). It is true that
Adapa is a priest and Gilgamesh a royal figure, as pointed out by Liverani
in his argument against seeing these narratives as concerning man’s
immortality. Gilgamesh, however, goes to the ends of the world to get the
plant of life needed to revive his non-royal friend Enkidu, not himself.
In the myth of Adapa, we find a priest, who is exceedingly wise and
associates with the gods. He provides his gods’ food, but does that mean
that he is allowed to eat of the food himself? According to Liverani’s
analysis of hospitality rules in the ancient Near East, Adapa would have
moved from the outer to the inner realm if he had eaten with the gods. He
would have become untouchable, ‘because the gods – like men – could
not permit someone to whom they had given bread and water to die’
(Liverani 2004: 17). Adapa had performed a divine act when he broke the
 Hjelm The Food of Life and the Food of Death 165

wing of the south wind, and he might be considered a god. It is therefore

also possible to view his act as a challenge to Ea’s authority: Who controls
the world? The test with the food and water provides the answer. Does
Adapa’s wisdom equal the wisdom of the gods and can he see through
their plans? The result is that he could not: Ea, the trickster has misled
him. In light of fr. D, however, we might think that this later version rather
sees Ea as having fallen victim to his own hubris.
In Genesis’ Garden story, the holiest of the temple is replaced by the
divinity’s private garden, where humankind associates with the god. Does
that make humans divine, and where is the border between god and man?
With Adam’s rejection of animals as fitting company and the creation of
a woman as his equal, it is established that ‘man’ is essentially different
from ‘animal’. Now it is time to establish the status of ‘man’ in relation
to the divine. The distinction is already clear: it is the difference between
the divine creator and the created human as gardener of the creation.
However, as said by McKinlay (1999: 74): ‘…in dependency there is
already a power differential’. The garden is for all and everyone, but
eating of its produce is differentiated. A small distinction, one may say,
when man can eat from ‘every’ tree, except one: the Tree of Knowledge of
Good and Evil (Gen. 2:16-17). The sequence ‘good and evil’ (‫ )טוב ורע‬is
not incidental! Far too many interpreters see the idiom as an expression of
totality: alpha and omega, absolute knowledge, etc., but from Thompson’s
interpretation we have learned that the woman already knows ‘the good’
before she eats (Thompson 2009: 143–4). The author not only plays with
his/her characters, but also his/her readers. When the snake says that
‘When you eat of it your eyes will be opened and you will be like god,
knowing good and evil’ (‫ ;כאלוהים ידעי טוב ורע‬alternatively: ‘as gods who
know good and evil’; Gen. 3:5),8 Eve immediately sees and judges the
tree’s qualities as delightful (‫ )נחמד‬and good (‫( )טוב‬Gen. 3:6). From this
follows that in addition to the ‘good’ that man already knows, the tree will
provide knowledge of the ‘evil’ man doesn’t know.
There are, however, two trees in the garden, which are not intended for
man, but the man and his woman are tricked by Yahweh Elohim to focus
on the tree of wisdom from which they must not eat, lest they die (Gen.
2:16-17). The snake plays Ea’s role, questions the god’s ordinance and
turns focus away from the issue of death to the issue of divine wisdom.
The elusive Tree of Life, mentioned first and last (Gen. 2:9 and 3:22) in
the narrative, is the drama’s framework and essential theme.

8. Generally, I use my own translations from Biblia Hebraica Stuttgartensia

(Elliger and Rudolf 1990).
166 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

We know the result: Eve, who already knew the ‘good’, comes to know
‘evil’ as well. The Tree of Knowledge became the tree of death and we
are confronted with the motif of two sorts of food from the Adapa myth:
for life or for death: tree of life or tree of death. Could Adapa see through
the play of the gods? Could man and woman, in their seeming divinity,
formed by the god and with the god’s spirit in them, see through their lord,
god’s and the snake’s ploy? They could not and, like Adapa, they are cast
back to the earth.

The Book of Proverbs

The problem of seeing through and judging the agenda of gods is also
central in the book of Proverb’s discourse on Wisdom (‫ )חכמה‬and Folly
(‫ )אשת כסילות‬in chs. 1–9. Research has generally characterized the two
figures as positive and negative characters respectively (Camp 2000: 75).
Since the term ‘a foolish woman’ (‫ )אשת כסילות‬only appears in Prov. 9:13
it is usually interpreted in light of the book’s numerous utterances about
the foreign woman (‫ אשה נכריה‬/ ‫)אשה זרה‬, whom man shall be aware not
to visit (Prov. 2:16; 6:24; 7:5).9 Proverbs’ use of matrimonial metaphors
associates female wisdom with the wise and faithful wife (Prov. 5:15-19),
while the foreign and foolish woman is associated with prostitution,
harlotry (‫ ;זונה‬Prov. 6:26) and adultery (‫ ;נאף‬Prov. 6:32). This dualism
presents Wisdom as creation, love, truth, social order, wisdom and life,
while Folly represents falsehood, folly, silliness, social disorder and death.
Reflecting Ps. 1:1’s ‘blessed man’ (‫)אשרי האיש‬, Prov. 3:13 considers the
man happy who has found wisdom (‫)אשרי אדם מצא הכמה‬. In addition to
Wisdom’s extraordinary qualifications as provider of a long and pleasant
life, riches, honor and happiness, worth more than silver, gold and pearls
(vv. 14-17), she, echoing Genesis 2–3, is ‘the tree of life’ (‫ )עץ חיים היא‬to
those who take hold of her (v. 18).
But how do the two women use their power to catch the men, and
where does their power come from? Is it only Folly who plays the role of
trickster and lures the men into her realm?
Proverbs 8:1-4 pictures a scene in which Wisdom addresses her victim.
From the highest points along the way, from the crossroads, from beside
the gates, and from the entrance of the portals she cries to the men (‫)אישים‬
and to the humans (‫ )בני אדם‬about the wisdom she offers: ‘Oh simple
ones (‫ )פתאים‬learn prudence; oh foolish ones (‫ )כסילים‬get understanding’
(v. 5; cf. also Prov. 1:22). In contrasting terms, she characterizes her talk

9. Discourses on the foreign woman are found in Prov. 5:1-23; 6:20-35 and
7:1-17.
 Hjelm The Food of Life and the Food of Death 167

and words as right, righteous, straight, true and wise for those who seek
knowledge, versus wicked, twisted, shrewd and perverted, which is the
speech that her lips hate (vv. 6-13). Wisdom cries out aloud everywhere,
in the streets, in the market places, on the top of the walls and in the city
gates (Prov. 1:20-21). She seems as restless as the foreign and seductive
woman, who cannot rest at home but lies in wait in the street, in the market
and at every corner to seduce men (Prov. 7:11-12). The author of Proverbs
1–9 has consciously created linguistic ambiguity about the positive and
negative figures by using identical terms for both (Aletti 1977: 132–4; cf.
Camp 2000: 76). Proverbs 4:8 assures the young man that Wisdom will
honor him if he embraces her (‫)חבק‬, while in Prov. 5:20 the speaker asks
why on earth he should embrace (‫ )חבק‬a foreign woman’s bosom. In Prov.
3:18 and 4:13, the young man is advised to hold on (‫ )חזק‬to Wisdom, while
in 7:13 the foreign woman seizes (‫ )חזק‬him and entices him with sex. Both
women want to infatuate him with love and passion (Prov. 5:19; 7:18).
Both women encourage him to accept and increase (‫ )לקח‬wisdom and
understanding, but the words of the foreign woman are seductive (Prov.
7:21), her lips drip honey and her speech is smoother than oil (Prov. 5:3).
Both women will urge the man to choose the right way, but Wisdom’s path
leads to life (Prov. 4:10; 8:35; 9:11) while Folly’s leads to death (Prov.
2:18; 5:5; 7:27; cf. also the two ways in Deut. 30:15-20).
We are now ready to look at the great scene of comparison in Proverbs
9 where Wisdom and Folly issue invitations to a feast in their respective
houses. Wisdom has built her house; she has set up the seven pillars
(Prov. 9:1), which alternatively can be translated ‘the seven have set up
its foundations’ (Greenfield 1985), alluding to the Mesopotamian apkallu
tradition’s seven sages, bringers of civilization and culture. Wisdom’s
self-designation as ‫‘( אמון‬confidante’) in 8:30 may also be a variant of the
Akkadian ummānu, which means adviser, workman, artist or sage. In the
Poem of Erra we find a combination of these terms (Kvanvig 2011: 450).
The number of seven symbolizes totality and grandeur (Clifford 1999:
106). Loretz (1990: 38 n. 29) has suggested that it is a late addition with
a hidden reference to Proverb’s seven headlines. Wisdom has slaughtered
her beasts, mixed the wine, set the table and sent out young girls (‫)נערות‬
to shout from the highest places in the town: ‘Whoever is simple let him
turn in here’ (‫)מי פתי יסר הנה‬. Wisdom herself says to he who is without
sense (‫ ;חסר לב‬can also mean ‘lacks courage’): ‘Come eat of my bread and
drink of the wine I have mixed. Leave simpleness (‫)פתאים‬10 and live, and
walk in the way of insight’ (vv. 4-6). Here the narrative breaks off to give

10. Literally, the word means ‘the simple ones’/‘the inexperienced’. The apparatus
suggests other forms of the word based on earlier witnesses.
168 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

proverbial admonition and warning (vv. 7-12), which separates the section
on Wisdom from the section on Folly (vv. 13-18). In contrast to the
considerate preparation and order in Wisdom’s house, Folly (‫)אשת כסילות‬
is characterized as a restless, seductive or noisy (‫)המיה‬11 and imprudent
woman (‫)פתיות‬12 who understands nothing (‫)בל ידעה מה‬. She has no girls
to send, but sits at the entrance to her house, on a chair at the heights of
the village, and shouts to those who pass by, those walking straight on
their way: ‘Whoever is simple let him turn in here’ (‫)מי פתי יסר הנה‬. And
to him without sense (‫)חסר לב‬, she says: ‘Stolen water (‫ )מים גנובים‬is sweet
and hidden / secret bread (‫ )לחם סתרים‬is pleasant’. As an antithetic echo
of v. 6, the narrator comments in v. 18: ‘but he does not know that the
dead (‫ )רפאים‬are there and that her guests are in the valley of death/Sheol’
(‫ ;בעמקי שאול‬cf. also 5:5). With this commentary, the author has pointed to
the fact, which unfortunately many commentators miss, that the passersby
cannot see the difference between the women. As the woman in Genesis
3 couldn’t see the wood for trees, also Proverbs’ play with destinies offers
the possibility that what seems positive is in fact the opposite. Fox’s
rationalistic interpretation is wishful thinking when arguing that the eating
in Proverbs is ‘second course eating’ because man can make use of the
wisdom from Eden (Fox 1997: 622). The text does not imply such an
understanding. The unmasking comes from the eating, but then it is too
late. Maybe that is the reason that Folly, in all texts save this one, is called
the ‘foreign woman’, because such may be recognizable. The essence of
the text may not be a distinction between wisdom and folly, but rather a
warning against the dangerous other, as in Prov. [Link] ‘Drink water from
your own cistern, flowing water from your own well’. In Gilgamesh, the
role of the dangerous other is played by Shamkhat, the prostitute, who
civilizes Enkidu during six days and seven nights of lovemaking (tabl. I,
l. 183-89; Westenholz and Westenholz 1997: 66). After this the animals
do not recognize him and will not share their food with him, but he does
not yet know the food of man. Then the prostitute opens her mouth and
speaks to Enkidu: ‘Eat the bread, Enkidu, for it is the symbol of life; drink
the beer as it is the custom of the country’.13 Although the bread is the
symbol of life, it does not give eternal life. When Enkidu dies later in the
story, Gilgamesh does not succeed in getting the plant of life and reviving

11. The verb can mean both, because its basic meaning is ‘hum’/‘buzz’ → be
noisy. It is used to describe sounds of bees, bears and pigeons.
12. Notice that it is the same root as in v. 6.
13. This scene is found only in the old Babylonian OB Penn tablet II, l. 55-67; cf.
Westenholz and Westenholz 1997: 145–50; ANET, 77.
 Hjelm The Food of Life and the Food of Death 169

his friend. The book of Proverbs has set a contrast between the food for
life and the food for death, which related to Wisdom and Folly might have
had the power to abolish Genesis’ deathly wisdom. The book’s realism,
however, remains intact: embracing Wisdom leads to a long life (3:16).
There is, however, more at play in Proverbs and Genesis’ Garden story,
for who has planted the trees, created the snake, set the table, and who
are, in fact, the women? In order to answer these questions, I will follow
McKinlay (1999) and Broberg (2014) and include the story about Nabal
and Abigail in 1 Samuel 25 in my examination.

1 Samuel 25

The narrative about Nabal, Abigail and David is interpolated between two
narratives about David’s clashes with Saul in chapters 24 and 26. Together
these narratives form a triad, which has the purpose of settling David’s
royal dignity through three temptations.

1. In ch. 24, David abstains from killing Saul and only stealthily cuts
off the skirt of his robe, saying to his men that Yahweh forbid that
he [and they] should lay his hand on Yahweh’s anointed (1 Sam.
24:7).
2. In ch. 25, David abstains from killing Nabal and his household
and he blesses Abigail for having kept him from bloodguilt (‫דמים‬:
1 Sam. 25:33) and self-revenge.
3. In ch. 26, David once again abstains from killing Saul and only
takes his spear and jar of water, saying that Yahweh forbid that he
should lay his hand on Yahweh’s anointed (1 Sam. 26:11, 23).

With the passing of these trials, David’s royal assignment is secured.

It began with the covenant he made with Saul’s son Jonathan (1 Sam.
18:3-4; 20:12-17; 23:16-18), which was secured in Saul’s inauguration of
David as his successor (1 Sam. 24:21) and in his blessing of him (1 Sam.
26:25). The narratives can be read as a process of development during
which David matures for his assignment. Along the way, he is tempted by
Folly (Nabal)14 who is hard and evil (‫ ;קשה ורע‬1 Sam. 25:3), and advised
by Wisdom (Abigail) who is wise and beautiful (‫;טובת שכל ויפת תאר‬
1 Sam. 25:3), to choose whether to accept or reject the food he is offered.

14. The root ‫ נבל‬has many meanings, but foolish, worthless and godless are the
most common in the OT. The word can, however, also mean ‘noble’. Hebrew usually
use feminine endings ‫ה‬-, ‫ות‬- or ‫ית‬- for concepts, which one can observe also in
Abigail’s interpretation of Nabal’s name (1 Sam. 24:25).
170 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

The story goes like this: Nabal is a wealthy farmer who also has far away
possessions. During wintertime, David and his men ‘guarded’15 Nabal’s
shepherds and flocks. At springtime’s shearing festival, David sends ten
of his men to Nabal to claim payment for their service. Nabal refuses to
pay and pretends not to know David, whom he indirectly calls a runaway
slave (vv. 10-11). Hearing about the incident, David arms 400 men (v. 13)
and swears to kill every male (literally: ‘everyone who pisses against the
wall’; ‫משתין בקיר‬16) in Nabal’s house (v. 22). With his rough expression
David’s utterance alludes to v. 3’s designation of Nabal as doggish (‫)כלבי‬.
In the meantime a servant of Nabal has told Abigail about the meeting
between David’s men and her husband. He appeals to her to take action,
because the evil will make an end (‫ )כלתה הרעה‬of Nabal’s house because
he is so ill-natured and stupid (‫ )הוא בן בליעל‬that no one can speak to him
(v. 17). Without her husband’s knowledge, Abigail takes a huge amount of
bread, wine, sheep, grain, raisins and fig cakes and loads them on asses,
which she sends on ahead (cf. also Jacob’s reconciliation with Esau and
his 400 men in Gen. 32–33).17 Meeting David, she completely submits
herself, takes the blame upon herself and makes excuses for her evil
husband (‫)איש בליעל‬, whose name reflects his character: ‘Fool is his name
and folly is with him’ (‫ ;נבל שמו ונבלה עמו‬v. 25).
Abigail’s further speech to David contains three ‘now’ (‫ )ועתה‬sentences
in vv. 26-27, appealing to him to avoid bloodguilt, wishing that his
enemies be like Nabal and urging him to accept the gift for his men. In
vv. 28-31, she adds four ‘prophetic’ utterances, which, with Yahweh as
subject, pronounces David’s future royal position (vv. 28 and 30) and
justifies his wars as Yahweh’s wars (v. 28), who will protect his life
against pursuers (v. 29) and his soul against grief or pangs of conscience
for having shed blood without cause (v. 31a). Her speech ends in a petition
to David not to forget her (‘your handmaid’) when Yahweh has done well
to him (v. 31b).
David’s answer to her speech is an acceptance of her gift and a praise
of her (‫ )ברוכה את‬and her judgement (‫ ;טעמך‬v. 33) incorporated in a praise
of Yahweh, God of Israel, who has sent her (vv. 32-35).

15. The text, in fact, indicates that David has appeared as a mafioso and the
‘protection’ has mostly been a protection against David and his gang (e.g. 1 Sam.
25:7).
16. Participle hiphil of ‫שתן‬, which occurs only here in 1 Samuel and also in
1 Kings 14 and 2 Kings 9. All occurrences are in contexts of power confrontation.
17. McKinlay 1999: 80: ‘Like Wisdom she sends her messengers on ahead. This
woman clearly knows what she is about’.
 Hjelm The Food of Life and the Food of Death 171

When Abigail comes home, Nabal is holding a feast ‘like the king’s
feast’, too drunk to be told what has happened, so Abigail waits until the
following day. When Nabal is told about the incident, he has a stroke
and dies ten days later (vv. 36-38). In David’s view, it is justifiable that
Yahweh has avenged him and returned Nabal’s evil on his own head (v.
39). He marries Abigail, who lays aside her maiden role (‫ )אמה‬and takes
on the role of housewife (‫)שפחה‬18 for David’s men (vv. 40-42).
As in Proverbs, the Nabal–Abigail story has two contrasting characters,
two feasts, and a young man who has the choice of going to the feast of
life with Abigail or the feast of death with Nabal. The food is the same,
but the service different. David chooses the feast of life and praises
Abigail, as one would praise a god (McKinlay 1999: 81). In this scene of
praise it is hinted that Abigail, like Wisdom and the woman in Genesis’
Garden story, do not act on their own, but are ‘agents of God’ (McKinlay
1999: 76).
In a tripartite development of similar scenes, we find that ‘[t]he gift of
discernment that came from Eve [is] tested by Wisdom, and then taken
and tried out in the “real” world of power and conflicts’ (McKinlay 1999:
82–3). The god has planted the tree, created the snake and the woman,
set the conditions and delivered the food. In other words, the narratives
operate within a mode of ambiguity, which led McKinlay to ask whether
ambiguity is part of the deity’s essence: ‘It makes persuasive reading to
understand God’s role as that of a trickster, who both prescribes the fruit
but who all along intends humankind to have the knowledge that it gives’
(McKinlay 1999: 76, with reference to Magonet 1992: 42; Fewell and
Gunn 1993: 34).
But as Broberg (2014: 49) correctly asks, what is the character of
women, when McKinlay also states that ‘Eve, the mother of all living,
together with the snake, has provided the gift from the tree that will grant
humans a divine gift of discernment’ (McKinlay 1999: 76)?
In a comparative analysis of the goddesses Athirat, Qudshu, Tannit,
Anat and Astarte in texts from the ancient Near East, inscriptions
mentioning Asherah (and Yahweh) from Khirbet el-Qom and Kuntillet
Ajrud and Old Testament texts, Broberg finds so much similarity in the
symbol of Ashera’s linking of trees, snakes, fertility and woman that it
is plausible that McKinlay’s ‘agents of God’ hide an Ashera goddess
(Broberg 2014: 50–64).19 The use of the plural forms in Gen. 1:26’s and

18. ‫אמה‬: vv. 24 (×2), 25, 28, vv. 31 and 41; ‫שפחה‬: vv. 27 and 41.
19. Regarding Asherah, see Carstens (1998), and for additional information,
Wyatt (1995).
172 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

3:22’s ‘let us’ and ‘like us’ functions as an inclusio around this hidden
goddess (Broberg 2014: 64), who is present at the creation as god’s wife,
but in the course of the narrative is transformed to become Adam’s wife
as the ‘mother of all living’ (Gen. 3:20; Broberg 2014: 59; cf. also Wallace
1985: 158). A similar transformation takes place when Abigail as David’s
wife ‘is moved into the ranks of the many wives’ (McKinlay 2014: 82).
If, as argued by Broberg (2014: 61), Genesis 2–4’s woman/Eve
narratives contain a conscious dethronement of Asherah similar to the
anti-Asherah bashing the in the books of Kings (e.g. 1 Kgs 18:19; 2 Kgs
21:7; 23:4-7), it is likely that Proverbs 1–9 and 1 Samuel 25 are written as
contrasting narratives, aiming at transferring Asherah’s positive traits as
mother of all living onto the female figure. As heir of the life-sustaining
qualifications of the fertility goddess, the wise woman secures the good
life and holds death in check. Ambiguities in Proverbs’ portrait of Wisdom
allows for seeing her as ‘a separate female divine figure’, such as found
also in 1 Enoch 42 and the Wisdom of Solomon (Crawford 1998: 365).
Her transformation into a mere conceptual figure stresses her equation
with the Torah in Ben Sira, Baruch and 4Q525 = 4QBeatitudes: ‘Thus
Wisdom has lost the special status we observed in Proverbs 1–9, Job 28,
1 Enoch 42 and the Wisdom of Solomon, and become subsumed under the
Torah as in Sir. 15:1, 24:23 and Bar. 4:1’ (Crawford 1998: 365).

Conclusion

The myths of the ancient Near East and the Old Testament deal with
questions about human’s status in the cosmos and its character and role
in relation to the god(s). The myths also deal with the qualities of human-
ity’s and gods’ worlds. In the world of the gods, the food hangs on trees,
it is easy to get, but not all food is permitted. In man’s world, it is a daily
struggle to get enough food, and life ends in death and a return to the soil.
The myths also concern humanity’s rebellion, its desire to transgress
borders and its lust for evil such as the Bible’s Flood story begins and
ends with. The origin of this motif is not made clear in the Old Testament,
but in the Mesopotamian creation myth, Enuma Elish, humans are created
from clay and the blood of a rebellious god, Ups. Now we know where
the rebellious mind came from. The myths’ characterization of humans as
rebellious earthly creatures has not only influenced the development of
ancient Near Eastern societies’ laws, social order and cult (Schmid 1997),
but has also been defining for the New Testament’s and Christianity’s
theology of sin. Not least has the development of portraits of Folly from a
human figure (Prov. 1–9) to a semi-divine being (1 En. 42) to a chthonic
 Hjelm The Food of Life and the Food of Death 173

demon (4Q184) put an unfortunate emphasis on women’s sexuality as

sinful (Crawford 1998: 366) and distorted interpretations of Genesis’
Garden narrative.
The study of ancient myths may also add to our understanding of the
Lord’s Supper as a radical transformation of drinking from the ṣarṣaru
cup of Isthar in Near Eastern covenant ideologies’ confirmation and
remembrance of the covenant. The additional interpretation of this act
in Matthew (26:28) regards forgiveness of sins, but originally it was for
remembrance of the covenant (Exod. 24:8; 1 Cor. 11:23-26; Mk 14:22-24;
Lk. 22:17-20) as in the example from the reign of Esarhaddon (672 BCE).
Every citizen and vassal was entitled to participate in the ritual and swear
their oath to the king: ‘Thus you shall say in your heart: “Ishtar holds
watch”. But when you come home to your towns and eat bread in your
areas, you will forget the oath you have sworn. Now, drink this water and
you will remember and keep the covenant, I, Esarhaddon, have cut with
you.’20 Like Gilgamesh and Enkidu, mankind began in the worlds of gods
and animals and eventually found its own place. In this place, humanity is
free to eat or not to eat, but ‘let the eater be wary, and look very carefully
at this food on offer, and the one with the ready invitation. Recognize the
symbiotic system, for the question is not only: to eat or not to eat, but
where is Wisdom in this choice?’ (McKinlay 1999: 83).

Bibliography
Aletti, J. N. (1977), ‘Seduction et parole en Proverbes I–IX’, VT, 27: 129–44.
Broberg, L. (2014), ‘Asherah i Genesis 2–3?’, Masters thesis, University of Copenhagen.
Camp, C. V. (2000), Wise, Strange and Holy: The Strange Woman and the Making of the
Bible, Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press.
Carstens, P. (1998), ‘Asherah’, in G. Hallbäck and H. J. Lundager Jensen (eds), Gads Bibel
Leksikon, 51, Copenhagen: Gads Forlag.
Cavigneaux, A. and F. Al-Ravi (1993), ‘New Sumerian Literary Texts from Tell Haddad
(Ancient Meturan): A First Survey’, Iraq 55: 91–105.
Clifford, R. J. (1999), Proverbs: A Commentary, Louisville, KY: John Knox Press.

20. The text is from Otto (1999: 82): ‘Wasser aus einem ṣarṣaru-Krug hat sie
ihnen zu trinken gegeben, ein Trinkgefäß hat sie zur Hälfte aus dem ṣarṣaru-Κrug
gefüllt und mit den Worten gegeben: In eurem Herzen werdet ihr sprechen: Istar
hält Wacht! Und ihr werdet in eure Städte gehen und in eure Bezirke und euer
Brot essen, und ihr werdet diesen Bund vergessen (tallaka…[Link]Š takkala
tamaššia adê annûti). Wenn ihr aber von diesem Wasser trinkt, dann werdet ihr euch
erinnern und diesen Bund halten, den ich Asarhaddon betreffend geschlossen habe’
(K. 2401111:4-15).’
174 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

Crawford, S. W. (1998), ‘Lady Wisdom and Dame Folly at Qumran’, DSD, 5 (3): 355–66.
Elliger, K. and W. Rudolf (1990), Biblia Hebraica Stuttgartensia, 4th rev. ed., Stuttgart:
Deutsche Bibelgesellschaft.
Fevell, D. N. and D. M. Gunn (1993), Gender, Power & Promise: The Subject of the
Bible’s First Story, Nashville: Abingdon Press.
Foster, B. R. (1997), ‘The Adapa Story’, in W. W. Hallo (ed.), The Context of Scripture,
Vol. I: Canonical Compositions from the Biblical World, 449, Leiden: E. J. Brill.
Fox, M. V. (1997), ‘Ideas of Wisdom in Proverbs 1–9’, JBL, 116: 613–33.
Goethe, J. W. von. (1819), West-östlicher Divan (Gedichte), Leipzig: Philip Rechlam.
Repr. in E. Trunz (ed.), J. W. von Goethe, Werke, 2:49, Munich, 1998.
Greenfield, J. C. (1985), ‘The Seven Pillars of Wisdom (Prov. 9:1) – A Mistranslation’,
JQR, 76: 13–20.
Gudme de Hemmer, A. K. and J. Høgenhaven (2009), ‘Det Gamle Testamentes eksegese’,
Fønix, 3 (32), [Link]
Hjelm, I. (2015), ‘Livets og dødens føde i GT og nærorientalske tekster’, in F. Damgaard
and A. K. De Hemmer Gudme, Mad og drikke i bibelsk litteratur, 8–25, FBE 19,
Copenhagen: ANIS, [Link]
f19/Hjelm_FBE19.pdf.
Izre’el, S. (2001), Adapa and the South Wind: Language Has the Power of Life and Death,
Mesopotamian Civilizations 10, Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns.
Jacobson, T. (1976), The Treasures of Darkness: A History of Mesopotamian Religion.
New Haven: Yale University Press.
Kvanvig, H. S. (2011), Primeval History: Babylonian, Biblical and Enochic: An Inter-
textual Reading, Leiden: E. J. Brill.
Liverani, M. (2004), ‘Adapa, Guest of the Gods’, in Myth and Politics in Ancient Near
Eastern Historiography, 3–23, Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press.
Loretz, O. (1990), Ugarit und Die Bibel. Kanaanäische Götter und Religion im Alten
Testament, Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft.
Magonet, J. (1992), ‘The Themes of Genesis 2–3’, in P. Morris and D. Sawyer (eds), A
Walk in the Garden: Biblical, Iconographical and Literary Images of Eden, 39–46,
Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press.
McKinlay, J. E. (1999), ‘To Eat or Not to Eat: Where Is Wisdom in this Choice?’, Semeia,
86: 73–83.
Mettinger, T. N. D. (2007), The Eden Narrative: A Literary and Religion-historical Study
of Genesis 2–3, Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns.
Otto, E. (1999), Das Deuteronomium, Politische Theologie und Rechtsreform in Juda und
Assyrien, Berlin: de Gruyter.
Picchioni, S. A. (1981), Il poemetto di Adapa, Budapest: Eötvös Loránd Tudományegyetem.
Pritchard J. B., ed. (1969), Ancient Near Eastern Texts Relating to the Old Testament:
Third Edition with Supplement = ANET, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press.
Schmid, H. H. (1997), ‘Skabelse, retfærdighed og frelse’, in P. Carstens and H. J. Lundager
(eds), Læsninger og tolkninger af Det Gamle Testamente, 43–62, Tekst og teologi I,
Copenhagen: Anis.
Speiser, E. A. (1969), ‘Adapa’, in ANET: 101–3.
Thompson, T. L. (2009), ‘Imago Dei: A Problem in Pentateuchal Discourse’, SJOT, 23
(1): 135–48. Danish trans.: ‘Imago dei. Et problem i de fem Mosebøgers diskurs’, DTT
(2009): 81–98, [Link]
Wallace, H. N. (1985), The Eden Narrative, Atlanta: Scholars Press.
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Westenholz, U. and A. Westenholz (1997), Gilgamesh – Enuma Elish. Guder og mennesker

i oldtidens Babylon, Copenhagen: Spektrum.
Whitelam, K. W. (1996), The Invention of Ancient Israel: The Silencing of Palestinian
History, London: Routledge.
Wilcke, C. (1991), ‘Göttliche und menschliche Weisheit im Alten Orient’, in A. Assman
(ed.), Weisheit: Archäologie der literarischen Kommunikation III, 259–70, Munich:
Wilhelm Fink.
Wyatt, N. (1995), ‘Asherah’, in K. van der Toorn, B. Becking and P. van der Horst (eds),
Dictionary of Deities and Demons in the Bible (DDD), 183–95, Leiden: E. J. Brill.
 A G ate i n G a za :
A n E s s ay on t h e R ecep t i on of T all T ale s *

Jack M. Sasson

Few who are aware of Tommy Thompson’s work would want to tackle the
historicity in the patriarchal narratives (or most biblical lore with historical
contents, for that matter) without wishing to know more about the time,
the circumstance and the setting for their origins. More, they might also
want to ask why, how and when editors gave up further manipulations
of these traditions, deciding that they have become too sacred (canonical
may be another term) to mess with.

The Subject

In this paper, offered to a friend and colleague of several decades, I keep

all these matters in mind, but actually deal with one narrow aspect of
their reception: Were these narratives set as past events taken to be true
accounts when read or heard by their earliest recipients? The issue is
interesting because until the past couple of centuries, all but the fewest
skeptics regularly relied on biblical narratives to chronicle the march of
history. Even the occasional jolt to credulity – as in crossing a sea on foot,
halting the sun in mid-course or surviving for days in a fish’s innards –
was accorded veracity through mumbo-jumbo science or via unverified
survival-tales collected from far-off shores.

* I gratefully acknowledge the helpful comments on an earlier draft by colleagues

Jennifer Williams (Linfield College) and Fook-Kong Wong (Hong Kong Theological
Seminary).
 Sasson A Gate in Gaza 177

My exploration of this matter focuses on one episode from many

concerned with Samson of the tribe of Dan: his visit with a prostitute in
Gaza.1 I hardly need to annotate too deeply the few verses that retell this
incident (16:1-3) and I will take it for granted that anyone inspecting this
essay would be familiar with the tales about Samson as told in Judges
13–16. The Gaza excursion comes after several confrontations with
Philistines that invariably ended painfully for them. Heretofore, the bouts
had occurred in and around Naḥal Sorek, mostly between Samson’s birth-
place (ṣŏrcâ, Zorah) in Danite territory and Philistine Timnah, a stone’s
throw away from home.2 The Gaza whoring interlude, however, occurs
miles from these familiar spots, giving many occasions for later moralists
to condemn consorting beyond marriage, especially with foreign women.
Its local prostitute is nameless, as are all women characters through this
juncture of the cycle.3 In fact, subsequent to this episode, Samson will
experience his deepest emotional entanglement in neighboring Naḥal
Sorek when he falls in love with Delilah, a named courtesan of fluid
ethnicity.4
The passage in the received Hebrew is brief enough to warrant full
citation:

1. Unless specified otherwise, all citations are from the book of Judges. This essay
is adapted from the second volume of an Anchor Yale Bible commentary on that book
now in preparation. (The first volume is available as Sasson 2014.) I reserve detailed
philological comments to its pages.
2. Some incidents found him by Ashkelon (Judg. 14:19) and by other places
(Etam, Lehi) that are difficult to pinpoint on a map. See Rainey and Notley (2006:
141) for a succinct presentation of the matter.
3. Exum (2016: 48) playfully wonders (I am not sure why) whether she was an
Israelite plying her trade in a foreign land.
4. Delilah’s name betrays nothing about her foreign origin, as it is plausibly
Semitic, whether Hebrew (dālal, ‘to dangle’) or Akkadian (dalālum, ‘to praise’). In
the literature, Delilah is commonly a Philistine because Samson’s fate was to engage
the Philistines, because in Timnah and in Gaza, Philistine women seem to attract him
because Philistines would more likely trust one of their own to deceive Samson, and
because a Hebrew woman (God forbid) would not betray her kin. Plausible enough,
each and every explanation, except for the fact that in the Samson tales, his kin from
Judah seem quite willing to hand him over to the Philistines (Judg. 15). In Judges too,
Jael, not likely a Hebrew, deceived her own kind (Judg. 4). Then there are always
Joseph’s brothers and Judas as betrayers of one’s own kith as well as the dozen kings
of Judah and Israel abandoned by their followers. Given her proximity to – if not
location in – Danite territory, Delilah may well provide us with one more example
of tribal disloyalty. We might consider her a Hebrew if we wish; but nothing in her
pedigree would reveal a motivation to doom Samson other than greed.
178 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

161Samson went down to Gaza. He ‎ ‫א־ׁשם ִא ָּׁשה זֹונָ ה‬

ָ ‫וַ ּיֵ ֶלְך ִׁש ְמׁשֹון ַעּזָ ָתה וַ ּיַ ְר‬1
saw there a prostitute and slept with ‫ ַל ַעּזָ ִתים ֵלאמֹר ָּבא ִׁש ְמׁשֹון ֵהּנָ ה‬2 ‫יה׃‬ ָ ‫וַ ּיָבֹא ֵא ֶל‬
her. 2To the people of Gaza, it was ‫ל־ה ַּליְ ָלה ְּב ַׁש ַער ָה ִעיר‬
ַ ‫וַ ּיָ סֹּבּו וַ ּיֶ ֶא ְרבּו־לֹו ָכ‬
said, ‘Samson has come here’. They ‫ל־ה ַּליְ ָלה ֵלאמֹר ַעד־אֹור ַהּב ֶֹקר‬ ַ ‫וַ ּיִ ְת ָח ְרׁשּו ָכ‬
encircled him in ambush all night by ‫ד־ח ִצי ַה ַּליְ ָלה‬
ֲ ‫וַ ּיִ ְׁש ַּכב ִׁש ְמׁשֹון ַע‬3 ‫וַ ֲה ְרגְ נֻ הּו׃‬
the city gate, shushing each other all ‫וַ ּיָ ָקם ַּב ֲח ִצי ַה ַּליְ ָלה וַ ּיֶ ֱאחֹז ְּב ַד ְלתֹות ַׁש ַער־‬
night by saying, ‘Come daybreak, and ‫יח‬
ַ ‫ם־ה ְּב ִר‬
ַ ‫ּוב ְׁש ֵּתי ַה ְּמזּוזֹות וַ ּיִ ָּס ֵעם ִע‬
ִ ‫ָה ִעיר‬
we will kill him’. 3Samson slumbered ‫ל־ּכ ֵת ָפיו וַ ּיַ ֲע ֵלם ֶאל־רֹאׁש ָה ָהר ֲא ֶׁשר‬ ְ ‫וַ ּיָ ֶׂשם ַע‬
until midnight. Rising at midnight, ‫ל־ּפנֵ י ֶח ְברֹון׃‬
ְ ‫ַע‬
he gripped the door panels of the city
gate as well as the two doorposts.
Tearing them loose with the shaft still
in place, he set them on his shoulders
and hauled them up towards the peak
of the hill, the one facing Hebron.5

The Issue

By featuring a Samson who is alert to danger as well as highlighting

Philistines who still hope to vanquish him by force of arm, this episode
does contrast significantly from previous occurrences. Most glaring is the
lack of obvious motivation for Samson’s trek. While it is true that Samson
will soon face his greatest challenge in Gaza, hard to fathom is why Samson
would thread his way deeply into enemy territory just to sample carnally
its local hookers. True too is that by moving to the antipodes of Philistine
power, Samson (or God) has globalized his war against them. Still, aside
from anticipating Samson’s final days in Gaza, the incident seems neither
to emerge from what had transpired nor to provide a fitting transition to
what follows. In fact, no harm overtakes the overall architecture of the
Samson cycle were it removed. Additionally, this narrator’s relatively
brief exploration of Samson’s remarkable feat markedly contrasts with the
expansive interest in events either around Timnah or in Delilah’s boudoir.
Striking in this instance, too, is Samson’s bloodless confrontation with the
Philistines when in previous (and ensuing) sequences, his opponents pay
heavily at each conflict. Finally, in this encounter, there is no reference to

5. For the few grammatical and idiomatic oddities of the Hebrew text, see the
annotations in my forthcoming Judges commentary. The two Greek renditions differ
in minor ways from the Hebrew. They both (as well as Josephus) adopt a literal
rendition of the euphemism bōʼ ʼel- (a woman), by having Samson just stay there.
They both also expand the ending to state that Samson sets the Gaza gates at the
summit of a mountain facing Hebron, I suppose lest anyone imagine that he parked
them only when he got to Delilah’s gate.
 Sasson A Gate in Gaza 179

any infusion of divine spirit (as at 14:6, 19; 15:4), when it at least equals
previous displays of prowess. These observations lead to the following
comments on the incident:

1. Its Derivation. Why among so many Samson exploits that test credulity,
does the narrator invite disbelief by inserting this brief, yet gaudy, yarn?
The answers in the literature are few. Most commentators simply ignore
its distinction from the others, choosing to forge straight into the Delilah
episode. Some propose that it is ‘of the same character with the rest of
the cycle, and doubtless of the same origin’ (Moore 1895: 348). Others
claim that it sharpens Samson’s behavior as a clue in an allegory for
Israel’s compulsion to whore after foreign gods.6 There is invariably the
opinion that it comes from a different hand, period, school or the like.7
Yet, if spliced into the series of Samson moves, the episode is by no means
intrusive, as its language smoothly partakes from other components of
the tales (Amit 1999: 283). To begin with, its opening phrase harks back
to the moment Samson went to Timnah (see at 16:1). In setting this brief
incident at Gaza, the narrator is also looking ahead to the cataclysm that
will end Samson’s life at the Gaza Temple. There is mention of ambushing
Samson (forms of ʼārav) here (16:2) and later (16:9, 12); of seizing (verb:
ʼāḥaz) door panels (16:3) as well as Samson (at 16:21); and of pulling out
(verb: nāsac) components of the gate at one heave (at 16:3) and those of
a loom similarly (at 16:14).8 None by itself suggests a clear linkage; but
their occurrence in such a compact narrative is worthy of attention.

2. Its Oddity. Neither Samson’s morals – he was a Nazir, so consecrated to

God – nor his perplexing movements are as curious as the deed attributed
to him on awakening in a whore’s house. He knows that he is under watch;

6. Wong (2006: 231–6) follows others in championing this fragile linkage.

7. Opinions and criteria are many but are all equally speculative; see Brettler
2002: 54–6. Some take the mention of Gaza, its carnal focus and its (arguable)
temporal unity as clues of its connection with the remaining events in ch. 16. Others
locate it among the episodic elements of the previous chapters, due to an integral
construction that defies clear-cut chronology. Still others consider it a stray that
originally may not have belonged to Samson stories. Startling is Guillaume’s (2004:
186–8) severely historicizing take that also plays on Sun mythology: the episode
sharpens the failure of Neo-Babylonian rulers to take Egypt, leaving Gaza bereft of
power, as does Samson, ‘little sun’, on removing its gate.
8. Amit (1999: 283–4) argues that without Samson’s heroics at the Gaza gate, the
Philistines might not have offered Delilah such a large sum to capture him. I would
imagine that their earlier loss of thousands at his hand might have been enough
incentive.
180 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

but rather than luring Philistines to a thrashing, he opts to deny them

future protection by turning their city gateless, so defenseless: a deserved
turn of events for cowardly soldiers who egged each other into postponing
a confrontation with their nemesis (see at 16:2).
The Gates. Several cities of Levant had multiple fortifications: Nineveh
and Babylon were each circled by at least two sets of formidably high
walls. Movement in and out of a city occurred through several of their
gates. Nineveh’s fifteen gates (Reade 2016) punctured a wall that stretched
out for about 7 miles (12 km). Babylon’s wall was one and halftime as
long (12 miles) and in the first millennium had nine gates. The wall around
Jerusalem at the end of the monarchic period was likely a fraction of that
circumference; in modern times, it is about 2.5 miles (4 km). The Bible
mentions almost two dozen gates for Jerusalem, although the likelihood is
that over time the same gate may have held several names.
The city gates of most fortified cities were not just gaps in massive
walls; rather, at both ends of the breach (petaḥ, ‘opening’), they included
towers that could reach – as they did at Tell Dan – 25 feet (8 m) in height.9
Gaza’s fortifications await a full archaeological review; our knowledge
of its gate system is scant. The Gaza besieged by Sargon (late eighth
century) may have had two gates, leading to separate directions. If a scene
on Assyrian reliefs proves to represent one of Gaza’s gates, entry into the
city was through a narrow opening, an arch topped by a horizontal lintel.
Tall towers flanked the opening, each with its own battlement from which
soldiers can shoot arrows.10
The Portals. Access into a town had to be wide enough to allow the
attended entry of carts, chariots, and other vehicles. Minimally, they would
be almost 7 feet (over 2 m) broad. The main gateway at Lachish was 16
feet (5 m) broad; most other gates of the area were likely around 10-12
feet wide. Height differed; but while those of Assyria can be exceptionally
tall, those of Canaan and Israel seem to equal the width of the two leaves.
A gate had a door (delet, most often plural daltôt), normally consisting of
a pair of foot-thick, heavily nailed timber panels (likely pine, acacia and/

9. The literature on fortification and city gates is enormous. A good overview of

gates and their functions in the Levant is in May 2014. To annotate this passage, I
have found most useful the very fine dissertation by Frese (2012; especially ch. 4,
‘The Gatehouse Entrance’, 73–99), as well as the detailed lexical comments of Otto
2006. For Mesopotamia and Anatolia, there is a series of brief notices in the Reallex-
ikon der Assyriologie, 13: 86–96 (under ‘Stadttor’). All three resources include
exhaustive bibliographies.
10. Widely reproduced illustration, as in Frese 2012: 124.
 Sasson A Gate in Gaza 181

or cypress). On their outer side, these panels were either sheathed with
metal (most often bronze) or had several broad bands of the same. The
process not only reinforced them, but also prevented (or at least slowed)
torching by the enemy.11 The panels were connected to massive doorposts
(mӗzûzâ, most often plural mӗzûzôt) and rested on pivots (ʼammôt) that
were molded into a threshold of hard stone (saf and miptān, likely outer
and inner sills). In allowing traffic, the panels swung to the inside of the
gate. At night-time, the panels dovetailed shut into each other. One of
several methods of locking them required sliding a beam or a metal bar
(bӗrîaḥ) through brackets (metal usually) fastened to the inside face of the
panels.

The Feat

The Heave. These details on Gaza’s portal give us an inkling of Samson’s

herculean power. In one stroke, he was dealing with two panels (daltôt),
two doorposts (mӗzûzôt), as well as the bar (bӗrîaḥ). In belonging neither
to an ordinary home nor even to a compound, these elements made for a
city gate of staggering width, length, girth and weight. Ordinarily, gates
were shuttled on ox-pulled beds, given their weight and size; Samson’s
simply placed them on his shoulders (vayyāśem cal-kӗtēfāyv) to haul them
away. This feat undoubtedly gave rise to a Talmudic notice about Samson
enormous size: ‘R. Simeon the Pious said: “The width between Samson’s
shoulders was sixty cubits (90 feet, 28 meters)”…and there is a tradition
that the gates of Gaza were not less than sixty cubits [in width]’ (b. Sot.
10a; Num. Rab. 14:9).12

11. On making door panels, we have this letter from a Mari administrator (ARM
13 7; see Sasson 2017: 304–5): ‘My lord wrote to me about the panel of cedar to
produce for placement to match the panel at the Uṣur-pi-šarrim’s Gate… I have
measured comprehensively the pivot of the panel at the Uṣurpi-šarrim Gate: 2 reeds,
4 cubits, 8 fingers [just over 8 meters] is its entire span. The frame is 2 reeds and 10
fingers [about 7 meters]. For the size of this panel with its double casing of 2 cubits
(1 meter) each, I am taking one veneer casing […]. My lord should know this.’
12. In other lore, Samson could take two mountains and knock them against
each other, as might ordinary humans knock stones. When infused with divine
spirit, he could traverse with a single step the distance between towns (Lev. Rab.
8:2). Similar hyperboles developed about Gilgamesh in the Hittite version: ‘The
great gods [created] Gilgamesh: His body was eleven yards [in height]; his breast
was nine [spans] in breadth; his…was three […] in length’; G. Beckman in Foster
2001: 158. Whereas the Old Babylonian Gilgamesh was just larger than most of his
182 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

The Haul. How far Samson took these panels is debated. He did haul
them away (vayyacӑlēm) to the top of a specific mount (hāhār); but
which hill was it? The Hebrew says cal-pӗnê, a compound preposition
that covers much ground: comparative – ‘additional to’, ‘in preference
over’ (someone); spatial – ‘opposite’, ‘over’ something and the like. The
targeted direction is Hebron, a town that will have its moment of glory
by crowning David and hosting his first years of rule. The distance from
Gaza to Hebron is about 37 miles (60 km); a bit farther is the hill that
carries its name. Daunting must have been the climb necessary to reach
that hill. Gaza’s elevation is about 50 feet (so less than 15 m) above sea
level; that of Hebron is close to 3,000 feet (900 m), with Mt Hebron over
a thousand feet higher. Perhaps its mention implies ‘Eastward’, so away
from the Mediterranean (Lagrange 1903: 243)? Whatever the favored
interpretation, both Greek versions (as well as Josephus) felt the need to
relieve Samson of his burden, adding ‘and he set them down there’.
Given the syntax of the final clause, however, it is possible to argue
that Samson took the gates to a nearby hill, one that faced distant Hebron.
The highest point in the Gaza area is (Joz) Abu cAwdah, a hillock 350
feet (100 m) above sea level. Slightly less elevated is Muntar, to the
Southeast of the town, favored by some Christian fathers as Samson’s
climbing goal. This approach would be the prudent understanding of
what Samson did with the gates; yet given the other circumstances of
Samson’s behavior in Gaza, turning pragmatic here would be missing the
drift of the anecdote.

contemporaries (as were other kings such as Eannatum of Lagash), within centuries
he acquired the oversized stature of gods; see George 2007: 247–8. Modern exegetes
are not too far behind when comparing Samson to Hercules, Cuhullin and other
mythical heroes. More modestly, Gunkel (1913: 40–1) labels him a Naturmensch
who depends on his hands to crush lions and enemies; a marked contrast to the
Philistines, who wield the products of culture to achieve their goals.
Samson also caught the imagination of artists as they set mosaic for their patrons.
Earliest are diverse scenes in the Roman catacombs (early fourth century), with
Samson battling a lion and striking Philistines with a jawbone (Gass and Zisu 2005:
169–72). Fullest is a series of nine scenes in a fifth-century synagogue (or church)
in Mopsuestia (Misis) in Cilicia, with Samson larger than other humans (Avi-Yonah
1981). From about the same period, the Tell Huqoq (Galilee) synagogue preserves
fragments of two, albeit non-contiguous, scenes: Samson deploys foxes and hauls
away Gaza’s gate (Grey and Magness 2013: 30). A scene with Samson striking
Philistines with a jawbone decorated a Wadi Hammam synagogue. Leibner and Miller
(2010: 256–7) report on several Samson scenes in Byzantine codices and in a tenth-
century Armenian church (Achtamar, Lake Van in Turkey).
 Sasson A Gate in Gaza 183

The Reception

I take it for granted that, however we might feel about the historical value
of any episode in the Bible, its narrators and first hearers hardly doubted
that the featured ancestors once fulfilled all actions assigned to them.
Patriarchs, matriarchs, kings and heroes all met and surmounted extraor-
dinary challenges. If such events featured divine protagonists, the more
the necessity to suspend disbelief. This must certainly have been how
the faithful absorbed the truths of Creation, the Flood and the Exodus.
Occasionally, the defeat of Israel’s enemies occurs through supernatural
means – among them opportune earthquakes, celestial fires or rocks,
powerful winds, sea parting and arrest of luminaries. How could these
challenges to nature be doubted when Almighty God had full control over
the cosmos? The same suspension of disbelief likely applied to interac-
tions between humans and the divine, directly or through surrogates.
Among such examples are Lot and his visitors in Sodom and Jacob and
his wrestling bout with a man, both proving to come from the beyond.
These occasions and interactions, albeit touched by the supernatural, must
have occurred if only because Heaven orchestrated them.

Embellished Tales. The matter is more complicated when it comes to

evaluating narratives of contacts among individuals of flesh and blood.
Here, one needs to distinguish between an embellished tale and a ‘Tall
Tale’. The former features embroidered versions of the realistic (indeed,
historical) and we meet with it whenever we come across bloated numbers
of felled enemies or read about individuals wielding implausible weapons
when decimating foes (Samson and Shamgar ben Anat in the book of
Judges). The stories about Samson and his bouts with foes partook of
these characteristics. The encounters he has had with a lion, foxes and
diverse phalanxes of Philistines are all examples of heightened violence
that might strain credulity (of some readers anyway); but there is nothing
at the core of their plausibility that a dash of salt would not help to lend
them verisimilitude. In hearing or reading about them, the discerning
mind automatically trims them down to their proper balance, permitting
focus on the intended lesson. For example, in terms of credibility (never
mind historicity), the story of Moses’s spies in Canaan (Num. 13:17-33)
need not have been discounted because the men retrieved enormous grape
clusters or saw gargantuan foes. The main points there were the promise
as well as the challenge of conquering a very fruitful yet heavily defended
Promised Land.
184 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

Tall Tales. It is otherwise with ‘Tall Tales’ in which the exaggerations

are themselves the focus of the story, giving them a ‘fictionality’ that
encourages transposal into other forms of comprehension, such as a
parable or a paradigm. In such accounts, narrators tend to sharpen implau-
sibility by multiplying clues, their main intent being to promote the
didactic via the entertaining. In antiquity, any Samson reader acquainted
with fortified cities would know that city gates, not least because of their
size, bulk and weight, were not transportable on the back of any one
individual, however mighty. For such gates were neither graspable by one
pair of arms nor easily balanced on a human back. This is certainly the
reason why the rabbis, acquainted though they were with divine miracles,
converted Samson into a giant, his shoulders spanning dozens of cubits.
Samson might have negotiated the gate by climbing or vaulting over it,
thus managing to escape Gaza just the same. Yet, by alluding to Hebron,
the narrator made certain to generate doubt on the realism of this particular
episode. Hebron, as noted above, is uphill from Gaza and miles away. A
good bit of the territory in between was infested with Philistines who
might have welcomed launching javelins and arrows on a gate-burdened
Samson. This potential problem may well have inspired Pseudo-Philo into
converting one panel of the gate into a shield.13 More telling, however, is
the reticence of the narrator to involve God in this particular exploit. Had
we read that God’s spirit landed on Samson as he faced the gates of Gaza,
such a notice might certainly have thwarted most ancient readers from
doubting the validity of the exploit.
I have made much of this observation less to question the historical
value of this particular tale about Samson than to suggest that on occasion
Scripture consciously indulged in assigning its heroes acts that skirted
historical likelihood. In the first volume of my Judges commentary,
I have had occasion to alert to another episode with fanciful writing
pitting Othniel against Cushan-rishatayim (Judg. 3:7-11). My clue there
was how a patently moralistic name (‘Doubly Wicked Cushan’) rhymed
with the name of the land he ruled, Aram-naharayim. Not surprisingly,
since Josephus, traditional and modern commentators on that passage
have twisted our knowledge of the past into pretzels, not just to thread
Cushan-rishatayim’s move from Upper Syria deep into southern Canaan,
but also to keep him in power there for almost a decade. Elsewhere in
Scripture, narrators also use diverse tactics to alert perceptive readers

13. Pseudo-Philo could hardly allow the Philistines to escape unscathed; his
Samson considers them ‘fleas’ and uses the gates on his back to kill 25,000 of them;
LAB 43.2-4; following Harrington 1985: 356–7.
 Sasson A Gate in Gaza 185

or audiences on the fictionality of what lies before them by assigning

moralistic or whimsical names to characters that no parents would wish
on their children. Such a tactic is obvious in Genesis 14 with its series
of the named kings of Sodom (Bera, ‘In Evil’), Gomorrah (Birsha, ‘In
Wickedness’) and one of their allies (Bela, ‘Swallower’, likely king of
Zoar).14

The Lesson

Our particular segment of Samson hardly demands historical validation;

yet it urges us to consider the probability that, on a few occasions, biblical
traditions did strive to convey instruction that offered sharper lessons
than those derived from history. Neither the circumstance surrounding
Samson’s birth nor his Nazirite status was exceptional to Scripture. Yet
we may now ask, why insert a Tall Tale of pronounced whimsy among
a series of yarns with obvious embellishments? I doubt that the intention
was to invite wholesale skepticism about the whole cycle. I speculate that
by positioning this particular episode within two distinctively phrased
statements on Samson’s tenure as judge (at 15:20 and 16:31), the narrator
framed distinct panels for the Samson traditions. In the first of these (13:1
through 15:20), Samson is played like a ‘comic dupe’, a character (by
no means hilarious) who serves as an instrument by which to carry out
a divinely set agendum. This program opens on Samson seeking a bride
among foreskinned Philistines, ‘Now his father and mother had no idea
that this was from the LORD, for he (Samson and/or God) was prodding
a reaction from the Philistines’. It develops over a sequence of crucial
clashes in which God manipulates Samson through measured infusion of
divine spirit (rûwaḥ ʼӗlōhîm) with which to bludgeon beasts and enemies.

14. Other schemes include (1) promoting non-existent rulers from periods
otherwise scripturally well-documented, for example, Darius the Mede of Dan. 6:1;
(2) formulating bogus titles, such as ‘King of Nineveh’ (Jon. 3:6), Nebuchadnezzar
of Assyria (Jdt. 11), or Belshazzar, son of Nebuchadnezzar (Dan. 5:1-2); and (3)
inventing non-existent locales, among them Bethulia (many variant spellings) in Jdt.
4:9 and Jeremiah’s Merathaim (‘double rebellion [possibly, Babylon]’ Jer. 50:21).
Complicated is how to evaluate the many moments in which narrators challenge
their audience by referring to material found in archives, for example to the ‘Book of
Jashar’ (Josh. 10:13; 2 Sam. 1:18), to the ‘Book of Yhwh wars’ (Num. 21:14) or to
several ‘annals’ (divrēy hayyāmîm) of departed rulers of Israel and/or Judah. Certainly
beyond likelihood is the invitation to inspect the records of foreign kings, such as
those of ‘Persia and Media’ (Est. 6:1; 10:2; see also Ezra 6:2).
186 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

The second panel occupies ch. 16, enfolding over three distinct settings:
a Gaza brothel, Delilah’s boudoir and a Gaza building. Especially in the
first two of these scenes, Samson is a ‘comic hero’, in literary exploration
a character with a supersized ego, defiant, conflicted about authority,
oscillating between hubris and humility, not always self-aware and
certainly not servile to consistency but in full control of destiny.15 Samson
is nonchalant about danger and can compete with the gods for brute
strength, his portraiture hardly aiming for verisimilitude or credibility.
In my reading of the second scene, with Delilah, Samson is danger-
ously playful. Perversely misreading her intentions, he seeks repeatedly
(and always unsuccessfully) to egg her on toward some erotic escapade
by proposing successive realizations of ancient love charms in which
binding, cutting, knotting and use of bodily elements such as sinews, hair,
or nail clippings are essential ingredients.16
It is in the third setting that both aspects of Samson’s character come
together. In it, a blinded Samson gets set between pillars in a building,
likely a Gaza temple for Dagon. Petitioning God for renewed strength, he
brings it down over its myriad celebrants. An avenged Samson is among
the many victims, thus losing none of his potential for shaping his own
fate. Yet in doing so, he once again submits to being an instrument in
the wider war that the God of Israel was waging. In Hebrew theosophy,
that battle was non-ending. False though they may have been, these gods
nonetheless remained pervasively (and perversely) dominant over their
own worshipers. Worse, even as they experienced the might of their
own god, Hebrews repeatedly turn to them without ever verifying their
competence (Deut. 11:28; 13:3, 14 and elsewhere). As such moments, it
was not enough for prophets to warn against foreign gods. Rather, false
gods needed punishment directly, as was the case in many theomachies in
which YHVH discomfited his many foes.17

15. The literature on this portrayal is large; but see Torrance 1978. I have
commented on both the comic dupe and the comic hero in a study on Jonah; see
Sasson 1990: 345–52.
16. I sustain, flesh out and defend these comments in my forthcoming Anchor
Yale Bible commentary and, more succinctly, in a study of Judges 16 offered to a
colleague.
17. Theomachy, the confrontation between and among gods, is a major component
of cosmological mythmaking in antiquity. In its best-known variety, individual gods
rise by supplanting others either violently or peacefully. In the process, successful
deities confer primacy on their chosen people or city. This version of the combat is
heavily featured in the Hebrew Bible (lastly, Miller 2018) and elsewhere (Heimpel
1997: 549, 561–2; Beckman 1997: 569–70). Since the nineteenth century, yet with
 Sasson A Gate in Gaza 187

However, there were other manifestations of theomachy. In them,

humans were facilitators or instruments in divine apotheoses. In the
Hebrew Bible, a parade example is when Moses discomfits Pharaoh,
hence also the gods of Egypt, or Elijah exterminates Baal priests, proving
the impotence of their god (1 Kgs 18:20-46). Less directly, when aboard
a storm-tossed ship, Jonah proves God’s superiority over Sea (Jon. 1).
Samson’s final moments in Gaza belong to a variation of this trope,
wherein the human instrument dies in the process. The fullest example of
this manifestation from antiquity occurs in two variants of the Anatolian
myth ‘Illuyanka’ (see Hoffner 1998: 10–14; Beckman 1982). Both feature
a Storm God (Taru) conniving to regain power from Illuyanka (a serpent)
that had defeated him. In one version, his daughter, (the goddess Inara)
marries a mortal (Hupasiya) who trusses a drunken Illuyanka before the
Storm God kills him. In the second and more relevant version, the son of
the Storm God betrays Illuyanka into surrendering a powerful asset, and
loses his own life as a result.
Little in this Anatolian tale matches what we find in the Samson
account save for its outcome. Here, God is triumphant, Dagon is defeated
(not for the last time, see 1 Sam. 5) and Samson perishes as a result. Both
parties get to play a role in the Philistine debacle: Samson leaves Gaza
defenseless by removing its gate and God empowers him to destroy its
temple. True enough, neither Hebrew nor modern historiography corrobo-
rates this take on events at Gaza. Yet, with such a heady lesson to derive
from the Gaza confrontations, readers past and new might absorb even the
tallest tale in the cycle without unduly dismissing the whole. Some yarns
need not be true to convey truths.

Bibliography
Amit, Yairah (1999), The Book of Judges: The Art of Editing, trans. J. Chipman, Leiden:
E. J. Brill (Hebrew version, 1992).
Avi-Yonah, Michael (1981), ‘The Mosaics of Mopsuestia – Church or Synagogue’, in Lee
I. Levine (eds), Ancient Synagogues Revealed, 186–90, Jerusalem: Israel Exploration
Society.
Beckman, Gary (1982), ‘The Anatolian Myth of Illuyanka’, JANES, 14: 11–25.

elusive success, Samson has been portrayed as an avatar of alpha deities (from
Mesopotamian Ninurta and Shamash to Greek Heracles) or of epic heroes (from
Gilgamesh to Cúchulainn). There are overviews of these efforts in works from Palmer
1913 to Mobley 2006. A less direct application of the theme considers Samson tales
as ‘folklorization of mythological compositions aiming at emptying them of their
power’ (Guillaume 2004: 191).
188 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

Beckman, Gary (1997), ‘Mythologie. [Link]. Bei den Hethitern’, Reallexikon der Assyriologie
8: 564–72.
Brettler, Marc Zvi (2002), The Book of Judges, New York: Routledge.
Exum, J. Cheryl (2016), Fragmented Women: Feminist (Sub)versions of Biblical
Narratives, 2nd ed., London: Bloomsbury T&T Clark.
Foster, Benjamin R. (2001), The Epic of Gilgamesh: A New Translation, Analogues,
Criticism, New York: W. W. Norton.
Frese, Daniel Allan (2012), ‘The Civic Forum in Ancient Israel: The Form, Function,
and Symbolism of City Gates’, PhD dissertation, University of California, San Diego,
[Link]
Gass, Erasmus and Boaz Zissu (2005), ‘The Monastery of Samson up the Rock of Etham
in the Byzantine Period’, ZDPV, 121: 168–83.
George, Andrew R. (2007), ‘The Gilgameš Epic at Ugarit’, AuOr, 25: 237–54.
Grey, Matthew J. and Jodi Magness (2013), ‘Finding Samson in Byzantine Galilee: The
2011-2012 Archaeological Excavations at Huqoq’, Studies in the Bible and Antiquity
5: 1–30.
Guillaume, Philippe (2004), Waiting for Josiah: The Judges, London: T&T Clark.
Gunkel, Hermann (1913), Reden und Aufsätze, Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht.
Harrington, Daniel J. (1985), ‘Pseudo-Philo (First Century A.D.)’, in J. P. Charlesworth
(ed.), The Old Testament Pseudepigrapha. Vol. 2, Expansions of the ‘Old Testament’
and Legends, Wisdom and Philosophical Literature, Prayers, Psalms, and Odes,
Fragments of Lost Judeo-Hellenistic Works, 297–377, New York: Doubleday.
Heimpel, Wolfgang (1997), ‘Mythologie (mythology). A.I. in Mesopotamien’, Reallexikon
der Assyriologie, 8: 537–64.
Hoffner, Harry A., Jr. (1998), Hittite Myths, 2nd ed., SBL Writings from the Ancient World
Series, Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press.
Lagrange, Marie-Joseph (1903), Le livre des Juges, Études bibliques, Paris: V. Lecoffre.
Leibner, Uzi and Shulamit Miller (2010), ‘A Figural Mosaic in the Synagogue at Khirbet
Wadi Hamam’, JRA, 23: 238–64.
May, Natalie N. (2014), ‘Gates and their Functions in Mesopotamia and Ancient Israel’,
in N. N. May and U. Steinert (eds), The Fabric of Cities: Aspects of Urbanism, Urban
Topography and Society in Mesopotamia, Greece and Rome, 77–121, Leiden: E. J.
Brill.
Miller, Robert D. II (2018), The Dragon, the Mountain, and the Nations: An Old Testament
Myth, its Origins, and its Afterlives, University Park, PA: Eisenbrauns.
Mobley, Gregory (2006), Samson and the Liminal Hero in the Ancient Near East,
LHBOTS 453, New York: T&T Clark.
Moore, George F. (1895), A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on Judges, The
International Critical Commentary, New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons.
Otto, E. (2006), ‘ša’ar’, in H. Ringgren and H. Fabrey (eds), Theological Dictionary of the
Old Testament, vol. 15, 359–405, Grand Rapids: Eerdmans.
Palmer, Abram Smythe (1913), The Samson-saga and Its Place in Comparative Religion,
London: I. Pitman.
Rainey, Anson F. and R. Steven Notley (2006), The Sacred Bridge, Carta’s Atlas of the
Biblical World, Jerusalem: Carta.
Reade, Julian Edgeworth (2016), ‘The Gates of Nineveh’, State Archives of Assyria,
Bulletin, 22: 39–93.
Sasson, Jack M. (1990), Jonah: A New Translation with Introduction, Commentary and
Interpretations, The Anchor Bible 24b, Garden City: Doubleday.
 Sasson A Gate in Gaza 189

Sasson, Jack M. (2014), Judges 1–12: A New Translation, With Introduction and
Commentary, The Anchor Yale Bible, New Haven: Yale University Press.
Sasson, Jack M. (2017), From the Mari Archives: An Anthology of Old Babylonian Letters,
University Park, PA: Eisenbrauns (paperback reprint, with Additions and Corrections).
Torrance, R. M. (1978), The Comic Hero, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.
Wong, Gregory T. K. (2006), Compositional Strategy of the Book of Judges: An Inductive,
Rhetorical Study, Leiden: E. J. Brill.
 D eb ora h ’ s T op i cal S ong :
R e mar k s on t h e G at t u n g of J udge s 5

Bob Becking

When I first met Thomas L. Thompson in Dublin 1996, he stressed the

view that before even thinking about drawing historical conclusions from
a text, one should first and foremost try to understand the Genre of that
text. His argument ran as follows: the way in which a text is moulded into
its form is informative about the message a writer wanted to communicate
at the time of his/her writing. The story of the past is often so mutilated
by the fabrics of a specific Gattung that no historical conclusions can be
drawn (see Thompson 1999).

The Song of Deborah: A Few Remarks on Recent

(and not so Recent) Scholarship

The Song of Deborah is to be found in ch. 5 of the book of Judges. Judges

4 contains a narrative on the clash between the Canaanite king Jabin and
his army-commander Sisera on the one hand, and the Israelite Barak who
was summoned on divine command by the prophetess-judge Deborah
on the other. Barak leads the Israelites into victory, but the final blow is
delivered by the cruel act of Jael. She kills Sisera by driving a tent peg
into his temple.
Judges 5 describes the same theme in a hymnic form. In view of
its poetical form and the at times archaic type of Hebrew the Song of
Deborah has traditionally been construed as one of the oldest remaining
pieces of Hebrew literature (see, e.g., Wellhausen 1963: 218; Weiser
1959; Boling 1975: 105–20; de Moor 1993: 484; Cross and Freedman
1995; Schniedewind 2004: 52–6).1 This consensus, however, has been

1. This view is almost a consensus among scholars and is – in conservative circles

– construed as a hard scientific fact.
 Becking Deborah’s Topical Song 191

challenged along two lines of argumentation – which are often combined.

Firstly, the archaeological record from the Late Bronze/Early Iron Age
would not support an extensive presence of Israelites as is assumed by
the Song of Deborah. Secondly, the supposed archaic character of the
Hebrew in Judges 5 is more and more seen as a scholarly construct with
no hard evidence to support it. On the winds of change caused by the
breakdown of the traditional view on the emergence of the Pentateuch
and the Deuteronomistic History, the Song of Deborah was relocated in
time. Some scholars see the Song of Deborah as a product of the literary
activity during the early monarchy (Soggin 1981: 80–1; Lindars 1995:
213–15). Other scholars construe the Song of Deborah to have been
composed in the late monarchic period (e.g., Bechmann 1989: 198–213;
Görg 1993: 31; Baker 2017 [Assyrian period]). Frolov (2011) is of the
opinion – based on an analysis of the grammar, syntax, vocabulary,
intertextual links, outlook and agenda – that the Song of Deborah was
an integral part of Dtr and hence composed in or around the period of
the Babylonian exile. Diebner (1995) dates the composition as late as the
Roman period.
As a result of this later dating of the Song of Deborah, the traditional
view that the text would contain trustworthy historical information is
slowly fading away. It is interesting to note that in this debate on dating,
the element of the Gattung of the Song of Deborah only plays a marginal
role. The text is generally seen as a victory hymn or a heroic song (see the
standard commentaries and Blenkinsopp 1961; Hauser 1987: 268; Echols
2008).

The Concept of a Topical Song

In the realm of folk music, the Gattung of a topical song is well known
(see, e.g., Donaldson 2014; Peddie 2017). A topical song is a hymn that
focuses on what for the composer is a recent and important event. A
topical song could be seen as a newspaper in hymnic form. In pre-literate
societies the communicative aim of a topical song was twofold: to inform
and to convince. Like a newspaper message, such a song informed hearers
about what had happened. A choice of facts communicated the fabric of
the event as it was seen by the composer. At the same time, a topical song
is never without an evaluation. The lyrics also communicated a view on
the event and had as their purpose to convince the audience of that specific
view on reality. In other words, like a newspaper message, a topical song
is never without ideology.
192 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

Bethwel Allan Ogot, a historian from Kenya, used oral sources,

among them traditional topical songs, for the writing of the history of
his country. These traditional songs contained elements that were often
silenced by the official – read British – sources (for instance: Ogot 2009).
Many more examples could be given. The Genre survived the threshold
of literacy and continued, especially in folk music and similar styles.
Famous examples are Tom Waits’s ‘Road to Peace’, Peter Gabriel’s
‘Biko’ and Bob Dylan’s ‘The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll’ (see
Dylan 2004: 275–87).
Although topical songs generally refer to recent events, they sometimes
persist long after the event narrated. In that case a topical song is part
of the cultural memory of a community referring to a shared historical
memory. A case in point is the hymn ‘Jerusalem’, the lyrics of which
were written by William Blake. They were partly based on the legend that
Joseph of Arimathea accompanied Jesus to Glastonbury, and also inspired
by the atrocities of the ‘dark satanic mills’ of the Industrial Revolution.
During WWI, Hubert Perry set the text to music, turning it into a song of
consolation for those in the trenches and those at home (see Ferber 2000;
Whittaker forthcoming). This example is also an indication that topical
songs can meaningfully be transferred to new contexts.
In my opinion, the Hebrew Bible contains a variety of topical songs,
that is, hymns that are the written sediments of a cultural memory that
earlier on would have been transmitted in oral form. Elsewhere, I have
argued that Psalm 137 can be characterized as such (Becking 2012). In
this contribution, I would like to propose that the Song of Deborah too can
be construed as such a hymn.

Deborah’s Topical Song

The Song of Deborah contains narrative and commentary that are inter-
woven. As in a topical song, the news is transmitted together with a view
on the event. The ‘facts’2 that the song communicates are partly of a very
general but mostly of a very specific nature.

2. I put ‘facts’ in inverted commas here, indicating that the propositions mentioned
are pieces of information than could or could not be historically trustworthy. Further
on, when using the word fact, I omit the commas for convenience, but they are always
implied. In view of the limited space, I will only sparsely refer to the secondary
literature, but the reader could consult the standard commentaries as well as Echols
(2008).
 Becking Deborah’s Topical Song 193

Facts as Information
The first piece of information is given in vv. 6-8. In poetic language the
dreadful situation in the era of Shamgar and Jael is depicted. Traveling
through the land was dangerous. The traditional trade routes were no
longer safe. The idea is evoked that travellers would fall in the hands of
bandits and robbers. Those who had to make a journey are advised to take
‫ארחות עקלקלות‬, ‘winding by-routes’.3 The despair is deepened by the
remarks on the depopulation of the countryside. The words of vv. 6-7a can
be read as an implied hymnic variant to one of the refrains in the book of
Judges: ‘there was no ruler in the land’. The other refrain ‘everybody did
what was right in his eyes’, is referred to in v. 8. The continuous theme in
the book of Judges of the betrayal of the relationship with YHWH is here
formulated in the way that the veneration of ‘other deities’ was the cause
of the presence of the enemy at the gates of Israel, which had a sizeable
but poorly equipped army.
In the midst of all this misery, Deborah stood up (‫)קום‬, not as a warrior
but as an ‫אם בישראל‬, ‘mother in Israel’ (see, e.g., Exum 1985; Lindars
1995: 239). She comes to the scene in an encompassing role, looking for
the best for her children, which will turn out to be liberation from the
Canaanite suppressor.
A further group of facts is narrated in vv. 11b-18. In lyrical language the
Israelite army marching to battles is depicted. The section is moulded by
internal contrasts. It is composed around a list of the ten Northern tribes.
Some of them participated in the battle and can be qualified as righteous
Israelites: Ephraim, Machir, Zebulon, Benjamin and Naphtali. Some other
tribes did not join the league, but continued about their business and gave
no sign of solidarity: Gilead did not cross the Jordan, Dan is mockingly
asked why it remained with its ships4 and Aser remained at the shores
of the sea. These lines are written with restrained indignation. A middle
position is taken by Ruben. This tribe is accused of entering into some sort
of Polish sejm: endlessly deliberating without coming to a decision and
hence not showing up at the crucial moment. The image is communicated
of a lack of solidarity between the various tribes.

3. Note that in Isa. 27:2, the Leviathan is presented as a ‘winding (‫)עקלתון‬

serpent’, which gives the impression that the ‘secondary routes’ of Judges 5 were
monstrously dangerous.
4. Within the narrative of the book of Judges, the tribe of Dan is still living on the
coast before the migration to the North as narrated in Judges 17–18. I will not dwell on
a discussion of the historicity of this migration; I only note that the narrator’s view on
the Danites is consistent. On the Danites see Niemann 1985; Guillaume 2004: 129–42.
194 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

A third set of facts informs about the enemy, the kings and rulers of
Canaan who battled near Taanakh and Megiddo. Despite their powers,
they were unable to gain victory. In almost mythic language, their down-
fall is depicted. In mentioning the forces of nature as devastating powers
to the Canaanites, the narrative becomes entwined with the author’s
commentary.
Intriguing is the section in which the inhabitants of Meroz are cursed
for not having participated in the battle (see Brettler 2002: 72). ‫מרוז‬,
‘Meroz’, was situated on the northern slopes of the valley of Jezreel. The
inhabitants of this place were probably a community originating from the
vicinity of Barak’s home in Kedes and would in all likelihood have been
expected to help Barak in the fight against Sisera, which would explain
the mention of this relatively unimportant village. According to Brettler,
the curse on them later became the ‘model example of a curse’ (Brettler
2002: 72).
Very detailed is the information on Jael’s killing of Sisera. In Judges 4
the scene is described in almost matter-of-fact clauses (Judg. 4:21). This
short report is extended into three lines of poetry in the Song of Deborah
(Judg. 5:26-27).
The hymn shows a delight in details. This graphic presentation of the
death of Sisera provokes – in my view – a much stronger image in the
mind of the audience. This section in the biblical hymn communicates
a subtle ambivalence between inhuman cruelty and laudable female
heroism. The reader must be aware of the fact that while praising Jael
for her act, an act of violence is sanctioned that otherwise would have
been disapproved of (see Niditch 1995). This delicate balance gave rise
to an ever-continuing series of illustrations and paintings of the scene.
In the famous painting by Artemisia Gentileschi (1593–1656), Jael is
represented as a very attractive woman even in the act of killing, thus
echoing the biblical ambiguity in a slightly different way (see the essays
in Bal 2006).
A final piece of information is given in vv. 28-30 (on this section see
Baker 2017). This section contains a description from the point of view of
Sisera’s mother. It is full of ambiguity. At first sight, Sisera’s mother and
her wise female advisor are introduced as if the author is willing to look
at the whole scene from the perspective of the other party. The questions
they ask are full of hope. Sisera’s mother is waiting at the window eager
to hear the rattling of her son’s chariot. The delay to the hoped-for return
is explained by her advisor, who assumes that dividing the spoil might
take more time than expected. The hymn ends in a cynical description –
with sexual overtones – of the beauty of Sisera’s spoil. His mother’s
 Becking Deborah’s Topical Song 195

questions remain unanswered. At this point the Song of Deborah is open-

ended. The fact that the audience is well aware of the outcome of the
battle makes this scene bitter, giving it an element of mocking.

Moulded in Ideology
The commentary on the battle in the Song of Deborah is clear and straight-
forward. The author wants to convince the audience of the view that it had
been YHWH who had given Israel the victory. Although human obedience
and craftiness were of importance, it was the deity whose presence was
decisive. It is YHWH who should be praised and honored. This commen-
tary comes to the fore at various instances and often in mythic language.
Verses 4-5 contain the language of theophany. Theophany is an ancient
Near Eastern literary pattern to describe the appearance of the deity
on the stage of history. This coming – mostly from a remote place – is
accompanied with dramatic events in the realm of nature, underscoring
the power of the deity and his/her firm determination to set things straight.
In ancient Near Eastern texts, the deity appears to bring justice and right-
eousness, sometimes in the form of doom and sometimes as liberation
from oppressing forces (e.g., Jeremias 1977).
The theophany in the Song of Deborah is reified in the victory of
YHWH over the oppressing forces. This theme is always part of a
summons to praise (Judg. 5:9-11). Next to that the divine victory is the
basis for an argumentum ad deum (see Sanders 2007), a ground for a
prayer to God to act again in the same way in moments of despair and
destruction for Israel. Judges 5:31 reads:

So may all your enemies perish, YHWH!

But may all who love you be like the sun when it rises in its strength.

This double message summarizes Deborah’s topical song. In later crises,

its recognition of trouble and hope for liberation was grounds for its
preservation over time.

The Ongoing Enigma of Date and Historicity

I do not dare to date the composition of Judges 5. An evaluation of the

historical claims made in the narrative part of the song commands a study
on its own in which the evidence is debated within a discourse that is
drenched in historical methodology. I can only assume that Deborah’s
topical song was a source of consolation during troubled times in ancient
Israel.
196 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

Bibliography
Baker, R. (2017), ‘A Mother’s Refrain: Judges 5:28-30 in Cultural Context’, VT, 67:
505–18.
Bal, M., ed. (2006) The Artemisia Files: Artemisia Gentileschi for Feminists and Other
Thinking People, Chicago: University of Chicago Press.
Bechmann, U. (1989), Das Deboralied zwischen Geschichte und Fiktion. Eine exegetische
Untersuchung zu Richter 5, Dissertationen: Theologische Reihe 33, St. Ottilien: EOS.
Becking, B. (2012), ‘Memory and Forgetting in and on the Exile: Remarks on Psalm 137’,
in E. Ben Zvi and C. Levin (eds), Memory and Forgetting in Early Second Temple
Judah, 279–99, FAT 85, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck.
Blenkinsopp, J. (1961), ‘Ballad Style and Psalm Style in the Song of Deborah: A
Discussion’, Bib, 42: 61–76.
Boling, R. G. (1975), Judges, Anchor Bible 6A, Garden City, NY: Doubleday.
Brettler, M. Z. (2002), The Book of Judges, OTR, London: Routledge.
Cross, F. M. and D. N. Freedman (1995), Studies in Ancient Yahwistic Poetry, Biblical
Resource Series, Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans.
de Moor, J. C. (1993), ‘The Twelve Tribes in the Song of Deborah’, VT, 42: 483–94.
Diebner, B.-J. (1995), ‘Wann sang Deborah ihr Lied? Überlegungen zu zwei der ältesten
Texte des TNK (Ri 4 und 5)’, Amsterdamse Cahiers voor Exegese en Bijbelse
Theologie 14: 106–30.
Donaldson, R. C. (2014), ‘I Hear America Singing’: Folk Music and National Identity,
Philadelphia: Temple University Press.
Dylan, B. (2004), Chronicles. Vol. 1, New York: Simon & Schuster.
Echols, C. F. (2008), Tell Me, O Muse: The Song of Deborah (Judges 5) in the Light of
Heroic Poetry, LHBOTS 487, London: T&T Clark.
Exum, J. C. (1985), ‘ “Mother in Israel”: A Familiar Figure Reconsidered’, in L. M.
Russell (ed.), Women in the Bible: Feminist Interpretation of the Bible, 73–85, Oxford:
Blackwell.
Ferber, M. (2000), ‘Blake’s “Jerusalem” as a Hymn’, Blake: An Illustrated Quarterly, 34:
82–94.
Frolov, S. (2011), ‘How Old is the Song of Deborah?’, JSOT, 36: 163–84.
Görg, M. (1993), Richter, NEB. Würzburg: Echter Verlag.
Guillaume, P. (2004), Waiting for Josiah: The Judges, JSOTSup 385, London: T&T Clark.
Hauser, A. J. (1987), ‘Two Songs of Victory: A Comparison of Exodus 15 and Judges
5’, in E. R. Follis (ed.), Directions in Biblical Hebrew Poetry, 265–81, JSOTSup 40,
Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press.
Jeremias, J. (1977), Theophanie: Die Geschichte einer alttestamentlichen Gattung,
WMANT 10, Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag.
Lindars, B. (1995), Judges 1–5: A New Translation and Commentary, Edinburgh: T. & T.
Clark.
Niditch, S. (1995), War in the Hebrew Bible: A Study in the Ethics of Violence, Oxford:
Oxford University Press.
Niemann, H. M. (1985), Die Daniten: Studien zur Geschichte eines altisraelitischen
Stammes, FRLANT 135, Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht.
Ogot, B. A. (2009) A History of the Luo-Speaking Peoples of East Africa, Kisumu:
Anyange Press.
Peddie I., ed. (2017), The Resisting Muse: Popular Music and Social Protest, London:
Routledge.
 Becking Deborah’s Topical Song 197

Sanders, P. (2007), ‘Argumenta ad Deum in the Plague Prayers of Mursili II and in the
Book of Psalms’, in B. Becking and E. Peels (eds), Psalms and Prayers: Papers Read
at the Joint Meeting of SOTS and OTW, 181–217, OTS 55, Leiden: E. J. Brill.
Schniedewind, W. M. (2004), How the Bible Became a Book: The Textualization of
Ancient Israel, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Soggin, J. A. (1981), Judges, OTL, London: SCM Press.
Thompson, T. L. (1999), The Bible in History: How Writers Create a Past, London:
Jonathan Cape.
Weiser, A. (1959), ‘Das Deboralied. Eine gattungs- und traditionsgeschichtliche Studie’,
ZAW, 71: 67–97.
Wellhausen, J. (1963), Die Composition des Hexateuchs und der historischen Bücher des
Alten Testaments, Berlin: de Gruyter.
Whittaker, J. (forthcoming), ‘Blake and the New Jerusalem: A Very English Form of
Modernism’, in Visual Culture in Britain.
 H ow J er us a l em ’ s T em p l e W as A li gne d
to M os es ’ T a b er nacle :
A b out t h e H i s tor i c al P owe r
of a n I n ven t ed M y t h

Rainer Albertz

Thomas Thompson, whom I warmly congratulate on the occasion of his

80th birthday, is a pioneer in questioning more or less weak historical
reconstructions done by Old Testament scholars, reconstructions that were
mainly based on biblical texts and only sometimes supported by a few
arbitrarily selected extra-biblical data. I still remember how his Tübinger
Dissertation on the historicity of the patriarchal narratives (Thompson
1974) struck like a bomb in Heidelberg during the preparation stage
of the second volume of Westermann’s commentary on Genesis. Claus
Westermann – after Wellhausen’s influential scepticism – had always been
inclined to follow the reconstructions of a ‘Patriarchal Period’ put forward
by William Foxwell Albright and several other American scholars on the
basis of comparison with terms and customs in the Mari and Nuzi texts
from the second millennium BCE. He now, however, felt compelled by
the strong arguments of Thomas Thompson and others,1 who referred to
similar customs in much later texts of the first millennium, thus declaring
the dating of the ‘Patriarchal Period’ an open question (see Westermann
1981: 52–5, 73–90; the more detailed discussion in Westermann 1975:
69–93, in which I was involved as his assistant), although he did not give
up the concept completely. In my book, A History of Israelite Religion,
I myself felt obliged to define the religion shown by the patriarchal
narratives ‘not as a preliminary stage but as a substratum of Yahweh
religion’ (Albertz 1994: 1:29). Thus, Thomas Thompson belongs to the
few scholars in our field whose dissertation already had a considerable
influence on Old Testament research.

1. Besides Thompson, Westermann was also impressed by Van Seters (1975).

 Albertz Jerusalem’s Temple and Moses’ Tabernacle 199

Later on Thompson extended and radicalized his historical scepticism

with regard to the Hebrew Bible. According to him, all the texts from
Genesis to 2 Kings constitute a ‘mythic past’ composed by redactors
of the Persian and Hellenistic periods from many traditions (Thompson
1999). They show no historiographical interest, but are intended to
construct a Judean or Samarian identity and to enfold a theological and
philosophical worldview (Thompson 1992: 353–423). I think Thompson
is right as far as those biblical texts are not historiographical in the
modern sense (similar Blum 2015: 31–54), but I think that their relation
to a possible historical background can be very different and that – read
against the grain – some historical and sociological information can be
detected from many of them. We had detailed discussions about these
questions over the years when participating in the ‘European Seminar
on Methodology in Israel’s History’ led by Lester L. Grabbe. In order to
continue those discussions I would like to present to Thomas Thompson
a little case study, which shows that a clearly unhistorical passage of the
‘mythic past’ became nevertheless historically powerful, shaping not only
the literary history of other texts but also changing the historical reality
of some details: I refer to the priestly tabernacle texts of Exodus 25–31;
35–40. I hope this study will be to his enjoyment.

1. The Priestly Tabernacle Texts – An Invented Myth

Up to the eighteenth century, the priestly tabernacle texts were regarded

as historical, serving as a model for Solomon’s temple in Jerusalem. In
the nineteenth century, however, serious doubt was cast on their histo-
ricity.2 According to Wilhelm Martin Leberecht de Wette, it is highly
improbable that the liberated Israelite slaves would have possessed
such large quantities of precious metals, luxurious textiles and exotic
perfumes, which these texts deemed to be necessary for construction of
the tabernacle (Exod. 25:1-7; 30:22-38; 35:5-35), let alone the significant
technical skills needed for it (de Wette 1806/7 [1971]: 1:259; 2:265–70).3
The expensive purple wool must have been imported from Phoenicia,
pure gold from south Arabia or east Africa and cinnamon from Ceylon or
the Moluccas, none of which would have been attainable for the Israelites
in the desert without any state-run trade. Moreover, the wooden planks,
beams and pillars alone needed for the substructure of the tent would have

2. For a history of research see Houtman (1993–2002: 3:325–35).

3. He called the reports about Moses’ tabernacle a ‘holy fairy tale’ (de Wette
1806/7 [1971]: 1:259) belonging to the ‘realm of myth’ (2:269).
200 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

been too heavy to be carried through the mountainous wilderness (26:15-

37). Depending on their thickness, the 56 Acacia wood planks alone
would have weighed between 12.3 and 72.8 tons, far too much for those
four wagons with eight oxen from Num. 7:8 to be able to move.4 You
would need two or three lorries! Thus, Julius Wellhausen, after having
ascribed the tabernacle text to the early post-exilic P source, rightly
understood Moses’ tabernacle not as an early prototype, but as a late copy
or a back projection of Solomon’s temple (see Wellhausen 1927 [2001]:
36–7). Considering the conceptual and material differences between the
two, however, it would perhaps be better to speak of an ideal counter
model to the pre-exilic Jerusalem temple now fallen into ruins, which was
implanted into the foundation history of Israel.5 Thus, Moses’ tabernacle
is clearly an element of the mythic past in Thompson’s terms, but it was
nevertheless conceptualized to exert some influence on the future.

2. The Reports on Solomon’s Temple –

Secondarily Connected to the Tabernacle

The reports on the building and inauguration of Solomon’s temple in

1 Kings 6–8 are literarily disputed and in some respects difficult to
understand. They cannot be discussed here in detail. However, whatever
the date of their original composition,6 this must have been earlier than
the tabernacle texts in the book of Exodus, because in spite of some
similarities concerning the structure (holy and holy of the holies) and
several furnishings (ark, incense altar, table), the described Jerusalem
temple shows important differences to Moses’ tabernacle: it possesses
a huge cherub throne for the deity in the holy of the holies (1 Kgs
6:23-28) instead of two small cherubs installed on the top of the ark,
called kapporet (Exod. 25:17-22). Its inner rooms are enclosed by walls
with wooden doors (1 Kgs 6:31-35), while the tabernacle uses an inner
(pāroket) and an outer curtain (māsāk) for the same purpose (Exod. 26:31-
37).7 Its holy main room is illuminated by ten lamp stands (1 Kgs 7:49),
while the tabernacle has one big lamp stand with seven arms (mĕnôrah)

4. See for this calculation Albertz (2012/15: 2:176–7). The thickness of the planks
is not indicated, but one cubit seems to be assumed. Josephus reckons with four
fingers (Ant. 3.116, 119).
5. For such an appraisal see Albertz (2012/15: 2:24, 142–85).
6. The proposed dates vary between the time of Solomon, such as Noth (1968:
106), and the period of exile, such as van Seters (1997: 56–7).
7. There is no reason for the supposition that the word pāroket in 1 Kgs 6:21
should be added, pace Rudolph (1955: 204–5) and others.
 Albertz Jerusalem’s Temple and Moses’ Tabernacle 201

instead (Exod. 25:31-39). Apart from the outer altar,8 Solomon’s temple
has many more bronze objects in the courtyard, not just one water basin
like the tabernacle (Exod. 30:17-21), but a decorated sea of cast metal
(1 Kgs 7:23-26) and ten ornamented trolleys of bronze (vv. 27-39), which
are later partly deconstructed (2 Kgs 16:17).
Although Solomon’s temple and Moses’ tabernacle differ in so many
respects, some later priestly scribes seemed to be obliged to bring them
closer together literarily. They introduced into 1 Kings 8 that somewhat
strange idea that not only the ark, on which the Dtr inauguration report
was focussed (vv. 1, 3-4, 5-9), but also the tabernacle, the tent of
meeting and all its holy devices, were brought up into Solomon’s temple.
Verse 4aα2βb, however, is clearly secondarily intruded.9 The practical
difficulties – where to appropriately store all these planks, beams, stands
and rolls of textiles from the tabernacle in the rooms of Solomon’s temple
without disrupting its own service – remain unsolved.10 It is not just by
chance that the tabernacle is never mentioned again in the book of Kings.
Those priestly scribes, however, inserted some other additions in order
to bring the inauguration of Solomon’s temple in contact with the mythic
past told in the Pentateuch: interpreting the term ‘elders of Israel’ in
v. 1 they record the fact that ‘all the heads of tribes and the chiefs of the
families of the Israelites’ were present at the inauguration of the temple,
a description similar to that used for the tabernacle’s inauguration (Num.
7:2).11 For similar reasons they changed the term ‘all Israel’ (‫)כל־יׂשראל‬
in 1 Kgs 8:5, often used in the DtrH (cf. 4:1, 7; 5:27; 8:62, 65), to ‘the
whole congregation of Israel’ (‫ )כל־עדת יׂשראל‬in order to be reminiscent
of the people of the foundation period in its priestly perspective (cf. Exod.
12:3, 47; Lev. 4:13). Therefore, it is highly probable that the additional

8. The outer bronze altar is missing in the building report for reasons unknown;
nevertheless, it is presupposed in 1 Kgs 8:64; cf. 2 Kgs 16:14, 15.
9. In 1 Kgs 8:3 only the priests are regarded as carriers of the ark, while in v. 4b
the Levites are mentioned next to the priests as carriers of all the holy equipment,
because the former were commissioned to do so in Num 4. Without the intrusion in
v. 4* (from ‘and the tent of meeting’ onwards) the plot becomes clear: gathered by the
king, the elders of Israel came, and the priests picked up the ark (v. 3) and brought up
the ark together (beginning of v. 4), while Solomon and the assembled people offered
sacrifices in front of it (v. 5).
10. Although Friedman (1980: 241–8) tried hard to find a technical solution,
Hurowitz (1995) made a compelling case for rejecting it.
11. The terminology used in 1 Kgs 8:1 does not exactly agree with the typical
priestly terms of the Pentateuch; the closest parallels can be found in its late priestly
layers (Num. 30:2; 36:1).
202 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

dating of Solomon’s temple building from 1 Kgs 6:1* in the 480th year
after the exodus of the Israelites from Egypt does not come from the
Deuteronomistic historian as often thought (see, e.g., Noth 1968: 110;
Fritz 1996: 68–9), but from the same late priestly scribes, who intend to
connect the Jerusalem temple with the mythic past of the Pentateuch.12
To this past belongs a short theophany event, where YHWH entered the
erected tabernacle in the form of a cloud and filled it with his glory (Exod.
40:34-35). Thus the late priestly scribes included a similar event in their
revision of the inauguration report a (1 Kgs 8:10-11), doubling the divine
promises for Solomon’s temple of 9:1-3 already given in the DtrH:13 after
the priests had left the temple, it was filled by a cloud and divine glory
so that they could not carry out their service. Thus Solomon’s temple
received the same visible confirmation of God’s presence as had been
given to Moses’ tabernacle.14
What is the reason for this rather strange combination and paral-
lelization of two sanctuary passages of the Hebrew Bible? What is the
force behind it? It has nothing to do with a mutual adaptation. Only the
tabernacle texts from the Pentateuch show an impact on the report on
Solomon’s temple building, not vice versa. Although invented they seem
to have become powerful, probably a result of the authorization and
implementation of the Pentateuch in the early fourth century BCE. Moses’
tabernacle, as one of the most important institutions of Israel’s foundation
period, became so authoritative that some late Jerusalem priests felt
compelled to connect their temple to it in some way. The relation to
Moses, which the Dtr historian had already established via the Decalogue
tablets of the ark (1 Kgs 8:9; Deut. 10:1-5), was no longer sufficient for
them to defend the legitimacy and reputation of the Jerusalem temple.15

12. The dating follows stylistically exactly those priestly dating formulas of the
books of Exodus and Numbers, cf. Exod. 19:1; Num. 33:38, cf. Exod. 16:1; Num.
1:1; 9:1. Thus, Achenbach (2007: 252) has appropriately assigned it to his theocratic
editions.
13. To create a frame together with 1 Kgs 9:1-3 a divine promise was inserted in
6:11-13 by an editor, who uses Dtr language, but who refers to the priestly topic that
YHWH will dwell among the Israelites (cf. Exod. 25:8; 29:45-46). The passage is
still missing in Chronicles and LXX, but presupposed by Josephus (Ant. 8.125–26).
Thus, it must be very late.
14. Since the shorter report of the LXX in 3 Kgdms 8:1–11 presupposes the main
late priestly additions in vv. 4, 10-11, it cannot represent an older text tradition as
sometimes thought; for details see Van der Keulen (2005: 151–63).
15. A similar late priestly alignment to the canonized Pentateuch can be found in
the book of Joshua; see Albertz (2007). It also mentions the tent of meeting in Josh.
 Albertz Jerusalem’s Temple and Moses’ Tabernacle 203

3. The Jerusalem Temple in Chronicles –

as a Right Follower of the Tabernacle

The authors of the books of Chronicles already presuppose the late priestly
revisions in the books of Kings (cf. 2 Chron. 5:2, 5, 11-14),16 but they were
dissatisfied with them: How could the tabernacle be brought convincingly
into the Jerusalem temple, if it had never been mentioned and honoured
before?17 Thus, in their new work the Chroniclers first constructed an
unbroken historical continuity between Moses’ tabernacle and Solomon’s
temple. From its beginning onwards they made clear that there was a
regular cult at the tabernacle on the high place of Gibeon – besides a
smaller cult at David’s tent for the ark in Jerusalem (1 Chron. 16:1-38;
2 Chron. 1:4) – before Solomon built the temple (1 Chron. 6:17; 16:39-41;
21:29; 2 Chron. 1:3–6). Thus, it became logical that Moses’ tabernacle
was integrated into this temple together with the ark (5:5). Secondly, the
Chroniclers adjusted the preparations for the temple building to those of
the tabernacle: the inspired David presented a model (tabnît) of the temple
to his son (1 Chron. 28:11) as God had shown it to Moses for the taber-
nacle (Exod. 25:9, 40). The temple was no longer financed only by the
state as in 1 Kings 5–7 (cf. 1 Chron. 29:2), but also by private donations
from David (29:3-5a) and the representatives of the people (vv. 6-9).
Typical for the tabernacle texts is the call for donations (Exod. 25:2-8;
35:4-19) enthusiastically followed by all the people (35:20–36:7). Such
a call is imitated in 1 Chron. 29:5b. Thus, the Chroniclers’ account of
1 Chronicles 29 looks like an adjustment to the wilderness scenario under
the conditions of statehood.

18:1; 19:51, erected in Shilo. Since this Joshua revision is more interested in the High
Priest Eleazar as guarantor of a just land distribution than in the tabernacle and differs
from the terminology of the people’s leaders used in 1 Kgs 8:1 (see Josh. 14:1; 19:51;
21:1; cf. Num. 32:28), it does not seem to come from the same authors as the late
priestly revision of 1 Kings 6–8. In any case, the different late priestly groups did not
intend the edition of an Enneateuch; likewise Achenbach (2007: 253), although he did
not distinguish between them.
16. Only the reference to the exodus in 1 Kgs 6:1 is missing in 2 Chron. 3:2,
because the Chroniclers generally neglected this date of Israel’s foundation myth
in order to emphasize the crucial importance of the David and Solomon period; see
Kegler (1989). Instead, they refer in 2 Chron. 3:1 to another element of Israel’s mythic
past: Abrahams offering at Moriah in Gen. 22:2.
17. In the priestly revised DtrH the tabernacle is forgotten after Josh. 19:51. The
mention of it in 1 Sam. 2:22bβ is still missing in the LXX and 4QSama and seems to
be a very late addition.
204 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

The authors of the books of Chronicles surpassed their priestly

forerunners in adjusting thirdly Solomon’s temple to the tabernacle even
in terminological and architectural concerns. Thus, in 1 Chron. 28:11 they
called the holiest inner part of the temple the ‘shrine of expiation’ (bêt
hak-kapporet), using the technical term from Exod. 25:17-22, as if the
cult symbol for divine presence and expiating power conceptualized here
and in Lev. 16:2 had really been present there.18 Moreover, they intro-
duced an inner curtain into Solomon’s temple (2 Chron. 3:14) to separate
the holy of the holiest from the holy main room. Not only did they use
the same term pāroket for this, as in the tabernacle text (Exod. 26:31,
33, 35), but they also described it as having been made from identical
luxurious materials. In preparation for this innovation they broadened
the skills of the craftsman Hiram from Tyre – called Huram-Abi here – a
famous expert of bronze work in 1 Kgs 7:13-47, to all kinds of handi-
craft, including working with precious textile materials (2 Chron. 2:6,
13), thus putting him on a par with Bezalel, the leading craftsman and
artist of the tabernacle (Exod. 31:1-5; 35:30-33; cf. 2 Chron. 1:5). We
are not sure whether in the time of Chroniclers during the last half of the
fourth or the early third century BCE the Jerusalem temple was actually
provided with an inner curtain19 as evidenced in later times.20 But taking
into consideration that the authors explicitly mention doors between the
two inner rooms (4:22b), where 1 Kgs 7:50 only speaks of door-hinges,
the idea of an additional curtain inspired by the example of the tabernacle
would seem to be rather a new architectural concept to be realized later.
Finally the Chroniclers further extended the inauguration of the temple
in accordance with the tabernacle scenario, when they described not only
how the completed temple was accepted by God (2 Chron. 5:11-14; cf.
1 Kgs 8:10-11), but also how the first prayers and offerings were answered
by him through a further theophany (2 Chron. 7:1-3): the offerings were
consumed by a heavenly fire as in Lev. 9:24a and the temple was so
impressively filled with God’s glory (cf. v. 23) that all people fell down
and praised YHWH (cf. v. 24b).
Thus, the authors of the books of Chronicles invested a lot of energy
not only in relating but to almost identifying the Jerusalem temple with
the sanctuary of Israel’s famous mythic past. In order to bring the two
together as closely as possible, they added to the former specific items

18. In their description of the holy of the holiest (2 Chron. 3:8-13), however,
the Chroniclers did not follow the concept of Exod. 25:17-22 but that of the Vorlage
1 Kgs 6:23-28.
19. This was supposed by Rudolph (1955: 204–5) and Japhet (2003: 53).
20. Cf. 1 Macc. 4:51; Josephus, B.J. 5.219; Heb. 6:19; 9:3; 10:20.
 Albertz Jerusalem’s Temple and Moses’ Tabernacle 205

from the latter, such as the inner curtain, or largely removed from the
former what was missing from the latter, such as the bronze trolleys
(2 Chron. 4:6, 14). Even in those cases where the number of devices
differs, such as the ten lamp stands in Solomon’s temple (4:7), the
Chroniclers assured that they would accord to the law (vv. 7, 20). There
can be no doubt that, for the Chroniclers, the tabernacle texts of the
Pentateuch constituted the decisive norm to which they felt obliged
to align their report of the foundation and inauguration of Jerusalem’s
temple. But why were they so eager? An answer may be given by
2 Chron. 29:6, where the Chroniclers once more took up one of the two
old terms for the tabernacle, miškān, to denote the temple of Jerusalem
just at the time, when King Hezekiah reopened it and invited all Israel,
including the population of the former Northern Kingdom, to participate
in the cult of Jerusalem. Thus, in aligning Jerusalem’s temple as closely
as possible with Moses’ tabernacle, the Chroniclers intended to bestow
upon their sanctuary the highest degree of legitimacy and authority in the
eyes of the Samarians. We know that the Samarians had also accepted
the Pentateuch as their Holy Scripture; and if we trust a much later note
from Josephus (Ant. 18.85), the Samarians likewise legitimated their
own sanctuary on Mount Gerizim by referring to vessels from Moses’
tabernacle that were buried next to it. Thus, there were competing claims
to the mythic past making this even more powerful. Therefore, the
Chroniclers worked hard to prove that their temple in Jerusalem was the
rightful successor to the normative tabernacle of Moses, that is, the only
legitimate sanctuary of YHWH.

4. The Appearance of Jerusalem Temples –

Changed by the Tabernacle

As time passed the tabernacle texts of the Pentateuch not only influenced
increasingly other literary concepts of the Jerusalem temple, but also
changed the real appearance of later temple buildings in Jerusalem.
The most impressive change was the installation of a coloured outer
curtain at the entrance to the sanctuary. The tabernacle texts envision
such a curtain (māsāk) at the entrance to the main holy room, made
‘from finely woven linen, embroidered with violet, purple, and scarlet’
and hung on five columns (Exod. 26:36-37). It is less artistic than the
inner curtain (pāroket) dividing the main room from the holy of the
holies (vv. 31-35), but still provides the tabernacle with an impressive
appearance in spite of its mobile construction. An even more impressive
outer curtain of tremendous size (55 times 16 cubits) is certainly testified
206 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

for the Herodian temple of Jerusalem, installed within the vestibule

before the golden doors of the main hall. Josephus describes it as ‘a
Babylonian curtain, embroidered with blue, and fine linen, and scarlet,
and purple, and of a texture that was truly wonderful’ (B.J. 5.211-112),
which is clearly reminiscent of the tabernacle texts. Josephus describes
such an installation of wooden doors covered by a curtain already
existing at Solomon’s temple (Ant. 8.75), but this seems to be clearly
an anachronism; according to its oldest description Solomon’s building
only had decorated wooden doors and no curtains at all (1 Kgs 6:31-35).
Even in the Chronistic description an outer curtain is still missing. The
references that the entrance of the Second Temple was covered with a
curtain come from the second century BCE (Sir. 50:5;21 1 Macc. 1:22;
4:51; Ant. 12.318) and later (Let. Arist. § 85; Ant. 14.107) (cf. Légasse
1980). A possible hint that an outer curtain for the temple obtained more
importance already during the second half of the third century BCE may
be given by the Septuagint. While their translators generally use the term
καταπέτασμα for both curtains22 of the tabernacle (Exod. 26:31, 33-35,
37 etc.),23 they speak once of an ἐπίσπαστρον, where the outer curtain is
introduced (v. 36). This term, used in one of the Greek inscriptions from
Delos, denotes ‘ “un article comprenant un système à cordon de tirage”,
du type qui ornait l’entrée des sanctuaires grecs’ (see Légasse 1980: 571).
Thus, the Greek translators – by interpreting the normative tabernacle
texts – seem to intend the authorization of a bigger curtain installation
for their contemporary temple.24

21. Since the High Priest Simon becomes visible to the congregation, the curtain
of the temple, by which he leaves, can only be the outer one, although the Hebrew
text uses the expression bêt hap-pāroket ‘house of the curtain’, the term for the inner
one. The Hebrew expression shows that curtains are regarded as distinct features of
the Jerusalem temple at the beginning of the second century BCE.
22. The term means verbatim ‘a piece of hanging material serving to conceal what
is behind it’.
23. The Vaticanus even mentions a καταπέτασμα of the inner temple court in 3
Kgdms 6:36a, while Exod. 27:16 uses the term κάλυμμα for this type of curtain. The
text, however, seems to be defective; see Van der Keulen 2005: 134–5.
24. This is one of the few examples where a Pentateuchal sanctuary text is
changed to suit contemporary interests. Another example is the description of the
tabernacle by Josephus, where he adds a fine linen veil to be drawn over the entrance
in order to protect the outer curtain from bad weather. From this Josephus even
deduces a later custom for the period after the temple was built (Ant. 3.128-129), but
as far as I see he never came back to this topic.
 Albertz Jerusalem’s Temple and Moses’ Tabernacle 207

References to the inner curtain are fewer, probably because this one
could not be seen from outside. Josephus already presupposed it inside
the Solomonic temple, where it separated – along with a wooden door –
the most holy chamber from the rest (Ant. 8.71–72). This is, however, a
back projection. After being conceptually introduced by the Chroniclers
as an innovation (2 Chron. 3:14), the inner curtain also seems to have been
installed in the Second Temple during the second century BCE (1 Macc.
4:51; Ant. 12.318; cf. 14.107). The best piece of evidence comes from the
Herodian temple, where Josephus no longer mentions any wooden wall
or doors next to it (B.J. 5.219).25 This indicated that an important relic of
Solomonic architecture was completely removed in favour of the textile
structure of the tabernacle. Thus, it took 300–500 years for an invented
text, which had become part of the mythic past, to obtain so much power
that it even changed parts of the existing reality.

5. Concluding Remarks

This short case study has shown that literary passages of the Hebrew
Bible, which are evidently unhistorical, can develop an astonishing power
that shapes not only the further literary history of other biblical passages
but also elements of the historical reality. The priestly tabernacle texts
from the book of Exodus are a good example of this. The dynamic power
has to do with the decision made in the Judean and Samarian communities
of the fourth century BCE to accept a bigger part of their literary tradition,
the tôrat Mošeh, as authoritative. By doing so, they did not only concede
that the concepts and rules of the Pentateuch should have more or less
influence on their lifestyle, but they also obtained a powerful basis, on
which they could found their theological claims and the legitimacy of
their cultic institutions. Because of this authoritative textual corpus priests
and other responsible persons felt obliged to change the appearance of
the Jerusalem temple in order to align it with aspects of Moses’ famous
tabernacle. Thus, we should perhaps not classify all texts from Genesis
to 2 Kings as ‘mythic past’ on the same level because of their common
contrast to modern historiography. Some of them, especially those of the

25. The juxtaposition of the wooden doors and the inner curtain, which might
have been a compromise between the older Jerusalem temple architecture and the
structure of the tabernacle found in the Second Temple during the Hellenistic period,
stands possible behind later Rabbinic disputes, whether the sanctuary had one or two
veils for separating the holy of the holiest from the rest (see Yom. 5:1 and Légasse
1980: 580–2).
208 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

Pentateuch, possess more ‘mythical dynamic’ than others. I agree with the
statement Thomas Thompson made in his dissertation: ‘In fact, we can
say that the faith of Israel is not an historical faith, in the sense of a faith
based on historical event; it is rather a faith within history’ (see Thompson
1974: 328–9). I would like just to emphasize that this faith – expressed by
biblical texts – cannot only change the mind and behaviour of people, but
is also able in some way to change historical reality.

Bibliography
Achenbach, R. (2007), ‘Der Pentateuch: Seine theokratischen Bearbeitungen und Josua –
2 Könige’, in T. Römer and K. Schmid (eds), Les dernières rédactions du Pentateuque,
de l’Hexateuque et de l’Enneateuque, 225–53, BEThL 203, Leuven: University Press
and Peeters.
Albertz, R. (1994), A History of Israelite Religion in the Old Testament Period, 2 vols,
Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press.
Albertz, R. (2007), ‘The Canonical Alignment of the Book of Joshua’, in O. Lipschits,
G. N. Knoppers and R. Albertz (eds), Judah and the Judeans in the Fourth Century
BCE, 287–303, Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns.
Albertz, R. (2012/2015), Exodus, 2 vols, Zürich: Theologischer Verlag Zürich.
Blum, E. (2015), ‘Historiographie oder Dichtung? Zur Eigenart alttestamentlicher
Geschichtsüberlieferung’, (repr.) in Grundfragen der historischen Exegese, 31–54,
FAT 95, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck.
Friedman, R. E. (1980), ‘The Tabernacle in the Temple’, BA, 43: 241–8.
Fritz, V. (1996), Das erste Buch der Könige, [Link] 10/1, Zürich: Theologischer Verlag
Zürich.
Houtman, C. (1993–2002), Exodus, 4 vols, Kampen: KOK; Leuven: Peeters.
Hurowitz, V. A. (1995), ‘The Form and Fate of the Tabernacle: Reflections on a Recent
Proposal’, JQR, 86: 127–51.
Japhet, S. (2003), 2 Chronik, HThKAT, Freiburg: Herder.
Kegler, J. (1989), ‘Das Zurücktreten der Exodustradition in den Chronikbüchern’, in
R. Albertz, F. W. Golka and J. Kegler (eds), Schöpfung und Befreiung: Für Claus
Westermann zum 80. Geburtstag, 54–66, Stuttgart: Calwer.
Légasse, S. (1980), ‘Les voiles du temple de Jérusalem: essai de parcours historique’, RB,
87: 560–89.
Noth, M. (1968), Könige: 1. Teilband: 1. Könige 1–16, BK IX/1, Neukirchen-Vluyn:
Neukirchener.
Rudolph, W. (1955), Chronikbücher, HAT I/21, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck.
Thompson, T. L. (1974), The Historicity of the Patriarchal Narratives: The Quest for the
Historical Abraham, BZAW 133, Berlin: de Gruyter.
Thompson, T. L. (1992), Early History of the Israelite People: From the Written and
Archaeological Sources, SHANE 4, Leiden: E. J. Brill.
Thompson, T. L. (1999), The Mythic Past. Biblical Archaeology and the Myth of Israel,
New York: Basic Books.
Van der Keulen, P. S. F. (2005), The Versions of Solomon Narrative: An Inquiry into the
Relationship between MT 1 Kgs. 2–11 and LXX 3 Reg. 2–11, VTSup 104, Leiden: E.
J. Brill.
 Albertz Jerusalem’s Temple and Moses’ Tabernacle 209

Van Seters, J. (1975), Abraham in History and Tradition (New Haven: Yale University
Press.
Van Seters, J. (1997), ‘Solomon’s Temple: Fact and Ideology in Biblical History and Near
Eastern Historiography’, CBQ 59: 45–57.
Wellhausen, J. (1927), Prolegomena zur Geschichte Israels, 6th ed., Berlin: Reimer (repr.
Berlin: de Gruyter, 2001).
Westermann, C. (1975), Genesis 12–50, EdF 48, Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche
Buchgesellschaft.
Westermann, C. (1981), Genesis. 2. Teilband, Genesis 12–36, BK I/2, Neukirchen-Vluyn:
Neukirchener.
Wette, W. M. L. de (1806/7), Beiträge zur Einleitung in das Alte Testament, 2 vols, Halle:
Schimmelpfennig (repr.: Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1971).
 C a n t h e B ook of N eh emi ah B e U se d
a s a n H i s tori c a l S our ce ,
a n d I f S o , of W h at ?

Lisbeth S. Fried

I am happy to dedicate this essay to my dear friend Professor Thomas

Thompson in honor of him, our friendship, and in honor of the sea-change
that he created in the field of biblical studies with his 1974 book, The
Historicity of the Patriarchal Narratives: The Quest for the Historical
Abraham. Thompson taught the importance of looking beyond the
situation in which the biblical story is set to the situation in which the
book may have been written. Following in that path, we recognize that
while the biblical book Ezra-Nehemiah is set in the Persian period, it was
written over a long period of time. Much of it is definitely Hellenistic
(Fried 2015a: 4–5; Finkelstein 2018); some of it may be Persian,
however, and may be used as an historical source if used cautiously
and if confirmed by corroborating documents. I test this hypothesis by
examining the portrayal of Nehemiah as the Persian governor of Judea
during the reign of Artaxerxes I. Is Nehemiah’s portrayal historical,
i.e., does his portrayal match what we know in general about provincial
governors under Achaemenid rule?

The Persian Governor and the Temple Priesthood

I begin with vv. 63-65 of Nehemiah 7 (= Ezra 2:61-63), which describe

a curious relationship between the Persian governor and the local temple
priesthood:

‫ן־ה ְּכ ֻהּנָ ה׃‬

ַ ‫ ֵא ֶּלה ִּב ְקׁשּו ְכ ָת ָבם ַה ִּמ ְתיַ ְח ִׂשים וְ לֹא נִ ְמ ָצא וַ יְ ג ֲֹאלּו ִמ‬64 …‫ן־הּכ ֲֹהנִ ים‬
ַ ‫ּומ‬ ִ
‫אּורים‬
ִ ‫אכלּו ִמּק ֶֹדׁש ַה ֳּק ָד ִׁשים ַעד ֲעמֹד ַהּכ ֵֹהן ְל‬ ְ ֹ ‫אמר ַה ִּת ְר ָׁש ָתא ָל ֶהם ֲא ֶׁשר לֹא־י‬ ֶ ֹ ‫ וַ ּי‬65
‫תּוּמים׃‬
ִ ְ‫ו‬
 Fried The Book of Nehemiah as an Historical Source 211

And among the priests…these [men] sought the registry of their geneal-
ogies but it was not found, so they were deemed unfit for the priesthood.
ʾAttiršata’ told them that they may not eat from the most holy food until a
priest arises having Urim and Thummim.

Who or what is ‘ʾAttiršata’? The word hattiršātā’ is often translated

into English as ‘the governor’. Unfortunately, this translation is based
on an outdated etymology. Tarsa means ‘to fear’ in Old Persian (Kent
1953: 186), and it had been assumed that in hattiršātā’ we find ‘tarsa’,
‘frightened’, or ‘trembling in fear’, so that the term had been believed to
refer to ‘the one feared’, that is, ‘Excellency’. Because Nehemiah, the
governor, is called this in the book of Nehemiah (Neh. 8:9; 10:2), it had
been routinely translated into English as ‘the governor’ (e.g., Fried 2015a:
90, 131–2). The difficulty with this translation is that tarsa never refers to
the one feared, but always to the one who is frightened (Skjaervo 1994:
501). Moreover, there is no Iranian, Persian, Elamite or Akkadian title
remotely similar to hattiršātā’ or even tiršātā’ (Tavernier 2015).
Rather than assuming that the initial hat is the Hebrew definite article
‘the’, thus indicating some sort of title, the prefix hattir is more likely a
corruption of Attar, and refers either to Atar, the Persian fire [god] (Benven-
iste 1966: 120; Zadok 2012: 160–1; Tuplin 2013: 615 n. 3; Jan Tavernier,
personal communication, 18 February 2016), or to the West-Semitic
goddess Attar, associated with the planet Venus (Lemaire 2015). The second
element, š(y)ata, is a common component of Iranian personal names and
means ‘prosperous’, ‘happy’ or ‘blissful’ (Kent 1953: 210–11). The word
is now considered simply to be a personal name meaning ‘Prosperous
or Happy through Atar/Attar’, that is, ‘through, or by means of, the god/
goddess Atar/Attar’. Thus, Nehemiah seems to have had two names like
many American Jews today, an ‘outer’ Persian (or English/American) name
and an ‘inner’ Hebrew one, as is explicitly stated in both Neh. 8:9 and [Link]

‫אמר נְ ֶח ְמיָ ה הּוא ַה ִּת ְר ָׁש ָתא‬

ֶ ֹ ‫וַ ּי‬
And Nehemiah, that is ʾAttiršata, said… (Neh. 8:9)

‫ן־ח ַכ ְליָ ה‬
ֲ ‫תּומים נְ ֶח ְמיָ ה ַה ִּת ְר ָׁש ָתא ֶּב‬
ִ ‫וְ ַעל ַה ֲח‬
And on the sealings is [that of] Nehemiah ʾAttiršata ben Ḥakalia (Neh. 10:2)

Thus, in Neh. 7:63-65 (= Ezra 2:61-63) we read that it was Attiršātā’, that
is, Nehemiah, the Persian governor (Neh. 5:14), who controlled admit-
tance to the priesthood. It was not Jeshua the High Priest who decided on
priests’ eligibility, nor was it any other priest. Rather, it was Nehemiah the
Persian governor himself.
212 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

This intrusion of Persian officials into the organization of Jerusalem’s

temple priesthood is consistent with what we read from contemporaneous
Persian-period documents, both Babylonian and Egyptian. Indeed, Persian
approval was required for appointment to temple offices throughout the
Achaemenid Empire. The Achaemenids subverted local temple structures
for their own purposes, and in Persian times a kind of tax was intro-
duced requiring candidates for priestly offices to pay for the privilege
(Waerzeggers and Jursa 2008). Babylonian records (e.g., BM 79293 and
VS 4 85) reveal the required payments of silver to the palace official ‘in
charge of temples’ (ša-muḫḫi bītāni) for the consecration of priests. This
was also true in Egypt, indicating an empire-wide practice. The following
text records, for example, a fee of 2 deben of silver to Parnu, the Persian
governor of the southern province of Syene and Elephantine, paid by
Paibes for the appointment of his son Djedhor to the rank of ‘second priest
of Khnum’:

Year 35, Pharmouthi, of Pharaoh Darius.

Payment received for making second priest of Khnum, the Great, Lord of
Elephantine, Djedhor son of Paibes, 1 silver deben-ḫr, makes…in accord-
ance with the…, (which) Paibes son of Petiese, his father, brought to the
collection-box of Parnu, [he of Tshet]res, to whom the fortress of Syene is
entrusted, amounting to 2 silver deben-ḫr, in accordance with the…(to) the
collection-box of Parnu, he of Tshetres, to [whom the] fortress of Syene is
entrusted. They were received; they were delivered; their payment which
was made for him before was in them. ([Link] 13582, 21 July–19 August
487 BCE)

Paibes son of Petiese had to pay Parnu, the Persian governor, in order
to secure the appointment of his son, Djedhor. It was not the high priest
whom he paid, but the Persian provincial governor. Other texts from
Elephantine show the temple of Khnum having to procure the Persian
satrap’s stamp of approval of their candidate for the Lesonis priest, the
chief priest of Khnum. The satrap rejected the first two of their nominees,
approving only the third (see references in Fried 2004: 80–6).

The Persian Governor and Temple Lodging

A revealing peek into the relationship between the local temple hierarchy
and the Persian governor is also visible in Nehemiah 13. Verses 7-9
describe Nehemiah throwing Tobiah, a relative of the priest Eliashib, out
of the rooms in the temple where he had been staying.
 Fried The Book of Nehemiah as an Historical Source 213

7
[When I] returned to Jerusalem…I discovered the wrong that [the priest]
Eliashib had done on behalf of Tobiah, preparing a room for him in the
courts of the house of God. 8And I was very angry, and I threw all the
household furniture of Tobiah out of the room. 9Then I gave orders and they
cleansed the chambers, and I brought back the vessels of the house of God,
with the grain offering and the frankincense [which had previously been
stored there]. (Neh. 13:7-9)

This text shows that the temple priesthood had no control over who
could lodge in the rooms of their own temple. Lodging in the temple
was evidently not decided by the priests but by the Persian governor.
Commentators assume that Tobiah’s staying in the temple was a sacrilege
because he was not Jewish, and that Nehemiah was offended by this
breach of religious norms (e.g., Batten 1913: 290; Rudolph 1949: 204;
Blenkinsopp 1988: 355). This could not have been the reason for his
ouster, however. Although governor of Ammon, Tobiah very likely was
of Judean ancestry, and a Yahwist. His name, Tobiah, means ‘Yhwh is
good’. If it is the same Tobiah who was Nehemiah’s nemesis, then he was
married to the daughter of Shecaniah son of Araḥ of Jerusalem, a Judean.
They named their son Johoḥanan, and this son married the daughter
of Meshullam son of Berechiah also of Jerusalem (Neh. 6:18). These
relationships suggest a Judean identity and ancestry. He was also related
(either by blood or by marriage) to the priest Eliashib who supervised the
temple rooms (Neh. 13:4).
The fact of Tobiah being a Yahwist and of Judean descent was not
relevant to Nehemiah though, nor was the fact that the temple priesthood
had approved of his staying in the temple. All that was relevant was
that Nehemiah, as governor of Judah, had the final say on who could
lodge where. Nehemiah’s ejection of Tobiah and his things ‘points
unmistakably to gubernatiorial jurisdiction over the temple and its opera-
tions’ (Blenkinsopp 1988: 355). Indeed, we find a parallel to this in the
inscription of Udjaḫorresnet:

I made a petition to the majesty of the King of Upper and Lower Egypt,
Cambyses, about all the foreigners who dwelled in the temple of Neith, in
order to have them expelled from it, so as to let the temple of Neith be in all
its splendor, as it had been before. His majesty commanded to expel all the
foreigners [who] dwelt in the temple of Neith, to demolish all their houses
and all their unclean things that were in this temple.
When they had carried [all their] personal [belongings] outside the wall
of the temple, his majesty commanded to cleanse the temple of Neith and
to return all its personnel to it, the…and the hour-priests of the temple. His
214 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

majesty did this because I had let his majesty know the greatness of Sais,
that it is the city of all the gods, who dwell there on their seats forever. (The
Statue Inscription of Udjaḥorresnet, Lichtheim 1980: 36-41, lines 18-23)

Even though Udjaḥorresnet was high priest of the temple of Neith in Sais,
Egypt, he had no say over who could live in his temple and who could not.
He had to appeal to Cambyses, king of Persia, for relief from the presence
of foreigners dwelling in his temple.

The Persian Governor and Temple Funds

The book of Nehemiah also illustrates the role of the Persian governor
in controlling temple funds. We read that it was Nehemiah, the Persian
governor, and not the high priest, who selected officials to monitor and
disburse these funds:

And I appointed over the temple treasuries the priest Shelemiah, the scribe
Zadok, and Pedaiah of the Levites, and as their assistant Hanan son of
Zaccur son of Mattaniah, for they were considered loyal (‫)נֶ ֱא ָמנִ ים נֶ ְח ָׁשבּו‬.
(Neh. 13:13)

As this passage shows, Nehemiah chose men who were ‘loyal’ or

‘reliable’, but reliable to whom, loyal to whom? I suggest it would have
been to him, of course, to Nehemiah himself, and therefore to the Persian
administration. Prior to Persian domination, native kings routinely donated
to local temples in order to obtain the favor of the god who dwelled within
them. After the Persian conquest, however, funds went the other way, not
from the king to the temple, but from the temple to the king (San Nicolò
1949; Schaper 1995, 1997; Fried 2004; Jursa 2007).
As with every temple in the Achaemenid Empire, a portion of the funds
of the Jerusalem temple went directly to satrap and king (see Fried 2004
and references cited there), and as with every temple in the Achaemenid
Empire, the Jerusalem temple kept a careful record in order to give a
precise annual accounting to the satrap. The necessity of this accounting
process is visible in a letter from the head accountant of the Egyptian
satrapy to the high priest of the temple of Khnum.

Khnemibre greets the priests of Khnum of Elephantine (Yeb), the Lesonis

priest, [and] the temple scribes: Oh may Neith make your life long! I have
earlier written to you what they wrote in my name, namely in the name of
 Fried The Book of Nehemiah as an Historical Source 215

the satrapal accountant, to wit: Let them bring the priests of Khnum – the
Lesonis Priest, and the temple scribe – to the house where I am staying, on
a day within about ten days, about the 16th of Mechir of the 24th year. But
until today you have not arrived in the house where I am staying, the house
of the satrapal accountant.
When this letter reaches you, come to the house where I am staying, and
bring the temple audit that is written in your hand, [namely] three books and
the invoice of the wealth of the temple of Khnum from the years 22, 23, and
24 [of Darius]. And go to the house in which the satrapal accountant is. Let
the date not go by, about which I, the satrapal accountant, am writing to you.
(498 BCE; [Link] 13536; Zauzich 1993; Fried 2004: 80–1)

According to this letter, Khenmibre, the chief accountant for all of Egypt,
required the current Lesonis priest, that is, the current high priest of the
Temple of Khnum in Elephantine, to report to him, and to bring with him
his scribe, and the temple account books for the current and the previous
two years. The Lesonis priest apparently was supposed to have brought
his account book to the satrapal accountant every year, but he had been
delinquent, perhaps in an attempt to resist Persian control. The only
purpose for which the satrapy would be interested in the account books
of an individual temple in far off Elephantine would be to collect taxes
and tribute from it. This text makes clear how temples served as local
collection centers for the Empire, and how the Persians dominated the
local landscape. It also makes clear why the satrap had to approve of
each candidate for the temple’s Lesonis priest, since he was the one who
brought the account books. He would need someone loyal and trustworthy
to keep the books, as did Nehemiah.
In addition to Jerusalem and Egypt, the same occurred in Anatolia.
It was the Persian Megabyzus at the temple of Artemis at Ephesus, not
a native Lydian priest, who, as neokoros, oversaw deposits, expendi-
tures and other financial matters at the temple (Xen., Anabasis 5.3.6;
Dusinberre 2013: 218).

The Nobles of Judah

Other texts in Nehemiah equally illustrate the control that the Persian
governor had over provincial elites. According to Neh. 13:17, Nehemiah
chastised the ‘nobles of Judah’ for allowing Sabbath customs to be
neglected:
216 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

In those days I saw in Judah people treading wine on the Sabbath and
bringing piles [of wheat] and loading them on donkeys, and even wine,
grapes, and figs and every burden, and bringing [them] into Jerusalem on the
Sabbath (…). And I remonstrated against the nobles of Judah ‫הּודה‬ ָ ְ‫ח ֵֹרי י‬, and
I said to them, ‘What is this evil thing you are doing, to profane the Sabbath
day?’ (Neh. 13:15, 17)

The phrase ‘in those days’ evidently refers to the time when Nehemiah
had just returned from being with the king (Neh. 13:6). The sacrilege had
apparently begun while he was away. But why blame the nobles? Were
they the ones who spearheaded business on the sabbath (so Batten 1913:
290)? Or had Nehemiah simply left these nobles in charge of the province
while he was away and they had been derelict in their duties? If so, who
were these ‘nobles’, and why would he have left them in charge and not
the High Priest?
Xenophon explains exactly who the nobles were within the various
satrapies of the Persian Empire. They were those who received land and
palaces from king, satrap or governor in the various provinces (Briant
1985; Sekunda 1988; Dusinberre 2013: 76–8; Fried 2013, 2015b, 2018):

He [Cyrus the Great] gave orders to all the satraps he sent out to imitate him
in everything that they saw him do: they were, in the first place, to organize
companies of cavalry and charioteers from among the Persians who went
with them and from the allies; to require as many as received lands and
palaces to attend at the satrap’s court and exercising proper self-restraint to
put themselves at his disposal in whatever he demanded; to have the boys
that were born to them educated at the local court, just as was done at the
royal court; and to take the retinue at his gates out hunting and to exercise
himself and them in the arts of war. (Xen., Cyropaedia VIII 6: 10)

The Greek authors, the Elephantine and Bactrian papyri, the Murašu
documents and the Stele of Mnesimachus all testify that conquered
land was royal land (Fried 2013, 2015b). Plots of this now royal land
were allocated as revocable grants to friends and relatives of the king or
satrap as well as to foreign military and non-military colonists. Briant
has described this process of replacing a hereditary nobility with a court-
appointed nobility (e.g., Briant 2002: 326; Sekunda 1988). Land was no
longer received by individuals by virtue of their belonging to a hereditary
caste. Rather, conquered land throughout the empire was obtained due to
one’s relationship with and support of king or satrap. Since land in Judah
had been depopulated as a result of the Babylonian conquest (Fried 2015a:
32–45), Achaemenid kings and satraps were able to freely distribute land
 Fried The Book of Nehemiah as an Historical Source 217

in Judah to members of the Persian royal family, to their retainers and to

their friends (Jursa 2010: 406). This landed aristocracy now formed the
nobles of Judah. Except for a few known collaborators (cf. the Stele of
Mnesimachus, TAD A6.13), they would not have been ethnic Judeans,
but ethnic Persians (Sekunda 1988; Dusinberre 2013: 77). Some of these
wealthy Persians were absentee landlords, while others may have lived
on the estates they received, but both types would have rented out their
farmland to the Judean returnees. The Judeans who worked it would then
have paid rent to their Persian landlords (Fried 2015b). That the Judeans
were only renting the land they lived on is illustrated in Nehemiah 5:

Now there was a great outcry of the people and of their wives to their
brothers, the Judeans. 2For there are those who say, ‘With our sons and with
our daughters, we are many; let us get grain, so that we may eat and stay
alive’. 3There are also those who say, ‘We are mortgaging our fields and
our vineyards and our houses so that we may get grain in the famine. 4And
there are those who say, ‘We have had to borrow silver for the royal rent
(middat hammelek) [due on] our fields and vineyards. 5Now, as the flesh of
our brothers is, so is our flesh; as their children are, so are our children; but
see! we are having to force our sons and daughters to be slaves, and some
of our daughters have been violated; we are powerless, and our fields and
vineyards belong to others. (Neh. 5:1-5)

Verse 5 stresses that their fields and vineyards belonged to others,

that is, to the Persian nobility who now owned the land. The nobles
left in charge of Judah while Nehemiah was away with the king were
not hereditary Judean landowners who had received their estates from
their fathers or grandfathers. Rather, they were the Persian aristocracy,
relatives or friends of king or satrap, who received land in Judah as
rewards for services rendered – and they were Persian (Sekunda 1988;
Fried 2015b). Grave goods all across the empire indicate a common elite
culture, and one separate from that of the locals (Dusinberre 2013: 262;
Miller 2010; Fried 2018). The silver and gold dishes and utensils shown
being brought to the king on the Apadana reliefs are the same items that
appear as valued heirlooms among grave goods of the elites in excava-
tions throughout the empire (Sancisi-Weerdenburg 1989; Lewis 1987;
Miller 2010).
That members of the Persian aristocracy were routinely put in charge
of satrapies while the satrap was away is visible in the letters from the
Arsames archive, such as the following letter from Arsames to the Persian
Artavant (late fifth century BCE):
218 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

From Arsames to Artavant. I send you abundant (greetings of) welfare and
strength. And [now], (one) named Psamshek son of Aḥḥapi, my servant,
complained [to me] here. He says thus, ‘When I was coming to my lord
[in Babylon], slaves of Aḥḥapi my father whom I…after me to my lord…
PN1-PN8, all told 8 persons – took my property and fled from me. Now if
it please my lord, let word be sent to Artavant [that those slaves whom] I
shall present before him: the flogging for which I shall issue an order, let it
be done to them.’

Now Arsames says thus: PN1 and his colleagues, the slaves of Aḥḥapi,
whom Psamshek will present before you there, you issue an order: the
flogging that Psamshek says shall be done to them, let that be done to
them (TAD A6.3).
Arsames, the satrap of Egypt, did not put local Egyptians in control of
Egypt when he went away to the king. It was to Artavant, a Persian noble,
that Arsames directed his letters of instruction. Of the sixteen letters in the
Arsames archive found in Egypt, six are between Arsames and Artavant,
dealing with issues confronting the satrapy. The ten others are to the
Egyptian who was only in charge of Arsames’s personal estates in Egypt.
These personal estates, by the way, were estates that had been confiscated
from the Egyptian nobles.
This letter illustrates Achaemenid satrapal management. When the
Egyptian Psamshek left Egypt to go to Arsames in Babylon, eight of
Psamshek’s slaves escaped, taking some of Psamshek’s property with
them. According to the command of Arsames, when Psamshek returns
to Egypt he must find and capture the runaways and present them before
Artavant, proving that these were the ones who had run away. Then
Artavant, on order of Arsames, will have them flogged. It is only Artavant,
a Persian noble, who administered justice in Egypt while Arsames was
away, not an Egyptian.
The nobles whom Nehemiah left in charge of Yehud while he was away
with the king would have been, like those whom Arsames left behind in
Egypt, not native, but Persian. They would have been the same nobles
that ate daily at Nehemiah’s table (Neh. 5:17; see further below; Fried
2018). Nehemiah fulminated against them, not because they were Judean
leaders conducting business on the Sabbath (as commentators assume),
but because he had left them in charge of the province while he was gone
and they had been derelict in their duties. Presumably he had commanded
that Judean religious customs be maintained.
 Fried The Book of Nehemiah as an Historical Source 219

The Governor Controls Religious Customs

Gubernatorial control over provincial religious customs is also seen in the

following passage:

And it happened when the gates of Jerusalem began to cast shadows before
the Sabbath that I ordered the doors closed, and I said that they should not be
opened until after the Sabbath, and I positioned some of my boys at the gates
so that a burden would not enter on the Sabbath day. So the peddlers and
the sellers of all kinds of merchandise spent the night once or twice outside
of Jerusalem. I warned them, and said to them, ‘Why are you spending the
night against the wall? If you do it again, I will send my hand against you.
From now on, do not come in on the Sabbath.’ (Neh. 13:15-21)

Using the sabbath as a pretext, and the soldiers at his command as

enforcers, Nehemiah, and not the high priest, determined which religious
customs must be followed and when. It was Nehemiah, and not the high
priest, who ordered the city gates closed before the sabbath and opened
only when the sabbath was over. When the governor ordered merchants to
spend the night out of doors, to avoid desecrating the sabbath, they were
forced to do so.
It was not only in Judah, but we see the Persian governor controlling
religious practices in far-off Sardis as well (c. 369 BCE):

In the thirty-ninth year of Artaxerxes’ being king, Droaphernes son of

Barakes, hyparch of Lydia, [is donating] a statue to Baradates Zeus. (leaf)
He commands the ones entering into the Holy of Holies, the temple wardens,
as well as the ones tending the god and crowning him, not to partake of the
mysteries of Sabazios, of the ones carrying the burnt offering, of Angdistis,
or of Ma. They [also] command Dorates, the temple warden, to keep apart
from those mysteries. (leaf). (Robert 1975; see also Fried 2004: 129–37)

According to this inscription, Droaphernes, the Persian governor of Lydia,

has forbidden the priests of the temple of Zeus in Sardis from participating
in the mystery cults of the gods Sabazios, Angdistis and Ma, the gods of
nearby Phrygia and Cappadocia. The Achaemenid governor determined
which gods local residents might worship, which religious practices they
could pursue and which they must avoid.
220 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

The Governor Tells People Whom They May Marry

Besides determining who could eat the ‘most holy’ food of the priesthood,
who could lodge in the local temple, how temple funds may be allocated,
or who could enter the city and when, Nehemiah, the Persian governor,
apparently had a say in whom a Judean could marry. We see Nehemiah
fulminating against Judeans who married people from outside the province
of Judah:

Also in those days I saw [that] Judeans had taken as wives Ashdodian,
23

Ammonite and Moabite women. 24And of their children, half speak

Ashdodite, and they do not know how to speak Judean but only the language
of the various peoples. (Neh. 23:23-24)

As we all know, there is nothing in the Torah that outlaws intermarriage,

and indeed Moses himself married both a Midianite (Exod. 2:15-22) and
an Ethiopian (Num. 12:1) woman. It was not because of Torah law that
Nehemiah objected to marriage with non-Judeans, but it was out of his
role as Persian governor of Judah. The primary concern of the king in
appointing satraps and provincial governors was to maintain himself as
the source of power and authority, and to keep those satraps and governors
he appointed from forming alliances against him. Bans on intermarriage
were commonly used in empires not only to control the population, but to
prevent alliances that might exert a centrifugal force that might counteract
imperial control (Eisenstadt 1963; Dusinberre 2013: 43). Nehemiah’s
goal, like that of other servants of autocratic rulers, was to prevent this
centrifugal force and so to divide and conquer, divide et impera. There is
a long history of examples: Lucius Aemilius Paullus, a Roman general,
in 168 BCE divided Macedonia into four separate provinces and forbade
intermarriage and land-ownership across the boundaries (Livy XLV.29;
Shallit 1975: 41). The deified Augustus established a code of rules for the
administration of the Privy Purse (BGU 210), a code maintained for 200
years. This code consisted of over a hundred laws that greatly prevented
interaction among the various ethnic groups, restricting interactions even
with the higher-caste Greeks (Lewis 1983: 32–3; Bagnall and Frier 1994:
28–9). Akbar, one of the descendants of Genghis Kahn, established a
military occupation in China and forbade intermarriage among the various
ethnic groups there (Duverger 1980: 12). As is well known, a similar ban
on intermarriage was enacted in fifth-century Athens under Pericles (Fried
2009, and references cited there).
 Fried The Book of Nehemiah as an Historical Source 221

To punish Judeans engaged in intermarriage we read that Nehemiah

physically pulled out hair from the head and beard of the offenders:

I fulminated against them and cursed them and beat some of the men and
pulled out the hairs of their head and beard and I made them swear by God,
‘Do not give your daughters to their sons, or take their daughters for your
sons or for yourselves!’ (Neh. 13:25)

This is not metaphorical. Nor was it a result of a spur-of-the-moment pique

(pace Williamson 1985: 398–9). Second Isaiah, in a text usually dated to
the Persian period, refers to this same type of purposeful punishment,
apparently for insubordination to a Persian official. He states that ‘I gave
my back to those who struck me, and my cheeks to those who pulled out
the beard; I did not hide my face from insult and spitting’. Indeed, a text
from the Murashu archive, dated to 420 BCE, refers to the threat of this
same type of punishment:

…If they have not completed the groundbreaking by the first day of the fifth
month they shall be beaten one hundred times with a nitpu, their beards and
hair (of the head) shall be plucked out, and Ribat son of Bel-iriba, servant
of Rimut-Ninurta, shall keep them in the workhouse. (420 BCE; CBS 5213;
Heltzer 1995–6)

Persian opposition to marriages across the artificial boundaries of

the provinces of the Levant is also exhibited in Nehemiah’s reaction
to the presence of the grandson of the high priest Eliashib because he
had married the daughter of Sanballat, governor of Samaria. Nehemiah
records that ‘Among the sons of Yehoiada ben Eliashib, the high priest,
was a son-in-law to Sanballat the Horonite. I drove him away from me.’
Nehemiah claims he ‘drove him away’, but it is not clear what that
means, or what exactly the problem was that Nehemiah had with him. It
could not have been because he was not a Yahwist. Numerous engravings
at the temple at Har Gerizim in Samaria indicate that the Persian period
temple there was dedicated to Yhwh (Knoppers 2006, 2007; Magen
2007). Ostraca and papyri found throughout Persian period Samaria also
attest to a majority of Yahwistic names. It was therefore not because a
member of the high priestly family had married into a non-Yahwistic
family that upset Nehemiah, but only because the marriage was across
provincial boundaries. Again, the fear was of political alliances that would
exert a centrifugal force against the Persian rulers.
222 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

Conclusions – Persian Officials and Local Elites

It must be concluded that some aspects, at least, of the book of

Ezra-Nehemiah reflect actual practices of governors in the Achaemenid
Empire. As was true elsewhere during the Persian period, the priesthood
had no control over who could enter its ranks and eat of their most holy
food or who could lodge in the temple’s rooms. Only the Persian governor
could decide this. Nor was it the high priest who could choose a temple’s
accountants, but rather it was the Persian governor. It was the Persian
governor, not the local hereditary nobility, who decided when to close
the city’s gates and when to open them. Nor was it the high priest who
ruled on marriages across provincial boundaries, but the Persian governor.
Extra-biblical data overwhelmingly support these disturbing observations
derived from the biblical text.

Bibliography
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Cambridge University Press.
Batten, L. W. (1913), The Books of Ezra and Nehemiah: A Critical and Exegetical
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Benveniste, É. (1966), Titres et Noms Propres en Iranien Ancienm, Paris: C. Klincksieck.
Blenkinsopp, J. (1988), Ezra-Nehemiah: A Commentary, OTL, Philadelphia: Westminster
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Briant, P. (1985), ‘Dons de terres et de villes: L’Asie mineure dans le contexte achéménide’,
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relative à un culte de Zeus’, CRAIBL, 119 (2): 306–30.
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 C hr on i cl es ’ R es h a p i n g of M e mor i e s
of A n c es tors P op ul at i ng G e ne si s

Ehud Ben Zvi

Since texts are read in ways strongly informed by the world of knowledge
of the readers, including all the other texts that they know, the introduction
of a new text into a socially accepted, core repertoire has an impact on the
way in which in-group members read all the other texts, and vice versa,
that is, the ways in which they read the other texts influence the ways
in which they read the new one.1 Of course, not all texts carry the same
impact in the world of knowledge of the group: some carry more weight
than others, but still each carries, at least, some weight. The Pentateuchal
collection carried more cultural and ideological capital than Chronicles;
however, readers of Genesis informed by Chronicles would be wearing
‘lenses’ that ‘allowed’ them to ‘see’ certain things, but turn others less
‘visible’ to them, and to draw attention to or away from some matters.
Reading Chronicles, like reading Genesis for that matter, involved the
construction of memories about the past. This being the case, one may be
certain that reading and rereading Chronicles could not but make some
impact on the social construction of memories held by the readers about
the ancestors mentioned in Genesis. Reading Chronicles and identifying
with the message conveyed by the Chronicler 2 led, inter alia, to processes
of drawing attention to or away from some events, characters or some
of their features, and led to a reshaping and re-signifying of implicit or
explicit mnemonic narratives.
To be sure, each reading community reads the text differently depending
on their world of ‘knowledge’, which included all their texts as they read

1. This point has been advanced numerous times by Umberto Eco.

2. By ‘Chronicler’ I refer to the author that the readers construed (and imagined)
when they read the book. From the perspective of the reading community, this is the
‘author’ whose work/message they are reading.
226 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

them (or the ‘encyclopedic knowledge’ that the group possesses, to use
Eco’s terminology). Their world of ‘knowledge’, in turn, is strongly
influenced by social location and historical circumstances. Thus, one must
specify the historically contingent group who does the reading and thus
construes itself and their memories through it. In this essay, I will focus on
the Yehudite literati of the late Persian or early Hellenistic period, among
whom and for whom the book of Chronicles emerged.3
In what follows I will explore the contribution made by the literati’s
reading and rereading of Chronicles to their socially shared memories of
(what they believed to be) their ancestors, and related matters. I will do
this by focusing on some aspects of a number of substantially different
cases: some of them dealing with ‘obvious’ matters the significance of
which (for the present purposes) is far less than ‘obvious’, and others
whose significance is perceived only or mainly when seen in the light of
other texts, basic assumptions and other components of the literati’s world
of knowledge.

Exploring Specific Cases

Some Observations about Jacob/Israel

As it is well-known,4 there is strong preference in Chronicles to refer to
the patriarch ‘Jacob’ as ‘Israel’ (see 1 Chron. 1:34; 2:1; 5:1, 3; 6:23; 7:29;
16:13, 17; 29:10, 18; 2 Chron. 30:6). Thus, whereas the triad for the male
ancestors in the Pentateuch is consistently ‘Abraham, Isaac and Jacob’
(see Gen. 50:24; Exod. 2:24; 3:6, 15, 16; 4:5; 6:3, 8; 32:13 (LXX and
Samaritan);5 33:1; Num. 32:11; Deut. 1:8; 6:10; 9:5, 27; 29:12; 30:20;
34:4 (cf. 2 Kgs 13:23), it is ‘Abraham, Isaac and Israel’ in Chronicles
(1 Chron. 1:34; 29:18; 30:6; cf. 1 Kgs 18:36, the latter within an Elijah
narrative). In fact, the triad in the form ‘Abraham, Isaac and Jacob’
occurs nowhere in Chronicles. Likewise, the fraternal dyad ‘Esau-Jacob’
is explicitly referred to as such in Genesis (24 times) and the very same
preference is attested in Josh. 24:4; Obad. 18; Mal. 1:2, whereas in
Chronicles, the brothers are Esau and Israel (1 Chron. 1:34).6

3. To be sure, theoretically, it is always possible to read the text against its grain,
but pragmatically this was a very unlikely option for the literati mentioned here.
4. See, e.g., Williamson 1977: 62 and cited bibliography.
5. The triad in MT Exod. 32:13 is ‘Abraham, Isaac and Israel’. If the reading is
‘original’, it would be the only attestation of this triad in the Pentateuch.
6. The LXX has ‘Iakob’ here, but most likely this is a ‘correction’ towards the
anticipated brotherly dyad.
 Ben Zvi Chronicles’ Reshaping of Memories 227

To be sure, ‘Jacob’ appears twice in Chronicles, in 1 Chron. 16:13,

17. The text of 1 Chron. 16:8-22 follows that of Ps. 105:1-15 with minor
changes. This is not the place to study these texts in any detail. For the
present purposes, it is sufficient to note that, of the two relevant verses,
the text of one, namely v. 17, is identical to that of Ps. 105:10. In this
case, replacing ‘Jacob’ with ‘Israel’ in Chronicles would have been
an extremely poor stylistic choice, for it would have resulted in a text
reading ‫ *ויעמידה לישראל לחק לישראל ברית עולם‬instead of the much better
and actually attested ‫ויעמידה ליעקב לחק לישראל ברית עולם‬. In any event,
the parallelism between ‘Jacob’ and ‘Israel’ clearly communicates that
‘Jacob’ is ‘Israel’.
As for the other verse, namely v. 13, here the term ‘Jacob’ occurs
within the expression ‫בני יעקב‬. The text here follows Ps. 105:6, but with
a significant change, namely ‫ זרע אברהם עבדו בני יעקב בחיריו‬in Ps. 105:6
becomes in Chronicles ‫זרע ישראל עבדו בני יעקב בחיריו‬. Replacing Abraham
with Israel shapes a new parallelism between ‫ זרע ישראל עבדו‬and ‫בני יעקב‬
‫ בחיריו‬that actually underscores the point that ‘Jacob’ is ‘Israel’.
Of course, that Jacob is Israel is not an innovation of Chronicles. It
is a ‘fact’ agreed upon within the community and well represented in its
textual repertoire. But this does not mean that the consistent choice of one
term over the other carries no meaning. The consistency in referring to the
ancestor as ‘Israel’ not Jacob was likely a way of countering an important
perceived anomaly in Genesis and the memories it evoked.
According to Genesis and within the memory world of the literati,
Abram became Abraham and the divine proclamation ‫ולא יקרא עוד את‬
‫שמך אברם‬, ‘no longer shall your name be Abram’ (Gen. 17:5), was clearly
fulfilled. The ancestor’s name appears as Abram from Gen. 11:26–17:5,
but not after 17:5.7 Thus, they have every reason to anticipate that when
the divinely caused name change from Jacob to Israel takes place, the
same will hold true. In fact, the precise language used in the two stories
that they remember (and vicariously experience as readers of the text)
clearly recalls that of Gen. 17:5, namely ‫לא יעקב יאמר עוד שמך כי אם‬

7. The reference to ‘Abram’ in Neh. 9:7 is due to the fact that speaker recalls the
figure of the ancestor at a time in which he was still called Abram. The only other
case of ‘Abram’ is in 1 Chron. 1:27 (‘Abram, who is Abraham’). The Chronicler
here selected ‘Abram’ because it was in the context of the list of the descendants of
Shem and such is the name of the son born to Terah, but they immediately explain
that this person is Abraham, and then refer to him as Abraham when it comes to his
descendants, since Isaac was born to Abraham. (We shall return to this text later, in
a different context.)
228 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

‫ישראל‬, ‘Your name shall no longer be called “Jacob” but Israel’ (Gen.
32:29) and ‫שמך יעקב לא יקרא שמך עוד יעקב כי אם ישראל יהיה שמך‬, ‘as
for your name Jacob, your name shall no longer be called “Jacob” but
Israel will be your name’ (Gen. 35:10).8 But clearly this is not the case in
Genesis. The ancestor is at times called ‘Israel’ after these events (e.g.,
Gen. 35:21, 22; 37:3, 13; 43:6, 8, 10), but also and very often ‘Jacob’
(e.g. Gen. 46:6; 49:33, passim). In fact, the literati read and remember that
YHWH himself called him Jacob, even when the narrator of the story tells
them that he is ‘Israel’ (see Gen. 46:2).
The literati’s reading and rereading Chronicles activated their socially-
agreed upon memory that Israel was Jacob, just like the memory
that Abraham was Abram. However, more importantly, they were, by
implication, reminded that ‘Jacob’ should be remembered as ‘Israel’.
Chronicles ‘normalized’ the memories evoked by reading Genesis and
addressed a lingering question about a potential anomaly that emerged out
of the literati’s reading (and remembering the text) of Genesis.
To be sure, the preference for Israel over Jacob as the name of the
ancestor in Chronicles, like many other preferences, served multiple
purposes and shaped additional messages to the literati. For one, Israel
in Chronicles stands for the Israel construed by the Chronicler and those
identifying with him. In other words, it is and can only be a Jerusalem-
centered Israel. Consistently remembering the patriarch Jacob as Israel
within the context of the world evoked in Chronicles connoted and
performed a partial reshaping of the memory of the patriarch.
The bracketing out of the Jacob stories – which tend to associate him
with territories in ‘Northern Israel’, not Judah – except for a reference
to the brotherhood of Israel and Esau in Chronicles also played a role in
this partial reshaping. It is in this context that one may notice a subtle
message in the choice to highlight Edom far more than all other nations
other than Israel in the genealogies (see 1 Chron. 1:35-54). Highlighting
Edom, the brother of Jacob/Israel, conveys an indirect highlighting of
Israel’s southern character and thereby draws attention away from Jacob’s
northern associations.
The outcome of all these subtle memory shifts affecting the relative
social mindshare of various features associated with the site of memory
‘Jacob/Israel’ was a partial, and subtle reshaping of this site in a way that

8. The anticipation that an authoritative name change be observed is also clear

from another case: Hoshea bin Nun, whom Moses renames Joshua bin Nun, and as
such is recalled in the book of Joshua. This expectation is based on the idea that
such name changes involved a change in status and of ‘essence’ in the nature of the
individual.
 Ben Zvi Chronicles’ Reshaping of Memories 229

stressed the permanent, uni-directional, essential change from ‘Jacob’

to ‘Israel’ and contributed to the appropriation of the figure of ‘Israel’
(/Jacob) for the ideological discourse of Yehud and its memory-scape.
It is worth noting that, although achieved through different means,
this outcome is basically comparable to that achieved by the Chronicler’s
reshaping and appropriation of the memory of Abraham for the Jerusalem-
centred literati of Yehud through the association of Moriah with Jerusalem
(2 Chron. 3:1) – an association that again runs contrary to claims advanced
in Samaria.9

Some Observations about Keturah

Reading Gen. 25:1 clearly invited the literati to imagine Keturah as
Abraham’s wife. The language itself, ‫ויקח אשה ושמה קטורה‬, is reminiscent
of that used in, e.g., Gen. 26:34 (cf. Gen. 38:26) and 1 Kgs 16:31, ‫ויקח‬
‫אשה את איזבל בת אתבעל מלך צידנים‬, ‘he (Ahab) took as his wife Jezebel
daughter of King Ethbaal of the Sidonians,’ who clearly was not Ahab’s
pilegeš (see also 1 Chron. 11:18). Moreover, the point that the ‘unmarked’
expression used here seems to communicate the status of wife for the
woman is implicitly conveyed by the fact that when a similar phrase is
used for a pilegeš, the phrase does not occur unmarked anymore. Instead,
it carries, and seems to need to carry, an additional, explicit marker (see
Judg. 19:1, ‫ויקח לו אשה פילגש‬, ‘he took to himself a wife, a pilegeš’).10
Further, the textual proximity of Gen. 24:67b to Gen. 25:1 in the
Genesis story suggested to the readers that Abraham took Keturah as a
wife following the death of Sarah, and that to some extent his action was
a kind of counterpart to the action of his son Isaac, as reported in the
immediately preceding verse.

9. Samaritan tradition associates Mt. Moriah with Mt. Gerizim rather than with
Jerusalem. There is no reason why generative grammars of appropriation would be
at work in only one book or genre, see, e.g., the case of Salem/Shalem which in
Samarian discourse was most likely already identified as Shechem, as they probably
read the text of Gen. 33:18 ‫ויבא יעקב שלם עיר שכם אשר בארץ כנען בבאו מפדן ארם ויחן‬
‫ את פני העיר‬as reporting that ‘Jacob arrived to Salem, the/a city of Shechem which is
in the land of Canaan – when he came from Paddan-aram – and he encamped before
the city’ (cf. Jub. 30:1; but see Pss. 76:3; 110:2-4).
10. Further, the very case that the readers of Chronicles notice that their
Chronicler rewrote the text in 2 Sam. 5:13 from ‫ ויקח דוד עוד פלגשים ונשים‬to ‫יקח דוד‬
‫( עוד נשים‬1 Chron. 14:3) and that this rewriting was meant to contribute to the way
in which they imagined David suggests that they and their Chronicler thought that
the term ‫ אשה‬alone in this context was not conveying a sense of a pilegeš but wife.
230 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

Genesis 25:2 continues the story of the (seeming?) marriage between

Abraham and Keturah with a notice of the children that ‘she bore him’. A
short list of descendants follows, but by v. 4b, in the summary note, the
descendants explicitly become ‘the children of Keturah’ (not of Abraham)
and they disappear from the narrative.11 Is this one of these ‘minority
reports’ present from time to time in past-shaping texts within the reper-
toire of the community that are at odds with its main narratives and,
therefore, carries only a minor social mindshare?
Clearly in this case, there is no doubt that the main mnemonic narrative
shared by the community was about Abraham, Sarah and Hagar, about
two children – Ishmael and Isaac, and about the choice of the latter over
the former, not about multiple wives and multiple children. In fact, this
main mnemonic narrative reasserts itself in the text from v. 5 on (see Gen.
25:5-11), and perhaps indirectly already in v. 4b that refers to the children
as the sons of Keturah (not Abraham).12 In fact, the language and context
of Gen. 25:6 seems to suggest to the readers that contrary to what they
just read, Keturah was a pilegeš and her children were the children of a
pilegeš.
But should Gen. 25:5­­-11 alone govern the readers’ understanding of
the reference to Keturah as Abraham’s wife, thus transforming her into a
pilegeš, even if she is never called so, reshaping her status to be not only
lower than that of Sarah, but also clearly inferior to the servant Hagar, the
mother of Ishmael?
Certainly, doing so would simplify matters and diminish the cognitive
and ideological cost of remembering a story that stood at odds with the
main narrative about these important sites of memory. Clearly, doing so
would ‘normalize’ the story of Genesis 25, as understood by the readers,
by aligning it with the main memory-world of the group. Moreover, this
could have been easily achieved by merely adding the word pilegeš.13 The
literati reading Genesis 25 were well aware that the author of Genesis 25,

11. Or become unnamed and subsumed under the taxonomic category of ‘children
of a pilegeš’ in Gen 25:6; see below.
12. This said, the text in v. 4b could still be interpreted as a reference to the houses
of the various mothers as subunits within the house of the father, as in the case of
Gen. 46:8-24 (and note the language of vv. 15, 18, 19, 22) and cf. Gen. 35:22b-26 (in
both cases, there are references to sub-houses of the mother within the house of the
mother); and Gen. 36:1-18 (see esp. vv. 12, 13, 16, 17, 18).
13. The ‘problem’ could have been easily resolved by adding pilegeš to the
text of Gen. 25:1; see Judg. 19:1. Tg. Pseudo-Jonathan and Gen. R. 61:4 solve ‘the
problem’ differently: Keturah becomes Hagar. Of course, ‘solving’ the problem
implies awareness of it.
 Ben Zvi Chronicles’ Reshaping of Memories 231

as they imagined this personage to be, could have followed that easy path
and ‘solved the problem’. But they were also well aware that this author
did not follow that path, and that Gen. 25:2 read as it read and thus shaped
not only a text that remained open, but one that asked them to entertain a
memory of Keturah as Abraham’s wife.14
As they read Chronicles, however, they cannot but notice Keturah is
explicitly referred to as ‫( פילגש אברהם‬1 Chron. 1:32). Moreover, the ‫ותלד‬
‫לו‬, ‘she bore to him (i.e., Abraham)’, of Gen. 25:2 was now replaced
with just ‫ילדה‬, ‘she gave birth’. Reading Gen. 25:1-4 in a way informed
by Chronicles meant disambiguating the account in Genesis and remem-
bering Keturah as only a pilegeš, and her children, the ones who ‘she
bore Abraham’, as of less status than even Ishmael – a point reinforced
explicitly in 1 Chron. 1:28, ‫בני אברהם יצחק וישמעאל‬, ‘the sons of Abraham
were Isaac and Ishmael’.
This case illustrates how Chronicles contributed to the social selection
of a particular reading of Genesis 25 and to the ‘normalization’ of the
text. Despite the fact that neither the Chronicler nor the readers of the
book seem to have a problem in principle with ambiguities and logical
tensions,15 the text here clearly and explicitly disambiguates and reduces
these tensions, and, by doing so, ‘controls’ (or attempts to control) the
‘preferred’ reading of the relevant text in Genesis and social memories
evoked by it.

A Particular Observation about the Supreme Patriarch

A perhaps less straightforward example concerns a particular facet of
the memories about another patriarchal figure of shared memory evoked
by reading Chronicles, even this figure was conceived as substantially
different from the others populating the book, namely the supreme
patriarch YHWH. To be sure, within the world of memory and the world
in general of the relevant literati, YHWH was present everywhere and
his ‘hands’ were in all. But none of this makes meaningless the way in
which texts select what is to be explicitly mentioned and thus particularly
remembered, and what is not. For instance, the beginning of narrative
plots and the first action explicitly associated with the main character, by

14. It is worth noting that although Keturah’s children contribute to the list of
nations in the lineage of Abraham, the father of many nations (Gen. 17:4-6), and
specifically, Midian, Keturah does not have to be Abraham’s wife to do so, as the
case of Hagar shows. In fact, the line from Sarah leads only to two nations (Edom
and Israel).
15. See, e.g., Ben Zvi 2006: 44–77. In fact, a tendency towards ‘fuzziness’ was
widely attested in the core repertoire of the literati. See Ben Zvi (2019), passim.
232 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

name, tend to carry particular significance. Thus, it would be very unlikely

that the readers of Genesis (as well as the Pentateuch and the Primary
History) would have thought that it was just the outcome of random
choice that the first explicit reference to both elohim and YHWH had to
do with creation (Gen. 1:1; 2:4), or, for that matter, that the first explicit
reference to YHWH in Deuteronomy (and the Deuteronomistic historical
collection as a whole) was in relation to ‘all that YHWH had commanded
him concerning them (i.e., the Israelites)’ (see Deut. 1:3), or even that
Moses’ speech begins with a reference to YHWH, our god (Deut. 1:6).16
Similarly, the first explicit reference to YHWH, by name, in Proverbs is in
Prov. 1:7 (‘the fear of YHWH is the beginning of knowledge’); in Psalms,
Ps. 1:2 (‘their delight is in YHWH’s torah’).17
This being so, it is worth noting that the first time that the deity is
explicitly mentioned in Chronicles is in ‫ויהי ער בכור יהודה רע בעיני יהוה‬
‫( וימיתהו‬1 Chron. 2:3a), ‘Er, Judah’s firstborn, was wicked in YHWH’s
sight so he killed him’, which is not, incidentally, the first story about the
line of Judah. Given that the literati read Chronicles in the late Persian/
Early Hellenistic period, the reference to YHWH and Er served them as a
reminder of the precariousness of Judah, the Davidic line and of ‘Israel’,
since at times ‘David’ stood not only for the Davidic king but also for
‘Israel’. This precariousness was balanced by the knowledge of the ‘fact’
that, although ‘Er’ was executed, the line of Judah did continue.
Similarly, it is worth noting, and particularly against this context of
precariousness, that the first explicit reference to ‫ אלהים‬and to ‫אלהי ישראל‬
in Chronicles is in 1 Chron. 4:10, also within the genealogy of Judah.
The text states ‘Jabez called on the God of Israel, saying, “Oh that you
would bless me and enlarge my border, and that your hand might be with
me, and that you would keep me from hurt and harm!” And God granted
what he asked.’ This reference complements and balances the first explicit
reference to YHWH.
With regards to Er, reading Chronicles serves as commentary about
what the literati should consider most worth remembering from the story
of Er, Onan, Judah and Tamar in Genesis, and that what is most worth
remembering has nothing to do with the memorable details of the story,
but with the message of precariousness and hope for Judah (i.e., Israel, as
the literati understood it to be) and the dangers of sinful behaviour.

16. See also Prov. 1:7, in which the first explicit reference to YHWH.
17. To be sure, all these books/collections had a long redactional history. My
point here is only that the readers of the present texts would have assigned meaning
to these first references.
 Ben Zvi Chronicles’ Reshaping of Memories 233

Moreover, in Chronicles there is a clear tendency to draw less attention

to images of YHWH as a creator, and far more to YHWH as a deity
engaged with and acting upon Israel, even if often through interme-
diaries.18 This tendency and the shift mentioned above converge and
support each other. Again, one may think/say that this is to be expected
in a ‘national’ (albeit clearly segmented) ‘history’;19 however, this would
still be another way of saying that Chronicles reshaped the significance of
the reported events, appropriated them for its own ideological narrative
and constructed sites of memory that were part and parcel of a shared
memory-scape in a slightly different way.

Some Observations about Remembering the Beginning of the Beginning

The way a book begins is important. It introduces the book (or text, for
that matter) to the readers and shapes a set of expectations about what the
book is about.20 Chronicles begins with genealogies and these genealogies
begin with the ancestors born before the flood: ‘Adam, Seth, Enosh,
Kenan, Mahalalel, Jared, Enoch, Methuselah, Lamech, Noah’. This is a
linear genealogy and thus the ‫אדם‬, adam, whose memory is evoked at the
very beginning of the book is that of a male (Adam) who has fathered a
son, and is, by necessity, conceptually unlike the ‫אדם‬, adam, that stands
for ‘humanity’ in general, including both male and female in Gen. 1:26-31
or the, at least somewhat ambiguous, ‫אדם‬, adam of Gen. 2:4-20 who is a
human being that existed before human gender differentiation.

18. Of course, Chronicles does not ask its readers to ‘forget’ that YHWH created
the world. Similar to all literature of the time, it participates in a discourse and
mnemonic system in which this is either stated or implied. See ‫ברוך יהוה אלהי ישראל‬
‫ אשר עשה את השמים ואת הארץ‬in 2 Chron. 2:11 (most ET 2:12; the reference to
creation is not included in Hiram’s words in the version in 1 Kgs 5:21) and cf. Gen.
2:4; Exod. 20:11; 31:17; 2 Kgs 19:15; Isa. 37:16; Pss. 115:15; 121:2; 124:8; 134:3.
Instead, the claim here is that reading Chronicles involves allocating more social
mindscape to the interactions between YHWH and David/Judah/Israel and both the
seemingly precariousness of the latter and its continuous survival, even through less
than ‘predictable’ agents. On constructions and images of YHWH in Chronicles, see
also Japhet 1989: 53–136.
19. On Chronicles as ‘segmented history’ see Ben Zvi 2016.
20. To be sure, in the case of the repertoire of the literati of late Persian/early
Hellenistic Yehud/Judah, readers were rereaders and thus the opening of a book and
its associated, conveyed expectations opened an implied ‘conversation’ with what
they knew already about the book and its contents. The interaction between the two,
in turn, facilitated the explorations of core attributes of the book or its subject matter.
234 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

In other words, reading Chronicles contributed to an increase in the

social mindshare of some aspects of ‫אדם‬, adam, namely his being male
and his reproduction capabilities, both from a biological and social
perspective. After all, ‫אדם‬, adam, like the other ancestors mentioned in
the list, stands for and as a site of memory which embodies the father
himself and the entire house of the father.
Thus, when the literati read Genesis, or for that matter, the socially and
ideologically complementary, even if substantially different, account of
creation in Prov. 8:22-31, they activate images of a beginning that go back
to the start of the cosmos, or the beginning of Wisdom and the start of the
cosmos, or some world unlike any actual human world (e.g., the Garden
of Eden). Reading Chronicles, however, balanced this tendency by
suggesting that when thinking of beginnings, they may also think in terms
of the beginning of ‘human society’ and its main structure (the house of
the father), and as they do so, they may also internalize (a) a sense of basic
continuity concerning human existence and (b) the resilience of humanity/
the male ‘seed’ implied in this continuity.21 Both matters, however, had
also to be balanced by other considerations (see the section on disconti-
nuity below).

Some Observations about the First Ten Ancestors

As mentioned above, Chronicles begins with a list ten ancestors, ‘Adam,
Seth, Enosh, Kenan, Mahalalel, Jared, Enoch, Methuselah, Lamech,
Noah’ (1 Chron. 1:1-4).22 An asyndetic list, with no comments of any

21. To be sure, the difference between the focus of Chronicles on the beginning
and those of Genesis and Prov. 8:22–31 may well be rooted in literary genre matters.
Unlike these texts, Chronicles begins with a male, linear genealogy and such a genre
is not conducive for extensive narratives of cosmic beginnings. But even if one were
to explain the reason for the difference only in these formal terms and bracket out
the question of why Chronicles opens with such a genealogy, this would not have
any substantial bearing on the issue of the social impact of reading Chronicles and
its beginning in terms of shaping social memory and exploring ideological issues.
Pointing at the ‘reason’ of something is not tantamount to exploring its social effect.
22. MT 1 Chron. 1:1-4 actually has a list of thirteen names, as it includes ‘Shem,
Ham and Japhet’ immediately following the name ‘Noah’. The LXXAB versions
read ‘…Noah. The sons of Noah were Shem, Ham and Japhet’. The LXXAB may
well reflect a tendency to clarify and simplify the text, but in any case attests to an
understanding that there is an organizational break between the asyndetic list of the
first ten (‘Adam…Noah’), which they knew well to be structured exclusively under
the one father–one son linear principle, and the following ‘Shem, Ham, and Japhet’,
for they knew that Ham was not the son of Shem, nor Japhet of Ham (notice also the
 Ben Zvi Chronicles’ Reshaping of Memories 235

kind, attests to the fact that processes of formation of social memory

involve remembering as much as bracketing out that which was evaluated
as carrying less importance, all matters considered. To be sure, a linear,
asyndetic genealogy does not leave room for the addition of much infor-
mation about the characters, but again reading such a list and the fact
that Chronicles begins with it is not without meaning and social effect on
the readers and their ways of construing and remembering their ten most
ancient ancestors.
Further, one may take into account that there was no genre requirement
to shape the opening genealogy as an asyndetic list of names, as obviously
demonstrated by the presence of other genealogies in the book. Moreover,
Chronicles includes instances of informative notes about characters,
groups or even about instances related to them that readers were asked
to consider relevant or worth remembering, even in the genealogies, as,
e.g., ‫נמרוד הוא החל להיות גבור בארץ‬, ‘Nimrod; he was the first heroic
warrior on the earth’ (1 Chron. 1:10);23 ‫כסלחים אשר יצאו משם פלשתים‬
‫ואת כפתרים‬, ‘the Casluhites from whom the Philistines came and the
Caphtorites’ (1 Chron. 1:12)24 and ‫פלג כי בימיו נפלגה הארץ‬, ‘Peleg, because
in his days the land was divided’ ( 1 Chron. 1:19). To be sure, in these
three instances, Chronicles follows its source texts literally (Gen. 10:8,
14, 25 respectively), but as the case of ‫ קטורה פילגש אברהם‬in 1 Chron.
1:32 demonstrates, that does not have to be case (cf. Gen. 25:1), and see
also, inter alia, 1 Chron. 7:24. In sum, from the perspective of the literati,
the Chronicler could have chosen to include additional information
about ‘Adam, Seth, Enosh, Kenan, Mahalalel, Jared, Enoch, Methuselah,
Lamech, Noah’ but did not.
It is clear then that the list of the ten antediluvian patriarchs shaped
and communicated a sense that much of the community’s knowledge
about these figures (see Genesis) could be bracketed out. This includes
the interplay between the lineages of Seth and Cain (see Gen. 4:17-24)25

‘and’ before Japhet). In any event, 1 Chron. 1:5-23 informed the readers that there
are actually two groups of characters, one consisting of ten and another of three
individuals and their descendants. On the text of 1 Chron. 1:4, and from different
perspectives, see, e.g., Braun 2006 [1984]: 14; Klein 2006: 53; Knoppers 2003: 267;
Boda 2010: 34, and relevant bibliography.
23. This translation follows Boda 2010: 32.
24. The text is often emended to ‘Casluhites, Caphtorites, from whom the
Philistines came’, because of Jer. 47:4; Amos 9:7 (cf. Deut. 2:23). This issue has no
bearing on the matters discussed here.
25. See e.g., Sasson 1978.
236 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

and the potential messages that such interplay communicated, including

negotiations involving porousness of boundaries, fuzziness and the like,
but much more than that. It includes cosmogony, the story of Eden,
the origins of life-as-is, that is, outside Eden, the first murder, Enoch’s
relationship with YHWH, a main story of human violence and sin,
YHWH’s regret of creation and the flood. All of them were considered
not worthy of explicit mention, despite that at least some of them would
have provided Chronicles with outstanding didactic examples for some
of the ideological motifs addressed in the book. Thus, for instance, the
story of Adam and Eve could have provided Chronicles with an excellent
example for sin and punishment, and for testing and resilience. The flood
story could have also served as an excellent didactic example for sin,
punishment and new beginnings. The ejection from Eden could have
provided a type for exile, with Eden standing for Jerusalem or its temple.26
Significantly, these images and memories already existed among the
literati. There was a (potential) grammar of preference for including refer-
ences to these matters in Chronicles, but obviously, it was overcome by
another grammar whose preferences were grounded, for the Chronicler,
in weightier considerations.
For instance, it is well-known that pacing is an important narrative
tool that allows for controlling the story being narrated,27 whether within
a literary work or in socially accepted memories of a group about itself,
which are most often framed as narratives. A linear asyndetic genealogy
devoid of any comments is the best device available to speed up, as much
as possible, the literary tempo of the narrative, while still maintaining two
social/mnemonic conventions: (a) the ten generation scheme, which also
occurs in close textual proximity in the linear genealogy from Shem to
Abraham and is attested elsewhere in the discourse of the community,28
and (b) the allocation of the seventh position (in this case, Enoch) to
someone important, which again is well attested in the discourse of the

26. On Jerusalem and/as Eden within the discourse of the Yehudite literati, see,
e.g., Stordalen 2008.
27. Cf. Genette 1988: 33–7, and see, in relation to our particular field, Thomas
2011: 87–8.
28. Cf. the ten generations between Shem and Abraham, which is also covered
with a very high narrative tempo in 1 Chron. 1:24-27. See below. The motif of the
ten generations in Chronicles also appears in relation to Jesse (1 Chron. 2:10-12; cf.
Ruth 4:18-22) and Zadok (on the latter, see Klein 2006: 495). On the place ‘seven’ in
Chronicles, see, e.g., 1 Chron. 2:15. The importance of the seventh place was noticed
also later in Lev. Rab. 29:11. Needless to say, these conventions point at preferred,
but not mandatory patterns.
 Ben Zvi Chronicles’ Reshaping of Memories 237

community.29 In any event, in just ten words, the narrative manages to

cover the span of time between father Adam and Noah.
Fast pacing is not a goal in itself. It is a literary technique that draws
attention to certain matters and away from others, and in doing so, it
serves ideological and narrative goals. Fast pacing draws much attention
to the point at which it stops, which is thus construed as a salient discon-
tinuity point. In the case of the ten ancestors, such a point is achieved
immediately after the last of them, Noah. His children represent, from
the perspective of the literati and within their world of knowledge, the
beginning of a world in which humanity does not consist or can be
remembered as consisting essentially of one single father’s house(hold);
instead they stand for the beginning of the existing world of multiple
peoples, ‘nations’ and perceived ‘families of nations’. The discontinuity
between the world up to Noah and the one whose point of departure are
his children was marked in the world portrayed in Genesis by the flood,
which separates the antediluvian and the postdiluvian worlds.30
To be sure, the flood is not explicitly mentioned in 1 Chronicles 1,
or anywhere in Chronicles, but the demarcation between the first ten
ancestors, i.e., up until Noah, and humanity from the sons of Noah and
on is clear. This is the case not only because the genealogies stop being
linear, asyndetic and from a single father to a single son, but also because
the textual space allocated to multiple descendants and peoples emerging
out of the sons of Noah in 1 Chron. 1:4b–23 stands in sharp contrast with
that of the ten ancestors in 1 Chron. 1:1-4a. Of course, genealogies are
mainly a way to classify people and/or peoples. The monolithic world
construed and communicated by 1 Chron. 1:1-4a gives way to peoples in
1 Chron. 4b-23 and thus raises the need for a classification of them. But a
second linear, asyndetic list of ten ancestors appears in 1 Chron. 1:24-27,
to be followed again by the list of the children of the tenth ancestor (i.e.,
Abram who is Abraham) and their offspring.
The first ten ancestors lead to Noah, and the second ten to Abraham.
The fast-pacing list shapes an implied trajectory that moves from Adam
(the first male) to Noah and then via Shem (who now occupies the slot of
Adam) to Abram/Abraham (1 Chron. 1:27), who points to the beginning

29. Both conventions were present and at work in the world of Chronicles (see
above), in Genesis (see, e.g., Sasson 1978) and other works included in the repertoire
of the literati of the period. They were part and parcel, most likely, of a set of common
cultural conventions widely shared within the community.
30. A separation between ante- and postdiluvian times is explicitly and implicitly
marked already in the Sumerian King List and the motif has a very long history in
the ancient Near East.
238 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

of a path that eventually leads towards Israel and to Israel’s relationship

with YHWH – the explanatory note in 1 Chron. 1:27 ‘(Abram) who is
Abraham’ (cf. Gen. 17:5) hints at and activates the memory of the divine
promise to Abraham. Thus a central trajectory drawing attention to itself
shapes a sense of ‘launching and re-launching’ the world, and links Adam,
Noah and Abraham.31
Needless to say, the mentioned trajectory carries a strong ideological
message to the literati about their place in the world they imagined. In
addition, and in a complementary manner, a strong message about social
memory priorities is conveyed. First, the trajectory leading to Abraham is
to be remembered as a central issue, not only standing on its own, but also
standing for its world structuring (and periodization) role. Further, the
simple single father to single son formation, with no references to other
matters, shapes the message that the most essential role of this trajectory
was to lead to Abraham (and Israel), and that this principle should be
guiding in terms of social memory.
As important as readers were to find the details of the story of Adam
and Eve or Cain and Abel, or the flood and the like, it becomes clear that
the ‘historical’ essential role of the twenty ancestors was to beget another
one, so that eventually Abraham (and Israel) would emerge. Likewise,
characters that do not contribute to this line (e.g., Abel) are at the very
end, not ‘historically’ crucial and may be bracketed out in the narrative. To
be sure, to convey this message (and to keep the distinctive character of
the two lists of ten ancestors), the text had to avoid mentioning these past
events and characters whose actions and deeds were not considered of
ultimate importance. The result is, of course, that the construction of the
ancestral past remembered by the literati who read both Chronicles and
Genesis would have been different than the one advanced by the literati,
if they would have had and read only Genesis.
In fact, Chronicles in this section communicates a much-heightened
sense of retro-causality as a guiding grammatical principle for constructing
social memories in comparison to Genesis. In this section of Chronicles,
(a) a great descendant at some point in the lineage grants honour and
remembrance to a much earlier ancestor, (b) when an individual dies
without having progeny or a group disappears from the (construed)
‘historical scene’, the act erases/brackets out the remembrance of all
previous generations of that group or person, unless another branch that

31. Significantly, and especially given the hints at divine promises, the trajectory
to David is not marked this way in the genealogies. The matter requires a separate
discussion that goes well beyond the scope of this contribution.
 Ben Zvi Chronicles’ Reshaping of Memories 239

evolved out of the mentioned group or person continues to exist,32 and

(c) lateral branches (e.g., the children of Keturah, or Edomite kings)
are remembered regardless of their deeds – which in any case are often
considered not worth remembering – due to their connection to an earlier
ancestor, whose memory carried a very substantial social mindshare
among members of the group, because of a later great descendant.
These principles are reflected and embodied well in various geneal-
ogies and particularly in branched or horizontal genealogies. Although
these principles are at work in the genealogical sections of both Genesis
and Chronicles, they are far more prominent in the latter, in part because
Chronicles does not include the narratives found in Genesis. In this
context, it is worthwhile to note that the ideological worldview commu-
nicated by these principles took precedence in this section of Chronicles
over the potential to explore some of the narratives in Genesis for didactic
purposes. This precedence, in this section, was possible (or at the very
least strongly facilitated) by the fact that Chronicles as a book includes
more than genealogies. To be sure, the readers of Chronicles were asked
to notice who is worthy of being included and thus remembered in the
genealogical lists, but they were also asked to remember and consider
multiple cases in which there was a coherence between deeds and rewards
or punishment as well as multiple cases in which there was no such
coherence, thus exploring in an extensive and balanced way33 some of the
issues that the narratives about the earlier ancestors in Genesis (but not in
Chronicles) raised.

An Observation on the Generation of Discontinuity and Change against

the Background of a Continuous World
Genealogies are, in part, a rhetorical strategy to use seemingly biological
images and languages to communicate social structures. A father fathers a
son, who in turn fathers another and so on. Images and language, however,
carry some ‘baggage’ and thus raise questions. The most common image
of biological reproduction in ancient Israel and the ancient Near East in
general involved one (main?) ‘seed’ provided by the male and inserted
into a fertile womb for incubation and the like.34 In any event, within this

32. Cf. the worldview implied in e.g., Ps. 83:5 and passim in the HB.
33. I have discussed this feature of Chronicles in several publications. See Ben
Zvi 2006: 21–6 and passim, and 2019.
34. In other words, and as per a widely attested and influential viewpoint, the role
of the woman in biological reproduction was construed as akin to that of the field, and
that of the man to the bull/farmer who ploughs/penetrates the field and thus leaves
the seed in a fertile receptacle. Cf. Biggs 2000; Leick 2003: 91; Stol 2000: 5–7. For
240 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

social, gendered discourse, it was the male seed that usually provided the
main socially acknowledged classification (and potential) of the person,35
e.g., kings in Judah/Israel had to be (‘literally’) from the ‘seed’ of David;
priests from that of Aaron and so on. In other words, within this discourse
something essential about the male to be born was in a ‘nutshell’ in that
seed and his vital and most characterizing attributes were at least, at the
potential level, present and communicated by that seed.36
Since within this discourse women do not produce seeds – or if they
do their seeds do not affect the ‘essential’ character of the male seed (see
above) – the seed carried within a male lineage cannot mix with any other
seed, and thus remains stable generation after generation. In other words,

the antiquity of this view, see Cooper 1986: 34. See also Levine 2002; cf. Num. 5:28.
This said, there might be some evidence for female seed in ancient Mesopotamia (see,
e.g., Stol 2000: 8, 200). There is also potential evidence for a notion of a female seed
in ancient Israel. MT Lev. 12:2 (but not the Samaritan or the LXX versions) may be
understood as a reference to the production of a female seed. See, e.g., the discussion
in Milgrom 1991: 743–4, and Stol 2000: 7–8, but as Milgrom acknowledges and
elaborates, the text does not require such an interpretation. Milgrom tends, however,
to accept the idea that ‘the probability rests with the literal translation, “produces
seed” ’ (743), but partially on the basis of rabbinic time ideas about the female
production of seed. To be sure, later rabbinical sources attest to the idea of a female
seed (e.g., b. B. Qam. 92a; b. Nid. 31a) and even contain a claim that if the woman
releases her seed before the man does, the result will be a son (see b. Ber. 60a), and
it is clear that the rabbis read Lev. 12:2 as referring to the release of the female seed
(see b. Ber. 60a). On all these matters, see also Grohmann 2010.
35. As even the most cursory transcultural, historical analysis shows, the concept
that the male seed carries as it were an ‘essence’ that effects nobility (including,
often, nobility of character), rights, ability to perform particular tasks and the like has
informed multiple, and probably even most human societies across time and space. It
is a key feature of most patriarchal discourses through history.
36. For heuristic purposes one may compare this construction of social cohesion
and identity through seed with later constructions of ‘blood’, as carrying/embodying
seemingly essential features that characterize an inner-group and sets it apart from
others. For the concept in the Greek world, see, e.g., ‘there is the fact of our Greek
identity, our sharing the same blood and the same language, and having temples of the
gods and sacrifices in common…’, Herodotus, Hist. 8.144; cf. Aristagoras’s speech to
Cleomenes, ‘rescue the Ionians – men with whom you share the same blood – from
slavery!’ (Hist. 5.49); cf. the reference to the Lesbians enslaved by their kinfolk in
Hist. 1.151. See Baragwanath 2008: 161–202 (cited texts translations from pp. 162
and 168). (Of course, there is a long history of the use of ‘blood’ for such purposes,
and at times, with very tragic results, as easily demonstrated by relatively recent
history, and the same holds true for prescribed social organization forms based on an
essentialist notion of ‘seed’ or ‘birth’.)
 Ben Zvi Chronicles’ Reshaping of Memories 241

the male lineage was construed as physically carrying and embodying the
same ‘seed’ of their crucial ancestor. For instance, within this discourse,
the seed of David was carried by his descendants, and so is the seed of
Abraham, and so is the seed of Aaron.37
The internal logic of this way of understanding social/biological
reproduction leads to a system of social classification based on the charac-
terization of differences as innate, essentialist and essentializing. No one
could be a Davide, unless born a Davide; no one could be an Aaronide
except the children of Aaron.38
This approach supported and legitimized a construction of a social
world whose ‘order’ was construed as not only stable, but static, and
in which continuity was (supposed to be) omnipresent. But then the
question arises, how did this discourse address new beginnings and points
of discontinuity? How could this ideological, conceptual frame explain
key points of ‘discontinuity’ within lineages that were crucial within the
memory-scape and ideological discourse of the community and which
served as new beginnings? How, for instance, out of the seed of Adam,
could that of Abraham emerge, and out of the latter, particular seeds such
as those of ‘Israel’, ‘David’ and ‘Aaron’ and so on?
Within the imaginative (and socially legitimizing), seemingly biological
framework, there had to be room for the addition of some new ‘essential
features’ to the male seed at crucial points. Given their general discourses
of the ancient near East, such additional features to the seed were the
result of divine choice/selection/adoption, which affected and enhanced
one male and thus all his progeny afterwards.
Reading Genesis (and, e.g., Samuel) meant that narratives about
these past instances of divine choice and essential change were recalled
and activated among the literati. Despite the fact that Chronicles and
Genesis and the literati reading them at the time all partook in the same
basic discourse, the texts of Chronicles and Genesis differed and had to
differ in this respect in so far as they concern the early ancestral figures.
Matters of genre, i.e., the genealogical character of the relevant section
in Chronicles, the type of genealogies used for the ancestral figures and

37. In an ironic inversion, one may compare their discourse with our current,
biological knowledge about mitochondrial DNA. Since mitochondria are inherited
only from mothers, one entire maternal line is supposed to have the same mtDNA.
38. Of course, ‘prescribed reality’ may be and often is substantially different from
‘reality’. In addition, all these societies accepted the concept of ‘adoption’ and dealt
with it at the conceptual level in various ways. Significantly, this holds as true of the
ancient Near Eastern societies as of much later societies, cf. Luhmann 2013: 56–7
and passim.
242 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

the related pacing mentioned above, all contributed to the shaping of a

different emphases on what could or had to be made explicit in Chronicles.
In any event, the very same literati who read Chronicles also read
Genesis, and their comprehensive social memory was informed by their
readings of both texts (and others, of course). In fact, it is precisely because
the readers of Chronicles had some idea about who Adam was, and why
Noah is important or the like that they could ‘fill in the gaps’ to make
1 Chron. 1:1-4 pragmatically intelligible and thus allow for the fast pacing
mentioned above. Incidentally, the same holds true for the omission of
important explicit narratives about pre-David Israel. Chronicles could be
a segmented history with no reference, for instance, to Moses and torah in
Sinai, precisely because its readers could easily fill in the gap. Otherwise,
its own references elsewhere to Moses and torah (e.g. 2 Chron. 23:18;
25:4; 30:16; 34:14) would have been unintelligible.39
In other words, the fact that the literati reading Chronicles were
aware of Genesis and that references to the relevant names in Chronicles
activated their knowledge of them was a necessary pre-condition for the
development of this section of Chronicles in the form that it emerged.
Moreover, at times, even within the constraints in which the literati
imagined their Chronicler working, they noticed that their (construed/
implied) author still managed to hint via textually inscribed markers at the
transforming event in ancestral times that begins the ‘story of Israel’ and
‘Abram who is Abraham’ in 1 Chron. 1:27 (cf. Gen. 17:5) that within their
world of knowledge signals at and activates the memory of the divine
promise to Abraham (see above).

Observations on Father Adam in the Context of Overall Historical

Narratives
Father Adam was remembered as the ‘universal man’; his seed encom-
passed all humanity. The fact that the literati partook in a long tradition
about the shared origin of human beings is not surprising, for this was a
very common concept in the ancient Near East.
Moreover, within the world of the literati, Adam had to be the first
man. This was a non-malleable fact agreed upon by the community, about
which there could not have been any dispute. But socially agreed upon
‘facts’ tend to appear in narratives, and the way in which they are inter-
woven in these narratives provides much of the ‘significance’ assigned to
the ‘shared fact’.

39. The full interplay between the implicit, explicit and just hinted at in
Chronicles or Genesis, or the general repertoire of the community requires a separate
essay. I discussed the concept of Chronicles as a segmented history in Ben Zvi 2016.
 Ben Zvi Chronicles’ Reshaping of Memories 243

The narrative in Genesis that begins with the universal world and
the universal man concludes with the death of Joseph in Egypt and the
promise of return. If we think in terms of the Pentateuch rather than
of Genesis alone, the narrative would conclude then with the death of
Moses and the promise of the land.40 In Chronicles, however, the book
that opens directly with the ‘universal man’ concludes with Cyrus, the
one to whom ‘all the kingdoms of the earth’ were given by YHWH,
that is, the ‘universal K/king’. Significantly, from the perspective of the
literati, Cyrus, the universal human king, is to be remembered above all
as the individual who was charged by YHWH, the universal King (and
King of Judah/Israel, see 1 Chron. 17:14), to rebuild YHWH’s Temple in
Jerusalem, which is in Judah (2 Chron. 36:23). For them, remembering
both the universal man and the universal human king meant exploring
how and why remembering the ‘universal’, including the universal King,
leads to remembering Judah/Israel and the Jerusalemite Temple, and the
promise of restoration.41 It might be argued that perhaps, on some level,
the end of the Pentateuch is not so far on this matter from Chronicles,
even if implicitly. But even if this were the case, there would still be a
difference, and this difference retroactively informs the way in which
Adam was construed and remembered by the readership of Chronicles.
To be sure, this shift from an original ‘universal’ background towards
Israel in a ‘national’ history is only to be expected, even if the opening and
conclusion of Chronicles provide the readers with some flavor of ‘world
history’. The reason is that ancient and not so ancient ‘national’ histories
(and genealogies) are often projects that aim at and reinforce a particular
sense of group social identity and self-understanding via a social memory
narrative.
This said, it is still important to note that in Chronicles, including the
genealogies, the nations do not stand and draw attention to themselves
only for the sake of Israel, and that conversely, Israel’s Temple, which
stands at the center of Chronicles’ world, does not stand only for the sake
of Israel (see 2 Chron. 6:32-33; and cf. 2 Kgs 8:41-43).

40. Of course, we may think also of the narrative concluding with the end of
2 Kings. See Wilson 2014 for a study of the ending of the Primary History in general
and particularly in comparison to that of Chronicles and the significance of their
similarities and differences.
41. When Chronicles is read within its Sitz im Diskurs, this promise of restoration
may be understood, though not necessarily so or only so, as leading not only to a
rebuilt temple, but to YHWH’s utopian world empire, with its center in Jerusalem.
Cf. the book of Isaiah in which the shift from the Davide to Cyrus is to be followed
by the utopian world empire. Cf. Willi 2001.
244 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

Balancing Trends within one Memory-Scape

Of course, more examples can be brought to bear, but those discussed here
suggest a general tendency governing the re-shaping of memories of the
ancestors, big and small, in Chronicles. Chronicles neither stood against
nor attempted to displace the memories evoked by Genesis and which
were part of the world of knowledge of the literati who read and reread
Chronicles. To put it simply, a book attempting to do so would not have
emerged among these literati.
Instead Chronicles co-opted, partially reconfigured and partially
re-signified memories about the early ancestors evoked by reading
Genesis, and thus, to the extent that Chronicles could influence the
general discourse of the literati,42 it impacted not only how and why these
ancestors were to be remembered, but also to an extent how Genesis was
read. Reading Genesis, in a way strongly informed by Chronicles, for
instance, leaves no doubt that Keturah was Abraham’s pilegeš, not his
wife. Likewise, reading Genesis wearing the ‘lenses’ of Chronicles draws
attention to a seeming tension between the divine renaming of Jacob and
the continuous use of this name after the renaming, and so on.
Conversely, Genesis also informed readings of Chronicles and provided
context to them, and memories of the ancestors in Genesis informed the
memories of them evoked by reading Chronicles within the very same
social circle of Jerusalem-centered literati. This goes beyond ‘simply’
filling in the gaps. For instance, reading Chronicles in a way informed
by Genesis and by Genesis in the context of the Pentateuchal collection
could not help but draw attention to the ‘strange’ case of the renaming
of Jacob/Israel, or complement the memory trajectories that begin with
Adam. After all, even in Chronicles, the temple in Jerusalem is grounded
in YHWH’s torah and not vice versa.
Further, a memorized list of fathers, in which the only feature connect-
ing them is that each was the father of the other and which brackets
out as less important whatever else each may have done, served as an
embodiment of the message that the continuation of the male line was
the foremost contribution they could have made, and as such the most
worthy of being remembered (and celebrated). It meant also embodying
and communicating a sense of teleological retro-causality; that is, the
line that continues is the one most worth remembering. But as expected
in any ‘national history’, segmented or not, the main character whose

42. One is to keep in mind that the Pentateuchal collection carried more social
mindshare than the book of Chronicles among the literati.
 Ben Zvi Chronicles’ Reshaping of Memories 245

continuity is to be reaffirmed is that of the ‘nation’ (not Seth, Noah or even

Abraham). From this perspective, what is very much worth remembering
for the community of literati is that beyond the vicissitudes of individual
characters and of its ‘history’ as a whole, there existed a line of continuity
spanning from the foundational first man to those who settled back after
the exile (1 Chron. 9), and then continuing to they themselves, i.e., the
very literati who read this book, and future Israel.43 Reading Chronicles
in this way was actually an act of constructing and remembering a story
of the past that embodied the promises to Israel’s ancestors portrayed in
Genesis; and vice versa, such a reading could not but impact the way in
which the same readers read Genesis.
Of course, the reading of texts among the literati served social functions.
One of the main social roles of reading past-shaping texts, such as Genesis
and Chronicles, was to construe and evoke a socially shared memory
among the readers. The literati read one text they evoked, recalled and
re-shaped memories evoked, recalled and re-shaped by the act of reading
the other and vice versa. Thus the memories construed and activated via
the literati’s reading of these texts not only informed one another, but
were part and parcel one comprehensive mnemonic system. This does
not mean, however, that there are no differences. For instance, when,
through reading and imagination, the literati vicariously encountered
and experienced44 the events associated with the ancestors in Genesis,
they developed memorable memories, and when reading Chronicles they
thought about their significance in terms of the larger scheme advanced by
the Chronicler, with whom they also identified. Conversely, when reading
Chronicles, they could not but activate their memories of characters such

43. This is consistent and complementary with an important ideological aspect

of Chronicles’ utopianism, if one may call it that: namely, that of Israel’s long-term,
continuous existence in Judah/Jerusalem, despite sin, punishment and the like.
44. Empathy plays an important, transcultural role in reading texts. If one
understands empathy as ‘the ability to put oneself into the position of some other
person…and imagine the sensation of being in that situation’ or ‘visualizing what the
world looks like from another’s vantage point’, one has to assume that the readers
vicariously experience what the character in the story, as construed by the reader,
experiences. Not only that readers share vicariously that experience, but also share
the experience of having vicariously experienced it through their readings. Of course,
these readings shape memories.
The literature on empathy and reading/literature is quite large. See, e.g., Hammond
and Kim 2014 and literature cited there. The citations above are common definitions
of empathy; see Hammond and Kim 2014: 7–8.
246 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

as Adam, Noah, Abraham and related figures not even mentioned in

Chronicles, such as Eve, Cain, Abel and so on. All in all, however, the
readings and memories informed and balanced each other.
To be sure much more may be said (and written) on these matters, but I
hope that the present contribution is sufficient to encourage further studies
on these issues. May it serve also as a proper token of my appreciation for
Thomas and as my birthday present to him. Happy 80th birthday, Thomas!

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M. A. Sweeney (eds), The Cambridge Companion to the Hebrew Bible-Old Testament,
292–313, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Ben Zvi, E. (2019), Social Memory among the Literati of Yehud, BZAW 509, Berlin: de
Gruyter.
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Tyndale House.
Braun, R. (2006 [1984]), 1 Chronicles, WCB 14, Dallas: Word Books.
Cooper, J. S. (1986), Presargonic Inscriptions, New Haven: American Oriental Society.
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Reading of Lev 12,2’, SJOT, 24: 39–52.
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Thought, BEATAJ 9, Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang.
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Press.
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Routledge.
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Helsinki: The Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project.
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Milgrom, J. (1991), Leviticus 1–16, Anchor Bible 3, New York: Doubleday.
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90: 171–85.
 Ben Zvi Chronicles’ Reshaping of Memories 247

Stol, M. (2000), Birth in Mesopotamia and the Bible: Its Mediterranean Setting,
Groningen: Styx.
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in K. Schmid and C. Riedweg (eds), Beyond Eden: The Biblical Story of Paradise
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Formula, LHBOTS 551, London/New York: T&T Clark.
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Weltherrschaft in den biblischen Chronikbüchern’, in C. Maier, R. Liwak and K.-P.
Jörns (eds), Exegese vor Ort: Festschrift für Peter Welten zum 65. Geburtstag,
389–409, Leipzig: Evangelische Verlanganstalt.
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 T he B ook of P r ov er b s and H e si od ’ s
W or k s a nd D ay s

Philippe Wajdenbaum

T. L. Thompson (1992, 1999, 2001) and N. P. Lemche (2001 [1993]) have

raised the possibility that the Hebrew Bible was produced in the Hellenistic
era. There is no physical evidence for the Hebrew Bible before the Dead
Sea Scrolls, and the spread of Hellenism in the Levant after Alexander’s
conquest provides the best context for its creation. Thompson’s vision has
elicited a paradigm shift in biblical studies, inspiring several scholars to
posit a direct influence upon the redaction of several Hebrew Bible books
of such Greek classical authors as Homer (Brodie 2001: 447–94; Louden
2011: 324; Kupitz 2014), Herodotus (Nielsen 1997; Wesselius 2002) and
Plato (Wajdenbaum 2011; Gmirkin 2017). The Copenhagen International
Seminar series has been a home for scholars defending this challenging
perspective. Some of these scholars’ opinions were gathered in a volume
which I had the pleasure to edit with T. L. Thompson (Thompson and
Wajdenbaum 2014a, reviewed by Lang [2015] and Tobolowski [2017]).
R. Gmirkin (2016; 2017: 264) has convincingly demonstrated that the
authors of the Hebrew Bible were inspired by Plato’s model for the
creation of a national literature in the Laws and emulated the various
Greek literary genres represented in Alexandria’s Library. Within this
perspective, I would like to discuss in the present contribution the possible
influence of Hesiod’s Works and Days upon the book of Proverbs.
The majority of scholars consider the book of Proverbs as composed
of various collections of sayings written over several centuries, and place
its final redaction during the late Persian period or the early Hellenistic
era (Toy 1899: xxx; Oesterley 1929: xxvi; Perdue 2000: xiii; Sandoval
2006: 42; Lucas 2015: 8). Proverbs has been compared to ancient Near
Eastern wisdom texts such as the Instructions of Shurrupak or the
Counsels of Wisdom (Kitchen 1977), and Prov. 22:17–24:22 appears to
 Wajdenbaum The Book of Proverbs and Hesiod’s Works and Days 249

be an adaptation of the Egyptian Teaching of Amenemope (Snell 1993:

3; Westerman 1995: 155; Overland 1996; West 1997: 94; Shupak 2005;
Laisney 2007: 245–6; Thompson 2007: 15; 2013 [1998]: 140; Lemche
2008: 241–2; see Ruffle [1977] and Whybray [1994: 134; 1995: 156] for
a differing opinion).
The kinship between Works and Days and Proverbs is thought to
derive from a common origin in the genre of ancient Near Eastern
wisdom teachings (Brown 1995: 292–303; West 1997: 325–33; Byrne
and Houlden 2003 [1995]: 11; Armitage 2016: 143; Powell 2017: 104).
Hesiod’s succession myth in Theogony seems derived from Hurrian and
Hittite traditions known as the Kingship in Heaven Cycle, witnessed
notably in the Song of Kumarbi (Walcot 1962b: 13; West 1997: 285–6;
Rutherford 2009: 10; Lazaridis 2016: 189). While an influence on Works
and Days from oriental wisdom texts or traditions is probable (Lazaridis
2016: 200), P. Walcot (1962a: 215; 1962b: 36; cf. Lazaridis 2007: 41 n.
135; Rutherford 2009: 18, 20) has argued that Hesiod’s works may have
in turn influenced later Egyptian wisdom texts, such as the Instruction of
Onchshechonqy.
Such a possible Hesiodic influence on oriental texts may have
extended to biblical texts as well. Genesis 1–11 shows an inspiration from
Mesopotamian myths, probably mediated through Berossus’s Babyloniaca,
written in Greek in the late fourth century BCE (Gmirkin 2006: 89–139).
However, it seems that Genesis’ author blended these Mesopotamian motifs
with elements borrowed from Hesiod’s works (Lemche 2016: 67–71). For
instance, the creation of Eve and the deceitful Serpent in Genesis 3 seem
derived from Hesiod’s story of Prometheus stealing the fire from Zeus
and offering it to men, after which the gods created the first woman,
Pandora (Theog. 507-616; Op. 42-105; cf. Taylor 2007: 31; Louden
2011: 232; Wajdenbaum 2011: 99–101; Gnuse 2017: 136–7). The name
of Japheth as the ancestor of the Greeks in Gen. 10:2-5 seems evidence
of direct knowledge of Hesiod’s Titan Iapetos (Wajdenbaum 2011: 75;
Louden 2013; Thompson and Wajdenbaum 2014b: 15). P. Guillaume
(2014) has compared Hesiod’s age of the Heroes with the biblical period
of the Judges. Nebuchadnezzar’s dream of successive kingdoms in Dan.
2:31-45 and Hesiod’s myth of the five ages (Op. 109-201) are both struc-
tured on the motif of metals of declining value (Feldman 1966: 16–17;
Brown 1995: 302; West 1997: 313). P. Niskanen (2004: 30) argues that
since Daniel was written in the second century BCE, its author might
have directly drawn this theme from Hesiod. Therefore, if Hesiod’s works
were possibly used for Genesis, Judges and Daniel, we might contemplate
Hesiod’s influence upon Proverbs. Moreover, Genesis’ apparent blending
250 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

of Mesopotamian and Greek literary traditions would present an analogy

to Proverbs’ possible use of both the Egyptian Amenemope and the Greek
Works and Days.
The majority of the biblical Proverbs are ascribed to Solomon (Prov.
1:1; 10:1), some of which are said to have been collected by the people of
Hezekiah (25:1). In the MT, ch. 30 is said to be the sentences of Agur, and
ch. 31 those of Lemuel. The other biblical texts traditionally attributed to
Solomon are dated by most scholars to the Hellenistic era and are thought
to reflect influences from Greek literature. Song of Songs seems to imitate
the works of Alexandrian poets Theocritus and Callimachus (Hagedorn
2003; Burton 2005; Loprieno 2005). Ecclesiastes’ Hellenistic dating is
widely accepted (Crenshaw 1987: 44; Whybray 1977 [1989]: 19–12;
Collins 1998: 14; Bartholomew 2009: 39, 46), and H. Ranston (1918) has
convincingly demonstrated that Ecclesiastes borrowed from the collection
of Sentences attributed to sixth century BCE elegiac poet Theognis, which
presents significant parallels with Proverbs too.
Parallels with Works and Days are found in all parts of Proverbs,
regardless of the traditional divisions of the book into various units. In
the next sections, similarities of vocabulary between Hesiod and the
Septuagint text of Proverbs will be signalled, even though the latter greatly
differs from the original Hebrew. These common terms might be due to
the Septuagint translators, who were probably versed in Greek literature,
having noticed semantic similarities between the Hebrew text of Proverbs
and Works and Days, and therefore incorporating Hesiodic vocabulary
into their Greek adaptation. Still, I would argue that the original Hebrew
text itself may have been influenced by Hesiod.
For Prov. 1:7, the fear of the Lord is the foundation of knowledge.
Hesiod reproaches those who do not fear the anger of the gods (Op.
251; cf. Louden 2011: 247). Proverbs 1:18-19 (cf. 26:27) and Op. 265
share the idea that plotting or causing evil towards another is like hurting
oneself (Plaut 1961: 272). The metaphor of the path is encountered in
both Proverbs and Hesiod. Proverbs 2:8 speaks of guarding the ways of
righteous deeds (LXX ὁδοὺς δικαιωμάτων) and Hesiod says that the better
path (ὁδὸς) is the one leading to justice (δίκαια, Op. 217). Proverbs 2:20
evokes the smooth (LXX λείους, an addition in the Greek text of Proverbs
[Cook 1997: 143–4]) paths of righteousness. Hesiod writes that the road
to badness is smooth (λείη μὲν ὁδός, Op. 287). Proverbs 3:17 speaks of
the paths of wisdom that are pleasant and peaceful. Proverbs 15:19 distin-
guishes between the path of the lazy, which is overgrown with thorns, and
the path of the upright, which is a level highway. For Hesiod, the path
 Wajdenbaum The Book of Proverbs and Hesiod’s Works and Days 251

leading to goodness is long and steep, and rough at first, but becomes easy
when one has reached the top (Op. 289-94).
Proverbs 3:9-10 suggests to honour the Lord by offering the first
fruits, so that one’s barns will be filled (LXX πίμπληται) with plenty
(πλησμονῆς). Hesiod instructs Perses to remember working, so that
Hunger may hate him, and that Demeter may fill (πιμπλῇσι) his barn with
food. If he works properly, in the right season, Perses’s barns will be full
(πλήθωσι, Op. 298-307) of victuals. Proverbs 3:27-8 orders not to delay
the giving of what is due, and Hesiod says to let a wage promised to a
friend be fixed (Op. 370).
Proverbs 5:3-6, 6:23-6 warns against seduction by the foreign woman,
whose lips drip of honey. Her speech is smooth but leads to Sheol. Hesiod
warns his brother not to let a flaunting woman deceive him, for she is
after his barn (Op. 372-4; West 1997: 326). Proverbs 6:29 warns not to
sleep with one’s neighbour’s wife, an act that will be punished. Hesiod
enumerates a list of wrong-doings (Op. 327-34) including sleeping with
one’s brother’s wife, which will be punished by Zeus (West 1997: 325 n.
135; Tan [2008: 36)] finds this parallel loose). While Prov. 5:20 warns
against adultery with a foreign woman, Hesiod teaches to marry a woman
that lives near (Op. 699-701).
Both texts speak of the ant (whom Hesiod calls ‘the industrious one’),
who gathers (ἀμήτῳ, LXX Prov. 6:8; ἀμᾶται, Op. 778) her food. Proverbs
specifies that the ant gathers her food during summer and warns against
idleness which leads to poverty and hunger, which recalls Aesop’s fable of
the Ant and the Grasshopper (Niditch 2015: 50). LXX Prov. 6:8a-c adds
a praise of the bee, not found in the MT (Cook 1997: 154; Forti 2008:
106). According to J. Cook (1997: 166–8, 172, 318–19), the translator
of Proverbs directly borrowed this motif from Aristotle’s History of the
Animals, where the ant and the bee are discussed in the same order (622b).
Both texts call the bee industrious (ἐργάτις, LXX Prov. 6:8a; ἐργάτιδες,
Hist. An. 627a).
Proverbs 6:9-11 (cf. 24:33-34) states that with a little sleep, one will
be surprised by poverty. Hesiod counsels his foolish brother to work,
otherwise he will have to beg from his neighbours (Op. 397-404).
Proverbs 6:11 personifies Poverty (LXX πενία) and Want, whereas Hesiod
personifies Helplessness and Poverty (πενίῃ, Op. 496; West 1997: 327).
LXX Prov. 6:11a states that if one is diligent (ἄοκνος), harvest shall arrive
as a fountain. Hesiod writes that the industrious (ἄοκνος, Op. 495) man
will greatly prosper in his house. MT Prov. 10:5 says that a son who
gathers during summer is prudent, but a son who sleeps during harvest
brings shame. LXX Prov. 10:5 says that the intelligent son is rescued
252 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

from the heat (καύματος) of the day, and a transgressing son is blasted by
the wind during harvest time (ἐν ἀμήτῳ). Hesiod tells his brother to avoid
sleeping until dawn during the harvest season (ἐν ἀμήτου), but rather to
be busy gathering fruits and getting up early (Op. 574-7). Hesiod further
speaks of the burning heat (καύματος, Op. 588) of summer.
Proverbs 6:19 (cf. 12:17; 14:5, 25; 19:5, 9, 28; 21:28; 24:28; 25:18)
condemns the unjust witness (LXX μάρτυς ἄδικος) who kindles falsehood
(ψεύδη), like Hesiod condemns he who lies (ψεύσεται) in his witness
(μαρτυρίῃσι, Op. 282-85). Proverbs 10:20 asserts that the tongue (LXX
γλῶσσα) of the righteous is choice silver; and in 13:3, those who guard
their mouths preserve their lives. Hesiod writes that the best treasure a
man can have is a sparing tongue (γλώσσης, Op. 720). Both Prov. 11:10-11
and Hesiod (Op. 225-42) state that a city prospers because of righteous
men and may be overthrown by the faults of the wicked (cf. Theognis 43;
Brown 1995: 293). For Prov. 11:24-6, those who give freely grow richer,
and those who withhold what is due suffer want. The one who holds back
grain is cursed, but blessed is he who sells it. For Hesiod, one should
give to the one who gives, as they give to the free-handed, and not to the
close-fisted. The man who gives willingly rejoices in his gift and is glad
in his heart, but the one who takes something himself freezes his heart
(Op. 354-63).
Proverbs 12:4 claims that a good wife is the crown of her husband, but
she who brings shame is like the rottenness in his bones (MT) or like a
worm eating up wood (LXX). Hesiod also uses an antithesis in writing
that a man wins nothing better than a good wife and nothing worse than a
bad one, a greedy soul who roasts her man without fire and brings him to a
raw old age (Op. 702-6). MT Prov. 12:27 claims that the lazy do not roast
their game, but the diligent obtain precious wealth. In 13:4, the appetite
of the lazy (LXX ἀεργός) craves and gets nothing, while the appetite
of the diligent is richly supplied. Hesiod tells Perses that Hunger is the
comrade of the sluggard (ἀεργὸς, Op. 302-306). Gods and men are angry
with the idle man, who is like a stingless drone who wastes the labours of
the bees, eating without working. Further, Hesiod writes that the sluggish
worker does not fill his barn, while industry makes work go well (Op.
409-413). MT Prov. 13:10 affirms that wisdom is with those who take
advice, and Hesiod declares that he is good who listens to an adviser. The
one who does not think for himself nor keeps in mind what another tells
him is an unprofitable man (Op. 295-298). Proverbs 13:11 suggests that
wealth hastily gained will dwindle, but those who gather little by little will
increase it. Hesiod writes that if one adds little to a little, soon that little
will become great (Op. 361-362; cf. West 1997: 326).
 Wajdenbaum The Book of Proverbs and Hesiod’s Works and Days 253

Proverbs 17:5 warns against mocking the poor, which is like insulting
the Creator. Hesiod cautions never to taunt a man with deadly poverty,
for it is sent by the deathless gods (Op. 717-19; cf. Theognis 155-58;
Brown 1995; West 1997: 327). Proverbs 17:23 reproaches the wicked
who accept a concealed bribe to pervert the way of justice. Hesiod writes
that there is a noise when Justice is dragged by those who devour bribes
and give crooked judgments (Op. 220-221, 263-264; cf. Hagedorn 2004:
124–5). Proverbs 19:15 declares that an idle person (LXX ἀεργοῦ) will
suffer hunger. One should not love sleep, or else will come poverty. With
open eyes, one will have plenty of bread (20:13). Hesiod enjoins Perses
to remember working, so that Hunger may hate him, for Hunger is the
comrade of the sluggard (ἀεργῷ, Op. 299-301).
Proverbs 19:26 claims that one who wastes his father and chases away
his mother is a son who causes shame and brings reproach. Hesiod writes
that he who abuses his old father at the threshold of old age and attacks
him with harsh words makes Zeus angry, and the latter will lay heavy
requital on him for his evil doing (Op. 331-334). MT Prov. 20:4 states that
the lazy person does not plough because of winter; when harvest comes,
there is nothing to be found. Hesiod tells his brother that if he ploughs
the ground at the winter solstice, that is, too late, he will reap sitting,
grasping a thin crop in his hand, so that he will bring all home in a basket
(Op. 479-482). Proverbs 27:10 tells not to forsake a friend, and not to go
the house of one’s brother on a day of calamity for ‘Better is a neighbour
who is nearby (LXX ἐγγὺς) than a brother who is far away’. Hesiod
counsels Perses to call his friend to a feast, and especially the one who
lives near (ἐγγύθι) him, for if any mischief happens, neighbours come
without girting themselves, whereas kinsmen need to girt themselves (Op.
342-346; cf. West 1997: 325).
LXX Prov. 27:16 mentions the North Wind (βορέας…ἄνεμος), like
Hesiod does (ἀνέμου βορέου, Op. 517, cf. 506, 546, 551). LXX Prov. 27:25
enjoins to gather fodder (χόρτον) from the hills, like Hesiod advises to
bring in fodder (χόρτον, Op. 606) and litter for oxen and mules. Proverbs
27:26 says that the lambs will provide clothing. Hesiod teaches Perses,
when comes the season of frost, to stitch together skins of firstling kids
with ox-sinew, to have his back covered from the rain (Op. 543-6). MT
Prov. 27:27 says that one should have the milk of goats as food, like
Hesiod advises his brother to drink milk drained from goats (Op. 590).
While these similarities might not be sufficient to assert the dependence
of Proverbs upon Hesiod, we may note that Proverbs also presents several
parallels with Theognis’s Sentences (Brown 1995: 293–303; West 1997:
518–21), a text which seems to have been the main source of Ecclesiastes
254 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

(Ranston 1918). Proverbs 5:15-18 and Theognis 959-62 both refer to

drinking from one’s own source of water as a metaphor for one’s wife’s
fidelity. Proverbs 11:17, 25 and Theognis 573-74 both enjoin to do good to
others, from which one will benefit. Both texts say that the rich has many
friends (φίλοι δὲ πλουσίων πολλοί, LXX Prov. 14:20; πλουτῆις πολλοὶ
φίλοι, Theognis 927-930), but not the poor. Proverbs 17:3 and Theognis
499-502 both speak of testing gold and silver as an analogy for testing
one’s heart. While Prov. 17:17 states that a friend loves at all times and
is like a brother in hardship, Theognis 97-99 writes that he wants a friend
who would support him like a brother. Both MT Prov. 19:7 and Theognis
857-60 claim that one will be abandoned by their friends when poverty
or hardship hits them. Proverbs 20:6 says that it is difficult to find (LXX
εὑρεῖν) a faithful (πιστὸν) man, much like Theognis 79-81 (cf. 645-46)
writes that he will not find (εὑρήσεις) faithful (πιστοὺς) companions. Both
Prov. 27:2 and Theognis 611-14 claim that it is better to be praised by
someone else than by oneself.
Although Proverbs and Ecclesiastes differ in content and purpose, they
may have, after all, been penned by the same author(s), who would have
distributed elements borrowed from various Greek and Near Eastern texts
into the biblical wisdom books. These authors probably worked at the
Great Library of Alexandria, and seem to have dismantled the works of
Hesiod by using his mythical narratives about the gods and early humans
in order to create the first chapters of Genesis on the one hand, and to
have incorporated his wisdom sentences from Works and Days in their
selection of sayings on the other hand. The new paradigm initiated by
Thompson and Lemche of the Hebrew Bible having being composed in
the Hellenistic era, as well as the recent studies it has fostered, invite us
to consider a possible direct Greek influence over the redaction of these
books.

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 T h e V i l l a i n ‘S a m ar i tan ’:
T h e S ā m i rī a s t h e O the r M ose s
i n Q u r ’ a n i c E x ege si s

Joshua Sabih

I will open my mouth in a parable; I will utter riddles concerning ancient

times. (Ps. 78:2)

Prelude:
The Qur’an as a Restorative Text-scripture
Is the Qur’an a historical document? Does the Qur’an claim to be a
historical document? The answer to both questions is no. The Qur’an, in its
canonised recension-vulgate (Ar. mushaf),1 testifies to its own historicity,
and as such it considers itself as a restorative text-scripture in relation
to the other text-scriptures preceding it. Although a new text-scripture,
according to this restorative approach, the Qur’an, while it perceives
itself as being in the same family as the Jewish and the Christian Bibles,
presents itself in this genealogy as an ‘orphan book’ (Khatibi 2009; Reeck
2017; Sabih 2015). From this vantage point, the Qur’an’s reading approach
begins from this premise: recognising Torah, Prophets, Psalms (zabūr) and
Gospel (ingīl) – in addition to other scriptures alluded to, through engaging
them – in their present recensions together with the conflicting percep-
tions of them – into this restorative reading approach. On the basis of
Halbertal’s definition of the restorative approach, I argue that the Qur’an’s
restorative reading approach ‘presents positions on all of the components
needed for a theoretical basis for a divine scripture – ‘revelation, interpre-
tation, truth, authority’ (Halbertal 2014: 102). In this context, the Qur’an’s
relationship with its cognate scriptural texts and their exegetical traditions

1. On the Qur’an’s two faces see Neuwirth (2010).

 Sabih The Villain ‘Samaritan’ 259

is articulated textually through the lens of Q [Link] ‘Any message which,

We (Allah) annul or consign to oblivion, We replace with a better or a
similar one. Do not you know that God has the power to will anything?’
Through notions of revelation, interpretation, truth and authority, the
Qur’an’s restorative approach follows a reading modality that stratifies
its palimpsestic relationship through the grids of intra-textuality. Biblical
material as a reference becomes, in the Qur’an-as-a-critical-reading, a site
of negotiation the strategy of which is for the Qur’anic message to position
itself in the chain of affiliation and filiation with the existing holy scrip-
tures as an ur-text (protected tablet and mother-book) and an orphan book
by which Khatibi means Mohammed’s prophecy as ‘the orphanage of the
lost book through which the Prophet sacrifices his signature. He gives it
as an offering to Allah’ (Khatibi 2009: 692). The Janus-faced nature of the
Qur’an as an open-closed text challenges both the view that the Qur’an
is self-sufficient and the opposite view that dismisses the Qur’an text as
non-relevant for Biblical Studies.
The dialectics between being a novelty in time and space and being a
restorative text-scripture is not a dialectics between an old scripture and
a new one but a dialectics within the ur-text, which is the quintessential
modus operandi of the Qur’an’s self-perception (1) as being articulated
by two separate voices: Allah, the addressor and Mohammed’s the
addressee and (2) whose restorative function is cathartic. It restores
the ur-text by purifying it from the Jewish and Christian accretions.
Although the Qur’an is replete with biblical materials and allusions it
subjects these to its own intra-textuality: at the end of the day, the Qur’an
cites itself as a meta-scripture, according to which the biblical material
is made to stand as an object of scrutiny. It is now up to the Qur’an to
decide whether the biblical material is conforming with the Ur-text or
not, not the other way around. By critical reading, I mean critique as mise
en crise of the biblical text. Equally interesting is Khatibi’s concept of
the ‘orphan book’, according to which God, as the One, is the founding
signature of Qur’an as an ‘orphan book’. The palimpsestic relations that
the Qur’an might entertain is restricted by the translational at the level
of its content (Sabih 2015). The Qur’an as a meta-scripture challenges
(Fr. mise en crise) the claim that the Bible is a historical document and
parent-origin by (1) re-defining the relationship between divine scripture
and history, and (2) cutting the umbilical cord of the biblical parent.
One of the features that the attentive reader of the Qur’anic text may
notice is that the Qur’an’s reception of biblical material – in particular
narratives of the biblical patriarchs – represents a ‘hermeneutical act in
which heavenly revelation, [of which the Qur’an is its Arabic articu-
lation], becomes a living reality’ (Hamel 1975: 275) Qur’anic narratives
260 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

are literary sites within which the reader experiences how the textually
oriented past shapes the present and is shaped by his/her own perception
intertwined with the present’s perceptions! Biblical material – including
biblical stories – as past is fashioned by the Qur’an’s mythological
language that resists any attempt to turn these stories into history by
blurring all forms of time markers and space fixations. These literary sites
operate through the grids of remembering/forgetting, inclusion/exclusion,
and the different modes of elision, abrogation and addition. One thing
that is certain is that the way the Qur’an remembers and relates story and
history expresses their modus vivendi for the sake of the authority of the
text as the word of God: a miracle. God’s enunciated word’s linguistic,
discursive and literary embodiment of a text-as-an exception does not
exclude its self-claimed teleology: restoring the credibility of scriptures
that has been tarnished by positive history. Instead memory is called upon
in Qur’anic narratives through the fictionalisation of hi-story. In dealing
with the Sāmirī figure in the Qur’anic Moses narrative, some scholars –
Muslims and non-Muslims – have been debating about the Qur’an and
history, or, to put it correctly, the truthfulness of the Qur’an’s claim to be
the Word of God.

Literary Identities of al-Sāmirī

In his English translation of and commentary on the Qur’an, Yusuf Ali

re-iterates the classical question that presupposes the Qur’an is a ‘historical
document’ or that the Qur’an answers historical questions: Who is this
Sāmirī that the Qur’an mentions in Q 20:83-97 (Ali 1934)? Who is this
figure that the Qur’an blames for creating a calf-god and introducing calf-
worship into the monotheistic religion of the Qur’anic Moses? Before
answering these questions, what we should remember here is that the
Sāmirī as a figure in the Qur’anic Moses narrative is an exclusive Qur’anic
literary figure, and that there is no such figure in the corresponding biblical
Moses narrative. At first glance, the Sāmirī figure appears as a Qur’anic
innovation/addition despite the fact that all encyclopaedic entries consider
him a historical figure identical with the biblical Samaritans/Samarians or
a stranger – non-Israelite – figure. In Encyclopaedia Judaica, Hirschberg
(2007: 738) seems to be so puzzled that he confesses that ‘in the Koran [sic]
al-Sāmirī is a strange figure… The name al-Sāmirī is difficult to explain
and usually is interpreted as an allusion to the Samaritans’. Despite the
lack of any historical evidence as to the connection between the Qur’anic
Sāmirī and the biblical Samaritans, Stenhouse does not hesitate to state,
in his entry on the Samaritans, that ‘the only unequivocal reference to the
 Sabih The Villain ‘Samaritan’ 261

Samaritans in the Qur’an is al-Sāmirī’ (Stenhouse 2004: 524). Although I

agree with Neuwirth that the Sāmirī’s story in Q 20:83-99 is ‘an edifying
narrative’, I find her claim that in the Sāmirī’s story ‘no blame, let alone
any lasting guilt, is laid upon the Israelites, since it is not the people but a
stranger, al-Sāmirī, who is charged with initiating the act of idolatry’ to be
baseless (Neuwirth 2014: 10).
Scholars and non-scholars still premise the ‘historicity’ of the Qur’anic
Sāmirī figure – or the lack of it – on the taken-for-granted belief that
the Bible is a historical document, including the accounts on the origin
of the Samaritans and their ‘non-Jewish’ ethnicity as well as the cult
of calf worship in the Northern Kingdom of Israel and its rejection of
Jerusalem’s political and religious dominance (2 Kgs 17:7-41; 1 Kgs
12:28-33). On the issues of origin and identity, it is clear that Scriptures
have construed the biblical Samaritan and the Qur’anic Sāmirī through
the lens of theology: ‘privileging of one sign or element above others is
fundamentally, or rather structurally theological’ (Anidjar 2008: 13–14).
Apologetic Muslim literature keeps claiming the historicity of the Sāmirī
figure by accusing the Bible’s redactors of taḥrīf (falsification). The
Sāmirī figure has been, however, construed, inter alia, in polemical liter-
ature – Jewish, Christian and Islamic – and Qur’an exegesis as a historical
figure. It is also construed as the patronym for the current religious and
ethnic group, the Samaritans in Israel/Palestine.2 If one should find a
plausible biblical reference for the origin of the Qur’anic Sāmirī I would
choose one of these two biblical figures: Shomer/Shamer son of Heber
son of Beria son of Asher son of Jacob/Israel (1 Chron. 7:30-34) or
Shimron son of Issachar son of Jacob/Israel and the Shomroni clan (Gen.
46:13; Num. 26:23-25).3 Biblical references for the Israelite origin of
the Qur’anic Sāmirī are not lacking, but Qur’an’s investment in the evil

2. Since the post-Qur’anic period Muslims have not ceased to believe that the
Sāmirī’s story in Q 20:83-97 applies to the Samaritans as we know them today.
They are still viewed through this ‘heretical heritage’, despite recognizing them as a
people of the book. Muslims, however, do agree with the Samaritan historiography
with regard to their Israelite ancestry when the Q 20:83-97 places them at the time
of Moses (pace 2 Kgs 17:7-41). Actually, Muslims have no problem considering
them authentic natives of Palestine. It looks as if Qur’anic exegesis about al-Sāmirī
(Q 20:83-97) and Islamic historiography accommodate both Jewish and Samaritan
narratives about the Samaritans.
3. It is worth mentioning that one may find in 1 Chron. 7:30-34 and Num.
26:23-25 two plausible biblical references to the Qur’anic Sāmirī: 1 Chron. 7:30-34:
‘30. The sons of Asher: Imnah, Ishvah, Ishvi and Beriah. Their sister was Serah. 31.
The sons of Beriah: Heber and Malkiel, who was the father of Birzaith. 32. Heber
262 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

agency of the Sāmirī – a Satan-like figure – transcends tribal politics in the

ur-text restorative modus operandi. The theological implications of such a
narrative have nothing to do with the historicity of the Sāmirī figure. This,
in my opinion, is the reason why the Qur’an mentions the calf-worship
incident in four places; one with the Sāmirī and three without. And as
we shall see later, the Sāmirī’s story should be read in relation to these
other Qur’anic places first and to the Qur’an restorative approach second.
I must confess, however, the perception that there is a correspondence
between the Jewish representations of Samaritans and the Qur’anic Sāmirī
has become the dominant interpretation of the Qur’anic Sāmirī figure.
In this article, I consider the Sāmirī’s story a hapax-narrative, i.e., a
micro-narrative that is mentioned only once in the Qur’an in general and
in the Qur’anic Moses narrative. It functions both as a literary element –
a micro-narrative – in the Qur’anic Moses narrative4 and as a discursive
output of Qur’anic iconoclastic theology and the prophet’s two bodies:
natural and political. The latter constitutes, together with the doctrine of
the ‘Oneness of God’, the foundation of Qur’anic political theology (Sabih
2019), in addition, of course, to the Qur’an’s restorative approach to the
aforementioned notions: revelation, interpretation, truth and authority.
By ‘literary identity’, I mean identities that are enunciated through the
lens of palimpsestic trans-textuality, the very premise of what Derrida
suggests: ‘there is no outside-text’. Literary identities as no-outside-text
do not bother erasing their literary and textual genealogy in the dynamic
process of engendering-engendered narrative form. The way Qur’anic
texts construe literary identities – including that of the Sāmirī – is
different from the way Qur’anic exegesis does.

was the father of Japhlet, Shomer and Hotham and of their sister Shua. 33. The sons
of Japhlet: Pasak, Bimhal and Ashvath. These were Japhlet’s sons. 34. The sons of
Shomer: Ahi, Rohgah, Hubbah and Aram’; Num. 26:23-25: ‘23. The descendants of
Issachar by their clans were: through Tola, the Tolaite clan; through Puah, the Puite
clan; through Jashub, the Jashubite clan; through Shimron, the Shimronite clan. These
were the clans of Issachar; those numbered were 64,300.’
Personally, I am not saying that the Qur’an passage for sure refers to one of these
two biblical patronyms. I simply use these two references as an argument against the
claim that there is no biblical text that confirms the existence of such a figure at the
time of Moses. The Qur’anic passage is about one single person/character – Sāmirī –
and not a whole tribe, or a stranger.
4. The Qur’anic Moses narrative consists of the following micro-narratives that
are textually included in thirteen Suras (chapters) which I list according to their
arrangement in the Qur’an: Q 2:47-71; Q 5:20-26; Q 7:103-156, 159-166; Q 10:75-
93; Q 17:4-7, 101-104; Q 20:9-97; Q 26:10-66; Q 27:7-14; Q 28:2-46; Q 40:23-46;
Q 43:46-55; Q 44:17-33; Q 79:15-25.
 Sabih The Villain ‘Samaritan’ 263

Unlike the good Samaritan figure in Jesus’ parable (Lk. 10:25-37), I

argue that the Qur’anic Sāmirī figure is a villain (Jn 8:48),5 and for the
reasons mentioned above, Qur’anic exegesis construes this figure as, inter
alia, the Other Moses. I consider the Sāmirī’s hapax-narrative an example
of how identities can be fashioned textually and articulated literarily.
Therefore, any ‘similarities’ or ‘differences’ between the Qur’anic Sāmirī
story in Qur’anic exegesis and the biblical – and extra-biblical – stories
about calf worship as well as the Samaritans are simply the result of
textual-literary-discursive reconstruction of the Samaritan trope on the
one hand, and a clear articulation of the Qur’an’s political theology –
iconoclastic theology and the prophet’s two bodies – on the other (Sabih
2019). The Samaritan trope, I should add, operates politically in the
economy of salvation in Jewish–Christian polemics: Jesus as the heretic
Samaritan (Jn 8:48) versus Christ Jesus as the ideal Samaritan (Lk.
10:25-37), whereas in Qur’anic exegesis, the Sāmirī functions literarily
as a narrative of iconoclasm theology: narrating and remembering as two
intertwined modes of Islam’s iconoclastic genealogy (Q 20:98-99).
The many figures of the ‘Samaritan’, their contradictory representa-
tions, together with the Samaritan trope in biblical Scriptures are enticed
by and through Qur’anic exegesis into a game of detection in order
to ‘unveil’ the identity of the Qur’anic Sāmirī. The novelty in Qur’an
exegesis is the story of the two Moses-figures: Mūsā ibn ʿimrān and Mūsā
ibn Ẓafar.

The Qur’anic Hapax-Narrative about the Sāmirī in Q 20:83-996

Methodologically, I deal with the Qur’anic Moses narrative as one single
narrative despite the fact that textually speaking it is made up of thirteen
micro-narratives, and each narrative is enunciated through webbed

5. As a matter of fact, the Gospels representations of the Samaritan (Luke and

John) is the product of the Jewish–Christian Schism rather than Samaritan–Jewish
schism and identity politics. The fact that Jesus’ parable about the good Samaritan
does not fit with the Qur’anic Sāmirī figure has nothing to do with who is Jewish and
who is not, but rather with a pre-Samaritan or non-Samaritan figure. As far as the
expression villain Samaritan is concerned, it is inspired by the title of Chang’s book:
Bad Samaritans: The Myth of Free Trade and the Secret History of Capitalism (2008)
6. As we know, the arrangement of the Suras in the codified Qur’an (Ar. muṣḥaf) is
different from the chronology of revelation (Ar. waḥy; tanzīl). Most modern scholars
follow the German scholar Theodor Nöldeke’s chronology and periodisation that
consists of four periods: three Meccan periods and one Medinan period. Both periods
cover Mohammed’s prophetic mission 610-632). According to Nöldeke’s chronology
264 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

textual relations: as narrative units these micro-narratives are integral

elements – textually and functionally – of its immediate text on the one
hand, and constitute a pre-formed literary material re-constructible into
other potential autonomous text-narratives on the other. The latter feature
is known as the stories of the prophets (qaṣaṣ al-ʾabiyāʾ) – a literary
genre that emerged within Qur’anic exegesis. So instead of considering
the Sāmirī’s hapax-narrative in Q 20:83-99 as an anomaly within the
Qur’anic Moses narrative, I consider it a cohesive literary element within
the Qur’anic Moses’ narrative. The interplay between these elements
can clearly be seen in the way the divine voice – the addresser – uses
and identifies the Sāmirī figure – a literary figure – as the creator of
a ‘living’ calf, the instigator of calf-worship, and like Moses he is in
possession of supernatural powers: magic and miracle working. In the
Qur’anic text the Sāmirī functions as the opponent to God’s authority and
Moses’ political and religious leadership,7 but in Qur’anic exegesis he
shares with Moses many biographical features. The encounter between
the Sāmirī and Moses reveals the nature of their literary and theological
agency. This is the reason why I propose that the extra-textual reading
(Qur’an/biblical material) should be read intra-textually. Restoratively
the intra-textual reading generates an ur-text and interprets the biblical
text according to what the Qur’an as an authority-text takes as the true
veridical meaning. This is why Q 20:83-99 should be read in the light
of Q 7:148-154 and vice versa. While Q 7:148-154 re-iterates Exodus
32, Q 20:83-99 interprets Q 7:148-154 intra-textually in a restored text.
Q 20:83-99 represents a sort of ‘embedded midrash’ or ‘embedded tafsīr’.
The Sāmirī’s8 hapax-narrative in Q 20:83-99 consists of three subunits:
prelude, story and conclusion:

the four Suras in which the calf-worship is mentioned would be arranged thus: (1) Q
20 (55), (2) Q 7 (87), (3) Q2 (91) and (4) Q 4 (100). Following al-Azhar’s chronology,
however, the arrangement of these four Suras would be different: (1) Q 7 (39), (2)
Q 20 (45), (3) Q 2 (87) and (4) Q 4 (92). As we know, the total number of Suras in
the Qur’an is 114. Since the discursive nature of Q 20:83-97 and Q 7:148-154 is not
juridical, but literary, the significance of order of revelation is zero (Reynolds 2011).
7. It is worth mentioning that in both the Jewish Bible (Old Testament) and
the Greek Christian Scriptures (New Testament) the Samaritan/Samarian trope has
engendered several contradictory literary representations: from the impostor Jew to
good Samaritan. Although the Qur’anic Sāmirī figure has one literary and theological
function, it has engendered several representations in Qur’anic exegesis.
8. In these three instances the term Sāmirī appears morphologically as what
looks like an active particle of the first form: samar, with a final yī (masculine: iyy;
feminine: iyyah) called yāʾ al-nisbah (a suffix yī as marker of adjectivization).
 Sabih The Villain ‘Samaritan’ 265

Prelude:
83. [When Moses was up on the Mount, God said:] ‘What made you hasten
in advance of your people O Moses?’ 84. He replied: ‘Behold, they are
close on my footsteps: I hastened to You. O my Lord, to please You.’ 85.
[God] said: ‘We have tested (Ar. fatannā) your people in your absence and
al-Sāmirī has led them astray (Ar. ʾaḍalla-hum).’

Story:
86. So, Moses returned to his people in a state of indignation (Ar. ġaḍbāna)
and disappointment (Ar. ʾāsifanan). He said: ‘O my people! Did not your
Lord make a handsome (Ar. ḥasanan) promise (Ar. waʿdan) to you? Or did
you desire that wrath should descend from your Lord on you, and so you
broke your promise to me?’ 87. They said: ‘We broke not the promise to
you as far as lay in our power, but we were made to carry the weight of the
ornaments of the (whole) people, and we threw (Ar. qadafnā) [into the fire],
and that was what al-Sāmirī suggested (Ar. ʾalqā), 88. then he brought out
(Ar. ʾaḫraja) [of the fire] before the [people] a calf 9 (Ar. ʿijlan), a body (Ar.
jasadan) with a low (Ar. lahu ḫuwārun); so they said: ‘This is your god,
and the god of Moses, but he forgot (Ar. fa-nasiya)!’ 89. Could they not see
(Ar. ʾa-fa-lā yarawna) that it could not answer them, nor could it harm them
or do them good? 90. Aaron had certainly told them earlier: ‘O my people!
You are being tested by it, for verily your Lord is the All-beneficent, so
follow me and obey my command!’ 91. They had said: ‘We will not abandon
clinging (Ar. ʿākifīna) to it until Moses returns to us’. 92. He [Moses] said:
‘O Aaron! What kept you, when you saw them going astray, 93. from
following me? Did you disobey my command?’ 94. [Aaron] replied: ‘O son
of my mother! Seize me not by my beard nor by my head! Truly I feared lest
you should say: “You have caused a rift among the Children of Israel and
did not heed my word” ’. 95. [Moses] said: ‘What is the matter with you, O
Sāmirī?’ 96. [al-Sāmirī] replied: ‘I saw [or I know] (Ar. baṣurtu bi-) what
you did not see [or you did not know] (Ar. mā lam tabṣirū bi-hi)10. I took a
handful [of dust] from the messenger’s trail (Ar. ʾaṯari al-rasūl) and threw
it. That is how my soul prompted me.’ 97. [Moses] said: ‘Begone! It shall be
your [lot] throughout life to say: “lā masās” indeed there is a promise that
you will not fail! Now look at your god to whom you went on clinging. We
will burn it down and then scatter it[s ashes] into the sea.’

9. Al-Hasan al-Basri: ‘the name of the calf is behemoth!’ Ibn Khathir; see Job
40:15-24.
10. Another reading: ‘I saw (Ar. baṣurtu bi-) what they were not able to see (Ar.
mā lam yubṣirū bi-hi)’.
266 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

Conclusion:
98. Indeed, your God is Allah: There is no god except Him. He embraces
all things in [His] knowledge. Thus, do We [Allah] narrate (Ar. naquṣṣu)
to you [Mohammed] some stories (Ar. min ʾanbāʾi) of what had happened
before. 99. Certainly, We, Ourselves, have told you a story for to tell/to
remember (Ar. ḏikrā).

The Calf-worship in Q 7:148-154 consists of a synopsis, a story consisting

of four sections and a conclusion.

A synopsis:
148. And the people of Moses made, after [his departure], from their
ornaments a calf – an image having a lowing sound. Did they not see that
it could neither speak to them nor guide them to a way? They took it [for
worship], and they were wrongdoers. 149. And when regret overcame them,
and they saw that they had gone astray, they said, ‘If our Lord does not have
mercy upon us and forgive us, we will surely be among the losers’.

Story:
Section I: [Moses returns in a state of indignation and sorrow]
150a. And when Moses returned to his people, in indignation (Ar. ġaḍbāna)
and disappointment (Ar. ʾāsifanan), he said, ‘Vile is the course which you
have followed in my absence. Were you impatient over the matter of your
Lord?’

Section II:
150b. And he threw down the tablets and seized his brother by [the hair of]
his head, pulling him toward him. [Aaron] said, ‘O son of my mother, indeed
the people oppressed me and were about to kill me, so let not the enemies
rejoice over me and do not place me among the wrongdoing people.’

Section III: [Moses prayer]

151. [Moses] said, ‘My Lord, forgive me and my brother and admit us into
Your mercy, for You are the most merciful of the merciful’.

Section IV: [God’s answer]

152. indeed, those who took the calf [for worship] will obtain anger from
their Lord and humiliation in the life of this world, and thus do We recom-
pense the inventors [of falsehood]. 153. But those who committed misdeeds
and then repented after them and believed – indeed your Lord, thereafter, is
Forgiving and Merciful.
 Sabih The Villain ‘Samaritan’ 267

[Conclusion]
154. And when the anger subsided in Moses, he took up the tablets; and in
their inscription was guidance and mercy for those who are fearful of their
Lord.

As mentioned earlier, Moses’ narrative is told in thirteen Suras; the issue

of calf worship, however, figures in four Suras only: Q 2:51-54, 92-93,
Q 4:153, Q 7:148-154, Q 20:83-99. As a literary character in the Qur’anic
Moses narrative, the Sāmirī appears exclusively in Q 20:83-97. While
Q 7:148-154 reiterates in its synopsis that calf-worship is a collective
sin for which people asked God for forgiveness after they realised that
the calf was not Moses’ God. As the Sāmirī’s hapax-narrative shows,
Q 20:83-97 answers three crucial questions: (1) the identity of the creator
of the living calf, (2) the nature of the Sāmirī’s agency and (3) Aaron’s
responsibility. The synopsis is narrated by an omniscient narrator in the
third person singular. In Q 20:83-99, the hapax-narrative begins with
a prelude that has the form of a conversation with God, who informs
Moses about the calf-worship problem and names the two agents behind
it: God who is doing the testing and God who is doing the misleading.
The complementarity of Q 20:83-99 and Q 7:148-154 with regard to
the above-mentioned questions can be seen from these two texts’ focali-
sation points and narration forms. In Q 7:148-154 Moses, in his state of
indignation and disappointment, points to his people for replacing him.
The Arabic term khalaftumūnī used in Q 7:150a could mean: ‘you have
become/have done after me’ and ‘you have replaced me with’; in the
latter meaning the replacement can be an object, a practice and a person.
Q 20:83-99 seems to render explicit what the replacement consists of:
the competing Sāmirī and his calf-worship. Moses’ behaviour towards
and conversation with his brother Aaron indicate that Aaron’s sin was not
simply the calf-worship but Aaron’s failure to be a good replacement, a
good leader during Moses’ absence. In Q 20:83-99, God declares Aaron
to be innocent and confirms Aaron’s justification in Q [Link] ‘O son
of my mother, indeed the people oppressed me and were about to kill
me, so let not the enemies rejoice over me and do not place me among
the wrongdoing people’. God puts the blame squarely on the Sāmirī for
his abuse of the power that God has given, a fact that justifies God’s
blaming tone against Moses in the prelude of Q 20:83-99. Aaron’s expla-
nation cuts straight into the heart of Qur’anic political theology, i.e., the
relationship between the political/politics and religion: God’s unity in
the iconoclastic sense and the people’s unity in the political sense. In this
connection, the Arabic term fitnah (‘test’) in the theological sense gets its
268 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

political meaning to cause a rift and heed not in Q [Link] ‘Truly I feared
lest you should say: “You have caused a rift among the Children of Israel
and did not heed my word” ’. Aaron’s response shows the impossibility
of doing both.
The prelude consists of two parts in the form of a brief dialogue
between God and Moses. In God’s question (Q 20:83), God seems to
disapprove of Moses’ presence before Him and blames him for leaving
the Israelite leaderless. In the second part Q 20:85, God gives Moses the
reason for his disapproval: ‘We have tested your people in your absence’
and ‘al-Sāmirī has led them astray’. The Sāmirī becomes the instrument
by which God tests the son of Israel. It seems that the Sāmirī is God’s
agent and a necessary evil. The theological implications of such a state-
ment are representative of the Qur’an’s theodicy: God is the creator of
good and evil, but some of his creations can be vehicles by which good
or evil are carried out. It is in the absence of Moses that God’s testing and
the Sāmirī’s misleading take place. The Sāmirī figure is introduced in the
story with ease, which suggests that Moses might have been familiar with
him.
The story unit (Q 20:86-97) begins with a brief but eloquent description
of Moses’s reaction in Q [Link] indignation or anger mixed with sorrow.
Implicitly, it shows the state in which his meeting with God ended and the
nature of his return to his people. In a condensed diegetic commentary,
the extradiegetic homodiegetic narrator shows the urgency of the matter
at hand and the psychological situation of Moses: anger and sorrow. The
narration of Moses’ return to his people in Q 20:86b-97) is to find out and
to deal with what God has told him happened during his absence – fitnah
(‘test’) and ḍalālah (‘going astray’). The narration’s events are structured
thus: first, Moses’s conversation with the people, second with his brother
Aaron, then with the Sāmirī, who seems to be in possession of super-
natural powers that enabled him to create a calf from inanimate metals.
This event is reminiscent of Moses being accused of being a magician
in Q 7:109 and his later confrontation with the Egyptian magicians that
ended with defeat and conversion to Moses’s faith in Q 7:111-126. In the
encounter between Moses (the good) and the Sāmirī (the evil), Moses does
not inquire about the identity of the Sāmirī (who are you?), but he inquires
about the nature of the Sāmirī act of creating the calf: ‘What is the matter
with you, O Sāmirī?’. Like Moses, the Sāmirī is also a miracle worker.11

11. On man’s ability to create, see, for instance. Sanh. 65b in the Talmud: ‘Rava
says: If the righteous wish to do so, they can create a world, as it is stated: “But your
iniquities have separated between you and your God”. In other words, there is no
 Sabih The Villain ‘Samaritan’ 269

Moses’s confrontation with the Sāmirī in Q 20:95-97 ends with the

destruction of the calf by burning and throwing its ashes in the sea: a
symbolic drowning of the calf in the sea reminiscent of the drowning
of the Egyptians in the sea. The Sāmirī is condemned to repeat a myste-
rious formula: lā masās (‘no touching’) for the rest of his life. Unlike
the people who sinned by worshiping the calf, the punishment of the
Sāmirī is as follows: In addition to him being unmasked as a fraudulent
‘prophet’, his created calf-god has not only been found a false god, but
the whole idea of making an image of the true God is condemned and
rejected by the iconoclastic theology. As a final blow, the Sāmirī is ostra-
cized and stripped of his social identity according to the Qur’an’s politics
of friendship. The latter punishment of the Sāmirī reminds us of another
punishment: Satan’s. In earlier conversations between God and Satan in
Q 7:11-18, God expelled him from his presence because he refused to
obey God when He ordered him to bow down to Adam.
Q 20:83-99 and Q 7:148-154 conclude with a restoration of the true
worship through the authority of God’s law (Q 7:154) and divine history
as remembrance of an iconoclastic theology (Q 20:98-99). Moses restores
the tablets of God’s law and as the true inheritor of Moses’s prophethood
Mohammed does and should remember to do the same: restore the true
revelation and the true worship.
In and through indirect speech, the narrator’s voice operates bi-direc-
tionally: backwards and forwards, past and present. The direct speech
functions as both the enunciating and the enunciation of the iconoclastic
ideology of the Qur’an. According to this ideology the Bible’s monothe-
isms are deemed not iconoclastic enough, whence the Qur’an’s cathartic
modus operandi: it works in texts as well as in reality. The past here is
narrated both as and through the present: total suspension of disbelief. The
extradiegetic homodiegetic narrator, as an omnipresent voice, introduces
the Sāmirī figure as a flat and symbolic figure that plays the role of the

distinction between God and a righteous person who has no sins, and just as God
created the world, so can the righteous. Indeed, Rava created a man, a golem, using
forces of sanctity. Rava sent his creation before Rabbi Zeira. Rabbi Zeira would speak
to him but he would not reply. Rabbi Zeira said to him: You were created by one of
the members of the group, one of the Sages. Return to your dust.’
In the same tractate, one can also find the creation of animals such as the calf:
‘The Gemara relates another fact substantiating the statement that the righteous
could create a world if they so desired: Rav Ḥanina and Rav Oshaya would sit every
Shabbat eve and engage in the study of Sefer Yetzira, and a third-born calf [igla tilta]
would be created for them, and they would eat it in honor of Shabbat.’
270 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

indispensable metaphysical villain, who is similar to Satan, the Other,

who is narrated in the Qur’anic radical monotheistic discourse as the
instigator of calf worship.12

The Sāmirī as the Other Moses Qur’an Tafsīr

While the Qur’anic text portrays the Sāmirī according to the above-
mentioned functions, Qur’anic exegesis is haunted by a hermeneutical
conflict due to preconceived theological perceptions, biblical repre-
sentations of the ‘Samaritan’, and the legal and religious status of the
Samaritan community within the Islamic territories. This hermeneutical
conflict is caught up in a mythical understanding of history. As far as the
first point is concerned, the doctrine of the infallibility of the prophets,
Muslim exegetes seem to find in Q 20:83-97 their textual argument for
the innocence of Aaron from the sin of associating other gods with Allah.13
Judging from the high numbers of anecdotes relating to the Sāmirī’s
identity, and the presence of biblical and extra-biblical materials in
these exegetical anecdotes, the Samaritan option has been considered by
Muslim exegetes as well. For Muslim jurists, the question of who should
be included in Ahl al-kitāb (people of the book) has played a major role
in adopting the Jewish narrative vis-à-vis the Samaritan community. The
Qur’anic Sāmirī figure has been used as an argument for considering the
Samaritans as an aberrant Jewish sect.
Muslim exegetes’ hermeneutical conflict has been articulated in two
ways: (1) literary-form: an assemblage of different, disconnected and

12. Calf worship in the Bible are of two kinds: (1) unauthorized: Exodus 32;
Deut. 9:7-21; cf. Neh. 9:18; Ps. 106:19-20; Acts 7:39-40 (Shepherd 2011), and (2)
authorized: authorized calf-worship in Northern Israel is mentioned in 2 Kgs 12:28-
33; 10:29; 17:16; Hos. 8:5-6; 10:5-6; 13:2; 2 Chron. 11:15; 13:8.
13. I find Neuwirth’s interpretation of the Qur’anic expression rabbuka (‘your
Lord’) in Q 20:9-15 – ‘When he came to it a voice cried, “Moses, I am your Lord
(rabbuka). Put off thy shoes; thou art in the holy valley Ṭuwā. I myself have chosen
thee; therefore, give your ear to this revelation! Verily I am God. There is no god
but I (lā ilāha illā anā)! Therefore, serve me and perform the prayer (ṣalāh) of My
remembrance!” ’ – as a ‘usual rendering of the Tetragrammaton’ far-fetched. The
Tetragrammaton is never expressed as ‘your Jahweh’ in the Hebrew Jewish Bible.
One can find expressions such as ‘Jahweh your God’. Regarding God’s name in the
Qur’an see my forthcoming paper: ‘Dieu, il est et il n’est pas: Surat 112 comme cas
d’étude’. This paper is written in dialogue with Angelika Neuwirth’s and Thomas
Thompson’s works on this issue (Neuwirth 2010; Thompson 2013: 119–32).
 Sabih The Villain ‘Samaritan’ 271

uniform stories (aiṣaṣ, hagadot) and (2) trans-textual: a chain of com-

mentaries, in which a story can play different roles: being the core-text
of commentary(/ies) and/or being a commentary itself. One single and
short story has always kindred relatives somewhere as in the case of the
Sāmirī’s story. In Qur’anic exegesis and stories of the prophets (qiṣaṣ
al-ʾabiyāʾ), the Sāmirī’s hapax-narrative is enunciated textually and dis-
cursively through the lens of identity politics: who is this villain Sāmirī
whose theological and political agency have been perverted by inter-
religious polemics?
Sāmirī’s ‘family romance’ in Qur’anic exegesis has a literary form of
the hadith genre. It consists of a chain of transmitters/authorities marked
by a repetitive phrase ‘X has told us, and he said’, and a content/story. The
literary sources/stories of Sāmirī’s family romance at the disposal of the
exegete are fragmentary and concise. Here I present some of these stories
that deal with name(s), birth, clan(s), religion and so on.
The Sāmirī’s birth and infancy: The Sāmirī is reported to have been
born in the most tragic conditions similar to those under which the biblical
Moses is born. The survival of both is described as miraculous. While
Moses is rescued by and raised in the palace of Pharaoh, the Sāmirī’s
survival narrative is significantly different. As a matter of fact, the
Sāmirī’s infancy has not been corrupted by the urban life of the Egyptian
elite. He has been raised under the caring, nourishing hands of the chief-
angel Gabriel:

On the authority of al-Qāsim he told this on the authority of al-Ḫusayn, on

the authority of Ḫajjāj on the authority of Jurayḥ who said: ‘When Pharaoh
slew male infants the Sāmirī’s mother said [to herself, when she gave birth
to him]: “What if I hid him somewhere so that I would see him nor I would
witness him being slain?” Then she took him him to a cave [and left him
there]. At that moment [Angel] Gabriel came to him and he put the fingers of
his palm hand in his mouth. He fed him [out of his fingers] milk and honey.
He continued to visit him until [the enfant] grew up to know him. This the
meaning of “I took a handful [of dust] from the messenger’s trail” (Q 20:96)
because when the Sāmirī saw Gabriel [on his horse] he recognized him.’
(Tabari 2010: 16:254)

The Sāmirī’s name(s) and tribal status: As mentioned earlier, Muslim

exegetes have been – and still are – obsessed with the historicity of the
figure of the Sāmirī. For instance, Ibn Khatir, in his commentary, lists
a number of contradicting accounts (hadiths) pertaining to his identity.
What is striking is the name of this Sāmirī:
272 ֹBiblical Narratives, Archaeology and Historicity

Muhammad bin Ishaq reported from Ibn `Abbas that he said, ‘The Sāmirī
was a man from the people of Bajarma, a people who worshipped cows.
He still had the love of cow worshipping in his soul. However, he acted as
though he had accepted Islam with the Children of Israel. His name was
Mūsā ibn Ẓafar (Moses son of Zafar).’14 (Ibn Kathir 2001: 219)

The novelty in Islamic Qur’anic exegesis is not how these biographical

accounts came about, but how the identities are constructed and construed
literarily. In the minds of the exegete the ambiguity of the Sāmirī figure’s
Qur’anic identity left him with no option but to venture into the realm of
mythologized understanding of history according to which the Qur’an is
both the eternal word of God and his message of salvation to mankind.
The invention of such a figure with all the theological elements of
iconoclastic theology and literary anatomy of mythology was construed
as history. Exegetes had to invent another Moses whose biography is a
mimicry of the biblical and Qur’anic Moses. In their trying to solve the
ambiguity of the Sāmirī’s story and his culpability, exegetes failed to see
the Qur’an’s restorative approach to Scriptures as well as to humans’
fragile relations to God.

Bibliography
Ali, Abdullah Yusuf (1934), The Holy Qur’ān: English Translation & Commentary,
Lahore: Shaik Muhammad Ashraf.
Anidjar, Gil (2008), Semites: Race, Religion, Literature, Cultural Memory in the Present,
Stanford: Stanford University Press.
Chang, Ha-Joon (2008), Bad Samaritans: The Myth of Free Trade and The Secret History
of Capitalism. New York: Bloomsbury.
Halbertal, Moshe (2014), Maimonides: Life and Thought, Princeton: Princeton University
Press.
Hamel, E. (1975), ‘La théologie morale entre l’Écriture et la raison’, Gregorianum, 56
(2): 273–320.
Hirschberg, Haïm Z’ew (2007), ‘Samaritans in Islam’. EncJud 17: 738.
Ibn Kathir, Isma’il (2001), Tafsīr Al-Qurʾān Al-ʿAẓīm, Vol. 2, 6th ed., Beirut: Mu’assasat
al-Rayyān.
Khatibi, Abdelkebir (2009), ‘Frontiers: Between Psychoanalysis and Islam’, Third Text,
23 (6): 689–96.
Neuwirth, Angelika (2010), ‘Two Faces of the Qur’ān: Qur’ān and Muṣḥaf’, Oral
Tradition, 25 (1), [Link]
Neuwirth, Angelika (2014), ‘Qur’anic Studies and Historical-Critical Philology: The
Qur’an’s Staging, Penetrating and Eclipsing of Biblical Tradition’, in IQSA, http://
[Link]/Library/Neuwirth,%20A%20-%[Link].

14. In his commentary on Q 20:5 Ibn Kathir mentions that name of the Sāmirī is
Aaron in the Israelite sources (Ibn Kathir 2001: 217).
 Sabih The Villain ‘Samaritan’ 273

Reeck, Matt (2017), ‘The Poetics of the Orphan in Abdelkébir Khatibi’s Early Work’,
Journal of French and Francophone Philosophy, 25: 132–49.
Reynolds, Gabriel S. (2011), ‘Le Problème de La Chronologie Du Coran’, Arabica, 58:
477–502.
Sabih, Joshua (2015), ‘Under the Gaze of Double Critique: De-Colonisation, De-Sacrali-
sation and the Orphan Book’, Tidsskrift for Islamforskning, 9 (1): 79–108.
Sabih, Joshua (2019), ‘Qur’anic Political Theology: God’s Law, Jews and the Politics
of Friendship’, in R. Rosario Rodriguez (ed.), T&T Clark Handbook of Political
Theology, T&T Clark Handbooks, London: Bloomsbury.
Schmitt, Carl (2005), Political Theology: Four Chapters on the Concept of Sovereignty,
trans. George Schwab, Chicago: University of Chicago Press.
Shepherd, Michael B. (2011), The Twelve Prophets in the New Testament, Studies in
Biblical Literature, Bern: Peter Lang.
Stenhouse, Paul (2004), ‘The Samaritans’, in J. Dammen McAuliffe (eds), Encyclopedia
of the Qur’an, Leiden: E. J. Brill.
Tabari, Ibn Jarir (2010), Jāmiʿ Al-Bayān. Vol. 16. Cairo: Dar Hajar lil-Tibaraa wa-Nashr.
Thompson, Thomas L. (2013), Biblical Narrative and Palestine’s History: Changing
Perspectives 2, CIS, Sheffield: Equinox.
 I n d ex of R ef er e nce s

Hebrew Bible/ 15:10-17 110 32:29 228

Old Testament 17 108 32:55-26 230
Genesis 17:4-6 231 33:1-3 56
1–11 87, 161, 17:5 227, 242 33:4 56
249 17:7-8 108 33:18 229
1–3 160 17:18 52 35:10 228
1:1 232 18 108 35:21 228
1:26-31 233 21:8-21 52 35:22 228
1:26 171 21:9-11 52 36 108
2–4 172 21:10-11 54 36:1-18 230
2–3 113, 160, 21:20 52 36:12 108, 230
163, 164, 22 108 36:13 230
166 22:1-13 51 36:16 230
2:4-20 233 22:2 203 36:17 230
2:4 232, 233 22:10 110 36:18 230
2:9 165 22:11-12 110 37 55
2:16-17 165 24:67 229 37:3 228
3 164, 168, 25 230, 231 37:13 228
249 25:1-4 51, 231 38:26 229
3:5 165 25:1 229, 230, 41:37-57 55
3:6 165 235 43:6 228
3:20 172 25:2 230, 231 43:8 228
3:22 165, 172 25:4 230 43:10 228
4:17-24 235 25:5-11 230 46:2 228
6 108 25:5 230 46:6 228
7–8 108 25:6 230 46:13 261
9 108 25:9 52 49 108
9:1 109 25:15 230 49:3-9 109
9:27 109 25:18 230 49:10 109
10:2-5 249 25:19 230 49:33 228
10:8 235 25:22 230 50:24 226
10:14 235 25:23 54
10:25 235 25:28 54 Exodus
11 108 26:34 229 2:1-10 52
11:26–17:5 227 28 108 2:15-22 220
14 185 28:3-4 110 2:24 226
15 108 32–33 170 3:6 226
 Index of References 275

3:12 106 35:5-35 199 29:12 226

3:15 226 35:20–36:7 203 30:15-20 167
3:16 226 35:30-33 204 30:20 226
4:5 226 32:9 57
6:3-7 108 Leviticus 33:10 57
6:3 107, 226 4:13 201 34:4 226
6:8 226 9:24 204
12:3 201 12:2 240 Joshua
12:47 201 16:2 204 10:13 185
16:1 202 14:1 203
19:1 202 Numbers 18:1 203
20:11 233 1:1 202 19:51 203
24 106, 107 5:28 240 21:1 203
24:4-6 106 7:2 201 24:4 226
24:4 106 7:8 200
24:8 106, 173 9:1 202 Judges
25–31 199 12:1 220 3:7-11 184
25:1-7 199 13:17-33 183 4 177, 190,
25:2-5 203 21:8-9 164 194
25:8 202 21:14 185 4:21 194
25:9 203 26:23-25 261, 262 5 190, 191,
25:17-22 200, 204, 30:2 201 193, 195
205 32:11 226 5:4-5 195
25:31-39 201 32:28 203 5:6-8 193
25:40 203 33:38 202 5:6-7 193
26:15-37 200 36:1 201 5:8 193
26:31-37 200 5:9-11 195
26:31-35 205 Deuteronomy 5:11-18 193
26:31 204, 206 1:3 232 5:26-27 194
26:33-35 206 1:6 232 5:28-30 194
26:33 204 1:8 226 5:31 195
26:35 204 2:23 235 6:15 55
26:36-37 205 6:10 226 6:27 55
26:36 206 7:3-4 96 8:22-26 55
26:37 206 9:5 226 13–16 177
27:16 206 9:7-21 270 13:1 185
29:45-46 202 9:27 226 13:2-24 52
30:17-21 201 10:1-5 202 14:6 179
30:22-38 199 11:28 186 14:19 177, 179
31:1-5 204 12:4 99 15 177
31:17 233 13:3 186 15:4 179
32 270 13:14 186 15:20 185
32:13 226 23:3-6 58 16 179, 185,
33:1 226 23:3-5 96 186
35–40 199 23:7 58 16:1-3 178
35:4-19 203 25:19 109 16:1 179
276 Index of References

Judges (cont.) 25:33 169, 170 6:11-13 88

16:2 179, 180 25:36-38 171 6:14-38 84
16:3 179 25:40-42 171 6:15-38 86
16:9 179 25:41 171 6:23-28 200, 205
16:12 179 26 169 6:31-35 200, 206
16:14 179 26:11 169 6:36 LXX 206
16:21 179 26:23 169 6:37 97
16:31 185 26:25 169 7:1-51 84
17–18 193 7:1-12 86
19:1 230 2 Samuel 7:6-8 86
1:18 185 7:12 86
Ruth 5:13 229 7:13-47 204
4:18-22 236 6 4 7:13-14 86
7 88 7:21 86
1 Samuel 8 84, 88 7:23-26 201
2:22 203 10 84, 88 7:25 86
5 187 21:19 149 7:27-39 201
5:11-12 97 7:27 86
14:47 57 1 Kings 7:36 86
14:48 109 3–11 83, 84 7:43 86
15:1-9 109 3 88 7:49 200
16:4-13 55 4:1-6 88 7:50 204
17 149 4:1 201 7:63-65 86
18:3-4 169 4:7-19 84 8 88, 201
20:12-17 169 4:7 201 8:1-11 LXX 202
23:16-18 169 4:20-28 84 8:1 201, 203
24 169 4:26-28 84 8:3-4 201
24:7 169 5–8 85 8:3 201
24:21 169 5–7 203 8:4 201
24:25 169 5:1-12 88 8:4 LXX 202
25 160, 169, 5:6 86 8:5-9 201
172 5:9 86 8:5 201
25:3 169, 170 5:13–7:51 85 8:9 202
25:7 170 5:13-18 84 8:10-11 202, 204
25:10-11 170 5:14 86 8:11 LXX 202
25:13 170 5:15 86, 97 8:62 201
25:17 170 5:17-18 86 8:64 201
25:22 170 5:18 86 8:65 201
25:24 171 5:21 233 9:1-14 88
25:25 170, 171 5:27 201 9:1-3 202
25:26-27 170 6–8 200, 203 9:15-24 84
25:27 171 6–7 4 9:15-19 85
25:28-31 170 6:1-10 84 9:25 88
25:28 170, 171 6:1 97, 202, 9:26-28 84
25:29 170 203 10:1-27 84
25:31 170, 171 6:2-9 86 10:18-20 86
25:32-35 170 6:3 86 10:28-29 84
 Index of References 277

11:1-13 88 19:15 233 5:1 226

11:14-25 84 19:19 78 5:3 226
11:15-16 57 19:35-37 79 6:3-15 95
11:26-43 88 21–25 82 6:17 203
11:41 83 21:1–22:1 83 6:23 226
12:1-31 88 21:3 83 7:24 235
12:1 97 21:7 172 7:29 226
12:19 97 21:20 83 7:30-34 261
12:28-33 261 22:2 83 9 245
14 170 22:3-10 83 11:18 229
16:24 81 22:11 83 14:3 229
16:31 79, 229 22:12-17 83 16:1-38 203
16:34 81 22:18-20 83 16:8-22 227
18:19 172 23:1-25 83 16:13 226, 227
18:20-46 187 23:4-7 172 16:17 226, 227
18:36 226 23:22 99 16:39-41 203
22:39 81 23:26–25:26 83 17:14 243
23:32 83 20:5 149
2 Kings 23:37 83 21:29 203
3:1-27 78 24:9 83 28:11 203, 204
8:41-43 243 24:10-16 78 29 203
9 170 24:19 83 29:2 203
9:2 80 25:27 78 29:3-5 203
10:29 270 29:5 203
12:28-33 270 1 Chronicles 29:6-9 203
13:23 226 1 237 29:10 226
15:19-20 78 1:1-4 MT 234 29:18 226
15:29-30 78 1:1-4 234, 237, 30:6 226
16:7-10 78 242
16:14 201 1:4-23 237 2 Chronicles
16:15 201 1:4 235 1:3-6 203
16:17 201 1:5-23 235 1:4 203
17 93, 99 1:10 235 1:5 204
17:3–18:10 78 1:12 235 2:6 204
17:7-41 261 1:19 235 2:11 233
17:16 270 1:24-27 236, 237 2:12 ET 233
17:21 97 1:27 227, 237, 2:13 204
17:24-34 87 238, 242 3:1 203, 229
17:24-28 91 1:28 231 3:2 203
17:29-33 91, 94 1:32 231, 235 3:8-13 205
17:34-41 91 1:34 226 3:14 204, 207
17:34 92, 94 1:35-54 228 4:6 205
17:35-39 92 2:1 226 4:7 205
17:40 92, 94 2:3 232 4:14 205
17:41 92, 94 2:10-12 236 4:20 205
18:11-12 98 2:15 236 4:22 204
18:13 78 4:10 232 5:2 203
278 Index of References

2 Chronicles (cont.) 13:6 216 2:16 166

5:5 203 13:7-9 212, 213 2:18 167
5:11-14 203, 204 13:13 214 2:20 250
6:32-33 243 13:15-22 96 3:9-10 251
7:1-3 204 13:15-21 219 3:13 166
11:15 270 13:15 216 3:14-17 166
13:8 270 13:17 215, 216 3:16 169
23:18 242 13:25 221 3:17 250
25:4 242 23:23-24 220 3:18 166, 167
29:6 205 3:27-28 251
30:6 226 Esther 4:8 167
30:16 242 6:1 185 4:10 167
34:14 242 10:2 185 4:13 167
36:23 243 5:1-23 166
Job 5:3-6 251
Ezra 28 172 5:3 167
6:1-12 96 40:15-24 265 5:5 167, 168
6:2 185 5:15-19 166
7:1 95 Psalms 5:15-18 254
7:11-26 95, 96 1:1 166 5:15 168
10:18-44 95 1:2 232 5:19 167
40:34-35 202 14:7 57 5:20 167, 251
76:3 229 6:8 251
Ezra 78 57 6:9-11 251
2:61-63 210, 211 78:2 258 6:11 251
83:5 239 6:19 252
Nehemiah 105:1-15 227 6:20-35 166
1:9 99 105:6 227 6:23-26 251
2:11-19 95 105:10 227 6:24 166
3:1-32 95 106:19-20 270 6:26 166
5:1-5 217 110:2-4 229 6:29 251
5:5 217 115:15 233 6:32 166
5:14 211 121:2 233 7:1-17 166
5:17 218 124:8 233 7:5 166
6:15–7:4 96 134:3 233 7:11-12 167
6:18 213 137 191 7:13 167
7:63-65 210, 211 7:18 167
8:1-8 95 Proverbs 7:21 167
8:9 211 1–9 166, 167, 7:27 167
8:17 99 172 8:1-4 166
9:7 227 1:1 250 8:5 166
9:18 270 1:7 232, 250 8:6-13 167
10:2 211 1:18-19 250 8:22-31 234
13 212 1:20-21 167 8:30 167
13:1-3 96 1:22 166 8:35 167
13:4 213 2:8 250 9 167
 Index of References 279

9:1 167 27:10 253 Jonah

9:4-6 167 27:16 253 1 187
9:6 168 27:25 253 3:6 185
9:7-12 168 27:26 253
9:11 167 27:27 253 Malachi
9:13-18 168 30 250 1:2 226
9:13 166 1:4 57
9:18 168 Isaiah
10:1 250 2 160 New Testament
10:5 251 9:7 57 Matthew
10:20 252 27:2 193 2:1-16 52
11:10-11 252 34:9-13 57 26:28 173
11:17 254 37:16 233
11:24-26 252 60 160 Mark
11:25 254 66 160 14:22-24 173
12:4 252
12:17 252 Jeremiah Luke
12:27 252 31:31 160 10:25-37 263
13:3 252 47:4 235 22:17-20 173
13:4 252 50:21 185
13:10 252 John
13:11 252 Lamentations 6 153
14:5 252 4:21-22 58 8:48 263
14:20 254 20:31 148
14:25 252 Ezekiel
15:19 250 44:15 103 Acts
17:3 254 7:39-40 270
17:5 253 Daniel
17:17 254 2:31-45 249 1 Corinthians
17:23 253 5:1-2 185 10:4 149
19:5 252 6:1 185 11:23-26 173
19:7 254
19:9 252 Hosea Hebrews
19:15 253 8:5-6 270 6:19 205
19:26 253 10:5-6 270 9:3 205
19:28 252 10:14 84 10:20 205
20:4 253 12:13 57
20:6 254 13:2 270 Apocrypha
20:13 253 Judith
21:28 252 Amos 4:9 185
22:17–24:22 248 9:7 235 11 185
24:28 252
24:33-34 251 Obadiah Ecclesiasticus
25:1 250 18 226 15:1 172
25:18 252 24:23 172
27:2 254 49:11-13 97
50:5 206
280 Index of References

Baruch 12.138-146 95 15.183 132

4:1 172 12.257 94 15.243 130
12.318 206, 207 15.255-257 128
1 Maccabees 13.66-270 131 15.266 134
1:22 206 13.66-135 132 15.341 126
2:29-41 97 13.74-79 98 15.380 126
4:51 205–7 13.189-270 132 16.136 126
13.255-258 98 17.149 132
2 Maccabees 13.257-258 59 17.207-208 132
1:1-9 98 13.282-283 120 17.339 132
2:13 96 14.107 206 18.3-4 132
5:22 94 14.145-148 131 18.23-26 132
14.150-155 131 18.85 205
Pseudepigrapha 14.163 125 18.89-122 131
1 Enoch 14.190-264 131 18.114-115 125
42 172 14.192-195 124 18.116-119 121, 129
14.195 125 18.117-119 119
Jubilees 15.14-15 124, 133 18.117-118 130
30:1 229 15.14 135 18.117 130
38:10 56 15.15 132 18.118-119 129
38:12-14 56 15.23-28 128 18.118 129
15.30 127 18.119 130
Letter of Aristeas 15.31-32 128 18.310-379 131
§85 206 15.42 127 20.248 129, 130,
15.51 123 132
Liber Antiquitatum 15.72-73 129
Biblicarum 15.72 128 Against Apion
10:7 149 15.73 128 1.106-27 79
43:2-4 185 15.75 128
15.79 128 Jewish War
Josephus 15.80 129 1.401 126
Jewish Antiquities 15.92 127 1.433-434 128
3.116 200 15.96 127 1.437 129
3.119 200 15.108 126 1.438 123
3.128-129 206 15.112-120 126 1.439-444 129
8.71-72 207 15.118-119 133 2.129 122
8.75 206, 206 15.160 127 2.137-139 122
8.125-26 202 15.164 129 2.150 122
9 93 15.165-182 130 5.211-112 206
9.277-789 93 15.165-179 125 5.219 205, 207
9.290 93, 94 15.167-173 133 7.300 128
9.291 94 15.172 127
10.20-21 79 15.174-178 132, 133 Dead Sea Scrolls
11.179 96 15.174 133 1QS
11.302-311 94 15.176 129 3.6-12 122
11.302 94 15.178 132 5.13-14 122
11.306-312 96 15.182 133
 Index of References 281

4Q158 frag. 6 Midrash

frag. 4, 6 114 Genesis Rabbah
ll. 1-7 106 10 112 61:4 230
ll. 1-2 106 12 112
ll. 6-7 107 frag. 8 4 112 Leviticus Rabbah
8.2 181
4Q179 CD 29.11 236
frag. 1, col. I, 1–8 102
ll. 1-15 114 1.1-6 102 Numbers Rabbah
1.2 102 14:9 181
4Q252 1.7-8 102
5 iv 5 108 2.11 103 Classical and Ancient
col. III, 2.17-18 103 Christian Literature
ll. 1-6 110 3.2 103 Aristotle
col. IV 108 3.3-4 103 History of the Animals
col. VI 109 3.19 103 622b 251
cols. I-III 108 3.21–4.1 103 627a 251
frag. 2, col. ii, MS A
ll. 10-12 111 3.18-21 103 Poetics
frags. 1 and 3, col. ii, 4.1-4 103, 104 ch. 9 147
ll. 7-8 110
frags. 1, 3-5, col. iii, Mishnah Herodotus
ll. 12-13 110 Yoma Histories
5:1 207 1.151 240
4Q501 5.49 240
ll. 1-3 115 Babylonian Talmud 8.144 240
Baba Qama
4Q504 92a 240 Hesiod
frag. 1-2 ii Work and Days
9-10 112 Berakhot 42-105 249
11 112 60a 240 109-201 249
12-13 112 217 250
15-16 112 Niddah 220-221 253
frag. 1-2 iv 31a 240 225-242 252
2 112 251 250
3-6 112 Sanhedrin 263-264 253
5-8 112 21b 92 265 250
14 112 65b 268 282-285 252
frag. 1-2 v 287 250
6-14 113 Sotah 289-294 251
frag. 1-2 vi 10a 181 295-298 252
2-10 113 298-307 251
frag. 3 ii Tosefta Talmud 299-301 253
7-17 112 Pesahim 302-306 252
frag. 4 1:15 93 327-334 251
5-8 112 331-334 253
342-346 253
282 Index of References

Work and Days (cont.) Cyropaedia TAD

354-363 252 VIII 6: 10 216 A6.13 217
361-362 252 A6.3 218
370 251 Ostraca, Papyri
372-374 251 and Tablets VS
397-404 251 [Link] 4 85 212
409-413 252 13536 215
479-482 253 13582 212 Qur’an
495 251 2 264
496 251 BM 2.47-71 262
506 253 79293 212 2.51-54 267
517 253 2.87 151, 152
518-521 253 Inscriptions 2.92-93 267
543-546 253 Adapa 2.106 259
545 253 A, l. 1-21 161 2.136 151
551 253 A, l. 4 161 2.253 151, 152
574-577 252 A, l. 6 164 3.35-37 148
590 253 B, l. 57 164 3.48-49 151
699-701 251 D, ll. 9-10 164 3.52-53 152
702-706 252 D, ll. 10-11 163 3.59 154
717-719 253 3.84 151
720 252 ARM 4 264
778 251 13 7 181 4.153 267
4.157-159 153
Theogony CBS 4.163 151
507-616 249 5213 221 4.171-172 154
5 152
Livy Chronicle 5.20-26 262
XLV.2 220 1, i.28 78 5.46-47 152
5, r. 11-13 78 5.72-75 154
Theognis 5.75 154
Sentences Gilgamesh 5.110-111 152
79–81 254 tabl. I, 5.112-115 152
97–99 254 l. 183-89 168 5.116-118 154
155-58 253 6.85 151
499-502 254 Mesha Stele 7 264
573-574 254 4–11 78 7.11-18 269
611-614 254 17–18 81 7.103-156 262
645-646 254 18–19 78 7.109 268
857-860 254 7.111-126 268
927-930 254 OB Penn 7.148-154 264, 266,
959-962 254 tablet II, 267, 269
ll. 55-67 168 7.150 267
Xenophon 7.154 269
Anabasis Statue Inscription of 7.159-166 262
5.3.6 215 Udjaḥorresnet 9.30-31 154
ll. 18-23 214 10.75-93 262
 Index of References 283

11 150 20.83-97 260, 261, 28.2-46 262

12 149, 151 264, 267, 33.7 151
17.4-7 262 270 33.40 150
17.101-104 262 20.83 268 40.23-46 262
19.28 148 20.85 268 42.13 151
20 264 20.86-97 268 43.46-55 262
20.5 272 20.86 268 43.57-59 154
20.9-15 270 20.94 268 43.63 152
20.9-97 262 20.95-97 269 44.17-33 262
20.83-99 261, 263, 20.98-99 263, 269 57.27 151–3
264, 267, 21.51-70 149 66.12 148
269 26.10-66 262 79.15-25 262
27.7-14 262
 I n d ex of A ut hor s

Abdel Haleem, M. A. S. 151, 155 Bechmann, U. 191, 196

Abu el-Haj, N. 39, 43 Becking, B. 196
Achenbach, R. 202, 203, 208 Beckman, G. 186–8
Aharoni, Y. 16, 17 Ben Zvi, E. 38, 44, 58, 60, 231, 233, 239,
Al-Ravi, F. 161, 173 242, 246
Albertz, R. 198, 200, 202, 208 Benardou, A. 11, 15, 18
Aletti, J. N. 167, 173 Benveniste, E. 211, 222
Ali, A. Y. 260, 272 Berger, P. 38, 44
Allegro, J. M. 105, 108, 115, 117 Berlin, A. 115–17, 134
Alper, B. S. 10, 11, 17 Bernbeck, R. 44
Alt, A. 43 Bernick-Greenberg, H. 4, 6, 9, 38
Amit, Y. 179, 187 Bernstein, M. J. 105, 109, 117
Ammons, L. L. 66, 73 Bienkowski, P. 80, 89
Anderson, B. 53, 60 Biggs, R. D. 239, 246
Anidjar, G. 261, 272 Blair, A. 10, 18
Ariel, D. T. 4, 8 Blenkinsopp, J. 191, 196, 213, 222
Armitage, D. J. 249, 254 Blevins, C. 13, 18
Arnold, B. T. 25, 33 Bliss, F. J. 3, 8
Ash, P. S. 84, 89 Blum, E. 199, 208
Atkinson, K. 134, 136 Boaretto, E. 9
Attridge, H. 111, 117 Boda, M. J. 235, 246
Avalos, H. 25, 33, 36, 43 Böhl, F. M. T. 64, 73
Averett, E. W. 13, 17 Boling, R. G. 190, 196
Avi-Yonah, M. 182, 187 Borchardt, E. A. 13, 18
Bourdieu, P. 35, 44
Bagnall, R. S. 220, 222 Braun, R. 235, 246
Bahrani, Z. 37, 43, 44 Brettler, M. Z. 179, 188, 194, 196
Baillet, M. 117 Briant, P. 216, 222
Baker, D. W. 24, 34, 191, 194 Broberg, L. 169, 171–3
Baker, R. 196 Brodie, T. L. 248, 254
Bal, M. 194, 196 Bronson, B. 16, 18
Baragwanath, E. 240, 246 Bronstein, J. 13, 20
Barr, D. 11, 17, 24, 30 Brooke, G. J. 105, 108, 109, 117
Barr, J. 33 Brown, J. P. 249, 252–4
Barth, F. 15, 17, 29, 33 Bruneau, P. 94, 100
Bartholomew, C. G. 250, 254 Buhl, P. 150, 155
Bates, M. J. 14, 17 Bultmann, R. 140, 144
Batten, L. W. 213, 216, 222 Bunimovitz, S. 16, 18
Baumgarten, J. M. 104, 117 Burton, J. B. 250, 254
 Index of Authors 285

Bush, K. H. 10, 18 Ellis, D. 11, 18

Byrne, P. 249, 255 Eshel, I. 4, 9
Exum, J. C. 177, 188, 193, 196
Camp, C. V. 166, 173
Campbell, E. F. 65, 67, 74 Faust, A. 41, 42, 44
Carroll, R. P. 39, 44 Feldman, L. H. 249, 255
Carstens, P. 171, 173 Ferber, M. 196
Cavigneaux, A. 161, 173 Fewell, D. N. 171, 174
Chang, H.-J. 263, 272 Filson, F. V. 66, 75
Charnigo, L. 10–12, 18 Finkelstein, I. 5, 8, 28, 29, 33, 44, 80, 81,
Claessen, H. J. M. 15, 16, 18 85, 89, 98, 100, 210, 222
Clark, D. 11, 19 Fitzgerald, G. M. 3, 8
Clifford, R. J. 167, 173 Ford, M. 11, 18
Clivaz, C. 13, 18 Forti, T. 251, 255
Collins, J. J. 250, 255 Foster, B. R. 161, 163, 164, 174, 181,
Cook, J. 250, 251, 255 188
Cooper, J. S. 240, 246 Fox, M. V. 168, 174
Corbishley, T. 126, 132, 136 Franken, H. J. 3, 6, 8
Counts, D. B. 13, 17 Freedman, D. N. 190, 196
Crenshaw, J. L. 250, 255 Frei, H. W. 147, 155
Cross, F. M. 190, 196 Frese, D. A. 180, 188
Crowfoot, J. W. 3, 8 Fried, L. S. 210–12, 214, 215, 217–19,
Crown, A. D. 10, 18 222, 223
Cryer, F. H. 39, 44 Fried, M. H. 15, 18, 216
Cullis, J. 11, 18 Friedman, R. E. 201, 208
Frier, B. W. 220, 222
Dalton, M. S. 10–12, 18 Fritz, V. 202, 208
Davies, P. R. 39, 44, 102, 117 Frolov, S. 191, 196
Davis, P. 12, 18
Dearman, A. 80, 89 Gadot, Y. 4, 8
Deeb, L. 37, 44 Galil, G. 77, 89
Dever, W. G. 16, 18, 26–9, 33, 40, 44, 89 García Martínez, F. 113, 115, 117
Dickie, A. C. 3, 8 Garfinkel, Y. 81, 85, 89
Diebner, B.-J. 191, 196 Gass, E. 182, 188
Donaldson, R. C. 191, 196 Gatto, J. T. 31, 33
Drinkard, J. 79, 84, 89 Gellner, E. 15, 18
Duncan, J. G. 3, 6, 9 Genette, G. 236, 246
Dušek, J. 94, 100 George, A. R. 182, 188
Dusinberre, E. R. M. 215–17, 220, 222 Gmirkin, R. 83, 87, 89, 248, 249, 255
Duverger, M. 220, 222 Gnuse, R. K. 249, 255
Dylan, B. 192, 196 Goethe, J. W. von 159, 174
Goodblatt, D. 131, 136
Echols, C. F. 191, 192, 196 Gordon, J. M. 13, 17
Edmunds, A. 10, 11, 18 Görg, M. 191, 196
Edwards, S. 21 Gottwald, N. K. 29, 33
Egger, R. 94, 100 Grabbe, L. L. 39, 44
Eilers, C. 131, 136 Green, H. 15, 18
Eisenstadt, S. 220, 222 Greenberg, R. 44
Elliger, K. 165, 174 Greenfield, J. C. 167, 174
286 Index of Authors

Gregory, A. 13, 18 Japhet, S. 204, 208, 233, 246

Grey, M. J. 182, 188 Jaroš, K. 67, 74
Griffith, S. H. 149, 156 Jeremias, J. 195, 196
Grohmann, M. 240, 246 Jursa, M. 214, 217, 223
de Groot, A. 4, 6, 8, 9
Gudme de Hemmer, A. K. 160, 174 Keestra, M. 13, 14, 19
Guillaume, P. 179, 187, 188, 193, 196, Kegler, J. 203, 208
249, 255 Kelle, B. 77, 80, 89
Gunkel, H. 182, 188 Kent, R. G. 211, 223
Gunn, D. M. 174 Khalidi, T. 153, 156
Gunn, L. 119, 136, 171 Khatibi, A. 258, 259, 272
Kim, S. J. 245, 246
Haapoja, J. 11, 18 King, D. W. 10, 12, 21, 37
Haber, S. 122, 135, 136 King, P. J. 44
Hachlili, R. 123, 136 Kirby, P. 120, 137
Hagedorn, A. C. 250, 255 Kitchen, K. A. 24, 33, 248, 255
Halbertal, M. 258, 272 Klawans, J. 122, 137
Hamel, E. 259, 272 Klein, J. T. 14, 19, 235, 236
Hammond, M. M. 245, 246 Klein, R. W. 246
Harrington, D. J. 184, 188 Kletter, R. 15, 16, 19, 38, 39, 42, 44, 45
Hauser, A. J. 191, 196 Knoppers, G. N. 221, 223, 235, 246
Heger, P. 52, 60 Kofoed, J. B. 24, 33, 68, 74
Heimpel, W. 186, 188 Kooij, G. van der 71, 72, 74, 98, 100
Heltzer, M. 221, 223 Kupitz, Y. S. 248, 255
Hendin, D. 123, 136, 137 Kvanvig, H. S. 167, 174
Herzog, Z. 8
Hess, R. S. 25, 33 Lagrange, M.-J. 132, 137, 182, 188
Hirschberg, H. Z. 260, 272 Laisney, V. P.-M. 249, 255
Hjelm, I. 174 Landhuis, E. 11, 15, 19
Hoffmeier, J. K. 35, 44, 120, 137 Lang, B. 248, 255
Hoffner, H. A., Jr 187, 188 Lapp, N. L. 66, 74
Høgenhaven, J. 104, 108, 111, 115, 117, Lazaridis, N. 249, 255
118, 160, 174 Leibner, U. 182, 188
Holden, C. 12, 13, 19 Légasse, S. 206–8
Holloway, S. W. 40, 44 Leick, G. 239, 246
Holst, S. 105, 107, 108, 117 Lemaire, A. 211, 223
Horgan, M. 115, 118 Lemche, N. P. 24, 28, 31, 33, 34, 39, 40,
Houlden, L. 249, 255 42, 45, 49, 60, 68, 74, 248, 249, 256
Houtman, C. 199, 208 Levin, Y. 87, 89
Hurowitz, V. 85, 89, 201, 208 Levine, B. A. 40, 45, 240, 246
Huvila, I. 13, 19 Levy, T. E. 35, 45
Lewis, N. 217, 220, 223
Ibn Kathir, I. 272 Lichtheim, M. 214, 223
Ilan, T. 123, 137 Lindars, B. 191, 193, 196
Ivakhiv, A. 14, 19 Linde, S. J. van der 69, 72, 75
Izre’el, S. 161, 162, 164, 174 Lindhardt, P. G. 23, 34
Lively, L. 11, 19
Jacobsen, T. 42, 44, 163 Liverani, M. 161, 163, 164, 174
Jacobson, T. 174 Lockman, Z. 37, 45
Jamali, H. R. 14, 19 Long, B. O. 27, 34, 39, 45
 Index of Authors 287

Long, V. P. 24, 34, 68, 74 Nir, R. 120, 137

Longman, T. 24, 34 Niskanen, P. 249, 256
Lönnqvist, H. 13, 19 Noam, V. 120, 137
Loprieno, A. 250, 256 Nodet, E. 96, 100, 122, 131, 137
Loretz, O. 167, 174 Noth, M. 200, 202, 208
Louden, B. 248–50, 256 Notley, R. S. 177, 188
Lucas, E. 248, 256
Luckenbill, D. D. 89 Oesterley, P. 248, 256
Luckmann, T. 38, 44 Ogot, B. A. 196
Luhmann, N. 241, 246 Olsson, M. 13, 19
Lyall, C. 14, 19 Otto, E. 173, 174, 180, 188
Overland, P. 249, 256
Mabe, M. 10, 21
Macalister, R. A. S. 3, 6, 9 Paine, E. 11, 12, 19
Macchi, J.-D. 98, 100 Palmer, A. S. 187, 188
Magen, Y. 94, 100, 221, 223 Palmer, C. L. 11, 12, 14, 20
Magness, J. 134, 136, 182, 188 Parrinder, G. 151, 156
Magonet, J. 171, 174 Peddie, I. 191, 196
May, N. N. 188 Perdue, L. 248, 256
Mays, R. 10, 12, 21 Pfoh, E. 38, 39, 45
Mazar, E. 5, 9 Picchioni, S. A. 161, 174
McKinlay, J. E. 165, 169–74 Pijpers, A. 10, 20
Meho, L. I. 11, 19 Pirmann, C. M. 11, 20
Mendels, D. 56, 60 Plaut, W. G. 250, 256
Mendenhall, G. E. 29, 34 Plume, A. 10, 15, 20
Menken, S. 13, 14, 19 Pollock, S. 37, 44
Meshel, Z. 80–2, 89 Pontis, S. 10, 11, 17, 20
Mettinger, T. N. D. 161–3, 174 Popovič, M. 87, 89
Milgrom, J. 240, 246 Powell, B. B. 249, 256
Millard, A. 35, 44, 77, 80, 89 Power, C. D. 13, 20
Miller, M. C. 217, 223 Prag, K. 4, 9
Miller, R. D. 188 Pritchard, J. B. 161, 174
Miller, S. 182, 186, 188 Provan, I. 24, 34, 40
Mobley, G. 187, 188 Provan, I. W. 45
de Moor, J. C. 190, 196 Pucci Ben Zeev, M. 124, 137
Moore, G. E. 179, 188 Puech, E. 99, 100, 109, 118
Moorey, P. S. 37, 45 Pummer, R. 94, 98, 100
Morgan, C. L. 11, 19 de Pury, A. 52, 60
Morris, A. 10, 11, 18
Müller, M. 34, 147, 151, 156 Rainey, A. F. 177, 188
Mumcuoglu, M. 81, 85, 89 Räisänen, H. 151, 156
Ranston, H. 250, 254, 256
Na’aman, N. 80, 88, 89 Reade, J. E. 180, 188
Neuwirth, A. 150, 156, 258, 261, 270, Reeck, M. 258, 273
272 Regev, J. 6, 9
Nicholas, D. 11, 14, 19 Reinhartz, A. 122, 135, 136
Niditch, S. 194, 196, 251, 256 Renear, A. H. 11, 12, 20
Nielsen, F. A. J. 248, 256 Reynolds, G. S. 264, 273
Niemann, H. M. 193, 196 Rhoads, J. 132, 137
Niesiołowski-Spanò, L. 50, 51, 53, 59, 60 Robert, L. 219, 223
288 Index of Authors

Robinson, E. 63, 74, 151 Steiner, M. L. 3, 5, 6, 8, 9

Robinson, N. 156 Stenhouse, P. 261, 273
Rowton, M. B. 29, 34 Stol, M. 239, 240, 247
Rudolf, W. 165, 174 Stone, S. 11, 15, 20
Rudolph, W. 200, 204, 208, 213, 223 Stordalen, T. 236, 247
Ruffle, J. 249, 256 Sufian, A. 13, 20
Runnels, C. 11, 20 Szanton, N. 9
Russell, J. 86, 90
Rutherford, I. 249, 256 Tabari, I. J. 271, 273
Tadmor, H. 84, 90
Sabih, J. 258, 259, 263, 273 Taha, H. 68, 71, 72, 74
Sahas, D. J. 149, 156 Tan, N. N. H. 251, 257
San Nicolò, M. 214, 223 Tavernier, J. 211, 224
Sancisi-Weerdenburg, H. 217, 223 Taylor, J. E. 98, 100, 249, 257
Sanders, E. P. 122, 137 Teffeau, L. C. 11, 20
Sanders, P. 195, 197 Tenopir, C. 10, 12, 21
Sandoval, T. J. 248, 256 Thomas, M. A. 236, 247
Sasson, J. 39, 45, 177, 181, 186, 235, Thompson, T. L. 27, 34, 35, 39, 45, 46,
237, 246 49, 60, 61, 67, 74, 90, 101, 105, 118,
Sasson, J. M. 188, 189 141, 142, 144, 165, 174, 197–9, 208,
Schaper, J. 214, 223 224, 248, 249, 257, 270, 273
Schenker, A. 99, 100 Thomsen, P. 64, 74
Schloen, J. D. 16, 20 Tibbo, H. R. 11, 19
Schmid, H. H. 172, 174 Tigchelaar, E. J. C. 113, 117
Schmitt, C. 273 Tindale, T. J. 10, 21
Schniedewind, W. M. 190, 197 Tobolowsky, A. 248, 257
Schwartz, D. R. 104, 117, 120, 131, 137 Torrance, R. M. 186, 189
Segal, M. 105, 118 Tov, E. 105, 118
Sekunda, N. V. 216, 217, 224 Toy, C. H. 248, 257
Sellin, E. 64, 74 Trafton, J. L. 108, 118
Service, E. R. 15, 20 Tudhope, D. 13, 21
Shachar, I. 137 Tuplin, C. 211, 224
Shallit, A. 220, 224 Tushingham, A. D. 3, 9
Sharon, N. 123–5, 137 Tyrell, G. 138, 144
Shepherd, M. B. 270, 273 Tzoref, S. 109, 111, 118
Sherrard, B. 66, 74
Shiloh, Y. 4, 6, 9 Ussishkin, D. 8, 81, 86, 90
Shupak, N. 249, 256 Uziel, J. 4, 8, 9
Silberman, N. A. 81, 85, 89
Singer-Avitz, L. 8 Van den Dries, M. H. 69, 72, 75
Skalnik, P. 15, 18 Van der Keulen, P. S. F. 202, 206, 208
Skjaervo, P. O. 211, 224 Van Seters, J. 49, 61, 198, 200, 209
Skjeggestad, M. 15, 20 van Wijlick, H. 126, 127, 137
Smith, A. D. 15, 20 Vermes, G. 146, 156
Snell, D. C. 249, 256 Vincent, L.-H. 6, 9
Soggin, J. A. 191, 197 Vlachidis, A. 13, 21
Solomon, Y. 13, 20 Volentine, R. 10, 12, 21
Spanner, D. 14, 20
Speiser, E. A. 161, 174 Waerzeggers, H. G. M. 224
Stager, L. 16, 20, 67, 74 Wajdenbaum, P. 51, 61, 248, 249, 257
 Index of Authors 289

Walcot, P. 249, 257 Willi, T. 243, 247

Wallace, H. N. 172, 174 Williamson, H. G. M. 221, 224, 226, 247
Ware, M. 10, 21 Wilson, I. D. 243, 247
Warren, Ch. E. 3, 9 Wilson, P. 11, 14, 15, 21
Webster, A. C. 11, 18 Winegar, J. 37, 44
Weijen, D. van 10, 15, 20 Wintermute, O. S. 56, 61
Weill, R. 4, 9 Winters, J. 11, 19
Weiser, A. 190, 197 Wise, M. 134, 137
Wellhausen, J. 190, 197, 200, 209 Wong, G. T. K. 179, 189
Wenham, G. J. 24, 34 Wright, G. E. 65, 71, 75
Wesselius, J.-W. 248, 257 Wright, G. R. H. 67, 70, 75
West, M. L. 249, 251–3, 257 Wu, L. 10, 12, 21
Westenholz, A. 164, 168, 175 Wyatt, N. 171, 175
Westenholz, U. 164, 168, 175
Westermann, C. 198, 209, 249, 257 Yoffee, N. 15, 21
Wette, W. M. L. de 199, 209
White, H. D. 14, 21 Zadok, R. 95, 100, 211, 224
White, M. 94, 100 Zahn, M. 105, 107, 118
White Crawford, S. 105, 118, 172–4 Zauzich, K.-T. 215, 224
Whitelam, K. W. 39–41, 46, 160, 175 Ze’evi, D. 52, 61
Whittaker, J. 197 Zevit, Z. 37, 46
Whybray, R. N. 249, 250, 257 Zissu, B. 182, 188
Wightman, G. J. 81, 90 Zwelling, J. 68, 75
Wilcke, C. 161, 175
290