2003 JBL No. 3 (Completo)

Journal of Biblical Literature
VOLUME 122, No. 3 Fall 2003
Israelite Ethnicity in Iron I: Archaeology Preserves

What Is Remembered and What Is Forgotten
in Israel’s History
ELIZABETH BLOCH-SMITH 401–425
The Woman of Substance (lyjAtà): A Socioeconomic

Reading of Proverbs 31:10–31
CHRISTINE ROY YODER 427–447
Geography and History in Herodotus and in Ezra-Nehemiah

THOMAS B. DOZEMAN 449–466
Are There Imperial Texts in the Class? Intertextual Eagles

and Matthean Eschatology as “Lights Out” Time
for Imperial Rome (Matthew 24:27–31)
WARREN CARTER 467–487
Matthew 27:52–53 as Apocalyptic Apostrophe:

Temporal-Spatial Collapse in the Gospel of Matthew
KENNETH L. WATERS, SR. 489–515
“To Die Is Gain” (Philippians 1:19–26): Does Paul

Contemplate Suicide?
N. CLAYTON CROY 517–531
The Locutions of 1 Kings 22:28: A New Proposal

KEITH BODNER 533–543
6Q30, a Cursive Šîn, and Proverbs 11
HANAN ESHEL 544–546
Book Reviews 547 — Index 600
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2003: SUSAN ACKERMAN, Dartmouth College, Hanover, NH 03755
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TERENCE L. DONALDSON, Wycliffe College, Toronto, ON M5S 1H7 Canada
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JBL 122/3 (2003) 401–425
ISRAELITE ETHNICITY IN IRON I:

ARCHAEOLOGY PRESERVES
WHAT IS REMEMBERED AND
WHAT IS FORGOTTEN
IN ISRAEL’S HISTORY
ELIZABETH BLOCH-SMITH
bloch-smith@msn.com
123 Upland Terrace, Bala Cynwyd, PA 19004
Earliest Israel remains terra incognita, literally and from the ground
down. The Merneptah Stela Stanza VIII proclaiming Egyptian suzerainty in
the southern Levant documents Israel as a noteworthy foreign enemy by the
end of the thirteenth century B.C.E.1 Except for this mention, neither contem-
porary epigraphic nor archaeological evidence explicitly points to a late-
thirteenth-century B.C.E. “Israel.” However, conservatively dated biblical and
archaeological evidence has been invoked to attest to Israel in the twelfth to
eleventh centuries B.C.E. Frank Cross and Tryggve Mettinger, among others,
date the Bible’s earliest testimonials, the Song of the Sea (Exod 15) and Song of
Deborah (Judg 5) to the late twelfth or early eleventh century B.C.E.2 Ironically,
it was Israel Finkelstein, now leading a revisionist contingent, who claimed to
validate the early dates with archaeological evidence. In his central highlands
survey, Finkelstein identified as “Israelite” the hundreds of hamlets and farm-
A portion of this essay was presented before the Colloquium for Biblical Research at Duke
Divinity School in August 2001. I wish to thank the members of the colloquium for their helpful
criticisms and suggestions. This paper also greatly benefited from discussions with my husband,
Mark Smith, of New York University, and with Ilan Sharon of The Hebrew University.
1 Donald Redford, “Egypt and Western Asia in the Late New Kingdom: An Overview,” in
The Sea Peoples and Their World: A Reassessment (ed. E. Oren; Philadelphia: University Museum,
2000), 5.
2 Frank Moore Cross, Canaanite Myth and Hebrew Epic: Essays in the History of the Reli-
gion of Israel (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1973), 121–24; Tryggve Mettinger, The
Dethronement of Sabaoth: Studies in the Shem and Kabod Theologies (trans. Frederick Cryer;
Lund: Gleerup, 1982), 26–27.
401
402 Journal of Biblical Literature
steads founded in the twelfth and eleventh centuries B.C.E.3 Although the Iron
I material culture, cultic practices, burial customs, and architecture continued
Late Bronze Age “Canaanite” traditions, the founding population was readily
identified as Merneptah’s “Israel” and biblical “Israel.”4 Nearly two decades
later, not a single feature of those settlements may be conclusively identified as
exclusively “Israelite.” Aside from the founding of new settlements in territory
allegedly settled by Israel, nothing decisively links the new settlements to
Merneptah’s Israel or biblical Israel.
In view of this impasse, this article pursues an alternate route in search of
ethnic Israel of the premonarchic period. After demonstrating the limitations
of the Culture Area approach to ethnicity currently employed by most archae-
ologists, I will present the Meaningful Boundaries approach, stemming from
Fredrik Barth’s work. This model will, in turn, be expanded to incorporate
Jonathan Hall and Stephen Cornell’s work on a group’s crafting of its history as
a process that fosters ethnic identity. Based on the new model that weds
archaeology and text, the Tell-Tale approach, datable archaeological features
with biblically attested significance will be proposed to indicate the crafting of
Israel’s history from as early as the twelfth to eleventh century B.C.E.
The biblical and archaeological evidence of Israelite interaction with the
Canaanites and Philistines shows that the process of formulating collective
memory regarding the Philistines differed from that of fashioning reminis-
cences of the Canaanites. Two distinct literary processes may underlie the vary-
ing accounts.
I. Two Archaeological Models of Ethnicity
Defining Ethnicity
An ethnos is a group of people larger than a clan or lineage claiming com-
mon ancestry. While cultural or biological kinship may reinforce the bond, a
fabricated “collective memory of a former unity”5 or “putative myth of shared
descent and kinship”6 ultimately conjoins the various lineages. Primordial as
3 Israel Finkelstein, The Archaeology of the Israelite Settlement (Jerusalem: Israel Explo-
ration Society, 1988).

4 For examples, see William Dever, “Proto-Israelites” (“Ceramics, Ethnicity, and the Ques-
tion of Israel’s Origins,” BA 58, no.4 [1995]: 200–213) and I. Finkelstein, “Israelites” (Archaeology
of the Israelite Settlement).
5 Geoff Emberling, “Ethnicity in Complex Societies: Archaeological Perspectives,” Journal
of Archaeological Research 5, no.4 (1997): 301– 4.

6 Jonathan Hall, Ethnic Identity in Greek Antiquity (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 1997).
Bloch-Smith: Israelite Ethnicity in Iron I 403
well as circumstantial traits, both self-ascribed and promulgated by others,

define the group. Primordial features are perceived by the group to have
existed from the beginning; in other words, they are the “collective memory of
a former unity” or a common heritage. Kinship, territory, or select traditions,
including religion, often define the group’s origins. In contrast to primordial
traits, circumstantial factors are variously activated in response to changing sit-
uations. Material culture or relations with other groups exemplify circumstan-
tial factors. Though self-ascribed identifying features may change, shifting
social constructs distinguishing “us” from “them” shape continuing ethnic affil-
iation. 7 Ethnicity is, in A. Gidden’s words, “a dialectic of ‘structure’ and
‘agency.’”8
The quest for early Israel is a study of ethnogenesis. “Shared interests,”
often political or economic, spur often unrelated clans or lineages to amal-
gamate into the nucleus of an ethnos.9 To define and legitimate itself, the
resulting group asserts a (fabricated) common ancestry and adopts a culture
legitimating the group’s past, both real and alleged, spanning the distant to
recent history. In other words, the formative group undergoes a conceptual
shift; the “almost unconscious ‘way of life’” becomes “tradition,” and the emer-
gent culture assumes an underlying “ideology of authenticity.”10 Such myths of
ethnic origins serve to establish and perpetuate ethnic claims of ancestry and
other primordial features such as territory.11 “Shared institutions” are necessary
to perpetuate the group after the initial reasons for affiliating have dissipated.
These institutions function as the organizing mechanism for the group to
achieve its interests, practice the culture, and maintain its identity.12
Geoff Emberling discusses the relationship between ethnogenesis and
political states in second-millennium Mesopotamia. According to his schema,
mobile or migrant groups may attain a distinctive identity in a new environ-
ment. Along with the autochthonous population, the various tribes, peoples, or
groups adopt a history of “former unity” in the process of incorporation into a
state. While the state is a political construct, in contrast to the allegedly kinship-
7 For bibliography of literature on ethnicity, see Bruce McKay, “Ethnicity and Israelite Reli-
gion: The Anthropology of Social Boundaries in Judges” (Ph.D. diss., University of Toronto, 1997),
33–59.
8 Quoted in Mark G. Brett, “Interpreting Ethnicity: Method, Hermeneutics, Ethics,” in
Ethnicity and the Bible (ed. M. Brett; Leiden/New York/Cologne: Brill, 1996), 10.
9 P. Spickard and W. Burroughs, “Introduction,” in We Are a People: Narrative and Multi-
plicity in Constructing Ethnic Identity (ed. P. Spickard and W. J. Burroughs; Philadelphia: Temple
University Press, 2000), 8–9.
10 Jack D. Eller, From Culture to Ethnicity to Conflict: An Anthropological Perspective on
International Ethnic Conflict (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1999), 30.
11 Hall, Ethnic Identity, 40.
12 Spickard and Burroughs, “Introduction,” 10.
based ethnos, it may build on ethnic history to promote national loyalty and, in
some cases, religious fidelity. Once incorporated within the state, the ethnos
may be preserved and enhanced or suppressed to promote state interests, ren-
dering state control and ethnic preservation potentially opposing forces. Gen-
erally, the degree of state control is inversely related to the power of the ethnos.
With the dissipation or dissolution of state control, ethnic groups once again
may reassert their influence.13
Emberling’s discussion lays the groundwork for constructing the Tell-Tale
paradigm for early Israel. In place of a single point of origin and unilinear tra-
jectory, over the centuries early Israel amalgamated multiple constituent
groups each with its own primordial features. Incorporating new populations
into the evolving ethnos likely entailed retrojecting or incorporating some of
their primordial traits into the “collective memory.” Thus, primordial features
may change comparable to circumstantial factors. Even the religion of early
Israel, allegedly a primordial feature (Gen 17:1–8), underwent changes
through time, as cogently presented by Mark Smith.14 The deity worshiped
and/or the name by which he was known is a parade example. Earliest Israel
likely consisted of a federation of clans worshiping El as their chief deity. El and
Yahweh converged when the people Israel became Yahweh’s nation; thereafter
worship of Yahweh and/or El defined Israel. The evolution from polytheism to
monotheism provides a second example. Through the period of the judges and
the monarchy, Israel worshiped Yahweh, El, Baal, Asherah, Astarte, the sun,
the moon, and the stars.15 Not until relatively late in Israel’s recorded history,
from the late preexilic and the exilic periods, does the biblical text express
“unambiguous expressions of Israelite monotheism” (e.g., Isa 45:5–6).16
An expanding entity in the process of consolidation and state formation,
early Israel repeatedly updated and revised its history to incorporate circum-
stantial features as well as select primordial features of new constituent groups.
The process may be endemic to ethnic emergence. Jonathan Hall affirmed the
importance of written and verbal discourse in constructing and maintaining
ethnic identity in ancient Greece, and Stephen Cornell labeled the process
13 Emberling, “Ethnicity,” 304–10.

14 Mark S. Smith, The Early History of God: Yahweh and the Other Deities in Ancient Israel
(San Francisco: Harper & Row, 1990), 7–12.
15 Smith, Early History of God, 145; Othmar Keel and Christoph Uehlinger collect the rele-
vant iconographic evidence in Gods, Goddesses, and Images of God: In Ancient Israel (Minneapo-
lis: Fortress, 1998); John Day, Yahweh and the Gods and Goddesses of Canaan (JSOTSup 265;
Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 2000), 226–33; Z. Zevit, The Religions of Ancient Israel: A Synthesis
of Parallactic Approaches (New York: Continuum, 2001), 648–52.
16 Smith, Early History of God, 152–54; idem, The Origins of Biblical Monotheism: Israel’s
Polytheistic Background and the Ugaritic Texts (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), 151–54.
“narrativization” as practiced by Native Americans.17 Over the centuries, Israel

supplemented, redefined, reinterpreted, and perhaps expunged or forgot pri-
mordial as well as circumstantial traits and features in crafting its “collective
memory.”
This more flexible understanding of ethnicity provides greater latitude in
moving from Merneptah’s Israel to premonarchic and monarchic ethnic Israel.
At each stage, a group considered itself “Israel,” yet the defining features may
have significantly differed. Textually and archaeologically attested traits from
Iron II need not have pertained in Iron I. This proviso also helps bridge the
widespread abandonment of “Israelite” highland rural settlements in the
eleventh to tenth century B.C.E. and discontinuities in material culture (see
below).
Viewing early Israel as an ethnos raises several questions. What circum-
stantial “shared interest,” in contradistinction to the primordial “common her-
itage,” forged the bonds for Iron I Israel? After the initial impetus for affiliation
ceased, what “shared institutions” perpetuated group identity? Is it possible to
discern within the group’s recorded narrative either episodic components or lit-
erary processes signifying authors/redactors constructing a history, the process
of which fostered ethnic identity?
EXCURSUS: THE MEANING OF “ISRAELITE AND PHILISTINE

Before reviewing the models of ethnicity currently employed in
archaeological studies, use of the terms “Israelite” and “Philistine”
requires qualification. Biblicists and archaeologists share limitations in
distinguishing and interpreting internal variability. For biblical scholars,
texts such as the various tribal accounts, conquest narratives, and judges’
episodes are all regarded as “Israelite” by virtue of their inclusion in the
recorded history, though they may have originated with distinct groups
later incorporated into the Israelite nation. The same limitation in distin-
guishing internal variability plagues the interpretation of archaeological
finds. Settlements and material culture in the Iron I central highlands
(1200–1000 B.C.E.) are all attributed to a single culture and people, vari-
ously labeled “Proto-Israelite” (William Dever) or “Israelite” (Israel
Finkelstein, Amihai Mazar). Studies of inter- and intrasite variability lack
the necessary quantities of data and refinement of analysis to distinguish
different peoples resident in the highlands. For convenience, archaeolo-
gists resort to the acknowledged misnomer “Israelite” for all central high-
17 Hall, Ethnic Identity, 2; Stephen Cornell, “That’s the Story of Our Life,” in We Are a Peo-
ple, ed. Spickard and Burroughs, 43–44, and see n. 1 for bibliography on the link between identity
and narrative.
lands territory and material culture. The term “Philistine,” the biblically
perceived dominant culture among the Egyptian-attested Sea Peoples,
functions similarly for the territory and material culture of the coastal
plain from roughly the Yarkon River south to Gaza.
The Culture Area Approach:

Distinguishing “Israelites” from “Canaanites”
Current archaeological studies of Israelite ethnicity employ the anthropo-
logical paradigm known as the Culture Area approach.18 According to this
model, the ethnos is identified with “a complex of cultural traits common to a
population inhabiting a specific environmental zone.”19 As is evident from the
above discussion of ethnicity, systemic difficulties compromise the explanatory
value of this model. Difficulties include (1) distinguishing cultural complexes of
traits and delimiting their boundaries; (2) identifying features of ethnic rather
than economic, social, or political origin; and (3) allowing for variability in the
complex of traits through time and space. A further limitation of this approach
is the difficulty in demonstrating the meaning or significance of the isolated
traits for the members of the group. Without meaning, the traits cease to func-
tion as part of the “cultural complex.” Fortunately, texts—in our case the
Bible—testify to what constituted a meaningful trait (though documentation
was not intended to be comprehensive), at least in retrospect.
Israel Finkelstein’s work is illustrative of this approach. In 1983 he claimed
to have identified early “Israel” in his Tel Aviv Ph.D. dissertation entitled “The
Izbet Sartah Excavations and the Israelite Settlement in the Hill Country.”20
Nearly twenty years later, not a single feature of the highland settlements
attributed to early Israel may be conclusively identified as exclusively “Israel-
ite” or as distinguishing “Israelites” from neighboring peoples such as the
“Gibeonites” or “Canaanites.” Despite growing evidence to the contrary, Cul-
ture Area advocates continue to promote the “pillared” or “four-room” house
and “collar-rim” store jar as traits of the Israelite cultural complex. Abstinence
from pork, recently added to the list, is also problematic (see below). None of
these traits was exclusive to a conservatively delimited Iron I highland Israel
and so is not necessarily a marker of an ethnic Israelite individual or family.
18 William Dever, 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: Eerdmans, 2001); I.
Finkelstein and N. Silberman, The Bible Unearthed: Archaeology’s New Vision of Ancient Israel
and the Origin of Its Sacred Texts (New York: Free Press, 2001); Zevit, Religions of Ancient Israel.
19 Emberling, “Ethnicity,” 297.
20 Finkelstein extended the scope of his studies in his subsequent works (The Archaeology of
the Period of Settlement and Judges [Tel Aviv: Hakibbutz Hameuchad Publishing, 1986] and
Archaeology of the Israelite Settlement).
Furthermore, texts are mute as to whether or not Israelites considered house

plans and store jars meaningful cultural traits; only abstinence from pork
appears in the collective memory (Lev 11:7–8; Deut 14:8). The silence of the
texts regarding the significance of house plans and collar-rim store jars plus
their relatively restricted distribution favors an economic or functional rather
than an ethnic impetus and no subsequent importance.
To topple the reigning paradigm, the distribution of pillared houses and
store jars and the absence of pork in the diet will be shown both temporally and
spatially to exceed the parameters of early Israel. At newly founded Iron I (ca.
1200–1000 B.C.E.) highland sites, settlers commonly constructed a pillared
house, commonly referred to as the “four-room” house. These square to rectan-
gular dwellings enclosed a rear broadroom and a front courtyard divided by one
or two longitudinal rows of pillars (1.1–1.8 m. high) demarcating side rooms
often paved with flagstones. Low arched doorways, occasional troughs between
the pillars, and the flagstone paving suggest that the side rooms sheltered ani-
mals. Ovens and hearths in the central courtyard attest to cooking and baking,
leaving the back room for storage and sleeping. Many houses likely had at least
a partial second story.21
While this house type may have predominated in the Iron I highlands, it
was not the exclusive model at sites including Afula, Tell el Far>ah (N), Ai,
Bethel, Beth Shemesh, or Tell Beit Mirsim.22 Houses at Tell el-Far>ah (N),
Bethel, Beth Shemesh, and Tell Beit Mirsim, all continuously populated from
the Late Bronze Age into the Iron I, lacked pillars and at 100–200 m. sq. cov-
ered more than double the floor space of the Ai and Khirbet Raddana pillared
dwellings. The simplistic equation between Israelites and pillared houses is
without foundation. At highland sites generally considered Israelite, such as Ai
21 For an extensive discussion and bibliography, see John Holladay, Jr., “House, Israelite,”
ABD 3:308–18; Lawrence Stager, “The Archaeology of the Family in Ancient Israel,” BASOR 260
(1985): 1–35.
22 Afula IIIB House XXVIII (twelfth century), see Moshe Dothan, “The Excavations at
>Afula,” Atiqot 1 (1956): fig. 3; Ai Houses 17, 152, 207 (twelfth to eleventh century), see J. Marquet-
Kraus, Les Fouilles de ‘Ay (et-Tell) 1933–1935: Resurrection d’Une Grande Cite Biblique (Biblio-
thèque Archéologique et Historique 45; Paris: Guethner, 1949), pl. XCVII; Bethel House 35 (end
of thirteenth to beginning of twelfth century) (twelfth century ), see Frank Braemer, L’Architec-
ture Domestique du Levant A L’Age Du Fer (Editions recherche sur les civilizations 8; Paris:
A.D.P.F., 1982), 201–2; Tell Beit Mirsim B2 House SE 12/3, see William F. Albright, The Excava-
tion of Tell Beit Mirsim, vol. 3, The Iron Age (AASOR 21–22; New Haven: ASOR, 1943), 19–21, pls.
2 and 11a; and Braemer, L’Architecture Domestique, 28–29, 181–82; Beth Shemesh III Houses 24
and 28 (twelfth to eleventh century), see Elihu Grant, Ain Shems Excavations 1928–1931 (Biblical
and Kindred Studies 3, 4; Haverford: Haverford College, 1931), pl. XXV; and E. Grant and G. E.
Wright, Ain Shems Excavations (Palestine) (Biblical and Kindred Studies 8; Haverford: Haverford
College, 1939), 51–55, fig. 6; and Braemer, L’Architecture Domestique, 198–99; Tell el Far>ah (N)
Houses 163 and 180 (eleventh to tenth century), see Braemer, L’Architecture Domestique, 211–17.
or Bethel, either Israelites constructed houses of differing plans or non-

Israelites resided there as well, in which case the settlements should not be
considered exclusively Israelite. If Israelites chose from among various house
models, then the pillared house may be a function of socioeconomic considera-
tions rather than ethnicity.
The distribution of pillared houses was also not restricted to Israelite sites;
pillared houses were erected at the Late Bronze II and Iron I sites of Tell
Ta>anach, Izbet Sartah, Tell Batash, Tell es-Shariah, Tel Masos, Sahab, and
Medeinet Mu>arradjeh on the Kerak plateau, arguably non-Israelite sites.23
Ironically, the excavators’ identification of many of these sites as Israelite rests
solely on biblical testimony; archaeological remains suggest otherwise. Thus
falls the first pillar, or material culture attribute, distinguishing ethnic Israelites
from Canaanites and other peoples resident in the highlands.
William F. Albright identified the collar-rim store jar as a highland feature;
Yohanan Aharoni held the form to be exclusively Israelite.24 Date and distribu-
tion, however, negate Aharoni’s qualification.25 Collar-rim store jars are now
known from sites outside of and predating Israelite control, in the lowlands
(Tell Keisan, Tell Nami, Aphek, Tell Qasile, Megiddo, Beth Shan) and on the
Transjordanian plateau (Sahab, Tell el-Umeiri, the Amman-Hesban region).26
23 Tell Ta>anach twelfth-century pillars in a partial structure and the Drainpipe Structure,
see Paul Lapp, “The 1968 Excavations at Tell Ta>anek,” BASOR 195 (1969): 34–39; and Braemer,
L’Architecture Domestique, 286; Izbet Sartah II (end of eleventh century), see M. Kochavi and A.
Demsky, “An Israelite Village from the Days of the Judges,” BAR 4, no. 3 (1978): plan p. 26; and
Finkelstein, Archaeology of the Israelite Settlement, 75–78; and Braemer, L’Architecture Domes-
tique, 238–39; Tell es-Sharia Str. VIII, E. Oren, “Esh-Sharia>a (Tel Sera>), EAEHL 4:1064–65, plan
on p. 1066; Tel Batash VII, LBII “Burnt Building,” see G. Kelm and A. Mazar, “Three Seasons of
Excavations at Tell Batash-Biblical Timnah,” BASOR 248 (1982): 9–13; Tel Masos Str. III House
74 (end of thirteenth to mid to late twelfth century), Str. II Houses 2, 88, 167 and 1065 (late twelfth
to eleventh century), see A. Kempinsky and V. Fritz, “Excavations at Tel Masos (Khirbet el
Meshash): Preliminary Report of the Third Season, 1975,” TA 4 (1977): 138–42; and Braemer,
L’Architecture Domestique, 251–55; M. M. Ibrahim, “Third Season of Excavations at Sahab, 1975
(Preliminary Report),” ADAJ 20 (1975): 69–82; J. Sauer, “Iron I Pillared House in Moab,” BA 42,
no. 1 (1979): 1.
24 W. F. Albright, “Further Light on the History of Israel from Lachish and Megiddo,”
BASOR 68 (1937): 25; Yohanan Aharoni, “New Aspects of the Israelite Occupation in the North,”
in Near Eastern Archaeology in the Twentieth Century: Essays in Honor of Nelson Glueck (ed. J. A.
Sanders; New York: Doubleday, 1970), 264–65.
25 See the summary in Finkelstein, Archaeology of the Israelite Settlement, 280–82.
26 For bibliography, see Israel Finkelstein, “Pots and People Revisited: Ethnic Boundaries in
the Iron Age I,” in The Archaeology of Israel: Constructing the Past, Interpreting the Present (ed.
N. Silberman and D. Small; JSOTSup 237; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1997), 224–25; for
Tell al->Umayri, see Larry Herr, “The Settlement and Fortification of Tell al->Umayri in Jordan
During the LB/Iron I Transition,” in The Archaeology of Jordan and Beyond: Essays in Honor of
James A. Sauer (ed. L. Stager, J. Greene, and M. Coogan; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2000),
167–79.
A suggested mode of dispersal also precludes use of the jar as an ethnic marker.
Based on distribution, Doug Esse proposed itinerant kin-based potters, likely
Israelites, selling collar-rim store jars to Israelites and Canaanites alike.27 If
Esse is correct, the general availability of collar-rim jars shatters the myth of
their restricted ethnic use. Thus falls the second pillar or attribute of ethnic
Israel’s identity manifested in material culture.
Zooarchaeologists seemingly rescued the early Israelites from obscurity.
The apparent abstinence from pork in fulfillment of the biblical injunction (Lev
11:7–8; Deut 14:8) was embraced as the elusive marker of Israelite ethnicity.28
Brian Hesse and Paula Wapnish tabulated percentages of pig bones among fau-
nal collections from Israel, Syria, Iraq, eastern Anatolia, and Egypt, spanning
the ninth to the first millennium.29 Relevant to this discussion are their findings
from second- and first-millennium Cisjordan. Their efforts are hamstrung by
the small number of faunal assemblages analyzed, samples of widely varying
size (from 47 to 3,950 bones), and the variability of intrasite distribution
depending on context. Isolating the results of southern Levantine sites, five
Middle Bronze Age sites demonstrated “intense exploitation” of pig, from 8 to
34 percent of identified animal bones in domestic debris. Late Bronze Age sites
yielded “scant” Late Bronze Age evidence, with the sole highland site of Shiloh
yielding a mere 0.17 percent (one bone). Pig was rare but present in Iron I
highland sites: 0.7 percent at Shiloh, one bone each at Ai and Khirbet Raddana,
and “some” from the City of David (none from the Ophel). By contrast, the pig
samples of 18 and 19 percent respectively from Iron I Tel Miqne and Ashkelon
constitute incontrovertible evidence of Iron I Philistine pork consumption. At
all Philistine sites analyzed, Ashkelon, Tel Miqne, and Tell Batash, pig exploita-
tion decreased through the centuries, beginning in the eleventh century B.C.E.
Overall, Hesse and Wapnish’s results demonstrate reliance on pig in the Middle
Bronze Age, with greatly diminished use from the Late Bronze Age through
the Persian period except for Iron I Philistia, with a return to pork as a dietary
27 Douglas Esse, “The Collared Store Jar: Scholarly Ideology and Ceramic Typology,” SJOT
2 (1991): 99–116.
28 Diana Edelman, “Ethnicity and Early Israel,” in Ethnicity and the Bible, ed. Brett, 49;
Dever, What Did the Biblical Writers Know, 113; Finkelstein, “Pots and People,” 228–30; Finkel-
stein and Silberman, Bible Unearthed, 119; Larry Stager, “The Impact of the Sea Peoples in
Canaan (1185–1050 BCE),” in The Archaeology of Society in the Holy Land (ed. T. Levy; New York:
Facts on File, 1995), 344.
29 Brian Hesse, “Husbandry, Dietary Taboos, and the Bones of the Ancient Near East: Zoo-
archaeology in the Post-Processual World,” in Methods in the Mediterranean: Historical and

Archaeological Views on Texts and Archaeology (ed. D. Small; Leiden/New York: Brill, 1995), 197–
232, esp. 217–30; Brian Hesse and Paula Wapnish, “Can Pig Remains Be Used for Ethnic Diagno-
sis in the Ancient Near East?” in Archaeology of Israel: Constructing the Past, ed. Silberman and
Small, 238–70.
mainstay in the Hellenistic and later periods.30 Based on these findings, those
who seek to identify Israelites on the basis of abstinence from pork are hampered
by the single Late Bronze Age highland site with a “trace” of pig, which precludes
distinguishing the Iron I highland “Israelites” from their predecessors.
A further limitation of the Culture Area approach is its inability to bridge
the mid-twelfth- and eleventh-century B.C.E. highland abandonment and dis-
continuity in material culture. Entire regions of Manasseh, Ephraim, Judah,
and the Shephelah were abandoned not long after having been settled. 31
Finkelstein’s 1997 claim that “over 90% of the Iron I sites [in the central high-
lands] continued to be inhabited, undisturbed, until the eighth century BCE” is
not borne out by excavations, others’ surveys, or his own earlier work in the ter-
ritory of Ephraim.32 Of the few Iron I sites excavated, many were abandoned
either briefly or permanently (Mt. Ebal, Izbet Sartah, Shechem, Shiloh, Ai,
Khirbet Raddana, Tell en-Nasbeh, Giloh, Umm et-Tala, Jebel el-Habun/Allon
Shevut, Tell Beit Mirsim). Tell el-Far>ah (N), Khirbet ed-Dawwara, and Izbet
Sartah lasted into the tenth century B.C.E. before being abandoned. Only five
highland sites supported continuous settlement into the Iron II period (Bethel,
Tell el-Ful/Gibeah, Gibeon, Jerusalem, Tell er-Rumeideh/Tel Hebron).33 Sur-
vey results also challenge Finkelstein’s purported continuity of settlement.
Archaeological surveys of Ephraim found, on average, a 36-percent Iron I site
abandonment rate, with rates as high as 50 percent in the east and 44 percent
along the south central ridge.34 Avraham Faust’s focus on rural settlement
paints an even bleaker picture than that presented by Finkelstein. According to
Faust, Iron II villages were not established before the demise of their Iron I
30 Brian Hesse and Paula Wapnish, “Pig Use and Abuse in the Ancient Levant: Ethno-
religious Boundary-Building with Swine,” in Ancestors for the Pigs: Pigs in Prehistory (ed. S.
Nelson; MASCA Research Papers in Science and Archaeology 15; Philadelphia: Museum Applied
Science Center for Archaeology, University of Pennsylvania Museum of Archaeology and Anthro-
pology, 1998), 123–35.
31 Elizabeth Bloch-Smith and Beth Alpert-Nakhai, “A Landscape Comes to Life: The Iron
Age I,” Near Eastern Archaeology 62, no. 2 (1999): 70, 73, 77–78.
32 Finkelstein, “Pots and People Revisited,” 223; idem, Archaeology of the Israelite Settle-
ment; Avraham Faust, “Abandonment, Urbanization, Resettlement and the Formation of the
Israelite State” (paper presented at the annual meeting of the ASOR, Boulder, Colorado, Novem-
ber 2001; forthcoming in Near Eastern Archaeology).
33 For charts summarizing comparative stratigraphy of Iron I and Iron II sites, see Amihai
Mazar, Archaeology of the Land of the Bible 10,000–586 B.C.E. (New York: Doubleday, 1990),
table 6, p. 301, and table 7, pp. 372–73.
34 Avi Ofer, “‘All the Hill Country of Judah’: From a Settlement Fringe to a Prosperous
Monarchy,” in From Nomadism to Monarchy: Archaeological and Historical Aspects of Early Israel
(ed. I. Finkelstein and N. Na’aman; Jerusalem: Yad Izhak Ben-Zvi, Israel Exploration Society;
Washington: Biblical Archaeology Society, 1994), figs. 4 and 5. Percentages for Ephraim were tab-
ulated from survey data in Finkelstein, Archaeology of the Israelite Settlement, 140–77, 187–91.
counterparts, so that no rural settlements existed in the late eleventh/early

tenth century B.C.E.35 Archaeologists attribute the abandonments to incipient
urbanism as an economic strategy and to the threat of Philistine incursions and
Canaanite reprisals,36 but a corresponding growth in highland urban centers is
not immediately evident. Waning highland settlement corresponded to growth
in coastal and Shephelah towns, regions generally recognized as beyond or of
contested Israelite control in the late twelfth and eleventh centuries B.C.E.37
If twelfth- to eleventh-century B.C.E. material culture traditions continued
into the tenth century B.C.E. and later, despite the widespread abandonments,
then archaeological evidence could more convincingly be adduced in support
of identifying the Iron I highland settlers with ethnic Israel. However, even
William Dever and Israel Finkelstein (in his more conservative period) con-
ceded discontinuities in the archaeological record. Not until the eleventh or
tenth century B.C.E. did pottery, settled areas, burial practices, demographic
patterns, and architecture coalesce into forms continuous through the sixth
century B.C.E.38 Much twelfth- to eleventh-century B.C.E. material culture did
not bridge the abandonment gap, so material culture must cautiously be used
in support of identifying the Iron I highland settlers with later Israel.
In sum, not a single “Israelite” trait identified by proponents of the Culture
Area approach—pillared houses, collar-rim store jars, or pig abstinence—was
exclusive to a conservatively delimited Iron I highland Israel. The relatively
restricted distribution of these traits favors a functional rather than an ethnic
rationale. In general, Iron I highland architecture, diet, material culture, subsis-
tence adaptation, language, and even cultic features continued Late Bronze Age
practices or were attested in neighboring regions. Not until the beginning of
Iron II, following the mid-twelfth- to late-eleventh-century B.C.E. abandon-
ments, did the demographic patterns and cultural traits emerge that would con-
tinue until the demise of the Israelite kingdom in 586 B.C.E. Aside from the
founding of new settlements in territory allegedly conquered and settled by
Israel, none of the features commonly cited either decisively links highland res-
idents to biblical Israel or distinguishes Israelites from their highland neighbors.
35 Faust, “Abandonment, Urbanization, Resettlement.”

36 William Dever, “Archaeology, Urbanism, and the Rise of the Israelite State,” in Urbanism
in Antiquity: From Mesopotamia to Crete (ed. W. Aufrecht, N. Mirau, and S. Gauley; JSOTSup
244; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1997), 182; Juval Portugali, “Theoretical Speculations on
the Transition from Nomadism to Monarchy,” in From Nomadism to Monarchy, ed. Finkelstein
and Na’aman, 203–17.
37 Bloch-Smith and Nakhai, “A Landscape Comes to Life,” 78.
38 William Dever, “Ceramics, Ethnicity, and the Question of Israel’s Origins,” BA 58, no. 4
(1995): 206–10; Finkelstein, Archaeology of the Israelite Settlement, 332.

II. The Meaningful Boundaries and Tell-Tale Approaches:

Distinguishing “Israelites” from “Philistines”
Beginning in 1969, Fredrik Barth broadened the discussion of ethnicity to

include an examination of boundaries or significant features that differentiate
groups.39 Building on Barth’s work, rather than simply isolating traits specific to
a region or a population, recent studies identify and map a complex of traits that
the ethnic group deems significant and that distinguishes the ethnos from oth-
ers. Ethnicity is better viewed as a “process of identification and differentiation,
rather than . . . an inherent attribute of individuals or groups.”40 The level of
sophistication attained in biblical and archaeological studies enables proceed-
ing beyond the acknowledged misnomers based on ethnic traits that lack
attributed significance. Biblical texts confer significance on archaeologically
attested traits; archaeology supplies a date and a context for specific features
preserved in redacted texts. Considered together, biblical and archaeological
testimonies provide witness to the characteristics that the Israelites considered
significant and that differentiated them from others. Rather than pillared
houses and collar-rim store jars, which lack attested significance for early Israel,
Israel should be defined on its own terms (as filtered through later generations)
rather than as a modern scholarly construct.
A second ethnicity model, the Meaningful Boundaries approach, involves
identifying a complex of features of demonstrated significance, as noted in the
“collective memory,” defining Israel in relation to others. Rather than attempt-
ing to differentiate Israelites from Canaanites, with whom both the Bible and
archaeology indicate they shared a material culture, the Israelites may be dis-
tinguished from another adversary, the Philistines. The rival Philistines’ prac-
tices and material culture are readily discernible from that of highland settlers,
including the Israelites, and so constitute an ideal foil.41
The current pejorative meaning of “Philistine” expresses the opposite of
what is known of the twelfth- to tenth-century B.C.E. culture through excava-
tion. Philistines constructed urban sites (e.g., Ashdod, Ashkelon, Ekron) with
39 Fredrik Barth, “Introduction,” in Ethnic Groups and Boundaries: The Social Organization
of Culture Difference (ed. F. Barth; Boston: Little, Brown, 1969), 14–15.

40 Emberling, “Ethnicity,” 306.
41 Introductions to the Philistines are provided by Trude Dothan, The Philistines and Their
Material Culture (New Haven: Yale University Press; Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 1982);
Mazar, Archaeology of the Land of the Bible, 300–328; Mediterranean Peoples in Transition: Thir-
teenth to Early Tenth Centuries BCE (ed. Seymour Gitin, Amihai Mazar, and Ephraim Stern;
Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 1998); The Sea Peoples and Their World: A Reassessment
(ed. Eliezer Oren; University Museum Monograph 108, University Museum Symposium Series 11;
Philadelphia: University Museum, 2000). Tell Qasile, while cited as an exemplar of Philistine prac-
tices, may have been established by another constituent group of the Sea Peoples.
blocks of houses framed by an orthogonal street plan (Qasile). Temples, of

evolving plans, were situated within residential areas (Qasile). Comparable
monumental buildings and temples are unknown from the highlands in this
period. Distinctive building techniques and central pillars to support roof
beams, together with plastered benches along the room perimeter, free-
standing round hearths (Qasile, Miqne, Ashkelon), and keyhole-shaped hearths
(Qasile, Miqne, Ashkelon) distinguished Philistine structures from their high-
land counterparts.42
Iconography and material remains exhibit distinctive Philistine cultic, mil-
itary (discussed below), dietary, and even personal-grooming and hygiene fea-
tures and practices. Numerous objects, some with (distant) links to Aegean
prototypes, contemporaneously appeared at Cypriot and Levantine sites:
Mycenaean IIIC:1b or Philistine Monochrome pottery followed by Philistine
Bichrome pottery with distinctive forms and decoration, incised cow scapulae
(musical instruments?), and unbaked clay “loom weights.” From these objects
and botanical and zoological remains, we learn that Philistines dined on pork
and beef served with sauces rather than on the highland diet of stewed sheep or
goat. 43 Following Aegean custom, they diluted their wine with water and
imbibed from bell-shaped bowls. Distinctive cultic practices are evidenced by
the “Ashdoda” figurines (enthroned female and male figures), kernoi with
mourning women or floral or faunal figures attached, conch-shaped vessels,
and the temple architecture mentioned above. In contrast to the Israelites,
Philistines were clean-shaven (as depicted in the Ramesses III Medinet Habu
reliefs) and bathed in stone or ceramic tubs (Ashdod, Tel Miqne, Ashkelon).44
Archaeology establishes the twelfth to tenth centuries B.C.E. as the con-
tentious period between the highland Israelites and the Philistines. If one
equates the sudden appearance of quantities of Myc IIIC:1b pottery with Sea
Peoples/Philistines settlement, one can conclude that migrants reached the
southern Levant in the twelfth century B . C . E . with dates ranging from
Lawrence Stager’s ca. 1185 B.C.E. to Israel Finkelstein’s mid to late twelfth cen-
tury B.C.E.45 The spread of Philistine Bichrome wares in the later twelfth
42 Israel Finkelstein, “The Philistine Settlement: When, Where and How Many?” in The Sea
Peoples and Their World, ed. Oren, 166–74. Philistine architecture and architectural elements are
conveniently summarized in Mazar, Archaeology of the Land of the Bible, 317–23.
43 Hesse, “Pig Lovers and Pig Haters,” table 3.
44 Vassos Karageorghis, “Cultural Innovations in Cyprus Relating to the Sea Peoples,” in Sea
Peoples and Their World, 271–74.

45 The thesis of this article does not hinge on absolute dates; whether beginning early or later
in the twelfth century, Philistine aggression galvanized an Israelite opposition. Israel Finkelstein
dates the advent of Philistine pottery in the southern Levant to the end of Ramesses VI’s reign or
later, lowering the dates of Philistine Monochrome pottery to 1135–1100 B.C.E. and Philistine
and/or early eleventh century B.C.E. indicates distant trade and, where the pot-
tery occurs in significant quantities in conjunction with other “Philistine” fea-
tures, appropriation of and settlement in adjacent territories to the north in the
Yarkon River Valley (Tell Qasile, Aphek, Jerishe, Jaffa, Azor), to the east into
the Shephelah (Gezer, Tell Batash, Beth Shemesh, Tel Sippor, Tell es-Safi, Tell
Beit Mirsim), and to the southeast into the northern Negev (Sera, Haror, Tell
el-Far>ah [S]).46
According to biblical accounts, Israelites fought Philistine invasions and
forays during the periods of Samuel, Saul, and David, dated between the late
twelfth and early tenth centuries B.C.E. in conformance with the archaeological
evidence. Hostility, but not warfare, toward the “uncircumcised” neighbors
formed the backdrop for Samson’s fatal attraction to Philistine women (Judg
14:1–3; 16:1, 4) and >ibrîm resorting to Philistine metalsmiths to sharpen their
agricultural implements (1 Sam 13:19–20). By the time of Samuel, Israel and
Philistia were at war. Both territory and subservience entailing slave labor were
at stake (1 Sam 4:9; 17:9). With the exception of Saul’s fatal foray to the Jezreel
Valley, Philistines and Israelites battled for territory in southern Ephraim, Ben-
jamin, western Judah, and through the Shephelah (1 Sam 4:1–11; 7:7–14). Saul
defended the territory of Benjamin (1 Sam 13:4–7; 14:31) and David of Bethle-
hem initially battled on behalf of Judah (1 Sam 17:1–52; 23:1–5). Territorial dis-
putes then shifted northward for control of the Jezreel Valley (1 Sam
28:1–29:11; 31:1), but following David’s coronation, the battleground reverted
to the vicinity of his new capital in Jerusalem and control of the mountain
passes providing access to it (2 Sam 5:17–25).
James Flanagan, Steven McKenzie, and Baruch Halpern, among others,
question the veracity of the biblical accounts of David and the Philistines. The
chronological sequence, specific “Philistine” forces involved in each battle, and
the relationship that fluctuated between antagonism and alliance are among
the subjects of scrutiny.47 Irrespective of David’s origins and means of achiev-
Bichrome pottery to the eleventh and beginning of the tenth century. Finkelstein’s dates have, in
turn, been challenged by Shlomo Bunimovitz and Avraham Faust, Susan Sherratt, and Baruch
Halpern. To review the debate, see Dothan, Philistines and Their Material Culture, 2; Finkelstein,
“Philistine Settlement,” 159–80; idem, “Philistine Chronology: High, Middle or Low?” in Mediter-
ranean Peoples in Transition, ed. Gitin et al., 140–47; S. Bunimovitz and A. Faust, “Chronological
Separation, Geographical Segregation or Ethnic Demarcation? Ethnography and the Iron Age
Low Chronology,” BASOR 322 (2001): 1–10; Susan Sherratt, “‘Sea Peoples’ and the Economic
Structure of the Late Second Millennium in the Eastern Mediterranean,” in Mediterranean Peo-
ples in Transition, ed. Gitin et al., 306 n. 30; and Baruch Halpern, David’s Secret Demons: Messiah,
Murderer, Traitor, King (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2001), 454–55.
46 Dothan, Philistines and Their Material Culture, 25–90, 295–96; Stager, “Impact of the Sea
Peoples in Canaan.”
47 James Flanagan, David’s Social Drama: A Hologram of Israel’s Early Iron Age (Social
ing power, the Bible describes wars between Israel and Philistia during the
reigns of Saul and David for domination and control of the Shephelah and
strategic mountain passes leading into the highlands, the Yarkon River Valley,
and the Jezreel Valley.48 The religious message is evident. In every case, faith in
Yahweh and divine assistance (1 Sam 7:5–10; 14:1–15; 17; 23:1–5; 2 Sam
5:17–25) enabled Israel to defeat their more numerous and better equipped
enemy. However, Saul and David’s battles to free and defend their capital cities
of Geba/Gibeah and Jerusalem respectively demonstrate the seriousness of the
Philistine threat and precariousness of Israel’s very existence.
Is it possible to identify the Israelites who opposed the Philistines in the
twelfth to eleventh/early tenth century B.C.E.? Based on biblical and archaeo-
logical information about the Philistines and their culture, biblical narrative
and legal passages identify four distinguishing traits of Israelites from their own
perspective: circumcision (1 Sam 18:25–26; 31:4; 2 Sam 3:14), maintaining a
short beard (Lev 19:27; Deut 14:2), abstinence from eating pork (Lev 11:7–8;
Deut 14:2), and military inferiority (1 Sam 13:5, 19; 17). Circumcision and a
military imbalance explicitly figure in the Israelite-Philistine accounts. Main-
taining a short beard and abstaining from eating pork as traits distinguishing
Israelites from Philistines are known only through archaeology. Circumcision is
a clear-cut distinction. In describing Sea Peoples among the Libyan invaders,
Merneptah singles out the “[Sher]den, Shekelesh, Ekwesh, of the countries of
the sea, who had no foreskins,” omitting the Peleset/Philistines, in confor-
mance with the biblical characterization of the Philistines as uncircumcised.49
Distinctions in facial hair treatment are evident from Ramesses III’s Medinet
Habu depictions of clean-shaven Sea Peoples50 in contrast to the Israelite short
beard, as depicted in Ramesses II or Merneptah’s depiction of the siege of
Ashkelon at Karnak.51 Later depictions of the Israelite king and messengers on
World of Biblical Antiquity Series 7; Sheffield: Almond, 1988); Steven McKenzie, King David: A
Biography (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000); Halpern, David’s Secret Demons, 144–59.
48 Seymour Gitin conveniently quantified Israel’s animus toward the Philistines. Excluding
the Canaanites, of the 919 biblical references to Israel’s foes, 423 (46%) relate to Philistia, 273
(30%) to Egypt, 164 (18%) to the transjordanian nations and Amalek, and 59 (6%) to the Phoeni-
cian cities of Tyre and Sidon (“Philistia in Transition: The Tenth Century and Beyond,” in Mediter-
ranean Peoples in Transition, ed. Gitin et al., 163 n. 4).
49 James H. Breasted, Ancient Records of Egypt, vol. 3, The Nineteenth Dynasty (1906; repr.,
New York: Russell & Russell, 1962), 249 §588. Saul Olyan discusses circumcised/uncircumcised as
one example of a polarity or binary pairing distinguishing Israel from others (Rites and Rank: Hier-
archy in Biblical Representations of Cult [Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2000], 64–68).
50 Medinet Habu I, Medinet Habu VIII; I. Earlier Historical Records of Ramesses III
(Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1930), pls. 37, 39, 44.

51 Larry Stager, “Merneptah, Israel and the Sea Peoples: New Light on an Old Relief,” Eretz
Israel 18 (1985): *56–64; biblical proscriptions against cutting facial hair imply a beard (Lev 19:27;
the ninth-century B.C.E. Black Obelisk of Shalmaneser and of a dignitary on an

eighth- to seventh-century B.C.E. sherd from Ramat Rahel illustrate the endur-
ing style of trimmed beards.52 Tjekker/Sikil and individual Sea Peoples captives
were bearded on the Medinet Habu relief, but in general the presence or
absence of facial hair may have served as a highly visible marker of Israelite as
opposed to Philistine affiliation. Razors for shaving facial hair are known from
Egypt, but are thus far unattested for Philistia. The Israelite injunction to
abstain from pork products, meaningful in the context of the twelfth- and
eleventh-century B.C.E. pork-consuming Philistines, has been discussed above.
Biblical accounts repeatedly stress Israelite military inferiority relative to
the Philistines. Philistine superiority is attributed to control of metalsmithing
(1 Sam 13:19, the unspecified metal could be copper, bronze, or iron) and
greater numbers of chariots (1 Sam 13:5) and armaments (1 Sam 17:5–7a). “No
smith was to be found in all the land of Israel, for the Philistines were afraid
that the >ibrîm would make swords or spears” (1 Sam 13:19). In the legendary
duel, the Philistine warrior Goliath wore a helmet, a breastplate of scale armor,
and greaves on his legs, all of bronze. He carried a bronze javelin slung from his
shoulders and a spear with a massive iron head.53 Goliath’s challenge was
answered by an Israelite lad, David, armed only with a slingshot and a stick
(1 Sam 17:5–7). While the description of Goliath’s armor may well be an
anachronistic description intended to glorify David, biblical passages consis-
tently portray the Philistines as better equipped than their Israelite enemies.
Philistine troops wielding swords (1 Sam 14:20), spears (1 Sam 17:7; 2 Sam
21:16), and bows and arrows (1 Sam 31:3) fought in infantry, cavalry, and chari-
otry units (1 Sam 13:5; 2 Sam 1:6) against Israelite troops on foot, equipped
only with bows and arrows (1 Sam 13:22).
The Medinet Habu depictions of Sea Peoples battling Egyptians corrobo-
rate the biblical portrayal of heavily armed, professional Philistine warriors.
Battling from ships, the warriors, clothed in a helmet and body armor/ribbed
corselet, held small round shields and wielded spears, lances/pikes, or Aegean
21:5; Deut 14:1). Israelites grew facial hair, shaving only, according to Saul Olyan, to announce
publicly a change in status (“What Do Shaving Rites Accomplish and What Do They Signal in Bib-
lical Ritual Contexts?” JBL 117 [1998]: 611–22).
52 Line drawings of both depictions appear in Philip King and Lawrence Stager, Life in Bibli-
cal Israel (Louisville/London: Westminster John Knox, 2001), illustrations 132, 134a–e.
53 Steven McKenzie disputes an early date for Goliath’s armor. The helmet, in particular, is
compared to Assyrian helmets, which, lacking a nosepiece, would have enabled David to strike his
opponent in the forehead (King David: A Biography, 74–75). A decorated vase from Mycenae
attests to similar armaments and armor in the twelfth century. Marching warriors, clad in helmets
with nosepieces, coats of mail, and leg guards, carry a long spear (Trude Dothan and Moshe
Dothan, People of the Sea: The Search for the Philistines [New York: Macmillan, 1992], photo on p.
47).
long swords for hand-to-hand combat. On land, Philistines armed with two
spears attacked from a chariot drawn by two horses. Troops on foot entered
battle in phalanges of four men, three with a long, straight sword and a pair of
spears, and the fourth armed with a sword. All four carried a small round shield
and wore a plain upper garment, perhaps a breastplate. Families traveling in
heavy carts were guarded by a warrior equipped with a small round shield and a
long dagger or sword.54 The biblical and Egyptian accounts of battle share pro-
pagandistic purposes. Both glorify the local warrior/s (and their god/s) who
defeated enemy forces, and so they might be given to exaggeration. However,
both attest to well-provisioned, professional Philistine fighting forces.
Not surprisingly, amassing Iron I evidence of metallurgical activity and
armaments tempers the picture of Israelite and Philistine capabilities and pro-
visions.55 No site has yet yielded incontrovertible evidence of the primary pro-
duction of iron and perhaps even bronze; metallurgical activity was probably
limited to recycling, repair, and smelting. Iron I bronze workshops, indicated
by metal-encrusted crucibles or fragments and tuyere/claypipes for bellows,
were concentrated along but not limited to the coast (Tel Dan Str. VI-IVB, Tel
Harashim, Acco Area A/B, Megiddo K-5, Tell el-Oreme V, Beth Shan Str. VI,
Tell Deir >Alla Phase B, Khirbet Raddana, Tell Qasile, Tel Mor Level VI, per-
haps Ashdod XI, Tel Miqne/Ekron, Beth Shemesh III, Tell es-Zuweyid/Anthe-
don levels N and M, Tel Masos, Yotvata, Timna).56 Metalworkers labored
throughout the country, from Dan to Timna. Of the seventeen metallurgical
workshops, Philistines operated Tell Qasile and Tel Miqne, while Israelites
operated Khirbet Raddana. The biblical contention that “no smith was to be
54 Medinet Habu VIII:I, pl. 37.

55 The catalogue of weapons is primarily compiled from Yohanan Aharoni, Investigations at
Lachish: The Sanctuary and the Residency (Lachish V) (Tel Aviv: Tel Aviv University Institute of
Archaeology, 1975), 116–17; Dothan, Philistines and Their Material Culture; Allan Emery,
“Weapons of the Israelite Monarchy: A Catalogue with Its Linguistic and Cross-Cultural Implica-
tions” (Ph.D. diss., Harvard University, 1999); Francis James, The Iron Age at Beth Shan: A Study
of Levels VI-IV (Philadelphia: University Museum, 1966), fig. 104; see also articles in NEAEHL
(1993); K. Ohata, Tel Zeror II (Tokyo: Society for Near Eastern Studies in Japan, 1967), 40–41, and
Tel Zeror III (1970), 73; S. Sherratt, “Commerce, Iron and Ideology: Metallurgical Innovations in
12th–11th Century Cyprus,” in Cyprus in the Eleventh Century B.C. (ed. V. Karageorghis; Nicosia:
A. G. Leventis Foundation and University of Cyprus, 1994), 76–77; Ephraim Stern, “Discoveries at
Tel Dor,” in Archaeology of Israel: Constructing the Past, ed. Silberman and Small, 133; Olga
Tufnell, Lachish III (Tell ed-Duweir): The Iron Age (London/New York: Oxford University Press,
1953); and Jane Waldbaum, From Bronze to Iron (Göteborg: Paul Åströms, 1978).
56 For bibliography, see Trude Dothan, “Tel Miqne-Ekron: The Iron Age I Philistine Settle-
ment in Canaan,” in Archaeology of Israel: Constructing the Past, ed. Silberman and Small, 100;
Finkelstein, Archaeology of the Israelite Settlement, 104; Z. Meshel, “Yotvata,” NEAEHL
4:1517–18; Mazar, Archaeology of the Land of the Bible, 359; and Waldbaum, From Bronze to Iron,
60.
found in all the land of Israel” (1 Sam 13:19) appears to be an exaggeration. The
“archetypal” Iron I “Israelite” village of Khirbet Raddana had a bronze smelting
or casting workshop. Bronze slag-encrusted crucibles, tuyeres of various sizes,
plus an iron blade and bronze daggers, armor scale, needles, javelin points,
plow points, a small arrowhead, and spearheads dispel the image of the high-
land fighter lacking metal weapons dependent on the Philistine enemy to
sharpen his plow point.57 Khirbet Raddana, while currently unique in its high-
land metallurgical capabilities and armaments assemblage, highlights the dis-
crepancy between the biblical portrayal and the situation on the ground.58
Published weapons (including multipurpose blades), admittedly few in
number, considered in conjunction with highland smelting/casting sites under-
mine or at least qualify the biblical assertion of a Philistine metallurgical
monopoly and superiority in armaments.59 Though conclusively identified
Israelite (Bethel, Ai, Khirbet Raddana, Tell en-Nasbeh, Giloh, el-Khadr, Beth
Zur, tenth-century B.C.E. Beersheba) and Philistine sites (Ashdod, Tel Miqne-
Ekron, Beth Dagon, Tell el->Ajjul/Gaza, Tell Qasile [questionably Philistine])
are few in number, virtually every site yielded weapons. Tabulated numbers of
armaments and armor (table 1) demonstrate that neither side held an unam-
biguous advantage. Philistines possessed iron weapons before the Israelites,
perhaps the basis for the expressed Israelite inferiority. However, by the
eleventh century B.C.E. the Israelites gained the advantage in numbers of
weapons in iron as well as bronze. In general, Israelites utilized and probably
produced weapons requiring less metal and technological sophistication.
57 J. Callaway and R. Cooley, “A Salvage Excavation at Raddana, in Bireh,” BASOR 201
(1971): 9–19; Robert Cooley, “Four Seasons of Excavation at Khirbet Raddana,” Near Eastern
Archaeological Society Bulletin 5 (1975): 5–20; J. A. Callaway, “Raddana, Khirbet,” NEAEHL
4:1253–54.
58 Recent excavations have added to the list of possible casting or smelting sites dating from
the end of the Late Bronze Age and early Iron I. Significant courtyard/outdoor ash deposits are
reported from thirteen Iron I sites. At many of these sites, the ash layers, typically of relatively short
duration, immediately preceded or were linked to the earliest Philistine/Sea Peoples settlement.
While sacrifice and kilns for baking or pottery production generated a good deal of ash, the recy-
cling of copper or bronze into new implements, executed with crucibles in and near habitation
areas, likely produced the ash. Situated along the coast (Acco, Shiqmona, Tel Nami, Tel Dor, Tell
Qasile, Tel Mor, Tell es-Zuweyid), in the Shephelah (Gezer, Beth Shemesh, Lachish), in major val-
ley systems (Dan, Yoqneam, Beth Shan, Tell Deir >Alla), and at sites with Philistine connections
(Tel Miqne-Ekron, Sera, Tell el-Farah [S], Tel Masos), these casting and smelting sites likely bene-
fited the Philistines and lowland residents more than the highland Israelites.
59 The vast majority of twelfth-to-tenth-century B.C.E. metal weapons derived from sites
attributed to Canaanites, Egyptians, Sea Peoples other than the Philistines, or mixed populations.
The limited number of settlements included without major sites such as Jerusalem, Ashkelon, and
Gath render the results merely suggestive. The double designation Sea Peoples/Philistine hedges
identification of sites bordering different Sea Peoples territories, as, for example, Tell Qasile, which
lies on the border between the Philistines and the Tjekker/Sikil.
Table 1
Twelfth- to Tenth-Century B.C.E. Bronze and Iron Armaments
and Armor from “Philistine/Sea People” and “Israelite” Sites
Philistine1 Israelite2
Weapon Total # of # of diff. Bronze/ Total # of # of diff. Bronze/
Type weapons sites Iron weapons sites Iron
Arrowhead 6 23 4/2 11 + 264 4 26 + 4/7

Knife/blade 11 3 0/11 5 3 0/5
Dagger - - - 5 3 4/1
Sword 2 2 1/1 - - -
Spearhead 2 2 2/0 5 3 5/0
Spear butt 1 1 1/0 1 1 0/1
Javelin head - - - 4 + 34 3 34 + 3/1
Lancehead - - - 2 1 0/2
Armor scale - - - 2 1 2/0
Total 22 5 8/14 35 + 294 8 294 + 18/17
1 “Philistine” sites include Ashdod, Tel Miqne-Ekron, Beth Dagon, Tell el-
>Ajjul/Gaza, and Tell Qasile.

2 “Israelite” sites are restricted to the central highlands (excluding valley sites that con-
tinued from the Late Bronze Age, e.g., Dothan) plus tenth-century Beersheva (Bethel, Ai,
Khirbet Raddana, Tell en-Nasbeh, Giloh, el-Khadr, Beth Zur, Tel Beersheva).
3 Twenty-six arrowheads and three javelin heads from el-Khadr.
4 Quantities cited as “multiple” or “a few” in the excavation report are counted as 2 in
the tabulation.
Israelite sites yielded a greater number of projectile points (heads for an arrow,
spear, javelin, or lance); points required a minimal amount of metal and were
mounted on inexpensive wooden shafts. Philistines brandished a slightly
greater number of blades. Combining knife/blade, dagger, and sword—as the
identification is subjective (except in the case of the long Aegean sword)—
Philistines wielded thirteen blades against Israel’s ten. Producing blades
required significantly more metal and expertise than fashioning points. Israel’s
weapons afforded the advantage of fighting from a distance, with metal-tipped
arrows to shoot and metal-tipped shafts to thrust or throw. Philistine blades and
chariots were better suited for hand-to-hand combat.
Israelites wielded a greater number of metal or metal-tipped weapons, but

other factors gave the Philistines an edge: the Cypriot and coastal locus for
smelting, casting, and trade in metals; Cyprus as a source of copper; coastal
sites’ control of exports into the interior; more elaborate and extensive bronze
workshops; and new types of weapons introduced into the region from the
Aegean. All these circumstances afforded the Philistines greater resources and
easier access to metallurgists and their products than were available to Israel.
In addition, chariots gave the Philistine forces enhanced mobility. Archaeologi-
cal evidence for chariots, though limited, is both direct and indirect. Corrobo-
rating the Medinet Habu depictions of Philistines attacking from chariots,
miniature bronze chariot wheels and a full-size chariot linchpin lay on the
floors of cult rooms in the Tel Miqne-Ekron Monumental Building 4111.60
Ashkelon yielded an additional full-size bronze linchpin. In effect, the Bible
simplified but accurately documented relative Philistine superiority in metal-
lurgy and armaments.
Iron I Ethnic Israel Revealed

The Tell-Tale approach poses several questions regarding ethnic identity.
What primordial features or “common heritage” unified the ethnos? Both puta-
tive kinship and a special relationship to a distinctive god who acts throughout
history appear to have been early Israelite primordial features.61 However, both
features also evolved through time obfuscating, if not obscuring, their initial
formulation. Worship of the god El, as indicated by the theophoric name
“Israel,” probably functioned as a primordial feature.62 Exogenous use of the
name by an Egyptian pharaoh supports the contention that by the end of the
thirteenth century B.C.E. a southern Levantine people, of international notori-
ety, worshiped El. While specific corroborating archaeological evidence is lack-
ing, archaeology does attest to the continuity of Bronze Age cultic practices into
the Iron Age, likely including the worship of El, at least for the northern part of
the country.63 However, evolution of the deity worshiped is evident in the
aforementioned convergence of El and Yahweh. Variant kin-based tribal lists
(Gen 49:1–27; Num 1:5–16; Deut 33:1–29), the artificially conjoined lineages,
60 Trude Dothan considers the miniature wheels to belong to cultic carts rather than chariots,
but the accompanying linchpin bolsters the chariot identification (“Initial Philistine Settlement:
From Migration to Coexistence,” in Mediterranean Peoples in Transition, ed. Gitin et al., 158).
61 Peter Machinist’s discussion of Israel’s distinctiveness does not include kinship (“The
Question of Distinctiveness in Ancient Israel: An Essay,” in Ah Assyria . . . : Studies in Assyrian

History and Ancient Near Eastern Historiography Presented to Hayim Tadmor (ed. M. Cogan and
I. Ephal; ScrHier 33; Jerusalem: Magness and Hebrew University, 1991), 196–212, esp. 207.
62 Smith, Origins of Biblical Monotheism, 142–43.
63 See the summary in Bloch-Smith and Alpert-Nakhai, “Landscape Comes to Life,” 117–18.
perpetuated the primacy of kinship while acknowledging changes in con-

stituent groups. The later biblical “collective memory,” which regarded kinship,
cult, and territory as primordial unifying factors, simplified, perhaps obscured,
and may even have superseded the true unifying features of the Israelite ethnos
in the twelfth to eleventh centuries B.C.E.
What circumstantial features including shared interests fostered the for-
mation of ethnic Israel? The impetus for affiliation of Merneptah’s Israel
remains obscure. Mycenaean IIIC:1b (Monochrome) pottery and Philistine
Bichrome Ware in conjunction with other distinctive Philistine/Sea Peoples
material culture signal Philistine/Sea Peoples coastal settlement in the twelfth
century B.C.E. and subsequent expansion through the Jezreel and Yarkon River
Valleys, the Jerusalem corridor, the Shephelah, and the northwestern Negev.
Whether Israelite–Philistine conflict dated from the early or later twelfth cen-
tury down into the late eleventh or tenth century B.C.E., the antagonism likely
fueled ethnic affiliation in the pre- and early monarchic phases of Israel’s exis-
tence.64 Most of the newly settled highland rural population abandoned their
typically unfortified, isolated hamlets. In the absence of highland urban
growth, the whereabouts of the displaced population remains uncertain as the
expanding Shephelah and coastal settlements would not be the expected relo-
cation choice. Philistine aggression perhaps spurred a regional affiliation of the
remaining settlers to muster an army of sufficient size to counter Philistine
open-field battle tactics and pincer operations. 65 Perceived vulnerability,
expressed in terms of military inferiority, may have been an aspect of the con-
federation’s circumstantial self-identity. This perception—exaggerated either
contemporaneously or in retrospect—strengthened belief in a god fighting
alongside his troops, actualized through carrying the Ark into battle (1 Sam
4:3b). A supreme commander bold enough to initiate battle by killing a Philis-
tine prefect (1 Sam 13:4) was appointed to marshal and command a larger mili-
tary than had been formerly recruited. The elevation of the supreme military
commander to king created a “shared institution” perpetuating group identity.
As the first king of Israel, Saul centralized administrative functions, recruited a
standing army, and promoted belief in Yahweh the warrior god fighting on
Israe’s behalf.66 Decades later, the Jerusalem temple would begin to function as
a second shared institution.
64 Stager, “Impact of the Sea Peoples in Canaan,” 332–48.

65 Many studies stress the Philistine military threat as the impetus for Saul’s rise, but without
mention of specific battle requirements, e.g., John Bright, A History of Israel (2d ed.; Philadelphia:
Westminster, 1972), 180–85; and Siegfried Herrmann, A History of Israel in Old Testament Times
(Philadelphia: Fortress, 1975), 131–32.
66 Karel van der Toorn, Family Religion in Babylonia, Syria, and Israel: Continuity and
Change in the Forms of Religious Life (Leiden/New York/Cologne: Brill, 1996), 266–86.
Israel’s ongoing incorporation of primordial and circumstantial features

into the “collective memory” constitutes an additional literary facet of the Tell-
Tale approach. Jerome Bruner and Stephen Cornell identified the crafting of
the group history or narrative as a factor that fosters ethnic identity. Cornell’s
“narrativization” entails three ongoing processes (in no set order): (1) selection
—choosing episodic components of the narrative; (2) plotting—linking events
to each other and linking the group to those events; and (3) interpretation—
assigning significance to events and plot in defining the group. Ongoing incor-
poration of recent events and their meaning into the narrative updates the
collective memory to sustain and validate the group through changing circum-
stances. The resulting narrative furthers group identity insofar as the selection,
plotting, and interpretation take ethnic boundaries into account and use ethnic-
ity as the “key organizing principle.” Validity and historicity of events are incon-
sequential to the narrative. The importance of the narrative lies in its power to
explain events, and the group’s relations to those events and other peoples; in
other words, to provide meaning in life for the group.67
Cornell elaborated on Bruner’s contention that individuals construct
ordered narratives to find meaning in times of difficult or unexpected events.68
As formulated by Cornell, narrative functions as a mechanism to promote and
sustain ethnic bonds through periods of “rupture.” In ethnic terms, changes in
individual or group situations that call into question a group’s identity—their
primordial and/or circumstantial traits—are periods of “rupture.”69 For Israel,
the stages of incorporation and consolidation preceding the viable political
state were just such a critical time during which Israel likely updated and
revised its narrative history.
The convergence of textual and twelfth-to-late-eleventh/early-tenth-
century B.C.E. archaeological evidence makes it possible to identify significant
Israelite ethnic traits vis-à-vis the Philistines. Circumcision, sporting a short
beard rather than a clean-shaven face, and abstaining from eating pork, none of
which may have been exclusive to Israel, differentiated Israelites from
Philistines and so likely functioned as circumstantial ethnic markers.70 Each of
these traits was given significance and, by a later time, codified into law. Argu-
ments regarding the dating of the pork prohibition illustrate a possible scenario
regarding the codification of these features into law. Hesse and Wapnish’s
results establish Iron I or the Hellenistic period as the original context for pork
abstinence as a distinguishing Israelite feature; only in those two periods was
67 Cornell, “That’s the Story of Our Life,” 43–44.

68 J. Bruner, Acts of Meaning (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1990), 39–40.
69 Cornell, “That’s the Story of Our Life,” 45.
70 Lawrence Stager identified the pork taboo and circumcision as Iron I “cultural markers”
distinguishing Israelites from Philistines (“Impact of the Sea Peoples in Canaan,” 344).
pork consumed by a neighboring population providing a meaningful context for

pork abstinence or absence from the diet (whether initially for functional or
religious reasons).71 While Leviticus and Deuteronomy date from the exilic
period or later, the distinction between the Iron I highlands, where pig was
rare, and the pork-purveying Philistines along the coast provided a meaningful
context for pork abstinence as an Israelite trait in the twelfth and eleventh cen-
turies B.C.E.
Hesse and Wapnish’s reservations regarding the use of their data for ethnic
studies raises a critical point. For the Meaningful Boundaries and Tell-Tale
approaches, an evolving complex of traits signifies identity and distinguishes
the group from others. Not every group member must adopt all traits in order
for them to function as ethnic indicators. This contrasts with the Culture Area
approach, in which individual identity is tied to static presence or absence crite-
ria. Hesse and Wapnish argue that identifying pork abstinence as an ethnic
marker ignores the complexities of the archaeological record. Pig consumption
or avoidance was not an exclusive ethnic trait. Not all Philistines consumed
pork; pig, while prevalent at Ashkelon, Tel Miqne-Ekron, and Timna/Batash,
was absent from Tell Qasile (though the absence may be due in part to excava-
tion of primarily cultic areas). Conversely, while Israelites avoided pork, so did
almost all other societies in southwest Asia during the Iron Age.72 To quibble
over specific sites obscures the big picture. Pork consumption was widespread
in twelfth- and early-eleventh-century B.C.E. Philistia and rare in Israel. Not
eating pork distinguished Israel from its Philistine enemy during contentious
times, while other peoples’ dietary preferences were irrelevant.
Archaeology makes it possible to date Israelite military conflict with the
Philistines plus pork abstinence and wearing a short beard as contextually
meaningful practices to the twelfth to eleventh/early tenth centuries B.C.E.
Though the received version of the “collective memory” dates from centuries
later, the events, or episodic components of the narrative, and select personal
practices, or “ways of life,” date from the early Iron Age. Hence, it may be sug-
gested that the process of “narrativization,” of forming the “collective memory
of former unity” began in the twelfth or eleventh century B.C.E. “Narrativiza-
71 Hesse and Wapnish argued for an exilic or postexilic date for the pork taboo based on the
relatively brief span of Philistine pork consumption, the presumed loose federation of early Israel
unlikely to adhere to a dietary restriction (no adherence necessary as pork was not available), and
passages such as Isa 65:3–4 and 66:1 and 2 Macc 6:18–20 and 7:1 (“Can Pig Remains Be Used,”
261–63). Jacob Milgrom assigned Levitical legislation, including the pork prohibition (Lev 11:7–8),
to preexilic Priestly legislation (P1) predating the eighth-century B.C.E. H stratum and the compa-
rable Deuteronomic legislation (Leviticus 1–16, 17–22, 23–27: A New Translation with Introduc-
tion and Commentary (AB 3, 3A, 3B; New York: Doubleday, 1991, 2000, 2001), 3–13, 63, 691–97,
1345).
72 Hesse and Wapnish, “Pig Use and Abuse,” 128–29.
tion” as a facet of early Israelite ethnicity dovetails nicely with Karel van der
Toorn’s notion of “Torah as the icon of Israel.” Perhaps the Deuteronomists
were able to elevate the narrative in place of idols or images in part because of
its acknowledged role in ethnic Israel’s formation and perseverance. The narra-
tive, which promulgated divine acts and enfranchised disparate groups into the
unity of Israel, was transubstantiated into the “embodiment of God’s Word.”73
If, as postulated by this model, Israel incorporated various groups each
with its own primordial and circumstantial features, then in the early stages of
assimilation a variety of traits might be attested among the constituent groups.
So, for instance, some might bury their dead in nearby cave or chamber tombs,
while others returned to distant ancestral burial grounds.74 This study focuses
on the ethnos that defined itself in opposition to the Philistines and on select
circumstantial traits of that population that were incorporated into and ulti-
mately were retained in the Israelite “collective memory.”
III. Variant Literary Processes in the Crafting of

Israel’s History Grounded in Archaeological Evidence
Two different literary trajectories or narrative processes may underlie

accounts of Israelite interaction with the Philistines and with the Canaanites. In
the case of the Philistines, Iron I archaeological remains substantiate individual
“way of life” injunctions and the somewhat exaggerated stories of Israelite–
Philistine interaction in Judges and 1 Samuel. Biblical accounts of Philistine
superiority in metallurgy, simplified to the point of declaring that there was “no
smith in Israel,” find confirmation in the physical remains. There was no need
later to fabricate stories detailing this phase of ethnic Israel’s evolution.
Regarding Israelite–Philistine relations, the texts mirror the archaeologi-
cal remains with only slight distortion. By contrast, the presentation of
Israelite–Canaanite interaction in the Bible shows little or no continuity of
memory about the twelfth and eleventh centuries B.C.E. The distinctive mate-
rial culture and practices of the neighboring Canaanites and the demographic
changes and material culture disruptions preserved in the dirt are not reflected
in the biblical texts. Two possible explanations may account for this discrep-
ancy. Mark Smith suggests that the early history between Israelites and (other?)
73 Karel van der Toorn, “The Iconic Book: Analogies between the Babylonian Cult of Images
and the Veneration of the Torah,” in The Image and the Book: Iconic Cults, Aniconism, and the
Rise of Book Religion in Israel and the Ancient Near East (ed. Karel van der Toorn; Leuven:
Peeters, 1997), 229–48, esp. 239–43.
74 In response to Raz Kletter, “People without Burials? The Lack of Iron I Burials in the
Central Highlands of Palestine,” IEJ 52, no.1 (2002): 28–48.

indigenous peoples was displaced and forgotten. In this case, later authors,
relying on the vaguest of memories, construed an early history based more on
an Iron II than an Iron I reality. Deuteronomy and the Deuteronomistic Histo-
rian created a serviceable construction of “Canaanites” with minimal ties to the
archaeologically attested past.75 An alternative understanding of “Canaanite”
proposed by Karel van der Toorn also resolves the apparent discrepancy. From
as early as the reign of Saul, with the designation of Yahweh as the national god,
Yahweh-El worshipers (“Israelites”) employed “Canaanite” as a “derogatory”
appellation for the Baal devotees among them. As “Israelites” and “Canaanites”
shared a common background and material culture, they would have been
indistinguishable archaeologically except in facets of religion.76 While van der
Toorn dismisses ethnic distinctions between the two groups, religion frequently
functions as a primordial ethnic feature. Differences between the two may
have been contentious, particularly if, as van der Toorn suggests, Yahwists
adopted the national cult while Baal worshipers rejected monarchic religion
and persisted with family-based Baal worship. According to this scenario, the
Bible faithfully records religious beliefs as the sole feature distinguishing
Israelites from Canaanites, but still appears ignorant of the late Iron I disrup-
tions.
Faint traces of the Iron I Israelite ethnos are discernible in material
remains interpreted in conjunction with biblical testimony. Early Israelites
likely perceived their distinctiveness not in the pillared house and collar-rim
store jar (or if they did, they failed to record it or identify the features’ subse-
quent import) but in the short beard, refraining from eating pork, circumcision,
and military inferiority. Through momentous centuries, crafting the “collective
memory” to incorporate such select features of new groups and changing cir-
cumstances both shaped and consolidated the ethnos. In conjunction with
texts, archaeology furthers our knowledge of Philistines, Canaanites, and
Israelites, for it elucidates ascribed significant features of early Israel and pre-
serves both what was remembered and what was forgotten in Israel’s “collective
memory.”
75 M. Smith, personal communication.

76 Van der Toorn, Family Religion in Babylonia, Syria, and Israel, 328.
JBL 122/3 (2003) 427–447
THE WOMAN OF SUBSTANCE

(lyjAtà): A SOCIOECONOMIC READING
OF PROVERBS 31:10–31
CHRISTINE ROY YODER

YoderC@CTSnet.edu
Columbia Theological Seminary, Decatur, GA 30031
The portrait of a Woman of Substance (lyjAtà)1 hangs on the end of the

book of Proverbs. Its frame, that of an alphabetic acrostic, is sequential and
complete, suggesting that Prov 31:10–31 is the “A-to-Zs,” so to speak, of such a
woman. Her portrait, however, is painted as a series of disjointed descriptions
of various attributes and activities.2 There is no apparent thematic order apart
from the broad units of an introduction (vv. 10–12), an enumeration of her
An earlier version of this article was presented to the Wisdom in Israelite and Cognate Tradi-
tions Section at the annual meeting of the Society of Biblical Literature in Denver, Colorado, in
2001. It is based on portions of my dissertation entitled “Wisdom as a Woman of Substance: A
Socioeconomic Reading of Proverbs 1–9 and 31:10–31” (Princeton Theological Seminary, 2000),
now published under the same title (BZAW 304; Berlin/New York: de Gruyter, 2001). I am
indebted, particularly, to C. L. Seow for his wisdom throughout this project, and to Katherine
Doob Sakenfeld, Dennis T. Olson, Kathleen M. O’Connor, Brent A. Strawn, and William S. Camp-
bell for their numerous helpful suggestions.
1 The translation of lyj as “substance” is an effort to capture its range of meaning, many ele-
ments of which are evident in Prov 31:10–31. Independently or as part of a phrase, the term lyj
refers variously to strength (e.g., 1 Sam 2:4; Qoh 10:10), an army (e.g., Exod 14:4; Deut 11:4; Jer
32:2), wealth, property, or profits from trade (e.g., Prov 13:22; Isa 30:6; Jer 15:13; Job 20:18), ability
(e.g., Gen 47:6; Exod 18:21; 1 Chr 26:30, 32), and bravery (e.g., Judg 11:1; 1 Chr 5:24). Men with
lyj are typically affluent, landowners, persons of good repute, who serve (often militarily) with loy-
alty and bravery (e.g., Exod 18:25; 2 Sam 23:20; 2 Kgs 15:20; 24:14; Ruth 2:1). They are, that is, per-
sons of “substance”—strength and capacity, wealth and skill—much like the woman described in
Prov 31:10–31. For the same translation of lyj in Ruth 2:1, see E. F. Campbell, Ruth: A New
Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB 7; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1975), 90.
2 None of the proposed thematic or structural outlines of the poem has received widespread
support. See, e.g., A. Wolters, “Proverbs XXXI 10–31 as Heroic Hymn: A Form-critical Analysis,”
VT 38 (1988): 446–57; M. H. Lichtenstein, “Chiasm and Symmetry in Proverbs 31,” CBQ 44
(1982): 202–11; T. R. Hawkins, The Meaning and Function of Proverbs 31:10–31 in the Book of
Proverbs (Ann Arbor, MI: University Microfilms, 1995), 6–59.
427
qualities and deeds (vv. 13–27), and concluding praise (vv. 28–31). Rather, the
poem reads much like an impressionistic painting. Viewed up close, the indi-
vidual brushstrokes seem scattered and haphazard, but from a step or two away,
dots and splatters merge to become the cumulative image of a woman. But who
is she?
To consider that question, this study takes as its starting point the context
of the postexilic period, specifically the Persian period, when it is likely that
Prov 31:10–31 and chs. 1–9 were crafted to frame the book of Proverbs.
Although dating these (and many other) texts is admittedly difficult, some
interpreters, including myself, place Prov 1–9 and 31:10–31 in the Persian
period on linguistic grounds;3 others do so variously on the bases of thematic
evidence,4 structural features,5 and biblical parallels.6 Several recent commen-
tators on the book also locate chs. 1–9 and 31:10–31 in the Achaemenid era.7
This study thus presumes a Persian-period date for Prov 31:10–31, and offers
an analysis of the text in light of that social-historical setting.
Whereas possible functions of the acrostic in the Persian period have been
suggested,8 what has not been explored is the extent to which the Woman of
Substance may reflect the socioeconomic realities of Persian-period women. To
that end, I will consider the sage’s description of her in light of epigraphic and
biblical evidence for the activities of and perceptions about women in the
3 See C. R. Yoder, Wisdom as a Woman of Substance: A Socioeconomic Reading of Proverbs
1–9 and 31:10–31 (BZAW 304; Berlin/New York: de Gruyter, 2001), 15–38; see also H. C. Wash-
ington, Wealth and Poverty in the Instruction of Amenemope and the Hebrew Proverbs (SBLDS
142; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1994), 111–22.
4 Recently, see especially C. Maier, Die “fremde Frau” in Proverbien 1–9: Eine exegetische
und sozialgeschichtliche Studie (OBO 144; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1995), esp.
25–68, 262–69.
5 See, e.g., P. Skehan, Studies in Ancient Israelite Poetry and Wisdom (CBQMS 1; Washing-
ton, DC: Catholic Biblical Association, 1971), 9– 45; Washington, Wealth and Poverty, 122–27.
6 See, e.g., A. Robert, “Les attaches littéraires bibliques de Prov. I–IX,” parts 1 and 2, RB 43
(1934): 42–68, 172–204, 374–84; 44 (1935): 344–65, 502–25; H. Gese, “Wisdom Literature in the
Persian Period,” in The Cambridge History of Judaism, vol. 1, Introduction, The Persian Period
(ed. W. D. Davies and L. Finkelstein; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984), 200–211,
esp. 204–6. For a more nuanced traditio-historical argument, see Washington, Wealth and Poverty,
128–33.
7 So, e.g., L. G. Perdue, Proverbs (IBC; Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2000), esp.
55–62, 275–76; A. Meinhold, Die Sprüche (ZBK 16; Zurich: Theologischer Verlag, 1991), esp.
1:43–47, 76; R. J. Clifford, Proverbs: A Commentary (OTL; Louisville: Westminster John Knox,
1999), 3–6.
8 See, e.g., C. V. Camp, Wisdom and the Feminine in the Book of Proverbs (Bible and Litera-
ture Series 11; Sheffield: Almond/JSOT Press, 1985), esp. 90–93, 251–54, 262–65; S. Schroer, Wis-
dom Has Built Her House: Studies on the Figure of Sophia in the Bible (trans. L. M. Maloney and
W. McDonough; Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 2000), 15–51; E. L. Lyons, “A Note on
Proverbs 31:10–31,” in The Listening Heart: Essays in Honor of Roland E. Murphy, O.Carm. (ed.
K. G. Hoglund et al.; JSOTSup 58; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1987), 237–45.
Yoder: The Woman of Substance (lyj tà) 429
socioeconomic context of Persian-period Palestine. My contention is that the

Woman of Substance in Prov 31:10–31 is a composite figure of Persian-period
women, particularly women of affluence or position.
I. Sources
It is necessary, first, to say a few words about the epigraphic evidence

available for this study. 9 Reconstruction of the social-historical world of
9 In addition to the abbreviations in the SBL Handbook of Style, the following standard
abbreviations are used:

1963 G. G. Cameron, “New Tablets from the Persepolis Treasury,” JNES 24 (1965): 167–92
BE The Babylonian Expedition of the University of Pennsylvania, Series A: Cuneiform
Texts
Camb. J. N. Strassmaier, Inschriften von Cambyses, König von Babylon [529–521 v. Chr.]
(Babylonische Texte VIII–IX; Leipzig: Pfeiffer, 1890)
CBS Tablets in the Collections of the Babylonian Section of the University Museum,
Philadelphia
Cyr. J. N. Strassmaier, Inschriften von Cyrus, König von Babylon [538–529 v. Chr.] (Baby-
lonische Texte VII; Leipzig: Pfeiffer, 1890)
Dar. J. N. Strassmaier, Inschriften von Darius, König von Babylon [521–485 v. Chr.]
(Babylonische Texte X–XII; Leipzig: Pfeiffer, 1892)
Fort. Persepolis Fortification Text
Liv. J. N. Strassmaier, Wörterverzeichnis zu den babylonischen Inschriften im Museum zu
Liverpool nebst andern aus der Zeit von Nebukadnezzar bis Darius: Veröffenlicht in den
Verhandlungen des VI Orientalisten-Congresses zu Leiden (Leipzig: Hinrichs, 1886)
Moldenke A. Moldenke, Cuneiform Texts in the Metropolitan Museum of Art: Parts I and II
(New York: Columbia University Press, 1893)
Nbk. J. N. Strassmaier, Inschriften von Nebuchodonosor, König von Babylon [604–561 v.
Chr.] (Babylonische Texte V–VI; Leipzig: Pfeiffer, 1889)
Nbn. J. N. Strassmaier, Inschriften von Nabonidus, König von Babylon [538–529 v. Chr.]
(Babylonische Texte I–IV; Leipzig: Pfeiffer, 1889)
Ni. Tablets excavated at Nippur, in the collections of the Archaeological Museums of
Istanbul
Nr. C. Wunsch, Die Urkunden des babylonischen Geschaftsmannes Iddin-Marduk
(Cuneiform Monographs IIIA/B; Groningen: Styx, 1993)
PBS Publications of the Babylonian Section, The Museum of the University of Pennsyl-
vania
PF R. T. Hallock, Persepolis Fortification Tablets (University of Chicago Oriental Insti-
tute Publications 92; Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1969)
PFa R. T. Hallock, “Selected Fortification Texts,” Cahiers de la Delegation Archeologique
Française en Iran 8 (1978): 109–36
PT G. G. Cameron, Persepolis Treasury Tablets (University of Chicago Oriental Institute
Publications 65; Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1948)
TAD B. Porten and A. Yardeni, eds., Textbook of Aramaic Documents from Ancient Egypt
(4 vols.; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1986–99)
TuM 2–3 J. Lewy, Texte und Materalien der Frau Professor Hilprecht Collection of Babylonian
Antiquities im Eigentum der Universität Jena (Neubabylonische Rechts- und Verwal-
tungs-Texte 2–3; Leipzig: Hinrichs, 1933)
Persian-period Palestine has heretofore largely been done on the basis of socio-
logical models and modern analogies.10 Such approaches may be due, in part,
to limited biblical evidence and to concerns about the accuracy of Greek
sources (e.g., Herodotus, Ctesias, Xenophon, Diodorus Siculus, Thucydides)
and the Jewish historian Josephus.11 Within the last century, however, a wealth
of epigraphic evidence from the Persian period has come to light, including the
Elephantine ostraca and papyri, the Samaria papyri from Wadi Dâliyeh, the
Egibi archive, the Murašû archive, the Persepolis Fortification Tablets and
Treasury Texts, and Aramaic documents discovered at Hermopolis and North
Saqqâra. While many scholars examine these resources to address linguistic,
legal, or historical questions, some, notably C. L. Seow, have demonstrated
their value for social-historical reconstruction.12
The nature of the evidence is advantageous for that task. First, the sources
are primarily everyday texts of various genres, including letters, marriage con-
tracts, bequests, bills of sale, legal contracts, accounts, and lists. This diversity
affords a multifaceted look at daily economic life. Second, the materials testify
to different sectors within the economy. Some are private archives that recount
the histories of families and their fortunes. Others chronicle the day-to-day
business affairs of private firms like the Murašû house. Still others record the
transfer and delivery of foodstuffs and the payment and rations of workers from
imperial treasury storehouses. Finally, the materials are widespread geographi-
cally, including Persepolis, Susa, Nippur, Babylon, Palestine, and Egypt. This
permits comparison of certain economic dynamics across the empire.
Use of the evidence to reconstruct activities of and perceptions about
women in the socioeconomic context of Persian-period Palestine is warranted
10 See, e.g., J. Berquist, Judaism in Persia’s Shadow: A Social and Historical Approach (Min-
neapolis: Augsburg Fortress, 1995); J. P. Weinberg, The Citizen-Temple Community (trans. D. L.

Smith-Christopher; JSOTSup 151; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1992); M. Smith, Palestinian Parties and
Politics that Shaped the Old Testament (2d ed.; London: SCM, 1987); W. Schottroff, “Zur Sozial-
geschichte Israels in der Perserzeit,” Verkündigung und Forschung 27 (1982): 46-68; and H.
Kreissig, Die socialökonomische Situation in Juda zur Achämenidenzeit (Schriften zur Geschichte
und Kultur des alten Orients 7; Berlin: Akademie, 1973).
11 See A. Kuhrt, The Ancient Near East c. 3000–330 BC (Routledge History of the Ancient
World; London: Routledge, 1995), 2:647–48, 652; idem, “Achaemenid Babylonia: Sources and
Problems,” in Achaemenid History IV: Centre and Periphery (ed. H. Sancisi-Weerdenburg and A.
Kuhrt; Leiden: Nederlands Instituut voor het Nabije Oosten, 1990), esp. 184–86; J. M. Cook, The
Persian Empire (New York: Schocken, 1983), 11–24; J. C. Greenfield, “Aspects of Archives in the
Achaemenid Period,” in Cuneiform Archives and Libraries: Papers Read at the 30e Rencontre
Assyriologique Internationale, Leiden, 4–8 July 1983 (ed. K. R. Veenhof; Leiden: Nederlands Insti-
tuut voor het Nabije Oosten, 1986), esp. 290. For an analysis of Greek evidence for Persian women,
see M. Brosius, Women in Ancient Persia, 559–331 BC (Oxford Classical Monographs; Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 1996).
12 See especially C. L. Seow, “The Socioeconomic Context of ‘The Preacher’s’ Hermeneu-
tic,” PSB 17 (1996): 168–95.

by the extent to which the empire was interconnected. Palestine did not exist in
isolation. A widespread network of roads maintained by the Persian govern-
ment facilitated communication, travel, and trade within the empire.13 There
was correspondence between Palestine, Egypt, and Mesopotamia (e.g., TAD I,
4.7–9; cf. Ezra 4:6–23; 5:3–6:12). Travelers frequented the roads: women and
men on private or business matters (e.g., PF 684, 1289–94, 1546, 1550; PFa 5,
31; Fort. 1017), officials transporting cash and commodities (e.g., PF 1342,
1357; PFa 14), and workers moving from job to job (e.g., PF 1363, 1368, 1519,
1569).14 Imperial soldiers of various nationalities passed through and were sta-
tioned at outposts in Palestine.15 Moreover, as will be discussed below, the
13 The roads were part of an efficient imperial postal system. Mounted couriers carrying royal
correspondence traveled the roads, stopping only for food, rest, and fresh horses at supply stations
located approximately one day’s distance apart (e.g., PF 300, 1285, 1319–21, 1329, 1334–35, 2052).
These “fast messengers” (pirradaziš) made up-to-date communication possible between the royal
court and the provinces. For example, Arsham, the satrap of Egypt, and his Persian colleagues cor-
responded regularly from Babylon with his officials in Egypt about everyday matters (TAD I,
6.1–16; TAD IV 6.3–14). Esther describes the swift delivery of letters from the king throughout the
empire (Esth 8:9–14; cf. 3:12–15). Greek historians also paid tribute to the speed of the mounted
courier service (e.g., Herodotus Histories 5.52–53; 8.98; Xenophon Oeconomicus 4.13; Cyropaedia
8.6, 17–18; Anabasis 1.4.10; 2.4.14). In addition, nonofficial letters and packages were carried by
special messenger (TAD I, 3.6; 3.9; 4.1; 4.3) or by persons traveling to a desired location who were
willing to deliver mail (TAD I, 2.1.9–10; 2.2.12–13; 2.5.56). See further D. F. Graf, “The Persian
Royal Road System,” in Achaemenid History VIII: Continuity and Change (ed. H. Sancisi-
Weerdenburg, A. Kuhrt, and M. C. Root; Leiden: Nederlands Instituut voor het Nabije Oosten,
1994), 167–89; M. Astour, “Overland Trade Routes in Ancient Western Asia,” in Civilizations of
the Ancient Near East (ed. J. M. Sasson; New York: Scribner, 1995), 3:1417–18; P. S. Alexander,
“Remarks on Aramaic Epistolography in the Persian Period,” JSS 23 (1978): 158–59.
14 The Persepolis Fortification Tablets record daily rations issued to officials, workers, and
others traveling largely between Persepolis and Susa, but also to and from such remote corners of
the empire as India (e.g., PF 1318, 1383, 1397, 1524, 1552, 1556, 1572), Sardis (PF 1321), and
Egypt (PF 1544). Travelers carried documents authorizing their passage through the various
provinces, and daily rations were provided at supply stations en route. Royal guides also accompa-
nied some parties, particularly those of foreigners: Cappodocians (PF 1577), Indians (PF 1572),
Sardians (PF 1409), Skudrians (PF 1363), and Egyptians (PF 1557). See also H. G. M. Williamson,
“Ezra and Nehemiah in Light of the Texts from Persepolis,” BBR 1 (1991): 41–61.
15 This is indicated by Persian-period ostraca found at Arad and Beersheba that record the
distribution of rations to garrison personnel with non-Hebrew names. See J. Naveh, “The Aramaic
Ostraca from Tel Arad,” in Arad Inscriptions (ed. Y. Aharoni, trans. J. Ben-Or; Jerusalem: Israel
Exploration Society, 1981), 153-76; E. Stern, Material Culture of the Land of the Bible in the Per-
sian Period, 538-332 B.C. (Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 1982), 240; K. G. Hoglund, “The
Achaemenid Context,” in Second Temple Studies I: Persian Period (ed. P. R. Davies; JSOTSup 117;
Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1991), 64. The remains of mid-fifth-century B.C.E. Persian fortresses have
also been discovered at a number of sites in the region, including Ashdod, H\ orvat Mesora, Tell Es-
Sa>idiyeh, Nah\al Yattir, Tel Sera>, and Arad (K. G. Hoglund, Achaemenid Imperial Administration
in Syria-Palestine and the Missions of Ezra and Nehemiah [SBLDS; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1992],
170–205). Cist tombs containing Achaemenid-style weapons and metal ware, such as those found
region experienced growth in international trade. In short, the cumulative evi-

dence suggests that life in Palestine was shaped by its place in the larger Per-
sian realm. Certainly, this would include its views of women.16
II. A Socioeconomic Reading17
“Her purchase price is more than corals” (31:10b)

The opening question of Prov 31:10a, axmy ym (“Who can find?”), suggests
that a Woman of Substance is a rarity.18 Indeed, although there are many men
of lyj in the Hebrew Bible, there are only two references to women of lyj out-
side of Prov 31:10–31: in Prov 12:4, where such a woman is described as “the
crown of her husband,” and in Ruth 3:11, where Boaz assures Ruth that the
community knows her to be a woman of substance. The implication of both
texts is that these women are uncommon.
But there is more to the question axmy ym (31:10a) than an alleged dearth
of women of substance. The question is paralleled by the phrase: “her purchase
price (rkm) is more than corals” (31:10b). This wife is not only difficult to find
(axm), it seems. She is expensive to attain (axm).19 She has a “purchase price,”
and it is considerable. Insofar as the woman of Prov 31:10–31 is ascribed a
“price,” it may be argued that she is a typical Persian-period bride.
With the introduction of coinage and standardization of currency by the
Persian administration, money increasingly became the preferred medium of
at Tell el-Far>ah (South) and Gezer, are likely those of imperial soldiers stationed at regional out-
posts (Stern, Material Culture, 84–86, 237).
16 Among Persian-period artifacts from sites across Palestine are female figurines of diverse
types, many of which are shaped and/or clothed in the style of neighboring peoples. The figurine of
a woman holding a drum found at Tel >Ereni, for example, resembles Babylonian female figurines
in form and dress. A figurine of a woman discovered at Beersheba wears a Persian headdress. Other
female figurines wear Egyptian wigs or are sitting or standing clothed in western (i.e., Greek) fash-
ion. The figurines appear to be local imitations (Stern, Material Culture, 168–72).
17 This section is structured to highlight how the sage’s description of the Woman of Sub-
stance reflects socioeconomic realities of Persian-period women. By arranging it thus, I do not

mean to imply that Prov 31:10–31 ought not to be read as a poetic unit; rather, my aim is to empha-
size how the acrostic, like much of biblical poetry, alludes to its social-historical context. I therefore
attend here to one possible level of meaning in the text and make no claim that it is the only one.
18 Whereas axmy ym is used rhetorically elsewhere to imply impossibility (Prov 20:6; Qoh
7:24), references to such women in Prov 12:4 and Ruth 3:11 suggest that the question here has to
do with scarcity (see R. N. Whybray, Proverbs [NCBC; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1994], 426).
19 For axm with the sense “to attain, obtain, or achieve,” see, e.g., Hos 12:9 [Eng. v. 8]; Job
31:25; Gen 26:12; and Lev 12:8. See A. R. Ceresko, “The Function of Antanaclasis (ms\< “to find” //
ms\< “to reach, overtake, grasp”) in Hebrew Poetry, Especially in the Book of Qoheleth,” CBQ 44
(1982): 551–69.
exchange and a commodity in everyday transactions throughout the empire. As

part of business dealings large and small, goods and services were assigned
monetary values. Negotiations for marriage, commonly conducted as a business
arrangement between two families, were no different. The predominant fea-
ture of marriage contracts was an inventory of the woman’s dowry.20 At Ele-
phantine, marriage contracts itemized the contents of a woman’s dowry, listed
in an opposite column the monetary values of its components, and, at the end
of the list, provided a total sum in cash (TAD II, 2.6; 3.3; 3.8; 6.2; TAD IV, 3.16).
Any reader of the contract knew immediately what the dowry was worth. Simi-
larly, in Mesopotamia, dowry items had equivalent cash values. Sometimes this
cash equivalent was paid in lieu of promised noncash components such as real
estate (e.g., Nr. 137) and slaves (e.g., Nbn. 755).21
To the extent that money measured the worth of a woman’s dowry, it mea-
sured the financial “worth” of the woman who brought it.22 The value of the
dowry said much about the perceived value of the woman as a wife. The daugh-
ter of a profitable merchant, government official, or landowner, for example,
would be expected to bring a more substantial dowry than one from a less afflu-
ent family.23 In addition, her groom stood to gain certain less tangible (but not
necessarily less valuable) social, political, or business advantages by marrying
into her family. The socioeconomic desirability of a woman, therefore, was pro-
portional to the monetary value of her dowry. In effect, its price was hers. An
Egyptian slave woman named Tamet at Elephantine originally brought a dowry
worth just over seven shekels, little more than the value of the clothes on her
back; it appears that after some negotiations her master added fifteen shekels
(TAD II, 3.3). In contrast, the dowry of Jehoishma, a young free woman, was
valued at just over sixty-eight shekels (TAD II, 3.8) and Miptah\iah, an older
free widow, paid24 a dowry worth sixty and one-half shekels for her second mar-
riage (TAD II, 2.6). The most desirable Persian-period bride was a woman like
20 The name of a Neo-Babylonian marriage contract itself, kunuk nudunnî (“dowry agree-
ment”), indicates that the transfer of the dowry was “the most important feature” of the agreement.
See M. T. Roth, Babylonian Marriage Agreements 7th–3rd Centuries B.C. (AOAT 222; Kevelaer:
Butzon & Bercker; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1989), 26–28, nos. 38:6; 42:26; 43:7.
21 See M. T. Roth, “The Dowries of the Women of the Itti-Marduk-balaµtu \ Family,” JAOS 111
(1991): 19–37; eadem, “The Material Composition of the Neo-Babylonian Dowry,” AfO 26/37
(1989/1990): 1–55.
22 Seow, “Socioeconomic Context,” 173.
23 Roth, “Material Composition,” 3; J. J. Collins, “Marriage, Divorce, and Family in Second
Temple Judaism,” in Families in Ancient Israel (ed. L. G. Perdue, J. Blenkinsopp, J. J. Collins, and
C. Meyers; Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1997), 115.
24 This is suggested by the lack of a reclamation waiver in the marriage contract. Typically, a
bride’s agent waived the right to reclaim any or all of the dowry property. For example, Jehoishma’s
adoptive brother Zakkur, who negotiated her marriage contract, waived his right (TAD II,
these latter two—a woman who brought wealth, property, and socioeconomic
advantage to her husband; a woman who, like the Woman of Substance, had a
high “purchase price.”
“Her husband never lacks for loot” (31:11b)

The business dynamics of marriage in the Persian period offer further
insight into the explanation for the high “price” of the Woman of Substance
given in Prov 31:11. Her husband is said to trust her because he never lacks for
“loot” (ll`).25 His loot is certain and perpetual, unlike the loot (ll`) promised
by the sinners in Prov 1:13.
Marriage to a “valuable” bride afforded a man greater financial resources.
Although a woman’s dowry remained her property legally, her husband became
its effective guardian.26 A husband could draw on the dowry for his own pur-
poses as long as he eventually compensated his wife with property of equal
value. Should he fail to do so, legal action might be taken to restore the dowry’s
integrity. For example, when Iddin-Marduk used seven minas of silver from his
wife’s dowry to settle some of his father’s outstanding debts, his father-in-law
demanded that he restore the value of the dowry. Iddin-Marduk transferred
seven slaves to his wife and guaranteed all of his assets as replacement for the
missing portion of her dowry (Nbk. 265 = Liv. 154). Similarly, a woman named
BunanÈµtu issued a complaint against her husband for three and one-half minas
3.8.40–42). Similarly, Tamet’s master waived his right to reclaim her child unless her husband
divorced her (TAD II, 3.3.13–14). The absence of such a waiver in Miptah\iah’s marriage contract
(TAD II, 2.6) suggests that no one except her had claim to the dowry property. Moreover, by the
time of her second marriage, Miptah\iah was financially capable of providing her own dowry (see
R. Yaron, Introduction to the Law of the Aramaic Papyri [Oxford: Clarendon, 1961], 51). Neo-
Babylonian marriage agreements attest to women providing their own dowries (Roth, Babylonian
Marriage Agreements, nos. 15, 25; cf. no. 29).
25 The term ll` in Biblical Hebrew consistently means “loot” and is translated as such here
despite the awkwardness of its use in this context. Indeed, that awkwardness is, in part, what this
socioeconomic reading considers. Moreover, use of ll` in 31:11 calls to mind the only other occur-
rence of ll` in Proverbs, the sinners’ get-rich-quick scheme in 1:13, where it clearly means “loot.”
The term thus forms an inclusio for the book as a whole: whereas the sinners’ ill-gotten ll` is to be
avoided at all costs (1:10–19), the ll` acquired by marriage to the Woman of Substance is to be
most desired.
26 The language used in marriage contracts indicates that the dowry transfers to the groom.
At Elephantine, for example, the groom acknowledges variously that the bride has brought the
dowry “to me in her hand” (hdyb yl, TAD II, 2.6.7; 3.3.4) or “to me to my house” (ytybl yl, TAD II,
3.8.5), and “my heart was satisfied” (ybbl byfw, TAD II, 2.6.15). Similarly, in Neo-Babylonian mar-
riage contracts the dowry is generally given “to” (ana) the groom and comes “with” (itti) the bride
(M. T. Roth, “Marriage and Matrimonial Prestations in First Millennium B. C. Babylonia,” in
Women’s Earliest Records from Ancient Egypt and Western Asia: Proceedings of the Conference on
Women in the Ancient Near East, Brown University, Providence, Rhode Island, November 5–7,
1987 [ed. B. Lesko, BJStudies 166; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1989], 249).
of silver, money he had taken from her dowry to purchase a house. Her hus-
band guaranteed the house to her as replacement (Nbn. 356 = Liv. 98).27
In some instances, however, a woman never received full restitution of her
dowry. Such was true of Amat-Bau.28 Her husband sold off nearly all of her siz-
able dowry—a field, thirty-five minas of silver (including jewelry), two minas of
gold, and two slaves (Dar. 26; BOR 2 3)—in the early years of their marriage to
establish his financial position. Years went by before he offered his share of a
field and nine slaves to her as replacements, property worth far less than the
value of her original dowry (BOR 2 3). He then prevented her from selling
some of the slaves for cash (Dar. 429). In short, he “looted” her financial
resources to his own advantage.
In addition to use of the dowry, a husband profited from any inheritances
or supplemental dowry gifts his wife might receive. At Elephantine, for exam-
ple, Miptah\iah’s father granted her a household plot and full rights to improve
and sell the property (TAD II, 2.3; cf. 2.2). On the same day, however, he
extended building and usufruct rights for the same plot to her first husband,
Jezaniah (TAD II, 2.4). If Jezaniah made any improvements to the property
while they were married, he and their children were guaranteed (at least) half
ownership of the land. Therefore, the property belonged to Miptah\iah, but she
was not able to sell it or give it away.29
A similar situation occurred with Jehoishma. Her father granted her life-
time usufruct of a house and shared rights with her brother to an adjacent stair-
way and courtyard (TAD II, 3.7). Jehoishma married Anani three months later
(TAD II, 3.8). Shortly afterward, her father stipulated that in appreciation for
her care of him in his old age, she would inherit the property with alienable
rights upon his death (TAD II, 3.10). Less than two years later, however, he
made the house a dowry addendum to Jehoishma’s marriage contract with
Anani (TAD II, 3.11). The last document legally superseded the previous two
and transferred the property into the marital estate. Anani thus gained access to
it along with the rest of her dowry.
In sum, a husband received in his wife’s dowry and additional holdings a
ready reserve, a cache not of his own making but from which he could draw at
his own discretion and use for his own purposes as long as he remained married
to her. In the absence of any legal action, whether to restore the integrity of the
dowry or to divorce, her dowry and additional sources of wealth were, for all
practical purposes, his. Thus, a man married to a woman of high value, particu-
27 See, relatedly, Nbn. 85 = Liv. 61; Nbn. 187; Moldenke 1:18.

28 See Roth, “Dowries,” 27–29.
29 Miptah\ iah assumed full ownership only when Jezaniah died and the couple was without
children.
larly one who “treats him well . . . all the days of her life” (Prov 31:12), might
well never lack for “loot.”
The work of her hands (31:13, 19, 22, 24)

The Woman of Substance adds still more to the family assets with the
money she earns as a businesswoman. Her industry is the spinning and weaving
of textiles, work symbolic of women’s skill throughout the ancient Near East.
Even queens and wealthy women are described or depicted holding a spin-
dle.30 The Woman of Substance acquires the raw materials of wool and flax (v.
13), puts her hands to the spinning tools (v. 19),31 and labors at the “work” or
“business” of her hands (hypk $pjb, v. 13).32 She makes quality bed coverings
for herself (!ydbrm, v. 22)33 and, presumably, for the members of her house-
hold. She manufactures textiles and trades them in the marketplace. She pro-
duces clothing ( @yds ) 34 and sells it; she trades belts with the “traders”
(“Canaanites,” v. 24; see below).
And she is successful. Her work is profitable. She invests from the “fruit of
her hands,” namely, from her earnings (v. 16). She perceives that her merchant-
profit (rjs) is good (v. 18a). The parallel phrase, “her lamp is not extinguished
at night” (v. 18b), suggests that she can afford to burn her lamp far into the
evening, and that her profits are due, at least in part, to her tireless attention to
30 See, e.g., Judg 16:14; ANEP 43, pl. 144. See P. Bird, Missing Persons and Mistaken Identi-
ties: Women and Gender in Ancient Israel (OBT; Minneapolis: Augsburg Fortress, 1997), 59.
31 The precise meanings of rw`yk, a hapax legomenon, and ^lp in 31:19 (cf. 2 Sam 3:29)
remain disputed. They are likely technical terms for spinning tools; the former is often rendered
“distaff” and the latter “spindle” or “spindle-whorl.” For recent discussion, see A. Wolters, “The
Meaning of Kîšôr (Prov 31:19),” HUCA 65 (1994): 91–104; G. A. Rendsburg, “Double Polysemy in
Proverbs 31:19,” in Humanism, Culture, and Language in the Near East: Studies in Honor of Georg
Krotkoff (ed. A. Afsaruddin and A. H. M. Zahniser; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1997), 267–74.
32 The noun $pj may refer to a “matter” or “activity” (e.g., Qoh 3:1, 17; 5:7; 8:6; LXX
pravgma). In an Aramaic inscription from Sefîre, $pj means “business” (Sf 3:8; see J. A. Fitzmyer,
The Aramaic Inscriptions of Sefîre [rev. ed.; BibOr 19A; Rome: Pontificio Instituto Biblico, 1995],
150). At Qumran, $pj is used for specific tasks or assignments done by individuals (1QS 3.17). The
word $pj in Sir 10:26 is translated in Greek to; e[rgon sou (“your work”). This meaning of the term
also continues in postbiblical Hebrew (e.g., b. Mo>ed. Qat\. 9b; b. Šabb. 113a). The Woman of Sub-
stance’s production and trade of textiles suggests that $ph in Prov 31:13b is appropriately under-
stood as her “work” or “business.”
33 The term is attested in the royal archives from Ugarit. In one inventory list (CTU 4.385.9-
10), mrbd is parallel to mškbt (“bed”; cf. Prov 7:16). In another (CTU 4.270.11), the term explicitly
refers to the coverings of the king (mrbt mlk). Further, the verb rbd is used for the act of covering a
bed with lavish covers (Prov. 7:16; cf. Ug. 7, 42.25). Arguably, therefore, the !ydbrm made by the
Woman of Substance are bed coverings of considerable quality.
34 The precise meaning of @yds (LXX sindovna"), attested only here and in Judg 14:12–13 and
Isa 3:23 (where it is listed among the fineries of wealthy women), remains disputed. The term may
refer to a fine fabric and/or to a type of garment made of such fabric (cf. Akkadian saddinnu).
business matters. That is, she burns the midnight oil to be sure that her profits
last.
Evidence indicates that Persian-period women were workers in the royal
economy. Groups of spindle whorls and loom weights found in almost every
excavated area, but particularly in residential buildings, in Persian-period strata
at Dor suggest that women there engaged in a thriving textile industry.35 The
Persepolis Fortification Tablets and Treasury Texts reveal that nonroyal women,
in numbers equivalent to or greater than their male counterparts depending on
the work,36 were issued rations as kurtaš (“workers”)37 in a variety of profes-
sions. Women and girls were stockyard workers (PF 848, 1008), treasury work-
ers (PF 863–66, 877–78; PT 28–29, 39–40, 45, 64–67), goldsmiths (PF 872; PT
37; 1963:2), and keepers of fruit (PF 869). They were grain handlers (PF
1821–24, cf. 1589), scribes (PF 1828, 1947), irrigation workers (PF 1842–44,
1946), attendants, and ration makers (PF 865–66). They were winemakers (PT
36), tax handlers (PT 41),38 beer tenders or preparers (PT 46), workers in the
armory (PT 52), sheepherders (PT 50, 61), stonemasons (PF 1948; 1963:2), and
artisans (PF 1049; PT 69–70). In addition, women served in various named but
unknown capacities, including as “exerters” (PFa 31), and as ramikurraš and
ammalup treasury workers (PF 865–66).39 They are also listed simply as kurtaš
(PT 42, 53). At Elephantine, women were paid for harvesting (TAD III,
35 E. Stern, Dor—Ruler of the Seas: Twelve Years of Excavations at the Israelite-Phoenician
Harbor Town on the Carmel Coast (Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 1994), 194–95. Simi-
larly, a sixth-century B.C.E. weaving workshop was found at Shiqmona. The large one-room shop
contained dozens of clay weights of assorted sizes and storage jars filled with smaller weights (J.
Elgavish, “Shiqmona,” NEAEHL 4:1,375).
36 As indicated by the number of female workers listed in the Persepolis Fortification regular
monthly ration texts (PF 847–1084, 2039–45). Disregarding those texts in which either the number
of workers is unclear (PF 865–66, 955, 990, 1003, 1009, 1054, 1068, 1083, 2041, 2044) or the gen-
der of the workers is not specified (PF 975, 986, 994, 1036, 1039, 1058), by my count women and
girls constitute 59 percent of the workers issued such rations. See further Brosius, Women in
Ancient Persia, 182; Hallock, Persepolis Fortification Tablets, 5; M. A. Dandamaev, Slavery in
Babylonia: From Nabopolassar to Alexander the Great (621–331 B.C.) (ed. M. A. Powell and D.
Weisberg; trans. V. A. Powell; Dekalb, IL: Northern Illinois University Press, 1984), 573–74 n. 28.
37 Although the precise legal status of the kurtaš is disputed, it is likely that the term was used
broadly (e.g., “persons” or “laborers”) to refer to freepersons and slaves working for wages or per-
forming temporary service duty in the royal economy (see Dandamaev, Slavery in Babylonia,
573–84).
38 See also PT 49, 54–55, which concern groups of workers (“copperers”) composed of men,
women, and children who may have assisted tax handlers. See Cameron, Persepolis Treasury
Tablets, 160.
39 It is probable that some professions were restricted to men or to women. As Brosius notes,
for example, only men are attested in the professions of tuppira (“scribe”), etip, and mulatap,
whereas only women are listed as ammalup and gal huttip (“ration maker”; cf. PF 865–66; Women
in Ancient Persia, 150–51).
3.28.80–84, 88) and as members of the military garrison (TAD II, 5.5).40 Ezra
and Nehemiah refer to female singers (Ezra 2:65//Neh 7:67). Nehemiah also
mentions Noadiah the prophetess (Neh 6:14) and lists “the daughters of Shal-
lum” among workers rebuilding the Jerusalem walls (Neh 3:12).
Women worked at different ranks and degrees of specialization. Among
the finds in an early Persian-period Judean archive is the seal of Shelomith,
maidservant (tma) of Elnathan the governor, a woman who likely held an offi-
cial capacity in the administrative affairs of the province.41 Other women were
supervisors (araššap, sg. araššara) of work groups, apparently a position of
some distinction.42 Ration texts list araššap apart from other male and female
workers and, in one document, refer to five women araššap by their personal
names (PF 1790).43 Araššap received considerably more rations per month
than unspecialized male and female workers: fifty quarts of grain (PF 865–66)
and thirty quarts of wine (PF 875–76, 879, 1012).44 One text also records a meat
ration of four sheep per year to each of five araššap (PF 1790).45 Compara-
tively, the standard monthly rations for an unspecialized male worker were
thirty quarts of grain and, for a female, twenty or thirty quarts of grain; most
workers did not receive wine or beer regularly.46 Even skilled male laborers
received proportionately less than the araššap (PF 875).47
40 Yaron, Law of the Aramaic Papyri, 43.

41 See N. Avigad, Bullae and Seals from a Post-Exilic Judean Archive (trans. R. Grafman;
Qedem 4; Jerusalem: Hebrew University Press, 1976), 11–13, 30–32; E. M. Meyers, “The
Shelomith Seal and the Judean Restoration: Some Additional Considerations,” ErIsr 18 (1985):
*33–*38.
42 See PF 865–66, 875–76, 879, 1012, and 1790. The term matištukkaš was evidently synony-
mous with araššap. Two texts refer to two women and one man, matištukkaš, each of whom
received monthly wine rations of thirty quarts (PF 1063–64; cf. 1076).
43 PF 1790:5–10 reads: “(They are) to be issued as rations to Dakma (at) Hunar, and Ir . . . na
(at) Liduma, and Harbakka(?) (at) Hidali, and Šaddukka the Zappiyan, and Matmabba (at) Atek,
total 5 women.”
44 It is likely that any woman who received a monthly ration of thirty quarts of wine was an
araššara whether or not she is explicitly identified as such (PF 877–78, 880–88, 890–92, 896–908;
cf. Fort. 5206). The same is true for women receiving monthly rations of fifty quarts of grain (PF
922–28, 930–32, 935, 940, 948–49, 957–61, 969–70, 995). See Brosius, Women in Ancient Persia,
153–55, 158–61; R. T. Hallock, “The Evidence of the Persepolis Tablets,” in The Cambridge His-
tory of Iran, vol. 2, The Median and Achaemenian Periods (ed. I. Gershevitch; Cambridge: Cam-
bridge University Press, 1985), 601.
45 Rations of sheep were quite uncommon. When sheep were issued, the ration might be 1/2
(PF 1791), 1/3 (PF 1790–91), 1/6 (PF 1791), 1/10 (PF 1793), or even 1/30 (PF 1794) of a sheep per
month (see Hallock, Persepolis Fortification Tablets, 27; D. M. Lewis, “The Persepolis Fortifica-
tion Texts,” in Achaemenid History IV, ed. Sancisi-Weerdenburg and Kuhrt, 2).
46 Hallock, “Evidence of the Persepolis Tablets,” 603.
47 The araššara received thirty quarts of wine compared to ten to twenty quarts received by
each of the men.

Araššap were associated with work groups known as pašap that were pre-
dominantly48 comprised of women and children (so araššara pašabena in PF
875–76, 1012, 1790). The sizable rations issued to pašap women, as much as
forty-five quarts of grain per month, suggests that they did specialized labor. In
contrast, men in the same groups received thirty quarts of grain. These work
groups, ranging in size from nearly one hundred workers (e.g., PF 847, 1128) to
more than five hundred (e.g., PF 1794), were numerous and widespread geo-
graphically.49 Similar, though generally smaller, work groups called harrinups
comprised largely of women and children are also attested (e.g., PF 996,
1051–52, 1086–87).50
A number of women also capitalized on financial opportunities. Economic
growth did not favor everyone in the empire. Smallholders with little capital
struggled to make enough to pay their rent and taxes, much less to support
themselves. Equipment, livestock, and water could be quite expensive.51 So
while some people sought cash advances to build their businesses, others
needed to borrow just to survive.52 Some women took advantage of the rising
demand for ready cash and goods. Ina-Esagila-ramât, for example, ran a credit
business,53 issuing loans of dates (Nr. 274) and cash ranging from as little as two
shekels (Cyr. 303) to as much as five minas (Nr. 232).54 Her daughter, Nuptaya,
48 But not exclusively; see PF 847 and 999.

49 Pašap are referred to in over thirty texts, including PF 847, 999, 1089–91, 1128–29, 1165,
1171, 1184, 1200–1201, 1203, 1236, 1590, 1606, 1608, 1790, 1794, 1848. They are attested at a
number of sites in the region of Persis and Fahliyan, including Liduma (PF 847, 1128), Tašpak (PF
1089, 1200, 1590), Hidali (PF 1184, 1848), Zappi (PF 1090), Baktiš (PF 1129), Narezzaš (PF 1203),
Parmadan (PF 1606), Dašer (PF 1608), and Uranduš (PF 1794).
50 There are references to harrinup workgroups in more than forty Fortification Tablets.
They apparently varied in size from five (PF 870) to nearly one hundred (PF 1052) workers.
51 M. W. Stolper, Entrepreneurs and Empire: The Murašû Archive, the Murašû Firm, and
Persian Rule in Babylonia (Uitgaven van het Nederlands Historisch-Archaeologisch Instituut te

Istanbul 54; Leiden: Nederlands Historisch-Archaeologisch Instituut te Istanbul, 1985), 128–43.
52 Seow, “Socioeconomic Context,” 184.
53 The evidence suggests that Ina-Esagila-ramât managed her business independently. First,
in nearly every obligation document in which she is the creditor, she is identified by her patro-
nymic, “daughter of Zeµriya, son of Nabaya,” rather than by her marital status, “wife of Iddin-
Marduk” (the exception is Nbn. 611). This contrasts with her identification in documents in which
Ina-Esagila-ramât is conducting business on behalf of her husband. There, she is identified as the
“wife of Iddin-Marduk” or, if only her name is provided, the context specifies that she is acting on
his behalf (cf. Nbn. 727). Second, in one document in which she and her husband both extend
credit, she is identified by her patronymic, and the amount owed to her is distinguished from that
owed to Iddin-Marduk: “12 ½ minas silver (is the) claim of Iddin-Marduk, son of IqÈµšaya, son of
Nuµr-Sîn and 10 minas silver (is the) claim of Ina-Esagila-ramât, daughter of Zeµ riya, son of Nabaya”
(Nr. 291, lines 1-3). Finally, whereas members of the Egibi family typically served as witnesses
and/or scribes for loans issued by Ina-Esagila-ramât, Iddin-Marduk is never among them.
54 See also Nbn. 15 = Liv. 40; Nbn. 82; Nbn. 611; Nr. 232, 291, 375; Camb. 370; Cyr. 51.
made loans of silver (Nr. 241), emmer (Nr. 304), and dates (Nr. 372). Amat-
Ninlil loaned silver, and in exchange had the use of land as income-earning
property until the money was repaid (Liv. 15). One of Ina-Esagila-ramât’s
slaves, a woman named MahÚitu, had sufficient capital to make a loan of thirty
shekels (Nr. 196). With annual interest rates varying from 20 to 40 percent in
Babylon55 and 60 to 120 percent at Elephantine (see, e.g., TAD II, 3.1; 4.2),
such ventures, not unlike the work of the Woman of Substance, could be quite
profitable.
“She brings her food from afar” (31:14b)

Like merchant ships that import wares from foreign lands, the Woman of
Substance brings food “from afar” (qjrmm) to her household (v. 14). The ambi-
guity of this expression lends itself to two interpretations: she buys food at a
location far away from home or, alternatively, the food she purchases is itself
imported “from afar,” which may suggest that it is an expensive delicacy. Either
way, her family does not live the hand-to-mouth existence of a subsistence
agrarian culture. Rather, they consume what she buys or barters for in the
marketplace.
Archaeological evidence indicates that during the Persian period, Pales-
tine experienced unprecedented growth in international commerce. What had
been largely a subsistence agricultural economy in the preexilic and exilic peri-
ods56 developed into a cosmopolitan marketplace.57 On the coast, a dramatic
increase in the population of the Sharon and Carmel regions suggests interna-
tional trade.58 Some of the many (largely Phoenician) coastal cities, including
Dor, Ashkelon, and Abu-Hawam, were bustling seaports. There were purple
dye manufacturing centers at Appolonia-Arsuf and Dor.59 At Abu-Hawam
there was a granary and, at Shiqmona, a weaving workshop. Several sites, such
55 Dandamaev, Slavery in Babylonia, 140.

56 Prior to the Persian period, the state conducted international commerce largely from
taxes-in-kind that had been paid to the royal storehouses. Ezekiel describes various nations, includ-
ing Judah and Israel (which each brought agrarian products), gathering to barter their goods with
Tyre (27:12–25).
57 See Seow, “Socioeconomic Context,” 168–95; Hoglund, “Achaemenid Context,” 54–72;
Stolper, Entrepreneurs and Empire, esp. 143–56.

58 Persian-period remains have been identified at no fewer than twelve coastal sites, includ-
ing Achzib, Shiqmona, >Atlit, Abu-Hawam, Dor, Mikhmoret, Ashkelon, Michal, Makmish, and
Ashdod. At Tel Megadim, remains of a planned city give the impression that it was a “commercial
harbour town that was entirely erected at one time” (Stern, Material Culture, 15).
59 See E. Stern and I. Sharon, “Tel Dor, 1986: Preliminary Report,” IEJ 37 (1987): 208; E.
Stern, J. Berg, and I. Sharon, “Tel Dor, 1988–89: Preliminary Report,” IEJ 41 (1991): 53–54; Stern,
Dor—Ruler of the Seas, 194–200.
as Jaffa, Shiqmona, and Dor, had large storehouses. And, at Ashkelon, there
were warehouses and street-front workshops. Goods from such places as
Greece, Egypt, Phoenicia, and Cyprus flowed into the region.60
International commerce was not restricted to the coast. Ceramic contain-
ers used for the transit of grain, oil, and wine have been discovered inland and
along the coast, suggesting the import and export of such products.61 Foreign
coins, ceramics, metals, and jewelry have also been found at Persian-period
sites throughout Judah.62 Nehemiah describes the marketplace of Persian-
period Jerusalem as bustling with merchants plying their goods, people tread-
ing winepresses, and animals loaded with heaps of grain, grapes, and figs—
even on the Sabbath (Neh 13:15–16; cf. Neh 10:31). And at Elephantine,
women bought, sold, and bartered in the markets for goods such as salt (TAD
IV, 7.2; 7.7), vegetables, barley (TAD IV, 7.16), cucumber seed (TAD IV, 7.3),
grain (CIS II, 137), and oil (TAD I, 2.2; 2.5).
A concentration of terms in Prov 31:10–31 suggests that the context in
which the Woman of Substance gets food “from afar” for her household is just
such a marketplace. There are yn[nk, “Canaanites” (31:24), a term that has come
to mean “traders.” In the Persian period, the term was nearly synonymous with
“Phoenicians,”63 maritime traders who densely populated the coast and traded
throughout the Mediterranean. Phoenician wares are common among the
Persian-period artifacts at inland sites in Palestine;64 and both Nehemiah and
Ezra recount the ready presence of Phoenician merchants (Neh 13:16; Ezra
3:7). The Phoenicians were well known as manufacturers and traders of tex-
tiles, an industry that in the Persian period apparently flourished along the
60 Persian-period remains at Ashkelon, for example, include Attic imports; Greek cooking
pots; Egyptian beads, scarabs, amulets, and bronze statuettes; and a Persian weight and carved
ivory comb (L. Stager, “Ashkelon,” NEAEHL 1:109). Note also the Persian-period remains at Ash-
dod (M. Dothan, “Ashdod,” NEAEHL 1:100) and Ruqeish (E. Oren, “Ruqeish,” NEAEHL
4:1,294). Furthermore, off the coast of >Atlit are concentrations of fifth-century B.C.E. Phoenician
amphorae, the remains of ship cargoes that likely originated at Tyre, Sidon, and Cyprus (C. N.
Johns, A. Raban, E. Linder, and E. Galili, “>Atlit,” NEAEHL 1:120).
61 Stern, Material Culture, 109–10; E. Linder, “Ma<agan Mikha<el,” NEAEHL 3:918.
62 See, e.g., I. Magen, “Shechem,” NEAEHL 4:1,353; E. Stern, “A Burial of the Persian
Period near Hebron,” IEJ 21 (1971): 25–30; idem, “Achaemenian Tombs from Shechem,” Levant
12 (1980): 90–111; idem, Material Culture, 68, 143–53.
63 See J. Elayi, “The Phoenician Cities in the Persian Period,” JANES 12 (1980): 14; Stern,
Dor—Ruler of the Seas, 21.

64 These include Samaria, Lachish, Megiddo, Hazor, Wadi Dâliyeh, En-Gedi, and Gezer
(Stern, Material Culture, 1–8, 29–30, 38–44; and A. Ben-Tor, “Jokneam,” NEAEHL 3:807). Sido-
nian inscriptions dating to the mid-fifth century B.C.E. demonstrate familiarity with Hebrew litera-
ture and religious practices (J. C. Greenfield, “Scripture and Inscription: The Literary and
Rhetorical Element in Some Early Phoenician Inscriptions,” in Near Eastern Studies in Honor of
W. F. Albright [ed. H. Goedicke; Baltimore: Johns Hopkins Press, 1971], 253–68).
coast of Palestine.65 The hallmark of this industry was the production and
export of purple dye—an expensive colorfast, nonfading dye extracted from
marine snails.66 Remains of Persian-period purple dye manufacturing installa-
tions have been discovered at Apollonia-Arsuf and Dor.67 The red-purple
(@mgra, 31:22b) worn by the Woman of Substance is one of two known varieties
produced at such locations.
Other indications in Prov 31:10–31 of a commercial setting include use of
rjs twice: as an active participle in the phrase rjws twyna, “merchant ships”
(31:14a),68 and as a noun, “merchant profit” (31:18a; cf. Isa 23:3, 18; 45:14).
The root rkm also occurs twice (31:10b, 24a): as a verb, it refers to the act of
selling (31:24a; cf. Neh 10:32 [Eng. v. 31]; 13:16) and, as a noun, to a “purchase
price” (31:10b; cf. Num 20:19). Finally, there is mention of flax (!yt`p, 31:13a)
and linen (``, 31:22b), products typically imported to Palestine from Egypt.69
This cluster of terms, particularly in such a short poem, suggests that the
Woman of Substance obtains food “from afar” in a marketplace of international
merchants, imported goods, and lively trade for profit.
In addition to what was available in the marketplaces, women of the court
and royal women might acquire food from the imperial storehouses. Artystone,
wife of Darius I, ordered grain (PF 730), flour (PF 731), and wine (PF 732) for
distribution to various locations. With Arsames, one of Darius’s sons, she
ordered large quantities of grain and flour (PF 733), barley loaves (PF 734),
and beer (PF 2035). Darius I also ordered two thousand quarts of wine (PF
1795) and one hundred sheep (Fort. 6754) for her, perhaps as supplies for a
feast.70 Another woman of high rank named Irdabama71 similarly ordered royal
foodstuffs, including sizable allotments of wine (PF 735–37), grain and flour
(PF 738; cf. 740), and barley loaves (PF 739).72
65 See J. Elgavish, “Shiqmona,” NEAEHL 4:1,375; Stern, Dor—Ruler of the Seas, 194.
66 See E. Spanier, ed., The Royal Purple and the Biblical Blue (Argaman and Tekhelet): The
Study of Chief Rabbi Dr. Isaac Herzog on the Dye Industries in Ancient Israel and Recent Scientific
Contributions (Jerusalem: Keter, 1987); A. Raban and R. R. Stieglitz, Phoenicians on the Northern
Coast of Israel in the Biblical Period (Israel: Reuben and Edith Hecht Museum, University of
Haifa, 1993), 10*, 27*–28*; L. Jensen, “Royal Purple of Tyre,” JNES 22 (1963): 104–18; I. Zider-
man, “Seashells and Ancient Purple Dyeing,” BA 53 (1990): 98–101.
67 Stern, Dor—Ruler of the Seas, 195–99.
68 The participial form is used for the profession of peddling and merchandising (e.g., Ezek
27:36; 38:13; 1 Kgs 10:28; 2 Chr 1:16; Isa 23:2, 8).

69 See I. Jacob and W. Jacob, “Flora,” ABD 2:815.
70 See G. G. Cameron, “Darius’ Daughter and the Persepolis Inscriptions,” JNES 1 (1942):
214–18; Brosius, Women in Ancient Persia, 97.

71 Unlike Artystone, who is identified as a dukšiš (“princess,” cf. PF 1795; Fort. 6764), Irda-
bama is never identified by a title. Her receipt of royal provisions, however, suggests that she was
associated with the royal court.
72 Other high-ranking women of unknown identity shared the same privilege (e.g., PF
162–63, 171, 193, 309, 784, 823). See Brosius, Women in Ancient Persia, 144–46.
Women might also receive rations as workers in the royal economy.

Account lists from Elephantine show that some women received emmer, bar-
ley, and oil for their work as harvesters and as members of the garrison (TAD
III, 3.13; 3.18; 3.26; 3.28.80–84, 88; cf. TAD II, 5.5). As noted above, the Perse-
polis Fortification Texts record the disbursement to female workers of rations,
including wine, beer, sheep, grain, and flour. For women who were in supervi-
sory positions or who did specialized labor, such as the araššap and pašap, the
quantities could be quite significant.
In light of this evidence, the claim of Prov 31:14 that a Woman of Sub-
stance brings food “from afar” suggests her capacity to navigate successfully in
the imperial economy.
“She gives rations to her young women” (31:15c)

The Woman of Substance has a staff of twr[n, “young women/girls”
(v. 15c). The term twr[n may refer to female freeborn servants or slaves who did
primarily domestic labor. To have one servant, much less several, was a mark of
privilege. In the Hebrew Bible, women with twr[n are typically royalty or from
well-to-do families, such as the daughter of Pharaoh (Exod 2:5), Esther (Esth
4:4, 16), and Abigail (1 Sam 25:42). Similarly, affluent women in Persian-period
Mesopotamia often received three to five slaves (male and female) as part of
their dowries and might purchase or receive more by inheritance or dowry
compensation.73 Slaves given to a woman as supplemental dowry gifts to ease
her transition into the marital home were predominantly female, possibly
young handmaids or the bride’s own nursemaid.74
At the same time, twr[n can be young female workers, like the contingent
of female harvesters in the fields of Boaz (Ruth 2:8, 22–23; 3:2; cf. 2:5). The
Woman of Substance might thus have a female work group, possibly weavers or
other laborers who assist in her textile industry. This would not have been
unusual in the Persian period. Women of the court and royal women often
employed workers on their estates. Irdabama, in particular, had a large work
force. She employed a number of workers on her estate at Tirazziš. At one
point, she had as many as 490 laborers there (PF 1028). At various times Irda-
bama also had work groups numbering twenty at Tukraš (PF 1109), 150 at
Tamukkan (PF 1098), seven at Turtukkan (PF 1221, 1232), 52 at Kurra (PF
1198), 75 at Nukusantiš (PF 1002), and 43 (PF 849), 102 (PF 1005), and 244
(PF 1029) at unspecified locations.
An employer provided rations for her workers. Irdabama, for example,
ordered the issue of grain rations for hundreds of laborers at Tirazziš (PF 1028;
73 See, e.g., Nbk. 265 = Liv. 154; Nbk.147; Nr. 16; Nbn. 336.
74 Roth, “Material Composition,” 12–17.
cf. 1041–43). Artystone provided grain rations for workers in her employ (PF
1236) and travel rations to those conducting business on her behalf (PF 1454,
2049; PFa 14). Perhaps such a practice is echoed in Prov 31:15, where the
Woman of Substance is said to give a qj (“an allotted portion”)75 to her female
workers.
“She considers a field and acquires it” (31:16)

Finally, the Woman of Substance considers a field, acquires it, and then
draws from her earnings to plant a vineyard (v. 16). She thus converts real
estate into income-generating property.
Persian-period royal women and women of high rank were property hold-
ers and estate owners. Indeed, Greek authors renowned their land owner-
ship.76 Artystone, for example, owned and operated at least three estates in the
region of Persepolis.77 Irdabama had a large work force concentrated at her
estate in Tirazziš and at a number of other locations between Susa and Persepo-
lis. Documents bearing their personal seals and letters from both women to
their estate managers demonstrate their direct involvement in the administra-
tion of their properties (e.g., PF 164–68, 735–36, 738–40, 849, 1041–43, 1109,
1835–39, 1857; PFa 27).
Women might acquire property by dowry or bequest. For example,
dowries in the family of Itti-Marduk-balaµtu\ , a successful Babylonian business-
man, commonly included real estate (e.g., Nbn. 760–61 [cf. Liv. 32]).78 At Ele-
phantine, Miptah\iah owned a household plot given to her by her father (TAD
II, 2.3) and the house of her first husband (TAD II, 2.10);79 Jehoishma had life-
time usufruct (and later ownership) of a house, and shared rights with her
brother to an adjacent stairway and courtyard (TAD II, 3.7; 3.8; 3.10; 3.11).
Some women used their lands to generate income. After paying taxes to
the crown (see PF 1857, 2070), they kept a considerable portion of whatever
revenues their estates produced.80 Moreover, they might lease or subdivide the
75 The parallel terms !jl (“food,” 31:14) and #rf (“food,” 31:15; cf. Ps 111:5; Mal 3:10) sug-
gest that qj here refers to an “allotted portion” or ration of food (cf. Prov 30:8).
76 See, e.g., Plato, Alcibiades I 121c–123cd; Xenophon, Anabasis 2.4.27.
77 Artystone is associated with estates at Matannan (PF 166–68, 1857), Kukkannakan (PF
1836–37), and Mirandu (PF 1835).

78 Roth, “Dowries,” 19–37.
79 Miptah\iah’s ownership of the house of her first husband is indicated by the fact that her
children with her second husband, Esh\or, were capable of inheriting it (TAD II, 2.10; cf. Yaron,
Introduction to the Law of the Aramaic Papyri, 75–76).
80 Some persons who received property grants paid one-third of their proceeds in royal taxes
and kept two-thirds. See Seow, “Socioeconomic Context,” 176; G. van Driel, “The Murašûs in Con-
text,” JESHO 32 (1989): 206.
land among those they favored for even more money. Records from the Murašû
business firm reveal that women did both. Two Murašû texts refer to the “estate
of the Lady of the Palace,” presumably one of Artaxerxes’ four queens or the
queen mother, Amestris.81 Each document records a rental payment to the
manager (BE 9 28 = TuM 2–3 179) or the deputy manager (BE 9 50) of her
estate. The rent was expensive, including barley, dates, barrels of fine liquor,
sheep and goats, twenty-five royal soldiers, and rations for the estate manager
(BE 9 50). The Murašûs also conducted business with Queen Parysatis
(Purušatu), wife and half-sister of Darius II.82 Her supervisor, Ea-bullissu, and
his agents managed her affairs. Ea-bullissu, himself a smallholder on a subplot
of Parysatis’s land (TuM 2–3 185), collected rent from the Murašûs and from
other servants of Parysatis who lived as tenant farmers on her estate.83
Two other royal women are known to have leased property to the Murašûs.
The first was Amisiri<. The Murašûs had a three-year lease of crown land and a
royal reservoir at the end of the Badiatu canal of Amisiri< (CBS 5199).84 To irri-
gate the rented fields, the firm requested limited rights to draw off water that
legally belonged to the king and to Amisiri<.85 The second woman was Madu-
mitu. She is mentioned first as a member of the house of Amisiri< and an owner
of a field in her estate. The Murašû firm leased her land and then subleased it
to another for two minas of silver per year (Ni. 508; cf. BE 9 39).86 Sometime
later, the Murašûs again subleased a field belonging to Madumitu,87 but it is not
clear whether the land was still part of the estate of Amisiri< (Ni. 538). The last
reference to Madumitu’s land occurs four years later (PBS 2/1 75). Her prop-
erty was then part of the estate of Parysatis and was managed by Ea-bullissu.
The acquisition and improvement of property by the Woman of Substance
are yet further means by which she, like some Persian-period women, might
provide for the well-being of those in her household. Indeed, her land would
afford some financial security, which purportedly others in Persian-period
Palestine were woefully without (Neh 5:3–5).
81 Stolper, Entrepreneurs and Empires, 62.

82 PBS 2/1 38, 50, 60, 75, 105, 146–47; BE 10 97, 131; TuM 2–3 185.
83 See Stolper, Entrepreneurs and Empires, 63.
84 Ibid., 231 (no. 1).
85 Reading the fifth line as partially restored by Stolper: . . . [A. MEŠ(?) šá LU]GAL u fA-mi-
si-ri< . . . (Entrepreneurs and Empires, 231 [no. 1]).

86 BE 9 39, a duplicate of Ni. 508, includes captions of seal impressions but is unsealed. See
V. Donbaz and M. W. Stolper, Istanbul Murašû Texts (Leiden: Nederlands Instituut voor het
Nabije Oosten, 1997), 109 (no. 38).
87 Following Donbaz and Stolper, who read mMadu<itu in line 11 of Ni. 538 as an error for
Madumitu (Istanbul Murašû Texts, 110 [no. 39]).

III. Conclusion
Consideration of Prov 31:10–31 in light of the socioeconomic evidence

presented here suggests that the portrait of the Woman of Substance may well
reflect real women in the Persian period. She is a bride valued highly for her
wealth and socioeconomic potential. Her dowry and earnings are “loot” that
her husband may use for his own gain. She manufactures and trades in textiles.
She buys and sells in the marketplaces and brings food “from afar” to her
household. She manages workers. She acquires real estate and develops it for
income. In short, her socioeconomic activities mirror those of Persian-period
women, particularly those of affluence or position. The sage thus taught about
her in a manner typical of the wisdom tradition—by pointing to the world,
indeed to the women, of his context.
Although based on real women, Prov 31:10–31 remains a portrait of the
most desirable woman, an image of the ideal wife intended for a predominantly
male audience. As the comprehensive expression, the “A-to-Zs” of all that is
valued in and valuable about a woman, the Woman of Substance is arguably a
composite image of real women. She embodies no one woman, but rather the
desired attributes and activities of many. What is a tribute to the lives and work
of real women is, at the same time, an objectification of the same. After all, this
woman is given a “purchase price”; she is to be trusted because her husband
never lacks for “loot,” and so on.
This socioeconomic reading invites a reconsideration of the origins of Wis-
dom personified as a woman in Prov 1–9. The nature and extent of lexical and
thematic parallels between the Woman of Substance and Wisdom in Prov 1–9
indicate that, for the sage, the two women essentially coalesce.88 Several inter-
preters tend to this convergence by highlighting what T. P. McCreesh calls the
“wisdom dimension” of the Woman of Substance. McCreesh claims, for exam-
ple, that Prov 31:10–31 “is the book’s final masterful portrait of Wisdom,” and
that the Woman of Substance is the symbol of Wisdom “finally settled down
88 Lexical parallels between personified Wisdom and the Woman of Substance include: rjs
(3:14; 31:18), axm (1:28; 3:13; 8:17; 31:10), !ynynp (3:15 [Q]; 8:11; 31:10), tyb (9:1; 31:15, 21, 27),
tr[n (9:3; 31:15), !jl (9:5; 31:14), jfb (1:33; 31:11), !yr[` (1:21; 8:3; 31:23, 31), dy (1:24; 31:19, 20,
31), yrp (8:19; 31:16, 31), qj` (1:26; 8:30; 31:25), [r (8:13; 31:12), and rà (3:18; 31:28). Thematic
connections include their strength (8:14; 31:17, 25), teaching roles (e.g., 1:23–25; 8:6–9, 14, 32–34;
31:26), and identifications with “the fear of the LORD” (1:29–30; 8:13; 31:30). Moreover, both
women bring riches and good reputations for their companions (e.g., 3:4, 16; 8:18, 21; 31:11, 23),
are bearers of honor (3:16; 4:8; 31:25), and look after those in their charge (e.g., 1:33; 4:6; 31:15, 21,
27). For more extended discussion, see, e.g., Yoder, Wisdom as a Woman of Substance, 115–18;
J.-N. Aletti, “Séduction et parole in Proverbes I-IX,” VT 27 (1977): 129–44; T. P. McCreesh, “Wis-
dom as Wife: Proverbs 31:10–31,” RB 92 (1985): 25–46; Camp, Wisdom and the Feminine,
186–208; and Schroer, Wisdom Has Built Her House, esp. 18–25.
with her own.”89 Similarly, R. J. Clifford describes Prov 31:10–31 as “a portrait

of Woman Wisdom and what she accomplishes for those who come to her
house as disciples and friends.”90
What happens, however, if the convergence is explored in the opposite
direction?91 Said another way, to what extent might there be “Woman of Sub-
stance dimensions” to personified Wisdom? If the Woman of Substance is a
composite figure of real Persian-period women, and if she and Wisdom essen-
tially coalesce, might not Wisdom also reflect the socioeconomic realities of
Persian-period women? It is striking that, whereas a number of recent studies
contend that the polemic against the “Strange” Woman (Wisdom’s counterpart
in Prov 1–9) was motivated primarily by concerns about real women in Persian-
period Yehud,92 proposals for the origin of personified Wisdom continue to be
either mythological antecedents93 or literary constructs based on women’s roles
as described in the Hebrew Bible without regard to diachronic differences in
the texts or in women’s realities.94 The socioeconomic reading developed above
suggests that Wisdom’s origins may well lie elsewhere, namely, amid the activi-
ties of and perceptions about real women in the Persian period.
89 McCreesh, “Wisdom as Wife,” 30.

90 Clifford, Proverbs, 274.
91 See Yoder, Wisdom as a Woman of Substance, esp. 91–110, for such an analysis.
92 J. Blenkinsopp, “The Social Context of the ‘Outsider Woman’ in Proverbs 1–9,” Bib 72
(1991): 457–73; H. C. Washington, “The Strange Woman (hyrkn/ hrz hà) of Proverbs 1–9 and
Post-Exilic Judaean Society,” in Second Temple Studies 2: Temple Community in the Persian
Period (ed. T. C. Eskenazi and K. H. Richards; JSOTSup 175; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1994),
217–42; Maier, Die ‘fremde Frau’ in Proverbien 1–9; idem, “Conflicting Attractions: Parental Wis-
dom and the ‘Strange Woman’ in Proverbs 1–9,” in Wisdom and Psalms: A Feminist Companion to
the Bible (Second Series) (ed. A. Brenner and C. R. Fontaine; FCB, 2d ser. 2; Sheffield: Sheffield
Academic Press, 1998), 92–108, esp. 99–104.
93 Proposals include Ishtar (e.g., G. Boström, Proverbiastudien: Die Weisheit und das fremde
Weib in Sprüche 1–9 [LUÅ 30, 3; Lund: Gleerup, 1935], esp. 156–74), Egyptian Ma>at (e.g., C.
Bauer-Kayatz, Studien zu Proverbien 1–9: Eine Form- und Motivgeschichtliche Untersuchung unter
Einbeziehung ägyptischen Vergleichsmaterial [WMANT 22; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener
Verlag, 1966], esp. 12–62), a hellenized form of the Egyptian goddess Isis (e.g., M. V. Fox, “World
Order and Ma>at: A Crooked Parallel,” JANES 23 [1995]: 37–48), Asherah (e.g., M. D. Coogan,
“Canaanite Origins and Lineage: Reflections on the Religion of Ancient Israel,” in Ancient Near
Eastern Religion: Essays in Honor of Frank Moore Cross [ed. P. D. Miller et al.; Philadelphia:
Fortress, 1987], 115–24, esp. 118–20), and an unnamed, hitherto unknown Canaanite wisdom god-
dess (B. Lang, Wisdom and the Book of Proverbs: An Israelite Goddess Redefined [New York: Pil-
grim, 1986]).
94 See, e.g., Camp, Wisdom and the Feminine, 79–147; S. Schroer, “Wise and Counselling
Women in Ancient Israel: Literary and Historical Ideals of the Personified H\ okmâ,” in A Feminist
Companion to Wisdom Literature (ed. A. Brenner; FCB 9; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press,
1995), 67–84; C. R. Fontaine, “The Social Roles of Women in the World of Wisdom,” in A Feminist
Companion to Wisdom Literature, ed. Brenner, 24–49.
JBL 122/3 (2003) 449–466
GEOGRAPHY AND HISTORY

IN HERODOTUS AND IN EZRA-NEHEMIAH
THOMAS B. DOZEMAN
tdozeman@united.edu
314 Stewart Drive, Yellow Springs, OH 45387
The sequence of the Persian kings1 is out of order in the Aramaic section
of Ezra 4:7–6:18.2 The Hebrew introduction to the section, Ezra 4:4–5, states
that there was conflict over the rebuilding of the Jerusalem temple from the
time of Cyrus in the late sixth century B.C.E. to the reign of Darius in the late
fifth century B.C.E. Ezra 4:24 repeats the message of 4:4–5 by noting the com-
pletion of the temple under Darius. Yet Ezra 4:7–23 contains an exchange of
I wish to thank Seymour Gitin and the staff of the W. F. Albright Institute of Archaeological
Research for instruction in historical geography; Gary Knoppers for advice on current research in
Chronicles, Ezra, and Nehemiah; John Van Seters for reading early drafts of the article; and the
Constructions of Ancient Space Consultation, chaired by James Flanagan and Jon Berquist, for
providing theoretical focus to the project. Thanks also to the editors for the helpful revisions.
1 The chronology and dates of the Persian kings are as follows: Cyrus (539–530 B.C.E.); Cam-
byses (530–522 B.C.E.); Darius I (522–486 B.C.E.); Xerxes (486–465 B.C.E.); Artaxerxes I (465–423
B.C.E.); Darius II (423– 404 B.C.E.); Artaxerxes II (404–359 B.C.E.); Artaxerxes III (359–338 B.C.E.);
and Darius III (336–331 B.C.E.). See A. T. Olmstead, History of the Persian Empire (Achaemenid
Period) (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1948); and Lester L. Grabbe, Judaism from Cyrus
to Hadrian, vol. 1, The Persian and Greek Periods (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1992), 119–46.
2 The Aramaic section of Ezra contains four letters: (1) a letter form Rehum to Arataxerxes
(4:8–16); (2) the reply of Artaxerxes (4:17–22); (3) a letter from Tattenai to Darius (5:6–17); and
(4) the reply of Darius (6:3–12), which includes a copy of the decree of Cyrus (6:3–5). There is one
additional Aramaic document, Ezra 7:12–26, the edict by Artaxerxes authorizing Ezra to establish
the Law of Moses in the province Abar Naharah. Ezra 4:7–6:18 is characterized as a “chronicle,”
because the narrative connecting the letters is also in Aramaic, suggesting to some that the author
employed a source document. See W. Rudolph, Esra und Nehemia (HAT 20; Tübingen: Mohr-
Siebeck, 1949), xxii; A. H. J. Gunneweg, “Die aramäische und die hebräische Erzählung über die
nachexilische Restauration—ein Vergleich,” ZAW 94 (1982): 299–302; and D. J. A. Clines, Ezra,
Nehemiah, Esther (NCB; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1984), 8. But compare H. G. M. Williamson,
who suggests that only the individual letters are source documents, and that the Aramaic narrative
connecting them is the creation of the author of Ezra 1–6 (Ezra, Nehemiah [WBC 16; Waco: Word,
1985], xxiii–xxiv).
449
letters between Rehum and the Persian king Artaxerxes I to account for the
delay in the construction of the temple, even though Artaxerxes I ruled after
Darius in the fourth century B.C.E.3
H. G. M. Williamson identified the repetition of Ezra 4:4–5 and 24 as
resumptive, indicating that Ezra 4:7–23 is intended to be a digression. 4
Resumptive repetitions emphasize the spatial organization of literature over
chronology and temporal sequence. The setting of a story often emerges as the
point of focus in spatially organized literature.5 Yet past interpretations of Ezra
4:7–23 have ignored a spatial interpretation of the correspondence between
Rehum and Artaxerxes, even though the disruption of historical sequence
encourages such a reading.
The central spatial category in Ezra 4:7–23 is the setting, the territory of
Abar Naharah (hrhn rb[), an Aramaic term translated “Beyond the River.”6
The correspondence of Rehum and Artaxerxes introduces this region into the
story, and it is repeated no fewer than five times (Ezra 4:10, 11, 16, 17, 20).
Abar Naharah represents a blending of geographical realism and literary free-
dom. It signifies the broadest territory of Persian rule in Ezra-Nehemiah
(v. 16), corresponding to a variety of ancient sources that identify Abar
Naharah as a geopolitical region in the Persian empire. Yet the territory also
3 Artaxerxes is not clearly identified in Ezra-Nehemiah. Recent historical studies emphasize
the reign of Artaxerxes I in the mid-fifth century B.C.E. as the setting for the events in Ezra-
Nehemiah (see K. Hoglund, Achaemenid Imperial Administration in Syria-Palestine and the Mis-
sions of Ezra and Nehemiah [SBLDS 125; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1992]); and Jon L. Berquist,
Judaism in Persia’s Shadow: A Social and Historical Approach [Minneapolis: Fortress, 1995]). The
identification results in the following four Persian monarchs in Ezra-Nehemiah: Cyrus (in refer-
ence to his decree concerning the rebuilding of the temple, Ezra 1:2, 7, 8; 3:7; 4:3, 5; 5:13, 14, 17;
6:3, 14), Darius (as the monarch who fulfills the decree of Cyrus, Ezra 4:5, 24; 5:5, 6, 7; 6:1, 12,
13,14, 15), Xerxes (= Ahasuerus in Ezra 4:6), and Artaxerxes I (as the ruler who commissions both
Ezra and Nehemiah, Ezra 4:7, 8, 11, 23; 6:14; 7:1, 7, 11, 12, 21; 8:1; Neh 2:1; 5:14; 13:6). But schol-
ars debate the references to Artaxerxes I. Some argue that the mission of Ezra takes place under
Artaxerxes II (see G. Widengren, “The Persian Period,” in Israelite and Judaean History [ed. J. H.
Hayes and J. Maxwell Miller; Philadelphia: Westminster, 1977], 503–9). R. J. Saley places both the
mission of Ezra and that of Nehemiah during the reign of Artaxerxes II (“The Date of Nehemiah
Reconsidered,” in Biblical and Near Eastern Studies: Essays in Honor of William Sanford LaSor
[ed. G. A. Tuttle; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1978], 151–65). Either date for the mission of Ezra
creates the problem of chronology with regard to the reference to Artaxerxes in Ezra 4:7–23.
4 Williamson, Ezra, Nehemiah, 57. For the original discussion of resumptive repetition, see
C. Kuhl, “Die ‘Wiederaufnahme’—eine literarisches Princip,” ZAW 64 (1952): 1–11.

5 For general discussion, see Spatial Form in Narrative (ed. J. R. Smitten and A. Daghistany;
Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1981). For the application of spatial-form methodology to
interpret setting in biblical historiography, see T. B. Dozeman, God on the Mountain (SBLMS 37;
Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1988).
6 See also the Aramaic arhn rb[.
Dozeman: Herodotus and Ezra-Nehemiah 451
exceeds its literal representation. The reply of Artaxerxes to Rehum, that past
kings of Jerusalem ruled Abar Naharah (4:20), is not history.7 Thus, despite the
emphasis by Artaxerses on archives, written records, and research, the content
of his letter indicates that the territory plays a role in the ideological world of
Ezra-Nehemiah.
I wish to explore the creative interaction of geographical realism and
ideology surrounding Abar Naharah in the historiography of Ezra-Nehemiah.8
A limited number of studies describe the geopolitical background of Abar
Naharah,9 but there is yet no spatial reading of Abar Naharah that intertwines
both historical geography and ideological design in Ezra-Nehemiah. This
absence of research creates a problem of methodology, requiring that I begin
my study with a broad lens. I will examine the role of geography in the histori-
ography of Herodotus, who, like the author of Ezra-Nehemiah, fashioned his
history under the influence of Persian rule. Past research on Herodotus’s use of
geography will assist in fashioning a methodology for interpreting Abar
7 N. Na’aman concludes that descriptions of ancient Israelite kings ruling over the province
Abar Naharah (= Akkadian ebir nari) “has no basis in the actual history of the country” (Borders
and Districts in Biblical Historiography [Jerusalem Biblical Studies 4; Jerusalem: Simor, 1986],
244–45). A number of solutions have been offered to account for this problem. R. J. Coggins offers
two reasons. The claim may represent “a universal tendency to exaggerate the power of one’s ene-
mies,” or “it may be the Chronicler’s way of referring obliquely to David’s greatness” (The Books of
Ezra and Nehemiah [CBC; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1976], 32). H. H. Grosheide
reads the exaggeration as manipulation of Artaxerxes by the regional opponents of the Judean com-
munity (Ezra-Nehemia I, Ezra [Kampen: Kok, 1963], 45). K. Galling rereads the text so that it
refers not to Judean kings but to past Assyrian and Babylonian kings who ruled over Abar Naharah
and the city of Jerusalem (Die Bücher der Chronik, Esra, Nehemia [ATD 12; Göttingen: Vanden-
hoeck & Ruprecht, 1954], 198). He is followed by Williamson, Ezra, Nehemiah, 64; and F. C. Fen-
sham, The Books of Ezra and Nehemiah (NICOT; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1982), 75–76. But a
reference to Assyrian kings has nothing to do with the threat posed by Rehum if Jerusalem is
rebuilt. No interpretation has yet explored the larger literary role of Abar Naharah in Ezra-
Nehemiah to account for the reference.
8 I am interpreting Ezra-Nehemiah as historiographical literature rather than as fiction (see
C. C. Torrey, The Composition and Historical Value of Ezra-Nehemiah [BZAW 2; Giessen: J.

Ricker Buchhandlung, 1896]) or as memoir (see Sigmund Mowinckel, “Die vorderasiatischen
Königs- und Fürsteninscriften,” in Eucharisterion: H. Gunkel zum 60. Geburtstage [FRLANT 36;
Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1923], 278–322). Arnaldo Momigliano examined the mem-
oir within a broad study of Greek and Jewish biographical literature from the Persian period (The
Development of Greek Biography [Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1993], 35–36). He
concluded that the memoir, with its focus on the individual, does not provide an adequate descrip-
tion of the present form of Ezra-Nehemiah, where “the close connection between history and
geography emphasized concern with the community rather than with the individual.” See also the
discussion by Shemaryahu Talmon, “Esra-Nehemia: Historiographie oder Theologie?” in Ernten,
was man sät: Festschrift für Klaus Koch zum seinem 65. Geburtstag (ed. Dwight R. Daniels et al.;
Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1991), 329–56, esp. 355–56.
9 Most notably, see A. F. Rainey, “The Satrapy ‘Beyond the River,’” AJBA 1 (1969): 51–78.
Naharah in Ezra-Nehemiah. I will conclude the article by returning to the

influence of Persian rule on the history writing of Herodotus and the author of
Ezra-Nehemiah.
I. Geography and History in Herodotus
The interaction of geographical realism and ideological social and political

commentary in Ezra-Nehemiah is characteristic of ancient historiography. The
role of geography is so strong in Herodotus, for example, that Kurt von Fritz
proposed a progression in his work from a geographer and ethnographer to a
historian.10 He concludes that the two approaches cannot be separated, since
both contribute to a new critical orientation toward tradition. Von Fritz argues
that the vast domain of the Persian empire allowed for discovery through travel.
As a result, new geographical horizons emerged, calling into question tradi-
tional cosmological geography, such as the map of Anaximander. The break-
down of traditional geography also challenged Greek legends based on it,
creating discontinuity with the past. Ancient historiography, according to von
Fritz, is the result of the new world order of the Persian empire.11 It influenced
Herodotus’s view of both space and time, making geography and historiography
inseparable.
Most scholars agree with von Fritz, emphasizing that the progression in
Herodotus from geographer to historian is fueled by a change in his use of
geography. Herodotus introduces a more critical approach to geography than
his predecessors.12 He rejects past circular world maps in which Ocean is
depicted as flowing around the earth, promising the reader, instead, geographi-
cal realism.13 But the geographical realism of Herodotus must not be mistaken
10 Kurt von Fritz, Die Griechische Geschichtsschreibung, Band 1, Von den Anfängen bis
Thukydides (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1967), 24; idem, “Herodotus and the Growth of Greek Historiog-
raphy,” TAPA 67 (1936): 315–40.
11 Von Fritz, Die Griechische Geschichtsschreibung, 24–25.
12 See O. A. W. Dilke, Greek and Roman Maps (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press,
1985), 57–58. J. Van Seters describes the critical perspective in Herodotus as “the new scientific
age” in contrast to a “heroic perspective” (In Search of History: Historiography in the Ancient
World and the Origins of Biblical History [New Haven: Yale University Press, 1983], 23). He
writes: “The contrast . . . can . . . be seen in the subject of world geography. Through travels and
accounts . . . the strange places and customs of others are made part of the known world instead of
the fantasy lands of the Odyssey.”
13 Herodotus writes, “I am amused to see those many who have drawn maps of the world and
not one of them making a reasonable appearance of it. They draw Ocean flowing around an earth
that is as circular as though traced by compasses, and they make Asia the same size as Europe. In
some few words I will myself make plain the greatness of each of these divisions and what shape
each should have been” (Hist. 4.36; see also 2.23; 4.8).
as a branch of the physical sciences. Many of his descriptions of distant places

and people cannot withstand the scrutiny of historical geography, nor can they
be interpreted literally. Examples include his discussion of the eastern Indians
(Hist. 3.98–106), the northern Hyperboreans (4.13, 32–36), and the southern
Ethiopeans (3.17–26). These nations dwell at the edges of the world. Their sto-
ries reach Herodotus as travelers’ tales or poetic fancy, which can be neither
confirmed nor denied.14 This use of geography represents “a literary genre
more than a branch of the physical sciences,” best characterized as “humanist
geography,” according to James Romm.15
More pertinent for an interpretation of Abar Naharah in Ezra-Nehemiah
is the way in which Herodotus employs realistic geography to advance the
geopolitical theme in his Histories, the enmity between the East and the West,
represented by the “continents” of Asia and Europe.16 The development of the
geopolitical theme required an anthropocentric interpretation of geography,
according to Henry R. Immerwahr, in which nations form customs (nomoi) and
create worldviews, in part, from their location and physical environment.17
Thus climate and topography affect national character, creating natural limits
and geographical boundaries between peoples.18 Egyptian customs, according
to Herodotus, are the opposite of those of other nations, because the Egyptian
climate is the reverse of other territories (Hist. 2.35.2).19
Herodotus’s interpretation of the Persians is the most extensive use of
geography and ethnography in his Histories.20 The Persians belong naturally to
14 In writing about the geography of Ocean, Herodotus concludes that the person who first
proposed the theory “has carried his story, which is indeed only a tale, back to where it vanishes and
so cannot be disproved” (Hist. 2.23).
15 James Romm, The Edges of the Earth in Ancient Thought: Geography, Exploration, and
Fiction (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1992), 3–8.

16 Romm describes the geopolitical dimension of the Histories as a literary mappamundi
(Herodotus [Hermes Books; New Haven: Yale University Press, 1998], xiv–xv). Herodotus writes
his history within the context of three “continents,” Europe, Asia, and Libya, although his focus is
on Europe and Asia (Hist. 4.37– 45).
17 Henry R. Immerwahr, Form and Thought in Herodotus (Philological Monographs; Cleve-
land: Press of Western Reserve University, 1966), 317.

18 See the discussion of the lingering influence of Herodotus’s “environmental determinism”
on contemporary spatial ideology in Martin W. Lewis and Kären E. Wigen, The Myth of Conti-
nents: A Critique of Metageography (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1997), 93–123.
Although “environmental determinism” is central to the Histories (3.38.1–4), it only partially influ-
ences national customs (see the contrast between the Euxine Pontus and the Scythians [Hist.
4.46]). See Donald Lateiner, The Historical Method of Herodotus (Phoenix Supplementary Vol-
umes; Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1989), 158–59.
19 See von Fritz, Griechische Geschichtsschreibung, 128–57, esp. 153–54.
20 For general discussion see Immerwahr, Form and Thought in Herodotus, 148–88; and
Romm, Herodotus, 173–90.

Asia, and their customs reflect this setting.21 Their strength arises from their
environment. They wear leather and eat whatever is available, because they live
in a land of rocks (Hist. 1.71).
“Unity” is the highest character trait of the Persians, creating social cohe-
sion and honor in their society.22 It also fuels their need for a monarch. The rule
of “one best man,” argued by Darius, reflects in part his Asian environment.23
Thus, despotism, according to Herodotus, thrives in the East, because it is in
the national character (nomos) of the Persians. But an excess of unity is also the
central weakness of the Persian kings. The Persian need for unity drives their
aggressive desire for conquest. They force their custom of unity beyond their
territory, the environment in which it was intended to function. And, as a result,
the Persians impose their custom of unity on other people, and thus they vio-
late a natural law of limitation and geography.24 In this action Persian monarchs
represent the breakdown of law for Herodotus.
The violation of geography and the Persian need for absolute control
prompt other forms of lawlessness. Cambyses disrespects Egyptian customs
through his ethnocentrism (Hist. 3.16). He and Xerxes also repeatedly violate
their own laws when it suits their purposes.25 Autocratic justice is arbitrary,
according to Herodotus, “the king of Persia might do whatever he wishes”
(Hist. 3.31).26 Even Cyrus, the wise founder of the empire, meets his ruin
through bloodthirsty deceit, violating the customs of the Massagetae (Hist.
1.212). In violating the natural boundaries of their rule, Persian despots are not
constrained by law, but manipulate customs and institutions for their own ends.
21 “The Persians claim, as their own, Asia and all the barbarian people who live in it, but
Europe and the Greek people they regard as entirely separate” (Hist. 1.4).
22 See Hist. 1.131–40, which describes the customs of the Persians; see also Immerwahr,
Form and Thought in Herodotus, 185–88, on the central role of unity in Persian culture.
23 Histories 3.80–82 contains a debate between Otanes, Megabyzus, and Darius about the
proper form of government. Otanes advocates democracy; Megabyzus, oligarchy; and Darius,
monarchy. In the end, history and custom win the argument for Darius, for it was a monarch that
freed the Persians. Monarchy, argues Darius, is an ancestral law, a custom for the Persians that
must not be broken. Herodotus provides his view of Eastern despotism by recounting how Darius
actually acquired his rule (Hist. 3.85–87).
24 Histories 7.8 contains a speech by Xerxes indicating the Persian drive to unify through con-
quest and hence his need to cross the Hellespont, “Men of Persia, it is not new law that I initiate
among you; it has come to me from tradition. For as I learn from older men, we have never been at
peace since we took over the supremacy from the Medes, when Cyrus deposed Astyages. It is the
god that leads us on.” See Lateiner, Historical Method of Herodotus, 152–55; and especially
Immerwahr, Form and Thought in Herodotus, 144–88.
25 Histories 1.137 states that Persian kings never punish for a single misdeed, but calculate
past services against disloyal acts. But compare Cambyses’ treatment of Sisamnes (Hist. 5.25) and
Xerxes’ action against Puthius (Hist. 7.38-39) and the Phoenicians at Salamis (Hist. 8.90).
26 Xerxes wishes to make the territory of Persia equal to the rule of Zeus (Hist. 7.8).
This aggression and ethnocentrism is a hubris stated geographically by

Herodotus: “There is a progression in honor in relation to the distance. They
hold least in honor those whose habitation is furthest from their own” (Hist.
1.134).
The interpretation of geography and ideology in ancient historiography
requires clear methodological focus. Claude Nicolet introduced an important
distinction between “historical geography” and “the history of geography” in
the study of ancient history.27 “Historical geography” investigates geographical
realities, including vegetation, cultivation, roads, land possession, population,
settlements, and boundaries. The “history of geography” explores the aware-
ness of territory and its representation in the literature, uncovering “the men-
tality and ideology” of the writers.28
The distinction of Nicolet is an important starting point for interpreting
the use of geography in ancient historiography. But the two categories create
the danger of interpreting the different uses of geography as a simple opposi-
tion between fact and fiction. To focus only on the factual to explain a text is to
fall prey to the “realistic illusion,” according to Henri Lefebvre.29 Such a nar-
row methodology assumes that the text is opaque, reflecting only the objectivity
of historical geography. Edward W. Soja writes that a study limited to historical
geography cannot be “substituted for [an] explanation of the social production
of space.”30 Conversely, the singular quest for the “mentality” of the author,
introduces the “illusion of transparency,” as though the geographical represen-
tation was no more than a cipher for ideas.31 The writing of Herodotus suggests
that the use of geography in ancient historiography represents a complex inter-
action of physical geography and social construction. The resulting worldview
provides the basis for Herodotus to judge present cultures and to provide
glimpses of new utopian possibilities.
Lefebvre and Soja offer a three-part model for interpreting spatial repre-
sentation in contemporary society, not ancient historiography. Yet their cate-
gories provide methodological focus for interrelating the different functions of
geography in ancient historiography.32 The first category is perceived space: it
27 Claude Nicolet, Space, Geography, and Politics in the Early Roman Empire (Jerome Lec-
tures 19; Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1991).

28 Ibid., 2, 3–5, 9.
29 Henri Lefebvre, The Production of Space (trans. D. N. Nicholson-Smith; Oxford: Black-
well, 1991), 27–30.

30 Edward W. Soja, Postmodern Geographies: The Reassertion of Space in Critical Social
Theory (London: Verso, 1989), 123; idem, Thirdspace: Journeys to Los Angeles and Other Real-
and-Imagined Places (Oxford: Blackwell, 1996), 64, 157.
31 Lefebvre, Production of Space, 27–29; Soja, Postmodern Geographies, 124–26; idem,
Thirdspace, 63–64, 157.

32 The translation of a social model aimed at contemporary life to ancient literature is heuris-
tic, and I present it with caution. Lefebvre states the problem of translating theoretical social
is the concrete, physical geography of our world.33 Perceived space in the work
of Herodotus would represent his aim to advance a description of world geog-
raphy grounded in the physical terrain and open to testing and modification, as
opposed to the legend or myth of Ocean.
The second category, conceived space, includes the social order that is
interwoven and imposed on physical geography.34 Conceived space is a self-
conscious construction of physical space. It is created or imagined by a society,
thus representing public and overt social forms of power and ideology. Con-
ceived space in Herodotus would represent his social configuration of the “con-
tinents,” and it would also include his work on ethnography, where he seeks to
relate physical geography to national and social structures.
The third category, lived space, is the immediate world of experience.35
Lived space embraces physical geography (perceived space) and public social
structures (conceived space) within the immediacy of one’s inhabited world of
emotions, events, and public choices. Both Lefebvre and Soja underscore over-
lap between conceived and lived space, and this is especially true in ancient his-
toriography, since both categories arise from an author’s experience. A possible
distinction is that lived space is a less self-conscious construction, representing
more the immediate and overwhelming influence of a worldview. Herodotus’s
use of environmental determinism to contrast Persian and Greek customs
(nomoi) may represent the power of lived space in his history writing. Lived
space is both a presupposition and a driving force in Herodotus’s own world-
view, while it also shapes the literary design of his entire work.
Lefebvre and Soja stress that the three representations of space must be
interrelated, not separated. The application of their model to interpret geogra-
phy in ancient historiography would reinforce the same point. The power of
geographical representation in ancient historiography arises from the inter-
weaving of physical and historical geography with social and ideological repre-
sentations, and not from their separation into the categories of myth and
history, or the physical and the mental. This is certainly evident in Herodotus’s
critical evaluation of Asia and the Persian monarchs. It is also true of the repre-
sentation of geography in Ezra-Nehemiah.
models to literature: “The problem is that any search for space in literary texts will find it every-
where and in every guise: enclosed, described, projected, dreamt of, speculated about” (Production
of Space, 15).
33 Lefebvre describes this category as “spatial practice” (Production of Space, 33, et passim).
See Soja, Postmodern Geographies, 74–79.

34 Lefebvre, Production of Space, 33, 245; Soja, Thirdspace, 66–67.
35 Lefebvre, Production of Space, 33; Soja, Thirdspace, 31.
II. Geography and History in Ezra-Nehemiah
The use of Abar Naharah in Ezra-Nehemiah represents the three cate-

gories of space outlined by Lefebvre and Soja. The term is grounded in histori-
cal geography (perceived space); it is an administrative district within the
Persian empire. The author of Ezra-Nehemiah also employs the term for ideo-
logical and utopian purposes. We will see that Ezra-Nehemiah presents a
utopian picture of the Persians ruling over Abar Naharah as culturally inclusive
monarchs who are constrained by law (conceived space)—an image at odds
with Herodotus’s critical evaluation of Eastern despots as ethnocentric and law-
less. The idealization of Persian rule, grounded in law, fuels the more immedi-
ate lived space of the author of Ezra-Nehemiah, in which an emerging form of
Yahwism within the territory Abar Naharah is presented as a religion of law.
The interpretation will demonstrate the interweaving of perceived, conceived,
and lived space in the presentation of Abar Naharah as the environment for a
new form of Yahwism, governed by law, not kings.
The territory of Abar Naharah is firmly rooted in the geopolitical history
of the ancient Near East as early as the Neo-Assyrian empire.36 Esarhaddon
describes an invasion into the territory Ebir nari (“beyond the river”), the
Akkadian equivalent of the Aramaic Abar Naharah.37 The geographical refer-
ence is infused with the social and political perspective of the Assyrians. The
nations “beyond the river” are those on the west side of the Euphrates. Esar-
haddon lists twenty-two regions and kings in Ebir nari from Tyre in the north to
Gaza in the south, as well as Cyprus.38 The administrative structure of the Neo-
Assryian empire continues through the rule of the Neo-Babylonians and into
the Persian empire, where the geopolitical district of Abar Naharah provides
the setting for Ezra-Nehemiah.
The setting of Abar Naharah grounds the literature of Ezra-Nehemiah in
the political realism of Persian rule. The geopolitical district Abar Naharah and
its administrators are mentioned no fewer than seventeen times in Ezra-
Nehemiah, usually in Aramaic (hrhn rb[), but also in Hebrew (rhnh rb[).39
36 I. Eph’al, “Syria-Palestine under Achaemenid Rule,” in Persia, Greece, and the Western
Mediterranean (ed. John Boardman et al.; vol. 4 of The Cambridge Ancient History, ed. John
Boardman et al.; 2d ed.; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988), 139–40; Gösta W.
Ahlström, The History of Ancient Palestine (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1993), 821 n. 3; and Michael
Avi-Yonah, The Holy Land: From the Persian to the Arab Conquests (536 B.C. to A.D. 640): A His-
torical Geography (rev. ed.; Grand Rapids: Baker, 1977), 12.
37 CAD E, 8.
38 ANET, 291 (v 54–vi 1).
39 The Aramaic occurrences include five instances in the letter exchange between Rehum
and Artaxerxes (Ezra 4:10, 11, 16, 17, 20), seven in the correspondence of Tattenai and Darius
The phrase “across the river” occurs in another group of texts in the Hebrew
Bible to indicate the distant lands east of the Euphrates River, where humans
worship many gods. The covenant at Shechem provides an example. Joshua
encourages the Israelites to “put away the gods that your ancestors served
‘beyond the river’ (rhnh rb[b) . . .” (Josh 24:14).40 The phrase indicates foreign
and strange lands from the distant past, recalling the edge-of-the-world geogra-
phy noted earlier in Herodotus.41 This meaning has nothing to do with the set-
ting of Abar Naharah in Ezra-Nehemiah. The contrast further reinforces the
realism of the setting in Ezra-Nehemiah as representing only the perceived
space of Persian rule west of the Euphrates and the politics in the region.
The one other occurrence in the Hebrew Bible of Abar Naharah as a terri-
tory west of the Euphrates cautions against limiting the representation of geog-
raphy in Ezra-Nehemiah to perceived space. 1 Kings 5:4 (Eng. 4:24) equates
the kingdom of Solomon with the region of Abar Naharah, “for he [Solomon]
had dominion over all the region across the river (rhnh rb[Alkb, i.e., “west of
the Euphrates”) from Tiphsah to Gaza, over all the kings across the river (Alkb
rhnh rb[ yklm); and he had peace on all sides.” The boundaries of preexilic
Israel at no time correspond to this statement. One suspects an inner-biblical
relationship between 1 Kgs 5:4 and Ezra-Nehemiah, especially since it is the
only such occurrence outside of this literature.42 Indeed, the statement brings
the rule of Solomon into conformity with the research of Artaxerxes in Ezra-
Nehemiah (Ezra 4:20) that Judean kings once ruled the entire region of Abar
Naharah: “Jerusalem has had mighty kings who ruled over the whole province
Beyond the River (hrhn rb[ lkb), to whom tribute, custom, and toll were paid”
(Ezra 4:20).
The inner-biblical relationship between the idealized rule of Solomon and
the research of Artaxerxes illustrates the manner in which Israelite historians
interweave the perceived space of historical geography with the more ideologi-
(Ezra 5:3, 6[2x]; 6:6[2x], 8, 13), and two in the decree of Artaxerxes authorizing the return of Ezra
(Ezra 7:21, 25). There are four additional occurrences in Hebrew, most associated with Artaxerxes
(Ezra 8:36; Neh 2:7, 9; 3:7).
40 See Josh 24:2, 3, and 14. In each case the point of view is from Palestine, looking west, and
the term indicates a boundary, not a territory. Texts similar to Josh 24 include 2 Sam 10:16 = 1 Chr
19:16; 1 Kgs 14:15; and Isa 7:20. Isaiah 18:1 and Zeph 3:10 employ the phrase “beyond the rivers of
Cush” (`wkAyrhnl rb[m) to signify a southern boundary.
41 The phrase “across the river” indicates an eastern boundary and so depicts two territories:
the land east of the Euphrates is known as the Aram Naharaim, while the western territory is the
land of Amorites and Hittites. For further discussion, see J. J. Finkelstein, “Mesopotamia,” JNES 21
(1962): 73–92; and J. Van Seters, “The Terms ‘Amorite,’ and ‘Hittite,’ in the Old Testament,” VT 22
(1972): 64–81; idem, Abraham in History and Tradition (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1975),
33–34.
42 Simon J. DeVries, 1 Kings (WBC; Waco: Word, 1983), 72.
cal forms of conceived and lived space. The ideological interpretation of Abar
Naharah is not confined to 1 Kgs 5, but is also important to the message of
Ezra-Nehemiah. The author of Ezra-Nehemiah employs the geopolitical
meaning of Abar Naharah to advance three social and religious arguments
about the nature of Persian rule and its impact on Yahwism. First, the Persian
monarchs in general, and Artaxerxes in particular, are idealized as kings who
uphold the law in Abar Naharah and are restricted by it.43 Second, not only
Persian kings but Persian law itself is represented as an ideal in Ezra-
Nehemiah. It is impartial and equally binding for Persians and Judeans. Third,
the author of Ezra-Nehemiah advocates a form of environmental determinism
in the region of Abar Naharah. The Persian rule of law in Abar Naharah pro-
vides the environment (i.e., the nomos) for the transformation of Yahwism from
a messianic religion centered in a monarchy to a religion of law, constituted in
the Torah of Moses.
Abar Naharah occurs in four stories in Ezra-Nehemiah, dividing between
two Persian monarchs, Artaxerxes and Darius. Three stories are about Arta-
xerxes, and one focuses on Darius. All the stories idealize Persian rule in Abar
Naharah, but the sequence of stories surrounding Artaxerxes carries the argu-
ment about Abar Naharah and the role of Yahwism in this territory. The four
stories can be summarized as follows:
1. The letter exchange between Rehum and Artaxerxes, in which Arta-
xerxes halts the restoration of Jerusalem (Ezra 4:7–23). The geopoliti-
cal setting of Abar Naharah is central in this exchange (Ezra 4:10, 11,
16, 17, 20). All the nations in the province Abar Naharah write a letter
of complaint to Artaxerxes: “To King Artaxerxes: Your servants, the peo-
ple of the province Abar Naharah” (Ezra 4:10, 11). They warn the king
that if Jerusalem is restored, he “will then have no possession in the
province Abar Naharah” (Ezra 4:16).
2. The letter exchange between Tattenai and Darius, concerning the
rebuilding of the Jerusalem temple (Ezra 5:3–6:15). The inquiry con-
cerns building permits. Darius allows for the rebuilding of the temple
upon discovery of the proper permits. Abar Naharah is frequently
repeated in this section as a title of Tattenai, “the governor of the
province Abar Naharah” (Ezra 5:3, 6[2x]; 6:6[2x], 8, 13).
3. Artaxerxes commissions Ezra to promulgate the Torah of Moses
throughout Abar Naharah (Ezra 7:12–26). He commissions “all the
43 The rule of law and its restriction upon Persian kings are stated explicitly by Xerxes to
Esther and Mordecai: “no document written in the king’s name and sealed with his ring can be
revoked” (Esth 8:8).
treasurers in the province Abar Naharah” to support the work (Ezra

7:21), and he gives Ezra judicial power to “judge all the people in the
province Abar Naharah” (Ezra 7:25).
4. Artaxerxes reverses his policy on Jerusalem by sending Nehemiah (Neh
2), who requests a letter of introduction from the king for “the gover-
nors of the province Abar Naharah” (Neh 2:7, 9).
The summaries indicate two different uses of the term Abar Naharah. It is
an administrative title for Tattenai in the story about Darius and a geopolitical
territory in the sequence of stories about Artaxerxes. The central theme in the
correspondence between Tattenai and Darius is the building permit for the
temple. The term Abar Naharah is used throughout the exchange of letters.
Tattenai is repeatedly identified as the governor of Abar Naharah (Ezra 5:3,
6[2x]; 6:6[2x], 8, 13).44 But the focus is on his administrative position and not on
the geographical territory. Tattenai encounters Zerubbabel and the prophets
Haggai and Zechariah completing the temple in Jersusalem (Ezra 5:3–5), and,
unaware of the decree of Cyrus a century earlier (Ezra 1:2–4), he writes to
Darius (Ezra 5:6–17). It is in his capacity as governor of Abar Naharah that
Tattenai inquires whether there is in fact a decree of Cyrus on file, authorizing
the building of the temple. The correspondence between Tattenai and Darius
does not mention conflict surrounding the building of the temple, and no refer-
ence is made to geopolitical threats posed by the construction of the temple.
The concern is simply whether the law is being followed. Darius searches the
archives, locates the decree of Cyrus in Ecbatana, and honors it. There is an
idealization of Persian rule in this sequence of events. Cyrus is a religiously
inclusive ruler, authorizing the rebuilding of the Jerusalem temple, and Darius
upholds the rule of law with his decree to Tattenai, the governor of Abar
Naharah.
The geopolitical meaning of Abar Naharah comes into sharper focus in
the stories associated with Artaxerxes. The shift in meaning is accompanied by
political conflict as well as a change in topic from the building of the temple to
the political threat posed by the city of Jerusalem. The correspondence
between Rehum and Artaxerxes (Ezra 4:7–23) signals the changes. As all com-
mentators note, both the chronology and the content of the letters are out of
context in Ezra 1–6.45 Artaxerxes should follow Darius. As we noted above, the
44See A. T. Olmstead, “Tattenai, Governor of ‘Across the River,’” JNES 3 (1944): 46.
45See, e.g., L. L. Grabbe, Ezra-Nehemiah (London: Routledge, 1998), 17–21. A common
argument is that the digression results from the author’s wishing to chronicle all the conflicts, even
those that progress beyond the temple. See J. Blenkinsopp, Ezra-Nehemiah (OTL; Philadelphia:
Westminster, 1988), 110–12.
disruption in the chronology of the Persian kings is a spatial form device,

emphasizing the setting of the decree of Artaxerxes within the province of Abar
Naharah. The correspondence between Rehum and Artaxerxes introduces dis-
tinct themes from the exchange between Tattenai and Darius. The letter of
Rehum underscores conflict, and it is more threatening in tone. The concern is
the walls of Jerusalem and the geopolitical threat posed by the restored city, not
the temple. Most noteworthy for the present study is that the meaning of Abar
Naharah changes with the new geopolitical theme, focusing more on the terri-
tory than on administrative offices. Ezra 4:9–11a signals the change. The sup-
porters of the letter include the different ethnic groups that populate the
geopolitical region Abar Naharah, including Persians, people of Erech, Baby-
lonians, people of Susa, and all the nations whom Osnappar (i.e., Esarhaddon)
settled in Samaria and in the entire province of Abar Naharah.46
The letter of Rehum is not simply a bureaucratic inquiry about building
permits; it is written against the city of Jerusalem, and it represents a broad
base of support from the entire population of the territory of Abar Naharah
(Ezra 4:10).47 The theme of the letter is political, not religious. Rehum encour-
ages Artaxerxes to research the history of Jerusalem. He will discover that its
past is filled with revolts and political rebellion against kings.48 Rehum does not
mention the threat of a new Judean king should the city be restored, but it is
implied.49 He warns Artaxerxes that if Jerusalem is completed, Persia will lose
control of the territory of Abar Naharah (Ezra 4:16). The reply of Artaxerxes
makes the threat of a Judean monarch explicit. He notes a long history of past
kings of Jerusalem who did indeed rule the entire region of Abar Naharah and
collected all of its taxes for themselves (Ezra 4:20).50
46 Ezra 4:9–11a is likely an insertion that underscores the geopolitical function of Abar
Naharah. See Clines, Ezra, Nehemiah, Esther, 78–79; Williamson, Ezra,Nehemiah, 62–63.
47 Ezra 4:7, 8, and 9–11a have an uneasy connection. Verse 7 mentions characters (Bishlam?,
Mithredath, and Tabeel) who do not continue into vv. 8 or 9–11a. Verse 8 introduces the new char-
acters Rehum and Shimshai. Verses 9–11a provide additional commentary on these characters,
adding detailed information about the population of the region of Abar Naharah. See, e.g.,
Williamson, Ezra, Nehemiah, 61–63. Whatever the exact compositional history may be in the for-
mation of Ezra 4:7–11a, the result is an emphasis on geography. The addition of vv. 9–11a, more-
over, is absent from 1 Esdras, which also identifies the territory with a different term, Coele-syria.
48 Jerusalem is characterized by rebellions (atdrm, Ezra 4:12, 15). See the repetition of this
term in the Behistun Inscription to describe rebels (aydrm, col. 1, lines 4, 7, 8, 10; col. 2, lines 17,
20, 24, 25). Rehum’s letter also states that Jerusalem is bad (abvyab, Ezra 4:12): it revolts (rwdtva,
Ezra 4:15) regularly and brings grief (qzn, Ezra 4:13, 15) by taking taxes (^lhw wlb ^dmw, Ezra 4:13).
49 “Rebel” in the Behistun Inscription means that a nation or city “made a king” (col. 2, line
17).
50 The reply of Artaxerxes employs the language from the letter of Rehum. He, too, describes
the threat of rebellion (atdrm, Ezra 4:19) and revolts (rwdtva, Ezra 4:19). He halts the restoration
The correspondence between Rehum and Artaxerxes plays a central the-

matic role in the literature, underscoring the political danger of messianic
movements surrounding Jerusalem and its temple. The exchange focuses in
particular on the past history of monarchical rule in the territory of Abar
Naharah, suggesting the theme of messianism—a topic associated with the
prophets Haggai and Zechariah in other literature but absent from their por-
trayal in Ezra-Nehemiah. The author of Ezra-Nehemiah voices a negative eval-
uation of Judean monarchs indirectly through the official correspondence of
Rehum and Artaxerxes. The criticism is based in part on an ideological inter-
pretation of geography as conceived space. Judean monarchs are part of the
history of Abar Naharah, but they are not part of its present social and political
environment. The Aramaic language serves a literary purpose, giving the
author’s negative evaluation of Judean monarchs a sense of historical objectivity
and authenticity. The criticism is not the opinion of the author; it is a judgment
arising from official Aramaic correspondence. Not only Rehum and Artaxerxes,
but representatives of the entire population, make it clear that Judean kings are
a dangerous anachronism in the new world order of Abar Naharah.51
The full implication of the geopolitical argument about monarchy and law
in Abar Naharah is not resolved in Ezra 1–6. The decree of Artaxerxes in Ezra
4:7–23 is meant to be read in conjunction with his subsequent appearances in
Ezra-Nehemiah, the commissionings of Ezra (Ezra 7:12–26) and Nehemiah
(Neh 2). His statement at the close of the letter exchange with Rehum (Ezra
4:21), that the walls of Jerusalem not be rebuilt “until I make a decree,” antici-
pates his commission of Nehemiah to rebuild the walls of Jerusalem (Neh
2:1–10). The two stories share similar themes. The commission of Nehemiah is
also political, not religious. He wishes to restore his ancestral city (Neh 2:5).52
The political focus indicates that the mission of Nehemiah is intended to be a
reversal of the previous decree of Artaxerxes. The reversal is codified in writing,
with letters addressed specifically to the governors of Abar Naharah (Neh 2:7,
9). The literary framework indicates that the present form of Ezra-Nehemiah is
structured in part around the Persian king Artaxerxes and the political role of
Jerusalem in the territory of Abar Naharah.
The commission of Ezra (Ezra 7:12–26) provides the key for Artaxerxes’
reversal of policy about Jerusalem.53 The commission is not about politics; it is
of Jerusalem by taking away taxes (^lhw wlb ^dm, Ezra 4:20) because the restoration may bring grief
(qzn, Ezra 4:22).
51 See Daniel Snell, “Why Is There Aramaic in the Bible?” JSOT 18 (1980): 32–51, esp.
32–35.
52 Certainly there is literary design in the construction of the story. Nehemiah never men-
tions the city of Jerusalem by name to Artaxerxes.

53 For a detailed comparison of the Aramaic decree of Artaxerxes in Ezra 7:12–26 with other
Aramaic letters, see David Janzen, “The ‘Mission’ of Ezra and the Persian-Period Temple Commu-
about religion. Ezra is commissioned to promulgate religious law, but the com-
mission has political implications, especially when it is read against the back-
drop of Artaxerxes’ condemnation of Judean monarchs in Ezra 4:7–23. If
monarchs represent the history of Abar Naharah, then Ezra embodies its pres-
ent. He is a scribe, skilled in the interpretation of law. He embodies the world
of writing, law, and documentation represented by the Persian rule in Abar
Naharah.54 The form of Yahwism that Ezra advocates reflects the new world
order of Abar Naharah, not the past messianism of monarchs.55 Ezra repre-
sents a religion of law, documented in the Torah of Moses.56 It requires magis-
trates and judges for implementation, not kings.57
The territory of Abar Naharah is central to the commission of Ezra. It
defines the scope of his commission (Erza 7:25). Thus, the region once ruled by
rebellious Judean kings will now be governed by Judean religious law. Arta-
xerxes commissions Ezra to implement this form of Yahwism throughout the
entire territory of Abar Naharah. And he even reinforces the authority of the
religious law with the power of state law (Ezra 7:26). Once again the Aramaic
language takes on a literary role, underscoring the authenticity and authority of
the commission (Ezra 7:12–26). The crucial role of Ezra’s mission is confirmed
by the literary design of Ezra-Nehemiah. The mission of Ezra to implement a
religion of law in Abar Naharah paves the way for Artaxerxes to reverse his ear-
lier decree that Jerusalem not be rebuilt, when he commissions Nehemiah.
The overview of Abar Naharah indicates its significant role in the literary
design of Ezra-Nehemiah. And, like the geography in Herodotus, the territory
takes on a range of meaning that corresponds to the three categories of space
nity,” JBL 119 (2000): 619–43. Janzen argues on the basis of language and form that the decree is
not a source document but a literary creation by the author.
54 Communication in Abar Naharah takes place through writing (Ezra 5:7, 10), reading (Ezra
4:18, 23), and translating (Ezra 4:18). Documents have authority and authenticity in this world.
They consist of decrees (btkm; ![f !yc, Ezra 1:1; 4:8, 17, 21; 5:3, 5, 9, 13; 6:1, 3, 4, 12; 7:23), letters
(@wt`n; arga, Ezra 4:18, 23; 5:5), copies of letters (@g`rp, Ezra 4:11, 23; 5:6), and reports (!gtp, Ezra
4:17; 5:7, 11; 6:11). Government offices consist of the Book of Records (aynrkd rpsb, Ezra 4:15;
6:2), the treasure house (ayzng tyb, Ezra 5:17; 6:1; 7:20), and archives (ayrps tyb, Ezra 6:1).
55 There is no idealizing of Judean kings in Ezra-Nehemiah. David is remembered for liturgy
(Ezra 3:10; Neh 12:46). Solomon is remembered for breaking the law against intermarriage (Neh
13:26–27). Kings are remembered in prayers for their iniquity (Ezra 9:7; Neh 9:22, 34). The only
political association with kings is the identification of Jerusalem as the “city of David” (Neh 3:15;
12:37).
56 Ezra is a scribe (rps, Ezra 7:6); he promulgates a written law, the Torah of Moses (trwt
h`m, Ezra 7:6) or of YHWH (hwhy trwt, Ezra 7:6). He advocates laws (fp`mw qwj, Ezra 7:10). For dis-
cussion on the idealization of writing and documents in Ezra-Nehemiah, see Tamara Cohn Eske-
nazi, In an Age of Prose: A Literary Approach to Ezra-Nehemiah (SBLMS 36; Altanta: Scholars
Press, 1988), 58–60.
57 Artaxerxes commissions Ezra to establish judges in Ezra 7:25–26.
outlined by Lefebvre and Soja. Abar Naharah is grounded in the perceived

space of historical geography. It represents a defined province of the Persian
empire, reaching back to the administrative structure of the Neo-Assyrians.
The physical terrain and boundaries of the province are open to historical geog-
raphy, as Anson Rainey has demonstrated.58
Abar Naharah also represents the categories of conceived and lived space
for the author of Ezra-Nehemiah. And, like Herodotus, the two categories tend
to merge in the writing of ancient historiography, making a clear separation
between the two difficult. Conceived space in Abar Naharah may be the por-
trayal of the land as vacant, until the returnees reoccupy the empty cities and
the fallow land. This is certainly an ideological presentation, serving the pur-
poses of the author.59 The idealization of Persian rule in Abar Naharah also
advances an ideology of conceived space. The author of Ezra-Nehemiah builds
on the geopolitical reality of Abar Naharah to make ideological arguments
about the role of law in society under Persian rule. For the author of Ezra-
Nehemiah, Abar Naharah, represents a new world order and environment
(nomos), in which law replaces monarchs. Finally, the more immediate cate-
gory of lived space may be the author’s portrayal of Yahwism in the environ-
ment of Abar Naharah. The author makes clear that the messianism that
characterized past forms of Yahwism when Israelite monarchs ruled over Abar
Naharah has evolved into a religion of law, represented by Ezra, the scribe of
God. Thus the history is an argument for a new form of Yahwism, arising from
the lived experience of the author’s postexilic community. The new form of
Yahwism, according to the author of Ezra-Nehemiah, is represented by the
Torah of Moses, a religious lawbook, itself a product of the new world order
made possible by Persian law.
The persuasive power of Ezra-Nehemiah arises in part from the constant
overlapping of perceived, conceived, and lived space in the presentation of
Abar Naharah. The history is an interweaving of historical geography, the real-
ism of geopolitics, and religion, held together in part by a view of environmen-
tal determinism. As a result, the work resists a simple dichotomy between fact
and fiction or history and myth. The successful blending of spatial categories by
the author is evident in the continuing debate over the historical accuracy of
the presentation in Ezra-Nehemiah.
58Rainey, “Satrapy ‘Beyond the River,’” 51–78.

59 See S. Japhet, “People and Land in the Restoration Period,” in Das Land Israel in bib-
lischer Zeit: Jerusalem-Symposium 1981 der Hebräischen Universität und der Georg-August-
Universität (GTA 25; Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1983), 113–14; and, more broadly, Leading
Captivity Captive: “The Exile” as History and Ideology (ed. L. L. Grabbe; JSOTSup 278; European
Seminar in Historical Methodology 2; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1998).
III. The Geopolitics of Persia in Ancient Historiography
I wish to conclude the article by returning to the topic of Persian rule and
its influence on historiography in the ancient world. Arnaldo Momigliano
encourages such a study, noting that both Greek and Jewish historians share a
reaction to Persian rule that influences the development of historiography in
each culture.60 The present study of geography and history supports the gen-
eral conclusion of Momigliano. Herodotus and Ezra-Nehemiah share a similar-
ity of method in their use of geography. Ezra-Nehemiah demonstrates the
same interweaving of geographical realism and ideology evident in Herodotus.
Each employs realistic geography to advance geopolitical themes that are
forged in part as a reaction to Persian rule, and in each case an ideological inter-
pretation of geography provides the springboard for evaluating the character of
Persian monarchs.
Yet each portrays a very different attitude toward the Persians. For
Herodotus, Asia provides the environment that nurtures unity, and with it
monarchy. But the desire of Persian monarchs to unify the world through con-
quest, and thus cross their natural geopolitical boundaries, is the epitome of
lawlessness. By contrast, there are no conquest themes in Ezra-Nehemiah with
regard to the Persian emperors. They are presented simply as the rulers of the
world (Ezra 1:2–4), and, rather than take land, they return conquered land to
indigenous populations. Abar Naharah is the geographical horizon in which the
author of Ezra-Nehemiah evaluates Persian monarchs. Their rule in Abar
Naharah is characterized by law, writing, and official records. Persian law,
moreover, is highlighted rhetorically by the shifting of language in the composi-
tion of Ezra-Nehemiah. Aramaic, not Hebrew, represents the impartial rule of
Persian law in Abar Naharah and the legal worldview of the Persian empire.61
Herodotus and the author of Ezra-Nehemiah also employ geopolitical
themes to evaluate critically their own culture. Herodotus criticizes the lack of
unity in Greece, while also advocating its freedom through the political struc-
tures of oligarchy and democracy.62 The author of Ezra-Nehemiah criticizes
Judean messianism, while advocating the observance of the Torah of Moses in
the territory of Abar Naharah. The result is a new world order in which Ara-
maic civil law and Hebrew religious law reinforce each other.
The interpretations of Persian rule by Herodotus and the author of Ezra-
Nehemiah could not be further apart. Yet they share a similar approach to
60 Arnaldo Momigliano, “Persian Historiography, Greek Historiography, and Jewish Histori-
ography,” in The Classical Foundations of Modern Historiography (Sather Classical Lectures 54;
Berkeley: University of California Press, 1990), 5–28, esp. 16–17.
61 See n. 2 for a list of the Aramaic letters and decrees in Ezra-Nehemiah.
62 See Lateiner, Historical Method of Herodotus, 157–62; Romm, Herodotus, 173–90.
geography in writing history, one that is simultaneously ideological and histori-

cally realistic. My purpose is not to demonstrate a historical or literary connec-
tion between Herodotus and the author of Ezra-Nehemiah. Rather I have
sought through comparison to illustrate the ideological use of realistic geogra-
phy in ancient historiography as conceived and lived space. The study of
Herodotus and Ezra-Nehemiah suggests that the persuasive power of ancient
historiography rests to a strong degree on the interweaving of perceived, con-
ceived, and lived space, requiring contemporary readers also to interrelate, not
separate, the different uses of geography. A hermeneutical stance of opposition
between fact and fiction does not capture the dynamic use of realistic geogra-
phy in the literature.
The interpretation of Abar Naharah demonstrates that the spatial organi-
zation of literature hides consequences that are not revealed through the study
of time and chronology. In a recent critical reevaluation of space and spatial
interpretation, Edward Soja goes so far as to conclude that “the ‘making of
geography’ more than the ‘making of history’ . . . provides the most revealing
tactical and theoretical world.”63 It is doubtful that the presentation of geogra-
phy is more important than chronology in Ezra-Nehemiah.64 Yet geography is
crucial in the organization of the literature, in its thematic development, and in
its influence on the reader. The present interpretation of Abar Naharah is but
one dimension of the spatial organization of Ezra-Nehemiah. Further interpre-
tation of the Golah experience in Babylon and the utopian imagery surrounding
Jerusalem and the province of Judah would add even more to the ideological
landscape of Ezra-Nehemiah.
63 Soja, Postmodern Geographies, 6.

64 See, e.g., D. Kraemer, “On the Relationship of the Books of Ezra and Nehemiah,” JSOT 59
(1993): 73–92.
JBL 122/3 (2003) 467–487
ARE THERE IMPERIAL TEXTS

IN THE CLASS? INTERTEXTUAL EAGLES
AND MATTHEAN ESCHATOLOGY AS
“LIGHTS OUT” TIME FOR IMPERIAL ROME
(MATTHEW 24:27–31)
WARREN CARTER
wcarter@spst.edu
Saint Paul School of Theology, Kansas City, MO 64127
Matthew’s eschatological discourse (Matt 24–25)1 includes the strange

verse 24:28:
Wherever the corpse (ptw'ma) is, there the eagles2 (ajetoiv) will be gathered
(sunacqhvsontai).
W. D. Davies and Dale C. Allison note that in “the consensus of recent

commentators” the verse asserts that “the coming of the Son of man will be as
public and obvious as eagles or vultures circling over carrion.”3 Utilizing this
1 Do the chapters (i) prophesy Jerusalem’s fall fulfilled in 70 C.E., (ii) prophesy the eschato-
logical future, or (iii) depict the post-Easter messianic woes culminating in the parousia? (W.
Carter, Matthew and the Margins: A Sociopolitical and Religious Reading [Maryknoll, NY: Orbis
Books, 2000], 466–68, the latter position]). The title borrows from S. Fish, Is There a Text in This
Class? The Authority of Interpretive Communities (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press,
1980).
2 I will support this translation below. “Vultures” is the common English translation (e.g.,
NAB, NEB, NIV, NJB, NRSV, REB).

3 W. D. Davies and Dale C. Allison, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Gospel
According to Saint Matthew (ICC; Edinburgh: T & T Clark, 1997), 3:355–56. Seven further possi-
bilities are (i) the eschatological tribulation ends as vultures devour the flesh of the wicked dead;
(ii) as vultures come to a rotting corpse, so the Son of Man comes to a rotten world to execute judg-
ment; (iii) the saints will rise as eagles to be gathered to the Son of Man; (iv) general resurrection is
depicted; (v) the corpse is Israel, spiritually dead and judged by angels and/or the Son of Man
(eagles); (vi) the corpse is Jerusalem, destroyed in 70 C.E. by Rome (eagles); and (vii) the eagles are
angels.
467
“certain conjunction of phenomena [vulture and corpse] which are quite con-
stant and inevitable,”4 v. 28 illustrates the public and visible nature of Jesus’
return (24:27) in contrast to the “false messiahs” who appear secretively in
wildernesses or inner rooms (24:26).5
While this scenario posited by the consensus reading has an apparent
plausibility, it has, on closer examination, some serious shortcomings (sec-
tion I). Building on a previous suggestion 6 and on recent work that reads
Matthew’s Gospel in its Roman imperial context,7 I will argue that the scene
depicts the Roman army, symbolized by the eagles (section II), destroyed in the
final eschatological battle when Jesus, Son of Man, returns to judge the Roman
imperial order and to establish God’s reign (sections III–IV).8 This reading will
examine the rich though usually neglected imperial symbolism of 24:27–31 and
locate it in Matthew’s intertextual contesting of Roman power and imperial
theology.9
4 Davies and Allison, Matthew, 3:355, citing C. H. Dodd, The Parables of the Kingdom (Lon-
don: Fontana, 1961), 67. H. O. Guenther, “When ‘Eagles’ Draw Together,” Foundation and Facets
Forum 5 (1989): 140–50, esp. 141–43.
5 Davies and Allison support this “illustrative” reading by treating vv. 27–28 as the conclusion
to a subsection entitled “The Climax of the Woes (24:15–28)” and v. 29 as introducing a new sec-
tion, “The Parousia of the Son of Man (24:29–31)” (Matthew 3:345, 357). This division is not con-
vincing. It overlooks the introduction of the new topic, the parousia of the Son of Man, in 24:27 (in
contrast to the false messiahs) and arbitrarily separates 24:29–31 from 24:27–28. A preferable divi-
sion sees 24:3–26 as detailing the eschatological woes, with 24:27–31 dealing with the parousia. So
Carter, Matthew and the Margins, 469, 476.
6 D. Sim, Apocalyptic Eschatology in the Gospel of Matthew (SNTSMS 88; Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1996), 103–8. Sim does not develop his insights or sustain it by attend-
ing to the imperial images that permeate the verses or by integrating it with a reading of 24:27–31.
7 R. Mowery, “Son of God in Roman Imperial Titles and Matthew,” Bib 83 (2002): 100–110;
W. Carter, Matthew and Empire: Initial Explorations (Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International,
2001); idem, Matthew and the Margins.
8 L. J. Kreitzer engages some of these issues (Striking New Images: Roman Imperial Coinage
and the New Testament World [JSNTSup 134; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1996], 30–68);
see also Sim, Apocalyptic Eschatology, 103–8. My argument differs greatly from those claiming
links to Jerusalem’s fall in 70 and victorious Roman eagles; so R. Tasker, The Gospel According to
St. Matthew (TNTC; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1961), 225–30; Dodd, Parables, 67 n. 9; S. Brown,
“The Matthean Apocalypse,” JSNT 4 (1979): 2–27, esp. 12; J. Draper, “The Development of ‘the
Sign of the Son of Man’ in the Jesus Tradition,” NTS 39 (1993): 1–21, esp. 16–17.
9 Recall Julia Kristeva’s description of intertextuality: “in the space of a given text, several
utterances taken from other texts, intersect and neutralize one another.” She makes this observa-
tion as she suggests understanding texts by locating “different textual arrangements . . . within the
general text (culture) of which they are a part and which is in turn, part of them.” To study “the text
as intertextuality” is to consider it “within (the text of) society and history” (J. Kristeva, “The
Bounded Text,” in Desire in Language: A Semiotic Approach to Literature and Art [ed. L. S.
Roudiez; New York: Columbia University Press, 1980), 36–63, esp. 36–37.
Carter: Matthew 24:27–31 469
Six aspects of the scene posited by the consensus reading are not convinc-
ing. First, the consensus view does not take seriously the identity of the birds
named in 24:28. While it constructs a plausible scene with vultures eating car-
rion, 24:28 concerns eagles (ajetov"; Lat. aquila10). The term ajetoiv does not
refer to vultures, for which there is a separate term, guvy (Lat. vultur). Contrary
to some current handbooks and lexica, 11 ancient writers generally do not
equate eagles and vultures.12 In their discussions of birds, Aristotle, Pliny the
Elder, and Aelianus clearly distinguish eagles from vultures.13 So too does the
oft-quoted Job 39:26–30,14 whose LXX form distinguishes three birds linguisti-
cally and by characteristic activities, the soaring hawk (iJevrac, v. 26), the eagle
that mounts up (ajetov", 39:27a), and the nesting vulture (guvy, 39:27b–30).15
10 The Vulgate uses aquilae, “eagles,” in 24:28. See C. T. Lewis and C. Short, A Latin Dictio-
nary (Oxford: Clarendon, 1955), 148, aquila (“eagle”); 2,016, vultur (“vulture”).
11 See, e.g., the discussion in Fauna and Flora of the Bible (2d ed.; New York: United Bible
Societies, 1980), 82–84. L&N misleadingly give “eagle, vulture” as two meanings for ajetov" (1:45),
but then accurately distinguish the two by claiming that vultures eat “dead carcasses” while eagles
catch their own. They mistakenly suggest “vulture” for Matt 24:28 because of “the reference to the
eating of dead flesh.” But there is no reference to eating in 24:28 (see below)! BAGD (p. 19, s.v.
ajetov") supplies only “eagle” for ajetov", though there are subsequent references to vultures.
12 D’A. W. Thompson, A Glossary of Greek Birds (London: Oxford University Press, 1936),
2–16 (ajetov"), 82–87 (guvy); J. Pollard, Birds in Greek Life and Myth (London: Thames & Hudson,
1977). I am not arguing that there is never confusion, only that it is not as pervasive as some argue
(see Thompson, Glossary, 5–6).
13 Aristotle (Historia Animalium) does not confuse the vulture (guvy; LCL) in 6.5 and eagle
(ajetov") in 6.6. In 8.32, his different types of eagles include one gupti; o{moio", “like a vulture.” Pliny,
in Nat. Hist. 10.3, has six kinds of eagles (aquilae), of birds “the most honorable and also the
strongest.” In the sixth group, Pliny says that the sea-eagle belongs to the osprey genus from which
spring small vultures and from them great vultures (Lat. vultures). Inaccurately, BAGD, using this
minor detail (and Aristotle’s simile in Hist. An. 8.32), over-conclude that writers “class the vulture
among the eagle” (p. 19, s.v. ajetov"). So also Davies and Allison, Matthew 3:355 n. 183. Aelianus dis-
tinguishes guvy from an eagle called the Aegypius, highlighting the guvy’s feeding on dead bodies
(Hist. Anim. 2.46; 10.22). Aelianus frequently discusses and admires eagles (ajetov"): 1.42; 2.26,
39–40; 6.29; 9.2, 10; 12.21; 15.22 (not crows); 17.37.
14 E.g., J. Gnilka, Das Matthäusevangelium (HTKNT; Freiburg: Herder, 1992), 2:326.
15 The LXX distinguishes ajetov" (“eagle”) in 39:27a from guvy (“vulture”) in 39:27b, as does
the Qumran Targum. J. Reider translates “eagle” and “vulture” (LXX) (“Etymological Studies in
Biblical Hebrew,” VT 4 [1954]: 276–94, esp. 294). M. Pope translates “eagle” and “pelican,” observ-
ing that the “sipping” or “sucking” of blood described in v. 30 is not appropriate for the design of an
eagle’s beak (Job: Introduction, Translation, and Notes [AB 15; Garden City, NY: Doubleday,
1973], 314–15). W. D. Reyburn observes that “although most modern translations have eagle, the
context of verses 28–30 describes the vulture better than the eagle” since “the vulture like the raven
usually eats the flesh of animals that are already dead” (A Handbook on the Book of Job [New York:
United Bible Societies, 1992], 734–35).
Only the latter, the vulture, is the subject of the singular verbs and pronouns in
Job 39:28–30. The absence of guvy and use of ajetoiv indicate that Matt 24:28
concerns eagles, not vultures.
The birds’ identity matters, second, because eagles and vultures procure
food differently. Vultures feed on that which others provide (carrion), espe-
cially dead carcasses.16 Eagles hunt their own living prey (so Job 9:26). Citing
Aristotle, Aelianus says that “prey killed by some other creature it [the eagle]
will not touch” (Hist. Anim. 2.39; cf. 9:10; 17:37; Virgil, Aeneid 11.752–56). Vul-
tures, “the dead body’s enemy” (Hist. Anim. 2.46; also 10:42; Job 15:23; 39:27b–
30), eat carrion. This is not to say that eagles never feed on carrion, but it is to
recognize that it is not characteristic behavior.
This distinction is supported by a third observation. Given the repeated
scholarly assertion of the “constant and inevitable” conjunction between ajetov"
and ptw'ma that the scene supposedly evokes, one would expect to find numer-
ous texts conjoining ajetov" and ptw'ma. Davies and Allison cite five writers, but
the citations undermine the consensus reading, since none conjoins ajetov" and
ptw'ma. Four citations refer to a vulture (guvy or vultur [Lucian, Navig. 1;
Seneca, Ep. 95.43; Martial, Epig. 6.62.4; Cornatus, Nat. deorum 2117]), not to
an ajetov" /aquila (eagle) as does Matt 24:28, and the fifth refers generally to fly-
ing creatures (volucres [Lucan 6.550–51]). Job 15:23, also often cited in sup-
port, similarly undermines the consensus, since it uses guvy (“vulture” [Lev
11:14; Deut 14:13; Job 5:7; 28:7; 39:27]), not eagle (ajetov"), to depict a vulture
feeding on a “corpse” (ptw'ma). These examples support a conjunction between
guvy and ptw'ma but not between ajetov" and ptw'ma, the terms found in Matt
24:28.
In fact, the claimed conjunction, fundamental to the consensus view, is
elusive. The twenty-eight uses of ajetov"18 and the twenty-one uses of ptw'ma19 in
the LXX do not appear in the same chapter, let alone the same verse. The other
16 A widely attested observation; see Homer, Iliad 4.235; 11.162; 16.836; Euripides, Rhesus
515; Daughters of Troy 599; Seneca, Ep. 95.43; Martial, Epig. 6.62.4; Cornutus, Nat. deorum 21;
Pausanias, Description of Greece 10.28.7.
17 Cornutus claims that the vulture (gu'pa), sacred bird (o[rnin) of Ares, appears where there
are bodies slain in battle. In citing Cornutus, Davies and Allison (Matthew 3:355) interestingly
quote the whole Greek clause except for the nouns “vulture” and “bird,” which disconfirm the con-
sensus approach.
18 LXX: Exod 19:4; Lev 11:13; Deut 14:12; 28:49; 32:11; 2 Sam 1:23; Ps 102:5; Prov 23:5;
24:22; 30:17, 19; Job 9:26; 39:27; Dan 4:34; 7:4; Hos 8:1; Mic 1:16; Obad 1:4; Hab 1:8; Isa 40:31; Jer
4:13; 30:10, 16 (NRSV 49:16, 22); Ezek 1:10; 10:14; 17:3–4, 7; Lam 4:19.
19 Judges 14:8; Jdt 8:19; 13:20; 2 Macc 9:7; Ps 109:6; Prov 16:18; Job 15:23; 16:14; 18:12; 20:5;
31:29; 33:17; 37:16; Wis 4:19; Sir 31:6; Pss. Sol. 3:10; Isa 8:14; 30:13, 14; 51:19; Bar 4:33.
four uses of ajetov" and the six of ptw'ma in the NT never appear together.20
None of the twenty-five references to ajetov" and six references to ptw'ma in
A.-M. Denis’s concordance to the Pseudepigrapha occur together.21 Without
claiming a search of all Greco-Roman literature, I did not find the two items
used together in the three prolific first-century authors Philo, Josephus, and
Plutarch.22 The conjunction of ajetov" and ptw'ma is neither “certain,” “con-
stant,” nor “inevitable.”
Fourth, the consensus view imagines a scenario in which vultures feed on
or circle over carrion. But not only does 24:28 not involve vultures, and not only
does the consensus reading attribute to eagles an uncharacteristic action, but
24:28 does not employ a verb for eating or circling. Given that ajetov" and ptw'ma
are not commonly conjoined, such activity cannot be assumed. In fact, Matt
24:28 does not say that the ajetoiv do anything to the corpse; rather, it depicts
eagles “gathered together with” (sunacqhvsontai) the corpse. The passive form
of the verb sunavgw may be difficult (see further below). This verb in Matthew
refers variously to political (2:3; 26:3), ecclesial (18:20), and eschatological
(3:12; 13:47; 25:32) gatherings, but not once in its twenty-three other Matthean
occurrences does it denote feeding.23
Fifth, the consensus reading assumes that eating is the obvious activity for
the ajetoiv and the most natural link between them and the corpses. But while
the LXX frequently depicts eagles in flight (often swiftly) (Deut 28:49; 2 Sam
1:23; Job 9:26; 39:27; Prov 23:5; Hab 1:8; Jer 4:13; 30:16; Lam 4:19) and nesting
or protecting their young (Deut 32:11; Job 39:27a [see n. 15]; Jer 30:10
[49:16]), only three of the twenty-eight references to eagles (ajetov") in the LXX
describe eating, and never eating corpses (Prov 24:22e; 30:17; Hab 1:8). M. E.
Stone twice asserts that spreading their wings is “a chief characteristic of the
eagle in the Bible”; BAGD identifies eagles as a “symbol of swiftness”; and
Horace (Sat. 1.3.27), Philo (Post. 161; Abr. 266), and Aelianus (Hist. anim. 1.42;
2.26) emphasize eagles’ alert eyes for hunting.24 The four NT references to
20 ajetov": Luke 17:37; Rev 4:7; 8:13; 12:14; ptw'ma: Matt 14:12; Mark 6:29; 15:45; Rev 11:8, 9
[2x].
21 A.-M. Denis, Concordance grecque des pseudépigraphes d’Ancien Testament (Louvain-la-
Neuve: Université Catholique de Louvain, 1987), 110, 681.

22 Philo uses both in Abr. 266, without linking them. The ajetov" has good eyesight; the hound
pursues ptw'ma.
23 In the LXX sunavgw frequently denotes “gathering” or “assembling” various people (Num
10:7). It can denote gathering or storing up food supplies (Gen 6:21; 41:35; Ruth 2:2, 7; Prov 27:25;
Isa 17:5) but not eating. Isaiah 62:9 signifies gathering and eating food as two acts.
24 M. E. Stone, Fourth Ezra (Hermeneia; Minneapolis: Fortress, 1990), 348–49, citing Exod
19:4; Deut 32:11; Jer 48:40; 49:22; Ezek 17:3, 7; Prov 23:5; BAGD, 19; also Cornutus, Nat. deorum
9.3.
eagles do not describe eagles eating, nor do the thirteen references in Jose-
phus.25 “Eating,” then, is an activity in which eagles obviously engage,26 but it is
not their defining or characteristic activity to be instantly assumed. Nor is it the
specified link in Matt 24:28.
Sixth, rarely in biblical material does ptw'ma present a corpse as food. Of
the twenty-six occurrences of ptw'ma in the LXX and the NT (Matt 14:12; Mark
6:29; 15:45; Rev 11:8, 9), one—Job 15:23—links the corpse with food or eat-
ing.27 The language of “corpse” does not readily suggest a feeding scene.
These six observations identify serious difficulties with the consensus
reading, which claims that Matt 24:28 presents a common scene (vultures feed-
ing on carrion) to illustrate the coming of the Son of Man. The six observations
suggest that 24:28 does not depict a common scene: ajetoiv, eagles, are not to be
confused with carrion-feeding “vultures”; ajetoiv and ptw'ma are not a “certain
conjunction”; Matt 24:28 does not mention eating; eating is not commonly
associated with ajetoiv or ptw'ma; and sunavgw does not suggest eating, circling,
or even that one party does something to the other. If Matt 24:28 does not
evoke a constant scene of nature, what scene, then, does it present?
To formulate an alternative reading, three questions require attention:
(1) If the “eagles” are not carrion-feeding vultures, what do they depict?
(2) What is the relationship between the corpse and the eagles? If the eagles
are not doing something to the corpse but are “gathered with” (sun) it, perhaps
a complementary or parallel relationship exists in which both experience the
same thing. (3) What is the relationship of v. 28 to vv. 27–31? If v. 28 does not
illustrate the dramatic, visible appearing of the Son of Man (24:27), what con-
nections might exist between the coming of the Son of Man and the eagles and
corpse? Does v. 28 describe a consequence of the Son of Man’s coming? The
subsequent discussion will begin with the question of the eagles’ identity.
25 Eight refer to Herod’s eagle on the temple (J.W. 1.650, 651, 653; 2.5; Ant. 17.151, 152,
155, 206), symbolizing Roman power (P. Richardson, Herod: King of the Jews and Friend of the
Romans [Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 1996], 15–18); two to the eagle as symbol
of the Roman army (J.W. 3.123; 5.48); two to Solomon’s temple (Ant. 8.82, 84); and one to a king’s
seal (Ant. 12.227).
26 Stone notes 4 Ezra 11:31, where the eagle head devours “two little wings,” and 1QpHab
3:11, in which the Kittim devour like an insatiable vulture (Fourth Ezra, 350). See also Prov 24:22e;
30:17.
27 My point concerns only ptw'ma in Matt 24:28. Compare Rev 19:17–21, where ptw'ma it is
not used but a summons is given to birds (o[rneoi") “to eat the flesh of kings” (i{na favghte savrka"
basilevwn), on which “all the birds were gorged” (pavnta ta; o[rnea ejcortavsqhsan).
II
Given that Matthew’s author and audience are steeped in the content and
language of the Septuagint,28 the LXX references to eagles (ajetoiv) provide a
reasonable context in which to examine Matt 24:28. The LXX’s twenty-eight
references to ajetoiv divide into five groups. Four small groups of references
comprising twelve verses offer little help in clarifying Matt 24:28.29 A fifth
group comprises sixteen references, nearly two-thirds of the LXX’s twenty-
eight references. By various means, this fifth group of references link eagles
with imperial powers whom God uses to punish sinful people, and from whom
God, eagle-like, saves the people.
Some texts directly depict imperial powers as eagles. Hosea 8:1 describes
Assyria as an eagle effecting God’s punishment on Israel’s capital Samaria in
722. God’s judgment, however, will not last forever. Chapters 12–14 anticipate
Israel’s restoration as God punishes this agent of God’s judgment.
In Deut 28:47–68, Moses elaborates the curses that God sends on a sinful
people who do not serve God (28:47, 58). Moses proclaims (Deut 28:49):
The LORD will bring a nation from far away, from the end of the earth, to
swoop down on you like an eagle, a nation whose language you do not under-
stand . . . .
The following twenty-verse depiction of seizure of property (28:51) and of

destruction through sieges (28:52–57), affliction (28:58–61), death (28:62), and
exile (28:63–68) denotes Babylon’s punishment of Judah and Jerusalem (587
B.C.E.). But judgment will not last forever. In mercy and covenant faithfulness,
God will punish Babylon (Deut 30:1–10, esp. v. 7) and will restore the people to
the land (cf. Hab 1:8–11).
Ezekiel depicts the same event with the eagle to be understood allegori-
cally. The eagle’s carrying off the top shoot of a tree (17:3–4a) represents King
Nebuchadrezzar, who removes the Davidic house and King Jehoiachin and
exiles the ruling elite to Babylon. In 17:7, Ezekiel uses the image of the eagle
for another king, “another great eagle with great wings and much plumage.”
This eagle is the Egyptian king, Psammetichus II, who tries to extend his power
by inciting Zedekiah to rebel against Babylon. But both eagles, Nebuchadrez-
zar and Psammetichus, come to nought in God’s purposes (17:22–24).
Working in a similar paradigm of imperial powers as agents of God’s judg-
28 Davies and Allison, Matthew, 1:29–31, 32–58.

29 There are references to prohibitions against eating eagles (Lev 11:13; Deut 14:12); to
eagles eating (Prov 24:22e; 30:17); to eagles’ swiftness, vigor, and wonder, indicating aspects of
daily life (2 Sam 1:23; Ps 102:5 [LXX = 103:5 NRSV]; Prov 23:5; 30:19; Job 9:26; 39:27a [LXX; see
n. 15 above); to four living creatures (Ezek 1:10; 10:14).
ment who will in turn be judged by God, various prophets also use the image of
the eagle to depict aspects of these empires: their power,30 leaders,31 and
impact.32
In these ten passages, the eagle either depicts an imperial power (Assyria,
Babylon, Egypt), or represents an aspect of imperial power. Further, God
emerges in Ezek 17:22–24 (cf. 17:3–4) as a supereagle who, after using an
imperial power to inflict punishment, now punishes the imperial power and
saves the people from Babylon. Six passages explicitly use the eagle to depict
God’s salvation from imperial tyrants. God saves from Egypt: “You have seen
what I did to the Egyptians, and how I bore you on eagles’ wings and brought
you to myself” (Exod 19:4; cf. Deut 32:10–11). God also saves from Babylon
(Isa 40:31) and from Moab, which exploits Babylon’s presence to threaten
Judah (Jer 30:10, 16 LXX = 49:16, 22). In “out-eagling” these imperial powers,
God soars even “among the stars” to destroy Edom (Obad 1:4).
This dominant LXX use of the eagle to depict imperial powers that inflict
God’s judgment and to describe God’s salvation from them suggests that the
eagles in Matt 24:28 may refer to a punishing and punished imperial power.
The possibility is immediately strengthened because, though the connection
has received little scholarly attention, Matthew’s Gospel comes from a world
ruled by the imperial power Rome.
The eagle commonly represents Rome’s political and military power, and,
as a symbol of Jupiter, the empire’s religious legitimation.33 Contemporary
with Matthew, for example, 4 Ezra 11–12 depicts the Roman empire as an
eagle. The “Most High” claims, employing the Deuteronomic pattern outlined
above, that this eagle was one of the beasts that “I had made to reign in my
world” but it did so with terror . . . oppression . . . deceit . . . insolence . . .
pride.” Now the Most High declares and accomplishes the judgment and
destruction of the eagle/Rome (4 Ezra 11:39–46; 12:1–3). Stone interprets the
eagle’s three heads (11:1; 12:11) as representing the three Flavian emperors,
Vespasian and his sons Titus and Domitian, during whose reigns Matthew was
probably written.34
Other representations of eagles evoke and create awareness of Roman
30 Babylon’s horses (Jer 4:13) and army (Lam 4:19) are “swifter than eagles.”
31 The tyrant Nebuchadrezzar, whose Babylonian empire in Dan 7:4 is like a lion with eagles’
wings, grows “hair . . . as long as eagles’ feathers” (Dan 4:33).
32 The people’s mourning over Assyrian exile requires them to be “as bald as the eagle” (Mic
1:16).
33 For the intermingling of political and religious spheres, see Carter, Matthew and Empire,
9–53.
34 Stone, Fourth Ezra, 363–66.
power, whether in relation to buildings,35 historical events,36 or through the

recurring use of eagle images on coins, the hand-held signs of propaganda that
everywhere asserted Rome’s power and authority bestowed by Jupiter.37 Since
the eagle was “Jupiter’s minister,”38 emperors such as Augustus,39 Vespasian,
and Domitian40 displayed the eagle on coins to claim Jupiter’s sanction.
The eagle standards (aquilae) of Roman legions, foundational to Rome’s
imperial power, attest the link between eagles and Rome. In explaining the
army’s composition, Josephus notes that after the legates, prefects, and tribunes
come:
the ensigns [shmai'ai] surrounding the eagle [to;n ajetovn] which in the Roman
army precedes every legion, because it is the king and the bravest of all the
birds; it is regarded by them as a symbol of empire, and, whoever may be
35 For example: Herod’s eagle on the Jerusalem temple (Josephus, J.W. 1.650–51, 653; 2.5;
Ant. 17.151–52, 155, 206) and the eagle-shaped supports for the roof of the temple of Jupiter Capi-
tolinus burned in Rome’s civil war of 68–69 (Tacitus laments “this great disaster,” the burning of
this “pledge of empire,” this “shrine” [Hist. 3.71–72]). The center of the ceiling of the arch dedi-
cated to the deified Titus depicted an eagle bearing Titus aloft (K. Scott, The Imperial Cult under
the Flavians [Stuttgart/Berlin: Kohlhammer, 1936], 63–64).
36 For actions by eagles in relation to significant figures and before battles as omens express-
ing Jupiter’s guiding of events to prosper Rome, see Suetonius, Augustus 94.7; 96.1; 97.1; Tiberius
14.4; Claudius 7.1; Galba 1.1; 4.2; Vitellius 9.1; Vespasian 5.6; Domitian 6.2; Tacitus, Hist. 1.62;
Ann. 2.17 (eight eagles, “the birds of Rome, the guardian spirits [numina] of the legions”); Pliny,
Nat. Hist. 15.136–37. Seneca identifies eagles (aquilae) and ravens as having “the privilege to give
auspices of important events” (Nat. Quest. 2.32.5).
37 For writers emphasizing that Jupiter willed the Roman empire into existence and domi-
nance, see Carter, Matthew and the Margins, 39–40; idem, Matthew and Empire, 20–34.
38 Cicero in Tus. 2.10.24, citing Aeschylus; Cornutus, Nat. deorum 9.3; Aelianus, Hist. anim.
17.37 (“messenger and minister of Zeus” [a[ggelon kai; uJphrevthn]).

39 According to P. Zanker, coins link Augustus with Jupiter’s eagle and a corona civica (an oak
wreath from Jupiter’s sacred tree), and a cameo depicts an eagle, a victory palm, and the corona
civica (The Power of Images in the Age of Augustus [Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press,
1988], 93).
40 There are numerous examples of eagles on coins minted in the Antiochene (the likely ori-
gin of Matthew’s Gospel) and/or other Syrian mints, usually with the emperor’s bust on the
obverse; see A. Burnett, M. Amandry, P. P. Ripollès, Roman Provincial Coinage, vol. 1, From the
Death of Caesar to the Death of Vitellius (44 BC–AD 69) (London: British Museum Press, 1992):
Nero, nos. 4176, 4180, 4184–86, 4188–89 (all with eagles on thunderbolts), 4177 (eagle between
two standards), 4191–92, 4197–98 (eagles); Galba, nos. 4193–96B (eagles on thunderbolts),
4197–98 (eagles); Otho, nos. 4199, 4200 (eagles). Burnett et al., Roman Provincial Coinage, vol. 2,
From Vespasian to Domitian AD 69–96 (London: British Museum Press, 1999): Vespasian, nos.
1936–39/2 (eagles and thunderbolts), 1945–75 (minus no. 1960); Domitian, nos 1976–81. For coins
depicting Zeus with eagle, see nos. 1268–70 (Vespasian on obverse), 1341 (Domitian on obverse);
and Zeus with eagle and thunderbolt, nos. 1624 (Vespasian), 206–7 (Domitian). See also Scott,
Imperial Cult, 30, 33 (Vespasian).
their adversaries, an omen of victory. These sacred emblems . . . (J.W. 3.123;

see also 5.48, Titus’s army and eagle)
Appian notes that though Caesar was defeated by Pompey in the battle of
Dyrrachium, the eagle, “the symbol held in highest honour by the Romans,”
was saved with difficulty (Bell. Civ. 2.610).41 Numerous accounts attest the
great importance of these legionary eagles for Rome’s destiny,42 associating
them with expressions of loyalty,43 with sacred powers,44 or with the shame of
their loss and celebration of their recovery.45 Coins link emperors with Rome’s
military power by displaying aquilae and, on the obverse, images of emperors.46
No one confuses the “sacred emblems” of legionary eagles with vultures.
This material suggests an answer to the question of the identity of the
eagles in Matt 24:28. The LXX provides an initial clue. There eagles commonly
depict imperial powers who, as agents of God’s judgment, inflict punishment
on God’s sinful people before in turn being punished and destroyed as God
saves the people from them. Further, the eagle is extensively used to symbolize
Roman imperial power and its military basis, signified by the eagle standards of
Roman legions. Roman power dominated the world from which Matthew’s
Gospel originated. The eagles “gathered with” the corpse seem, reasonably, to
be the standards of Roman legions that represent Roman power.
41 For Roman eagle standards (aquilae), see Appian, Bell. Civ. 4.101, 128; Caesar, Bello Gal-
lio 4.25 (2x); 5.37; Bello civili 3.64, 99; Juvenal 8.52; Pliny 13.23.
42 Twenty-four of Tacitus’s thirty-four references to eagles (aquilae) concern the fortunes of
these military and political symbols. Tacitus uses aquila/e and never vultur for the eagles (Hist.
1.44, 61; 2:29, 44, 89; 3.21, 50, 52, 60; 4.77; 5.16; Ann. 1.18, 37, 39, 60; 2.25; 13.38; 15.11, 17, 29).
43 For example, Artabanus, king of the Parthians, to Gaius Caligula (Suetonius, Gaius
Caligula 14.3).
44 For example, an eagle of a rebel governor refuses to be adorned (Suetonius, Claudius
13.2); an eagle of Cassius’s army refuses to advance into Parthia (Dio Cassius, 40.18.1–2). For
inscriptions dedicated to legionary standards, see J. Helgeland, R. Daly, and J. Burns, Christians
and the Military: The Early Experience (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1985), 49–50, including Tertul-
lian’s comments.
45 The Parthian victory over Crassus in 53 B.C.E. meant the “shame,” “reproach,” and “dis-
grace” of the capture of Rome’s eagles until Augustus regained them in 20 B.C.E. (Ovid, Art of Love
1.177–81; Fasti 585–90) (Kreitzer, Striking New Images, 30–68). Augustus celebrated their return
on coins; see Zanker, Power of Images, 96, 186, 188, along with its depiction on the breastplate on
Augustus’s statue from the villa of Prima Porta (discussion and images, pp. 188–92). Varrus lost
three legions’ aquilae to German tribes in 9 C.E. (Kreitzer, Striking New Images, 55–57). For Ves-
pasian’s appointment to restore Roman rule after rebel Judeans captured the eagle from troops of
the governor of Syria, see Suetonius, Vespasian 4.5 (also Augustus 10.4; Galba 12.2).
46 Burnett et al., Roman Provincial Coinage, vol. 1, e.g., nos. 8–9, 14–18 (Augustus), 4541,
4544 (Tiberius, Syria), 4547 (Claudius), 1257 (Nero); Burnett et al., Roman Provincial Coinage,
vol. 2, nos. 861 (Titus), 861, 865, 868, 873 (Domitian).
III
This answer to the first question posed above can be tested in relation to
the second. If the eagles in Matt 24:28 refer to Rome and its military power,
what is the relationship of these eagles to the “corpse”? Four factors suggest
that the scene in Matt 24:28 depicts the death of Rome and its legions, and that
it presents this destruction as God’s judgment on Rome accomplished at the
coming of the Son of Man.
I have noted the Deuteronomic pattern, repeated through the prophets,
of imperial powers, imaged as eagles, functioning as God’s agents to punish the
people’s sin. Knowledge of these LXX traditions, of imperial behaviors, and of
historical events indicates that Matthew’s Gospel, like other Jewish texts,47
views Rome as the agent of God’s punishment in destroying Jerusalem and its
temple in 70 C.E. The classic Matthean text is 22:7. As has often been noted, v. 7
is added to the Q parable (Luke 14:15–24). It disrupts the sequence from 22:6
to 22:8, and burning the city seems out of proportion to the offense. Burning
cities was a common imperial tactic of punishment,48 as Josephus’s account of
Rome’s burning of Jerusalem and the temple attests (J.W. 2.395–97; 6.249–408;
2 Bar. 6:1–2, 9; 7:1–2; Sib. Or. 4:125–27). Fire commonly denotes judgment
(Amos 1:4, 10; Ezek 38:22; 39:6; Bar 4:35), as it does in Matthew (3:10–12;
13:30, 40, 42, 50). Matthew 22:7 appears in a context in which Jesus has con-
demned the Jerusalem temple (21:12–22)49 and elite (21:45–46). The parable
(22:1–14) narrates punishment for the elite’s rejection of the king’s/God’s invita-
tion to join the marriage feast of the son/Jesus.50 Rome’s destruction of Jeru-
salem in 70 C.E. is God’s judgment on and punishment of the Jerusalem elite
for rejecting God’s purposes. Rome is the agent of God’s punitive purposes.
But the Deuteronomic pattern also recognizes that imperial powers,
agents of God’s punishment, are themselves punished. God uses, and then
judges and destroys, imperial powers and tyrants such as Assyria (Isa 10), Baby-
lon (Jer 25:1–14; 27:16–22), and Antiochus Epiphanes (2 Macc 7:32–36), who
do not honor God. Given that Matthew has employed the first part of this pat-
tern to explain Rome’s defeat of Jerusalem in 70 C.E., it is reasonable to expect
47 4 Ezra 3:24–36; 4:22–25; 5:21–30; 6:55–59; 7:19–25; 9:26–37; 2 Bar. 1:1–5; 4:1; 6:1–9;
32:2–4; Josephus, J.W. 4.386–88; 5.559; 6.40–41, 96–110, 250; 7.323–36, 358–60. Psalms of
Solomon 2:1–15 and 8:9–22 recognize Pompey and Rome’s occupation (63 B.C.E.) as God’s punish-
ment.
48 For Pompey, see Pss. Sol. 2:1–6; 8:1–5, 19–21. In 66 C.E., Cestius, the Roman governor of
Syria, burned Chabulon in Galilee (Josephus, J.W. 2.504–5), Joppa (J.W. 2.508), villages in
Nabatene (J.W. 2.509), and Bezetha in Jerusalem (J.W. 2.530).
49 Carter, Matthew and the Margins, 418–23.
50 Davies and Allison, Matthew 3:196–97; Carter, Matthew and the Margins, 432–34.
that the Gospel will also employ the second part—that God will save the people
from the imperial power by bringing about Rome’s demise. Matthew 24:27–28
depicts this eschatological victory at Jesus’ return.
This victory is consistent with the Gospel’s perspective on Rome’s empire
as an empire under judgment. Space prevents a detailed discussion, but two
examples will suffice. In the first, Satan asserts control over, and offers to Jesus,
“all the kingdoms/empires (basileiva") of the world” (4:8).51 In the Gospel’s
late-first-century context, the dominant basileiva is Rome, here asserted to be
under the devil’s control, the opponent of God’s purposes (4:1–11; 13:28,
38–39). That Rome’s order is opposed to God’s purposes is indicated by God’s
commissioning of Jesus (1:21–23) to proclaim another empire, the basileiva
tw'n oujranw'n (4:17). Second, in 20:25–28, Jesus speaks against “the rulers of
the Gentiles [who] lord it over” others. In effect, he is condemning the imperial
status quo in which the elite, about 5 percent or so of the population, “lord it
over” the rest for the benefit of their small number. 52 Jesus declares that
Rome’s social-economic-political order, sanctioned by religious claims about
Jupiter’s will, is contrary to God’s purposes, which can be discerned in the alter-
nate community of his followers, “It shall not be so among you . . . .” Like
Assyria, Babylon, and Antiochus Epiphanes before it, Rome has not honored
God’s purposes. Judgment follows. The scene in 24:28 of the corpse and the
Roman eagles “gathered together” when the Son of Man returns presents the
punishment of the punisher.
Second, the verb “gathered together” (sunacqhvsontai) supports the claim
that eschatological judgment on Rome is the focus of Matt 24:28. This verb has
troubled those who adopt the consensus approach, causing interpreters to sub-
stitute verbs of eating, feeding, and circling. But none of Matthew’s twenty-
three uses of sunavgw refers to these activities.53 Rather, by means of the prefix
sun-, the verb designates, in part, solidarity with a group, sometimes those who
are with Jesus (13:2; 18:20), but mostly those who oppose him and seek his
death (2:4; 12:30; 22:34, 41; 26:3, 57). This emphasis on participation and soli-
darity suggests that what happens to the corpse happens to the eagle.
Further, sunavgw frequently appears in judgment contexts, especially in
scenes of eschatological separation and condemnation (3:12; 12:30; 13:2, 30,
47; 22:10; 25:24, 26; 25:32). The verb’s eschatological context (24:3, 22, 27) and
51 For basileiv a as empire, see Dan 2:37–45 (Babylonian, Median, Persian, and Greek
[Alexander the Great] empires); 1 Macc 1:16, 41, 51 (Seleucid empire); Josephus, J.W. 5.409
(Roman empire).
52 G. Lenski, Power and Privilege: A Theory of Social Stratification (New York: McGraw-
Hill, 1966), 219 (governing class “rarely . . . more than two per cent”), 245 (retainers “five per
cent”).
53 Matthew 6:26 separates it from eating: the birds do not gather, yet God feeds them!
future tense point to eschatological judgment in 24:28. The passive construc-

tion suggests a “divine” passive denoting God as judge, which is precisely how
the same future-passive verb functions in 25:32 at the outset of the cosmic
judgment scene.
The common association of the noun ptw'ma with judgment also suggests
that the scene presents God’s judgment of Rome. In Matthew and in the LXX,
the noun can refer simply to a corpse (Judg 14:8, a lion) or, more generally, to
destruction or “that which has fallen.”54 But in two-thirds of its LXX usages
(fourteen of twenty-one instances), the corpse or destruction expresses God’s
judgment. Sometimes it denotes judgment of the wicked in general (Job 15:23;
18:12; 20:5; Wis 4:18–19; Pss. Sol. 3:10), but often it depicts God’s judgment on
and/or saving of Israel by or from imperial powers Assyria and Babylon (Isa
8:14; 30:13, 14; 51:19–23; Jdt 8:19; 13:20; Bar 4:33), as well as God’s punish-
ment of Gentile tyrants (Ps 110 [LXX 109]:6; 2 Macc 9:7). The identification of
the corpse as Rome condemned by God at Jesus’ coming also explains the use
of the collective singular noun ptw'ma.55
Fourth, apocalyptic traditions parallel both the vision of Rome’s demise as
a result of God’s action, and its violent destruction in an eschatological battle. In
the Sibylline Oracles, Rome’s condemnation is inevitable (3:46–55, 161, 652–
56). Nero is to lead the Parthian armies against Rome; there will be extensive
war, which God will end by destroying people and the earth in fire (4:130–92).
In 4 Ezra, the Messiah’s “primary role [is] as destroyer of Rome”56 (“you will
surely disappear, you eagle,” 11:45). In the eschatological battle, Rome is
defeated (chs. 12–13).57 A similar scenario appears in 2 Bar. 39–40 as the fourth
empire’s (Rome’s) last ruler is judged and killed at Zion (40:1–2). Revelation
also employs aspects of a cosmic battle to depict Rome’s downfall (16:14–16;
19:14, 19–21; 20:7–10). Qumran’s War Scroll envisages a final cosmic battle
involving not only the armies of the Kittim, the archetypal evil human forces
54 In Matt 14:12, ptw'ma is used of the dead body of John the Baptist, executed by Herod
Antipas (par. Mark 6:29). The other three NT occurrences are in Mark 14:12 (Jesus’ body) and Rev
11:8–9 (bodies of two slain witnesses). In Josephus, Ant. 7.16 and in ten of thirteen references in
Jewish War, the word denotes battle corpses (3.249; 5:16–18, 34, 516–17, 541, 570; 6:2, 29–30, 40,
405); in J.W. 5.440 and 6.217, it refers to a general catastrophe, and in 1.594, a literal fall. Since
Josephus regards the war with Rome as God’s judgment on a sinful people, most references con-
tain, arguably, a dimension of judgment. For “that which has fallen,” see BAGD, 727–28 (e.g., Sir
31:6; Prov 16:18; Job 31:29; 33:17; 37:16); so also Philo’s fourteen uses, e.g., Ebr. 156; Migr. 80;
Legat. Gaium 308.
55 Sim suggests that the corpse could be Satan, destroyed at Jesus’ return (Apocalyptic Escha-
tology, 103). Given the link between Rome and Satan established in 4:8, this is quite possible.
56 Stone, Fourth Ezra, 213.
57 Stone calls the destruction of the empire by words in 12:33 “a legalization of the eschato-
logical battle” (Fourth Ezra, 210); in ch. 13 battle motifs are more prominent.
that evoke Rome’s military power, but also supernatural demonic powers
headed by Belial.
Matthew’s Gospel embraces this alliance between the devil and Rome in
4:8, where Satan claims dominion over “all the kingdoms [basileiva"] of the
world” including Rome in offering them to Jesus if he would worship Satan. As
Joel Marcus has argued, in Matt 16:18 gates release the demons from Hades to
attack the community of Jesus’ followers (cf. Rev 9:1–11).58 The eschatological
and cosmic war is under way, but Jesus’ community will prevail. Ernst Käse-
mann observed that the central question for apocalyptic traditions is, “To whom
does the sovereignty of the earth belong?”59 Numerous texts assert that Rome
and its emperors are masters of the world at Jupiter’s behest.60 But for Matthew
only Israel’s God, “Lord of heaven and earth” (11:25), has a legitimate claim,
which is supremely asserted in Rome’s defeat and judgment depicted in 24:28.
IV
What, then, is the contribution of v. 28 to Matt 24:27–31? The unit’s rich

but often ignored imperial imagery suggests that the verse describes Jesus’ tri-
umph over Rome. The returning Jesus collides with and contests Roman impe-
rial claims to “out-Rome” Rome in asserting God’s judgment and sovereignty.
In contrast to the secret false messiahs (24:23–26), the lightning in 24:27
underlines the dramatic visibility of Jesus’ “coming.” Scholars have frequently
noted lightning’s role in theophanies,61 and in God’s judgment on the nations62
and on Israel (Josephus, Ant. 6.92), including military defeats (Josephus, Ant.
2.343–44; 6.27). In Matt 24:27 the lightning denotes God’s presence, sov-
ereignty, and judgment in Jesus’ return.
But attention to the text’s imperial context indicates a further layer of sig-
nificance and irony. Often overlooked are the association of lightning (Latin
58 Joel Marcus, “The Gates of Hades and the Keys of the Kingdom (Matt 16:18-19),” CBQ 50
(1988): 443–55.
59 Ernst Käsemann, “On the Subject of Primitive Christian Apocalyptic,” in New Testament
Questions of Today (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1969), 135.

60 For examples (Cicero, Virgil, Seneca, Silius Italicus, Statius, Suetonius, Dio Cassius), see
Carter, Matthew and Empire, 9–34; also Scott, Imperial Cult; J. R. Fears, “The Cult of Jupiter and
Roman Imperial Ideology,” ANRW 2.17.1 (1981): 3–141.
61 Exodus 19:16; Ezek 1:13; Dan 10:6; Matt 28:3; Rev 4:5–6; Josephus, Ant. 3.79–80; Philo,
Decal. 44; Josephus, Ant. 3.184–85 (lightning depicted on the high priest’s garments represents
heaven); J.W. 5.231. Lightning can represent judgment or favor (Josephus, J.W. 4.286–87 and sub-
sequent sections: “foretokened destruction for humankind”).
62 Wisdom of Solomon 5:15–6:11, esp. 5:21; 19:13; Zech 9:13–17; Philo, Abr. 43 (Noah); Mos.
1.118 (Egypt).
fulgur63) with the gods, notably Zeus/Jupiter,64 and its role in portending the
gods’ (dis)favor in military and political successes or failures.65 Lightning, for
instance, signifies both Jupiter’s election of Domitian66 and withdrawal of favor
(Suetonius, Domitian 15.2; 16.1).
J. Rufus Fears argues that the significance of this heavenly sign lies not just
in celebrating a military triumph or demonstrating power or disfavor, but in “a
conception of the social order in which the well-being of the body politic was
seen to reside in the figure of a charismatic monarch.” An emperor’s military
victories and reign secured the “civilized” status quo (comprising Roman elite
interests) against sundry external and internal forces of chaos. This political-
social-economic order, which Rome’s emperor, Jupiter’s agent, protected
against all threatening forces, was willed and guaranteed by the gods, particu-
larly Jupiter. Hence lightning and thunderbolts “epitomized the entire concep-
tion of divine power exerted against the forces of barbarous hubris and on
behalf of civilized existence,”67 namely, the Roman imperial order.
The use of lightning as a symbol in Matt 24:27 in relation to Jesus’ arrival
evokes, then, conflicting claims of divine and human sovereignty, Rome’s and
God’s. The reference to lightning astutely images a collision of sovereignties
that results from the assertion of God’s reign through Jesus’ “coming” (24:3) to
a world under Roman rule. The verse cleverly employs against Rome a symbol
that embraces both Roman power and God’s presence and judgment to depict
the inevitable downfall of the political-social-economic order of the Roman
empire under Satan’s control (4:8), which has been declared contrary to God’s
63 In original texts and translations, lightning appears interchangeably with fulmen, thunder;
see Seneca, Nat. Ques. 2.21.4: “a lightning flash (fulguratio) is almost a lightning bolt (fulmen).”
Note the similar roles of thunder in Suetonius, Aug. 94.2; 95.1 (LCL translates as “lightning,”);
97.2.
64 Pliny, Nat. Hist. 2.82, 138 (origin with Jupiter); also Seneca, Nat. Quest. 2.41–50 (its inter-
pretation).
65 Lightning expresses Apollo’s will to Augustus (Suetonius, Aug. 29.3). Lightning and thun-
der reveal “the fixed decrees of fate” (Tacitus, Hist. 1.18), whether a future emperor (Ann. 14.22)
or “disaster to come” under Nero (Ann. 15.47). Augustus and Gaius Caligula fear lightning and
thunder (Suetonius, Aug. 90.1; Cal. 51.1). Soldiers interpret lightning (fulgur, with an earthquake)
as portending Nero’s destruction and Galba’s success and election (Suetonius, Nero 48.2; Galba
4.2; 1.1 (de caelo, translated in LCL as “struck by lightning”); also Aug. 94.2.
66 For the use on coins of the common images of an eagle with lightning or thunderbolt in its
claws and of Domitian and/or Jupiter wielding lightning and thunderbolts to claim divine favor, see
Kreitzer, Striking New Images, 66–67; for other examples, see n. 36 above, and Burnett et al.,
Roman Provincial Coinage, vol. 2, nos. 1474–75 (Vespasian); J. R. Fears, Princeps A Diis Electus:
The Divine Election of the Emperor as a Political Concept at Rome (Papers and Monographs of the
American Academy in Rome 26; Rome: American Academy, 1977), 222–23.
67 J. R. Fears, “The Theology of Victory at Rome: Approaches and Problems,” ANRW II.17.2
(1981): 815–18, esp. 817.

will (20:24–25). Jesus, with a vastly different vision of human society and alle-
giance, represents the kind of threat against which the emperor and Jupiter
work so hard—but ultimately unsuccessfully—to defend the imperial order.
The term parousiv a , which denotes Jesus’ arrival (24:27), also holds
together and sets in conflict competing sovereignties. The term can denote
God’s presence and blessing (Josephus, Ant. 1.281; 3.80, 202; 4.180; 9.55;
18.284), but it is also an imperial and military term, “a technical expression for
the arrival or the visit of the king or the emperor,”68 which required extra taxes
and requisitions to cover the costs of an appropriate welcome.69 The event of a
parousiva asserts the will of the dominant power. By depicting Jesus’ arrival as a
parousiv a , Matt 24:27 sets the powerful presence of God’s empire and
sovereignty over against Rome’s claims. The designation of Jesus as “Son of
Man” echoes the figure of Dan 7, who after the destruction of all human
empires manifests “everlasting dominion” and “kingship . . . that shall never be
destroyed” (Dan 7:14).
These assertions of God’s sovereignty contest and counter Rome’s claim of
an eternal reign given by the gods. Jupiter had, according to Virgil, given Rome
“empire without end” (imperium sine fine [Aeneid 1.279]). From its foundation
by Romulus, Rome was the eternal city, the urbs aeterna (Tibullus 2.5.23; Ovid,
Fasti 3.72) and urbs in aeternum condita (Livy 4.4.4; 28.28.11). Augustus’s fore-
sight in securing a successor, Tiberius, ensures “the aeternitas of Rome,” as do
Vespasian’s two sons.70
But the arrival of Jesus, Son of Man, detailed in v. 28, ends such claims.
The assertion of God’s sovereignty means resistance from Rome and a battle—
the empire always fights back. But Rome, agent of Satan, signified by the eagles
of its legions, is destroyed. The eagles are gathered in judgment with the
68 For example, the approach and/or arrival of a threatening army (2 Macc 8:12), a conquer-
ing king (3 Macc 3:16–17), a subordinate king (Agrippa visiting the emperor Tiberius; Josephus,
Ant. 18.161), a king (Polybius, Hist. 18.48.4; Josephus, Ant. 19.339; 20.31–32), a future emperor
(Josephus, J.W. 5.410 [Titus]), a governing and military commander (Josephus, J.W. 2.617; Life 90,
273). See A. Deissmann, Light from the Ancient East (London: Hodder & Stoughton, 1910),
372–78.
69 For a speech of welcome and submission, see D. A. Russell and N. G. Wilson, Menander
Rhetor (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1981), 94–103, sections 378–82, stipulating a joyous tone,
praise for the emperor, celebration of the official’s virtues and actions, a warm welcome. For coins
issued by Corinth and Patras to mark the parousiva or adventus of the emperor Nero, see Deiss-
mann, Light, 375–76; for Hadrian’s adventus coins celebrating his arrival in various provinces, see
Kreitzer, Striking New Images, 146–86, 212–19, esp. 218, “an antitype to Christ’s glorious arrival
which was eagerly and expectantly awaited.”
70 Vespasian’s coins celebrate AETERNITAS (Augusti and Populi Romani) and Roma Per-
petua. See M. P. Charlesworth, “Providentia and Aeternitas,” HTR 29 (1936): 107–32, esp. 110– 11,
115, 122–31; Scott, Imperial Cult, 42; R. Mellor, “The Goddess Roma,” ANRW II.17.2 (1981):
1018–128.
corpse. Verse 28 details a consequence of, not an illustration of, Jesus’ return
and assertion of God’s empire.
Verse 29 continues to depict the impact of Jesus’ arrival. Further imperial
imagery, expressive once of Rome’s grand imperial claims, emphasizes Rome’s
demise. Jesus’ arrival has cosmic implications, with the sun and moon not giv-
ing light, stars falling from heaven, and the powers of heaven shaken.71 These
celestial signs are not simply portents of a disaster such as signaled Jerusalem’s
destruction in 70 (Josephus, J.W. 6.288–310; Tacitus, Hist. 5.13). They are inte-
gral parts of the assertion of God’s sovereignty over all other claims to sov-
ereignty, especially Rome’s.
The loss of light is a feature of the judgment scenarios of the “day of the
Lord” (Amos 5:20; Jer 4:23; Ezek 32:7–8; Joel 2:2; 4 Ezra 5:4–5), including
punishment of “the host of heaven,” the solar and lunar deities that sanction
imperial powers (Isa 24:21–23). Matthew’s scene (24:29) draws heavily on Isa
13:10 and 34:4. Isaiah 13 concerns God’s judgment on and destruction of the
imperial power Babylon and of “the world” (Isa 13:11). Isaiah 34 concerns “all
the nations” (34:2), the heavenly hosts or astral deities who influence nations,
and Edom (34:9). These passages from Isaiah depict God’s sovereign reign
asserted in judgment over all nations, especially resistant imperial powers, and
over the celestial divinities that determine their actions.
Like previous empires,72 Rome claimed the blessing of the deities of the
sun, the moon, and the stars.73 Material, liturgical,74 and literary artifacts depict
various emperors—Augustus, Gaius Caligula, Nero, the Flavians75—with the
divinities of the sun and the stars. This alliance of imperial and divine cosmic
71 Davies and Allison offer three meanings for this latter phrase: a summary phrase for sun,
moon, and stars; a reference to evil spiritual forces; or the heavenly host that comes down to battle
evil (Matthew 3:358). My reading is closer to the second option.
72 L. Taylor, The Divinity of the Roman Emperor (New York: Arno Press, 1975), 2, 5, 25
(referring to Hittite, Egyptian, Assyrian, Babylonian [Isa 14:12], and Hellenistic [Alexander]
rulers). The links are standard Roman fare: the emperor Aurelian dedicated a temple to Sol in 274
C.E.; coins of the emperor Constantine depict the emperor with Sol. See M. Beard, J. North, S.
Price, Religions of Rome, vol. 1, A History (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 259,
367; for wider discussion, see E. R. Goodenough, Jewish Symbols in the Greco-Roman Period (ed.
J. Neusner; Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1988), 116–73.
73 For sun, moon, and stars as divinities, see Cicero, De Re Pub. 6.15.15–17; De Nat. Deorum
2.15.39–60; Seneca, De Ben. 4.23.4; Cornutus, Nat. deorum, 32, 34 (Apollo, sun, and Artemis,
moon).
74 There was a temple to the sun and moon in Rome near the Circus Maximus, with August 9
as the day of sacrifice (Tacitus, Ann. 15.74). See H. H. Scullard, Festivals and Ceremonies of the
Roman Republic (London: Thames & Hudson, 1981), 171; Beard, North, and Price, Religions, 259.
Varro claims considerable antiquity (Latin Language 5.74 [King Tatius]). Tertullian (Spec. 8) says
that the Circus was dedicated to the sun with a temple and a statue.
75 For coins depicting Augustus’s image with Sol (sun), Luna (moon), and stars, see Taylor,
Divinity, 91, 117 (also an altar from 12 B.C.E. depicting Sol with Victoria). For the breastplate on
powers ensures that the latter legitimates the former. Rome’s imperial order,
the cosmic order, and divine sanction are brought together. The emperor rules
the world at Jupiter’s command, just as the Sun is the “ruler . . . and guiding
principle of the universe” (Cicero, De Re Pub. 6.15.17).76
In extinguishing the sun and moon, and causing stars to fall from heaven
(24:29), Jesus’ coming ends all imperial claims about and identifications with
the cosmic order and “powers of the heavens” such as astral, solar, and lunar
the statue of Augustus from Prima Porta depicting the Parthian return of the eagles presided over
by Sol (and Apollo) and Luna, see Zanker, Power of Images, 188–92. Also Suetonius, Aug. 94.2, 4
(stars and propitious lightning); Aug. 94.6; 95 (the sun-god’s blessing).
For Philo’s attack on Caligula for assuming divine honors like Apollo, “his head encircled
with garlands of sun-rays,” see Embassy 95; for judgment on those who deify the sun and moon and
attribute to them power over human affairs, see Decal. 52–81, also Spec. 1.13–35; Mig. 179; Abr.
69. God created (Opf. 29–35, 56–57; Aet. 19) and controls (Agric. 51; Conf. 173; Spec. 1.207) the
sun.
For Nero, see O. Neverov, “Nero-Helios,” in Pagan Gods and Shrines of the Roman Empire
(ed. M. Henig and A. King; Oxford University Committee for Archaeology Monograph 8; Oxford:
Oxford Committee for Archaeology, 1986), 189–94, esp. 190, including photographs. See also
Seneca, Apoc. 4.21, 30; Suetonius, Nero 14, 25, 31 (the Domus Aurea, “a palace of the sun, the
dwelling place of cosmic divinity”), 53; Tacitus, Ann. 15.74; Pliny, Nat. Hist. 34.46 (Nero’s one-
hundred-foot-high “colossal statue . . . intended to represent the emperor, but now dedicated to
the worship of the Sun”); Lucan, Civil War 1.45–51, 59; Dio Cassius 62.6. For coins depicting Nero
crowned with rays of the sun, see Scott, Imperial Cult, 32–33; Burnett et al., Roman Provincial
Coinage, vol. 1, no. 1195.
Eagles and the rising sun signify Vespasian’s divine election (Suetonius, Vespasian 5.7); Ves-
pasian (Suetonius, Vespasian 18), and/or Titus (Dio Cassius 65.15) co-opts Nero’s giant statue ded-
icated to the sun. For coins depicting Vespasian and Domitian crowned with rays of the sun, see
Burnett et al., Roman Provincial Coinage, vol. 2, nos. 2032, 2039 (Syria), 170–72 (Corinth), 2519
(Alexandria); see also Scott, Imperial Cult, 32–33. For coins depicting Titus and Domitian with the
goddess Aeternitas “holding heads of the sun and moon . . . it is the eternity of the Roman state and
of the Flavian dynasty that is signified,” see Charlesworth, “Providentia,” 127. For Vespasian’s
statue dedicated to Selene the moon goddess at Antioch because Selene’s light helped secure
Jerusalem’s conquest in 70 C.E., see Malalas, Chron. 260–61.
Concerning the Flavian emperors: for coins issued during Vespasian’s reign depicting Titus
and Domitian with a moon crescent and a star of six or eight points, see Burnett et al., Roman
Provincial Coinage, vol. 2, nos. 367–69; for moon crescents (sometimes with stars), see, e.g., Bur-
nett et al., Roman Provincial Coinage, vol. 1, nos. 4837 (Syria, Caligula), 5102 (Alexandria,
Caligula), 1513 (Asia Minor, Vespasian); for Titus with a star, from Syria, see Burnett et al., Roman
Provincial Coinage, vol. 2, nos. 1940/1, 1940/13; 1943 (Titus with star and Vespasian with eagle).
Scott discusses the frequent linking of deified members of the Flavian imperial family—Vespasian,
Titus, Domitian’s niece Julia, Domitian’s infant son—with the stars, not only as a place of their
abode but as deities that continue to bless Rome (Imperial Cult, 61–82, esp. 68). See Statius, Silv.
1.1.91–98; 3.3.138–39; 4.3.18–19 (“a Flavian heaven”); Thebaid 1.31; Silius Italicus, Punica 3.594–
626; Martial, 11.101.21–22; 14.124. Pliny the Younger praises Trajan for giving “your Father
(Nerva) his place among the stars” (Pan. 11.1–2).
76 H. P. L’Orange, Studies on the Iconography of Cosmic Kingship in the Ancient World
(New Rochelle, NY: Caratzas Brothers, 1982), 28–34.

deities that sanction Roman power. Jesus’ arrival, the assertion of God’s empire,
is “lights out” time for Rome.
Some Jewish traditions associated falling stars with judgment on Satan and
Satan’s agents.77 Given the presentation of Satan as controlling the Roman
empire (Matt 4:8), and eschatological battle scenarios noted above that depict
the destruction of the forces of evil, Matthew’s presentation in 24:28–29 of
Rome’s defeat and falling stars probably also points to Satan’s defeat. This cos-
mic destruction and judgment mean the passing away of heaven and earth
(5:18; 24:35) and prepare for the new heaven and new earth (19:28).78 The
reestablishment of the created cosmos exhibits God’s sovereignty (Gen 1).
The parousia of the Son of Man in Matt 24:27 and the defeat of Rome and
its heavenly deities in vv. 28–29 lead to the appearance of “the sign . . . in
heaven” in v. 30. Interpreters have suggested, reading the genitive tou' uiJou' as
an appositive, that the coming itself comprises the sign, or that the sign is “a
military standard or ensign which heralds the arrival of the Son of Man and his
angelic host.”79 Seven LXX texts employ shmei'on to designate a military stan-
dard and to represent either Babylonian aggression (Ps 73:4 [LXX 74:4]) and
judgment on Judah (Jer 6:1) or, more commonly—and significantly for Matt
24:30—God’s judgment on Israel’s enemies (Isa 18:3), including the imperial
powers Babylon (Isa 13:1–2; Jer 28:12, 27 [LXX 51:12, 27]) and Assyria (Isa
11:11–12). Given these associations and the repeated kai; tovte in 24:30 to
underline a sequence of events, the sign seems to be a standard depicting God’s
victory.
The image in v. 30 of God raising a military emblem coheres with the
scene of Rome’s destruction and judgment in the eschatological war.80 Sim
notes the presentation of the angelic or heavenly hosts as legions in Matt 26:53
and the reference in 24:31 to a trumpet call.81 The trumpet call, a conventional
call for battle,82 often appears with the standard in warnings of imminent mili-
tary action expressing God’s punishment (see Isa 11:11–12; 13:2; 18:3; Jer 6:1;
77 1 Enoch 86:1–3; 88:1–3; 90:24; Apoc. Elijah 4:11; Jude 13; Rev 12:4. In Dan 8:10 falling
stars depict conflict and defeat of some stellar deities.

78 Sim, Apocalyptic Eschatology, 110–14.
79 Ibid., 104–5. Draper prefers “‘totem” (“Development”). Some of Draper’s texts (Isa 5:26;
13:4; 31:9; 49:22; 62:10–11) do not use shmei'on. T. F. Glasson prefers “standard” despite the arti-
cle’s title (“The Ensign of the Son of Man,” JTS 15 [1964]: 299–300). Davies and Allison agree
(Matthew 3:359–61), identifying it as the cross.
80 Contra Draper (“Sign,” 12–13), whose claim that the scene depicts punishment of “disobe-
dient Israel” in 70 C.E. overlooks the eschatological emphases and “eagles” as fallen Roman stan-
dards.
81 Sim, Apocalyptic Eschatology, 104–5.
82 1 Maccabees 5:31–33; Philo, Spec. Leg. 2.190–92; Josephus, J.W. 3.89–91, 265; 5.48; Livy
24.46.3–7; Tacitus, Ann. 1.68.

28:27 [LXX 51:27]). Both standard and trumpet are prominent in the escha-
tological battle of the Qumran War Scroll (1QM 3:1–17; 4:1–17; cf 1QH
6:34–35).
This sign indicating the victorious arrival of the Son of Man and his legions
of angels causes “all the tribes of the earth” to mourn. Most interpreters argue
that Zech 12:10–14, God’s coming to Jerusalem, is in view with the mourning
signifying either repentance, or perhaps more likely, the fear and despair of
judgment. The tribes witness the scene described in Dan 7:13–14, where “one
like a son of man” receives from God “everlasting dominion . . . and kingship
that will never be destroyed” as God judges and destroys the last of human
empires. The references to clouds, power, and glory underline the manifesta-
tion of God’s salvation over the resistant nations. The emphases of 24:27–29 on
battle, imperial and cosmic demise, judgment, and God’s victory continue
through the scene, which concludes with the Son of Man, having defeated and
punished Rome, signaling the angels by trumpet call to gather the elect (Isa
27:13; Matt 8:11–12 [Gentiles and Diaspora Jews]; 13:39–43, 49–50).
Matthew 24:28 does not, as the current consensus maintains, employ a

“common” image from nature of vultures and carrion to illustrate the appearing
of the Son of Man.83 The consensus reading, though not impossible, suffers
from the six unsupported assumptions identified in the first part of the article.
What, then, is the significance of the eagles, their relationship to the corpse,
and the relation of 24:28 to the rest of its unit, 24:27–31? I have argued that the
eagles represent the defeated Roman imperial order, an agent of God’s punish-
ment in 70 C.E. but punished by God in the eschatological battle at Jesus’
return. Moreover, the eagles are “gathered with” the corpse, a verb of solidarity
and judgment denoting that they share the same eschatological fate as the
corpse. Verse 28 does not illustrate the visibility of Jesus’ dramatic return but
depicts one of its consequences. Jesus’ return, consistently presented with
imperial and military images, ends Rome’s empire with its military, divine, and
cosmic sanctions. God’s empire is established with judgment on the nations and
the cosmic deities who sanction them, and with salvation for the elect in a new
heaven and new earth.
This reading of 24:27–31 provides further indication that Matthew’s
83 It is possible that for dramatic effect Matthew employs a revised form of the proverbial
association of vultures feeding on corpses, substituting “eagles” for “vultures,” removing the verb of
“eating,” and adding a verb of association and eschatological judgment.
Gospel needs to be understood not exclusively in relation to the customary con-

text of late-first-century Judaism but also in resistive relation to the Roman
imperial world.84 This reading of Matt 24:27–31 exposes a profound irony
about that relationship. The Gospel’s eschatological vision of God’s triumph
mimics the violent imperial strategies and worldview that the Gospel resists.
84 See Carter, Matthew and the Margins; idem, Matthew and Empire.
JBL 122/3 (2003) 489–515
MATTHEW 27:52–53 AS APOCALYPTIC

APOSTROPHE: TEMPORAL-SPATIAL
COLLAPSE IN THE GOSPEL OF MATTHEW
KENNETH L. WATERS, SR.

kwaters@apu.edu
Azusa Pacific University, Azusa, CA 91702
Matthew 27:52–53 exhibits the temporal-spatial collapse that is character-

istic of most apocalyptic; however, common assumptions in reading strategy
have long obscured this aspect of the text. Once we recognize the significance
of literary signals such as the “holy city” and the historicized future we find rea-
son to reassess the passage. The stage is then set to delineate the apocalyptic
character of these verses and to fashion a new hermeneutic.
Several mostly new points will be argued in this study of Matt 27:52–53,
namely, that the passage is fundamentally a fragment of pre-Matthean Chris-
tian apocalyptic; that the raising of the saints in this passage refers not to an
event of Matthew’s past but to the general resurrection at the end of time; that
both the opening of the tombs and the raising of the saints occur not before but
after the resurrection of Jesus Christ; that the holy city is not the historic city of
Jerusalem but the new Jerusalem of Rev 21:2; that the saints who are raised are
not the Jewish saints of antiquity but the Christian martyrs of Rev 20:4, 6; that
the “many” to whom the martyrs appear in the holy city are not residents of
first-century Jerusalem but an eschatological community of Jews analogous to
the 144,000 in Rev 7:4, 14:1; and finally that Matt 27:51–54 as a temporal-
spatially conflated passage is not an altogether unique phenomenon in Jewish
and Christian literature.
I. The Scholarly Consensus
Previous scholarship has virtually always supposed that Matthew relates

the raising of the saints as an event of his past witnessed by the centurion and
others. The uniqueness of this event and its fragmentary, uncorroborated
489
nature are problems that have elicited much discussion but a limited range of
solutions. That the passage is a freehand composition of the Gospel writer and,
as such, an example of theology in the guise of history has been argued or
supposed by Pierre Benoit, Donald Senior, M. Eugene Boring, Ronald D.
Witherup, S. P. Botha, and Ronald L. Troxel, among others. 1 As Boring
observes, “That we have theology in narrative form, and not bare historical
reporting is clear.”2 Others, including John Wenham, David Wenham, and
D. A. Carson, are not altogether convinced that Matt 27:52–53 is a creation of
the evangelist.3 Carson wonders why “the evangelist, if he had nothing histori-
cal to go on, did not invent a midrash with fewer problems.”4
The risen saints are commonly understood as OT notables or righteous
Israelites, and the holy city as a reverent reference to the historical city of
Jerusalem and its inhabitants. Only Benoit departs from the main by interpret-
ing the holy city as the new Jerusalem of Revelation or Hebrews.5
John Wenham asks if it is right to leave ajnewv/cqhsan in 27:52 without
punctuation and thus link the raising of the saints to the events of Good Friday.
He feels that a full stop or at least some kind of punctuation should come at the
end of “and the tombs were opened,” and that the statement “and many bodies
of the saints . . . appeared to many” should be treated as parenthetical. In this
way, Wenham links both the raising of the saints and their emergence from the
tombs to the time after Jesus’ resurrection.6
Witherup avoids a historical- and tradition-critical approach to Matt
27:51–54 and instead asks about the function of the passage within the Gospel
as a whole. He sees the passage as a vindication of the role of Jesus as obedient
Son of God.7 Botha, writing in Afrikaans, prefers a close reading (noukeurige
1 Pierre Benoit, The Passion and Resurrection of Jesus Christ (trans. Benet Weatherhead;
New York: Herder & Herder, 1969), 203–4; Donald Senior, “The Death of Jesus and the Resurrec-
tion of the Holy Ones (Mt 27:51–53), “ CBQ 38 (1976): 312–29; M. Eugene Boring, “The Gospel of
Matthew: Introduction, Commentary, and Reflections,” NIB 8:493; Ronald D. Witherup, “The
Death of Jesus and the Raising of the Saints: Matthew 27:51–54 in Context,” SBLSP (1987): 575,
581–82; S. P. Botha, “ ’n Opstanding met verheerlikte liggame in Matteus 27:51b–53? ’n
Noukeurige lees van die teks” [A glorified bodily resurrection in Matthew 27:51b–53? A close read-
ing of the text], HvTSt 52 (1996): 273, 277–78, 280–81; Ronald L. Troxel, “Matt 27. 51–4 Reconsid-
ered: Its Role in the Passion Narrative, Meaning and Origin,” NTS 48 (2002): 33, 44–45, 47.
2 Boring, “Gospel of Matthew,” 493.
3 John W. Wenham, “When Were the Saints Raised? A Note on the Punctuation of Matthew
xxvii. 51–3,” JTS 32 ( 1981): 151; David Wenham, “The Resurrection Narratives in Matthew’s
Gospel,” TynBul 24–27 (1973–76): 21–54; D. A. Carson, “Matthew,” The Expositor’s Bible Com-
mentary (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1984), 8:582.
4 Carson, “Matthew,” 581.
5 Benoit, Passion and Resurrection, 204.
6 J. Wenham, “When Were the Saints Raised?” 151.
7 Witherup, “Death of Jesus,” 581–82.
Waters: Matthew 27:52–53 491
lees) of the passage to the historical- and tradition-critical approaches. He finds

that the raising of the saints in Matt 27:51b–53 is not a mere reviving of people
on “the natural and therefore automatically visible plane” (die natuurlike en dus
outomaties sigbare vlak), as in the case of Lazarus, but an eschatological and
apocalyptic event that “had to be made visible” (sigbaar gemaak word ) by God
to certain inhabitants of Jerusalem, just as the resurrected body of Jesus had to
be made visible to his disciples. The saints in vv. 51b–53 are raised with “new
glorified resurrection bodies” (nuwe verheerlikte opstandingsliggame) like that
of Jesus.8
Troxel’s unique contribution to the discussion is his view of Matt 27:51–54
as a composition of Matthew authored under the influence of 1 En. 93:6 and
Ezek 37:1–14. While the Gospel writer draws the image of resurrection from
Ezekiel, his understanding of the identity of the risen saints as “Israel’s
departed pious” comes from 1 Enoch. The purpose of the passage is not to sig-
nify the end of the age but to validate the confession that Jesus is the Son of
God.9
In the end, therefore, scholarly opinion leaves us with only two general
options for Matt 27:52–53, especially when the raising of the saints is under-
stood as an event of Matthew’s past. This passage is either theology composed
in the guise of history or an enigma about which we can only speculate. My
study represents a significant departure from previous scholarship on Matt
27:52–53, particularly in regard to the origin, structure, and character of the
passage, the identity of the risen saints and those who received them, and the
meaning and temporal setting of the holy city.
II. “And the things that happened” as a Literary Problem
“Awkwardly structured” is the very least we can say about Matt 27:52–53
and context. When “the centurion and those with him guarding Jesus” (here-
after briefly referred to as “the centurion” ) saw “the earthquake and the things
that happened” (to;n seismo;n kai; ta; genovmena [v. 54]), they feared greatly and
said, “Truly this was the Son of God” (!Alhqw'" qeou' uiJo;" h\n ou|to" [v. 54]).
Aside from the earthquake, some other “things that happened” (ta; genovmena)
were the tearing of the curtain of the temple, the opening of the tombs, the
raising of “the saints” (oiJ a{gioi), and the entry of the saints into the holy city (hJ
aJgiva povli"). However, if the response of the centurion occurred on Friday, the
“things that happened” could not have included the last of these events because
8 Botha, “’n Opstanding,” 281–82.

9 Troxel, “Matt 27. 51–4,” 33, 44–45, 47.
the saints did not come out of the tombs until “after his resurrection” (meta; th;n
e[gersin aujtou').
Furthermore, “the things that happened” in the centurion’s experience
could not have included the tearing of the curtain of the temple. The centurion
was not in the temple and therefore could not possibly have witnessed this
event. On Friday, then, the centurion could only be responding to the earth-
quake and, it seems, to the opening of the tombs and the raising of the saints.
While this is enough to evoke the fearful response ascribed to the centurion, it
leaves a three-day gap between this response and the time the saints entered
into the holy city. It forces the questions, What was the centurion doing during
this time? What were the risen saints doing during this time?10 The silence of
the Gospel on these questions makes an awkward impression even more diffi-
cult.
It could be that the centurion did not see the risen saints. This would
mean that “the things that happened,” a phrase denoting events distinct from
the earthquake, refers only to the opening of the tombs. However, the single
event of the opening of the tombs is simply insufficient content for the plural
phrase “things that happened.” Therefore, we must include the “raising of the
saints” in the content of “the things that happened,” because that is all that is
left to include.11 This brings us back to the problem of a three-day gap between
the centurion’s response and the entry of the saints into the holy city.
III. “The raising of the saints” as a Christological Problem
There is yet another problem. The idea of “the raising of the saints” on
Friday contravenes early church Christology, which presents Jesus as the “first-
fruit” (hJ ajparchv) or the “firstborn” (oJ prwtovtoko") of those who are risen from
the dead (Rom 8:29; 1 Cor 15:20–23; Rev 1:5; cf. Acts 26:23; Col 1:15–18; Heb
12:23; Sib. Or. 8:313–14). Early church Christology clearly holds that Jesus was
the first to be “resurrected,” a testimony that allows no place for a resurrection
on the day of Jesus’ death and burial.12 To argue that the saints remained in
10 See Carson, “Matthew,” 581.

11 Botha, “’n Opstanding,” 274. Botha feels that the centurion and his soldiers were respond-
ing to the “amazing behavior” (verbasende gedrag) of Jesus on the cross, the darkness, and the
earthquake. If this is so, then their response to the darkness and Jesus’ behavior was a delayed reac-
tion. This seems contrary to the impression of the text that the centurion and soldiers were making
an immediate response to more sudden events.
12 Contra Botha, “ ’n Opstanding,” 271–72. Botha maintains that the raising of the saints in
Matt 27:51b–53 is the result of Jesus’ work of redemption and victory over death working retroac-
tively (terugwerkend) for the salvation of already deceased saints, and that 1 Cor 15:23 refers only
to those who shall be raised in the future at the second coming of Christ. However, while there may
their graves in a supine position until after Jesus’ own resurrection does little to
preserve early church testimony. It also runs counter to the content of Matt
27:54, which requires that the raising of the saints be witnessed on Friday by
the centurion.13
One way of resolving the difficulty is to characterize this raising of the
saints as a “resuscitation” rather than a resurrection, implying some difference
between the two kinds of miracle.14 However, this solution begins to dissipate
when we take account of that difference in biblical narratives. In resuscitations,
there are always at least three parties involved: God, the dead person, and the
human through whom God raises the dead (1 Kgs 18:22; 2 Kgs 4:35; 13:21; Sir
48:5; Matt 9:25 par.; 10:8; Luke 7:15; John 11:44; Acts 9:40; 20:10). A resuscita-
tion is always the raising of one individual only. Moreover, in a resuscitation, the
revived person eventually dies again. In resurrection there is no third party—
only God and the dead person (John 5:21; 1 Cor 15:15; 2 Cor 1:9; 2 Bar. 50:2–4;
Sib. Or. 8:414)—and the person raised does not die again (1 En. 103:4; 4 Ezra
7:32; 2 Macc 7:9, 23; Dan 12:2; Matt 16:21 par.; 17:23 par., 20:19 par.; 28:6 par.;
Rom 6:9; 1 Cor 15:4, 51; 1 Thess 4:16; Rev 20:4–6, 12).15 While there have
been several resuscitations, there can be only one resurrection. In the NT, the
resurrection of Jesus Christ and the resurrection of the saints at the end of time
are a single event despite the length of time between them; and Jesus is the
beginning (i.e., the firstfruit or firstborn) of that event (1 Cor 15:20–23). For
this reason, the author of the book of Revelation can still refer to the resurrec-
tion of the righteous as the first resurrection (th'/ ajnastavsei th'/ prwvth/) (Rev
20:6), even though the resurrection of Jesus has already occurred.
The raisings of the son of the widow of Zarephath (1 Kgs 18:22), the son of
the Shunammite woman (2 Kgs 4:35), the man thrown into Elisha’s grave
(2 Kgs 13:21), the daughter of Jairus (Matt 9:25 par.), the epileptic boy (Mark
9:26–27 par.), the son of the widow of Nain (Luke 7:15), Lazarus (John 11:44),
be a warrant in the NT for speaking of a retroactive salvation on the basis of Christ’s redeeming
work (Heb 10:12), there is no such warrant for speaking of a mass resurrection before Easter, nor
for that matter, before the end of time. Overwhelmingly in the NT, resurrection is future and it
begins with Jesus.
13 From a literary standpoint, we cannot follow Botha in excluding the raising of the saints
from the eyewitness experience of the centurion and other soldiers. We must emphasize, however,
that this prohibition is only from a literary standpoint.
14 See Craig S. Keener, A Commentary on the Gospel of Matthew (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans,
1999), 685–86; and Donald Hagner, Matthew 14–18 (WBC 33B; Dallas: Word, 1995), 850. Both
Keener and Hagner make this distinction.
15 Ezekiel 37:1–10 is the account neither of a resuscitation nor of a resurrection, but simply a
vision of Israel’s postexilic restoration. However, the final prophecy in the vision is cast in the lan-
guage of resurrection (37:12–14). The raising of the two prophet-witnesses in Rev 11:11–12 is nei-
ther a resurrection nor a resuscitation, although it certainly has the appearance of a resurrection. It
is a diachronic metaphor for the vindication of all the prophets of Israel (cf. Rev 18:24).
Tabitha (Acts 9:40), and Eutychus (Acts 20:10) are therefore properly described
as resuscitations.16
There are then some problems with characterizing the raising of the saints
in Matt 27:52–53 as a “resuscitation.” First, this is a mass raising. Second, this is
the raising of those ostensibly described as saints who slept (cf. 1 Cor 15:51;
1 Thess 4:14–15);17 and, third, this is a raising without the agency of a human
third party (cf. 4 Ezra 2:16). In Jewish and early Christian apocalyptic, these are
the hallmarks of “resurrection.” A fourth feature—no report of subsequent
death—is rather inconsequential by itself, since neither is there a report of sub-
sequent death in those cases that are clearly resuscitations.18 It nevertheless
gains some weight in combination with the other traits of resurrection (Rom
6:9). These tensions with typical biblical resuscitations lead me to suspect that
the raising of the saints in Matt 27: 52–53 is more than a mere resuscitation.19
Still, a pre-Easter resurrection in a post-Pauline document is inexplicable.
By referring to the Gospel of Matthew as post-Pauline I do not necessarily
mean that the Gospel was directly influenced by Paul’s thought (Matt 10:5–6
and 25:31–46, for example, are far from Pauline). I do mean, however, that the
Gospel shares in a christological consensus that includes Pauline Christianity,
whether or not Paul himself was responsible for all the components of that con-
sensus.20 While there are some tensions between Matthew and Paul in regard
to Jesus’ relationship to the law and to Israel (Matt 5:17; 10:5–6; Rom 3:28;
15:16), there are no divergences in regard to Jesus’ role in the history of salva-
tion—at least not until we get to Matt 27:52, where it seems that Jesus’ role as
firstfruit of those risen from the dead is undermined.
IV. The Holy City in Matthean Thought
Our puzzlement over Matt 27:52–53 leads us to reconsider the stated des-
tination of these risen saints—the holy city [aJgiva povli", `dqhAry[]. The term
16 It is not certain that the epileptic boy (Mark 9:26–27) and Eutychus (Acts 20:10) were
actually dead.
17 See kekoimhmevnwn (slept) in Matt 27:52, koimhqhsovmeqa in 1 Cor 15:51, and koimhqevnta"
in 1 Thess 4:14, 15, forms of the verb koimavw or the noun koivmhsi".
18 However, we do have a report of a threat to Lazarus’s life (John 12:10–11).
19 I agree with John Wenham, David Wenham, and Botha that Matt 27:52–53 depicts a res-
urrection to glorified bodies; however, I disagree with them on the identities of these resurrected
ones and on the time of their resurrection.
20 In this sense, “post-Pauline” also means “non-Gnostic” and “precanonical,” or what one
might anachronistically call “orthodox.” See Dale C. Allison, Jr., The End of the Ages Has Come: An
Early Interpretation of the Passion and Resurrection of Jesus (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1985), 68; see
also James D. G. Dunn, Unity and Diversity in the New Testament: An Inquiry into the Character
of Earliest Christianity (2d ed.; Philadelphia: Trinity Press International, 1977, 1991), 323. Allison
“holy city” occurs only twice in the Gospel of Matthew (4:5; 27:53). Usually the
term is taken to refer to the ancient, historical city of Jerusalem; however, the
term does not bear this meaning in earliest Christian literature. In Rev 11:2;
21:2, 10; 22:19 are the only other occurrences of the term in the NT (cf. the
limited synonym “beloved city” [th;n povlin th;n hjgaphmevnhn] in Rev 20:9). In
each case in Revelation, the term refers not to the historical Jerusalem but to a
nonphysical, visionary counterpart. Furthermore, in most cases it refers also to
an apocalyptic, eschatological, heavenly complex meant to replace its earthly
counterpart. The vision of the holy city in Revelation at least suggests other
options for interpreting Matthew’s rare use of the term.
In Matt 4:5, the devil takes Jesus to the holy city, where Jesus is tempted to
throw himself down from the pinnacle of the temple. By the term “holy city”
Matthew evokes either a nonphysical, visionary entity or the actual historical
city. If the latter, then Matthew must also assign to the devil the ability simulta-
neously and instantaneously to move self and a human being across great dis-
tances, for example, through the power of flight, telekinesis, or perhaps
through a faculty akin to the transporter in the Gene Roddenberry/Rick
Berman Star Trek series.21 It is necessary to keep reading in order to make a
decision about Matthew’s meaning.
In Matt 4:8, the devil takes Jesus to “an exceedingly high mountain” (eij"
o[ro" uJyhlo;n livan), where the devil shows Jesus “all the kingdoms of the world
and their glory” (pavsa" ta;" basileiva" tou' kovsmou kai; th;n dovxan aujtw'n) as the
preface to another temptation. It is the juxtaposition of a stationary Jesus and
an instantaneous view of all the kingdoms of the world that establishes this
experience as a vision. After all, we have yet to find a mountain in the Eastern
Hemisphere that literally provides a view of what was then “all the kingdoms of
the world.” There is simply no reason to think that Jesus’ abduction to the
mountain was any different in kind from that to the holy city. This means that
regardless of how one assesses the historicity of the Matthean temptation nar-
rative, these can only be visionary experiences. Further clarification comes
from comparing Matthew’s use of the term “Jerusalem” (2:1, 3; 3:5; 4:25; 5:35;
15:1; 16:21; 20:17, 18; 21:1, 10; 23:37). Whenever “Jerusalem” occurs in the
Gospel of Matthew, there is no question that the term refers to the earthly,
physical city. In contrast, the term “holy city” lacks this clear, unequivocal, his-
torical sense. Furthermore, Matthew clearly has no predilection for substitut-
cites Dunn in support of his argument that the Gospels and Paul share in the “pre-Pauline” affir-
mation that Christ is the firstfruit of those raised from the dead.
21 Compare the angel-assisted flight of the prophet Habakkuk from Judea to Babylon in Bel
36; see also Origen and Jerome’s citation of the Gospel of the Hebrews, where Jesus is carried by his
“mother” the Holy Spirit to Mt. Tabor by a single hair on his head. See New Testament Apocrypha
(ed. W. Schneemelcher and R. McL. Wilson; Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1991), 1:177.
ing the term “holy city” for “Jerusalem” as a reference to the historical city. In
fact, since the term “holy city” occurs only twice in somewhat paranormal cir-
cumstances, there appears no justification for the term unless it bears some
specialized meaning distinct from that of the term “Jerusalem.” While the term
may be no more than a synchronic metaphor for historical Jerusalem in 4:5, it
must refer to an apocalyptic, eschatological, heavenly complex in 27:53 pre-
cisely because it is entered by resurrected saints.22
V. The Holy City in Literary-Historical Context
A tradition-critical investigation yields several observations about the

peculiar apocalyptic use of the term “holy city” in earliest Christian literature.
First, from the Persian to the Greek periods the term “holy city” appears simply
as a reverent appellation for the earthly, historical Jerusalem (Neh 11:1, 18; Isa
48:2; Sir 24:11; 36:11; 49:6; Pr Azar 5; 1 Macc 2:7; 2 Macc 3:1; 9:14).23 The
“holy city” continues to be no more than a reverent reference to the historical
Jerusalem well into the Roman period (4 Ezra [= 2 Esdras] 3:24– 25; 8:52;
10:27, 42–54; Tob 13:9; Pss. Sol. 8:4; CD 20:22; and Josephus, Ant. 13.2.3).24
Second, from the Persian to the Greek period we also begin to see “holy
city” as a reference to eschatological Jerusalem (Isa 52:1 [= 4QTanh\ 8–11], Dan
9:24, 26; and 4QDibHam. In these passages the eschatological Jerusalem is the
divinely restored capital of the divinely restored Israel at the beginning of the
new age. However, there is still a degree of continuity between the eschatologi-
cal Jerusalem and the old, historic Jerusalem. In a sense, the eschatological
Jerusalem is still the historic Jerusalem, but at a new stage of its existence (cf.
Zech 14:2, 8). Even in its eschatological stage there is no otherworldly charac-
ter assigned to the holy city.25 The eschatological Jerusalem is simply earthly,
historical Jerusalem after all of its enemies have been divinely defeated and all
Israel divinely regathered into Jerusalem. This ambivalent sense continues in
22 See Benoit, Passion and Resurrection, 203–4. I agree with Benoit that the “holy city” in
27:53 refers solely to the heavenly Jerusalem of Rev 21:2. However, while Benoit sees the entry of
the saints into the holy city as an event of Matthew’s past, I see it as a vision of the apocalyptic
future.
23 Cf. the “faithful city” in Zech 8:3; cf. also the opposite appellations—the “bloody city”
(Ezek 22:2; 24:6, 9; Nah 3:1) and the “oppressing city” (Zeph 3:1); and “the city that kills the
prophets” (Matt 23:37; Luke 13:34).
24 Use of “holy city” as no more than a reverent reference to the historical Jerusalem contin-
ues on into the fourth century with Acts Pil. 15.3; 16.4 and perhaps even into the fifth or sixth cen-
tury with the Tol’doth Yeshu.
25 As in 2 Bar. 68:5, where “Zion will be rebuilt again.”
the synonymous phrase my “holy mountain Jerusalem” (!l`wry y`dq rh) in Isa
66:20.
Third, within a few decades after the destruction of the Second Temple, if
not sooner (i.e., Matt 27:53), the term “holy city” becomes a third kind of
Jerusalem in Rev 21:2, 10. This is an apocalyptic, heavenly Jerusalem described
as “the city of my God, the new Jerusalem which comes down out of heaven
from my God” (th'" povlew" tou' qeou' mou, th'" kainh'" !Ierousalhvm hJ katabaiv-
nousa ejk tou' oujranou' ajpo; tou' qeou' mou) (Rev 3:12). In this case, the holy city
is characterized by radical discontinuity with both the earthly, historical
Jerusalem, on the one hand (Rev 11:2), and the eschatological Jerusalem, on
the other (Rev 20:9). It is an entirely otherworldly construct.
In the Roman period, the idea of radical discontinuity between the earthly
and heavenly Jerusalem occurred first before any transition in the use of the
term “holy city.” Philo represents somewhat of a variation on the theme of dis-
continuity. While interpreting Ps 45:5, Philo maintained that the holy city was
the then-present, historical Jerusalem, but that “the city of God” referred to in
the Psalm was “some other city than the visible city of God.” However, for
Philo, this city was located not in heaven but in the soul (Somn. 2.37–38; cf.
Leg. 32.1).26
The apostle Paul did not use the term “holy city” at all, but he still made a
radical distinction between the present Jerusalem (nu'n !Ierousalhvm) and the
Jerusalem above (a[nw !Ierousalhvm) in his allegory of Hagar and Sarah (Gal
4:25–26). The idea of radical discontinuity between the earthly and heavenly
Jerusalem therefore occurred prior to the destruction of the Second Temple.
The term “holy city” is also missing from the Letter to the Hebrews; still
the author makes a radical distinction between the heavenly Jerusalem (!Ierou-
salh;m ejpouranivw/) (Heb 12:22) and its earthly shadow (Heb 13:14); the former
being “a city having foundations whose architect and builder is God” (th;n tou;"
qemelivou" e[cousan povlin h|" tecnivth" kai; dhmiourgo;" oJ qeov") (Heb 11:10) and
“the city that is to come” (povlin . . . th;n mevllousan) (Heb 13:14).
In 4 Ezra 7:26 (= 2 Esdras 7:26) the author observes that “the city that now
is not seen shall appear.” Here the earthly Jerusalem and the heavenly
Jerusalem are two radically distinct entities. When the divine messenger
declares to Ezra that “a city is built” (8:52), there is no question that he means
the heavenly Jerusalem. Similarly, references to the “highest Jerusalem” in
2 En. 55:2 and “the heavenly city” in Sib. Or. 2:40 are clear references to a
celestial capital. Nevertheless, the term “holy city” in 4 Ezra continues to refer
to the earthly Jerusalem (3:24–25).
26 The Works of Philo Complete and Unabridged (trans. C. D. Yonge; Peabody, MA: Hen-
drickson, 1993, 1997), 406, 778.

In that part of the Roman period spanning from Philo to 4 Ezra (ca. 50
B.C.E.–100 C.E.) a radical distinction is drawn between the earthly and heavenly
Jerusalem; still the term “holy city” applies for the most part to the earthly
Jerusalem. In Revelation, however, a shift occurs. The term “holy city” is never
applied to the earthly Jerusalem. The term is reserved solely for a visionary city
(Rev 11:2; 21:2, 10) and, beyond that, mostly to an apocalyptic, heavenly city
(21:2, 10).
More specifically, the term “holy city” has two senses in Revelation. First it
is a diachronic metaphor for historic Jerusalem during “the times of the Gen-
tiles,” particularly during the second half of the tribulation period (Rev 11:2; cf.
Luke 21:24; Ezek 30:3; Dan 11:21; Tob 14:5; T. Mos. 4:9–5:6; 10:13–14).27 In
comparison, in Matt 4:5, the term is used as a synchronic metaphor for historic
Jerusalem, that is to say, Jerusalem at the time of Jesus; but in both cases the
holy city is still a visionary entity and not the earthly city.
Second, in Revelation the term refers to the new Jerusalem, the apocalyptic-
heavenly city, which comes down from above to replace both the historic and
eschatological cities (21:2, 10). It is this second sense, the apocalyptic-heavenly
Jerusalem, that defines the holy city in Matt 27:53. Its function as the destina-
tion of resurrected saints allows no other meaning in the context of the first-
century Jesus movement (cf. Rev 21:24–26).
One might argue rather obliquely for an intervening sense of “holy city” in
Revelation as the eschatological Jerusalem. However, in this case, the term
would be hidden behind its limited synonym, the “beloved city” (20:9). In any
case, the beloved city is definitely the eschatological Jerusalem in counter-
distinction to the heavenly Jerusalem. It is the “camp of the saints” during the
millennial reign prior to being besieged by “Gog and Magog” (cf. Ezek 38:14–
16). This is the Jerusalem of Isa 52:1 and Zech 14:2, 8, albeit redefined by the
Revelator. As such it is still not the Jerusalem that “comes down from above.”
We can therefore see the “holy city” of exilic and postexilic eschatology behind
the Revelator’s “beloved city,” but it is not the holy city of Christian apocalyptic.
Matthew seems to represent typical Christian apocalyptic use of the term
“holy city.” His first use of the term (4:5) is like the rare metaphorical use in Rev
11:2, but not quite as ambivalent. His second use of the term (27:53) is like the
radical apocalyptic use in Rev 21:2, 10, but not quite as clear. In both Matthean
cases, as in all three cases in Revelation, the holy city is a visionary edifice.
However, in the particular case of the Matthean crucifixion narrative (27:53), as
in the particular case of the Revelation palingenesis account (21:2, 10), the holy
city is specifically an apocalyptic and heavenly entity.
27 Compare the use of the term “Jerusalem” as a diachronic metaphor for the historic city in
Matt 23:37//Luke 13:34.

VI. The Gospel Origins of the Holy City
Luke 4:9 names Jerusalem rather than the holy city as the place where the
devil took Jesus in the temptation narrative. Furthermore, Luke places this par-
ticular temptation on the pinnacle of the temple third in the sequence, as
opposed to Matthew (4:5), who places it second. These observations have bear-
ing on whether the holy city or Jerusalem is the original referent in the tempta-
tion narrative. Luke’s seeming transposition of the Matthean second and third
temptations would be consistent with Luke’s tendency to make Jerusalem the
site of chronologically final testing or trial (Luke 9:51; 13:33–34; 18:31; 21:4, 11;
22:3; Acts 20:22; 21:4, 11; 28:17).28 With this amount of editorial alteration, it is
therefore a greater likelihood that Luke has also altered the holy city to Jeru-
salem in his version of the temptation narrative.
On the basis of the two-source hypothesis, Matthew and Luke draw their
temptation narratives independently from Q. The same indications of apparent
editorial activity on the part of Luke would suggest that it is Matthew who more
faithfully preserves the form and order of Q. This would mean that the term
“holy city,” not “Jerusalem,” appeared in Q. On the Griesbach-Farmer hypoth-
esis, Luke simply transposes the Matthean order of the final two temptations
and emends the term “holy city” to “Jerusalem.”29 Again, this would be in keep-
ing with the role of Jerusalem in Luke’s thought.
Whether the temptation narrative originates in Q or in some other source,
we have strong indications that the narrative, including the reference to the
holy city, descends from pre-Matthean tradition. There are several reasons for
viewing the holy city as a sign of pre-Matthean tradition at the very least. One is
the rare occurrence of the expression in the Gospel of Matthew (4:5; 27:53),
indicating that it is not characteristic of the first evangelist.30 The nonappear-
ance of the term in Matthew’s apocalyptic section (chs. 24–25), where there is
opportunity for its insertion (24:15–16, 26) is especially striking.31 Matthew also
misses an opportunity to use the term “holy city” in 5:35, where it would have at
least made sense. Second is the abrupt, fragmentary, and apocopated context of
28 See John Nolland, Luke 1–9:20 (WBC 35A; Dallas: Word, 1989), 179.
29 See William R. Farmer, The Synoptic Problem: A Critical Analysis (Macon, GA: Mercer
University Press, 1976), 200–201: “Matthew appears to be the earliest Gospel and Luke seems next
in order. . . . Mark is throughout the whole extent of his Gospel working closely with texts of
Matthew and Luke before him.” See also Beyond the Q Impasse: Luke’s Use of Matthew (ed. Allan
J. McNicol, David L. Dungan, and David B. Peabody; Valley Forge, PA: Trinity Press Interna-
tional, 1996), 77–78.
30 Contra Allison, End of the Ages, 42. Allison believes that “holy city” is redactional.
31 However, the term “holy place” (tovpo" aJgivo") occurs in 24:15; cf. Mark 13:14; Luke 21:20.
Luke replaces the Matthean “abomination of desolation standing in the holy place” with “Jerusalem
surrounded by armies.”
its occurrence in Matt 27:53. If the raising of the saints and their entry into the
holy city is a freehand composition of the first evangelist, why does this tradi-
tion make such a lacunar, evaporative appearance? It is more likely that the first
evangelist preserved a handed-down fragment of apocalyptic. He can provide
little context and no further content for 27:53 because he himself has only
received a fragment. The fragmentary character of 27:53 in turn signifies its
origin in earliest Christian antiquity.32 In each case, then, the occurrence of the
“holy city” as a term in Matthew takes us back to the earliest stream of Christian
apocalyptic thought, where radical discontinuity is supposed between the
earthly and heavenly Jerusalem, and between the eschatological and heavenly
Jerusalem. The term places us in touch with the same apocalyptic stream that
lies behind the book of Revelation.
VII. The Apocalypse of John as Hermeneutical Key
There are other literary signals tying Matt 27:51–53 and the book of Reve-
lation to a common apocalyptic tradition, such as the earthquake (Rev 6:12;
11:13; 16:18; cf. Matt 24:7; 27:51; 28:2) and the dramatic opening of a holy
shrine (Matt 27:51 par.; Rev 4:1; 11:19; 15:5–8). More generally speaking,
Matthew shares several themes and literary features with the apocalyptic tradi-
tion preserved in the book of Revelation, for example: (1) the appearance of the
Antichrist, false Christs, and false prophets (Matt 24:5, 11, 23–26; Rev 2:20;
13:11–17; 19:20); (2) war, famine, and earthquake (Matt 24:6–7; Rev 6:4, 8;
8:5); (3) the martyrdom of the saints (Matt 24:9–10; Rev 2:13; 6:9, 11; 7:14;
12:11,17; 13:7; 14:13; 16:6; 19:2); (4) apostasy and lawlessness (Matt 24:11–12;
Rev 2:14–15, 20–24; 3:9, 15–19); (5) solar-lunar eclipse and other celestial
upheaval (Matt 24:29; Rev 6:12–14; 8:5–12; 11:19); (6) the great white throne
of judgment (Matt 25:31–46; Rev 14:9–11, 17–20; 20:11–15); (7) the period of
great tribulation (Matt 24:8, 21–22, 29; Rev 3:10; 7:14; 8:7–9:19; 12:12); and
(8) the mourning of the tribes of the earth (Matt 24:30; Rev 1:7).33
We therefore have a common narrative tradition lying behind the Gospel
of Matthew and the book of Revelation, not to mention other biblical and extra-
biblical literature.34 This does not mean that Matthew and the book of Revela-
32 See Allison, End of the Ages, 45– 46. Against Senior, Allison argues for Matt 27:52–53 as “a
piece of primitive Christian tradition based upon Ezek 37:1–14 and Zech 14:4–5.”
33 Cf. “all the tribes of the earth shall mourn” (kovyontai pa'sai aiJ fulai; th'" gh'") in Matthew
and “all the tribes of the earth shall mourn for him” (kovyontai ejp! aujto;n pa'sai aiJ fulai; th'" gh'") in
Revelation. The almost identical form of these statements is one of our strongest indications that
the two compositions share a common apocalytic narrative background.
34 See Allison, End of the Ages, 70–73.
tion share the same provenance. Sharing the same provenance is not necessary
to share the same traditions (cf. Matt 11:25–30//Luke 10:21–22 and John
17:1–26), and this is especially true in the case of Christian apocalyptic. The
pervasiveness of a common apocalyptic tradition in early Christianity is widely
acknowledged, but what may not be so widely maintained is that, for this rea-
son, the book of Revelation can provide a hermeneutical key to abstruse por-
tions of Matthean apocalyptic, particularly Matt 27:52–53. Furthermore, this
can be done without harmonizing two disparate texts. Our aim is not to pro-
mote an ahistorical, synchronic reading of Matthew and Revelation, but only to
recognize their respective appropriations of a common apocalyptic tradition.
VIII. The Holy City and Historicized Future as Literary Devices
The entry of the saints into the holy city therefore occurs in the apocalyp-
tic, eschatological future, despite the impression of modern readers that it is an
event of Matthew’s past. Why then does Matthew speak of an apocalyptic
future event in the past tense and then sandwich it between two occurrences on
Friday? If Matt 27:53 is a fragmentary tradition that Matthew has incorporated
into this Gospel, then the use of aorist verbs most likely reflects an original
aspect of the fragment.35 But situating the fragment between the earthquake
and the centurion’s response is especially evocative. We must at least ask about
the effect of this maneuver. At the very least, the effect of this temporal
enveloping is to dissociate the saintly ingress from the day of Jesus’ resurrec-
tion. If the entry of the saints into the holy city did not occur on that Sunday,
then it simply has not occurred at all. It remains an event in waiting (as indi-
cated in John 5:25, 28–29; 11:25).
In this case, both the term “holy city” and the historicized future would be
literary signals designed to dissociate the ingress of the saints from any day that
has occurred so far. Even if this design was by default, that is to say, even if
these literary signals were original features of a pre-Matthean fragment,
Matthew’s decision to retain them without emendation suggests that they
invited a particular understanding of the fragment as apocalyptic prophecy.36
This particular understanding of Matt 27:52–53 seems preserved as late as Sib.
Or. 8:218–28, 305–21, 412–28 (ca. 180–311 C.E.). In the first of these passages,
the oracle says, “A king will come from heaven who is to judge. . . . men will see
35 See Matthew Black, An Aramaic Approach to the Gospels and Acts (3d ed.; Oxford:
Clarendon, 1967), 128. Black speaks of the Greek aorist as the sign of an original Semitic perfect.
36 A discussion of whether these features were intended by the author of Matthew as signals
of a particular meaning would take us too far afield. In any case, a literary feature could still func-
tion to signify a particular meaning without that meaning being intended by its author or redactor.
God the Most High with the holy ones at the end of time. He will judge the
souls of flesh-bearing men on the tribunal . . . and will break the gates of the
confines of Hades. Then all the flesh of the dead, of the holy ones, will come to
the free light.” In the second, the oracle says, “The veil of the Temple will be
rent. . . . He will come to Hades announcing hope for all the holy ones. . . . And
then, returning from the dead, he will come to light, first of the resurrection.”
In the third, God says, “I will roll up heaven, open the recesses of the earth, and
then I will raise the dead.”37 From other Christian literature of the second to
fourth centuries, it is clear that the futuristic meaning of these Matthean signals
was for the most part lost within several generations.38
IX. “After his resurrection” as Afterthought
We now return to our original problem made worse—the problem of the

time gap between the raising of the saints and their entry into the holy city. We
are not dealing with a mere three-day gap after all, but a gap that is generations
long and still counting. Of course, for the audience of Matthew it would have
been only a gap of some thirty-five years and counting, but that is still quite a bit
of time for risen saints to hang around in tombs. The absurdity of the idea
demands a different interpretation.
Our solution lies in a reconsideration of the phrase “after his resurrection”
(meta; th;n e[gersin aujtou') itself, since it is the only ostensibly temporal marker
in the passage. It clearly interrupts the flow of thought in 27:53, even in biblical
Greek.39 It would have been better placed elsewhere in the sentence. The fact
that it was not better placed indicates at the very least that the phrase is an
afterthought most likely meant to preserve the christological requirement that
37 John J. Collins, “Sibylline Oracles,” OTP, 423, 425, 427. The first occurrence of “holy ones”
in Sib. Or. 8:218–28 refers to a heavenly retinue that descends with God on the day of judgment
(cf. Matt 24:31; 25:31). The second occurrence refers to resurrected saints (cf. Matt 27:52). The
following additional Matthean echoes clearly show that the author of the second half of Sib. Or. 8
was interpreting the Gospel of Matthew: Matt 27:51 in Sib. Or. 8:305, Matt 21:5 in 8:325, Matt
11:29 in 8:326, and Matt 25:32–33 in 8:417–18.
38 More or less definite references to the raising of the saints in Matt 27:52–53 occur in Ign.
Magn. 9.2 (98–117 C.E.), Origen, Cels. (176 C.E.), T. Levi 4:1 (192 C.E.?), Hippolytus, Haer. 3 (ca.
200 C.E.), Tertullian, Adv. Jud. 8 (208 C.E.), A Strain of the Judgment of the Lord 120–24, 460–70
(208 C.E.), Gos. Nic. 1–2 (third century C.E.?), Ep. Chr. Abg. (fourth century C.E.), and Treat. Seth
58 (360 C.E.). For this last document, see NHL, 333. Usually Matt 27:52–53 is associated with 1 Pet
3:19 and is interpreted as a past event in accordance with the theme of the “harrowing of hell.”
39 See Willoughby C. Allen, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Gospel According
to St. Matthew (ICC; 3d ed.; Edinburgh: T & T Clark, 1977), 296. Also David C. Sim, Apocalyptic
Eschatology in the Gospel of Matthew (SNTSMS 88; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
1996), 111.
Jesus be the firstfruit of those raised from the dead.40 The phrase would there-
fore be an Matthean addition to a pre-Matthean fragment.41 If it is true that the
resurrection of Jesus is prior to the raising of the saints, then we have a sen-
tence structure at odds with that perception.
It is recognition of this conflict between sentence structure and Christol-
ogy that justifies revision of the sentence to suggest a new reading of the text.
Arguably it would be best to read “after his resurrection” near the beginning of
v. 52, after the first “and” (kaiv).42 This would mean that the opening of the
tombs and both the raising of the saints and their entry into the holy city
occurred after the resurrection of Jesus.
And after his resurrection, the tombs were opened and many bodies of the
saints that slept were raised. And coming out of the tombs, they entered into
the holy city and appeared to many.
This revision would remove the problem of an interval between the raising of
the saints and their ingress into the holy city. 43 The folding of this event
between the earthquake on Friday and the centurion’s response on that same
Friday would signal the reader that these events are nevertheless not to be
assigned to Sunday or to any other historical day. The exception, of course, is
the resurrection of Jesus himself. Gospel tradition makes it clear that this event
occurred on that Sunday (Matt 16:21; 17:23; 20:19; 28:6), but the other events
belong to the apocalyptic future. After all, the Gospel does not state how long
after Jesus’ resurrection these events will occur.44 It is the term “holy city” itself
that pulls us into the realm of the apocalyptic future.
40 Other examples of afterthought appear in 1 Cor 1:16 and 2 Cor 11:32–33.

41 As argued also by Allison, End of the Ages, 45. More recently Allison, along with W. D.
Davies, has changed his mind. See W. D. Davies and Dale C. Allison, A Critical and Exegetical
Commentary on the Gospel According to Saint Matthew (3 vols.; ICC; Edinburgh: T & T Clark,
2000), 3:634–35. Despite the fact that metav k.t.l. appears in almost all manuscripts and versions of
Matthew, they suspect that it is “an early gloss” and “secondary.” They observe that the phrase is
absent from the Diatessaron, Eg. Pap. 3, frg. 1 recto, and the Palestinian Syriac Lectionary. Also
there are early Christian writers such as Ambrose and Ephrem who do not make the resurrection of
the saints subsequent to the resurrection of Jesus. Since metav k.t.l. is so strongly and widely
attested in our earliest manuscripts, I am persuaded that it is original to the text of Matthew. Dis-
cernment of its christological role and character as afterthought follows easily upon the realization
that the raising of the saints in 27:52 is an event of the apocalyptic future.
42 See Allison, End of the Ages, 45.
43 See J. Wenham, “When Were the Saints Raised?” 151. I therefore find reason to go back
one step further than Wenham and place a full stop after “and the earth shook and the rocks were
split” (kai; hJ gh' ejseivsqh kai; aiJ pevtrai ejscivsqhsan), so that even the opening of the tombs does not
occur until after Jesus’ resurrection—an indefinitely long time after.
44 Ambiguity over time between events is characteristic of Matthean apocalyptic (Matt 24:8,
22, 34, 36, 42, 44; 25:13).

X. “And the things that happened” as Editorial Addition
Have we now only made another problem worse? We have argued that the
phrase “and the things that happened,” a reference to events witnessed by the
centurion, must include the opening of the tombs and the raising of the saints.
However, our reinterpretation of Matt 27:52–53 eliminates these events from
the centurion’s view. Indeed, it eliminates these events from the centurion’s
lifetime. Editorially, the phrase “and the things that happened” must include
the opening of the tombs and the raising of the saints, yet when taken literally
in its context, the phrase cannot possibly include these events. The phrase can-
not fulfill its own purpose; taken literally, it is disconnected from its context.
This suggests that the phrase “and the things that happened” is an editorial
addition, and an inept one at that, because it forces the centurion to witness
events he could not possibly have witnessed. The addition could not be from
the same hand that composed the phrase “after his resurrection”—that is, it
could not be from the author we are identifying as Matthew. Matthew added
the phrase “after his resurrection” to make a pre-Matthean fragment consistent
with post-Pauline Christology.45 The phrase “and the things that happened,”
however, is totally disconnected from its context. It was added by someone who
misunderstood and was misled by the placement of “after his resurrection.” It
was added by someone who failed to realize that the opening of the tombs and
the raising of the saints comes not before but after the resurrection of Jesus—
and, as it turns out, an indefinitely long time after the resurrection of Jesus.46 A
coherent reading therefore requires us to excise the phrase “and the things that
happened” from the text. This points to an earlier version of Matt 27:52–54 in
which the centurion was responding only to the earthquake.
And after his resurrection, the tombs were opened and many bodies of the
saints that slept were raised. And coming out of the tombs they entered into
45 Raymond E. Brown seems to believe that the whole of Matt 27:51b–52b is pre-Matthean
and that both the earthquake and the raising of the saints belong to this same pre-Matthean frag-
ment. Yet he maintains that the whole of 27:53 is Matthean. See Raymond E. Brown, The Death of
the Messiah: From Gethsemane to the Grave: A Commentary on the Passion Narratives in the Four
Gospels (ABRL; New York: Doubleday, 1994), 2:1120. I would agree that 27:51b–52b is pre-
Matthean, but not that the earthquake and the raising of the saints belong to the same pre-
Matthean fragment. On my argument, the centurion saw the earthquake of v. 51b, while vv. 52a–53
relate events that are still future. This difference in temporal setting indicates at least two different
pre-Matthean fragments. I also disagree with Brown’s opinion that the whole of v. 53 is Matthean.
Only metav k.t.l. is Matthean. Its awkward yet early placement indicates that it is Matthew’s addi-
tion to an existing tradition.
46 See Troxel, “Matt 27. 51–4 Reconsidered,” 31, 37. Interestingly, Troxel’s treatment of the
phrases ta; genovmena and meta; th;n e[gersin aujtou' is roughly the reverse of mine. He sees the for-
mer as a Matthean composition and the latter as a “scribal insert.”
the holy city and appeared to many. And when the centurion and those with
him guarding Jesus saw the earthquake, they feared greatly, saying, “Truly
this was the Son of God.”
XI. Space–Time Collapse in the First Gospel
On the basis of the foregoing clarifications we can now describe Matt

27:51–54 as a temporally and spatially conflated text. Within this brief span of
verses the apocalyptic future is “folded” into the historic past. Furthermore,
transcendent space is collapsed into earthly space. The resurrection of the
saints and their holy homegoing are fitted between two occurrences on a single
Friday, namely, the earthquake and the centurion’s response. The historic past
becomes an envelope for the apocalyptic future.
Although it may appear strange to the modern reader, temporal-spatial
collapse is not an unusual occurrence in ancient literature. In Sib. Or. 5:414–30
the coming of “a blessed man,” the transmutation of “the city which God
desired,” the creation of “a holy temple,” and “the last time of holy people” con-
stitute a future apocalyptic vision wedged between two events of the oracle’s
past—the destruction of the Second Temple and the decline of “Babylon.”
Because it features the historicized future (a future event related in the past
tense), this passage especially resembles Matt 27:52–53.47 Other ancient litera-
ture also displays aspects of temporal-spatial collapse.48
47 Collins, “Sibylline Oracles,” 390, 403. Collins dates the oracle between 80 and 132 C.E.
Compare also Homer’s use of the historicized future in two places. The first is in the narration of
the destruction of the “great Achaian wall” (mevga tei'co" !Acaiw'n) in Il. 12.12–35: “then verily did
Poseidon and Apollo take counsel to sweep away the wall” (dh; tovte mhtiovwnto Poseidavwn kai;
!Apovllwn tei'co" ajmaldu'nai) (trans. Murray, LCL). The second use occurs when Theoclymenus
prophesies death for the suitors of Penelope in Od. 20.351–55: “Shrouded in night are your heads
and your faces . . . and sprinkled with blood are the walls . . . and the sun has perished out of
heaven” (nukti; me;n uJmevw eijluvatai kefalaiv te provswpav . . . ai{mati d! ejrravdatai toi'coi . . . hjevlei"
de; oujranou' ejxapovlwle) (trans. Murray, LCL). Homer’s use of aorist verbs in these passages
resembles the historicized future of Matt 27:52–53 and Sib. Or. 5:414–30. The difference, how-
ever, is that, despite the temporal leap, these occurrences are still portrayed as events of Homer’s
past.
48 In a different context, Montague Rhodes James referred to one aspect of this literary trait
as “compression of the narrative” (see The Apocryphal New Testament [trans. M. R. James; Oxford:
Clarendon, 1924, 1988], 8). David R. Cartlidge and David L. Dungan refer to a literary trait of
Philostratus as “a common Hellenistic literary gimmick to speed up the passage of time and shift
the scene of action” (Documents for the Study of the Gospels [ed. D. R. Cartlidge and D. L. Dun-
gan; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1980], 234). T. H. Gaster, when discussing the Samaritan colonization
of Israel in 2 Kgs 17, remarks that the Hebrew historian “telescoped” the time of Shalmaneser into
the time of Sargon and contracted several years of colonization into a shorter period of time
(“Samaritans,” IDB 4:191).
Temporal folding, similar to Matt 27:51–54, occurs in Jer 38:13–39:15. The

account of Jeremiah’s audience with Zedekiah (38:14–28), Nebuchadrezzar’s
seige of Jerusalem (39:1–10), and Jeremiah’s transfer to Gedaliah’s custody
(39:11–14) are all folded between two accounts of Jeremiah’s confinement in
the court of the guard in Jerusalem (38:13 and 39:15). In brief, the period from
588 to 586 B.C.E. is sandwiched between two vignettes of Jeremiah in 588
B.C.E.
Temporal folding occurs also in Ezra 4:5–5:1 (Ezra 4:7–24= 1 Esdras 2:16–
30). The story of local opposition to the postexilic rebuilding of Jerusalem dur-
ing the reigns of the Persians Ahasuerus (Xerxes I) and Artaxerxes (4:6–24) is
placed between two reports from the time of Zerubbabel (4:5 and 5:1). A narra-
tive of the period 485–423 B.C.E. is wedged between two reports set in 519
B.C.E.
Spatial folding, another aspect of temporal-spatial collapse, is illustrated

by Matt 4:5–10. Matthew leaves no doubt that he sees the wilderness as a real
place in an earthly space. His narrative of the temptation of Jesus begins (4:1;
cf. Luke 4:1; Mark 1:12) and ends (4:11; cf. Mark 1:13) in an earthly wilderness.
Nevertheless, we are transported with Jesus to a different kind of space, a tran-
scendent, visionary space between this beginning and ending. As I have argued,
this transcendent, visionary space is indicated by reference to the holy city and
the nature of Jesus’ experience on the mountain.
The transfiguration (Matt 17:1–9; Mark 9:2–8; Luke 9:28–36) also consti-
tutes spatial folding. There is no doubt that the “high mountain” is a real place
in an earthly space, and that the scene both begins and ends there (Matt 17:1, 9
par.). In the interval, however, earthly space is displaced by heavenly, visionary
space, as signified by the presence of Moses, Elijah, a bright cloud, and a voice
from heaven, in addition to a metamorphosis in the appearance of Jesus him-
self. Only in Matthew is this intrusion of transcendent space into the earthly
realm is described as a “vision” (o{rama) (Matt 17:9).
Of course, Matt 27:51–54 and the other examples of temporal folding
cited above are also cases of spatial folding. In actuality, all cases of temporal
folding are also cases of spatial folding (while the converse is not necessarily
true) and as the variety of examples shows, these forms of temporal-spatial col-
lapse do not always involve visionary or apocalyptic scenarios. Still, the phe-
nomenon of temporal and spatial folding is nowhere better illustrated than in
Jewish and Christian apocalyptic.
Daniel’s first foray into a transcendent realm apparently begins and ends
in the bed where he lies (7:1, 28). In the meantime he finds himself viewing the
great sea and the throne room of the Ancient of Days, witnessing frightful
images of the future (7:2–27). In subsequent visions, Daniel is taken to Susa by
the River Ulai, where he sees portents of the end of time (8:2, 17), although he
was physically in Babylon (8:27; cf. 7:1). Although he sees future events, he
describes them in the perfect tense: “four great beasts came up (@qls) out of
the sea” (7:3); “an Ancient of Days sat upon (bty) his throne” (7:9); “the beast
was put (tlyjq) to death” (7:11); “a male goat came (ab) from the west” (8:5).
Daniel’s use of the perfect (i.e., the historicized future) is a key to interpreting
the aorist tense of Matt 27:52–53.
In the book of Revelation the seer is in exile on the isle of Patmos, where
he has a series of visions on the Lord’s day. The temporal-spatial frame of his
visions is therefore set within the earthly sphere. However, between the poles
of this earthly frame the seer journeys to the throne room of heaven (4:2), the
temple of God (11:1), a wilderness (17:3), and “a great, high mountain” (21:10).
Each locale is in the supernatural realm. At one point, a thousand years are col-
lapsed into one visionary moment (20:7). Arguably, the book of Revelation con-
tains our most dramatic examples of conflation between earthly and heavenly
space and use of the historic future. It certainly bears close kinship to the apoc-
alyptic sections of the Gospel of Matthew, particularly Matt 27:52–53. The
same space–time displacement occurs in the books of Ezekiel, 1 Enoch, 4 Ezra,
and 2 Baruch. In all of these cases, the space–time locale of the seer in the
natural realm acts as an envelope for vignettes depicting space–time locales in
the supernatural realm. Heavenly space is folded into earthly space. The future
is wedged between points in the historic past. This same literary phenomenon
occurs in Matt 27:52–53. The resurrection of the saints and their entry into the
holy city form a future, apocalyptic scene that is retracted into the past and
pressed between the earthquake and the centurion’s fearful response.
XII. Temporal Acceleration in the First Gospel
A simpler feature of temporal-spatial collapse is temporal acceleration, so

speeding up the passage of time between a past and future point that the span
is ostensibly removed. In this case, the passage of hours or years could occur
almost unnoticed within the span of a verse or two. Temporal acceleration is
certainly a component of Matt 27:52–53. Anchored in the time of the crucifix-
ion and the time of the centurion, the passage suddenly leaps forward to the
apocalyptic future and the general resurrection from the dead. Such temporal
leaps are common in Matthew.49
Again, we are not calling attention to anything unusual in ancient texts. We
find that temporal acceleration is common in both apocalyptic and nonapoca-
lyptic biblical literature. Temporal acceleration occurs between Rev 7:8 and
49 See Witherup, “Death of Jesus,” 582: “First, Matthew’s narrative shows a tendency to jump
ahead and complete a story line that he interjects into the main plot (cf. 14:1–12; 27:3–5).”
7:9. We know that the period of the great tribulation (hJ qli'yi" hJ megavlh) lies
between 7:8 and 7:9 (as we are told in 7:14), even though the seer does not indi-
cate it at this point. This intervening period is more clearly indicated in Rev
14:1–5, 12–13. While the 144,000 are with the Lamb on Mount Zion, the
“saints” must endure a period of martyrdom, the great tribulation (cf. Rev. 6:11;
4 Ezra 2:27). This interval of time is compressed in Rev 7:8–9, when the visions
of the 144,000 and the innumerable multitude (i.e, the martyred Christians)
are almost merged together.
In the Gospel of Luke temporal acceleration occurs between the first res-
urrection appearance (24:49) and the ascension (24:50–51), so that one event
appears to happen very soon after the other. However, the author of Luke
clearly understands that forty days passed between these events (Acts 1:3, 9;
13:31).
It seems that temporal acceleration in some cases in ancient literature has
the same effect as a “flash forward” in a modern novel or video production,
especially when there is a return to the past after flashing the future scene.50
We appear to have such a flash-forwarding purpose realized in Matt 27:52–53.
XIII. A New Hermeneutic for Matthew 27:52–53
A few hermeneutical perplexities remain in Matt 27:52–53, especially as

reinterpreted in this discussion. Matthew’s reference to “many bodies of the
saints that slept” shows that he expects a corporeal event in space-time, not just
an occurrence in the spirit realm, although it is in the spirit realm that these
events will conclude. The qualifier “many” does not suggest that there are
“some” bodies of the saints that slept that will not be raised, but rather that
there are “many other” saintly bodies that have already preceded these risen
ones into the holy city.51 As I shall argue, we have a tacit distinction between
apotheosized “Jewish saints” and risen “Christian saints,” the same distinction
we find in Revelation.
It is at this point that acknowledgment of a narrative relationship between
Matthew and Revelation proves its hermeneutical value. 52 In the cyclical
50 Observe the “flash-forward” effect of Dan 1:21; Luke 3:20; and John 11:52.
51 Contra Keener, Commentary, 685–86. He feels that the qualifier “many” shows that the
raising of the saints is only a prefiguring of the final resurrection.
52 When discussing any part of Matt 27:51–54, scholars tend to refer to a wide range of
Greco-Roman literature, including the Jewish and Christian literature of the second to fourth cen-
turies. Brown, for example, calls attention to reports of eclipses, earthquakes, and other portents in
earth and sky at the death of ancient potentates and notables. See Brown, Death of the Messiah
2:1114–23. He mentions Virgil’s account of portents at the death of Caesar and Cassius Dio’s
account of the same at the death of Claudius. He also calls attention to the Gospel of Nicodemus
visions of the book of Revelation, 144,000 are sealed prior to the great tribula-
tion period (Rev 7:1–8; 14:1–13). They are referred to as “redeemed from
humankind as firstfruits for God and the Lamb” (hjgoravsqhsan ajpo; tw'n ajn-
qrwvpwn ajparch; tw'/ qew'/ kai; tw'/ ajrnivw/) (Rev 14:4; cf. Rom 11:16; Heb 12:23).53
They are actually with the Lord on Mount Zion while the Christian saints
undergo martyrdom (Rev 14:1, 12–13; cf. 6:10–11; 17:6; 18:24; 4 Ezra 2:47).
They do not appear to be souls of the dead, but their “sealing” (ejsfragismevnoi)
is some type of apotheosis (cf. 4 Ezra 2:38–41). It is difficult to know whether
this sealing is itself a resurrection or, perhaps, a “translation” such as experi-
enced by Enoch and Elijah (Gen 5:24; cf. Heb 11:5; 2 Kgs 2:11; 4 Ezra 6:26). If
it is a resurrection, then this would be the Revelator’s way of incorporating the
visions of Isa 26:19; Hos 6:2; Dan 12:2; and Ezek 37:13 (cf. Matt 22:31–32).54
(Acts of Pilate) and other Christian literature that proposes identities for the risen saints of Matt
27:52 and engages in other speculations. Brown rightly regards these Christian speculations as
unnecessary and beside the point. But marshaling parallel or analogous references from the
remaining Greco-Roman corpus, while informative and valuable in itself, may also be somewhat
misleading. As I show in this article, it is the book of Revelation that has the most immediate rele-
vance for interpreting Matt 27:52–53. For this reason, I must disagree with Brown and others that
Ezek 37:12–13 and its pictorial representation in the Dura Europos synagogue are primary keys to
understanding Matt 27:52–53. The prophecy of Ezekiel may play a role in the development of Matt
27:52–53, but it would be indirect and filtered through the narrative background of the book of
Revelation.
53 See Bruce J. Malina and John J. Pilch, Social-Science Commentary on the Book of Revela-
tion (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2000). Locating the author of Revelation within an Israelite appropria-
tion of Babylonian astrological traditions, Malina and Pilch see the 144,000 of Rev 7 as a celestial
community of Israelites who had been “rescued” by God and the Lamb from the calamity poured
out upon the land of Israel (pp. 116, 118). The innumerable multitude are Israelites from “every
nation, tribe, people, and tongue, that is, Israelites from their land as well as exiles, colonists, and
émigrés of earlier generations” (p. 117). They are persecuted righteous ones who persevere and
whose destiny is to join the 144,000 as stars or starlike in the heavens (p. 118). However, the
144,000 of Rev 7 are to be distinguished from the 144,000 of Rev 14. These latter are from among
those “sons of God” in Gen 6:1–4 who did not cohabit with the “daughters of men” in the antedilu-
vian period (pp. 154, 180). They are with the Lamb on the celestial Mount Zion in the heavenly
Jerusalem (p. 180). Malina and Pilch describe chs. 12–16 as an editorial insertion quite unrelated to
the contents of the first insertion (chs. 4–11) (p. 155). Malina and Pilch’s thesis deserves a more
thorough examination than can be provided in this article. Here I can only agree that the 144,000
and the innumerable multitude of Rev 7 are two distinct groups; and whether or not the 144,000 of
Rev 7 and Rev 14 are the same, in Rev 14 they are already resident in the celestial Jerusalem. I am
persuaded by David A. deSilva’s assessment of Malina’s thesis: “The wholesale emphasis on the sky
also becomes a liability in Malina’s presentation of the ‘message’ of Revelation. One expects the
first-century hearers to understand John’s vision as resonating with a broad spectrum of back-
grounds, especially Jewish Scripture, mythology, and the socio-political context of urban people
under Roman domination” (review of Bruce J. Malina, On the Genre and Message of Revelation:
Star Visions and Sky Journeys, JBL 116 [1997]: 764).
54 Later, in rabbinic thought, the vision of Ezekiel in the Valley of Dry Bones was interpreted
as a resurrection. See b. Sanh 90b, where the vision of Ezekiel is considered a possible fulfillment
Furthermore, they would still be part of the first resurrection despite the inter-
val between their sealing and the raising of the Christian martyrs.55 At least two
things are clear: their “sealing” is definitely a removal from the calamities of the
coming tribulation period (Rev 7:3), and it also involves a relocation to a celes-
tial Mount Zion where they stand in the company of the Lamb (Rev 14:1).
In the book of Revelation, the “sealing” of the Jewish saints and the resur-
rection of the Christian martyrs are separated by a period known as the “great
tribulation” (Rev 6:9–10; 7:14; 14:12–13). The seer understands the Christian
saints as those martyred during the great tribulation (Rev 6:9–11; 7:9–17; 17:6;
18:24; cf. 4 Ezra 2:42–48). They are “the dead who die in the Lord” (Rev
14:13); they are the final phase of the first resurrection (Rev 20:4–6; cf. 4 Ezra
2:23); and they will reign with Christ a thousand years (Rev 20:6). Meanwhile,
during the tribulation, the Jewish saints are with the Lord on a celestial Mount
Zion. They are therefore two different communities.56 Since heavenly realities
clearly correspond to earthly realities in the book of Revelation, and since the
top of the earthly Mount Zion is located within the walls of the earthly
Jerusalem, we can only conclude that the top of this celestial Mount Zion is
located within the walls of the celestial Jerusalem, that is, the holy city (cf. Heb
12:22).57 This is at least reminiscent of the vision of the prophet Micah, where
the eschatological Mount Zion is the site of the eschatological temple of
Jerusalem (Mic 4:1–13). The 144,000—the Jewish saints—are therefore
already with the Lord in the holy city prior to the period of tribulation and
Christian martyrdom.58
of Isa 26:19. In other debate (b. Sanh 92a–92b) it was interpreted as “a parable,” and in further dis-
cussion (b. Sanh 92b), it was considered a resuscitation: “R. Eliezer the son of R. Jose the Galilean
said: The dead whom Ezekiel revived went up to Palestine, married wives and begat sons and
daughters. R. Judah b. Bathyra rose up and said: I am one of their descendents, and these are the
tefillin which my grandfather left me [as a heirloom] from them.” See Sanhedrin, vol. 2 (trans. H.
Freedman; London: Soncino, 1935), 605, 618–19.
55 See 3 En. 44:1–8, where Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, and others of the righteous dead have
been “raised from their graves” and are already ascended into heaven where they intercede for
Diaspora Israel (P. Alexander, “3 (Hebrew Apocalypse of) Enoch,” OTP, 295).
56 See Josephine Massyngberde Ford, Revelation: Introduction, Translation, and Commen-
tary (AB 38; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1975), 126–27. Ford sees the 144,000 as an “Israel-
remnant,” while the multitude are the “diaspora from every nation.” G. R. Beasley-Murray believes
that although Rev 7:1–8 may have originally been “a Jewish prophetic oracle, affirming Israel’s part
in the Kingdom of God,” the Revelator identifies them with the innumerable multitude (The Book
of Revelation [London: Oliphants, 1974], 140–41). Beasley-Murray believes that both groups are
“representations of the Church.” Adela Yarbro Collins also identifies one group with the other (The
Combat Myth in the Book of Revelation [HDR 9; Missoula, MT: Scholars Press, 1976], 34). She
says, “Each of these visions describes the salvation of the elect.”
57 See Malina and Pilch, Social-Science Commentary, 17. “The principle is, as in the sky so on
the earth (see Matt 6:10: ‘on earth as it is in heaven’). One may also work backward: if on the earth
so in the sky.”
58 The same distinction between an Israelite community that already inhabits the heavenly
The resurrected saints of Rev 20:9 are clearly the martyred Christians of
20:4. While they are temporarily under seige in the beloved city (the eschato-
logical Jerusalem), the 144,000 Jewish saints are obviously still on top of Mount
Zion in the new Jerusalem (14:1); and they descend with the holy city in 21:2.
In Rev 21:24–26, the redeemed nations of the earth enter the holy city. This
recalls the common vision of Jewish eschatology where the nations of the earth
enter the eschatological Jerusalem (Isa 60:3–22; 62:2; Zech 8:20–23; Tob 13:11;
14:6–7). The point, however, is that in Isaiah, Zechariah, and Tobit there are
people already in the city when the redeemed nations arrive, namely, the
descendants of Israel. Apparently the Revelator recasts these Israelite descen-
dants as the 144,000. Given the thematic convergences between the apocalyp-
tic sections of Matthew and the book of Revelation, the many who are in the
holy city when the risen saints arrive (Matt 27:52–53) would have to be identi-
cal or at least analogous to the 144,000.59
Therefore, contrary to previous interpretations, the resurrection in Matt
27:52–53 is not that of Jewish saints or heroes; it is that of the Christian saints.60
Further corroboration of their identity as Christians is provided by the overall
meaning of a{gioi (Hebrew: !y`dq) in earliest Christian literature. The term
a{gioi occurs sixty-one times in the NT. $Agioi occurs four times in Acts (9:13,
32, 41; 26:20) and thirteen times in Revelation (5:8; 8:3, 4; 11:18; 13:7, 10;
14:12; 15:3; 16:6; 17:6; 18:24; 19:8; 20:9); the singular form of the term occurs
once in Phil (4:21). Matthew 27:53 is the only occurrence of the term in the
Gospels. Virtually every occurrence of the term in the NT is a reference to
believers in Christ. Jude 14, which is a reapplication of 1 En. 1:9, may be the
only exception (cf. Zech 14:5). There are no grounds then for excluding
Matthew from the overwhelmingly traditional use of the term a{gioi (“saints”).
Therefore, the resurrection in Matt 27:53 is the resurrection of Christian saints.
Jerusalem and a Christian community that joins them later seems to appear also in Heb 12:23.
Here the author refers to “the assembly of the firstborn who are enrolled in the heavens”
(ejkklhsiva/ prwtotovkwn ajpogegrammevnwn ejn oujranoi'") in contrast to “the spirits of the righteous
made perfect” (pneuvmasi dikaivwn teteleiwmevnwn). In context, there is one other resident commu-
nity in the heavenly Jerusalem that is referred to first, namely, “myriads of angels in festal gather-
ing” (muriavsin ajggevlwn panhguvrei) (12:22).
59 Brown finds that overlooking the phrase “they were made visible to many” in 27:53d is “the
fatal flaw” in the idea of the holy city as the “new, heavenly Jerusalem.” He feels that this phrase
indicates an appearance in the “earthly Jerusalem.” See Brown, Death of the Messiah, 2:1131. As I
argue, once we recognize the narrative relationship between the Gospel of Matthew and the book
of Revelation, it becomes relatively easy to discern the future, apocalyptic setting and character of
the holy city, the risen saints, and “the many.”
60 See Bruce J. Malina and Richard L. Rohrbaugh, who observe that the term “saints who
have fallen asleep” in Matt 27:52 is a “designation” for followers of Jesus (Social-Science Commen-
tary on the Synoptic Gospels [Minneapolis: Fortress, 1992], 165).
When they enter the holy city the saints shall appear (ejnefanivsqhsan) to
many.61 The impression is that these many (polloiv, polloi'") are already in the
holy city and are there to receive the new arrivals.62 These many can be none
other than the Jewish saints who preceded the Christian martyrs into the holy
city (cf. Rom 1:16; 2:10; 11:26). Early Christian apocalyptic leaves no option for
identifying them as any other than the 144,000 or an analogous group. Matthew
27:52–53 is therefore a drastically apocopated version of Rev 21:2–27 and con-
text; indeed, it is an apocalyptic apostrophe.
XIV. Near Parallels to Matthew 27:52–53
A striking near parallel to Matt 27:52–53 as presently reinterpreted

appears in 2 Bar. 50:3–4, where the “Mighty One” explains to the seer that after
the resurrection the risen ones will retain their earthly appearance so that they
can recognize one another (50:4). A. F. J. Klijn calls attention to a similar idea in
Ps.-Philo 62.9, where Jonathan affirms before David that their souls will know
each other in the resurrection.63 However, the Mighty One also declares to
Baruch another purpose for retaining the earthly appearance of the risen ones,
namely, “to show those who live that the dead are living again, and that those
who went away have come back” (50:3). We therefore have a distinction
between a community that “went away” and “came back,” on the one hand, and
a community that had always been there, on the other. Afterwards, the risen
ones will be “changed into any shape which they wished, from beauty to loveli-
61 Witherup and Botha, who refer to Matt 27:51–53 as a crux interpretum in Matthew, have
analyzed the semantic domain of ejnefanivsqhsan (ejmfanivzw) in Matt 27:53. Witherup especially
focuses on the senses of the term as “appearing” and “testifying against.” He maintains that “the
purpose of the saints rising is to testify against Jerusalem for the rejection of Jesus.” Witherup yet
sees no difference in kind between the saints rising and mere resuscitations (“Death of Jesus,” 582;
see also his n. 28). Botha finds that the supernatural character of both the bodies of the saints and
their appearance is the chief implication of the term. The causative meaning of the term “to make
appear, to make visible, to cause to be seen” is indicated by Louw and Nida, and this is the determi-
native sense. To translate the term “they appeared” (Afrikaans: verskyn) accentuates this causative
meaning. The saints are raised with glorified bodies to the nonvisible plane like Jesus, and like Jesus
they were humanly seen only when made visible. Botha, however, would have these appearances
occur in the earthly realm in the historic past (“’n Opstanding,” 277, 280–81). There is no question
that semantic analysis of ejmfanivzw greatly assists the unraveling of Matt 27:51–53. However, such
analysis can also be misleading without key observations that pull the appearance of the risen saints
into the apocalyptic future.
62 In the late Second Temple period it was still believed that Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob were
alive in heaven and that they would welcome the righteous dead into their community (4 Macc
7:19; 13:17; 16:25).
63 See A. F. J. Klijn, “2 (Syriac Apocalypse of) Baruch,” OTP, 638.
ness, and from light to the splendor of glory” (51:10).64 This raises questions
about the whereabouts and identity of “those who live.” Whoever and wherever
they are, they are an eschatological community distinct from the risen ones
(what other kind of community would be waiting around after a resurrection?),
and it is not until after this resurrection that they have the joy of welcoming
those who are resurrected into their already existing fellowship (cf. Matt
22:31–32). Usually in Jewish eschatology “those who live” would be understood
as the inhabitants of eschatological Jerusalem, while “the risen ones” would be
the righteous of the Gentile nations (Isa 60:3–22; 62:2; Zech 8:20–23; Tob
13:11; 14:6–7). In 2 Baruch, however, “those who live” and “the risen ones”
seem to be two distinct Jewish groups.65
In 4 Ezra the prophet has a vision of an innumerable multitude of nations
gathered for war against the Messiah (13:5, 34). The multitudinous onslaught is
destroyed, however, by fire from the Messiah’s mouth (13:10–11; cf. Rev 20:7–
10). The Messiah then appears with the ten lost tribes of Israel on top of Mount
Zion (13:12–13, 36, 39–40; cf. Rev 14:1). The phrase “my Son or those who are
with him” (13:52) indicates that these Israelites are already with the Messiah
when he makes his appearance, and that they are a separate community from
the earthbound others who will be saved. The Lord speaks to Ezra of this earth-
bound other community saying, “But those who are left of your people, who are
found within my holy borders, shall be saved” (13:48). Ezra will be “taken up
from among humankind” to, as he is told, be with “those who are like you and to
live with my Son until the times are ended” (14:9). The prophet is therefore
taken up to join the ten tribes on Mount Zion. This is obviously some form of
apotheosis, especially since he is taken up from among humans and made to
“escape from these times” (14:15; cf. Rev 7:3).66 The reference to “the times” or
“these times” (14:9, 15) recalls the “times of the Gentiles” or the tribulation
period (Luke 21:24; Rev 11:2). We therefore have the strong impression of two
distinct eschatological communities, one that is already with the Messiah on
Mount Zion, and the other that is still on earth enduring tribulation and waiting
to join those who inhabit Mount Zion. The members of the earthbound com-
munity are not Gentiles, however. It seems that in 4 Ezra, as in 2 Baruch, the
redeemed Gentile nations have been replaced by a Jewish remnant.
Further clarity may come from T. Mos. 4:8–9, where the two Judah tribes
(Judah and Benjamin) return to Jerusalem from captivity (cf. Ezra 1:5). Mean-
64 Ibid., 637–38.
65 This may be attributable to anti-Gentile feelings after the destruction of Jerusalem in 70
C.E. Similar anti-Gentile sentiments occur in the Deuteronomistic history and the book of Ezra,
among others (Deut 7:1–6; Josh 23:11–13; 1 Kgs 11:1–8; Ezra 9:10–15; cf. 2 Bar. 13:5; 68:7; 72:4;
82:2).
66 Bruce M. Metzger, “The Fourth Book of Ezra,” OTP, 551–54.
while the ten lost tribes remain scattered in captivity, where they increase and
multiply. After periods of apostasy and persecution for the two Judah tribes,
God finally appears in 10:1–10 to destroy Satan and regather the whole people
of Israel. This is clearly an apocalyptic event in which all Israel undergoes an
apotheosis. They are “exalted” by God and taken to “the heaven of the stars.”
The Gentiles, as enemies of Israel, are consigned to Gehenna. Israel shall look
upon them from their exalted place and rejoice.
There is no mention of a heavenly Jerusalem in the Testament of Moses;
nevertheless “the heaven of the stars” is the regathering place for the twelve
tribes.67 If the Testament of Moses, 2 Baruch, and 4 Ezra are drawing upon a
common tradition, then the latter two have placed an interval between the
apotheosis of the ten lost tribes and the two Judah tribes. They have further-
more made the ten lost tribes a community that precedes the two Judah tribes
into glory. The ten lost tribes are already in place to receive and welcome the
two Judah tribes in the end. As in the Testament of Moses, there seems to be no
recognition nor role for righteous Gentiles.
These passages in 2 Baruch, 4 Ezra, and the Testament of Moses are so
thematically close to Matt 27:52–53 that either there is some dependence
between them or they share a common narrative background. Since there are
no clear indications of direct dependence between Matthew, 2 Baruch, 4 Ezra,
and the Testament of Moses, a common narrative tradition is the most likely
case. The book of Revelation represents a Christian appropriation of this back-
ground and, as such, provides the missing substance of Matt 27:52–53. The
many residents of the holy city in Matt 27:53 are either the 144,000 Israelites of
the book of Revelation or an analogous community, and the risen saints are
those martyred Christians who were slain in the great tribulation.
XV. An Alternative Reading
Interpretations of Matt 27:52–53 as “historical fiction,” “theology in the

guise of history,” or even “a Matthean composition” miss the point and misrep-
resent the character of the passage. Matthew 27:52–53 is the same kind of
apocalyptic prophecy that we find in Rev 21:2–27 and context. It is not history,
nor is it presented as history. The ragged fit of 27:52–53 in its context and the
cipher of the holy city are literary signals that evoke a new reading. In reality,
this reading is only new to contemporary readers, as shown by the author of Sib.
Or. 8:218– 28, 305–21, 412–28. The sparse, awkward character of the passage
67 R. H. Charles, “The Assumption of Moses,” APOT, 421; see n. 7:1; and J. Priest, “Testa-
ment of Moses,” OTP, 931–32.

also indicates that Matthew was adapting a fragment of earlier tradition. If this
were his composition, he would have given us a smoother, fuller pericope.
This discussion is part of a larger debate over the character of the Gospels
and the Gospel writers themselves. Do the Gospel writers ever present theol-
ogy as history? Do they ever invent historical events? A final answer to these
questions will require a much larger foundation than laid out in this article.
Nevertheless, this much can be said: Matt 27:52–53, on this reading, can be
eliminated as evidence that Matthew invented historical events. He saw the
raising of the saints and their entry into the holy city not as an event of his past
but as an event of the apocalyptic future.
JBL 122/3 (2003) 517–531
“TO DIE IS GAIN” (PHILIPPIANS 1:19–26):

DOES PAUL CONTEMPLATE SUICIDE?
N. CLAYTON CROY
ccroy@trinitylutheranseminary.edu
Columbus, OH 43209
Although much of the world’s great religious literature has probably been
composed in quiet monasteries and well-appointed studies, prison cells have
been the unlikely site of noteworthy writing too. Over three hundred years ago,
John Bunyan wrote the classic Pilgrim’s Progress from a jail cell in Bedford,
England. In the twentieth century one can point to Dietrich Bonhoeffer,
Martin Niemöller, and Martin Luther King, Jr., all of whom wrote letters from
prison cells. Although circumstances of confinement, deprivation, and mortal
jeopardy do not by themselves make a saint out of a rogue nor a literary artist
out of a rube, they can help those already possessing religious and literary sensi-
tivities to perceive what is essential, and they certainly provide ample time for
its contemplation.
Bunyan wrote from Bedford; Bonhoeffer from Berlin; King from Birming-
ham; and Paul wrote his Epistle to the Philippians from Rome . . . or Ephesus
. . . or perhaps Caesarea. The provenance of Paul’s letter to the Philippians is a
matter of some debate.1 Its date is likewise uncertain, with suggestions ranging
from 50 C.E. to the early 60s depending on the place of composition. But wher-
ever and whenever this epistle was written, it bears the marks of correspon-
dence from prison. This is most evident in Paul’s explicit mention of his
“chains” four times in the first chapter (1:7, 13, 14, 17), but imprisonment is
also consistent with Paul’s wrestling with his own mortality, the prospect of his
death, and the continuance, or perhaps the termination, of his life’s work. In a
brief passage, Phil 1:19–26, Paul reflects on these “big questions” that are at the
same time universal and yet intensely personal. In doing so, he verges on solilo-
1 In addition to the standard discussions in commentaries, introductions, and reference
works, see the recent argument for a Roman provenance by Richard J. Cassidy, Paul in Chains:
Roman Imprisonment and the Letters of St. Paul (New York: Crossroad, 2001), 124–42.
517
quy, penning thoughts that sound more appropriate in a diary than in a letter to
a congregation.2
But what are the precise questions, and what are the alternatives that Paul
contemplates in Phil 1:19–26? Commentators have struggled with this text, at
least in part because of their discomfort with Paul’s talk of “choosing death.”3
Does the apostle have the power to choose or only a preference in the face of
compulsion? If he has a choice, how might it be exercised? The first eighteen
verses of the epistle provide part of the context for understanding this passage.
After a salutation and greeting, Paul thanks the Philippians for their part-
nership in the gospel (1:1–11). There is evident affection between the apostle
and this congregation. It was an affection of some duration (“from the first day
until now” [v. 5]); it transcended the vicissitudes of Paul’s career (“both in my
imprisonment and in the defense and confirmation of the gospel” [v. 7]); and it
was accompanied by eschatological hope (“the day of [Jesus] Christ” [vv. 2, 10]).
Because of that affection and partnership (cf. 4:15–16) the Philippians
would naturally be concerned about Paul’s imprisonment. It might also have
been the case that Paul feared that the plight of the messenger would cast sus-
picion on the message. In any event, the apostle moves to reassure them that
his imprisonment, far from being a discouraging setback, has actually served to
advance the gospel (1:12–18). As a result, the religious dimension of his incar-
ceration has become common knowledge. Others have been emboldened by
Paul’s imprisonment and have entered the fray of gospel proclamation. Paul
concedes that not all of these neophyte evangelists are properly motivated, but
he nevertheless rejoices in the result: Christ is proclaimed.
Joy and rejoicing are prominent in this epistle. Carav, caivrw, and the com-
pound verb, sugcaivrw, occur a total of sixteen times in Philippians. It is with a
double expression of joy that Paul makes a transition to v. 19. “In this I rejoice”
(1:18a) is a reflection on the present circumstance of the gospel’s proclamation
despite Paul’s imprisonment. “Yes, and I will continue to rejoice” (1:18b) arises
from Paul’s anticipation of swthriva.
The swthriva of which Paul speaks (v. 19) has sometimes been understood
as his expectation of release from prison.4 Although it is clear that Paul does
anticipate release (1:25–26; 2:24), his use of swthriva here probably refers to
2 Thomas F. Dailey refers to this passage as “Paul’s existential soliloquy” in “the theater of
life” (“To Live or Die: Paul’s Eschatological Dilemma in Philippians 1:19–26,” Int 44 [1990]:
18–28; see p. 18).
3 A brief survey of some interpretations is provided by Craig S. Wansink, Chained in Christ:
The Experience and Rhetoric of Paul’s Imprisonments (JSNTSup 130; Sheffield: Sheffield Aca-
demic Press, 1996), 97–100.
4 See, e.g., Gerald F. Hawthorne, Philippians (WBC 43; Dallas: Word, 1983), 39–40.
Croy: “To Die Is Gain” (Philippians 1:19–26) 519
something more transcendent, such as ultimate vindication or salvation. 5

Among the reasons for this is Paul’s hope, expressed in v. 20, that Christ will be
exalted in his body “whether by life or by death.” If swthriva is independent of
Paul’s life or death, it cannot have its primary referent in Paul’s escape from
mortal jeopardy.6
A second factor in discerning the significance of Paul’s language here is
recognizing the presence of an intertextual echo. As several commentators
have observed, part of v. 19 (tou'tov moi ajpobhvsetai eij" swthrivan, “This will
turn out for my deliverance” NRSV) is identical to Job 13:16 in the LXX.7 If
Paul understands his experience as in some way parallel to Job’s, he apparently
assumes the role of the righteous sufferer, for which Job was the paradigm,
specifically a sufferer who “was afflicted by pious homilizers” (cf. 1:14–17).8
Paul’s echo of Job 13:16 likewise favors an understanding of swthriva as some
sort of ultimate vindication in a heavenly, more so than an earthly, court.9 In any
event, while Paul’s diction derives from Scripture, his joy is grounded in the
community’s prayers, the Spirit’s provision, and his eschatological hope.
But despite this expression of joy and hope in vv. 19–20b, the last few
words of v. 20 pose stark alternatives and raise the specter of a dire outcome.
“By life or by death” the apostle expects Christ to be exalted. Verse 21 explains
(gavr) how Paul can expect these utterly contrary alternatives, both life and
death, to have a positive effect. The explanation comes by way of further defin-
ing what he means by zwhv and qavnato". These antithetical nouns of v. 20 are
replaced by their corresponding infinitives in v. 21: “For to me, to live (zh'n) is
Christ and to die (ajpoqanei'n) is gain.” One might have hoped for a more lucid
explanation! Verse 21 is nearly as cryptic and terse as the clause it purports to
explain, offering a single predicative word for each of the two alternatives.
What does Paul mean when he writes “to live is Christ” and “to die is
5 So BDAG, 986; K. H. Schelkle, “swthriva,” EDNT 3:328; Werner Foerster, “swv/zw,” TDNT
7:993 n.122; Dailey, “To Live or Die,” 20; and Markus Bockmuehl, The Epistle to the Philippians
(BNTC; Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1998), 81. The argument for a more transcendent meaning
for swthriva is fully laid out by Moisés Silva (Philippians [Grand Rapids: Baker, 1992], 76–79).
6 I might also point out that the ubiquitous habit of English translations to add the possessive
“my” to the word “deliverance” or “release” may not be justified here. The dative moi before the
verb in v. 19 has a nuance slightly different from that which the genitive mou with the substantive
would have. It may be an ethical dative with the sense of “as far as I am concerned.” Cf. ejmoiv in
1:21.
7 E.g., Joachim Gnilka, Der Philipperbrief (HTKNT 10/3; Freiburg: Herder, 1968), 65–66;
Jean-François Collange, The Epistle of Saint Paul to the Philippians (London: Epworth, 1979), 59;
and especially Richard B. Hays, Echoes of Scripture in the Letters of Paul (New Haven: Yale Uni-
versity Press, 1989), 21–24.
8 Hays, Echoes, 22–23.
9 So David E. Garland, “Philippians 1:1–26: The Defense and Confirmation of the Gospel,”
RevExp 77 (1980): 327–36, esp. 333.

gain”? With regard to the first alternative, appeal has sometimes been made too
quickly to other Pauline texts, such as Gal 2:20, where Paul asserts that he does
not live, but rather Christ lives mystically in him. A simpler solution is to see
Phil 1:22a as the fuller explanation we desired. Here the infinitive (to; zh'n) is
repeated with the modifier ejn sarkiv. “Life in the flesh,” here meaning simply
mortal existence, offers Paul the opportunity of fruitful labor. In other words,
for Paul, “to live is Christ” because life presents the opportunity to proclaim
Christ, to labor in his name among the churches, and to bear fruit until Christ
returns. “To live is Christ” because everything Paul does involves Christ and is
for his sake. The sense of 1:22a may, therefore, be more practical than mysti-
cal.10
The first alternative—“to live is Christ”—is explained, then, by v. 22a. But
what explains the second alternative—“to die is gain”? Paul does not provide a
neat, syntactically balanced clause such as eij de; to; ajpoqanei'n. Instead, the
apostle soliloquizes, lamenting the dilemma created by the alternatives: “I do
not know which I prefer. I am hard pressed between the two.” Then comes a
clause that, strictly speaking, is subordinate to the lament: “Having the desire to
depart and be with Christ, for that is better by far.” This participial clause,
though not grammatically parallel with eij de; to; zh'n in v. 22a, clearly serves as a
restatement of the second alternative: “to die is gain.” To; ajnalu'sai kai; su;n
Cristw/' ei\nai restates and elaborates to; ajpoqanei'n. Death is “better by far,”
that is, gain, for Paul because through it he would be su;n Cristw'/. Finally, the
apostle asserts in v. 24 that a greater necessity accompanies the first alternative
and, therefore, he chooses it.
A traditional interpretation of Phil 1:19–26 thus assumes these alterna-
tives. “To live” pertains to Paul’s being acquitted in his trial and released from
prison for further missionary activity. “To die” would then refer to Paul’s convic-
tion and execution. The reason why “dying is gain” is because dying entails
“being with Christ.” By making such inferences and taking the apostle’s expla-
nations more or less at face value, traditional exegetes reach a plausible inter-
pretation. But this interpretation has been challenged on two fronts.
D. W. Palmer has argued that it is not clear how “being with Christ” (v. 23)
is a gain for Paul, since the apostle has already equated earthly life with Christ
in v. 21.11 Since Paul affirms a general resurrection in which all Christians will
be united with Christ at the time of his coming, what advantage could there be
in Paul’s death prior to that time? Palmer suggests that the reason could be
inferred not from the context of the epistle but from the context of Greco-
10 Samuel Vollenweider, “Die Waagschalen von Leben und Tod,” ZNW 85 (1994): 93–115,
esp. 99.
11 D. W. Palmer, “‘To Die Is Gain’ (Philippians i 21),” NovT 17 (1975): 203–18.
Roman antiquity. Palmer adduces a large number of texts to establish the

Greco-Roman topos that death is gain because through it a person escapes life’s
troubles. The evidence is indeed significant: a raft of references found in lyri-
cal, dramatic, philosophical, rhetorical, and historical texts spanning several
centuries. Palmer then appeals to indications within Philippians that Paul
found his earthly life burdensome: references to his imprisonment, affliction,
sufferings, grief, deprivation, and the like. Finally, Palmer reads Phil 1:21
against the background of this topos, concluding that, although Paul does not
make an explicit connection, death is a gain for him “not because of any closer
union with Christ,” but “because it brings release from earthly troubles.”12
The second challenge to the traditional exegesis comes from Arthur J.
Droge and concerns not the reason why Paul considered death gain, but the
means by which Paul might experience death. In an article on Paul and ancient
theories of suicide,13 Droge surveys a number of classical and Hellenistic
sources, beginning with the influential text of Plato’s Phaedo 61–62. In this text
Socrates regards suicide as impermissible (ouj qemitovn) unless god sends some
necessity (ajnavgkh) upon a person, a situation such as the one which Socrates
himself faces at that moment. Elsewhere in Plato it is suggested that suicide
might also be permitted in cases of official coercion, devastating misfortune, or
intolerable shame (Laws 873C). Droge’s survey proceeds through Aristotle and
various Cynic and Stoic philosophers, giving special attention to Seneca, Paul’s
Stoic contemporary. The passage in Plato’s Phaedo is found to have exerted an
influence on much subsequent discussion of suicide, serving “both as a justifi-
cation for and as a means of moderating against the practice.”14
In the latter half of his article, Droge examines the biblical data, especially
Phil 1:21–26. He notes correctly that “Paul’s reflections on death do not arise
from the fact that he faces imminent execution.”15 Full weight, says Droge,
must be given to the phrase, “yet which I shall choose I cannot tell” (1:22). This
language, combined with the fact that Paul faces no threat of execution, leads
Droge to believe that the matter is entirely one of Paul’s own volition. Thus, the
apostle appears to be reflecting on the possibility of suicide. Paul rejects this
alternative only because of the greater necessity (ajnagkaiovteron, 1:24) that
service to the churches imposes on him. Droge concludes that in Phil 1:21–26
Paul not only contemplates suicide before rejecting it, but leaves the door open
to a verdict in favor of suicide if the necessity should shift from “remaining” to
12 Ibid., 218.
13 Arthur J. Droge, “Mori Lucrum: Paul and Ancient Theories of Suicide,” NovT 30 (1988):
262–86.
14 Ibid., 274.
15 Ibid., 279.
“departing.” “It is not the case therefore that Paul rejects suicide per se, only
that it is not (yet) the proper context for such an act.”16
But objections have been raised against the provocative theses of Palmer
and Droge.17 Even if one grants (as I would) that Palmer successfully estab-
lishes the Greco-Roman topos of death as a release from one’s hardships, the
question remains whether Paul presupposes this. Palmer acknowledges that an
explicit connection is lacking, but argues that “if the idea of death as a gain is a
commonplace, the usual reason may be assumed in the Philippian context, pro-
vided that such a reading is consistent with other indications in the letter.”18 A
list of such indications is then given, including passages in Philippians where
Paul mentions his “chains,” “distress,” “hardships,” “suffering,” “need,” and
“grief.”
But Palmer’s list does not bear up under scrutiny. None of the references
to Paul’s chains in ch. 1 has the function of bemoaning his condition. Indeed,
the emphasis of Paul’s remarks is the positive benefit resulting from his chains,
namely, the advance of the gospel (v. 12) and the increased confidence of other
preachers (v. 14). Paul seems unaffected by the distress (qlivyi") others would
inflict on him in 1:17, and in 4:10–14 he affirms the sufficiency of the Lord’s
empowerment and the kindness of the Philippians’ assistance in meeting vari-
ous hardships. In 1:29 suffering for Christ is regarded as a gracious gift; in 3:10
partnership in Christ’s sufferings is something Paul wants to know, not escape.
Paul twice mentions his need (creiva, 2:25; 4:16), but only in reference to the
Philippians’ repeated fulfilling of it. He speaks of grief (luvph, 2:27) in relation
to the near fatal illness of Epaphroditus, but this was grief that he was spared.
In 2:17 Paul speaks of “being poured out as a libation” over the sacrifice and
offering of the Philippians’ faith. But this is a concessive clause, and the ensuing
clauses contain a dual confession of rejoicing and a dual command that the
Philippians rejoice, the greatest concentration of such language in the entire
letter. In short, Palmer’s “indications” that Paul found his earthly life a burden
from which he longed to escape are seriously undermined by the apostle’s own
words. Palmer cites lexical data without attending to broader contextual mean-
16 Droge, “Mori Lucrum,” 283. Rodney R. Reeves also suggested that Paul was considering
suicide, but he neither drew upon Droge nor developed the thesis (“To be or not to be? That Is Not
the Question: Paul’s Choice in Philippians 1:22,” PRSt 19 [1992]: 273–89; see 273 n. 3 and 285). In
a separate article Droge spins out a fabulous theory conjecturing that Paul did in fact commit sui-
cide (“Did Paul Commit Suicide?” BRev [December 1989]: 14–21, 42). Whatever one thinks of this
particular scenario regarding Paul, suicide of prisoners was not necessarily uncommon in antiquity.
See Cassidy, Paul in Chains, 53; Wansink, Chained in Christ, 58–61; and Jens-Uwe Krause,
Gefängnisse im Römischen Reich (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner, 1996), 302–3.
17 See the critique of Palmer in Peter T. O’Brien (The Epistle to the Philippians: A Commen-
tary on the Greek Text [NIGTC; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1992], 122–23).
18 Palmer, “‘To Die Is Gain,’” 217.
ing and mood. The alleged escapist urge is, as Gordon Fee writes, “a note that
cannot be found elsewhere in Paul’s letters, nor in this one; indeed, it is alto-
gether foreign to the context and to the theme of joy that pervades the
whole.”19
The case of Epaphroditus constitutes a second and incidental argument
against Palmer’s thesis. By Paul’s own description, Epaphroditus very nearly
died for the work of Christ (hjsqevnhsen paraplhvsion qanavtw/, 2:27; mevcri
qanavtou h[ggisen, 2:30) and, moreover, was distressed (ajdhmonw'n, 2:26) at the
thought of causing the Philippians grief. The prospect of Epaphroditus’s death,
however, was scarcely viewed by Paul as a way his partner might escape earthly
hardships. Indeed, as mentioned above, his death would have meant “sorrow
upon sorrow” for Paul. There is not the slightest indication that Epaphroditus
might have been better off to slip free from the bonds of a troublesome mortal
existence.
A third weakness of Palmer’s argument is that it deprives the expression
“depart and be with Christ” of any meaning beyond being “in Christ.” We must
grant that the precise significance of “being with Christ” prior to the parousia is
unclear in Paul. Nevertheless, it is methodologically unsound to import an
explanation from Greco-Roman literature (death as an escape from earth’s
hardships) that is foreign to Paul’s stated explanation, simply because the mean-
ing of Paul’s explanation is not immediately clear. Paul obviously reckoned with
the fact of Christians dying prior to the parousia (1 Thess 4:16; 1 Cor 15: 51–52;
2 Cor 5:8). Whether Paul thought the so-called intermediate state would be a
somatic or nonsomatic existence and just how it would be “better by far” than
Paul’s present life in Christ are complex theological questions for which we
have meager data.20 What is clear, however, is that the apostle regards this exis-
tence as superior to mortal life.
Droge’s thesis has been criticized on similar grounds. The pervasive mood
of joy in Philippians hardly seems compatible with the contemplation of sui-
cide. Neither does Paul’s diction in 1:21–26 offer significant support for
Droge’s interpretation. His rendering of ejpiqumiva eij" to; ajnalu'sai as Paul’s
“lust for death” is tendentious.21 It is misleading for three reasons. (1) The
19 Gordon D. Fee, Paul’s Letter to the Philippians (NICNT; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans,
1995), 140 n. 7. See also Dailey, “To Live or Die,” 24–25.

20 The data that exist, however, suggest that Paul is speaking of existence apart from the flesh
or the (earthly) body (Phil 1:22, 24; 2 Cor 5:1–8). On the meaning of being “with Christ,” see the
appendix in O’Brien, Epistle to the Philippians, 132–37; and Jacques Dupont, SUN CRISTWI:
L’union avec le Christ suivant Saint Paul (Bruges: Éditions de l’Abbaye de Saint-André, 1952), esp.
171–91.
21 Droge, “Mori Lucrum,” 282. See also A. J. Droge, “Suicide,” ABD 6:228; and Arthur J.
Droge and James D. Tabor, The Noble Death: Suicide and Martyrdom among Christians and Jews
in Antiquity (New York: HarperCollins, 1992), 121–22 and 128 n. 29.
object of ejpiqumiva (“depart and be with Christ”) argues against the sensational-
istic rendering “lust.” The translation “lust” or “craving” is appropriate for
ejpiqumiva when the desire is immoderate or its object is something forbidden.22
The fact that ejpiqumiva usually means “lust” in other Pauline contexts is irrele-
vant. (Note, for example, that savrx, which often has a strongly negative conno-
tation in Paul, is neutral in 1:22.) (2) Paul does not say he has a desire for
“death,” but uses a picturesque and euphemistic word ajnalu'sai, “to depart.”
Elsewhere this verb is used for the action of breaking camp and moving on or of
weighing anchor and sailing away.23 (3) Finally, what Paul desires is not simply
to depart but also “to be with Christ.” The unity of the departure and the union
with Christ are evident from the single Greek article with two infinitives. There
is, then, little merit in Droge’s translation, and his thesis in general contravenes
Paul’s strong affirmation of Christian life as joyful, particularly in this epistle.
Certainly it is an exaggeration to say that Paul has a “fascination with death and
[a] desire to escape from life . . . as intense as those of his contemporary Seneca,
the Roman Stoic philosopher.”24
But one point at which Droge’s argument does create a problem for tradi-
tional exegesis of the passage is his insistence that Paul’s options cannot be
deliverance or death by execution. Since the latter would seemingly be beyond
Paul’s control, and yet the apostle speaks of “choosing” and of “being torn
between the two,” the second alternative, Droge argues, must be death by sui-
cide. It seems that “the question of life or death is a matter of Paul’s own voli-
tion, not a fate to be imposed on him by others.”25 This aspect of Droge’s
argument has some force and should not be casually dismissed. There are, how-
ever, at least two parries to Droge’s thrust. First, it is not necessarily the case
that the outcome of Paul’s trial and the prospect of execution would be entirely
out of his control. By making a vigorous, reasoned defense or by making none,
by appealing to Caesar or forgoing such an appeal, Paul could have affected the
outcome of his trial.26 A more serious objection to Droge’s argument, however,
22 BDAG, 372; O’Brien, Epistle to the Philippians, 129.

23 O’Brien, Epistle to the Philippians, 130.
24 Droge and Tabor, Noble Death, 119. Cf. the sounder analysis of J. N. Sevenster, Paul and
Seneca (Leiden: Brill, 1961), 52–62: “It is plain that fundamental differences emerge between
Seneca’s estimation of suicide and Paul’s preaching of the Gospel. . . . [H]ow vastly different are
these texts [2 Cor 5:8; Phil 1:23] from Seneca if we read them both in their setting! . . . [D]eath is
only desired in so far as it holds forth a prospect of being at home with the Lord. Hence Paul does
not really long for death; he longs to be with Christ” (p. 58).
25 Droge, “Suicide,” 228 (Droge’s emphasis).
26 So Wansink, Chained in Christ, 121: “Numerous persons chose to die through a type of
passive voluntary death, an unwillingness to be fully cooperative during trial.” Collange suggests
that Paul’s doubt “does not relate to his immediate fate (acquittal or condemnation) but to the atti-
pertains to the assumption that Paul’s dilemma is a real one, that is, a serious,
existential contemplation of suicide. This assumption may not be correct.27
It has not been adequately appreciated that Paul in Phil 1:19–26 uses a
rhetorical trope known as ajporiva or diapovrhsi", “feigned perplexity.”28 The
Latin term is dubitatio or addubitatio. This technique involves a rhetorical pre-
tense of uncertainty and the posing of a question as a way of strengthening or
dramatizing an argument. Diapovrhsi" and dubitatio are treated in a number of
ancient rhetorical handbooks.29 Cicero (De Oratore 3.200–207) points out that
“hesitation,” like other figures, can be used either as a figure of speech (ver-
bum) or as a figure of thought (sententia). As a figure of speech, dubitatio
occurred when a speaker or writer hesitated over the choice of a single word.
An orator might ask, “What shall I call my opponents? Knaves or mere buf-
tude to adopt and the choice to make . . . with respect to the future” (Epistle, 62). If Collange is cor-
rect, and the referents of Paul’s rhetorical deliberation encompass future circumstances, then the
possibility of his (at least partial) control of the outcome increases.
27 Two further observations, one lexical and one textual, complicate any interpretation of the
critical phrase in 1:22. The verb aiJrevw (in the middle voice) may mean “prefer.” See BDAG, 28;
Heinrich Schlier, “aiJrevomai ktl.” TDNT 1:180; and especially G. Nordholt, “Elect, Choose,”
NIDNTT 1:534. This would present Paul’s contemplation in a different light. One can ponder pref-
erences that are beyond one’s immediate capacity to choose. Closely related to this semantic ques-
tion is the textual variation for the very same word. Whereas the standard Greek texts print the
future indicative (aiJrhvsomai), the aorist subjunctive is read by P46, B, and 2464. While this may be
a secondary reading stemming from an error of hearing, if original it would add the contingent
quality of a deliberative subjunctive: “What would I choose?”
28 Some scholars have hinted at a rhetorical interpretation, but none has developed the idea
in terms of dubitatio. Fee rightly describes Paul’s choice as hypothetical, a theoretical dilemma, not
an existential one (Paul’s Letter, 144–47, esp. 147 n. 38). But Fee’s explanation of Paul’s argument
focuses more on the apostle’s eschatology than on his rhetoric. Collange laconically observes that
“Paul is posing in a somewhat rhetorical vein the alternatives presented to him” (Epistle, 62).
Vollenweider discusses Paul’s rhetorical use of synkrisis, or comparison, but does not mention the
more precise and instructive category of aporia (“Die Waagschalen,” 93–102). James L. Jaquette
mentions the rhetorical trope of dubitatio in passing but does not develop the connection (“A Not-
So-Noble Death: Figured Speech, Friendship and Suicide in Philippians 1:21–26,” Neot 28 [1994]:
177–92, esp. 183). Jaquette says that Paul’s hesitation in Phil 1:21–26 “reminds one of Quintilian’s
description of the figure dubitatio” (p. 183). I suspect it reminds one of dubitatio because it is dubi-
tatio. In a later article Jaquette examines the topic of adiaphora in connection with Phil 1:21–26
and other texts (“Life and Death, Adiaphora, and Paul’s Rhetorical Strategies,” NovT 38 [1996]:
30–54). Jaquette speaks of Paul’s choice as “real” (p. 34 and n.15) but of his struggle as “less exis-
tential than rhetorical” (p. 34 n.11). The latter strikes me as more accurate.
29 See Heinrich Lausberg, Handbook of Literary Rhetoric: A Foundation for Literary Study
(Leiden: Brill, 1998), §§776–78. In addition to Rhetorica ad Herennium, Cicero, and Quintilian
(discussed above), Lausberg cites several ancient but postclassical rhetoricians. For the full text of
the latter, see Christianus Walz, Rhetores Graeci (Osnabrück: Zeller, 1832–36; reprint 1968),
8:454, 512, 533, 678, 703; Carolus Halm, Rhetores Latini Minores (Leipzig: Teubner, 1863), 25,
40–41, 75, 478; and L. Spengel, Rhetores Graeci (Leipzig: Teubner, 1853–56), 406.
foons?” Rhetorica ad Herennium (4.40) discusses and illustrates this type of

“hesitation.”30
Dubitatio est cum quaerere videatur orator utrum de duobus potius aut quid
de pluribus potissimum dicat, hoc mode: “Offuit eo tempore plurimum rei
publicae consulum—sive stultitiam sive malitiam dicere oportet, sive
utrumque.”
Indecision occurs when the speaker seems to ask which of two or more words
he had better use, as follows: “At that time the republic suffered exceedingly
from—ought I to say—the folly of the consuls, or their wickedness, or both.”
Such feigned uncertainty over a word was common in Plato and the orators.31
Dubitatio or diapovrhsi" was used also as a figure of thought, as when a
speaker or writer expressed uncertainty about what course of action to take.
This use of dubitatio is common at the beginning of a speech and often takes
the form of perplexity about how to begin one’s argument, what to address first,
or what strategy to use. Quintilian (9.2.19) discusses this usage.32
Adfert aliquam fidem veritatis et dubitatio, cum simulamus quaerere nos,
unde incipiendum, ubi desinendum, quid potissimum dicendum, an omnino
dicendum sit?
Again, hesitation may lend an impression of truth to our statements, when for
example, we pretend to be at a loss, where to begin or end, or to decide what
especially requires to be said or not to be said at all.
As an example, Quintilian offers a passage from Cicero’s Pro Cluentio (1.4).33

Equidem quod ad me attinet, quo me vertam nescio. Negem fuisse infamiam
iudicii corrupti?
As for myself, I know not where to turn. Shall I deny that there was a scan-
dalous rumour that the jury had been bribed?
Another example from Cicero occurs in Pro Roscio Amerino (11.29).

Quid primum querar aut unde potissimum, iudices, ordiar aut quod aut a
quibus auxilium petam?
What am I to complain of first? From what point, gentlemen, am I to start by
preference? What assistance am I to look for or from whom?
30 [Cicero], Rhetorica ad Herennium (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1989),
328–29. Unless otherwise indicated, translations are from the Loeb Classical Library (LCL).
31 See Plato, Laws 808A, 872D–E; Crito 50A; Theages 121C. In the orators, see Andocides
2.7; Demosthenes 23.156, 28.270. On Demosthenes’ use of the trope in general, see Hermann
Wankel, Rede für Ktesiphon über den Kranz (Heidelberg: Carl Winter, 1976), 1:209–10; 2:687–88.
32 See also Quintilian 9.3.88 and Cicero, De Inventione 1.25.
33 Compare Cicero’s quo me vertam nescio with Paul’s kai; tiv aiJrhvsomai ouj gnwrivzw.
Diapovrhsi" as a figure of thought was very common in the Greek orators.

Another good example comes from Andocides’ speech On the Mysteries (8). In
typical fashion Andocides addresses the jurors and confesses his perplexity at
how to begin his defense. He mentions various possible strategies before finally
opting for a comprehensive approach.
Now I am wondering at what point to begin my defense, gentlemen. Shall I
start with what ought to be discussed last and prove that the prosecution dis-
obeyed the law in lodging the information against me? . . . Or shall I tell you
the story right from the beginning? I will explain the chief reason for my hes-
itation. Doubtless the different charges made have not moved you all to the
same degree, and each of you has some one of them to which he would like
me to reply first; yet to answer them all simultaneously is impossible. On the
whole, I think it best to tell you the entire story from the beginning, omitting
nothing; once you are properly acquainted with the facts, you will see imme-
diately how unfounded are the charges which my accusers have brought
against me.
At the outset of his speech Andocides knows full well that he will rehearse the
entire story, addressing all the charges of his accusers. But feigning perplexity
heightens the drama of the speech and adds credibility to his defense. There
were other options that he might have taken, but by rhetorically contemplating
and then rejecting them, Andocides would persuade the jurors that he had
made a carefully deliberated and wise choice.
This use of diapovrhsi" was so common, especially at the beginning of a
speech, that one of Demosthenes’ stock exordia contains an example of it. The
following (Exordium 19) was a possible generic introduction to a speech.
Meq! uJmw'n, w\ a[ndre" !Aqhnai'oi, parelhvluqa bouleusovmeno" povteron crhv
me levgein h] mhv. dio; d! aujto;" tou't! ajporw' kri'nai fravsw pro;" uJma".
I have come forward, men of Athens, to consult with you whether I should
speak or not, and I shall explain to you for what reason I am at a loss how to
decide this by myself.
The rhetor who uses such an exordium clearly intends to speak. By the use of
rhetorical hesitation, however, the speaker appears deferential and the even-
tual course of action, namely, to deliver the speech, seems well-reasoned.
On rare occasions the two uses of diapovrhsi" or dubitatio, that is, as a fig-
ure of speech and a figure of thought, might be combined. This occurs in the
Attic orator Antiphon. At the beginning of one of the speeches in his first
Tetralogy (4.1–2), Antiphon professes his trust in the jurors’ judgment and in
the truth, lamenting that he does not know where else to seek refuge; neither
does he know how to characterize his opponents’ slander.34
34 The translation is my own.

ajporw' eij" h{ntina a[llhn swthrivan crhv me katafugei'n. kainovtata ga;r dhv, eij
crh; kainovtata ma'llon h] kakourgovtata eijpei'n, diabavllousiv me.
I am at a loss to know where else I might flee for deliverance. For indeed,
unprecedented, if one should say unprecedented rather than unprincipled,
are the slanders they hurl at me.
Here there is hesitation both at what course of action to take (figure of thought)
and what word to use in describing the charges against him (figure of speech).
The examples of rhetorical hesitation could be multiplied at length,35 but a
final one serves as an especially good comparative text for Paul’s reflections in
Phil 1:19–26. In Isocrates’ speech On the Peace (38–39), the rhetor complains
that the actions of his opponents have left him perplexed. How should he pro-
ceed and on what basis should he choose his course of action? The passage is
worth quoting at length.36
ajporw' tiv poihvsw, povtera crhvswmai tai'" ajlhqeivai" w{sper peri; tw'n a[llwn,
h] katasiwphv s w, deiv s a" th; n pro; " uJ m a' " aj p ev c qeian_ dokei' me; n gav r moi
bevltion ei\nai dialecqh'nai peri; aujtw'n, oJrw' d! uJma'" calepwvteron dia-
tiqemevnou" pro;" tou;" ejpitimw'nta" h] pro;" tou;" aijtivou" tw'n kakw'n gegenh-
mevnou". ouj mh;n ajll! aijscunqeivhn a[n, eij faneivhn ma'llon frontivzwn th'"
ejmautou' dovxh" h] th'" koinh'" swthriva". ejmo;n me;n ou\n e[rgon ejsti;n kai; tw'n
a[llwn tw'n khdomevnwn th'" povlew", proairei'sqai tw'n lovgwn mh; tou'" hJdiv-
stou" ajlla; tou;" wjfelimwtavtou"∑
I am at a loss as to what I should do—whether I should speak the truth as on
other occasions or be silent, fearing enmity with you. For while it seems bet-
ter to me to talk about [your errors], I see that you are more harshly disposed
toward those who offer reproof than toward those who are responsible for
your misfortunes. Nevertheless I would be ashamed if I appeared to be more
concerned for my own reputation than for the common safety. It is, there-
fore, my duty and the duty of others who are concerned about the state to
choose, not those words which are most pleasant, but those which are most
beneficial.
As in the previous examples, Isocrates’ dilemma is rhetorical. He fully intends

to speak and not be silent. But by framing the choices as he does, he shows that
what he intends to do is unquestionably the more noble and civic-minded
choice. Anyone in the audience who thought, “By Zeus! Isocrates is seriously
considering forgoing his speech and sitting back down!” would obviously have
failed to understand the rhetorical nature of his predicament.
35 Additional examples of diapovrhsi" as a figure of thought include: Aeschines, Embassy 7;
Andocides, Alcibiades 10; Antiphon, 2nd Tetralogy 2.1; Demosthenes, 3rd Olynthiac 3, Pana-
thenaicus 22 and 74, On the Crown 129, Letters 2.13, Funeral Speech 15; Isocrates, Helen 29, Anti-
dosis 140, and The Team of Horses 39.
36 The translation is my own.
This particular example of diapovrhsi" compares especially well to Phil

1:19–26 because Isocrates contemplates two courses of action, one that has a
personal advantage and one that benefits the community. Isocrates forgoes the
safe alternative of silence, which is desirable in its own way, and chooses the
alternative that is more needful to his hearers. Specific points of comparison
between this excerpt of Isocrates’ speech and Phil 1:19–26 include the fol-
lowing:
Isocrates Paul
1. ajporw' ouj gnwrivzw
“I am at a loss” “I do not know”
2. th'" koinh'" swthriva" th;n uJmw'n prokoph;n kai; cara;n th'" pivstew"
“the common safety” “your progress and joy in faith”
3. ejmo;n . . . e[rgon tou'to; moi karpo;" e[rgou
“my duty” “this to me [is] the gain from the labor”
4. proairei'sqai tiv aiJrhvsomai
“to choose” “What will I choose?”
5. tou;" hJdivstou" pollw'/ . . . ma'llon krei'sson
“most pleasant [words]” “better by far”
6. wjfelimwtavtou" ajnagkaiovteron
“most beneficial [words]” “more necessary”
It is likely, then, that Paul’s words in Phil 1:19–26 should be understood as

an instance of the rhetorical technique of feigned perplexity. When Paul set out
to write to the Philippians, continued service in their behalf was probably a
foregone conclusion in his own mind, but rhetorically he presents the choice as
a serious quandary. He is hard pressed and torn between the alternatives;
therefore his ultimate choice dramatically demonstrates his commitment to
them.
Paul’s dilemma is chiefly to be located in his rhetoric, not in his legal
predicament or his psychological state. Paul does not think that he is in mortal
jeopardy because of alleged crimes, neither is he despondent and pushed to
such extremes that he is pondering self-destruction. This means that the alter-
native of “departing to be with Christ” is a rhetorical contemplation of death,
whether suicide or execution is envisioned as the means. Indeed, if the framing
of the alternatives is rhetorical, then specifying the means by which Paul would
“depart” becomes less relevant. The very wording of the alternative in v. 23 sug-
gests that Paul has in view the outcome of his departure, not its method.
Finally, we must remember that the alternative of “departing” is not only

rhetorical but also rejected. Paul’s need to contemplate the “how” of this alter-
native is lessened by the fact that he has already decided the “whether” in the
negative.
The recognition of Paul’s use of diapovrhsi" here is a limited conclusion
about a specific passage in Philippians. The question whether the historical
Paul ever entertained the thought of suicide is beyond our ability to answer.
Paul’s sufferings were quite real and sometimes extreme, as the lists of hard-
ships attest (e.g., 2 Cor 11:23–29). However unlikely one might think it is that
Paul ever became despondent to the point of seriously considering suicide, to
exclude such a possibility categorically on the basis of modern religious sensi-
tivities may be to impose an idealistic piety on the apostle.
But having acknowledged our limitations as interpreters, we may still ask:
How likely is it that Paul would have condoned suicide?37 This is a different
question from whether he ever contemplated it. We can make a few observa-
tions in this regard: (1) Ancient views on suicide were diverse and by no means
uniformly approving. Pythagoreans and Neoplatonists condemned it. Even the
locus classicus of Plato’s Phaedo 61–62 condemns suicide except in the most
extreme circumstances. It is not at all clear that Paul would have heard his con-
temporaries speaking with one voice on the topic, nor that he would have felt
compelled to follow them if they had.38 (2) When the biblical tradition narrates
instances of suicide, it either expresses disapproval or is silent about the moral
quality of the act. Droge’s arguments often depend on interpreting silence as
neutrality or even approval. The data simply will not bear this interpretation.39
(3) There is no unambiguous evidence in Paul’s letters of his being psychologi-
cally predisposed toward suicide, nor is there evidence that he was open to self-
destruction on philosophical grounds. There is a danger here of reading Paul
through a Platonic or Stoic lens. Later Christians did begin to ask what circum-
37 This question is posed by Dónal O’Mathúna in relation to modern bioethical issues (“Did
Paul Condone Suicide? Implications for Assisted Suicide and Active Euthanasia,” Ethics &
Medicine 12, no. 3 [1996]: 55–60).
38 In addition to Droge and Tabor, Noble Death, see Suicide and Euthanasia: Historical and
Contemporary Themes (ed. Baruch A. Brody; Dordrecht: Kluwer, 1989); Yolanda Grisé, Le Suicide
dans la Rome Antique (Montreal: Bellarmin, 1982); Anton J. L. van Hooff, From Autothanasia to
Suicide (London: Routledge, 1990), esp. 181–97; J. M. Rist, Stoic Philosophy (Cambridge: Cam-
bridge University Press, 1969), 233–55; and Fred Rosner, “Suicide in Biblical, Talmudic, and Rab-
binic Writings,” Tradition 11, no. 2 (1970): 25–40.
39 See Joseph Blenkinsopp’s response to Droge (BRev [June 1990]: 7): “The main problem
with Droge’s hypothesis [that Paul did commit suicide], apart from the total lack of evidence, is that
he has not established that suicide was morally acceptable in the early Christian or contemporary
Jewish milieu.”
stances might possibly justify suicide, but there is no indication in the extant
writings of Paul that he formulated any such theories.40
In conclusion I might note that Paul’s rejection of the alternative to
“depart and be with Christ” is fully in accord with the primary theme of his let-
ter to the Philippians. By framing his alternatives rhetorically, Paul is able to
offer himself as an example of one who forgoes personal advantage for the sake
of others.41 After contemplating an alternative that is personally advantageous,
he chooses instead to serve others. This is the pattern of discipleship that per-
vades Philippians. It is supremely exemplified in Christ’s self-abasement
(2:5–11), but is also seen in Timothy’s concern for the Philippians’ welfare
(2:19–24), the willingness of Epaphroditus to risk his life to deliver the church’s
contribution to Paul (2:25–30), and the Philippians’ repeated financial support
of Paul (4:10–18). Moreover, since Paul’s rhetorical contemplation and even-
tual rejection of personal advantage occur in ch. 1, they effectively prepare for
the Christ hymn in ch. 2.42
Herewith I have finished my remarks on this passage in Philippians. So
what should I do now? Writing this article has been an enjoyable and rewarding
experience; presenting it for peer review in a published venue could invite crit-
icism. I do not know what I shall do! I am hard pressed between two options. I
could keep my opinions to myself and thereby avoid the challenge of public
scrutiny, for that would be better by far. But it is more necessary that I offer this
research as a service to others. Convinced of this, I have permitted this article
to be published and I present it to you for your joy and progress in the study of
Paul.
40 Rist notes, for example, that Jerome, Ambrose, and Augustine all reflect on suicide as a
means by which women might preserve their virginity when threatened with rape (Stoic Philoso-
phy, 254–55).
41 Wansink rightly notes that “Paul’s deliberations on his own life and death serve a mimetic
purpose” (Chained in Christ, 97; see also 116–18).

42 Bockmuehl notes both the mimetic and the anticipatory functions of the passage: “Paul’s
reasoning invites imitation and foreshadows the example of Christ in 2.5–8” (Epistle, 90).
JBL 122/3 (2003) 533–546
CRITICAL NOTES
THE LOCUTIONS OF 1 KINGS 22:28:

A NEW PROPOSAL
The varieties of direct speech contained in 1 Kgs 22 have provoked considerable

debate, and scholars have long puzzled over v. 28b in particular.1 Within the broader
context of the episode as a whole, there are a host of complex discourse patterns from a
range of speakers: kings, high-ranking officials, sycophants, true and false prophets,
God, and various members of the divine council are all afforded a voice in this narrative.
While 1 Kgs 22 has elicited a number of divergent readings, there is general agreement
among scholars that the dynamics of true and false prophecy and the fate of Ahab are
dominant literary and theological concerns within this episode.2 The central dialogue of
the narrative belongs to Micaiah son of Imlah and Ahab, king of Israel. As is evident
from their verbal transaction, the king and the prophet have confronted each other
before. The prophet’s ostensible sarcasm in 22:15b (“And he answered him, ‘Go up and
triumph; the LORD will give it into the hand of the king’”) is met with a histrionic remon-
strance from the king, citing what must be previous interviews. Their lengthy altercation
in this chapter culminates in vv. 26–28:
I am greatly indebted to Gary N. Knoppers, Paul E. Dion, Samuel A. Meier, and Jerome T.
Walsh for their invaluable comments and conversations surrounding this paper.
1 For an overview of the debate surrounding the putative compositional history, see S. L.
McKenzie, The Trouble with Kings: The Composition of the Book of Kings in the Deuteronomistic
History (Leiden: Brill, 1991), 90–93. Cf. S. J. DeVries (1 Kings [WBC 12; Waco: Word, 1989], 262),
who describes 1 Kgs 22:28b as a “scribal gloss” that does not feature in his translation; and J. Gray
(I & II Kings [OTL; Philadelphia: Westminster, 1963], 397), who states that v. 28b “is obviously a
gloss by a late hand which wrongly considered the son of Imlah identical with the prophet Micah.”
A convenient bibliography of relevant secondary literature is compiled in B. O. Long, 1 Kings, with
an Introduction to Historical Literature (FOTL 9; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1984), 239–40.
2 E.g., D. Robertson, “Micaiah ben Imlah: A Literary View,” in The Biblical Mosaic: Chang-
ing Perspectives (ed. R. Polzin and E. Rothman; Philadelphia: Fortress; Chico, CA: Scholars Press,
1982), 139–46; J. J. M. Roberts, “Does God Lie? Divine Deceit as a Theological Problem in
Israelite Prophetic Literature,” in Congress Volume: Jerusalem, 1986 (ed. J. A. Emerton; VTSup
40; Leiden: Brill, 1988), 211–20; B. O. Long, “The Form and Significance of 1 Kings 22:1-38,” in
Isac Leo Seeligmann Volume: Essays on the Bible and the Ancient World (ed. A. Rofé and Y.
Zakovitch; Jerusalem: E. Rubinstein, 1982), 193–208; see also S. J. De Vries, Prophet Against
Prophet: The Role of the Micaiah Narrative (1 Kings 22) in the Development of Early Prophetic
Tradition (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1978); J. E. Brenneman, “Debating Ahab: Characterization
in Biblical Theology,” in Reading the Hebrew Bible for a New Millennium: Form, Concept, and
Theological Perspective (ed. W. Kim, D. Ellens, M. Floyd, and M. A. Sweeney), vol. 1, Theological
and Hermeneutical Studies (Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International, 2000), 89–107.
533
26The king of Israel then ordered, “Take Micaiah, and return him to Amon
the governor of the city and to Joash the king’s son, 27 and say, ‘Thus says the
king: Put this fellow in prison, and feed him on reduced rations of bread and
water until I come in peace.’” 28 Micaiah said, “If you return in peace, the
LORD has not spoken by me.” And he said, “Hear, you peoples, all of you!”
(NRSV)
The NRSV translation of v. 28 preserves a problematic ambiguity in the Hebrew
text. The speaker in v. 28a is reported as Micaiah, but the locution of v. 28b, “And he
said, ‘Hear, all you peoples!’” (!lk !ym[ w[m` rmayw), features no such specification.3
Commentators and translators have long been uncomfortable with v. 28b, not only
because of the grammar but also because the same utterance occurs in Mic 1:2.4 For
example, J. A. Montgomery categorizes these words as “a gloss, absent in Ch. and in pre-
Hex. Greek texts, identifying Micaiah with the canonical Micah.”5 Likewise, G. H. Jones
remarks, “The final words, ‘Hear all you peoples!,’ are not found in Chronicles, LXX nor
Luc. and appear in the margin in NEB. The same words appear in Mic. 1:2, and it is sug-
gested that they have been inserted here in an attempt to identify Micaiah with Micah.”6
There are two issues here that traditionally have been used to argue that v. 28b is a late
gloss: the text-critical matter, and the (mis)identification of Micaiah with Micah. First,
on the text-critical issue of the omission of v. 28b in the LXX, E. Ball has previously
argued that this is not “decisively in favour of its being a simple gloss. The reverse argu-
ment is plausible also: that the LXX translators took it to identify, mistakenly, Micaiah
and Micah, and so omitted it. The phrase is read by Vulg., Pesh., and Targ.”7 Moreover,
3 The difficulties v. 28 poses for translators are evident when several English versions are
compared: e.g., NKJV: “But Micaiah said, ‘If you ever return in peace, the LORD has not spoken by
me.’ And he said, ‘Take heed, all you people!’” In contrast, the NJPS specifies that the speaker of
v. 28b is the prophet: “To which Micaiah retorted, ‘If you ever come home safe, the LORD has not
spoken through me.’ He said further [rmayw], ‘Listen, all you peoples!’” The NJPS note to v. 28b
reads: “Perhaps a notation suggesting that Micaiah was identical with Micah, whose prophecies
begin, ‘Listen, all you peoples,’ Mic. 1.2.” The NIV paraphrase is along similar lines: “Micaiah
declared, ‘If you ever return safely, the LORD has not spoken through me.’ Then he added, ‘Mark
my words, all you people!’”
4 Notably, translations such as the NEB and NJB do not include v. 28b. On the grammar of
!L;Ku !yMi[' W[m]vi, see GKC §135r. See also W. McKane, The Book of Micah: Introduction and Com-
mentary (Edinburgh: T & T Clark, 1998), 27; J. T. Willis, “Some Suggestions on the Interpretation
of Micah 1:2,” VT 18 (1968): 372–79.
5 J. A. Montgomery and H. S. Gehman, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Books
of Kings (ICC; Edinburgh: T & T Clark, 1951), 340; cf. D. R. Hillers, Micah: A Commentary on the
Book of the Prophet Micah (Hermeneia; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1984), 16: “The words !yMi[' W[m]vi
!L;Ku have been inserted in the MT at 1 Kgs 22:28 and 2 Chr 18:27 (not in the original LXX at either
point), as a result of the mistaken identification of Micah of Moresheth with Micaiah ben Imlah.”
6 G. H. Jones, 1 and 2 Kings (NCB; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1984), 1:369–70.
7 E. Ball, “A Note on 1 Kings xxii. 28,” JTS 28 (1977): 90. Ball also notes, “Baillet’s recon-
struction of a fragment of I Kgs. xxii. 28-31 from Qumran Cave 6 suggests that the manuscript had
our phrase [M. Baillet, J. T. Milik, R. de Vaux, Les ‘Petites Grottes’ de Qumran (DJD 3; Oxford:
Clarendon, 1962) 108]. This is interesting, since, as F. M. Cross and others have pointed out, the
Critical Notes 535
it should be noted that, despite the assertions of Montgomery and Jones, the relevant
phrase does occur in the parallel text of 2 Chr 18:27 (!lk !ym[ w[m` rmayw). Regarding
this parallel occurrence in Chronicles, Ball comments: “The probability is that the
Chronicler read the text of 1 Kgs. xxii. 28 as we have it, suggesting that the gloss, if it be
such, must have been an early one.”8 Further need for caution than has previously been
acknowledged is required, therefore, with respect to the supposition that v. 28b is a late
addition that is not integral to 1 Kgs 22 as a whole. Thus, it is fair to adjudge that Ball is
correct in asserting that the absence of v. 28b from the LXX is not definitive evidence
that it is a gloss, and in light of the parallel passage in 2 Chr 18:27 it at least would be
prudent to concede that the textual issue is an open one.
This leads to the second (and perhaps more substantial) issue, which is the appar-
ent confusion between Micaiah in 1 Kgs 22 and the canonical Micah. In a recent com-
mentary, J. T. Walsh summarizes the consensus:
The last words attributed to Micaiah, “Hear, you peoples, all of you,” do not
belong to the story. They are in fact a citation of the first words of the book of
the prophet Micah. Some later scribe, confusing Micaiah son of Imlah and
Micah of Moresheth because of the similarity of the names, made a marginal
cross-reference to the Book of Micah, thinking it contained further prophe-
cies of the prophet. Eventually the marginal gloss crept into the text of the
narrative.9
This position has also been criticized by Ball. After evaluating various comparisons
between 1 Kgs 22 and Micah, Ball concludes that 1 Kgs 22:28b “was not the haphazard
Cave 6 fragments of Kings in other ways seem to represent a text, like that of 4QSam, closer to that
which underlies LXX—though, to be sure, caution is imperative when dealing with such tiny
scraps.”
8 Ball, “A Note on 1 Kings xxii. 28,” 91; see also S. Japhet, I & II Chronicles (OTL; Louisville:
Westminster John Knox, 1993), 766: “The final words [of 2 Chr 18:27] ‘Hear, all you peoples’, are a
citation of Micah 1.2, generally regarded as a secondary gloss, intended to identify Micaiah the son
of Imlah with ‘Micah of Moresheth.’ . . . For the Chronicler, however, who found this exhortation in
his Vorlage, it strikes the final chord for Micaiah’s exit: the whole world must witness his authentic-
ity as a prophet. With this declaration, Micaiah disappears from the narrative; his future fate and
actions remain unknown.”
9 J. T. Walsh, 1 Kings (Berit Olam; Collegeville: Liturgical Press, 1996), 352; cf. R. D. Nelson,
First and Second Kings (Interpretation; Atlanta: John Knox Press, 1987), 149–50: “Later readers of
Kings added this gloss to point out the similarities between Micaiah and Micah, especially his attack
on the salvation prophets (Micah 3:5). Whether this gloss actually intended to imply that Micaiah
and Micah were the same person is uncertain, but the reader may treat it as a ‘cross reference’ to
another portion of the canonical context. Micah, like Micaiah, separated the fate of the people from
the fate of their monarchy and capital city and was well known to the exilic audience (cf. Jer.
26:18).” See also M. Cogan, I Kings: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB
10; New York: Doubleday, 2001), 493: “Micaiah’s final words reflect the Deuteronomic criterion by
which a true prophecy may be recognized; cf. Deut 18:21-22. The MT has the additional clause,
omitted by Luc., LXX: ‘He said: Hear all you peoples.’ This annotation, of uncertain date (see Ball
1977 for the unlikely suggestion that it stems from Dtr), sought to identify Micaiah with the late-
eighth-century prophet, Micah the Morashtite, by quoting the opening phrase in Mic 1:2.”
comment of a stupid glossator, but a purposeful redactional addition stressing a deeper

continuity between Micaiah and Micah than merely that of name, though no doubt the
latter may well have suggested the continuity in the first place. It is, surely, highly
unlikely that any later editor could simply confuse the two prophets.”10 Ball then pro-
ceeds to discuss the identity of the redactor(s) and Deuteronomistic editing of the “for-
mer” and “latter” prophets, noting that this clause provides a useful diachronic clue that
helps to facilitate a deeper understanding of the textual transmission and compositional
process.
Ball’s critique of the consensus has succeeded, to my mind, in demonstrating that
the arguments for excising !lk !ym[ w[m` rmayw are unsatisfactory. Nonetheless, redefin-
ing v. 28b as a “purposeful redactional addition” in turn raises another series of difficul-
ties, not least that it undermines the role of this sentence in the larger story line and
virtually admits that it is not integral to the narrative. While Ball has accomplished the
task of showing that there is room for reasonable doubt in the consensus, and that v. 28b
should not be discarded, there remains an acquiescence to the view that this locution is
inherently secondary and does not meaningfully contribute to the dramatic confronta-
tion between king and prophet. This present study aims to take up this last point by
employing a literary approach to explore the importance of v. 28b in the Ahab–Micaiah
showdown. It is the contention of this article that a literary angle offers a productive way
forward in assessing the significance of this utterance in the surrounding narrative; in
other words, not only is v. 28b appropriate in context, but it is vital to the unfolding
scene and has more literary currency than has been explicated by previous commenta-
tors. Assuming, with Ball, that there are insufficient grounds for deleting v. 28b, there
are in fact compelling literary reasons for retaining it in an overall analysis of 1 Kgs 22.
So, in what follows, the plausibility of the consensus will not be subject to further
scrutiny. Rather, an alternative way of reading the locution of v. 28b is proposed.
With a unanimity akin to the four hundred prophets on the threshing floor, com-
mentators are of one voice in presupposing that the speaker in both v. 28a and v. 28b is
Micaiah. Without necessarily labeling it as such, it is clear that most exegetes would
assume this to be an instance of resumptive direct discourse.11 However, this underlying
10 Ball, “A Note on 1 Kings xxii. 28,” 92. As I. W. Provan notes, deeper points of continuity
can be discerned between Micaiah and Micah, and the parallel language “invites us (at the very
least) to consider the book of Micah . . . against the background of the whole Ahab story. It looks
forward to the destruction of Samaria because of idolatry and prostitution (1:2–7) and it condemns
both social injustice (2:1–5) and false prophecy (2:6–11; 3:1–12)” (1 and 2 Kings [Peabody, MA:
Hendrickson, 1995], 166).
11 For comprehensive study of the ways in which direct speech is signposted throughout the
Hebrew Bible, see S. A. Meier, Speaking of Speaking: Marking Direct Discourse in the Hebrew
Bible (Leiden: Brill, 1992). Although he amasses a legion of examples, 1 Kgs 22:28 is not among
them. However, Meier does discuss various situations where resumptive direct discourse occurs.
First, “rma can be found repeated a second time within a quotation, reaffirming the identity of the
speaker. The narrator will occasionally interrupt a character’s speech by simply inserting a seem-
ingly redundant restatement” (pp. 73–74). Second, Meier observes that there can be a resumption
of direct discourse to highlight a temporal gap in the narrative (p. 74). One could suggest that 1 Kgs
22:5 might be such an instance. Third, resumptive direct discourse can occur when a speaker
Critical Notes 537
premise merits reevaluation in light of the many other examples in the Hebrew Bible
where rmayw is not used to indicate resumptive direct discourse, but rather to signal a
change in speaker.12 Hence, an alternative possibility can be suggested: the subject and
the speaker of the words !lk !ym[ w[m` rmayw (“And he said, ‘Hear, all you peoples!’ ”) is
not the prophet but the king. Since it is grammatically feasible that rmayw in v. 28b indi-
cates a change in speaker, it is possible that Ahab is the speaker rather than Micaiah.
Furthermore, in the context of the episode as a whole, it seems more likely that it is not
the prophet Micaiah who issues the imperative !lk !ym[ w[m`. From a literary perspec-
tive, attributing the locution “Hear, all you peoples” to Ahab better coheres with the
king’s characterization in the narrative; correspondingly, not attributing the imperative
of v. 28b to Micaiah better coheres with the prophet’s overall presentation in the narra-
tive. If Micaiah’s opening speech to Ahab in v. 15b is compared with his discourse in
v. 28a, a suggestive symmetry emerges. In v. 15b the prophet uses sarcasm to goad Ahab
into making a public reply—that is, Micaiah deploys his sarcastic comment as a rhetori-
cal instrument to provoke a response from the king and to involve Ahab personally in
this contest surrounding the veracity of the prophetic word. Micaiah’s verbal strategy in
v. 15b is engineered to induce further discourse from the king on the nature of
prophetic truth, in effect “upping the ante” in this high-stakes game.
As intimated above, there is strong evidence for surmising that Ahab and Micaiah
have had previous animosities. As Ahab confesses to Jehoshaphat about the existence of
a certain prophet of the LORD, he vehemently protests “. . . but I hate him, because he
never prophesies anything good about me, but always evil” ( abntyAal yk wytan` ynaw
[r !a yk bwf yl[ ).13 B. O. Long characterizes Ahab and Micaiah’s relationship as one
of “long standing enmity,” and Micaiah’s sarcastic gibe must serve to corroborate such a
speaks again, but to a different party, that is, “occasions where the speaker shifts his focus from one
addressee to another” (p. 74). An example of this is 1 Kgs 22:3–4, where Ahab continues to be the
speaker, yet switches his address from “his servants” to “Jehoshaphat, king of Judah.” This would be
the most compelling reason to retain Micaiah as the orator of v. 28b, arguing that rmayw is repeated
because the prophet shifts his attention to the wider assembly, rather than strictly Ahab. However,
there is a higher probability that the imperative of v. 28b is Ahab’s response to the prophet’s “if . . .
then” declaration as he is being sent into confinement, as the king calls on everyone gathered to
remember the prophet’s conditional pronouncement. Accordingly, the king’s wrath is ignited by
the prophet’s use of the keyword “peace” (!wl`b), used moments earlier by Ahab (22:27), which
also happens to occur in Micaiah’s previous speech (22:17). For a useful study of reported speech in
narration and dialogue from a linguistic perspective, see C. L. Miller, The Representation of Speech
in Biblical Hebrew Narrative: A Linguistic Analysis [Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1996], 233–97).
12 Within 1 Kgs 22 alone, vv. 17 and 19 are examples of rmayw indicating a shift in speaker,
without the subject being explicitly identified. See also Gen 4:9; 18:30ff.; 24:33; 33:8; Exod 4:2;
Judg 3:19; 1 Sam 12:5; 16:11; 1 Kgs 11:22; 21:20, 24.
13 To be sure, in the absence of some sort of psychological predicate, the king’s tone of voice
(here and elsewhere) must be inferred. But given the colorful presentation of Ahab throughout this
wider narrative stretch—e.g., his emotional vacillations in 1 Kgs 21 alone, where he is “sullen and
out of humor” (#[zw rs) in 21:4, and “walked about subdued” (fa ^lhyw) in 21:27—one can argue
that the reader is invited to view the scenes between king and prophet as having an intrinsic theatri-
cality.
claim.14 His imitation of the false prophets is so precise that Ahab’s suspicion is immedi-
ately aroused. According to Ahab’s exegesis, Micaiah has tried this “sarcastic” approach
before, prompting the royal outburst and reprimand of the prophet in 22:16, “How
many times must I make you swear (^[b`m yna !ym[p hmkAd[) to tell me nothing but the
truth in the name of the LORD?” Again, as Long suggests, this narrative “follows an artis-
tic pattern of response and counter-response,” indicating that Micaiah’s opening decla-
ration (“Go up and triumph”) is intended to cajole a response from the king.15
Given that Micaiah had used a rhetorical strategy to induce a response from Ahab
earlier in the narrative, it is not altogether surprising that he unleashes a similar strategy
in v. 28a. Just as the prophet uses sarcasm to provoke a royal reply in 22:15, his “if . . .
then” speech of v. 28a is also aimed at extracting a response from Ahab, daring him to
have the last word, and further implicating him in what will be referred to in a moment
as this prophetic lawsuit. Thus, there is a certain congruence between his first and last
words to Ahab: both demand a response from the king. Not only is this a key component
of Micaiah’s rhetorical strategy, but it also serves to heighten the efficacy of his own
prophetic utterance. It is yet another irony of 1 Kgs 22 that Micaiah is almost parodying
Ahab’s manner of discourse with Jehoshaphat, whom Ahab has been enticing with a sim-
ilar rhetorical strategy of open-ended comments that solicit a rejoinder.16 While this
reading clearly assumes that Micaiah is a “rounder” and more calculating character than
is often assumed, it nonetheless has the interpretative dividend of making better sense
of what the prophet is doing in the narrative: drawing Ahab into the prophetic conflict
and forcing him to side either with Micaiah himself or with Zedekiah, truth or untruth,
and face the consequences.17 To appropriate a phrase from J. M. Hamilton, Ahab is
lured into the “nets of prophecy” and becomes further complicit in his own downfall.18
Hamilton outlines four ways in which Ahab’s own actions in 1 Kgs 22 actually contribute
to his own death: his initiative in the Ramoth-Gilead conflict, admitting to Jehoshaphat
that another prophet is available for consultation, insisting on hearing the truth from
Micaiah, and disguising himself for battle. I would submit that Ahab’s imperative of
14 Long, 1 Kings, 235.

15 Ibid., 234.
16 See 1 Kgs 22:4, where Ahab first addresses his servants concerning the status of Ramoth-
Gilead and then turns to the king of Judah. This strategy is more explicit in the Chronicler’s version,
where the verb “entice” (tws) is used (2 Chr 18:2). On the role of Jehoshaphat, see W. Johnstone,
1 & 2 Chronicles, vol. 2, 2 Chronicles 10–36, Guilt and Atonement (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic
Press, 1997), 84–91; cf. G. N. Knoppers, “Reform and Regression: The Chronicler’s Treatment of
Jehoshaphat,” Bib 72 (1991): 510–12.
17 Stylistically, it would seem that his final words are designed to be the if–then statement: “If
you return in peace, then the LORD has not spoken through me!” In this case, it is unlikely that he
would then say “Hear all you peoples,” as not only would this be an anticlimax, but it would blunt
his personal challenge to the king. One could also argue that it better fits with his certain diffidence,
which has been consistent throughout. On a further stylistic note, this imperative seems more likely
to come from Ahab, especially since he has apparently refused to address Micaiah directly since
22:18.
18 J. M. Hamilton, “Caught in the Nets of Prophecy? The Death of Ahab and the Character of
God,” CBQ 56 (1994): 651–53.

Critical Notes 539
v. 28b would be a fifth way in which the king’s intransigent conduct serves to facilitate
his demise.
Clearly, this reading has further implications for the characterization of Ahab,
especially when these specific words (!lk !ym[ w[m`) are considered in the broader con-
text of the episode in 1 Kgs 22. To begin, I would argue that the king’s retort in v. 28b is
a brazen mimicry of prophetic speech, rhetorically intended as a cynical gesture toward
Micaiah as he is being led toward his place of confinement. Just as Micaiah has been sar-
castic with Ahab, the king now responds in a like manner.19 Of course, by this “sinister
clowning” Ahab is certainly acting in character, as this kind of action is seen earlier in the
narrative.20 When faced with the demands of the king of Aram in 1 Kgs 20:10–11, Ahab
responds with the repartee: “Let the one who is equipping not praise himself like the
one who removes!”21 If, as M. Cogan suggests, the laconic phrase jtpmk rgj llhtyAla is
a kind of proverbial saying, then it may illustrate a tendency in Ahab for quoting popular
slogans or utterances well known to his hearers.22 Indeed, since this witty remark in
1 Kgs 20:11 occurs when the king of Israel is at a disadvantage with respect to the invad-
ing Arameans, it would seem that Ahab’s caustic reply is designed to encourage his fol-
lowers for a battle they seem ill-positioned to win. Similarly, in 1 Kgs 22:28b Ahab’s
mockery of the prophet Micaiah by imitating a prophetic/judicial utterance is intended
to convey the message both to his own troops and to the army of Judah that he has every
intention of returning “in peace” from this conflict with the Arameans, just as on the
previous occasion in 1 Kgs 20, when he gains the upper hand through his witty remark
designed to encourage his army for the ensuing battle.
In addition, when further attention is directed toward the specific wording (w[m`
19 There is another level of personal conflict in this narrative. Long comments that Micaiah
and Zedekiah “countermand each other, as though engaging in their own private war for authority
and status” (1 Kings, 234). It is striking that Zedekiah’s sarcasm in 22:24 (“Which way did the spirit
of the LORD pass from me to speak to you?”) is comparable to Micaiah’s reply to Ahab in 22:15. Sar-
casm also features in the prophetic confrontation between Jeremiah and Hananiah (Jer 28:6).
20 N. Frye, The Great Code: The Bible and Literature (New York: Harcourt Brace Jovano-
vich, 1982), 40: “Ahab . . . is portrayed in the main as a kind of sinister clown.” I was first alerted to
Frye’s provocative discussion by F. O. García-Treto, “The Fall of the House: A Carnivalesque
Reading of 2 Kings 9 and 10,” in Reading Between Texts: Intertextuality and the Hebrew Bible (ed.
D. N. Fewell; Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1992), 156.
21 Cogan translates: “The one who girds up should not boast as the one who unbuckles,” and
comments: “Ahab employs a proverbial saying to remind Ben-Hadad that the battle is not won until
it is over. The actions depicted are those of a soldier buckling up his sword as he goes to the field
(cf. 1 Sam 17:39, 25:13) and taking it off when he returns (cf. Isa 45:1). For the use of proverbs and
parables in diplomatic negotiations, see Note on 2 Kgs 14:9 [M. Cogan and H. Tadmor, II Kings: A
New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB 11; New York: Doubleday, 1988) 156]”
(1 Kings, 464).
22 This is not the only literary portrait of a prophetic duel between two ideological antagonists
in the Deuteronomistic History. As D. Rudman points out, when the Rabshakeh speaks to the
guardians of Jerusalem, he couches his speech in prophetic language in an attempt to persuade
them (“Is the Rabshakeh Also Among the Prophets? A Rhetorical Study of 2 Kings XVIII 17–35,”
VT 50 [2000]: 100–110). It is significant that this is another incident where prophetic speech is
counterfeited in an attempt to deceive the target audience.
!lk !ym[) of this imperative, there is a certain aptness to this particular locution. When
compared with similar expressions, 1 Kgs 22:28b could be classified as a prophetic/judi-
cial utterance, utilized to call witnesses or observers in some sort of arraignment. Con-
sider Lam 1:18 (!ym[Alk anAw[m`), an entreaty for all to assess the righteousness of the
LORD over and against the rebelliousness of the speaker. In addition, the similar lan-
guage of Ps 49 (!ym[hAlk tazAw[m`) can be compared, as it is an invocation to listen to
the poet’s testimony and wisdom in light of the alternatives that are articulated.23 Nei-
ther of these instances is overtly prophetic, but they certainly involve the summoning of
witnesses to adjudicate an ideological dispute. This is where taking into account the
immediate context of Micah is helpful, as both 1 Kgs 22:28b and Mic 1:2a are prophetic
in tone and “judicial in character.”24 As F. I. Andersen and D. N. Freedman note, the
judicial scope of Mic 1:2a involves calling the peoples (“the whole world”) to adjudicate
a dispute.25 There are, then, grounds for tendering the idea that in 1 Kgs 22:28b Ahab
issues a summons to the nations present (Israel and Judah) to adjudicate the dispute
between him and Micaiah.26 Hence, there is a certain aptness to this particular expres-
sion as an appropriate mockery of the prophetic word in this literary context, as Ahab’s
“summons to hear” functions much like the “judicial proceeding”27 of Mic 1:2 and dra-
matically heightens the arraignment of the prophet by the king. In other words, in this
context of a judicial proceeding, the king deploys a prophetic utterance to summon wit-
nesses against a prophet he has just incarcerated.
Quite conceivably, it is the full weight of Micaiah’s discourse, culminating with the
“if . . . then” challenge of v. 28a and the king’s response to this in v. 28b, that finally moti-
vates Ahab to disguise himself upon entering into battle.28 S. Japhet makes a series of
23 Despite the caution of D. R. Hillers that the “appeal to ‘all peoples’ to hear is relatively
rare” in the Hebrew Bible, it seems that a case can be made that this is a general enough type of
utterance (D. R. Hillers, Lamentations: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary
[2d ed.; AB 7a; New York: Doubleday, 1992], 76). On the complex voice structure of Lam 1, see
C. W. Miller, “Reading Voices: Personification, Dialogism, and the Reader of Lamentations 1,”
BibInt 9 (2001): 393–408.
24 J. L. Mays, Micah: A Commentary (OTL; London: SCM, 1976), 40.
25 F. I. Andersen and D. N. Freedman, Micah: A New Translation with Introduction and
Commentary (AB 24e; New York: Doubleday, 2000), 147. Micah 1:2a, they note, is a “Summons
(by the prophet) to the whole world (to adjudicate the dispute between Yahweh and Jacob?).”
26 Andersen and Freedman also suggest that this could have been a standard-enough phrase
which survives only here in the Hebrew Bible: “One wonders if it is a set phrase that could have
been quite commonly used, but which happens to have survived in just these two places” (Micah,
146).
27 H. W. Wolff, Micah: A Commentary (trans. G. Stansell; Minneapolis: Augsburg Fortress,
1990), 45.
28 See Walsh, 1 Kings, 352: “When the king says ‘until I come in peace,’ he is calling Micaiah’s
bluff. It may be that he hopes to pressure Micaiah into reversing the oracle he has given, in order to
assure Ahab’s safety and consequently Micaiah’s own release. Or it may be that the king wishes to
detain Micaiah until after the battle; when the king returns safely, he intends to punish Micaiah for
false prophecy. This seems to be Micaiah’s understanding, for his defiant reply is that should the
king return safely, Micaiah is indeed guilty of false prophecy. If that is Ahab’s idea, it implies much
Critical Notes 541
perceptive remarks alluding to the motif of clothing in this episode and observes that the
reference “arrayed in their robes” (1 Kgs 22:10; 2 Chr 18:9) prepares the reader for the
function of these robes later: “Ahab’s change of garments will be his way of testing the
reliability of God’s word, and will also put Jehoshaphat in danger.”29 In contrast, though,
I would argue that the change of garments has very little to do with testing. Rather,
Ahab is cunningly attempting to outmaneuver Micaiah’s prophetic word, and ironically
he uses a strategy he learned earlier from another prophet! In 1 Kgs 20:38–43, the motif
of the disguise occurs as an unnamed prophet dons a vizard (`pj) and deceives the king
into pronouncing a judgment on himself. Thus, in the earlier narrative of 1 Kgs 20 a dis-
guise is used by a prophet to dupe Ahab, who has released an imprisoned king. In 1 Kgs
22 the roles are reversed, as Ahab uses a disguise to dupe an opposing army and thwart
an imprisoned prophet. P. J. Kissling notes that “trickery or deception” is one of the
major themes of this episode, and because Ahab disguises himself, it reveals that to
some extent he takes the prophecy seriously and is trying to frustrate Micaiah’s words.30
In addition to the attempt to foil Micaiah, the king of Judah is also one of the objects of
Ahab’s deceptive attention: “By disguising himself, and having Jehoshaphat dress in a
way designed to trick the Syrians into thinking that the latter is the king of Israel, Ahab
thinks he can outwit the Syrians, Yahweh, and perhaps also his supposed ally
Jehoshaphat.”31 Hence, Ahab’s words in v. 28b are not only a mockery of prophetic
speech but also the first component of his deceptive strategy, as indicated by the dis-
guise that follows.
Moreover, R. Coggins draws attention to several instances where the verb `pj is
used for monarchs disguising themselves.32 In the case of 1 Kgs 22, it could be said that
Ahab’s scheme of disguise is a “sensible precaution” in light of the king of Aram’s com-
mand (v. 31): “Do not fight with small or great, but with the king of Israel alone.” On the
one hand, this command is directed to the “thirty-two captains of his chariots,” and thus
can be understood as a straightforward logistical directive: the chariot commanders
should make the king of Israel their prime target. But, on the other hand, there is a cer-
tain poignancy that it is precisely in the random vagaries of battle where Ahab is struck.
As Coggins notes: “That the archer ‘drew his bow at a venture’ [v. 34] does not mean that
the bow-shot was purely a matter of luck or chance. Here is a word of Yahweh spoken
through the prophet Micaiah being brought into effect . . . the Aramean archers are
merely the instruments through which the result is achieved, but nevertheless instru-
ments of a will that cannot be thwarted by human attempts at disguise.”33 I would fur-
about his condescending attitude toward Yahweh. As verse 16 shows, Ahab knows that Micaiah’s
oracle is probably true, but he expects to be able to elude Yahweh’s trap.”
29 Japhet, I & II Chronicles, 760–61.
30 P. J. Kissling, Reliable Characters in the Primary History: Profiles of Moses, Joshua, Elijah
and Elisha (JSOTSup 224; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1996), 132.
31 Ibid., 134. It should be noted here that Ahab displays remarkable perspicuity in anticipat-
ing the exact tactics of the Aramean king in targeting “the king of Israel alone” (1 Kgs 22:31).
32 R. Coggins, “On Kings and Disguises,” JSOT 50 (1991): 55–62. The other royal figures are
Saul, Josiah, and the wife of Jeroboam (although in the latter case the verb hn` is used rather than
`ph). BDB defines the hithpael form of `ph as “lit. let oneself be searched for” (p. 344).
33 Coggins, “On Kings and Disguises,” 58. In Ahab’s case, his disguise illustrates his determi-
nation to survive, which adds to the theological drama that Coggins discusses at length.
ther enhance this point by suggesting that the “word of Yahweh spoken through the
prophet Micaiah being brought into effect,” which Coggins mentions, culminates with
Micaiah’s enunciation in v. 28a, “If you return in peace, the LORD has not spoken by
me.”34
To conclude, if one assumes that the king of Israel is the speaker of v. 28b, then
Ahab’s actions of disguise can be understood as virtually hiding from the prophetic
word. The king, one supposes, is anxious to “return in peace” and bring the imprisoned
prophet to trial: this is why he resorts to the strategy of disguise.35 Evidently, on both a
literal and a symbolic level there is more than one conflict being described here. The
battle with the Arameans frames the conflict with Micaiah, and it would seem that Ahab
is concerned with achieving victory in both realms. Throughout the Ahab narrative there
has been a consistent theme of hostility and antagonism between the king and various
prophets. It is this battle that climaxes in the locutions of 1 Kgs 22:28, as Micaiah’s bold
“if . . . then” confidence is matched by Ahab’s riposte. Consequently, I would argue that
v. 28b is an integral direct speech in the narrative of 1 Kgs 22 and should not be dis-
carded simply as a scribal gloss. Such a dismissal overlooks the important role that the
locutions of 22:28 play in the literary presentation of the king, the prophet, and their
conflict. Finally, in this narrative of “competing prophecies,” a profound irony lies in the
fact that Ahab dies in front of “all the peoples,” not only Israel and Judah, but the Syrians
as well.36 Certainly this is contrary to Ahab’s intention in donning his disguise, and
hence he is ultimately satirized as he becomes the washed-out victim of his own fulmi-
nation—a rather damp epilogue in light of his prophetic mockery of Micaiah. Just as he
earlier predicts, Ahab undoubtedly “comes back” (awb) from the battle in 22:37–38
(“They rinsed the chariot by the pool of Samaria, where the dogs licked up his blood as
the harlots bathed, according to the word of the LORD which he had spoken”), but it is
34 Ahab’s obstinacy in opposing the prophetic word has interesting similarities to the Saul
narrative: both monarchs are involved in escapades involving the verb `pj, and both discover
(albeit in rather different circumstances) that it is difficult to oppose either an irascible or a sarcas-
tic prophet.
35 H. C. Brichto asks: “Why the need for two responsible wardens or, for that matter, the
entire detail of Micaiah’s being locked up until the outcome of the battle?” (Toward a Grammar of
Biblical Poetics: Tales of the Prophets [New York: Oxford University Press, 1992], 282 n. 16). I
would argue that the detail of Micaiah’s imprisonment is connected with the king of Israel’s dis-
guise, as he attempts to evade the prophetic word by incarcerating the prophet and avert the fore-
cast of judgment by surviving the battle.
36 See Long, 1 Kings, 237: “The narrator conveys his interest in the personal fate of Ahab
through ironic vision. The king-deceiver who disguises himself in battle meets his end, and one
endangered by the deception is spared; one prophet, a deceiver who yet speaks the truth, triumphs
over the four hundred prophets who spoke their truth while lying, having been deceived by Yah-
weh. The ironic twists are exquisite. The deceiver-king dies in battle, but apparently accidental,
with one set of circumstances undoing another. Ahab’s deception does not work because reality lies
far beyond his and Jehoshaphat’s control. Or put another way, events lie in the hands of Yahweh,
who sends both truth and falsehood with his prophets!”
Critical Notes 543
only for the purposes of burial, and to bring yet another creative interface with the
prophetic word to the narrative surface.37
Keith Bodner
kbodner@tyndale.ca
Tyndale College, Toronto, ON M2M 4B3, Canada
37 The implications for the book of Micah are beyond the scope of this present inquiry, as the
main point here is to suggest that 1 Kgs 22:28b represents an important aspect of the conflict
between king and prophet. But in light of the above argument, the issue of connection between
v. 28b and Mic 1:2 merits some reappraisal. Without attempting to resolve the diachronic issue—if
there is one—of the relationship between these texts, consider the following two hypotheses. The
first possible way of approaching the parallel between 1 Kgs 22:28b and Mic 1:2a would be as fol-
lows: From the perspective of literary intertextuality, 1 Kgs 22:28b is quoted by the prophet Micah
not as a confused cross-reference to Micaiah but as an ironic inversion of Ahab’s misguided (yet
ultimately fulfilled) challenge to the true prophet. When these words are later alluded to in Mic
1:2a, perhaps the prophet Micah can be understood as quoting something of an ominous byword,
ironically preserved as a testimony to the failure of Ahab and his public invocation, !lk !ym[ w[m`.
A second possible way of understanding the relationship between these texts also produces an
interesting angle, namely, that 1 Kgs 22:28b is alluding to the prophetic material in the book of
Micah. In this case, scholars are certainly helpful in pointing out the connection between 1 Kgs
22:28 and Mic 1:2. Where the consensus breaks down, though, is that it is not necessarily a con-
fused “later scribe” making an erroneous correlation between the two prophets with similar names,
but rather the writer of 1 Kings is making an intentional theological and literary connection
between these two texts, and thus the hypocorism of Micaiah and Micah functions as a hermeneu-
tical key in this narrative. Walsh reminds us of previous scholarship: “The narratives, particularly
the stories of Ahab and the Aramean wars, contain serious historical problems. Many historians of
Israel, for instance, are convinced that the incidents recounted in chapters 20 and 22 reflect rela-
tions between Israel and Aram not during Ahab’s reign but several decades later. If that is the case,
stories originally told of some subsequent king have been transferred to Ahab for literary rather
than historical purposes. In other words, the likelihood that these stories do not recount historical
events from the reign of Ahab makes them all the more significant as narrative characterizations of
him” (1 Kings, 293). Assuming for a moment that this is the case, the writer of 1 Kings may be fully
aware of the prophecies of Micah and may be exploiting the similarity of their names by giving
Ahab this portion of dialogue (!lk !ym[ w[m`) to underscore emphatically his demise in the face of
the prophetic word. If, as some scholars advocate, there has been some chronological rearranging
in 1 Kgs 20–22, it is notable that such a plot structure considerably enhances the characterization of
Ahab, as the escalation of prophetic conflict (which has been a hallmark of Ahab’s career) climaxes
here in 1 Kgs 22. The writer of 1 Kings, one could argue, provides a highly sophisticated form of
intertextual commentary.
6Q30, A CURSIVE ŠÎN, AND PROVERBS 11
In DJD 3, Maurice Baillet published a small papyrus fragment from Qumran

Cave 6 written in the cursive script.1 Baillet did not identify this fragment, which he read
as follows:
]**[ 1
]h˘[f˘ *˘ [ 2
!y]dÛgwb t[d[ 3
]*t [f̆˘[ 4
] hlw̆ Û !y[f̆˘ [ 5
]l[ ]**[ 6
The main problem in deciphering this fragment is a letter that has the following
shape . Baillet thought that this letter, which appears in lines 2, 4, and 5, was a t\êt.
However, in light of Ada Yardeni’s study of the Jewish cursive script, it is clear that this
letter is not a t\et but a šîn.2 Documents from the first century C.E. that bear witness to
such šîns are ostracon no. 561 from Masada,3 two Aramaic ostraca of unknown prove-
nance,4 and Murabba>at 22, a document from the end of 69 C.E.5 In light of this identifi-
cation of the letter, the fragment from Qumran Cave 6 should be read as follows:
1 M. Baillet, “30. Fragment en Cursive,” in Les ‘Petites Grottes’ de Qumran (ed. M. Baillet,
J. T. Milik, and R. de Vaux; DJD 3; Oxford: Clarendon, 1962), 140 and pl. 29. Baillet noted that cer-
tain forms of letters are known from writings dated to the second revolt (132–135 C.E.), and there-
fore 6Q30 is considered to be the latest text found at Qumran. See B. Webster, “Chronological
Index of the Texts from the Judean Desert,” in The Texts from the Judaean Desert: Indices and
Introduction (ed. E. Tov; DJD 39; Oxford: Clarendon, 2002), 434. As we will see below, there is no
reason to date this fragment later than the destruction of Qumran in 68 C.E.
2 A. Yardeni, Textbook of Aramaic, Hebrew, and Nabataean Documentary Texts from the
Judaean Desert (Jerusalem: Dinur Center, 2000), 2:184–85, 208–9.

3 Y. Yadin and J. Naveh, The Aramaic and Hebrew Ostraca and Jar Inscription (Masada 1;
Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 1989), 53, pl. 46.

4 A. Yardeni, “New Jewish Aramaic Ostraca,” IEJ 40 (1990): 130–40, 148.
5 J. T. Milik, “Textes Hébreux et Araméens,” in Les Grottes de Murabba>ât (ed. P. Benoit,
J. T. Milik, and R. de Vaux; DJD 2; Oxford: Clarendon, 1961), 118–21, pl. 33. On the date of this
document, see H. Eshel, “Documents of the First Jewish Revolt from the Judean Desert,” in The
First Jewish Revolt: Archaeology, History, and Ideology (ed. A. M. Berlin and J. A. Overman; Lon-
don/New York: Routledge, 2002), 157–63.
544
Critical Notes 545
]q˘[ 1
]t˘[ `r˘[ 2
!y]dÛgwb t[ 3
]t [`[ 4
]* hn Ûr !y[`[r 5
]l[ ]*[ ]*[ 6
It would appear that 6Q30 is quoting Prov 11:5, 6, and 7, as well as the second part
of v. 10. On this basis, it possibly should be reconstructed in the following manner:
!ymt t]q˘[dx 1
tqdx [`r lpy w]t˘[ `r˘[bw wkrd r`yt 2
wdkly !y]dÛgwb t[whbw !lxt !yr`y 3
tljwtw hwqt dba]t [`[r !da twmb 4
... ]* hn Ûr !y[`[r dbab hdba !ynwa 5
]l[ ]*[ ]*[ 6
Translation6
1. 5The righteou]sne[ss of the blameless man
2. smooths his way, But the wicked man is felled by h]is wickedne[ss. 6 The
righteousness
3. of the upright saves them. Bu]t the treache[rous are trapped by their malice.
4. 7At death the hopes of a w]icked man are do[omed, And the ambition
5. of evil men comes to nothing. 10When the w]icked [perish] there are shouts
joy [...
This reconstruction is only tentative, since the fragment is small and the length of
the lines in the reconstructed text are not equal. (The unequal lines could be due either
to the cursive script or to words written between the lines.) Nevertheless, if one accepts
the reconstruction, then it is significant that line 4 (v. 7) follows the MT, “When a
wicked man dies,” rather than the LXX, “When a good man dies.”7 The omission of Prov
11:8–10a, which effects an immediate shift in the fragment from v. 7 to the second part
of v. 10, may be the result of a variant text or a scribal error due to the similarity between
hdba (v. 7) and dbab (v. 10). Or it may be that the scribe is deliberately grouping
together verses that deal with the death of wicked—“When a wicked man dies, it is the
6 The translation is based on Tanakh: The Holy Scriptures (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication
Society, 1985).
7 See the discussion in C. H. Toy, The Book of Proverbs (ICC; Edinburgh: Clark, 1899),
222–24; and in R. J. Clifford, Proverbs (OTL; Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1999), 120, 122.
end of hope” (v. 7) and “When the wicked are overthrown, there is jubilation” (v. 10).8
Such a deliberate grouping of verses suggests that the text might be an anthology of
verses dealing with the wicked. Thus, if the reconstruction offered above is correct,
6Q30 should be labeled 6QpapProv.
Hanan Eshel
eshelh@mail.biu.ac.il
Bar-Ilan University, 52 900 Ramat-Gan, Israel
8 It seems that the meaning of the MT is that “when a wicked man dies, hope perishes,”
because now it is clear that the wicked man will not repent. See R. E. Murphy, Proverbs (WBC;
Nashville: Thomas Nelson, 1998), 79–81.
JBL 122/3 (2003) 547–591
BOOK REVIEWS
Book reviews are also published online at the Society of Biblical Literature’s WWW site:
http://www.bookreviews.org. For a list of books received by the Journal, see
http://www.bookreviews.org/books-received.html
[Editor’s Note: The following two reviews represent a book review experiment for JBL.
Herein the reader will find both the original JBL review of a “classic” work in the field of
biblical and cognate studies, followed by a current review and (re)assessment of that
same work. The goal is to provide a forum for reengagement of significant past studies
and issues, as well as the opportunity to reintroduce these works and their concomitant
reviews into contemporary discussion.]
The History of the Synoptic Tradition, by Rudolf Bultmann. Translated by John Marsh.
New York: Harper & Row, 1963. Pp. viii + 456. Latest repr.: Hendrickson Publishers,
1995.
This translation of the second edition of Professor Bultmann’s classic work on form
criticism has been long awaited, and will be widely welcomed by teachers and students
of NT. The second edition appeared in 1931, and has a supplement dated 1958; there is
also, now, a second supplement. The first of these has been included in the translation.
Form criticism has not been very well served in English-speaking lands, largely as
a result of the devastations of war, but partly as a consequence of opposition and even
ridicule from the “conservative” side. Martin Dibelius’s From Tradition to Gospel went
out of print with the bombing of London the last two days of 1940, when four million
books, sheets, plates, and even the presses were destroyed. No effort has been made to
bring the work back into print [It was reprinted shortly after this review, New York:
Scribner, 1965; latest repr. London: James Clarke, 1997]. In consequence, many per-
sons have acquired fantastic ideas of the scope and aim of form criticism. It has been
viewed as a substitute for textual criticism, even for source analysis! Professor Bultmann
repudiates these vagaries of misunderstanding. At last, the student has in his hands a
translation of one of the fountainheads of the new study, and can judge for himself its
range and intention and results.
If an aggiornamento is called for in church relations, one is no less needed in NT
studies. Bultmann does a great deal to clear away the antiquated and outworn assump-
tions of old-fashioned exegesis, and states in clear terms the actual facts of the tradition,
547
after submission of them to the clear critical evaluation of historical research—just as

bold and unhesitating as in any other area of historical or literary research. The result is
a more assuring fundamentum for the church historian, and the general historian, as
well as for the exegete and interpreter. It is too bad he did not go even further. For
example, the old question-begging use of “logia” for the sayings of Jesus still survives.
This was the usage of the late nineteenth century, when it was thought that Papias
referred to some collection of Jesus’ words, or even an account of his life, when he said
that Matthew @Ebrai?di dialevktw/ ta; lovgia sunetavcato. It was even the title of the arti-
cle in the 11th edition of the Encyclopaedia Britannica, which dealt with the
Oxyrhynchus “sayings of Jesus.” Harnack’s usage was far more accurate: he referred to
Sprüche Jesu. Papias himself, if he gave the title to his work which Eusebius used
(Logivwn kuriakw'n ejxhghvsew"), did not say “Oracles of the Lord” (as Polycarp did in ad
Phil 7 I, meaning the sayings of Jesus which the Gnostics perverted), but kuriakav,
which surely bears the connotation “divine.” (See Eusebius, Hist. Eccl. iii, 39, 1 and 16.)
The final statement, “and everyone interpreted [or translated] them as best he could,”
points much more probably to a collection of OT oracles, i.e., “promises” of Christ, than
to “Q” or “L” or any other collection of the sayings of Jesus. How should a collection of
sayings of Jesus in Greek need translation—or interpretation—in Hierapolis or its
neighborhood ca. 130 C.E.? But this is only a small criticism of a great book.
Alas, however, for the misprints, which abound. The publishers should really issue
a sheet of corrigenda! [The publishers came out with a revised translation in 1968,
which addressed this problem of the 1963 edition.] To begin with, the German publish-
ers’ name is misspelled on p. iv; at the end, the first evangelist’s name is misspelled on p.
450. There is evidence of more than one hand, either in the translation or the typeset-
ting: no umlauts are used in the translation of the book; they are regularly used in the
Supplement (pp. 375ff.). Worse yet, many sentences are opaque, as if translated by per-
sons without a firm grasp of English idiom. Some are quite misleading, as on p. 367,
where it is said that a paragraph has been “omitted from page 365 in the original Ger-
man.” This is simply not true. It should read: “omitted from p. 340 (p. 365 of the Ger-
man).” And in that paragraph “a” sequence should be “the” sequence; and “constituents
of the last act” is curious and bungling English. Pages 4–6, at the very beginning of the
book, afford several examples of crude English, obscure and misleading. One thinks of
the pellucid German of the original and is reminded of the Philadelphia bookseller
Alien’s annotated catalogue, which described the Bohn translation of Plato as “a fairly
intelligible translation, provided one uses the Greek for a pony!” It is a pity that as
important a book as Bultmann’s should appear in this awkward dress.
Even so, the student who does not read German will get most of the meaning if he
strives for it, and will begin to see daylight ahead in understanding the historical devel-
opment of the Gospels and in resolving their obscurities and inconsistencies—what
Eduard Schwartz called aporien. Form criticism is not on the way out; it is “here to
stay,” as R. M. Grant says on the jacket. It is not to be dismissed with ridicule or resent-
ment even when some of its advocates or would-be interpreters or advocates go too far.
Basically it is a branch of literary criticism, useful in any study of ancient literature, espe-
cially of books based on tradition or making use of it—and there are plenty of examples
in Greek, Latin, and ancient oriental writings. The Gospels are not homogeneous; this
Book Reviews 549
has been known for a long time, and now the computer tests place it beyond doubt.
Hence the necessity, the inevitability of editorial work on the tradition and the equally
necessary uncovering of these editorial and revisionary traces in modern study of the
sacred writings—the very first thing to be done in the process of exegesis or interpreta-
tion. The sources must be distinguished, and then the underlying tradition, which came
before the sources; but the very first step is to distinguish the editorial element in the
Gospels as they stand. All this involved and delicate process is both inevitable and indis-
pensable, if the sacred tradition is to be recovered. It is no task for tyros. As Sir William
Osier said of brain surgery, it “takes a seaman’s grip with a lace-maker’s touch.” Only
one who has lived with the task for many years, as Rudolf Bultmann has, can be trusted
to wield the literary scalpel and scissors. For the reason why we study form criticism is
not in order to discard anything, or to dissect for the mere fun of it; but to safeguard and
preserve the precious treasure that is enshrined within these sacred books, for the good
of all men and the healing of the nations.
Frederick Clifton Grant (1891–1974) was emeritus professor of biblical theology

at Union Theological Seminary, New York, when he wrote this review,
which appeared in JBL 83 (1964): 76–78.
A new era of New Testament scholarship dawned in 1921 when the first edition of
Rudolf Bultmann’s Die Geschichte der synoptischen Tradition appeared. Together with
Karl Ludwig Schmidt’s Der Rahmen der Geschichte Jesu (Eng. trans.: The Place of the
Gospels in the General History of Literature [trans. B. R. McCane; Columbia: Univer-
sity of South Carolina Press, 2001]) and Martin Dibelius’s Formgeschichte des Evangeli-
ums (Eng. trans.: From Tradition to Gospel [trans. B. L. Wooff; London: James Clarke,
1997]), both published in 1919, the work of the young professor at the University of
Giessen represented the major presentation of the emerging form-critical approach to
the Synoptic tradition. A decade later Bultmann’s work was revised and published in an
expanded edition. Bultmann, who was by this time professor at the University of Mar-
burg (to which he dedicated the 1921 edition), had taken notice of the criticism of espe-
cially Erich Fascher, Ludwig Köhler, and Burton S. Easton, and wished partly to
respond to it. The first English translation by John Marsh appeared in 1963 under the
title The History of the Synoptic Tradition, and as late as 1995 another German reprint
was published (10th edition). To compensate for the lack of entirely new editions, sev-
eral Ergänzungshefte have been issued since 1958.
No single book has exerted such a profound influence on Synoptic studies as the
second edition of Bultmann’s Geschichte. As we read it today, it is impossible to appreci-
ate fully how it was received soon after its publication. At that time important discover-
ies had not yet been made, the paradigms of research were different, and the scholarly
exchange was limited by severe political tensions. Bultmann’s investigation no doubt
brought the study of the gospel tradition to a new analytical level. Its detailed discussion,
coupled with comments of a more general kind, with indications relating to the influen-
tial kerygmatic theology that was later to be developed more fully, points to the author’s
remarkable ability to integrate exegetical work into hermeneutical modes of thinking.
To this day, when exegesis and theology tend to be separated by different agendas, the
works that he subsequently produced exhibit a rare congruity of analytical and her-
meneutical sensitivity.
The present essay reflects how a European colleague of a later generation, who has
met only some of the aged students of Bultmann and is accustomed to different, though
culturally related, scientific paradigms, evaluates its significance for the modern schol-
arly work on the Synoptic tradition. I read Bultmann’s Geschichte for the first time
about twenty years ago; I worked with it in depth about ten years ago; and I have
recently read it again, in German and in English. My views concerning the book have
changed during the years, moving toward a more sincere appreciation of it, but some
problematic features keep recurring.
Orality and Literary Level. A fundamental point of disagreement has to do with
Bultmann’s understanding of early Christian orality and the literary level of the Gospels.
His form-critical approach paid much attention to the oral character of tradition and
transmission. There was, for Bultmann, no sharp break between orality and textuality in
early Christianity, no sharp distinction between tradition and redaction. The reason for
this hermeneutical continuity of the two modes of communication was the prevailing
conception that the Synoptic tradition and writings were “popular” items in the sense
that they were unliterary. They were not written in accordance with contemporary liter-
ary genres. It was “on account of the unliterary character of the material” (p. 6 [refer-
ences are to the English translation]) that differences between oral and written
traditions were lacking. Even the fixing of the tradition in writing was “a quite unliterary
process” (p. 239).
More recent research has brought attention to various forms of orality in early
Christianity, but in a different way, recognizing the more advanced literary character of
the material. Several studies of the rhetorical and narratological dimension of early
Christian writings have unveiled sophisticated strategies of composition and communi-
cation in all three Synoptic Gospels; insights from ancient forms of transmission as well
as argumentative expansion and elaboration suggest that quite deliberate techniques of
transmission and persuasion were operative already at the stage of pre-Synoptic tradi-
tion. The Gospel tradition was evidently perpetuated by people with literary training.
The oral character of the material is thus caused not by the fact that the evangelists were
unliterary but by the overarching oral mind-set influencing even advanced literary forms
of communication. Bultmann did not take into account the oral features of all textual
composition and performance in Greek antiquity and misleadingly reduced ancient
orality to the spoken word of inherently “popular” and unliterary material.
This change in the notions of orality and literary level strikes hard against Bult-
mann’s fundamental idea that each literary category in the Synoptic Gospels corre-
sponds to a typical situation or occupation in the life of a community (Sitz im Leben).
The “proper understanding of form-criticism” (p. 4) rests, according to Bultmann, on
this judgment. His conviction might be true in regard to popular folksongs in purely oral
environments, though even here it is far from evident. However, if the tradition exhibits
literary characteristics interacting with its oral features, its form cannot, as he emphati-
cally insisted, be reduced to a sociological concept in distinction from an aesthetic one.
Formal classifications have, in that case, very much to do with literary issues, in which
aesthetic features are present as part of a deliberate aim to transmit and communicate
Book Reviews 551
persuasively. Such literary forms are rarely at home in only one specific life setting of a
community, but might be taken over, developed, and used in a number of different
situations and activities. Even less can the tradition easily be stripped of its secondary
form-critical modification and traced back to an original pure form. Without the one-
dimensional correlation between a literary category and the Sitz im Leben that Bult-
mann presupposed, it becomes virtually impossible to investigate diachronically the
history of a Synoptic tradition according to its form. One of the most basic conditions of
the practice of form criticism thus becomes seriously problematic.
Community and Individuals. As a corollary of this weakness of Bultmann’s form-
critical approach, his emphasis on the Christian community appears to be exaggerated.
He rarely speaks of individuals in early Christianity. The Gospels are community prod-
ucts. Generically, Bultmann regarded them as expanded cult legends based on the
primitive Christian kerygma that grew up on Hellenistic soil. This was their specific,
unique characteristic—a creation of Mark. “There is no historical-biographical interest
in the Gospels” (p. 372), he says. They are collective and kerygmatic in character. Bult-
mann seems to define literary genre solely in terms of the interest reflected in the writ-
ing.
Although various postmodern discourses have made it more evident than ever that
communities and social structures inevitably influence our comprehension of reality, it
is much less evident that the ancient Gospels and their literary features are to be seen
merely as products of specific Christian communities. Today there is a growing aware-
ness that the Gospels are to be classified within the parameters of ancient literary
genres. They are not, as we have noted, unliterary. In particular, they seem to have been
heard/read as pieces of literature belonging to the flexible genre of the ancient Greek
bios. This insight might, in turn, make us question whether they were actually composed
within certain communities and aimed for specific communities. The only explicit indi-
cation of authorship and audience that they give—in the Lukan prologue—speaks of a
single author and a single recipient, not a community. There is some probability that the
Gospels, like other ancient bioi, were created by individuals with considerable literary
sensitivity. The intended audience is largely unknown to us, but the rapid spread of the
Gospels in several churches makes the notion that they were intended for particular
communities doubtful.
The individual is also absent from Bultmann’s account of the tradition and trans-
mission process. As it seems, he conceptualizes the tradition more or less as an anony-
mous collective entity with no relation to the convictions and memories of specific
people. Despite his insistence on oral transmission, he rarely speaks of memory and
memorization—the primary means of oral transmission. Only in a footnote, by way of
concession to Köhler’s critique, does he indicate that “memories of Jesus, his words and
deeds played their part in the literary productions of the early Church” (p. 48 n. 2).
What this means remains unclear. Bultmann’s silence on this point has to do, again, with
his consistent and narrow focus on the creative community and its kerygma. Tradition, it
seems, is, in his view, performed collectively and kerygmatically, not recalled individu-
ally.
There is certainly something that can be called the collective memory. Groups and
cultures nourish and elaborate coherent patterns that partly depend on a common past
and determine present and future ways of conceptualizing and coping with reality. But
groups and cultures do not recall the past; individuals do, especially those events of the
past that break or are in tension with sociocultural conventions and expectations.
Although scholars continue to estimate the ancient faculty of memory in various ways, it
has become evident that ancient Greek and Jewish writings betray a sincere and
demanding appreciation of the memory of the individual as a link between the present
and the past. For Bultmann, by contrast, what Peter, James, Mary, and others could
recall was entirely insignificant in comparison to the creative kerygmatic performances
of the Christian communities.
A similar critique was raised against Bultmann’s vision of the productivity of the
church soon after the publication of the first edition of his book. In the second edition
he replies: (1) the church recognized itself to be a community of the Last Time, in which
prophets were to appear, (2) what was produced—at least the apophthegms—shared in
the traditional rabbinic forms, and (3) form criticism does not dispute the view that the
church had its origin in the works of Jesus (p. 40 n. 1). The second and the third points
are concessions to the critique. The first point is debatable. The Qumran material,
which was unknown to Bultmann at the time, suggests that eschatological self-
consciousness may coexist with advanced scribal activity; and it has become increasingly
clear that prophetic activity and prophetic oracles can relate substantially to traditional
material. Bultmann himself recognizes elsewhere, in passing, that “scribal activity”
(p. 61) must be taken into account when it comes to the origin and fostering of the tradi-
tion, but he never develops that point.
Words and Stories. Bultmann structured his book according to a distinction
between the tradition of the sayings of Jesus and the tradition of the narrative material.
He was aware that this kind of differentiation is problematic and artificial, counting as
part of the tradition of the sayings a species of traditional material “which might well be
reckoned as stories” (p. 11): the apophthegms. He does not, however, draw out the
implication of his insight but immediately points out that the apophthegms can be
reduced to “bare dominical sayings” (p. 11) by determining the secondary character of
their frame.
He also adhered to a simple version of the two-source hypothesis, as was common
at the time, and regarded Q as a sayings source. To be sure, for Bultmann, the so-called
Q-source was a difficult item to cope with. He speculates that originally it may have con-
tained, alongside a few apophthegms and sayings of Jesus, “some late Jewish proverbs,
laws and prophecies which were taken over by the Church, or originated in it—and
indeed with full awareness of the fact” (p. 102). Moreover, he thinks that Q could very
well have contained narrative material such as miracle stories for “edifying, paraenetic
and polemico-apologetic purposes” (p. 240). However, when narrative material does
appear, as in the story of the Temptation and the centurion from Capernaum, it is the
result of a late Hellenistic redaction of Q. The Jesus of Q is primarily “the eschatological
preacher of repentance and salvation, the teacher of wisdom and law” (p. 241). Bult-
mann would never speak of a “sayings gospel,” or the like. Q was not a gospel. On the
contrary, it is hardly likely that there existed anyone alongside or before Mark “whose
work could, like his, be termed a Gospel” (p. 369). Q is a sayings source. As it seems,
already before the discovery of the Gospel of Thomas, Bultmann envisioned two trajec-
tories in early Christianity, one that adhered to the sayings of Jesus, another that cher-
Book Reviews 553
ished and developed narrative elements. The former had its roots in Palestine; the latter
was a subsequent and independent creation on Hellenistic soil.
The tendency to dichotomize the sayings material and the narrative material at a
pre-Synoptic stage, still exerting a strong influence on Q research, is strangely remote
from any informed consideration of ancient orality and communication. Bultmann did
not relate it to his awareness of oral tradition, but uncritically adopted the two-source
hypothesis and slavishly accepted Schmidt’s attempt to isolate traditional units from
their narrative framework in Mark. But granted that there existed material that was col-
lected in some kind of flexible stratum of sayings, it is entirely probable that it was orally
supplemented with narrative elements. The oral mind-set strives toward narrativization.
In ancient times, as we know from Plato’s and others deliberations on the written word,
writing was normally considered to be a deplorable but necessary aid to the fuller oral
presentation.
Why would Matthew and Luke, in that case, be the first ones to feel the need to
supplement Q narratively? The presence of narrative elements and episodes in the dou-
ble tradition points to a narrativizing tendency in the Q material itself. The full aware-
ness of the hellenization of Palestine makes it questionable whether it is at all possible to
distinguish the narrative elements as a late Hellenistic redaction of an early Palestinian
sayings source. Although it seems that Matthew and Luke had different versions of Q,
which is natural once we regard it as a flexible stratum, it is virtually impossible to estab-
lish independent criteria for its alleged redaction history. The distinction between Pales-
tinian and Hellenistic redaction, which sustains broader aspects of Bultmann’s work,
will not do.
Furthermore, why would Mark represent such a decisive narrative endeavor,
when the composition of the Gospels, according to Bultmann, “only completes what was
begun in the oral tradition” (p. 321)? While Schmidt has shown that Mark’s framework
is formulated at some distance from the historical events themselves, he has not proved
that it is not traditional, confusing the distinction between historicity and traditionality.
Furthermore, the claim that pre-Markan apophthegms can be reduced to bare domini-
cal sayings is not mandatory when they are compared to or, as has been done, analyzed
along the lines of, the form, expansion, and elaboration of the ancient chreia. A chreia
was by its very definition a type of reminiscence that related a saying or an act to a par-
ticular person. Its expansion and elaboration, often based on a brief written chreia, were
regularly presented orally. The narrativity of the pre-Synoptic tradition is thus intrinsic
even to the form of the smaller units.
In the second edition of his work, Bultmann added a curious remark as he com-
pared the pre-Synoptic material to the collections of rabbinic traditions and to their
enumeration of individual elements without any organic unity. A collection of Jesus tra-
dition differs from the very start from a rabbinic collection, he says by reference to Ger-
hard Kittel, “in that it does not gather together the voices of different authorities, but
isolates the Jesus-tradition alone” (p. 369). This is a preparation for the Gospel, he con-
tinues. The full implication of this insight is more significant than he seems to admit. If
this concentration on Jesus is characteristic “from the very start” (von vornherein), it fol-
lows that Bultmann’s frequent use of rabbinic analogies of collections of sayings from
numerous teachers is invalid in terms of comprehending the Synoptic tradition. It would
be very surprising if such a focus on one particular person, whose teaching was conveyed
by words and deeds, was to be devoid of any interest in relating his sayings to his person
and to the basic events of his life.
The memory has a tendency to visualize the past, and if that past has to do with one
particular individual of extraordinary importance, it will as a matter of course relate say-
ings to events. From the very beginning, memoria verborum and memoria rerum will be
synchronized as one recalls the words of significant persons. When Irenaeus, for
instance, in a letter to Florinus, contemplates on what he as a child had heard Polycarp
teaching, he starts by telling how he remembers the place where Polycarp sat and
taught, where he went out and in, his way of life, what he looked like, and so on (Euse-
bius, Hist. Eccl. 5.20.5–7). Even the rabbis knew the value of drawing a mental picture
of the author of a teaching (y. Sheq. 47a); the Greeks and the Romans did so even more.
Were the early followers of Jesus in Palestine all that different, being totally ignorant of
who their Master claimed to be, what he did, and what happened to him? Surely not.
Tendencies and Irregularities. Bultmann’s Geschichte is, in the end, a book about
method. Despite his theological agenda, he seeks essentially to present and practice a
comprehensive method of form-critical investigation, looking for general patterns and
tendencies. These are necessary to define in a precise and systematic way in order to
show how the method of tracing the tradition through the history of its form works.
The fundamental problem with Bultmann’s method is not its inherent skepticism
toward the historicity of the tradition. Occasionally he grants a good deal of continuity to
the tradition; and skepticism is indeed part of all critical investigations. Rather, what is
essentially problematic is precisely that his method does not work as a tool of historical
inquiry. Wherever Bultmann speaks of tendencies, we meet irregularities. The Synoptic
tradition became longer and shorter, more detailed and less detailed, more Semitic and
less Semitic. I have pointed to some other problematic features above. Groups consist of
individuals, and individuals do not always think and act in an entirely predictable way.
The thinking and behavior of the early Christians might have been disciplined by educa-
tion and the sociorhetorical concerns of a larger setting, but the tradition ultimately
reflects a manifold communication of how the past was envisioned in the oral histories of
various individuals. Any attempt to conceptualize methodologically the development of
the Synoptic tradition has to cope with a frustrating mixture of tendencies and irregular-
ities. Bultmann’s attempt is fascinating, but is also hampered by its insistence on the reg-
ularity of social behavior and form-historical development.
The misgivings and disagreements with Bultmann’s Geschichte that we might
experience more than seventy years after its publication have little to do with its quality
as such. It is more a matter of evaluating it in light of the new discoveries and the chang-
ing paradigms that determine scholarly discussion. As with many elaborate methods,
recent as well as older ones, Bultmann’s form criticism seeks to explain and comprehend
a bewildering complex of historical development from the perspective of a single con-
ceptual framework based on presuppositions that, in the end, are a construct of the
scholarly culture of a specific time and place. An implicit understanding that scholarship
has progressed significantly during the last seventy years makes scholars call for a new
account of the history of the Synoptic tradition. Some of the issues raised above no
doubt reflect new insights. Scientific research is not entirely relative to our existence.
Book Reviews 555
Yet, in view of the increasing diversity of scholarly activity and convictions, it is improba-
ble that any single account will ever receive such an attention and exert such an influ-
ence as Bultmann’s did. Unfortunately his work is today rarely studied seriously outside
the European continent as new methods and perspectives are developed and practiced
in the never-ending attempt to reach back to the historical Jesus or to define the keryg-
matic foundation of Christian theology. If nothing else, the reading of the old master
should make us aware that scientific work is beset with an implicit challenge for each
scholar to sort out her/his cultural history and relate it responsibly to the work of others.
To this Bultmann would probably have agreed heartily, being keenly aware of the
predicaments of all human existence.
Samuel Byrskog
Göteborg University (and Stockholm School of Theology),
SE 40530, Göteborg, Sweden
Persia and Torah: The Theory of Imperial Authorization of the Pentateuch, edited by
James W. Watts. SBLSymS 17. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2001. Pp. 228.
$39.95 (paper).
Peter Frei’s theory of Persian imperial authorization of local legislation opened up
to biblical scholars a fascinating line of inquiry with regard to the origins of the Penta-
teuch. Frei sought to demonstrate that the phenomenon of “imperial authorization,”
whereby legislation proposed by a local authority within the Persian empire was
endorsed by the central government to the point of being taken up as imperial law, was
attested more or less strongly in a wide variety of ancient texts. These texts included the
biblical books of Ezra, Nehemiah, and Esther. Frei’s contention that the mission of Ezra
related to an imperial authorization of the laws Ezra was commissioned to enforce
spurred scholars like Erhard Blum, Frank Crüsemann, Joseph Blenkinsopp, and others
to link the composition of the Pentateuch to Persian legal initiatives in Yehud. The
essays in this volume assess, in various ways, Frei’s thesis itself, its applicability (if any) to
Ezra’s mission, and the relationship of these to the origins of the Pentateuch.
The volume opens with a new English translation of Peter Frei’s 1995 essay “Per-
sian Imperial Authorization: A Summary.” Here is a straightforward presentation of the
evidence that Frei believes support his thesis. This summary is a helpful introduction to
those unfamiliar with the theory, a helpful review for those already familiar with the the-
ory, and an indispensable summary for those whose access to Frei’s original presenta-
tion of his thesis is limited. This essay consists mostly of a survey of documents that
seem, to Frei, serviceable as potential examples of or witnesses to instances of such
authorization. It should be noted that Frei’s thesis is not itself an attempt to explain the
origins of the Pentateuch; rather, Frei takes the Ezra traditions as evidence of the pro-
cess of imperial authorization.
Joseph Blenkinsopp answers his title question, “Was the Pentateuch the Constitu-
tion of the Jewish Ethnos?,” with a resounding “Maybe.” Blenkinsopp argues that the
legal terminology used in the biblical books of Daniel, Esther, and Ezra—regardless of
the historicity of the events narrated in those books—is consistent with Persian usage
attested elsewhere. On Blenkinsopp’s analysis, any legal enactments anywhere within
the Persian empire could be appropriately labeled “the law of the king,” as in the Ezra
tradition. Among the evidence adduced by Frei for imperial authorization, Blenkinsopp
focuses most of his attention on the Demotic Chronicle and its account of the activities
of Udjahorresne. Certain analogies can be drawn between those activities and the activ-
ities of Ezra and Nehemiah as pictured in Ezra-Nehemiah, suggesting that the Persian
authorities might have undertaken a program in Yehud similar to that undertaken in
Egypt under Darius I. Ultimately, Blenkinsopp does conclude that Ezra’s mission was to
enforce Jewish law with the force of Persian law among the Jews in Trans-Euphrates.
Blenkinsopp further shows that Ezra-Nehemiah is familiar with both Deuteronomic
and Priestly laws, though from what sources and in precisely what forms cannot be
known. Moreover, some of Ezra’s and Nehemiah’s impositions correspond to no known
pentateuchal regulations, or even contradict pentateuchal legislation. Thus the legal
contents of the Pentateuch might have been, but cannot be conclusively shown to have
been, bound by Persian authority on the Jews of Trans-Euphratene. In any event,
Blenkinsopp suggests, this would not precisely be a case of Frei’s imperial authorization,
for Frei’s model requires an appeal for authorization by local authorities, which the bib-
lical materials (and, for that matter, the Demotic Chronicle) do not attest.
In “ ‘You Shall Appoint Judges’: Ezra’s Mission and the Rescript of Artaxerxes,”
Lisbeth Fried accepts Ezra 7:21–26 as an authentic decree by Artaxerxes II. From this
starting point, and staying scrupulously close to the wording of the decree, she describes
Ezra’s charge as the appointment of Persians as judicial officials in Trans-Euphrates.
Much of the essay is devoted to an extremely helpful examination of Persian-era
jurisprudence, particularly the roles of judges, lawmakers, and law compilations. Fried
demonstrates that the concept of a “law code” to which judges might appeal when mak-
ing decisions is alien to the Persian empire. Persian-era judges enforced specific royal,
satrapal, and gubernatorial edicts (“the law of the king”) and decided cases according to
socially constructed concepts of right, fairness, and justice (“the law of the god”). They
did not, on Fried’s evidence, enforce local law codes or indeed law codes of any kind.
Fried demonstrates that the depiction of Nehemiah’s jurisprudential activities in Yehud
closely conforms to this pattern of imperial judicial hierarchies. His prohibition of busi-
ness activities on the Sabbath and of Judean marriages to non-Judeans were enabled by
the power of his office of governor of the province of Yehud, not by application of any
local law code.
Lester Grabbe’s essay, “The Law of Moses in the Ezra Tradition: More Virtual
Than Real?,” expresses skepticism about the historicity of Ezra and his alleged commis-
sion from the Persian government. Grabbe argues for the inauthenticity of the Arta-
xerxes firman in Ezra 7:12–26 on linguistic and content grounds. Sometimes Grabbe’s
claims seem overly impressionistic; for example, his judgment about the implausibility
of Ezra being given authority to appoint judges should be weighed against Fried’s argu-
ments in this volume. Nonetheless, Grabbe helpfully demonstrates that the books of
Ezra and Nehemiah preserve at least two different traditions about the promulgation of
the Mosaic Law in Yehud, and only one of these involves Ezra. After surveying a variety
of legal texts from the Persian empire, Grabbe concludes that the picture in the Ezra
tradition of the empire imposing the Mosaic Torah on Jews in Trans-Euphrates is at best
an exaggeration of a permissive Persian attitude toward local laws and customs.
Gary Knoppers also answers his own title question, “An Achaemenid Imperial
Authorization of Torah in Yehud?,” more in terms of a permissive imperial stance
Book Reviews 557
toward local governance than as a Persian initiative. Knoppers particularly examines

Frei’s suggestion that in Ezra-Nehemiah the phrases “the law of your God” and “the law
of the king” refer to the same body of law. By comparing the use of these and related
terms in the Chronicler’s presentations of David and Jehoshaphat, Knoppers shows that
these terms are unlikely to be used synonymously in Ezra-Nehemiah. Beyond this,
Knoppers offers a detailed defense of imperial permissiveness over and against imperial
authorization.
Since the ascription of lawgiving, or at least law-authorizing, activity in Egypt by
Darius I is often cited as an analogy to the biblical depictions of Ezra’s activity, Donald
Redford’s essay, “The So-Called ‘Codification’ of Egyptian Law under Darius I,” pro-
vides important cautions for the use of that analogy. Redford argues that the category
“lawgiver” is not native to Egyptian culture. Rather, the category was imposed by
Diodorus Siculus to “Hellenize” Egypt for a Hellenic audience. Redford does not doubt
that some sort of writing of laws occurred in Egypt during the reign of Darius I, but he
does interrogate the sources to determine what sort of activity this might have been.
Redford shows that in Egypt legal materials of various kinds were written down with
great frequency, published, read aloud, and even classified according to genre. Yet evi-
dence for any “codification” or systematic ordering of principles to be used by Egyptian
judicial officials is lacking. Nevertheless, Redford judges Egypt’s legal system to have
been perhaps the most sophisticated in the Mediterranean world when it came under
Darius’s control. Egypt thus had no need of any Persian-imposed law code, and Redford
is skeptical that Darius could have withheld “authorization” of Egypt’s existing laws had
he wished to do so. Rather than an imperial authorization of Egyptian law, Redford per-
ceives in Darius’s activity as described in the Demotic Chronicle a translation of Egyp-
tian law into Aramaic, especially those laws related to the production of wealth. The goal
of this translation was not to impose new laws on Egypt but to instruct the imperial gov-
ernment in controlling Egyptian wealth.
Jean-Louis Ska rounds out the volume with “‘Persian Imperial Authorization’:
Some Question Marks,” which summarizes a number of problems with Frei’s construct
of imperial authorization. Ska points to the wide disparity in the documents adduced by
Frei and the lack of any explicit mention of imperial authorization in any document as
problems with the idea of imperial authorization in general. Moreover, Ska notes that
the Jerusalem authorities’ interventions on behalf of the Elephantine cult and the sanc-
tions defined in Ezra for breaking “the law of God and the law of the king” both contra-
dict Pentateuchal legislation, making it hard to believe that the Torah was considered
legally binding on Jews in Trans-Euphratene generally or even in Yehud more specifi-
cally. Indeed, the Pentateuch in its canonical form could not have functioned very well
as a real-life law code, because of its own internal variety, and its extensive narratives
deprive the Pentateuch as a whole of the “look and feel” of a law code. Ska also presents
comparative evidence (some of it the same evidence offered by Frei) that any official
law codes would have been translated into Aramaic, but no Aramaic Pentateuch is
known. Ska thus rejects Frei’s thesis of imperial authorization and regards the Penta-
teuch instead as the national archives of the temple community in Jerusalem. Appended
to Ska’s article is a brief excursus helpfully locating Frei’s theory of imperial authoriza-
tion within the trend in central European exegesis to try to link literary products with
social or religious institutions.
Simply put, this volume is a “must read” for anyone interested in Frei’s theory of
imperial authorization, the character and historicity of Ezra’s mission, or the origins of
the Pentateuch. All of the essays engage important document sources with rigor and
care. The range of possible approaches to these questions is well represented in the vol-
ume, and readers will be rewarded many times over.
R. Christopher Heard
Milligan College, Milligan College, TN 37682
The Bridling of the Tongue and the Opening of the Mouth in Biblical Prophecy, by
Gregory Yuri Glazov. JSOTSup 311. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2001. Pp. 449.
$90.00 (cloth).
The purpose of this book is to dig deeper into the prophetic call narratives of the
Hebrew Bible in order to ascertain why so many of the prophets become silent before
the divine imperative to prophesy and preach. Synthesizing a broad segment of the sec-
ondary literature, the author boils down the scholarly discussion into three basic ques-
tions: What is the nature of the prophet’s reluctance to speak? What are the principles
by which this reluctance is resolved? What hermeneutical patterns of intrabiblical and
versional reaction to this phenomenon can be legitimately detected in the biblical and
postbiblical literature? Chapter 1 breaks down into: (a) a critical review of modern inter-
pretations of several call narratives; (b) an attempt to relate the results of this For-
schungsgeschichte to the three aforementioned questions; (c) an attempt to isolate
patterns and parallels in these variegated scholarly positions; and (d) an attempt to for-
mulate, on the basis of this analysis, a hypothesis about the “intrabiblical literary tradi-
tion concerned with the ‘keys’ or ‘bridles’ to the opening and closing of the mouth in
prophecy” (p. 24).
Chapters 2–5, then, “test and refine this hypothesis in the course of a more
detailed analysis of the prophetic call narratives of Moses, Isaiah, Jeremiah, and
Ezekiel” (p. 24), focusing on these particular prophets because the objections and
“mutisms” in their calls are most explicit and most obvious. Chapter 6 investigates the
“mouth-opening” and “tongue-bridling” motifs in several psalms (Pss 32, 39, 81, and
131), because Glazov suspects that a few of them have been composed for (or at least
influenced by) the “cult prophets” (p. 24). The book concludes with a helpful twenty-
two-page appendix listing and explaining several Egyptian and Babylonian “mouth-
opening” and “mouth-washing” rituals, followed finally by a listing of biblical and
postbiblical passages containing what Glazov thinks are Yahwistic adaptations of these
priestly rituals (pp. 361–83). Unfortunately the author does not engage the work of A.
Berlejung or M. Dick on these rituals (see also the recent study of C. Walker and M.
Dick, The Induction of the Cult Image in Ancient Mesopotamia: The Mesopotamian MÈµs
Pî Ritual [SAALT 1; Helsinki: Helsinki University, 2001]).
In ch. 1, the author critically engages three previous attempts to describe the char-
acter and development of the prophetic call narratives. First, he rejects much of K.
Baltzer’s analysis outright (HTR 61 [1968]: 567–81), because, in spite of the fact that it
adduces several ancient Near Eastern parallels (particularly Egyptian), it fails to give
adequate attention to the human half of the deity–prophet encounter. Glazov thinks
that Baltzer, in his desire to counter the hyper-humanizing trends of the 1960s, goes too
Book Reviews 559
far to the other end of the spectrum. Thus “the elements of pain, pathos, wonder and
dread underlying many of the prophetic expressions of reluctance to speak and objec-
tions to the call” are inappropriately marginalized (p. 32). For Glazov, Baltzer’s scheme
lacks “any recognition of the numinous character of the encounter and the vocational
problems of the individual called to office” (p. 50).
Second, Glazov praises N. C. Habel’s well-known form-critical analysis (ZAW 77
[1965]: 297–323), and even adapts it for his own purposes. Primarily, he questions the
“imprecise” way Habel describes the multiple prophetic objections in “typical” Hebrew
call narratives. He thinks that “the first is aimed against the self, while the second is
aimed against the commission” (p. 49), but Habel does not, and this leads him to con-
clude that Habel has not sufficiently grasped this distinction. For Glazov, not only is “the
articulated distinction between the first and the second type of objection” form-critically
important, but it also sets the tone of the “intrabiblical” trajectory the function of which
is to reflect on these traditions. Habel does not, in Glazov’s opinion, grasp the phe-
nomenological and literary symmetries between the prophetic objections, and this leads
him to overlook the possibility that the responses of divine reassurance are most likely
carefully tailored responses to these objections. This insight is the book’s most impor-
tant contribution. While Glazov feels that “the virtue of Habel’s scheme is the clarifica-
tion of the confrontation’s dialogical nature . . . the unsolved problem is what constitutes
the divine reassurance or response to the second objection” (p. 49).
Responding to these (and other) positions, Glazov argues that there can sometimes
be as many as three levels of prophetic response to the divine call: (a) the first governed
by awe, fear, and guilt; (b) the second governed by a sense of personal inadequacy; and
(c) the third, when present, driven by personal resentment against the divine message—
particularly when that message is doom-filled. In the latter case, the deity can and will
actually “bridle” or “muzzle” the protesting prophet—e.g., Ezekiel. Thus, this study sig-
nificantly advances our understanding of the prophetic call narratives, even though it
might have been greatly improved by giving attention to a very important foundational
question.
The M. Weippert/H. M. Barstad definition of prophecy, adopted here by Glazov,
is anthropologically incomplete and theologically (yes, theologically) impoverished.
Weippert defines prophecy as “a cognitive experience, a dream, an audition, a dream or
the like” involving “the revelation of a deity, or several deities” in which the prophet “is
conscious of being commissioned . . . to convey the revelation in speech, or through
metalinguistic behavior, to a third party who constitutes the actual recipient of the mes-
sage” (cited on p. 29). This is a good communicological definition, but this is not all that
prophecy is. Herb Huffmon defines prophecy in several overlapping categories: “com-
munication from the divine world, normally for a third party through a mediator
(prophet) who may or may not identify with the deity; inspiration through ecstasy,
dreams (apart from induced dreams in most instances), or what may be called inner illu-
mination; an immediate message (i.e., a message that does not require a technical spe-
cialist to interpret it); an unsolicited message (unlike divination); and a message that is
exhortatory or admonitory” (BA 31 [1968]: 103). Prophecy is not epic narrative or
priestly incantation. It is a mysterious, hoary, ancient phenomenon not easily catego-
rized by interpreters at a distance. Moses’ call bears little resemblance to a Homeric
soliloquy. Jeremiah’s struggle bears little resemblance to a Shakespearean speech.
There is a profoundly theological dimension to this literature that cannot be ignored,

and though Glazov seems at times to grasp it, his definitional foundation and subsequent
insights sometimes leave the impression that these narratives are easily dissected and
mechanically explainable. Yet one does not want to quibble over such an impressive
piece of scholarship. No brief review can do justice to the brilliance of its insights, the
meticulousness of its method, the balance of its arguments, and/or the elegance of its
presentation. The Bridling of the Tongue is a major advance in our understanding of the
prophetic call narratives, and no serious student of the Bible can afford to ignore it.
Michael S. Moore
Fuller Theological Seminary, Phoenix, AZ 85034
A Biblical Text and Its Afterlives: The Survival of Jonah in Western Culture, by Yvonne
Sherwood. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000. Pp. xii + 321. $65.00/$25.00.
It was not long ago that one could be considered widely read and even cutting edge
in biblical studies by rounding out one’s form criticism (or tradition history or rhetorical
criticism) with a smattering of narrative theory or folklore studies or what-have-you. But
in the wake of Sherwood’s most recent book (she is author also of the very fine study of
Hosea 1–3, The Prostitute and the Prophet [Sheffield, 1996]), that will no longer do. In
this cultural history of Jonah one finds not only a close engagement with other biblical
scholarship and with contemporary literary theory, but also with literature, art, and pop-
ular culture. Thus, Jack Sasson, Phyllis Trible, and Hans-Walter Wolff rub elbows with
Jacques Derrida, Mikhail Bakhtin, and Roland Barthes, but also with novelists such as
Paul Auster and Julian Barnes (and of course Herman Melville), with poets such as Hart
Crane and Zbigniew Herbert, with artists such as Maarten van Heemskerk and Eugene
Abeshaus, and with some who straddle disciplinary boundaries such as Aldous Huxley,
George Orwell, and Norma Rosen. Throw in a healthy dose of premodern interpreta-
tion (not only Luther and Calvin, but the Pirke de Rabbi Eliezer and the Mekilta de
Rabbi Ishmael, the early Latin poem Carmen de Jona de Ninive and the Middle English
poem Patience), and one could be forgiven for thinking that Sherwood has read every-
thing. The result is an almost impossibly rich book, which for all its great learning is
never anything but compellingly readable.
The volume is guided by the premise, stated early in the Introduction, that “bibli-
cal texts are literally sustained by interpretation, and the volume, ubiquity, and tenacity
of interpretation make it impossible to dream that we can take the text back, through
some kind of seductive academic striptease, to a pure and naked original state” (p. 2).
While the title of the book places “a biblical text” before “its afterlife,” Sherwood is actu-
ally much more interested in the afterlife of the book of Jonah—that is, the way it man-
ages to “survive” (as the subtitle puts it) in myriad historical and cultural contexts, all the
while adapting itself to various ideological postures as needed. It is no accident if this
way of formulating the issues seems to ascribe an intentionality—in the form of a desire
to live on—to the text itself, for as Sherwood puts it, drawing on the work of both evolu-
tionary biologist Richard Dawkins and biblical scholar Hugh Pyper, certain texts might
well be understood as “memes,” the cultural equivalent of genes. The meme propagates
by insinuating itself into a host community, replicating itself as it passes from individual
Book Reviews 561
to individual and from generation to generation, and mutating when necessary. For a
biblical text such as Jonah, the replication takes the form of canonization and faithful
copying and the mutations take place in the book’s seemingly endless interpretability.
The concept of the meme—a sort of textual “selfish gene”—works astonishingly well in
getting at the rich and varied afterlife of Jonah. As Sherwood puts it, “though measuring
no more than forty inches square in my edition, the book of Jonah has generated literally
acres of visual and verbal glosses, and has demonstrated an extraordinary capacity for
cultural survival” (p. 3). It is these acres and this capacity to which the author devotes
most of her attention, returning to the forty square inches of the book of Jonah itself
only at the end of her study.
The book is divided, following a brief introduction, into three large sections. The
first section, “The Mainstream,” presents a more or less chronological overview of
Christian and scholarly (the two are rarely separable) treatment of Jonah, beginning
with Jesus’ riddle about the “sign of Jonah” in Matt 12 and Luke 11 and extending
through the church fathers, the Reformation, and into the modern period. Sherwood is
especially insightful in her treatment of the way in which the character Jonah becomes a
negative cipher for “Jewish carnality,” which is opposed to the good of Christian spiritu-
ality in the first instance and later to the good of Enlightenment universalism. The sec-
ond section, “Backwaters and Underbellies,” traces the travels of the book of Jonah
outside of dominant Christian and scholarly readings, with extended treatments of Jew-
ish interpretation and popular interpretation. If mainstream interpretation tends to be
“centripetal,” shoring up social and religious order and discouraging dissidence, the
backwaters are more “centrifugal,” allowing for challenges to the character of God, the
authority of scripture, and the easy coherence of any settled, monolithic notion of iden-
tity. Sherwood is at her best in this section of the book, weaving together the fruits of her
wide reading with just the right amount of pungent commentary and analysis. In the
third and final section of the book, “Regurgitating Jonah,” the author reflects on con-
temporary theories of reading and how they have informed her approach, then gives her
own account of those “forty square inches” that constitute the book of Jonah itself. Here
Sherwood demonstrates the sort of skillful close reading that was only hinted at earlier
in the book. She is attentive to puns and wordplays in the Hebrew and to repeated words
and themes, and in this sense can hold her own with the best of rhetorical critics (the
New Criticism of biblical studies). But she is a much less deferential reader than most
who fall into this camp, and rather than see the book of Jonah as an example of the well-
wrought urn of language she describes it as a “mongrel text (neither purely comedy, nor
tragedy, nor midrash, nor parable—in fact, not purely anything)” (p. 236). Her reading
emphasizes the parodic, even carnivalesque, elements that pervade the book, but it is at
the same time alert to the more earnest questions that such elements may host. Thus,
while noting that the personification of the worm and the qiqayon-plant of ch. 4 func-
tions in a cartoonish way, Sherwood nevertheless adds that “they reinforce a subliminal
sense of the sudden changeability and fragility of life—a life that can turn on a bizarre
incoming word, a few pieces of sackcloth, or the fragile arbitrariness of a pun” (p. 280).
A Biblical Text and Its Afterlives is surely one of the most erudite, compelling, and
well-written books of the most recent generation of biblical scholarship. Sherwood com-
bines a solid grounding in biblical studies and the history of interpretation, a sophisti-
cated knowledge of the literature of cultural studies and literary theory, and an
underlying commitment to the ethical and moral demands of reading. And mediating it
all is the author’s distinctive prose style. By turns elegant and witty, urbane and laugh-
out-loud funny, Sherwood seems incapable of writing a bland sentence. In an academy
that has experienced a great flattening of prose style—where an imagined objectivity in
scholarship has meant the submersion of the personality of the scholar—the present vol-
ume demonstrates that rigor of thought and method does not preclude a certain
panache.
Tod Linafelt
Georgetown University, Washington, DC 20057
Hellenism in the Land of Israel, edited by John J. Collins and Gregory E. Sterling. Notre
Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2001. Pp. ix + 343. $45.00/$18.95.
The twelve essays in this volume were originally presented at a conference held in
1999 at the University of Chicago and the University of Notre Dame. The conference
and this publication were intended, at least in part, to celebrate the achievements of
Martin Hengel in his pioneering works Judaism and Hellenism: Studies in Their
Encounter in Palestine during the Early Hellenistic Period (2 vols. [1974]; first appeared
in German in 1969) and The ‘Hellenization’ of Judaea in the First Century after Christ
(1989). Hengel himself contributed the first article (“Judaism and Hellenism Revis-
ited”), wherein he restated his theses originally expounded in the above-noted works.
Other contributors to this volume include J. J. Collins (“Cult and Culture: The
Limits of Hellenization in Judea”), E. S. Gruen (“Jewish Perspectives on Greek Culture
and Ethnicity”), R. Doran (“The High Cost of a Good Education”), J. W. van Henten
(“The Honorary Decree for Simon the Maccabee [1 Macc 14:25–49] in Its Hellenistic
Context”), E. Krentz (“The Honorary Decree for Simon the Maccabee”), P. W. van der
Horst (“Greek in Jewish Palestine in Light of Jewish Epigraphy”), J. C. VanderKam
(“Greek at Qumran”), S. Freyne (“Galileans, Phoenicians, and Itureans: A Study of
Regional Contrasts in the Hellenistic Age”), S. J. D. Cohen (“Hellenism in Unexpected
Places”), T. Rajak (“Greeks and Barbarians in Josephus”), and G. E. Sterling (“Judaism
between Jerusalem and Alexandria”). The volume opens with an introduction by the
editors and concludes with an epilogue by M. Goodman.
While it is certainly appropriate to acknowledge Hengel’s remarkable achieve-
ments, it should not be forgotten, as Hengel himself recalled, that he was following an
impressive line of scholars who had pioneered this field decades beforehand. One of the
first historians to address this issue in a serious way was E. Bickerman (Der Gott der
Makkabäer [1937; abridged Eng. trans. The God of the Maccabees, 1979]), who raised a
revolutionary suggestion regarding the role of extreme Jewish hellenizers as instigators
of Antiochus IV’s persecutions in 167 B.C.E. This work was followed by his From Ezra to
the Last of the Maccabees (1962) and The Jews in the Greek Age (1988), both of which
elaborated on the extensive influence of Greek culture on the Jews in the Hellenistic
era. Soon after Bickerman’s first publication, S. Lieberman presented a series of studies
in two volumes, Greek in Jewish Palestine (1942) and Hellenism in Jewish Palestine
(1950), which demonstrated the extent to which the rabbis of the first centuries C.E.
knew Greek and were familiar with many aspects of Hellenistic culture.
Book Reviews 563
The above seminal works foreshadowed a surge of scholarly activity on the issue of
hellenization. E. Goodenough’s thirteen-volume Jewish Symbols in the Greco-Roman
Period (1953–68) demonstrated, inter alia, the extent to which Jewish artistic expression
was indebted to Greco-Roman culture. M. Smith’s article, “Palestinian Judaism in the
First Century” (1956, appearing in Israel: Its Role in Civilization, ed. M. Davis) offered
a trenchant statement regarding the impact of Hellenism on Second Temple Jewish
society in general and on the Pharisees in particular. In the following year, S. Stein’s arti-
cle on the relationship between the Passover seder and Haggadah and the Greco-
Roman symposium (“The Influence of Symposia Literature on the Literary Form of the
Pesah Haggadah,” JJS 8 [1957]: 13–44) pointed to remarkable parallels between these
two religio-social frameworks.
In the 1960s, a number of Israeli scholars shed new light on a wide variety of Hel-
lenistic influences on Jewish society. A. Schalit’s King Herod (1960, Hebrew; German
translation [König Herodes: Der Mann und sein Werk], 1969) pointed to an Augustan
context for a proper understanding of Herod and his rule, while V. Tcherikover’s Hel-
lenistic Civilization and the Jews (1961) did much the same for an earlier period. To
these works can be added Y. Gutman’s studies of Hellenistic Jewish writers and the
impact of Greek culture on them (The Beginnings of Jewish-Hellenistic Literature
[1958, in Hebrew]), G. Scholem’s attention to the gnostic background of the Jewish
mystical tradition (Gnosticism, Merkavah Mysticism and Talmudic Tradition [1960]),
and M. Margalioth’s study of Jewish magic and its late antique setting (The Book of
Secrets [Sepher Ha-Razim, 1966, in Hebrew]) on Jewish magic and its late antique set-
ting. Finally, just prior to Hengel’s publication, J. Sevenster’s Do You Know Greek?
How Much Greek Could the First Jewish Christians Have Known? (1968) argued that
the knowledge of Greek among early Christians was considerable. Hengel’s magnum
opus, Judaism and Hellenism, thus culminated decades of scholarly investigation into
this issue, focusing on the 150-year period between Alexander the Great and the Mac-
cabean revolt.
In reviewing the articles in the present volume, it would be impossible to do justice
to each and every one. All are deserving of careful study, and each expands our horizons
with respect to the topic in question. As might be expected, all assume that the impact of
Hellenism on Jewish society was substantial, although differences of opinion inevitably
surface as to how to evaluate the material. While the articles vary in length, focus, style,
and approach, most concentrate on the Hellenistic era in Judea, with some addressing
the early Roman period, the Diaspora, and the post-70 era.
Several articles are of particular interest. One of the most fascinating issues raised
is the Hellenistic background of the document in 1 Macc 14 that describes the accep-
tance of Simon the Hasmonean as leader of the people. On the basis of four Ptolemaic
documents from the late third and early second centuries, van Henten argues that the
document in 1 Macc 14 was heavily influenced by an Egyptian model. Judging by the
material he presents, this conclusion is rather persuasive. Van Henten’s discussion is
intriguingly expanded by Krentz, who argues that other Hellenistic models seem to have
influenced this Hasmonean document no less (and perhaps even more). He calls atten-
tion to inscriptions from Syria and Asia Minor, also from the third and second centuries
B.C.E., that bear many of the same characteristics as 1 Macc 14. Krentz’s conclusions do
not necessarily negate those of van Henten, but they do broaden our perspective and
seem to indicate that the document in 1 Macc 14 is a generic form of honorary decree
well known not only in Ptolemaic Egypt but also throughout the eastern Mediterranean,
thus indicating the pervasiveness of common political formulae in the Hellenistic world.
Van der Horst alone focuses on the Jewish epigraphic evidence from Palestine that
happens to stem primarily from late antiquity. On the basis of the fact that some 53 per-
cent of all Jewish inscriptions in Palestine are in Greek, he suggests that these inscrip-
tions point to a significant degree of Greek influence. His essay, more than most others,
addresses the slippery methodological issues involved in trying to draw conclusions from
the evidence at hand. Van der Horst is cautious in presenting the evidence and in sug-
gesting possible conclusions; it is a paradigmatic example of how data ought to be
handled.
The fact that van der Horst was the only conference participant to deal with the
material remains from antiquity is unfortunate. Sorely lacking in this volume are serious
treatments of the rich archaeological remains that relate to Hellenistic and Roman
Judea. This is most regrettable, as the finds of the past few generations have dramati-
cally expanded our horizons regarding the nature and extent of Hellenization within
Jewish society, both in Israel and the Diaspora. There can be no question that our
understanding of Hasmonean and Herodian Judea has been enhanced enormously by
the data culled from a wide range of excavations throughout the country, just as the Hel-
lenistic and Roman Diaspora has been illuminated by the publication of inscriptions,
papyri, and other material remains from a number of sites. Moreover, the importance of
archaeology lies not only in the fact that it produces a rich and varied trove of material; it
also alerts us to new kinds of questions that can be asked, often questions that have
never before been raised. For example, the recent publication of the Masada finds
(Masada, vols. I-VI [1989-99]) has focused attention on the subtle interplay of Hellenis-
tic and Roman cultural influences in Herodian Judea. The important questions regard-
ing Hellenism, therefore, are not only whether outside influence existed (which no one
doubts today) but, more importantly, what kinds of influences there were, to what
degree they were felt, from where they stemmed, and how they interacted with local
traditions inherited from previous generations. In this area, and others, archaeological
data can be invaluable.
The present volume makes a strong statement regarding the significant presence
of Greek influence in practically every aspect of Jewish society (Goodman). Most
authors take this notion one step further, asking more refined and subtle questions:
How did the process of Hellenization express itself in different urban settings (Ster-
ling)? What were the various ways in which the Jews appropriated or transformed Greek
influences (Gruen)? Among which strata of society were these influences most evident
(van der Horst)? To what extent do geographical factors, as well as the differences
between urban and rural settings, come into play (Freyne)? Moreover, careful research
has found traces of Hellenism in previously unexpected places (VanderKam, Cohen),
and issues of identity among Jews vis-à-vis the Greek and non-Greek world resulting
from contact with the larger Greco-Roman society were not infrequent occurrences
(Rajak).
To these more refined distinctions one might add others: Which areas of Jewish
life were more affected, which less so? To what degree did such influences change over
Book Reviews 565
time? The chronological factor is likewise an important issue; what may have been met
with reservation or even opposition at one time was received willingly, even enthusiasti-
cally, later on. Moreover, some influences may have impacted the Jews on a conscious
level, while others may have been absorbed subconsciously. And, one may ask, how
important is such a distinction? Indeed, subconsciously assimilated practices constitute
viable evidence for cultural influences that had become so pervasive in society that they
were no longer recognizable as such. Some influences may have resulted from internal
pressures, as, for instance, the example set by social and political leaders (e.g., the Has-
moneans or Herod) or perhaps from the desire by some to imitate practices originating
outside of Judean society (e.g., the influence of Diaspora Jews on Jerusalem and Judea).
Moreover, there were Jews who used certain components of Hellenism, such as lan-
guage or historical-literary genres, to promote their specific agendas. Two Judean texts,
2 Maccabees and the Greek Additions to Esther, are cases in point. More generally, to
what extent did most Jews view Hellenism as a cultural phenomenon, broadly speaking
as a civilization, in contradistinction to its more limited religious/pagan components?
Another interesting issue for further consideration is the degree to which the
Jews’ receptivity to outside influences was also a function of their security and self-
esteem as felt within the specific historical context of the late Second Temple period.
Perhaps the primary period and region under discussion in this volume (Hasmonean
and Herodian Judea) fostered such attitudes, at least within certain circles, and there-
fore was more conducive to openness. Might a feeling of being threatened by the out-
side world have led to different results? Hellenistic models and forms of expression
may often have served to further particularistic interests and concerns. The adoption
and adaptation of foreign ideas and patterns for internal use can be seen in a plethora
of instances, and many have been pointed out in the volume under review. Aspects of
Jewish society that seem to have been relatively impervious to such influences, such as
the temple and cult, might well benefit from further study and consideration (see
Lieberman, Hellenism in Jewish Palestine, 164–79; J. Rubenstein, The History of
Sukkot in the Second Temple and Rabbinic Periods [1995], 131–48). Finally, more
comparative work is always a desideratum. How the Jewish experience compared with
other peoples in the Hellenistic-Roman orbit would provide a most important perspec-
tive and perhaps corrective to such deliberations.
This volume reflects the wide consensus that dominates scholarly circles today
regarding the influence of Hellenism on the Jews and Jewish society in the late Second
Temple period. Whatever differences of opinion exist among scholars with respect to
the degree and areas of this influence, most agree that Jews in the Greco-Roman world,
Judea included, often exhibited a remarkable openness, interest, and willingness to avail
themselves of this wider culture. When among religious groups such as the Pharisees
and Essenes one can find instances of adoption of outside organizational patterns, reli-
gious models, or theological tenets, and when a clearly apologetic-polemic book such as
Jubilees likewise reflects Hellenistic influences of one sort or another, we can then sur-
mise that the penetration of such influences was substantial if not pervasive. Those areas
of Jewish life, or those segments of the Jewish population that escaped any kind of expo-
sure, were probably quite limited. Once we assume that Hellenism might have been
seen in cultural and not religious terms, and that it was often used to embellish and
enhance Jewish tradition and not undermine it, any opposition that may have existed
could have quickly dissipated.
For furthering our awareness and understanding of this important phenomenon in
ancient Judaism, we are profoundly indebted to the organizers of this conference, who
also produced this most impressive volume of studies. This book is a must for anyone
interested in investigating this most central topic in the study of ancient Jewish society.
Lee I. Levine
Hebrew University, Jerusalem 91905 Israel
Judean Antiquities 1–4, by Louis H. Feldman. Volume 3 of Flavius Josephus: Transla-

tion and Commentary, edited by Steve Mason. Leiden: Brill, 1999. Pp. xlv + 615.
$151.00 (cloth).
Life of Josephus, by Steve Mason. Volume 9 of Flavius Josephus: Translation and Com-
mentary, edited by Steve Mason. Leiden: Brill, 2001. Pp. liv + 287 + maps. $44.95
(paper).
The present critical translation and commentary series not only revises preceding
works by both authors (e.g., Feldman, Josephus and Modern Scholarship [1937–1980]
[de Gruyter, 1984]; Mason, “An Essay in Character: The Aim and Audience of Josephus’s
Vita, in Internationales Josephus-Kolloquium Münster [ed. F. Siegert and J. Kalms; LIT,
1998], 31–77) dealing with Josephus’s Judean Antiquities Books 1–4 and Life, but it also
includes copious sources excluded from those studies, as well as emendations of obser-
vations made there and in subsequent examinations. The ever-increasing complexity of
Josephus studies in the past two decades has led to a need for the kind of ordering and
explanation to be found in this series. Beyond this, Mason’s and Feldman’s works have
collected a massive amount of research that will undoubtedly elicit new studies in many
fields related to Josephan literature.
Under Mason’s general editorship, this series follows a format that is uncompli-
cated and therefore extremely user-friendly: abbreviations, series preface, introduction
to the particular text, translation and commentary, bibliography, and indices. The
indices in Feldman’s volume impressively incorporate Ancient Texts (under the head-
ings of Jewish Scriptures, Greek translations of the Bible [non-LXX], Apocrypha,
Pseudepigrapha, Dead Sea Scrolls, New Testament, Christian Writers, Moslem
Sources, Philo, Pseudo-Philo, Josephus, Other [Alleged] Greco-Jewish Writers, Rab-
binic and Allied Literature, Mishnah, Tosefta, Babylonian Talmud, Minor Tractates,
Jerusalem Talmud, Targumim, Midrashim and Other Rabbinic Works, Medieval Jewish
Biblical Commentaries and Other Medieval and Modern Jewish Works, Samaritan Lit-
erature, Classical Greek Authors, Classical Latin Authors, Inscriptions, Papyri); Names
and Subjects; Geographical Place-Names; Greek, Latin, Hebrew and Aramaic [Mean-
ings of Hebrew and Aramaic Words], Arabic, and Coptic-Egyptian Words; and Modern
Scholars. Life adds Appendix A: “Josephus’ Galilee in Archaeological Perspective, by
Mordechai Aviam and Peter Richardson (pp. 177–201), with thirty-seven annotated
plates (pp. 202–10) and eight maps (Judea, Galilee, and Transjordan: Overview; Galilee
and the Golan; Galilee and the Coast; Judea and Samaria; Lake Region: Detail; Lake
Book Reviews 567
Region: Large Detail; Lower Galilee; Upper Galilee—two back-cover inserts);

Appendix B: “Josephus’ Itinerary in the Life,” with reference to H. St. J. Thackeray and
K. E. Niese (pp. 211–12); Appendix C: “Synopsis: Parallel Episodes in Josephus’ Life
and War,” including both narrative and thematic parallels (pp. 213–22); Appendix D:
“Hapax Legomena: Josephan Vocabulary Appearing Only in the Life” (pp. 223–24);
Appendix E: “Photius, Bibliotheca, Codex 33” (p. 225).
The present study differs from former analyses in two major respects. First, it pre-
sents a comprehensive literary-historical commentary on Antiquities 1–4 and Life,
whereas in general the Loeb series serves primarily as a modern English translation with
text-critical apparatus, while Whiston’s work (1737) offers both uncritical and outdated
commentary in antiquated language. Second, it provides a comprehensive and informed
contextualization of Josephus within his own literary and historical contexts, arranged in
logical and sequential manner, so that the reader may be able to see the state of the
question for various facets of Josephan scholarship. Previous studies of Antiquities 1–4
and Life have treated the material thematically and selectively, with limited indication of
the connection of other related works.
Both Mason and Feldman provide extensive, albeit selective, bibliographies,
including some three hundred (313) to nearly six hundred (591) entries respectively. Of
greater value to many readers will be the detailed reference indices to Greek texts
(M:676; F:599), Latin texts (M:229; F:193), Hebrew Bible (M:85; F:3987), Apocrypha
(M:32; F:52), Dead Sea Scrolls (M:4; F:35), Pseudepigrapha (M:12; F:128), Philo
(M:10; F:511), New Testament (M:109; F:107), early Christian texts (M:32; F:54), Jose-
phus (M:2133; F:1551), Mishnah, Talmud, and related literature (M:44; F:1318), and
other sources. Futhermore, Feldman distinguishes the biblical citations Josephus
employs in Antiquities [1316] from those indicated in text and notes of the translation’s
commentary [2671]. Feldman also has ninety entries for Pseudo-Philo.
The conventional editions of Josephus continue to be those that appeared concur-
rently by Niese (1885–95) and S. A. Naber (1888–96), with a more complete critical
apparatus found in Niese; both Naber and Thackeray (Loeb edition, 1930) rely on
Niese. Both translations typically follow the Niese text, diverging when better readings
arise “from significant variants in Niese’s own critical apparatus and other modern
reconstructions when they are available,” after H. Schreckenberg. Included in this last
category are the Loeb Greek text and the ongoing projects by F. Siegert (Münster) and
E. Nodet (Paris). The Naber edition (6 vols., Leipzig), with its faulty critical apparatus,
was dismissed. The R. Marcus and Feldman volumes of the Loeb edition of Antiquities
are not as directly relevant to the early portion of Antiquities 1–4 as the earlier Thack-
eray volume (1930), though it is expected that they will play a more significant role in
future Brill volumes on the Antiquities. It is not always clear why some leading foreign-
language translations play no role in matters of translation and commentary (e.g.,
French: D’Andilly, Reinach; German: Clementz; Hebrew: Simchoni [Simchowitz],
Schorr; Italian: Scarpellini; Spanish: Farré; Hungarian: Révay; Japanese: Hata; Polish:
Kubiak and Radozycki, Dabrowski; Portuguese: Pedroso) while others do (e.g., French:
Pelletier; German: Murmelstein, Schalit; Hebrew: Schalit; Italian: Ricciotti).
The general layout of both books is sufficiently well organized to invite ready
access to the massive amount of information. The translation appears in 10-point Times
Roman type at the top of each page in single column, with a double space separating it
from double-column 8-point notes. A wider margin on the outside of the text provides
space for summary descriptions of almost every text unit (Feldman) or of every unit sec-
tion (Mason). It should be pointed out that references in Mason’s indices combine page
numbers, section references, and footnote numbers, most frequently identifying the
unit section in Life rather than a page or footnote number. As a result, the reader is most
often required to search throughout the entire content of a page or, in some cases, two
or more pages, where the unit section in question appears in order to find what material
the index indicated (e.g., “Richardson, P., xxxvi, §§ 20, 30, 398”). In contrast, references
in Feldman’s indices commonly direct the reader to a particular book of Antiquities and
the specific footnote number in which the information is located (e.g., “Remus, Harold,
2n703”). He reserves reference to a textual unit for content contained in the actual
translation of Josephus (e.g., “obedience of Israelites to laws of Moses, 3.317-22”). In
spite of this difference in format, the reader will be able to make the necessary adjust-
ment to either system of reference. It would seem to have made more sense to apply the
same reference system to every book in the series.
Feldman goes a long way in fulfilling a call he made two decades ago, that someone
would provide “a systematic examination of Josephus’ Biblical text in relation to the
Hebrew, the Samaritan, the Septuagint, Aquila, Theodotion, Symmachus, Lucian,
proto-Lucian, the Itala, the Vulgate, the Armenian, the Targumim, the Peshitta, Philo,
and Pseudo-Philo’s ‘Biblical Antiquities’” (Josephus and Modern Scholarship
[1937–1980], p. 890). Judean Antiquities 1–4 represents Josephus’s treatment of the
biblical material contained in the Torah. Consequently, scholars interested in Josephus’s
Pentateuch and Feldman’s aforementioned categories will discover extensive founda-
tional material to advance their own research. What remains to be done is a thorough
analysis of Josephus’s view of the Torah. In Antiquities 1.17, Josephus announces that he
will “set forth the precise details of what is in the Scriptures, neither adding nor omitting
anything.” He concludes his “paraphrase” of the five books of Moses with the words,
“Everything has been written as he left it . We have added nothing for embellishment,
nor anything that Moyses has not left behind” (4.196). Yet Josephus seems to extempo-
rize freely, sometimes adding details that have no parallel in the Bible while at other
times excluding extensive amounts of biblical data. Josephus says he has “translated” his
account from the Hebrew records. To this Feldman argues that Josephus’s method is
more of a paraphrase than a translation (p. 3 n. 4). Although Feldman does not specifi-
cally conclude that Josephus’s method is midrashic, he does indicate that when Josephus
adds details that appear to be embellishments of the biblical story all the while pointing
to the Bible as his only source, he “may mean not only the written Bible but also Jewish
tradition generally, including the oral tradition as later embodied in midrashim” (p. 7
n. 22). For example, Josephus explains why the Torah begins with creation similar to
what we find in Midrash Genesis Rabbah 1.2 and Midrash Song of Songs Rabbah 1.4.2.
Feldman seems to leave open the possibility that Josephus’s “translation” may be
likened to a targum. Although, technically speaking, targumim were Aramaic interpre-
tive paraphrases of the Hebrew Bible, like a targum Josephus’s Greek translation offers
comparable interpretive elements. And not unlike the meturgeman in synagogue ser-
vices during the late Second Temple period, Josephus not only highlighted what was
important about the biblical account, but also made the content relevant to his audience
and present context, incorporating many sources and interpretations in his retelling of
the weekly parsha.
Book Reviews 569
Feldman identifies a key distinguishing factor in Josephus’s Torah as being that of

a legal corpus whose basis is the moral integrity of the divine being that gave it to a peo-
ple. Josephus indicates that this law code was radically unlike those of “other legislators
. . . following myths . . . with their tales ascribed to the gods, imput(ing) to them the
shame of human errors and . . . giv(ing) a considerable pretext to the wicked” (Ant.
1.22), stressing that human competence can only emanate from divine virtue (p. 9
n. 31). Although Feldman refers to K. Ziegler’s identification of Josephus’s introduction
to the Torah as “an astonishingly close abbreviated commentary on Pseudo-Longinus’
(de) Subl(limatate) 9.9,” he nowhere explores Josephus’s description of the prefixes,
superscriptions, suffixes, and colophons of any “other legislators” indicated by Josephus.
To my knowledge this study has yet to be done.
Feldman’s work also lays the foundation for a comprehensive study on the “Bible”
Josephus used. Was it Hebrew (of the MT tradition?), Greek (LXX?), Aramaic?
Throughout the 499 pages of commentary, including introduction and 3,987 annotated
footnotes, the author provides extensive reference to articles addressing the source lan-
guage for scores of biblical passages in Antiquities 1–4.
Further, in considering Josephus’s rendering of the Pentateuch, Feldman’s work
gives rise to new areas of study. Many of Josephus’s additions to Genesis are unattested
in later midrashic traditions. Some of these may well have been Josephus’s own inven-
tions, since, for example, identification of Esau with Rome could not have predated his
writings (Ant. 1.275), only appearing in later midrash (Genesis Rabbah 65:21) (p. 104
n. 805). A specific class of deletions from Josephus’s Genesis may be more easily explained
as passages designated by the rabbis to be read in the synagogue but not translated by
the meturgeman. One of many such examples includes the incident of Reuben’s inter-
course with his father’s concubine (Gen 35:22; b. Meg. 25a) (p. 124 n. 973; cf. p. 255 n.
213).
In his treatment of Exodus, Josephus is motivated by Jewish apologetic against
false charges that may have taken on a classic and stereotypical nature by the time of his
writing. He omits primary reasons given for Egyptian jealousy of the Hebrew people,
namely, their remarkable increase in numbers (Ant. 2.201f.), and avoids the concern
raised in Exod 1:10 that the Hebrew people would exercise dual loyalty and side with
Egypt’s enemy in the event of a war by deleting this passage from his story line (perhaps
viewed as an allusion to the charge of dual loyalty in Against Apion 2:38; p. 187 n. 566).
Feldman points out that both of these issues were charges laid against Jews by con-
temporary Roman historians (e.g., Tacitus Hist. 5.1–3). Josephus makes several notable
additions to Leviticus, including a complete banishment of lepers not only from the
camp as the Bible testifies but also from the city, once again returning to the theme of
Jewish apology against anti-Jewish aspersion (Lev 13:46; 14:3; and thus implying that
there were no lepers in Jerusalem at present). Also pertaining to Leviticus, Feldman
notes that a fragment of Targum Leviticus 16:12–15, 18–21, discovered at Qumran,
dates to the first century C.E. Similarities with Josephus’s treatment of this text lend fur-
ther credence to the theory that Josephus is modeling Antiquities 1–4 after a targum.
In Josephus’s handling of Numbers, more appears to be deleted from the biblical
account than is added to it, from the numbering of the Hebrew people in the first chap-
ter to the declaration of divine retribution made in anger against the tribes of Reuben
and Gad (Ant. 4:169; Num 32:10–15), ascribed by Josephus to Moses instead of to G-d
(p. 389 n. 497).
Analysis of Feldman’s treatment of Deuteronomy permits the reader to see how

Josephus rearranges the entire text to suit his own purposes. Feldman reminds his
reader that Josephus has promised his own audience a logical and chronological presen-
tation of Jewish sacred tradition, setting straight what was earlier presented to Moses
the lawgiver in a manner then suitable to divine purposes (pp. 503–4).
While no thorough investigation of the biblical text behind the first four books of
the Judean Antiquities covering the material of the Torah has yet been carried out, thus
helping to explain the widely divergent views held by various scholars, Feldman has pro-
vided a solid basis for corresponding work. No single review, no matter how detailed,
can adequately indicate the great contribution that this single volume offers to the aca-
demic community. Many separate studies will follow from the careful reading of Feld-
man’s work.
Aptly, Mason’s translation of Josephus’s Vita begins where Antiquities leaves off.
Indicating how appended autobiographical memoirs came into their own in the last cen-
tury of the Roman Republic, with partial precursors also found in Oriental inscriptions
(pp. xii–xv), Mason prefixes his translation and commentary of Life with a translation of
Antiquities 20.262–66, further noting that the inceptive use of de which begins §1 and
§2 of Life also introduces the last five books of the Antiquities (p. 3 n. 1). Throughout
the commentary, Mason stays focused on current relevant critical matters of scholarship
(e.g., textual, grammatical, literary, interpretive, historical) specific to each unit of text,
having extensively addressed matters of prolegomena (e.g., relationship to the Antiqui-
ties, structural and narrative devices, survey of scholarship and issues, historical and lit-
erary contexts, purpose and character, text and translation notes) in the introduction
(pp. xiii–liv). The absence of any reference to the ongoing discussion advanced by Zlot-
nik, Brüll, Leshem, and others on why Josephus is not mentioned in talmudic literature
is noteworthy; the lack of prevalent intertextual colloquy with early Jewish literature
may direct us to at least a partial reason for this omission.
In a difficult passage (Life 10–12) Josephus indicates that when he was about six-
teen years old he decided to gain experience (Mason: “chose to gain expertise”) in the
sects of the Pharisees, the Sadducees, and the Essenes. Mason treats the reader to
nearly seven pages of carefully detailed and fully documented reflection on most perti-
nent critical issues related to this unit. For example, he chooses, against R. J. H. Shutt, to
face the arithmetic problem of how Josephus fit into three years full training with the
three sects, as well as formative time with Bannus, on the grounds that there is no tex-
tual evidence for a dative plural form, further making reference to Josephus’s earlier
problem with arithmetic (Life 3–6). Mason’s resolution, equally unsubstantiated by the
text, supposes that, in all likelihood, “he composed this section of his work rather quickly
and presented it for—perhaps oral—effect, without intending that it should be carefully
studied” (p. 20 n. 86). While readers may not always agree with Mason’s reconstruction
of Josephus’s Life, they will not be disappointed with his fair presentation of the main
issues, offered with respect and clarity in abundance. To thoroughly read the translation
and commentary is to fast-track the learning process vis-à-vis Josephan studies.
Elsewhere in Life, Josephus relates an unsuccessful early attempt on his part to
repress revolutionaries in the Galilee (§17), and a subsequent acceptance of commission
from leaders in Jerusalem to pursue a peaceful resistance in which self-defense alone
should justify engagement against a formidable Roman presence (§28). Mason indicates
Book Reviews 571
that this account conflicts at many points with what Josephus writes in War (2.499–555),
where Josephus claims that he was appointed to conduct war.
From a purely pragmatic standpoint, one can understand why the volume on Jose-
phus’s Life has appeared before all six volumes of Judean Antiquities were published. It
is unfortunate, however, that Mason’s work could not interact with contributions made
by other volumes in this series, given that Life is an appendix to Antiquities.
The first two publications of the Brill Josephus Project have adequately satisfied
the publisher’s promise of being the first comprehensive literary-historical commentary
on the works of Flavius Josephus in English. They have established a formidable, yet
highly achievable, standard for subsequent volumes in the series. These two works pro-
vide an indispensable source of competing critical perspectives on a wide variety of top-
ics relating to Josephus, Jews, Judaisms, and the surrounding world during the period
covered by Josephus’s four works in thirty volumes. We wait expectantly for each one of
the remaining eight volumes of the Brill series, so as to have ready access to the most
recent scholarship on key critical issues raised in that which has correctly been termed
an “indispensable source for all scholarly study of Judea from about 200 BCE to 75 CE”
(Mason, p. ix).
Dennis Stoutenburg
Wilfrid Laurier University, Kitchener, ON N2H 3A5 Canada
The Wisdom Texts from Qumran and the Development of Sapiential Thought, edited by
Charlotte Hempel, Armin Lange, and Hermann Lichtenberger. BETL 159. Leuven:
Peeters, 2001. Pp. xi + 502. €80.00 (paper).
This book is the first collection of essays to be published that is exclusively devoted
to the burgeoning field of Qumran wisdom literature. As the editors point out, “The
sapiential texts from Qumran considerably enlarge the limited corpus of Israelite or
Jewish wisdom texts known before the Dead Sea Scrolls were found” (p. vii). The Qum-
ran wisdom corpus includes a relatively large number of texts, including compositions
such as 4QInstruction (1Q26, 4Q415–18, 423), the Book of Mysteries (1Q27, 4Q299–
301), and 4QBeatitudes (4Q525). The goal of the present volume is “to interpret the
new [Qumran wisdom] texts in the context of the history of sapiential thought” (p. vii).
Some essays are also “dedicated to introductory questions or particular interpretative
issues.” The volume comprises eighteen essays (eleven in English, seven in German)
and an appendix. It also includes one general bibliography and a second devoted to
Qumran wisdom literature. Most of the essays of the book are the product of a research
seminar in Tübingen that was directed by Armin Lange and Hermann Lichtenberger.
The meeting convened May 22–24 and June 20–21, 1998. Seven of the volume’s essays
were not presented at the seminar. The Wisdom Texts from Qumran is a valuable book,
and anyone interested in Qumran wisdom can benefit from its essays.
The essays of this volume are divided into six sections. Part 1, “Introductory and
Linguistic Questions,” begins with a paper by Armin Lange that introduces the reader to
the Qumran wisdom corpus. He lists all the Qumran documents that have been identi-
fied as sapiential and summarizes them. Lange concludes that the entire wisdom corpus,
with the exception of 4Q424, can be considered “Toraweisheit” (p. 30). In his view, the
fact that wisdom texts such as 4QInstruction and 4Q525 allude to biblical passages sup-
ports this claim. He also contends that 4QInstruction, the Book of Mysteries, and the
Treatise on the Two Spirits (1QS 3:15–4:26) attest “eine zunehmende Dualisierung und
Eschatologisierung weisheitlichen Denkens.” John Strugnell includes an essay, “The
Smaller Hebrew Wisdom Texts Found at Qumran: Variations, Resemblances, and Lines
of Development.” He uses the handwritten concordance of the Dead Sea Scrolls com-
piled in the 1950s to analyze the vocabulary of this corpus, in comparison with attesta-
tions of words in 4QInstruction and biblical wisdom texts. Strugnell employed a similar
method to examine 4QInstruction in DJD 34. This section concludes with a philological
essay by A. Schoors, “The Language of the Qumran Sapiential Works.”
Section 2 is entitled “Contributions to Specific Texts.” It comprises two essays.
The first, by Eibert Tigchelaar, “Towards a Reconstruction of the Beginning of
4QInstruction,” presents the text of 4Q416 frag. 1 and parallel fragments in 4Q418. His
version of these texts incorporates new overlaps and joins beyond those used in DJD 34,
the official edition of 4QInstruction. Following Tigchelaar’s article is a new edition of
4Q185 by Hermann Lichtenberger.
The third section, “The Wisdom Texts from Qumran and the Ancient Near East,”
includes two essays. The first, by H.-P. Müller, compares the book of Job to similar
Babylonian compositions such as Ludlul beµl neµmeqi and The Babylonian Theodicy. The
second essay of this section, by H. Niehr, addresses the relationship between
4QInstruction and Traditional Wisdom by comparing the Qumran text with the Semitic
wisdom composition Ahikar.
“The Wisdom Texts from Qumran and the Hebrew Bible” is the title of the fourth
section. It has two articles. “Die Seligpreisungen in der Bibel und in Qumran,” by H.-J.
Fabry, examines the makarisms of Qumran texts such as 4Q525 against a broad back-
drop of similar material, including passages from the Hebrew Bible and the New Testa-
ment. This section also includes an essay by George Brooke, “Biblical Interpretation in
the Wisdom Texts from Qumran.” The goal of this essay is “to offer a preliminary taxon-
omy of some of the uses of scripture” in Qumran wisdom literature (p. 202).
Section 5, entitled “The Wisdom Texts from Qumran and Ancient Judaism,” is the
longest portion of the collection. It begins with an essay by P. S. Alexander, “Enoch and
the Beginnings of Jewish Interest in Natural Science.” He argues that the Enochic Book
of the Heavenly Luminaries can be understood as a “turning-point in Jewish intellectual
history” (p. 240). The book, the author submits, marks the development within Judaism
of a scientific approach to reality, a revolution of thought analogous to the emergence in
the Greek context of Ionian rational cosmologies. The next article, by Loren T. Stucken-
bruck, also examines 1 Enoch. His essay, “4QInstruction and the Possible Influence of
Early Enochic Traditions: An Evaluation,” evaluates the thesis of Torleif Elgvin that
4QInstruction used 1 Enoch as a source. Stuckenbruck concludes that while Enochic
traditions may have had a degree of influence upon 4QInstruction, the claim of direct
literary dependence is “difficult to substantiate” (p. 261). Following this are two essays
that compare Qumran wisdom texts with major Second Temple documents. Daniel J.
Harrington’s “Two Early Jewish Approaches to Wisdom: Sirach and Qumran Sapiential
Work A” is a revised version of an essay he published in Journal for the Study of the
Pseudepigrapha in 1997. He emphasizes in this essay that “[w]hile Ben Sira was not
interested in (or perhaps opposed to) apocalyptic, the author of Sapiential Work A
Book Reviews 573
[4QInstruction] was keenly interested in fitting together wisdom and apocalyptic”

(p. 275). In “The Qumran Sapiential Texts and the Rule Books,” Charlotte Hempel
compares the Qumran wisdom corpus with primary sectarian writings such as the Dam-
ascus Document and the Community Rule. She is interested in instances in the Qumran
wisdom corpus where sectarian elements are alongside of material inherited from the
sapiential tradition (p. 279). The next two essays examine texts that are not often
included in the study of wisdom literature. Christfried Böttrich, in “Früjüdische
Weisheitstraditionen im slavischen Henochbuch [2 Enoch] und in Qumran,” writes that
“Das slHen vermag für die Kenntnis weisheitlichen Denkens im Judentum der hellenis-
tisch-römischen Zeit wichtige Aufschlüsse zu liefern” (p. 321). The author observes sev-
eral similarities between 2 Enoch and Qumran wisdom texts. For example, the theme of
creation plays an important role in both 4QInstruction and 2 Enoch (p. 318). James H.
Charlesworth examines the relationship between Jewish wisdom and the Odes of
Solomon. He argues that the Odes have affinities with older sapiential compositions.
The author contends, for example, that the Odes combine sapiential material with an
apocalyptic worldview, as do Qumran wisdom texts such as the Book of Mysteries (p.
344). On this basis, Charlesworth claims that not only were the Odes shaped by the wis-
dom tradition but that they can be considered part of the “Entwicklungsgeschichte der
jüdischen Weisheitsliteratur” (p. 349). The last article of this section is “‘Sie wird dir
nicht ihre Kraft geben’—Adam, Kain und der Ackerbau in 4Q423 23 und Apc Mos 24,”
by J. Dochhorn. He argues that both texts utilize Gen 3:17–19 in ways that attest similar
exegetical traditions.
The final section of the volume is entitled “The Wisdom Texts from Qumran and
the New Testament.” This portion has two essays. The first, by Jörg Frey, examines the
dichotomy of flesh and spirit in the Palestinian Jewish sapiential tradition. The Qumran
wisdom texts provide new evidence of this dichotomy. His interest in this issue is moti-
vated by Paul’s use of the terms “flesh” and “spirit.” Frey argues that it is “probable” that
Paul was exposed to sapiential traditions such as those attested in 4QInstruction and the
Book of Mysteries (p. 403). The final essay of the volume is “Wisdom as Cognition: Cre-
ating the Others in the Book of Mysteries and 1 Cor 1–2,” by A. Klostergaard Petersen.
Both texts, the author proposes, represent “a taxonomic endeavor that creates a system
of patterned values, meanings and beliefs that give cognitive structure to the world and
provide a basis for co-ordinating and controlling human interactions” (p. 431). In both
compositions, the construction of others is important for establishing the self-identity of
the group that is addressed.
The Qumran wisdom texts have been an exciting and fruitful avenue of Dead Sea
Scrolls research over the past few years. Scholarship on the topic has flourished. It is not
at all uncommon to wait four years for the proceedings of a conference to appear in
print, as in the case of the present volume. But scholarship on the Qumran wisdom liter-
ature has made significant progress since 1998, the year of the seminar organized by A.
Lange and H. Lichtenberger. The essays of this book often do not reflect this advance-
ment. For example, John Strugnell discusses the sapiential text 4Q424 as being readily
available in B. Wacholder and M. Abegg’s A Preliminary Edition of the Unpublished
Dead Sea Scrolls, which was published in 1992, without mentioning that the text’s offi-
cial edition has been available since 2000 in DJD 36 (p. 46). J. Dochhorn begins his
essay on 4Q423 by writing that it is an unpublished (“unpublizierten”) text named Sapi-
ential Work V (p. 351). This is a designation for the fragment given in A Preliminary
Edition. 4Q423 is now widely recognized as part of 4QInstruction, the official edition of
which was published as DJD 34 in 1999.
Another issue that impacts the study of 4QInstruction, and other Qumran texts as
their official editions appear, is that some fragments have been assigned numbers in
DJD that differ from ones given in previous classification systems. In the present vol-
ume, some contributors use old numbering systems while others new ones. For exam-
ple, Charlotte Hempel cites the enigmatic “Vision of Hagu” of 4QInstruction as
appearing in 4Q417 2 i (p. 286). Armin Lange, by contrast, writes that this vision is
attested in 4Q417 1 i, the designation that has been standard since the publication of
DJD 34 (p. 19). The Wisdom Texts from Qumran addresses this issue by including an
appendix, compiled by A. Behringer, that provides a synopsis of fragment numbers
according to A Preliminary Edition side by side with their numbers according to the
DJD series. Also, some texts, such as 4QInstruction, are given two separate entries in
the index, in order to reflect the use of diverse classification systems. While this system
and the appendix account for these differing systems, there is still potential for confu-
sion as one goes from essay to essay. Another option would have been to standardize the
collection to reflect the present state of scholarship.
The delay of the publication of The Wisdom Texts from Qumran does not detract
from the value of the scholarship it contains. It is an impressive collection of essays that
brings together the work of qualified and well-respected scholars. Their investigations
contribute not only to our understanding of the Qumran sapiential texts themselves but
also to Jewish wisdom in general in the Second Temple period.
Matthew Goff
Georgia Southern University, Statesboro, GA 30460
1 Enoch: A Commentary on the Book of 1 Enoch: Chapters 1–36; 81–108, by George

W. E. Nickelsburg. Edited by Klaus Baltzer. Hermeneia. Minneapolis: Fortress, 2001.
Pp. xxxviii + 618. $58.00 (cloth).
This book, a welcome addition to the Hermeneia commentary series, is a critical
and historical commentary on books 1, 4, and 5 of 1 Enoch, which provides a careful use
of philological, historical, textual, and literary methods. Nickelsburg brings together the
results of a lifetime of study on what is probably the most important of the Jewish
“pseudepigrapha” of the postbiblical period. Accordingly, most of Nickelsburg’s major
contributions are not presented here for the first time, but they are presented in a com-
prehensive and integrated way, possible only in a full-length commentary. Not the least
of its virtues is that it contains the most authoritative and readable English translation
currently available. It is to be hoped that it will soon be possible to purchase this transla-
tion separately in the form of an inexpensive paperback.
The introduction consists of a short discussion of methodology and “Some
Hermeneutical and Theological Observations,” a review of the enochic corpus, textual
and literary notes, a long theological discussion of worldview, the place of 1 Enoch in the
history of ideas and social contexts, followed by a treatment of 1 Enoch in ongoing Jew-
ish and Christian tradition and in modern scholarship. The commentary itself consists of
Book Reviews 575
introductions to each major section, translation, extensive textual notes, and detailed
notes. The book also includes a useful bibliography and index.
Nickelsburg has contributed greatly to the study of the text of 1 Enoch, although,
as he himself says, “A major desideratum is a new critical edition of 1 Enoch . . .”
(p. 125). In the absence of a printed text the translation is based on Nickelsburg’s own
decisions in each passage. Where Aramaic or Greek texts are available, Nickelsburg gen-
erally translates them, but occasionally he translates two or more different versions com-
bined. Independent of, but generally in agreement with, Uhlig’s appraisal of the
Ethiopic textual evidence (Siegbert Uhlig, Das äthiopische Henochbuch [JSHRZ 5/6;
Gütersloh: Mohn, 1984]), Nickelsburg prefers “the older mss. (T9, 2080, and g)” but
notes that the later MS t and sometimes even the later group b deserve serious consider-
ation (p. 19). In most (but not all) of the passages that I investigated, I have been per-
suaded by Nickelsburg’s textual choices, even in some for which I had previously argued
for other readings.
Nickelsburg accepts the use of emendation as “a last resort,” one that he makes use
of when the text is “opaque” or “clearly corrupt” (p. 20). The Ethiopic, Greek, and even
Aramaic texts of 1 Enoch are frequently corrupt, and bold emendation is often the only
practical recourse for one who wants to understand the text as a product of second cen-
tury B.C.E. Judea. One of the many persuasive emendations offered by Nickelsburg is
his proposal to read dabbar (Aramaic for “leader”) at the end of the Animal Vision
(90:41 [p. 403]) where the Ethopic reads nagar (thing). This is by far the best proposal
offered for this corrupt text.
Nickelsburg’s understanding of 1 Enoch and the arrangement of his commentary
depend on his view that the text is best seen not as a corpus of collected Enochic books
but as an accumulation in stages of a single book that consisted at one point of books 1,
4, and 5. Nickelsburg’s argument that this “book” was testamentary in form has often
been criticized (and sometimes not well understood), and this has unfortunately
deflected attention from the more important issue, that of the shape and history of the
corpus.
This argument controls the shape of the commentary primarily in that the first vol-
ume of the commentary covers books 1, 4, and 5 along with chs. 81–82. Although these
chapters now belong to the Astronomical Book, Nickelsburg believes that they consist of
a remnant of the final vision of the Book of the Watchers and a narrative bridge between
books 1 and 5. They were further modified when the Book of Dreams (book 4) and then
the Astronomical Book (book 3) were inserted into the present corpus, disrupting the
original function of those chapters. Nickelsburg’s understanding of the corpus also col-
ors the shape of his commentary in that instead of providing separate introductions to
each of the present-day “books” he introduces each bit of the corpus that he thinks has a
separate literary history. So he offers introductions to chs. 1–6, 6–11, 12–16, 17–19, 20–
36, 81–82, 83–84, 85–90, 92–105 (with a separate section on 91:1–10, 18–19), 106–7,
and 108. The introductions cover topics such as date, setting, literary form, function,
and relation to the rest of the corpus. This is a little less convenient for those who want
the commentary to conform to the shape of Ethiopic Enoch, but it provides a form that
is laudably consistent with the analytical function of a commentary.
Nickelsburg’s argument for a testamentary form at this stage in the development
of 1 Enoch is based primarily on three observations (pp. 21–26): (1) 4QEnc suggests that
books 1, 4, 5, and the Book of the Giants already existed as a collection with the vacat
between chs. 105 and 106 indicating that the latter chapters were considered a separate
unit. This is certainly suggestive but not much more than that. J. T. Milik’s conjecture
that 4QEne contained the same books is only conjecture. We have nothing to tell us
whether any of four books collected in 4QEnc were considered to be a literary unity.
(2) Book 5 is testamentary in form, consisting of the last words of the patriarch to his
sons. (3) Chapters 81 and 82, which are foreign intrusions into the Astronomical Book,
function adequately as a narrative bridge between the Book of the Watchers and the
Epistle of Enoch and seem to be the remnants of an original final section of the Book of
the Watchers. Book 1 provides the narrative introduction to the testament.
This argument has the virtue of explaining the origin of chs. 81–82:4ab, which
most commentators agree did not originally belong to the Astronomical Book. They
cohere nicely with both the end of book 1 and the beginning of book 5. Since one should
not expect to encounter in apocalyptic literature a “pure” literary form, it seems possible
that book 1, 81–82:4ab, and parts of book 5 constituted a single text until the addition of
book 4 and the rest of the corpus. Such a book would have been more like a testament
than any other single genre. Perhaps it would be more accurate to call it a text of mixed
genre with a strong testamentary flavor.
According to Nickelsburg, the key function of the Enochic literature is to provide
eschatological, revealed wisdom that will save the elect or righteous by means of a reso-
lution of the many dualisms (pp. 37–42). Perhaps restoration would be a more appropri-
ate category than salvation. As Nickelsburg notes, “This dual notion of judgment as
reward and punishment . . . usually appears within the context of the book’s narrow
focus on present injustice and the future restoration of justice. . . . This restoration is
always linked to primordial beginnings as defined by enochic revelations, never as
defined by Mosaic Torah.”
Nickelsburg correctly notes the Enochic preference for revealed wisdom over the
Sinai covenant and Torah (pp. 50–54). Righteousness is understood as adherence to the
divinely ordained, cosmic order as received by revelation. This is consistent with the
choice of pre-Sinai, pre-Israelite Enoch as the ultimate righteous one. The future
restoration of the earth and of justice for humanity depends on the reception of Enoch’s
revealed wisdom.
The correct observance of the cult and priestly purity are still important issues for
1 Enoch, but only in the sense that this conviction provides the Enochic writers with
grounds for accusing the priesthood of the Second Temple of impurity. The real temple
is the heavenly one, and Michael is the high priest. The consequence is that the eschato-
logical Jerusalem, once cleansed, will not have a separate temple in the Animal Vision.
Accepting my own argument (Patrick Tiller, A Commentary on the Animal Apocalypse
[SBLEJL 4; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1993], 376), Nickelsburg says, “What seems certain
is this: all Israel will be present in ‘the house,’ which is located in Jerusalem and reprises
the desert camp. If the house is thought of as city and temple, it will be a temple in
which God dwells (v 34) and where no traditional cult is necessary both because of
God’s presence and because the human race has been fully and permanently purified of
sin” (p. 405).
The need for the cult is eliminated with the elimination of polluting sin. This may
also be related to the marginalization of Mosaic Law in 1 Enoch, or it could be due to the
Book Reviews 577
fact that the third and final era of human history should be understood as a restoration to
primordial conditions (p. 355). As Eden lacked a temple, so the New Jerusalem has no
need for a temple.
Nickelsburg argues that Enochic revealed wisdom is a fusion of prophetic and
sapiential streams. He cautiously, but correctly, notes that this “offers a precedent for
the similar tendency expressed by Paul and attributed to Jesus of Nazareth” (p. 61).
Nickelsburg shows that 1 Enoch attests to the wonderful diversity of pre-Christian
Judaism, which has divergently influenced not only the traditions of Judaism but also
those of Christianity.
I turn now to a particular example of exegesis that exemplifies Nickelsburg’s origi-
nality and his contribution on controversial issues. The seventy shepherds of the Animal
Vision are a key hermeneutical move that uses the primordial myth of the Watchers to
interpret the experienced reality of some Judeans living during the Maccabean revolt.
The significance is that God’s people are again experiencing the unholy terror wrought
by the Watchers and by their giant offspring. The identity, however, of these shepherds
is, as R. H. Charles noted, “the most vexed question in Enoch” (R. H. Charles, The Book
of Enoch [Oxford: Clarendon, 1912], 200). Nickelsburg proposes a new solution, which
improves on earlier interpretations and yet remains somewhat unsatisfactory. Contrary
to all earlier commentators that I am aware of, Nickelsburg notes that the account of the
commissioning of the shepherds is parallel to the activity of the sheep in the preexilic
period. He concludes that the visionary introduction to the seventy shepherds describes
the same historical period as the preceding section, which focuses on the reign of Man-
asseh (2 Kgs 21–24) (p. 390). Nickelsburg builds on this observation; accepts the
assumption, which I share, that each shepherd should rule for seven years; and rejects
the conventional and admittedly sensible view that the four periods of the shepherds
should “coincide with Israel’s submission to four empires or kingdoms” (p. 392). Instead
he proposes that the “precise numerical symmetry of the periods” argues against their
coincidence with events in empirical history (p. 392). This, however, is too rational. The
tradents of the Enochic traditions might well have disagreed. According to Nickelsburg,
each period is characterized by a major event that occurs sometime within it. Period 1
includes the destruction of Jerusalem; period 2 includes the return and rebuilding of the
temple (an event that is otherwise unremarkable for Enochic literature); period 3
includes the coming of Alexander the Great; and period 4 includes the religious reform
of the author’s community represented by the opening of the eyes of the lambs. The
importance of Nickelsburg’s proposal is that it correctly identifies the beginning of the
period of the 70 shepherds. The only reason that I remain unconvinced is that it seems
intuitively obvious that the four periods correspond to four kingdoms, like the four met-
als of Dan 2 or the four beasts of Dan 7.
This commentary is extremely valuable for its careful historical, textual, and liter-
ary analysis; its very accurate and readable translation; its attention to both the details
and the overall shape of the text; and its constant awareness of the importance of social
context. It contains countless new, small contributions to scholarship on Enoch, and it
brings together the many important contributions that Nickelsburg and others have
made over the past thirty years.
Patrick Tiller
48 Bradford Ave., Sharon, MA 02067
Parables for Our Time: Rereading New Testament Scholarship after the Holocaust, by
Tania Oldenhage. American Academy of Religion; Cultural Criticism Series. New York:
Oxford University Press, 2002. Pp. 189. $42.00.
This book, the revision of a Ph.D. dissertation submitted to Temple University, is
the result of interdisciplinary work bringing together Holocaust research and NT schol-
arship. Oldenhage examines central studies of NT parables research (in particular
Joachim Jeremias, Die Gleichnisse Jesu [Zwingli, 1947; Eng. trans. The Parables of Jesus
(2d ed.; Prentice Hall)]; John D. Crossan, Raid on the Articulate: Comic Eschatology in
Jesus and Borges [Harper & Row, 1976]; and Paul Ricoeur, “Biblical Hermeneutics,”
Semeia 4 [1975]: 29–145) in light of the questions raised by Holocaust scholarship and
research. She presents a historical contextualization of NT study. At the time of their
publication it was not customary in biblical scholarship to reflect on one’s own historical
context. Oldenhage mainly examines explicit or implicit comments on the Holocaust
found in those works. She coordinates them with the public perception of the Holocaust
in the United States or Germany, using the language of scholarship as well as an autobi-
ographical approach. “It became helpful for me to build a strong ‘I’ in my text, an ‘I’ that
is positioned in relation to both to the events of the Holocaust and the hermeneutics of
parables, an ‘I’ that picks up, responds to, and intersects with these allusions and
echoes” (p. 9). These autobiographical reflections have two important consequences:
not only does the book become very readable, but it is also in solidarity with the authors
it criticizes. For example, Oldenhage reports on her reading in 1994 of Paul Ricoeur’s
The Rule of Metaphor (trans. R. Czerny; University of Toronto Press, 1978). She wanted
to use a poem in order to apply her reading of Ricoeur to a concrete piece of poetry. She
recalled a poem that Wolfgang Harnisch had cited in his book on the parables, “made a
copy and taped it on [her] desk.” It was a poem by Marie Luise Kaschnitz (from Ein
Wort weiter [Claassen, 1965]), written in the 1960s, “about the forgotten and returning
memory of Auschwitz: On Sundays / The forgotten comes / On crowsfeet with spurs /
They carve in the parquet for me / A pattern, thus / It is cut out for us / The nettle-cloth/
When the rose-colored/ Wallpaper opens/ And expels the drawer full / Of emaciated
Jewish heads . . . ” (pp. 13ff). She used the poem in order to practice the theory of
metaphor formally but without reflecting on the content of this poem. Later she studied
the book by Harnisch (Die Gleichniserzählungen Jesu: Eine hermeneutische Einführung
[Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1985]), asking how he had used Kaschnitz’s poem. He too
drew on it to elucidate formal principles. “What enraged me about ‘the older genera-
tion’—that is, Harnisch—were not the committed acts of genocide [Harnisch belongs to
the second generation] but a neglected act of remembrance or acknowledgment” (p.
27). Then she remembered her own use of that poem. “I was ashamed of what I had
done with Kaschnitz’ s piece. My question was not only ‘How could he?’ but also ‘How
could I have done the same’?” (p. 28).
Without being denunciatory, this book provides a continuing critique of NT schol-
arship that exposes how radically speechless science is in the face of past and present
politics. Later the author returns once again to the book by Harnisch when she looks at
how various researchers, in their respective studies of the parables, refer to Franz Kafka
as a prophet of the Holocaust. She comes to see that the references to the Holocaust are
after all not merely of a formal nature even though the authors (esp. Harnisch and
Robert Funk, Jesus and Kafka [University of Montana CAS Faculty Journal 1,1 [1972]:
Book Reviews 579
25–32]) intend them as such: “The Holocaust as a reference point for reading Kafka is
potentially energizing as it gives that reading an air of urgency and makes it disturbing
and fascinating at the same time. This fascination, however, depends on keeping the
Holocaust in the background so that its enormity is felt rather than known; its details
and actualities vaguely sensed, but never explicated” (p. 111). It is precisely this fascina-
tion of the horror and its power that determines the marginal Holocaust references of
Crossan, Funk, and Harnisch (p. 112). Convinced that the radical shift in NT scholar-
ship signaled by “literary criticism” is an important step in the right direction, she cri-
tiques such works while at the same time seeking to develop this approach further into a
“Post-Holocaust Biblical Hermeneutics” (p. 145).
Historically, Oldenhage begins with J. Jeremias’s 1947 work because it implicitly
or explicitly influenced scholarship, including that of literary criticism, and continues to
do so to this day. That Jeremias is rooted deeply in Christian anti-Judaism is something
that she, belonging to the “third generation,” already takes for granted. But his book irri-
tated her on yet another level. “I had already circled all the places in his book where rab-
binical material was devaluated against the parables of Jesus. But beyond these specific
and occasional paragraphs I felt that something was not right with the entire book”
(p. 51). She is appalled by the language with which Jeremias characterizes the oppo-
nents of Jesus: “How blind you are!” According to Jeremias, “The message of Jesus is
also the announcement of judgment, a cry of warning, and a call of repentance in view of
the horrible urgency of the crisis” (p. 52). Jeremias entitles one of his chapters “In View
of the Catastrophe” (p. 51). It simply cannot be overlooked that he not only speaks his-
torically about the Jewish people at the time of Jesus, but that he also has German
Judaism of 1938 implicitly in view. There is not a single word in reference to his own his-
torical situation, the Germany of 1947. And yet, as Oldenhage shows by means of Holo-
caust research, this book reflects a demeanor quite usual in Germany at that time:
silencing or else accusing Jews of having been blind before 1938. “Why did you not
rebel? Why did you not avoid capture beforehand?” (p. 53). Even when she criticizes
anti-Judaism, she does not find historical criticism capable of an appropriate response to
the Holocaust because of its claim to objectivity and historicity without reference to
what is going on in the present. Moreover, the works of literary criticism that she exam-
ines are also speechless in the face of the Holocaust in spite of the authors’ claims that
they read texts in their changing contexts and especially in their own time and world in a
new way. This speechlessness goes along with references to the Holocaust that are never
given explicit and substantive development. Crossan develops a theory of the parables as
comedy and play: “I presume that, since there is tragedy too great for tears, there must
also be comedy too deep for laughter” (p. 85). Crossan never explicitly relates the
“tragedy too deep for tears” to the Holocaust. Yet in his book and its recurrent brief ref-
erences to “Auschwitz” and “Buchenwald” etc., there are additional “guest appearances”
of the Holocaust; Crossan does not elaborate on them. By means of Holocaust scholar-
ship Oldenhage shows that in the United States at that time the remembrance of the
Holocaust typically took the form of “guest appearances” and “marginal mention”
(pp. 87ff.).
The picture is relatively similar for Ricoeur (1975). Like Crossan, he is still implic-
itly rooted in Jeremias’s anti-Judaism, but that is not Oldenhage’s focus. Her concern is
an explicit and accurate remembrance of Auschwitz. Taking up formulations by Karl
Jaspers, Ricoeur speaks of “limit-experiences of human life” such as “death, suffering,

guilt, and hatred” (p. 124). While Karl Jaspers (Philosophical Faith and Revelation
[Harper & Row 1967]) applies these formulations to the Holocaust (p. 125), in Ricoeur
they appear to refer to “a timeless aspect of the human condition” (p. 126). Why does he
make use of this indirect reference to the Holocaust? Here too Oldenhage utilizes Holo-
caust scholarship. At about this time, there appeared Terrence Des Pres’s The Survivor:
An Anatomy of Life in the Death Camps (Oxford University Press, 1976). Des Pres seeks
to create a hearing for the survivors that in the postwar years were seen chiefly in terms
of psychoanalytical research and negative patterns of interpretation, such as surviving at
the expense of others. Like Ricoeur, Des Pres uses “limit-rhetoric” (p. 132). It serves the
purpose of his book and “is also the result of a Holocaust interpreter’s difficult search for
an adequate language” (p. 132). In Ricoeur, however, “limit-rhetoric” serves the aim of
raising the parables of Jesus to life anew and to show their relevance for “limit experi-
ences of human life” (pp. 133–34), even though his references to the Holocaust remain
vague and this rhetoric has to be called “inflated” (pp. 135–36). Oldenhage sees in
Ricoeur a point of contact for a post-Holocaust hermeneutic (p. 8).
Oldenhage goes on to note that “Parable hermeneutics is no innocent field of
research, and the parables are not innocent texts. A Christian post-Holocaust
hermeneutics would have to deal with the complexity of both parables and parable
scholarship in the history of anti-Jewish violence” (pp. 137–38). It is not enough to cri-
tique the anti-Judaism of the Christian history of interpretation and to understand the
NT texts as intra-Jewish texts, that is to say, to remain within the confines of historical
criticism. For this would unjustifiably create the impression that the biblical texts were
“innocent” (p. 66, addressing Aaron Milavec’s exegesis of Mark 12:1–12: “A Fresh Anal-
ysis of the Parable of the Wicked Husbandmen in the Light of Jewish-Christian Dia-
logue,” in Parable and Story in Judaism and Christianity [ed. C. Thoma and M.
Wyschogrod; Paulist, 1989], 81–117). Even though Oldenhage views Milavec’s exegesis
of Mark 12:1–12 as the best exegetical beginning point among all the critical interpreta-
tions of that text she addresses, she does not wish to stay put in the prison of historical
criticism and its isolation from the present. Rather, she wants to take up the hermeneu-
tic of the representatives of literary criticism whom she critiques because they desire to
achieve the goal of an interaction with the parables that is relevant for our time. She
does not locate the “extravagance” in the parable of the “wicked husbandmen” as late as
Ricoeur does, namely, in the sending of the son of the owner of the vineyard. Instead, it
is already identified at the beginning of the violent acts of the tenants whose violence the
parable depicts as “out of all proportion” (p. 144). Seeking to extend Ricoeur’s approach,
her hermeneutic depicts the “tension” between the anti-Jewish history of interpretation
of this text (the Jewish people = Christ-killers) and the association of Nazi violence that
one cannot fail to hear in terms of the tenants’ violence (p. 144). This tension is appro-
priate to the parables as poetic literature, according to Ricoeur; it “cannot be reduced to
a clear message but it can be interpreted” (p. 144).
The post-Holocaust hermeneutic developed by Oldenhage signifies methodologi-
cally that the “social location” of the interpreters has to be part of the “foreground”—
“who, when, where, and how does the reading take place?” (p. 145). And its concern is
the “labor of remembrance” that biblical scholarship still has to take up.
Book Reviews 581
I have learned much from this book, above all that the critique of Christian anti-
Judaism and the development of a historical placing of NT texts in the history of Judaism
needs to make explicit that this work has to be based in a post-Holocaust hermeneutic.
There are no innocent texts and no innocent NT studies. I consider this book to be an
unusually rich present to all who are engaged in NT work. It helps to become explicit, to
analyze one’s own context, and to name the violence of the Holocaust and its Christian
accomplices. I would like for many doctoral students in the area of biblical studies to
become aware of this book in time in order to avoid the mistakes of the fathers. My cri-
tique or, better, my expansion of the insights of this book is twofold: (1) The book leaves
out of focus theologies of liberation and theologies that strive to name the “social loca-
tion” of their own interpretation of Scripture (like those of F. Segovia and M. A. Tolbert,
eds., Reading from This Place: vol. 2, Social Location and Biblical Interpretation in
Global Perspective [Fortress, 1995]), which is understandable given the book’s aims, but
is inappropriate for reasons of methodology. (2) The prison of speechlessness in face of
the Holocaust and of the economic and military violence perpetrated today by the West-
ern world has to be broken open not only by literary criticism, but also by historical exe-
gesis. Historical scholarship can no longer present itself today with a claim to historical
objectivity, being conducted in silence about its own context. In revealing why this is so,
Oldenhage’s book is indeed unusual, valuable, and challenging.
Luise Schottroff
Pacific School of Religion, Berkeley CA 94709
Wunder und Wundertäter im frührabbinischen Judentum: Studien zum Phänomen und

seiner Überlieferung im Horizont von Magie und Dämonismus, by Michael Becker.
WUNT 2/144. Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck, 2002. Pp. xviii + 534. €74.00 (paper).
This large study, a doctoral dissertation supervised by Heinz-Wolfgang Kuhn, was
accepted in the winter semester of 1999/2000 at the School of Protestant Theology of
the Ludwig Maximilian University in Munich. It has been slightly revised for publica-
tion. Not least because of the differences between modern and ancient views on mira-
cles, and therefore the difficulties involved in any study of miracles, Becker is sensitive
to the constant need to make the text his point of departure.
Almost a century ago there was a controversy in which Paul Fiebig (1876–1949)
became convinced of the closeness of Jesus to the rabbis. On the other hand, Adolf
Schlatter (1852–1938) disputed that Judaism proved a model for the miraculous activity
of Jesus on the extraordinary grounds that neither Josephus nor the Mishnah contain
any miracle story that dates back to the first century of this era. Many have interacted
with and contributed to the field over the succeeding years. In ch. 1 Becker notes, in
particular, the form critics Rudolf Bultmann and Martin Dibelius, as well as Isaak
Heinemann, Alexander Guttmann, Max Kadushin, Leopold Sabourin, Kurt Hruby,
Kurt Schubert, Ephraim E. Urbach, and Jacob Neusner (pp. 20–30). One of the things
this history of the research shows is the importance of distinguishing carefully between
the literary and historical levels of the texts (p. 32).
Becker’s investigation offers the first complete monograph since the Fiebig–
Schlatter debate, dealing particularly with miracles and miracle workers in the rabbinic
tradition. At the same time—as part 3, his significant epilogue, shows (pp. 417–42)—he
seeks to deepen understanding of the Jesus tradition. Considering internal develop-
ments within Judaism over time and maintaining a sensitivity to the strange world with
which he is dealing, Becker sets out to show that the representation of miracles and mir-
acle workers in the early rabbinic literature is multilayered, as it is for any aspect of the
study of any literature of late ancient times. Therefore, the section on methodology (pp.
32–49) is as important as it is sensitive to the problems of the age of the traditions, the
quality of the texts, and the possibility of using this material to interact with the NT.
Before coming to the heart of his research, Becker spends a great deal of time—
perhaps too much time—on matters relating to magic (ch. 3) and demonology (ch. 4).
Attempting—only somewhat successfully—to resist modern confusion over the nature
of magic, and recognizing the need to define magic contextually, he takes account in
particular of David Aune’s definitions of magic as “religious deviance” and, within this
deviance, as managing “supernatural powers in such a way that results are virtually guar-
anteed” (“Magic in Early Christianity,” ANRW 2.23.2 [1980]: 1515). However, in argu-
ing that deviance is only one—even if a prominent—aspect of magic, Becker seeks to
draw attention to the need for the discussion to involve emic and etic descriptions of
social, historical, and theological aspects of magic. Therefore, his starting point is the
text and the opinions of the rabbis. (See his discussion in a wider context in “Die
‘Magie’-Problematik der Antike–Genügt eine sozialwissenschaftliche Erfassung?”
ZRGG 54 [2002]: 1–22.) This perspective is relevant for the study of Jesus (pp. 423–30):
it shows at least that the charge of magic coming from outsiders is not useful in describ-
ing the inner motivation of Jesus’ miracle working. However, I would challenge Becker
that this perspective also shows—from the evidence of the “Zauberpapyri”—that we are
unable to characterize Jesus as a magician in terms of his technique.
Becker notes that the understanding of the relationship of early rabbis to magic
changed over time. In the early period the rabbis took on the biblical prohibitions so
that in the Tosephta, even if there was some ambivalence, argumentation against magic
was not necessary. As the interconnection of the study of the Torah with charismatic
endowment came to be reflected in the tradition, there was an assimilation of magic in
the literature because of the conviction that magic existed and worked. At the same
time, however, there was an increased need for prohibition in light of popular interests
in magic.
Similarly, with the demonic, Becker concurs that, in the Hellenistic-Roman times
at the beginning of the period of the early rabbis, medical and technical knowledge pros-
pered in an enlightened period, at least among the more informed or upper stratum of
society (p. 84, citing, e.g., Philo, Praem. 40; Gig. 16, cf. 6–8). However, Becker recog-
nizes that the restraint in the early rabbinic texts in relation to demonology requires
explanation, particularly in light of early Judaism and Christianity having a broad inter-
est in it. He convincingly suggests that—apart from the non-narrative structuring of the
early rabbinic texts led by halakic interests—it was the absence of apocalyptic concepts,
a shifting of rabbinic theology toward an interest in the Torah, as well as ritual pollution
(with its associated exorcisms) moving to the background after the destruction of the
Temple that explain the small showing of demonology. Also, Becker says that the early
rabbinic literature deals with the demonic on the individual-prevention level as opposed
Book Reviews 583
to the early Jewish and Christian texts in which the charismatic individual—who is able
to deal with the demonic without ongoing ill-effect—figures more prominently. Even
the later interest in dealing with demons did not arise over and against the Christians in
reference to power and authority of a charismatic, but primarily in the demonstration of
the superiority of a rabbi’s piety, which meant he did not have to fear dealing with
demons (p. 410).
Coming to the focus of his study, Becker first deals with miracle terminology (ch.
5). In particular he takes into account the words ns (“Wunder” as “sign”)—a generic
term for the entire range of the miraculous—and gbwrwt (“Wunder” in the sense of
“strength” or “power deed”). In so doing he notes some significant shifts that appear in
relation to the biblical and early Jewish linguistic usage. It can be seen that in the Mish-
nah there is a large lack of miracle terminology and a concomitant low interest in the
phenomenon. In the Tosephta there are a small number of examples of gbwrwt and a
reserved—even critical—attitude to the miraculous, while in the halakhic midrashim,
especially the Mekilta (though not in Sifra, where there is restraint), there is a greater
interest in miracle than in the Mishnah. Yet, further, the use and distribution of the
terms show that there was an increasing “objectification” and distancing from the phe-
nomenon of miracle or “past orientation” by those responsible for the material.
In ch. 6, dealing with “Miracle: Narrative and Explanation,” Becker seeks to set
out through individual examples what is stressed in miracle stories and how the stories
are interpreted. As can be expected, in the Midrashim the emphasis is on the biblical
tradition. Perhaps because of the interest in the biblical tradition, but also because of
the small amount of data available, there is almost no reference to more recent or cur-
rent miracle stories, which, when present, are more or less strongly legendary. In the
rabbinic literature, Becker does not find a closed theory of miracle but a mosaic of ideas.
For example, for the rabbis, an ambivalence existed in that although God is always
(though rarely explicitly) the subject of all miraculous action, a miracle cannot be
reduced to understanding that it is God acting. Also, faith can be the condition for a mir-
acle, but so also can merit or service. Further, while miracles “just happen,” prayer is
important. In any case, the primary interest in the miracle stories is not in the miracu-
lous element but in their halakic value. Thus, many miracle stories—often tied to the
confirmation of laws relating to the central religious institutions (the Sabbath, the tem-
ple and the Torah)—are negative in result, expressing punishment or blame (pp.
257–60).
The notion and figure of “Miracle Worker” is covered in ch. 7, once again remind-
ing us that the rabbinic understandings of categories associated with the miraculous are
by no means homogenous. Indeed, Becker’s analysis shows that the rabbinic tradition’s
picture of miracle workers is multilayered (cf. the diagrammatic sketch of the Honi tra-
dition [p. 324]). In the early traditions, the rabbis were initially very critical of the charis-
matics—Honi and Hanina—who, only after several centuries, make the transition from
magician to miracle worker and are depicted as being integrated into the self under-
standing of rabbinic Judaism, probably because the rabbis standing behind the Babylo-
nian Talmud were in a different time and place. Becker also suggests that his
reevaluation of the material requires taking a middle position between the older
research on the miraculous in the early rabbinic material, which was too optimistic, and
the other extreme, reflected by Morton Smith, that the tannaitic literature contains
almost no stories of miracles performed by Tannaim (Tannaitic Parallels to the Gospels

[Society of Biblical Literature, 1945], 81). In Babylon, although miraculous activity rem-
iniscent of magic was associated with rabbis, they saw themselves as successful because
of their knowledge of the Torah.
In considering the results of his study in relation to the Jesus tradition (Epilogue),
Becker is aware of the skepticism regarding the value of the rabbinic material for under-
standing Jesus, and he concludes that, at least from the perspective of the Babylonian
Talmud, the objections of Schlatter against Fiebig are confirmed: Judaism does not pro-
vide a good model for the miraculous activity of Jesus. Nevertheless, given the pluralism
of Judaism at the time, the early rabbis very probably had conceptions of miracles and
miracle activity that is broader than the texts indicate (p. 420). And he notes that,
regardless of all the difficulties with the evidence, Jesus is almost always connected with
mynwt and the producers of magic. Even though these are late they have to be taken
into account, for it is remarkable in showing the miracles as having the most impact on
the rabbinic reception. We also have the much older Beelzebul charge in the Gospels as
marking Jesus as an illegitimate charismatic. However, Becker says that we need to be
careful about designating Jesus—or, for example, Honi or Hanina—a magician, for his
actions were not those of a magician. Also, even though contact with demons raises the
suspicion of magic, nothing points to this suspicion being justified (p. 430). However, if
Becker had been more closely guided by the notion of magic as “religious deviance” he
may have come to different conclusions.
In considering Jesus as a miracle worker Becker notes that the interpretation of
the Elijah traditions shows that Jesus’ miracles could have given a prophetic understand-
ing to his activity. However, the eschatological connection and understanding given to
the miracles—especially the exorcisms, where the kingdom of God is understood to be
realized in the miracles—not only destroy this interpretation but highlight differences
from the Honi and Hanina traditions.
This much-needed book is carefully nuanced, detailed and supported with ade-
quate footnotes and will repay careful study. There is an extensive bibliography of pri-
mary and secondary literature (pp. 442–92), as well as good indices. Not only does this
book help fill out our still poor understanding of the early rabbinic traditions associated
with miracles and the miraculous; it also adds much needed discussion of the back-
ground to help understand the historical Jesus and, for example, to deal with the unre-
solved issue of miracle and magic in relation to Jesus, which continues to exercise the
minds of Jesus questers.
The mounting number of studies relating to magic, miracles, and the miraculous in
connection with the historical Jesus and his world—including the recent appearance of
The Jewish Contexts of Jesus’ Miracles (Sheffield Academic, 2002) by Eric Eve, which,
though taking up a wider brief, must be read in conjunction with the present book—is
good evidence of the increasing interest in this subject and the unresolved issues
involved.
Graham H. Twelftree
Regent University, Virginia Beach, VA 23464
Book Reviews 585
Parables of War: Reading John’s Jewish Apocalypse, by John W. Marshall. Studies in

Christianity and Judaism 10. Waterloo, ON: Wilfrid Laurier University Press, 2001. Pp.
vii + 258. $29.95 (paper).
In the introduction to this provocative but flawed work, “a Jew named John” gazes
from the island of Patmos at the events across the Roman Empire during the turbulent
year 69 C.E. Like Saruman with his palantir in Orthanc, he sees all! In the east the siege
of Jerusalem and, farther east, the ghost of Nero leading the armies of Parthia against
Rome; in the west, assassination and civil war in Italy; armies marching across Asia
toward Rome; and the Jewish communities in the Seven Cities harassed by their neigh-
bors and giving way to the temptations of the Greeks. With this sort of clarity, one won-
ders why John did not become the emperor himself. Instead, apparently, he wrote the
Apocalypse.
Marshall’s main thesis in this revised Princeton dissertation (1998) is that the
Apocalypse should be read not as a Christian text but as a Jewish one. This claim has
been made before, from Martin Luther to Rudolf Bultmann, who dismissed the Apoca-
lypse as “weakly Christianized Judaism” (see Theology of the New Testament [2 vols.;
Scribner, 1955], 2:173–75), and many scholars since have identified Jewish elements in
the text. Marshall, however, deconstructs the categories “Christian” and “Jewish” as part
of his study and maintains that the text, its author, and its audience should be under-
stood completely within a Jewish context. He joins a significant minority of commenta-
tors who date the text to the time of Nero. Finally, he argues that John calls on his
readers to resist Roman culture and religion. Marshall offers a new combination of pre-
vious proposals and approaches—the Apocalypse as Jewish; the Apocalypse as a Neronic
text; the Apocalypse as countercultural; and the Apocalypse as read through poststruc-
tural lenses—but the results are unpersuasive.
Marshall engages a limited set of scholarship on Revelation. He caricatures schol-
arship on Revelation as full of “clichés” and defined by the master narrative of orthodox
Christianity. By “commentators” in the first half of the book, Marshall means almost
exclusively Adela Yarbro Collins (whose Crisis and Catharsis: The Power of the Apoca-
lypse [Westminster, 1984] receives extensive criticism), Leonard Thompson, David E.
Aune, and Elisabeth Schüssler Fiorenza. These are all influential scholars, but the book
would have been more effective if it had more fully engaged a wider set of authors from
the past ten years. These might include Greg Carey, Paul Duff, Steven Friesen,
Catherine Keller, Stephen Moore, Stephen Moyise, Tina Pippin, and my own work.
Granted, Parables of War is a new reading. But his critique of modernist scholars from a
poststructuralist perspective, while ignoring similar approaches, fights against only
paper tigers. The “clichés” he tries to debunk (p. 175) have also been deconstructed by
others.
The introduction (ch. 1) tackles a couple of thorny methodological problems.
Marshall questions outright whether the presence of “Christ” demands the presence of
Christianity. Claiming that, in John’s Apocalypse, “the faith, the institutions, and the cult
of Judaism are not even objects of criticism” (p. 6), he attempts a “noncanonical” reading
of Revelation that would not retroject Christianity into the text. The task involves a “con-
tinual self-examination and constant reformulation that will ideally enrich the terms
‘Judaism’ and ‘Christianity’” (p. 9). Marshall critiques the complex of dogma and belief
that have defined the Christianity through which the Apocalypse has been read. But he
does not consider alternative definitions of Christianity proposed by scholars, for
instance as social construct, symbolic universe, or discursive formation.
In the first part of the book (chs. 2–7), Marshall unpacks his theoretical claims. He
builds his analysis around a series of “aporias,” interpretive cruxes that produce circular
readings if the text is read as Christian but which become clear when the text is read as
Jewish. These aporias are the references to the “synagogue of Satan” in Rev 2:9 and 3:9;
the portrayal of the protagonist community as “those who keep the commandments of
God and the witness of Jesus” (Rev 12:17; 14:12); the visions of the 144,000 in Rev 7:4–8
and 14:1–5; and the “holy city” and “great city” in Rev 11:2 and 11:8 respectively.
Marshall examines briefly how commentators have tried to fit these passages into Chris-
tian formulations, producing contradiction rather than clarity. Since Marshall is working
from Jacques Derrida’s Aporias (Stanford University Press, 1993), his claim to find the
interpretive key that clarifies the contradictions of the text is rather alarming.
In ch. 3, Marshall deconstructs the notion of “Christianity” in first-century texts.
For Marshall, scholars bring the baggage of homogeneity, teleology, and logocentrism
when applying the term “Christian” to the Apocalypse. The deconstruction of the term
is apt but the assumptions Marshall makes about readings of the Apocalypse, which are
not as “homogenous” as he would have it, are problematic. There is significant scholar-
ship that reads the Apocalypse as one voice in a range of competing “Christianities,”
historical-rhetorical communities defined discursively rather than theologically. Chap-
ter 4 looks at the problem of John’s religious identity as “Christian,” which locates Chris-
tianity as a taxonomic complement or supplement to Judaism. Marshall sees the taxon
“Christian” in the Apocalypse as an unnecessary application of teleology, but does not
define what he means instead by “Judaism.” In ch. 5, drawing on Jonathan Z. Smith’s cri-
tique of taxonomy (“Fences and Neighbors: Some Contours of Early Judaism,” in Imag-
ining Religion: From Babylon to Jonestown [University of Chicago Press, 1988], 1–18),
he proposes a polythetic, polyadic (i.e., multiple elements) taxonomy for defining Chris-
tianity. Marshall argues against categorizing Christianity merely by the presence of
Christ or the stipulation of the belief in Jesus. While he notes the influence of Clifford
Geertz’s 1966 “Religion as a Cultural System” (in The Interpretation of Cultures [Basic
Books, 1977], 87–125), he does not recognize the numerous studies, led by Wayne A.
Meeks, that have developed rich social descriptions of early Christian communities.
Studies of early Christianity have, for the past twenty-five years or more, gone beyond
theological definitions alone.
In ch. 6, Marshall applies a postmodern critique of foundational metanarratives to
the scholarship of Yarbro Collins, Schüssler Fiorenza, and Thompson. He criticizes
them for uncritically applying the term “Christian” to every first-century text with the
name of Jesus or Christ, thereby anachronistically invoking the teleology of the Chris-
tian metanarrative. But these scholars have also described significant differences within
and between the communities of the Apocalypse, which Marshall does not acknowl-
edge. Finally, he concludes the first part in ch. 7 by examining key Greek terms in first-
and second-century texts: christianos, christanismos; christos; ioudaismos, ioudaios;
ekkleµsia, and synagoµgeµ. Curiously, he does not treat “Jesus” as well. Marshall observes
that christianos is both relatively late (second century) and appears in contexts that
embrace or tolerate the Roman imperial order (p. 71). While this lends weight to his
Book Reviews 587
thesis that the Apocalypse is not “Christian,” Marshall does not consider that John and
his community are engaged in a struggle over the definition of Christianity.
The second part, chs. 8–12, is more exegetical than theoretical, but this method-
ological breach is unsettling. Having deconstructed the taxonomy and definitions of
first-century Christianity, Marshall turns to a historically positivistic application of his
thesis to the text. The questions of the first part of the book are leveraged to clarify and
explain the Apocalypse; they lose their critical edge in the process. One wonders why a
scholar who can handle Derrida deftly uses such narrow notions of historical processes
and social formations in NT texts.
In ch. 8, Marshall argues that the Apocalypse, in its entirety, was written in
between 68 and 70 C.E. Marshall takes a strong stance on the integrity of the text, argu-
ing against any stratification within the Apocalypse. His claims about “the work as a
whole” (p. 89) overlook evidence of John’s prophetic activity and followers; he was
clearly widely known in Asia. An active prophet produces prophecy (Rev 1:3; 10:1–11;
19:10; 22:7, 18); prophets have disciples who collect and edit visions, leaving seams and
layers in the text. Marshall then examines the evidence for dating—the seven kings of
Rev 17:10, the use of the term “Babylon” for Rome, the meaning of 666, and external
testimonies—concluding that “the Apocalypse [meaning here the entire Apocalypse]
was written within the period roughly between the summer of 68 and the late spring of
70 CE” (p. 97).
In ch. 9, Marshall examines the evidence for the situation of the Diaspora Jews
during the war with Rome. Much of his evidence is conjectural; for instance, he argues
by analogy from other diasporas in other wars, as far away as the Scythians in Thrace in
378 C.E. and, by implication, the Japanese Americans in the United States during World
War II. Nonetheless, Marshall makes a convincing case that the war could have pro-
duced conflict within Diaspora Jewish communities and between Jews and Gentiles
over Roman policies. What he does not prove here—but which he subsequently
assumes—is that the same conflict would have produced the resistance to Greco-
Roman culture that imbues the Apocalypse. Nor does he show, more significantly, that
such conflict must have been confined to the narrow window in which he claims the
Apocalypse was written. This seriously undercuts his argument because he prepares the
ground well for proving that the war with Rome sowed seeds of tension in Jewish and
Christian communities for years to come. Many, including myself, have argued that
John and his circle carried resistance to Roman rule and Greek culture from the war in
Judea to the cities of Asia Minor (and by implication that John’s ongoing prophetic activ-
ity generates layers of sources in the text). There is no reason to think that tensions
would have ended with the destruction of the Temple. When Marshall cites Josephus on
the Sicarii in Egypt and Cyrene (J.W. 7.43 §407) and notes “the events of 115 to 117 CE”
(p. 109), he calls the readers attention to the seventy years of struggle between the Jews
and Rome. Similarly, when he cites Tacitus’s report of a Neronic pretender in 69 (Hist.
2.8), he notes that pretenders also arose in 79 and 88 C.E., but he discounts these later
occurrences, which would weaken his argument. Marshall shows how news from Rome
and Jerusalem came to Asia Minor during this “long year,” but this depends on accept-
ing the hypothesis that John, Saruman-like, observed all these events in real time from
Patmos.
Chapters 10–11 consist of analyses of the four aporetic “parables” in light of
Marshall’s preceding theoretical and historical studies. By “parables” he means that

these passages have rhetorical purposes and moral-political meanings. While Marshall’s
reading of the Apocalypse as completely Jewish is unique and his focus on 68–70 C.E. is
unusual, his findings are commonplace. John opposes the Roman Empire and Greco-
Roman culture. Marshall ends up where many others have, only substituting “Jewish”
for “Christian”—John directs his text against lax pagan God-fearers and hellenized Jews
rather than lukewarm Christians.
Focusing particularly on how the “synagogue of Satan” has been construed as a
polemic against Judaism in the Apocalypse, he argues that this is directed not against
Jews who reject Jesus but Jews who favor Rome. He rejects the evidence of Jewish–
Christian conflict in the Martyrdom of Polycarp as too remote, but this is a circular argu-
ment that depends entirely on accepting the narrow dating he proposes. The compar-
isons he uses for the situation of the Diaspora Jews in 66–70 C.E. are much more
removed historically and geographically than the Martyrdom of Polycarp, set in Smyrna
around 155 C.E. His arguments about “those who keep the commandments of God” are
equally problematic. Diversity within Second Temple Judaism is never examined in a
book that promises “continual self-examination and constant reformulation” (p. 9).
Marshall writes, “John is thoroughly consistent with an understanding that keeping the
commandments of God meant everything that first-century Jews understood it to mean”
(p. 139). He glosses over the deep and long-standing divisions over these very com-
mandments, which defined Jewish social formations. Even more significantly, he
ignores the Jesus traditions that challenged Jewish practice. But Jesus could have much
more to do with “The Apocalypse of Jesus Christ” than Marshall wants to acknowledge
at this point. His interpretation in ch. 11 of the 144,000 (Rev 7:4–8 and 14:1–5) and the
cities of Rev 11 finds more traction, but the correspondences between these passages
and the situation in Jerusalem in the late 60’s C.E. could also be evidence for earlier
sources, a hypothesis Marshall rejects.
The final chapter surveys three broad problems in light of Marshall’s thesis: the
rhetoric of the Apocalypse; the Apocalypse and other Jesus literature; and the Apoca-
lypse in Asian Judaism. The treatment of each topic, all of which have received extensive
study already, is thin and problematic. Marshall wants to reject the “clichés” of “Chris-
tianity’s narrative of its own history” (p. 175) but throughout the chapter he fights paper
tigers rather than engaging fully recent Revelation scholarship. When he writes of resur-
rection in the Apocalypse as “a paradigmatic mark of Jesus’ authority to inaugurate a
new age of vindication for God’s people” (p. 190), I would like to see a more complete
delineation of the contours of first-century Judaism that would incorporate this state-
ment in Marshall’s “reformulations.”
Provocative theoretical insights about the formation of early Christian communi-
ties in a first-century Jewish context have been stretched too far in this book. Scholars
might suspend the terms “Christian” if such a label carries all the “clichés” of the later
Christian narrative, but critical scholars can still write of early Christian social forma-
tions in John’s “Apocalypse of Jesus Christ.”
Robert M. Royalty, Jr.
Wabash College, Crawfordsville, IN 47933
Book Reviews 589
The Didache: Its Jewish Sources and Its Place in Early Judaism and Christianity, by
Huub van de Sandt and David Flussser. CRINT sect. 3: Jewish Traditions in Early
Christian Literature 5. Assen: Royal Van Gorcum; Minneapolis: Fortress, 2002. Pp. 431.
$58.00 (cloth).
In this book, the Didache is examined and found to be a nexus between Judaism,
Jewish-Christianity, and Gentile-Christianity. It is mapped to late-first-century Syria (in
“a network of villages and small towns . . . a rural Christian congregation in some Greek
speaking part of [Western] Syria or, possibly, in the borderland between Syria and
Palestine at the close of the first century,” [p. 52]). It contains substantial Instruction on
the Two Ways (Did. 1–6), as well as Instruction on Baptism-Fasting/Praying-Eucharist
(Did. 7–10), Instruction on Teachers-Apostles-Prophets (Did. 11–15), and a brief End
Times Prediction (Did. 16). The burden of the authors is to show that no part of any of
these Instructions is without a genesis in Jewish traditions of some kind, be they scrip-
tural, rabbinic, those documented from Qumran (sometimes Essene), or apocalyptic. A
chief exception to this is Did. 9.4, 10.5, where the authors detect a Gentile preference
for envisioning a gathering of the church instead of a gathering of Israel; this is taken to
be indicative of how the Didache community had grown more Gentile than Jewish in
members’ families of origin. Even Did. 7.3 (baptism in the name of the Father, Son, and
Holy Spirit) has roots in Jewish traditions. First, there is the rabbinic idiom “in the name
of” (bšm; e.g. m. Avot 6:6) used to identify from whom teachings originate. Second, the
twelfth-century rabbinic texts Sefer Hamanhig and Sefer Hasidim document possible
ancient traditions of tripartite immersions. Put it all together and you might get three
water actions, each accompanied by a bšm.
The latter is not the best example in the book of this type of work and the authors
admit an argument hinging on two twelfth-century texts is weak. Yet the authors rarely
have to stretch to such lengths to find plausible Jewish sources for elements in the
Didache. Just the opposite is the case. The book is a marvel of close reading of chrono-
logically relevant texts, from the Testament of the Twelve Patriarchs to various rabbinic
texts to 1QS to the Epistle of Barnabas to the Doctrina Apostolorum. Especially in an
examination of the Two Ways, early Christian testimony to the persistence and integrity
of this tradition is brought out clearly and in detail. The testimonies of Athanasius’s Fes-
tal Letter and of Ps.-Didymus are taken to show how the Two Ways was fixed in its use in
pre-baptismal catechism, or exactly the way in which the authors suggest the Two Ways
first functioned (as represented in the Didache). So we find in this book a remarkable
breadth of scope, ranging from numerous Jewish documentary precedents to a long his-
tory of early Christian testimony.
Examination of the Two Ways is in fact the largest portion of the book, and its
mention in the book’s title of “sources” is no misdirection to the reader. The manuscript
sources for our Didache today are reviewed (Manuscript of Jerusalem H, POxy 1782, a
Coptic fragment, the Ethiopic Canones Ecclesiastici, and indirectly the Apostolic Con-
stitutions). Questions about traditional sources within the documents arise when exami-
nation is made of the Two Ways material in the Epistle of Barnabas 18–20 and the
Doctrina Apostolorum (varying manuscript traditions are included). How are these texts
related to the Didache? Can a time line be established between them? Did one serve as
a source to another? A turn to source analysis is absolutely primary in the authors’
method. Admission is made that, in the Hellenistic world, traditions of Two Ways (espe-
cially in the Herakles story) were common and fluid. These were not the source for the
Jewish-Christian Two Ways. Rather, besides some general scriptural models (life/death,
blessing/cursing), more specific sources are identified in Sir 33:11 (“in different paths
He has them walk”), T. Asher 1:3–5 (“two ways to the sons of men”), 1 En. 91:18 (“paths
of righteousness and paths of wrong-doing”), and most importantly 1QS 3:13–4:26 (cf.
F. Garcia Martínez and E. Tigchelaar, Dead Sea Scrolls Study Edition [Brill, 1997–98],
1:74). The Qumran text witnesses to a strong dualism (spirits of light/darkness), a per-
spective found also in Epistle of Barnabas (angels of God/Satan) and Doctrina Apostolo-
rum (two angels). This dualistic cosmology is absent from the Two Ways material in Did.
1–6. Amidst many other details under examination, the authors conclude that a Jewish
document they call Greek Two Ways (GTW) came into existence, apparently some-
where in or around the first century B.C.E. It occasioned a development in Greek of the
theological dualism in Hebrew from Qumran, the latter of which is identified as an
Essene point of view. A hypothetical GTW that includes a kind of textual apparatus is
reconstructed by the authors. Its text is given on pp. 123–28, with English translation.
The GTW is considered the source behind the Two Ways tradition witnessed to by early
Christian literature. It was originally dualistic (like the 1QS precedent), although the
Didache does not include this aspect. This absence is taken as a notable feature of the
Didache.
Source work is a tricky business, but the authors excel at it. In order for the method
to appear plausible, simple rules must be followed. Rule 1 is that you must include large
amounts of available textual detail in the presentation. Rule 2 is that you must forget
how much textual material from antiquity is simply lost to us, material that might show a
very different history of ideas than the one we are imagining. Fortunately, the kind of lit-
erature that the Didache represents is one that is full of traditionally endowed state-
ments, standard legal/scribal ways of putting things, and formulaic propositions about
prayer/liturgy/behavior. Source analysis of any of these is easier, for example, than
source analysis of two narratives. So the authors demonstrate sources for not only the
Two Ways material, but also for the legal elucidations from Sermon on the Mount tradi-
tion in the Two Ways (the source materials are hasidim theories about striving for more-
and-better piety), as well as observing sources for how much tora Gentile converts need
to observe (the source materials are theories about Noachide laws), “baptism in the
name of” (the sources are proselyte immersion and use of bšm), the Lord’s Prayer three
times daily (the source is a tefilla), procedures for ritual meals (the source is complex: a
developing Birkat Ha-Mazon, including ideas being translated into Greek from
Hebrew), and description of (1) bishops (the source is archisynagoµgos as “overseer” and
1QS statements about leadership qualities of harmony, friendliness, etc.), (2) apostles
(the sources are šaµlîah\ institutions), (3) teachers (the source is didaskalos as a pre-70
C.E. Jewish term, as found in inscriptions on ossuaries), and (4) prophets (the source
being wandering prophets as described by Josephus).
The authors’ identification of sources is perhaps made to look overly simple and
facile in such a summarizing list. The strength of their arguments vary; probably the
strongest cases are made for the Greek Two Ways, the function of the “antitheses” from
the Sermon on the Mount tradition, the Noachide laws, and the meal ritual. Throughout
their examination of various chapters of the Didache, very large amounts of comparative
Book Reviews 591
material are brought into the discussion. This feature is one of the most valuable aspects
of the book, which acts as a wide repository of Jewish and early Christian witnesses
about a narrow set of Jewish and Christian concerns. However, even so, one might
observe that the Didache is not a collection of the most scintillating ideas. It shows all
the marks of being an ancient manual for “best practice” procedures and operations.
Such manuals were practical, not visionary; one might almost view a text like the
Didache as an ancient form of quality assurance for a Christian community of some type.
In light of this analysis, it is pertinent to mention that another key term in the
title—“place”—needs some clarification. It turns out that the place of the Didache in
early Judaism and Christianity is really taken to be its literary place amidst various docu-
ments and their ostensible sources. The authors occasionally do attempt to bring alive a
picture of the actual Didache community (people, places, things). We find statements
like these: “Since the Didache was composed in a time of transition, its major concern
was to safeguard the unity and identity of this community against threats from the inside
and outside world” (p. 35); or, “teaching . . . was constructed, preserved, and handed on
within pious Jewish circles which maintained highly refined ethical standards” (p. 120);
or, “In the eyes of Christians who observed the Law to its full extent, any announcement
involving a depreciation of legal obligations was tantamount to betraying the ancestral
customs and the Jewish roots of Christian faith” (p. 270); or, “In substituting ‘your
church’ [Did. 9:4] for an expression like ‘your people of Israel’ in the petitions for an
eschatological gathering, the community appears to have alienated itself from its Jewish
background and to have taken on the character of a primarily gentile Christian group”
(p. 329). Prudence dictates that conclusions about documents be left at that: about doc-
uments. Crossing over into descriptions of the types of people and their states of mind as
exhibited by documents and their apparent sources is another matter. Perhaps adequate
description of these aspects would take another book, which Professor Van de Sandt
may someday provide for us. At the same time, the book raises another interesting ques-
tion that it does not address, namely: If the well-developed Jewish Two Ways tradition
was an invention from the Hellenistic milieu, could it reflect more Greek traditional
impulses than scriptural or very early Jewish? This reviewer would like to see the mate-
rial in this book brought into conversation with G. E. R. Lloyd’s Polarity and Analogy:
Two Types of Argumentation in Early Greek Thought (Cambridge University Press,
1966). In the meantime, it is difficult to imagine how this book will not become a stan-
dard reference work for assistance with the documents, sources, traditions, and ideas
found in the Didache.
Douglas Geyer
University of Chicago, Evanston, IL 60202
JBL 122/3 (2003) 600
INDEX OF BOOK REVIEWS
Becker, Michael, Wunder und Wundertäter im frührabbinischen Judentum: Studien

zum Phänomen und seiner Überlieferung im Horizont von Magie und Dämonis-
mus (Graham H. Twelftree) 581
Bultmann, Rudolf, The History of the Synoptic Tradition (Frederick Clifton Grant;
Samuel Byrskog) 547
Collins, John J., and Gregory E. Sterling, eds., Hellenism in the Land of Israel (Lee I.
Levine) 562
Feldman, Louis H., Judean Antiquities 1–4: Volume 3, Flavius Josephus: Translation
and Commentary, ed. Steve Mason (Dennis Stoutenburg) 566
Glazov, Gregory Yuri, The Bridling of the Tongue and the Opening of the Mouth in Bib-
lical Prophecy (Michael S. Moore) 558
Hempel, Charlotte, Armin Lange, and Hermann Lichtenberger, The Wisdom Texts
from Qumran and the Development of Sapiential Thought (Matthew Goff) 571
Marshall, John W., Parables of War: Reading John’s Jewish Apocalypse (Robert M. Roy-
alty, Jr.) 585
Mason, Steve, Life of Josephus: Volume 9, Flavius Josephus: Translation and Commen-
tary, ed. Steve Mason (Dennis Stoutenburg) 566
Nickelsburg, George W. E., 1 Enoch: A Commentary on the Book of 1 Enoch: Chapters
1–36; 81–108 (Patrick Tiller) 574
Oldenhage, Tania, Parables for Our Time: Rereading New Testament Scholarship after
the Holocaust (Luise Schottroff) 578
Sherwood, Yvonne, A Biblical Text and Its Afterlives: The Survival of Jonah in Western
Culture (Tod Linafelt) 560
van de Sandt, Huub, and David Flusser, The Didache: Its Jewish Sources and Its Place
in Early Judaism and Christianity (Douglas Geyer) 589
Watts, James W., ed., Persia and Torah: The Theory of Imperial Authorization of the
Pentateuch (R. Christopher Heard) 555
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2003 JBL No. 3 (Completo)

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Journal of Biblical Literature

VOLUME 122, No. 3 Fall 2003

Israelite Ethnicity in Iron I: Archaeology Preserves

The Woman of Substance (lyjAt`a): A Socioeconomic

Geography and History in Herodotus and in Ezra-Nehemiah

Are There Imperial Texts in the Class? Intertextual Eagles

Matthew 27:52–53 as Apocalyptic Apostrophe:

“To Die Is Gain” (Philippians 1:19–26): Does Paul

The Locutions of 1 Kings 22:28: A New Proposal

Book Reviews 547 — Index 600

EDITORS OF THE JOURNAL

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

ISRAELITE ETHNICITY IN IRON I:

I. Two Archaeological Models of Ethnicity

ration Society, 1988).

of Archaeological Research 5, no.4 (1997): 301– 4.

well as circumstantial traits, both self-ascribed and promulgated by others,

13 Emberling, “Ethnicity,” 304–10.

“narrativization” as practiced by Native Americans.17 Over the centuries, Israel

EXCURSUS: THE MEANING OF “ISRAELITE AND PHILISTINE

The Culture Area Approach:

Furthermore, texts are mute as to whether or not Israelites considered house

or Bethel, either Israelites constructed houses of differing plans or non-

archaeology in the Post-Processual World,” in Methods in the Mediterranean: Historical and

counterparts, so that no rural settlements existed in the late eleventh/early

35 Faust, “Abandonment, Urbanization, Resettlement.”

(1995): 206–10; Finkelstein, Archaeology of the Israelite Settlement, 332.

II. The Meaningful Boundaries and Tell-Tale Approaches:

Beginning in 1969, Fredrik Barth broadened the discussion of ethnicity to

of Culture Difference (ed. F. Barth; Boston: Little, Brown, 1969), 14–15.

blocks of houses framed by an orthogonal street plan (Qasile). Temples, of

Peoples and Their World, 271–74.

(Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1930), pls. 37, 39, 44.

the ninth-century B.C.E. Black Obelisk of Shalmaneser and of a dignitary on an

54 Medinet Habu VIII:I, pl. 37.

57 J. Callaway and R. Cooley, “A Salvage Excavation at Raddana, in Bireh,” BASOR 201

Arrowhead 6 23 4/2 11 + 264 4 26 + 4/7

Total 22 5 8/14 35 + 294 8 294 + 18/17

>Ajjul/Gaza, and Tell Qasile.

Israelites wielded a greater number of metal or metal-tipped weapons, but

Iron I Ethnic Israel Revealed

Question of Distinctiveness in Ancient Israel: An Essay,” in Ah Assyria . . . : Studies in Assyrian

perpetuated the primacy of kinship while acknowledging changes in con-

64 Stager, “Impact of the Sea Peoples in Canaan,” 332–48.

Israel’s ongoing incorporation of primordial and circumstantial features

67 Cornell, “That’s the Story of Our Life,” 43–44.

pork consumed by a neighboring population providing a meaningful context for

III. Variant Literary Processes in the Crafting of

Two different literary trajectories or narrative processes may underlie

Central Highlands of Palestine,” IEJ 52, no.1 (2002): 28–48.

75 M. Smith, personal communication.

THE WOMAN OF SUBSTANCE

CHRISTINE ROY YODER

The portrait of a Woman of Substance (lyjAt`a)1 hangs on the end of the

3 See C. R. Yoder, Wisdom as a Woman of Substance: A Socioeconomic Reading of Proverbs

socioeconomic context of Persian-period Palestine. My contention is that the

It is necessary, first, to say a few words about the epigraphic evidence

abbreviations are used: