CORRECTED AGAINST PROOF 3 (?

) OF CR:BS 6 (1998) 253-93

ANCIENT SYNAGOGUES:
THE CONTINUING DIALECTIC BETWEEN TWO MAJOR VIEWS

Heather A McKay, Edge Hill University College, Ormskirk, L39 4QP, UK

mckayh@staff.ehche.ac.uk

Introduction

To many the very idea of asking what a synagogue was is ridiculous.

Everyone knows that they were the Jewish houses of worship. But is
that the kind of thing one can know? And, what would such ‘knowing’
involve? What would count as evidence for the existence of ‘ancient
synagogues’? Over what time span would it apply? Does any such
evidence exist? Is the evidence clear, or fragmentary, or disputed or all
of these? These are the questions central to the debate about the nature
of the ‘ancient synagogue’. In response to these questions the parties
engaged in the debate give different answers and also disagree about
the relative likelihood of there being definite, or probable or even
tentative, answers.
This paper will attempt to clarify the current state of the debate
about the nature of ‘ancient synagogues’, a debate that is currently
becoming more and more sharply focused. Subsequently, the matter will
be set within a context of wider debates upon which it impinges.

1. Initial Overview:

The Debate about the Nature of Ancient Synagogues

Nowadays, of course, we have no ‘ancient synagogues’—only

fragmentary and enigmatic archaeological remains, which certain
scholars, for example, Levine (1996), Atkinson (1997) and Cohen (1997),
claim were buildings with a dedicated religious (Jewish) purpose. The
period for which reliable evidence is at its most tantalisingly lacking is
the time up to and including the first century CE. Thereafter, there is
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more unequivocal evidence, and the picture becomes clearer. There is

almost universal agreement concerning details of structure and use for
the ancient synagogues of the third and fourth centuries CE. It is the first
century CE that provides the key focus of the controversy.
We also have a small quantity of imprecisely contextualized
literary sources, which refer to buildings that are variously named and
described, and/or to the institutions and practices of the past. Among
these, we find few early, unequivocal, well-documented details of either
private or communal sabbath practice among ordinary (non-priestly)
Jews (whether for men only, or for women and children as well) outside
Jerusalem. Within Jerusalem, the Temple service can be assumed to have
been available to those (predominantly male) Jews who could make a
‘sabbath day’s journey’ to the Temple precincts.
We cannot say with any certainty for the Diaspora (or for any
location at some distance from Jerusalem) precisely where the local
groups of Jews might have met (Kraabel 1979, 1987; Kee 1990), nor can
we be sure exactly what they did in their meetings. Thus, any ‘ancient
synagogues’—whether they were rooms, buildings or perhaps solely,
groups of Jews—that we envisage are of necessity constructs, that is,
constructs in which our scholarly judgments and our imaginations play
a great, but often unrecorded, part.
Scholarly constructs abound in the field of biblical studies. ‘Q’, the
‘cultic prostitute’ and the ‘New Year festival’ are examples familiar to
all. My purpose here is to show that there is a similarly powerful
scholarly construct of the ‘ancient synagogue’, one that goes back, partly
at least, to the memorable two-volume work of Edersheim (1897). I also
maintain that this construct is built out of scraps of evidence collected,
and often conflated, from the researches and interpretations of the past
two millennia. Further, the picture we have of the function and
operation of the ancient synagogue (whether it was a committee of adult
Jewish males, or the entire [male] Jewish community of a locale, or
whether it was a dedicated spatial location either within an ‘umbrella’
institution or building, or an independent building with specific
functions) is no more than a jigsaw puzzle picture with all too many of
the pieces lacking or, possibly, misplaced.
Many scholars will welcome and agree with that last statement.
But the identification of the likely nature of the missing pieces and the
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weight to be given to them in relation to that given to the pieces that we

do have is a hotly contested field of debate.
It is appropriate here to indicate the range of meanings given to, or
assumed for, the key words that are used in the debate.
First, the Greek word sunagøg∑ is translated by the English word
‘synagogue’ (or other modern language equivalents). This word may
mean a gathering of all the adult Jewish males of a community, or a
smaller gathering of the more respected of their number; or it may mean
a building in which such a gathering met. Throughout the debate, no
one denies that the same Greek word can have all these meanings, but
some scholars assume that the word always carries all of these meanings
and other scholars believe that it implies different facets of the possible
meanings at different locations and at different times (see the discussion
below). It is interesting to note that, in French, the two meanings may be
distinguished by the use of the words ‘synagogue’ and ‘communauté’
(Lifshitz 1967: 82) and one may easily grasp which meaning the scholar
intends.
Secondly, the Greek proseuch∑ is translated by the English
expressions ‘prayer-house’ or ‘meeting-house’, and means a building in
which the Jews (possibly, including women) of a local community met
for a variety of purposes, both civil and religious. This Greek word
proseuch∑ is, however, rendered by some translators and some scholars
(see the discussion below) into the English word ‘synagogue’. This
manoevre is, to my mind, misleading.
Thirdly, the Greek word archisunagøgos is translated by the English
expression ‘ruler of the synagogue’, which may mean the leader of the
community gathering for civil business, the leader of the community
gathering for religious purposes or the officer or servitor in charge of the
community building, which would, in that case, be called a synagogue.
In each case, I believe, it is better to keep open the question of
which meaning the word carries in every text, and to make a decision
based on the contextual evidence. However, ‘minimalists’ and
‘maximalists’ are quite likely to disagree in many cases.

a. The Main Positions Simply Expressed

The traditional—some might say ‘optimistic’ or ‘maximalist’—position
(grossly simplified, of course), is derived, no doubt, from the Mishnaic
picture of the Great Synagogue of Ezra and his successors, and claims
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that the synagogue developed out of the experience of the Babylonian

exile. According to this position, the synagogue developed over the
centuries, and became established as an institution with members,
practices and dedicated buildings, before the turn of the era. Following
this understanding, in the first century CE, at the time of Jesus, the
synagogue existed as a recognizably similar precursor of the synagogue
as we know it today.
The seminal formulation of this traditional position is to be found
in the works of Edersheim (1897: I, 18-20, 76-77, 430-39). His respected
standing as an explicator of things Jewish to a Christian readership
allowed much that he claimed for first-century Palestine to be accepted
directly, without challenge or criticism. Another powerful exposition of
the traditional account is to be found in the dictionary article of Bacher
(1963). There are, right up to the present day, many modern exponents
of much this same position among biblical scholars, as, for example,
Finkelstein (1975), Griffiths (1987), Oster (1993), Atkinson (1997), Cohen
(1984, 1987, 1997) and Binder (1997) and, among archaeologists, those
whose essays appear in the collection edited by Levine (namely, Foerster
1981, Gutman 1981, Kloner 1981, Ma‘oz (1981) and Yadin 1981), as well
as Levine himself (1981, 1987, 1996).
The opposing—some might say ‘sceptical’ or ‘minimalist’—
position (again, grossly simplified) holds that the synagogue did not
reach a form more or less in recognizable continuity with that of the
present day until the third and fourth centuries CE. During that long
developmental process, the various aspects of the complete synagogue
institution were assembled in different sequences, in different ways and
at different times in different locations, both within Israel and in the
Diaspora communities. Thus, no satisfactory, overall, unified picture of
the emergence of ‘the synagogue’ can exist. The current exponents of this
position among biblical scholars include Kee (1990, 1995), McKay (1991,
1992, 1994) and Burtchaell (1992); and among archaeologists, for
example, Strange (1979), Gutmann (1981), Meyers and Strange (1981),
Seager (1981), Chiat (1981), Meyers (1996) and Hachlili (1997).
The first century CE provides the time frame for the keenest
engagement in the debate. The traditionalists claim that the synagogue,
as an institution with dedicated buildings, existed and was well-known
in the first century, while the minimalists insist that no clear evidence
warrants acceptance of that claim. They believe that extrapolations from
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current evidence have to be made in order to reach the traditionalists’

position and they are not willing to make them. They do not deny that
further evidence could appear that would confirm the traditionalist
stance, but they do not accept that stance as being already proved.

b. Key Data in the Debate

The key data discussed by parties in the debate are texts, that is, the
New Testament and other ancient texts, particularly the writings of
Philo and Josephus, and pieces of archaeological evidence, such as
inscriptions from buildings associated with Jewish communities
(particularly, the Berenice and Theodotus inscriptions and those from
areas near the Black Sea). There is also comparable epigraphic evidence
from papyri from Egypt. All these sources provide evidence from the
first century CE that is crucial to the keenest aspects of the debate.

1. The New Testament. The New Testament texts describe a variety of

activities—reading aloud, teaching, arguing, healing, jostling and
expelling—that took place in ‘synagogues’, but describe only sparingly
what these synagogues were. Neither do they refer to structural features
such as doors, walls or stairs, that would make it clear that a physical
structure was being described. Men ‘entered them’ and ‘sat down in
them’, but—as the ‘minimalists’ claim—that could refer just as easily to
a gathering as to a room. To the ‘maximalists’, however, the use of the
word ‘synagogue’ implies a building and the religious activities that
may be assumed to take place inside it.

2. The Writings of Philo and Josephus. Philo mainly describes and refers to
activities of (usually) male Jews that took place in buildings known as
proseuchai and refers occasionally to gatherings called sunagøgia
(conventicles) and to locations called proseukt∑ria (places of prayer).
Writing of the religious group known as the Therapeutae, he refers to a
semneion (sanctuary) and for the religious group known as Essenes, to a
‘sacred spot’ called a sunagøg∑, which he describes as ‘their name’ for
‘their institution’. The activities he describes as taking place in all these
groups are reading, teaching and discussion.
Josephus describes and refers to the assemblies of the Jews in
sunagøgai in Antioch, Dore and Caesarea, but also to one extended three-
day session in the proseuch∑ in Tiberias. The activities he describes
 6

include angry disagreements and physical skirmishes as well as reading,

teaching and discussion.
When discussing these two authors’ works, the ‘maximalists’
believe that all the activities undertaken in the various locales are similar
enough both to each other and to what they regard as the worship
practice of the Jews at that time. They, therefore, conflate the two
pictures into an overall set of procedures that they believe were widely
current throughout the Diaspora in buildings whose different names
make no serious difference to understanding their function. The
‘minimalists’, on the other hand, believe that there was an interweaving
of civil and religious functions within the Jewish communities that led
only slowly to differentiation and particularisation into separate civil
and religious institutions with dedicated premises and functions.

3. Inscriptions. The one completely ideal piece of evidence, an inscription

from the wall of a synagogue building in Berenice (Bengazi, Libya)
which was securely, that is, internally, dated to 56 CE is, unfortunately,
extant only as a photograph. The original stone is no longer available for
scrutiny, having been ‘lost’ subsequent to its discovery. The assumption
is that it was destroyed in the hostilities of World War II. To
‘maximalists’ this photograph is a clinching piece of evidence of the
rightness of their case, confirming what they believe to have been the
status quo over a wide geographical area; to ‘minimalists’ it is the
earliest item of clear evidence of the process of differentiation of the
religious buildings and activities from the community-centered and
secular institutions operating within the Jewish communities.
Another potentially crucial piece of evidence, the Theodotus
inscription from Mount Ophel in Jerusalem, also gives a clear reference
to a synagogue building and to a synagogue group that existed for three
generations in Jerusalem. Three generations of the same family supplied
the archisunagøgoi of the community and the synagogue building was
completed during the term of office of the grandson. The complex
included a room for reading the Law and teaching the Commandments
and a hostel with chambers and water fittings suitable for use by
travellers to Jerusalem. The picture painted is of a community centre
with living and study quarters under the one roof. Unfortunately, it
carries no date.
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This inscription is taken by many to provide clear evidence of a

pre-70 CE synagogue in Jerusalem. But several assumptions have to be
made before that conclusion may be reached. One has to accept the
assumption that there was a Roman embargo on the construction of
Jewish religious buildings after 70 CE and also assume that synagogue
buildings were likely to have been regarded as religious buildings by
the Roman authorities and, as such, banned. One also has to accept an
early dating for the palaeography of the stone judging it to be more like
inscriptions from the time of Nerva than those from the time of Hadrian.
Moreover, one needs to combine that date with one gained from
analysis of the likely date of persons bearing the family name Vettenos
(or Quettenos).
The ‘maximalists’ believe that this Mount Ophel synagogue was
built well before 70 CE; the ‘minimalists’ hesitate. They see no sign of
the buildings being dedicated to worship practices beyond the provision
of a chamber for the study and teaching of Torah. The bulk of the
building appears to have been the hospitality suite. But the most serious
difficulty about the status of this inscription as evidence is its lack of a
secure date. See the more detailed discussion under 3.C below:
‘Inscriptions and Papyri’.

4. Papyri. Papyri from Asia Minor and Egypt provide confirmatory

evidence of the prevalence of Jewish communities and institutions in
countries bordering the eastern Mediterranean. They give specific
details of persons and activities associated with the Jews in many towns
in the region over the three centuries at the turn of the era.

5. Influential Scholarly Publications. Also functioning as key data in this

debate are certain influential journal articles, dictionary articles and
books whose authors’ views and conclusions have held sway for many
years and have convinced large sections of academia. Typical of these
oft-cited works are, particularly: the article of Hengel (1971), and those
of Zeitlin (1930–31), Filson (1969) and Griffiths (1987); the
comprehensive multi-volume histories of Moore (1927, 1954) and
Schürer (1886–90, 1973–87), the dictionary articles of Bacher (1963),
Sonne (1962), Schrage (1971) and Saldarini (1985); and, less often, the
encyclopaedia entries of Turro (1967) and Posner (1972). Of these
articles, only those of Zeitlin and Saldarini give expression to the
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‘minimalist’ position and those of Sonne and Posner, while expressing

some non-traditional perspectives, join the rest in expressing the
prevailing ‘maximalist’ position. Barclay (1996: 26) expresses the view of
many when he states that the ‘fullest survey of the evidence remains
Hengel 1971 [1975]’ (see Hengel 1975; see also Kee 1990: 4); but even the
fullest survey, while undeniably useful and impressive, does not always
provide the best analysis.

6. Other Sources. Other sources that may be consulted to provide further

background information are the Hebrew Bible, Apocryphal and
Deutero-Canonical works, Graeco-Roman non-Christian sources and the
Mishnah, but the evidence they provide is, in the main, negative. They
give little or no precise details of synagogues—whether people or
buildings—nor of what activities and business were executed during
meetings of—or in—synagogues.

c. Initial Problems with the Data

1. The Terms Used. Frustrating a straightforward discussion that might
lead to an easily agreed consensus is the disconcertingly large range of
possible functions—civic, religious and educational—of the committees
or communities (called ‘synagogues’) that met together in the open air, or
in rooms in buildings. There is also the confusing fact that these
buildings are sometimes named ‘synagogues’ in our sources, though
they are more frequently referred to as ‘meeting-houses’ or ‘prayer-
houses’ (two English translations for the one word proseuch∑), or,
simply, houses (oikos), depending on their date of use and their location
in the Eastern Mediterranean area and possibly on other functions that
took place in these buildings.
It is also worth noting that the translation ‘synagogue’ is frequently
provided for the word proseuch∑ in the translation of Philo’s works in
the Loeb Classical Library series (see, for example, Colson’s translation
of Philo 1960) and in the translations of inscriptions and papyri by
Tcherikover and Fuks (1957, 1960), Tcherikover, Fuks and Stern (1957,
1960, 1964) and Lewis (1964). It is, therefore, understandable that many
scholars using these sources to support their own work should adopt
their usage without recognizing that in so doing they are begging the
question of whether proseuch∑ and sunagøg∑ are, in fact, synonymous.
Particularly notable among those employing this conflation of names
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and functions are Filson (1969), Hengel (1974: I, 79; II, 54) and Griffiths
(1987), all of whom, when referring to Ptolemaic Egypt, write of the
‘synagogue’ even though in all the Greek epigraphic material we find
proseuch∑.

2. Epigraphic Materials. While inscriptions and papyri provide evidence

superior in some ways to that of our literary texts, such evidence is also
plagued by a range of disadvantages (Woodhead 1981; Kant 1987;
Feldman 1996). The most detailed and clear account of the disturbing
two-edged quality of this verbally and socially detailed yet often
temporally indeterminate evidence is that of Kant (1987: 674-682).
According to Kant (p. 674), the advantages of inscriptions (and
papyri) are that they:
— ‘bridge the gap between written and archeological remains of the
Jews in antiquity’
— ‘reflect a broad spectrum of society’
— have not been subjected to later editing
Their disadvantages are that:
— ‘inscriptions are not originals, but rather public copies of prior
texts’
— ‘many inscriptions are undatable within more than a broad span
of time’
— ‘some editors have been unduly precise in describing the range of
possibilities’.
This last disadvantage arises when scholars ignore the fact that stone
cutters had the option to use archaizing techniques. Thus, inscriptions
can easily be of later provenance than their appearance suggests. If this
factor is not taken into account, some scholars who could make use of
the material are falsely discouraged from including it in their (later) time
span, and others may erroneously include evidence that comes from a
much later period than they imagine. Kant also reminds readers that this
type of resource is notoriously unreliable as far as accurate transcription
is concerned.
Further problems occur because many of the scholars who treat
these matters specialize in biblical studies, theology or archaeology and
are not experts in working with inscriptions and papyri. They may not
have access to the full range of sources and journals to permit use and
comparison of several different ‘versions’ of the inscriptions and papyri.
They must be able to work interchangeably in Latin, Greek, French and
German in order to acquire a full picture of the processes of acquisition
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of, decipherment, identification, provenance and dating of, the key

resources. This is highly demanding. I have found none of the standard
sources to be either error free or interpretation free and I have always
used three versions of each item I was investigating. Many sources
transcribe the inscriptions into lower case Greek characters, which
renders the appearance of any lacunae, and the emendations
interpolated to fill them, quite misleading. Unless the scholar using the
source remembers this he/she is unable to assess the feasibility of the
emendations. This practice seems to have no academic justification other
than tradition.
Many translate both sunagøg∑ and proseuch∑ as ‘synagogue’. The
range of translations of certain Greek prepositions, such as huper, into
different European languages can also have a significant effect on the
reader’s final understanding of the meaning of the text. Any scholar
working at second-hand is in a less than a strong position when it comes
to making judgments on the content of inscriptions or papyri.
As one attempts to grasp and summarize the disparate pieces of
evidence provided by the various sources one can easily sympathize
with a desire to create a coherent mental picture of the ancient
synagogue. ‘Maximalist’ scholars faced with the wide range of
possibilities that must be kept open, have, as have all explicators of
antique texts, a keen desire to reduce cognitive dissonance, create
harmony and achieve closure. But the ‘minimalists’ make a strong case
when they claim that too much accuracy and clarity must be ‘fudged’ in
order to achieve a unified picture of the ancient synagogue.

2 The Debate Itself

Until 1990 the tensions and contradictions about the origins and
functions of the ‘ancient synagogue’ were not constituted as a debate,
but were rather represented by isolated, non-cross-referenced articles
and dictionary entries that made contrary claims, or gave contradictory
explanations and interpretations based on the same evidential data. This
divergence of accounts happened either because different questions
were put to the data, or because the data were variously interpreted to
supply different answers to the same questions. A typical range of
questions that could be asked, or, alternatively, assumed to be
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unnecessary to ask is: Was a synagogue a group of elders, or a

committee meeting of Jewish males, or a meeting for study? Were
psalms sung or prayers said, and if so by whom and how often? Was the
primary function of the meetings civic, educational or religious? Did the
group meet in a room in someone’s house, or in the open air or in a
special building? Or are these questions and distinctions mere red
herrings?
It was only in criticisms of other scholars’ positions, often in
articles responding to other articles, or in reviews of books representing
a non-traditional position (for example, Cohen 1996), or in conference
papers (for example, van der Horst 1996, 1997) or in later accounts that
expressed caveats about views held by others (for example, Barclay
1996: 416-17), that the debate itself began to take shape. In the world of
biblical studies it seems to have been sparked off by the article by Kee
(1990) and the responses that his position generated from Oster (1993),
Atkinson (1997) and Cohen (1997). But a parallel movement was
occurring in the archaeological field following the publication of
Gutmann’s work (1975, 1981) who dissented from many Israeli
archaeologists—such as those presented in Levine 1981 (for example,
Foerster 1981, Gutman 1981, Kloner 1981, Ma‘oz 1981, and Yadin 1981),
and Levine himself (1981, 1987, 1996). The ‘minimalist’ position has now
been succinctly formulated by the Israeli archaeologist Hachlili (1997). It
is therefore difficult to identify a single epicentre from which the
scholarly reverberations have spread.

a. Traditional Positions
The general traditional position is one that has developed over time as a
consensus in the writings of the scholarly community. This position is
also the one that is usually taken by scholars whose main field of inquiry
lies elsewhere than the investigation of the nature of the ancient
synagogue. Commonly, authors in this category write of synagogues as
if everyone knows for certain what synagogues were. Such scholars do
not take time to define exactly what they intend by the term and assume
that the building, the institution and the activities need not be
distinguished in the ensuing discussion (see, for example, Boccaccini
1991; Modrzejewski 1995; Smith 1996; Barclay 1996; Levine 1996).
Somewhat surprisingly considering the range of his book, Sanders
(1992) makes little reference to this debate. After a brief sentence about
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the unknowability of the origins of the synagogue and a dismissive

footnote indicating, but not referencing, the mistakenness of some few
who doubt the existence of pre-70 CE Palestinian synagogues, he
propounds the traditional views of synagogues in the first century CE as
if the material were basically unproblematic (pp. 198-203).
Summarily, the explicit or, more often, implicit assumptions
displayed in such writings are these:
—there is no ambiguity in the term synagogue; scholars either conflate
the synagogue-as-building with the synagogue-as-institution or move
back and forward between the two without comment or delineation;
—evidence relating to buildings known as proseuchai may be directly
applied to ‘synagogues’, which are then taken to be the buildings,
without indicating the range of currency of these terms by date or
geographical distribution;
—the point of confirmation of ‘solid’ evidence about the ancient
synagogue is taken to be several centuries earlier than would be the
case if no harmonizing of evidence took place;
—the conflation of archaeological evidence, theories about ‘synagogues’,
literary evidence and speculations based on these, is not seen to be
problematic as if using these vastly different forms of discourse
demanded no accommodation in the reader’s mind;
—it is not necessary to employ a stated list of criteria for the
identification of an ancient building as a synagogue building;
—it is acceptable to conclude that ‘synagogues’ had a recognized layout
and an architectural plan, which implies that they were first and
foremost buildings where communal activities, albeit of many sorts,
were carried out; sometimes, however, one may also assume that
‘synagogues’ were groups of people, since, for example, a person,
called an archisunagøgos, could be a ‘ruler of a synagogue-as-group’;
—whenever an archisunagøgos is mentioned a ‘synagogue’ building is
implied (rather than a synagogue committee or synagogue assembly);
—New Testament accounts of happenings in ‘synagogues’ may be taken
as actual reportage (albeit partisan), roughly contemporaneous with
the period described, rather than as accounts from a later perspective.

b. Various Non-Traditional Positions

Some other scholars throw doubt upon, or introduce variation into, the
standard explanations and hypotheses about the nature and function of
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the people, institutions or building complexes known through the

passing of several centuries as ‘synagogues’ and raise doubts and
questions about what may be known with certainty about them
(Gutmann 1975: 72-76; Hoenig 1975: 55-71; 1979: 474-75; Meyers and
Strange 1981: 140-43; Cohen 1984: 152-53; Kant 1987: 693-98; Grabbe
1988: 401-403; Kee 1990: 4; Oster 1993: 181, 194). Some go so far as to
doubt that any specific buildings (or parts of buildings) were set apart to
fulfil a particularly Jewish and a particularly religious function till the
third century CE (Strange 1979: 664; Chiat 1981: 55-56; Hachlili 1997: 45-
47).
There are indications of a second but, possibly, related debate
within Israeli archaeological circles. The difference of interpretation of
the evidence about archaeological remains in the Golan between
Urman’s view and that of Levine (1992, 1993) and Ma‘oz (1992, 1993) has
been highlighted by Strange (1998). One point Urman makes is that the
remains of Jewish ‘public buildings’, as he chooses to call them, could
well belong to ‘synagogues or schools or something else’ (Strange 1998:
357). Urman also draws scholars’ attention to the fact that the study of
these archaeological remains is still in its infancy and suggests that it
would be ‘an error to attempt to summarize their implications’ (Urman
1995: 607). He descries the misleading circularity of arguing from
chronology to typology and vice versa with no unambiguous fixed
points of evidence. This procedure he believes he discerns in the
writings of Levine and Ma‘oz (pp. 613-16).
The questions and statements made explicit in such writings may
be summarized as follows:
—there is considerable ambiguity in the term ‘synagogue’. It is argued
that over the course of time the word has referred to the group
meeting, the institution and the building. These usages developed
separately in different regions and at different times;
—evidence relating to buildings known as proseuchai cannot be directly
applied to ‘synagogues’, since proseuchai are always clearly buildings
and ‘synagogues’ are frequently community groups;
—these ‘synagogues’ came into being as a result of social and economic
forces;
—transitions between the discourse of archaeological evidence,
historical development theories about ‘synagogues’ and literary
 14

evidence should be clearly indicated because these moves demand

considerable re-alignment of thought categories in the reader’s mind;
—the giving of a stated list of criteria for the identification of an ancient
building as a synagogue building is essential whether one is referring
to literary or archaeological sources
— ‘synagogue’ buildings did not always have a recognized layout and
an architectural plan
—the existence of an archisunagøgos, as in the catacomb inscriptions in
Rome, implies the existence of a synagogue committee or synagogue
assembly, but not necessarily of a building;
—New Testament accounts of happenings in ‘synagogues’ are, possibly,
polemic narratives, not necessarily reflecting the historical actuality of
the time in which they are set.

The earliest contribution to the ‘non-traditional’ side of the debate was

made by Zeitlin (1930–31: 69-81), who claimed that the later institution
known as ‘the synagogue’, with a religious function, grew out of
meetings held by local Jews for a variety of purposes (see also Kraabel
1979: 502). Confirming and extending this position, Leon (1960) and
Hoenig (1975, 1979) agreed that the development of the synagogue as a
religious institution, rather than as a purely civic or community centred
one, followed the destruction of the temple in 70 CE.
The archaeologists Gutmann (1981), Meyers and Strange (1981),
Seager (1981), Chiat (1981), who may be characterized as American,
together with the Israeli archaeologist Hachlili (1997), have resisted the
mental reconstruction of non-specific building remains as ‘synagogues’,
as has been done by less hesitant interpreters of the evidence. To their
mind, there is no evidence that distinguishes these early fragmentary
structures alleged to be ‘synagogues’ from domestic or civic buildings of
the same period and any attribution of religious function depends on
retrojection or hindsight. Interestingly, while Brooten (1982) resists the
maximizing of the archaeological case for first-century CE synagogues
in Palestine, she, nonetheless, regards epigraphic references to a
sunagøg∑ or archisunagøgos as indicating the existence of a synagogue
building—rather than pointing to the existence of a synagogue
congregation (who may, or may not, have used a particular building).
The full-blown debate emerged after Kee (1990) collected and re-
presented the evidence from a wide range of sources in a rapid-fire 25-
 15

page article that gave the highlights of the arguments used on both sides
of the debate. He adopts the ‘minimalist’ perspective and collects and
displays what can be argued with a high degree of certainty from the
evidence. In similar vein, McKay (1991, 1992, 1994) worked through the
available evidence and reached closely parallel conclusions.
The extremely varied responses to the non-traditional and
‘minimalist’ positions outlined above, range from the carefully
appreciative (see, for example, Saldarini 1996; Hachlili 1997), through
balanced accounts that include some measure of agreement and
disagreement (Reif 1995; Schiffman 1996), to the sharply negative (see,
for example, Oster 1993; Atkinson 1997; Cohen 1996, 1997; van der Horst
1996, 1997, forthcoming), indicating that there is no consensus. Indeed
there is an intense debate among scholars who are interested in the
questions posed. The extremely careful use of language employed by
Rajak and Noy (1993) as they avoid making avowals or pronouncements
about the exact nature of the ancient synagogue and stick firmly to what
may fairly be said about the office of archisunagøgos is another indicator
of the difficulty of writing casually about any of these matters.

c.The Multifaceted Nature of the Debate

The main issues in the debate have now been indicated and some of the
current players named. The rest of the paper will consider the
difficulties and complexities involved in understanding the debate. It is
not merely a matter of correcting misinformation or filling in a simple
lack of knowledge or understanding; judgment and credibility are also
involved. Every one of the different pieces of evidence has to be
individually judged by each scholar, assigned a date and time span, as
well as a measure of validity, in order for each scholar to build up an
encompassing evaluation of the evidence.
Near the end of this paper, the debate will be set in its wider
intellectual context. An attempt will be made to identify and analyse the
underlying forces at work in the debate, for example, the interests of
powerful scholarly or religious communities, and the influence of
national or educational loyalties. Only after that process has been
completed, and groups of scholarly positions have been identified, can a
tentative resolution or compromise be essayed.
 16

3. The Complexities of the Evidence Used in the Debate

As we have seen, the main types of evidence relevant to this discussion

are: inscriptions, papyri, the works of Philo and Josephus and the New
Testament. Each presents valuable evidence as well as a variety of
problems with its interpretation. To add to the general confusion, the
terminology in which the discussions are couched is not itself free from
dispute. In this section I will refer mainly to recent publications but also
to the longstanding influential works that are cited in them.

a. Terminology
The root meaning of the word sunagøg∑ (‘synagogue’), is a gathering of
people, whom all would agree to be wholly or principally adult Jewish
males, presumably ‘the elders’ of the community or those who managed
their community’s affairs (Burtchaell 1992: 201-27). Such a meeting
could take place in a room in a house set aside for this purpose on the
sabbath, or the group of people might gather in a shady spot in the open
air. In different places and at different times such gatherings no doubt
eventually acquired more formal status and structures. But, however
and wherever constituted, the group of adult, male Jews, the
‘synagogue’, met together on Saturday mornings to read and study
Torah. The attribution of the word ‘synagogue’, by metonymy, to a
building is generally considered to be a later development, though as we
can see, none of these points of consensus can actually be proved. These
issues are discussed at various lengths by several scholars (for example,
Zeitlin 1930–31; Kant 1987; Cohen 1984, 1997; Griffiths 1987; Burtchaell
1992; Hachlili 1997).
In Egypt there were meetings of synagogue groups in buildings
called proseuchai that may have had other civic functions within the
community, while in the region around the Black Sea the civic function
of the building called a proseuch∑ is more frequently defined. In Asia
Minor the name given to the communal buildings of the Jews is oikos,
house (Levinskaya 1996).
A reference to the writings of Josephus is useful here as he writes
of sunagøgai at Antioch, Dore and Caesarea and of a large proseuch∑ at
Tiberias. So, for him, writing at the end of the first century CE, both
terms—sunagøg∑ and proseuch∑—were available to describe Jewish
community buildings. These communities belonged neither to the
Temple environs, nor to the Diaspora; their situation reflected
 17

something of each. Like Jews in the Diaspora, these communities

venerated the imperial family within their buildings, and also had to
resist the anti-Jewish pranks and assaults of their neighbours. Like Jews
in Jerusalem, they congregated in their religious building to celebrate
fasts and festivals.
Several scholars have recently made determined efforts to unravel
the overlapping meanings of proseuch∑ sunagøg∑, and ‘synagogue’ (for
example, Oster 1993; Cohen 1997; Hachlili 1997). They find that in order
to begin to discuss the nuances of the meaning of the problematic term
‘synagogue’ they must begin by using ‘synagogue’ as if its meaning
were sufficiently clear. Cohen in particular, takes great pains to spell out
the ambiguities in the use of the words proseuch∑ and sunagøg∑ but
occasionally forgets the strict rule he has set himself to avoid falling into
the trap of that ambiguity (cf p. 101 with p. 105).
Oster (1993: 183, 185), especially, does not take the necessary pains
to make clear what he means by the term ‘synagogue’. This failure to
explain his own position undermines his criticism of Kee’s position.
Oster seems consistently to envisage a ‘building’ as the dominant
meaning (though he does not state that this is his position) and the
‘gathering’ as a subsidiary meaning, whereas Kee takes the opposite
view. This allows Oster to produce a table entitled ‘Greek Words Used
of the Second Temple Synagogues’ (1993: 186)—a title that would be
inconceivable, because unintelligible, to a ‘minimalist’. This prioritizing
of the synagogue-as-building must marginalize the synagogue-as-
community; thus, for example, he treats the proseuch∑ in the Delos
inscription as a synagogue building (1993: 192)—seemingly unaware that
to do so is to interpret, not to report, the evidence.
Hachlili’s paper (1997) has provided the most succinct account of
the ‘minimalist’ position to date. In it, she presents the most recent
evaluation of the different explanations of the differences in use of the
terms proseuch∑ and sunagøg∑: the geographical difference between the
proseuchai of the Diaspora and the sunagøgai of Palestine; the
chronological difference, proseuchai being earlier than sunagøgai; and the
descriptive difference, the building as opposed to the gathering; or the
size difference (1997: 39-40). She concludes that it is ‘likely that there has
been a development in the meaning of these terms and in their religious
significance during the periods from […] the 3rd century BCE, to Philo’s
and Josephus’s days […] to the later 4th century CE’. Nonetheless, she
 18

herself also uses the term ‘synagogue’ when writing of the building at
Delos, which is termed a proseuch∑ in its inscription.
Levine (1996) takes a traditional position, regarding proseuch∑ and
sunagøg∑ as equivalent. This is disappointing when Levine claims to be
reconsidering both the nature and origin of the Palestinian synagogue.
His article provides a bibliography of what may be termed Hengelian
proportions and the article bids fair to become another of the influential
and oft-cited works on the subject. Its reconsideration of the question
does not go back to first principles, however, nor does it re-examine
long-held assumptions. Thus it begs many questions of burning interest
to ‘minimalists’. The article serves the needs of a particular reading
community and excludes those whose key questions are neither
addressed or answered.
Atkinson (1997), similarly, accepts without question the conflation
of the two terms. While he distances himself from some of the views
expressed by Oster (1993), he largely re-presents the points made by
Oster in his attempted rebuttal of Kee’s position.

b. Textual Evidence
1. The New Testament. The New Testament texts present a complexity of
evidence, wherein ‘synagogues’ are variously described. At times, they
are presented as sabbath day gatherings for teaching (Mt. 9.35; Mk 6.2;
Lk. 4.15; Jn 6.59); for the reading of the Law (Mt. 12.5; Mk 12.10; Lk.
10.26) and the Prophets (Lk. 4.17); for debates, disputes and heated
arguments, for informal meetings where people could circulate and chat
and where healings could take place. At other times, they are presented
as buildings (by implication only, save in Lk. 7.5 and Acts 18.7). They
are also presented as organized groups from which a person could be
expelled for holding aberrant beliefs (Jn 16.2).
The style of teaching and learning employed in the synagogues
was communal and public rather than individual and private. The
reading undertaken was not silent reading, but reading aloud and the
study was not silent study and reflection but involved the whole gamut
of talking, listening, expounding, arguing and disputing. Moreover,
these synagogues, in whatever form they existed, would have operated
with restricted access and with a commonly understood purpose. They
would be quite different from a gossiping group in a market, at a well,
or at an inn, for there would have been no children present, certainly no
 19

animals, possibly no women, nor any non-Jewish passers-by. Strangers

visiting the synagogue who would not observe the accepted norms
would not have been able to command the attention of the group. In
Acts, none of the accounts mentioning non-Jews present in synagogues
describes them as taking the floor and enlightening the assembled
company. That freedom was reserved for Jewish males, of whom Jesus
was typical. Teaching and ‘speaking boldly’ were normal activities in all
‘synagogues’ where the listeners could and would take issue with the
speaker and debate with grim determination.
None of the gospel texts involving Jesus visiting a synagogue
refers directly to a building, though in Mt. 23.2 Moses’ seat is mentioned
and in Lk. 4.16 a room at least is implied. In Lk. 7.5, the centurion has
built a synagogue for the community and there, obviously, a building is
intended. But in John (9.22; 12.42), where people are to be ‘put out of the
synagogue’, it is the community—not the building—that is implied by
the word.
McKay (1994: 157-71) argues that there is evidence of a
development through time visible in the differences in the gospel
accounts of ‘synagogues’, with the more developed institutional
structures displayed in John’s account and the use of a particular
building presented in Luke’s account. Matthew’s and Mark’s
‘synagogues’ are generally portrayed as more flexible and informal
gatherings though, at times, a building is implied. McKay claims that
the gospel writers are each giving an account of the ‘synagogue’ as they
knew it and postulates an even more informal situation existing at the
‘real’ time of Jesus (see also Kee 1990: 14-24).
Reading the gospel accounts as being heavily seasoned with
hindsight is a way to reconcile these contradictory pictures, but it leads
to a ‘stripping down’ of the gospel accounts of ‘synagogues’ to bring
them into line with those of Philo and Josephus, which brings them
closer to the ‘minimalist’ understanding.

2. Philo and Josephus. Philo describes the sabbath practice of Jews (McKay
1994: 65-77) as regular Saturday meetings to learn and discuss their
ancestral philosophy in their proseuchai in many cities. He describes the
activities as fostering improvement in moral principles and conduct, of
reinforcing both cardinal and spiritual virtues: prudence, courage,
temperance, justice, piety and holiness. Philo also paints a picture of
 20

educational gatherings, proseukt∑ria, where religious, social and moral

topics are discussed.
Although Philo occasionally gives the name sunagøgia to the
sabbath gatherings of Jews, he most often names the building where
Jews meet as a proseuch∑, which is usually translated either as ‘prayer-
house’ or as ‘meeting-house’ (though sometimes, arbitrarily, as
‘synagogue’). The word, of course, normally means ‘prayer’ and by
metonymy can signify ‘prayer-house’ in Jewish contexts. In the prayer-
houses, as Philo describes them, civic activity—including veneration of
the imperial family—takes place as well as study and discussion. He
also describes unpleasantness and violence towards the proseuchai and
their occupants by the local populace.
In addition, he gives short accounts of two especially pious groups
of Jews: the Therapeutae and the Essenes. The Therapeutae he describes
as meeting in a sanctuary called a semneion where men and women sit
separately and the latter he describes as a particularly pious group of
Jews who live apart from other Jews and live a distinct and alternate
lifestyle. Philo states that the word ‘synagogue’ was coined by the
Essenes to describe the ‘sacred spots’ to which they repair on the
sabbath. There they sit and listen to readings from books. This is the
only time Philo uses the word ‘synagogue’ for a meeting of Jews (of any
religious grouping) on the sabbath. His description contains no definite
reference to a building. Also, as Hoenig points out (1979: 452, n. 26)
there is no reference to a prayer-worship activity there, only to reading
the Law (see also Reinach 1920: 47). This is not a description of the
‘ancient synagogue’ as conceived by a ‘maximalist’ imagination.
Josephus describes a closely similar range of sabbath activities for
Jews (McKay 1994: 77-85), namely, study of laws and customs and
veneration of the imperial family. He generally refers to the Jews’
buildings as ‘synagogues’. He portrays the citizens of different towns as
occasionally hostile to the activities going on in the synagogue
buildings, though it is mostly ‘sound and fury’ rather than physical
assault.
However, his amazingly exciting three-day saga of events at
Tiberias, including various activities—prayers, public fast, drawing of
weapons, scuffling and a sabbath assembly—took place in the proseuch∑
there (1926: 103-13: ll. 197-303). As he describes it, the sabbath gathering
was a general assembly in which a heated political discussion took place
 21

with the interruption of that meeting for the regular sabbath meal at
noon. There is no reference to prayers or psalms—or even, for that
matter, to reading Torah—in his account of that sabbath in the proseuch∑
in Tiberias.
The difficulties with the evidence from Philo and Josephus lie in
their tantalising gaps and lack of details. The main value of their
evidence is that it is closely similar, in spite of the difference in time
between them (some 50-60 years) and the difference in location
(Alexandria and Palestine). This similarity implies reliability and wide
provenance for the conditions and activities that they describe. That,
however, causes difficulties when their evidence is laid alongside that of
the New Testament texts, since those texts rarely mention proseuchai and
frequently depict hostility within the ‘synagogue’ groups rather than
towards them from outsiders.
This difference seems incontrovertible evidence that the character
of the sabbath meetings of Jews, as described in the gospels, is
significantly different from the meetings described by Philo and
Josephus. There the opponents are usually Roman citizens who wish to
push their Jewish neighbours into some open misdemeanour, whereas,
in the gospels, there is discord within the Jewish community itself. In
fact, Josephus’s account of the difficulties he found himself in while in
Tiberias provides the nearest parallel to that type of conflict.

c. Inscriptions and Papyri.

In this debate the most important pieces of archaeological evidence are
supplied by inscriptions (Frey 1952, 1975; Leon 1960; Lewis 1964;
Latyschev 1965; Filson 1969; Breccia 1978; Woodhead 1981; Kant 1987;
Levinskaya 1996), particularly the Berenice and Theodotus inscriptions,
and those from areas near the Black Sea (Trebilco 1991; Levinskaya
1996). This evidence is supported by parallel epigraphic evidence,
usually papyri from Egypt (Tcherikover and Fuks 1957; Tcherikover,
Fuks and Stern 1964). I shall include only the most crucial of the
examples.
Giving details of civic activities carried out by ‘the synagogue of
the Jews’ in their communal building, the proseuch∑, are three
inscriptions from Panticape from the first and second centuries CE (Frey
1975: 495-96). These show that a group of Jews carried out the
manumissions of slaves, a civic function, exercised in the building, with
 22

the ‘synagogue of the Jews’ being the designated guarantor of the

slaves’ subsequent freedom. A similar inscription from Gorgippia shows
the slave’s freedom to be guaranteed by Zeus, Ge and Helios (Frey 1975:
500-501), which indicates that this function of guarantor was not limited
to the Jews of the synagogue committee in the locality. And, from
Phocaea, possibly in the third century, another inscription (Frey 1952: 8)
relates that the synagogue of the Jews honoured a woman benefactor,
Tation, by giving her a golden crown and seating privileges at the front
of the oikos. In all these references ‘the synagogue’ is clearly a group of
male Jews.
Three inscriptions give an indication of the process by which the
transition of the name ‘synagogue’ from the group to the building may
have happened. To begin with, two inscriptions show how the name of
a group might become linked to a building. First, a marble door lintel
from Corinth in the second century CE has been restored to read: ‘the
synagogue of the Hebrews’, indicating either a building known by that
name or a building that housed a group of that name (Frey 1975: 518).
Secondly, an undated and now apparently lost, inscription from Olbia
has been reconstructed to read: ‘… rulers repaired the proseuch∑ by their
own forethought’ which indicates that a group looked after the
structural condition of a communal building (Frey 1975: 493-94;
Latyschev 1965: 189-91; Lifshitz 1967: 19-20).
Thirdly, a second-century papyrus from Arsinoë-Crocodilopolis
(113 CE) gives an account of the water supply in the municipality,
including details of payments to be made by certain bodies (Tcherikover
and Fuks 1960: 220-24). Two Jewish prayer-houses are included in the
list of customers, one referred to as a proseuch∑ and the other as a
eucheion. The ‘rulers of the proseuch∑’ of Theban Jews make the payment
for water. This is the sole occurrence of that phrase used to describe
Jews with responsibility and executive powers. Taken together these
three separate data indicate that the phrase ‘the rulers of the synagogue’
considered as a parallel to the phrase ‘the rulers of the proseuch∑’ could
have led to an identification of the two terms as buildings.
An inscription from the first century CE, whose evidence is capable
of being read in two ways, is that referring to the construction of an oikos
by Julia Severa and two archisunagøgai. The synagogue honoured the
three benefactors with a gilded shield because of ‘their goodwill and
enthusiasm towards the synagogue’. The last phrase is where the
 23

ambiguity lies; it is interpreted by one group of scholars as clearly

referring to the name of the building (for example, Frey 1952: 27-28;
Rajak and Noy 1993: 85) and by their interlocutors as equally clearly
referring to the group of Jews—as it did earlier in the inscription (for
example, Lifshitz 1967: 34-36; McKay 1994: 222). To the latter, it is clear
that the words, sunagøg∑ means only the community and the word oikos
implies the building.
A key epigraphic text is the badly preserved papyrus, possibly
from the second half of the first century BCE in the reign of Cleopatra,
refers to a ‘session of the synagogue held in the proseuch∑’, …] \pì têw
genhyeíshw sunagvgêw \n têi proseuxêi (Tcherikover and Fuks 1957: 252-
54). It is clear to me that the two words, sunagøg∑ and proseuch∑, had
different meanings for the writer of that papyrus.
At a later date, the inscribed stone from a wall of a synagogue
building in Berenice from 56 CE provides the earliest, unequivocal and
dated use of the word sunagøg∑ to designate a building. It is available
now only as a photograph (Applebaum 1961; 1979: 161-62), for there
was no estampage made of the inscription at the time of its finding in
1939 (Robert and Robert 1959). Both the Jewish community and their
building are referred to independently in the text of this inscription by
the word ‘synagogue’. In spite of the subsequent loss of the stone, the
photograph provides evidence of this usage in that place at the stated
date. This is one clear and widely accepted piece of the ‘jigsaw’. How
significant this evidence is for the rest of the Mediterranean diaspora is,
however, under dispute.
The problem with the inscriptional evidence from the ‘minimalist’
position is that it is not really discussed from a ‘minimalist’ perspective.
To engage with the minimalist stance, any discussion of the Berenice
inscription would have to take more notice than is usually taken of its
uniqueness, rather than assume that many similar inscriptions could
well await discovery. Such a discussion would have to posit either the
restriction of the double use of the term ‘synagogue’ as community and
building to that one site only or, contrarily, it would have to argue for its
representativeness of many other buildings of which we now have no
evidence. Many scholars imply that they assume representativeness, but
they neither say so explicitly, nor do they argue the case.
Another important piece of epigraphic evidence is more open to
doubt than is generally recognized. The undated Theodotus inscription
 24

(Clermont-Ganneau 1920; Reinach 1920; Weill 1920; Vincent 1921; Frey

1952: 332-35; Lewis 1964; Lifshitz 1967: 70-71; Chiat 1982: 201-202) was
found by Captain Raymond Weill just before World War I among loose
stones and debris in the bottom of a cistern, near the remains of the
aqueduct to Mount Ophel. The inscription gives clear evidence of a
synagogue group that existed for three generations in Jerusalem and of a
synagogue building that was completed during the time of the third
generation of the family who provided the archisunagøgai. There was a
room for reading the Law and teaching the Commandments and a
hostel with chambers and water fittings suitable for use by (Jewish)
travellers to Jerusalem.
Filson (1969) and Grabbe (1988) accept without question the pre-70
CE date (c. 45 CE) of this inscription and are, therefore, certain that there
is clear evidence of at least one pre-70 CE synagogue building in
Palestine (also Cohen1997: 113). In taking this position they, among
many other, rely on the work of other scholars and accept the dating at
second-hand. Other scholars are cautious about the date, qualifying
their acceptance of a pre-70 CE provenance with words such as,
‘purportedly’ (Chiat 1982: 202) and ‘presumably’ (Rajak and Noy 1993:
86).
Kee, on the other hand, dismisses the use of the Theodotus
inscription as evidence for the pre-70 CE provenance of a synagogue
building (1990, 1995) because the dating was made by means of
imprecise methods. McKay also, after following the sequence of papers
referring to the presentation of the finding of the stone and the
discussions concerning its likely provenance and date, remains
dissatisfied with the reliability of the date assigned (1994: 242-45).
In particular, the way in which the mid-first-century date was
agreed among the French scholars involved says little for the standards
of the scholarly enterprise in those days, since it was decided more
through force of personalities and bombast than by reasoned debate.
Clermont-Ganneau (1920: 191) reports that the stone was studied in his
College (not, apparently, by himself) claiming that the palaeographic
similarities to the stele from the Temple court in Jerusalem, which
forbids entry to Gentiles, ‘leap to the eye’ (sautent aux yeux, 1920: 192).
Not everyone would agree with that conclusion. In the end, however, he
reaches his dating of the inscription, not on palaeographic grounds, but
 25

on his reconstruction of the history of the Vettenos family (and their

slaves).
It is important to note that the inscription was originally ascribed
to the second century by Vincent (1921) who was a frequent visitor at
Weill’s excavations. His suggestion still deserves serious consideration.
His detailed comparison of the epigraphy with that of a Hadrianic
inscription carries much greater conviction, in my opinion, than the
assertions of Clermont-Ganneau.
Vincent’s aopinion regarding the origin of the stone was ruthlessly
pushed aside by the mainstream academics of the day—by Clermont-
Ganneau (1920), and by Reinach (1920: 52). Reinach calls Vincent’s
analysis ‘a clever novelette’ (un ingénieux petit roman), but Reinach also
subjects Clermont-Ganneau to the force of his ironic wit when he
discounts his analysis of the provenance of the inscription as ‘a serious
anachronism that one is astonished to meet from the mouth of an
eminent scholar’, (un grave anachronisme, qu’on s’étonne de rencontrer dans
la bouche d’un érudit éminent, 1920: 53-54).
Reinach himself showed how uncertain even the material evidence
can be, when he cast doubt on the provenance of the inscription,
proposing rather that the evidence of its being partly cut in three
suggests a planned reuse of stones from a demolished synagogue, say,
perhaps the one from Caesarea (1920: 56). It is surprising that this point
has not been followed up in any of the later literature. These articles in
French, by French scholars, have received less discussion that those by
German scholars, such as Deissman (1927).
Any fully satisfactory discussion of the Theodotus inscription
would have to incorporate a rounded and feasible account of the
provenance of the stone and also of the story the inscription tells. There
would have to be probable dates and feasible access to the site for the
three generations of the Ouettenos (or Vettenius, or Vettenos, or
Quettenos) family who founded and later built the synagogue. There
would, equally, have to be an explanation, with probable dates and
reasons, for the demolition of the synagogue, and for the unfinished
attempt to cut the block bearing the inscription into three unequal pieces
(Weill 1920: 29, 30), and, finally, for the subsequent orderly stacking of
the stones of the demolished building in a cistern (Weill 1920: 37), which
led Weill to suggest that the cistern functioned as an architectural
genizah (1920: 29).
 26

Clermont-Ganneau (1920), Weill (1920), Reinach (1920) and Vincent

(1921) have all tried to provide such explanations, but none is
thoroughly convincing on all counts. Weill (1920: 34) is finally convinced
of a pre-70 CE date by Clermont-Ganneau’s palaeographic assertions
and Vincent (1921: 277) by Clermont-Ganneau’s arguments about family
names. Reinach (1920), somewhat laconically, keeps many of the
questions open. Throughout the discussion of all the possible scenarios
that would comply with the evidence from Weill’s excavations, most of
the difficulties are caused by the complete lack of certainty about likely
feasibilities of the courses of action and motives suggested for the
possible protagonists. There remain more unanswered questions now
that there were when the stone was first discovered.
Almost all those currently involved in the debate make reference to
this inscription and put themselves clearly into two camps as to its
dating: mid-first-century CE (for example, Filson 1969; Grabbe 1988;
Cohen 1997; Levine 1987, 1996; Atkinson 1997), and later datings,
whether second-century CE (for example, Kee 1990; McKay 1994) or,
possibly, fourth century CE (solely, perhaps, Kee 1994, 1995).

d. Renowned Scholarly Contributions. Hengel (1975) lists, gives reports of

and outlines the findings of the variety of scholars from many
disciplines who have studied and evaluated the evidence about
proseuchai and sunagøgai. His account is comprehensive and his
judgments have generally been accepted by the scholarly community.
His thought processes in arriving at his conclusions, however, remain
opaque to the reader; there is no sharing of ambiguous evidence or
invitation to judge for oneself. This is authoritative writing, thoroughly
‘modern’ in its approach. By this I mean that the writing provides the
reader with a selection of the facts made according to the judgment of
the expert accompanied by the most ‘convincing’ interpretation of those
facts, by the expert’s standards. The reader is expected to accept these
without question and so be both enlightened and correctly informed.
Hengel’s position is that the proseuchai referred to in literary texts,
inscriptions and papyri, house essentially the same institutions and
represent comparable building structures to synagogues, either at the
same time in other locations or a later date over the whole of the central
and eastern Mediterranean area. He spends no time on distinguishing
the subtleties of the meanings of the two terms or their usage but
 27

catalogues and presents the evidence that he believes supports his

conclusions. Yet, many agree with him on account of his magisterial
knowledge and eloquence.
Everyone who currently discusses this issue makes reference to the
work of Hengel (1974 or 1975). Sometimes, it is cited in a quasi-
bibliographic role, and sometimes in a respectful and deferential way, to
indicate that a properly thorough approach has been taken in the
preparation of the current work, and that the scholar has taken full
cognizance of all the data assembled by Hengel. His article is rarely
disagreed with directly, even by those who contest the position he takes.
Its value as a comprehensive bibliographic source is unassailable, and
the respect accorded its author is the mute witness to that.

4. How to Proceed?
The scholarly difficulty, as we see it, is deciding what to make of the
silence of the sources. Some believe it is appropriate to read forward
from earlier evidence (for example, Atkinson 1997: 500-501) and read
back from later evidence (for example, Cohen 1993: 47-48; Levine 1996:
427; Atkinson 1997: 495-97 who take the first century evidence as secure
and work backwards from then) with the desirable end-product of
meeting ‘in the middle’ and filling in the unknown from the known.
Others disagree, arguing that this is not an appropriate means of gap-
filling when applied to historical data taken from a long period of time
and from a wide geographical area (Hachlili 1997: 40-47). Scholars with
doubts about the clarity, specificity and reliability of the so-called first-
century evidence (Kee 1990, 1995; McKay 1994) hesitate to adopt the
back projection approach unless it is begun from a later starting point.
Another difficulty arises when several pieces of evidence are
handled together as a unit of information, which practice can either
simplify or complicate matters. Often, the large complexes of data and
discussion are taken over wholesale by reference to a key article by a
distinguished scholar, such as that of Hengel (1971). This type of
manoeuvre is necessary when the matter is no more than contingent to
the scholar’s main interest, but such dependence on the interpretations
of evidence by other scholars gives those scholars’ work enormous
influence across a wider field than they themselves might have
expected.
 28

Overall, then, the difficulties of combining not only data from

different fields, but also the accompanying interpretations and
hypotheses must not be underestimated. Each looseness, or range of
probability when combined with others, leads to an overall reduction in
the level of certainty that may be achieved.

5. Analyses of the Contributions and Positions

a. The Difficulties Caused by the Nature of Constructs: ‘What You Already Know’
It is, I believe, useful now to refer to Goulder’s recent article analyzing
the power of the construct ‘Q’ (1996). Goulder suggests that this well-
known hypothetical Gospels source

cannot be stopped but is fated to consume the lives of generations of

Ph.D. students who will in the course of time become professors and
direct its further ineluctable progress. For experience, if not common
sense, ought to disabuse us of the simple notion that the truth will
conquer with time. People, including scholars, are not purely rational
beings. They hold opinions for a multitude of reasons—respect for
their teachers, attachment to the familiar (especially the familiar that
is held by most other people), religious predilections, unwillingness
to think that they have been wrong for years (especially when they
have committed themselves publicly), the enormous volume of
material on the subject that no one can read, to name a few. None of
these considerations is disreputable. But whereas in a scientific
subject a paradigm shift is possible because new and irrefutable
evidence may come to light, new evidence in an arts subject is rare
and so are paradigm shifts (pp. 668-69).

It is not my intention here to discuss the construct ‘Q’ here. Rather, I will
apply the characteristics of powerful constructs as spelled out by
Goulder and investigate their applicability to the similarly familiar
construct, even though to some scholars ‘the ancient synagogue’ may
not be as obviously a construcy as is ‘Q’.

b.Goulder’s Explanations for Undeserved Persistence of Constructs

1. Scholars’ respect for their teachers.: In my scrutiny of the discussions on
synagogues and sabbath worship, I have found that in many of the more
traditional contributions there are more references to, and discussion of,
 29

the writings of other scholars than there are to the original evidence.
This does not necessarily imply that the validation of the arguments lies
with a scholar’s loyalties alone, but it is indicative of the power of
traditions transmitted through the senior and respected members of the
Academy and the Guild.

2. Scholars’ attachment to the familiar (especially the familiar that is held by

most other people). In articles discussing the nature of ancient synagogues
(see, for example, Levine 1987, 1996; Atkinson 1997), there are frequent
rehearsals of familiar materials from other resources, such as any of the
numerous scholarly publications referred to as sources throughout this
article, or the weighty histories of Moore (1954) and Schürer (1886–90).
These rehearsals are often made without either verification of the data
cited or discussion of the points, which at times are made very briefly in
those earlier works. Upon investigation, I have several times found that
the original sources do not support the cases made from them. This
implies that other readers found material in the texts whose validity
they accepted unquestioningly, perhaps because they assumed the
thoroughness and reliability of the other scholars’ work, and felt no
need to double check it; or because that validation came rather from
their own previous learning or assumptions than from consideration of
the case and arguments made.
In the face of a lack of evidence scholars are driven to surmising
and concluding about ‘what must have been the case’ and attention has
been drawn to the pervasiveness and seductiveness of this process by
Kraabel (1982) and Grabbe (1988). This process is frequently
accompanied by particular adjectives and adverbs or adverbial phrases.
‘Certain’, ‘doubtless’, ‘undeniably’, ‘no doubt’, ‘safely assume’, are a few
of the most common (see, for example, Finkelstein 1975: 53-54; Weill
1920: 31, ‘without doubt’ [sans doute], and ‘The name is self-explanatory,
as one can see, the easiest thing in the world’ [Le nom s’explique, comme
on voit, the plus facilement du monde, …]). The use of these phrases is a
clear indicator that there is an aporia, scant evidence of the matter being
discussed, and the scholar is ‘filling that gap’ with conclusions, surmise
or, if one is a resistant reader, ‘mere speculation’.

3. Scholars’ religious predilections. There has been a tendency for

scholarship from countries where the Church plays a strong role in the
 30

education system to be supportive of the Christian ‘side’ of any analysis

of the tensions between the early Christians and the surrounding Jewish
communities. Tendenz and bias in the sources have been ignored, or,
worse still, reproduced unremarked, in the secondary literature, a point
made by Zeitlin (1930-31) and more forcibly by Kraabel (1982), and it is
an open secret that scholarship in the field of the study of Judaism has
often been knowingly, or unknowingly, undertaken in the service of the
interests of the Christian Church. Kraabel (1982) outlines how this
critique has been applied to the work of Hengel, among others. Kraabel
is not out to apportion blame, but merely asks that scholars notice the
dangers of viewing ‘their subject diachronically, looking back into the
past through a lens provided by later tradition’ (1982: 459).
In recent years, when many earlier consensus views have been
subjected to scrutiny from new perspectives and to revision as a result,
there has been a negative reaction that depicts the dismantling of
constructs as a destructive activity. The supporters of the status quo
position react as if an edifice into which time, love and labour have been
poured is being wilfully damaged, for no good reason that the
supporters can recognize. In spite of scholarly commitment to fair-
minded critical thinking, where scholars have an emotional commitment
to a construct (whether alongside an intellectual commitment or not)
then any dismantling feels like an attack; and the hearer responds with a
defence.

4. Scholars’ unwillingness to accept that they have been ‘wrong’ for years.
Being presented with new data can lead scholars to a period of
reflection and reassessment, possibly followed by assimilation and
integration of the new practice or beliefs. If, however, at the reflection
stage, emotions are tied to the former beliefs and attitudes, and these
emotions are used to screen the new data, then the process of
reassessing is slowed, frozen or even disabled. Logic and reason
should convince, but feelings may well resist arguments. Thus,
attending to feelings that need to be discharged or transformed in a way
that enables us to regain the lost powers is essential. Repressing the
emotions, which seems to put the difficulties they cause to one side,
does not, however, remove the potentially debilitating effects they
have on our mental processes (Boud, Keogh and Walker 1985: 18-41).
 31

5. Scholars’ respect for the enormous volume of material on the subject. When
coming to a conclusion that is at odds with the consensus opinion within
the discipline, it is difficult to be the one who chooses to read ‘against
the grain’. Nevertheless, a responsibility to the academic endeavour
gives one no choice. One may be mistaken, or partial or unfamiliar with
all the evidence, but one should apply one’s skills to the available
evidence and is just as ready to be adjudged ‘right’ as to be adjudged
‘wrong’.
Respect for a well-established consensus does not preclude its
dismantling, if that becomes necessary. It may be respected as any
famous edifice from the past may be respected, even if it is no longer
used or copied.

6. Reflections

a. The Place of the Debate About Ancient Synagogues Within Wider Debates
Currently, the thinking of the scholarly community of biblical studies
and related disciplines is convulsed by the claims of the contending
discourses of modernism and postmodernism and, within that broader
field, by the developing demand for recognition of the partial and
partisan nature of all current ‘knowledge’ and interpretation.

b. The Wider Epistemological Setting

To the modernist thinker, who follows the procedures of the rational
discourse of the Enlightenment, there are clear, objective, scientific facts,
data and evidence to be found from which sound conclusions can be
drawn. These conclusions are regarded as ‘judgments’ and provide
‘truths’. Any variations on these ‘truths’ are regarded as deviations
from, rather than as variants to, the consensus body of discourse, which
is seen as normal, foundational and reliable.
From a postmodern perspective, however, truths have limited
currency (whether of time, location or community) and facts are no
more than, but also no less than, mutually agreed interpretations of
reality. Such facts are as powerful as the facts in the world of ‘modernist’
scholars, but they are differently understood. A variety of valid, or
correct, or true, answers or solutions may exist at once and may exist for
different purposes, or for different accepting communities. A typical
 32

example would be that a faith community’s interpretations of certain

events that they class as ‘miracles’ and psychologists’ interpretations of
the same events could well differ considerably.
Many scholars see these two positions as being at loggerheads; but
others see the postmodern as always having had a place within the
modern, though now a somewhat larger place than before. The
postmodern is portrayed as able to build flexibility and adaptability into
the modern and since fewer standpoints can be totally ‘right’ and rule
the field, an undeniable corollary is that fewer viewpoints can be totally
‘wrong’ and thus excluded from the field.

c. A Parallel Example from the History of Israel Debate

Let me provide an example from another contested area of research
within biblical studies, as a way to illustrate my point about the
usefulness of a postmodern perspective in providing flexibility and
adaptability. In the history of Israel debate, a vast body of fragmentary
and incomplete literary and archaeological evidence is variously
constructed into differing grand narratives, and is used to create tenable
positions that represent the scholarly construct(s) of ancient Israel. The
nature of the evidence, while limited, tantalising, of its very essence
biased, permits this variety of interpretations, as does the range of
educational, ideological and confessional stances of the scholars sifting
and weighing the evidence and conflating or modulating the judgments
of it made by others.
All these differences of approach and explanation are innocent
enough in themselves. When, however, some positions are associated
with powerful movements or schools, and are therefore highly
accredited, while other positions are described as having a malign
tendency to denigrate and destroy, the debate begins to take on other
than ‘scholarly’ colours.
What I believe to have been underestimated on both sides is the
extent to which the perceptions of data and the apperceptions
developed from them are dependent on each scholar’s previous
knowledge, expectations and internalized criteria for the validation of
arguments. At this juncture, an acceptance of the applicability of
postmodern discourse would allow productive discussion to take place.
However, where groups on all sides insist on the ‘rightness’ of their
 33

position(s), little genuine exchange or cross-fertilisation of ideas and

opinions is possible.

d. The Christian Origins Debate

It should be apparent by now that much of this discussion about the
ancient synagogue, and the conclusions reached, are of interest to
scholars of Christianity as well as those of Judaism. This is particularly
true, since a common assumption has been that the early church copied,
for its worship, practices and structures from the synagogue. If the
‘minimalist’ construct of the ‘ancient synagogue’ stands, however, then
the influence could well have occurred the other way round, with
developing Jewish worship practices in the later ‘synagogues’ reflecting
parallel developments in Christian praxis.
If the origin of the synagogue (the institution, the practices and the
buildings) were clearly locatable in the centuries BCE, then it would be
simple enough to accept that Jesus was a Jew familiar with these
‘synagogues’ and their practices and appropriate to believe that early
Christian worship practices evolved from Jewish practice. By many
people, scholars and non-scholars alike, this latter position is considered
to be the case.
However, if the origin of the synagogue occurred later, or if the
earlier stages of its development were differently sequenced, then the
question of which religious group’s worship developed from, or grew
out of or imitated, the other’s is less than certain, perhaps not clear at all.
It becomes quite possible to imagine that the early Christian movement
developed services of congregational worship earlier than the Jewish
community. It also becomes possible, as some scholars claim (for
example, McKay 1994: 126-27; Gager 1985: 118-19), to date the
separation of the two communities quite late: up to, for example, the
time of Galen in the latter part of the second century CE Rome, or, later
still, at the time of John Chrysostom in early fourth-century CE
Constantinople, when he exhorted his congregation to give up attending
the synagogue there (Gager 1985: 118-19; Simon 1986: 326-27).
On this point, also, as in the debates described previously, scholars
align themselves on different sides of the debates; and frequently,
confusingly, on different sides for different specific parts of the debate.
These alignments appear to be made on the basis of the aspects of the
individual’s intellectual constitution referred to above, namely, previous
 34

education, experience and internalized beliefs about the nature of the

past and about the character of the scholarly enterprise.

7. Conclusions

a. The Current State of the Debate

The erstwhile polite tone of scholarly debate has begun to be replaced
by more inflammatory language including the subtle disparagement of
opponents’ positions. Signs of provocative language appear in the
writings of Kee, Oster, Atkinson, Cohen and Levine, though they are not
alone in using this mode of debate.
The role of religious loyalties, national loyalties and preferences for
certain languages of publication in promoting or marginalizing different
aspects and players in the debate can also be identified. The key
languages are English, German, Hebrew and French, and the papers
published in each language or national setting provide slightly different
subsets of the total debate.
Different organs of publication and different conference platforms
also affect what is widely heard or disseminated and the editors and
selectors involved have an appreciable influence on the public face of
the debate, as may be seen from the bibliography of this article.

b. Possible Future Outcomes

An ideal outcome would be the appearance of newly discovered clear
evidence that would add substantial weight to one side or the other of
the debate. I believe that both sides would welcome that, even though
one group would have to eat serious quantities of humble pie. A more
likely outcome is that continued attempted rebuttals and sly
denigrations of opponents’ work will continue to be published and that
the incipient alignment into camps could become hardened. It is,
however, possible, that some configuration of ideas will become
convincing and the pieces of the puzzle fall more clearly into place, like
dominoes toppling, and both sides will accept a picture that is limited to
only partial clarity.
 35

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Rejoinder to H.C. Kee’, NTS 39: 178-208.

Philo
1960 ‘Flaccus’, in Philo, IX (trans. F.H. Colson; LCL; Cambridge, MA:
Harvard University Press.

Posner, R.
1972 ‘Synagogue’, in Encyclopaedia Judaica, XV (Jerusalem: Keter
Publishing House) 579-95.

Rajak, T. and D. Noy

1993 ‘Archisynagogoi: Office, Title and Social Status in the Greco–
Jewish Synagogue’, JRS 83: 75-93.

Reif, S.
1995 Review of Sabbath and Synagogue: The Question of Sabbath Worship
in Ancient Judaism, by H.A. McKay, JTS 46: 610-12.

Reinach, T.
1920 ‘L’inscription de Théodotus’, Revue des études juives 71: 46-56.

Rivkin, E.
1963 ‘Ben Sira and the Nonexistence of the Synagogue: A Study in
Historical Method’, in Solomon B. Freehof et al. (eds.), In the Time
 45

of Harvest: Essays in Honor of Abba Hillel Silver (New York:

Macmillan) 20-54.

Robert, J. and L. Robert

1959 ‘Bulletin épigraphique: 514. Berenikè’, Revue des études grecques
72: 275-76.

Saldarini, A.J.
1985 ‘Synagogue’, in P.J. Achtemeier (ed.), Harper’s Bible Dictionary
(San Francisco: Harper & Row) 1007-1008.

1996 Review of Sabbath and Synagogue: The Question of Sabbath Worship

in Ancient Judaism, by H.A. McKay, CBQ 58: 557-59.

Sanders, E.P.
1992 Judaism: Practice and Belief. 63B CE–66 CE (London: SCM Press;
Philadelphia: Trinity Press International).

Schiffman, L.H.
1996 ‘Foreword: The Ancient Synagogue and the History of Judaism’,
in S. Fine (ed.), Sacred Realm: The Emergence of the Synagogue in the
Ancient World (New York: Yeshiva University Museum; Oxford:
Oxford University Press) xxvii-xxix.

Schrage, W.
1971 ‘sunagvg}’ in G. Kittel and H. Greeven (eds.), Theological
Dictionary of the New Testament, VII (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans)
798-852.

Schürer, E.
1886-90 The History of the Jewish People in the Age of Jesus Christ, 6 vols.
(trans. Sophia Tayler and Peter Christie; Edinburgh: T. & T.
Clark).

1973-87 The History of the Jewish People in the Age of Jesus Christ, 3 vols.
(rev. and ed. G. Vermes, F. Millar and M. Goodman; Edinburgh:
T. & T. Clark).
 46

Seager, A.R.
1981 ‘Ancient Synagogue Architecture: An Overview’, in J. Gutmann
(ed.), Ancient Synagogues: The State of Research (Missoula: Scholars
Press) 39-48.

Simon, M.
1986 Verus Israel: A Study of the Relations between Christians and Jews in
the Roman Empire 135–425 (trans. H. McKeating; Oxford: Oxford
University Press.

Smith, M.
1996 Studies in the Cult of Yahweh. I Studies in Historical Method, Ancient
Israel, Ancient Judaism (S.J.D. Cohen (ed.), Religions in the
Graeco-Roman World 130/1; Leiden: E.J. Brill).

Sonne, I.
1962 ‘Synagogue’, in The Interpreter’s Dictionary of the Bible, III (New
York: Abingdon Press) 476-91.

Stern, E.
1992-93 The New Encyclopedia of Archaeological Excavations in the Holy Land
(4 vols; Jerusalem: IES, Ministry of Defense and Carta; New
York: Simon and Schuster). In Hebrew.

Strange, J.F.
1979 ‘Archaeology and the Religion of Judaism in Palestine’, in
ANRW II.19.1: 646-85.

1998 Review of Ancient Synagogues: Historical Analysis and

Archaeological Discovery, vol. 2, Urman, D. and P.V.C.M. Flesher
(eds.) JBL 117: 355-57.

Sukenik, E.L.
1934 Ancient Synagogues in Palestine and Greece (The Schweich Lectures
of the British Academy; London: British Academy, Oxford
University Press).
 47

Tcherikover, V.A. and A. Fuks

1957 Corpus papyrorum judaicarum, I (Cambridge, MA: Harvard
University Press).

1960 Corpus papyrorum judaicarum, II (Cambridge, MA: Harvard

University Press).

Tcherikover, V.A., A. Fuks and M. Stern, (eds.)

1964 Corpus papyrorum judaicarum, III (with an Epigraphical
Contribution by D.M. Lewis; Cambridge, MA: Harvard
University Press).

Trebilco, P.R.
1991 Jewish Communities in Asia Minor (SNTS Monograph Series, 69;
Cambridge: Cambridge University Press).

Turro, J.C.
1967 ‘Synagogue’, in New Catholic Encyclopedia, XII (M.R.P. McGuire
(ed.), Washington, DC: McGraw–Hill) 879-80.

Urman, D., and P.VC.M. Flesher, (eds.)

1995 Ancient Synagogues: Historical Analysis and Archaeological
Discovery (II. Studia Post-Biblica 47/2; Leiden, New York,
Cologne: Brill).

Vincent, L.L.
1921 ‘Découverte de la “Synagogue des affranchis” à Jérusalem’, RB
30: 247-77.

Weill, R.
1920 ‘La Cité de David: Compte rendu des fouilles exécutées, à
Jérusalem, sur le site de la ville primitive. Campagne de 1913–
1914, Part III’, Revue des études juives 71: 1-45.

Woodhead, A.G.
1981 The Study of Greek Inscriptions (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press).
 48

Yadin, Y.
1981 ‘The Synagogue at Masada’, in Ancient Synagogues Revealed (ed.
L.I. Levine; Jerusalem: The Israel Exploration Society) 19-23.

Zeitlin, S.
1930-31 ‘The Origin of the Synagogue’, PAAJR 1: 69-81.
 49

ABBREVIATIONS

ANRW Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt

BA The Biblical Archaeologist
BIES Bulletin of the Israel Exploration Society
CBQ Catholic Biblical Quarterly
JBL Journal of Biblical Literature
JJS Journal of Jewish Studies
JRS Journal of Roman Studies
JSJ Journal for the Study of Judaism

JTS Journal of Theological Studies

LCL Loeb Classical Library
NTS New Testament Studies
OTL Old Testament Library
PAAJR Proceedings of the American Academy of Jewish Research
RB Revue biblique
REJ Revue des études juives
SNTS Society for New Testament Studies