LIBRARY OF HEBREW BIBLE/

OLD TESTAMENT STUDIES

575
Formerly Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Supplement Series

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

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

Editorial Board
Alan Cooper, John Goldingay, Robert P. Gordon,
Norman K. Gottwald, James Harding, John Jarick, Carol Meyers,
Patrick D. Miller, Francesca Stavrakopoulou, Daniel L. Smith-Christopher
 SONS OR LOVERS

An Interpretation of David and Jonathan’s

Friendship

Jonathan Y. Rowe

N E W YOR K • LON DON • N E W DE L H I • SY DN EY

 Bloomsbury T&T Clark
An imprint of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

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New York London
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First published 2012

© Jonathan Y. Rowe, 2012

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in

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accepted by Bloomsbury Academic or the author.

eISBN: 978-0-5673-0616-6

Typeset by Forthcoming Publications Ltd (www.forthpub.com)

For Mark
 CONTENTS

Acknowledgments ix
Abbreviations xi

INTRODUCTION 1

Chapter 1
INTERPRETING DAVID AND JONATHAN 11
1. Hearing Voices: Reading with Mikhail Bakhtin 12
2. Family Practices: Reading with Anthropology 17
3. Interpretative Understanding 27

Chapter 2
“REAL MEN” 32
1. Bravehearts 36
2. Profanity! 43
3. Spearmen 50

Chapter 3
FAMILY FIRST 54
1. “Honour your father and mother” 57
2. Loyalty to Kin 63
3. Understanding David and Saul’s Family Values 70

Chapter 4
FRIENDS FOREVER 77
1. The Loyalty of Love 78
2. Friendship 83
3. Understanding Jonathan’s (Dis)Loyalty 90

Chapter 5
SHAMEFULLY DISGRACED 102
1. “Shall my honour be as shame?” 102
2. “Honour and Shame” 107
3. Understanding Saul’s Accusation 118
viii Contents

Chapter 6
HONOURABLY DISLOYAL 126
1. Keeping Faith 126
2. Sons or Lovers 129

Appendix A:
RELATIVE AGES OF SELECTED CHARACTERS IN 1 SAMUEL 133

Appendix B:
COLLOCATION OF ċēĐēĎ WITH OTHER ELEMENTS
OF OATH FORMULAE 136

Bibliography 137
Index of References 156
Index of Authors 162
 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This book explores the biblical story of David and Jonathan’s friendship
in the context of their family relations. The questions I ask about the
narrative arose during many years living away from my native England.
Perhaps this was only natural, for while even a casual reader of the Bible
can echo L. P. Hartley’s quip that “the past is a different country: they do
things differently there,” personal experience of cultural dislocation (and
adaptation) obliges readers to face the issue head on. Living in Uganda,
Pakistan and Spain helped me realize that not only is the Old Testament
a “strange land”—they do things differently, but also that my suppositions
would have been quite foreign to its original recipients. Sons or Lovers,
therefore, attempts to sensitize contemporary readers to these differences.
I do not suppose to “bridge the gap,” as if the dichotomy could be over-
come or collapsed, but instead point to ways in which the ancient texts
might be understood anew: my aim is “interpretative understanding.”
Special thanks are owed to my family for their support and forbear-
ance during the years that it has taken for this book to reach publication.
I am most grateful, also, to readers of various versions of the draft
manuscript who made perceptive comments that have sharpened my
argument considerably: Mario Aguilar, Dennis Byler, Richard Cleaves,
Nathan MacDonald, Chris Wright, and an especially diligent anonymous
reviewer for T&T Clark International. The usual disclaimers apply.
Chapter 1 contains some material, appropriately revised, that was ¿rst
published in my Michal’s Moral Dilemma: A Literary, Anthropological
and Ethical Interpretation (New York: T&T Clark International, 2011).
At other points I have also re-utilized some of my article “Is David
Really David’s ‘Wife’? A Response to Yaron Peleg,” JSOT 34 (2009):
183–93. The table entitled “The Amiable Relations of Kinship and
Friendship” in this book was originally published by Cambridge Uni-
versity Press in Julian Pitt-Rivers, “The Kith and the Kin,” in The
Character of Kinship (ed. J. Goody; Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 1973), 96. I am grateful to the copyright holders for the relevant
permissions.
x Acknowledgments

Sons or Lovers is dedicated to Mark who has been a friend since our
time together at university. As a minister in the Church of England he is
engaged daily with the sort of messy conundrums reÀected in the
David—Jonathan narrative and it would be gratifying if the discussion
within these pages excited not only scholarly debate but wider interest in
the complex issues surrounding the ethics of family and friendship.

1
 ABBREVIATIONS

AA American Anthropologist
AAASP American Anthropological Association Special Publication
AB Anchor Bible
ABD Anchor Bible Dictionary
ABRL Anchor Bible Reference Library
ACCS Ancient Christian Commentary on Scripture
AE American Ethnologist
AES Archives européennes de sociologie
AJA Australian Journal of Anthropology
AJEC Anthropological Journal on European Cultures
ANET Pritchard, Ancient Near Eastern Texts
ARA Annual Review of Anthropology
AQ Anthropological Quarterly
ASAOSP Association for Social Anthropology in Oceania Special Publications
ASR American Sociological Review
BA Biblical Archaeology
BASOR Bulletin of the American Schools of Oriental Research
BCT The Bible and Critical Theory
BibInt Biblical Interpretation
BIS Biblical Interpretation Series
BJS British Journal of Sociology
BJS Brown Judaic Studies
BMW Bible in the Modern World
BO Berit Olam: Studies in Hebrew Narrative and Poetry
BS The Biblical Seminar
BSOAS Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies
BT The Bible Translator
BTB Biblical Theology Bulletin
CA Cultural Anthropology
CAT Commentaire de l’Ancien Testament
CBQ Catholic Biblical Quarterly
CBR Currents in Biblical Research
CCR Cross-Cultural Research
CH Hammurabi Code
CS Current Sociology
CSSA Cambridge Studies in Social Anthropology
CSSH Comparative Studies in Society and History
xii Abbreviations

DA Dialectical Anthropology
DEFM Diccionario de Ética y de Filosofía Moral
DJD Discoveries in the Judean Desert
EJST European Journal of Social Theory
EN Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics
EstBib Estudios Bíblicos
FAT Forschungen zum Alten Testament
FOTL Forms of Old Testament Literature
GBS Guides to Biblical Scholarship
GS Gender & Society
HBM Hebrew Bible Monographs
HUCA Hebrew Union College Annual
ICC International Critical Commentary
IEES International Encyclopedia of Economic Sociology
Int. Interpretation
ISBE International Standard Bible Encyclopedia, Edited by G. Bromiley
ISBL Indiana studies in biblical literature
J. Afr. Hist. The Journal of African History
JAOS Journal of the American Oriental Society
JAR Journal of Anthropological Research
JBL Journal of Biblical Literature
JBS Jerusalem Biblical Studies
JNES Journal of Near Eastern Studies
JP Journal of Philosophy
JR Journal of Religion
JRAI Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute
JSOT Journal for the Study of the Old Testament
JSOTSup Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Supplement Series
JSPR Journal of Social and Personal Relationships
JSS Journal of Semitic Studies
KAT Kommentar zum Alten Testament
LHBOTS Library of Hebrew Bible Old Testament Studies
LXX Septuagint
B
LXX Codex Vaticanus of LXX
MLR Michigan Law Review
MM Men and Masculinities
MT Masoretic text
NAC The New American Commentary
NIBC New International Bible Commentary
NICOT New International Commentary on the Old Testament
NIDNTT New International Dictionary of New Testament Theology
NIDOTTE New International Dictionary of Old Testament Theology and Exegesis
NRSV New Revised Standard Version
NS New Series
NSEP Newfoundland Social and Economic Papers
OBT Overtures to Biblical Theology
1
 Abbreviations xiii

OTE Old Testament Essays

OTL Old Testament Library
OTS Old Testament Studies
PBM Paternoster Biblical Monographs
PT Presencia Teológica
RI Revista de Indias
SA Social Anthropology
SASS Structural Analysis in the Social Sciences
SBLDS Society of Biblical Literature Dissertation Series
SBT Studies in Biblical Theology
SBTS Sources for Biblical and Theological Study
SHBC Smyth & Helwys Bible Commentary
SJOT Scandinavian Journal of the Old Testament
SM Série Morales
SNTSMS Society of New Testament Studies Monograph Series
SOTSMS Society of Old Testament Studies Monograph Series
SR Social Research
SS Semeia Studies
SSH Social Science History
SSN Studia Semitica Neerlandica
STI Studies in Theological Interpretation
TCS Theory, Culture, Society
TDOT TheologicalDictionary of the Old Testament
TOTC Tyndale Old Testament Commentaries
TynBul Tyndale Bulletin
UBT Understanding Biblical Themes
UCOP University of Cambridge Oriental Publications
VT Vetus Testamentum
VTSup Vetus Testamentum Supplement Series
Vulg. Vulgate
WTJ Westminster Theological Journal
WUNT Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament
ZAW Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft

1
 INTRODUCTION

Never did Marriage Ǖuch true Union ¿nd,

Or mens deǕires with Ǖo glad violence bind.
—Abraham Cowley, Davideis1

Friend or foe? For or against? These are questions that many of us ask,
perhaps subconsciously, almost daily. If someone is “on our side” they
may give us a little more time, listen a little more attentively, perhaps
perform some favour or offer to do something that is inconvenient
to themselves. Of course, family members may do all this, one of the
reasons why many divide the world into “family” and “non-family,” the
latter often a cipher for “enemies.” But this distinction is inadequate
because there are people who are not family yet who masquerade as such
and, regrettably, family members who sometimes take their stand against
us. Perhaps because the world is not a place where ¿xed categories are
particularly useful people try to navigate its choppy waters with as many
helps as possible. To family and enemies we add “friends,” people who
are not related but who do not seek our undoing. But here an important
and sometimes dif¿cult question arises: If it is necessary to choose,
should one prefer family or friends? And what grounds could we possi-
bly have for making this choice other than egoistic self-interest (which
seems to be incompatible with the very idea of friendship and family
life)? This book examines these questions as they feature in the fasci-
nating and emotive Bible story of Jonathan and David’s friendship. It is a
riveting tale, perhaps because we can empathize with the two men as
they attempt to negotiate the knotted tangle of their relationships with
both family and friends.
The story of Jonathan and David has been retold many times down the
centuries. Each retelling, however, is necessarily an interpretation or
translation of the original. The Italian aphorism “traduttore traditore”
accuses translators of betrayal, not because the intention is willfully to

1. A. Cowley, Davideis (London: Henry Herringman, 1681), 48 (emphasis and

spelling original).
2 Sons or Lovers

distort but simply because each interpreter translates what he or she reads
into a linguistically or culturally distinct idiom. A good example is one
of the earliest interpreters of the Jonathan and David narrative, the Jew-
ish historian Josephus, who highlights David’s supposed virtue even
though authorial comments along this line are conspicuously absent from
1 Samuel. It is obvious from Josephus’ embellishments that he wrote his
Antiquities for a particular purpose, but the retelling is not to be dis-
missed simply because he had a particular axe to grind. A great variety of
constructions may be placed upon the characters’ numerous interactions;
and sometimes the texts themselves are deliciously ambiguous.2
Some interpretations purport simply to retell the story in terms read-
ily understood by their contemporaries. A modern example might be
Francine Rivers’ novella The Prince, which is replete with observations
about characters’ psychological motivations typical of the genre.3 Yet
works like Stefan Heym’s The King David Report highlight how the
extant text is an “authorized version”: “The One and Only True and
Authoritative, Historically Correct and Of¿cially Approved Report on
the Amazing Rise, God-fearing Life, Heroic Deeds, and Wonderful
Achievements of David the Son of Jesse, King of Judah for Seven Years
and of Both Judah and Israel for Thirty-three, Chosen of God, and Father
of King Solomon.”4 Heym’s novel invites readers to consider how the
original redactor might have selected and edited his sources, not only
because of his commission but also his personal circumstances. Similar
challenges to “straightforward” interpretations have come from minority
or marginalized perspectives. Notable among these in recent years have
been “queer” readings positing a homosexual relationship between Jona-
than and David, or even a “love triangle” involving Saul.5 What is one to

2. On ambiguity in these texts, see P. Miscall, The Workings of Old Testament

Narrative (SS; Philadelphia: Fortress; Chico: Scholars Press, 1983), 100–27.
3. F. Rivers, The Prince: A Novela (Wheaton: Tyndale House, 2005).
4. S. Heym, The King David Report (London: Abacus, 1972), 9 (without original
emphasis).
5. See, for example, David Jobling, 1 Samuel (BO; Collegeville: Liturgical,
1998), 161–64; Susan Ackerman, When Heroes Love: The Ambiguity of Eros in the
Stories of Gilgamesh and David (New York: Columbia University Press, 2005);
Silvia Schroer and Thomas Staubli, “Saul, David and Jonathan—The Story of a
Triangle? A Contribution to the Issue of Homosexuality in the First Testament,” in
Samuel and Kings: A Feminist Companion to the Bible (ed. A. Brenner; 2d series;
Shef¿eld: Shef¿eld Academic, 2000), 22–36. For a critique of Schroer and Staubli
see inter alia Markus Zehnder, “Observations on the Relationship Between David
and Jonathan and the Debate on Homosexuality,” WTJ 69 (2007): 127–74. It is
important to note that “queer” readings do not equate to those positing same-sex
erotic relationships even if this is the contention of the works cited here.
1
 Introduction 3

make of these interpretations? They cannot be ruled out of court on the

basis that one does not like them, or that they are new, or even that they
are somehow invalid because of the presuppositions of their advocates.
To do so would be to ignore the fact that ideological freight is carried by
all interpreters, even those who belong to hallowed traditions—indeed,
if liberation theology has taught us anything, perhaps we should say
especially by such “traditionalists.” Yet while there is no neutral stand-
point from which we can judge interpretations this does not mean all
readings are equally good interpretations of the text.6 People who read
the David and Jonathan stories from differing cultural backgrounds
or holding divergent convictions can be expected to produce distinct
interpretations. If they are to be faithful to the narrative, however, they
must not ride roughshod over it but account for what it says and the way
in which it is said. To determine which interpretations are more faithful
there is only one test: each must be compared with the original text.
Naturally, interpreters’ interests will affect this process and so there is no
reason why any particular interpretation should be ruled out a priori, yet
exegetes must continually return to the text in order to test and clarify
their understandings. There are those who argue that desiring such faith-
fulness blinds the interpreter to the coercive nature of the Bible and so
reject such a posture in favour of reading “against the grain,” but I do not
count myself among such sceptics and this book attempts to present an
interpretation of Jonathan and David’s friendship faithful to the original.7
Even this aim, however, is not entirely uncomplicated given the differ-
ences between the Masoretic text, Qumran fragments and Septuagint.
There is something to be said for simply deciding which version one
wishes to interpret and then proceeding to do so, a reading strategy that
possesses the advantage of not needing to defend every variant followed.
This does not seem to me to be entirely satisfactory, though, since it
ignores the possibility that the original narrative—if there was an origi-
nal—cannot be discerned using only one of the versions now available.
Nevertheless, this book is concerned with ethical issues as they appear in
the text and not principally with textual criticism, so such matters will be
discussed only where interpretative questions are at stake, and usually in

6. See D. J. A. Clines, “Michal Observed: An Introduction to Reading Her

Story,” in Telling Queen Michal’s Story: An Experiment in Comparative Interpreta-
tion (ed. D. J. A. Clines and T. C. Eskenazi; JSOTSup 119; Shef¿eld: Shef¿eld
Academic, 1991), 24–63 (29).
7. Some have argued that this strategy is required by the text itself, see Richard
Briggs, The Virtuous Reader: Old Testament Narrative and Interpretative Virtue
(STI; Grand Rapids: Baker, 2010).
1
4 Sons or Lovers

the footnotes. With this caveat, we will examine the “¿nal form” of the
Masoretic text of 1 and 2 Samuel rather than putative sources.8 One
consequence of this decision is that when referring to matters of inter-
textuality (within the books of Samuel and the wider canon) we will not
investigate whether a particular connection between texts is an allusion
intended by the author, and thus dependent upon a particular date of
composition, or an echo discernible by attentive readers of the ¿nal text.
This distinction is an important one, yet while questions of literary
dependence are interesting they do not press hard upon readers of the
canonical text even when later additions to the proto-text “stick out” or
“disturb” the narrative Àow,9 and we shall leave them largely to one side
in this study.
Another matter is the scope of the text that I denominate the “David–
Jonathan narrative.” While a number of sources were utilized in the
composition of the original scrolls, we shall not seek to identify them,
nor examine how they ¿t into a longer whole, whether the latter be con-
ceived as the “History of David’s Rise,” the Deuteronomistic History, or
the Primary History (Genesis to 2 Kings). The “David–Jonathan narra-
tive,” therefore, is used of the biblical text from 1 Sam 14:1 to 2 Sam
1:27 for ease of reference and not to indicate any particular view of the
text’s provenance.10
Reading the Old Testament can produce a sort of “culture shock.”
Perusing the books of Samuel, for example, it is at once obvious that
Jonathan, David and Saul hail from a very different society to that of
many readers today. Perhaps the cultural distance is particularly acute for
those from twenty-¿rst-century Western nations—probably the majority
of this book’s readers—although many others ¿nd the social mores
evident in the text decidedly strange. Even when the actions and attitudes
of the protagonists do not seem immoral, they are occasionally so far
removed from our own experiences that they remain inexplicable, and
the motivations of the characters, in so far as these may be discerned,
opaque. What are we to make, for example, of the numerous examples of
oath taking, so central to the narrative’s Àow? Or of Jonathan giving his
robe to David? Or of Saul charging his son with having shamed his
mother? Or even of the striking of a covenant between David and

8. Pace, for example, B. Halpern, David’s Secret Demons: Messiah, Murderer,

Traitor, King (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2001).
9. See G. Andersson, Untamable Texts: Literary Studies and Narrative Theory in
the Books of Samuel (LHBOTS 514; London: T&T Clark International, 2009), 14.
10. See also A. Heacock, Jonathan Loved David: Manly Love in the Bible and
the Hermeneutics of Sex (BMW 22; Shef¿eld: Shef¿eld Phoenix, 2011), 1 n.1.
1
 Introduction 5

Jonathan, the core ritual of their friendship? It seems that we are in a

strange land and, as in any place where people do things differently, we
can misread the cultural clues. Yet the clues are there: we simply have to
learn to recognize them.
To understand the Jonathan and David stories on their own terms we
need a guide to help us settle into the “culture” of biblical Israel. In recent
decades the academic discipline of anthropology has been employed by
a number of exegetes as such an aid, since it has been found that by
learning from a discipline that seeks to understand contemporary socie-
ties, some of which are ostensibly similar to that of ancient Israel in
terms of social organization, we can see things in the Bible that we do
not observe if we simply assume modern Western patterns of living.
Sons or Lovers stands in this social-scienti¿c stream of interpretation,
seeking to bring the Old Testament and anthropology into conversation.
A recent study by Gary Stansell is one of the few interpretations
of Jonathan and David’s relationship that uses the anthropology of
friendship to elucidate the narrative.11 Stansell observes that although
friendship appears to be ubiquitous, what “friend” signi¿es changes
according to the society in which the term is used.12 In an attempt to
avoid anachronism and ethnocentrism he outlines how friendship has
been theorized in several major schools of thought before presenting a
“heuristic model” of friendship that he uses to categorize seven types of
friends: inalienable, exclusive, close, institutionalized, patron–client,
casual and expedient.13 Stansell then draws upon his heuristic model of
friendship to pose questions to the David–Jonathan narratives enquiring
into, for example, whether the men’s relationship was symmetrical or
asymmetrical, the signi¿cance of their covenant making, gifts and mutual
oath taking, how their friendship related to kinship relations, and whether
the analogy of patron–client is helpful. He concludes that Jonathan and
David seem to exhibit an “inalienable friendship” in which Jonathan
takes the initiative.14
By employing social-science to facilitate his interpretation Stansell
uncovers much that has gone unnoticed by previous commentators.
Although I would reach different conclusions at various points and, as
explained in the next chapter, we will travel a different road to Stansell

11. Gary Stansell, “David and His Friends: Social-Scienti¿c Perspectives on the
David–Jonathan Friendship,” BTB 41 (2011): 115–31.
12. See ibid., 116.
13. See ibid., 119.
1
14. See ibid., 129.
6 Sons or Lovers

when it comes to utilizing anthropology, his interpretation is com-

mendable for its clear exposition of the core issues surrounding David
and Jonathan’s friendship. Stansell is particularly insightful when he
observes that friendship causes problems in situations where ¿delity to a
particular individual clashes with other aspirations: when friendship
“stands in the way”15 of another objective. Understanding these conÀicts
is essential for a proper comprehension of the narrative’s dynamic, for it
is the existence of multiple obligations and the conÀict between them
that gives the David–Jonathan narratives their piquancy. Interpreters
need to comprehend not only that particular things seem to clash, but
also the nature of these things themselves. This is clear in Jonathan’s
disclosure of family secrets to David and Saul’s violent reaction. Stansell
asserts that the “deception hardly seems to us a moral evil for it is
supposed to save a life. But from Saul’s perspective and the solidarity of
kinship requirements, Jonathan appears to be a traitor.”16 There are three
aspects of these two sentences that are especially important for this
book’s interpretation. The ¿rst is that the narrative contains several
features to which moral import might be attached. In this particular case,
Stansell identi¿es deception, life, solidarity and family. In the language
of ethics these are termed “goods” or, because one ought to seek or
protect them, moral goods.17 An essential interpretative task, therefore,
is to identify the moral goods in view within the narratives. This is com-
plicated by the cultural distance between ancient and modern societies,
meaning readers need to ¿nd adequate tools to assist in the interpretative
task. Second, the perspective from which one views the matter determines
how the achievement or otherwise of these goods is evaluated. In this
instance it is from Saul’s perspective that Jonathan’s actions are viewed,
but Saul’s perception will have been shared by others, including the
narrative’s ancient implied readers. It will become clear that biblical
authors are attentive to which of their characters perceive situations in
culturally accepted ways, and then use these perceptions when construct-
ing their narrative. Third, the achievement of particular moral goods in
contradistinction to others is evaluated. Stansell argues that “Jonathan
appears to be a traitor.” Although we will contest the description

15. Ibid., 125.

16. Ibid., 126.
17. On “moral goods” in Old Testament ethics, see J. Y. Rowe, Michal’s Moral
Dilemma: A Literary, Anthropological and Ethical Interpretation (LHBOTS 533;
New York: T&T Clark International, 2011), 27–35. I follow a customary distinction
between “ethics” and “morality” (and their variants): “morality” is actual behaviour
and standards; “ethics” is reÀection about these practices.
1
 Introduction 7

“traitor,” Jonathan’s actions are certainly appraised and, in this particu-

lar context and from this particular perspective, appraised negatively. In
the next chapter we will examine in more detail how anthropology can
stimulate new interpretations of the David–Jonathan story, but Stansell’s
article signals the promise of social-scenti¿c approaches like that
adopted in this book.
We turn now to the observation that because the David–Jonathan
narrative is a literary artifact it must be read. Over the last few decades
many scholars have used literary theory to elucidate how biblical narra-
tives can be understood and to expose the theoretical issues behind the
reading strategies they propose.18 Interest in how narrative can inform
ethical reÀection has been less widespread, although there is increasing
attention to this issue, too.19 While stories can exemplify virtues or
principles, if interpreters seek only to abstract general rules they can
overlook what Bruce Birch terms “the ambiguities of righteousness.”20
Indeed, it does not take a reader long to appreciate that the Bible describes
“a world where there are few perfect saints and few unredeemable
sinners: most of its heroes and heroines have both virtues and vices, they
mix obedience and unbelief.”21 This is precisely why biblical narratives
were (and are) valuable for moral education. Because the “stories reÀect
all the ambiguities and complexities of human experience and the strug-
gle to ¿nd and live out faith relationships to God in the midst of life”22
readers have to reÀect deeply rather than consume the moral lesson and
dispose with the narrative wrapper. Gordon Wenham argues that although
this complexity militates against mundane or naïve readings, the Old
Testament does exhibit “an ethical point of view” that is commended by

18. See, e.g., R. Alter, The Art of Biblical Narrative (New York: Basic, 1981);
M. Bal, Narratology: Introduction to the Theory of Narrative (3d ed.; Toronto:
University of Toronto Press, 2009); S. Bar-Efrat, Narrative Art in the Bible
(JSOTSup 70; Shef¿eld: Almond, 1989); D. Gunn and D. Fewell, Narrative in the
Hebrew Bible (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993); M. Sternberg, The Poetics
of Biblical Narrative: Ideological Literature and the Drama of Reading (Bloom-
ington: Indiana University Press, 1987).
19. See, e.g., M. Mills, Biblical Morality: Moral Perspectives in Old Testament
Narratives (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2001); R. Parry, Old Testament Story and Christian
Ethics: The Rape of Dinah as a Case Study (PBM; Milton Keynes: Paternoster,
2004); Rowe, Michal’s Moral Dilemma; G. J. Wenham, Story as Torah: Reading the
Old Testament Ethically (OTS; Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 2000).
20. B. Birch, Let Justice Roll Down: The Old Testament, Ethics, and the
Christian Life (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1991), 64.
21. Wenham, Story as Torah, 15.
1
22. Birch, Let Justice Roll Down, 53.
8 Sons or Lovers

authors through an omniscient narrator.23 Wenham’s approach is “mono-

logic” in the terms employed by Mikhail Bakhtin, a twentieth-century
Russian literary philosopher whose ideas have enjoyed considerable
currency in biblical and theological studies since the 1980s. One Hebrew
Bible scholar in particular has studied the David–Jonathan narratives
through the lens of Bakhtin’s dialogism.24 In her article “Experiential
Learning: The Construction of Jonathan in the Narrative of Saul and
David,” Barbara Green utilizes Bakhtin’s theory of dialogic utterances
carefully to examine the interweaving sayings and actions in 1 Sam 20.25
Bakhtin maintained that what people say is not autonomous but inti-
mately connected to others’ orations. Meaning, therefore, is generated in
the interaction of people’s “utterances.” An “utterance” does not refer
simply to a sentence but, as Bakhtin scholars Katerina Clark and Michael
Holquist explain, is “the simultaneity of what is actually said and what is
assumed but not spoken.”26 Green examines the utterances of David,
Jonathan and Saul in some detail, showing how the men’s statements
and actions relate to preceding utterances in the story. Although there is
very little intervention from the narrator, Green’s attention to the “tiny
utterance genre”27 means she is able to discern how the author has con-
structed his tale with a particular message.
While some of Green’s interpretative conclusions might be queried,
her use of Bakhtin’s dialogism is promising and in the ¿rst part of
Chapter 1 I explain how Bakhtin’s theory of dialogism can aid interpre-
tation of the David–Jonathan narratives. Because utterances are linked
to the narrative “voice” of each character they are contextual. It was
suggested above that social-science can be employed to assist that part
of the exegetical task concerned with interpreting “cultural context.”
Methodological questions relating to this task, though, are hotly con-
tested and it is necessary to explain the interpretative approach to be
adopted, so in the second section of the chapter I discuss why “practice
theory” is a particularly fruitful way of holding “individual agency” and
“cultural context” in creative tension, especially when the ubiquitous

23. See Wenham, Story as Torah.

24. B. Green, Mikhail Bakhtin and Biblical Scholarship: An Introduction
(Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature Press, 2000), and How Are the Mighty
Fallen? A Dialogical Study of King Saul in 1 Samuel (JSOTSup 365; Shef¿eld:
Shef¿eld Academic, 2003).
25. B. Green, “Experiential Learning: The Construction of Jonathan in the
Narrative of Saul and David” BCT 3 (2007): 19.1–19.13.
26. K. Clark and M. Holquist, Mikhail Bakhtin (London: Belknap, 1984), 207.
1
27. Green, “Experiential Learning,” 19.11.
 Introduction 9

ambiguity of human interaction is included in the account. The chapter

concludes with a statement of the method to be followed as we seek
“interpretative understanding.”
Just as people in real life have different opinions about the goods that
should be pursued in the situations in which they ¿nd themselves, so
different narrative voices can recommend—through both word and
action—their particular interpretation of the situation to the reader. Yet
although the author has characters speak with “voices” that maintain
various perspectives upon the moral goods that feature in the story, in
the ¿nal analysis he either subverts or approves of each voice in order
to make a theological point. While the complexity of the narratives we
shall examine points to the author’s desire that readers should become
involved with characters he does not thereby leave his readers groping
around in the dark, but leads them to the desired conclusion by means of
the presentation of each character. Chapter 2 suggests that in the books
of Samuel this is done primarily not through explicit evaluation but by
presenting David, Jonathan and Saul in ways that are either consonant or
incompatible with being a “real man” in ancient Near Eastern societies.
As readers comprehend how each one compares to the ideal view of
“hegemonic masculinity” they begin to accept or distrust his narrative
voice, independently of whether what the voice says chimes with
culturally accepted moralities.
Chapter 3 centres upon the family in ancient Israel and how the moral
imperative of family loyalty features in the biblical story. A brief
description of anthropological theorizing of kinship obligations enables
us to see that the matter cannot simply be reduced to “honour your father
and mother.” Yet considering why Saul’s voice would have reÀected
ancient Israelite mores enables us to understand how Jonathan’s friend-
ship with David was counter-cultural.
In Chapter 4 a variety of perspectives upon love and loyalty in both
the Old Testament and contemporary societies are examined, with
particular attention to the ways in which the categories of family and
friendship are both constructed and used by individuals for their own
ends. As well as noting that there is often a blurring of the lines between
the two groups, I highlight how Jonathan and David’s covenant is not
unexpected. It is another matter, of course, whether its challenge to
ancient “family values” is approved; I will argue that it was, something
that has important rami¿cations for the narrative’s theological import.
The model of “honour and shame” has become an increasingly popu-
lar lens through which to read biblical texts and Chapter 5 discusses how
each is conceived in the discipline of anthropology. In particular, I query
whether the use of the “honour and shame” dyad in biblical studies has
1
10 Sons or Lovers

been an entirely helpful development. I also show, however, that Saul

does indeed shame his son when he challenges him at the feast in
1 Sam 20.
It is possible to conceive this study as an attempt to answer three ques-
tions, for by providing answers to them one comprehends not only what
occurs within the story, but the narrative’s purpose. The ¿rst question
enquires into the moral conundrum facing the narrative’s characters. The
second asks how the conÀict of moral values is resolved by each
character. And the third how the author evaluates their choices.
As the title of this book makes clear, Sons or Lovers concerns a
conÀict of interests. Both David and Jonathan are confronted with situa-
tions, some of their own making, in which they much choose whether to
ful¿l ¿lial duties or maintain loyalty to their friend. They must choose,
in other words, whether to comply with the obligations expected of sons
or of friends. They cannot be both; being sons and lovers is impossible
once they are ensnared in the web of crisscrossing commitments entailed
by their relations with their respective families and each other: they must
choose to be sons or lovers. Given that the books of Samuel comprise an
“apology for David,” the tale of the men’s choices legitimizes usurpation
of the Saulide monarchy by the house of David.28 Yet Jonathan and
David’s elections are unexpected; ancient readers would have found the
“true Union” lauded by Abraham Cowley in his seventeenth-century epic
poem counterintuitive, even shocking.

28. On how these texts promote David’s house, see P. K. McCarter, “The
Apology of David,” JBL 99 (1980): 489–504. For parallels between the “History of
David’s Rise” with Neo-Babylonian texts, see M. B. Dick, “The ‘History of David’s
Rise to Power’ and the Neo-Babylonian Succession Apologies,” in David and Zion:
Biblical Studies in Honor of J. J. M. Roberts (ed. B. F. Batto and K. L. Roberts;
Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2004), 3–19.
1
 Chapter 1

INTERPRETING DAVID AND JONATHAN

T’ unbind the charms that in Ǖlight Fables lie,

And teach that truth is TrueǕt PoesǕie.
—Abraham Cowley, Davideis1

The epigraph invites us to consider what “charms” are bound within the
“slight fable” of the David–Jonathan narratives. Abraham Cowley sup-
poses that these treasures are not simply lying on the surface of the text
waiting to be picked up by any passer-by, as it were, but that they need to
be unearthed. How one should approach this task is the concern of
interpretation and will be the focus of this chapter.
It is widely recognized that positivistic readings of texts are a chimera
because readers inÀuence what is interpreted, how interpretation takes
place and the resultant interpretation. This is not, however, a counsel of
despair advocating the abandonment of the interpretative quest, but a
prompt to clarify methodology. For while particular approaches or tech-
niques do not produce incontrovertible understandings, transparency
enables fellow readers to identify exactly where and why they concur
with or contest any interpretation.
There are two main pillars to the approach adopted here. The ¿rst
concerns how to read the text. We observed above that Barbara Green’s
work with Mikhail Bakhtin is most suggestive and the ¿rst section of this
chapter, therefore, examines to what extent his theory of dialogism can
be appropriated for reading biblical narrative. The second pillar involves
the use of anthropology. Social-scienti¿c interpretation is now well estab-
lished in biblical studies, yet debates about how social-science should be
employed continue. These discussions often occur because of different
assumptions about the relationship of individual action and cultural

1. Cowley, Davideis, 5 (emphasis and spelling original).

12 Sons or Lovers

context. The anthropological and sociological literature explores this

debate in terms of “structure” and “agency”; indeed, the tension between
them has been called “a leitmotiv in the history of the social sciences.”2
What is at issue is the nature of the source or prompt for action. Is it
social structure, that is, the context of action? Or is it agency, that is, the
acting subject, the individual who decides to act? Or is it a mixture of the
two? This chapter’s second section will examine these questions, also
adding an important ingredient to the mix: the matter of ubiquitous
ambiguity in human interaction.
One of the premises of this interdisciplinary approach is that each
discipline should be considered on its own terms before being brought
into conversation with others. Although some readers may think that the
discussion at this point is overly “anthropological,” it is essential if bib-
lical scholars are not to ride roughshod over the social science informing
their exegesis. A further advantage of this procedure is that because an
understanding of human interaction will have been outlined in the second
section, in the concluding part of the chapter my interpretative approach
can simply be summarized.

1. Hearing Voices: Reading with Mikhail Bakhtin

A ¿rst step towards comprehending Mikhail Bakhtin’s work is to under-
stand where he locates meaning.3 In contradistinction to both personal-
ists, who maintain that I hold meaning, and to deconstructionalists, who
hold that no one owns meaning, Bakhtin argues that we possess meaning.
Although he thereby denies absolute truth—a courageous contention in
the totalitarian political context of Stalinist Russia—one might accept
Bakhtin’s starting point on the basis that knowledge of truth is partial.
Bakhtin’s approach has three main components, viz. heteroglossia,
dialogism and polyphony; we will consider each in turn. Heteroglossia
concerns “languages,” that is, a form of discourse shaped by the social
reality of the speaker at that moment. An example would be a male
peasant dealing with a state bureaucrat. Even though there is only one
national language the fact of social strati¿cation means various socially

2. C. B. Brettell, “The Individual/Agent and Culture/Structure in the History of

the Social Sciences,” SSH 26 (2002): 429–45 (442).
3. See Clark and Holquist, Mikhail Bakhtin, 11–12, 348. The critical intro-
ductions contain full bibliographies; the most relevant essay for our concerns is
M. Bakhtin, “Discourse in the Novel,” in The Dialogic Imagination: Four Essays
(ed. M. Holquist; trans. C. Emerson and M. Holquist; Austin: Texas University
Press, 1981), 259–401.
1
 1. Interpreting David and Jonathan 13

positioned “languages” exist simultaneously. Bakhtin argues that hetero-

glot “languages” not only take different perspectives on the world but
“dialogue” with each other, asserting that
all languages of heteroglossia, whatever the principle underlying them and
making each unique, are speci¿c points of view on the world, forms for
conceptualizing the world in words… As such they all may be juxtaposed
to one another, mutually supplement one another, contradict one another
and be interrelated dialogically.4

The environment into which a particular utterance is projected is thus

“dialogized heteroglossia”5; and the meaning of the utterance is not
objectively ¿xed, but evolves in dialogue with its heteroglossic context.
Bakhtin offers a suggestive metaphor for this process:
If we imagine the intention of such a word, that is, its directionality toward
the object, in the form of a ray of light, then the living and unrepeatable
play of colors and light on the facets of the image that it constructs can be
explained as the spectral dispersion of the ray-word, not within the object
itself…but rather as its spectral dispersion in an atmosphere ¿lled with
alien words, value judgments and accents through which the ray passes on
its way toward the object; the social atmosphere of the word, the atmos-
phere that surrounds the object, makes the facets of the image sparkle.6

Dialogism is thus an essential process in a heteroglossic world of socially

derived “languages.”
Bakhtin theorized about the novel employing these insights, positing
two sorts of novelistic works, the sophistic and dialogic.7 The former is
essentially monologic. Although it may reÀect heteroglossia, the voices
are not equally signi¿cant, for the non-authorial “language” “appears,
in essence, as a thing, it does not lie on the same plane with the real lan-
guage of the work: it is the depicted gesture of one of the characters and
does not appear as an aspect of the word doing the depicting.”8 This is
the case, for example, with the rhetorical genre, which instead of accept-
ing dialogism attempts “to outwit possible retorts to itself.”9 In contrast,
the dialogic novel lets all voices be heard, not solely the author’s. The
plot, for example, “serves to represent speaking persons and their

4. Bakhtin, “Discourse in the Novel,” 291–92.

5. Ibid., 272.
6. Ibid., 277 (emphasis original).
7. Bakhtin used the terms First Line and Second Line. He used the epithet
“sophistic” of the former, I supply “dialogic” for the latter.
8. Bakhtin, “Discourse in the Novel,” 287 (emphasis original).
1
9. Ibid., 353.
14 Sons or Lovers

ideological worlds. What is realized in the novel is the process of com-

ing to know one’s own language as it is perceived in someone else’s
language.”10 It is fallacious to suppose that this variety of literature is
“just chaotically multi-voiced; it is art, and its special artistic province is
dialogized heteroglossia: different points of view embodied in ‘voice
zones’ and intentional hybridizations that test one another and question
each other’s boundaries and authority.”11Bakhtin labelled this authorial
strategy “polyphony.” Polyphony is not heteroglossia, rather
polyphony is a way of realizing heteroglossia in the novel, without being
identical to heteroglossia. “Polyphony” means “multi-voicedness,” while
“heteroglossia” means “multi-languaged-ness,” and this apparently small
difference in meaning is very signi¿cant. Polyphony refers to the arrange-
ment of heteroglot variety into an aesthetic pattern. One of the principal
ways of ensuring the presence of the different voices of heteroglossia in
the novel is the creation of ¿ctional characters.12

Polyphony, therefore, concerns the relationship of authors to the text. In

the polyphonic novel they do not have the ¿nal word, but are participants
who let themselves be guided by dialogues that emerge from their
characters.
It is helpful to consider several criticisms directed at Bakhtin’s thesis
in order to determine to what extent dialogism might be a useful exegeti-
cal tool for this study. The ¿rst observation is that Bakhtin considers
only spoken discourse. Only thus can he assert that Adam alone, who
“approached a virginal and as yet verbally unquali¿ed world with the
¿rst word, could really have escaped from start to ¿nish this dialogic
inter-orientation with the alien word that occurs in the object.”13 Even
allowing that Bakhtin uses the creation accounts rhetorically, a pertinent
observation is that both Gen 1:28 and Gen 2:18–20 conceive human
action as a response to God’s prior communication, which includes both
word (“be fruitful and multiply”) and act (creation, bringing the animals
to Adam). Emerson argues this has implications for Bakhtin’s interpre-
tation of Dostoevsky: “The possibility that verbal dialogue might actu-
ally drain away value or Àatten out a subtlety or be so subject to terror

10. Ibid., 365.

11. C. Emerson, “Theory,” in The Cambridge Companion to the Classic Russian
Novel (ed. M. V. Jones and R. F. Miller; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
1998), 271–92 (286–87, emphasis original).
12. S. Vice, Introducing Bakhtin (Manchester: Manchester University Press,
1997), 113. Bakhtin’s imprecision concerning nomenclature has generated debate
around this issue, on which see Rowe, Michal’s Moral Dilemma, 108 n. 33.
1
13. Bakhtin, “Discourse in the Novel,” 279.
 1. Interpreting David and Jonathan 15

and constraint that it depreciates into outright fraud is not for Bakhtin
a theoretically serious issue.”14 Such observations are apposite with
respect to the David–Jonathan narratives, which certainly contain many
utterances, which are among the most basic components of heteroglot
“languages,” but also frequent descriptions of characters’ actions, each
with meaning and communicative signi¿cance.
Second, it is not certain that polyphony is an adequate description of
Dostoevsky’s authorial strategy because he patently intended to trans-
mit Christian truth.15 Indeed, Mieke Bal contends that because Bakhtin
described a historical genre (the novel) rather than narrative as a discur-
sive mode, he pays insuf¿cient attention to how different levels of
narrative enable authors to prioritize one voice over another.16 One
question, then, is whether the David–Jonathan narratives are polyphonic
literature. Green answers in the negative, opining that “polyphony as
Bakhtin develops it does not really function substantially in 1 Samuel
and that Saul cannot accurately or fairly be called a polyphonic hero.”17
It is important, however, to distinguish between the two issues. Even if
biblical heroes are not polyphonic, they certainly are multifaceted, com-
plicated moral agents. So the biblical text could well juxtapose differing
perspectives “pseudo-polyphonically” and without explicit evaluation,
thus inviting readers to appraise characters for themselves in the light of
other biblical texts and cultural expectations. In such a case it will be
pro¿table to read with an eye for multi-voicedness, not merely the narra-
tor’s tune. As a matter of fact, while Bakhtin argues in the ¿rst chapter
of Dostoevsky’s Poetics that a polyphonic narrative can be misread as
monologic, Green helpfully suggests that inverting the concept may
mean “a monologic work may Àower a bit if we read it with some
awareness of polyphonic strategies.”18

14. C. Emerson, The First Hundred Years of Mikhail Bakhtin (Princeton:

Princeton University Press, 1997), 132–33.
15. Moreover, the idea of heteroglossia is attractive in a particular historical
period: Ken Hirschkop caustically comments that “[t]o stumble upon a theorist who
claims that language itself is inherently ‘dialogical’ and that ‘a living utterance
cannot avoid becoming a participant in social dialogue’ is…an irresistible windfall
for the liberal consciousness” (K. Hirschkop, Mikhail Bakhtin: An Aesthetic for
Democracy [Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999], 9). For Natalia Reed’s view
that dialogism is inherently hostile to others over time and simply seems attractive
because it resonates with the values of Western liberalism, see Emerson, First
Hundred Years, 132–52.
16. Bal, Narratology, 71.
17. Green, Mighty, 273.
18. Green, Mighty, 275; M. Bakhtin, Problems of Dostoevsky’s Poetics (trans.
C. Emerson; Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1984). Compare Carol
1
16 Sons or Lovers

Third, dialogue may be “unnatural,” not the way utterances actually

work in practice, since it usually requires a considerable effort to effect
real dialogue. Indeed, the language of characters, especially major char-
acters, impinges upon other actors in the narrative so that while the space
surrounding them may be dialogized, this does not happen neutrally.
Moreover, it is plain that dialogue can be coercive, both by itself and in
tandem with non-verbal communication. Notwithstanding this criticism,
Bakhtin’s observations concerning the hero of a novel have particular
relevance for this study. He claims that the testing of a character is a
fundamental means of organizing the narrative, because it provides an
arena in which to examine that actor’s discourse.19
So, to conclude, although 1 Samuel is probably not polyphonic litera-
ture in Bakhtin’s sense, it is quite possible that the author employs dif-
ferent voices as vehicles for presenting different perspectives upon the
events presented in the text. These include conÀicts about the selection
or prioritization of moral goods. An important interpretative step, there-
fore, is the identi¿cation of these voices, the discernment of what they
are saying—both verbally and by their actions—and the evaluation found
in the text itself in order to ascertain how action by the narrative’s
“heroes” is viewed.
Discerning what voices say is complicated by the cultural distance
between text and modern-day readers. Proponents of social-scienti¿c
criticism in biblical studies argue that the breach entailed by temporal
distance can be traversed by studying contemporary, spatially separate,
pre-industrial societies.20 It is to a discussion of how this should be done
that we now turn.

Newsom’s more de¿nite claim that Job and Genesis–2 Kings are polyphonic litera-
ture, C. Newsom, “Bakhtin, the Bible, and Dialogic Truth,” JR 76 (1996): 290–306
(297–304). Importantly, even the narrator’s supposedly authoritative evaluations can
be merely “pseudo-objective”; see K. Bodner, David Observed: A King in the Eyes
of His Court (HBM 5; Shef¿eld: Shef¿eld Phoenix, 2005), 38–42.
19. Bakhtin, “Discourse in the Novel,” 388–96.
20. Social-scienti¿c study of the Old Testament has a long pedigree. Carter and
Meyers date its terminus a quo to W. Robertson Smith’s Lectures on the Religion of
the Semites, published in 1889; see S. Carter and C. Meyers, editors’ preface to
Community, Identity and Ideology: Social Science Approaches to the Hebrew Bible
(ed. S. Carter and C. Meyers; SBTS 6; Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 1996), xiii. For a
survey of social-scienti¿c study of the Old Testament, see P. Esler and A. Hagedorn,
“Social-Scienti¿c Analysis of the Old Testament: A Brief History and Overview,” in
Ancient Israel: The Old Testament in Its Social Context (ed. P. F. Esler; Minneapo-
lis: Fortress, 2006), 15–32. It is important to note that most social-scienti¿c work
has focused on the society of “ancient Israel” rather than its culture. That is, rather
1
 1. Interpreting David and Jonathan 17

2. Family Practices: Reading with Anthropology

At the beginning of the chapter we noted that it is important to attend to
both individual action and cultural context. One school of thought that
attempts to hold structure and agency together is “practice theory.”21
Sherry Ortner notes that this is not really a theory, since it lacks an
underlying conception of the social order: “There is only as it were an
argument—that human action is made by ‘structure,’ and at the same
time always makes and potentially unmakes it.”22 Perhaps the best known
advocate of practice theory is Pierre Bourdieu. In Outline of the Theory

than look at how individuals might have reacted in everyday situations, scholars
have investigated social structure and institutions, and their historical development,
or, for example, the roles of prophets and priests. “Culture” has been investigated
from relatively early on, but it is only recently that a concern with behaviour has
gained prominence; see J. Pedersen, Israel: Its Life and Culture. Vols. 1–2 (Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 1926); L. Betchel, “Shame as a Sanction of Social Control
in Biblical Israel: Judicial, Political, and Social Shaming,” in Social-Scienti¿c Old
Testament Criticism: A Shef¿eld Reader (ed. D. J. Chalcraft; BS 47; Shef¿eld:
Shef¿eld Academic, 1997), 232–58; repr. from JSOT 49 (1991); K. Stone, Sex,
Honor, and Power in the Deuteronomistic History (JSOTSup 234; Shef¿eld:
Shef¿eld Academic, 1996). Works of this type have generated some reÀection con-
cerning methodology in culture-orientated social-scienti¿c criticism of the Old
Testament; see, e.g., J. Stiebert, The Construction of Shame in the Hebrew Bible:
The Prophetic Contribution (JSOTSup 346; Shef¿eld: Shef¿eld Academic, 2002).
21. One cannot strictly speak of the singular “practice theory” since there are
various versions. The foundational texts are Pierre Bourdieu, The Logic of Practice
(trans. R. Nice; Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1990), and Outline of a Theory
of Practice (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1977); A. Giddens, Central
Problems in Social Theory: Action, Structure and Contradiction in Social Analysis
(Berkeley: University of Los Angeles Press, 1979); M. Sahlins, Historical Meta-
phors and Mythical Realities: Structure in the Early History of the Sandwich Islands
Kingdom (ASAOSP 1; Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1981); M. de
Certeau, The Practice of Everyday Life (trans. S. Rendall; Berkley: University of
California Press, 1984); and S. Ortner, High Religion: A Cultural and Political
History of Sherpa Buddhism (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1989). Andreas
Reckwitz explains that they have in common a dismissal of the “blind spot” of both
rational choice and norm-orientated theories of social action, namely, the implicit
knowledge “which enables symbolic organization of reality” (A. Reckwitz, “Toward
a Theory of Social Practices: A Development in Culturalist Theorizing,” EJST 5
[2005]: 243–63 [246]).
22. S. Ortner, Making Gender: The Politics and Erotics of Culture (Boston:
Beacon, 1996), 2. Chris Shilling explains that practice theory avoids giving either
structure or agency “explanatory priority” since this fails to examine the interplay
between them; see C. Shilling, “Towards an Embodied Understanding of the
Structure/Agency Relationship,” BJS 50 (1999): 543–62 (544).
1
18 Sons or Lovers

of Practice and The Logic of Practice, he seeks to bridge the “ruinous

divide” between objectivism and subjectivism. Objectivism argues social
practices derive from social structure. It cannot, however, account ade-
quately for different acting subjects making distinct choices in identical
situations: the charge is that objectivism is too deterministic. Subjectiv-
ism explains social practices as the aggregate of individual choice. But it
cannot account adequately for regularity of behaviour: the charge is that
subjectivism is too voluntaristic. Attempting to overcome the dichotomy
between objectivism and subjectivism Bourdieu argues that both acting
subjects, themselves the product of past practices, and social structure,
which is (re)produced by actors, are necessary to explain practice. One of
his key concepts is habitus, which he de¿nes as
systems of durable, transposable dispositions, structured structures predis-
posed to function as structuring structures, that is, as principles which
generate and organize practices and representations that can be objectively
adapted to their outcomes without presupposing a conscious aiming at
ends or an express mastery of the operations necessary in order to attain
them.23

Bourdieu’s rather dense prose requires some explication. The essence

of the concept of habitus is found in the juxtaposition of “structured
structures” and “structuring structures.” In principle, “structure” is some-
thing distinct from and “beyond” individuals’ voluntary dispositions and
actions. By describing the habitus as a “structured structure” Bourdieu
af¿rms that structure is a “given,” not open to manipulation. In other
words, the consequences of subject’s prior actions have crystallized, thus
giving the habitus a de¿nite shape or form. Yet, the point of the concept
of habitus is that “structure” is not only “beyond” but also “within” the
individual. In other words, although the habitus is something external it
is internalized by individuals and so affects their action. In contradis-
tinction to voluntarism, therefore, Bourdieu can af¿rm that individuals’
actions are not de novo but are constrained (in both senses of the word)
by structure. This is what he means by the habitus being a “structuring
structure.” Yet, because the whole process is circular any particular
action affects the context of future action: its structuring function does
not mean the habitus fails to remain a “structured structure.” Bourdieu
claims he avoids a mechanistic derivation of practice from habitus,

23. Bourdieu, Logic, 53. For a summary of Bourdieu’s habitus, see D. Robbins,
Bourdieu and Culture (London: SAGE, 2000), 26–29. On the etymology of the
term from Aristolian hexis, through Thomistic habitus, to Bourdieu’s usage, see
L. Wacquant, “Habitus,” IEES 315–19.
1
 1. Interpreting David and Jonathan 19

allowing for strategic or novel responses to habitus; however, even these

are de¿ned with reference to the possibilities inherent in the habitus
itself.
The orchestration provided by the habitus produces a commonsense
world that individuals think is “objective.” Thus even though there may
be vigorous debate about many issues, the shared assumptions of this
worldview are not questioned. Bourdieu remarks that “[b]ecause the
subjective necessity and self-evidence of the commonsense world are
validated by the objective consensus on the sense of the world, what is
essential goes without saying because it comes without saying.”24 This is
signi¿cant, for it means that those who share a habitus, for example
those of the same class, understand each other’s practices intuitively. The
result is that acting subjects are unaware of the inÀuence of structure on
their actions. Bourdieu notes that if “agents are possessed by their
habitus more than they possess it, this is because it acts within them
as the organizing principle of their actions, and because this modus
operandi [motive] informing all thought and action (including thought of
action) reveals itself only in the opus operatum [practice].”25 For this
reason Loïc Wacquant proposes that the habitus is analogous to “genera-
tive grammar,” which enables pro¿cient speakers to use a language
unthinkingly “in inventive yet predictable ways.”26
Although Bourdieu’s theory of practice attempts to hold together
individual agency and “cultural context” in a way that does not subsume
the one into the other, Sherry Ortner challenges the idea that structure
evokes individual action. She argues that it is important “to articulate a
position in which there is some distance between actor and culture, and
yet which does not postulate a culturally unconstrained actor rationally
manipulating cultural imagery and options.”27 She proposes a “loosely
structured” actor

24. Bourdieu, Outline, 167 (emphasis original). See also Bourdieu’s diagram in
Outline, 80.
25. Ibid., 18.
26. Wacquant, “Habitus,” 316.
27. Ortner, High Religion, 198. For an exposition and critique of Nigel Rapport’s
contention that the habitus is not a thing in itself and that conscious individual agency
is the cause of action, see Rowe, Michal’s Moral Dilemma, 88–90; N. Rapport,
“Envisioned, Intentioned: A Painter Informs an Anthropologist About Social
Relations,” JRAI 10 (2004): 861–81; “Random Mind: Towards an Appreciation of
Openness in Individual, Society and Anthropology,” AJA 12 (2001): 190–208; and
The Prose and the Passion: Anthropology, Literature and the Writing of E. M.
Forster (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1994).
1
20 Sons or Lovers

who is prepared—but not more than that—to ¿nd most of his or her
culture intelligible and meaningful, but who does not necessarily ¿nd all
parts of it equally meaningful in all times and places. The distance
between culture and actor is there, but so too is the capacity to ¿nd mean-
ing, in more than a manipulative way, in one’s own cultural repertoire.28

The proposed “distance” between structure and actor means that action is
not produced simply by some combination of things received. This
means that, at the point of decision, the structuring aspect of habitus is
not the only determinant of action. This insight enables Ortner to propose
a version of practice theory that not only emphasizes structural repro-
duction but also innovation. She argues that Bourdieu conceives practice
as a loop, thus neglecting instances of “slippage,” that is, times when
agents do not reproduce patterns.29 Ortner, however, proposes that “slip-
page” is important and that one must account for instances when the
habitus is not reproduced but challenged or changed. It is unimportant
whether these “slippages” are intentional or unintentional, only that they
can and do occur. Ortner’s, then, is a “version of practice theory, with
everything slightly—but not completely—tilted toward incompleteness,
instability, and change.”30 She makes this proposal because of a funda-
mental insight. Ortner observes that structures, habitus, and “cultures”
are not monolithic but contain many elements, some of which contradict
each other. This forces actors to choose between cultural goods or aspects
of the habitus. “The point here is that structure does not just sit there,
constraining actors by its formal characteristics, but recurrently poses
problems to actors, to which they must respond.”31 Ortner complements
this observation with a second concept of structure, that of a “cultural
schema,” a standard, socially acceptable, even laudable, way of resolving
the structure’s inherent contradictions. These moves provide Ortner with
the theoretical space required to account for subversions of the dominant
paradigm from within, and thus to explain why individual actors some-
times choose to act outside the schema, for example, by eloping to marry
for love, or forgiving a slight to honour. Thus “structure is practiced, it
is lived, it is enacted, but it is also challenged, defended, renewed,
changed.”32

28. Ortner, High Religion, 198.

29. Ortner, Making Gender, 17.
30. Ibid., 18. Ortner labels her vision a “subaltern practice theory.” On changes
to the habitus in Bourdieu’s theory, see P. Bourdieu, Pascalian Meditations (trans.
R. Nice; Cambridge: Polity, 2000), 159–63.
31. Ortner, High Religion, 196.
1
32. Ibid.
 1. Interpreting David and Jonathan 21

Ortner develops the resultant possibilities into a typology of practice,

each with a different relation to “structure.” “Ordinary practice” is repeti-
tive or everyday action, which leads to internalization of structure.
“Intentional action” concerns the pursuit of individual goals and desires.
An important question is how structure constitutes these desires, and in
her study of Sherpa Buddhist monasteries Ortner argues that various
historical factors pushed individuals in certain directions because of
extant cultural structures and that, concurrently, actors used historical
circumstances in ways that made sense given their cultural milieu. The
third type of practice is “extraordinary praxis,” that is, sustained activity
based upon a culturally alternative logic.
Ortner’s important modi¿cations to Bourdieu’s practice theory have
obvious implications for this study, but before summarizing them it is
important to account for a frequently overlooked feature of human
interaction: its ambiguity.
Ambiguity arises because of differences of perception between people,
not only between those from different cultural backgrounds, although
they are often more pronounced when this is the case, but also among
those who share cultural understandings. Nigel Rapport’s ethnographic
research in the English village of “Wanet” highlights the ubiquity of
varying interpretations and, consequently, the ambiguity of social inter-
action. ReÀecting upon his ¿eldwork experience Rapport submits that
social life could not be neatly classi¿ed. Rather, it was “farcical, chaotic,
multiple, contradictory; it was a muddling-through, which turned on the
paradoxical distinction between appearance and actuality.”33 He contends
the picture of Wanet as “rural idyll” represented the town as a homoge-
nous and uniform culture, so obscuring diversity. In fact, he argues,
whatever social structure there may have been was manifest in various
ways; hence the necessity of examining particular examples.34
In a compendium of such cases, moreover, one should not expect a gluey
coherence or neat integration (any more than an assemblage of unique
isolates). Rather, from case to case there will be an overlapping of behav-
ioural samenesses and differences… In short, far from simple dichoto-
mies and continua, from generalisable categories of behaviour in village

33. N. Rapport, Diverse World-Views in an English Village (Edinburgh: Edin-

burgh University Press, 1993), ix. Contrast Rapport’s use of “chaos” with Malinow-
ski’s imposition of an ordered functional scheme; see B. Malinowski, Argonauts of
the Western Paci¿c (London: Routledge, 1922), and A Diary in the Strict Sense of
the Term (New York: Harcourt, 1967).
1
34. Rapport, Diverse, 40.
22 Sons or Lovers

community or town, a compendium of cases of social life in Britain will

consist of an aggregation of partially (polythetically) connected behav-
iours.35

Rapport observed the relationships between two farming families, the

Rowlands and Whitehouses. A number of considerations affected their
interaction, including familial, occupational, neighbourly, economic and
spiritual, but none of these was of consistently overriding importance. It
was “individual interpretation of the relations of the moment which
determine[d] which consideration [was] pertinent, and which construc-
tion [was] salient, when.”36 A further observation complicates matters
even more: individual interpretation is contradictory, changing according
to the moment. Rapport claims that some anthropological thought repre-
sents contradiction as a problem and equates social order to the eradi-
cation of “symbolic contrarieties.”37 In contrast, he argues that social
order “is predicated not upon the absence of contradiction but upon its
co-presence: the cognitive co-presence of the contradictory, of both/and,
together with the classi¿catory order of either/or.”38 Rapport asserts that
“both/and,” as well as being a cognitive norm, is the cognitive reality
behind the social reality of either/or classi¿cations. Although he errs in
placing all his eggs in the cognitive basket, one can concur that Rapport
correctly highlights the inherent contradictions ordered (and ordering)
cultural schemata seek to resolve in either/or terms.
Rapport uses three informants to investigate when contradictions
surface: Rachel, in Mitzpe Ramon, Israel, and Sid and Doris, in Wanet.
Rachel admitted and even celebrated contradiction within moments,
describing herself as “a bit schizo.”39 Doris and Sid, though, experienced
no contradiction within any one moment, just between moments:
Being for Doris, Sid, et al., turned on momentary thoughts, feelings, appre-
hensions, emotions, on discrete experiential units of time and place, of
self, of individuality. And while the momentariness of their lives formed a
constant, while their moments were “for ever,” between moments there
was need for no consistent cognitive connexion.40

35. Ibid., 41.

36. Ibid., 51.
37. N. Rapport, “The ‘Contrarieties’ of Israel: An Essay on the Cognitive
Importance and the Creative Promise of Both/And,” JRAI 3 (1997): 653–72 (657).
38. Ibid., 657–58 (without original emphasis).
39. Ibid., 665.
1
40. Ibid., 667.
 1. Interpreting David and Jonathan 23

It is important to assess these distinct observations of when contradiction

occurs. Although I do not wish to re-evaluate Rapport’s ¿eld notes it is
signi¿cant that Rachel recognized her experience of simultaneous “con-
tradictory cognitions”41 as problematic: schizophrenia is not culturally
“normal.” Thus although people’s ability to generate multifaceted per-
spectives is part and parcel of life, the inability to select or perceive as
dominant a single perspective at any one time is not, and the observation
does not advance our discussion signi¿cantly. Rapport’s observations
regarding Doris and Sid are more pertinent for social-scienti¿c study of
biblical characters’ interactions since they underscore the potential for
actors to behave differently according to the person with whom they are
interacting, not just some amorphous “cultural context.”
In his article comparing the art and letters of Stanley Spencer, Rapport
asks how and why an actor’s conception of his or her social relations
affects those relations.42 His analysis of Spencer evinces that individuals
both participate in and manipulate routine discourse for their own ends:
“discursive exchange is never unmediated by a creative individual
improvisation of its forms and conventions.”43 Although a radical volun-
tarism—perhaps indicated by the categorical “never”—is untenable,
Rapport does demonstrate there may be a gulf between shared discourse
and shared understanding. Indeed, although individuals do acquire an
ability to read others’ behaviour, this is not by learning a communal
cognitive map of the world, but by coming to appreciate that under
certain circumstances others’ actions are predictable, and thus able to be
correlated with one’s own.44
Rapport’s work highlighting the ubiquity of ambiguity in human
interaction is an important contribution to the understanding of practice,
and hence the interpretation of relations like those portrayed in the text
of 1 Samuel, yet two observations are required. First, the aim has not

41. Ibid., 665.

42. In contrast to Rapport I am not concerned about why different perceptions
arise, only how they affect relations.
43. Rapport, “Envisioned, Intentioned,” 865.
44. See Rapport, Diverse, 184. I would dispute whether these constructions are
random, as proposed by Rapport, “Random Mind,” 198. In reducing all perception
and the entirety of justi¿cation for action to the cognitive he minimizes the role of
both cultural structure (the existence of which he denies) and (culturally, not merely
personally, perceived) physical constraints and stimuli. Thus his astute observation
that Doris construes situations in ways that relate more to her perceptions and
preoccupations than any “objective” reading of life in Wanet does not necessitate his
assertion that these conceptions are random.
1
24 Sons or Lovers

been to present a de¿nitive genealogy of practice, nor to defend all

versions of practice theory from the gamut of possible criticisms, only
to commend it as a way of understanding social action with suf¿cient
subtlety that it does not ride roughshod over the essential components of
situated individual agency. In addition, I have highlighted a frequently
overlooked feature of social interaction—its ambiguity. Second, it is not
proposed that practice theory is more “true” than other potential ways of
explaining human action. Andreas Reckwitz explains that social theories
are underdetermined by empirical data and that the key questions are
ones of utility.45 This does not mean that important consequences do not
follow from choosing one sort of social theory rather than another; or
that the choice has been arbitrary. Practice theory invites interpretations
of embodied practices rather than mental maps or spheres of discourse.
Just as anthropologists have found it to be a pro¿table means of under-
standing their data about “others” in more nuanced and compelling ways
than a focus upon forms of thought or patterns of behaviour only occa-
sionally reproduced on the ground, so it will aid this investigation by
leaving open the possibility of a variety of possible reactions to particular
stimuli.
In the Introduction I suggested that people face choices between moral
goods and evils. In the light of the discussion above it is possible to
enumerate three features of practice as they relate to the goods that
people—including narrative characters—choose.
First, the context for practice includes the existence of multiple, contra-
dicting and potentially mutually exclusive goods. Following Rapport’s
lead we may suppose that clashes and contradictions are “normal” and
that order is as much constructed as observed. In terms of moral goods
we have already insisted upon actors continually facing a plurality of
moral goods and upon the inevitability of value clashes. But alongside
this observation one can accept Ortner’s proposal that there are culturally
acceptable ways of resolving putative dilemmas so that moral choices in
favour of some goods seem natural or commonsensical. Note, however,
that “[c]ommon sense is the world-classifying face of power; the social
dramas of everyday life forever oscillate between reproducing and dis-
puting its authority.”46 Thus there is no automatic preference for cultural
schemata: the possibility remains that another choice of moral goods be
realized.

45. Reckwitz, “Toward,” 257.

46. M. Herzfeld, Anthropology: Theoretical Practice in Culture and Society
(Oxford: Blackwell, 2001), 72.
1
 1. Interpreting David and Jonathan 25

Second, the variety of perception of any particular situation or action

in which moral goods are in play. One consequence is that stimuli can
be variously interpreted, producing idiosyncratic responses. Thus even
though there may be culturally informed norms, including moral stan-
dards, it cannot be assumed that these are perceived in the same way by
all actors. Bourdieu noted different perceptions and justi¿cations of the
same event in relation to parallel cousin marriage among the Kabyle.47
He observed that it could be viewed simultaneously as an ideal, rarely
achieved, an ethical norm (derived from a duty of honour), which can be
broken, and a pragmatic move.48 The polysemous nature of this particular
type of union means it is a good example of how interpretation of prac-
tice is open to manipulation despite being constrained. Constraints in
general include both physical limitations and social expectations which
place limits upon the attainability of moral goods.49 In cases of value
conÀict, therefore, not all choices are equally possible, although variety
of perception may mean that people view constraints differently—some
might even fail to see a problem that vexes another.
A related issue is the perception of action that does not ¿t the cultural
schema. Signe Howell concludes her ethnography of Lio ritual with two
important observations. On the one hand, “it is possible to identify cer-
tain general patterns of maleness and femaleness without thereby apply-
ing these to all men and to all women, to the corresponding sexes, to all
contexts and to all socialities.”50 On the other hand, the “fact that kin,
af¿nal or ritual status may, in some instances, overshadow the simple
duality of men and women does not necessarily mean that maleness and
femaleness are not conceptualized.”51 In other words, there are both
general norms and individual acts, yet from the fact that norms are not
always followed one cannot deduce that they fail to inÀuence behaviour.
Moreover, although acts may occasionally not cohere with the norms, for
example, of maleness or femaleness, the interpretation of them by other
actors will be guided by socially accepted standards. We shall see that

47. A parallel cousin is one’s father’s brother’s or mother’s sister’s son or

daughter.
48. Bourdieu, Outline, 43. Note that there is nothing mutually exclusive about
these interpretations: I am not contradicting the observations regarding Rachel’s
“schizophrenia,” above.
49. Erving Goffman proposes that the very fact of face-to-face interaction is a
limiting factor; see E. Goffman, “The Interaction Order,” ASR 48 (1983): 1–17.
50. S. Howell, “Many Contexts, Many Meanings? Gendered Values Among the
Northern Lio of Flores, Indonesia,” JRAI 2 (1996): 253–69 (256).
1
51. Ibid., 261.
26 Sons or Lovers

this has important implications for the interpretation of biblical charac-

ters’ actions.
Third, the necessarily personal, and thus open, nature of practice,
which nevertheless can exhibit regularity. Because the acts of practice
are personal the selection of moral goods can be variously classi¿ed. It
could be quasi-reÀexive, for example, the removal of one’s hand from a
Àame to avoid pain. Or it could simply cohere with learnt behaviour, for
instance someone offers a handshake simply because he “always” does.
Or, because one person ¿nds another odious, he consciously decides not
to offer a handshake in order to offend by slight. The point is that not
all acts of practice are the same. Because practice is personal and people
can act and react in a great variety of ways there is a similarly wide range
of possible actions involving moral goods. Yet, because people learn
which selections of moral goods are acceptable within the society in
which they ¿nd themselves, practice can also exhibit regularity.
I have related Ortner’s typology of practice to the ideas of multiple
cultural goods and dominant cultural schemata in conversation with
Louise Lawrence.52 She discusses shame and desire in the Song of Songs,
arguing that the “shameful” behaviour envisaged by the lyricist reinforces
the honour paradigm. It is unnecessary, however, to say cultural values
negate their opposites, since the goods of romantic love and duty, mod-
esty and desire are perceived simultaneously.53 The dominant cultural
schema encapsulated in the modesty code provides one way of order-
ing these goods that “works.” Ordinary practice, routine responses to
situations, would include adherence to this schema. This is not much in
evidence in the Song of Songs, which is better considered as envisaged
extraordinary praxis, action that changes the ordering of these cultural
goods: a vision of love unencumbered by duty.54 Considering the impor-
tance of kinship, ordinary practice in this context means habitually
“choosing kin,” that is, prioritizing their interests over that of others,

52. See L. Lawrence, Reading with Anthropology: Exhibiting Aspects of New

Testament Religion (Carlisle: Paternoster, 2005), 182.
53. And are in conÀict, both in the story world of the Bible (e.g. 1 Sam 18:20,
28) and societies studied by anthropologists. I ignore the issue of whether binary
opposition is always the best way to present these conÀicts—the relationships
between goods are probably more complex.
54. It is noteworthy who subverts the cultural schema. Although older women
will not have had comparable status to men, they would normally have attained an
interest in the cultural schema, that is, support from appropriately married sons.
Thus, the young are more likely to envisage an alternative world, one in which their
concerns take precedence; see Lawrence, Reading, 182.
1
 1. Interpreting David and Jonathan 27

including, at times, one’s own desires. Yet the frequency of this “pattern”
of practice, which gives an aura of normality and naturalness to, for
example, family loyalty as a moral good, should not hide the fact that
this ordering of goods is a personal choice. Thus although people
habitually choose kin, it is their status as choosing subjects that leaves
open the possibility they may not, a prospect that means cold draughts of
ambiguity continually threaten family cosiness.

3. Interpretative Understanding
The ¿nal section of this chapter summarizes how anthropology will be
used to interpret the David–Jonathan narratives. A prominent advocate
of social-scienti¿c criticism, John Elliot, de¿nes it as “that phase of the
exegetical task which analyzes the social and cultural dimensions of the
text and of its environmental context through the utilization of the per-
spectives, theory, models and research of the social sciences.”55 Because
knowledge and modes of communication are culturally conditioned, he
argues that exegetes must clarify differences between the social locations
of authors and contemporary readers so that the latter can “hear” the
message of the original on its own terms. As with any tool anthropology
can be used in a variety of ways, and there has been vigorous debate
about the most appropriate or best way to wield social science in bibli-
cal interpretation. Having outlined how important elements of human
interaction might be conceived it is not necessary to engage with these
discussions in detail. Instead, it is possible simply to describe the inter-
pretative approach adopted here using ¿ve af¿rmations.
We start from the observation that human practice is irreducibly
individual, since we exist as single people. This is quite different from
saying that human behaviour is necessarily individualistic, since people’s
psychological or cultural af¿nities with others may take a great number
of forms. Nevertheless, and this is the ¿rst af¿rmation, while human
practice is necessarily individual it often exhibits certain patterns. Such
regularity may be summarized in models of typical behaviour. Now the
key question is not whether any particular model is “true.” One of the
foremost users of anthropology in biblical studies, Philip Esler, remarks
that models are “heuristic tools, not ontological statements. Accordingly,
they are either useful or not, and it is meaningless to ask whether they

55. J. Elliot, What Is Social-Scienti¿c Criticism? (GBS; Minneapolis: Fortress,

1993), 7.
1
28 Sons or Lovers

are ‘true’ or ‘false’.”56 Instead, the fundamental issue is what models are
assumed to describe when they are employed in exegesis. There are
several possibilities: models could purport to be predictions of actors’
behaviour, they could describe a necessary action in a given situation, or
they could outline typical behaviour. Since the biblical text already
contains the “results” of action, any model derived from social science
cannot be a prediction. Nor can typical action be claimed to be required
of any acting subject, for that would leave no room for people to act
counter-culturally, which, while it may not happen very frequently,
certainly does occur. Instead, models are rightly considered descriptions
of typical observed behaviour and, as such, they are an explication of the
social context of any particular action.
The second af¿rmation is that models of typical action can be com-
pared. Because the Bible does not provide much in the way of ethno-
graphic data that can be used to construct models, it is important to
utilize anthropology with its accumulation of data from many different
societies. One may then compare anthropological models, so highlight-
ing the different assumptions of modern readers with ancient authors
and their implied audiences.57 Crucially, however, one must be aware
that a comparison of models does not mean “cultures” are being com-
pared. The anthropologist and theologian Mario Aguilar is correctly
unequivocal: “Cultures do not exist. Instead, groups of human beings
that share some common understanding, but also ¿ght for their own
identity…interact within larger contested worlds.”58 When exegetes
employ a model, therefore, they do not utilize a proxy for “culture” but
merely a summary description of typical behaviour. Whether any parti-
cular model is adequate even for this purpose is an empirical matter; but
it can never be a description of “culture.”
A third af¿rmation is that human action is always personal and open,
that is, it does not have to cohere with that summarized in a model. In his
ethnography of Greece Michael Herzfeld highlights ubiquitous ambigu-
ity so that even between conventional interpretations of action that may

56. P. Esler, “Introduction: Models, Context and Kerygma in New Testament

Interpretation,” in Modelling Early Christianity: Social-scienti¿c Studies of the New
Testament in Its Context (ed. P. F. Esler; London: Routledge, 1995), 1–20 (4).
57. While there is a risk that models will lead readers to think patterns of conduct
are evident when they are not, once the interpretative assumptions have been made
explicit whether this has occurred can become a matter of debate.
58. M. Aguilar, “Changing Models and the Death of Culture,” in Anthropology
and Biblical Studies: Avenues of Approach (ed. L. J. Lawrence and M. I. Aguilar;
Leiden: Deo, 2004), 299–313 (307).
1
 1. Interpreting David and Jonathan 29

be summarized in models there is “an expressive play of opposition.”59

Herzfeld labels this “disemia,” claiming it speaks not of contradiction but
tension. He offers the example of the diabolical and virginal aspects of
women’s sexuality in Greek and Indian contexts where “the sweetness of
domestic intimacy and the fear men have of their wives’ and daughters’
de¿lement by other men” are simultaneous concerns.60 This leads to an
important observation, namely, that a fundamental social reality is that
we do not face the plurality of goods and evils one at a time, but simul-
taneously.
Many people conceive this plurality as one of values. The underlying
assumption of values talk, however, is that “values” can be compared
and traded, thus precluding objective morality that is reasoned rather
than simply chosen—“non-negotiable values” are oxymoronic. Never-
theless, it remains helpful to speak of values, if we understand that the
term is shorthand for things that a particular society or individual con-
siders good or evil. On this understanding a moral good or positive value
is something that one ought to desire or pursue, and a moral evil or
negative value is something that one ought to eschew. It is not necessary
to defend a particular conception of the good, nor a speci¿c relationship
between good and right, nor even ponder the nature of the highest good.61
Yet the idea that at any one moment people are confronted with multiple
goods and evils is important for our study of Jonathan and David because
their friendship is by no means the only good in question. In fact, it is
precisely the conÀict between their friendship and other goods, espe-
cially the good of the family and hence the moral good of family loyalty,
that provides the sting in the narrative’s tail.
As well as seeing that each good must be understood in its cultural
context in order to be properly comprehended, it will become obvious
that different characters promote different goods. Moreover, the author
takes a view about which of them are to be preferred by endorsing some
characters’ perspectives and undermining others’ to make an important

59. M. Herzfeld, Anthropology Through the Looking-Glass: Critical Ethnogra-

phy in the Margins of Europe (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987), 114.
60. Herzfeld, Looking Glass, 99. Both these conceptions are, of course,
“models.” See also Michael Herzfeld, “Disemia,” in Semiotics (ed. M. Herzfeld and
M. D. Lenhart; New York: Plenum, 1980), 205–15.
61. For discussion of these issues, see Rowe, Michal’s Moral Dilemma, 37–68.
A useful survey of philosophical thought concerning “the good” is A. MacIntyre, A
Short History of Ethics: A History of Moral Philosophy from the Homeric Age to the
Twentieth Century (2d ed; London: Routledge, 1998), especially 5–13, 42–44, 57–
63, 249–66.
1
30 Sons or Lovers

theological point. To summarize, because human action is open and will

never completely mirror generalized abstractions any adequate interpre-
tative method must be able to account for both the variety of goods and
the large number of ways in which people may respond to them, not all
of which cohere with models of typical behaviour.
In the light of this we must also af¿rm, fourth, that human action is
ambiguous. Just because patterns of behaviour may be observed one
cannot deduce that there is some sort of “rule” that requires this behav-
iour. Bourdieu comments that to
slip from regularity, i.e. from what recurs with a certain statistically
measurable frequency and from the formula which describes, to a con-
sciously laid down and consciously respected ruling (règlement), or to
unconscious regulating by a mysterious cerebral or social mechanism, are
the two commonest ways of sliding from the model of reality to the
reality of the model.62

Thus, even when a series of actions and reactions are predictable from
outside, the subjective view remains uncertain. This is evident from a
consideration of gift-giving. An external observer sees an ordered cycle
of reciprocity that seems to encapsulate the “rule” that if one receives a
gift it “must” be repaid. Yet those on the inside of this practice may
break the cycle at any time. Thus while the external, objective view
excludes ambiguity, from the participant’s perspective all gift-giving by
others is uncertain and its meaning dif¿cult to determine.
The ¿nal af¿rmation is that dominant constructions of power relations
can be both contested and accepted. Herzfeld explains that the “honour–
shame” model of male–female relations (which we will examine and
analyze in more detail in Chapter 5) suppresses alternative views, “not
simply of the women, but of most villagers when discussing intimate
situations with those whom they regard as intimate friends.”63 That is, the
situation affects behaviour. If dirt, in this case inappropriate deportment,
is “matter out of place,” then what changes is not the matter but the
place: what is acceptable in one situation is not in another, and vice
versa. This means that one should be careful when speaking of “cultural
norms” and so on, for one may simply be repeating the view of the most
powerful groups in society, for example, wealthy, older men.
These ¿ve af¿rmations summarize the theoretical underpinnings of our
appropriation of social-science for exegesis. They describe an approach
that enables ethnographic and anthropological resources to be employed

62. Bourdieu, Logic, 39 (emphasis original).

1
63. Herzfeld, Looking Glass, 99 (without original emphasis).
 1. Interpreting David and Jonathan 31

in creative ways to suggest understandings of the context of biblical

characters’ practices, while allowing theoretical space for consideration
of idiosyncratic acts that do not cohere with cultural schemata, acts
which may contest dominant relations of power yet remain ambiguous.
It is to an interpretation of the David–Jonathan narratives that we now
turn.

1
 Chapter 2

“REAL MEN”

Such is thy Valour and thy vaǕt ǕucceǕs,

That all things but thy Loyalty are leǕs.
—Abraham Cowley, Davideis1

We are aware that individual people are not wholly good or bad but
complicated multi-faceted characters, variously tender and hard-hearted,
ecstatic and morose, sprightly and torpid, and a host of other states. Yet
when we come to read the Bible we often expect that its characters will
be either altogether commendable or utterly reprehensible. We have
already observed that this is far from the case, and that the complexity of
biblical characterization is part of its pedagogical value.2 Readers become
involved with characters’ struggles, identifying with them, wishing they
would choose another course of action, empathizing with their emotional
turmoil and fearing for their futures. Through this process the texts teach
what it is to live—both faithfully and unfaithfully—in an uncertain world
of threats, hopes, contingencies and vicissitudes.
Because biblical narratives are like this David and Jonathan need to be
interpreted in context, that is, in relation to the situations in which they
appear and the people with whom they relate in the ongoing story.
Furthermore, we must not expect them to be simply exemplars of “faith-
fulness” or “valour,” even if these attributes are crucial to the whole
portrayal of their friendship. Because, in David McCracken’s words,
“[c]haracter is something that the author tends toward speaking with
rather than speaking about,” their interactions are more signi¿cant than
character traits.3 In this light, we will see that the textual relationships

1. Cowley, Davideis, 49 (emphasis and spelling original).

2. On the character of David, for example, see R. Bowman, “The Complexity of
Character and the Ethics of Complexity: The Case of King David,” in Character and
Scripture: Moral Formation, Community and Biblical Interpretation (ed. W. P.
Brown; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2002), 73–97.
3. D. McCracken, “Character in the Boundary: Bakhtin’s Interdividuality in
Biblical Narratives,” Semeia 63 (1993): 29–42 (36, emphasis original). McCracken
 2. “Real Men” 33

between the men are intended to contrast how each measures up to what
it meant to be a “real man” in ancient Israel.4
The dominant concept of socially approved adult male roles and
behaviour has been termed “hegemonic masculinity.”5 Hegemonic
masculinity is normative rather than necessarily statistically prevalent.
Indeed, while theorists posit a single hegemonic masculinity, they also
identify a host of “subordinate masculinities” that compete with the
dominant conception.6 Although views of right manly behaviour vary
between societies, some anthropologists seek to identify ubiquitous traits
of manhood. David Gilmore concludes his study by summarizing that a
man “must impregnate women, protect dependents from danger, and
provision kith and kin.”7 He also notes, however, that “manhood ideolo-
gies always include a criterion of selÀess generosity, even to the point of
sacri¿ce. Again and again we ¿nd that ‘real’ men are those who give
more than they take; they serve others. Real men are generous, even to a
fault.”8 The stingy and unproductive are “non-men,” and “masculine”
and “feminine,” therefore, are not mutually exclusive categories, some-
thing that problematizes schematic characterizations of hegemonic
masculinity as the “avoidance of being feminized.”9 Because masculinity

identi¿es ¿ve features of the Bakhtinian interdividual character: (1) character is

relatively free from objective authorial determination; (2) character exists in relation
with others; (3) character is presently real to readers, thus forming a dialogic with
them; (4) characterization aims to provoke a response, not merely describe; and
(5) character exists in discourse, it is not simply described by an omniscient narrator.
4. I read David Clines’s important early study of David’s masculinity, “David
the Man: The Construction of Masculinity in the Hebrew Bible,” after completing
the draft of this chapter. Clines also uses the phrase “real men,” examining the
differences between ancient and modern masculinity and, most interestingly, how
the modern ideology of masculinity leads twentieth-century interpreters to suppress
aspects of the ancient ideal, speci¿cally, those to do with good looks, sex and
violence. See D. J. A. Clines, “David the Man: The Construction of Masculinity in
the Hebrew Bible,” in Interested Parties: The Ideology of Writers and Readers of the
Hebrew Bible (JSOTSup 205; Shef¿eld: Shef¿eld Academic, 1995), 212–43.
5. A comprehensive review of the literature can be found in R. W. Connell and
J. W. Messerschmidt, “Hegemonic Masculinity: Rethinking the Concept,” GS 19
(2005): 829–59.
6. See S. Haddox, “Favoured Sons and Subordinate Masculinties,” in Men and
Masculinity in the Hebrew Bible and Beyond (ed. Ovidiu Creangă; BMW 33;
Shef¿eld: Shef¿eld Phoenix, 2010), 2–19.
7. D. Gilmore, Manhood in the Making: Cultural Concepts of Masculinity (New
Haven: Yale University Press, 1990), 223.
8. Ibid., 229.
1
9. See Haddox, “Favoured Sons and Subordinate Masculinities,” 4–7 (6).
34 Sons or Lovers

is not reducible to a single, simple notion Eduardo Archetti asserts that

one should destabilize conventional understandings and instead look for
differences in how masculinity is produced and reproduced.10 This is an
important advance over the assumption that by identifying a single
hegemonic masculinity one has encompassed everything to be said about
manhood. Moreover, the dominant view must be considered in conjunc-
tion with established notions of the feminine.11 In contrast to those who
see women as constrained by cultural categories controlled by men,
Joanna Overing argues that men are also constrained to conform to any
given society’s view of what constitutes the virtuous man. She provides
examples from Amazonian tribes, contrasting the Shavantes’ epitome
of masculinity as a virile hunter-warrior with the Piaroa ideal of tranquil-
lity and emotional mastery.12 In a similar vein, R. Connell and James
Messerschmidt maintain that “[c]ultural consent, discursive centrality,
institutionalization, and the marginalization or delegitimation [sic] of
alternatives are widely documented features of socially dominant
masculinities.”13
The discussion of hegemonic masculinity has shown that while it
forms part of the cultural context for action, it can be con¿rmed or sub-
verted by individuals. In the previous chapter we distinguished between
cultural expectations and human aspirations, arguing that it is important
to investigate both. With respect to hegemonic masculinity this means
considering both the nature of dominant conception of manhood and
how individuals use this ideal for their own purposes. In the case of lit-
erature, therefore, exegetes should consider the extent to which charac-
ters, including the narrator, comply with and promote the ideal. It is also
important, though, to go beyond this to think about how the author
utilizes the notion of hegemonic masculinity for characterization and, in
particular, to give credence to or undermine each character’s narrative
voice.14

10. E. P. Archetti, Masculinities: Football, Polo and the Tango in Argentina

(Oxford: Berg, 1999), 115.
11. A. George, “Reinventing Honorable Masculinity: Discourses from a
Working-Class Indian Community,” MM 9 (2006): 35–52 (36). Contrast Sheryl
Ortner’s view that female is to male as nature is to culture in her Making Gender,
21–42, 173–80.
12. J. Overing, “Styles of Manhood: An Amazonian Contrast in Tranquillity and
Violence,” in Societies at Peace: Anthropological Perspectives (ed. S. Howell and
R. Willis; London: Routledge, 1989), 79–99.
13. Connell and Messerschmidt, “Hegemonic Masculinity,” 846.
14. Regarding the question whether we can know about ancient hegemonic
masculinity at all, one can simply attempt to construct a synthesis from the biblical
1
 2. “Real Men” 35

In a classic article on ancient masculinity Harry Hoffner asserts that it

was measured by the criteria of martial prowess and progeny.15 In the
books of Samuel it is immediately obvious that these and the characteris-
tics identi¿ed by Gilmore, noted above, apply to “real men.” Warriors
are prominent in the three psalms that structure the books, and Jonathan
and David are the pre-eminent examples of “the mighty” (1 Sam 2:4;
14:52; 16:18; 17:51; 2 Sam 1:19, 21–22, 25, 27; 10:7; 16:6; 17:8, 10;
20:7; 23:8–9, 16–17, 22). It probably signi¿cant that the adjective ğČĈĉ,
“manly” or “valiant,” is not used to describe Saul himself,16 although
Saul’s father is ēĐĎ ğČĈĉ, “exceptionally valiant” (1 Sam 9:1).17 The
social expectation of military valour is highlighted in the women’s song
following the victory over Goliath (1 Sam 18:7). And when facing the
prospect of defeat the Philistines exhort themselves to “be men, and
¿ght!” (1 Sam 4:9). The physical characteristics associated with warriors
are height and strength, although the books suggest readers should look
beyond these to the heart (1 Sam 9:2; 16:7, 12, 18; 17:4, 42). Other
positively evaluated male characteristics include being a father (1 Sam
1:8; 2:5, 8; 2 Sam 3:1–5), showing concern as a husband (1 Sam 1:5–8),
being virtuous with respect to cultic and judicial activities (1 Sam 2:12,
22–24; 8:3; 12:3–4) and having “intelligent speech” (1 Sam 17:34–36;
24:10–15; 26:18–20; cf. Gen 41:33, 39; Deut 1:13; 1 Kgs 3:12).18

(and other) texts, paying particular attention to how “heroes” are portrayed. Yet
although it is probable that there is a connection between the textual and historical
ideas, this cannot be assumed and John Barton’s cautions are apposite: “The Old
Testament is evidence for, not conterminous with, the life and thought of ancient
Israel; Old Testament writers may at times state or imply positions which were the
common currency of ancient Israelites, but they may also propound novel, or con-
troversial, or minority positions” (J. Barton, Understanding Old Testament Ethics:
Approaches and Explorations [Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2003], 17).
15. H. Hoffner, “Symbols for Masculinity and Femininity: Their Use in Ancient
Near Eastern Sympathetic Magic Rituals,” JBL 85 (1966): 326–34 (327).
16. Note the parallelism in 2 Sam 1:19, although David’s eulogy may have more
to do with showing that David is irreproachable, in the sense that he does not
deprecate his adversary, than any relation to Saul’s character.
17. Note, however, Jacob Wright’s contention that “the book of Ruth imagines
an alternative society to that depicted in Judges: war is completely absent, Israel is
sustained by name-making through offspring, and a ēĐĎ ğČĈĉ is not a ‘warrior’ but
rather a man of noble virtue and social status, who plays a key role in this decisive
act of procreation” (J. Wright, “Making a Name for Oneself: Martial Valor, Heroic
Death, and Procreation in the Hebrew Bible,” JSOT 36 [2011]: 131–62 [153]).
1
18. See Clines, “David the Man,” 219–20.
36 Sons or Lovers

In the remainder of this chapter we will examine how Jonathan, David

and Saul are described as they ¿ght, swear and wield weapons, in order
to assess how each character measures up to these ideals.

1. Bravehearts
At the end of 1 Sam 8 readers are left wondering who will be chosen as
king. The answer to the people’s petition is presented not as an isolated
individual but someone carefully situated in a genealogy that stresses his
ancestry in the tribe of Benjamin and his father’s wealth. That Saul
himself is also a man of consequence is underscored by his appearance,
especially his incomparable physical presence (1 Sam 9:2). David, on the
other hand, almost fails to make it on to the stage, only doing so because
Samuel queries whether he really has seen all Jesse’s sons (1 Sam 16:11).
David is “only the youngest” but turns out to be ruddy and the possessor
of beautiful eyes (1 Sam 16:12). He is also ćğ ĈČď, an expression that
means “handsome,” although a literal translation is “good of looking.”
Does this mean “good to look at”—good-looking? Or is he “good at
looking”—insightful? The ambiguity of the epithet is signi¿cant, for
Saul has just been rejected as king because he has not known how to
perceive what is required of him (1 Sam 15:17–23).19 The double
meaning “good-looking”–“good at looking” reminds readers of God’s
instruction to Samuel only a few verses earlier not to observe outward
appearance or height (a clear reference to Saul), but to look on the heart,
“for the LORD does not see as mortals see” (1 Sam 16:7). The author has
placed these words in the mouth of YHWH himself. John Barton observes
that the books of Samuel are rather “secular” in tone because God does
not keep intervening.20 YHWH’s statement, therefore, is a signi¿cant
moment in the narrative’s Àow. It is obviously an invitation to Samuel to
perceive correctly, something that he does as he rejects David’s older
brothers (1 Sam 16:8–10). The phrase, though, is also an invitation to
readers to realize that appearances can be deceptive. As they listen to
Samuel spurning Jesse three times as ¿rst Abinadab, then Shammah,
then the rest of Jesse’s seven sons are presented to God’s prophet,
readers are drawn into the drama, learning what it is repeatedly to listen
to YHWH’s voice. The presentation of Samuel as acting obediently

19. This ambiguity may be the reason for the addition of “for the Lord” in LXXB,
which would seem to highlight David’s correct perception; see P. K. McCarter,
1 Samuel: A New Translation with Introduction, Notes and Commentary (AB 8;
Garden City: Doubleday, 1980), 275.
1
20. Barton, Understanding Old Testament Ethics, 61.
 2. “Real Men” 37

converges with exhortations to obedient action, thus highlighting the

imperative for readers themselves. Not all of the narrative’s characters,
though, measure up adequately to the required standard, as readers are
already aware.
In 1 Sam 15:3 Saul is charged to attack and utterly destroy, ĔğĎ,
Amalek. The text highlights the partial ful¿lment of this commission,
for “Saul and the people spared Agag, and the best of the sheep and of
the cattle and of the fatlings, and the lambs, and all that was valuable,
and would not utterly destroy (ĔğĎ) them; all that was despised and
worthless they utterly destroyed (ĔğĎ)” (1 Sam 15:10). The length of the
list of items kept back from being completely dedicated highlights the
limits of Saul’s obedience. He, however, protests that he has complied
with God’s command and that the spoil was brought back “to sacri¿ce
(ĎĈč) to the LORD your God in Gilgal” (1 Sam 15:21). Susan Niditch,
however, notes that from “zƟbƗÜîm, sacri¿ces of the sort Saul mentions[,]
one makes a feast and enjoys eating meat from the sancti¿ed Àesh. That
devoted to destruction is not to be shared with God in any sense.”21 It is
clear that Saul is not turning out to be quite what was expected of a king,
something that Samuel makes explicit when he challenges Saul with the
rhetorical question “are you not the head of the tribes of Israel?” (1 Sam
15:17).
The discrepancy between expectation and reality marks Saul’s later
military exploits. He is unable or unwilling to lead Israel in battle against
Goliath and Israel is challenged by the Philistine warrior to “choose a man
for yourselves…give me a man” (1 Sam 17:8, 10). The whole situation
creates negative resonances given that the reason for the people’s request
for a king was protection from enemies (1 Sam 8:20). Mark George notes
that Goliath represents the warrior ideal, while Saul embodies Israel’s
identity.22 In fact, Goliath’s threat to enslave Israel means David, like
Moses and the Judges, is presented as a rescuer of Israel.
Jonathan ¿rst enters the story in 1 Sam 13:2. Interestingly, he is not
immediately situated in a genealogy or associated with a particular
father’s house but described as a commander of a thousand who defeated
a Philistine garrison. David’s similarity to Jonathan is remarkable: follow-
ing the victory over Goliath he also becomes a commander (1 Sam 18:5)
and, a few verses later when Saul means him to fall in battle, commander
of a thousand (1 Sam 18:13). Facing up to others and triumphing in

21. S. Niditch, War in the Hebrew Bible: A Study in the Ethics of Violence
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993), 62.
22. M. George, “Constructing Identity in 1 Samuel 17,” BibInt 7 (1999): 389–412
(396–98).
1
38 Sons or Lovers

battle are key characteristics of manhood within the books of Samuel. It

is signi¿cant, therefore, that Jonathan is initially presented as the essence
of what it means to be a “real man” and not as a dependent within Saul’s
household.
Readers’ impressions of Jonathan’s military prowess are reinforced
when he is portrayed as a brave, innovative and successful warrior in
1 Sam 14. Before looking at this passage in detail, however, it is neces-
sary to counter Diana Edelman’s objection that Jonathan could not have
been at the battle of Michmash because he was too young.23 Although the
chronology of the books of Samuel is complicated, Martha Roth’s work
on age at marriage can be used to estimate David and Jonathan’s relative
ages. Roth examines ancient Near Eastern marriage contracts to calculate
the usual age of the bride and bridegroom, concluding that the typical
model of marriage practices in Neo-Assyria and Neo-Babylonia approxi-
mated to that of “Mediterranean marriage,” in which men marry aged
26–32 and women 14–20.24 Appendix A shows how this data might be
utilized to estimate the relative ages of selected characters in 1 Samuel
taking as a “¿xed point” David and Michal’s ages at marriage. Although
this calculation may be challenged on the basis of its assumptions, it is
the best estimate currently available. Two conclusions are pertinent to
this study. First, it can be observed that David and Jonathan are at an
almost identical stage of life. Second, since it is not necessary to suppose
that the battle of Michmash Pass occurred at the start of Saul’s reign and,
given that the minimum age for military service was 20 years (Num 26:2,
4), that it would have been possible for this and other military escapades
(e.g. those of 1 Sam 13) to have occurred during years 49–52 on the scale
in Appendix A, the presentation of Jonathan as a young and somewhat
reckless commander is plausible.
To return to 1 Sam 14, only a few verses previously Samuel has
pronounced that YHWH has rejected Saul and sought out a man after his
own heart to replace him as king (1 Sam 13:14). The description of

23. See D. Edelman, “Jonathan Son of Saul,” ABD 3:944–46.

24. M. T. Roth, “Age at Marriage and the Household: A Study of Neo-Babylo-
nian and Neo-Assyrian Forms,” CSSH 29 (1987): 715–47 (720–22). The three
models of marriage practices she uses to structure her discussion are: (1) Western—
marriage late, narrow age difference, low proportion of people ever marrying, low
proportion of multi-generational households; (2) Eastern—marriage early, narrow
age difference, high proportion of people ever marrying, high proportion of multi-
generational households; and (3) Mediterranean—marriage late for men, early for
women, wide age difference, high proportion of people ever marrying, high propor-
tion of multi-generational households.
1
 2. “Real Men” 39

Jonathan’s escapade raises the question of whether he is this man, espe-

cially since right at the beginning of the story his armour bearer says “do
all that is in your heart” (1 Sam 14:7).25 In contrast to both Saul who
reclines under a pomegranate tree and those Hebrews who have hidden
in caves Jonathan decides to do something about Philistine oppression.
The exact manoeuvre is dif¿cult to reconstruct. Diana Edelman thinks
that Jonathan’s strategy could be interpreted by the Philistines as two
defecting Israelites, but underplays the element of surprise that appears
in the text along with the need for God’s protection.26 Anthony Campbell
supposes that the dif¿culty of climbing a steep cliff face having shown
themselves necessitates the need for God’s sign.27 John Rogerson argues
that Jonathan did not go up immediately: “From the fact that they
crawled up the canyon on their hands and knees we may guess that they
went back down the canyon, and crawled out of it at a point where they
were screened from Michmash, and then came from a totally unexpected
direction.”28 Regardless of the precise manoeuvre, it is described as
requiring personal audacity and an element of luck, and hence the need
to enquire of God.
Walter Brueggemann calls Jonathan a “believing warrior,” something
that is emphasized in vv. 6 and 8 by the full spelling of Jonathan’s name
(Ėġû ûė˟ċ óĐ for the usualĖġû ûė˟Đ), a wordplay on “the Lord has given them into

25. Robert Polzin notes the contrast between Jonathan’s armour bearer and
Saul’s people, who say “do whatever is good in your eyes” (1 Sam 14:36, 40); see
R. Polzin, Samuel and the Deuteronomist: A Literary Study of the Deuteronomic
History. Part Two. 1 Samuel (ISBL; Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1993),
134. Diana Edelman ponders whether ĔČĐċ in v. 1 points to the imminent appoint-
ment of Jonathan, given a similar time reference at Saul’s anointing (1 Sam 9:19);
see D. Edelman, King Saul in the Historiography of Judah (JSOTSup 121; Shef¿eld:
Shef¿eld Academic, 1991), 83. Another contrast between Saul and Jonathan con-
cerns the giving of directions. The latter instructs and the lad then follows, while
Saul receives suggestions from his lad (1 Sam 9:5–10; 14:6–7). This theme is devel-
oped in the “following–not following” motif subsequent to Saul’s initial anointing:
the people are reluctant to recognize his kingship until God intervenes. And in the
confrontation with Jonathan there is a progression from the people’s willingness to
go along with Saul (1 Sam 14:36), to a recalcitrant silence (1 Sam 14:39), to outright
opposition (1 Sam 14:45); see Edelman, King Saul, 92–93.
26. Edelman, King Saul, 85.
27. See A. Campbell, 1 Samuel (FOTL 7; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2003), 145.
28. J. W. Rogerson, Atlas of the Bible (Amsterdam: Time-Life, 1985), 171. For
the fascinating anecdote of how a single British infantry company took Michmash
from Turkish forces during the First World War using tactics inspired by 1 Sam 14,
see S. Shalom Brooks, Saul and the Monarchy: A New Look (SOTSMS; Aldershot:
Ashgate, 2005), 104–8.
1
40 Sons or Lovers

our hand” (1 Sam 14:10).29 The author highlights Jonathan’s reliance

upon YHWH in several ways. First, Jonathan’s statement that “nothing
can hinder the Lord from saving by many or by few” places the focus
upon God’s actions, something characteristic of the portrayal of all “men
of God” (1 Sam 14:6). The narrative has already highlighted YHWH’s
saving deeds (1 Sam 11:13; 12:6–7) and Jonathan’s con¿dence contrasts
positively with Saul’s worry that the battle would be lost if too many
men slipped away (1 Sam 13:8, 11). Indeed, the context for Jonathan’s
almost solitary exploit at Michmash could not paint the scene more
starkly since Saul is said to be attended by six hundred men plus mem-
bers of the Elide priesthood (1 Sam 14:2–3). Apart from the large
number, which has negative connotations given the author’s preference
for small forces who triumph through God’s power, the link to the house
of Eli pre¿gures the fate of Saul’s own dynasty (1 Sam 2:27–4:18).30
Second, the request for a sign is not indecision, but a matter of tactics,
of whether to ¿ght at the top or bottom of the cliffs: Jonathan is going to
stand up to the Philistines whatever happens.31 Polzin contrasts Saul’s
con¿dent expectation of a sign, even trying to force God to give an
answer, with Jonathan’s “perhaps,” observing that “Jonathan’s ‘sign to
us’ from God is not to be coerced but only hoped for.”32
Third, it is clear that God is with Jonathan. This is especially apparent
in v. 13 where, despite no mention of Jonathan’s agency in the actual
battle scene, the Philistines simply fall before him and are despatched by
the armour bearer.33 Jan Fokkelman suggests that by not naming the
agent of victory “the story expresses the synergism of the supreme
moment: Jonathan’s raid and God’s help are completely and inseparably

29. W. Brueggemann, First and Second Samuel (Int.; Louisville: John Knox,
1990), 103.
30. On the actual numbers of ¿ghting men mustered, see T. R. Hobbs, A Time for
War: A Study of Warfare in the Old Testament (OTS 3; Wilmington: Glazier, 1989),
70–83. The ¿gures in the text appear to be rounded estimates or shorthand for much
smaller military units; their signi¿cance lies in the contrast between Saul’s numerous
support and Jonathan (and David’s) almost solitary exploits.
31. So M. Evans, 1 and 2 Samuel (NIBC 6; Massachusetts: Hendricksen; Carlisle:
Paternoster, 2000), 66; J. Fokkelman, Narrative Art and Poetry in the Books for
Samuel: A Full Interpretation Based on Stylistic and Structural Analyses. Vol. 2,
The Crossing Fates (1 Sam 13–31 and II Sam 1) (SSN 23; Assen: Van Gorcum,
1986), 54. On events announcing the will of God, see Gen 24:12–13; Exod 3:12;
Judg 6:17–18, 36–40; 1 Sam 2:34; 10:7–9; 2 Kgs 19:29; 20:8–10.
32. Polzin, Samuel, 134.
33. Henry Smith notes the force of the participle: “his armour-bearer kept
despatching them” (H. P. Smith, Samuel [ICC; Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1899],
108).
1
 2. “Real Men” 41

interwoven. The victory is entirely the work of the heroic Jonathan and at
the same time entirely an act of his God.”34 The similarities with both
Goliath’s falling before David and the Philistine god Dagan falling
before YHWH are noteworthy (1 Sam 5:3–4; 14:13; 17:49). Jonathan’s
foray results in the Philistines panicking, a situation exacerbated by an
earthquake. Although Gerhard von Rad’s thesis concerning “Holy War”
has been thoroughly critiqued, his observations concerning the ¿nal stage
of what is now usually termed “YHWH war” remain interesting.35 They
highlight its divine prosecution as the warriors experience a
terror sent by God…a numinous panic in which they act blindly and
accomplish their own destruction. Thus, at the culminating point of the
engagement the action is wrested from the leader’s hands without his
knowing it, and a miracle from Jahweh drops as it were into empty space
from which all human activity has been scrupulously removed.36

This seems to be what happens as a result of Jonathan’s escapade, which

led to “a very great panic” (1 Sam 14:15). The success of his adventure is
complete.
Barbara Green suggests that Jonathan’s previous victory at Geba was
not necessarily advised, arguing that the fact that Israel became odious to
the Philistines (1 Sam 13:3–4) casts a shadow over Jonathan’s success in
1 Sam 14.37 It is more probable, however, that 1 Sam 13:4 is a highly
signi¿cant echo of Exod 5:21, where the people complain to Moses that
he had brought them “into bad odour with Pharaoh and his of¿cials,
[who] have put a sword in their hand to kill [them].” As such, it paints
Jonathan as a rescuer of Israel in the same way as David is portrayed
with respect to Goliath. In both cases the comparison is hardly Àattering
to Saul.
A number of commentators are struck by the very great detail offered
when Jonathan and then David engage in military activities. In particular,
some observe that 1 Sam 14 is a very long account, and ponder why this
is so. The comprehensiveness of the narrative is a classic technique for
slowing down the pace of the story and foregrounding the characters’
actions. But what is its purpose here? Keith Bodner suggests that the

34. Fokkelman, Crossing, 52–53.

35. For background and discussion, see, e.g., P. C. Craigie, The Problem of War
in the Old Testament (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1978); Hobbs, A Time for War;
T. Longman III and D. G. Reid, God Is a Warrior (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1995).
36. G. von Rad, Studies in Deuteronomy (SBT 9; trans. D. Stalker; Chicago:
Regnery, 1953), 45–59 (47–48).
37. Green, Mighty, 241. Even though Saul takes the credit the text is clear that it
was his son who secured victory (1 Sam 13:2–4).
1
42 Sons or Lovers

chapter foreshadows the remainder of Saul’s days.38 It certainly would

do this if Saul were in the spotlight, but such an answer does not really
explain the author’s attention to Jonathan. Tony Cartledge proposes two
reasons for the inclusion of the chapter’s contents, namely, because it
recounts how Saul gained control of central Gibeah and because it details
the start of a conÀict between Saul and Jonathan.39 Again, while 1 Sam
14 comprises an aetiological account of territorial expansion, this does
not seem to require such an extended narrative. Furthermore, to talk of
conÀict between father and son is only part of the story, for it leads on to
a secondary question: Why should the author construct the relationship
as one of conÀict at this point? And why should he go into so much
detail to do so?
According to Michael Herzfeld’s ethnography, among the Glendiot of
Crete “there is less focus on ‘being a good man’ than on ‘being good at
being a man’—a stance that stresses performative excellence, the ability
to foreground manhood by means of deeds that strikingly ‘speak for
themselves’.”40 I propose that 1 Sam 14 is meant to allow Saul and Jona-
than’s deeds to “speak for themselves.” With respect to Jonathan they
demonstrate that he is to be considered a “real man” whose literary voice
should be heeded in the subsequent narrative. In the case of Saul,
however, the narrative undercuts the credibility of his voice. The author
has only been half-hearted in his presentation of Saul as militarily com-
petent, since the prompt for his success in 1 Sam 11:5–11 is the spirit of
God, and the obligation to participate is in the name of both “Saul and
Samuel.” In fact, the text never portrays Saul as unequivocally successful
in his own right, an ambivalent authorial attitude that continues in 1 Sam
14. Robert Gordon ironically remarks that when “Jonathan and his
armour-bearer have done their work there are twenty Philistine corpses
and a panic-stricken camp to show for it. But as soon as Saul joins the
fray complications set in.”41

38. For the question, see K. Bodner, National Insecurity: A Primer on the First
Book of Samuel (Toronto: Clements, 2003), 102; for the answer, see K. Bodner,
1 Samuel: A Narrative Commentary (HBM 19; Shef¿eld: Shef¿eld Phoenix, 2008),
130.
39. T. W. Cartledge, 1 & 2 Samuel (SHBC 7; Macon: Smyth & Helwys, 2001),
181.
40. M. Herzfeld, The Poetics of Manhood: Contest and Identity in a Cretan
Mountain Village (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1985), 16 (emphasis
original).
41. R. P. Gordon, 1 and 2 Samuel: A Commentary (Exeter: Paternoster, 1986),
36.
1
 2. “Real Men” 43

Like David after him, Jonathan’s initiative, executed against the odds
and on his own, brings overwhelming victory for Israel. The similarities
are not coincidental. In 1 Sam 14 there is a contrast between Jonathan’s
impetuous, decisive action and Saul’s dithering, a distinction echoed
in the confrontation with Goliath, where Saul’s failure to provide the
leadership for which he was appointed counts against him once again.
Furthermore, when David is described as “a man of valour, a warrior,
prudent in speech, and a man of good presence; and the LORD is with
him,” readers may question to whom else this description could apply. It
is extremely unlikely that mere coincidence has led to a description of
David that could apply equally to Jonathan, and it is unsurprising,
therefore, that Jonathan “loved him as his own soul” (NRSV), because
David was, Č›ěėĒ, “as himself” (1 Sam 18:3).
To conclude, in order to establish the legitimacy of the covenant with
David it is essential that Jonathan’s voice be entirely credible, and his
military valour, especially when contrasted with Saul’s vacillation, is one
means by which the author guides readers towards this interpretation.42

2. Profanity!
Another way in which the author undermines Saul’s voice and approves
of Jonathan’s is by comparing their willingness to ful¿l their respective
oaths.43 Following the episode at Michmash Pass the battle spread
throughout the Ephraim Hills. At this point Saul makes an oath, prohibit-
ing the consumption of food until he has been avenged of his enemies.
The oath is glossed in the LXX as “a very rash act” (1 Sam 14:24).44 It
seems designed to oblige God to give Saul complete victory, although
some scholars suggest that Saul wanted to entrap Jonathan.45 Regardless

42. It will be clear that I do not think recent proposals that Jonathan is portrayed
as a woman in order to disqualify him politically hold much water. For a detailed
response to Yaron Peleg’s contention that Jonathan is “feminized,” eventually
becoming David’s “female bride,” see J. Y. Rowe, “Is Jonathan Really David’s
‘Wife’? A Response to Yaron Peleg,” JSOT 34 (2009): 183–93; cf. Y. Peleg, “Love
at First Sight? David, Jonathan, and the Biblical Politics of Gender,” JSOT 30
(2005): 171–89.
43. Keith Bodner also argues that how characters “do things with oaths” provide
frames of reference for their narrative voices; see Bodner, David Observed, 155,
173–74.
44. See McCarter, 1 Samuel, 245.
45. I agree that swift victory is Saul’s purpose—so Edelman, King Saul, 90–91.
For the view that he aims to undermine Jonathan, see Fokkelman, Crossing, 72;
V. Phillips Long, The Reign and Rejection of King Saul: A Case for Literary and
Theological Coherence (SBLDS 118; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1989), 124–25.
1
44 Sons or Lovers

of the purpose, readers are puzzled because in the preceding verse the
narrator has declared “the Lord gave Israel the victory that day.”
If one follows the Masoretic text it is immediately clear that the oath is
inauspicious. The ¿rst part of 1 Sam 14:24 reads ĔČĐĈ Ġĉė ēćğĠĐĀĠĐćČ
ćČċċ. There is a marked reluctance to accept the plain sense, “the man of
Israel was distressed that day,” and both the Bible translations and com-
mentators frequently render the phrase “the men of Israel…”46 The verb,
however, is clearly singular; and scribal error (ĔĐĠėćČ for ĠĐćČ) unlikely.
It is possible, though, that ĠĐć implies the inde¿nite pronoun and that the
phrase is idiomatic for “[Each] man of Israel” (cf. 1 Sam 8:22). Regard-
less of whether “the man of Israel” or “each man of Israel” is to be
preferred, accepting the MT without emendation reveals that the author
undermines Saul’s voice in several ways.
First, if one translates as “the man” this naturally refers to Saul, who is
named as the subject of the sentence’s next verb, Ġĉė, “adjure.” But even
if one translates as “each man,” this includes Saul. In the second part of
1 Sam 14:24, the king says “curse the man (ĠĐćċ ğČğć, obscured by the
NRSV’s “anyone”) who eats food before the evening and I have been
avenged on my enemies.” When the people’s fatigue limits their victory,
therefore, there is a doubt about whether the second part of the protasis
has been ful¿lled, since the slaughter “has not been great” (1 Sam 14:30).
A question hangs over whether vengeance has been wreaked, for the
place names indicate that victory was signi¿cant but not complete:
Aijalon was twelve miles from Michmash, but still outside Philistine
territory demarcated by the ¿ve city-states of Gath, Ashdod, Ekron,
Ashkelon and Gaza. And if the victory was only partial, readers may be
led to ask whether “the man,” possibly Saul himself, is cursed.
Second, if Saul is distressed he is in a similar position to Israel in
1 Sam 13:6 where, signi¿cantly, the narrative continues with an account
of Saul’s impatience and subsequent rejection as king. This seems to
indicate that his oath is another example of impatience, of wanting to
force God to act quickly.
Third, the king wants to exact maximum effectiveness from the ten
thousand men under his command. But this number is so large it immedi-
ately raises questions about the strategy, for the Old Testament’s prefer-
ence is victory obtained by a few, something that is highlighted in the
story of Jonathan’s attack on the garrison.

46. See NIV; JPS; NEB; ESV. Even David Tsumura emends the text to “the men of
Israel”; see D. Tsumura, The First Book of Samuel (NICOT; Grand Rapids:
Eerdmans, 2007), 369. The NRSV follows LXX, as does Frank Moore Cross, although
without reconstructing the variant; see F. M. Cross et al., Qumran Cave 4.XII: 1–2
Samuel (DJD 17; Oxford: Clarendon, 2005), 72.
1
 2. “Real Men” 45

Fourth, the oath is broken by Jonathan when he eats honey. This

particular foodstuff suggests that the oath was out of place. God’s oath
was to promise Israel that he would deliver them from distress to a land
“Àowing with milk and honey” (Exod 3:7–8). Saul, on the other hand,
prohibits the people from eating it. That the honey is good is indicated by
the contrast between the brightening of Jonathan’s eyes and the troops’
weariness. Indeed, the assonance between the pronunciation of the
Hebrew words ğČć, “bright” (vv. 27, 29), and ğğć, “curse” (vv. 24, 28),
nicely highlights how the author draws a distinction between father and
son.
Fifth, the ban results in contravention of the food laws and so, one
may suppose, divine displeasure (1 Sam 14:31–35).47 The sense that Saul
might be pursuing a course not entirely amenable to God is further
underlined when he proposes that the Philistines be despoiled; in con-
trast, the priest suggests drawing near to God (1 Sam 14:36).
There is a ¿nal way in which the author explicitly undermines Saul’s
voice: Jonathan declares that his “father has troubled (ğĒę) the land”
(1 Sam 14:29). Bergen notes that this phrase “casts an ominous shadow
on Saul’s destiny” for there are clear echoes of Achan whose family was
annihilated for bringing trouble, ğĒę, to Israel (Josh 7:25).48 We might
also note that Saul has already had a problem with proper treatment of
the objects devoted to destruction, just like Achan (1 Sam 15; cf. Josh
7:1).
To conclude, Saul’s voice is consistently undermined even as he
swears an oath designed to secure victory.49

47. Hertzberg states that the problem was “not that the men had eaten the Àesh
‘with’ its blood—that would have to be be and not !al, Gen 9:4—but that they
prepared the meal ‘on’ the blood,” meaning the blood could not Àow to its proper
place and thus violating the spatial distance between God and people; see H. W.
Hertzberg, I & II Samuel (OTL; London: SCM, 1964), 115–16; cf. Deut 12:15–16;
Lev 19:26.
48. R. D. Bergen, 1, 2 Samuel (NAC 7; Nashville: Broadman & Holman, 1996),
159.
49. Some scholars have portrayed this ¿ghting against destiny as “tragic”; see,
e.g., D. M. Gunn, The Fate of King Saul: An Interpretation of a Biblical Story
(JSOTSup 14; Shef¿eld: Shef¿eld University, 1980), 78–83; J. C. Exum, Tragedy
and Biblical Narrative: Arrows of the Almighty (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 1992), 16–42; E. Good, Irony in the Old Testament (Shef¿eld: Almond,
1981), 56–80. For a detailed response, see P. Williams, “Is God Moral? On the
Saul Narratives as Tragedy,” in The God of Israel (ed. R. P. Gordon; UCOP 64;
Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 175–89. Note especially Williams’s
observation that Saul is an agent: he is not simply trapped by fate.
1
46 Sons or Lovers

Thus far we have observed that 1 Sam 14 contrasts Saul and his son.
Yet, although is militarily competent and brave, an entirely suitable
leader, Diana Edelman argues that the remainder of the chapter dis-
mantles this careful presentation. She contends that Jonathan’s statement
in v. 30 that the “slaughter has not been very great” is undermined by the
information provided by the narrator in the subsequent verse, and that the
casting of lots indicates Jonathan is rejected from the kingship because of
his insubordination. In contradistinction to Edelman I think that the
characterization of Jonathan is consistently positive so that when readers
reencounter him later in the story they trust his narrative voice. Saul is
portrayed negatively with the opposite intention. In the remainder of this
section we will examine an interpretation of 1 Sam 14:36–46 that
justi¿es this contention.
It is striking how all of Saul’s initiatives in this pericope are thwarted.
The ¿rst is his proposal that Israel proceed immediately to despoil the
Philistines. The people are non-committal and the priest proposes
consulting the deity (1 Sam 14:36). This sets off a train of events that
results in Saul withdrawing from his pursuit, and the Philistines returning
to “their own place” (1 Sam 14:46). That they are not annihilated casts a
shadow over all the king proposes in this passage. The next initiative is
Saul’s inquiry to God. That his petition meets with silence is most
signi¿cant. 1 Sam 8:18 states that God will not answer the people despite
their oppression by Israel’s king. The divine silence in ch. 14 alludes to
this threat, indicating that Saul is the cause of the problem. This interpre-
tation is given credence by God’s further silence in 1 Sam 28:6, when he
does not answer Saul in the face of Philistine aggression. It is a remark-
able contrast with the answering of Hannah’s heartfelt petition (1 Sam
1:17), the rout of the Philistines when Samuel implored him for deliver-
ance (1 Sam 7:9–11), and his presence with Jonathan and David (1 Sam
14:13–14; 18:28). It is clear that divine silence, which continues to the
end of the passage, constitutes God’s response to Saul’s agency. And the
eloquence of YHWH’s muteness consistently undermines Saul’s narrative
voice.
In the absence of a response from God Saul assumes that some sin has
been committed and calls the leaders together to determine what has gone
awry. Yet they, too, are silent (1 Sam 14:38). It seems that Saul is ever
more desperate, for he addresses the silent deity once again, demanding
to know why he has not indicated whether Israel should pursue the
Philistines. It is important to observe that the interpretation that YHWH
was silent because someone had sinned is Saul’s perception of events.
The request that God indicate who was to blame for the lack of response
1
 2. “Real Men” 47

is also Saul’s.50 All along, he seeks information already available to

readers, while God remains mute. This literary technique undermines
Saul’s perspective and raises questions about whether it is necessary to
suppose with Saul (and Diana Edelman) that the person chosen by lot is
guilty; perhaps the narrative points in another direction.
At ¿rst sight vv. 41–42 seem to indicate that Jonathan is identi¿ed as
culpable. Johannes Lindblom observes “it was the magical power, active
in the procedure of lot-casting, that ‘caught’ an offender or another
person for whom lots were thrown.”51 However, the lack of clarity about
the subject of the taking means one cannot be certain that the narrative
records YHWH as condemning Jonathan. Lindblom distinguishes between
cultic and lay lot-casting. The cultic apparatus involved the urim and
tummim, and was closely connected with the ephod, which in turn was
associated with the teraphim.52 Saul, as readers are aware, has had a
patchy record with priestly things and reference to them here is not
auspicious. In fact, what happens next presents a vivid picture of how
different narrative voices speak into a complex situation. The ¿rst voice
is Jonathan’s, responding to Saul’s accusing imperative “Tell me what
you have done.” Jonathan states that he simply tasted honey using the
staff in his hand. Perhaps he lifts the item to make his point. Saul, how-
ever, declares on oath that Jonathan will die. In all probability he raises a
staff as visible af¿rmation of his words.53 Since the staff is frequently a
euphemism for the family, often translated “tribe,” swearing an oath with

50. Kenneth Craig observes that Saul’s insistence upon a sign contrasts with
Jonathan’s hope for one; see K. Craig, “Rhetorical Aspects of Questions Answered
with Silence in 1 Samuel 14:37 and 28:6,” CBQ 56 (1994): 221–39 (225).
51. J. Lindblom, “Lot-Casting in the Old Testament,” VT 12 (1962): 164–78
(167).
52. Note that the MT offers only the briefest summary of the procedure, omitting
all mention of Jonathan’s possible guilt. The NRSV follows LXX, which is rejected by
Lindblom on the basis of its “materially unacceptable” description of lot-casting; see
Lindblom, “Lot-Casting,” 176. On the nature of teraphim, see Rowe, Michal’s
Moral Dilemma, 122–23.
53. In vv. 24–28 oaths or swearing occur four times. In three cases the Greek
translations share a common root, the noun form of which, ѝːˉˎˑ, originally referred
to the staff; see H.-G. Link, “Swear, Oath,” NIDNTT 3:737–40. The association of
oath and staff occurs in the Old Testament in Gen 47:31 (reading ċÏù ĕú , “staff,” with
LXX [Рˉːˎˌ], rather than ċÏû ĕ÷ , “bed”), see J. Skinner, A Critical and Exegetical
Commentary on Genesis (2d ed.; ICC; Edinburgh: T. &. T. Clark, 1930), 503. On
oaths and staves in general, see J. A. Wilson, “The Oath in Ancient Egypt,” JNES 7
(1948): 129–56 (135–37); for examples of the staff being used to beat oath breakers,
see G. Sellett, Shih C. Ho and Shih M. Ho, “Archaic Methods of Validating a
Contract: The ‘Blow’ and the ‘Libation’,” MLR 21 (1922): 79–85.
1
48 Sons or Lovers

this gesture would naturally symbolize a self-imprecation with the

meaning of “if I do not do so and so then may my family suffer.”54
What are we to make, then, of the lot identifying Jonathan? Perhaps
the taking of Jonathan means Saul is in the right? Marsha White com-
pares Saul’s oath to Hannah’s and thinks Saul’s willingness to put
Jonathan to death is “admirable.”55 This conclusion can be rejected not
only on the basis of the incongruity between the misdeed and death
sentence, but also because curses were not irrevocable, as the story of the
mother who forgave her thieving son having previously cursed the
robber demonstrates (Judg 17:2). Indeed, Yael Ziegler observes that
nearly half the oaths recorded in biblical text are violated, claiming that
“violation of the oath appears to constitute an integral part of the story in
which it appears.”56 Nor is Joseph Blenkinsopp’s literary solution that
1 Sam 14 mirrors Gen 3 satisfactory, since Jonathan was unaware of the
prohibition to eat.57 To decide the matter we must continue reading. We
then ¿nd that the clash of staves representing these conÀicting voices
is further complicated by the people’s declaration. Although they are
aware of the good of abiding by Saul’s oath—after all, they went hungry
in order to comply with its requirements—they perceive that this is
not the only moral good in play: the life of Jonathan, the successful
warrior, is another. Robert Gordon makes an obvious point overlooked
by many when he states that “the course of the day’s events made it very
clear [to the people] where, and upon whom, God’s favour lay.”58 They
also swear in the name of YHWH: that Jonathan will not die. The image
is a powerful one: two men holding their staves aloft in metaphorical
battle are surrounded by a multitude that also raises its staves and
declaims ċēĐēĎ. This term is integral to one form of Old Testament oath
formulae, the fullest version of which is found in 1 Sam 24:6 [7]:ċēĐēĎ
ċčċ ğĈĊċĀġć ċĠęćĀĔć ċČċĐĕ Đē.59 In addition to ċēĐēĎ the following

54. On the staff for family or tribe, see D. M. Fouts, “ċÏù ĕú ,” NIDOTTE 2:924–25.
55. M. White, “Saul and Jonathan in 1 Samuel 1 and 14,” in Saul in Story and
Tradition (FAT 117; ed. C. S. Ehrlich and M. C. White; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck,
2006), 119–38 (135).
56. See 1 Sam 25:22; 1 Kgs 19:2; 20:10; 2 Kgs 6:31; Y. Ziegler, “ ‘So Shall God
Do…’: Variations of an Oath Formula and Its Literary Meaning,” JBL 126 (2007):
59–81 (64).
57. J. Blenkinsopp, “Jonathan’s Sacrilege. 1 Sam 14: 1–46: A Study in Literary
History,” CBQ 26 (1964): 423–49.
58. Gordon, 1 & 2 Samuel, 141.
59. Yael Ziegler identi¿es three prominent oath formulae (ċēĐēĎ, ƍċ ĐĎ, ċĒ
ċĠęĐ); see. Y. Ziegler, Promises to Keep: The Oath in Biblical Narrative (VTSup
120; Leiden: Brill, 2008), 17.
1
 2. “Real Men” 49

elements are discernable: (1) ē plus personal pronoun, (2) a reference to

the deity, (3) a protasis marked by Ĕć (4) the verb ċĠę, and (5) “this
thing.” Appendix B contains a table showing the verses in which the
elements noted here are collocated with ċēĐēĎ, recording relevant
changes—for example, a different verb or object. Although ċēĐēĎ is
often translated “far be it” the interjection is probably best rendered
“profanity,” meaning the sense of the introductory phrase ē + (pro)noun
is “profanity to me,” and so on; in Gen 18:25 the addressee is God,
giving the sense of a vocative “profanity for you to do such a thing” and,
in similar vein, oath clauses are sometimes introduced with the adjective
ĐĎ and an authority ¿gure. In 1 Sam 14:45, therefore, ċČċĐĀĐĎ ċēĐēĎ, has
the sense of “may the living YHWH be profaned…”60 The people’s oath is
a response to that of Saul, and even before the narrator’s voice arbitrates
between them, Saul’s language hints at the result. Another typical oath
formula (the ċĠęĐ ċĒ type) usually contains a self-imprecation indicating
con¿dence. In 1 Sam 14:44, however, Saul uses this formula without the
expected self-imprecation. Ziegler suggests that “Saul does not refer to
himself as the recipient of a curse because he does not have a strong
enough character to do so. Saul is characterized by weakness, lack of
con¿dence, and poor leadership skills.”61 In the context of ch. 14, the
contrast between father and son cannot be drawn more starkly and in a
conÀict of mutually exclusive oaths the narrative moves quickly to a
resolution: Saul “loses” and Jonathan is ransomed.62

60. For detailed discussion of the translation of ċēĐēĎ and whether it is itself an
oath or an exclamation of horror immediately preceding an oath, see ibid., 127–33.
Ziegler denies that ċēĐēĎ in 1 Sam 14:45 and 20:2 are oaths because (1) there is no
direct object, (2) the recoiling is not from action of the speaker(s) himself /
themselves, (3) the recoiling is not from action that is inconsistent with the persona
of the addressee, and (4) “the speaker has no control over arresting the behavior”
(p. 146). Yet (1) cannot be decisive, (2) and (3) are true but irrelevant if, indeed, they
do not explain the omission of the direct object, and (4) is emphatically not the case,
since the point of the people’s and Jonathan’s oaths, respectively, is precisely to
prevent Saul prosecuting his murderous intentions. While the word is also exclama-
tory, the juxtaposition of ċēĐēĎ with other instances of swearing means taking it as
an abbreviated oath ¿ts the narrative context well.
61. Ziegler, “Variations of an Oath Formula,” 70. Pace Robert Merecz, who
argues that the lack of “ē plus personal pronoun” means that there was no intention
on the part of the speaker to ful¿l the oath; see R. Merecz, “Jezebel’s Oath (1 Kgs
19,2),” Biblica 90 (2009): 257–59.
62. On the meaning of ransomed here, see Smith, Samuel, 123. It seems unlikely
that a person was sacri¿ced in his place (see Exod 13:13, 15; 34:20).
1
50 Sons or Lovers

Anthropological accounts of oaths show that they are means of tying

a person’s reputation to a statement.63 But when Saul swears that Jonathan
will die he is unable to ful¿l his word. Although Cartledge claims the
“story ends with the king’s wearing a frustrated scowl, as Jonathan stands
no longer in the spotlight of heroism, but in the shadows of paternal
disfavour,” this is no slight to the characterization of Jonathan.64 And
although Edelman observes that the tripartite coronation pattern of nomi-
nation, testing and crowning is thwarted by the events of 1 Sam 14:24–
44, the absence of Jonathan’s crowning is to be expected in an apology
for David; it is the fact that he is portrayed as a suitable candidate that is
important.65 Indeed, the text is careful to record the people’s view that
Jonathan had worked with God (1 Sam 14:45). These evaluations have
tremendous importance for readers’ interpretations because when they
re-encounter Jonathan in ch. 20 they are already aware that he is a
reliable and trustworthy character. So, when he swears an oath of loyalty
to David that prioritizes friendship over family commitments readers are
prepared to accept his voice despite its counter-cultural message. On the
other hand, despite the fact that Saul’s voice utters conventionally
acceptable perspectives regarding the priority of kinship, they suspect
that it is not necessarily correct.

3. Spearmen
We come, ¿nally and much more brieÀy, to the way in which Jonathan,
David and Saul are identi¿ed and contrasted by means of the weapons
that they wield. The most common weapons of war in the books of
Samuel are the sword and spear. Perhaps it is signi¿cant, therefore, that
David’s preferred weapons are the staff and sling (1 Sam 17:40–50; cf.
1 Sam 25:29). Gregory Mobley suggests that the inferiority of David’s
weapons is a yet further indication that he is God’s man. He highlights
how Goliath mocks David for coming with “sticks”; yet David declaims
that he comes “in the name of the LORD God of hosts” (1 Sam 17:43,

63. E.g. M. Herzfeld, “Pride and Perjury: Time and the Oath in the Mountain
Villages of Crete,” Man NS 25 (1990): 305–22; M. Gilsenan, “Lying, Honor,
and Contradiction,” in Transaction & Meaning: Directions in the Anthropology
of Exchange and Symbolic Behaviour (ed. B. Kapferer; Philadelphia: American
Anthropological Association, 1976), 191–219. For a discussion of the anthropology
of lying and deception with regard to biblical interpretation, see Rowe, Michal’s
Moral Dilemma, 169–90.
64. Cartledge, Samuel, 187.
1
65. See Edelman, “Jonathan,” ABD 3:944.
 2. “Real Men” 51

45).66 And at the end of the ¿ght, just before David delivers the coup de
grâce—with Goliath’s own sword—the narrator reminds readers that
“David prevailed over the Philistine with a sling and a stone, striking
down the Philistine and killing him; there was no sword in David’s
hand” (1 Sam 17:50).
The predilection for improvization, which Mobley describes as “jerry-
rigging victory…through a mixture of divine favor, tactical ingenuity,
and resourcefulness,” may have been simply making a virtue out of a
necessity.67 The text states that a Philistine embargo meant swords were
the preserve only of the “royal family” (1 Sam 13:19–22). This is the
only identi¿cation of Jonathan and Saul by mention of weapons, with
the possible exception of their ¿nal demise, when David and his men
mourned “because they had fallen by the sword” (2 Sam 1:12). All other
references serve to differentiate the men.
Jonathan is described as having both a sword and bow (1 Sam 18:4;
2 Sam 1:22). With reference to the latter, Hoffner remarks that the
ideal male, the true “man’s man” of ancient Canaan, was skilled with the
bow. He used his bow and arrows either to slay the enemies of his people
or to procure game for his table. When a true man is celebrated in song,
his many children (the visible proof of his sexual potency) are compared
to arrows in the quiver of a mighty man.68

It is signi¿cant, therefore, that David’s lament refers to the inexorable

ef¿cacy of Jonathan’s bow (2 Sam 1:22); he was truly a “real man.”
Understanding how pro¿cient archery signi¿ed conformity to the ideal
of hegemonic masculinity clari¿es the prominence of the game of “bows
and arrows” in 1 Sam 20. Many commentators struggle to explain why
the author devotes so much space to the planning (vv. 19–23) and execu-
tion (vv. 35–40) of this ruse. Indeed, the contrast between exhaustive
commentary on the rest of the chapter and sketchy notes on these verses
is startling. Yet if Jonathan’s prowess with a bow conforms to cultural
ideals, then these passages would have reminded readers of his martial
abilities: in the middle of a story in which the protagonists act unexpect-
edly, the planning and reporting of the “bows and arrows” incident
evokes a culturally positive characterization of Jonathan.

66. G. Mobley, The Empty Men: The Heroic Tradition of Ancient Israel (ABRL;
New York: Doubleday, 2005), 58.
67. Ibid., 59.
1
68. Hoffner, “Symbols for Masculinity,” 329; cf. Ps 127:4–5.
52 Sons or Lovers

Another way in which mention of weapons in the narrative is signi¿-

cant concerns who receives them. We will look in more detail at Jona-
than’s gift of robe, armour, sword and bow to David later, but for now it
is suf¿cient to note the contrast between his clothes and weapons ¿tting
the future king, and Saul’s being overly cumbersome (1 Sam 17:38–39).
The challenge facing David is the spear-wielding Goliath. His massive
spear has a shaft “like a weaver’s beam, and his spear’s head weighed six
hundred shekels of iron” (1 Sam 17:7). The fearsome warrior symbolizes
Philistine military might and the theological importance of the confronta-
tion is clear both in David’s challenge and at the end of his speech:
Goliath will be defeated, declares David, “so that all the earth may know
that there is a God in Israel, and that all this assembly may know that the
LORD does not save by sword and spear; for the battle is the LORD’s”
(1 Sam 17:46–47). With the matter drawn in such terms the only possible
outcome is victory.
David’s declamation, though, also sets the scene for subsequent “spear
related” events,69 for the spear is next found in Saul’s hand (1 Sam 18:10).
Ominously—for Saul, at least—the text gives a clear reason for David
being able to elude Saul’s attempts to pin him to the wall. While YHWH
had departed from Saul and an evil spirit afÀicted him, God was with
David (1 Sam 18:10–12; cf. 1 Sam 19:9–10). YHWH is on David’s side,
so when Saul throws a spear at Jonathan in ch. 20 readers know that the
king’s voice is not being approved. In Paul Borgman’s words, “Saul’s
desperate misuse of weapons intended for the enemy condemns him.”70
Indeed, while implied readers would have agreed that the exigencies of
Iron Age I highland politics meant David should be eliminated, this is
not what the text af¿rms as the correct course of action.
It is also possible that the badly thrown spears remind readers of
Saul’s rejection as king. Although there is no explicit evidence for this in
1 Sam 18:10–12, Green notes that Saul’s misdirected throwing could be
due to poor eyesight.71 If so, it could allude to Eli, whose blindness is
highlighted twice and whose progeny did not inherit their father’s role
(1 Sam 3:2; 4:15). It might also recall YHWH’s assertion that his seeing is
different from people’s (1 Sam 16:7): while Saul cannot see even to
throw a spear in a straight line, God sees all and is guiding events for the
bene¿t of his chosen one, David.

69. For a convenient table contrasting Saul and David’s use of spears, see
P. Borgman, David, Saul, and God: Rediscovering and Ancient Story (New York:
Oxford University Press, 2008), 64.
70. Ibid., 67.
1
71. Green, Mikhail Bakhtin and Biblical Scholarship, 99.
 2. “Real Men” 53

In this chapter we have started to interpret the friendship between

David and Jonathan by considering how each measures up to the ideals
of hegemonic masculinity that are reÀected in 1 and 2 Samuel. To avoid
stereotypical caricatures we have examined how both men interact with
Jonathan’s father in war, swearing and the use of weapons, discovering
that the author promotes the narrative voices of Jonathan and David,
while undermining that of Saul. In the following chapters we shall con-
tinue to examine the men’s interactions, starting with the role of the
family as a key context for Jonathan and David’s friendship.

1
 Chapter 3

FAMILY FIRST

Poor Prince, whom Mad men, PrieǕts, and Boys invade;

By thine own FleǕh thy ungrateful Son betray’d!
Unnat’ural Fool, who can thus cheated be
By FriendǕhips Name againǕt a Crown and Thee!
—Abraham Cowley, Davideis1

Abraham Cowley’s poem imagines the serpent “envy” addressing Saul

in a dream, urging him to kill David because Jonathan has been so
bewitched that he is prepared to betray his “natural” loyalty to his family.
But what is “family”? And why should loyalty to its members be
“natural”?
In this chapter we will examine how ancient readers might have inter-
preted the family’s signi¿cance. Although we shall examine all relevant
biblical passages, the text that will occupy the majority of our attention is
1 Sam 20 and it is helpful to get a broad overview of the chapter before
investigating individual verses. It comprises four sections delimited by
observations regarding place (1 Sam 20:1, 11, 24, 35). The ¿rst section
relates a conversation at an unknown location, at the end of which
Jonathan enjoins David to “go into the ¿eld.” Their transit initiates the
second section, in which they strike a covenant. The third part com-
mences when David secretes himself “in the ¿eld,” and records the
climatic confrontation between Saul and Jonathan during the New Moon
festival. Finally, Jonathan goes to David “in the ¿eld” to inform him of
Saul’s reaction.2 Considered in terms of the moral goods described, the

1. Cowley, Davideis, 10 (emphasis and spelling original).

2. For a similar structural analysis, see A. Caquot and P. de Robert, Les Livres de
Samuel (CAT 4; Geneva: Labor et Fides, 1994), 239–41. Fokkelman (Narrative Art
and Poetry, 291) discerns an alternating pattern:
A (at the court) vv. 1–11b
B (in the ¿eld) vv. 11c–24a
Aƍ (at the court) vv. 24b–34
Bƍ (in the ¿eld) vv. 35–1 Sam 21:1
 3. Family First 55

chapter’s structure in Figure 1 highlights the importance of loyalty. In

v. 4 Jonathan assures David that he will act in the latter’s interests; and in
vv. 28–31 Saul and Jonathan clash over the merits of loyalty to this
friend vis-à-vis family loyalty.
Introduction
Aƍ David’s problem (1)
Bƍ Jonathan’s reassurance (2)
Cƍ David’s mistrust of Saul (3)
D Jonathan’s promise to David (4)
Cƍ David’s test for Saul (5–8)
Bƍ Jonathan’s reassurance (9)
Aƍ David’s further problem (10)
In the ¿eld
Eƍ David and Jonathan go into the ¿eld (11)
Fƍ David and Jonathan’s covenant (12–17, with refrain 23)
Gƍ Jonathan’s arrows as a sign to David (18–22)
Hƍ David hides in the ¿eld (24a)
At the banquet
Iƍ Coming to the feast to celebrate (24b–25)
Jƍ Saul’s question: Why is David absent?
(26–27)
Kƍ Jonathan’s answer: David is loyal
(28–29)
Kƍ Saul’s response: Jonathan is disloyal
(30–31)
Jƍ Jonathan’s question: Why should David
die? (32)
Iƍ Leaving the feast grieved (33–34)
In the ¿eld again
Hƍ
Jonathan goes to the ¿eld (35)
Gƍ Jonathan’s arrows as a sign to David (36–40)
Fƍ David and Jonathan’s covenant (41–42)
Eƍ David leaves; Jonathan returns to the city (42b)

Figure 1. The Structure of 1 Samuel 20:1–42

The narrative seems to present three voices offering distinct perspectives

upon the events of the chapter. The ¿rst voice is David’s. He comes from
Ramah to enquire why Saul is attempting to kill him. Not reassured by
Jonathan’s protestations, and perhaps sceptical that Jonathan really will
act contrary to his father’s wishes, David complains that Saul has hidden
1
56 Sons or Lovers

his malevolent intentions from his son. To discover Saul’s aims David
proposes a ruse. Although David does not speak directly again, his
“voice” is reported by the narrator as David swears on his love for
Jonathan, by Jonathan as he gives David’s excuse to Saul, and when
David and Jonathan part.
The second voice is Saul’s. Although there is no direct speech until
the feast, at the beginning of the chapter he is reported to be seeking
David’s life. The next time Saul speaks it is to himself as he ponders
David’s absence. By making clear his expectation that David should
attend the king’s celebrations Saul discloses his view of where David’s
priorities should lie. When Saul speaks to Jonathan, however, the idiom
of family loyalty is emphasized by insults and Àying spears, and Saul
charges his son to send and bring David, an attempt performatively to
inscribe his authority in his recalcitrant offspring.
The third voice is Jonathan’s. His initial utterance is an oath swearing
that David will not die since, Jonathan declares, he knows all his father’s
plans. David’s continuing unease results in Jonathan stating he will
ascertain Saul’s disposition. On moving to the ¿eld Jonathan makes a
covenant with David; and outlines how he will communicate the results
of his investigations. At the feast Jonathan’s voice is heard to explain
David’s supposed instruction to attend the family feast in Bethlehem, and
as he indignantly questions Saul. Since characters’ actions constitute an
aspect of their “voices” Jonathan can also be “heard” as he leaves the
feast grieved and shamed. Back in the ¿eld he instructs his lad as he
shoots arrows, and blesses David as the two friends take their leave.
In order properly to discern the signi¿cance of each voice further
investigation is required of family loyalty, friendship and the signi¿-
cance of shame. In the present chapter we will consider the idea that
family should come ¿rst. The discussion will take a similar form in this
and the next two chapters. The ¿rst section highlights how the Old
Testament exhibits a variety of perspectives upon the moral goods in
play in order to alert interpreters to the complexities of reading these
particular narratives. The second section presents anthropological per-
spectives upon the theme of the chapter. Rather than simply describing
models, which would ignore the fact that anthropology (the supposed
source of such models) is itself an arena of contested meanings, we will
follow Aguilar who suggests that “the use of a social author within a
biblical paper needs always to be supported by some discussion on the
author’s context of writing,” that is, the wider anthropological work
relating to a particular theme.3 It has already been observed that the

1
3. Aguilar, “Changing Models,” 310.
 3. Family First 57

impossibility of an impartial perspective means that all exegesis com-

prises interpretative understanding of the text. An interpretative approach
supposes both ancient and modern texts describe an “ethnographic
present,”4 and that the interpretative objective is not veri¿cation but
plausible suggestion. In the third section, therefore, these anthropological
resources are employed to sensitize contemporary readers to those moral
goods considered important in ancient societies and so suggest readings
that could have been credible to ancient audiences.

1. “Honour your father and mother”

David’s voice in this chapter concurs with the Old Testament’s view that
the family is a key moral good; and the chapter’s dynamic is provided by
the ploy to determine whether Saul agrees. Moreover, the sharpness of
the moral dilemma facing Jonathan derives from his being Saul’s son.
Clearly, understanding the signi¿cance of the family is essential to inter-
pret the passage and we start, therefore, by examining ancient Near
Eastern social realities.
Although the family is a ubiquitous social phenomenon, Patricia
Dutcher-Walls observes that 50 years ago “one would have looked in
vain for much understanding or information about the family in ancient
Israel.”5 She traces scholarly interest in the subject since then, noting a
shift towards using sociological and anthropological models of families
to explicate texts. Dutcher-Walls shows how the focus upon a mundane
institution rather than a political history characterized by kingly genealo-
gies has enabled interpreters to get under the skin of apparently innocu-
ous texts and perceive previously ignored dynamics. The reason for this
becomes clear when one understands the marked differences between the
structure of contemporary Western and ancient families. It is a common-
place among commentators to note the hierarchy ďĈĠ (“tribe”)–ċĎěĠĕ
(“kin-group”)–ġĐĈ (“house”).6 Many suppose the basic family unit in the

4. “A hypothetical time frame, characterized by the use of the present tense,

employed in ethnographic writing. Normally it coincides with the time of ¿eldwork,
which is not necessarily the time of writing, or indeed of reading” (A. Barnard and
J. Spencer, eds., Encyclopedia of Cultural and Social Anthropology [3d ed.; London:
Routledge, 2002], 604).
5. P. Dutcher-Walls, “The Clarity of Double Vision: Seeing the Family in
Sociological and Archaeological Perspective,” in The Family in Life and in Death:
The Family in Ancient Israel (ed. P. Dutcher-Walls; LHBOTS 504; New York: T&T
Clark International, 2009), 1–15.
6. I follow Wright in translating ċĎěĠĕ as “kin-group”; see C. Wright, God’s
People in God’s Land: Family, Land and Property in the Old Testament (Grand
1
58 Sons or Lovers

Old Testament to be the Ĉć ġĐĈ, “father’s house,” “all the descendants

of a single living ancestor (the head, rǀš-bêt-Ɨb) in a single lineage,
excluding married daughters (who entered their husbands’ bêt-Ɨb) along
with their families.”7 However, while it may have been “the smallest,
viably self-suf¿cient unit within Israel’s system of land division and
tenure,” it was probably not the smallest discrete unit, which was the
individual household.8 Archaeological evidence reveals that the four
roomed pillared house with an average of four inhabitants was typical of
highland dwellings.9 In many cases these were arranged around a com-
mon courtyard, and it is supposed that several, related nuclear families
residing in close proximity comprised the father’s household. This is
evident from Judg 18:22, which reads “the men who were in the houses
comprising the household of Micah.”10 A number of these, in turn,
constituted a village. This con¿guration of dwellings continues to exist
in the more densely populated settlements of Iron Age II, leading Bendor
to conclude that the “structure absorbed the pressure of the monarchy
and its machinery, and adapted to it just as it adapted to other factors that
determined its struggle for existence.”11 Membership of the father’s

Rapids: Eerdmans, 1990), 48. For discussion of the relationship between these three
groupings, see especially F. Andersen, “Israelite Kinship Terminology and Social
Structure,” BT 20 (1969): 29–39; S. Bendor, The Social Structure in Ancient Israel:
The Institution of the Family (Beit ab) from the Settlement to the End of the
Monarchy (JBS 7; Jerusalem: Simor, 1996), 67–86; N. Gottwald, The Tribes of
Yahweh: A Sociology of the Religion of Liberated Israel 1250–1050 B.C.E. (London:
SCM, 1979), 257–70, 287–314.
7. C. J. H. Wright, “Family,” ABD 2:761–69 (762). Although generally
applicable, note Niels Peter Lemche’s discussion showing that Ĉć ġĐĈ is variously
used to denote the nuclear family, extended family and lineage; see N. P. Lemche,
Early Israel: Anthropological and Historical Studies on the Israelite Society Before
the Monarchy (VTSup 37; Leiden: Brill, 1985), 251–59.
8. Wright, God’s People, 1.
9. L. Stager, “The Archaeology of the Family in Ancient Israel,” BASOR 260
(1985): 1–35. Further archaeological evidence is summarized in F. Deist, The
Material Culture of the Bible: An Introduction (ed. R. P. Carroll; BS 70; London:
Shef¿eld Academic, 2000), 195–209; A. Mazar, “Three Israelite Sites in the Hills of
Judah and Ephraim,” BA 45 (1982): 167–78; R. Miller II, Chieftains of the Highland
Clans: A History of Israel in the Twelfth and Eleventh Centuries B.C. (Grand Rapids:
Eerdmans, 2005); J. Zorn, “Estimating the Population Size of Ancient Settlements:
Methods, Problems, Solutions, and a Case Study,” BASOR 295 (1994): 31–38.
10. So Gottwald, Tribes, 291.
11. Bendor, Social Structure, 32. See also N. P. Lemche, “From Patronage
Society to Patronage Society,” in The Origins of the Ancient Israelite States (ed.
V. Fritz and P. R. Davies; JSOTSup 228; Shef¿eld: Shef¿eld Academic, 1996),
106–20.
1
 3. Family First 59

house is suggested by Judg 17–18, where Micah, upon the death of his
father, becomes head of a household comprising himself, his widowed
mother, his sons (and possibly their families) and a Levite responsible
for the family shrine. Furthermore, a priest is allowed to de¿le himself
for a similar range of kin (Lev 21:1–4). If, as Blenkinsopp proposes, the
forbidden degrees of consanguinity in Lev 18 are motivated by the need
to preserve order within the household, these prohibitions also point to
the structure of the father’s house.12 Stager uses models of birth and
death rates alongside building size to calculate that each “joint family”
comprised 10 to 30 people.13 Explicit mention of the Ĉć ġĐĈ in Samuel
indicates that it included sons and parents and could be numerous—
Ziba’s included 15 sons and 20 slaves, presumably with their families
(2 Sam 9:10), and Doeg the Edomite kills 85 priests of Nob (1 Sam
22:11, 19), although perhaps this was the entire adult male population of
the settlement, which would have pertained to the same kin-group.14 In
any case, Carol Meyers estimates that over 80% of the Iron Age I popu-
lation inhabited villages of fewer than 100 people.15
Now it is entirely to be expected that the structure of ancient Israelite
families inÀuenced its morality and theology. Indeed, Erhard Gersten-
berger argues that Old Testament morality was profoundly affected by
social location. He asserts that, “everything that we learn in the Old
Testament about interpersonal ‘loyalty to the community’ (­esed) and
‘trustworthiness’ ( emnjnƗh) has its original setting in…family existence,
orientated on mutuality.”16 In other words, kinship obligations form the
matrix of Old Testament morality. Gerstenberger de¿nes the family as a

12. See J. Blenkinsopp, “The Family in First Temple Israel,” in Families in

Ancient Israel (ed. L. G. Perdue et al.; Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1997),
48–103 (59). On the omission of the daughter from Lev 18, note Wenham’s
statement that “it was already accepted that such a union was illicit (Gen 19:31ff). It
is expressly forbidden both in the laws of Hammurabi (LH 154) and in the Hittite
laws (HL 195)” (G. J. Wenham, Leviticus [NICOT; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1979],
254). In any case simultaneous relations between a man and a living mother and her
daughter are excluded in Lev 18:17.
13. Stager, “Archaeology,” 18–21.
14. So K. van der Toorn, Family Religion in Babylonia, Syria and Israel:
Continuity and Change in the Forms of the Religious Life (Leiden: Brill, 1996), 183–
205 (191).
15. C. Meyers, “The Family in Early Israel,” in Perdue et al., eds., Families in
Ancient Israel, 1–47 (12). See also G. Lehmann, “Reconstructing the Social
Landscape of Early Israel: Rural Marriage Alliances in the Central Hill Country,”
Tel Aviv 31 (2004): 141–93.
16. E. Gerstenberger, Theologies in the Old Testament (trans. J. Bowden;
Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 2002), 31.
1
60 Sons or Lovers

community in which all members shared both work and possessions. He

argues that disputes were resolved within the family according to
ancestral custom, postulating that the biblical records show special cases
concerning inheritance and power (Gen 27; Num 27:1–11; Judg 9:1–6;
2 Sam 13), rebellious sons (Deut 21:18–21), complaints about wives
(Num 5:11–13), sexual violence (2 Sam 13) and conversion to an alien
cult (Deut 13:7–12). A key assumption is that families’ theological
horizons are restricted by the need for survival and that wider concerns
are irrelevant. The dream is self-suf¿ciency (Mic 4:4; 1 Kgs 5:5; Zech
3:10). Internal relationships necessary for survival of families came to be
viewed as protected by deities, with attendant taboos. After a discussion
of the ways in which laws, jokes, anecdotes and proverbs reinforce con-
ceptions of proper behaviour, he concludes that “the core of the matter is
family solidarity.”17 It is instructive, therefore, that Micah’s vision of
disaster portrays dysfunction at this foundational level:
Put no trust in a neighbour, have no con¿dence in a friend; guard the
doors of your mouth from her who lies in your bosom; for the son treats
the father with contempt, the daughter rises up against her mother, the
daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law; a man’s enemies are the men
of his house. (Mic 7:5–6; compare the positive vision of Ps 133:1b–3a)

Such a view can be compared to the commandment to honour one’s

mother and father (Exod 20:12; Deut 5:16; see also Lev 19:3). Larry
Yarbrough claims that this command encapsulates the totality of
children’s obligations to their progenitors.18 The verb ĊĈĒ means “to
give weight to,” “regard as of high value and worth” or “to glorify.” The
commandment, therefore, enjoins more than mere obedience, but some-
thing more like “respect.” Indeed, the parallel in Lev 19:3 uses the word
ćğĐ, “to fear, respect,” often used with reference to God. Many commen-
tators observe that the command to honour is directed at adult children,
concluding that the command seeks to guard against abandonment of
aged, economically dependent parents (see Sir 3:3–13).19 Ancient Near
Eastern parallels, however, suggest that honouring encompasses refrain-
ing from physical violence, providing economic sustenance such as food,

17. Ibid., 75.

18. L. Yarbrough, “Parents and Children in the Jewish Family of Antiquity,” in
The Jewish Family in Antiquity (ed. S. J .D. Cohen; BJS 289; Atlanta: Scholars
Press, 1993), 39–59 (49). Rabbinic interpretation of ¿lial responsibility is sum-
marized by G. Blidstein, Honor Thy Father and Mother: Filial Responsibility in
Jewish Law and Ethics (2d ed.; New York: KTAV, 2005), 37–59.
19. E.g. B. S. Childs, The Book of Exodus: A Critical, Theological Commentary
(OTL; Louisville: Westminster, 1974), 418.
1
 3. Family First 61

clothing and accommodation, “holding the father’s hand when drunk,”

and performing funerary rites.20 Regarding the referent of “father and
mother” one can concur with Karel van der Toorn, who comments that it
is “in accordance with the spirit of the texts that we extend the demand
for ¿lial loyalty to the expected attitude towards all those who hold a
position of superiority and command.”21
The purpose of the command is provided by the clause, “so that your
days may be long and that it may go well with you in the land that the
LORD your God is giving you.” “So that” is a motivation rather than a
conditional promise. Because the goods of longevity and wellbeing are
coupled with explicit mention of the deity and his gift of land Wright
argues that “the ¿fth commandment forms part of the structure and fabric
of Israel’s covenantal relation with God and is not merely a recipe for
happy families.”22 Yet the choice of attaching the motive clause to this
command focuses attention upon the family smallholding and relations
within the “father’s house.” Given the structure of Iron Age I families,
one can understand the precedence of parents over children, and why this
is viewed as divinely ordained, part of the natural order (Prov 15:20;
17:25; 19:26; 20:20; 23:25; 28:24; 30:17; Lev 19:3).
The importance of appropriate parent–child relations is also high-
lighted in the negatively framed law concerning the rebellious son (Deut
21:18–21; Exod 21:15, see also CH 195). Despite considerable debate
surrounding the precise import of Deut 21:18–21, Jonathan Burnside’s
thesis is persuasive. He proposes the text presents a “social stereotype”
of the dissolute son: “This our son is stubborn and rebellious, he will not
obey our voice [namely, or in other words] he is a glutton and a drunk-
ard.”23 The link to the immediately preceding stipulation dealing with

20. See Wisdom of Amenenope 26; K. van der Toorn, Sin and Sanction in Israel
and Mesopotamia: A Comparative Study (Assen: Van Gorcum, 1985), 13–15.
H. Brichto proposes the commandment refers to post-mortem honouring in “Kin,
Cult, Land and Afterlife—a Biblical Complex,” HUCA 44 (1973): 1–54; but see
Wright, God’s People, 153–59.
21. Van der Toorn, Sin and Sanction, 14.
22. C. J. H. Wright, Deuteronomy (NIBC 4; Carlisle: Paternoster, 1995), 77.
23. J. Burnside, The Signs of Sin: Seriousness of Offence in Biblical Law
(JSOTSup 364; Shef¿eld: Shef¿eld Academic, 2002), 37–78 (39 n. 6, emphasis
original). Note the law applies to “seriously delinquent young adults”; see Wright,
Deuteronomy, 235. Burnside also draws attention to the stereotypical “son of Belial”
(Judg 19:22; 1 Sam 2:12; 10:27; 2 Sam 20:1–22; Ps 18:5); see Burnside, Signs of
Sin, 55–58. While not every “son of Belial” may have fallen foul of Deut 21:18–21,
the suggestion is that the texts share a “family resemblance.” Peter Craigie thinks
Deut 21:18–21 provides an example of disobedience to parental authority rather than
speci¿cation of the crime; see P. C. Craigie, Deuteronomy (NICOT; Grand Rapids:
1
62 Sons or Lovers

inheritance shows that the threat is to family patrimony (Deut 21:15–17).

Certainly, a situation in which the son has shown himself incapable of
managing the family patrimony would make sense of the instruction to
kill this son.24 Not that this precludes a wider signi¿cance:
If the circumstance were suf¿ciently grave, the stability and well-being of
the household were to be reckoned of greater importance than the life of
one of its members. The national signi¿cance of the situation is reÀected
in the phrase “all Israel will hear of it and be afraid.”25

Regarding cooperation between family members the books of Samuel

assume that father and son will act together or, at least, that they should
(1 Sam 19:1; 22:8). Furthermore, there is an assumption that sons are
subject to a father’s authority: Saul supposes that David will obey if
Jesse sends him (1 Sam 16:19). The ideal of intra-generational solidarity
is stressed by reference to brothers (1 Sam 22:1; 30:23; 2 Sam 2:26; 3:8;

Eerdmans, 1976), 283. Alternative, although not necessarily mutually exclusive,

interpretations include: (1) Richard Bauckham, who thinks the threat is to authority
in the community as a result of disobedience within the family (R. Bauckham, The
Bible in Politics: How to Read the Bible Politically [Louisville: Westminster John
Knox, 1989]), 31; (2) Elizabeth Bellefontaine, who suggests that this law mirrors
Deuteronomy’s wider concern about Israel as God’s “stubborn and rebellious” child
(E. Bellefontaine, “Deuteronomy 21:18–21: Reviewing the Case of the Rebellious
Son,” JSOT 13 [1979]: 13–31); and (3) Anselm Hagedorn, who proposes that the
family rather than the “stubborn and unruly son” is the intended audience so that
they take the action necessary to avoid the threat to family honour if their son
misbehaves (A. Hagedorn, “Guarding the Parents’ Honour—Deuteronomy 21:18–
21,” JSOT 88 [2000]: 101–21).
24. This signi¿cance of the juxtaposition is noticed by Wright, Deuteronomy,
235; pace Hagedorn, “Guarding,” 108. Burnside allows that disinheritance may also
have been a factor but highlights the religious dimension by esteeming the son’s
behaviour as tantamount to apostasy; see Burnside, Signs of Sin, 74–78.
25. Wright, God’s People, 78 (emphasis original). See also CH 168–69. Whether
the law in Deut 21:18–21 was ever meant to be executed is a separate question.
There are two issues. First, whether the paterfamilias could legally execute off-
spring. Ludwig Köhler, argues parents could kill a rebellious child until 625 B.C.E.;
see L. Köhler, Hebrew Man: How He Looked, Lived and Thought (Nashville:
Abingdon, 1956), 140 n. 17. Wright is much more cautious since Patriarchal Narra-
tives provide the only evidence; see Wright, God’s People, 231. The second issue is
the nature of the “law.” Alexander Rofé thinks the text is morality dressed-up as law;
see A. Rofé, Deuteronomy: Issues and Interpretation (OTS; Edinburgh: T. & T.
Clark, 2002), 181–86. Hagedorn opines that it served only preventative purposes;
see Hagedorn, “Guarding,” 102. Yet Burnside claims that if the law had never been
applied the prophets’ warnings alluding to this text would have “rung hollow”; see
Burnside, Signs of Sin, 43.
1
 3. Family First 63

4:6, 9; 19:41 [42]). Cyrus Gordon describes the ancient Near East as
“brother conscious,” perhaps one of the reasons why Jonathan is
described as a brother by David (2 Sam 1:26), and why leaders make
brothers their lieutenants (2 Sam 10:10; 18:2).26 A hierarchy of siblings
is evidenced by the eldest brother’s position of authority (1 Sam 17:17–
22; 20:29; 26:6; see also Gen 20:16; 24:29; 34:11).
Pederson argues that to be without family is considered a woeful
situation throughout the Old Testament, “something unnatural, an
expression that life is failing.”27 The texts adduced above resonate with
this assessment, pointing to a desired structure of relations that secures
the family’s survival and Àourishing. Yet this does not paint the full
picture, since conÀict and familial dysfunction are also prominent,
although not necessarily condemned. Relevant to this book’s concerns
are the frequent clashes between fathers and their children in the books of
Samuel—including Eli and his sons (1 Sam 2:22–25), Saul and Michal
(1 Sam 17:11–17), Saul and Jonathan (1 Sam 20:30–34), and David and
Absalom (2 Sam 14–18)—and similar discord between siblings—for
example, David and his brothers (1 Sam 17:28–29), Amnon and Tamar
(2 Sam 13:12), and Amnon and Absalom (2 Sam 13:23–33). Two narra-
tives, in particular, show that the family is not always a uni¿ed whole,
and that loyalty to one part may entail conÀict with another. In the ¿rst
the woman of Tekoa presents David with a murderous conÀict among
brothers, and then between two parts of the same family, the individual
father’s house and kin-group (2 Sam 14:5–7). The second recounts how
Joab murders his cousin Amasa because he vacillated in his support for
David (2 Sam 20:1–10). One is tempted to conclude that in the books of
Samuel conÀict between kin reÀects authentic “family values.”
How should these ostensibly contradictory perspectives inform the
interpretation of Saul and David’s voices? In order to illuminate the
matter we turn now to investigate anthropological perspectives upon
loyalty to kin.

2. Loyalty to Kin
Robin Fox declares that the study of kinship “is to anthropology what
logic is to philosophy or the nude is to art.”28 Because it has been a
central concern of the anthropological endeavour views about kinship

26. C. H. Gordon, “Fratriarchy in the Old Testament,” JBL 54 (1935): 223–31

(225).
27. Pedersen, Israel, 263. See Deut 10:18; 2 Sam 14:5–7; Ps 68:6; Isa 1:12–17.
1
28. R. Fox, Kinship and Marriage (London: Penguin, 1967), 10.
64 Sons or Lovers

have closely mirrored wider trends within the discipline, and it will be
helpful brieÀy to describe how anthropologists have conceived kinship
before outlining some of the key issues surrounding family loyalty.29
Although now considered ethnocentric, early anthropological studies
sought to address the “problem” of how societies could exhibit stable
political interaction in the absence of strong central government. An
obvious place to start looking for an answer was the “family.” In his
groundbreaking Systems of Consanguinity and Af¿nity of the Human
Family (1871), L. H. Morgan distinguished between a descriptive kinship
terminology, in which a kinship term, for example “uncle” or “mother,”
applies to a single individual in a genealogy, and classi¿catory system, in
which a term applies to a number of individuals. Morgan’s thesis was
that kinship classi¿cation is a cipher for acceptable behaviour towards a
particular group of relatives.30 So, for example, many societies distin-
guish between parallel and cross-cousins, and marriage “rules” reÀect
this distinction.31 Further signi¿cant studies of how social relations are
structured through descent and af¿nity included that of Alfred Radcliffe-
Brown, although within a comparative and functionalist rather than evo-
lutionary framework, Edward Evans-Pritchard’s enquiry into descent
groups among the Nuer, and Meyer Fortes’ analysis of kinship networks.32
According to these conceptions of kinship theory the “atom of
kinship” is the nuclear family and descent from mother, father, or both.33

29. For a particularly useful summary of kinship studies that has informed this
survey, see P. Schweitzer, “Introduction,” in Dividends of Kinship: Meanings and
Uses of Social Relatedness (ed. P. P. Schweitzer; London: Routledge, 2000), 1–32.
30. The signi¿cance of terminology has been debated from the genesis of kinship
studies. For a convenient list of views, see R. Parkin, “Introduction: Terminology
and Af¿nal Alliance,” in Kinship and Family: An Anthropological Reader (ed. R.
Parkin and L. Stone; Oxford: Blackwell, 2004), 121–35 (121–22).
31. A parallel cousin is one’s father’s brother’s son or daughter, or mother’s
sister’s son or daughter; a cross cousin is one’s father’s sister’s son or daughter, or
mother’s brother’s son or daughter. A common “rule” is that a man should marry his
Father’s Brother’s Daughter (FBD).
32. A. R. Radcliffe-Brown, “Introduction,” in African Systems of Kinship and
Marriage (ed. A. R. Radcliffe-Brown and D. Forde; ȅxford: ȅxford University
Press, 1950), 1–85, and Structure and Function in Primitive Society (New York:
Free Press, 1952); E. E. Evans-Pritchard, The Nuer: A Description of the Modes of
Livelihood and Political Institutions of a Nilotic People (Oxford: Clarendon, 1963);
M. Fortes, The Web of Kinship Among the Tallensi (Oxford: ȅxford University
Press, 1949).
33. F. Zonabend, “An Anthropological Perspective on Kinship and the Family,”
A History of the Family. Vol. 1, Distant Worlds, Ancient Worlds (ed. A. Burguière et
al.; trans. S. H. Tenison, R. Morris and A. Wilson; London: Polity, 1996), 8–68 (24).
1
 3. Family First 65

Yet this emphasis upon descent has been challenged by a focus upon
kinship alliances. Starting from the observation that the incest taboo is
universal, Claude Lévi-Strauss contends that the “prohibition of incest is
less a rule prohibiting marriage with the mother, sister or daughter, than
a rule obliging the mother, sister or daughter to be given to others.”34 He
argues, therefore, that the fundamental relationships are not parent–child,
but rather brother–sister and sister’s husband.
Alliance theory shifts the focus from group formation through descent
to links formed by marriage that attempt to overcome the bonds of blood.
It is precisely the assumption that “blood is thicker than water,” though,
that is the target of David Schneider’s iconoclastic analysis of kinship
theory. He maintains that kinship “is a non-subject. It exists in the minds
of anthropologists but not in the cultures they study.”35 Instead, claims
Schneider, it is necessary to seek the emic, that is, insider’s, perspective:
“One must take the native’s own categories, the native’s units, the
native’s organization, and articulation of those categories and follow
their de¿nitions, their symbolic and meaningful divisions wherever they
may lead.”36 Schneider’s culturalist approach has been widely criticized.
Margaret Trawick, for example, comments that culturalist ethnographers
“tend to escape the muddle that a plurality of perspectives poses by being
highly selective as to which ‘native point of view’ they listen to.”37 This
is the basis for Sylvia Yanagisako’s criticism of Schneider, in which she
demonstrates that even the grounds for comparison, that is, individuals
in contradistinction to families, are affected by which point of view is
preferred.38 Nevertheless, Schneider’s thesis has prompted important
anthropological debates about two interrelated matters, namely, the
relationship between nature and culture, and the social construction of
“kinship.” In American Kinship Schneider states there “are biological
facts… There is also a system of constructs in American culture about

34. C. Lévi-Strauss, The Elementary Structures of Kinship (London: Eyre &

Spottiswoode, 1969), 481, see also 12–25. Lévi-Strauss’s work refers to elementary
marriage systems, that is, those with positive marriage “rules”; complex systems
have only negative rules prohibiting whom one can marry.
35. D. Schneider, “What Is Kinship All About?” in Parkin and Stone, eds.,
Kinship and Family, 257–74 (269); repr. from Kinship Studies in the Morgan
Centennial Year (ed. P. Reining; Washington D.C.: Anthropological Society of
Washington, 1972), 32–63.
36. Ibid., 270.
37. M. Trawick, Notes on Love in a Tamil Family (Berkeley: University of
California Press, 1990), 132 (emphasis original).
38. S. J. Yanagisako, “Variance in American Kinship: Implications for Cultural
Analysis,” AE 5 (1978): 15–29.
1
66 Sons or Lovers

those biological facts.”39 Schneider actually maintains the very thing

against which he argues, that is, the existence of natural facts apart from
cultural constructions of them.40 Feminist anthropologists have under-
taken a more thoroughgoing analysis that avoids positing a universal
biological given called “sex,” which is then interpreted in culturally
distinct ways as “gender.” Instead, “sex” itself is viewed as a construc-
tion formulated in the context of competing hierarchies of power, so
enabling the door to be shut more ¿rmly on biological determinism in
relation to gender.41 In addition, the anthropology of non-traditional fam-
ily structures and New Reproductive Technologies have been employed
to destabilize the natural basis for gender and kinship, with the thesis is
that biology is used to justify choices.42 However, the view that not only
cultural symbols but also their referents are arbitrary and culturally con-
structed has been criticized as too relativistic, handicapping cross-cultural
comparison. In an attempt to recover comparative possibilities one could
enlarge the category of “kinship” to “relatedness,” but this would not
solve the cultural speci¿city of the nomenclature. Janet Carsten’s recent
proposal, however, is persuasive. She argues that instead of abandoning
the nature–culture distinction
it is precisely the ways in which people in different cultures distinguish
between what is given and what is made, what might be called biological
and what might be called social, and the points at which they make such
distinctions, that, without preconceptions, should be at the center of the
comparative anthropological analysis of kinship.43

This is compatible with Helle Rydstrøm’s observation that although there

is indubitably a natural basis for human existence the irreducible element
is not sex but the human body: sex is merely one facet of embodied

39. D. Schneider, American Kinship (Englewood Cliffs: Prentice Hall, 1968), 80;
see also his A Critique of the Study of Kinship (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan
Press, 1984), 199.
40. See J. Carsten, “Introduction: Cultures of Relatedness,” in Cultures of
Relatedness: New Approaches to the Study of Kinship (ed. J. Carsten; Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 2000), 1–36 (5).
41. See S. J. Yanagisako and J. F. Collier, “Towards a Uni¿ed Analysis of
Gender and Kinship,” in Gender and Kinship: Essays Towards a Uni¿ed Analysis
(Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1987), 14–50.
42. See L. Stone, New Directions in Anthropological Kinship (ed. L. Stone;
Lanham: Rowman & Little¿eld, 2001); C. P. Hayden, “Gender, Genetics, and
Generation: Reformulating Biology in Lesbian Kinship,” CA 10 (1995): 41–63.
43. J. Carsten, After Kinship (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004),
189.
1
 3. Family First 67

existence.44 For this reason Rydstrøm proposes that anthropology should

focus upon the whole person, which will include, but not be limited to,
sex and gender. In doing so she advocates taking into account the fourth
major movement in kinship theory, which examines how kinship is
constructed thorough everyday practice, rather than de¿nitions.
Pierre Bourdieu details the social uses of kinship, highlighting the fact
that kinship requires work. Regarding af¿nal relationships, for exam-
ple, Bourdieu comments that “it is only when one records them as a fait
accompli, as the anthropologist does when he establishes a genealogy,
that one can forget that they are the product of strategies oriented
towards the satisfaction of material and symbolic interests.”45 In this
process it is important to remember that not all kinship relations are the
same. Bourdieu refers to a “privileged network of practical relation-
ships,”46 including both genealogical and non-genealogical relationships,
in contradistinction to of¿cial kin. The respective roles of each sort of
relationships are especially clear in marriages: “Practical kin make
marriages; of¿cial kin celebrate them.”47 A similar emphasis upon the
importance of non-biological kin is found in work on “house societies,”
that is, groupings of corporate estates or “houses” perpetuated through
property, names, and real or ¿ctive descent.48 Closeness between people
belonging to the same house, however, does not signify harmony but
tension, for example, between brothers. As a result relationships require
constant work to maintain solidarity. Such a concern with agency takes
us a long way from the “bastard algebra”49 of early kinship studies, with
its preoccupation with terminology, to the practice of becoming and
staying “related.”
Linda Stone declares that “[a]lthough the of¿cial and other roles
played by kinship vary considerably across societies, kinship relations in
general entail the idea of rights and obligations.”50 This observation

44. H. Rydstrøm, Embodying Morality: Growing Up in Rural Vietnam (Honolulu:

University of Hawai’i Press, 2003).
45. Bourdieu, The Logic of Practice, 167.
46. Ibid., 168.
47. Ibid.
48. See J. Carsten and S. Hugh-Jones, “About the House: Lévi-Strauss and
Beyond,” in About the House: Lévi-Strauss and Beyond (ed. J. Carsten and S. Hugh-
Jones; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 1–46; see also C. Lévi-
Strauss, The Way of Masks (trans. S. Modelski; London: Cape, 1983).
49. B. Malinowski, “Kinship,” Man 30 (1939): 19–29 (19).
50. L. Stone, Kinship and Gender: An Introduction (3d ed; Boulder: Westview,
2006), 5 (emphasis original). Note that kinship is normally bilateral, even where
1
68 Sons or Lovers

raises several important issues, the ¿rst of which is the question of who
constitutes the family. Rudolph Bell, in his ethnography of rural Italy,
discovered that the family structure of one individual, Rosa, changed ten
times during her lifetime. He concludes that “a suf¿ciently large sample
of people such as Rosa, preferably taken in different years, could tell us
the typical household structure of her society and the frequency of less
common types. But it would tell us very little about Rosa and her fam-
ily.”51 Thus although la famiglia is at the centre of an Italian peasant’s
life, what this means in practice depends upon circumstances, the indivi-
duals involved and the nature of the family at a particular moment. For
example, all kin are “family” when celebrating a wedding, but at a house-
building it is only those relatives willing to contribute their labour. And
in a dispute over inheritance the “family” is reduced to the deceased’s
children.
The second issue concerns kinship terminology. One must avoid the
extremes of assuming either that just because people know a kinship
vocabulary and protocol means they adhere to it, or that kinship con-
structions are without force, that is, that they do not inÀuence people’s
interactions. In fact, the existence of a shared stock of suppositions can
be used by agents for their own idiosyncratic goals. Bourdieu observes
that
the strategies with which agents aim to “fall in line” with the rule and so
to get the rule on their side remind us that representations, and especially
kinship taxonomies, have an ef¿cacy which, although purely symbolic, is
none the less quite real… As such, they contain the magical power to
institute frontiers and constitute groups.52

The third point takes the implications of the previous reÀections and
combines them. One view of family loyalty is neatly expressed by J. K.
Campbell, who asserts that “in every signi¿cant context of action the
world is necessarily divided with dramatic de¿nition into own people and
strangers, friends and enemies.”53 The family is presented as a corporate

descent is unilineal—i.e. people recognize consanguinity and concomitant obligat-

ions on both the mother’s and father’s side.
51. R. M. Bell, Fate and Honor, Family and Village: Demographic and Cultural
Change in Rural Italy Since 1800 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1979), 74.
52. Bourdieu, Logic, 170.
53. J. K. Campbell, Honour, Family, and Patronage: A Study of Institutions and
Moral Values in a Greek Mountain Community (New York: ȅxford University
Press, 1964), 316. On “familism,” see S. G. Berkowitz, “Familism, Kinship and Sex
Roles in Southern Italy: Contradictory Ideals and Real Contradictions,” AQ 57
(1984): 83–92.
1
 3. Family First 69

group standing shoulder to shoulder, facing the enemy without. This

conception of the family, however, is unsustainable. Because no one
person’s relatives are identical to another”s, “kindred” is not a closed
group. Although some people, particularly siblings, will have relatives in
common, kin are not a “given,” but a category of persons from among
whom “the family” can be constituted in particular circumstances. Even
within the nuclear family an individual’s actions do not conform to
stereotypical roles. For example, a mother might be expected to give
preference to her children. The adult ego, however, exists not only as a
parent but also daughter, wife, and sister, and Bell shows that women
sometimes prejudice their children when distributing food and other
resources among the family.54 Indeed, much ethnography highlights ten-
sions within the nuclear family, with the future of patrimony being a
particular source of conÀict. J. G. Peristiany notes that “[f]ighting like
brothers sharing an inheritance, is, in Cyrus, the paradigm of implacable
enmity.”55 He speci¿cally highlights the effect of multiple goods:
few relations are more embittered than those between brothers who,
through competition, have ¿rst become rivals then enemies; deep affection
and solidarity turning sour and leading to equally deep hatred when the
all-pervasive ideal of unity has been betrayed and shattered by individual
or sectional needs.56

It seems safe to conclude with David Gilmore that “[i]t is time we

stopped conceiving of the nuclear family as a unit of solidarity…and
begin to study its intrinsic ambiguities and tensions.”57
Yet despite accounts of intra-familial hostility and rivalry the themes
of family solidarity and sibling loyalty are ubiquitous, perhaps especially
in ethnographies of the Mediterranean.58 For example, the group of
brothers is called “the most signi¿cant social unit” within the Tunisian
village studied by Nadia Abu-Zahra.59 And respect or “honouring” of
parents is frequently assumed to be a moral good, to the extent that
Campbell can claim the

54. Compare E. C. Ban¿eld, The Moral Basis of a Backward Society (New York:
Free Press, 1958), 104, with Bell, Fate and Honor, 73.
55. J. G. Peristiany, “Introduction,” in Mediterranean Family Structures (ed.
J. G. Peristiany; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1976), 1–26 (8).
56. Ibid.
57. D. Gilmore, “Anthropology of the Mediterranean Area,” ARA 11 (1982):
175–205 (191).
58. Cf. ibid., 180.
59. N. Abu-Zahra, “Family and Kinship in a Tunisian Peasant Community,” in
Peristiany, ed., Mediterranean Family Structures, 157–71 (166–70).
1
70 Sons or Lovers

idea of an adolescent or adult son striking his father is almost unthink-

able. Only slightly less serious is swearing at or insulting a father… Of
one son, not a Sarakatsanos, who publicly struck his father, the Sarakat-
sani said, “He has the devil in him”…in a sense which was not intended
as metaphorical. It was indeed the only way of explaining the youth’s
behaviour.60

An obvious conclusion is that despite friction and stress in actual kin

relations the “family” and “kinship loyalty” have ideological import, in
part because they are frequently goods rather than evils.61 One must
enquire, therefore, into the uses of relatedness and the interaction of
many “partial loyalties” of ego to those around him or her. ConÀict
between these obligations is inevitable although not necessarily obvious.
As Yanagisako remarks, the “ambiguity of meaning that prevails in most
concrete situations permits individuals creatively to manipulate the
symbolic structure by advocating a de¿nition of the context that facili-
tates and legitimates idiosyncratic goals, strategies, and styles.”62 We
shall see that this is exactly what transpires in 1 Sam 20 in David and
Saul’s exchange.

3. Understanding David and Saul’s Family Values

We are now in a position to understand that while David and Saul’s
utterances contradict each other, each man has in common his use of the
ideal of the family as a bounded entity whose members prioritize the
obligations of kinship.
David speaks ¿rst. His voice is double layered. On the plane of the
“real” David63 readers hear he is cognisant of his obligation to attend
Saul’s festivities but that he is worried about Saul’s intentions. On the
plane of the “reported” David, however, his voice is secure, both in itself
and in its appeal to familial “norms.” Verses 28–29, which contain the
fullest account of David’s purported actions, highlight the normativity of
family loyalty in several ways. First, David “earnestly asked leave” of
Jonathan. The assumption is that Saul and his son should share a single
perspective. Although at the planning stage in vv. 5–7 David’s postu-
lation of two possible responses shows he is aware this may not be so, in

60. Campbell, Honour, Family, and Patronage, 161.

61. See also P. Bourdieu, “On the Family as a Realized Category,” TCS 13
(1996): 19–26.
62. Yanagisako, “Variance,” 23.
1
63. That is, the “real” narrative character in the books of Samuel.
 3. Family First 71

the account presented to Saul he supposes a conception of father–son

equivalence consistent with a unitary view of the family.
Second, David petitioned to go to Bethlehem. Although the request is
for a Àeeting visit, ĜČğē, literally “in order to run” (1 Sam 20:6), readers
are well aware this is the seat of his father’s house: the request is for
David to identify with his patriline. The appeal reminds readers of the
time when Saul ¿rst asked Jesse for permission to retain his son’s
services, and the subsequent refusal to allow David to return to his native
village (1 Sam 16:21–22; 18:2). In addition, the Hebrew contains a sig-
ni¿cant word-play on Ĕċē. In v. 27 David does not come ĔĎēċĀēć
(lit. “to the bread”), while in v. 28 he does go ĔĎē ġĐĈĀĊę (“to Beth-
lehem,” lit. “to the house of bread”). The author’s choice of language
highlights the contrast between David’s obligations to both his own and
Saul’s families, as well as the choice that he actually made.
Third, the occasion was a family sacri¿ce. It seems from v. 6 that this
annual gathering was celebrated at one of the monthly New Moon feasts
(see Num 10:10; 28:14; 2 Kgs 4:23; Neh 10:33).64 Since a similar excuse
was used by Samuel when he went to anoint David the author subtly
reminds readers of David’s anointing and Saul’s rejection (1 Sam 16:1–2).
That attendance at a family feast was obliged may be indicated by the
fact that the command came from David’s brother (1 Sam 20:29).65 If so,
the demand obliges David to choose between his own and Saul’s
families. The question is not simply where the menu is most palatable.
Finally, David’s voice tells Saul that if he is permitted to go it is
because Jonathan accepts this account of kinship ¿delity, that is, of
David’s obligations to David’s family.
To summarize, David’s “reported” voice speaks few words, but
variously and con¿dently appeals to the ideology of “familism.” If Saul
had also accepted this account he would have said “good” (1 Sam 20:7).
The test, however, produced another result, to which we now turn.

64. T. Maertens, A Feast in Honor of Yahweh (trans. K. Sullivan; London:

Chapman, 1966), 45–54. For a chronology of the festival in 1 Sam 20, see Tsumura,
The First Book of Samuel, 525–26. It was not the feast of trumpets, since this lasted
a week (Num 29:1; Lev 23:24); nor was it a funerary feast, see Tsumura, 1 Samuel,
518.
65. On the text-critical questions here (MT: brother; LXX: brothers), see Tsumura,
1 Samuel, 518; McCarter, 1 Samuel, 339; DJD 17:230–32; E. Cook, “1 Samuel XX
26–XXI 5 According to 4QSAM b,” VT 44 (1994): 442–54. There is no reason to
object to the authority of the elder brother in commanding attendance and David’s
enjoyment at seeing all his siblings.
1
72 Sons or Lovers

Although Saul’s response is not addressed to David but to Jonathan,

his “voice” comments upon both men’s actions. Leaving interpretation
of his insult until later, we examine here his construal of family loyalty.
In v. 31 Saul seeks to disabuse Jonathan of any notion other than heredi-
tary succession to the monarchy and the absolute requirement of family
loyalty. This construal of kinship obligations chimes perfectly with the
¿fth commandment and related stipulations, and more widely with the
Old Testament’s preoccupation with patrilineal descent. In the books of
Samuel these beliefs are evident in the preponderance of male names,
father–son references and the situation of individuals by their patronym.
Both economic and political concerns are intertwined since land was tied
to each father’s house and progeny were required to work it.66 Inheritance
practices favouring the eldest son protected patrimonial integrity against
division into ever-smaller and increasingly agriculturally unviable plots
(Num 27:1–11; Deut 21:15–17).67 Saul, naturally, states clearly and
unequivocally that Jonathan’s obligation is to his family. But what does
he say about David’s obligation to his family, in Bethlehem?
It is very important that the voices in question are heard most clearly
“at the feast.” Rafael Aguirre observes that food consumption in small-
scale societies is the central household ritual and that domestic life
consists in eating food together.68 Eating together is not symbolically
“innocent.” In her classic essay, “Deciphering a Meal,” Mary Douglas
asserts that the message of food “is about different degrees of hierarchy,
inclusion and exclusion, boundaries and transactions across the bounda-
ries. Like sex, the taking of food has a social component, as well as a
biological one.”69 She highlights the patterned nature of food consump-
tion, such as everyday meals and monthly feasts, and the boundaries

66. Note the use of “house” with the sense of offspring and inheritance 1 Sam
2:27, 35; 3:12–14; 7:2–3; 9:20; 20:15–16; 22:1, 11, 14–16, 22; 24:2; 25:6, 17, 28.
The importance of maintaining land within the father’s house is highlighted by the
role of the kin-group, described by Gottwald as a “protective association of extended
families” that either purchased the land of a poor father’s house or redeemed any
that had been sold; see Gottwald, Tribes, 257–67 (258). Pace Gottwald there is no
evidence that the kin-group was anything other than biologically related kin-groups,
see Lev 25:23–28; Wright, “Family,” 763; Bendor, Social Structure, 67–77, 82–86.
67. E. W. Davies, “The Inheritance of the First-Born in Israel and the Ancient
Near East,” JSS 28 (1993): 175–91.
68. R. Aguirre, La mesa compartida: Estudios del NT desde las ciencias sociales
(PT; Santander: Sal Terrae, 1994), 9.
69. M. Douglas, Implicit Meanings: Essays in Anthropology (London: Routledge
& Kegan Paul, 1975), 249–75 (249).
1
 3. Family First 73

created by sharing certain sorts of food with some people, but not others.
The two movements of integration and differentiation may occur
simultaneously, for while sharing food sends a message of solidarity the
manner of its consumption can highlight status differences.70 Indeed, the
very act of hosting a meal is an assertion of superiority. Stanley Walens
states that “[s]ince food is always owned and consequently must always
be given, every human being stands in relation to every other in the
single fundamental structural relationship of food-giver (superordinate)
to good receiver (subordinate).”71 Since no one person has control over
the whole process people are caught in a constantly changing web of
shifting relations as they produce, prepare and consume food. It is
natural, therefore, that people should seek to use food and the manner of
its consumption for personal ends. Arjun Appardurai observes that food
“can serve to indicate and construct social relations characterized by
equality, intimacy, or solidarity; or it can serve to sustain relations char-
acterized by rank, distance, or segmentation.”72 However, while meals
are moments during which the social hierarchy can be reaf¿rmed,
perhaps by conventions like who eats what, when and with whom, they
are also times when power relations are challenged: “With the family in
the grip of a well-prepared meal, women may make their opinions heard,
a visitor may be put in a position of gratitude by the hospitality of his
host, and those who are generous in times of feasting may later call in
their debts.”73 The latter point lies behind the notion of “competitive
feasting” in which excess provision is a way of demonstrating both the
hosts’ generosity and their ability copiously to consume (cf. Est 1:3–10).
Feasts are thus a bid for status, in Bourdieu’s terms an accrual of

70. See E. Anderson, Everyone Eats: Understanding Food and Culture (New
York: New York University Press, 2005), 126.
71. S. Walens, Feasting with Cannibals: An Essay on Kwakiutl Cosmology
(Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1982), 80. See also N. Bourque, “Eating
Your Words: Communicating with Food in the Ecuadorian Andes,” in An Anthro-
pology of Indirect Communication (ed. J. Hendry and C. W. Watson; London:
Routledge, 2001), 85–100 (90–91).
72. A. Appardurai, “Gastro-Politics in Hindu South Asia,” AE 8 (1981): 494–511
(507). For a discussion of how food consumption marked class and gender
differences in 1970s France, see P. Bourdieu, Distinction: A Social Critique of the
Judgement of Taste (trans. R. Nice; Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press,
1984), 177–208.
73. P. Wiessner, “Introduction: Food, Status, Culture and Nature,” in Food and
the Status Quest: An Interdisciplinary Perspective (ed. P. Wiessner and W. Schiefen-
hövel; Oxford: Berghahn, 1996), 1–18 (8).
1
74 Sons or Lovers

“symbolic capital” that may subsequently be “spent” by requiring people

to do one’s bidding. To summarize, the offering of food, accepting or
rejecting an invitation to eat, and the manner of food consumption are all
ways of establishing, maintaining, or manipulating relationships.
These dynamics can be observed within the Old Testament itself,
some of which are pertinent to the interpretation Saul’s voice.74 First,
feasts offered by patrons reemphasize unequal power relationships—for
example, on formal occasions one waits to eat until the most important
person is present (1 Sam 9:13, 19; 20:5; 28:20; 2 Sam 9:7–11, 13; 11:13;
19:28). Eating with high-status people, therefore, can be a sign of
prestige.
Second, although the food to be consumed at a family feast is not
speci¿ed (Num 28:11–15 refers to priestly sacri¿ces), special foods,
including choice meat (1 Sam 28:24; 2 Sam 12:3–4), and larger-than-
usual portions (1 Sam 9:24) demarcate feasts from mundane meals, thus
pointing both to their material cost and symbolic importance.
Third, the frequent association of drink at feasts and mention of the
effects of inebriation suggest that elite festivities, at least, were events
that were at once “formal” and “free,” especially towards the end of
proceedings: they became ceremonial opportunities to associate without
being “on ceremony” (Gen 26:30; 1 Sam 25:36, 2 Kgs 6:23; Job 1:4; and
the related texts 1 Sam 3:20; 13:27).75
All these features of Old Testament feasts highlight the symbolic
importance of the context for David’s voice. David’s remark that he
“should not fail to sit with the king” (1 Sam 20:5) underscores that he
comprehends the emblematic nature of his presence, since his partici-
pation would indicate continued acceptance of membership of Saul’s
house and his place within its hierarchy. Indeed, later on in the narrative
political issues are expressed in terms of kinship and eating: Judah
claimed kinship relations were more important than af¿liation marked by
eating David’s provisions (2 Sam 19:41–43); but Israel’s protest is evi-
dence that David himself used food to cultivate alliances. In 1 Sam 20,

74. On food and feasting in the Old Testament, see A. W. Jenks, “Eating and
Drinking in the Old Testament,” ABD 2:250–54; N. MacDonald, Not Bread Alone:
The Uses of Food in the Old Testament (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008).
75. Timothy Willis notes the experiential, joyful nature of feasting along with the
ethical demand to share with the disadvantaged; see Timothy Willis, “ ‘Eat and
Rejoice Before the Lord’: The Optimism of Worship in the Deuteronomic Code,”
in Worship and the Hebrew Bible: Essays in Honour of John T. Willis (ed. M. P.
Graham, R. R. Marrs and S. L. McKenzie; JSOTSup 284; Shef¿eld: Shef¿eld
Academic, 1999), 276–94.
1
 3. Family First 75

however, David perceives his vulnerability to mortal attack by Saul and

confects an excuse which must have been viewed by readers to have been
suf¿ciently ambiguous to enable Saul, if he had not wished to kill David,
simply to acknowledge the legitimacy of David’s voice. Indeed, perhaps
the ambiguity for readers explains why David says that he should attend
Saul’s feast, thus reducing ambiguity for them while leaving open Saul’s
response.
Having elucidated the signi¿cance of its context we can now examine
Saul’s voice in vv. 24–30. Despite its detail the reference to the seating
and standing arrangements is not wholly clear. Given that on formal
occasions important social messages are communicated non-verbally, it
is safe to assume that Saul’s place against the wall was an honoured posi-
tion. While one could speculate that the fact that Jonathan stands while
Saul and Abner sit is another indication of status this must remain con-
jecture.76
The key point, for both readers and Saul, is that “David’s place was
empty.” Perhaps the other details are simply a narrative device to
heighten tension, which is certainly the case when Saul muses to himself,
speculating that the explanation for David’s non-appearance is some
ritual impurity (see Lev 7:20–21; Num 9:6). The repetition “he is not
clean, surely he is not clean” (1 Sam 20:26) suggests Saul tries to con-
vince himself of this, as if he is preoccupied for the message that David’s
failure to attend sends to others. In other words, Saul interprets David’s
absence in the same way as David himself: his son-in-law is withholding
a token of his respect for Saul that can be seen by all.77 David, according
to Saul’s voice, denies that Saul and his family has ¿rst place in his
loyalties. Given the seriousness of this potential message Saul seeks to
explain it away, postulating some chance impurity. On the second day,

76. On the text-critical issues relating to the LXX and MT, with a defence of the
MT, translated “and Jonathan took his stand,” see B. A. Mastin, “Jonathan at the
Feast: A Note on the Text of 1 Samuel XX 25,” in Studies in the Historical Books of
the Old Testament (ed. J. A. Emerton; VTSup 30; Leiden: Brill, 1979), 113–24.
Tony Cartledge supposes that Jonathan was too nervous to sit (Cartledge, 1 & 2
Samuel, 242), but perhaps a better reason for the different positions may be found in
a Ugaritic text (CTA 2.I.21) that describes a heavenly banquet in which Baal stands
in the presence of El. Robert Gordon proposes that “Jonathan, as Saul’s eldest son,
may have ful¿lled a role similar to that of Baal, in this earthly court banquet”
(Gordon, 1 & 2 Samuel, 167–68).
77. Green nearly arrives at this conclusion, but only very tentatively: “The
pressure to explain David’s absence—the slight to Saul?—is on” (Green, Mighty,
342).
1
76 Sons or Lovers

however, such an anodyne interpretation is no longer possible (see Deut

23:10 [11]; Lev 7:20–21; 15:16–18). Thus Saul demands to know why
“the son of Jesse” has not come to his feast.78
Upon hearing Jonathan’s reply Saul expresses his displeasure by
insulting his son for having chosen the “son of Jesse” and asserts that
Jonathan will not establish his kingdom while the “son of Jesse” lives.
Such language emphasizes the conÀict between discrete patrilineages.
Saul presumes that the clash of loyalties ought to have been obvious to
Jonathan, and insults him for having let David go, proceeding to spell out
the implications in traditional categories of descent and inheritance. Only
if David is not allowed to usurp his son, says Saul, will Jonathan or his
kingdom be established, using a turn of phrase that perhaps hints at
David’s threat to Jonathan himself: “neither you nor your kingdom”
(1 Sam 20:31).79
To conclude, both Saul and David’s voices speak of the priority of
loyalty to their own families. For members this means sticking together
in the interests of the patrilineage, for “outsiders” a token presence at the
symbolically important event of the New Moon festival. They both use
the ideology of familism: David to test Saul’s dispositions; Saul to
communicate a hierarchy of moral goods to his son and emphasize the
dangers of extra-familial loyalties. The preceding narrative has shown
Jonathan himself to be aware of these risks and anxious to make a
covenant with David. Having listened to David and Saul speak of family
loyalty, in the next chapter we turn to listen to David and Jonathan’s
narrative voices as they promise to be loyal friends.

78. For the text-critical issues surrounding “coming to the meal/table” in 1 Sam
20:27, 29, see Tsumura, 1 Samuel, 516, 519; McCarter, 1 Samuel, 338; DJD 17:230.
1
79. MT: đġČĒēĕČ ċġć ĖČĒġ ćē; note the emphatic pronoun.
 Chapter 4

FRIENDS FOREVER

To this Ǖtrange pitch their high affections Àew;

Till Natures Ǖelf Ǖcarce look’d on them as Two.
—Abraham Cowley, Davideis1

The interpretation of Jonathan and David’s voices regarding the obli-

gations and dangers of extra-familial friendship may be broached via the
phrase “but David also swore” (1 Sam 20:3). Many commentators strug-
gle to identify a prior oath, either by David or Jonathan, and propose
corresponding emendations.2 Jonathan, however, does swear an oath in 1
Sam 20:2. Although often translated “far be it,” ċēĐēĎ is best rendered
“profanity” and, as I have discussed above, alludes to a shortened form
of the oath “may it be (my) profanation (in the eyes of God) if.”3

1. Cowley, Davideis, 48 (emphasis and spelling original).

2. The MT reads ĊČĊ ĊČę ęĈĠĐČ, which McCarter translates “and David swore
again”; see McCarter, 1 Samuel, 335. Since David has not yet sworn, “again” would
appear to be redundant and, assuming no prior oath, Gordon follows the LXX, which
reads “replied”; see Gordon, 1 & 2 Samuel, 166. Tsumura claims the thrice-uttered
ċĕ in 1 Sam 20:1 constitutes an oath, thus removing the objection to “again”; see
Tsumura, The First Book of Samuel, 503.
3. In addition to the discussion in Chapter 3, above, see especially Ziegler,
Promises, 127–47. Like 1 Sam 20:2, ċēĐēĎ in 1 Sam 22:15 is accompanied by few
other elements of oath formulae, yet it is clearly an oath of innocence: a rhetorical
question leads to the exclamation of Đē ċēĐēĎ, with the sense that anything other
than the implied negative answer to the question would be profanity—Ahimelech
was ignorant of David’s intentions. Similarly, in 1 Sam 20:9 Jonathan’s ċēĐēĎ
reproaches David for asking Jonathan to kill him should he doubt his willingness to
ful¿l the covenant, and is followed by Jonathan’s statement that he would certainly
both know of Saul’s plans and tell them to David: the ċēĐēĎabjures loyalty to Saul
in favour of David. Despite the fact that the utterance in 1 Sam 20:2 is more trun-
cated than other instances of the formula, the exclamation ċēĐēĎ can be interpreted
as constituting Jonathan’s oath. Ziegler disputes this, contending that when ċēĐēĎ
78 Sons or Lovers

Oaths are a means of af¿rming the veracity of a person’s assertion by

involving a higher good or god. In 1 Sam 20:1–3 Jonathan takes David’s
complaint that his life is in danger as questioning the depth of their
friendship. His response, which is warranted by an oath, is that he would
have told David if he had come to know that any ill towards his friend
was intended by Saul. Confronted by this oath “David also swears,”
assuring Jonathan that his life really is in danger, not by questioning his
word, but by postulating that Saul has hidden the truth from his son. It is
as if the two men are engaged in some sort of battle of oaths, an image
that highlights the drama of their predicament as they seek to overcome
the spectre of a friendship overwhelmed by family loyalty.
The Old Testament contains many terms that allude to friendship. In
1 Sam 20:41 the word ęğ is used to describe David and Jonathan’s
interaction. Since it possesses a wide semantic range, from “companion”
to “loyal friend,” the context must decide its sense in each case.4 To
interpret the signi¿cance of context, though, we need to look in more
detail at “friendship.”

1. The Loyalty of Love

Friendship was traditionally a central philosophical theme. In modern
parlance we might say it was the arena for reÀection upon intersubjec-
tivity.5 Aristotle’s treatment, which classi¿ed friendships according
to whether they were based upon utility, pleasure or virtue retains its
inÀuence (EN 1156a7–1156b33). Only the latter, contends Aristotle, is
truly good, because it is friendship undertaken for its own sake. Dean
Cocking and Jeanette Kennett label such a view a “highly moralized”
account of friendship.6 They contrast it with a more “plural moral values

is not followed by an indirect object it is “an exclamation implying a recoil from a

speci¿c behavior”; and regarding the translation of 1 Sam 20:2 argues that it is an
exclamation rather than an oath, see Ziegler, Promises, 131, 146. This argumentation
has been refuted above (Chapter 2 n. 60). When discussing the passage as a whole,
Ziegler admits that ċēĐēĎ in 1 Sam 20:2 “does evoke oath-like language” (Ziegler,
Promises, 200 n. 38).
4. See R. Hess, “ċęğ,” NIDOTTE 3:1144–49 (1145).
5. See J. McEvoy, “The Other as Oneself: Friendship and Love in the Thought of
St Thomas Aquinas,” in Thomas Aquinas: Approaches to Truth: The Aquinas
Lectures at Maynooth, 1996–2001 (ed. J. McEvoy and M. Dunne; Dublin: Four
Courts, 2002), 16–37 (17–18).
6. D. Cocking and J. Kennett, “Friendship and Moral Danger,” JP 97 (2000):
278–96 (279–80). M. Pakaluk ¿nds a contrast between Aristotle’s perspective in EN
(1166a30–31) and the idea of coincidence of wills in the Rhetoric (1381a10), which
1
 4. Friends Forever 79

view” in which the moral good of friendship can conÀict with other
claims. When this occurs they assert that a commitment to friends “is
inherently likely to lead us into moral danger.”7 Their assumption is that
friendship is inevitably partial and thus risks compromising some impar-
tial moral standard. As George Fletcher expresses it, “[l]oyalties gener-
ally lead people to suspend judgement about right and wrong.”8 Or, in the
words of Elizabeth Telfer, “friendship seems prima facie to involve a
kind of injustice.”9 The supposition is that the right thing to do sets the
moral standard against which action that promotes the good of friendship
must be judged. Instead of framing the matter in terms of a conÀict
between abstract principle and personal loyalty, however, it is better to
view the matter as one of loyalty to different people. This is the way that
Aristotle himself discussed the issue. He recognized that it is occasion-
ally necessary to prioritize loyalties, advocating the ful¿lment of obli-
gations to parents above other claims, and arguing that the betrayal of
friends was more objectionable than similar acts detrimental to unknowns
(EN 1164b22–1165a33; cf. 1160a5). Regardless of whether Aristotle is
correct, it is noteworthy that the ground for these preferences is an extant
relationship between people. In recent discussion of competing loyalties
several scholars have questioned whether it is possible to “have one
thought too many.” Instead, they suppose that love itself is a suf¿cient
reason for acting in another’s interest. In other words, who or “[w]hat we
love acquires value for us just because we love it.”10 In a similar vein,
Telfer speaks of the “passions of friendship,” the desire to be with a
particular individual, this person, which may not be rationally explica-
ble.11 One of the earliest modern philosophers of loyalty, Josiah Royce,
conceived it as being a voluntary commitment of A to B.12 However, this

raises questions about whether friendship is egoistically or altruistically motivated;

see M. Pakaluk, “Introduction,” in Other Selves: Philosophers on Friendship (ed.
M. Pakaluk; trans. T. Irwin; Indianapolis and Cambridge: Hackett, 1991), vii–xiv.
7. Cocking and Kennett, “Moral Danger,” 296.
8. G. P. Fletcher, Loyalty: An Essay on the Morality of Relationships (Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 1993), 37.
9. E. Telfer, “Friendship,” in Pakaluk, ed., Other Selves, 250–67 (261, emphasis
original), repr. from Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society 71 (1971): 223–41. See
also G. Meilaender, Friendship: A Study in Theological Ethics (Notre Dame:
University of Notre Dame Press, 1981), 6–7.
10. H. Frankfurt, Some Mysteries of Love (The Lindley Lecture 2000; Kansas:
University of Kansas Press, 2001), 3–4.
11. Telfer, “Friendship,” 253. See also Meilaender, Friendship, 53.
12. So J. Royce, The Philosophy of Loyalty (New York: Macmillan, 1908); cf.
G. Trotter, On Royce (Belmont: Wadsworth, 2001).
1
80 Sons or Lovers

remains ethically uninteresting until a third party comes on the scene.

One can concur with Fletcher, therefore, that a triadic theory of loyalty
is required so that one can explain minimum standards of loyalty—for
example, abstaining from adultery or refraining from treason.13
The notion of friendship loyalty has obvious relevance for the inter-
pretation of Jonathan and David’s actions vis-à-vis Saul, although only
a handful of commentators have considered wider discussion of friend-
ship in their interpretations.14 The beginning of David and Jonathan’s
relationship is chronicled in 1 Sam 18:1–3, which highlights the men’s
covenant, Jonathan’s love, and his gifts to David. Since all three are
pertinent to the interpretation of Jonathan’s moral dilemma in ch. 20, it
will be useful to sketch, very brieÀy, the main streams of thought in Old
Testament scholarship regarding each.
The traditional view of covenants in the ancient Near East and Old
Testament is that they are legal artefacts, that is, contracts or treaties.15
The covenant between David and Jonathan is thus interpreted as “a legal
means for ensuring loyalty between the two.”16 Gordon McConville
classi¿es covenants between individuals as covenants of friendship,
covenants between powerful individuals, treaties where a dominant
partner establishes the terms, treaties where weaker party seeks terms,
and marriage. He concludes that the “concept therefore has a certain
Àexibility. Covenants can be contracted between individual, or larger
groups, or states…”17 The conception of covenant as a legal agreement,
however, has been challenged by Frank Moore Cross. In a truly seminal
essay entitled “Kinship and Covenant in Ancient Israel” he argues that
“failure to recognize the rootage of the institution of covenant and

13. G. P. Fletcher, “Lealtad,” DEFM 2:900–905 (901).

14. In addition to David Stansell’s article, mentioned in the Introduction, see
David Halperin’s chapter, “Heroes and Their Pals,” which examines the friendships
of Jonathan and David, Achilles and Patochlus, and Gligamesh and Enkidu; see
D. M. Halperin, One Hundred Years of Homosexuality: And Other Essays on Greek
Love (New York: Routledge, 1990), 75–87.
15. The literature is huge but for a succinct discussion of the interpretation of
covenant since Wellhausen, see J. Barton, “Covenant in Old Testament Theology,”
in Covenant as Context: Essays in Honour of E. W. Nicholson (ed. A. D. H. Mayes
and R. B. Salters; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 23–38. Recent studies are
reviewed by S. Hahn, “Covenant in the Old and New Testaments: Some Current
Research (1994–2004),” CBR 3 (2005): 263–92.
16. A. Taggar-Cohen, “Political Loyalty in the Biblical Account of Samuel XX–
XXII in the Light of Hittite Texts,” VT 55 (2005): 251–68 (266).
1
17. G. J. McConville, “ġĐğ÷ Êó ,” NIDOTTE 1:747–55 (748, my emphasis).
 4. Friends Forever 81

covenant obligations in the structures of kinship societies has led to con-

fusion and even gross distortion in the scholarly discussion of the term
bƟrît.”18 Starting from the observation that covenants are described using
kinship terminology—for example, “father” and “son”—Cross proposes
that they are the means by which outsiders are brought into quasi-familial
relations. Thus “individuals or groups were grafted onto the genealogies
and ¿ctive kinship became kinship of the Àesh or blood. In a word,
kinship-in-law became kinship-in-Àesh.”19 On this view of covenant as
“¿ctive kinship” it is the desire to love, that is, to treat David as a mem-
ber of the family, which comprises the motivation and content of their
covenant.20
“Love” has been construed in many different ways over the centuries,
which ought to alert modern commentators to the dangers of assuming
that the contemporary conception of love as an individual affective
disposition is also envisaged in Old Testament texts. Indeed, counter-
intuitively for many readers today, William Moran’s study of love in
Deuteronomy observed both that love can be commanded and that it is
demonstrated by unquali¿ed obedience.21 This sort of “love” ¿ts easily
into a political framework, and it is no accident that “love” describes
“friendship” between ancient Near East kings from the eighteenth to the
seventh centuries. Peter Els notes that the use of “love” in the “royal
political” sphere implies loyalty, “whereas the opposite semantic element,

18. F. M. Cross, From Epic to Canon: History and Literature in Ancient Israel
(Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1998), 3–21 (15); an accessible
summary of Cross’s main points is available in S. L. McKenzie, Covenant (UBT;
St. Louis: Chalice, 2000), 11–12. That treaties reÀect the kinship realities of father–
son obedience and ¿delity was mooted by D. McCarthy, “Notes on the Love of God
in Deuteronomy and the Father–Son Relationship Between Yahweh and Israel,”
CBQ 27 (1965): 144–47 (147).
19. Cross, Epic to Canon, 7. Our concern is with covenants between people, but
Cross explains human–divine covenants where God is the “divine kinsman.”
20. Viewing kinship as the matrix of Old Testament thinking about covenant
explains how Gordon Hugenberger’s exhaustive study can conclude that its four
essential ingredients are (1) a relationship, (2) with a non-relative, (3) which
involves obligations, and (4) is established through an oath; see G. P. Hugenberger,
Marriage as a Covenant: A Study of Biblical Law & Ethics Governing Marriage,
Developed from the Perspective of Malachi (Leiden: Brill, 1994), 215. Hugenberger
de¿nes covenant as “an elected, as opposed to natural, relationship of obligation
established under divine sanction” (ibid., 171).
21. W. L. Moran, “The Ancient Near Eastern Background of the Love of God in
Deuteronomy,” CBQ 25 (1963): 77–87 (78).
1
82 Sons or Lovers

hate, Ğn implies disloyalty.”22 It is unsurprising, therefore, that J. A.

Thompson should argue that “love” in the David–Jonathan narratives is
“pregnant with political signi¿cance.”23 On this understanding their
“love” should be viewed as a statement of covenantal loyalty rather than
as indicating personal affection. Given the common supposition that the
inferior promises to “love” the superior, a key question is which man is
portrayed as higher status.24 Some commentators have reacted to an
exclusively political interpretation of Jonathan and David’s love. Els,
while maintaining that all cases of Ĉċć, “love,” in 1 Samuel have per-
sonal or “royal political” loyalty in view, suggests that the men’s friend-
ship is “genuinely deep-rooted.”25 And Susan Ackerman argues that the
political and interpersonal realms overlap, concluding that even political
“love” has an emotional dimension.26 Furthermore, on the question of
whether love is a one-sided obligation, Thompson notes that even when
there is status inequality the duty to love is mutual.27
It is clear that Jonathan’s gifts in 1 Sam 18:3 are symbolic, although
unanimity about their meaning evades commentators. David Jobling, for
example, claims that handing over his tunic and sword was “a virtual
abdication.”28 Yet not all transfers of clothing in the Old Testament can
be understood as a transfer of authority (see Num 20:24–28; 1 Kgs
19:19–21; Isa 22:21) and David Tsumura argues, therefore, that this act
was simply “a very strong statement of affection and respect.”29 Both
scholars, however, think that the gift of clothes is related to the covenant
mentioned in the previous verse. Support for this thesis is provided by
the ample biblical and extra-biblical evidence from all epochs that
swearing was accompanied by gestures. These included the raising of the

22. P. J. J. S. Els, “Ĉċć,” NIDOTTE 1:277–99 (295). For examples of “love” as

political loyalty, see M. Weinfeld, “The Loyalty Oath in the Ancient Near East,” UF
8 (1976): 379–414 (380–81).
23. J. A. Thompson, “The Signi¿cance of the Verb Love in the David-Jonathan
Narratives in Samuel,” VT 24 (1974): 334–38 (338).
24. See Y. Ziegler, “ ‘As the Lord Lives and as Your Soul Lives’: An Oath of
Conscious Deference,” VT 58 (2008): 117–30.
25. Els, NIDOTTE 1:294.
26. S. Ackerman, “The Personal is Political: Covenantal and Affectionate Love
(ƗhƝb, ahăbâ) in the Hebrew Bible,” VT 52 (2002): 437–58. Ackerman maintains
that the “lover” is usually socially superior (p. 447).
27. J. A. Thompson, “Israel’s Lovers,” VT 27 (1977): 475–81 (478).
28. D. Jobling, “Jonathan: A Structural Study in 1 Samuel,” in The Sense of
Biblical Narrative I (JSOTSup 7; Shef¿eld: Shef¿eld Academic, 1986), 4–25 (12).
1
29. Tsumura, 1 Samuel, 473.
 4. Friends Forever 83

hand, touching the thigh or genitals, holding an item at the same time as
the foreswearing that so and so become like the object or the person
represented by the object if he breaks the oath, holding the hem of the
other’s garment, and grasping one’s throat.30 Nevertheless, such formal
rati¿cation of friendship relations seems strange to today’s readers. In
the next section we examine anthropological resources that may assist
interpretation both of this gesture, and David and Jonathan’s covenant of
love.

2. Friendship
Robert Brian declares that “[f]riendship, everywhere, makes the world go
round.”31 Until recently, however, “friendship” was a Cinderella topic in
anthropology, a category into which were placed those who were neither
family nor foe. Attention to friendship per se may be said to have been
initiated by Robert Paine. He claimed that while it is always a personal
relationship, only Western societies have the “sociological luxury” of
allowing friendship to be personal and private.32 Elsewhere, “public
performance, as well as personal rights, appears to be a characteristic
of ‘friendship’.”33 While Paine thought that friendship in general might
be characterized as voluntary, informal and personal, in another early
study David Gilmore argued that friendships in Andulacía are relations
of carefully disguised reciprocity.34 Although writing with another pur-
pose, George Foster delineated a cross-cultural model of friendship,

30. See, e.g., F. C. Fensham, “Oath,” ISBE 3:572–74; M. Malul, “More on pa­ad
yiÑ­Ɨq (Genesis XXX 42, 53) and the Oath by the Thigh,” VT 35 (1985): 192–200,
and “Touching the Sexual Organs as an Oath Ceremony in an Akkadian Letter,” VT
37 (1987): 491–92; Z. W. Falk, “Gestures Expressing Af¿rmation,” JSS 4 (1959):
268–69.
31. R. Brain, Friends and Lovers (London: Hart-Davis, MacGibbon, 1976), 12.
32. R. Paine, “In Search of Friendship: An Exploratory Analysis in ‘Middle-
Class’ Culture,” Man NS 4 (1969): 505–24 (513). For surveys of the anthropology of
friendship, see R. Paine, “Anthropological Approaches to Friendship,” in The
Compact: Selected Dimensions of Friendship (ed. E. Leyton; NSEP 3; Newfound-
land: Memorial University of Newfoundland, 1974), 1–14; S. Bell and S. Coleman,
“The Anthropology of Friendship: Enduring Themes and Future Possibilities,” in
The Anthropology of Friendship (ed. S. Bell and S. Coleman; Oxford: Berg, 1999),
1–19.
33. Paine, “In Search of Friendship,” 514 (emphasis original).
34. D. Gilmore, “Friendship in Fuenmayor: Patterns of Integration in an Atom-
istic Society,” Ethnology 14 (1975): 311–24. See also R. E. Reina, “Two Patterns of
Friendship in a Guatemalan Community,” AA 61 NS (1959): 44–50.
1
84 Sons or Lovers

asserting that it is always (and only) dyadic, informal, validated by con-

tinual exchange, strictly reciprocal over time and, since these reciprocal
transactions are undertaken surreptitiously, secretive.35 Allen Johnson
and George Bond lament the fact that Foster’s model was not tested by
anthropologists since Foster’s aim to differentiate tribal and peasant
societies on the basis of the distinction between friendship and kinship is
not substantiated by empirical studies of typical “peasant” and “tribal”
societies.36 In fact, the assumption that friendships are always dyadic has
been questioned in recent studies, which speak of “personal communi-
ties” and highlight people’s multiple commitments and af¿liations.
The need for a major change in focus has been proposed by Graham
Allan, who advocates understanding friendship in its social context. He
contends, correctly, that “it is not satisfactory to treat friendship in isola-
tion as just a personal, voluntary relationship that provides psychological
support.”37 Attending to context enables one to observe that a person’s
friends are not freely chosen, but depend upon an individual’s position in
society, something that can change over time.38 Rebecca Adams proposes
that a person’s social structural position, for example, age or sex, inter-
acts with psychological dispositions to shape individuals’ behavioural
motifs. These then inÀuence patterns of friendship interaction, that is,
“the phases, structure, and processes of friendship networks and of the
dyadic relationships embedded within them.”39 Any study of friendship,
therefore, should examine (1) the relationship between a particular
friendship and other relations, for example, with kin, (2) interaction of
friends with self, and (3) the moral aspects of friendship relations. We
will consider the contribution of the anthropology of friendship to each
in turn.

35. G. M. Foster, “The Dyadic Contract: A Model for the Social Structure of a
Mexican Peasant Village,” AA NS 63 (1961): 1173–92.
36. A. Johnson and G. Bond, “Kinship, Friendship, and Exchange in Two
Communities: A Comparative Analysis of Norms and Behavior,” JAR 30 (1974):
55–68 (62).
37. G. Allan, Friendship: Developing a Sociological Perspective (Boulder:
Westview, 1989), 9.
38. See R. G. Adams and G. Allan, “Contextualising Friendship,” in Placing
Friendship in Context (ed. R. G. Adams and G. Allan; SASS 15; Cambridge: Cam-
bridge University Press, 1998), 1–17 (5).
39. R. G. Adams, “The Demise of Territorial Determinism: Online Friendships,”
in Adams and Allan, eds., Placing Friendship in Context, 153–82 (162). This article
further develops the integrative framework ¿rst proposed in R. G. Adams and
R. Blieszner, “An Integrative Conceptual Framework for Friendship Research,”
JSPR 11 (1994): 163–84.
1
 4. Friends Forever 85

From Paine onwards many anthropologists have contrasted and com-

pared kinship and friendship, leading to some important insights. Julian
Pitt-Rivers, for instance, suggests that “friendship” as a concept is “an
invention of soi-disant ‘civilised society’ which has abandoned kinship
as an organising principle.”40 In other words, if kinship is considered as
amity, then “non-kin amity loves to masquerade as kinship.”41 The con-
sequence is the creation of quasi kinship ties, either by consubstantiality
(e.g. blood brotherhood) or simulation (e.g. Spanish compadrazgo).
Distinguishing between ritualized and non-ritualized friendship enables
Pitt-Rivers to equate ritual kinship with ritualized friendship. Figure 2
reproduces the table showing how he presents the relationship between
these categories.

“Amiable
relations”

Kinship Friendship

Real Adoptive Ritual Ritualised Friendship

=
kinship kinship kinship friendship unritualised

Commonly called “pseudo-kinship”

Jural Non-Jural

Figure 2. The Amiable Relations of Kinship and Friendship42

Pitt-Rivers remarks that it is of the “very essence of ritual kinship that it

is excluded from the jural domain. In this it partakes of the nature of
friendship, a relationship founded upon sentiment not upon rights and
duties.”43 However, while Pitt-Rivers argues that friendship can take the
form of kinship, Fernando Santos-Granero posits the opposite movement.

40. J. Pitt-Rivers, “The Kith and the Kin,” in The Character of Kinship (ed.
J. Goody; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1973), 89–106 (90).
41. Ibid.
42. Ibid., 96. Naturally, the distinctions are not hard and fast. Indeed, Pitt-Rivers
nuances the classi¿cation by suggesting that amity relations with non-jural kin can
include structurally unstressed kin in patrilineal systems, for example, the mother’s
brother (who is “structurally unstressed” because he does not have an interest in the
family’s patrimony).
1
43. Ibid.
86 Sons or Lovers

He maintains that “it is friendship rather than potential af¿nity that

structures and encompasses kinship.”44 In other words, people want kin
to behave as friends not vice versa. Without deciding between the two
positions, one may observe that the need to ful¿l both kinship and
friendship obligations may explain why close kin, particularly cousins,
are often a source of friends.45 The impossibility of maintaining sharp
distinctions between kin and friends is highlighted by Ray Pahl and Liz
Spencer, who state that “the imputed dichotomous contrast between
given and chosen relationships is analytically shallow… [I]n practice,
there is a complex process of suffusion between familial and non-familial
relationships.”46 They observe that people can call friends “family,”
and vice versa, commenting that this “often implies a strengthening
rather than a weakening of the tie, as though the relationship has taken
on extra or special qualities.”47 The practice of labelling a friend as
“family” is a symbolic construction of the relationship implying that
there should be practical consequences in terms of mutual commitment.48
Conversely, Elaine Combs-Schilling describes how the cultural construc-
tion of kinship means that it is relatively easy to mobilize support from
among kin even though contact with them is sporadic.49 Relations with
friends, however, must be continually reinforced through reciprocal
practices. These practices may provide a degree of predictability to
friendship relations—Nigel Rapport describes how the ritualized socia-
bility of playing dominoes achieves this purpose in one rural commu-
nity.50

44. F. Santos-Granero, “Of Fear and Friendship: Amazonian Sociality Beyond

Kinship and Af¿nity,” JRAI NS 13 (2007): 1–18 (14).
45. See D. Reed-Danahay, “Friendship, Kinship and the Life Course in Rural
Auvergne,” in Bell and Coleman, eds., The Anthropology of Friendship, 137–54; G.
Rich, “Kinship and Friendship in Iceland,” Ethnology 19 (1980): 475–93.
46. R. Pahl and L. Spencer “Personal Communities: Not Simply Families of
‘Fate’ or ‘Choice’,” CS 52 (2004): 199–221 (215).
47. L. Spencer and R. Pahl, Rethinking Friendship: Hidden Solidarities Today
(Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2006), 119.
48. See M. I. Aguilar, “Localized Kin and Globalized Friends,” in Bell and
Coleman, eds., The Anthropology of Friendship, 169–84 (179).
49. M. E. Combs-Schilling, “Family and Friend in a Moroccan Boom Town: The
Segmentary Debate Reconsidered,” AE 12 (1985): 659–75 (667–68).
50. N. Rapport, “The ‘Bones’ of Friendship: Playing Dominoes with Arthur of
an Evening in the Eagle Pub,” in Bell and Coleman, eds., The Anthropology of
Friendship, 99–117.
1
 4. Friends Forever 87

The second issue to consider is the interaction of friends with self. In

Western friendships autonomous individuals voluntarily establish and
maintain relationships with equally autonomous persons. Many question
whether this perspective is cross-culturally valid. Juliet du Boulay
remarks that in Ambéli a person’s notion of him or herself is provided by
other villagers, thus “individualism occurs not as the expression of
identity, but as the loss of it.”51 Furthermore, she avers that social role,
for example, son or wife, is central to a person’s identity and plays an
important part in constraining behaviour, including the development of
friendships.52 A slightly different concern centres upon how one relates
to the other in friendship. Dean Cocking and Jeanette Kennett present a
threefold typology.53 The ¿rst type is the “secrets view of friendship,” in
which one discloses oneself to one’s friend, and the relationship develops
to the extent to which this is reciprocated and repeated. The second type
is the “mirror view of friendship,” where intimacy is tied to the extent
to which one ¿nds one’s own character traits in the other.54 The third
type is the “companion view of friendship,” in which “as a close friend
of another, one is characteristically and distinctively receptive to being
directed and interpreted and so in these ways drawn by the other.”55
Although this dynamic perspective overcomes an objection to the ¿rst
two types, it still seems that some generic, idealized “friendship” is in
view.
The third issue concerns morality. While “friend” is a very ambiguous
term, people actually recognize different degrees of friendship without
dif¿culty, even when “disguised” by terms such as “neighbour.”56 This
diversity means it is not possible to generalize about moral obligations,
although perhaps it is possible to identify typical expectations associated
with each type of friend. David Gilmore classi¿es friendships among

51. J. du Boulay, Portrait of a Greek Mountain Village (Oxford: Clarendon,

1974), 80.
52. See also J. G. Carrier, “People Who Can Be Friends: Selves and Social
Relationships,” in Bell and Coleman, eds., The Anthropology of Friendship, 21–38
(28–29).
53. D. Cocking and J. Kennett, “Friendship and the Self,” Ethics 108 (1998):
502–27.
54. For an empirical study of adolescents that supports the mirror view, see
S. Duck, “The Basis of Friendship and Personal Relationships,” Current Anthro-
pology 19 (1978): 399–400.
55. Cocking and Kennett, “Friendship and Self,” 503.
56. See S. Uhl, “Forbidden Friends: Cultural Veils of Female Friendship in
Andalusia,” AE 18 (1991): 90–105 (95).
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88 Sons or Lovers

working class males in Andalucía as “casual friendships,” “friendships of

compromiso,” and “friendships of trust.”57 The distinction between them
is based upon the nature of reciprocity involved in each, the varying
degrees of intimacy and trust, and whether the motivation is affective as
well as instrumental. So, casual camaraderie involves “inviting” others
to drink in a bar, while long-term friends share money or tools, and the
most intimate degree of friendship involves trust and protection of
another’s secrets. Not that these transactions need be “positive”: Michael
Herzfeld records how the purpose of reciprocal sheep stealing in Crete
was to create and maintain friendships.58 Cora Du Bois’s conclusions are
similar to Gilmore’s.59 She compares the features of casual, close and
exclusive friendships to determine where each lies on four scales:
“Expressive–Instrumental,” “Dyadic–Polyadic,” Intimacy, and Mutabil-
ity. The casual friendship, for example, was de¿ned as largely instru-
mental and polyadic, while the exclusive was primarily expressive,
dyadic and assumed to be permanent. In between was the close friend-
ship, which was hopefully durable, intimate in selected areas and vari-
ously instrumental and expressive. Perhaps such analysis cannot quite
capture the dynamism of real friendships, for William Rawlins talks of
a dialectic between affection and instrumentality, arguing that “draw-
ing a sharp boundary between friendships based on affection and on
instrumentality comprises a false dichotomy.”60 The tension between
generosity and reciprocity, for example, is experienced by each friend in
the context of “their ongoing management of both the actualities and
symbolic qualities of these contradictory facets of friendship” in which
the friends themselves determine the long-term balance.61 In an article
on the “rules” of friendship—really general patterns of expected
behaviour—Michael Argyle and Monika Henderson identify exchange,
intimacy and loyalty as expectations that must be met if the friendship is

57. D. D. Gilmore, “Honor, Honesty, Shame: Male Status in Contemporary

Andalusia,” in Honor and Shame and the Unity of the Mediterranean (ed. D. D.
Gilmore; American Anthropological Association Special Publication 22; Washing-
ton, D.C.: American Anthropological Association, 1987), 90–103 (94–96), and
“Friendship in Fuenmayor.”
58. Herzfeld, Poetics of Manhood, 162–205.
59. C. Du Bois, “The Gratuitous Act: An Introduction to the Comparative Study
of Friendship Patterns,” in Leyton, ed., The Compact, 15–32.
60. W. K. Rawlins, Friendship Matters: Communication, Dialectics, and the Life
Course (New York: de Gruyter, 1992), 18.
1
61. Ibid., 19.
 4. Friends Forever 89

to thrive.62 These are simply facets of reciprocity and although this is a

“slippery term” anthropological studies unanimously accord it a central
place in friendship. Hans van Wees comments that the “outstanding
feature of reciprocity as a mode of social integration is that it allows
everyone to retain at least notional autonomy…but deprives them of the
inclination to use it.”63 Yet, although friendship involves reciprocity,
indeed must involve it if sentiments are to be demonstrated, this aspect
of the relationship is consistently denied, in Pitt-Rivers’ words, “for fear
of the relationship becoming jural.”64 Thus “it is precisely in those
situations where economic cooperation is effectuated under the guise
of friendship that the loudest claims to disinterestedness are heard.”65
Another caveat concerning reciprocity concerns relations between people
of unequal status, which are often couched in terms of friendship. Here
moral equality, in lieu of coercive or economic equality, is expressed in
reciprocity of sentiment.66 These feelings, of course, can be feigned, which
is why tokens of friendship possess symbolic importance in patron–client
relations. That reciprocity is a moral requirement of friendships explains
why people in the Sicilian village studied by Peter Schneider people
sought these relationships:
The emphasis is on making friends; i.e., on structuring the situation such
that another person is virtually constrained to accept the friendship rela-
tion, including the obligation of reciprocity, even though there may be no
speci¿c or immediate demand for reciprocity. Unsolicited hospitality or
favors are offered and granted so as to create the foundation for a con-
tinuing relationship.67

62. M. Argyle and M. Henderson, “The Rules of Friendship,” JSPR 1 (1984):

211–37 (234). See also Spencer and Pahl, Rethinking Friendship, 81–85, where they
identify loyalty, trust and acceptance as the key moral aspects of friendship.
63. H. van Wees, “The Law of Gratitude: Reciprocity in Anthropological Theory,”
in Reciprocity in Ancient Greece (ed. C. Gill, N. Postlethwaite and R. Seaford;
Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998), 13–49 (29).
64. Pitt-Rivers, “Kith and Kin,” 97.
65. Ibid. See also van Wees, “Law of Gratitude,” 25.
66. This is why, in van Wees’s words “[f]rom genuine generosity to exploitation
in disguise, all forms of reciprocity in political life share one key feature: they deny,
in effect, that a relation of power exists” (van Wees, “Law of Gratitude,” 47).
Pitt-Rivers also remarks: “Nor is there anything surprising in the fact that ruling
classes, once their position is secure, should attempt to juralise their ties with their
clients and invoke legal sanctions to ensure their ¿delity. Amity can be dispensed
with at that point” (Pitt-Rivers, “Kith and Kin,” 98).
67. Schneider, “Sicilian Town,” 141. See also A. Blok, “Peasants, Patrons, and
Brokers in Western Sicily,” AQ 42 (1969): 155–70.
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90 Sons or Lovers

One aspect of reciprocity is mutual maintenance of trust. There is a

danger here, for termination of friendly relations means the end of this
obligation; du Boulay records how former friends broadcast all sorts of
intimate details to the wider community.68
The risk that loyalty might be more ephemeral than desired can be
addressed by formally constructing the relationship, with attendant ritual
sanctions. Brain remarks that while “[o]ne of our ¿rm convictions about
friendship is that it needs no laws, no ceremonies, not material expecta-
tions… [I]n most societies love between friends is not allowed to depend
on the vague bonds of moral sentiment alone.”69 A classic, though subse-
quently debated, example of formalized friendship is “blood-brother-
hood.”70 The attraction of such relationships is that they can “provide a
highly formalized but, paradoxically, relaxed setting for social interac-
tion; a setting that contrasts strongly with the prescriptions, proscriptions,
and non-voluntary burdens of kinship and af¿nity.”71
Although Pahl asserts, correctly, that it “is the essence of friendship
that it will escape the heavy-handed intrusions of social science,”72 one
can still employ insights such as those identi¿ed in this survey to under-
stand particular friendships more fully; this is the task of the next section.

3. Understanding Jonathan’s (Dis)Loyalty

The context for Jonathan’s (dis)loyalty is found in Saul’s reported voice
in 1 Sam 20:7 and 12–13. Saul is construed by David as seeking his life,
but by Jonathan as con¿ding in his son. To test which view is correct
they decide to feign David’s absence at a family feast. Saul is allowed
two possible responses: saying “good” or becoming angry. Some schol-
ars have claimed that ĈČď, “good,” can have covenantal resonances.73 Is
it possible, therefore, that should Saul utter “ĈČď” he alludes to or con-
¿rms a covenant? Tentative support for such an interpretation is found in

68. Du Boulay, Portrait, 190.

69. Brian, Friends and Lovers, 17–18.
70. Cf. E. Evans-Pritchard, “Zande Blood-Brotherhood,” Africa 6 (1933): 369–
401; D. D. Cordell, “Blood Partnership in Theory and Practice: The Expansion of
Muslim Power in Dar Al-Kuti,” Journal of African History 20 (1979): 379–94.
71. Santos-Granero, “Fear and Friendship,” 16.
72. R. Pahl, On Friendship (Cambridge: Polity, 2000), 166.
73. A. González Lamadrid, “Pax et Bonum: ‘Shalôm’ y ‘Óôb’ en relación con
‘berit’,” EstBib 28 (1969): 61–77, and “Apuntes sobre ĈČď/ĈďĐ y su traducción en
las Biblias modernas,” EstBib 50 (1992): 443–56; M. Fox, “Tôb as Covenant Termi-
nology,” BASOR 209 (1973): 41–42; M. Barré, “The Formulaic Pair ĊĘĎ(Č) ĈČď in
the Psalter,” ZAW 98 (1986): 100–105.
1
 4. Friends Forever 91

the fact that ĔČēĠ, “peace,” the following word, is also covenant termi-
nology. Furthermore, vv. 12–13 juxtapose the same roots for good and
evil, and themselves contrast Saul’s possible responses with Jonathan’s
covenant with David.74 In any case, Saul is provided with two potential
responses, which form the backdrop to David and Jonathan’s intrigues.
David and Jonathan’s voices in ch. 20 are hardly understandable
except in relation to each other. We have already observed that their
interaction commences with a contest of oaths. The culmination of their
initial conversation is Jonathan’s af¿rmation: “Whatever you say, I will
do for you” (1 Sam 20:4). The Hebrew emphasizes his commitment,
since whereas David complains that Saul is seeking his Ġěė, “life”
(1 Sam 20:1), and then swears on Jonathan’s Ġěė that this is indeed the
case (1 Sam 20:3), the same word is used as a personal pronoun by
Jonathan when he declares “whatever you, đĠěė, say.”75 Readers are
clearly intended both to contrast Saul’s supposed intentions with
Jonathan’s, and to recall 1 Sam 18:1–3, when Jonathan’s Ġěė was ¿rst
bound to David’s.
David, however, is presented as unsure of whether he ought to trust
Jonathan’s profession, for immediately after outlining the ruse he
petitions his friend to “deal kindly” with him because of their “sacred
covenant” or, should he not intend to do so, to kill David himself rather
than hand him over to Saul (1 Sam 20:8). I have explained elsewhere
why patterns of violence against enemies mean readers could perceive
this to be a quite correct course of action should Jonathan not consider
David his friend.76 One does not have to agree with Fokkelman, there-
fore, that the potential inversion of good and bad indicates “how
hopelessly Saul’s scale of vales has been turned upside down.”77 The
challenge to Jonathan is framed by David in terms of his, David’s,
possible ĖČę, “guilt.” Koch de¿nes ĖČę as “fateful guilt caused by a
person’s iniquitous transgressions,” giving as examples fratricide (Gen
4:13) and disloyalty towards the king (1 Sam 20:1; 25:24; 2 Sam 3:8;

74. See also William Moran’s discussion of treaties expressed in terms of

friendship and spoken of euphemistically as “good things”; see W. L. Moran, “A
Note of the Treaty Terminology of the Sefîre Stelas,” JNES 22 (1963): 173–76
(175).
75. On use of the term as a pronoun, see H. Seebass, “›ěù ùė ne›eš,” TDOT 9:497–
519; H. W. Wolff, Anthropology of the Old Testament (London: SCM; Minneapolis:
Fortress, 1974; repr., MifÀintown: Sigler, 1996), 10–25 (24). Tsumura suggests that
the object clause precedes the verb, ċĠę, as a topic focus: “Whatever you say, I will
do for you” (Tsumura, 1 Samuel, 46–48, 503–4).
76. See Rowe, Michal’s Moral Dilemma, 124–45.
1
77. Fokkelman, Narrative Art and Poetry, 311.
92 Sons or Lovers

19:19 [20]).78 But both ĖČę and ĊĘĎ, another key term in this chapter,
involve people rather than an abstract principle. Koch notes that guilt,
ĖČę, is closely related to ćďĎ, “to sin.” The two words are employed
together in 1 Sam 20:1, so given that Jonathan had declared that David
had not sinned against Saul in 1 Sam 19:4 a question for readers is
whether he has changed his mind. David’s voice in 1 Sam 20:8, then,
seeks to provoke Jonathan. The latter’s riposte is to swear that such a
suggestion is unthinkable, lit. “profanity to you” (1 Sam 20:9). If, says
Jonathan, he knew that evil was to befall David he could not but tell him.
The emphatic repetition of the verb in the Hebrew (ęĊć ęĊĐĀĔć) leaves
no room for doubt about his commitment, either for David or readers,
although, naturally, whether Jonathan will go through with his plan is
another question, one that provides narrative suspense right up until the
end of the chapter.
David, though, has another objection, viz. how he will discover if Saul
answers harshly (1 Sam 20:10).79 The very way of expressing this, with
Jonathan in the line of ¿re rather than David, hints at David’s awareness
of the dif¿culties facing Saul’s son. It intimates that David understands
how dif¿cult it will be for his friend to contravene the “norms” of family
loyalty signalled by letting David go to Bethlehem for a family feast. The
change of location following Jonathan’s invitation to “go out into the
¿eld” pauses the dialogue and interrupts the response, requiring readers
to ponder—who will let David know? The answer to this question is then
provided by Jonathan, who, however, goes far beyond a simple statement
of intent by swearing twice more in verses that present the central feature
of their friendship.
Jonathan commences his discourse by setting out a strong contrast
between the possible outcomes of their ruse and the action he will take in
either case.80 His intentions are made more obvious if the text is pre-
sented as in Figure 3.81

78. K. Koch, “Ė˟ę,” TDOT 10:545–62 (550–51).

79. See also 1 Sam 25:3 where Nabal is characterized as harsh, which is signi-
¿cant given that he is analogous to Saul; see, e.g., R. P. Gordon, “David’s Rise and
Saul’s Demise: Narrative Analogy in 1 Samuel 24–26,” TynBul 31 (1980): 37–64;
B. Green, “Enacting Imaginatively the Unthinkable: 1 Samuel 25 and the Story of
Saul,” BibInt 11 (2003): 1–23.
80. Pace Tsumura, who proposes that the outcome is assumed by Jonathan,
1 Samuel, 508. For further discussion, see A. Wénin, “Le discours de Jonathan à
David (1 S 20,12–16) et autres notes (2,20; 9,24; 15,9),” Biblica 64 (1983): 1–19.
81. My translation. For a detailed structure not dissimilar from mine, see
Fokkelman, Narrative Art and Poetry, 310.
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 4. Friends Forever 93

Aƍ Jonathan said to David,

Bƍ YHWH, God of Israel!82
Cƍ I will83 sound out my father,
Dƍ about this time tomorrow or on the third day,84
Eƍ and behold—good for David
Fƍ or not85—
Dƍ then
Gƍ I will send to you
Hƍ and disclose it to you.
Bƍ So YHWH do to Jonathan and more
Eƍ if it causes good86 for my father:
Fƍ the evil for you
Hƍ but (that) I disclose it to you
Gƍ and send you away so you may go
Figure 3. The Structure of 1 Samuel 20:12–13

Jonathan undertakes to uncover Saul’s intentions and communicate them

to his friend, warranting his promise with oaths. Made in the name of the
deity, they invite divine retribution should he fail to ful¿l his word.87 The

82. That the phrase constitutes the protasis of an oath is made explicit by S. R.
Driver, Notes of the Hebrew Text and the Topography of the Books of Samuel
(2d ed.; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1913), 163: “Yahweh, God of Israel [be
witness].”
83. Emphatic ĐĒ, so Tsumura, 1 Samuel, 206; Fokkelman, Narrative Art and
Poetry, 310 (“Yes…”).
84. Tsumura, 1 Samuel, 507–8; pace Driver’s “for the third time”; see G. R.
Driver, “Old Problems Re-examined,” ZAW 80 (1968): 175–83.
85. So McCarter, 1 Samuel, 336: “or not. Then…”; pace Tsumura who takes
čćĀćēČ to read “If not…,” Tsumura, 1 Samuel, 507.
86. Hiphil; Driver, Notes, 163: “pleasing”; but the translation here, although
admittedly more stilted, highlights the parallel use of the root in E (ĈČď)–Eƍ (ĈďĐĐ).
There are two possible translations of Eƍ (đĐēę ċęğċĀġć ĐĈćĀēć ĈďĐĐĀĐĒ):
(1) “if it causes good for my father: the evil for you,” taking ġć as emphatic; see
P. P. Saydon, “Meanings and Uses of the Particle ġć,” VT 14 (1964): 192–210
(197); or (2) “if the evil to you causes good for my father,” where ġć marks the sub-
ject of an intransitive’ see G. A. Khan, “Object Markers and Agreement Pronouns in
Semitic Languages,” BSOAS 47 (1984): 468–500 (496–97). In either case the
contrast between good for Saul being evil for David is clear, so Tsumura’s claim that
the “indirect expression is euphemistic, expressing the delicate feeling of Jonathan
towards his father” is otiose (Tsumura, 1 Samuel, 508).
87. Oaths warranting a commitment that is otherwise unenforceable or
unveri¿able are frequently made in the name of a deity for this reason, see Weinfeld,
“Loyalty Oath,” 379–414. While oaths appear conditional, “it is the curse, not the
1
94 Sons or Lovers

very fact that this is necessary points to the supposition that loyalty to
family should take precedence over that to outsiders, and that his
decision was unexpected. The contrast between family and friend is
made starker both by repeated mention of “father,” and by use of the
expression “and disclose it to you” in v. 12.88 This same turn of phrase
was used in v. 2, when Jonathan swore that he would have informed
David of any threat to his life had he known of it, because Saul did
nothing “either great or small without disclosing it to me.”
Although friendships are reciprocal relations, someone has to make
the ¿rst move. We noted above that gifts can be utilized to oblige and
this is a pro¿table way of interpreting Jonathan’s gift of clothes and
weapons to David. The new hero and saviour of Israel was an important
person. Given that friendship limits “social obligations to a manageable
number of individuals from whom a person can expect at least as much
as he gives,” there may have been a degree of competition to become
acquainted with the victorious warrior.89 Jonathan, as Saul’s son, is in the
privileged position of being ¿rst to seek his friendship. He does so by
imposing “gifts” upon him, presents that are not meant to be repaid in
kind, but in long-term commitment. Given that “acceptance of even a
small gift may assume ritual signi¿cance as a token of submission,”90 it
is important that the receipt of Jonathan’s gifts is skated over; instead,
the narrative passes straight onto a description of David’s military
success and promotion (1 Sam 18:4–5). This is one reason why David’s
rejection of Saul’s suit of armour is important. Not only does it not
encumber him in the duel with Goliath, but it also means David is not
subsequently obligated to Saul (see 1 Sam 17:38–39).91 Nevertheless,

promise, that is conditional” (T. Cartledge, Vows in the Hebrew Bible and the
Ancient Near East [JSOTSup 147; Shef¿eld: Shef¿eld Academic, 1992], 15, without
original emphasis). One could destroy a curse by eliminating its source, hence the
importance of swearing by oneself; see S. H. Blank, “The Curse, Blasphemy, the
Spell, and the Oath,” HUCA 13 (1951): 73–95 (93); P. Sanders, “So may God do to
me!,” Biblica 85 (2004): 91–98 (92–94).
88. Yael Ziegler also notices this dynamic, stating that “Jonathan’s personal
involvement in informing David of his father’s evil intentions must be emphasized,
because it is not at all obvious that he would choose to endanger himself in this way”
(Ziegler, “So Shall God Do,” 74).
89. Johnson and Bond, “Two Communities,” 63 (without original emphasis).
90. Van Wees, “Law of Gratitude,” 41.
91. See O. H. Prouser, “Suited to the Throne: The Symbolic Use of Clothing
in the David and Saul Narratives,” JSOT 21 (1996): 27–37. Roland de Vaux thinks
that Jonathan’s gift is signi¿cant because the ancients viewed cloths as an exten-
sion of the person (Boaz’s cloak, Ruth 3:9; Saul’s cloak, 1 Sam 24:4–5 [5–6];
1
 4. Friends Forever 95

David’s voice in 1 Sam 20:8 demands “kindness” from Jonathan “for

you have brought your servant into a sacred covenant.” This raises three
interpretative issues, viz. whether the two men are equals, the form of
their “covenant,” and its content. All three issues are central to under-
standing this passage and hence Jonathan’s moral dilemma.
On the matter of relative status ch. 20 is at once clear and ambiguous.
There is clarity regarding the portrayal of David as initially inferior. In
v. 3 he prefaces his petition with the statement that Saul knows “that I
have found favour in your eyes.” Although “if I have found favour in
your eyes” can simply be a way of saying “please,” William Reed sug-
gests that is used in the context of hierarchy to indicate a positive
attitude.92 David’s inferior status is emphasized in the following phrase
when he utters the words “as truly as YHWH lives and you live.” Yael
Ziegler argues, correctly, that the juxtaposition of the deity and the
recipient of the oath “is not merely a respectful gesture toward a superior
party, but is also designed to remind the addressee of his responsibi-
lities.”93 Ziegler also contends, however, that this phrase only appears
when an inferior swears to a superior, that is, that the formula is a con-
scious expression of deference. Further evidence for David’s subservient
status may be found in v. 8 when David refers to himself as “your
servant,” and at the end of the chapter we ¿nd David prostrating himself
on the ground in front of Jonathan. Yet it seems that these indications of
David’s inferior status are simply conventional expressions, for it is not
the case that David was socially inferior. Although Saul used the pros-
pect of marriage to his daughters as a trap, it would have been entirely
natural for Saul to seek an alliance with someone like “Jesse the Bethle-
hemite.” To judge from the size of his family Jesse was the head of a
signi¿cant household in a strategic Israelite border region and, further,
one that had already provided Saul with military assistance (1 Sam
17:13). Saul probably follows the same strategy in marrying Michal to

Elijah’s mantle, 2 Kgs 2:13), R. de Vaux, Les Livres de Samuel (2d ed.; Paris: Cerf,
1961), 97.
92. W. L. Reed, “Some Implications of H̙ƜN for Old Testament Religion,” JBL
73 (1954): 36–41 (40); see also W. F. Lofthouse, “Hҕen and Hҕesed in the Old Testa-
ment,” ZAW 51 (1933): 29–35 (30).
93. Ziegler, “As the Lord Lives,” 119–20 (122). For a brief review of the debate
about whether ĐĎ is an article or noun, see Ziegler, “Conscious Deference,” 118 n. 4.
On the basis of Semitic parallels, Greenberg objects to translations such as “as truly
as X lives,” and prefers to take the ĐĎ of the oath formula as “life” in construct, thus
“by the life of YHWH and your soul”; see M. Greenberg, “The Hebrew Oath Particle
­ay/­Ɲ,” JBL 76 (1957): 34–39. In either case it is obvious that a self-imprecatory
oath is intended.
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96 Sons or Lovers

Paltiel of Gallim (1 Sam 25:44).94 David’s refusal of Saul’s offer of

Merab’s hand in marriage with the expression “who am I and who are
my kinfolk…?” (1 Sam 18:17) is entirely conventional, and does not
undermine the view that he came from a perfectly suitable family. Given
the nature of ancient Israelite society, therefore, there is no signi¿cant
difference in social standing between Jonathan and David. Moreover,
possible indications of David’s inferior status are mitigated in two
places. First, in vv. 16–17 there is a mutual swearing of oaths and a
mutual love. Although this could still be an unequal covenant it is
important that Jonathan makes David swear on his own, that is, David’s
love, which is stated to be of the same degree as Jonathan’s.95 Second,
Bergen suggests that at the end of the chapter “Jonathan countered
David’s symbolic expression of subordination with one that implied
acceptance as a respected peer—he kissed him.”96 This is overly senti-
mental because institutionalized amity is quasi-kinship, and since family
relations are not egalitarian one expects hierarchy. Nevertheless, some
commentators have found in the words often translated “David wept the
more,” but literally “until David made great,” an emphasis upon “David’s
ascendancy” (1 Sam 20:41).97 The presentation of David in the passage,
then, is of a man who does not grasp the kingship of Israel from Jonathan,
the rightful heir. Instead, as he adopts a properly respectful attitude, he
receives from both Jonathan and the narrator an elevated status.

94. The location of Gallim is unknown, although probably north of Jerusalem,

possibly 1 km west of Anatoth; see Isa 10:30; D. L. Christenson, “The March of
Conquest in Isaiah X 27c–34,” VT 26 (1976): 385–99; J. A. Hamilton, “Gallim,”
ABD 2:901.
95. The syntax of v. 17 is ambiguous for it is not entirely clear who swears on
the basis of whose love. The ¿rst half of the sentence is straightforward: “Jonathan
made David swear again.” In the second part some follow the LXX and emend so that
Jonathan swears again. However, given that David is the one swearing ČġĈċćĈ, “by
his love,” this must be David’s love, and thus Čġć, “for him,” means “for Jonathan.”
The ĐĒ clause explains David’s love and is not simply a description of circum-
stances; see Gen 24:3; 1 Kgs 2:42; 2 Chr 36:13; Neh 13:25; Song 2:7; 3:5. Michael
Fishbane identi¿es “an exact parallel” to 1 Sam 20:17 in the Vassal-Treaties of
Esarhaddon: “You will love [Ashurbanipal] as yourselves”; see ANET 537;
M. Fishbane, “The Treaty Background of Amos 1 11 and Related Matters,” JBL 89
(1970): 313–18 (314).
96. Bergen, 1, 2 Samuel, 219.
97. Edelman, King Saul, 161. Tsumura suggests a literal translation, “until David
made (his voice) great/magni¿ed,” arguing that “his voice” is omitted as a result of
brachylogy (i.e. “the omission of key words in ‘idiomatic’ expressions”), and that
the comparative sense, “louder” is required; his translation, therefore, is “until David
cried louder”; see Tsumura, 1 Samuel, 64, 524.
1
 4. Friends Forever 97

The form of the covenant itself also points in this interpretative direc-
tion. Clark observes that the covenant “can hardly be a document drawn
up in a strict legal manner to ensure that both parties are bound by the
terms of their agreement and answerable to each other in case of
default.”98 Indeed, van der Toorn asserts that “ancient Near Eastern man
perceived human relationships, other than those created by consanguin-
ity, essentially as covenants.”99 This may be too sweeping, but the
anthropological evidence adduced above suggests nothing abnormal with
the formalizing of relations with non-kin in ways that do not resemble
modern contracts. Instead, individuals recognize their obligations to each
other and invoke the deity to ensure that the other partner actually keeps
their side of the bargain.100 Concerning Old Testament covenants, Cross
proposed that partners became “¿ctive kin.” Social-scienti¿c resources,
however, can be utilized to make two observations. First, it is entirely
plausible that outsiders are brought into quasi-kinship relations since the
alternative is to remain potential enemies. In the case of David and
Jonathan the covenant obligations actually concern caring for kin, that is,
ful¿lling the obligations of “real” kin. Cross highlights the language of
David’s lament (2 Sam 1:26), which, he proposes, “is transparently the
language of kinship and mutual kinship obligation.”101 Whether the
emotive aspects of the relationship were a case of friend becoming like
family or the opposite, kin becoming like friend, is impossible to say.
The text simply highlights their mutual identi¿cation (1 Sam 18:1–3;
20:17). Second, ritualized friendships are not “¿ctive kinship.” In his
discussion of blood-brotherhood Dennis Cordell makes the obvious point
that “individuals in a society know which people [are] true kin and which
[are] blood partners, so there [is] nothing ‘¿ctive’ about the arrange-
ment.”102 Thus, although covenants bring people into quasi-kinship rela-
tions there is no pretence that these are familial ties; instead, reciprocal
practices will equate to those within the family (cf. Prov 17:17; 18:24).

98. G. R. Clark, The Word Hesed in the Hebrew Bible (JSOTSup 157; Shef¿eld:
JSOT, 1993), 127.
99. Van der Toorn, Sin and Sanction, 47.
100. As well as oaths van der Toorn highlights the function of the friendship
meal, which may also celebrate a business contract. The premise was that should one
party renege on the agreement the food consumed would turn bad and affect the
culprit from inside; see ibid., 51; Gen 3:22; Exod 22:7; Pss 55:20 (21); 125:3.
101. Cross, Epic to Canon, 9.
102. Cordell, “Blood Partnership,” 381. Despite some early anthropological
conjecture to the contrary, blood does not symbolize kin but is simply a symbol of
union.
1
98 Sons or Lovers

A similar line of argument might be taken with respect to “covenant

love.” Supposing Jonathan and David’s love is simply “political” assumes
that “covenant love” is associated with contractual-type covenants. How-
ever, if one follows Cross in positing kinship as the matrix for covenant
agreements, then it is possible to suppose that instead of love being poli-
tical the reverse process is in view: the political arena seeks to replicate
kinship not only in the form of its agreements, but also in its emotions.
This is not to propose that people confuse the warmth of the hearth with
“political love,” simply that the ideology of non-kin alliance draws upon
the nurturing commitment of familial affection.
It is this type of covenant practice that the two men seek to establish in
1 Sam 20. Verses 13b–15 comprise the statement of an introductory
desire, followed by a series of negative clauses:

ąĐĈćĀĔę ċĐċ ğĠćĒ đĕę ċČċĐ ĐċĐČ

103

ĐĎ ĐėĊČęĀĔć 104ćēČ
ċČċĐ ĊĘĎ ĐĊĕę ċĠęġĀćēČ
105ġČĕć ćēČ
106ĔēČęĀĊę ĐġĐĈ Ĕęĕ đĊĘĎĀġć ġğĒġĀćēČ

ċĕĊćċ Đėě ēęĕ ĠĐć ĊČĊ ĐĈĐćĀġć ċČċĐ ġğĒċĈ ćēČ

103. The Masoretic punctuation makes v. 13b the conclusion to the preceding
text, but since it forms the central pivot of Jonathan’s speech it is equally attached to
vv. 14–15.
104. Several commentators repoint the ¿rst three Äē óČ to ćēý óČ, following the
LXX—thus “oh that” or “if”; see McCarter, 1 Samuel, 336; Driver, Notes, 164.
105. There are three main possibilities regarding translation of the ¿rst three ćē
clauses: (1) to repoint and assume Jonathan will live if David deals loyalty with him,
hence “Would that while I am still alive you may keep the LORD’s faith with me,
that I not die” (so Campbell, 1 Samuel, 211); (2) to repoint, taking the ¿rst clause as
conditional and the third as contrastive, so “And if I am yet alive, thou shalt show
me the kindness of Yahweh. But if I should die” (so Smith, Samuel, 188); or (3) to
maintain the Masoretic pointing, suppose that Jonathan’s death means David is
unable to show loyalty to his friend, and that the third clause is a consequence of the
second, so “And if I must no longer live, you need not show the Lord’s kindness to
me that I may not die” (so Tsumura, 1 Samuel, 507). I follow the latter path, although
with slight variations to Tsumura’s translation, since this avoids emendation and, as
this discussion shows, makes most sense in the context of the pericope.
106. ĔēČęĀĊę…ćē, “never”; see Tsumura, 1 Samuel, 507. James Barr notes that
biblical covenants are always “for ever,” which can easily be explained if kinship
rather than contract is the background idea; see J. Barr, “Some Semantic Notes on
the Covenant,” in Beiträge zur alttestamentlichen Theologie: Festschrift für Walther
Zimmerli zum 70 (ed. H. Donner, R. Hanhart and R. Smend; Göttingen:
Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1977), 23–38 (33).
1
 4. Friends Forever 99

The wish that YHWH be with David as he had been with Saul implies
Jonathan is aware that David will lead Israel. Anticipating this scenario,
Jonathan’s narrative voice expresses the fear that his house be perceived
as inimical to David’s, with all the usual consequences: ancient Near
Eastern practice was for the new king to eliminate potential threats from
the previous dynasty (cf. Judg 9:5; 1 Kgs 2:25, 46; 15:29; 16:11; 2 Kgs
10:6; 11:1).107 For this reason, or because he envisages another mis-
fortune, Jonathan contrasts his hope that YHWH will accompany David
with an alternative for himself, saying “but (should) life not continue
with me and you are unable to do ċČċĐ ĊĘċ for me so that I do not die.”
This translation highlights the contrast between life and death prominent
in the whole chapter. Indeed, the use of ĐĎ, “life,” reminds readers of
David’s oath in v. 3; now the situation is reversed and Jonathan, not
David, is “but a step from death.”
The scene set, Jonathan proceeds to petition David. The construction
of the parallel clauses is such that the second provides the context for the
action of the verb of the ¿rst.108 The context envisaged by Jonathan is a
future in which “the cutting of YHWH” eliminates “all of David’s
enemies from the face of the earth” (1 Sam 20:15). Regardless of whom
might be included in the category of “David’s enemy”—many commen-
tators, naturally, identify Saul—Jonathan’s voice explicitly recognizes
God’s agency in establishing David. Both David’s cutting off of
Goliath’s head in YHWH’s strength (1 Sam 17:36, 46–47, 51) and God’s
revelation to Samuel that he has provided himself with a king (1 Sam
16:1) echo in readers’ ears. Jonathan’s plea to David, the content of their
covenant, is that “you will not cause your ĊĘĎ to be cut off from my
house.” In both vv. 8 and 14 David pleads that his friend “do” ĊĘĎ,
suggesting that it “is not merely an attitude or emotion; it is an emotion
that leads to an activity bene¿cial to the recipient.”109 In Dale Davis’s
words, “it is not merely love, but loyal love; not merely kindness, but
dependable kindness; not merely affection, but affection that has
committed itself.”110 It is natural, therefore, that David Baer and Robert
Gordon highlight the “strongly relationship aspect that is essential to any
proper de¿nition of the term”: ĊĘĎ is to a person.111 Thus “sure loyalty”

107. On the “legality” of killing enemies, see Taggar-Cohen, “Political Loyalty.”

108. See F. H. J. van der Merwe, J. A. Naudé and J. H. Kroeze, Biblical Hebrew
Reference Grammar (London: Shef¿eld Academic, 2002), 156.
109. Clark, The Word Hesed, 267.
110. D. R. Davis, 1 Samuel: Looking on the Heart (Fearn: Christian Focus,
2000), 167.
1
111. D. A. Baer and R. P. Gordon, “ĊĘĎ,” NIDOTTE 2:211–18 (211).
100 Sons or Lovers

is a good translation.112 Rather than thinking this is some sort of covenant

loyalty, our survey of recent biblical and anthropological scholarship
would suggest that the matter should be expressed in the other way
around: covenant supposes or seeks to formalize “sure loyalty.” Thus
“the covenant comes in to reinforce the commitment to ­esed in a situa-
ion where its exercise is not naturally to be expected or is likely to be put
under strain by future circumstances.”113 This explains both why loyalty
is a moral, not legal, responsibility, and why promises of loyalty are
prominent in ancient Near Eastern covenants.114 Pertinent to Jonathan and
David’s covenant are instances of promises to be loyal to the other’s
descendents and succeeding generations.115 The phrase ċČċĐ ĊĘĎ is found
only here in the books of Samuel and probably means that YHWH is
witness to the covenant oath (Ps 33:5; 103:17; cf. Isa 63:7; Pss 89:2;
107:43; Lam 3:22). The reason for requiring such a witness is the ambi-
guity of human agency: one cannot rely on the reciprocity of friendship,
since it must be denied. But there is a de¿nite reciprocity in view.
Jonathan has promised David he will do whatever he wishes to protect
his friend from Saul, now he wishes to “give” by invoking YHWH to
“call David’s enemies to account” (1 Sam 20:16).116 Like Michal, who
purported to side with Saul by feigning that Saul’s enemy was also hers,
Jonathan af¿rms his loyalty to David by opposing David’s enemies (cf.
2 Sam 19:7). Although readers may appreciate that their voices are thus
set against Saul’s, one cannot conclude their friendship is a conspiracy.117

112. So K. Doob Sakenfeld, Faithfulness in Action: Loyalty in Biblical Per-

spective (OBT; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1985), xv.
113. Baer and Gordon, “ĊĘĎ,” 212. Brian Britt examines what he identi¿es as
“surprising” instances of ĊĘĎ but fails to explain why David and Jonathan’s ĊĘĎ
falls into this category; see B. Britt, “Unexpected Attachments: A Literary Approach
to the Term ĊĘĎLn the Hebrew Bible,” JSOT 27 (2003): 289–307.
114. See M. Weinfeld, “Covenant Terminology in the Ancient Near East and Its
InÀuence on the West,” JAOS 93 (1973): 190–99. Weinfeld proposes a particular
development of treaty forms and content that is not directly relevant here, although
his observation that covenant centres around two semantic ¿elds “oath and commit-
ment” and “grace and friendship” is pertinent.
115. Cf. Weinfeld, “Loyalty Oath,” 386–87, 391–92.
116. Some think “David’s enemies” euphemistic for David himself; see, e.g.,
Gordon, Samuel, 167; but see Tsumura, 1 Samuel, 510.
117. Although the verb ğĠĞ can mean “conspire” (1 Sam 22:8, 13), it can also
simply mean “bind” (Deut 6:8). Peter Ackroyd claims the matter is indeterminate
but does not cite the similar phrase ČĠěėĈ ċĠČĠĞ, “bound to him,”LQGen 44:30; see
P. R. Ackroyd, “The Verb Love—ƗhƝb in the David–Jonathan Narratives—A
Footnote,” VT 25 (1975): 213–14.
1
 4. Friends Forever 101

Nevertheless, there is an irony in Jonathan siding with David against his

father in order to seek future security for his own family. Zeigler observes
that the unusual inclusion of YHWH’s name in the oath (1 Sam 20:13)
indicates that the “only factor that could motivate Jonathan to give up his
kingship is his belief that this is in fact what the Lord of Israel require of
him.”118
Jonathan’s insistence upon making a covenant could be interpreted as
merely pragmatic. Bell notes that in “a political struggle the well-organ-
ised family sees to it that it has members in the opposing factions…[so
that] at least one member will be on the winning side and in a position to
shield other members from possible retaliation.”119 The repeated mention
of YHWH and the strong contrast between Saul and David’s families,
however, point against this interpretation. Instead, Jonathan’s narrative
voice states a “consistent desire to implement the divine will” that is
con¿rmed in the chapter’s closing scene.120 David’s actions con¿rm to
Jonathan that his friend intends to reciprocate his own faithfulness in
alerting David to danger from Saul, and acknowledges this in the dis-
missal “Go in peace” (1 Sam 20:42). Nevertheless, Jonathan’s uncer-
tainty regarding the consequences of the step he has taken demonstrates
its seriousness. Both the expectation of family loyalty and the inherent
uncertainty of the future lead Jonathan to remind David, and readers, of
their covenant to protect each other’s descendants made in the sight of
YHWH.
Jonathan’s voice speaks clearly and consistently of loyalty to his
friend David. Aware of the rami¿cations for his family he is concerned
to obtain a commitment from David to protect his, Jonathan’s, house in
the future. Readers, but not Saul, are aware that Jonathan’s apprehension
is insuf¿cient to prevent a wholehearted commitment to be friends
forever. When they see him implement the plan to test Saul’s reactions
they can conclude—whatever else they may think—that he is being
faithful to his oath. Saul, however, can only see disloyalty; in the next
chapter we will examine his furious reaction.

118. Ziegler, Promises, 79.

119. Bell, Fate, 3.
1
120. Edelman, King Saul, 157.
 Chapter 5

SHAMEFULLY DISGRACED

DiǕloyal Wretch! thy gentle Mothers Ǖhame!

WhoǕe cold pale GhoǕt ev’en bluǕhes at thy name!
Who fears leǕt her chaǕt bed Ǖhould doubted be,
And her white fame Ǖtain’d by black deeds of thee!
—Abraham Cowley, Davideis1

When Jonathan reports to his father that he has supposedly granted

David permission to go to Bethlehem Saul is outraged, verbally insulting
and physically assaulting his son. The interpretation of Saul’s actions is
at once straightforward and complex. On the one hand the text itself
states what happened: Jonathan “was grieved for David, and because his
father had disgraced him.”2 On the other, there has been considerable
debate about what has caused the offence.

1. “Shall my honour be as shame?”

The verb used in v. 34, ĔēĒ, means “to be humiliated, disgraced or
shamed.” These synonymous states are usually considered to be emo-
tions experienced as a result of situations construed as “shameful” or
“humiliating.”3 Although the criteria for what is shameful vary across
societies, Johanna Stiebert’s de¿nition identi¿es internal and external
dimensions. She states that it is “an emotion focused on the vulnerability
and conspicuousness of one’s self-image (subjective, internalized) in
terms of a perceived ideal (objective, external).”4 This explains why an

1. Cowley, Davideis, 54 (emphasis and spelling original).

2. Some think the third person pronoun refers to David, others to Jonathan; it
will become clear why it refers to Jonathan.
3. D. L. Cairns, Aidǀs: The Psychology and Ethics of Honour and Shame in
Ancient Greek Literature (Oxford: Clarendon, 1993), 6.
4. Stiebert, Construction of Shame, 3. On patterns and tensions in the cross-
cultural study of emotion, see C. Lutz and G. M. White, “The Anthropology of
Emotions,” ARA 15 (1986): 405–36.
 5. Shamefully Disgraced 103

essential feature of disgrace in the Old Testament is that it is public.

Spitting in a daughter’s face and cutting off a man’s beard, for example,
are both actions that humiliate and highly visible symbols of humiliation
(Num 12:14; Jer 31:19; Ruth 2:15). It is contrasted, therefore, with living
“obscure,” quiet lives, unperturbed by threats from others (Judg 18:7—
where these blessings are counted alongside a statement that may be
translated literally as “and not humiliated by anything on earth”). Perhaps
for this reason the humiliation of enemies may have been routine, which
put soldiers on the losing side in rather a dif¿cult position, since it was
also disgraceful to Àee in battle (2 Sam 19:3).5 In the wisdom literature
several imprecations ask that the troublemakers be castigated by being
humiliated (Job 11:3; 19:3; Pss 35:4; 40:14 [15]; 70:2 [3]), a perspective
that, in turn, is used to interpret Israel’s humiliation: it is divine punish-
ment for sin (Ps 44:9 [10]; Jer 3:3; 6:15; 8:12; 14:3; 22:22).6 Following
the same logic, the avoidance of humiliation is connected to right living,
including not acting precipitously (Prov 25:8; 28:7—quarrelling generally
is in view).
Humiliation is closely related to shame, ĠČĈ, in several texts.7 Indeed,
their use in similar contexts points to their synonymity: shame is public
(Job 8:22; Pss 35:26; 109:29; Jer 2:26); it pertains to the exposure of
what should be hidden, for example, wrong actions (1 Sam 20:30; Pss
40:15 [16]; 70:3 [4]);8 and the defeated are shamed (2 Kgs 19:26; 1 Sam
19:9; 37:27; 41:11; Jer 46:24; 48:20; Ezek 32:30; Mic 7:16; Zech 10:5),
as are those who fail (Mic 3:7; Jer 48:13; cf. Zech 13:4). Proverbs uses
ĠČĈ to describe the sort of people who bring disgrace upon their family,
and the avoidance of shame by refraining from the practices identi¿ed is

5. See T. M. Lemos, “Shame and Mutilation of Enemies in the Hebrew Bible,”

JBL 125 (2006): 225–41.
6. Note the opposite movement: the interpretation that wrongdoing has occurred
because someone is humiliated (Pss 69:6 [7]; 74:21). Further, being saved from
humiliation is an act of God (Isa 45:17; 50:7; 54:4). Note that because one’s actions
are visible to God, sinful actions can be humiliating even if no one else observes
them (Ezra 9:6).
7. For lists, see P. J. Nel, “ĔēĒ,” NIDOTTE 2:658–60, and “›ČĈ,” NIDOTTE
1:621–27; M. A. Klopfenstein, Scham und Schande nach dem Alten Testament
(Zurich: Theologischer Verlag, 1972), 33–35, 119–27.
8. Shame is thus linked to guilt (Jer 3:25; Dan 9:8; and the juxtaposition of Ps 31
on shame and Ps 32 on guilt). Although shame is negative it may be a precondition
for repentance (Jer 3:3; 22:22; 31:19; Ezek 36:32; Zeph 3:5; 1 Cor 4:14; 6:5), see
Nel, NIDOTTE 1:622. Any distinction between “shame” and “guilt” cultures as the
basis for discussion of these themes, however, is to be rejected, see below. Naked-
ness, the embodiment of disclosure of what should be hidden is linked to shame
(Mic 1:11; see also Gen 9:20–27; Exod 28:42–43; Deut 25:11).
1
104 Sons or Lovers

thus a moral imperative (Prov 10:5; 14:35; 17:2; 19:26; 29:15). The view
that shame or the fear of being shamed should inÀuence behaviour is
prominent (Job 19:3; Prov 9:13—LXX lit. “who does not know shame”).
Indeed, shaming is a punishment, especially for idolatry, which the
biblical polemic portrays as trusting in an unreliable patron (Isa 30:3;
42:17; Jer 11:13). Hence statements of dependence upon God are accom-
panied by the petition that the person not be put to shame (Pss 25:2, 20;
31:2); and abandonment by YHWH is experienced as shame (Ps 89:39–42
[40–43], 45–47 [46–48], 50–52 [51–53]).9 The motive for Israel’s
avoidance of shameful actions, or of being shamed as punishment for sin,
is to protect YHWH’s name.10 This is also the basis for the psalmist’s
petition that God deliver him from shame (Ps 69:6–7 [7–8]); and the
corollary, that God punish by shaming (Ps 70:2 [3]). The same idea may
be found in Ps 4:2 [3], which juxtaposes the humiliation–shame cluster
with its antonym, ĊĈĒ, in the phrase ċĕēĒē ĐĊČĈĒ ċĕĀĊę ĠĐć ĐėĈ, “sons
of man, how long shall my honour be as shame?” (my translation). The
psalmist’s charge is that his honourable conduct before God is viewed as
shameful by his adversaries, a perversion that he trusts God to correct.
Interestingly, this plea points to the possibility of a divergence between
“real” honour and “perceived” honour. Some interpreters think the oppo-
sition of honour and shame is total, so that the semantic ¿elds described
by ĔēĒ and ĠČĈ constitute “a ¿xed composite expression to describe an
experience or condition of loss of honor and position as a result of sinful
conduct, defeat, or distress.”11 Although such claims are oversimpli¿-
cations, there does seem to be some relationship between these “values,”
and it will aid our discussion to identify key elements of Old Testament
“honour.”

9. L. Bechtel, “The Perception of Shame Within the Divine–Human Relation-

ship in Biblical Israel,” in Uncovering Ancient Stones: Essays in Memory of H. N.
Richardson (ed. L. M. Hopfe; Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 1994), 79–92. Misplaced
loyalty in itself does not produce shame, rather its consequences; this is so in the
examples of the brother not having enough money and of David not celebrating the
victory, pace M. Odell, “The Inversion of Shame and Forgiveness in Ezekiel 16:59–
63,” JSOT 17 (1992): 101–12 (104). On the relationship of patron–client relations
and “honour and shame,” see also S. Olyan, “Honor, Shame, and Covenant Relations
in Ancient Israel and its Environment,” JBL 115 (1996): 201–18; R. T. Hobbs,
“ReÀections on Honor, Shame, and Covenant Relations,” JBL 116 (1997): 501–3;
W. D. Tucker Jr., “Is Shame a Matter of Patronage in the Communal Laments?,”
JSOT 31 (2007): 465–80.
10. D. Glatt-Gilad, “Yahweh’s Honor at Stake: A Divine Conundrum,” JSOT 26
(2002): 63–74.
1
11. Nel, NIDOTTE 2:659.
 5. Shamefully Disgraced 105

Timothy Laniak identi¿es four facets of the word ĊĈĒ—namely,

substance, status, splendour and self.12 Substance refers to quantity or
size and, metaphorically, to wealth. Although the Old Testament often
depicts honourable people as materially wealthy, and thus visibly blessed
by God, there are warnings that possessions are insuf¿cient to guarantee
a position of honour, and an aversion to hastily acquired property. Thus
a fool is without honour yet the poor can be honourable (Prov 13:11;
19:2; 21:5; 26:1, 8; 28:20, 22; Sir 10:31).13 Honourable behaviour also
includes military heroism and proper mundane interactions with children
and neighbours (Prov 16:32; 21:22; 24:5).14 Status is linked to symbols
such as titles, gestures and clothing indicating social rank. For example,
David took the Ammonite king’s crown (2 Sam 12:30), Pharaoh places a
ring on Joseph’s ¿nger (Gen 41:42), and priestly garments give honour
(Exod 28:2–3). Pedersen claims that honour is “read in the face and the
countenance. The proud man looks freely about him. If he loses his
honour, then his face is covered with shame; he lowers his face and veils
it from the eyes of others” (Gen 4:6; Ezra 9:7).15 The embodiment of
honour explains the notes about Saul’s height and Mephibosheth’s
in¿rmity (1 Sam 9:2; 2 Sam 4:4), and that honouring is performed, for
example, by bowing (Gen 18:1–2; 19:1; 23:7, 12; 37:7–8; 41:43).
Splendour is linked to sacral practices and the honour of God’s glory
(Exod 16:7, 10–12; 24:16–17; 29:43, 45; 33:22–23; 40:34–35). The
honour of self or personal honour is related to reputation or name. Sirach
41:12–13 captures its importance: “Be concerned about your name, for it
will remain with you longer than a thousand costly treasures. The good
things of life last only for a certain number of days, but a good name
lasts forever.” Although there were variations over time, von Rad argues
that personal honour in Job shows that it was “something which was
clearly seen to exist. It was not a private privilege of Job’s, but was

12. T. S. Laniak, Shame and Honor in the Book of Esther (SBLDS 165; Atlanta:
Scholars Press, 1998), 17–23.
13. On the priority of humility over honour see Prov 15:33; 19:11; 20:3; 29:23,
although John Dickson and Brian Rosner argue social humility is not an Old
Testament virtue; see J. Dickson and B. Rosner, “Humility as a Social Virtue in the
Hebrew Bible,” VT 54 (2004): 459–79.
14. Wits Domeris suggests Proverbs is not concerned with “honour and shame”
but “wisdom and folly,” “around which all other values ¿nd their proper place”; see
W. Domeris, “Shame and Honour in Proverbs: Wise Women and Foolish Men,”
OTE 8 (1995): 86–102 (86, without original emphasis).
15. Pedersen, Israel, 227. See also D. Daube, “The Culture of Deuteronomy,”
Orita 3 (1969): 27–52 (32).
1
106 Sons or Lovers

granted incontrovertibly to the good man who was blessed with good
things.”16
Laniak’s categorization of honour in the Old Testament is heuristically
helpful, yet one aspect of his analysis has received trenchant criticism:
his lexical analysis simply assumes the honour–shame dyad.17 Despite
that fact that other commentators do specify their postulates there is a
pattern to the majority of uses of “honour and shame” in biblical studies.
John Chance usefully summarizes the model adopted by many exegetes
under three headings:18
(1) Honor and shame form a value system rooted in gender distinctions in
Mediterranean culture. Preservation of male honor requires a vigorous
defence of the shame (modesty, virginity, seclusion) of women of the
family or lineage.
(2) Honor, most closely associated with males, refers to one’s claimed
social status and also to public recognition of it. Shame, most closely
linked with females, refers to sensitivity towards one’s reputation, or in
the negative sense to the loss of honor.
(3) Mediterranean societies are agonistic, or competitive. Challenges to
one’s status claims (honor) are frequent and must be met with the
appropriate ripostes. The ensuing public verdict determines the outcome,
and whether honor is won or lost.
Given that the honour–shame complex has been imported into biblical
studies from anthropology it is essential to investigate how it has been
conceptualized in this discipline.19

16. G. von Rad, Wisdom in Israel (trans. J. D. Martin; Nashville: Abingdon,

1972), 83. See also Job 29:2, 7–10. ĊĈĒ is linked with ĔĠ, “name,” in Ps 79:9; Isa
48:9; Jer 14:21; Ezek 39:16; Mal 1:6. However, that someone’s name is honoured
(adjectival participle) may be different from saying that he possesses honour (noun).
In 1 Sam 18:30, while ēĞĐ, “to be precious,” signi¿es David’s name is “greatly
valued,” whether it can be glossed as “very honoured” as suggested by Gary Stansell
will depend upon the de¿nition of “honour.” Neither is it a straightforward move to
suppose that “David won a name for himself” (2 Sam 8:13) is the same as “he
gained honor and fame”; see G. Stansell, “Honor and Shame in the David Narra-
tives,” Semeia 68 (1994): 55–80.
17. See K. Jobes, review of Timothy S. Laniak, Shame and Honor in the Book of
Esther. Review of Biblical Literature 2000. Online: http://www.bookreviews.org/
pdf/67_366.pdf. Accessed: 22 November 2007.
18. J. K. Chance, “The Anthropology of Honor and Shame: Culture, Values, and
Practice,” Semeia 68 (1994): 139–51 (142). This is a good synopsis of the per-
spective adopted by Gary Stansell in his study of honour and shame in the David
narratives.
19. Although we will examine anthropological perspectives, it is important to
observe that the study of honour, shame and related notions has generated a huge
literature across many disciplines. Agnes Heller groups her reÀections on shame
1
 5. Shamefully Disgraced 107

2. “Honour and Shame”

Ruth Benedict’s monographs mark the genesis of modern anthropo-
logical interest in “shame.”20 Her contention was that “shame cultures”
are to be differentiated from “guilt cultures”:
True shame cultures rely on external sanctions for good behavior, not, as
true guilt cultures do, on an internalized conviction of sin. Shame is a
reaction to other people’s criticism. A man is shamed either by being
openly ridiculed and rejected or by fantasying to himself that he has been
made ridiculous. In either case it is a potent sanction. But it requires an
audience or at least a man’s fantasy of an audience. Guilt does not. In a
nation where honor means living up to one’s picture of oneself, a man
may suffer from guilt though no man know of his misdeed and a man’s
feeling of guilt may actually be relieved by confessing his sin.21

The bifurcation of guilt and shame on the basis of internal and external
motivation, however, has been almost universally rejected “since at all
stages both shame and guilt possess an internalized component, and
neither is differentiated from the other by the fact that it may occur
before a real audience, before a fantasy audience or before oneself.”22 It
is better to think that normal development processes include the
acquisition of anxiety, shame and guilt, and that these may be con¿gured
differently according to individual experiences, which will include, but
are not be limited to, cultural context. Note that shame can be positive,
warning people that they have transgressed societal norms, or that they
are in danger of doing so. In this respect Jennifer Manion argues the

into anthropological, sociological, ethical, psychological and historical perspectives,

also referring to philosophical and artistic portrayals; see A. Heller, “Five
Approaches to the Phenomenon of Shame,” SR 70 (2003): 1015–30. For a survey
of the literature on honour focusing especially upon literary and legal perspectives,
see F. H. Stewart, Honor (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1994).
20. Ruth Benedict, Patterns of Culture (repr., Boston: Houghton MifÀin, 1989
[1934]), and The Chrysanthemum and the Sword: Patterns of Japanese Culture
(repr., Boston: Houghton MifÀin, 1989 [1946]), especially 222–27. For a critical
appreciation of Benedict’s work, see J. Modell, “The Wall of Shame: Ruth Benedict’s
Accomplishment in The Chrysanthemum and the Sword,” DA 24 (1999): 193–215.
21. Benedict, Chrysanthemum, 223.
22. Cairns, Aidǀs, 27. Millie Creighton notes that Benedict was accused of an
evolutionary view of shame and guilt, something, naturally, to which her Japanese
subjects have been particularly sensitive, although Creighton’s conclusion is that
Benedict is innocent of this anthropological “crime”; see M. R. Creighton, “Revisit-
ing Shame and Guilt Cultures: A Forty-Year Pilgrimage,” Ethos 18 (1990): 279–307
(280–85).
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108 Sons or Lovers

distinction between positive shame and destructive “false shame,” that is,
shame experienced although it is ungrounded, is spurious: the issue is
how individuals manage shame rather than its cause.23
More recent anthropological studies have identi¿ed various types
of shame. Michelle Rosaldo, for example, identi¿es two varieties: an
awareness of inadequacy or slight, and restraint or caution.24 In early
ethnographies of Mediterranean societies these two types were associated
with men and women, respectively. Thus men were quick to defend
shaming slights to individual or family honour, while women sought to
avoid shame by discreet behaviour, especially with respect to sexual
activity. The most prominent proponents of this “honour–shame” com-
plex were Julian Pitt-Rivers and John Peristiany.25 It is noteworthy that
the point of departure is the male side of the equation, that is, honour.
Pitt-Rivers offers what has become a classic de¿nition:
Honour is the value of a person in his own eyes, but also in the eyes of his
society. It is estimation of his own worth, his claim to pride, but it is also
the acknowledgement of that claim, his excellence recognised by society,
his right to pride.26

He comments that “honour has caused more men to die than the
plague…more brawls than money.”27 Modern people ¿nd this inexpli-
cable, something Peter Berger ascribes to honour’s obsolescence, so that
“the reality of the offence [to honour] will be denied.”28

23. J. Manion, “Girls Blush, Sometimes: Gender, Moral Agency, and the
Problem of Shame,” Hypatia 18 (2003): 21–41 (35).
24. M. Z. Rosaldo, “The Shame of Headhunters and the Autonomy of Self,”
Ethos 11 (1983): 135–51.
25. See especially J. G. Peristiany, ed., Honour and Shame: The Values of
Mediterranean Society (London: Weidenfeld & Nicholson, 1965); J. Pitt-Rivers,
The People of the Sierra (2d ed.; Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1971);
J. G. Peristiany and J. Pitt-Rivers, “Introduction,” in Honor and grace in Anthro-
pology (ed. J. G. Peristiany and J. Pitt-Rivers; Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 1992), 1–17.
26. J. Pitt-Rivers, “Honour and Social Status,” in Peristiany, ed., Honour and
Shame, 19–77 (21, emphasis original).
27. J. Pitt-Rivers, “La maladie de l’honneur,” in L’honneur: Image de soi ou don
de soi un idéal équivoque (ed. M. Gautheron; SM 3; Paris: Autrement, 1991), 20–36
(20, my translation).
28. P. L. Berger, “On the Obsolescence of the Concept of Honor,” AES 11
(1970): 339–47 (339, emphasis original). According to Berger the insight that
something exists beyond or behind the “mere scutcheon” of honour is evident in the
tale of Nathan and David because there is an appeal to reality, not merely appear-
ances.
1
 5. Shamefully Disgraced 109

Frank Stewart suggests this unfamiliar world has been investigated

either lexically or conceptually.29 There are two problems with lexical
approaches on their own. First, merely delineating a semantic ¿eld does
not guarantee an accurate reÀection of the emic (i.e. insiders’) perspec-
tive. Indeed, Roger Just describes a situation in which all parties per-
ceived “honour” was at stake even though the lexical term did not occur.
So although Just defends the notion of “cultural translation,” he ques-
tions whether a focus upon key words identi¿es central categories of
thought and action.30 Second, identifying key terms is a separate question
to whether the words are actually important in everyday interaction. For
this reason lexical studies cannot con¿rm, for example, that honour is the
antonym of shame.31
Regarding conceptual studies, Elvin Hatch’s typology distinguishes
between materialist and non-materialist approaches.32 A materialist
conception of honour is defended by John Davies. He asserts that honour
is essentially a system of strati¿cation that “describes the distribution of
wealth in a social idiom, and prescribes appropriate behaviour for people
at the various points in the hierarchy.”33 The consequence is a “scramble
for honour” as people compete for a place in the hierarchy in order to
gain access to resources. Peter Schneider also defends a materialist view
of honour yet recognizes “it is dif¿cult to distinguish conÀict which is
motivated primarily by interesse from that which is motivated by a
concern for honor or an offense to personal pride.”34 Thus questions of
honour sometimes lead to conÀicts involving material interests, while at
other times the latter are expressed in terms of slights to personal or
social honour. In any case, disputes involving honour quickly become a

29. Cf. Stewart, Honor, 5–6. Stewart is especially critical of anthropological

treatments of “honour,” seeking to widen discussion beyond Mediterranean societies
and include the de¿nitions of jurists. Pitt-Rivers has responded acerbically in
Review of F. H. Stewart, Honor, L’Homme 143 (1997): 215–17; see also the riposte,
F. H. Stewart, “De l’honneur,” L’Homme 147 (1998): 237–46.
30. See R. Just, “On the Ontological Status of Honour,” in Hendry and Watson,
eds., An Anthropology of Indirect Communication, 34–50 (36–37). For an example
of translation issues involving the English word “shame,” see C. D. Rusch, “Cross-
Cultural Variability of the Semantic Domain of Emotion Terms: An Examination of
English Shame and Embarrass with Japanese Hazukashii,” CCR 38 (2004): 236–48.
31. G. Kressel, “Shame and Gender,” AQ 65 (1992): 34–46 (35).
32. E. Hatch, “Theories of Social Honor,” AA 91 NS (1989): 341–53.
33. J. Davies, People of the Mediterranean: An Essay in Comparative Social
Anthropology (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1977), 98.
34. P. Schneider, “Honor and ConÀict in a Sicilian Town,” AQ 42 (1969):
130–54 (153).
1
110 Sons or Lovers

vicious circle, since “the continued existence of conÀict validates the

utility of the normative codes.”35 Non-materialist conceptions refrain
from reducing honour to a more basic system of material inequality but
view prestige as independent with its own principles. Pierre Bourdieu is
the pre-eminent exponent of this approach, distinguishing between
economic and cultural capital. He argues that any combination of these
can be vested with social signi¿cance, with the result that a particular
view of what constitutes prestige is supported by those at the bottom of
the hierarchy.36
Anthropological theorizing of honour and shame has focused upon
three issues relevant to the appropriation of its ideas in biblical studies:
the gendering of honour and shame, the distinction between honour
virtue and honour precedence, and the validity of the foundational con-
cept of “limited good.” In the next few pages we will examine each in
turn, showing that the social-science on each issue is itself an arena for
debate. For this reason we will conclude that exegesis of characters’
practices should avoid dependence upon rei¿ed models of “honour and
shame.”
The gendering of honour and shame in early studies, as described
above, has been challenged on two fronts. First, scholars have disputed
the notion that each relates exclusively to one gender.37 Lila Abu-
Lughod, for example, argues that both men and women ¿ght for honour;
the difference is the audience in front of which they do so.38 Indeed,
Alison Lever objects to the characterization of women in many ethno-
graphies as objects to be controlled rather than agents in their own right.
Furthermore, she highlights how political and economic dif¿culties in
Spain during the mid-twentieth century privileged the perspectives of

35. Ibid., 153.

36. On art, for example, Bourdieu comments that at “stake in every struggle over
art there is also the imposition of an art of living, that is, the transmutation of an
arbitrary way of living into the legitimate way of life which casts every other way of
living into arbitrariness” (Bourdieu, Distinction, 57).
37. Even where female shame is opposed to male honour there is debate about
the relationship. Jane Schneider argues that the monetary premium placed on a
woman’s virginity in pastoral societies is because women are a repository for family
honour; see J. Schneider, “On Violence and Virgins: Honor, Shame, and Access to
Resources in Mediterranean Societies,” Ethnology 10 (1971): 1–24. Alice Schlegel,
however, supposes the opposite: that economics is primary and protecting the
family’s females’ virginity is a means of discouraging social climbing by males; see
A. Schlegel, “Status, Property, and the Value on Virginity,” AE 18 (1991): 719–34.
38. See L. Abu-Lughod, Veiled Sentiments: Honor and Poetry in a Bedouin
Society (2d ed.; Berkley: University of California Press, 1999), 110–12.
1
 5. Shamefully Disgraced 111

landowning elites, and that honour–shame discourse obscures these

issues.39 Second, there has been a growing awareness that the importance
of honour and shame lies less in any putative “system” and more in their
use by people in their social interactions. In Mark Jamieson’s study, for
example, shame does involve concern for reputation, both as an indi-
vidual sentiment and public recognition, but informants do not think it
is de¿lement of male honour arising from female misconduct, but an
emotion. Thus shame denotes “contextual discomfort…best treated as
neither a ¿xed value nor a virtue (as much of the Mediterranean literature
suggests), nor an emotion to be theorized, but as a praxis-orientated form
of performance.”40 As an example Jamieson describes the use of shame
and embarrassment by older women to coerce young men. Roger Just
also emphasizes the importance of practice, providing the example of an
acquaintance, Iannis, who suddenly declared, after having performed
some small favour, “I am a good man!” Just argues that the interest of
this af¿rmation “lay not in its ‘meaning’ (nor even in the self-estimation
it provided), but in its utterance; not in what was said, but in that could
be (was ever required to be) said.”41 It is thus the performance of honour
that is of anthropological interest. Just accuses Pitt-Rivers et al. of assum-
ing that behaviour validates ideas and, therefore, of extracting values
from action. In contrast, claims Just, “what ‘we’ observe as interesting
about the behaviour of ‘others’ may be only partially accounted for by
ideas that others have about themselves.”42 This is an important conclu-
sion, for it neither invalidates what “we” observe, nor imposes a concept
such as “honour” upon people who do not hold it in ways de¿ned by
anthropologists.
A focus upon practice means any particular act should not be con-
sidered in isolation. A good example of the importance of a context of
conÀicting goods that also demonstrates Àaws with gendered notions of
honour and shame is provided by Unni Wikan. She struggled to account
not only for the absence of sanctions against an adulterous woman, but a
positive acceptance of her. Wikan observed that as a result of gifts from
her lovers this woman was able to excel at hospitality, a central good
among her circle. Wikan asks whether the adulteress actually “resorted

39. A. Lever, “Honour as a Red Herring,” CA 6 (1986): 86–106 (100–101).

40. M. Jamieson, “It’s Shame That Makes Men and Women Enemies: The
Politics of Intimacy Among the Miskitu of Kakabila,” JRAI NS 6 (2000): 311–24
(312).
41. Just, “Ontological status,” 44.
1
42. Ibid., 46; cf. Pitt-Rivers, People of the Sierra, xviii.
112 Sons or Lovers

to a course labelled ‘shameful’ because she cared about her honour.”43

Along similar lines, Wikan also notes that a man who discovers his wife
is adulterous may not divorce her, and that this may be viewed positively
as a case of someone putting love above honour.44 Both observations
problematize the gendering of honour and shame.
David Gilmore argues that “it is important to distinguish an honour or
position, which is an ascribed category related to possessions, and a
discrete moral category which devolves from achievement of reputation
among social peers.”45 This distinction between “honour precedence”
and “honour virtue” has been inÀuential among anthropologists. While
some have contested the continuing relevance of honour virtue, con-
sidering it archaic or a pleasant idea that only leads to the destitution of
its practitioners,46 other anthropologists seek to relate the two concep-
tions, viewing both precedence and virtue, “erotic one-upmanship” and
honest dealing, as positive values.47 This can explain, for example, why
the very poor are not to be exploited: there are limits to what is morally
permissible even in “agonistic” situations.48 Peristiany and Pitt-Rivers
claim:
Guilt is related to the lack of virtue, shame to the loss of precedence or
face. In fact both approaches appear to be necessary, and in a sense
complementary, since the function of the concept of honor is precisely,
despite the frailty of the logic involved, to equate them and establish
thereby the dialectic between…“the world as it ought to be and the world
as it is.”49

They suppose that morality conceived as being based upon guilt leads to
conceptions of honour as virtue, while morality founded upon notions of
shame is related to honour as precedence. Given that the guilt–shame
distinction is unhelpful, this equivalence need not be accepted, but this
does not prevent one from admitting that agents simultaneously seek
moral goods described by terms such as honour precedence and honour
virtue. Support for such a proposal comes from Michael Meeker’s study
of sharaf–namus. Meeker observes that

43. U. Wikan, “Shame and Honour: A Contestable Pair,” Man 19 NS (1984):

635–52 (644).
44. See ibid., 646.
45. Gilmore, “Mediterranean Area,” 191 (emphasis original).
46. See ibid., 192; C. Stewart, “Honour and Sanctity: Two Levels of Ideology in
Greece,” SA 2 (1994): 205–28 (212).
47. Gilmore, “Honor, Honesty, Shame,” 92.
48. Campbell, Honour, 293–94.
1
49. Peristiany and Pitt-Rivers, “Introduction,” 8.
 5. Shamefully Disgraced 113

character and uniqueness lie in that part of the person that seems least
personal, that is, publicly acknowledged sharaf, while namus, which we
erroneously interpret as a standard of moral conscience and therefore the
locus of individuality and uniqueness, is instead a connection between
person and common measure.50

In other words, it is the appearance of honour virtue that is important,

hence the deadliness of insults. Meeker argues that sharaf, and claims to
sharaf, relate to lineage and family continuance, yet observes that the
greater a person’s association with a lineage the more a person is con-
cerned for namus. This is the opposite to Pitt-Rivers’s conclusions that
Spanish aristocracy are concerned for precedence to the exclusion of
honour virtue. Meeker claims that sharaf “represents the active aspects
of a historical unfolding, an idiom of event and change,” while namus
“represents the static aspects of a past history in relation to a ¿xed
present, and idiom of convention and changelessness.”51 Inevitably, both
idioms are present in any particular encounter, and must be negotiated to
the best of one’s abilities.52
The dominant model adopted by biblical scholars views honour as
scarce, the subject of competition. Theoretical support for this supposi-
tion has been found in George Foster’s hypothesis regarding “limited
good” deduced from ¿eldwork in Tzinzuntzan, Mexico. Foster’s proposal
comprises three elements. First, “limited good” is a mental model of how
the world works, a cognitive orientation “in which [peasants] perceive
their socioeconomic and natural environments to constitute a closed sys-
tem.”53 Second, given that it is impossible to expand the supply of goods
within the system, peasants know one person’s gain must be another’s
loss. Third, in order to avoid being a loser, people seek equality by
avoiding close ties that may be exploited, and by sanctioning wealth
imbalances by gossip, ¿estas and ritualized hospitality. Foster claims that
this model of “limited good” explains “classic” peasant behaviour: it is an
ideal model, not a description of any actual peasant society, which have

50. M. E. Meeker, “Meaning and Society in the Near East: Examples from the
Black Sea Turks and the Levantine Arabs (I),” IJMES 7 (1976): 243–70 (261).
51. Ibid., 263.
52. See also the scheme of two contradictory vigencias between which the
honourable person must steer in every situation identi¿ed by C. Lison-Tolosana,
Belmonte de los Caballeros: A Sociological Study of a Spanish Town (Oxford:
Clarendon, 1966), 336–37, 348.
53. G. M. Foster, “A Second Look at Limited Good,” AQ 45 (1972): 57–64 (58).
See also his “Peasant Society and the Image of Limited Good,” AA NS 167 (1965):
293–315 (296–97).
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114 Sons or Lovers

all experienced modernization. Nevertheless, his proposal has generated

substantial debate, and it is helpful to highlight the most important bones
of contention.
First, it is not clear that a model of limited good is necessary to explain
the behaviour Foster observed.54 John Kennedy suggests all people
perceive goods to be limited in some spheres of life, thus the model is
“simply a restatement of an economic truism.”55 In other words, competi-
tion exists because of a discrepancy between supply and demand, not
necessarily because of a cognitive disposition labelled “limited good.”56
Second, it is unclear that peasants do, in fact, live in closed systems.
Here, Foster is ambiguous. In one place he states that the village he
studied in 1945 was closed; in another that peasants do not live in “closed
systems,” but that this is how “classic” peasants perceive their societies.57
Stephen Piker argues Foster’s hypothesis should have been investigated
empirically, suggesting it is highly unlikely peasant communities view
themselves as isolated because they are in regular contact with other
villages.58

54. David Kaplan and Benson Saler note that while Foster’s model purports to
have explanatory and predictive utility he does not say how the model is derived
from the data. They complain that since Foster did not derive it from all behaviour
he should have stated the criteria for selecting that comportment he deemed relevant;
see D. Kaplan and B. Saler, “Foster’s ‘Image of Limited Good’: An Example of
Anthropological Explanation,” AA 68 (1966): 202–6. Frans Schryer is also critical of
Foster’s assumption of one-to-one correspondence between the (unrecognized and
unexpressed) cognitive orientation of limited good and (idealized) peasant behav-
iour; see F. J. Schryer, “A Reinterpretation of Treasure Tales and the Image of
Limited Good,” Current Anthropology 17 (1976): 708–10 (708).
55. J. G. Kennedy, “Peasant Society and the Image of Limited Good: A
Critique,” AA 68 (1966): 1212–25 (1212). Foster rather undermines his thesis by
recognizing that “limited good” is not exclusive to peasant societies but occurs
everywhere; see Foster, “Second Look,” 59.
56. James Gregory offers an alternative interpretation of the ethnographic data as
an “expectation of circumstantially balanced reciprocity.” The point is that economic
transactions, which were the focus of Foster’s original research, can be explained
apart from an “image of limited good”; whether Gregory’s model is itself satis-
factory is another matter; see J. R. Gregory, “Image of Limited Good, or Expectation
of Reciprocity?,” Current Anthropology 16 (1975): 73–84.
57. G. M. Foster, “Reply,” Current Anthropology 17 (1976): 710–13, and
“Second Look,” 61–62.
58. See S. Piker, “ ‘The Image of Limited Good’: Comments on an Exercise in
Description and Interpretation,” AA 68 (1966): 1202–11 (1206); G. M. Foster,
“Foster’s Reply to Kaplan, Saler, and Bennett,” AA 68 (1966): 210–14 ( 213).
1
 5. Shamefully Disgraced 115

Third, it is questionable whether goods are considered limited. Given

that peasant societies have observable wealth differentials it is more
plausible to suppose that peasants see their access to goods as limited
with respect to others, rather than goods as limited per se.59
Fourth, while Foster argues “limited good” combined with endemic
envy means wealth differences are hidden, Kennedy cites various exam-
ples of conspicuous consumption, above all at weddings.60 In a similar
vein, Foster posits dramatic success is presented as the vicissitudes of
fortune, rather than personal endeavour, so as not to provoke the con-
clusion that the individual had exploited others.61 Yet Frans Schryer
observes that Foster does not consider the possibility that activities such
as feasts and concealment of how goods are acquired may actually lead
to greater wealth differentiation.62 Indeed, since the Àaunting of goods is
one way to establish honour precedence, Louise Lawrence questions
whether notions of limited good are even compatible with models of
honour and shame.63
A ¿fth criticism is Juliet du Boulay and Rory Williams’ observation
that Foster’s model ignored non-material goods.64 David Kaplan and
Benson Saler explicitly question whether “limited good” is applicable
to these, asking how one person’s health can be at the expense of
another’s.65 In any case, it is not straightforward to distinguish between
“limited goods” and other goods: “whether in regard to land, the family,
hospitality or economic improvement, the meaning of village behaviour
depends less on images of limited good than on images of other goods
which accord with, oppose, or complement them.”66 Any particular good,

59. See Kaplan and Saler, “Foster’s Image,” 204. Foster identi¿es potential
exceptions to the image of limited good, acknowledging that if he were rewriting his
original article he would be more circumspect; see Foster, “Second Look,” 62.
60. Kennedy, “A Critique,” 1216.
61. Foster, “Image of Limited Good,” 306–8.
62. Schryer, “A Reinterpretation,” 708.
63. L. Lawrence, An Ethnography of the Gospel of Matthew: A Critical Assess-
ment of the Use of the Honour and Shame Model in New Testament Studies (WUNT
2/165; Tübingen: Mohr Stiebeck, 2003), 207.
64. J. du Boulay and R. Williams, “Amoral Familism and the Image of Limited
Good: A Critique from a European Perspective,” AQ 60 (1987): 12–24.
65. Cf. Kaplan and Saler, “Foster’s Image,” 203. Sherry Ortner, however,
suggests that in special cases the idea of limited good can be applied to health:
“every time the ruling family gets married there’s a death in the village” (Ortner,
High Religion, 121). See also T. Ling, The Judean Poor and the Fourth Gospel
(SNTSMS 136; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 45–49.
1
66. Du Boulay and Williams, “Critique,” 12.
116 Sons or Lovers

therefore, must be evaluated in the context of a plurality of goods,

leading Du Boulay and Williams to conclude that focusing only upon
one type distorts the interpretation of peasant action.67
This last point leads us to the ¿nal criticism of “limited good,” viz. its
validity as a model. On the one hand James Acheson argues that “limited
good” does not generate behaviour but is itself produced by material
conditions of scarcity in agricultural, peasant communities.68 On the
other, Gregory comments that the actions predicted by the model do not
occur even when its conditions are ful¿lled. Fiestas, for example, are still
sponsored even when goods are not felt to be limited; and peaceful,
rather than agonistic, means of sharing resources exist that also maintain
the status quo.69 To conclude, Foster’s model of “limited good” has been
severely critiqued by anthropologists and cannot be considered an
adequate basis for a robust model of “honour and shame.”
In contrast to an understanding of honour whereby it acquires meaning
only in relation to shame, this discussion of anthropological under-
standings points to a much more complex relationship. The important
interpretative questions revolve around how people use or comply with
norms involving “honour” and “shame.”70 Here, Wikan’s observations
are pertinent. Although some anthropological and most biblical scholars

67. Ibid., 23; cf. Lawrence, Ethnography, 221.

68. James Acheson argues that hurdles to development are economic and not
cultural or cognitive because when entrepreneurial opportunities do arise some
people take them; see J. M. Acheson, “Limited Good or Limited Goods? Response
to Economic Opportunity in a Tarascan Pueblo,” AA NS 74 (1972): 1152–69 (1152).
69. See Gregory, “Limited Good,” 81; pace Foster, “Image of Limited Good,”
300. Bernard Williams points out that honour can serve to bind people together in a
common community of “honour”-orientated people: honour does not always divide
as individuals compete for a share of this “limited good”; see B. Williams, Shame
and Necessity (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993), 80–82. Ling observes
that the Homo agonisticus identi¿ed by Bourdieu occurred in the special circum-
stances of being relocated: informants were attempting to establish social practices
in a new environment. For further discussion, see Ling, Judean Poor, 45–47; G. M.
Kressel, “An Anthropologist’s Response to the Use of Social Science Models in
Biblical Studies,” Semeia 68 (1994): 153–61 (157); P. Bourdieu, “The Sentiment of
Honour in Kabyle Society,” in Peristiany, ed., Honour and Shame, 191–241.
70. So C. Giordano, “Mediterranean Honour Reconsidered: Anthropological
Fiction or Actual Action Strategy?,” AJEC 10 (2001): 39–58 (55). It should be
obvious from the preceding discussion that they are not antonyms; see Wikan,
“Contestable Pair,” 636; G. M. Kressel, “More on Honour and Shame,” Man NS 23
(1988): 167–70; U. Wikan, “More on Honour and Shame,” Man 23 NS (1988): 170;
M. Herzfeld, “Honour and Shame: Problems in the Comparative Analysis of Moral
Systems,” Man 15 NS (1980): 339–51 (343–48).
1
 5. Shamefully Disgraced 117

possess a predilection for honour discourse, she observes that shame

comprises most people’s everyday concern, something evidenced by the
ubiquity of accusations of shame and shamefulness. Wikan calls the
ascribing of shame and the rejection of this accusation part of the process
of recognition, which she accuses Pitt-Rivers of overlooking.71 A number
of ethnographers remark that words of “honour” are rarely heard in
everyday discourse. Lison-Tolosana, for example, comments that the
Spanish word honor is used as an adjective in phrases such as un hombre
honrado, “an honourable man,” and that one component of honradez,
“honour,” is vergüenza, “shame.” So, someone may acquiesce by saying
that he does so because he has vergüenza, that is, a sense of self-respect
and concern for others. This explains why “the more honrado one ‘is’ the
more vergüenza one ‘has’.”72 Moreover, people may react to “challenges”
in various ways, not all of them according to a supposed dominant
schema of agonistic defence of honour. They may even be innovative,
so that something considered shameful may, if it is unavoidable, be
reinterpreted as something else—for example, a rite of initiation.73
Furthermore, failing to achieve expected standards can serve as the
stimulus of a critique of the very order of standards by which people are
condemned.74 This takes seriously the emotive element of shame: it is
felt. Note, however, that although shame must be felt for it to be ef¿ca-
cious, it is not the only factor in play at any one time. Wikan cites the
case of a girl who chose to ride her new motorbike instead of walking
with her friends—there was conÀict of feelings, of joy and shame.75
Peristiany and Pitt-Rivers observe that the same holds for honour:
honor is too intimate a sentiment to submit to de¿nition: it must be felt, it
cannot be analyzed except by the anthropologist. It is therefore an error to
regard honor as a single constant concept rather than a conceptual ¿eld
within which people ¿nd the means to express their self-esteem or their
esteem for others.76

71. See Wikan, “Contestable Pair,” 638; Pitt-Rivers, “Honour and Social Status,”
22.
72. Lison-Tolosana, Belmonte, 316.
73. See J. Peteet, “Male Gender and Rituals of Resistance in the Palestinian
‘Intifada’: A Cultural Politics of Violence,” AE 21 (1994): 31–49. Creighton, how-
ever, notes that some concentration camp survivors experienced shame because
internalized ideals were not attainable; see Creighton, “Revisiting,” 288.
74. See J. Freidman, “Shame and the Experience of Ambivalence on the Margins
of the Global: Pathologizing the Past and Present in Romania’s Industrial
Wastelands,” Ethos 35 (2007): 235–64.
75. U. Wikan, Managing Turbulent Hearts: A Balinese Formula for Living
(Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1990), 66
1
76. Peristiany and Pitt-Rivers, “Introduction,” 4.
118 Sons or Lovers

One returns, then, to the practice of honour and shame.

This survey has demonstrated that in contrast to the certainties of
many biblical scholars, anthropological accounts of honour and shame
are contested. The great variety of often interconnected meanings militate
against reifying models that obviate the need for analysis and explana-
tion of practices on their own terms and in speci¿c contexts. With these
thoughts in mind we return to our interpretation of 1 Sam 20.

3. Understanding Saul’s Accusation

The events of vv. 27–34 encompass the chapter’s heart. Figure 1, above,
shows the chapter’s overall structure, but it is possible to identify a more
detailed pattern, presented in Figure 4 (sections I, J, K–Kƍ, Jƍ, Iƍ
correspond to those in Figure 1):

I On the second day; David’s place was empty (27a)

J Saul’s question: why has David not come to feast? (27b)
K Jonathan answers Saul (28)
L David pleaded with me to leave (28)
M Let me go to the family sacri¿ce (29a)
N My brother has commanded me to be there (29a)
Mƍ If I have found favour in your sight, let me go (29a)
Nƍ And see my brothers (29a)
O For this reason David is not at the feast (29b)
Kƍ Saul responds to Jonathan (30a)
P Jonathan is the son of a perverse, rebellious
woman (30b)
Q Jonathan has chosen loyalty to David
before family (30b)
Pƍ to his own shame (30b)
Qƍ and that of his mother (30b)
R for if David lives Jonathan will not
be king (31a)
Lƍ Saul commands David to be brought and killed (31b)
Jƍ Jonathan’s question: why should David die? (32)
S Saul’s response: throwing spear
at Jonathan (33a)
T Saul is against David (33b)
Iƍ on the second day; Jonathan’s place is also empty (34a)
Tƍ Jonathan is grieved for
David (34b)
Sƍ Jonathan’s response: grieved
because his father shamed
him (34b)

1
Figure 4. The Structure of 1 Samuel 20:27–34
 5. Shamefully Disgraced 119

One can discern a carefully drawn, yet de¿nite and obvious, contrast
between Saul and Jonathan. Note, for example, that Saul’s question con-
cerning David’s non-attendance at the feast is paralleled by Jonathan’s
query about why David should die (J–Jƍ); and David’s plea to leave,
granted by Jonathan, is mirrored by Saul’s instruction to his errant son to
bring David (L–Lƍ). Given that we have already examined vv. 27–29 (in
Chapter 3) it is possible to attend mainly to vv. 30–34.
The ¿rst point to note is that “Saul’s anger was kindled,” that is,
Jonathan’s words cause an offence that is felt (1 Sam 20:30). We
observed above that Jonathan’s answer, which purports to be a report of
David’s voice, constitutes an appeal to the “norms” of family loyalty,
and that the problem for the king is that David prefers loyalty to his own
family rather than the Saul’s. Yet this is not the sum of his objection.
Saul also reacts against Jonathan: his permitting David to go to Beth-
lehem is perceived to be a betrayal of his father’s house (1 Sam 20:28).
Saul makes no allowance for the persistence of David’s supposed
entreaty—the repetition of the verb in the Hebrew is captured by the
NRSV’s “David earnestly asked leave.” Instead, he explodes, calling
Jonathan “son of a perverse, rebellious woman” (1 Sam 20:30).77 Some
commentators think Saul insults his wife, Jonathan’s mother. Barbara
Green, following David Jobling, even advocates a “gender sensitive”
reading of these verses to rectify the situation.78 It will become clear that
such approaches dilute the insult beyond recognition. Other exegetes,
however, maintain that Jonathan is the object of an insult expressed
idiomatically; or even that both Jonathan and his mother are the intended

77. Following the MT: ġČĊğĕċ ġČęėĀĖĈ. ġ úČęõ úė is niphal feminine singular partici-
ple of ċČę, “bend,” thus “perverse woman”; see Prov 12:8 where the niphal of ċČę
means “perverse of heart.” The noun, ġÍËğó ĕú , comes from the root Ċğĕ, “to rebel,”
although commentators note: (1) the MT pointing is unexpected and thus frequently
emended (e.g. Tsumura, Samuel, 520–21); and (2) the article appears unnecessary.
For a detailed explanation of Lagarde’s argument for the translation “son of a
woman gone astray from discipline,” which is based upon correspondence with
Syriac and Arabic, see Driver, Notes, 170–71. Despite Driver’s conclusion that
Lagarde’s proposal is philologically sound he rejects this translation; the anthro-
pological evidence supports its plausibility, especially if it is understood in a sexual
sense. For discussion of translations based upon the LXX and 4QSamb, see McCarter,
1 Samuel, 339; DJD 17:232–33; Cook, “1 Samuel XX,” especially 445. Vulg. does
not contain an insult in the ¿rst part of the verse, unless “¿li mulieris” is understood
as a vocative abbreviation of the descriptor “¿lius mulieris meretricis” (Judg 11:1);
but the second part makes the incontinence of the mother explicit: “et in confu-
sionem ignominiosae matris tuae.”
1
78. See Green, Mighty, 344; Jobling, 1 Samuel, 178.
120 Sons or Lovers

targets of Saul’s ire.79 Although the text may be translated “son of a

perverse, rebellious woman” this does not nearly capture its force. To
gain a sense of its power one needs to know that insulting the mother is
an insult to the man. Maria Pia Di Bella observes that blood and name
are commonly thought to be the basis of honour.80 A person’s name or
renown is associated with the prestige of their father, and is subject to the
vicissitudes of life. The honour of their blood, however, is inherited from
their mother, and in principle is ¿xed and unalterable. Such conceptions
form the basis of gendered notions of honour, and although we have see
that these categories are not proxies for actual practice, in the idiom of
insults it is precisely their nature as ¿xed ideologies that provides the
sting. As Pitt-Rivers explains, “the most serious offence against a man’s
honour does not refer to his own conduct, but to that of his mother”—for
there is nothing the man can do about it.81 Peristiany remarks that while
a man is born into a family with which he identi¿es for the rest of his life
a woman is obliged to avoid bringing shame upon her father and then
children: “Her chastity, within marriage, she should defend in order not
to dishonour her own children. To her husband’s honour as to his
lineage, she may remain a stranger.”82 So in France, for example, “ ‘And
your sister?’ is a common but terrible insult…implying that his sister
exercises the same profession as his mother, and that the man in question
is the son of a whore.”83 In the light of these observations, translations of
1 Sam 20:30, like Hans Stoebe’s “Du Bastard eines zuchtvergessenen
Weibes” (“You bastard of a woman who has forgotten discipline”),84
or Gino Bressan’s “O ¿glio d’una (donna) perduta!” (“Son of a lost
woman”),85 both of which question the sexual purity of Jonathan’s

79. See, e.g., Tsumura, 1 Samuel, 520; Stansell, “Honor and Shame,” 60.
80. M. P. Di Bella, “Name, Blood and Miracles: The Claims to Renown in
Traditional Sicily,” in Peristiany and J. Pitt-Rivers, eds., Honor and Grace, 151–65.
81. Pitt-Rivers, “La maladie de l’honneur,” 28 (my translation). Di Bella notes,
however, that if the family name is suf¿ciently prestigious protection of the purity of
blood is less important, thus women of elite families can have affairs with relative
impunity; see Di Bella, “Name, Blood and Miracles,” 156.
82. Peristiany, “Introduction,” 12 (my emphasis).
83. Pitt-Rivers, Review of Stewart, 215–16 (my translation). He mentions similar
examples from Spain, Mexico and the Arab world.
84. H. J. Stoebe, Das erste Buch Samuelis (KAT 8; Gütersloher: Mohn, 1973),
372.
85. G. Bressan, Samuele (Rome: Marietti, 1960), 336. Note also the Rabbinic
proposal: “a straying woman”; see A. J. Rosenberg, Samuel 1: A New English Trans-
lation of the Text and Rashi with a Commentary Digest (New York: Judaica, 1984),
175. Even if one follows the LXX a similar conclusion is possible: “Universal custom
1
 5. Shamefully Disgraced 121

mother, and thus of his blood, are to be preferred. Rendering Saul’s

words into English as “son of a whore” would capture the meaning of his
angry riposte, despite that fact that contemporary Anglo-Saxon sensi-
bilities are not alert to all that may lie behind his insult.
Michael Murphy suggests only fathers can insult a (young) man in this
way without violence consequences.86 In any case, Saul continues by
asserting that he is aware of Jonathan’s choice of David, declaring that
this is shaming for both Jonathan and his mother’s nakedness. These are
two ways of saying the same thing, since “disgrace of mother’s naked-
ness” is once again, and for the same reasons, an insult directed against
Jonathan. The important point concerns the reason for this shame:
according to Saul’s voice it is Jonathan’s prioritization of David over his
family. The result, declares Saul, is that Jonathan will not become king.
Here the mixture of insults questioning the purity of Jonathan’s blood
and the practice of patrilineal descent converge. According to Rashi’s
commentary “that you prefer my enemy, will lead people to suspect that
you are not my son, but the offspring of an adulterous union.”87 In an
attempt to put the situation into reverse Saul, assuming that Jonathan
knows David’s whereabouts, commands him to send and bring David so
that he might be killed.88 He has in mind the elimination of the threat to
his house and, by means of a performative inscription of his authority in
Jonathan, the recti¿cation of the dishonourable conduct of his son.
Readers, however, are immediately alerted to something inauspicious:
Saul is not very good at “sending.” Although Saul’s ¿rst sendings are
devastating effective (1 Sam 11:7; 13:2), there appears to be a turning
point when he is rejected as king (1 Sam 15:20). From then on Saul’s
sending is ineffective except when it is to promote David (1 Sam 16:19–
20, 22; 18:5), while David’s sending is successful (1 Sam 25:14; 26:4;
2 Sam 2:5; 3:14; 9:5; 10:2, 7; 11:1, 3–4, 6, 14, 27; 13:7; 18:12; 19:11).
The contrast between the two men is particularly clear in ch. 19, where
Saul’s sending “shrinks into an anticlimax” as he ¿rst mandates the

abuses a man by throwing opprobrium upon his parents. The son of a slave girl was
of mean lineage; and in case the mother were rebellious, her son might be suspected
of being a bastard” (Smith, Samuel, 193). Cf. Jdt 16:12 for the deprecatory use of
“slave girl.”
86. M. D. Murphy, “Emotional Confrontations Between Sevillano Fathers and
Sons: Cultural Foundations and Social Consequences,” AE 10 (1983): 650–64 (657).
87. Rosenberg, Samuel 1, 175. See also J. Finkel, “Filial Loyalty as a Testimony
of Legitimacy: A Study in Folklore,” JBL 55 (1936): 133–43.
88. Smith, Samuel, 193. While the NRSV translates “for he shall surely die” the
Hebrew contrasts “son of Jesse” with “son of death.”
1
122 Sons or Lovers

messengers to kill David, then to fetch him before, ¿nally, merely

instructing them to see David (1 Sam 19:11, 14, 15).89 The verb ĎēĠ, “to
send,” also occurs frequently in 1 Sam 20 (vv. 5, 12–13, 20–22, 29, 31).
When Jonathan offers to do whatever David says, the latter petitions that
Jonathan lets him go, ĎēĠ, into the ¿eld rather than oblige him to attend
Saul’s feast, echoing his sibling’s sending of David (1 Sam 19:17). Then
Jonathan promises to send, ĎēĠ, and tell David the result of their
investigation into Saul’s state of mind if he is welcome back in the king’s
household (1 Sam 20:12). Should Saul intend to harm David, though,
Jonathan promises David to send, ĎēĠ, him away. The means of com-
municating the outcome to David will involve some archery practice
assisted by a lad, whom he will send, ĎēĠ, to retrieve his arrows (1 Sam
20:20–22). Although, unlike his father, Jonathan does little sending, that
which he does is ef¿cacious. So when in v. 36 he instructs his lad to “run
and ¿nd,” he does so.90 The main contrast between Saul and his son,
however, is highlighted in the climatic events at the feast. In v. 29
Jonathan reports to Saul that David said “let me go,” ĎēĠ (see also 1 Sam
19:17). Jonathan’s supposed sending is doubly signi¿cant because David
asks to be sent in order “to escape,” precisely what David is able to do
throughout 1 Samuel when he is pursued by Saul.
Indeed, Jonathan’s reaction to Saul’s outburst is not to “send and
bring,” but to question his father’s judgment. Joyce Baldwin suggests
Jonathan’s query is naïve, even stupid.91 But “What has he done?” echoes
a recurring preoccupation in 1 Samuel (1 Sam 13:11; 14:43; 17:26, 29;
20:1, 32; 28:9; 29:8; 31:11). For readers it points to the fact that David’s
deeds are done with God.92 Saul, however, interprets Jonathan’s question
as explicit, unambiguous evidence that he has betrayed the family. In the
words of an early commentator “Saul was very angry and strove to strike
Jonathan his son with a spear because he thought that David’s friendship
held a higher place in his esteem than either ¿lial piety or a father’s
authority.”93 Jonathan now knows his father has decided to have David
killed. Whether Saul is motivated by “blind rage,” “madness” or simply
a culturally appropriate evaluation of the situation, the spear incident
emphasizes the identi¿cation of Jonathan with David. Its irony is

89. Fokkelman, Narrative Art and Poetry, 265.

90. Jonathan is the subject of the same verb in1 Sam 14:49 where he extends,
ĎēĠ, the tip of his staff, to collect honey.
91. J. G. Baldwin, 1 and 2 Samuel (TOTC; Leicester: InterVarsity Press, 1988),
136.
92. Cf. Edelman, King Saul, 160.
1
93. Ambrose, “Duties of the Clergy (2:7:36),” in ACCS 4:291.
 5. Shamefully Disgraced 123

obvious: at one moment Saul rants about Jonathan’s succession, in the

next he almost kills his heir.94
At this Jonathan, who also feels the humiliation meted out by his
father, rises from the table and refrains from food.95 The context for
Saul’s shaming of Jonathan is signi¿cant for feasts are public events
given to displays of status. Just as Saul publicly humiliates Jonathan, so
the latter does not remain until the meal has ¿nished to remonstrate with
his father in private, but rises in full view of the guests and stalks out. He
thus denies the token of honour to Saul that his presence would have
provided. Peter Schneider explains the importance of tokens of honour,
such as attendance at a friend’s daughter’s wedding:
My presence is a clear sign to everyone that I could not dare deny him his
claim to honor. My presence, in other words, is a token of honor, super-
¿cial in the sense that it seems to suggest more than I intended it to.
However, a token is all that is required when power is at stake, not love.96

In v. 34 there are two ĐĒ clauses explicating Jonathan’s reactions.

Fokkelman argues the second does not enlarge on the ¿rst but is itself
another reason for Jonathan’s reaction. He perceives a chiasmus, so that
Jonathan’s anger is the result of shame, his fasting a consequence of
grieving (see the other instances of fasting because of distress 1 Sam
20:34; 2 Sam 3:35; 12:17). For Fokkelman, “The chiasmus even has an
iconic aspect: its outside (34 a+d) shows the harsh exterior of the two
conÀicting Saulides who allow each other nothing, while the inner pair
(34bc) shows the interior and gentleness of the prince.”97 Jonathan’s
narrative voice, then, emphatically rejects Saul’s evaluation of the
situation and identi¿es with David.
Seebass opines that “the worst thing about Jonathan’s action was not
the injustice that he had done the king, but that he had thought things

94. David Pleins suggests that a comparison with Gen 22 reveals that Jonathan is
an unworthy successor and that David is the legitimate heir. However, these texts are
quite different and the meaning of one does not inform the other; see D. Pleins,
“Son-Slayers and Their Sons,” CBQ 54 (1992): 29–38.
95. Regardless of whether MT, “stood up,” or LXX, 4QSamb, “sprang up,” later an
obscenity, is preferred, “in ¿erce anger” explicates the dramatic nature of Jonathan’s
reaction; see McCarter, 1 Samuel, 339; Tsumura, 1 Samuel, 521; Cook, “1 Samuel
XX,” 446; DJD 17:233.
96. See Schneider, “Sicilian Town,” 151 (emphasis original).
97. Fokkelman, Narrative Art and Poetry, 340–41. It is unnecessary, therefore,
to exclude, with LXXB, the ¿rst ĐĒ clause. Note that since Jonathan is the only one to
have been shamed in this pericope, the ¿nal pronoun obviously refers to Saul’s son.
1
124 Sons or Lovers

through carefully and thus had made a fool of himself.”98 The anthro-
pological evidence adduced above, however, would indicate that this is
an inadequate interpretation. Given Jonathan and Saul’s relationship,
readers would have expected Jonathan to be loyal to his father. Peristiany
notes how shame constrains a son, who
should rise when the father enters the room, leave the coffee-shop when
his father enters it and discontinue a gambling game on noticing his
father’s presence. Even in the early years after marriage it is reprehensi-
ble for a son to smoke in his father’s presence, to mention even platonic
relations between the sexes or to venture an opinion indicative of a
judgement in which his father had to share. To show disrespect towards
one’s father by publicly provoking or Àouting his authority is said to be
“shameful.” The son himself is said to be “shameless,” to be lacking in
“the knowledge of what is good without which there is no shame.”99

The failure of a son to act appropriately, therefore, shames both protago-

nists: the son because his deportment is not socially unacceptable, the
father because he cannot control his family.100
In 1 Sam 20 Jonathan chooses David, which some commentators
suggest alludes to YHWH’s choices, notably the one to reject Saul and
elect David (1 Sam 15:26; 16:12).101 Cartledge and Stansell speak of
Jonathan being “guilty of treason” or a “traitor.” But these are categories
that would not have applied: family loyalty was the issue, as highlighted
by the narrator’s repetition of “son” and “father” (1 Sam 20:27–34).102
Saul’s reaction depends upon whether to de¿ne David’s denial of a token
of his loyalty in terms of a slight to the public “honour” due to the
king.103 It is important to be cognisant of the disruptive nature of honour.
Gilsenan comments that to
de¿ne a situation publicly in terms of honor and to have that de¿nition
endorsed as socially authentic by the relevant performers rules out alterna-
tive choices to a large extent and entails serious risk and disruption…
[M]uch effort goes into preventing an event’s being categorized in these
ultimate terms.104

98. H. Seebass, “›˟Ê bosh,” TDOT 2:53.

99. J. G. Peristiany, “Honour and Shame in a Cypriot Highland Village,” in
Peristiany, ed., Honour and Shame, 173–90 (181).
100. Murphy, “Sevillano Fathers,” 655.
101. See Fokkelman, Narrative Art and Poetry, 335; Edelman, King Saul, 159.
102. Cartledge, 1 & 2 Samuel, 241; Stansell, “David and His Friends,”
especially 126.
103. Stansell also argues Saul has been shamed in this narrative, see Stansell,
“Honor and Shame,” 60.
1
104. Gilsenan, “Lying,” 200–201.
 5. Shamefully Disgraced 125

By insulting and threatening his son, however, Saul takes this dangerous
course of action: his narrative voice is unequivocally committed to the
goods of family reputation and ¿lial obedience, explicitly calling Jona-
than’s deeds “shameful” and accusing him in terms readily under-
standable to implied readers. Given that the ability to shame is a question
of power relations it is clear that Saul is attempting to reclaim the
advantage that should have been his as paterfamilias and king, but which
has been questioned by David’s absence. Jonathan’s narrative voice,
however, is too far along the path of commitment to David, and does not
acquiesce. Shamed in front of others he does not so much compete
agonistically for honour as defend himself: he does not seek to reduce
Saul’s “honour rating” in a battle for honour precedence, but justify
David’s virtue. In doing so he further identi¿es with David; and the
question “What has he done?,” interpreted by Saul as a further affront
to his authority, distances son from progenitor. Both of these facets of
Jonathan’s action are evident in his rising up in anger and leaving the
feast without eating. At the beginning of the pericope David’s place is
empty. To readers this is not a surprise; they simply await Saul’s
revealing response. At the end of the passage, however, Jonathan’s place
is also vacant, a sign to all the guests, and to readers, that he speaks up
for David, regardless of the fact that he has been shamed by his father.
Jonathan’s voice, therefore, challenges the cultural schema supported by
Saul in his accusation that family and family honour should not be
shamed, even as Jonathan himself is shamed by his father.

1
 Chapter 6

HONOURABLY DISLOYAL

O ye bleǕt Ones! whoǕe Love on earth became

So pure that Ǖtill in Heav’n ’tis but the Ǖame!
—Abraham Cowley, Davideis1

At the end of 1 Sam 20 Jonathan returns home to the city, doubtless,

given the stand-up row at the feast, to a rather strained and frosty atmos-
phere. In this chapter we will examine Jonathan and David’s relationship
in the subsequent narrative, before summarizing the book’s ¿ndings.

1. Keeping Faith
The narrator’s comment that “Jonathan went into the city” in 1 Sam
20:42 forms a link to 1 Sam 23:18, when Jonathan once again leaves
David in the countryside to return not to the “city” but ČġĈē, “to his
house.” “House,” of course, can simply mean dwelling place, but it also
has the sense of family or lineage and its use here is polyvalent, incorpo-
rating both senses (cf. 2 Sam 7). The remark, therefore, highlights how
Jonathan and David’s friendship creates bridges—or, from Saul’s per-
spective, crosses the dividing line—between family and friends.
David is hiding in the Wilderness of Ziph at Horesh because Saul “had
come out to seek his life” (1 Sam 23:15). Echoes of the beginning of
1 Sam 20 resonate loudly, although this time the roles are reversed, since
Jonathan goes to David. The presumption of ¿lial identi¿cation with the
patriline is highlighted as the narrator explicitly describes Jonathan as
“Saul’s son” (1 Sam 23:16). Yet the rightness of Jonathan’s intention
to protect David, thwarting all that his father seeks, is af¿rmed by the
reaf¿rmation of the men’s alliance “in the name of YHWH” (1 Sam 23:18).

1. Cowley, Davideis, 48 (emphasis and spelling original).

 6. Honourably Disloyal 127

The repetition of their covenant, just when Saul has the upper hand,
emphasizes its importance: it is YHWH who will deliver the throne to his
anointed. Indeed, in the chronology of the text Jonathan’s af¿rmation
that he knows David will be king is a statement of faith, a declaration
that anticipates David’s ascendency in spite of all the evidence to the
contrary. It is absolutely essential that God acts, for there is no other way
that David will survive, let alone become chief.2 The very fact that
Jonathan, Saul’s son, contravenes the “norms” of family loyalty is itself
a sign that God is acting, as he continues to do in the following narrative.
The language used by Jonathan highlights an ironic use of the same
verb ĖČĒ, “establish,” a few verses later. This word is used sparingly in
the books of Samuel, almost always in connection with kingship (1 Sam
7:3; 13:13; 20:31; 23:22–23; 26:4; 2 Sam 5:12; 7:12–13, 16, 24, 26). At
the feast Saul is worried about the threat David poses to the establish-
ment of Jonathan’s kingship; yet at Horesh Jonathan declares that David
will be king and he second (1 Sam 23:17). Saul brings unintended clarity
to the situation when, seeking to double-check David’s whereabouts, he
instructs his informants ČėĐĒċ ćėĀČĒē, “go, establish” (1 Sam 23:22). It is
clear that the author’s sympathies lie with Jonathan’s actions in favour of
David, presenting them as a ful¿lment of the men’s covenant.
The narrative also highlights the other side of the coin, David’s loy-
alty to the covenant, by describing in some detail how he “cares” for
Jonathan’s descendants. That the tale of how he does so resurfaces
throughout the books of Samuel, constituting an important theme, con-
tinually reminds readers that David became king of a united monarchy
because YHWH was with him. David does not have a particularly good
record with keeping promises reneging, for example, on his oath to
Shimei (2 Sam 19:23; 1 Kgs 2:8–9). It is signi¿cant, therefore, that he
asks “is there anyone left of the house of Saul, that I may show him
kindness (ĊĘĎ) for Jonathan’s sake?” (2 Sam 9:7). As Brueggemann
observes, “David is to be a very harsh winner, but one who will honor
his speci¿c commitments and pay his debts.”3 In principle, the attitude
towards a son depends upon that demonstrated towards his father; and
friendly relations between a man and a father that are not reciprocated by
the latter’s son is an insult. This can be seen in 2 Sam 10:2–5, where

2. For the appropriateness of “chief” rather than “king,” see Miller, Chieftains.
3. Brueggemann, First and Second Samuel, 149. See also N. P. Lemche, “Kings
and Clients: On Loyalty Between the Ruler and the Ruled in Ancient ‘Israel’,”
Semeia 66 (1995): 119–32; Y. Shemesh, “Measure for Measure in the David
Stories,” SJOT 17 (2003): 89–109.
1
128 Sons or Lovers

David decides to “deal loyally with Hanun son of Nahash, just as his
father dealt loyally” with David, yet is rebuffed when Hanun humiliates
his emissaries.4 Thus despite some ambiguity regarding Mephibosheth’s
loyalty to David—an ambiguity that only emphasizes David’s magna-
nimity—he upholds the covenant promises made to Jonathan, thereby
af¿rming their validity and, at the same time, Jonathan’s narrative voice
(2 Sam 9:3, 7; 21:7).5
This perspective is reiterated in David’s lament in 2 Sam 1:19–27. The
eulogy can be considered in the light of ethnographical studies that give
the “best friend” a prominent role at a man’s funeral. He is expected to
make a public display of his grief akin to that of widows and children,
demonstrating to everyone that family ties are not the only emotional
attachments that have been lost.6 Yet it is also important that the context
for David’s lament includes “shameful” elements—“tell it not in Gath,
proclaim it not in the streets of Ashkeon” (2 Sam 1:20)—for deaths like
those of Jonathan and Saul are considered tragic. Not only does the narra-
tive describe how Saul meets his end at the hands of an armour bearer, a
negative echo of the demise of Abimelech son of Jerubbaal (Judg 9:54),7
but the biblical ideal is dying in old age surrounded by progeny (e.g.
1 Kgs 3:11; 2 Chr 1:11; Ps 91:16; Prov 3:16; 28:16).

4. The identity of Nahash and his/her relationship to Jesse, and hence of Abigail
and Zeruiah to David, is opaque. It is possible that Nahash is a female name and that
she was another of Jesse’s wives. More probably Nahash is male, meaning Abigail
and Zeruiah, mother of Joab (2 Sam 2:17), were David’s half-sisters though his
mother (cf. 2 Sam 17; 1 Chr 2:16). If so, then there was a genealogical relationship
between David and Hanun. Philip Davies and John Rogerson observe that this “also
puts the relationship between David and Saul into new perspective. Saul, after all,
had delivered the people of Jabesh-gilead from Nahash” (1 Sam 11:1–11), P. R.
Davies and J. W. Rogerson, The Old Testament World (2d ed.; Louisville: West-
minster John Knox, 2005), 28. Nahash is possibly to be identi¿ed with the King of
the Ammonites; see Richard D. Nelson, “Nahash,” ABD 4:996.
5. According to Hugh Pyper, every oath made in YHWH’s name is ful¿lled in
the books of Samuel, while those sworn in another name may, or may not, be; see
H. S. Pyper, David as Reader: 2 Samuel 12:1–15 and the Poetics of Fatherhood
(BIS 23; Leiden: Brill, 1996), 140–41. Pyper provides the events of 1 Sam 25 as an
example, although he also notes 1 Sam 14:39; 29:6, where this does not seem to
hold. David’s ¿delity also reassures readers that they, like Mephibosheth, will
bene¿t from David’s benevolence towards their allegiance.
6. See Brain, Friends and Lovers, 32–38. Other ancient texts (e.g. Achilles and
Patochlus, and Gilgamesh and Enkidu) tell of laments between friends; see Halperin,
Homosexuality, 75–87.
1
7. See Wright, “Making a Name,” 149.
 6. Honourably Disloyal 129

2. Sons or Lovers
David and Jonathan’s friendship has received detailed attention from
numerous commentators, both ancient and modern. In this book I have
presented an interpretation that focuses upon the moral questions raised
by the text.8 The ¿rst of three key questions posed in the Introduction
was “What is the moral conundrum facing the narrative’s characters?”
Rather than assume the appropriateness of intuitive responses from
modern Western readers, reading with anthropology reveals the multi-
faceted nature of the conundrums confronting David, Saul and Jonathan.
Attention to the contested nature of anthropology, however, served as a
caution against importing the supposedly “assured results” of ethno-
graphic investigation into biblical studies in the form of a models of
social action. Perhaps this was especially evident with respect to “honour
and shame.” Attention to the multiplicity of moral goods means one
cannot simply assume that they are present;9 and even if they are evident
interpreters should be open to understandings of characters’ actions that
do not make honour the single, determinant variable. That is, the plural-
ity of moral goods should not be reduced to any particular good, however
“pivotal” it may be in some circumstances. Other characters in the

8. Some readers may be disappointed that we have not discussed the issue of
whether the David–Jonathan narratives allude to homosexuality or homosociality.
This has been entirely intentional, since the aim has been to demonstrate that the text
is more appropriately read with a different lens. However, it is instructive to con-
sider how this book’s reading ¿ts into the typology proposed by Anthony Heacock,
who identi¿es three types of interpretative stances: (1) political-theological read-
ings in which friendship legitimizes the transfer of kingship to David’s house,
(2) homoerotic readings that posit sexual allegiances, and (3) homosocial readings,
which highlight the text’s ambiguity; see Heacock, Jonathan Loved David, 35.
Heacock’s typology is useful to the extent that it enables interpreters to identify
interpretative trajectories, but does not seem to allow an interpretation of the men as
sons or lovers—indeed, Heacock reads Jonathan and David to be friends and lovers
(p. 150). In this respect, Markus Zehnder’s classi¿cation of (1) homosexual or
homoerotic understanding, (2) readings highlighting homosociability, and (3) inter-
pretations that are “neither homosexual nor homoerotic, but [of] an extraordinary
example of friendship and loyalty” is to be preferred; see M. Zehnder, “Observations
on the Relationship Between David and Jonathan and the Debate on Homo-
sexuality,” WTJ 69 (2007): 127–74 (128–29). Sons or Lovers, obviously, falls into
the latter category.
9. Cf. F. Gerald Downing, “ ‘Honor’ Among Exegetes,” CBQ 61 (1999): 53–73
(55); Chance, “Honor and Shame,” 148.
1
130 Sons or Lovers

narrative, for example, could view “honourable” acts as simply egoistic.10

Indeed, people exercise individual agency in the context of socially
authorized ways of prioritizing the goods in play, something that is
patent in the interaction of Saul and Jonathan as they manipulate cultural
categories for idiosyncratic ends in ambiguous situations.
The moral good that guides the narrative’s plot is the one of life itself:
will David live? What will happen to Jonathan’s sons? The goods of
¿lial obedience and family loyalty are important because they are both
assumed and used by all three men. Also prominent are the goods of
friendship and covenant loyalty. Yet further goods in the David–Jonathan
narratives, each with a moral dimension, include personal and family
honour, hereditary succession, truthfulness and trustworthiness. Among
this multiplicity of moral goods and the inevitable conÀicts between
them, moves God, a fact of which readers are frequently reminded by the
characters’ appeal to him (see 1 Sam 20:12, 14, 16, 22, 23, 42).
We turn, then, to the second question raised in the Introduction, viz.
how the conÀict of moral values is resolved by each character. Impor-
tantly, all the characters in the David–Jonathan narratives do something:
faced with a moral conundrum they decide upon a particular course of
action. These choices comprise the “resolution” of the value clashes in
the selected biblical texts and vary according to how each of the protago-
nists perceives the moral goods in play. Jonathan swears his loyalty to
David in the face of conÀicting obligations to his father, agrees to parti-
cipate in David’s plan to ascertain Saul’s intentions, reaf¿rms a mutual
covenant with his friend, confronts Saul at the feast, and then sends
David on his way “in peace.” Saul narrative voice, however, attempts to
resolve the situation according to “cultural norms.” He views family
loyalty as the essential, foundational moral good and, given that family
continuity inheres in sons, his distress at Jonathan’s perceived disloyalty
would have been entirely understandable to implied readers. David’s
voice also appeals to the priority of this good, but has in mind his family.
Jonathan is caught in the middle, but perceives not only the good of
family loyalty, which would have been expected, but also that he has a
moral obligation to David as a friend.

10. For illuminating case studies of families whose proÀigate offspring were
deported across the Paci¿c, see B. Cáceres Menéndez and R. W. Patch, “ ‘Gente de
mal vivir’: Families and Incorrigible Sons in New Spain, 1721–1729,” RI 66 (2006):
363–92. ConÀicting goods included family honour, material wealth and access to
manual labour.
1
 6. Honourably Disloyal 131

Polzin describes Jonathan as “loyalty personi¿ed.”11 This statement,

however, is in danger of ignoring the whole point of the story, which
concerns to whom Jonathan is loyal. Brueggemann suggests that
[f]rom our vantage point, with this literature biased toward David, it is
easy to choose David over Saul. Jonathan, however, had to choose much
earlier, still in the midst of great ambiguity. The text invites us to reÀect
on the cost of loyalty and the terrible ambiguities within which loyalty
must be practiced.12

This alerts us to the theological signi¿cance of characters’ practices and

hence the third question concerning how the author evaluates characters’
choices. Saul responds in entirely predictable ways to the narrative
situations with which he is confronted, prioritizing loyalty to his family
as the pre-eminent moral good. David is concerned about the value of his
life and his family. In the context of the expectations accepted and advo-
cated by Saul and David, Jonathan acts counter-culturally. He chooses to
love David rather than ful¿l the socially expected obligations of being
Saul’s son. It is noteworthy that the author constructs a conÀict of values
rather than simply assert the hegemonic schema. David’s voice, although
conventional in terms of loyalty to family, stresses the difference
between his and Saul’s houses, and his innocence of the charge of acting
against the king. Saul’s voice, which coheres with what implied readers
accepted, is discredited. Jonathan’s surprising perspectives, however, are
approved, above all by the way in which he is portrayed as a “real man.”
Indeed, because Jonathan’s perception of how the moral goods of family
and friendship loyalty should be ordered and his subsequent agency
would have been startlingly unexpected, the preceding narrative contains
a very extensive characterization of Saul’s son that establishes his
literary persona as “honourably disloyal.”
It is signi¿cant that there is no reason for Jonathan’s preference, other
than, perhaps, a recognition that YHWH has abandoned Saul for David
(1 Sam 20:13),13 for it underlines the inevitability of God’s will: in the
words of Hannah’s song, “the pillars of the earth are the LORD’s” (1 Sam
2:8). Jonathan’s support for David, therefore, ¿ts neatly into the
“Apology for David,” describing how power comes to him: David does

11. Polzin, Samuel, 193.

12. Brueggemann, Samuel, 153.
13. Julian Morgenstern’s claim that Jonathan supported David’s succession to
the kingship because he was both Saul’s most outstanding warrior and his son-in-law
is speculative; see J. Morgenstern, “David and Jonathan,” JBL 78 (1959): 322–25.
1
132 Sons or Lovers

not grasp it. Indeed, Michael Dick, with reference to Neo-Babylonian

examples of succession apologies, says that the “natural heir must lose
divine approbation, often through some type of cultic sacrilege; the
usurper gains it, even—or should I say, always—unwillingly.”14 This is
exactly what happens in the books of Samuel, which illustrate how
“power falls into David’s lap like a ripe apple” as the result of God’s
work.15
Aristotle maintained that the “excellent person is related to his friend
in the same way as he is related to himself, since a friend is another self”
(EN 1170b6–8). We have seen that Jonathan and David are portrayed in
very similar terms: both men are independent, valiant, militarily success-
ful and, most importantly, YHWH is with them. The similarity of charac-
terization is highly signi¿cant for as “another self” Jonathan is a “proto-
David” who enables the author to make three related assertions: (1) David
is a worthy king regardless of the slurs of other characters; (2) Jonathan
would have been a worthy king of Israel had he not died on Mount
Gilboa; and (3) Jonathan, as the rightful heir, recognized David as
YHWH’s chosen leader of Israel. This is important, for Jonathan does not
actually pass the leadership of Israel to David—he is recognized as
leader of a united “kingdom” after an extended period of conÀict, only
concluded when Abner facilitates the transfer of Israel’s loyalty from
Ishbaal (2 Sam 3:1–10). Jonathan’s narrative role, therefore, is to
legitimize the transfer of the kingdom to David’s house, with the
implication that if Jonathan chose this king, so too should readers.16 So,
to return to the question at the beginning of this book concerning the
grounds for choosing between family and friends, the story asserts that
when the validity of societal norms conÀicts with loyalty to David’s
house they should be rejected. Just as Jonathan in preferring David stood
against not only Saul but also the dominant moral schema of family
loyalty and ¿lial obedience, so readers should recall that loyalty to
YHWH’s anointed—and his successors—is paramount.

14. Dick, “Neo-Babylonian Succession Apologies,” 19.

15. Fokkelman, Narrative Art and Poetry, 313.
16. Indeed, one aspect of loyalty to the house of David is that divisions are
thereby avoided. Keith Bodner, following Graeme Auld, observes how 2 Sam 3:1
contrasts the unity of the Davidic household with internal ¿ssures within the house
of Saul, by using plural participles: “but the house of Saul, they were growing
weaker and weaker (ĔĐĒēċ ēČć› ġĐĈČ)” (Bodner, David Observed, 45).
1
 Appendix A

RELATIVE AGES OF SELECTED CHARACTERS IN 1 SAMUEL

Year of Birth (Unless stated) Notes
0 — Saul Key:
1 — Normal type = Male
2 — Italic = Female
3 — m. = married
4 —
5 —
6 —
7 —
8 —
9 —
10 —
11 — Jesse m. wife Man’s age at marriage 27 years, meaning Jesse was born in year -16 on this scale. If 1 Sam
17:12 refers to the events of that chapter then ‘In the days of Saul [Jesse] was already old and
advanced in years’ is readily understandable: he would have been in his late sixties, a very
old man in the ancient Near East.
12 — Eliab
13 —
14 — Abinadab
15 — Number and order of Jesse’s sons as per 1 Sam 16:10–11; 17:12–13; cf. 1 Chr 2:13–15.
16 — Shammah
17 — Woman’s age at marriage 15 years; ¿rst child at 16 years; an average of 2 years between
18 — Nethanel children is assumed to account for miscarriages and perinatal mortality, etc.
19 —
 20 — ? Saul made king Raddai
21 —
22 — Ozem
23 —
24 — ?
25 —
26 — David
The number and order of Saul’s children is uncertain. The list here is based upon 1 Sam
27 — Saul m. Ahinoam
14–19; 31:2 (1 Chr 10:2); 1 Chr 8:33; 9:39.
28 — Jonathan
29 —
30 — Abinadab
31 —
32 — Ishvi (=Ishbaal)
33 —
34 — Malchishua
35 —
36 — Merab
37 —
38 — Michal
39 —
40 —
41 —
42 —
43 —
44 —
45 —
46 —
1
 47 —
48 —
49 —
50 —
51 —
52 —
53 — David m. Michal

1
 Appendix B

COLLOCATION OFċēĐēĎ WITH OTHER ELEMENTS OF OATH FORMULAE

Text ē + pronoun Deity Ĕć Ėĕ ċ‡ę This (thing)
Gen 18:25 You X X X
Gen 18:25 You X
Gen 44:7 Your servants X X X
Gen 44:17 Me X X X
Josh 22:29 Us X Another object
Josh 24:16 Us X Another object
1 Sam 2:30 Me Subject
1 Sam 12:23 Me X ćďĎ Another object
1 Sam 14:45 ċČċĐ X
1 Sam 20:2
1 Sam 20:9 You X ęĊĐ Another object
1 Sam 22:15 Me
1 Sam 24:6 [7] Me ċČċĐĕ X X X
1 Sam 26:11 Me ċČċĐĕ Ďē› Another object
2 Sam 20:20 Me X ęēĈ
2 Sam 23:17 Me ċČċĐ X X X
1 Kgs 21:3 Me ċČċĐĕ X Ėġė Another object
1 Chr 11:19 Me ĔĐċēćĕ X X X
Job 27:5 Me X ĞĊĝ Another object
Job 34:10 God X ĞĊĝ Another object

Note: the defective form, ċēēĎ, occurs in Gen 18:25; Job 34:10.
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1
 INDEXES

INDEX OF REFERENCES

HEBREW BIBLE/ 13:13 49 28:14 71

OLD TESTAMENT 13:15 49 29:1 71
Genesis 16:7 105
1:28 14 16:10–12 105 Deuteronomy
2:18–20 14 20:12 60 1:13 35
3 48 21:15 61 5:16 60
3:22 97 22:7 97 10:18 63
4:6 105 24:16–17 105 13:7–12 60
4:13 91 28:2–3 105 21:15–17 62, 72
9:4 45 28:42–43 103 21:18–21 60–62
9:20–27 103 29:43 105 23:10 76
18:1–2 105 29:45 105 23:11 MT 76
18:25 49, 136 33:22–23 105 25:11 103
19:1 105 34:20 49
19:31 59 40:34–35 105 Joshua
20:16 63 41:12–13 105 7:1 45
22 123 7:25 45
23:7 105 Leviticus 22:29 136
23:12 105 7:20–21 75, 76 24:16 136
24:3 96 15:16–18 76
24:12–13 40 18 59 Judges
24:29 63 18:17 59 6:17–18 40
26:30 74 19:3 60, 61 6:36–40 40
27 60 19:26 45 9:1–6 60
34:11 63 21:1–4 59 9:5 99
37:7–8 105 23:24 71 9:54 128
41:33 35 25:23–28 72 11:1 119
41:39 35 17–18 59
41:42 105 Numbers 17:2 48
41:43 105 5:11–13 60 18:7 103
44:7 136 9:6 75 18:22 58
44:17 136 10:10 71 19:22 61
44:30 100 12:14 103
20:24–28 82 Ruth
Exodus 26:2 38 2:15 103
3:7–8 45 26:4 38
3:12 40 27:1–11 60, 72 1 Samuel
5:21 41 28:11–15 74 1:5–8 35
 Index of References 157

1:8 35 13:2–4 41 15:10 37

1:12 51 13:2 37, 121 15:17–23 36
1:17 46 13:3–4 41 15:17 37
1:19 35 13:4 41 15:20 121
2:4 35 13:6 44 15:21 37
2:5 35 13:8 40 15:26 124
2:8 35, 131 13:11 40, 122 16:1–2 71
2:12 35, 61 13:13 127 16:1 99
2:22–25 63 13:14 38 16:7 35, 36, 52
2:22–24 35 13:19–22 51 16:8–10 36
2:27–4:18 40 13:27 74 16:10–11 133
2:27 72 14–19 134 16:11 36
2:30 136 14 38, 39, 16:12 35, 36,
2:34 40 41–43, 46, 124
2:35 72 48, 49 16:18 35
3:2 52 14:1 4, 39 16:19–20 121
3:12–14 72 14:2–3 40 16:19 62
3:20 74 14:6–7 39 16:21–22 71
4:9 35 14:6 39, 40 16:22 121
4:15 52 14:7 39 17:4 35
5:3–4 41 14:8 39 17:7 52
7:2–3 72 14:10 40 17:8 37
7:3 127 14:13–14 46 17:10 37
7:9–11 46 14:13 41 17:11–17 63
8 36 14:15 41 17:12–13 133
8:3 35 14:24–44 50 17:12 133
8:18 46 14:24–28 47 17:13 95
8:20 37 14:24 43–45 17:17–22 63
8:22 44 14:27 45 17:26 122
9:1 35 14:28 45 17:28–29 63
9:2 35, 36, 14:29 45 17:29 122
105 14:30 44, 46 17:34–36 35
9:5–10 39 14:36–46 46 17:36 99
9:13 74 14:36 39, 45 17:38–39 52, 94
9:19 39, 74 14:38 46 17:40–50 50
9:20 72 14:39 128 17:42 35
9:24 74 14:40 39 17:43 50
10:7–9 40 14:41–42 47 17:45 51
10:27 61 14:43 122 17:46–47 52, 99
11:1–11 128 14:44 49 17:49 41
11:5–11 42 14:45 39, 49, 50, 17:50 51
11:7 121 136 17:51 35, 99
11:13 40 14:46 46 18:1–3 80, 91, 97
12:3–4 35 14:49 122 18:2 71
12:6–7 40 14:52 35 18:3 43, 82
12:23 136 15 45 18:4–5 94
13 38 15:3 37 18:4 51
158 Index of References

18:5 37, 121 20:13–15 98 20:36–40 55

18:7 35 20:13 98, 101, 20:36 122
18:10–12 52 131 20:41–42 55
18:10 52 20:14–15 98 20:41 78, 96
18:13 37 20:14 99, 130 20:42 55, 101,
18:17 96 20:15–16 72 126, 130
18:20 26 20:15 99 21:1 54
18:28 46 20:16–17 96 22:1 62, 72
18:30 106 20:16 100, 130 22:8 62, 100
19:1 62 20:17 96, 97 22:11 59, 72
19:4 92 20:18–22 55 22:13 100
19:9–10 52 20:19–23 51 22:14–16 72
19:9 103 20:20–22 122 22:15 77, 136
19:11 122 20:20 92, 136 22:19 59
19:14 122 20:22 130 22:22 72
19:15 122 20:23 55, 130 23:15 126
19:17 122 20:24–34 54 23:16 126
20 8, 10, 50– 20:24–30 75 23:17 127, 136
52, 54, 70, 20:24–25 55 23:18 126
71, 80, 91, 20:24 54, 55 23:22–23 127
95, 98, 20:26–27 55 23:22 127
118, 122, 20:26 75 24:2 72
124, 126 20:27–34 118, 124 24:4–5 94
20:1–42 55 20:27–29 119 24:5–6 MT 94
20:1–11 54 20:27 71, 76, 24:6 48, 136
20:1–3 78 118 24:7 MT 48, 136
20:1 54, 77, 91, 20:28–31 55 24:10–15 35
92, 122 20:28–29 55, 70 25:3 92
20:2 49, 77, 78, 20:28 71, 118, 25:6 72
94, 136 119 25:14 121
20:3 77, 91, 99 20:29 63, 71, 76, 25:17 72
20:4 55, 91 118, 122 25:22 48
20:5–7 70 20:30–34 63, 119 25:24 91
20:5 74, 122 20:30–31 55 25:28 72
20:6 71, 74 20:30 103, 118– 25:29 50
20:7 71, 90 20 25:36 74
20:8 91, 92, 95, 20:31 72, 76, 25:44 96
99 118, 122, 26:4 121, 127
20:9 77, 92, 127 26:6 63
136 20:32 55, 118, 26:11 136
20:11–24 54 122 26:18–20 35
20:11 54, 55 20:33–34 55 28:9 122
20:12–17 55 20:33 118 28:20 74
20:12–13 90, 91, 93, 20:34 102, 118, 28:24 74
122 123 29:6 128
20:12 94, 122, 20:35–40 51 29:8 122
130 20:35 54, 55 30:23 62
 Index of References 159

31:2 134 11:14 121 19:19–21 82

31:11 122 11:27 121 20:10 48
37:27 103 12:3–4 74 21:3 136
41:11 103 12:17 123
12:30 105 2 Kings
2 Samuel 13 60 2:13 95
1:19–27 128 13:7 121 4:23 71
1:19 35 13:12 63 6:23 74
1:20 128 13:23–33 63 6:31 48
1:21–22 35 14–18 63 10:6 99
1:22 51 14:5–7 63 11:1 99
1:25 35 16:6 35 19:26 103
1:26 63, 97 17 128 19:29 40
1:27 4, 35 17:8 35 20:8–10 40
2:5 121 17:10 35
2:17 128 18:2 63 1 Chronicles
2:26 62 18:12 121 2:13–15 133
3:1–10 132 19 121 2:16 128
3:1–5 35 19:3 103 8:33 134
3:1 132 19:7 100 9:39 134
3:8 62, 91 19:11 121 10:2 134
3:14 121 19:19 92 11:19 136
3:35 123 19:20 MT 92
4:4 105 19:23 127 2 Chronicles
4:6 63 19:28 74 1:11 128
4:9 63 19:41–43 74 36:13 96
5:12 127 19:41 63
7 126 19:42 MT 63 Ezra
7:12–13 127 20:1–22 61 9:6 103
7:16 127 20:1–10 63 9:7 105
7:24 127 20:7 35
7:26 127 21:7 128 Nehemiah
8:13 106 23:8–9 35 10:33 71
9:3 128 23:16–17 35 13:25 96
9:5 121 23:22 35
9:7–11 74 Esther
9:7 127, 128 1 Kings 1:3–10 73
9:10 59 2:8–9 127
9:13 74 2:25 99 Job
10:2–5 127 2:42 96 1:4 74
10:2 121 2:46 99 8:22 103
10:7 35, 121 3:11 128 11:3 103
10:10 63 3:12 35 19:3 103, 104
11:1 121 5:5 60 27:5 136
11:3–4 121 15:29 99 29:2 106
11:6 121 16:11 99 29:7–10 106
11:13 74 19:2 48 34:10 136
160 Index of References

Psalms Proverbs 50:7 103

4:2 104 3:16 128 54:4 103
4:3 MT 104 9:13 104 63:7 100
18:5 61 10:5 104
25:2 104 12:8 119 Jeremiah
25:20 104 13:11 105 2:26 103
31 103 14:35 104 3:3 103
31:2 104 15:20 61 3:25 103
32 103 15:33 105 6:15 103
33:5 100 16:32 105 8:12 103
35:4 103 17:2 104 11:13 104
35:26 103 17:17 97 14:3 103
40:14 103 17:25 61 14:21 106
40:15 103 18:24 97 22:22 103
40:15 MT 103 19:2 105 31:19 103
40:16 MT 103 19:11 105 46:24 103
44:9 103 19:26 61, 104 48:13 103
44:10 MT 103 20:3 105 48:20 103
55:20 97 20:20 61
55:21 MT 97 21:5 105 Lamentations
68:6 63 21:22 105 3:22 100
69:6–7 104 23:25 61
69:6 103 24:5 105 Ezekiel
69:7 MT 103 25:8 103 32:30 103
69:7–8 MT 104 26:1 105 36:32 103
70:2 103, 104 26:8 105 39:16 106
70:3 103 28:7 103
70:3 MT 103, 104 28:16 128 Daniel
70:4 MT 103 28:20 105 9:8 103
74:21 103 28:22 105
79:9 106 28:24 61 Micah
89:2 100 29:15 104 1:11 103
89:39–42 104 29:23 105 3:7 103
89:40–43 MT 104 30:17 61 4:4 60
89:45–47 104 7:5–6 60
89:46–48 MT 104 Song of Songs 7:16 103
89:50–52 104 2:7 96
89:51–53 MT 104 3:5 96 Zephaniah
91:16 128 3:5 103
103:17 100 Isaiah
107:43 100 1:12–17 63 Zechariah
109:29 103 10:30 96 3:10 60
125:3 97 22:21 82 10:5 103
127:4–5 51 30:3 104 13:4 103
133:1–3 60 42:17 104
45:17 103 Malachi
48:9 106 1:6 106
 Index of References 161

APOCRYPHA/DEUTERO- CLASSICAL WORKS INSCRIPTIONS

CANONICAL WORKS Aristotle CH
Judith Ethica nichomachea 168–69 62
16:12 121 1156a7– 195 61
1156b33 78
Ecclesiasticus 1160a5 79 CTA
3:3–13 60 1164b22– 2:I:21 75
10:31 105 1165a33 79
1166a30–31 78 Wisdom of Amenenope
NEW TESTAMENT 1170b6–8 132 26 61
1 Corinthians
4:14 103 Rhetoric
6:5 103 1381a10 78
 INDEX OF AUTHORS

Abu-Lughod, L. 110 Blieszner, R. 84

Abu-Zahra, N. 69 Blok, A. 89
Acheson, J. M. 116 Bodner, K. 16, 42, 43, 132
Ackerman, S. 2, 82 Bond, G. C. 84, 94
Ackroyd, P. R. 100 Borgman, P. 52
Adams, R. G. 84 Boulay, J. du 87, 90, 115, 116
Aguilar, M. 28, 56, 86 Bourdieu, P. 17–20, 25, 30, 67, 68, 70, 73,
Aguirre, R. 72 110, 116
Allan, G. 84 Bourque, N. 73
Alter, R. 7 Bowman, R. G. 32
Andersen, F. I. 58 Brain, R. 83, 90, 128
Anderson, E. N. 73 Bressan, G. 120
Andersson, G. 4 Brettell, C. B. 12
Appardurai, A. 73 Brichto, H. C. 61
Archetti, E. P. 34 Briggs, R. 3
Argyle, M. 89 Britt, B. 100
Brueggemann, W. 40, 127, 131
Baer, D. A. 99, 100 Burnside, J. P. 61, 62
Bakhtin, M. 12–16
Bal, M. 7, 15 Cáceres Menéndez, B. 130
Baldwin, J. G. 122 Cairns, D. L. 102, 107
Ban¿eld, E. C. 69 Campbell, A. F. 39, 98
Bar-Efrat, S. 7 Campbell, J. K. 68, 70, 112
Barnard, A. 57 Caquot, A. 54
Barr, J. 98 Carrier, J. G. 87
Barré, M. L. 90 Carsten, J. 66, 67
Barton, J. 35, 36, 80 Carter, S. 16
Bauckham, R. 62 Cartledge, T. W. 42, 50, 75, 94, 124
Bechtel, L. 104 Certeau, M. de 17
Bell, R. M. 68, 69, 101 Chance, J. K. 106, 129
Bell, S. 83 Childs, B. S. 60
Bellefontaine, E. 62 Christenson, D. L. 96
Bendor, S. 58, 72 Clark, G. R. 97, 99
Benedict, R. 107 Clark, K. 8, 12
Bergen, R. D. 45, 96 Clines, D. 3, 33, 35
Berger, P. L. 108 Cocking, D. 78, 79, 87
Berkowitz, S. G. 68 Coleman, S. 83
Betchel, L. M. 17 Collier, J. F. 66
Birch, B. C. 7 Combs-Schilling, M. E. 86
Blank, S. H. 94 Connell, R. W. 33, 34
Blenkinsopp, J. 48, 59 Cook, E. M. 71, 119, 123
Blidstein, G. 60 Cordell, D. D. 90, 97
 Index of Authors 163

Cowley, A. 1, 11, 32, 54, 77, 102, 126 George, A. 34

Craig, K. M., Jr. 47 George, M. K. 37
Craigie, P. C. 41, 61, 62 Gerstenberger, E. S. 59, 60
Creighton, M. R. 107, 117 Giddens, A. 17
Cross, F. M. 44, 81, 97 Gilmore, D. D. 33, 69, 83, 88, 112
Gilsenan, M. 50, 124
Daube, D. 105 Giordano, C. 116
Davies, E. W. 72 Glatt-Gilad, D. A. 104
Davies, J. 109 Goffman, E. 25
Davies, P. R. 128 González Lamadrid, A. 90
Davis, D. R. 99 Good, E. 45
Deist, F. E. 58 Gordon, C. H. 63
Di Bella, M. P. 120 Gordon, R. P. 42, 48, 75, 77, 92, 99, 100
Dick, M. B. 10, 132 Gottwald, N. K. 58, 72
Dickson, J. P. 105 Green, B. 8, 15, 41, 52, 75, 92, 119
Domeris, W. R. 105 Greenberg, M. 95
Douglas, M. 72 Gregory, J. R. 114, 116
Downing, F. G. 129 Gunn, D. M. 7, 45
Driver, G. R. 93
Driver, S. R. 93, 98, 119 Haddox, S. E. 33
Du Bois, C. 88 Hagedorn, A. C. 16, 62
Duck, S. R. 87 Hahn, S. 80
Dutcher-Walls, P. 57 Halperin, D. M. 80, 128
Halpern, D. 4
Edelman, D. V. 38, 39, 50, 96, 101, 122, Hamilton, J. A. 96
124 Hatch, E. 109
Elliot, J. H. 27 Hayden, C. P. 66
Els, P. J. J. S. 82 Heacock, A. 4, 129
Emerson, C. 14, 15 Heller, A. 107
Esler, P. F. 16, 28 Henderson, M. 89
Evans, M. J. 40 Hertzberg, H. W. 45
Evans-Pritchard, E. E. 64, 90 Herzfeld, M. 24, 29, 30, 42, 50, 88, 116
Exum, J. C. 45 Hess, R. S. 78
Heym, S. 2
Falk, Z. 83 Hirschkop, K. 15
Fensham, F. C. 83 Ho, S. C. 47
Fewell, D. 7 Ho, S. M. 47
Finkel, J. 121 Hobbs, T. R. 40, 41, 104
Fishbane, M. 96 Hoffner, H. 35, 51
Fletcher, G. P. 79, 80 Holquist, M. 8, 12
Fokkelman, J. P. 40, 41, 43, 54, 91, 92, Howell, S. 25
122–24, 132 Hugenberger, G. P. 81
Fortes, M. 64 Hugh-Jones, S. 67
Foster, G. M. 84, 113–15
Fouts, D. M. 48 Jamieson, M. 111
Fox, M. 90 Jenks, A. W. 74
Fox, R. 63 Jobes, K. 106
Frankfurt, H. 79 Jobling, D. 2, 82, 119
Freidman, J. R. 117 Johnson, A. 84, 94
Just, R. 109, 111
164 Index of Authors

Kaplan, D. 114, 115 Modell, J. 107

Kennedy, J. G. 114, 115 Moran, W. L. 81, 91
Kennett, J. 78, 79, 87 Morgenstern, J. 131
Khan, G. A. 93 Murphy, M. D. 121, 124
Klopfenstein, M. A. 103
Koch, K. 92 Naudé, J. A. 99
Köhler, L. 62 Nel, P. J. 103, 104
Kressel, G. M. 109, 116 Nelson, R. D. 128
Kroeze, J. H. 99 Newsom, C. A. 16
Laniak, T. S. 105 Niditch, S. 37

Lawrence, L. J. 26, 115 Odell, M. S. 104

Lehmann, G. 59 Olyan, S. M. 104
Lemche, N. P. 58, 127 Ortner, S. B. 17, 19, 20, 34, 115
Lemos, T. M. 103 Overing, J. 34
Lever, A. 111
Lévi-Strauss, C. 65, 67 Pahl, R. 86, 89, 90
Lindblom, J. 47 Paine, R. 83
Ling, T. J. M. 115, 116 Pakaluk, M. 79
Link, H.-G. 47 Parkin, D. 64
Lison-Tolosana, C. 113, 117 Parry, R. 7
Lofthouse, W. F. 95 Patch, R. W. 130
Long, V. P. 43 Pedersen, J. 17, 63, 105
Longman III, T. 41 Peleg, Y. 43
Lutz, C. 102 Peristiany, J. G. 69, 108, 112, 117, 120, 124
Peteet, J. 117
MacDonald, N. 74 Piker, S. 114
MacIntyre, A. 29 Pitt-Rivers, J. 85, 89, 108, 109, 111, 112,
Maertens, T. 71 117, 120
Malinowski, B. 21, 67 Pleins, J. D. 123
Malul, M. 83 Polzin, R. 39, 40, 131
Manion, J. C. 108 Prouser, O. H. 94
Mastin, B. A. 75 Pyper, H. S. 128
Mazar, A. 58
McCarter, P. K. 10, 36, 43, 71, 76, 77, 93, Rad, G. von 41, 106
98, 119, 123 Radcliffe-Brown, A. R. 64
McCarthy, D. J. 81 Rapport, N. 19, 21–23, 86
McConville, J. G. 80 Rawlins, W. K. 88
McCracken, D. 32 Reckwitz, A. 17, 24
McEvoy, J. 78 Reed, W. L. 95
McKenzie, S. L. 81 Reed-Danahay, D. 86
Meeker, M. E. 113 Reid, D. G. 41
Meilaender, G. C. 79 Reina, R. E. 83
Merecz, R. J. 49 Rich, G. W. 86
Merwe, F. H. J. van der 99 Rivers, F. 2
Messerschmidt, J. W. 33, 34 Robert, P. de 54
Meyers, C. 16, 59 Rofé, A. 62
Miller, R. D. 58, 127 Rogerson, J. W. 39, 128
Mills, M. E. 7 Rosaldo, M. Z. 108
Miscall, P. D. 2 Rosenberg, A. J. 120, 121
Mobley, G. 51 Rosner, B. 105
 Index of Authors 165

Roth, M. T. 38 Toorn, K. van der 59, 61, 97

Rowe, J. Y. 6, 7, 14, 19, 29, 43, 47, 50, 91 Trawick, M. 65
Royce, J. 79 Trotter, G. 79
Rusch, C. D. 109 Tsumura, D. T. 44, 71, 76, 77, 82, 91–93,
Rydstrøm, H. 67 96, 98, 100, 119, 120, 123
Tucker, W. D., Jr. 104
Sahlins, M. 17
Sakenfeld, K. D. 100 Uhl, S. 87
Saler, B. 114, 115
Sanders, P. 94 Vaux, R. de 94, 95
Santos-Granero, F. 86, 90 Vice, S. 14
Saydon, P. P. 93
Schlegel, A. 110 Wacquant, L. J. D. 18, 19
Schneider, D. M. 65, 66 Walens, S. 73
Schneider, J. 110 Wees, H. van 89, 94
Schneider, P. 89, 109, 110, 123 Weinfeld, M. 82, 93, 100
Schroer, S. 2 Wenham, G. J. 7, 8, 59
Schryer, F. J. 114, 115 Wénin, A. 92
Schweitzer, P. 64 White, G. M. 102
Seebass, H. 91, 124 White, M. C. 48
Sellett, G. 47 Wiessner, P. 73
Shalom Brooks, S. 39 Wikan, U. 112, 116, 117
Shemesh, Y. 127 Williams, B. 116
Shilling, C. 17 Williams, P. J. 45
Skinner, J. 47 Williams, R. 115, 116
Smith, H. P. 40, 49, 98, 121 Willis, T. M. 74
Spencer, J. 57 Wilson, J. A. 47
Spencer, L. 86, 89 Wolff, H. W. 91
Stager, L. E. 58, 59 Wright, C. J. H. 57, 58, 61, 62, 72
Stansell, G. 5, 6, 106, 120, 124 Wright, J. L. 35, 128
Staubli, T. 2
Sternberg, M. 7 Yanagisako, S. J. 65, 66, 70
Stewart, C. 112 Yarbrough, L. O. 60
Stewart, F. H. 107, 109
Stiebert, J. 17, 102 Zehnder, M. 2, 129
Stoebe, H. J. 120 Ziegler, Y. 48, 49, 77, 78, 82, 94, 95, 101
Stone, K. 17 Zonabend, F. 64
Stone, L. 66, 67 Zorn, J. R. 58

Taggar-Cohen, A. 80, 99
Telfer, E. 79
Thompson, J. A. 82