The Ontology of Space in Biblical Hebrew Narrative

BibleWorld
The Ontology of Space in Biblical Hebrew Narrative

The Ontology of Space
Series Editors: Philip R. Davies and James G. Crossley, University of Sheffield

in Biblical Hebrew Narrative
The Determinate Function of Narrative “Space”
The Determinate Function of Narrative “Space” within the Biblical Hebrew Aesthetic
within the Biblical Hebrew Aesthetic
Luke Gärtner Brereton Luke Gärtner-Brereton

The central premise of this book is that biblical Hebrew narrative, in terms of
its structure, tends to operate under similar mechanical constraints to those of a
stage-play; wherein “space” is central, characters are fluid, and “objects” within the
narrative tend to take on a deep internal significance. The smaller episodic narrative
units within the Hebrew aesthetic tend to grant primacy to space, both ideologically
and at the mechanical level of the text itself. However “space,” as a determinate
structural category, has been all but overlooked in the field of biblical studies to date;
reflecting perhaps our own inability, as modern readers, to see beyond the dominant
“cinematic” aesthetic of our times. The book is divided into two major sections, each
beginning with a more theoretical approach to the function of narrative space,
and ending with a practical application of the previous discussion; using Genesis
28:10-22 (the Bethel narrative) and the book of Ruth respectively, as test cases.
Luke Gärtner-Brereton completed his undergraduate degree through the Australian

College of Theology in 2003 and lectured in biblical Hebrew studies for a time before
co-founding The Centre for Theology and Politics, a political think tank established
in 2005.
Gärtner-Brereton
Cover image: photography and artwork by Michael Bullo
Cover design by Mark Lee www.hisandhersdesign.co.uk
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THE ONTOLOGY OF SPACE IN
BIBLICAL HEBREW NARRATIVE
The Determinate Function of Narrative “Space”
within the Biblical Hebrew Aesthetic
Luke Gärtner-Brereton
iv publishedThe
First 2008Ontology
by Equinox,of
anSpace
imprint in Biblical Hebrew Narrative
of Acumen
Published 2014 by Routledge

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British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN-13 978 1 84553 313 7 (hardback)

978 1 84553 314 4 (paperback)
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Gärtner-Brereton, Luke.
The ontology of space in biblical Hebrew narrative : the determinate function of narrative
space within the biblical Hebrew aesthetic / Luke
Gärtner-Brereton.
p. cm. — (Bibleworld)
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 13 978-1-84553-313-7 (hb) — ISBN 978-1-84553-314-4 (pbk.)
1. Bible. O.T. Genesis—Criticism, Narrative. 2. Bible. O.T. Ruth—Criticism, Narrative. 3.
Place (Philosophy) in the Bible. I. Title.
BS1238.P53G37 2007
221.6’6—dc22
2007000747
Typeset by S.J.I. Services, New Delhi
To Coral,
for all that you mean to me
A CKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Firstly, I would like to express my thanks and appreciation to my wife,

Coral, for her support and encouragement throughout the process of
writing this book; to José Moya for proof reading the manuscript and being
ever willing to discuss the ideas presented in it. I must also express my
thorough indebtedness to a dear friend and colleague, Scott Stephens, for
his guidance and input throughout the process of preparing the book, and
for all that he has taught me over the years.
CONTENTS
Introduction 1
Toward an Aesthetics of Biblical Hebrew Narrative 1
Chapter 1. “A Cudgel by Itself Kills” 6

A Proppian Critique of Biblical Narratology 6
The Emergence of Russian Formalism 7
Vladimir Propp and his Morphology of a Folktale 9
Proppian Analysis and the Hebrew Bible 12
Louis Althusser and the Notion of “Interdisciplinarity” 18
Chapter 2. Determining Space in Biblical Hebrew Narrative 25

Aesthetic Difference within the Hebrew Bible 26
Biblical Literature and the Birth of Fiction 30
Biblical Criticism and the Category of “Space” 36
Chapter 3. “How Awesome Is This Place!” 41

Jacob at Bethel – Genesis 28:10-22 42
Chapter 4. The Hebrew Weltanschauung 46

Behind the Smoke and Mirrors 47
The Hebrew Bible as Historical Literature 49
The Hebrew Bible as Religious Literature 53
viii The Ontology of Space in Biblical Hebrew Narrative
“Identity Formation” and the Violence of Biblical

Monotheism 55
Structures of Scarcity 61
Chapter 5 Narrative Space and the Structure of Creation 67

Genesis 1 – Primordial Divisions 68
The Ontology of “the Field(s)”: From Eden to Moab 73
Genesis 25 – Sibling Rivalry 78
Chapter 6 Determining Space in the Book of Ruth 84

Stories within Stories 85
Narrative Space and the Structure of Ruth 86
Narrative Space and the Plot of Ruth 91
Narrative Space and Characterization in Ruth 96
“Overcoming Moab”: A Spatial Reading of the Book
of Ruth 103
Conclusion 106
Determinate “Space” within the Hebrew Aesthetic 106
Endnotes 109
References 118
Index of Authors 125
Index of References 127
INTRODUCTION
Toward an Aesthetics of Biblical Hebrew Narrative

One of the more productive fields of enquiry to have impressed itself upon
contemporary biblical studies in the last thirty years or so, is the discipline
of “Narratology”; namely the branch of narrative criticism which, owing to
its dependence on Saussurean linguistics, views its object as a unified and
coherent whole and seeks to identify and analyse the constitutive elements
of a diverse range of narrative units, specifically in their interrelatedness.
Though it has now fallen somewhat out of theoretical fashion,1 the great
contribution of Narratology,2 as a field of study, was undoubtedly the close
attention it paid to those rhetorical strategies within a text which draw the
reader, at least implicitly, into the story; in other words, the manner in
which the text itself transforms the actual reader (any contingent, empirical
person who happens to pick up the text) into the implied reader (the
implicit reflection of the author, a kind of “reader supposed to know”).3
Through this process, the ideal reader and omniscient author come to
share the same epistemological elements – access to a specific pool of
knowledge, to which characters within the narrative gain only limited or
gradual awareness. The reader is, to a large extent, moulded by the text
itself. Drawn into the narrative, the reader begins to occupy a similar (though
not identical) space as the author himself, somehow above the text but not
beyond it. The recent appropriation of narratological theory by biblical
critics has proven invaluable for the interpretation of biblical texts, while
concomitantly offering biblical critics an effective point of entry into the
broader field of “literary theory.” It is particularly telling, however, that one
of the more conspicuous “narratological” traits to emerge out of this
“literary” approach to the Hebrew Bible (HB henceforth) – the notion of
characterological depth – has been granted almost unparalleled status by
many contemporary biblical critics; a fact which reflects the dominant
presumption that the mode of character representation in the HB is highly
2 The Ontology of Space in Biblical Hebrew Narrative
sophisticated, in many ways anticipating our own aesthetic (or even

“cinematic”) tastes.4 Take, for example, the following statement by Meir
Sternberg:
[T]he Bible will not allow any ready-made law of association. The scopes
it operates with…are the universal and the individual to the exclusion of
the typal…each personality forms a unique combination of features,
the parts common or recognizable enough to establish universality
and the whole unusual enough to exclude typicality in favor of
individuality…in the Bible there is no norm of human nature to
be embodied in a character, not even by way of contrast (Sternberg,
1985: 347).
Robert Alter, whose landmark work, The Art of Biblical Narrative, has
won such wide acclaim, likewise attests to the tremendous depth of
characterization exhibited within Biblical Hebrew Narrative:
How does the Bible manage to evoke such a sense of depth and
complexity in its representation of character with what would seem to
be such sparse, even rudimentary means… I would suggest, in fact, that
the biblical writers, while seeming to preserve a continuity with the
relatively simple treatment of character of their Mesopotamian and
Syro-Palestinian literary predecessors, actually worked out a set of new
and surprisingly supple techniques for the imaginative representation
of human individuality (Alter, 1981: 114-15).
With their heightened aesthetic sensibilities, such approaches tend to

elevate the literary status of the HB to considerable heights, suggesting a
text of supreme rhetorical sophistication, yet poor in Weltanschauung – a
literary world, stripped of metaphysics (devoid of any deeper internal
essence; the invariables or constants in/of the text). It is particularly
noteworthy, for example, that many “literary” approaches to the HB, which
have emerged in the last thirty years or so, exhibit a strong fixation upon
the technique behind Hebrew narrative; the interrelations and function of
the rhetorical, authorial devices which give the text its depth and colour.
But what of those elements at work within the Hebrew aesthetic which
cannot simply be reduced to aspects of rhetorical strategy, those elements
which exercise tremendous internal sway over characters and plot alike,
but cannot merely be reduced to narrative “technique” as such? Here the
work of Russian folklorist Vladimir Propp, whose Morphology of the Folktale
proved so influential among the early formalists, offers a particularly
cogent counterpoint to the position held by modern “literary” approaches
to biblical Hebrew narrative. When applied to the question of
characterological depth within the biblical text, Propp’s method – namely
Introduction 3
his reduction of the Slavic fairy tale to a set of carefully defined functions –
is particularly useful:
The nomenclature and attributes of characters are variable quantities
of the tale. By attributes we mean the totality of all the external qualities
of the characters: their age, sex, status, external appearance, peculiarities
of this appearance and so forth. These attributes provide the tale with
its brilliance, charm and beauty… We have seen, however, that one
character in a tale is easily replaced by another (Propp, 1968: 87).
In reducing the fairy tale to a series of functions, Propp granted primacy

to structure rather than content as such. In occupying the role of dramatis
personae, things have a structural depth that has nothing to do with their
actual, proper, essence (a kind of specific gravity), but rather derives from
the “function” they enact. As such, substance belongs to structure itself,
and is only conveyed to contingent elements (whether persons, objects,
etc.) by means of a kind of narrative transubstantiation. Initially then, Propp
seems to offer an essentially negative critique of contemporary narratological
method, turning on its head the popular notion of characterological depth
within the HB.5 To what extent, however, does Propp offer biblical critics
an answer to the deficiencies of modern narratological criticism; specifically
the inability to adequately thematize structural constants within the text?
While Propp may provide a means of critiquing certain aspects of modern
narratological method, any attempt to positively apply Proppian analysis
to the HB seems doomed to failure. Indeed, a thoroughgoing critique of
the Proppian analysis of Hebrew narrative (such as that undertaken by
Pamela Milne in her Vladimir Propp and the Study of Biblical Hebrew
Narrative) suggests a kind of self-inscribed limit within Propp’s own work,
whereby the very “specificity” of his object ensures the concomitant
“specificity” (non-transferability) of his model (Milne, 1988: 130-66).
In short, the attempt to simply “apply” Proppian analysis to the HB is,
to say the least, deeply problematic; a dilemma which hinges on the strong
aesthetic differences between Propp’s object (namely the Slavic fairy tale)
and the Hebrew aesthetic. It is precisely this fundamental difference
between aesthetic codes which, I would suggest, lies behind the rather
benign results exhibited by recent attempts to apply Propp to the HB.6
Those who seek to apply Propp’s work to the biblical text inevitably come
up against the problem of Proppian specificity and are forced to circumvent
this problem in one of two ways; either by adapting Propp’s model (and
thus betraying his rigorous “scientificity”) or by misconstruing the aesthetic
texture of the narrative in question (forcing a particular biblical narrative
to fit within the folktale/fairy tale genre). In short, one can either manipulate
Propp’s scheme to better fit a particular Hebrew narrative, or recast the

narrative itself as a kind of distant cousin of the Slavic fairy tale, doing
damage either to Propp’s model, or one’s own object of study.
Despite the tendency for modern critics to adopt one or both of these
positions, there is a third option which presents itself, an option which
may ultimately prove far more beneficial for the study of biblical Hebrew
narrative. One can, in fact, approach the Hebrew aesthetic in a manner
which maintains the methodological rigor exhibited in Propp, and thus
recognizes the self-imposed “limit” which his methodology inscribes.7 It is
not strictly necessary to move “beyond” this limit, but rather, in embracing
the absolute specificity of Proppian analysis (by maintaining a kind of
Althusserian rejection of “interdisciplinarity” over and against the rampant
“borrowing” of methods and models exhibited in modern biblical studies)
we are forced to recognize the unique nature of the Hebrew aesthetic itself
and, perhaps more importantly, the need for a thoroughly “deductive”
approach, geared towards the HB. Ultimately, the application of Proppian
analysis to the Hebrew aesthetic raises specific questions regarding method
and applicability which, when properly formulated, highlights the need
for a thoroughly deductive approach to the text. Aside from merely
emphasizing the unique nature of the Hebrew aesthetic, and the need for
a deductive approach to the text, Propp’s work also provides us with a clear
focal point from which such a study might proceed.
A closer inspection of Propp’s model, and the object with which he
worked, suggests the dominance of a central, determinate factor which is
consistently at work within the Slavic fairy tale – an absolute horizon which,
although it emerges from within the tale itself, nevertheless structures the
whole. One can see what might be termed the “journeying vector” within
the Proppian fairy tale – namely the internal necessity for some kind of
quest or travel in order to resolve a fundamental lack within the tale. It is
precisely the recognition of this “journeying vector” which throws into
sharp relief our ignorance concerning the concomitant factor within the
Hebrew aesthetic.
In terms of its structure, the Slavic fairy tale seems to resonate with our
own modern aesthetic (that is to say “cinematic”) tastes, wherein spaces are
merely ancillary to the movement of characters. Indeed the “journeying”
characteristic of the Proppian fairy tale seems deeply congruous with the
roving style cinematography typified in modern cinema; where the camera
follows a character on his/her journey, moving from place to place toward
some final goal or end. What we see in Hebrew narrative however,
particularly in smaller episodic narrative units, is a tendency to grant a
Introduction 5
certain primacy to space, both ideologically and at the mechanical level of

narrative construction itself. Biblical Hebrew narrative appears to operate
under similar mechanical constraints to those of a traditional stage-play –
where space is central, characters are fluid, and objects tend to take on a
deep significance. It is somewhat curious, however, that this “spatial”
dimension to the HB has gone all but unnoticed in the field of modern
biblical studies to date; testament perhaps to our own over-familiarity
with the dominant modern cinematic aesthetic. It is my contention that
this non-adequatio between the Proppian fairy tale and biblical Hebrew
narrative is precisely a non-adequatio between dominant structural
categories within each aesthetic code; namely “space” within the HB, and
what we have termed the “journeying vector” in Slavic fairy tale.
The current book represents an attempt to examine, in preliminary
fashion, the determinate nature of key narrative spaces within the
Hebrew aesthetic. Given this rather narrow point of focus, I have chosen to
privilege the notion of “narrative space” above other aspects of the text
(characterization, plot, time, repetition, genre, etc.), treating “space” itself
as determinate within the biblical text, rather than an ancillary or secondary
characteristic. In the interests of clarity, I have divided this volume in
terms of two major sections, each beginning with a more theoretical
approach to the function of narrative space, and ending with a practical
application of previous discussion; using Genesis 28:10-22 and the book of
Ruth respectively, as test cases.8 This book, in itself, is not intended to
present a comprehensive interpretative scheme or methodology – a kind
of spatial hermeneutic as such – but rather, it is my hope that approaching
biblical Hebrew narrative specifically in terms of the determinate function
of space will open up new possibilities for reading the biblical text.
Chapter 1
“A CUDGEL BY ITSELF KILLS”
A Proppian Critique of Biblical Narratology
This chapter will begin by briefly outlining the work and method of Russian
Folklorist Vladimir Propp, within the larger formalist/structuralist milieu
in which his seminal “Morphology” proved so influential. Then, by means
of Pamela Milne’s detailed study, I will evaluate the validity of recent
appropriations of Propp’s work for the study of Hebrew narrative. My use of
Propp, and by extension Althusser, are intended to counter the modern
tendency toward interdisciplinarity – namely toward the excessive
“borrowing” of methods and models from disparate disciplines, and their
application to one’s own object of study. What the Proppian analysis of the
HB allows us to see is, first and foremost, the absolute incompatibility
between biblical Hebrew narrative and the Proppian fairy tale, as two
distinct aesthetic codes (something that modern narratological approaches
to the text tend to overlook). However, the very imposition of this difference
throws off other possibilities: firstly, it suggests the presence of a central
structural determinate at work within the Slavic fairy tale which accounts
for the non-adequatio between the fairy tale and Hebrew narrative; secondly
it pinpoints our own ignorance concerning any concomitant determinate
within the Hebrew aesthetic.
“A Cudgel by Itself Kills” 7
The Emergence of Russian Formalism

The last thirty years or so have seen a heightened interest in the literary
qualities of the HB, spearheaded by those biblical scholars who see the text
specifically in terms of a literary “work of art”; a text which exhibits
tremendous stylistic complexity and literary sophistication. Under the
broader banner of “literary criticism” such approaches typically exhibit “a
sceptical attitude to the referential qualities of the texts and an intense
concern for their internal relationships” (Alter and Kermode, 1987: 5).
Stemming from the early impetus of formalist/structuralist method, a great
many “literary” approaches to the HB have come to occupy pride of place
in the field of modern biblical studies – of these approaches, Narratology
(for which the term “Poetics” is now the somewhat more chic term) has
become particularly influential.1 The advent of contemporary narrative
theory has not, however, emerged from an intellectual vacuum, but is instead
the product of a trajectory of thought which stems from the earliest
breakthroughs in the field of “linguistics,” and has extended across a wide
variety of disciplines. 2 Perhaps the defining characteristic of such
approaches is their primary concern with the internal relatedness of the
text itself (the nature of its internal coherence); signalling a firm break
with the earlier “diachronic/historical” (that is to say “referential”) concerns,
which had traditionally occupied the humanities. Arguably the single most
influential figure in inaugurating this paradigm shift is the celebrated
Swiss linguist, Ferdinand de Saussure, whose work still exercises
tremendous influence in the fields of linguistic and literary theory today.
It is a matter of historical fact that the emergence of Saussure’s seminal
Cours de linguistique générale (“Course in General Linguistics,” published
posthumously in 1916), at the turn of the twentieth century, marked a
significant moment, both in the study of language and, given its far-reaching
consequences in many other disciplines, the Humanities as a whole (de
Saussure, 1959). His work signalled a change in direction from the
traditional diachronic concerns of language studies (those which focused
typically on their history and development), to the synchronic study of
language as a system of interrelated signs. This shift in emphasis was to
prove a defining moment in the history of linguistic studies; Saussure’s
work set in motion a trajectory which proved supremely influential for the
burgeoning fields of formalist/structuralist enquiry, and extends, in our
time, to the contemporary disciple of semiotics, and literary criticism more
generally. Indeed, if one were so inclined, one could plot a definite (if
somewhat simplistic) trajectory from the emergence of Saussure’s “Course
in General Linguistics,” through the earliest application of Saussurian

linguistics to “literature” by the Russian formalists (of which Roman
Jakobson could be said to act as a kind of “vanishing mediator” between
Formalism and Structuralism), to the broader appropriation of Formalism
within the burgeoning field of structural anthropology in Claude Lévi-
Strauss (for whom Marcel Mauss and Roman Jakobson provided a major
point of contact with Saussure’s work [cf. Lévi-Strauss, 1963; Jakobson,
1987; Mauss, 1990; Jacobson, 1992: 101-17]).
This concern for the synchronic study of texts (which has come to occupy
pride of place within the field of modern literary criticism) can be traced
back to Saussure’s initial identification of three primary levels of linguistic
activity: that of languge, langue and parole. For Saussure, the term languge
was intended to encompass the human potential for speech, while langue
represented a “language system” as such – an interconnected system of
signs through which the very act of communicating language is possible.
Parole, in contrast, was intended to represent a specific piece of language,
the act of speaking itself, or a written text. Of these three terms, Saussure
insisted that parole was the only strictly “observable” level, hence it is from
parole (the actual “text” itself ) that the linguist must work backwards in
order to define the underlying structure or system which lies behind a
given language. In inaugurating what he saw as the “scientific” study of
sign systems (under the banner of “semiology”), Saussure brought about a
shift in emphasis from the individual signs themselves, to focus instead on
the internally coherent system which bound such signs together – with
the level of langue. It is precisely this concept of language as a system, a
network of interrelated signs, which has proven so important for consequent
linguistic investigation and, by extension, has proven so influential in the
fields of literary criticism, anthropology, sociology, and psychoanalysis.
One of the more immediate fields of enquiry to benefit from Saussure’s
work was that of Russian Formalism, which emerged during the decline of
romanticism and positivism at the end of the nineteenth century. The
“Formalists” – so called by Marxist opponents because of their tendency to
divorce form from content and remain somewhat preoccupied with the
former – were comprised of a diverse group of linguists, philologists, literary
historians and folklorists, assembled into two loosely composed groups;
the Opajaz (based in Petersburg), and the Moscow Linguistic Circle.
Translating Saussure’s preoccupation with langue into the realm of
literature, the Russian Formalists tended to focus on the “how” of literature,
viewing the texts in question (typically smaller works of poetry and
narrative) as a literary whole (a totality), and attempting to map out the
underlying “system” which structured such texts. This focus on “structure”

was to later gain further impetus via the work of Claude Lévi-Strauss who,
through the influence of such figures as Roman Jakobson, Émile Durkheim
and particularly Marcel Mauss, extended the scope of these early formalist/
structuralist ideas to encompass a method of understanding human society
and culture (Lévi-Strauss, 1969). One could say that Lévi-Strauss, in
marking out the boundaries of his “structural anthropology,” took Saussure’s
emphasis on langue and applied it to the study of the human animal –
seeking to define those underlying “systems” which structure human society
itself.
The unique contribution of Russian Formalism, along with its Western
European “structuralist” counterpart, was its ability to focus squarely on
the representative, that which is common among myths and stories, those
a priori points of agreement between readers and among narratives.
Proponents of such formalist/structuralist methods tended to place a great
sense of value in the role(s) of certain structural determinates (Greimas’
“actants,” Propp’s “functions”) within a given story, and the extent to which
these factors influence narrative plot (cf. Greimas, 1987: 106-20). In so far
as these methods tend to reduce all characters and objects within a given
narrative to their barest function, and seek to identify determinate
structural factors within the text, formalism could be considered a science
whose object is the “actant” (to use Greimas’ well-known designation).
The immediate benefit of such a formalist/structuralist approach is that it
allows the reader to isolate constituent categories, elements and agents in
any narrative or social form, exposing the fundamental narrative logics of
even the most disjointed or anthological texts – making such an approach
ideally suited to the heterogenous texts of the HB.3
Vladimir Propp and his Morphology of a Folktale

One of the more influential scholars to emerge from the Russian Formalist
school was Vladimir Yakovlevich Propp, whose work on the Slavic fairy
tale has exercised a profound influence both on the study of “folktales,” and
the broader field of literary enquiry over the last fifty years. In keeping with
scientific positivism of the early 1900s, Propp founded his seminal work
Morfológija skázki (“Morphology of the Folktale,” first published in Russian
in 1928; then English in 1958) upon a strictly scientific/deductive
framework. In his own words, Propp saw himself as an “empiricist with
integrity,” one who “first and foremost observes facts attentively and studies
them scrupulously and methodologically, verifying assumptions and
continually examining the situation at every phase of the reasoning process”

(Propp, 1978: 58). One could say, in fact, that it is precisely this emphasis
on scientific rigor which sets Propp’s work apart from many of his
predecessors or, perhaps more accurately, it is the “scientificity” of his method
which marks Morphology of a Folktale as such an important and timely
text. Indeed, from the very outset, Propp insisted that his work was entirely
predicated on the meticulous observation and analysis of raw data, derived
from a carefully defined corpus of fairy tales (Propp, 1978: 58). Propp thus
sets out his methodology in the following fashion:
the study of the tale must be carried on strictly deductively, i.e.,
proceeding from the material at hand to the consequences (and in
effect it is so carried on in this work). But the presentation may have a
reversed order, since it is easier to follow the development if the general
bases are known to the reader beforehand (Propp, 1968: 23).
The initial impetus for Propp’s Morphology stemmed directly from

several key observations which emerged from an early attempt to analyse a
small group of Slavic fairy tales – specifically those which entailed the
“persecution of a stepdaughter.” Propp began this study by identifying
several conspicuously uniform elements among the tales – namely the
identical actions of certain characters, which occurred regardless of that
character’s own individual traits. This initial observation prompted Propp
to further pursue the function and extent of certain key actions within the
fairy tale – those which occur in a uniform fashion regardless of the nature
of the characters that perform them. From this point of departure, Propp
began to develop the schema which would eventually culminate in his
Morphology of a Folktale.
By employing such a strictly “deductive” method, Propp deliberately
intended to set his work apart from the so-called “Finnish school” of folklore
studies, whose efforts had at that time failed, in his opinion, to develop an
adequate system for the classification of Slavic folktales. According to Propp,
contemporary methods of genre classification were scattered and ill-
defined at best, betraying little genuine progress over the years prior to his
own work. In contrast, however, he gazed with longing at the degree of
clarity and efficiency which the more “scientific” fields of enquiry had
achieved, and thus sought to apply a similar level of “scientificity” to the
study of the Slavic folktale.
At a time when the physical and mathematical sciences possess well-
ordered classification, a unified terminology adopted by special
conferences, and a methodology improved upon by the transmission
from teachers to students, we have nothing comparable (Propp,

1968: 5).
Prior to Propp’s work, folktales had been typically classified via an

arbitrary schematization of key themes and motifs within the texts
themselves, or by imposing some larger external structure upon the text(s)
and forcing the corpus to fit within this structure. Little consensus had
been attained as to the type of terminology that should be used in the
study of the folktale, or which method should be employed in categorizing
such tales, both as a whole, and in their constituent parts. Against this
background of stagnate scholarship, Propp sought to develop a more
“scientific” approach to the material at hand, insisting that an accurate and
adequate process of classification served as the absolute foundation for all
future investigations of Slavic folktale. Propp maintained, however, that
the process of developing an adequate mechanism for classification must
proceed from the analysis of empirical data extracted from the material
itself, before setting out its own principles. With this in mind, Propp
commenced his own project with a strong self awareness of the inadequacies
of those works which had preceded his, and recognized the need to maintain,
at each stage of his work, the “scientificity” of his own method.
Propp thus began his work with the careful comparison and analysis of
a relatively small corpus of fairy tales. Through this initial comparison he
was able to differentiate between the constant components exhibited within
the tale (those actions of the dramatis personae which remained consistent
– Propp’s “functions”) and their variable components (the names and
individual attributes of key characters). From this initial act of identification,
and the consequent recognition of frequently reoccurring “functions”
within the material, Propp was led to conclude that his study of the fairy
tale should be undertaken primarily “according to the functions of its
dramatis personae” (Propp, 1968: 20). Propp began to see that “functions,”
the basic structural components of a fairy tale, provided a tale with its
internal coherence and movement. Irrespective of the nature of the
characters who acted, and beyond the variable components of the tale (those
elements which provide the text with its aesthetic diversity and flavour),
Propp identified the function as that basic structural building block which
underlies the Slavic fairy tale as a whole; “functions of characters serve as
stable, constant elements in a tale, independent of how and by whom they
are fulfilled. They constitute the fundamental components of a tale” (Propp,
1968: 21).
Further analysis suggested that the number of functions within the
corpus with which Propp worked was comparatively small, in contrast to
the variety of personages exhibited. Propp proceeded to identify each of

these functions by means of a careful definition of each, a definition based
on two primary elements; firstly, each “function” was to be defined
independently from the character that performed it, and secondly, each
was to be defined specifically in relation to its place within what Propp
called the “action-sequence” of the tale.4 Propp consequently defined the
function as “an act of a character, defined from the point of view of its
significance for the course of action.” The very construction of this definition
led, in turn, to the belief that the sequence of a fairy tale was in fact necessary
to its very construction, rather than merely accidental, as had been asserted
by Propp’s predecessors; a view which is most notably expressed by
Veselóvskij and Šklórkij (Propp, 1968: 21-22). Propp asserted that the
sequence of events in the Slavic fairy tale was uniform, not arbitrary; that
all tales seemed to be governed by a deep internal necessity – that which
might well be termed the “law of sequence.”
Insofar as the tale is concerned, it has its own entirely particular and
specific laws. The sequence of elements…is strictly uniform. Freedom
within this sequence is restricted by very narrow limits which can be
exactly formulated (Propp, 1968: 22).
Much to Propp’s own surprise, further comparison of the material

suggested a kind of “typological unity” wherein all the fairy tales examined
seemed to run along a single axis – all tales were “of one type in regard to
their structure,” a fact which raised, for Propp, the alluring possibility of
constructing a complete “archetypal” fairy tale (Propp, 1968: 23, 89).
Ultimately Propp sought to identify the structural underpinnings of the
Slavic fairy tale, to examine the system which binds the fairy tale
itself together, into a coherent whole. Indeed, one could well say that
Propp’s entire program represents an attempt to translate Saussure’s
methodological preoccupation with langue (approached via the parole)
into the study of the Slavic fairy tale.
Proppian Analysis and the Hebrew Bible

Since the late 70s, the field of biblical studies has witnessed the steady
introduction of wider literary disciplines into its sphere of enquiry. Indeed,
as Fredric Jameson suggests, the steady erosion of traditional boundaries
which have long separated the disciplines is perhaps the most identifiable
aspect of the legacy of the 60s (Jameson, 1988c: 178-210). It should come as
no surprise then that such a seminal work as Propp’s Morphology, which
exerted tremendous influence on the fields of structural anthropology and

literary criticism, should consequently come to be applied to biblical texts.5
The specific application of Propp to the HB has, however, been somewhat
limited to date, restricted to a relatively small corpus of articles and books.
Propp’s influence should not be underestimated however, particularly when
one considers the broader collection of works, in the realm of biblical
criticism, which have sought to incorporate the formalist/structuralist
thought of such figures as Algirdas Greimas, Claude Lévi-Strauss, Edmund
Leach and Roland Barthes. Note, for example, Daniel Patte’s longstanding
attempt to integrate Greimasian thought into the field of New Testament
exegesis, or the work of such scholars as Robert Polzin, Mieke Bal and
David Jobling in relation to the study of biblical Hebrew texts (cf. Patte,
1976, 1990; Polzin, 1977, 1989; Bal, 1985, 1988). Within this larger milieu,
Propp’s work takes on a certain significance which outweighs its relative
scarcity.
Since Roland Barthes’ pioneering structural analysis of Genesis 32, “La
lutte avec l’ange” (1971; “The Struggle with the Angel” – English translation
1974), Propp has been productively applied within the field of biblical
exegesis, through either modest, short analyses of restricted texts (Barthes,
1974: 21-33; cf. Roth, 1977: 51-62; Jason, 1979: 36-70; Blenkinsopp, 1981:
27-46; Milne, 1988; 130-59) or more ambitious monographs, of which the
most suggestive would be Jack Sasson’s formalist-folklorist analysis of Ruth
(Sasson, 1987). Indeed, the increased use of Proppian formalism within
the field of biblical studies was enough to merit a study in its own right,
completed by Pamela Milne in 1988 – Vladimir Propp and the Study of
Structure in Hebrew Biblical Narrative. Milne’s work is of particular interest,
both for its critique of existing attempts at a “Proppian analysis” of Hebrew
narrative, and as a record of Milne’s own intention to use Propp’s work as a
mechanism for genre classification. In Milne’s own words, her book
endeavours to provide a “systematic examination of Propp’s Morphology of
a Folktale and to evaluate its present and potential importance for biblical
studies.” Dividing her study into three major sections, Milne begins by
discussing the emergence and impact of Propp’s Morphology within the
larger formalist/structuralist context, before conducting a brief summary
of existing attempts to apply Propp’s work to the HB. Milne then concludes
the study with a summary of her own attempt to utilize Proppian analysis
in analysing narrative surface structures in Daniel 1–6.
A key component in her analysis of Propp’s work is Milne’s emphasis on
the “specificity” both of Propp’s object (the “heroic fairy tale”) and his model.
According to Milne, “It is crucial for a correct understanding of
[Morphology] to recognize that it is a study with a very limited scope and

concerned with very specific, well-defined elements” (Milne 1986: 38).
Milne goes on to point out that the Slavic fairy tales with which Propp
worked were not merely “folktales” in the broader sense of the term, but
specifically “Slavic fairy-tales.” She then insists that Propp’s model concerns
only one level of narrative structure (namely that of “plot”), focusing
primarily on the linear relationships between functions and roles.6 Indeed,
the “specificity” of Propp’s work has often been under-emphasized since its
emergence, a fact of which the author himself was keenly aware. It should
be noted that the degree of ambiguity which has plagued Morphology of a
Folktale, is due in part to the book’s title. Propp originally intended the
title to read Morphology of the Fairy Tale, but was pressured into altering it
by the publishers, in the hope of promoting wider appeal. The use of the
more general term “folktale,” thus suggested to its audience that the book
promised a far greater degree of universal applicability than it in fact
delivered. As Propp later stated in defence of the work: “My method is
comprehensive, but the conclusions are valid only for that well-determined
type of folklore for which they were devised, namely the fairy tale.” Propp’s
work is restricted to the study of “Slavic fairy tale,” and was never intended
to extend to the study of folktales or folk literature in general. Ironically
the text attained its greatest influence only when translated into English,
further compounding the ambiguity which surrounded the book. While
making Propp’s work far more accessible to a wider audience, the process of
translation also added to the ambiguity of the book, particularly given that
several key epigraphs were omitted from the finished product (cf. Propp,
1978: 62-63). The “specificity” to which Milne attests, however, ultimately
raises an important question regarding inter-disciplinary applicability; to
what extent, and indeed for what legitimate purpose(s), can Propp be
utilized in the study of the HB?7 Initially Milne offers two suggestions, the
first at the level of method, the second at the level of Propp’s model.
Milne suggests that Propp’s Morphology was, in many ways, designed to
remedy the ineffective methods of classification employed by the Finnish
school of folklore studies. It represented a thoroughly “new” method, based
on the recognition of the underlying “formal” features of structure (Milne,
1986: 39). At the level of “method,” Milne thus suggests that Propp’s work
may be employed, in the field of biblical studies, to overcome the analogous
failure of Form Criticism to reach a general consensus on the classification
of a diverse range of biblical texts – for Milne, Form Criticism thus occupies
an analogous position to the “Finnish School of Folklore Studies” (Milne,
1986: 40). Secondly, Milne suggests that Propp’s actual “model” may be
applied, whether in its original form or in some altered state (as with Joseph
Blenkinsop’s “Biographical Patterns in Biblical Narrative”) to those biblical
texts which exhibit certain similarities to the Slavic fairy tale, in an effort to
aid in the task of biblical genre classification (Milne, 1986: 36, 40;
Blenkinsopp, 1981: 27-46). Taking these two approaches as her point of
departure, Milne surveys the field of biblical critics who have applied
Proppian analysis to the biblical texts, identifying two broad approaches
within modern scholarship: the first, represented by the likes of
Blenkinsopp, Couffignal, Durand, Jason, Roth, and Sasson, and entails the
application of Propp’s model to certain texts, with varying degrees of
faithfulness to the original; the second, typified by the work of Robert
Culley, involves the application of Propp’s method to such texts. It is Culley,
suggests Milne, who alone remains true to the method behind Propp’s
work, rather his model per se, emulating Propp’s concern to maintain the
specificity of his object (Milne, 1988: 65).
Culley’s approach…is significant because it does provide an example of
how Propp’s basic insights can be extended to biblical narrative, without
either using his specific model or the generalized versions of his model
such as those developed by Greimas or Bremond. Culley has been able
to carry out his analysis at essentially the same level as did Propp and
thus has been able to identify formal features in biblical narratives
while at the same time retaining contact with the narrative context
(Milne, 1988: 166).
Yet, for all this, Culley’s work features little in Milne’s book (one almost
feels that his appearance in the monograph owes more to Milne’s own debt
of gratitude than any relevance of subject matter), given the fact that his
largely fragmented observations offer little in the way of a complete, workable
system, or methodological approach to Hebrew narrative, in addition to
the fact that his work betrays only the slightest theoretical connection to
formalist/structuralist thought (Culley, 1972, 1974, 1975, 1976). For Milne,
Culley’s work represents the best case scenario for a scholar seeking to apply
Propp’s “methodology” to the HB – given the heterogenous nature of the
biblical texts, and the relative paucity of texts of the same genre.
It is quite possible that, given the limitations of the relatively small corpus
of biblical narratives, it will be impossible to go much beyond the point
now reached by Culley. It is conceivable that the development of
structural models for other narrative genres must be done outside of
biblical studies, in folklore studies and literary criticism where the material
base is considerably larger (Milne, 1988: 166).
In her own approach to Daniel 1–6, Milne quickly excludes the possibility
of employing Propp’s method – due to the paucity of biblical data and lack
of consensus as to the genre of the texts in question – opting instead to
apply his model. Propp’s method, argues Milne, must be “left to the
folklorists and literary critics with access to much larger tale corpora” (Milne,
1988: 200). Here, Milne’s approach is somewhat ironic, given that Propp
himself criticized his predecessors (chiefly Speránski, in his Russkaja ustnaja
slovesnost [Russian Oral Literature], 1917) for claiming that the existent
amount of material available to Folklorists, at that time, was insufficient
for the development of a “scientific” approach to the Slavic folktale (Propp,
1968: 3). Propp’s answer to this stance was categorical: “What matters is
not the amount of material, but the methods of investigation” (Propp,
1968: 4). Nevertheless, Milne insists that, in the field of biblical criticism,
Propp’s method must be abandoned in favour of his model, and existing
folklorist models should be employed as “heuristic devices” to aid in
describing the “narrative surface structure” of a biblical texts (Propp, 1968:
264). In this sense, Propp’s model represents merely one “narrative surface-
structure model” among many, a tool which may be applied to a given text
in order to better define its genre, or to highlight certain stylistic features
within the text.
Here we should note that Milne’s use of the term “narrative surface
structure” (taken from Susan Wittig’s article, “The Historical Development
of Structuralism,” 1975), likely reflects Robert Scholes’ distinction between
“high” and “low” structuralism – the latter being primarily concerned with
“surface structures” of a given narrative, while the former endeavours to
study deeper structural elements within the text; those, for example, which
might concern a figure like Claude Lévi-Strauss (Milne, 1988: 171; Wittig,
1975: 9; cf. Scholes, 1974: 157). Milne’s use of Proppian analysis, which
reflects a primary interest in narrative “surface structures,” is perhaps
analogous to the concerns of “low” structuralism. I would suggest, however,
that Milne’s use of the term “narrative surface structure” in fact reflects a
deeper methodological reduction of Proppian analysis within her work – a
reduction which seems strictly at odds with the Proppian “specificity” to
which Milne elsewhere attests. It is precisely at this point that Milne’s
program, perhaps unwittingly, stumbles upon the deep problematic at the
heart of recent attempts to apply Proppian analysis to biblical Hebrew
narrative. If, as Milne herself suggests, we are to give due recognition to the
“specificity” of Propp’s model, then is not the application of Propp to
Hebrew narrative for the purpose of “genre classification” (or perhaps more
broadly, to examine “narrative surface structure”) doomed to reach one,
rather benign, conclusion: namely that none of the material in the HB can
properly be classified as Slavic fairy tale? Note the concluding remarks
from Milne’s own study:
Since none of the stories in Daniel 1–6 could be fully described with the
aid of Propp’s model, it was necessary to conclude that none belonged
to the genre heroic fairy tale… This is a negative conclusion but one
which at least has the value of eliminating one genre category from
consideration (Milne, 1988: 264).
The paradoxical upshot of Milne’s program is ultimately that there can

be no Proppian analysis of the HB. In essence, the “specificity” of Propp’s
model, its firm link to a narrowly defined object, ensures a fundamental
stalemate for Milne and those like her, who seek to integrate Propp’s work
into the field of biblical studies. In order to negotiate a path through this
Proppian limit, biblical exegetes must adopt one of two stances: they must
either adapt Propp’s method (making it technically no longer worthy of
that designation), or manipulate the text(s) under study, to better fit Propp’s
model. This is precisely the dual approach which, according to Milne,
marks Jack Sasson’s “folklorist” (that is to say “Proppian”) analysis of Ruth.
According to Milne, Sasson fails to remain faithful to Propp’s method,
beginning with character roles rather than functions, and falsely identifying
certain key functions within the text. Secondly, Sasson’s own object of study,
namely the book of Ruth, is far too dissimilar, according to Milne, to the
fairy tales with which Propp worked. Sasson is therefore attempting to fit
the book of Ruth into an external (foreign) category of classification (Milne,
1988: 172-73). This second criticism is affirmed by Kirsten Nielsen, who
sees the closing genealogy of Ruth as deeply problematic for Sasson’s scheme.
Nielsen suggests that Sasson’s difficulty in deciding whether or not Ruth
4:18-22 is the natural ending of the tale (Sasson insists that the genealogy
actually begins the tale of Obed) reflects the fact that, in classifying Ruth as
a “folk tale,” he has chosen to define the book of Ruth “as a clearly delimited
work of art that does not point beyond [itself ],” thus failing to recognize
what Nielsen insists is the open nature of the text (Nielsen, 1997: 7).
This inner tension within Sasson’s work, his chaffing against what might
be termed the Proppian limit (the inapplicability of Propp’s model for
biblical Hebrew narrative), is also clearly evident within Sasson’s own
discussion. Initially, he can confidently assert that, “because it fits
comfortably within Propp’s model of sequential functions, the form of
Ruth is that of a folktale.”8 However, no sooner has he made this claim,
than he is forced to retreat, conceding just one paragraph later that, “Propp’s
sequence of functions…will eventually have to be refined, perhaps even
restructured, in order to better suit tales from both the Ancient Near East
and the Bible” (Sasson, 1995: 214). Ultimately Sasson must do damage to
both Propp’s model and his own object of study for the conclusions he
makes to be valid; a process which makes the value of such an approach
highly questionable. It is curious then that, despite her recognition of this
common failure to appreciate the “genre-specific” nature of Propp’s work,
Milne concludes her own study with the following remarks:
When applied to such biblical narratives, a Proppian analysis can be
used for three purposes: the description of a narrative’s surface structure,
either in whole or in part; the comparison of narratives one to another
on the basis of surface structure features; and, in a few cases, the
classification of texts according to genre (Milne, 1988: 264-65).
In reducing Proppian analysis to “a useful heuristic device for

describing…narrative surface structure”, prompted by her own “limited”
results regarding classification and structural analysis of Daniel 1–6, Milne
thus misses the inherent depth of Propp’s analysis of the Slavic fairy tale
(Milne, 1988: 264-65). What Propp identified, in his recognition of
“functions” (and indeed the “law of sequence”) within the Slavic fairy tale,
was a kind of “metaphysics” – a deep structural coherence – within the
fairy tale itself. Any serious analysis of Propp’s work, which recognizes the
resolute “scientificity” of his approach – his firm connection to a strictly
defined object of study, and thoroughly deductive method – serves to
debunk that strain of Old Testament scholarship which seeks to simply
“apply” Propp to the HB. It is, in fact, the ultimate Proppian gesture to
insist that genuine “Proppian analysis” (that which is not divorced from
its object) cannot in fact be applied to the Hebrew aesthetic. Rather,
Proppian analysis arises from, and is defined and limited by its own object;
namely the Slavic fairy tale. In reality, what is at issue here, in discussing
the problematic of applying Propp to the HB, is the greater question of
transferability; the extent to which various methods and models can be
legitimately “applied” among disparate fields and disciplines.
Louis Althusser and the Notion of “Interdisciplinarity”

Ultimately, it must be said that the reduction of Propp’s work to a “heuristic
device,” as championed by Milne, misses the significance, not only of Propp’s
own work, but the larger movement of which it forms an invaluable part.
In relegating Proppian analysis to the status of a literary device – used
either to examine “narrative surface structures” or in the classification of
texts into similar generic types – Milne misses entirely the extent to which
Propp himself is symptomatic of what can only be called a properly Slavic

Weltanschauung. His mode of analysis and classification were possible only
within the context of the scientific positivism that persisted in Eastern
Europe and Russia right up to the end of Stalinism. In this sense, the
emergence of Parisian Structuralism represented a kind of Western
European echo of that selfsame positivism – an echo that nevertheless
avoided the deadlocks of German phenomenology. 9 Structuralism
(mediated and encompassed by the likes of Claude Levi-Strauss, Michael
Foucault, Louis Althusser and Jacques Lacan), maintained an absolute
insistence upon its own “scientific” status – defined as it was by a specific
object, and a procedure that is uniquely geared to that object (Lacan, 1989:
4-29). Surely the nostalgia evoked by such (archaic?) notions as “scientificity”
cannot but serve to highlight the methodological impoverishment of our
times, in which the “grand old” meta-narratives have been reduced to mere
“tools” in the grab bag of postmodern criticisms. In our time, we are
witnesses to what Fredric Jameson adroitly terms the “withering away of
philosophy”; a rapid process of decline which has in turn given way to a
new kind of “meta-philosophy”:
the very different work of coordinating a series of pregiven, already
constituted codes or systems of signifiers, of producing a discourse
fashioned out of the already fashioned discourse of the constellation of
ad hoc reference works (Jameson, 1988c: 193).
As Jameson recognizes, the major effect to emerge from the massive

cultural and political upheavals of the 60s, was a divorce or dissociation of
“philosophy” from its proper object – which, from the pre-Socratics up to
Heidegger, has always been the notion of “truth.” Indeed, one need only
note the frequency of such terms as Wesen (“essence”) and Wahrheit (“truth”)
in the titles of those of Heidegger’s lectures which immediately preceded
the emergence of Sein und Zeit (“Being and Time,” published in 1927), to
gain some idea as to the primacy of “truth,” as a philosophical theme, within
the Western philosophical tradition up till the middle of the twentieth
century (cf. Kisiel, 1993: 461-76). In our time such notions have all but
been abandoned. Those past grand philosophical schemes which seemed
preoccupied with the notion of “truth” are now seen as quaint, in the context
of modern thought which is marked by its fluidity, and largely unambitious
nature:
“Philosophy” thereby becomes radically occasional; one would want to
call it disposable theory, the production of a metabook, to be replaced
by a different one next season, rather than the ambition to express a
proposition, a position, or a system with greater “truth” value…

Traditional philosophy will now be grasped in those terms, as a practice
of representation in which the philosophical text or system (misguidedly)
attempts to express something other that itself, namely truth or meaning
(which now stands as the “signified” to the “signifier” of the system)
(Jameson, 1988c: 193-94).
These older, orphaned techniques now exist, according to Jameson, on a

kind of battlefield of interpretive interests, striving to seduce potential
adherents and demonstrate their inherent correctness (Jameson, 1988b:
viii). In such an atmosphere, it is, it seems to me, particularly timely to
resurrect the strident criticisms of a figure like Louis Althusser, over and
against the modern seductions of “interdisciplinarity.” In his infamous 1971
lecture series before the École normale supérieur, “Philosophy and the
Spontaneous Philosophy of the Scientists,” Althusser brought to expression
the way in which certain disciplines, in the context of the intellectual void
following World War II, attempted prematurely to universalize themselves.
By “baptizing” themselves as “human sciences,” such disciplines attempted
to change their very nature; breaking their existing cultural/ideological
relation to (an) object(s) in favour of new “scientific” relations (using the
appellation, “science” to signify this break). “Interdisciplinarity,” with its
emphasis on the eclectic practice of holding “round tables” (Althusser’s
“assembly of the ignorant”), and its rampant, almost excessive “borrowing”
of ideas and methods from other disciplines is, for Althusser, a phantasmic,
magical practice, supported by the myth of progression from discipline
qua discipline, to the lofty heights of “science” (Althusser, 1990: 96-97).
The relations that are currently being established between the literary
disciplines are proof of that: the systematic mathematization of a number
of disciplines (economics, sociology, psychology); and the “application”
of disciplines manifestly more advanced in scientificity to others (the
pioneering role of mathematical logic and especially linguistics, the
equally intrusive role of psycho-analysis, etc.). Contrary to what has
occurred in the natural sciences, in which relations are generally organic,
this kind of “application” remains external, instrumental, technical and
therefore suspect… Apart from certain specific cases, most often
technical, where this practice has its place (when a discipline makes a
justified request of another on the basis of real organic links between
disciplines), interdisciplinarity therefore remains a magical practice, in
the service of an ideology, in which scientists (or would-be scientists)
formulate an imaginary idea of the division of scientific labour, of the
spontaneous ideology of specialists: oscillating between a vague
spiritualism and technocratic positivism (Althusser, 1990: 96).
What Althusser so clearly articulated in this lecture was the desire

(evident also in Levi-Strauss, Lacan, etc.) to maintain the originary
specificity of structuralism over and against the burgeoning process of
interdisciplinarity. He argued essentially that the dissociation of methods
from their proper objects is fundamentally a cultural and historical
phenomena, a sign of our own epistemological limitations. The difficulty
we are presented with here is analogous to that expressed by Alasdair
MacIntyre in his After Virtue (MacIntyre, 1984). Essentially, MacIntyre
states that it is no longer possible to speak of ethics these days when the
very historical-political conditions within which “ethics proper” (i.e., the
Aristotelian ethico-political vision) made sense (namely the Aristotelian
polis), have passed away. Similarly, one cannot simply “use” or “apply” those
formerly “scientific” disciplines in conditions so markedly different from
the epistemological preconditions under which they laboured. The only
way to “use” such disciplines (and here I am reminded specifically of Propp)
is to allow their very “specificity” to mark their inapplicability, as methods,
to foreign objects.
If we apply this principle to the work of Vladimir Propp, we could say
then that his “usefulness,” in our current interdisciplinary climate – and
more specifically with regards to the application of Proppian analysis to
the HB – is fundamentally negative in nature. As we suggested earlier, the
application of Proppian analysis to the HB ultimately yields a decidedly
negative conclusion; that there can be no authentic Proppian analysis of
biblical Hebrew narrative. However, the inherent restrictions of his
Morphology (which, I would argue, far exceed the merely generic) may also
allow us to begin to identify, by way of contrast, the specific gravity of the
aesthetic vision of biblical Hebrew narrative. Thus, while Propp’s work
offers an essentially “negative” use value in our current climate, it is
nevertheless not without benefit – it is rather, precisely this negativity (the
coming up against a Proppian limit so to speak), which is most beneficial.
At this point, it may be useful to draw our attention briefly to Fredric
Jameson’s concept of “transcoding,” in conjunction with Walter Benjamin’s
work on “interlinear translation” as a means of better defining this
fundamentally negative function of Propp’s work.
Developing from his earlier notion of “Metacommentary,” Jameson posits
the idea of “transcoding,” precisely as “a reflexive operation proposed for
staging the struggle within an individual literary and cultural text of various
interpretations that are themselves so many ‘methods’ or philosophies or
ideological worldviews” (Jameson, 1988b: viii).10 Transcoding is, for
Jameson, a means of utilizing the manifold post-modern “approaches” of
our time – a method which is not concerned with “meaning” as such, but
rather (in somewhat Kantian fashion) in determining the limit of a given
theoretical code. Transcoding is, thus, primarily a means of “measuring
what is sayable and ‘thinkable’ in each of these codes or idiolects and compare
that to the conceptual possibilities of its competitors” (Jameson, 1999:
394).11 Proppian analysis, viewed in the light of a kind of Jamesonian
“transcoding,” thus becomes a method whose function is essentially
negative, inscribing its own absolute limit – identifying the boundaries of
what can and cannot be said through its application. Here Walter Benjamin’s
notion of the “interlinear translation,” exemplified in his essay, “The Task
of the Translator,” is also beneficial to our discussion. Benjamin sees
“translation” as a process which highlights the internal limits within a
given language (whether French, German, English, etc.); those things which
a particular language itself cannot say. Seen in this manner, Propp’s
Morphology, a “language” in its own right, and the HB (precisely as another,
distinct language), are read in analogous fashion to an “interlinear” text
(Benjamin, 1996b: 257, 263). Rather than simply “overlaying” Proppian
analysis onto a given narrative, one places them side by side (much like a
Greek/English interlinear translation of the New Testament). Meaning
itself rises precisely from the “gap,” the space between the two aesthetic
codes. This analogy offers us perhaps a little more than the previous notion
of transcoding, suggesting as it does the possibility for meaning to emerge
despite the self-inscribed limits of each individual language.
Posing the question in Benjaminian terms then, what does the
“interlinear” reading of Propp, and the biblical text, allow us to see; what
options does it close off and, perhaps more importantly, what possibilities
does it bring to light? What does the attempt to move a literary unit such
as the book of Ruth, or the smaller episodic narratives from Genesis, through
the Proppian medium (via this kind of interlinear process), bring to light?
If we broaden this question somewhat, to encompass the larger application
of Proppian analysis to the HB as an interpretative method, certain
possibilities immediately present themselves. Initially, such an approach
serves to highlight strong aesthetic differences between Slavic fairy tale
and biblical Hebrew narrative. In attempting to fit Hebrew narrative into
the Proppian model we are immediately confronted with two starkly
different aesthetic codes which, while they may contain similar properties,
are vastly different at their core. This, in turn, leads to the question of some
deeper structural dissonance between the two codes; suggesting that the
Hebrew aesthetic, at its very heart, is structured differently to the Slavic
fairy tale.
Is not the very spectre which haunts Jack Sason’s “folklorist” approach to
the book of Ruth precisely this underrated aesthetic difference between the
Slavic fairy tale and biblical Hebrew narrative – the fact that, despite their
surface similarities, the two are largely incompatible at the level of structure
itself? Let me suggest here that the inapplicability (non-transferability) of
Proppian analysis, to the particular aesthetic of biblical Hebrew narrative,
can be seen most clearly in the character and function of one central vector
within the Proppian fairy tale itself – a vector which finds no direct resonance
within the HB. The manner in which this, as yet unidentified, vector
functions within the Slavic fairy tale finds an effective philosophical analogy
in the pre-Socratic problematic of “the One.” In his analysis of the “Being of
beings,” Parmenides sought ultimately to answer the first of all philosophical
questions: namely “if the One is/exists” (ei) e3n e)stin). The great problem for
Parmenides is that “the One” itself consistently reflects back into its
constituent parts, a deadlock which ultimately suggests the notion of a
kind of “founding exception” – that “part,” which constitutes the “whole”
from within.12
In analogous fashion I would suggest that one particular component
rises from within the Proppian fairy tale itself, a point de capiton as it
were (lit. “quilting point”; organizing principle), which comes from within,
but nevertheless structures the whole.13 A careful analysis of Propp’s
Morphology, and the material with which he worked, highlights a
dominant structural theme throughout the Slavic fairy tale; a structurally
determinate factor which might well be termed the journeying vector –
the internal necessity for a hero to travel to a distant place in order to
perform some heroic deed.14 This travel/quest/journey vector acts as an
absolute horizon which structures and organizes the functions within the
fairy tale. Note, for example that the functions of “departure” (XI. ↑) and
“return” (XX. ↓) occupy a position of primacy within the overall plot
movement of the fairy tale. Likewise, in terms of the hero’s actions within
the tale, it is noteworthy that the idea of some kind of “journey” or “travel”
is integral to, what Propp terms, the hero’s “sphere of action” (Propp, 1968:
80). In terms of the overall logic of the Proppian fairy tale, it is an initial
“lack” (VIIIa. a) which provides the impetus for the movement of the tale
– one could even say that “lack” is merely a pretext for the journey itself.
This very lack already implies the necessity of some great journey undertaken
by a hero: the lack itself cannot be easily sated, but requires the hero to
undertake a mythical quest in order to find/recover that which is lacking.
In recognizing this “journeying vector” (or more specifically the lack of
resonance between this central factor with the Slavic fairy tale and an
analogous factor within the Hebrew aesthetic) we are provided with a clear
point of distinction between the Slavic fairy tale and biblical Hebrew
narrative, as two distinct aesthetic codes. Through our recognition of this
journeying vector, precisely as a basic structural horizon within the fairy
tale, we are well placed to quantify what it is about biblical Hebrew narrative
which makes it so markedly different from Propp’s fairy tale.
Chapter 2
DETERMINING SPACE IN BIBLICAL HEBREW NARRATIVE
Let me introduce this chapter by examining its title more closely, as a

means of laying out the primary concerns of the chapter as a whole. The
ambiguity engendered by the dual meanings of the above title, (the word
“determining” could be taken as either a participle or adjective) is intended
to encompass both my intention to “determine” the nature of “space” in
biblical Hebrew narrative, and the notion that “space” itself acts as a
“determining” factor within the Hebrew aesthetic. In this sense, the chapter
begins by analysing the difference between Slavic fairy tale and the Hebrew
aesthetic by means of the analogous differences between Alfred Hitchcock’s
two movies, Rope and North by Northwest. This analysis in turn leads to
the suggestion that Hebrew narrative is far closer in structure to a “stage-
play” than its modern “cinematic” counterpart – a fact which is most
apparent in the primacy biblical Hebrew narrative typically grants to “space.”
From this perspective we are led to identify “space” as a determinate
structural factor within the Hebrew aesthetic – somewhat analogous to
the “journeying vector” in the Proppian fairy tale – a category which has
curiously gained little attention in the field of contemporary biblical
studies to date. The virtual absence of “narrative space,” within the field of
modern biblical criticism, itself highlights the need for a dedicated study of
the phenomenon.
Aesthetic Difference within the Hebrew Bible

As we saw in the previous chapter, any genuine attempt to “apply” Proppian
analysis to the HB serves inevitably to highlight the fact that biblical Hebrew
narrative and the Slavic fairy tale are vastly different aesthetic codes which,
as one would suspect, operate under very different structural and
mechanical constraints. In emphasizing Propp’s specificity, however, we
have been forced to focus primarily on the differences between these two
codes, rather than their similarities. Yet, as with any two aesthetic forms,
when examined side by side, one can naturally see certain similarities
between the two. It should be noted, for instance, that the “journeying
vector” within the Slavic fairy tale can also be seen, to some extent, within
the larger macro-structures of certain Hebrew narratives; in particular the
epic journeys outlined in the patriarchal narratives (Abram’s migration to
Uz, Jacob’s journey to Haran, etc.) and, on a national scale, the story of
Israel’s journey from Egypt to the Promised Land. Once again, however,
the difference between these two aesthetic codes re-emerges as we begin to
examine more closely the function of the “journeying” motif in each.
Within the Slavic fairy tale, the notion of some mythical journey is central
to the internal structure of the tale itself, while in larger overarching Hebrew
narratives, the “journey” as such serves more as a meta-context for the
smaller narrative episodes it overshadows. These large-scale biblical
journeys are a means of binding together disparate events and occurrences;
a means of stitching together smaller narrative units into a coherent whole.
It is somewhat significant then that this same “journeying vector” is far less
evident in smaller narrative episodes within the HB, than it is in larger
narrative schemes. This fact highlights the strong aesthetic difference
within the HB itself; namely the difference in aesthetic texture between
larger overarching narratives, and smaller episodic units. In an effort to
account for this internal aesthetic difference, it may be prudent at this
juncture to call to mind John Van Seters’ groundbreaking work on the
Pentateuch; specifically his notion of the “Yahwist” – as archetypal compiler/
editor of the Pentateuchal text – and his work on the advent of Israelite
“historiography.”
Van Seters’ notion of the Yahwist, as “post-exilic historian,” grew out of
a broader fascination with the emergence of ancient historiography. Leading
on from his earliest work, Van Seters posited a scandalously late date for
the production of the Pentateuchal tradition, based primarily upon the
comparison of ancient Greek “historiography” and the biblical texts (cf.
Van Seters, 1975, 1977, 1983, 1986). Van Seters’ driving concern was to
demonstrate the true nature of ancient “history” by differentiating between
Determining Space in Biblical Hebrew Narrative 27
“modern historiography and the task and technique of the ancient historian”
– for whom the inclusion of myth and legend in a written “history” was
commonplace (Van Seters, 1992: 3). This interest in ancient historiography
ultimately culminated in Van Seters’ Prologue to History, in which he sought
to identify the Yahwist’s work in Genesis as deeply analogous to that of the
Greek historian Herodotus, insisting that the Yahwist’s task went well
beyond mere collection (Sammlung), or the fixing of communal tradition
in literary form:
If early Greek historiography is an appropriate model to understand
the work of the Yahwist, as I believe it is, then both the kinds of traditions
preserved and the manner of their collection, revision, and arrangement
into a larger whole will be greatly clarified… Like Herodotus, one can
expect the Yahwist to use older legends as sources for his work but also
folk motifs as a basis for quite new stories composed to express his
thematic purposes. For his framework, the Yahwist may use common
historiographic structures, such as genealogies, but also thematic
elements that create the larger sense of unity. And like Herodotus, the
Yahwist may also reflect the literary, cultural, and religious heritage of
his day. If he belongs to the exilic period, as I have long argued, then this
heritage will be considerable (Van Seters, 1992: 33-34).
Using Herodotus in this fashion, Van Seters’ sees in the Yahwist’s work
– collecting, arranging, and editing older, pre-biblical texts and newer
literary units into a single, coherent meta-narrative – a distinctive process
of creation; the creation of “history” as such, specifically Israel’s own national
history (Van Seters, 1992: 33-35). Clearly then, for Van Seters, the Yahwist’s
vocation as collector, assembler and editor (as “historian”), is reflected in
the heterogenous nature of the extant biblical text – a text which is
comprised of many different streams of tradition, but nevertheless exhibits
a strong overarching narrative coherence. What Van Seters recognizes here
is the distinction between smaller narrative episodes – those which may
well have existed as autonomous narrative units for some time prior to
their collection and arrangement within the biblical text – and the larger
overarching “story” which binds these diverse smaller units together. The
Yahwist’s work is one of stitching disparate traditions together within the
larger “story” of Israel’s national history. The key point here, for our purposes,
is not so much Van Seters’ identification of the “Yahwist” as a real historical
figure, but rather his recognition of the potential for strong aesthetic
difference between smaller narrative episodes and the larger overarching
meta-narratives which bind them together as “history.” It is little wonder
then that the assembler(s) of the biblical text, the one(s) responsible for
arranging smaller, disparate narrative units into a larger coherent whole,
would make use of the “journeying” theme for this very purpose. While the
“journeying vector” is central to the internal structure of a Slavic fairy tale,
the journeying theme within biblical Hebrew narrative seems a far more
external structure; a means of binding smaller, autonomous texts together
in a meaningful and consistent manner.1 Let me reiterate then that, while
certain similarities do exist between the Proppian fairy tale and Hebrew
narrative at the level of larger overarching biblical narratives, such
confluence is not so evident when one compares smaller biblical narrative
units to Slavic fairy tale.
Perhaps the simplest way to quantify the fundamental differences
between Proppian fairy tale and the episodic unit of Hebrew narrative is by
means of a brief detour through two of Alfred Hitchcock’s most notable
films: Rope (1947) and North by Northwest (1959). To begin with the later,
it is fairly well known that Hitchcock first conceived of the central idea for
North by Northwest as a film which essentially begins in New York and
ends on Mount Rushmore; Hitchcock and Ernest Lehman then designed
a rather improbable plot knitting these two geographic points together.
Perhaps more than any other Hitchcock film, although similar in many
respects to the now infamous James Bond genre (which only appeared in
1962), North by Northwest betrays little attention to plot or character
development, but allows both plot and characters to be drawn along by the
film’s constantly changing locations. Rope, on the other hand, was adapted
(by Hume Cronyn) from Patrick Hamilton’s original stage play (1929), and
thus bears many of the distinct traits of theatre: a simple set, detailed
dialogue, and the use of over-determined props which bear a deep internal,
almost metaphysical, significance (cf. McGilligan, 2003: 399-412).2 In the
case of Rope, one of the more important “actors” in the film is the large
wooden chest, containing a dead body, which stands in the middle of the
room. The chest, decked out with food for a dinner party, inevitably draws
each character, and the gaze of the audience, inexorably toward itself.
At this point we should note that the Proppian fairy tale, being far
closer in nature to our modern Western popular aesthetic, that of “cinema”
– in which the camera typically follows a central character and where
“locations” are largely incidental to plot – bears a strong structural affinity
to North by Northwest. The Slavic fairy tale follows a major character on
his/her journey throughout a mythical landscape; wherein “spaces” (specific
land masses) are merely incidental to the movement of the hero on his
quest, and movement is somewhat necessary to the story itself. Within the
Hebrew aesthetic however, this depiction of “space” is inverted – the hero’s
journey takes place largely “off-stage” (precisely as un-narrated), periodically
interrupted by the protagonist’s arrival at key spaces in the course of the

overarching journey (typically a location of great importance, a noteworthy
mountain or city, etc.). The Hebrew aesthetic in fact seems far closer in
nature to Hitchcock’s Rope; characters arrive from an “off-stage” space,
perform their tasks “on-stage,” and then move “off-stage” again; space itself
is central, the movement of characters merely ancillary, and “objects” within
the narrative take on great importance (note the “rock” at Bethel, the
Redeemer’s “sandal” in the book of Ruth, etc.). One could suggest that both
Rope and biblical Hebrew narrative labour under similar structural
constraints, which consequently shape their aesthetic character in an
entirely different manner to that of the Proppian fairy tale. Note the manner
in which the stage is typically set in Hebrew narrative, prior to action, and
the way in which characters enter and exit the central narrative space:
Space/Stage Arrival Departure
The place designated They arrived at the place Abraham returned

by Yahweh Mwqmh-l) w)byw Mhrb) bwyw
Mwqmh-l)
Gen. 22:9
The tents Esau came in from the field Esau rose and left
Mylh) hr#&h-Nm w#&( )byw Klyw Mqyw
Gen. 25:27 25:29 25:34
A certain place He [Jacob] came upon a He picked up his feet and

Mwqm certain place walked to the land of the
Gen. 28:11 Mwqmb (gpyw sons of the East
28:11 Klyw wylgr bq(y )#&yw
29 :1
Luz / Bethel Jacob came to Luz…that is They set out from Bethel
hzwl / l)-tyb Bethel l) tybm w(syw
Gen. 35:6 N(nk r#$) hzwl bq(y )byw 35:16
l)-tyb
35:6
Mt Horeb He came to Horeb, the And Moses returned to

hbrx Mount of God his Father-in-law
Exod. 3:1 hbrx Myhl)h rh-l) )byw rty-l) b#$yw h#$m Klyw
3:1 4:18
The Mountain And Moses went up So Moses came down

rh hl( h#$mw from the mountain
Exod. 19:3 Exod. 19:3 rhh-Nm h#$m dryw
Exod. 19 :14
The priority given to “space” within Hebrew narrative – what might

well be termed the text’s theatrical quality – points inevitably toward
questions of authorship. Is this primacy of space within the smaller Hebrew
narrative unit representative of some “formal lack” within the authorial
process, those limits beyond which the earliest biblical authors could not
move, due to an external, “mechanical” limit (e.g., at this stage in history
the texts’ authors lacked the necessary apparatus for more complicated
narrative composition; perhaps reflecting the process of transmission from
oral tales to literature as such – cf. Kirkpatrick, 1988)? To rephrase the
question; are then the reasons for this spatial primacy within the text merely
symptomatic of purely mechanical lack, or is the primacy of narrative space
internal, or somehow necessary to the authorial process itself? In answering
these questions we must guard against the temptation, most evident in
modern biblical narrative criticism, to reduce the depiction of “space” in
Hebrew narrative to rhetorical strategy – evidence of the rhetorical
sophistication of the text. “Space” itself seems to exercise tremendous
internal (almost metaphysical) sway throughout many biblical narratives;
a kind of gravitational pull into which characters themselves are drawn. In
this sense “space” occupies a unique position within the Hebrew aesthetic,
because of its ability to exhibit great rhetorical sway while simultaneously
occupying the same point-of-view as both the narrator and reader – the
ability to be both mechanical (rhetorical) and metaphysical (structural). It
seems to me then that what we are attempting to define here is not so
much a matter of some external, mechanical lack within the authorial
process, as it is an internal necessity within the Hebrew aesthetic itself,
wherein the primacy of “space” within these smaller narrative episodes is
entirely “necessary” and indeed constitutive to the Hebrew aesthetic as a
whole. In this sense, “space” occupies a concomitant position within Hebrew
narrative, to the “journeying vector” of the Proppian fairy tale – that central
structural element which, though it rises from within the text itself,
nevertheless structures the whole.
Biblical Literature and the Birth of Fiction

If space is indeed central to the Hebrew aesthetic, the question arises as to
why the very category of “narrative space” (as a structural factor) has gone
virtually unnoticed in the bulk of recent “literary” approaches to the HB.
On one level, it is likely that our modern familiarity with cinema, our own
contemporary aesthetic tastes, have shielded us to some extent from the
spatial dynamics at work in the biblical text. We are, perhaps, unable to see
the text as existing outside the dominant cinematic aesthetic of our times,
unable to see that the very structure of biblical Hebrew narrative is
fundamentally different to that of contemporary film and literature. In
placing the text within this overarching cinematic aesthetic, recent
“literary” approaches to Hebrew narrative typically view the HB as a highly
sophisticated piece of “literature,” a literary “work of art” which, despite its
vintage, is largely compatible with our modern aesthetic tastes. Hence,
modern narratological approaches to the biblical text tend to emphasize
its characterological depth and authorial sophistication; viewing the HB,
almost exclusively, as the supreme ANE example of literary sophistication.
While the quality of the biblical text, as literature, is undeniable, many
biblical critics miss the deeper structural factors at work within the text,
seeing such determinate factors merely as examples of the text’s literary
complexity. In this sense, structural aspects of the text tend to be reduced
to the level of narrative technique. But what of those elements within the
Hebrew aesthetic which cannot simply be reduced to aspects of rhetorical
strategy, the determinate factors within the text which exist beyond mere
narrative “technique” as such?
Renowned literary critic Robert Alter, a prominent proponent of the
“literary sophistication” of the biblical text, sees in biblical Hebrew narrative
a kind of literary snapshot of the very birth of prose fiction (Alter, 1981: 42).
Alter suggests that Israel alone, among all the surrounding people groups
in the Ancient Near East, chose to “cast its sacred national traditions in
prose” (Alter, 1981: 25). He even goes so far as to suggest, building on
Shemaryahu Talmon’s argument, that biblical prose is a kind of reactionary
measure against the “epic” genre, commonly produced by the surrounding
nations – against a genre steeped in paganism and polytheism. In this
sense Hebrew prose emerged almost reflexively, as necessarily distinct from
the ANE “epic” genre, a distinction which ironically provided far greater
scope for the biblical writers and, perhaps inadvertently, gave rise to the
nascent beginnings of “prose fiction” itself.
What is crucial for the literary understanding of the Bible is that this
reflex away from the polytheistic genre had powerfully constructive
consequences in the new medium which the ancient Hebrew writers
fashioned for their monotheistic purposes. Prose narration, affording
writers a remarkable range and flexibility in the means of presentation,
could be utilized to liberate fictional personages from the fixed
choreography of timeless events and thus could transform storytelling
from ritual rehearsal to the delineation of the wayward paths of human
freedom, the quirks and contradictions of men and women seen as
moral agents and complex centers of motive and feeling (Alter, 1981:
25-26).
In essence, Alter outlines the underlying movement from epic to

literature-as-such, from earlier simplistic, formal and ritualistic modes of
representation, to the much more lively, expressive and sophisticated genre
of “biblical prose” – a movement from simplicity to sophistication. It is this
tremendous capacity for literary depth and flexibility which, for Alter, pre-
empts the modern “cinematic” aesthetic with which we are so familiar.
Thus, the biblical text anticipates, to some degree, our own modern
aesthetic codes.
Biblical narrative in fact offers a particularly instructive instance of the
birth of fiction because it often exhibits the most arresting transitions
from generalized statement, genealogical lists, mere summaries of
characters and acts, to defined and concrete interaction between
personages. Through the sudden specifications of narrative detail and
the invention of dialogues that individualizes the characters and focuses
their relations, the biblical writers give the elements they report a fictional
time and place (Alter, 1981: 42).
In this manner contemporary literary criticism of the HB has tended to

place a strong emphasis on the high level of literary sophistication within
the text, classifying many facets of Hebrew narrative under the overarching
banner of “narrative technique.” It seems quite clear that the underlying
equation behind these assumptions is that biblical prose, precisely because
of its status as “sophisticated literature,” equates directly with our own
dominant contemporary aesthetic codes:
As regards sophistication, the Bible is second to none and no allowances
need be made for it. The opening and timing of gaps, the processing of
information and response, the interlinkage of the different levels, the
play of hypotheses with sanctions against premature closure, the clues
and models that guide interpretive procedure, the roles fulfilled by
ambiguity: all these show a rare mastery of the narrative medium
(Sternberg, 1985: 230).
What we must be careful to maintain here is the possibility that a text

such as the HB can exhibit a strong degree of literary sophistication, without
equating directly to our modern “cinematic” aesthetic tastes. Once again
we must maintain the specificity of the biblical text and give due credit to
its unique aesthetic structure. It is ironic that at precisely this point a
figure like Robert Alter provides both strong evidence for, and a strong
counterpoint to, the logic of “literary sophistication” or, perhaps more
accurately, a counterpoint to the belief that sophistication guarantees some
deep correlation between biblical Hebrew narrative and our own modern
aesthetic sensibilities. In particular, Alter’s notion of the biblical “type-
scene” (drawn from Homeric scholarship) is most instructive, somewhat
undermining the assumed characterological depth of the biblical text. The
term “type scene” (first used by Walter Arend in 1933) is used in Homeric
scholarship to classify those “prominent elements of repetitive
compositional pattern” which commonly occur throughout Homer’s epics:
there are certain fixed situations which the poet is expected to include
in his narrative and which he must perform according to a set order of
motifs – situations like the arrival, the message, the voyage, the assembly,
the oracle, the arming of the hero, and some half-dozen others (Alter,
1981: 50).
As a kind of fixed literary formula, the type-scene capitalizes upon the

shared knowledge of its audience – such a literary convention relies on the
recipient(s) both recognizing and to some extent pre-empting the familiar
content of the type-scene within the larger epic framework.
The type-scene for the visit, for example, should unfold according to
the following fixed pattern: a guest is taken by the hand, led into the
room, invited to take the seat of honor; the guest is enjoined to feast;
the ensuing meal is described. Almost any description of a visit in Homer
will reproduce more or less this sequence not because of an overlap of
sources but because that is how the convention requires such a scene
to be rendered (Alter, 1981: 51).
In a characteristically adroit manoeuvre, Alter endeavours to apply the

logic of the Homeric “type-scene” to biblical Hebrew narrative, but with
one noteworthy difference – while the epic type-scene typically expresses a
performance of some mundane, everyday situation (involving a great deal
of descriptive detail, which finds little correlation within the HB), the
analogous biblical type-scene occurs “not in the rituals of daily existence
but at the crucial junctures in the lives of heroes, from conception and
birth to betrothal to deathbed” (Alter, 1981: 51). Indeed, as Alter insists,
when the Bible does exhibit such mundane, everyday descriptive passages,
those which could be said to be analogous to that of the Homeric type-
scene, such passages are usually a deeper “sphere for the realization of
portentous actions,” a means of eluding to the subtle, overarching actions
of the divine hand (cf. the brewing of “red” lentil stew, Jacob’s decision to
rest for the night at “a certain place,” Ruth’s choice to gleam in Boaz’s field,
etc.).
What Alter recognizes here is the staggering degree of repetition within
the HB, a fact which is particularly evident in his analysis of those almost
formulaic passages throughout Genesis which revolve around the lives of

the great heroes of Israel’s literary history. Such type-scene like repetition
may well reflect the “oral” beginnings of many such biblical narratives,
given that the mechanical limits of oracular storytelling – the necessity for
plot to be committed entirely to memory, without the aid of external
apparatus, and then faithfully retold – engenders a heavily reliance on
shared knowledge between a storyteller and his audience, and the
conventions which capitalize on such knowledge. In this sense, the well-
worn formulaic conventions used by the storyteller provide a means of
enhancing memory and simplifying the details of a story. Rather than
telling a story in full – in all its multifarious detail, and giving each section
of plot equal detail – type-scenes act as a kind of oral shorthand, a means of
covering familiar ground quickly, without getting lost in detail. A story
can thus be told as a series of set scenes rearranged in a different order and
filled out with different personages, places and objects. The reader will
note that here we are somewhat close to Proppian formalism; namely the
reduction of plot to a series of simple character functions.
In discussing the phenomenon, Alter identifies six biblical type-scenes,
focusing primarily on the “betrothal” scenes in Genesis 24:10-61 (Abraham’s
servant and Rebekah); 29:1-20 (Jacob’s encounter with Rachel) and in
Exodus 2:15b-21 (Moses and Zipporah).3 In focusing on the “Betrothal”
sequence, Alter demonstrates another important feature of the biblical
type-scene. Given the nature of the shared knowledge between author and
audience – the fact that at certain points within the narrative (perhaps
when a heroic figure arrives at a well), both author and audience, aware of
a specific convention, are able to pre-empt the coming set of actions which
that convention entails – any omission or change in the details of such a
well-used convention, would stand out to the audience with stark clarity.
In this sense, biblical type-scenes tend to capitalize on the shared knowledge
of author and audience, on the common conventions at work within the
text, conventions which, as far distant readers, we are often unable to
recognize. Thus the significance of a simple omission or innovation within
a standard biblical type-scene may not leap out immediately to the modern
reader but would have, argues Alter, been plainly obvious to the text’s
earliest audience.
What I am suggesting is that the contemporary audiences of these tales,
being perfectly familiar with the convention, took particular pleasure in
seeing how in each instance the convention could be, though the
narrator’s art, both faithfully followed and renewed for the specific
needs of the hero under consideration. In some cases, moreover, the
biblical authors, counting on their audience’s familiarity with the features

and function of the type-scene, could merely allude to the type-scene
or present a transfigured version of it (Alter, 1981: 58).
Whether in full form, or merely via allusion, the biblical type-scene,

according to Alter, is a sophisticated literary device employed by an equally
sophisticated author, in order to enhance the characterological depth and
imaginative power of a given narrative. Alter seems to miss something
here, however, in this repetitive use of the biblical type-scene where great
heroes are portrayed repeating the same set of actions in structurally identical
places (e.g., Isaac’s surrogate encounters his future bride at a well in Gen.
24:10-61; Jacob encounters Rachel at a well in Gen. 29:1-20; Moses
encounters Zipporah at a well in Exod. 2:15b-21). Does not the notion of a
series of characters fulfilling the same actions, regardless of their own
individual characteristics seem curiously similar to Propp’s analysis of
functions in his Morphology – namely the notion that the individual
characteristics of a hero are secondary to the actions which that hero enacts.
To use the betrothal type-scene as a case in point, Isaac, Jacob and Moses
may be very different personages, displaying a great degree of
characterological individuality, however, in terms of their actions, at key
points in their lives these characters all seem to fit within the single
structural category of “the hero” (Alter, 1981: 52-58). While Alter focuses
specifically on the author’s ingenious use of the type-scene phenomenon,
as a literary tool, to enhance the individuality and sophistication of each
hero’s own tale, the very concept of the type-scene seems to suggest some
deeper formal/structuralist impulse at work within Hebrew narrative.
If we view the type-scene not merely as a literary, authorial tool, but as
somewhat necessary to the Hebrew aesthetic itself, the picture which
emerges is quite intriguing: a hero must be birthed by a barren woman
whose womb has been opened by Yahweh, he must meet his bride at a well,
and so on, precisely because of his status as a “hero.” The actual (structural)
position of “hero” can be filled out by any contingent personality, so long as
the appropriate actions are undertaken in appropriate places. Beyond this
point, however, the betrothal type-scene also suggests the possibility that
certain “spaces” in Hebrew narrative engender certain “appropriate” actions
– whenever a man (or more precisely a biblical hero) comes to a well, it is
likely that he will meet a woman whom he will eventually wed. Indeed,
Abraham’s servant in Genesis 24 seems keenly aware of this fact (Gen. 24:11-
14); the “well” is, of course, an ideal place to meet a woman, given that it is
the place women typically frequented on a daily basis to draw water,
however, beyond the practical characteristics of the well, this particular
space seems to possess an inherent “value” – as a space where success is

likely for a “heroic” figure seeking a bride.
Ultimately however, Alter suggests that type-scenes relate far more to
the text’s literary sophistication, to authorial ingenuity, than any deeper,
structural necessity within Hebrew narrative itself. Through the use of
such narrative conventions, the biblical authors were able to communicate
tremendously subtle, yet powerful, messages to their audience; to those
who were familiar with such conventions, and were thus tuned toward
slight omissions or changes in their telling. It is no surprise then that Alter
grants “spaces” within the HB the same status as type-scenes; examples of
authorial/editorial technique which reflect the great literary sophistication
of the text.
Biblical Criticism and the Category of “Space”

A brief survey of the field suggests that Alter is not alone in his relegation
of narrative “space” to a mechanism of narrative technique. It is somewhat
puzzling nonetheless that serious discussion regarding the structural
function of “space” within Hebrew narrative seems all but absent from
those prominent works on “narrative art,” “biblical poetics” and the like,
which have come to occupy pride of place in contemporary biblical-
narrative studies.4 Indeed, one needs only peruse the papers which have
emerged from the “Constructions of Ancient Space” Seminar (a research
group stemming from the American Academy of Religion, and Society of
Biblical Literature), within the last few years to note a similar absence of
discussion regarding space, as a structural element, within the Hebrew
aesthetic. With its professed aim to “discuss papers and exchange ideas
regarding the ancient space and the meanings of space in antiquity,” the
Seminar has, to date, failed to thematize the explicit notion of “narrative
space” within the HB, preferring instead the broader thematic notions of
“social,” or “religious” space in a religio-political sense (cf. Millar, 2003;
Deal, 2003).
Of those works on Hebrew narrative which do deal more concretely
with the mechanics of the Hebrew aesthetic, the dominant tendency is to
subsume the category of space beneath the more prominent notion of “time.”
Note, for example, the treatment of “space” in Shimon Bar-Efrat’s Narrative
Art in the Bible. While Bar-Efrat devotes an entire chapter to the category
of “space and time” (a designation which in itself suggests that Bar-Efrat is
working squarely within the post-Cartisian categories of “space-and-time”
as two constitutive units), time itself receives the bulk of Bar-Efrat’s
attention (44 pages) whereas space (a mere 13 pages) is relegated to an

adjunct category (Bar-Efrat, 1989: 141-96). Space itself possesses no “value”
of its own, but is merely imbued with value by the actions of those characters
that act upon it or reference it in their speech:
In biblical narratives space is shaped primarily through the movement
of characters and the reference to places. Both these features are often
used together; the characters go on journeys, during the course of
which the names of the places from which they set out and to which
they are going or which they pass on the way are mentioned. When
someone discerns the movement of characters we are indirectly given
a sense of the existence of space (Bar-Efrat, 1989: 185).
In a smaller paper on the analysis of “structure” in the HB, Bar-Efrat

outlines four fundamental levels of structure within any given narrative:
the verbal level; the level of narrative technique; the level of the narrative
world; and the level of conceptual content (Bar-Efrat, 1992: 189). Once
again he highlights the category of “space-and-time” (“the spatial and
temporal structure of the plot”) citing the oft recognized shift between
“heaven” and “earth” in the prologue of Job.
The narrative of Job’s trial, to which reference has just been made,
provides a very clear example of spatial structure. After the introduction,
telling of Job and his piety, the action takes place alternately in heaven,
on earth, in heaven, and on earth again. The scenes in heaven are very
similar to each other, and so are the scenes on earth. In this way a very
profound symmetry is achieved. In numerous biblical narratives the
scene of action is not confined to one single place, but it shifts from
one region to another, thus creating a distinct structure (Bar-Efrat,
1992: 199).
Thus, for Bar-Efrat, the idea that spatial shifts from one place to another
can create a “distinct structure” within a narrative, adds little to the
interpretative process; the narrator’s use of space merely reflects authorial
technique, rather than some deeper structural necessity within the Hebrew
aesthetic itself. In reducing structure to this kind of chiastic symmetry,
Bar-Efrat misses the concrete function of narrative spaces within the HB
and, more than this, neglects to even enquire as to the very function of
such spaces. Beyond this notion that space is somehow a secondary concern
when looking at biblical narrative, Bar-Efrat even goes so far as to suggest
that it is an “alien element” which rests somewhat uncomfortably within
the biblical text:
The biblical narrative is wholly devoted to creating a sense of time
which flows continually and rapidly, and this is inevitably achieved at
the expense of the shaping of space. Because space is fundamentally

static and unchanging it is an alien element in biblical narrative, based
as it is primarily on presenting fluctuations and developments, which
are a function of time (Bar-Efrat, 1989: 196).
In neglecting the study of narrative space Bar-Efrat is far from alone.

Indeed, the reduction of “space” to an ancillary mechanism of authorial
technique seems a common theme among the bulk of “literary” approaches
to biblical Hebrew narrative. Such works typically outline a detailed analysis
of characters, structure and plot within a given narrative; highlighting the
use of such authorial techniques as repetition, ambiguity, multivalence,
metaphor, and the like. However, in their overriding concern with narrative
“technique,” such approaches tend to ignore any deeper structural
characteristics of the text – reducing “space” to its “temporal” aspects, rather
than any concrete structural function within the narrative. This tendency
is nowhere more evident than in Meir Sternberg’s dense tome, The Poetics
of Biblical Narrative, wherein discussion of narrative spaces is virtually
absent, relating only in tangent to the “gaps” which occur in narrative plot
– the factual ambiguities which arise from the text itself.5 For Sternberg,
space as a concrete structural category is never thematized, but is seen only
in its temporal dimension, possesses no positive value of its own, and is
viewed as a mere by-product of the omniscient narrator’s work; one more
tool through which the “ideal reader” is created. Among those works which
do seek to thematize “space,” one typically reads of “sacred geography” within
the Hebrew Bible; those ideological spaces of great political/religious
importance for Israel, or in highly abstract terms as “social” or “religious”
space (cf. Fishbane, 1998: 112-13). Gary Herion, in discussing the spatial
differentiation between the Garden of Eden and the ground, in many ways
exemplifies the manner in which scholars have traditionally approached
the category of narrative space:
we should avoid the common tendency of interpreting “space” in terms
of the usual norms of planar geography. “Space” as constructed and
handled in literary worlds need not conform to the topographical
requirements of “space” as encountered in the actual physical world…
In other words, one must distinguish between physical space (i.e.
geography, which is three-dimensional) and metaphysical space (i.e.
mythology, which tends to be categorical) (Herion, 1995: 55).
Ironically, it is Shimon Bar-Efrat, whose Narrative Art in the Bible we

have just discussed, who may indirectly provide a way out of this impasse.
Despite the virtual absence of “space” throughout his work, Bar-Efrat, in
discussing “space-and-time,” does briefly recognize certain similarities
between the mechanisms of Hebrew narrative and the dynamics of the

stage-play:
In most cases the narrator takes us to the site of each event, showing or
telling us directly what is happening there. Only very rarely do we hear
what is happening elsewhere through a messenger. This technique,
which is often used in plays, is found a few times in biblical narrative, as,
for instance, in the narrative of Jacob to his native country and in the
narrative of Job (Bar-Efrat, 1989: 185).
While merely an offhand comment, which bares little or no relevance to

the bulk of Bar-Efrat’s discussion of “narrative art,” this reference to the
stage play provides an interesting point of connection for our purposes.
Likewise, Jan Fokkelman, in a chapter entitled “Time and Space, Entrances
and Exits” in his Reading Biblical Narrative, also alludes to the theatrical
quality of Hebrew narrative, referring, if somewhat briefly, to the “on-stage/
off-stage” movement of biblical characters (Fokkelman, 1999: 97-111). If
we press the logic of this connection between Hebrew narrative and the
stage-play further, we find substantial similarities between the two:
• Like the stage-play, Hebrew narrative often sets its stage prior to any
action, typically via an introductory comment by the narrator, a
brief mention of some primary space upon which the ensuing
narrative will take place.
• The consequent arrival of a character(s) is then indicated by verbs of
increased proximity (he arrived/came to )wb, went up to hl(, etc.),
and their exit denoted by verbs of departure (he set out (sn, he
returned bw#$, he rose up Mwq, departed/walked Klh, he came down
dry).
• The narrator impinges upon the story from “off-stage,”, setting an
overall context for the narrative and placing the audience/reader in
the “ideal” position from which to experience the story.
• Actors, in both the stage play and Hebrew narrative, typically
oscillate between an unseen/un-narrated, off-stage area, and the
central stage-space where they perform certain actions.
We began this chapter with a comparison of Alfred Hitchcock’s two
films, North by Northwest and Rope, suggesting that the former bore strong
structural similarities to the Proppian fairy tale, whereas the later was more
closely analogous to the smaller narrative episodes within the Hebrew
aesthetic. By extending the logic of the connection to include a comparison
of biblical Hebrew narrative and the structure of a stage-play (of which

Rope is a clear cinematic representation) we are able to identify the specific
structural constraints under which both codes seem to operate. The most
prominent of these factors is the function of “space,” a structural category
which acts as a central organizing principle in both the stage-play and
Hebrew narrative. To date, however, our discussion has been largely
theoretical in nature. It is therefore appropriate at this point to shift our
emphasis toward the text itself, in an effort to test the veracity of our
observations. In this spirit we now turn our attention to Genesis 28:10-22,
and the story of Jacob’s fortuitous stay at Bethel. Due to his extraordinarily
nimble and detailed reading of the text in question, Jan Fokkelman’s work
on the Genesis 28 (the second chapter in his Narrative Art in Genesis) will
serve as an effective point of departure for the following analysis.
Chapter 3
“HOW AWESOME IS THIS PLACE!”
Jacob left Beer-sheba, and set out for Haran. He encountered ((gp) a certain
place (Mwqm) and stopped there for the night, for the sun had set. Taking
one of the stones of that place (Mwqm), he put it under his head and lay
down in that place (Mwqm). He had a dream; a stairway was set on the
ground and its top reached to the sky, and angels of God were going up and
down on it. And the Lord was standing beside him and He said, “I am the
Lord, the God of your father Abraham and the God of Isaac: the ground on
which you are lying I will assign to you and to your offspring. Your
descendants shall be as the dust of the earth; you shall spread out to the
west and to the east, to the north and to the south. All the families of the
earth shall bless themselves by you and your descendants. Remember, I am
with you: I will protect you wherever you go and will bring you back to this
land. I will not leave you until I have done what I have promised you.”
Jacob awoke from his sleep and said, “Surely the Lord is present in this
place (Mwqm), and I did not know it!” Shaken, he said, “How awesome is
this place! (Mwqm) This is none other than the abode of God, and that is the
gateway to heaven.” Early in the morning, Jacob took the stone that he had
put under his head and set it up as a pillar and poured oil on the top of it.
He named that place (Mwqm) Bethel; but previously the name of the city had
been Luz.
Jacob then made a vow, saying, “If God remains with me, if He protects
me on this journey that I am making, and gives me bread to eat and clothing
to wear, and if I return safe to my father’s house – the Lord shall be my God.
And this stone, which I have set up as a pillar, shall be God’s abode; and of
all that You give me, I will set aside a tithe for You” (Gen. 28:10-22).
Jacob at Bethel – Genesis 28:10-22

Within the context of the larger overarching narrative, Jacob’s long journey
from Beersheba to Haran (v. 10) acts as a kind of “off-stage” context from
which he arrives, and to which he later returns. In like fashion the “place”
where he stops for the night, the as yet “unnamed” Bethel, acts as the “on-
stage” space where the narrative action will occur.
Off-stage Off-stage
Journey to Haran Journey to Haran
Unnamed “place” – Bethel

(Jacob’s Encounter)
On-stage
Already, the episode seems to reflect a stage-like structure, establishing

an “on-stage” context for narrative action – the mysterious “place” where
Jacob rests for the night. Yet the manner in which this stage is set is curious
to say the least; this particular place seems somewhat over-determined in
nature, a fact already implied by the emphatic threefold use of Mwqm (a
generic term for any nondescript place) in verse 11 and its repetition in
verses 16, 17 and 19.1 A closer look at the opening verses of the narrative
serves to emphasize this over-determined quality even further:
• The repeated use of the term Mwqm in verse 11 contrasts vividly
with the concrete naming of Beersheba and Haran earlier in Genesis
28:10. In this sense, the very act of not naming the place (to the
point of over-emphasizing its nameless character) signals its
importance for the coming narrative.
• While the long journey from Beersheba to Haran is briefly dismissed
in verse 10 with six words (hnrh Klyw (b#$ r)bm bq(y )cyw),
no less than fifteen words are used to introduce the “place” upon
which Jacob has happened. Here the difference between narrative
time and narrated time is particularly significant; Jacob’s stay at
Bethel is brief compared to the time taken to travel from Beersheba
to Haran yet, in terms of “narrated” time his stay at Bethel is far
more significant (Fokkelman, 1991: 47, 50).
“How Awesome Is This Place!” 43
• While the bulk of Jacob’s overarching journey remains un-narrated,

his stay at Bethel is important enough to interrupt the larger
journey, an indication that an event of great magnitude is about to
occur. More than this however, the very manner in which Bethel
(quite literally the “house of God”) is highlighted throughout the
narrative suggests that this particular space is important enough
to interrupt Jacob’s journey (Fokkelman, 1991: 48-49).
But why, given the history of this particular place (namely its status as
the Canaanite city, Luz), does the text, upon Jacob’s arrival, designate this
space as simply Mwqm; why did Jacob not stop at Luz to rest for the night?
Here Jan Fokkelman offers an insightful suggestion, insisting that the very
appearance of Yahweh in verses 13-15, the divine theophany itself, serves
to cleanse this space of its previous history:
Canaanite Luz has been exposed, leached, purged to the zero-state of
“a place”. God does not want to appear to Jacob in a Canaanite town,
but he wants to appear in a nothing which only his appearing will turn
into a something, but then no less than a House of God. Where the
history of the covenant between Yhwh and his people begins, all
preceding things grow pale. Canaan loses its face, Luz is deprived of its
identity papers. The narrator cannot write down this supreme moment
in the history of salvation on a pagan clay tablet; only a blank slate is
worthy of receiving his account (Fokkelman, 1991: 69).
Perhaps then, as Fokkelman seems to suggest, introducing Luz/Bethel

using the generic term Mwqm, is a means of pre-empting this divine act of
cleansing – a kind of retroactive purification which stretches backward in
time. The assumption behind Fokkelman’s adroit statement is, of course,
that “space” itself is a neutral category within the Hebrew aesthetic – space,
like a blank slate, can be appropriated to any end – and in this regard, the
place at which Jacob stops, can just as adequately be named Luz as it can
Bethel. With this in mind, Fokkelman envisions a movement from
Canaanite “Luz” to a kind of terra nullius; an empty space which will
eventually be re-appropriated by Israel and [re]named Bethel. However,
given the sheer conceptual weight of this particular space within the
context of the Bethel narrative itself, I would suggest that what we see with
Luz is precisely a miss-name, a kind of non-adequatio; a name which fails
to adequately express the internal essence of the space. From the perspective
of Walter Benjamin’s notion of primordial, Adamic language, which simply
bestows its nomination in recognition of the internal essence of the thing,
what we see in the naming of Bethel is a final divine nomination that
reveals its earlier Canaanite naming as perverse. Hence, in Benjaminian
terms, had Adam named the place, he would have named it Bethel from
the start (in accordance with its true essence as the “House of God”), rather
than Luz (Benjamin, 1996a: 69-70). Jacob’s re-naming of the empty space is
not so much a re-appropriation, as it is the process of naming it in accordance
with its own internal essence – Bethel was always “Bethel”, despite its
“miss-name.”2 In this sense Bethel does not gain its internal character
through the “appearing” of Yahweh (as Fokkelman suggests), but already
possesses a certain ontological value; a value which is ironically enforced by
the repeated use of Mwqm – this is a place which longs to be [re]named.
At this point, however, we must return to our earlier discussion of
Hitchcock’s Rope, over and against the “stage-play” analogy we have been
working with. A closer look at the Bethel narrative suggests that Bethel
itself, as a space, tends to move beyond the boundaries of a stage-space per
se. Like the wooden chest in Rope, Bethel itself acts as a determinate factor
in the progression of the narrative, exerting its influence over both
characters and plot alike. The “place” at which Jacob rests does not
technically change during the divine encounter (as with the wooden chest
in Rope), only Jacob’s perception of the place changes (note the emphatic
language used in 28:17 – hzh Mwqmh )rwn-hm rm)yw). Neither does the
“place” perform any action, other than simply “being” itself ( namely the
“house of God” the meeting place of the divine and human realms),
however, it is precisely the over-determined nature of this particular space
(the fact that this place is what it is) which gives Bethel its larger-than-life
quality. The conspicuous presence of this unnamed place seems to halt
Jacob, midway through his journey to Haran (note the use of (gp in v. 11,
Jacob is literally “struck” by Bethel), despite Jacob’s ignorance as to its true
identity. As Fokkelman notes, the term (gp, (which he translates “to strike
upon”) is used twice in Jacob’s history; the first prior to the theophany at
Bethel, and the second prior to the theophany at Pnuel: “In Gen. 28 Jacob
‘strikes’ upon a place which will turn out to be a House of God…in Gen.
32.2 angels strike upon Jacob immediately before the crucial moment
when Jacob will have to face God and later Esau at his return” (Fokkelman,
1991: 50).
One could go so far as to posit that the excessive presence of Bethel
throughout the narrative suggests that Bethel itself is the main actor within
the story. Yahweh and Jacob are secondary actors whose chance meeting is
necessary to the narrative plot; they are the mechanism by which Bethel, a
space which has suffered the burden of a pagan miss-name for so long, may
[re]gain its proper dignity by receiving the truer appellation, l)-tyb
(“house of God”).
“How Awesome Is This Place!” 45
It is clear then that our brief discussion of the Bethel narrative has raised
several interesting questions regarding the function of narrative “spaces”
within the Hebrew aesthetic. First, in Proppian terms, the Bethel narrative
seems to suggest that “space” itself can function as a kind of dramatis
personae in its own right or, perhaps more accurately, that spaces within
the Hebrew aesthetic possess their own ontological “value” (cf. Amit, 2001:
125). This notion of value in particular raises still more questions; chiefly,
if spaces, like characters, are imbued with their own inherent (negative/
positive; heroic/villainous) value, to what extent then does one influence
the other? To what extent are characters themselves determined to some
degree by the spaces in which they act and, beyond this, is there some larger
scheme, some defining framework from which spaces gain their ontological
value?
Chapter 4
THE HEBREW W ELTANSCHAUUNG
In the first section of this book I have sought to utilize Proppian analysis in
a kind of critique of modern biblical narrative theory, ultimately
maintaining the non-transferability of Proppian analysis to the sphere of
biblical studies. This in turn has served to highlight the need for a thoroughly
deductive approach to our own object of study; an approach geared solely
to the Hebrew aesthetic itself. However, this negative use of Propp (his own
self-inscribed limit), does not merely yield negative results, but also provides
a clue as to a central determinate within Hebrew narrative – defined in
opposition to the “journeying vector” in the Proppian fairy tale – the category
of “space.” We have, however, as yet only delved tentatively into the text
itself, with the previous test case of Genesis 28:10-22. At this point in our
discussion, prior to a more comprehensive look at the book of Genesis, it
may be prudent to pause momentarily in order to examine more clearly
what might be termed “the Hebrew Weltanschauung”; the literary worldview
which the Hebrew Bible, to some extent, marks out for itself – the
overarching framework which acts as a binding thread for its constituent
parts. In this regard, it is vital that we seek to understand the nature of
narrative “spaces,” not in isolation from their place within the larger Hebrew
worldview, but specifically as they relate to this overarching structure.
The Hebrew Weltanschauung 47
Behind the Smoke and Mirrors

It seems appropriate to begin the second section of this book – a section
which deals more concretely with the mechanics of Hebrew narrative – by
situating our discussion of narrative “space” within its larger literary
context.1 Our previous discussion has led us to suggest that certain key
spaces, within biblical Hebrew narrative possess their own inherent
[ontological?] value, which in turn exerts a significant influence upon
other aspects of the narrative (the actions of characters, plot direction,
etc.). This raises the question, from where then does this value originate or,
more specifically, from what source do determinate spaces gain their
ontological characteristics, their ability to influence the narrative in which
they are placed? Among biblical critics it is commonly asserted that spaces
within the HB gain their status from the actions of key characters or people
groups. Hence Bethel can literally be called the “house of God” because it is
at this specific place that Yahweh appears to Jacob in a dream. A particular
place is made “sacred” via a divine epiphany, or is forever cast as “unclean”
or “illegal” because of the evil actions of some individual or people group.
As we have already seen, however, this simplistic relationship (a character
defining the value of a space by their actions) is hardly consistent
throughout the HB; often spaces themselves tend to dominate a scene,
prior to the arrival of actors, or pre-empt the actions of certain characters.
Within the Hebrew aesthetic the interaction between a character’s actions
and the value of a specific space is far from simple. Contrary to the notion
of a strictly one-way relationship between characters and spaces (the former
influencing the later), it seems more likely to suggest that both characters
and spaces within the HB gain their value from some other, more
fundamental, framework. It is precisely to the question of this underlying
framework, to this larger structural principle, that we now turn.
In an effort to “get behind” the text, so to speak, to gain some access to
the structural principle upon which the Hebrew worldview rests, we will
begin by examining more closely the texture of the HB itself. Even a cursory
reading of the biblical text suggests that, despite opinions to the contrary,
the HB is far from ideologically benign or politically disinterested. In fact it
seems reasonably apparent, even on a surface reading of the text, that the
HB cannot be viewed as solely (or even primarily) “religious” in nature;
merely a collection of religious documents which bear little or no concern
for the ideological/political machinations of the nation whose history it
seeks to recount. The HB is, first and foremost, a religio-political text with
a definite nationalistic agenda, a text that cannot be easily rid of its
ideological backbone. The Genesis creation narratives, the patriarchal

stories, Moses and Egypt, the conquest of Canaan, the prophetic speeches
– these represent far more than mere religious musings, or historical events
recorded for posterity, but were clearly written for specific political and
nationalistic purposes.
It is entirely possible that, prior to their canonization, many of the biblical
texts may have functioned in their original Sitz im Leben without a specific
political or ideological agenda. However, in their current biblical context –
namely in a text which purports to be “historical” and thus authoritative –
these texts function in an ideologically persuasive manner. It is precisely
the HB’s claim to represent “history” that reveals its own political use-
value so to speak.2 Here I am compelled to support Keith Whitlam’s
insistence that all written history is, by its very nature, political:
The conceptualization and representation of the past is fraught with
difficulty, not simply because of the ambiguities and paucity of data but
because the construction of history, written or oral, past or present, is a
political act (Whitlam, 1996: 11).
Beyond their “political” nature, such written histories, far from

representing the objective preservation of the past, are decidedly subjective
works, which may, in fact, bear little correlation to the actual historical
events which have transpired. The multiplicity of events which mould the
progression of history are far too diverse and complicated to be accurately
represented by one version of the past, however well written that version
may be. This is particularly true in an historical work which seeks to outline
the development of a single people group (such as Israel), over and against
other competing people groups (the Canaanites, Edomites, Eqyptians, etc.).
The most earnest attempt to accurately portray historical events will, by
necessity, omit certain details and include others; a choice which, in itself,
requires a certain degree of creativity and imagination that already belies
the notion of “objective history.” In a more practical sense, the very attempt
to record “real” events by means of a written text (precisely by means of
language – a communicative vehicle which obscures at least as much as it
clarifies) is fraught with many difficulties – not least of which is the inability
for an author to guarantee that a text will be read in precisely the way it is
intended to be read. This is further complicated when we consider the
diachronic development of a text like the HB – wherein many separate
texts have been composed, re-written, copied, complied, edited, re-edited,
canonized, and then arranged in a single codex; all of which alter the form
and function of the original texts significantly. Suffice it to say then that
the HB, in its current form today, does not represent a simple process of
recording history in written form (a direct correlation between event and
written record) but is itself symptomatic of a myriad of complexities as
multifarious as the progression of history itself. How then do we characterize
such a complicated text as the HB? In an effort to better define the texture
of our object, without getting lost in ancillary details, we will approach the
biblical text via the following two rather extreme perspectives:
1) The Hebrew Bible as Historical Literature – the text more or less
faithfully and objectively records the history of the Israelite nation
(from its early Patriarchal roots to the establishment and demise
of the Davidic monarchy) and the nations surrounding her. The
HB is taken as “Historical” in a largely contemporary sense, seeking
to remain factual wherever possible and steering clear of conjecture
and ideological bias.
2) The Hebrew Bible as Religious Literature – the HB is merely a
collection of religious (or at least religiously motivated) texts,
which holds little or no interest in the politics of its day, and
directly reflects the popular religious convictions of the ancient
Israelite people (representing a kind of Israelite Volksreligion, or
“religion of the people”).
The Hebrew Bible as Historical Literature

Given the substantial resources required for producing a text of any
significance in the ANE world, and the paucity of writing materials and
skills available for the production of written text, the process of recording
“historical” events, in this context, clearly required a great deal of
intentionality. This fact is, naturally, hard for the modern student to
understand, given the surfeit of writing materials available to us today.
Even before a child is old enough to go to school, they are already swamped
with a vast array of writing and recording apparatus, far surpassing anything
available to the writers of our ancient past. In an age without ballpoint
pens, typewriters, and laptop computers, a world where the general
populous had no access to writing tools, or the education required to use
them, in this environment, a written document of any kind was
symptomatic of a great deal of intention and purpose.
History writing is not accidental, either in its composition or in its
preservation. It is not the result of an accidental accumulation of data
but is a literary work that is written for, and becomes part of, the society’s
“stream of tradition” (Van Seters, 1983: 4).
All of this tends to debunk the notion that written Israelite history
sprang up organically as a “natural” part of the progression of world events.
History does not write itself, but is the result of a great deal of intentionality
– a fact which already suggests that historiography is decidedly “functional,”
in nature. What is more, the product of recording history, via the written
word, is unavoidably fictional in nature. In order to accurately record the
multifarious facets of an historical event, from each different perspective,
and including, in minute detail, all contributing factors, one would need
an entire troupe of writers, a vast library of books, the very best recording
software afforded by the modern world – and even with all this at our
disposal, the task would fail miserably. Indeed, if it were possible for written
history to emerge organically, in a form which accurately portrayed the
synergy of diverse forces and mechanisms behind the shaping of world
events, the result would be utterly incomprehensible to the human mind.
It is an unquestionable fact that, as human beings, we are unable to
comprehend everything that our senses receive.3 Our own body itself acts
as a kind of “censor,” filtering out extraneous details and arranging stimuli
into a comprehensible and digestible form. It is our natural tendency to
relate purely contingent events to one another, to form a chain of meaningful
circumstances, a larger narrative framework through which we understand
our complex natural environment. We understand the world around us
(the contingent events and occurrences which constantly assault our senses)
primarily by means of narrative, by slotting random events into an
overarching narrative framework. Indeed, the very idea of a “world” is a
distinctly human construct, a way of understanding our contingent
surroundings by means of an overarching Weltanschauung (“world-as-
picture”).4 One could almost say that this is precisely the function of
Emmanuel Kant’s a priori categories of thought – structural spaces into
which external stimuli are slotted, thus making them comprehensible to
the human subject (Kant, 1997: 158).
Beyond its capacity for creating meaningful narrative, the human psyche
possesses a remarkable ability to pre-empt stimuli, to fill in the gaps as it
were, painting a complete picture though given only a small amount of
sensory stimuli. If, for example, I was to walk into a room and, given ten
seconds to briefly glance around, then asked to provide a detailed description
of the room – the number of chairs, colour of curtains, and so on – I would
undoubtedly be able to do so, although many of my observations would no
doubt be wrong. The human brain will naturally attempt to fill in the gaps
of perception, in order to create a more comprehensive worldview. One

could even go so far as to suggest that we “remember” via the use of narrative;
that our memory relies on forming meaningful connections between purely
contingent events and occurrences by means of the construction of a series
of stories. It seems naïve to think then that the process of “recording”
history would not reflect this same human tendency toward “narrative
comprehension”; the construction of a meaningful narrative to make sense
of random data. Indeed, as Philip Davies suggests:
History is a narrative, in which happenings and people are turned into
events and characters. This is true of our own memories, which select
experiences and order them into a narrative sequence, selecting,
interpreting and distorting. The result has a narrative form, and includes
not just external events but internal feelings, impressions and value-
judgments. Wherever we try to describe the past we indulge in story
telling. No story, and that includes the stories our memories generate, is
ever an innocent or objective representation of the outside world. All
story is fiction, and that must include historiography (Davies, 1992: 13).
If written “history” is fundamentally fictitious in nature, what then is to

be said about the impetus behind such purportedly “historical” texts as the
HB? Inevitably the “function” of such a text comes into question, particularly
given the authoritative value of “history.” In our own time, it is not out of
the ordinary for one nation to utilize allegedly “historical” texts, in order to
bolster their current international standing or to legitimate aggressive
foreign policy. Should we suppose then that the use of “historical”
documents in the ANE world was markedly different from this? Does not
logic dictate that this appropriation of “history,” so evident in the
propaganda of modern nation states, was just as prominent in the earlier
stages of human history, when large-scale kingdoms and empires first began
to emerge in the ancient world? Nations, by design, constantly seek ways to
bolster their international reputation and internal cohesion; to effectively
debunk the claims of competing nations while providing firm “historical”
proof of their own superiority. Neil Silberman pinpoints precisely this
process at work in the propaganda broadcast by Great Britain in its nascent
origins as a global power:
the past was taking on a more focused, modern significance – as a
course of political symbols and ideals. In the myths, chronicles, and
surviving monuments of the ancient Britons and the later Anglo-Saxons,
antiquarians and politicians found vivid illustrations of the people’s
unique “national character” that explained and justified Great Britain’s
unique position in the world (Silberman, 1989: 2).
In our current intellectual climate, with its emphasis on “objective” or

“scientific” research, it is perhaps difficult to imagine a time when “history”
itself had little to do with “fact,” and much more to do with proving the
political legitimacy of a particular person or group. In reality, however,
ancient historiography was precisely that – it was largely at the behest of
those with money and power (wealthy families, kings, chiefs, rulers) that
so-called “historical” accounts began to emerge, signalling the birth of
“historiography.” The impetus to write an historical record did not come
from the general populous (whose concerns were no doubt far more down-
to-earth; the need for rain, a good harvest, etc.), but from those in positions
of power, who sought to legitimize that power by appealing to their place
in a long and illustrious “history.” Historians of early Greek historiography,
for example, were frequently called upon to trace the family lineage of
some benefactor from the divine heroes of the past to the present, in an
effort to bolster that family’s reputation (Van Seters, 1983: 13).
The Greek tradition of origins, in fact, seems to focus more on the
origins of particular states, tribes, and peoples than on humankind in
general. They are in the nature of “charter myths” that legitimate custom,
institutions, and territorial claims. These states and tribes it traces back
to heroes and eponymous ancestors, many of whom are the offspring
of a deity. Subgroups within a larger political or ethnic entity may be
represented as descendents or branches in a segmented genealogy (Van
Seters, 1992: 79-80).
Despite our often naïve over-confidence in the objectivity of modern

“histories,” surely we can recognize that, even in our own time, “history is
written by the winners.” Is not this the unsettling fact at the heart of George
Orwell’s classic work, 1984 – namely the chilling manner in which the past
is constantly re-written to fit the present? Indeed, “Who controls the past
controls the future: who controls the present controls the past” (Orwell,
1954: 197).5 History is thus largely retroactive in nature; one looks at the
present and then writes the past in a manner which legitimizes one’s current
situation – the past itself is entirely fluid, bending to the will of those who
hold the reins of power in the present, being constantly re-written to fit
the sensibilities of each new audience. In this sense, to speak of the HB as
“historical” in nature is not necessarily as inaccurate as we may first think.
However, this claim to historicity has far less to do with modern objectivity
and the faithful recording of actual events than it does with a fictitious
past constructed in order to legitimate one’s current position.
The Hebrew Bible as Religious Literature

What then should we say about the “religious” dimension of the HB? How
do we respond to the notion that the biblical text bears faithful testimony
to the religious beliefs of the ancient Israelite people, that it is representative
of the religious convictions of the masses, faithfully recorded for future
generations? It may be prudent, in the first place, to ward against the
anachronistic assumption that any clear distinction existed, in the ANE
world, between politics and religion (much like our alleged contemporary
separation of church and state in the West). In the ancient world no such
separation is envisaged; the earthly king is viewed as a representation of
the nation’s deity(s) (or, in the case of Ancient Egypt, the Pharaoh himself
is divine), the law which governs the daily affairs of the masses is not
instituted by men, but has divine origins, and the worship of gods functions
as a particularly efficient mechanism for maintaining political stability.
Within the HB, the relationship between religion and politics is almost
seamless, Yahwistic beliefs so thoroughly intertwined within the governance
of the people of Israel as to be utterly inseparable from it. The establishment
of Israel, as a nation, from its humble origins in Egyptian slavery, the giving
of divine law which governs every aspect of Israelite life, settling the land;
each and every aspect of Israel’s national life results from divine intervention.
Indeed, the HB envisages a direct progression from divinely inspired
theocracy (under the guidance of Moses), to begrudged monarchy (with
the emergence of the Davidic line), maintaining that the link between
religion and politics (Israel’s faith, and her day-to-day life) is paramount.
Thus, the “good” kings throughout Israel’s history are those who have
maintained this link between the Yahwistic faith and politics; those who
have remembered the prescriptions of the Torah, and acted accordingly.
Clearly then, the Yahwistic faith functioned as a tremendously efficient
means of supporting Israel’s political structure – if a king’s rule is divinely
sanctioned it is that much more powerful. Indeed, throughout the biblical
text, history and religious belief (amalgamated into a kind of Heilsgeschichte
or “salvation history”) are employed to buttress Israel’s national ideology;
its sense of self.
In his insightful book, The Social Reality of Religion, Peter Berger defines
the socio-political function of religion, under the banner of “World-
Maintenance” – the preservation of the social order by means of an appeal
to certain “objectivized” ideas which serve to reinforce the edifice. Berger
highlights the importance of religious legitimation (“socially objectivated
‘knowledge’ that serves to explain and justify the social order”), which
undergirds and continually strengthens the social structure (Berger, 1967:

38). Religion itself functions as a kind of “vanishing mediator” (cf. Jameson,
1973: 52-89) between the notions of cosmos (the created order) and
humankind but, more than this, it effectively erases, or removes from the
popular field of vision, the mechanical origins of social institutions:
Let the institutional order be so interpreted as to hide as much as possible,
its constructed character. Let that which has been stamped out of the
ground ex nihilo appear as the manifestation of something that has
been existent from the beginning of time… Let people forget that this
order was established by men and continues to be dependent upon the
consent of men. Let them believe that, in acting out the institutional
programmes that have been imposed upon them, they are but realizing
the deepest aspirations of their own being and putting themselves in
harmony with the fundamental order of the universe (Berger, 1967: 42).
Thus religion functions, according to Berger, as the primary means of

reinforcing the structural integrity and validity of the dominant socio-
political order, specifically by establishing a direct connection between the
divinely-shaped cosmos and the human world.
Religion legitimates social institutions by bestowing upon them an
ultimately valid ontological status, that is, by locating them within a
sacred and cosmic frame of reference. The historical constructions of
human activity are viewed from a vantage point that, in its own self-
definition, transcends both history and man… Probably the most ancient
form of this legitimation is the conception of the institutional order as
directly reflecting or manifesting the divine structure of the cosmos,
that is, the conception of the relationship between society and cosmos
as one between microcosm and macrocosm (Berger, 1967: 42).
In establishing this relationship, socio-political institutions are raised

to the level of the “divine,” taking on suitably immutable divine status.
Given the extremely low level of literacy in the ANE, combined with the
exorbitant costs involved with writing and preserving literature, is it any
wonder that those who wrote did so not at their own whim, but in the
service of their king, and thus for political ends? This is, of course, not to
deny the existence of “popular” religions among the Israelite peasantry,
but it is logical to suggest that these (typically agrarian-based) religions
did not move beyond the realities of simple farming life – they never made
it to the courts of kings – nor were they likely to have developed from a
simple community-based belief system to the complex literary forms we
seen in the biblical text. The popular religions of the masses were
preoccupied with the need for rain, the hope of a successful harvest, and
such like, and were thus entirely inappropriate for use in international
politics, or for legislation and governance. Hence those with power
appropriated and modified (invented?) religious forms which would lend
themselves more readily to their political requirements.
it is obvious that literature in the ancient world is not the product of a
whole society. It is a scribal activity, and thus confined to less than five
percent of any ancient agrarian society. Of the remaining ninety-five
percent, most of those who had any literacy could not acquire or study
this kind of literature, and it is hard to imagine that the peasants, had
they the gift of literacy, would have had either the leisure or enthusiasm
to exploit something that hardly addressed their own priorities. So
whatever the name given to the authors of the biblical literature, they
are a small and elite class, and their creation, “Israel,” a reflection of
their class consciousness (to use a Marxian term). Whatever actual
religion (if any) the biblical literature reflects, it is not the religion of
people outside this class; and it remains to be demonstrated that the
members of the class itself had the kind of religion which the biblical
literature could be taken to represent (Davies, 1992: 19).
The myth that the Yahwistic faith represents a kind of Volksreligion (a

religion of the people) thus seems highly untenable, failing as it does to
recognize the thoroughly elitist dimension to the biblical texts. It is far
more likely that the grassroots, agrarian-based religions, adhered to by the
greater Israelite peasantry, were allowed little voice in a literary world
dominated by the scribal elite who served kings and rulers. In light of our
discussion thus far, it seems evident that the HB is not an “objective”
historical record, but can be said to be “historical” in so far as all history is
fiction; a subjective work written for a specific political purpose, in the
hope of bolstering a particular ideology or position. Nor does the HB appear
to accurately record the popular religious convictions of the Israelite masses,
but rather represents a shrewd blend of religious and political ideology
through which the populous was governed, a blend so intimately woven
together as to be inseparable. The text is neither purely political, nor purely
religious; however, it seems somewhat pointless to speak of this division,
in a climate when clearly no such division existed.
“Identity Formation” and the Violence of Biblical Monotheism

Here, as we delve further into the question of some deeper structural
principle behind the biblical text, Regina Schwartz’s thought-provoking
book The Curse of Cain, presents an effective point of interest (Schwartz,
1997). The book itself outlines Schwartz’s attempt to critique the process
of, what she terms, “collective identity formation” within the biblical text –
an inherently violent process whereby one specific group ( namely the
“chosen” nation of Israel) is defined by means of the exclusion of the Other.
Schwartz critiques the HB as a cultural artefact whose influence throughout
the Western world has been extensive to say the least; shaping, to some
degree, the manner in which modern nation-states conceive of themselves
as a whole. It is precisely the antecedent notion of “identity formation”
which, for Schwartz, lies at the very centre of the HB:
most of the pages of the Hebrew Bible are not filled with ethical precepts
or Sunday-school lessons in piety, but with stories detailing the processes
of forming collective identities. These include mythic tales about the
eponymous ancestors of peoples and epic-like narratives devoted to
describing the liberation of a slave class from its oppressors; stories that
describe aspirations of self-determination and a communal pledge to
defending borders and establishing a variety of self-governing
configurations – from tribes to judgeship to monarchy – stories of a
nation divided and conquered…throughout all of these stories, there is
an effort to forge identity by means of these very stories, to create the
proverbial “people of the book” (Schwartz, 1997: 6-7).
Not only do the stories contained within the HB portray various

attempts to establish and maintain “collective identity” via the demarcation
of those who are “excluded” from the community, but the text itself,
precisely as an “historical” document (with all that the term “historical”
engenders), functions as a mechanism by which this very process is brought
about in contemporary “reality.” The text thus functions in a self-referential
manner to bolster its own position – under the guise of “historical literature,”
the stories of Israel’s “collective identity formation” function in precisely
the same manner for contemporary readers as they perhaps functioned for
an earlier audience. By referring to its own historicity, the biblical text
provides a key ideological locus for contemporary nationalistic thought;
the text both portrays the process of collective identity formation and
functions as a mechanism for contemporary identity formation. Building
on this basic premise, Schwartz attempts to pinpoint some of the “key
intersections” between biblical ideas of identity formation and modern
secular notions of collective identity – chiefly the idea of nationalism.
At a deeper level, one could say that Schwartz’s book represents an
attempt to popularize, or transpose into the arena of biblical studies,
Emmanuel Levinas’ dense philosophical work, Totality and Infinity
(Levinas, 1969). Or, perhaps more accurately, one could say that The Curse
of Cain represents an attempt to translate the current orthodoxy of Jewish
Levinasian ethics, precisely as the “Ethics of Otherness,” into popular

vernacular, whereby Levinas’ landmark philosophical work is reincarnated
in a form which takes the considerable influence of the HB in Western
society as its point of departure, and attempts to disseminate a more
accessible and concrete application of his work.6 In Levinasian terms every
person is Other, thus, in terms of Schwartz’s application of Levinasian ethics
to the HB, each biblical figure has an idol/god proper to him or herself.
From this perspective, the absolute singularity (the “mono”) of biblical
monotheism (one God, one blessing, one land, one chosen people, etc.),
represents an extreme ethical vice for Schwartz – the ultimate violence
against the Other.
Beginning with the story of Cain and Abel, she thus refashions the notion
of monotheism around the idea of “scarcity,” the idea that there is never
enough to go around, that only one brother can secure the divine blessing,
only one people can be “chosen,” only one land can be “sacred.” Both in the
case of Cain and Abel, and again with Jacob and Esau, two brothers are
undone because of a certain divine lack; in each case, one brother, unable to
obtain the divine blessing, is bitterly enraged against his sibling (in Cain’s
case killing his brother, in Esau’s plotting to do so – Gen. 27:41), and is
consequently cast further away from divine favour at the close of the
narrative. For Schwartz then, the real “original sin” in Genesis is the coming
into being of what she refers to as the “law of scarcity” – that primordial
condition which served as the catalyst for a vicious cycle of rejection and
violence – rather than the eating of forbidden fruit. In this sense “mono-
theism” refers not only to humanity’s responsibility to worship “one” God
(note the resounding tones of the Shema in Deuteronomy 6:4 –
dx) hwhy wnyhl) hwhy l)r#&y (m#$),
but conversely it also refers to God’s bestowal of just one blessing, his
choosing one people, and setting aside one land space as “Promised”; a
choice which ultimately sets in motion a cycle of scarcity which rises as the
ever-present spectre of the Hebrew text.
Why did God condemn Cain’s sacrifice? What would have happened if
he had accepted both Cain’s and Abel’s offerings instead of choosing
one… What kind of God is this who chooses one sacrifice over the
other? This God who excludes some and prefers others, who casts
some out, is a monotheistic God – monotheistic not only because he
demands allegiance to himself alone but because he confers his favour
on one alone…there can be no multiple allegiances, neither directed
toward the deity nor, apparently, emanating from him (Schwartz,
1997: 3).
The Bible’s monotheistic vision births “scarcity” and “violence,” against

which Schwartz seeks to assert a hermeneutic of “plentitude” and
“generosity”; specifically, a mode of biblical interpretation which has at its
basis the utopian assumption of plentitude, that there is always enough to
go around (Schwartz, 1997: 34). Schwartz is, in fact, advocating the view
that, because the biblical text seems to contain all things, it is useful for all
ends. In other words, the onus lies upon the reader as to how they will
interpret the text, the text itself can bend either to a hermeneutic of scarcity
or one of plentitude. Thus, in order to support the central thesis of her
book, Schwartz is forced to walk a tightrope with regards to the actual
nature of the text itself. For Schwartz, the HB, as a text, is utterly preoccupied
with the process of collective identity formation, a process which, she insists,
is inherently violent in nature (in Schwartz’s own words, “Violence is the
very construction of the Other” – Schwartz, 1997: 5). Yet, for all this,
Schwartz refuses to place culpability in the hands of the text, insisting
that, as a virgin text (that is, prior to the act of interpretation), the HB is far
too multifaceted in nature to be considered inherently unethical –
particularly given the text’s own counter-culture, its ability to critique, in
some places, the very institutions it bolsters in others.
Anyone with even the slightest familiarity with the Bible will know that
it is far too multifaceted to be reduced to any single or simple notion of
a deity, of religion, and especially of a people… Surely such a work
cannot have “one line” on collective identity, one understanding of who
the Israelites are or who the foreigners are. There were editors,
presumably even final editors, who could have ironed out all these
contradictions but who chose, importantly, not to resolve the many
ways that “a people” is constructed. It was later interpreters who,
grinding their political biblical axes, violated the editors’ preference for
multiplicity, simplifying the complexities of identity formation and
flattening out the variegated depictions in order to legitimate claims for
an identity locked in perpetual defence against the Other (Schwartz,
1997: 9).
Instead, blame is placed squarely in the hands of modern biblical

interpreters – specifically the nineteenth- and twentieth-century German
schools of “higher criticism” – who first attempted to demystify the Old
Testament, by means of a thoroughgoing diachronic analysis of the text.
According to Schwartz, these interpreters saw in the HB only one story of
identity formation; such scholars, imbued with the nascent spirit of German
nationalism, used the biblical text to bolster their own nationalistic agenda.
these erudite scholars, for all their commitment to objective scientific
enquiry, could not escape their own historical setting and their own
political and philosophical presuppositions. Whether Hegelian,

romantic, pietist, or none of the above, they were imbued with nascent
German nationalism. Could it really be coincidence that biblical higher
criticism and the ideology of radical modern nationalism were born in
the same period in the same place? The Bible’s preoccupation with
collective identity was read through the lenses of German nationalism
(Schwartz, 1997: 10-11).
Clearly, Schwartz’s rejection of monotheism stems from an a priori,

ethical (that is to say “Levinasian”) imperative to embrace multiplicity and
difference, over and against totality – the violent oppression of the Other.
She thus defines her position in contradistinction to those early biblical
critics, imbued with “nascent German nationalism,” whose views proved
so influential in the field of modern biblical interpretation. Given the
sublime weight of the Nazi Holocaust, it is no small wonder that the grand
old scholars of early German biblical criticism are seen by many modern
scholars in fundamentally negative terms – despite the groundbreaking
scope of their work. Indeed, an almost retroactive over-contextualization
has taken place in modern times, whereby the taint of National Socialism
has left its mark on many earlier works of German scholarship, particularly
those seen to have had a direct impact on nineteenth-century Western
thought. Here a figure like Martin Heidegger is, in many ways, the example
par excellence, and the forerunner for this modern tendency toward over-
contextualization. Hinging, not surprisingly, on the question of “ethics”
(or rather the lack of any identifiable ethical system) Heidegger’s work was
widely condemned by the academic world in the aftermath of World War
II.7 This was exacerbated by the rising stardom of Emmanuel Levinas
(himself a resident of a concentration camp during the war) whose ethical
critique of Heidegger (his insistence that Dasein itself, as the
universalization of the Cartisian cogito, is the worst kind of “totality”) was
to become the dominant contemporary orthodoxy (Levinas, 1969: 21). In
his earlier work, Levinas criticized Heidegger for subordinating ethics to
ontology,8 and against Heidegger’s notion of Dasein (literally, “There [is]
being”), he posited the irreducible and thoroughly exterior advent of
“infinity” – as that which becomes visible only “in the face of the Other”
(Levinas, 1969: 24). Subjectivity for Levinas (particularly in Totality and
Infinity) was thus defined as the ethical act of “welcoming the Other,” in
contrast to Heideggerian freedom.
What is particularly noteworthy with this modern shunning of
Heidegger, however, is the process whereby the “validity” of Heidegger’s
earlier (that is pre-Nazi) work has been brought into question because of
his later support for German socialism. Modern readers of Heidegger already
see in his earlier work certain “signs” or foreshadows of his later descent
into “evil,” so to speak. In this sense, his later political connection
retroactively impresses itself over his work as a whole. Consequently, we
can no longer read a figure like Heidegger according to his own merits,
that is, despite his dubious political affiliations; we can no longer read his
work as it is, but rather only in a thoroughly contextualized manner – as a
work tainted by the disease of German socialism. In this sense, Schwartz’s
thesis truly does represent a translation of Levinas’ work into modern
vernacular in that her retroactive application of culpability to those early
schools of German scholarship is distinctly Levinasian in nature. In place
of Heidegger, Schwartz condemns early German scholarship en masse for
its overtly nationalistic (“mono”) interpretation of the biblical texts, while
seeking to respect the diversity and heterogenous nature of the HB itself.
Schwartz would have us understand then that the HB, while, at its
centre, predominantly concerned with an inherently violent process –
namely that of “collective identity formation” – is nevertheless to be excused
of culpability simply because of its heterogenous content. What Schwartz
misses here is the possibility that, in spite of this Germano-nationalistic
interpretation of the text inaugurated by the proponents of “higher
criticism,” the text itself is fundamentally nationalistic – promoting the
ideological concerns of a particular one-people group over and against all
others. Consequently, in contrast to Schwartz, a thoroughly “nationalistic”
interpretation of the biblical text is far from “foreign” to the original intent
of the text, and may well be entirely in tune with its original ideological
intent. Indeed, this fact may in some way account for the ease with which
the HB has been employed by modern interpreters (both biblical critics
and politicians alike) to bolster nationalistic tendencies and international
aggression. Yes, the biblical text is multifaceted in nature and often critiques
the very institutions it seeks simultaneously to bolster, nevertheless the
text is, at base, thoroughly political in nature; favouring the “historical
truths” of biblical Israel against the competing claims of surrounding people
groups.
In this light, Schwartz’s notion of a “hermeneutic of plentitude” seems
dubious at best; however, the degree to which Schwartz succeeds in
promoting such a method over and against a hermeneutic of “scarcity” is
not our primary concern here. We have lingered on Schwartz’s work in
order to exploit those aspects of her thought which offer a viable way of
viewing the HB, in its entirety (regardless of its diverse thematic and literary
nature, and the long and complicated process of its creation), or, more
accurately as a means of defining in some way what lies behind the text
itself; that which structures the Hebrew Weltanschauung. Her reduction
of the HB to the processes of “collective identity formation” is undoubtedly
beneficial; however, it is the deeper notion of “scarcity,” and its relation to
the Hebrew worldview, which is most noteworthy for our current concerns.
Schwartz’s work suggests that it is scarcity which shapes the ideological
landscape of the text, causing the HB to exhibit a single structural category,
a single structural division which binds all contingent aspects of the text
to itself. While Schwartz herself does not explicitly identify this “structural”
category, through her critique of identity formation it is possible to identify
a single structural category which undergirds the biblical text – namely
the divide between those who are “in,” and those who are “out.”
At this point, however, Schwartz’s terminology proves largely inadequate
to the structural significance of her thesis – the choice to use a phrase like
“collective identity formation” is both beneficial and restrictive. Clearly,
the “ethical” underpinnings of Schwartz’s work necessitates the use of such
a phrase – given her quasi-Levinasian concerns to defend the autonomy of
the “Other” – however, I would argue that the central structural divide
which Schwartz recognizes in her work goes beyond “collective identity
formation” in the strictest sense. True, the Hebrew worldview betrays a
single overriding concern to bolster one group’s agenda over and against
its competitors; however, this divide between those who are “in” and those
who are “out” reaches far beyond the level of mere politics; encompassing
all personal relationships and extending to the breadth of the cosmos itself.
Whether we speak in terms of the tame and wild, legality and illegality,
clean and unclean, circumcised and uncircumcised, wise or foolish, whether
we think in terms of those who are “chosen” and those who are not, those
who are righteous and those who are wicked; the central factor at work
throughout these divisions is that basic structural dichotomy which
emerges from what Schwartz loosely terms the “law of scarcity.” What is
needed then is a slightly more rigorous look at the notion of “scarcity,” than
that which is offered in The Curse of Cain. For this reason, we now turn,
somewhat briefly, to Jean-Paul Sartre’s notion of “scarcity,” raised in his
Critique de la Raison Dialectique (Critique of Dialectical Reason – first
published in English in 1976).
Structures of Scarcity
Enquiring into the philosophical category of “scarcity” inevitably raises
broader questions regarding the nature of the biblical text, precisely as a
cultural artefact; questions which point beyond the text itself to matters of
anthropology and psychology. Does this “law of scarcity,” which Schwartz
sees in the HB, reflect some deeper aspect to the human condition? Is the
biblical text merely symptomatic of the human animal, driven by scarcity
in his day-to-day interaction with the world around him? Initially the
answer to these questions seems, intuitively at least, to be “yes.” The biblical
text is no doubt symptomatic of the scarcity which structures humankind
both externally, via our relationship to “matter” as such (the natural world
in which we live), and internally through a kind of constitutive
psychological “lack” (the psychoanalytic notion of “desire,” the drive to fill
one’s own deficiency by means of another, etc.). In Sartre’s words, “scarcity
is a very basic human relation, both to Nature and to men,” the mechanism
through which we relate both to the world around us, and our neighbours
(Sartre, 2004: 123). Human history, for Sartre, outlines our constant struggle
against the force(s) of scarcity; there is never “enough” so to speak, we are
constantly struggling with the natural world in order to survive. We sow
seed, plant crops, reap harvests, and kill livestock, we cut down trees and
force the natural world in which we live to yield that which we need to
feed, clothe and protect ourselves. In this sense, our existence is
fundamentally opposite to that envisaged in the Garden of Eden – we are
not given anything, but must take for ourselves; indeed, as Sartre suggests,
“the whole of human development, at least up to now, has been a bitter
struggle against scarcity” (Sartre, 2004: 123; italics in original).
scarcity appears to grow less and less contingent in that we ourselves
produce new forms of it as the milieu of our life, on the basis of an
original contingency – which shows, one might say, both the necessity
of our contingency and the contingency of our necessity (Sartre,
2004: 124).
Human history thus progresses from this basic condition of scarcity,

which regulates not only our external relation to “matter” as such (to the
material world), but also in our internal relationships to one another –
scarcity becomes the structuring principle of human relation. Thus,
according to Sartre, scarcity governs the various processes of “identity
formation” upon which human society structures itself. The very
construction of the “Other” is itself predicated on the recognition that
each neighbour maintains and guarantees the ever present factor of scarcity:
But this individual member, if he realises himself, through his need and
praxis, as being amongst men, will see everyone in terms of the object of
consumption or the manufactured product, and, on this basic level, he
will recognise them as the mere possibility of the consumption of

something he himself needs. In short, he will find each of them to be the
material possibility of his being annihilated through the material
annihilation of an object of primary necessity (Sartre, 2004: 128; italics
in original).
In this sense, scarcity both presents the possibility, and the impetus for
constructing collective identity, while also deeply problematizing this very
process. Seen on a larger scale, the paradoxical function of scarcity extends
to both larger communities and nations, as it does to the construction of
the self:
scarcity makes the passive totality of individuals within a collectivity
into an impossibility of co-existence. The group or the nation is defined
by its surplus population (ses excedentaires); it has to reduce its number
in order to survive…the mere existence of everybody is defined by scarcity
as the constant danger of non-existence both for another and for everyone.
Better still: this constant danger of the annihilation of myself and of
everyone is not something I see only in Others. I am myself that danger
in so far as I am Other, and designated by the material reality of the
environment as potentially surplus with Others (Sartre, 2004: 129-30;
italics in original).
It is scarcity then, this contingent, a priori category, which structures

the external and internal relations of the human being, governing his
relation to the natural world, his fellow humans, and himself. Scarcity lies
behind the process of identity formation, behind the exclusion of the
“Other” and the demarcation of what is “in” and what is “out.”
Scarcity is precisely the unanalyzable starting point, the contingent
datum which we cannot assign any metaphysical significance whatsoever,
it nonetheless is the framework in which we must act, and conditions
and alienates our acts and projects even in their very conception. The
concept of scarcity permits Sartre to articulate human need as a lack
which is at one and the same time a relationship to the objects of the
outside world and a determinate type of distance from other people as
well. Just as the fact of scarcity forces each individual to search desperately
for the objects of his need, laboriously to create them out of unfavorable
materials and under difficult conditions, so also each object which I can
consume is one implicitly wrested from my neighbor; and in a more
general way, my very existence, in a world of scarcity, is a threat to my
neighbor’s existence, as is his for me (Jameson, 1971: 233).
Let us return then to the question of the relationship between the biblical
text and this “real” category of scarcity; to what extent has the one been
influenced by the other? Here Schwartz’s view of biblical mono-theism,
and the dominant presence of Yahweh throughout the biblical text,

presents us with an intriguing idea. Could it be that Yahweh himself,
Israel’s national deity, the one who carves out a people for himself and
shapes them into a nation, is merely an extension (or literary
representation) of the universal “lack” which structures material reality
itself? Or perhaps more accurately, we should say that Yahweh is the very
embodiment (and indeed guarantor) of the “law of scarcity” within the
biblical text. It is, after all, Yahweh who sets in motion the original cycle of
scarcity, casting Adam and Eve from a place of plenitude to a realm of lack,
and insisting that there is not enough blessing for both Cain and Abel. It is
Yahweh who, by the very act of creation – the act of setting apart one small
place (the Garden of Eden) as a realm of plenitude, amongst a world
governed by scarcity – guarantees the continual presence of lack within
the created order, guarantees that there will never be enough for all. Indeed,
this process is exemplified in Yahweh’s dubious gift of the “Promised Land”
– he does not set aside land somewhere uninhabited for Israel to reside, nor
does he create another earthly paradise, another Eden, instead Yahweh sets
aside an incredibly small, and most sought after, plot of land currently
inhabited by other peoples. Moreover, the biblical account of Israel’s history
seems replete with examples of Yahweh’s constant desire to reinforce the
principle of scarcity, both externally, in Israel’s relationship to surrounding
nations, and internally among fellow Israelites. The law itself, the Torah,
could be seen in analogous fashion, as the guarantor of scarcity within the
Israelite nation; there will always be those who are lawful, and those who
have become unlawful, those who are “chosen” and those who are not.
Viewing Yahweh in this fashion, namely as the representation and guarantor
of scarcity within the biblical text, Sartre’s words seem even more potent:
it is always scarcity [Yahweh], as a real and constant tension both
between man and his environment and between man and man, which
explains fundamental structures (techniques and institutions) – not in
the sense that it is a real force and that it has produced them, but
because they were produced in the milieu of scarcity by men whose
praxis interiorises this scarcity even when they try to transcend it (Sartre,
2004: 127; italics in original).
This, in itself, places Yahweh’s vehement opposition to “mixing”

(relations between Jew and Gentile, the use of leaven in bread, etc.) in a
new light; reflecting the reality of his first creative act of division. Perhaps
mixing reflects the attempt to bring together that which has been separated,
to reunite the primeval waters of chaos over and against Yahweh’s divinely
established order? This, in turn, recasts the history of Yahweh’s “mighty
works” in an intriguing fashion; suggesting that, above all, Yahweh’s task is

not to unite (under the banner of monotheism; one God, one people, one
land, etc.), but rather to divide – to embody the law of scarcity throughout
the biblical text.
It seems reasonably clear then that, in speaking of the Hebrew
Weltanschauung the notion of scarcity is central; it is scarcity which governs
Israel’s very existence, her internal and external relations and the very
progression of her national history. One could go so far as to say that Israel’s
relationship to Yahweh is her relationship to scarcity as such. We should
note at this point, however, that this a priori category of scarcity manifests
itself primarily within the HB via a central structural division; whether it
be the division between those who are “chosen” and those who are not,
those who are “lawful” and those who are “unlawful,” those who are “clean”
and those who are “unclean.” My point here is that the logic of a single
structural division binds the HB together – the content of this central
division may change, but the division itself (precisely as a structural category)
remains constant throughout the biblical text. Let me suggest, at this point,
that the Hebrew Weltanschauung itself is structured by a single structural
category which serves to dictate that which is “in,” and that which is “out” –
a division which is symptomatic of the larger underlying category of scarcity
which lies behind the biblical text.
As I stated at the beginning of this chapter, the task of determining the
function of space in Hebrew narrative should not take place in isolation
from the overall structure of the HB itself. The value of narrative spaces,
the actions of characters and the progression of narrative plot, are all related
to this central structural dichotomy upon which the Hebrew worldview
rests. In terms of the current object of our study, it stands to reason that
narrative spaces derive their nature and function to some degree from the
notion of scarcity or, more specifically, from the basic structural division
which undergirds the HB. This in itself raises certain questions: are narrative
spaces likely to be placed on each side of the larger “in”/“out” dichotomy, or
are such spaces able to exist on each side of this divide? Once a particular
space takes on the characteristics associated with what is “in” (lawful, clean,
chosen), can it then change its spots, so to speak, and exhibit the reverse
characteristics associated with what is “out” (unlawful, unclean, not
chosen), or can a space simultaneously exhibit characteristics of both?
Let me state in advance that, while all of the above may be true (as
indeed a more detailed study of the subject may show), the biblical evidence
seems to suggest that it is precisely through this ability to exhibit their
own inherent “value” (as either “in” or “out,” “lawful” or “unlawful,” etc.)
that narrative spaces exert a certain influence upon the narrative around
them. It is in their capacity as either “in” or “out,” so to speak, that such
spaces influence characters and objects within a given narrative. Moreover,
it is in this very capacity that narrative spaces are able to function, as we saw
with the Bethel narrative, as dramatis personae in their own right. Indeed,
narrative spaces can be seen to function in analogous fashion to Yahweh
himself throughout the text; namely as a means of bringing scarcity to bear
on a given narrative – embodying the structural divide which lies behind
the biblical text.
My contention here is not that all narrative spaces within the HB act as
determinate factors within the text – there are in fact a great many references
to space which are purely ancillary in nature (particularly those which
relate to larger overarching journeys); rather I suggest that it is particularly
within the smaller narrative units of the HB – those which strongly exhibit
the structure of a “stage-play” – where spaces are largely determinate in
nature. Apart from the purely referential uses of “space” within the biblical
text, it is clear that the HB does provide a great deal of evidence to suggest
the determinate nature of several key spaces, which remain consistent
throughout the Hebrew aesthetic as a whole. In order to maintain a degree
of clarity in what will follow, it is vital at this point that we abandon the
“in/out” terminology we have employed to date, speaking instead in terms
which the biblical text itself uses. From this point onward then we will
speak largely in terms of the legal and the illegal (lawful/unlawful, clean/
unclean, etc.) – terms which are particularly important given their religious
and political import, not to mention the supreme significance granted to
the Torah throughout the HB.
CHAPTER 5
N ARRATIVE SPACE AND THE STRUCTURE OF CREATION
In order to examine the function of “narrative space,” specifically in its

relation to the basic structural division which, we have posited, undergirds
the HB as a whole, we now turn to the book of Genesis and Israel’s national
“myth of origins.” Genesis is a particularly useful point of departure for this
task precisely because it functions, in its current biblical context, as a kind
of “prologue” for the Pentateuch as a whole, the interpretative key, or meta-
context, for all that follows. In this sense, the primacy of the Genesis creation
accounts rests not so much on their status as “original” (in the “historical”
sense of the word), but rather on their “primary” status within the biblical
canon. It is in the book of Genesis that the reader can perhaps most clearly
view the structural dichotomy which lies at the heart of the Hebrew text;
after all, is not the very act of creation itself a structuring act? In the first
creation account, in Genesis 1, we see the inauguration of a kind of
primordial split, which serves to divide the cosmos in two and sets in motion
innumerable subsequent divisions all predicated on the a priori condition
of “scarcity.” My purpose, in working primarily with the book of Genesis, is
to define the process whereby narrative spaces are imbued with a certain
ontological “value,” in direct connection with the larger primordial division
within the text. It is this very process, I would suggest, which grants such
narrative spaces their ability to act as determinant factors within a given
narrative.
Genesis 1 – Primordial Divisions

While the notion of creation ex-nihilo (creation “out of nothing”) has
enjoyed tremendous popularity in orthodox Christian thought, the creative
process envisaged in the first chapter of Genesis provides little evidence
for such an interpretation. Instead, the HB outlines the process of creation,
not as the act of bringing into existence “new” matter (the filling of vacuous
non-space with “substance” as such), but rather speaks in terms of the
ordering and shaping of existent primordial substance. Take, for example,
the first two verses which open the book of Genesis:
At the beginning of God’s creating of the heavens and the earth, when
the earth was wild and waste (whbw wht), darkness over the face of the
ocean, rushing-spirit of God hovering over the face of the waters (Gen.
1:1-2) (Fox, 1995: 12-13).
Traditional interpretations of the phrase whbw wht (usually translated

“formless and void”) typically reflect far more theological than exegetical
concerns. The translation above, taken from Everett Fox’s landmark
translation of the Pentateuch (The Five Books of Moses) seems to reflect
the original intent of the passage far better, reading whbw wht as “wild and
waste”; a phrase which emphasizes the chaotic nature of the pre-creative
cosmos while maintaining its “substantial” nature (cf. Fox, 1995: 12-13). It
seems clear that the act of creation, within the context of the HB, does not
take place within a vacuum; what exists prior to Yahweh’s creative action is
not “nothing” as such, but rather chaotic substance – the untamed,
unstructured waters of primordial chaos. In beginning the process of
“creation,” Yahweh initially undertakes a series of basic structural divisions
(light from darkness, day from night, land from water, etc.), literally ordering
existent, chaotic matter into a clearly visible structure. From these first acts
of division Yahweh then goes on to demarcate the boundaries of the created
order.
It is not difficult to understand why traditional Christian readings of
the creation/flood narratives would vehemently oppose this notion of pre-
existent matter prior to the act of creation; promoting instead the notion
of creation ex-nihilo. Given the prevalence of such “creation/chaos/flood”
themes among the various creation myths and stories of surrounding
ancient people groups, the notion of biblical creation “from nothing” serves
to reinforce the unique status of the biblical account within the cultural
milieu of the ANE world. The unique nature of the Genesis creation/flood
accounts is of particular importance for the Christian theological tradition,
as any perceived correlation between the biblical stories and other ancient
Narrative Space and the Structure of Creation 69
creation/flood myths (or, more importantly, the notion that the former
might be in some way dependent on the later), tends to dilute the status of
the biblical texts, precisely as truth.
Regardless of these theologically driven concerns however, scholars have,
for some time now, sought to establish a clear connection between the
biblical creation stories and the dominant creation myths of other ANE
people groups. Most noteworthy of these is the connection between the
biblical account and the Babylonian Enuma Elish myth; where Marduk
rallies his fellow gods in battle against Tiamat, the god of chaotic waters
(symbolized by a dragon), is victorious, and consequently tears her body
into pieces, forming from them the sky above and the earth below. The
Canaanite version of this myth (taken from Ugaritic fragments), which
may have had more of a direct influence on the biblical writers, tells the
story thus; the Canaanite deity, Ba’al, is imprisoned by Yam, the sea god
(note the Hebrew word for “sea” is yam – My), but the divine craftsman
Kothar-and-Hasis gives Ba’al two clubs, with which he strikes Yam and
defeats him – Ba’al then scatters Yam’s broken body in the same manner as
Marduk (cf. Dalley, 1989; Driver, 1956). While scholars may debate such
connections between biblical and extra-biblical creation myths, it is clear
that certain common themes tended to dominate these stories. In particular
these creation myths tend to share a common reference to primeval
darkness and watery chaos, which exists prior to the establishment of the
created order. The cosmos is then ordered through some momentous
struggle or battle; reflecting, perhaps, humankind’s common experience
of scarcity, its struggle to establish some kind of stable social order against
the surrounding chaos of the natural world.1 Indeed, the “creation myth”
itself performs a vital function within the construction and maintenance
of the human social-world, serving to keep at bay mankind’s ultimate enemy,
contingent materiality itself, via the establishment of an overarching
structural division between sacred order and natural chaos. The dichotomy
between divine order and natural chaos is translated seamlessly into the
socio-political world, wherein a direct connection exists between the
creative process in the divine realm, and the adherence of law in the earthly
realm:
Just as religious legitimation interprets the order of society in terms of
an all-embracing sacred order of the universe, so it relates the disorder
that is the antithesis of all socially constructed nomos to that yawning
abyss of chaos that is the oldest antagonist of the sacred (Berger,
1967: 48).
Thus, the dominant theme in the ANE creation myth is the advent of
“structure” itself over and against the contingent reality of the natural
world – the ordering of chaos as it were. This same emphasis on structure is
evident within the biblical creation account, where Yahweh’s first creative
acts are those of dividing, separating, forming, naming – in short “ordering”
pre-existent chaotic (contingent) substance. The biblical creation account,
the manner in which Yahweh orders the cosmos, is also deeply analogous
to the function of the Torah within the socio-political maintenance of
biblical Israel. Just as Yahweh’s creative action serves to demarcate the
boundaries which govern the cosmos, so also the law sets the boundaries of
Israel’s socio-political order. The connection between Torah and creation
extends much further than this however; indeed, one could say that the
act of creation itself is nothing other than the implementation of Torah at
the level of primordiality. The very manner in which Yahweh divides,
apportions, arranges and names in Genesis 1, is itself a function of the
Torah which structures the very fabric of the cosmos – by his act of creation,
Yahweh is effectively bringing the law to bear on primordial chaos.
In terms of the structural dichotomy which lies behind the HB, it is
Yahweh who determines the boundaries of what is “in” and what is “out,”
what is “legal” and what is “illegal,” “clean” and “unclean.” The creative
process is thus one of re-structuring existent chaotic substance into a new,
divinely-inspired order; constraining the entire cosmos by means of a kind
of weaving of the Torah into the very fabric of existence. In this sense,
“creation” is fully steeped in the “law,” the series of divisions and
classifications instituted in Genesis 1 echoing the structural function of
the Torah itself; namely to order chaos. It is no surprise then that the
Genesis 1 creation account exhibits a strong a priori assumption that the
Torah is already fully active at this stage of pre-history; despite the fact that
the law has not “historically” been revealed yet (under the tutelage of Moses,
at Sinai). With this in mind, one could say that Yahweh does not “rest” on
the Sabbath as a means of setting some divine precedent – Yahweh rests on
the seventh day as a sign that all the faithful will now do so – but rather he
rests precisely because he is the very embodiment of the Torah. It is natural
that Yahweh would rest on the Sabbath, because he is the very exemplar of
the law, the perfect example of one who has taken upon himself the yoke of
the Torah. The clearest example of this anachronistic assumption of the
law can be seen in the story of Cain’s ill-fated sacrifice in Genesis 4. Although,
technically, Cain would have no way of knowing what an acceptable sacrifice
to Yahweh would be, given that the law had not been made known to
mankind at this stage in history, nevertheless he is shamed by his brother
who (intuitively perhaps) offers the correct offering – a lamb without

blemish. In this sense then, the Torah itself acts as a kind of Janus’ head,
stretching both forwards and backwards throughout time, already fully
present at the very inception of the universe, though not yet clearly
mediated to mankind in the form of religio-political “law.”
What is particularly noteworthy with the biblical text, however, is the
emphasis it places on the spatial dimensions of the creative process. Indeed,
the Genesis creation accounts, as a whole, could be said to narrate one
single divine act; namely that of establishing a specific, “sacred” (that is
“lawful”) space, over and against the chaotic primordial substance. Yahweh
is effectively marking out a domain – he is, Schwartz might well suggest,
engaging in the process of “identity formation” on the grandest scale –
setting the very boundaries of the created order by demarcating precisely
what is “in” and what is “out.”2 The creative process envisioned in Genesis
1 is thus the division of chaos into two realms; the stable, lawful, realm of
Yahweh’s specific attention (the Garden), and the chaotic realm outside
(which I have chosen to term “the field[s]”). Not until the second chapter
of Genesis do we clearly begin to see the manner in which the larger
primordial dichotomy extends to the world of mankind. While the first
creation narrative outlines the establishment of order from chaotic
primordial substance – precisely on a cosmic level – the second account
outlines this same process on a micro level. The larger division between
the created order and existent primordial substance is transferred to the
earth itself, upon which mankind dwells.
Illegal
wild hd#
Legal
Chaos Ng
whbw wht domestic
As the above diagram suggests, the creation narratives outline a

movement from chaotic “substance,” to the establishment of two primary
spaces, the “Garden of Eden” (Ng – precisely as the “legal” realm of Yahweh’s
special attention) and “the field(s)” (hd#& – as the “illegal” realm outside
the garden). Eden is a place of inherent “order,” structured by the very fabric
of the Torah itself, a lawful realm which Yahweh himself, the God who
prizes order over chaos, graces with his presence (3:8).3 This basic division
in turn gives rise to other divisions within the created order; “unclean”
animals and wild beasts inhabit the “illegal” realm of “the field(s)” (note
the designation hd#&h tyx in Gen. 2:19; lit. “living-things of the field”),
domesticated animals (hmhb) dwell in the “lawful” space of the garden,
and so on. Each object within the created order, be it animal, mineral or
vegetable, has a particular “space” proper to itself, a realm where it “fits,” so
to speak. It should be noted at this point, however, that the Garden of
Eden is created not as a fledgling garden, still in its infant stage, but rather
it is created already possessing the properties of a fully grown (ontologically
whole), lush and verdant “space.” In like fashion “the field(s),” precisely as
the illegal realm “outside” the garden, already possesses its own ontological
properties.4 “The field(s)” is not merely the as-yet-untamed region of space
beyond the garden, an area which has not yet been touched by the divine
hand; but instead is fashioned as ontologically untamed, wild and unlawful.
Yahweh’s act of creation touches everything, both the garden, as the locus
of special divine attention, and the area outside the garden – “the field(s).”
However, despite Yahweh’s act of ordering and naming, of delineating the
very boundaries of the created order, “the field(s)” seems to embody a
stubborn residue of primordial chaos; this space is not content to remain
static, but seems to press in upon the garden, seeking to impose its chaotic
(unlawful) nature (note, for example, that the serpent comes from “the
field”).5 Yahweh has not brought into being a “new” creation – now in its
earliest stages infancy, but instead he has literally rearranged existent matter
into two ontologically whole realms; namely the realms of legality and the
illegal. Thus, in speaking of Yahweh’s act of creation, we are in fact speaking
specifically of the act of “creating ontologies.”6
At this point, I must insist that the structural primacy of the creation
accounts in Genesis should not be restricted to its thematic or ideological
impact within the biblical text. Rather I would contend that the primordial
split inaugurated in Genesis 1 (which itself structures the overarching
logic of the Hebrew aesthetic as a whole), extends its influence to every
aspect of the biblical text; dictating what is “in” or “out”; “clean” and
“unclean”; “lawful” and “unlawful.” One could say that the logic of “scarcity,”
and by extension the resultant dichotomy which emerges from the act of
creation, extends its influence even to the mechanical level of the text. In
terms of the specifics of Hebrew narrative, the extent of this undergirding
constitutive dichotomy is not merely limited to the impact it has on
narrative characters, or plot, but extends also to inanimate objects and

spaces within a narrative. Each facet of the narrative is structured specifically
in relation to the overarching dichotomy of the Hebrew aesthetic; in keeping
with the creation account in Genesis 1, characters, spaces and objects are
defined explicitly in terms of their “legality” or “illegality,” their status as
either “clean” or “unclean.”
It is precisely the “spatial” nature of this original, primordial division,
which provides a clue as to the determinate nature of spaces within the
Hebrew aesthetic. The fact that this original division between the “legal”
and “illegal” is represented in terms of a division between legal and illegal
spaces (“the garden” and “the field(s)” respectively), itself suggests that
certain spaces function as a kind of narrative embodiment or incarnation
of the primordial legal/illegal split. Space is thus a means of representing
the overarching legal division of the HB concretely within a given narrative.
While characters themselves (whether an individual or entire people
group) also exist within the legal/illegal nexus, and gain a certain ontological
“status” in direct relation to this division, the spaces on which they act
represent a stable, constant embodiment of the cosmic legal/illegal
framework which structures the Hebrew aesthetic. I should emphasize
however, at this point that, while the names of key spaces throughout the
HB may change, the logic of two opposed spaces, of a basic legal/illegal
division, remains consistent throughout the text. In this sense, “the garden”
in Genesis 2 is structurally synonymous to “the tents” later in Genesis 25,
precisely as the legal realm which stands in opposition to the illegal realm
of “the field(s).” In an effort to further examine the consistency of this
structural division throughout the biblical text, and by extension the
manner in which certain spaces exert a notable influence within the
narrative world by embodying this division, we will now attempt to trace
the development of one specific space, throughout the book of Genesis;
namely the “illegal” realm of the field(s).
The Ontology of “the Field(s)”: From Eden to Moab

I have chosen to focus primarily on “the field(s)” throughout the book of
Genesis, primarily because of the degree of consistency which this particular
space exhibits – in terms of its decidedly “negative” value – and the
frequency with which it occurs throughout the book. We must recognize,
however, that the use of hd#&h in Genesis, and indeed the HB as a whole, is
frequently mentioned only in passing, intended merely to indicate the
locus of work-like activity, or as a means of designating the whereabouts of
a particular off-stage character, or group. Thus, quite often, “the field(s)”

provides an economical way for the narrator to establish a brief narrative
backdrop, the context from which some key character enters the narrative
proper, the locus of those everyday activities which bear little or no relevance
to the narrative in question. Yet, despite their rather benign character,
these trite references to “the field(s)” reveal an important aspect of its
function as a space; namely its consistently off-stage nature. Note, for
example, the back-stage character of “the field(s)” in Genesis 2–3, in contrast
to “the garden” – precisely as the spotlighted locus of divine attention and
the intended residence for Adam and Eve. “The garden” is the narrative
space where the real action between humankind and Yahweh occurs,
whereas “the field(s)” is merely a vague backdrop, mentioned only in passing,
and remaining entirely “off-stage” until the expulsion from Eden and
consequent advent of fratricide in Genesis 4.
Indeed, throughout Genesis as a whole, “the field(s),” as a space, is
characteristically “off-stage,” the place from which characters commonly
arrive and to which they later return (cf. Gen. 24:63, 65; 25:27, 29; 30:14,
16). This is in direct contrast to “the garden,” and other such “legal” spaces
throughout the book, which typically function as the “on-stage” spaces
where narrative action occurs. The question occurs then; why does this
particular space consistently function as an off-stage realm throughout
the book of Genesis? Perhaps it is somewhat fitting that, given Yahweh’s
momentous act of “creation” (the overcoming of chaotic primordial
substance via the demarcation of “legal” and “illegal” space), and his
establishment of the Garden of Eden as the locus of divine attention, that
the narrative proper would take place within that garden, and not the
realm outside. Perhaps the off-stage nature of “the field(s)” actually reflects
its status as illegal space, and perhaps such a space is in some way unfitting
for heroic biblical stories – even that which records the so-called “fall” of
mankind. Whatever the reason for its “off-stage” character throughout the
book of Genesis, and indeed its apparently benign nature as the locus of
vulgar, everyday work activities, “the field(s)” nonetheless exercises
considerable influence throughout the book of Genesis; although often in
a manner which is not readily apparent.
Note, for example, that already in Genesis 2–3 “the field(s)” exerts a
certain (chaotic) influence against the created order, via the intrusive
presence of “the serpent” in the Garden of Eden. The enigmatic figure of
the serpent arrives from the offstage realm of “the field” (Gen. 3:1 –
hd#&h tyx lkm Mwr(),
and threatens to destabilize the “legal” realm of the garden and throw
Yahweh’s carefully laid plans quite literally into chaos. What is more, once
Adam and Eve’s treachery has been discovered, the serpent is cursed
explicitly in terms of its relationship to “the field”:
“You shall be more cursed than all the Behemoth,
and all the living things of the field” (Gen. 3:14)
hd#&h tyx lkmw hmhbh-lkm ht) rwr)
In like fashion, having transgressed the divine prohibition, Adam and

Eve are expelled from the garden (the ordered, lawful realm), and sent to
the untamed, unlawful space outside – like the serpent, Adam’s punishment
relates specifically to the field (3:18b “you shall eat the grasses of the field”
– hd#&h b#&(-t) tlk)w). Indeed, it seems as though the ground itself
(hmd)) will take on a field-like quality for Adam (3.17b-18a “Cursed be
the ground because of you; through toil you will eat of it… Thorns and
thistles will it sprout for you!” – Kl xymct rdrdw Cwqw). Thus, despite
its virtual absence from the narrative proper, the illegal, chaotic, “off-stage”
realm of “the field(s)” seems complicit with both the initial cause of Adam
and Eve’s transgression, and the consequent divine punishment for their
actions. If one views “the fall” specifically in terms of legal/illegal space, it
seems no coincidence that Yahweh’s punishment clearly reflects the “illegal”
origin of Adam’s temptation; namely the unlawful realm of the fields, from
which the serpent (the most cunning of all “field” animals) has entered the
scene. Yahweh seems to be saying, “You have allowed yourselves to be
influenced by “the field(s),” so to “the field(s)” you will be sent.” Yet, we
must recognize here that the influence of “the field(s)” in Genesis 2–3 is far
from explicit, but is only visible, in a sense, as we look awry at the text – its
influence can be seen indirectly, by its affects.
To date, we have been working under the assumption that “the field(s)”
is a negative (that is “illegal,” “chaotic,” “unclean,” etc.) space, in contrast to
a “legal” realm like “the garden”; what evidence then do we find, in the text
itself, for this assumption. As we turn now to the story of Cain and Abel,
evidence begins to mount.
Now the man knew his wife Eve, and she conceived and bore Cain,
saying, “I have gained a male child with the help of the Lord.” She then
bore his brother Abel. Abel became a keeper of sheep, and Cain became
a tiller of the soil. In the course of time, Cain brought an offering to the
Lord from the fruit of the soil; and Abel, for his part, brought the
choicest of the firstlings of his flock. The Lord paid heed to Abel and his
offering, but to Cain and his offering He paid no heed. Cain was much
distressed and his face fell (Gen. 4:1-5).
The narrative begins, in characteristic fashion, by establishing each

brother’s vocation – Cain as a farmer, and Abel as a shepherd – and thus
pre-empting what is to come. Cain is designated a “tiller of the soil” (4:2 –
hmd) db( hyh Ny)w) a title which already seems to pre-empt his future
status as “cursed” – he who works the cursed ground (cf. Gen. 3:17) will
himself become cursed – whereas, in contrast, Abel is a shepherd (one who
tends tame/lawful animals) whose sacrifice will inevitably be superior to
Cain’s. According to Edmund Leach’s schematization of Genesis 1–5, Cain’s
dubious status as a “farmer” is reinforced by his connection with the “dead”
world of soil and plant, in contrast to Abel, who works among the living
world of the domestic animals (Leach, 1961: 392). However, the fact that
this narrative immediately follows the curse meted out to Adam in Genesis
3 suggests that Cain himself is effectively “reaping his father’s curse”
(Fishbane, 1998: 25). In Gary Herion’s words, “neither Cain nor any other
tiller of the soil will ever have anything ‘proper’ to offer God – unless, of
course, God’s disposition toward [the soil] changes”; Cain’s sacrifice is
doomed from the start, precisely because it comes from the cursed ground
(Herion, 1995: 62).
This connection between Cain’s sacrifice and the earlier cursing of the
ground in Genesis 3 is the most simple, and probably the most viable
reason for Yahweh’s negative reaction. We should remind ourselves yet
again, however, that the book of Genesis also exhibits a strong anachronistic
assumption of the function of Torah, in the early history of mankind. The
text seems to support this rather pious belief that Torah pre-dates all else
and that the early “heroes” of Israelite history, precisely because of their
status as exemplary figures, would hardly act in contradiction to the dictates
of the Torah – despite the fact that they would have had no historical
means of accessing those dictates. Yes, Cain’s offering is inferior because it
came from the cursed ground, but if we consider Abel’s sacrifice (the choicest
specimen from his flock, 4:4 –
Nhblxmw wn)c twrKb) )wh-Mg )ybh lbhw),
Cain’s offering seems even less appropriate. It is a matter of course that
Yahweh, who under the stipulations of the Torah typically requires a blood
sacrifice, will accept Abel’s offering, and will likewise refuse Cain’s inferior
offering. Abel is thus doubly superior to his elder brother, both in terms of
his vocation (tending “clean,” “lawful” animals rather than working a cursed
land), and his intuitive obedience to the Torah. It is this a priori presence
of Torah, evidenced in Abel’s actions, which clarifies to some degree

Yahweh’s enigmatic response to Cain in Genesis 4:7:
And the Lord said to Cain:
“Why are you distressed,
And why is your face fallen?
Surely, if you do right,
There is uplift.
But if you do not do right
Sin couches at the door;
Its urge is toward you,
Yet you can be its master.”
(Gen. 4:6-7)
Just as Yahweh rested on the seventh day of his creative work, not as a
way of instating the institution of the Sabbath rest, but because he is the
very embodiment of the divine Law – the exemplar of one who has taken
upon himself the yoke of the Torah – in the same sense, Cain is without
excuse when it comes to his sacrifice. Given the assumption of Torah, the
narrator thus neglects to mention anything regarding sacrifice instructions
given to the brothers, leaving it up to the reader to fill in the gaps. Ultimately,
it is Cain’s affinity with “the field” (the cursed ground), and the consequent
rejection of his sacrifice, which leads him to murder his brother; in the field
(hd#&b). One gets the feeling that Cain’s violent behaviour is almost
appropriate to this unlawful (cursed) realm, “the field(s)” as “untamed,”
“chaotic,” “unclean” space seems to engender “unlawful” activity. No small
wonder then that Yahweh’s response to Cain’s murderous act takes the
form of a curse which relates specifically to the cursed ground which seems
to have dominated Cain’s life thus far:
Cain said to his brother Abel [come let us go to the field] and when they
were in the field, Cain set upon his brother Abel and killed him. The
Lord said to Cain, “Where is your brother Abel?” And he said, “I do not
know. Am I my brother’s keeper?” Then He said, “What have you
done? Hark, your brother’s blood cries out to Me from the ground!
Therefore, you shall be more cursed (rwr) hy(w) than the ground,
which opened its mouth to receive your brother’s blood from your
hand. If you till the soil, it shall no longer yield its strength to you. You
shall become a ceaseless wanderer on earth” (Gen. 4:8-12).
Reference to “the field(s)” in Genesis 4 is noticeably more explicit than

we saw in Genesis 2, particularly given Cain’s relationship to the cursed
ground. In contrast to the story of Adam and Eve, where “the field(s)” is
out of view, and mentioned only via ancillary narration (the arrival of the
serpent and the divine curses), Cain’s violence against Abel takes place
explicitly “in the field.”7 To the keen reader, the early connection between
Cain and “the field(s)/cursed ground” already pre-empts his future status
as “cursed.” The question remains though; to what extent has the one
influenced the other, to what extent has Cain’s misfortune been “caused”
by his connection to “illegal” space?
Genesis 25 – Sibling Rivalry

This episode is played out again, with remarkable similarity, in the story of
two equally infamous brothers; Jacob and Esau. Throughout this story the
earlier spatial dichotomy between “the field(s)” and “the garden” in Genesis
2–4 is recast in terms of a structurally identical division between “the
field(s)” and “the tents”; wherein the later represents a domestic, ordered,
lawful space, imbued with the same characteristics as those of “the garden.”
This is the story of Isaac, son of Abraham. Abraham begot Isaac. Isaac
was forty years old when he took to wife Rebekah, daughter of Bethuel
the Aramean of Paddan-aram, sister of Laban the Aramean. Isaac
pleaded with the Lord on behalf of his wife, because she was barren;
and the Lord responded to his plea, and his wife Rebekah conceived.
But the children struggled in her womb, and she said, “If so, why do I
exist?” She went to inquire of the Lord, and the Lord answered her,
“Two nations are in your womb,
Two separate peoples shall issue from your body;
One people shall be mightier than the other,
And the older shall serve the younger.”
When her time to give birth was at hand, there were twins in her womb.
The first one emerged red, like a hairy mantle all over; so they named
him Esau. Then his brother emerged, holding on to the heel of Esau; so
they named him Jacob. Isaac was sixty years old when they were born
(Gen. 25:19-26).
The similarity between this narrative and the earlier story of Cain and
Abel is striking. Even before Jacob and Esau are born, the narrative pre-
empts its own conclusion, stating that “the older will serve the younger”
(Gen. 25:23). The story then goes on to characterize the brothers in terms
of the “space” in which they primarily dwell – Esau is cast as a man “of
the field” (hd#& #$y)), whereas Jacob is designated a man “of the tents”
(Mylh) b#$y Mt #$y)).8
When the boys grew up, Esau became a skillful hunter, a man of the
field; but Jacob was a mild man who stayed among the tents. Isaac
favoured Esau because he had a taste for game; but Rebekah favoured
Jacob. Once when Jacob was cooking a stew, Esau came in from the
field, famished. And Esau said to Jacob, “Give me some of that red stuff
to gulp down, for I am famished” – which is why he was named Edom.
Jacob said, “First sell me your birthright.” And Esau said, “I am at the point
of death, so of what use is my birthright to me?” But Jacob said, “Swear
to me first.” So he swore to him, and sold his birthright to Jacob. Jacob
then gave Esau bread and lentil stew; he ate and drank, and he rose and
went away. Thus did Esau spurn the birthright (Gen. 25:27-34, emphasis
added).
This basic act of identification links the two brothers to the two major
spaces at work through the narrative, typecasting Esau in a negative (that
is to say “illegal”) light, in contrast to his brother. The ensuing story can
only confirm this basic structural division, condemning Esau’s brutish
disregard for his birthright (traded for a simple bowl of red stew), and
confirming Jacob’s heroic status.9 Ironically, this very same structure is at
work in Genesis 27, where Jacob and Esau later vie for Isaac’s blessing.
When Isaac was old and his eyes were too dim to see, he called his older
son Esau and said to him, “My son.” He answered, “Here I am.” And he
said, “I am old now, and I do not know how soon I may die. Take your
gear, your quiver and bow, and go out into the field and hunt me some
game. Then prepare a dish for me such as I like, and bring it to me to
eat, so that I may give you my innermost blessing before I die.” Rebekah
had been listening as Isaac spoke to his son Esau. When Esau had gone
out into the field to hunt game to bring home, Rebekah said to her son
Jacob, “I overheard your father speaking to your brother Esau, saying,”
Bring me some game and prepare a dish for me to eat, that I may bless
you, with the Lord’s approval, before I die.” Now, my son, listen carefully
as I instruct you. Go to the flock and fetch me two choice kids, and I will
make of them a dish for your father, such as he likes. Then take it to
your father to eat, in order that he may bless you before he dies” (Gen.
27:1-11, emphasis added).
The careful reader will note that, as with the previous narrative in Genesis
25, this episode once again casts the struggle between Esau and Jacob
around the acquisition of food; where previously Esau sold his birthright
for a bowl of red stew, here he is outmanoeuvred by his younger brother, in
the quest to present a pleasing meal to their father, Isaac. It is noteworthy
that, in preparing his sacrifice, Jacob remains in “the tents,” taking two kids
from the flock of domesticated animals and, aided by his mother, flavours
the meal to suit Isaac’s specific tastes. In contrast, Esau travels eagerly to
“the field(s)” in order to fulfil his father’s wishes. It should not be
underestimated that the successful sacrifice is prepared in the “lawful”
Son Offering Recipient Result
Esau game from the field Nothing

(Older son) dyc yl hdwcw hd#&h )cw
Gen. 27:3 Isaac
Jacob kids from the flock Blessing
Gen. 27:9 Myb+ Myz( yydg yn#$ M#$m yl-xqw N)ch-l) )n-Kl
Cain fruits of the field Nothing

(Older son) hxnm hmd)h yrpm Nyq )byw
Gen. 4:3 Yahweh
Abel sheep of the flock Blessing
Gen. 4:4 Nhblxmw wn)c twrkbm )wh-Mg )ybh lbhw
realm of “the tents,” while the unsuccessful offering is taken from “the
field(s).” Indeed, Esau’s rapid departure and belated return almost suggest
that his own love for the field has denied him his birthright – the one who
sold his birthright to satiate hunger, who is so eager to dwell in illegal
space, is not fit to receive the firstborn blessing; instead that honour is
given to Jacob, who dwells in lawful space. In terms of the sacrifice itself,
however, the implicit message seems to be that Esau cannot help but fail
while he remains so closely connected to “the field(s).” We see then that,
structurally, Genesis 27 is deeply analogous to the earlier story of Cain and
Abel’s sacrifice. The gift which both Esau and Cain offer is associated with
the “field/earth,” whereas their younger brother’s gifts are taken from the
flock (Abel brings the best of his sheep, 4:2; Jacob is instructed to “go to the
flock” and get two of the choicest kids, 29:9).
Note the association between the older brothers and the realm of “the
field(s),” in contrast to their younger siblings who are explicitly linked to
the domesticated, tame animals which ultimately constitute the correct,
that is to say “lawful,” sacrifice/offering.10 The irony is, of course, that, in the
case of Isaac’s blessing, the recipient himself actually desires food which
comes specifically from “the field”; that is, from illegal space. However,
Jacob’s successful deception of his father seems to suggest that Yahweh has
bestowed divine approval on the younger brother’s sacrifice, in spite of
Isaac’s wishes.11 Though Isaac himself desires his firstborn to present game
“from the field,” nonetheless Yahweh, superintending the process, ensures
that Jacob (who is already destined to “rule” over his brother) ultimately
gains his father’s blessing; presenting a “lawful” offering which has been
prepared in a “lawful” space (namely “the tents”). It is no small wonder
that, after these events, Esau’s name is forever linked with both the “red”
stew for which he forsook his birthright, and “the field(s)” where he hunted
while his father’s blessing was stolen (note that Jacob sends messengers to
“the field of Edom” Gen. 32:4
Mwd) hd#& ry(#& hcr) wyx) w#&(-l) wynpl Mykalm bq(y hl#$yw).
This brief analysis of the Jacob/Esau narratives seems to confirm our
earlier suggestion that a character’s primary locus of action plays a
determinate role in their own function within the narrative world (despite
the fact that only limited reference may be made to such spaces within the
narrative itself ). A character who acts primarily within an illegal space,
tends to reflect that illegality in his actions, and vice versa, a character who
primarily dwells in “legal” space tends to act heroically. The Jacob/Esau
narratives are particularly noteworthy, however, because of the manner in
which they extend this process to the broader characterization of larger
people-groups. The nation of Edom is already cast in an “illegal” light
because of Esau’s actions; more than this, however, the entire nation takes
on the characteristics of the “illegal” realm in which Esau primarily dwelt
– the nation of Edom becomes a kind of embodiment of “the field(s)” itself,
an embodiment of illegal space. In this manner, the logic of the illegal/
legal dichotomy, established in the creation narratives, extends ultimately
to Israel’s place among the nations. Israel herself occupies an analogous
position to the “legal” spaces throughout the HB (the garden/tents/
Promised land, etc.), whereas the surrounding nations, precisely as Other,
dwell in (and embody) “illegal” space. Is not this precisely what we noted
previously with the absence of the designation “Luz” in the Bethel narrative?
Bethel itself is a “legal” space (the sacred domain of the Israelite people)
and, as such, cannot be given a vulgar, foreign (and therefore illegal) name.
Despite its infrequent usage throughout the biblical text (Gen. 36:35;
Isa. 15:8; Jer. 48:33; Ruth 1:1, 2, 6 [x2], 22; 2:6; 4:3; 1 Chron. 1:46; 8:8), the
appellation “fields of Moab” (hd#& b)wm) serves as an impressive example
of this blending of a particular people-group with an illegal space. In terms
of the narrative world, the title “fields of Moab” functions in precisely the
same manner as the introduction of Esau as a “man of the fields” or Cain a
“tiller of the soil.” Just as the infective “illegality” of “the field(s)” exerted its
influence over both Cain and Esau, so also the nation of Moab is imbued
with “illegality” given its permanent relation to an unlawful space through
the designation “fields of Moab.” Moab itself occupies precisely the same
status as “the field(s)” in Genesis 2, specifically as the “illegal” realm “outside”
the Garden of Eden. Once again the use of the words b)wm hd#&, in
describing a nation like Moab, appears little more than a benign geographical
title – I would suggest, however, that despite the apparent casualness of
the term, its inclusion is symptomatic of a deeper, structural, split which
underlies and influences the HB itself.
The proceeding discussion sheds new light on the “appropriateness” of
certain actions for certain places; a legal space engenders legal activity, and
likewise an illegal space engenders illegal activity – Cain’s original act of
violence, and by extension the abhorrent acts of Lot’s daughters, upon
which Moab was founded, both seem appropriate to an “illegal” space like
“the field(s).” It is only fitting that a nation which arose from incest should
be linked with the realm of “the field(s).” Perhaps, more radically, it is
possible to suggest that, given the strong nationalistic and ideological
concerns of the creation narratives (Israel’s own “myth of origins” among a
host of competing claims), “the field(s)” in Genesis 2–3 already creates a
notional space, waiting to be filled by a foreign people like Moab. All
nations, precisely because they are “outside” Israel, are thus “unlawful,” and
occupy an analogous position to “the field(s).” Yet “the field(s)” itself
represents something far deeper that mere “illegality”; some leftover surplus,
a residue perhaps from that primeval chaos which constantly threatens to
overcome the created order. This excess is best represented in Abraham’s
purchase of a burial plot for Sarah (23:17), an action which ensures that
Abraham and his progeny will inevitably be buried “in the field.”
Abraham accepted Ephron’s terms. Abraham paid out to Ephron
the money that he had named in the hearing of the Hittites – four
hundred shekels of silver at the going merchants’ rate. So Ephron’s land
in Machpelah, near Mamre – the field with its cave and all the trees
anywhere within the confines of that field – passed to Abraham as his
possession, in the presence of the Hittites, of all who entered the gate of
his town. And then Abraham buried his wife Sarah in the cave of the
field of Machpelah, facing Mamre – now Hebron – in the land of
Canaan. Thus the field with its cave passed from the Hittites to Abraham,
as a burial site (Gen. 23:16-20, emphasis added).
And Abraham breathed his last, dying at a good ripe age, old and
contented; and he was gathered to his kin. His sons Isaac and Ishmael
buried him in the cave of Machpelah, in the field of Ephron son of
Zohar the Hittite, facing Mamre, the field that Abraham had bought
from the Hittites; there Abraham was buried, and Sarah his wife (Gen.
25:8-10, emphasis added).
And Jacob came to his father Isaac at Mamre, at Kiriath-arba – now

Hebron – where Abraham and Isaac had sojourned. Isaac was a hundred
and eighty years old when he breathed his last and died. He was gathered
to his kin in ripe old age; and he was buried by his sons Esau and Jacob
(Gen. 35:27-29).
Thus his sons did for him as he had instructed them. His sons carried
him to the land of Canaan, and buried him in the cave of the field of
Machpelah, the field near Mamre, which Abraham had bought for a
burial site from Ephron the Hittite. After burying his father, Joseph
returned to Egypt, he and his brothers and all who had gone up with
him to bury his father (Gen. 50:12-14).
While throughout the patriarchal narratives “the field(s)” is frequently

the “off-stage” space from which characters arrive, it is ultimately the space
to which they will finally all return – in death. Functioning as the locus
of death, “the field(s)” to some extent represents the unrepresentable;
an irreducible, unsymbolizable void – the pre-creative chaotic void
(whbw wht) which may be divided (ordered in terms of a legal/illegal
dichotomy), but never fully overcome.12
If then we take the function of narrative space seriously, in terms of its
influence upon characters (whether individual or an entire nation), objects,
and plot movement within a given narrative; we are presented with a fresh
way of reading biblical narratives, which focuses specifically on the
underlying structures of the text. But what would such a “spatial reading”
(for want of a better term) of biblical narrative look like; what new factors
would arise from the interpretative process itself? Perhaps the best way to
test the veracity of our conclusions thus far is to apply these ideas to the
text itself.
CHAPTER 6
DETERMINING SPACE IN THE BOOK OF RUTH
This chapter represents an attempt to coalesce the conclusions we have

reached in the previous chapters, in order to apply them to a larger test case.
My intent here is not to implement an “interpretative model” per se (the
reader will note that no such “model” has been discussed throughout this
book), but, more modestly, to bear out the veracity of those suggestions
raised in earlier discussion; the foremost of which being that certain “spaces”
function as determinate factors within the Hebrew aesthetic. Our approach
to the book of Ruth will thus differ from the typical interpretative, or
commentary style investigations, and will remain primarily focused on
the function and influence of key spaces throughout the book. Initially
then I will identify the major spaces at work within the narrative, before
moving on to examine the influence they exert upon three major
components of the text; those of structure, plot and characterization.
Determining Space in the Book of Ruth 85
Stories within Stories

While our engagement with the book of Ruth must remain somewhat
restricted – focusing primarily on the function of determinate spaces within
the text – it nonetheless seems prudent to begin this chapter by coming to
terms with the structure and function of the book, both in its current
biblical context, and as an independent literary unit. At first glance the
book appears deceptively simple in both form and content – a quaint story
of a young Moabite woman who gives up her own heritage for the sake of
her ill-fated mother-in-law. Despite its fable-like character however, the
book of Ruth is far from politically or ideologically disinterested. The first
hint of a deeper political impetus behind the text is raised within the first
few verses of chapter 1, which outline the rapid demise of Elimelech’s family
line:
Elimelech, Naomi’s husband, died; and she was left with her two sons.
They married Moabite women, one named Orpah and the other Ruth,
and they lived there about ten years. Then those two – Mahlon and
Chilion – also died; so the woman was left without her two sons (hydly)
and without her husband (Ruth 1:3-5).
Naomi took the child (dlyh) and held it to her bosom. She became its
foster mother, and the women neighbours gave him a name, saying, “A
son is born to Naomi!” They named him Obed; he was the father of
Jesse, father of David. This is the line of Perez: Perez begot Hezron,
Hezron begot Ram, Ram begot Amminadab, Amminadab begot
Nahshon, Nahshon begot Salmon, Salmon begot Boaz, Boaz begot
Obed, Obed begot Jesse, and Jesse begot David (Ruth 4:16-22).
As E. F. Campbell notes, the conspicuous use of the term dly (“boy/

youth”) in chapter 1, designating Naomi’s married sons, serves to link the
initial movement of the book to the final scene in chapter 4 (Campbell,
1975: 56; cf. Joüon, 1953: 35). This rather idiosyncratic use of dly binds the
book together with a certain sense of symmetry, emphasizing the central
plot-movement of the book as a whole; namely the progression from Naomi’s
initial lack of progeny, to the eventual fulfilment of that lack through the
birth of Obed. The closing genealogy of the book (typically viewed as a
latter addition to the original text) is of particular significance in that it
provides a greater political context for the narrative itself, bringing into
focus the underlying function of the text. Naomi’s story, and by extension
the story of Ruth’s marriage to Boaz, is thus recast in terms of the royal
Davidic lineage. The “chance” meeting of Ruth and Boaz is merely a means
of filling the greater need of Naomi’s lack, and thus averting the abrupt
demise of David’s family line. The placement of such a genealogy at the

close of the book betrays a deep-seated political agenda behind the narrative
– namely the intent to defend a contemporary political position against
competing political claims.1
The reason for attaching this overtly political genealogy, in adjunct
fashion, to the story proper is perhaps best revealed in the conspicuous
phrase, “Ruth the Moabite” (hyb)wmh twr). At the heart of the text lies a
concern to mitigate the problematic notion of King David’s Moabite origins;
to answer the criticisms levelled by his political opponents, and reinforce
the legitimacy of his position. Hence this delightful little tale transforms
an essentially “illegal” relationship between a Moabite widow and a
prominent Israelite (cf. Deut. 23:4-7) from its essential illegality to a matter
of necessity – a means of ensuring the continuation of David’s family line.
Story of David’s Lineage
Naomi’s Lack
Ruth and Boaz
The book of Ruth thus exhibits a threefold structure wherein the

endearing story of Ruth and Boaz is overshadowed by the larger story of
Naomi’s lack of progeny, which in turn comes under the overarching
problematic of David’s tainted lineage. Naomi’s story thus acts as a go-
between for the central story of Ruth’s problematic relationship with Boaz,
and the overarching story of David’s lineage; it is through Naomi’s
exemplary character and the “justness” of her cause (to perpetuate
Elimelech’s name) that the perverse relationship between Ruth and Boaz
can be “legalised,” and David’s problematic heritage explained. That the
book functions so seamlessly on these distinct levels is testament to its
pedigree; indeed, defending the impure bloodline of Israel’s most
noteworthy king is no mean feat.2
Narrative Space and the Structure of Ruth

In an effort to now examine the spatial structure of the book of Ruth, we
will begin by sketching out its plot by means of the following chart, the
purpose of which is to enable us to identify the key spaces within the
narrative, and the movement of characters between these spaces. The chart
has been designed in such a manner as to emphasize the “stage-like”
characteristics of the text (movement from “onstage” and “offstage” spaces),
and the legal/illegal dichotomy which figures so prominently throughout
the biblical text.
From this simple chart, we are able to confirm that certain narrative
spaces form an invaluable part of the overall structure of the book. The
narrative itself takes place within five major spaces – Bethlehem, the
fields of Moab, Boaz’s field, the threshing floor, and the (city) gate. As the
previous chart suggests, these spaces can, in turn, be grouped into three
overarching spatial realms; namely the “legal,” “illegal,” and “judicial” or
“trans-legal.”
Legal Illegal Legal
Off-stage On-stage Off-stage
Chapter 1 BETHLEHEM FIELDS OF MOAB BETHLEHEM

Famine drives Family dwells in Moab Naomi returns,
Elimelech from – suffers barrenness, “empty” handed, to
Bethlehem and death of all male Bethlehem [with
members. [Naomi Ruth]
lacks dly and food.
Naomi intends to
return – Ruth clings/
Orpah stays
Chapter 2 BETHLEHEM BOAZ’S FIELD BETHLEHEM

Ruth states intention Ruth gains both food Ruth gives gift of
to “glean” and “find and protection from food to Naomi – the
favour” – Naomi Boaz women discuss Boaz’s
assents status as Redeemer
Chapter 3 BETHLEHEM THRESHING FLOOR BETHLEHEM

Naomi gives Ruth gains food and Ruth gives gift of
instruction to Ruth protection from Boaz food to Naomi –
(an education in + willingness to act as Naomi instructs Ruth
harlotry) redeemer to wait in Bethlehem
Ruth assents
Chapter 4 CITY GATE BETHLEHEM

(Judicial Space)
Boaz acts as redeemer Boaz and Ruth
– and legalizes his conceive and a child is
relationship with Ruth born to Naomi – the
line of David is
established
Legal Illegal
Bethlehem fields of Moab/Boaz’s field/
threshing floor
Judicial (Trans-legal)
(city) gate
Thus, in the book of Ruth, we see the same “legal/illegal” dichotomy as

that established in the Genesis creation accounts, structured around two
primary spaces – the city of “Bethlehem” (a “lawful” space, analogous to
“the garden/the tents” in Genesis), and the realm of “the field(s)” (a single
appellation encompassing the “fields of Moab,” “Boaz’s field” and “the
threshing floor”). It is noteworthy, however, that the book of Ruth also
features a third, “judicial” space (“the [city] gate”) which acts as a kind of
“trans-space” between the third and fourth chapters; a space which serves
to facilitate the narrative’s final resolution in Bethlehem (Jameson, 1973:
52-89). Dividing the book in terms of these three spatial categories allows
us to clearly examine the influence which key spaces within the book exert
upon the various components of the narrative itself. Viewing Ruth in this
manner also brings to mind the “stage-play” analogy we discussed earlier;
where characters enter the story from an “off-stage” space (Bethlehem),
performing certain actions “on-stage” (Boaz’s field, the threshing floor, etc.)
and then move “off-stage” again. It is noteworthy, however, that the onstage/
offstage orientation of the spaces in Ruth is inverted to the norm established
in Genesis. While both the creation and Jacob/Esau narratives employ “the
field(s)” (precisely as an “illegal” space) as a consistently off-stage space, in
contrast to the “Garden/tents” as on-stage, in the book of Ruth, it is
“Bethlehem” (precisely as “legal” space) which is consistently off-stage, and
“the field(s)” which acts as the primary, on-stage locus of action. Throughout
the book of Ruth, Bethlehem consistently functions as an off-stage space,
from which actors frequently arrive (1:1; 2:4; 3:6) and to which they later
return (1:22; 2:18; 3:15), while in contrast “the field(s)” functions as an on-
stage space, the locus of narrative action and meeting place of Ruth and
Boaz. This “on-stage” character of “the field(s)” in Ruth is significant in
terms of the overall structure of the book, highlighting the fact that it is
precisely illegal space, and by extension illegal activity, which lies at the
heart of the book.
Chapters 2 and 3
In terms of the book’s overall structure, chapters 2 and 3 form a kind of
“illegal” core at the heart of the text, focusing explicitly on the problematic
relationship between Ruth and Boaz; a relationship which is itself
established within the “unlawful” realm of “the field(s).” The outer chapters
of the book, however, are decidedly more “legal” in nature. Chapter 1
primarily focuses on Naomi’s movement away from the “fields of Moab”
and toward Bethlehem – the movement from illegality to legality – while
chapter 4 outlines Boaz’s legalizing gesture at the “[city] gate” (effectively
“legalizing” his relationship to Ruth). Thus, despite the apparent unity of
the book, Ruth exhibits a basic structural division which is constitutive to
its current composition. Chapters 2 and 3 form a somewhat autonomous
narrative unit, the “illegal” core of the book, which plots Ruth’s
fraternisation with Boaz, while chapters 1 and 4 form a kind of overarching
meta-narrative, the interpretative context for this perverse core at the heart
of the story.3 The similarities between chapters 2 and 3 are striking:
• Both chapters follow a highly “theatrical” path from the “off-stage”
space of “Bethlehem,” through the “on-stage” realm of “the field(s),”
before returning “off-stage” to “Bethlehem” (Bertman, 1965:
165-68).
• Each chapter contains an opening scene detailing a discussion
between Ruth and Naomi (each ending with an imperative
statement by Naomi – in chapter 2, a staccato statement “go
daughter!” in contrast to the string of imperatives in chapter 3,
“bathe, anoint yourself, clothe yourself, go!”) to which Ruth
obediently responds.
• Each chapter narrates a subsequent encounter between Boaz and
Ruth, initiated in both cases by Boaz’s question regarding Ruth’s
identity (2:5, “whose girl is this?”; 3:9, “who are you?”), followed by
Boaz urging Ruth to stay (2:8; 3:13), and pronouncing a blessing
upon her (2:12; in reversed order in 3:10), then concluded with a
gift of food (2:16-17; 3:15).
• The third act of each chapter returns to Bethlehem, where Naomi
receives both the gift of food and news of Boaz respectively (2:18-
19; 3:17).
Chapters 2 and 3 thus form a neat narrative unit, the central core of the
book, which narrates the budding relationship between Boaz and Ruth.
Chapters 1 and 4
Both structurally and thematically, chapters 1 and 4 act as the overarching
meta-context for the central two chapters of the book of Ruth, providing a
“legal” interpretative context for Ruth’s essentially “illegal” relationship
with Boaz. Chapter 1 introduces the two key spatial realms upon which
the narrative as a whole will be acted out (the legal realm of “Bethlehem”
and the illegal realm of the “field[s]”), while the fourth chapter outlines
the concluding movement from “illegal” space, in previous chapters, to a
final resolution in the legal realm of Bethlehem. Together the chapters
provide both the initial momentum of the narrative, predicated on an
initial “lack” arising from Elimelech’s disastrous migration to Moab (namely
Naomi’s immediate need for food [lit. “bread” – Mkl] and long term need
of a son [dly – cf. 1:5]), and the resolution of that lack (securing Boaz as
benefactor and the birth of Obed in 4:13 [cf. Campbell, 1975: 16]). While
Naomi has been made “bitter” ()rm) and “empty” (Mqyr, cf 1:13, 20) in
chapter 1, the birth of her grandson and the acquisition of a financial
benefactor in chapter 4 suggests that she is once again “full.” It is precisely
this overarching meta-narrative which serves to transform the narrative it
surrounds, namely the story of Ruth and Boaz, from illegality to legality; a
function which is indicated most clearly in the structure of the key spaces
within the book as a whole.
Legal
Chapters 1 4
Illegal
Chapters 2 3
Thus, in terms of its overall structure, the book of Ruth bares striking
similarities to that of Job; namely that of a somewhat problematic narrative
(Ruth’s relationship with Boaz/Job’s blasphemous speeches) “sanctified” to
some extent (or perhaps “legalized”) by means of an overarching narrative
framework.
Prologue Narrative Proper Epilogue

Ruth 1 (lack) 2–3 4 (resolution)
Job 1:1–2:13 (lack) 3–42:6 42:7-17 (resolution)
The prologue and epilogue of the book of Job function as a narrative

vindication for Job himself – given his exemplary character as “blameless
and upright” (#&yw Mt) in chapter 1, Job can hardly be condemned for his
later outbursts in chapters 3 to 42 – ensuring that he is viewed in a decidedly
positive light.4 In precisely the same manner, chapters 1 and 4 of the book
of Ruth serve to “vindicate” the sensitive material in chapters 2 and 3;
Ruth’s relationship with Boaz no longer stands in its own right, but exists
precisely as a means to a greater end, a necessary evil which ultimately
facilitates the continuation of David’s family line. To what extent then, we
must ask, do the key spaces throughout Ruth influence the book’s overall
structure? Clearly, the use of “illegal” and “legal” space, in combination
with a third “trans-legal” realm, serves to reinforce a single structural
division between chapters 1 and 4, as the overarching context to the
narrative proper, and chapters 2 and 3. In light of this overarching structure,
these narrative spaces engender a strong sense of movement from “illegality”
to “the legal,” providing the major impetus for the plot of the narrative – to
the point where the entire narrative can be reduced, in spatial terms, to a
single movement from “illegal” space to “legal” space.
Narrative Space and the Plot of Ruth

The “Fields of Moab”
The phrase b)wm yd#& (“fields of Moab”), occurs no less than seven times
within the book of Ruth (1:1, 2, 6 [x2], 22; 2:6; 4:3), a significant fact given
that the term appears on only five other occasions throughout the entire
HB (Gen. 36:35; Isa. 15:8; Jer. 48:33; 1 Chron. 1:46; 8:8). The importance of
the phrase is further heightened given the frequency of “field”-like language
and indeed the prominence of “legal” terminology throughout the book.
While the reader might be tempted to see the phrase “fields of Moab” in
purely geographical terms, as a benign descriptive appellation, a means by
which the author provides some historical feasibility to the story, I would
suggest that connecting the nation of Moab to a space like “the field(s)” is
far from benign. Regardless of the original intent behind the use of the
phrase b)wm yd#& (which may well have been motivated by purely
descriptive concerns), in its current context within the HB, the phrase
serves to highlight the “illegality” of this particular people group by linking
them with archetypal “illegal” space. In light of the stigma attached to the
nation of Moab throughout the biblical text (cf. Gen. 19:37; Deut. 23:4-7;
Num. 25:1-5), the term “fields of Moab” clearly represents far more than a
mere geographical tag.
And it happened, in the days when Judges judged, there was a famine in
the land. And a certain man walked from Bethlehem of Judah and
migrated to the fields of Moab; he, and his wife, and his two sons. That
man’s name was Elimelech, and his wife’s name was Naomi, and the
names of his two sons were Mahlon and Chilion. They were Ephraimites
from Bethlehem in Judah. They came to the fields of Moab and settled
there (Ruth 1:1-2, emphasis added).
The book of Ruth begins, in rather ironic fashion, by introducing the

“fields of Moab” as the apparent remedy to an initial “lack” of food – upon
which the Torah already pronounces its judgment (cf. Fewell and Gunn,
1988: 103):
While Israel was staying at Shittim, the people profaned themselves by
whoring with the Moabite women, who invited the people to the
sacrifices for their god. The people ate, and worshiped that god. Thus
Israel attached itself to Baal-peor, and Yahweh was incensed with Israel
(Num. 25:1-3, emphasis added).
The irony of this is, of course, that within the story itself the “fields of
Moab” generates an even greater, almost sublime, lack within the
Ephraimite family who have made it their home. The reader is thus caught
somewhat off-guard; while the story seems initially to spring directly from
an initial lack of food, in Bethlehem, this situation is thoroughly
overshadowed by the much more weighty “lack” initiated through the
family’s migration to Moab. The famine in Bethlehem is a false start which,
in the end, serves only to situate the narrative proper in the “fields of
Moab,” the land of lack, from whence the story will truly progress. This is
perhaps a shrewd means of excusing Bethlehem (precisely as legal space)
from culpability – the true lack comes from Moab (illegal space), not
Bethlehem.
Upon the death of Elimelech, her husband, Naomi was left with her two
sons. They took for themselves Moabite wives, the name of the first
was Orpah, and the name of the second Ruth. They dwelt there for
about ten years; but the two of them (Mahlon and Chilion) also died,
and the woman was left alone without her two boys and her husband
(Ruth 1:3-5).
The years spent in Moab are narrated rapidly; Elimelech’s death, the
marriage of his sons and consequent death of all remaining male members
of the family are glossed over, quickly leaving Naomi without progeny
(without dly), security, or a means of provision. Thus, while the actual
time spent in Moab may have been substantial, in terms of narrated time,
the marriages to foreign women, and consequent succession of male deaths
is swift and somewhat utilitarian – clearly, the author wishes to establish

the central problematic of the story quickly.5 The rapid narration of disasters
(reminiscent of Job 1:14-19) frames the “fields of Moab” in potently negative
terms, confirming the “illegal” status of the space. The implicit lesson is
undoubtedly that Elimelech has brought disaster upon his family by the
very act of moving from the legal space of “Bethlehem” (which is consistently
“legal” throughout Ruth), to the “fields of Moab,” and further compounding
his error by allowing his sons to intermarry with foreign women.6 It is thus
of particular note that the only marriage within the book of Ruth which
actually produces offspring (clear evidence of divine approval within the
Hebrew biblical tradition) is that between Ruth and Boaz, a marriage which
takes place in the “legal” realm of Bethlehem, and not “the fields of Moab.”
As Jack Sasson suggests, “the marriages [in the fields of Moab] have no
issue, for there would be no future for the sons of Israel in Moab”; the
narrative must ultimately turn to Naomi as the only Judean to have survived
the stay at Moab (Sasson, 1987: 322).
The Field of Boaz / the Threshing Floor

While the “fields of Moab,” in Ruth 1, act as a non-space, a tangible lack, a
kind of black hole which sucks the very life from Elimelech’s family (taking
both the living male members and the unborn children), the field-type
spaces in chapters 2 and 3 display a far more substantial, tactile character.
The “fields of Moab” in chapter 1 function precisely as narrated, or assumed
space (a space where the action of characters is assumed/narrated rather
than “acted out” as such), however, the “field of Boaz” and the “threshing
floor” in chapters 2 and 3 exhibit a far more “on-stage” quality; functioning
as a central space upon which Ruth and Boaz “act.” In this sense b)wm yd#&
is a kind of initial plot catalyst, a mechanism which provides the story’s
internal movement, the “lack” which presupposes its own resolution,
whereas “the fields” in which Ruth and Boaz act are far more concrete
spaces, in which the problematic narrative kernel at the heart of Ruth is
acted out.
The “field-like” spaces in chapters 2 and 3 retain the “illegal”
connotations associated with “the fields of Moab,” however, this “illegality”
seems to intensify in correlation with the movement from a first encounter
in a public space (“Boaz’s field”) to a more clandestine meeting at the
“threshing floor.”7 In chapter 2, “Boaz’s field” is both a promising, yet
dangerous space for Ruth; a fact signalled by Boaz’s assurance in 2:9, “I have
ordered the men not to molest ((gn) you,” and reiterated in Naomi’s later
instruction in verse 22, “It is best daughter that you go out with his girls,
and not be encountered (pg() in some other field.”8 Despite its danger,
“Boaz’s field” performs a vital function as a “public” space which can both
engender Ruth’s intention to catch Boaz’s eye, and simultaneously resolve
Ruth’s immediate lack of food – ultimately the field is in fact the necessary
mechanism which initiates Ruth’s relationship with Boaz.
The “threshing floor” plays an equally “necessary” role within the
narrative; a somewhat questionable space where the level of intimacy
between the story’s protagonists notably increases. The actions which Ruth
takes in preparing to go to the threshing floor are particularly noteworthy;
she is instructed by Naomi to “bathe, anoint herself, dress, and go” to the
“threshing floor,” and to approach Boaz only when he has finished eating
and drinking (3:3). Once Boaz, full of wine, has laid his head to rest, Ruth
must “uncover his feet and lie down” next to the man, awaiting his
instructions. Such actions seem appropriate to an “illegal” space like the
threshing floor, (the insinuation being that Ruth would never perform
such actions in Bethlehem), a space of which the prophet Hosea wrote,
“You have loved a harlot’s hire upon every threshing floor” (Hos. 9:1). The
scene is also deeply reminiscent of Genesis 19, the story of Lot’s daughters
who sleep with their inebriated father in the hope of “maintaining life”
and continuing the family name (Gen. 19:32). Clearly, Ruth’s Moabite
heritage, her incestuous origins, suggest that her attempt to seduce Boaz
in this manner is somewhat befitting (indeed, the same motif is at work in
the Judah-Tamar story, where Tamar resorts to tricking her father-in-law
by “playing the harlot”).9 For all intents and purposes Ruth herself has
gone to Boaz at the threshing floor as a harlot – sent by Naomi in the hope
of entrapping Boaz and hopefully enforcing marriage, thus securing
financial wellbeing from this “man of substance” whose previous gift of
food, has promised so much more.
Despite their differences, both “Boaz’s field” and the “threshing floor”
are identical to “the fields of Moab” in terms of their illegal status; however,
while the later is predominantly an “off-stage” space, the former serve as
the “on-stage” locus of action in chapters 2 and 3. All three spaces perform
a vital role in initiating and sustaining the overall movement of the story,
a movement from illegality to the legal, from the fields of Moab to
Bethlehem. The plot itself is driven along by these “illegal” spaces, and the
“lack” which they represent, a lack which can ultimately only be resolved
by means of “legal” space.
Bethlehem
In contrast to the earthy, tactile nature of the illegal spaces in chapters 2
and 3, Bethlehem possesses an almost ethereal quality – far removed from
the vicissitudes of “the field(s).” Throughout the book of Ruth, Bethlehem
consistently maintains its status as a “legal” space, analogous to the Garden
of Eden, and “the tents” throughout Genesis. Because it occupies a
conspicuous position both at the beginning and at the end of the narrative,
Bethlehem serves to effectively bracket the story of Ruth and Boaz with
“legality” – overcoming, to some extent, the “illegal” core of the book.
Indeed, the book of Ruth as a whole could be said to plot an urgent return
to “Bethlehem” (legal space), initiated in chapter 1 by the disaster which
befalls Naomi, prompting her to leave the “fields of Moab” to seek a
resolution for her immediate lack of food (1:6). This movement is further
reinforced within the smaller narrative kernel in chapters 2 and 3 by Boaz’s
desire to “acquire” Ruth (4:10), and resolve his own “lack”; namely that of
companionship (cf. 3:10). Indeed, the conspicuous absence of “the field(s)”
from the final chapter of the book suggests that this overarching movement
toward Bethlehem has neared completion – “the fields(s)” have forever
been left behind. In this sense, Naomi’s final instruction for Ruth to “Stay
here daughter” (3:18 ytb yb#$), namely to stay in Bethlehem, signals what
might be termed the narrative-overcoming of “the field(s)”; Ruth will never
again meet Boaz in “the field(s)” but, through the legalizing gesture at the
city gate (symbolized by the exchange of a sandal), she will now dwell
forever in Bethlehem.
Due to its “off-stage” character, and over-arching position throughout
the book, Bethlehem takes on an almost metaphysical character, especially
in chapters 2 and 3; a place of wisdom and instruction, from which Ruth is
sent and to which she later returns with news of her exploits. Indeed, just
as the first and fourth chapters of the book of Ruth act as the interpretative
context for the narrative kernel in chapters 2 and 3, so Bethlehem itself, as
a space, provides an over-arching context for “the field(s)” upon which
Ruth and Boaz act. One could almost say that the entire story takes place
within the boundaries of Bethlehem or, perhaps more precisely, that the
story as a whole narrates the containment of “illegal” space. In this sense,
Bethlehem is always the goal of the narrative, always that which lays ahead,
the spatial means of leaving “illegality” behind. However, in order to traverse
the gap between illegal and legal space, a third “judicial” space is required
acting as a mediator between the two.
The “(City) Gate”

The “(city) gate” performs a unique function within the book of Ruth, a
function which seems both to reflect Boaz’s unique role as redeemer and
the need for an adequate space for his redeeming actions to be witnessed
and ratified. The fact that the “(city) gate” itself is a gate, a space which
stands at the limits of what is inside and outside, already suggests the
liminal nature of the place. This space is not polarized in the same manner
as “the fields(s)” or “Bethlehem,” perhaps because, in functioning as a judicial
realm, the “(city) gate” is already, in itself, internally polarized. It is neither
strictly “legal” or “illegal,” but itself determines what is “legal” and “illegal”;
transposing this very legal distinction onto the characters themselves within
the narrative – Boaz playing the “legal” role, and the kinsman redeemer, in
flaunting his legal obligation, playing an “illegal” role. In terms of the spatial
progression in the book of Ruth, the “(city) gate” also functions as an effective
spatial go-between for “the field(s)” and “Bethlehem,” a means of moving
from an illegal space, to a legal space.10 In terms of a stage-play, the “(city)
gate” is in fact the final “on-stage” space which enables the narrative as a
whole to progress permanently “off-stage” to its resolution in Bethlehem;
suggesting again that the entire purpose of the narrative is to shift the
problematic relationship between Ruth and Boaz permanently out of sight.
It is clear then that key spaces within Ruth exercise considerable influence
on narrative plot, which is largely symptomatic of their ontological status
as legal, illegal or judicial, their “on-stage/offstage” character, and placement
within the narrative. In terms of plot, illegal spaces serve both to produce
the initial “lack” of the story (cf. the “fields of Moab”) and as the central
stage for the necessary interaction between Ruth and Boaz (“Boaz’s field”
and the “threshing floor”). Legal space (Bethlehem), within the book,
functions as the end goal for the narrative; the spatial means of bringing
about a permanent resolution to the lack initiated through illegal space.
Judicial space (the “[city] gate”) makes possible a final movement from
“the field(s)” to “Bethlehem,” and by extension guarantees the “legalizing”
of Ruth’s relationship with Boaz, by transferring it from “illegality” to a
legal realm.
Narrative Space and Characterization in Ruth

We now turn our attention to the manner in which the key narrative spaces,
throughout the book of Ruth, influence the status and actions of characters
within the narrative. At the outset, it seems noteworthy that, just as three
spatial realms can be clearly identified within the book – the legal, illegal,
and judicial – three primary characters act throughout the story (Naomi,
Ruth and Boaz), each of whom is clearly identified with one particular
spatial realm (Naomi the legal, Ruth the illegal, Boaz the judicial). This
basic act of identification reveals a great deal about the actions of each
major character; actions which seem intimately bound to the status of the
space with which each character is primarily linked.
Ruth “the Moabite”

Despite the fact that she is, by rite of exogamy (cf. 1:16-17), effectively an
Israelite, it is noteworthy that Ruth is unable to shake off the appellation
“Ruth the Moabite” (1:22; 2:2, 6, 21; 4:5, 10) until the final movement of
the narrative (4:13); a designation which exacerbates her problematic
relationship with Boaz and her dubious position within David’s lineage
(4:18-22; cf. Nielsen, 1997: 44; Campbell, 1975: 57).
But Ruth replied, “Do not urge me to leave you, to turn back and not
follow you. For wherever you go, I will go; wherever you lodge, I will
lodge; your people shall be my people, and your God my God. Where
you die, I will die, and there I will be buried. Thus and more may the
Lord do to me if anything but death parts me from you.” When [Naomi]
saw how determined she was to go with her, she ceased to argue with
her; and the two went on until they reached Bethlehem.
When they arrived in Bethlehem, the whole city buzzed with
excitement over them. The women said, “Can this be Naomi?” “Do not
call me Naomi,” she replied. “Call me Mara, for Shaddai has made my
lot very bitter. I went away full, and the Lord has brought me back
empty. How can you call me Naomi, when the Lord has dealt harshly
with me, when Shaddai has brought misfortune upon me!”
Thus Naomi returned from the country of Moab; she returned with
her daughter-in-law Ruth the Moabite. They arrived in Bethlehem at
the beginning of the barley harvest (Ruth 1:16-22, emphsis added).
While the Targum to Ruth and Ruth Rabbah go to great lengths to cast
Ruth as the proselyte par excellence, the text itself indicates that, in spite
of her decision to share Naomi’s country, her people, and her god, Ruth
nevertheless retains her status as a Moabite – she will remain a “foreigner”
(hyrkn) until her relationship with Boaz has been legally ratified at the
“(city) gate” (symbolized through the acceptance of the rightful redeemer’s
sandal, cf. 4:7 [cf. Moore, 1998: 214; Nielsen, 1997: 20, 52]). The title “Ruth
the Moabite” itself accentuates the central question raised in chapters 2
and 3; namely how can a Moabite woman be considered worthy of such a
“man of substance” (lyh rwbg #$y)) as Boaz, and by extension, how can
she herself be worthy of the title “noble woman” (lyh t#$) – 3:11); a title
which reflects the fabled woman from Proverbs 31:10? The appellation
“Ruth the Moabite” reflects not only Israel’s historical dealings with the
Moabite nation (their “illegal” status as descendents of incest, etc.), but
also the more immediate characterization of the “fields of Moab” within
the book of Ruth itself. The “fields of Moab,” precisely as an “illegal” space,
exercise considerable influence over Ruth; indeed, the phrase itself seems
to marry both the problematic nature of Ruth’s status as a “foreigner,” and
the illegality of “the field(s)” where she primarily acts.
This title suggests that Ruth herself represents a certain stubborn residue
of the “lack” which characterizes the “fields of Moab” in chapter 1; that
which was taken from Naomi (namely her husband, and sons, her future
progeny and provision). Thus, upon her return to Bethlehem, Naomi can
insist, with regret, that Yahweh has indeed brought her back “empty” from
the “fields of Moab,” despite the presence of her daughter-in-law. This
statement itself, usually taken to indicate Naomi’s grief-stricken disregard
for Ruth, may well represent precisely the opposite; Naomi fully recognizes
the presence of Ruth, but Ruth qua lack; the very embodiment of Naomi’s
loss (cf. Trible, 1978: 174). In this sense Naomi returns “empty,” precisely
because she returns with Ruth.
Beyond this representative connection to the “fields of Moab,” Ruth’s
actions upon returning to Bethlehem, particularly her eagerness to go to
“the fields” (2:2), seem somewhat appropriate given that she is accustom
to dwelling in such “illegal” spaces. In contrast to Naomi, who remains
constantly in Bethlehem after chapter 1, Ruth seems unable to settle down
in such a legal space, but must repeatedly return to illegal spaces. Indeed,
it is not until the final movement of the narrative, when Ruth is no longer
burdened with the title “the Moabite,” that she is able to leave behind
illegal space and legitimately dwell in the “legal” realm of Bethlehem. In
this sense, the whole book of Ruth runs along a dual axis depicting both
Ruth’s attempt to leave behind her Moabite heritage (represented in the
title “Ruth the Moabite”), and the illegal spaces she frequents. Just as the
book as a whole could be said to plot the journey from illegal to legal space,
so also Ruth herself must leave behind the illegality of her own heritage
and, through marriage to Boaz, enter permanently into the legal realm of
Bethlehem. One can, in fact, plot this steady progression in terms of the
titles used to address Ruth throughout the book, from that which confirms
her initial status as “foreigner” to Boaz’s use of the term “noble woman” (cf.
Sasson, 1987: 324-25):
hyrkn ykn)w ynrykhl Kyny(b Nh yt)cm (wdm wyk) rm))tw

2:10 (foreigner)
bl-l( trbd ykw yntmxn yk ynd) Kyny(b Nx-)cm) rm)tw

2:13 (maidservant) Ktxp#$
Ktm) twr ykn) rm)tw 3:9 (servant)
t) lyx t#$) yk ym( r(#$-lk (dwy yk 3:11 (noble woman)
Despite this titular progression in chapters 2 and 3, a progression which

takes place largely in Boaz’s eyes, the fact remains that Ruth must still be
legalized by a final gesture enacted at the “(city) gate.”
Naomi
In terms of structure, the figure of Naomi is of great importance within the
book of Ruth, occupying a position which is somewhat analogous to the
overarching function of the first and fourth chapters of the book as a whole.
Both the two overarching chapters, and the narrative character of Naomi
herself, act as the interpretative context for the smaller narrative kernel in
chapters 2 and 3, and the questionable relationship between Ruth and
Boaz.11 Naomi’s overarching story grants the problematic narrative at the
centre of the book a certain degree of necessity; such that Ruth’s relationship
with Boaz is made to rest within the larger meta-narrative of Naomi’s lack.
The inappropriate (that is “illegal”), or at the very least questionable,
interaction between Ruth and Boaz is thus a “necessary” means of regaining
that which Naomi has lost (namely her offspring, Elimelech’s lineage), and
thus ultimately guaranteeing the continuation of the royal Davidic family
line. The central Ruth/Boaz narrative is recast as a kind of “vanishing
mediator,” the perverse core which enables a seamless movement from the
narration of Naomi’s initial lack in chapter 1, to the concluding genealogy
in chapter 4.
The manner in which Naomi is portrayed throughout the book seems
to suggest a central authorial concern to maintain her exemplary character
in a story abundant with “illegality.” It seems that, in order for Naomi to
fulfill her “legalizing” role – in order for her own story to justify the
problematic relationship between Ruth and Boaz – Naomi herself must be
kept from illegality, both in terms of her activity, and any attachment to
illegal space. Note, for example, that the initial disastrous migration to
Moab is placed squarely on the shoulders of Elimelech; of the whole family
who moved to this illegal space, only Naomi takes the appropriate action
of returning (bw#$) to Bethlehem – returning to legal space. Upon their
return, Naomi remains in Bethlehem, in legal space, for the remainder of

the narrative; of the two women, only Ruth (precisely as “the Moabite”)
ventures once again into illegal space, travelling to “the field(s)” in chapters
2 and 3. In terms of what she actually does throughout the narrative, it is
particularly noteworthy that Naomi only “acts,” as such, within the first
and fourth chapters of the book – journeying initially back to Bethlehem
in chapter 1 (1:6), and performing the final act of taking her grandson in
her arms in chapter 4 (4:16).
Chapter 1 Naomi acts
Chapters 2 and 3 Ruth acts
Chapter 4 Naomi acts
In the middle chapters of the book, Naomi does not herself “act,” but
rather acts through her daughter-in-law, whom she twice instructs and
dispatches to the illegal realm of “the field(s).” The fact that Naomi “acts”
decisively in chapter 1 as the central figure of the narrative, yet all too
willingly gives up the role of “heroine” to Ruth in chapters 2 and 3 –
precisely when “illegal” activity is required – highlights the narrator’s
apparent desire to emphasize Naomi’s exemplary character; Naomi must
remain consistently legal throughout the narrative, thus giving her own
story the necessary credibility.
In terms of space, Naomi consistently demonstrates a strong connection
to Bethlehem, precisely as a legal space. This connection is particularly
vivid in chapters 2 and 3; it is from Bethlehem that Naomi receives news
and gifts from Ruth, and consequently instructs and dispatches Ruth to
act on her behalf (cf. 2:2, 22b; 3:3, 18). Due to her intimate connection to
this location, namely the almost metaphysical (“off-stage”) realm of
Bethlehem, Naomi takes on the status of a kind divine sender – her oracular
words transcend the natural, earthly realm of “Boaz’s field/threshing floor,”
coming from some “off-stage” (one is almost tempted to say spiritual) realm,
imbued with creative power and authority. Indeed, the metaphysical nature
of Bethlehem seems to influence words spoken within its boundaries; even
Ruth’s intention to go to the field (2:2), in the hope of finding both food
and someone who might “show kindness” to her, takes on the status of a
“divine,” oracular word. When Ruth does in fact go to the field, the two
needs she has voiced earlier in Bethlehem (the need for food and a
benefactor) are almost immediately fulfilled. The implication here is that
the words of Ruth, and indeed Naomi, are somewhat prophetic, not because
of the person speaking them, but precisely because they are spoken in
Bethlehem. This particular space impacts more than just the characters
themselves, it also influences their very words.
In chapters 2 and 3, Naomi’s words function in analogous fashion to

Yahweh’s divine speech in Genesis 25:3, in the story of Rebecca’s troubled
pregnancy with Jacob and Esau. In response to Rebecca’s inquiry as to the
“struggling” within her womb, Yahweh’s word exercises such decisive
power, that not only is the immediate cause of her pain explained, but the
very future itself is structured around the divine word. The two brothers
represent two nations; their pre-birth struggle foretells later animosity –
the bitter struggle for a single birthright – which in turn will grow into a
great antagonism between rival nations. In the same sense, Naomi’s speech
“makes sense” of the information which Ruth brings to her; but even more
than this, one could almost say that Naomi herself functions as the Lacanian
le sujet supposé savoir (the “subject supposed to know”) – her speech,
like that of the Freudian analyst, is “oracular” in the sense of a self-
interpreting oracle which comes about purely by its own supposition (Lacan,
1981: 230-43).
Metaphysical Physical Metaphysical
Chapter 2 BETHLEHEM FIELD OF BOAZ BETHLEHEM

Naomi as Sender Naomi as Recipient/Oracle
Chapter 3 BETHLEHEM THRESHING FLOOR BETHLEHEM

Naomi as Oracle Naomi as Recipient
As both sender and oracle, Naomi (much like Bethlehem itself ) exercises
a certain control over the otherwise coincidental relationship between Ruth
and Boaz, mitigating to some extent the “illegality” of that relationship.
Indeed, it is through Naomi’s instruction that Ruth is ultimately able to
secure Boaz’s intention to act as redeemer, which in turn will bring about
the final legalizing gesture at the “(city) gate” whereby Ruth’s illegal
relationship with Boaz is finally made legal. As a direct result of Naomi’s
oracular speech, the illegal centre of the book is recast in terms of its necessity
for a greater good – namely the continuation of the Davidic line. Within
the current framework of the book, Ruth’s relationship with Boaz is not
portrayed as an autonomous story, a relationship founded on mere
coincidence or chance, but rather as symptomatic of the larger logic of
Naomi’s overarching story; the story of a wholly righteous woman whose
lack Yahweh will ultimately choose to remedy through the unlikely union
of a Moabite widow and an Israelite “man of substance.”
Boaz
Upon entering the story in chapter 2, Boaz is immediately presented to the
reader both as “a man of substance” (lyx rwbg #$y)), and a suitable
“redeemer” (l)g) for Naomi. This dual status itself reflects the man’s
function within the narrative, both as the provider of food/protection, and
as kinsman redeemer; functions which will ultimately resolve the “lack”
introduced in chapter 1, namely Naomi’s dual lack of food and progeny. In
terms of his relationship to spaces within the narrative, Boaz differs from
both Ruth and Naomi in that he is not primarily restricted to one narrative
space. Throughout the story, Boaz is in fact the sole actor to move through
all three spatial realms (“legal,” “illegal,” and “judicial”), arriving from
“Bethlehem,” meeting with Ruth in “the field(s),” and performing the role
of redeemer at the “(city) gate.”
While the narrative undoubtedly portrays Boaz in a positive light, it
should be noted that Boaz is presented to the reader as little more than the
sum of his actions, one who provides food and protection, and ultimately
one who acts as kinsman redeemer.12 The fact that Boaz is willing to
“perpetuate the name of the deceased upon his estate” (4:5) proves his
righteousness (cf. Deut. 25:5-6), however, at a more subversive level, the
text seems to suggest that this very act of taking upon himself the burden
of kinsman redeemer (which the rightful redeemer is unwilling to do, lest
it affect his financial position) reflects Boaz’s infatuation with the young
woman who has come to share his bed, far more than it does the concern to
act in righteousness.
Indeed, the title “man of substance” may well refer more to Boaz’s status
as a wealthy man, who is ripe for the picking, rather than some deeper
integrity of character. Within the book of Ruth, the figure of Boaz fulfils an
analogous function to the father/king in various biblical narratives which
tell of the manipulation of some authoritative (yet characteristically weak/
shallow) figure, for the benefit of a certain people group or individual:
Genesis 27:18-23 Jacob swindles his brother’s birthright from Isaac.
Daniel 6:7-10 Royal couriers convince Darius to ban worship of foreign gods.
Esther 3:8-11 Haman convinces Ahasuerus to endorse the annihilation of the Jews.
Esther 5–7 Esther convinces King Ahasuerus to have Haman executed.
Job 1:9-12; 2:4-6 The Adversary twice convinces Yahweh to test Job’s integrity.
The king/father figure in each of these narratives is characteristically

shallow and manipulable, bending to the will of a subordinate either
through some form of deception (e.g., Isaac’s mistaking Jacob for Esau), or
simply by giving in to the other’s reasoning with little or no objection.
Throughout the book of Ruth, Boaz exhibits this same malleability, carried
along by the overarching logic of the narrative itself and enabling the plans
of those around him to come to fruition unhindered. It is rather ironic
then that Boaz, who himself performs the most decisive act of the entire
book (that of acting as kinsman redeemer), is in fact the least substantial
character within the story. In contrast, Naomi, while she performs very
little action throughout the story, is portrayed as a most substantial character,
guiding and manipulating circumstances to her own ends – indeed, one
almost gets the sense that Naomi acts, behind the scenes, as a kind of grand
puppet-master, manipulating Boaz through the actions of her daughter-
in-law.
Given the insubstantial nature of Boaz throughout the book of Ruth,
his actions at the “(city) gate” are of particular importance. The fact that
Boaz performs his most decisive action in a trans-legal, judicial space (note
that here Boaz himself acts, rather than being merely acted upon), seems to
highlight his own “insubstantial” nature as a character. Boaz is neither
strictly “legal” (as is Naomi), nor “illegal” (Ruth the Moabite), but is instead
a necessary component of the story itself. Just as Naomi is characterized by
her proximity to Bethlehem, and Ruth to “the field(s),” Boaz himself
functions in a deeply analogous fashion to the judicial space in which he
acts – he is the necessary narrative means of moving from lack to resolution,
from illegality to legality, from “the field(s)” to “Bethlehem.”
Thus, each of the three main characters within the book of Ruth is
defined specifically in relation to the primary (or in Boaz’s case, unique)
space(s) they inhabit: Ruth by the “fields of Moab” and “the field(s)” in
chapters 2 and 3, Naomi by the lawful realm of “Bethlehem,” and Boaz by
the “(city) gate” in which he performs his role as redeemer. This in itself
suggests that, within the book of Ruth, legality is a function of proximity,
confirming what we have seen elsewhere within the HB, that key spaces
within a given narrative tend to exercise considerable influence upon those
characters who primarily dwell within their boundaries.
“Overcoming Moab”: A Spatial Reading of the Book of Ruth

The foregoing attempt to approach the book of Ruth from a spatial
perspective – namely with the guiding assumption that key narrative spaces
within the HB are in some sense “determinate” factors within the text –
leads inevitably to the proverbial “chicken before the egg” problematic. Do
“spaces” themselves primarily influence narrative structure, plot, characters,
and so on, or is the reverse in fact true? Do certain characters take on an
“illegal” status because of the “illegal” spaces they primarily inhabit, or does
the value of such spaces merely reflect the illegal status of the characters
who act upon it? To rephrase the question, is “the field(s)” illegal because of
the actions which typically take place there (e.g., the murder of Abel, the
relationship between Ruth and Boaz), or does “the field(s)” gain its illegality
from these illegal actions themselves? In answering these questions, it should
be noted that these two perspectives are not in fact mutually exclusive, but
rather tend to bleed into one another throughout the HB. “The field(s),”
for example, is a somewhat appropriate space for an “illegal” Moabite such
as Ruth, and yet the very action she undertakes in “the field(s)” seems to
reinforce the “illegal” status of the space. Our reading of Ruth ultimately
suggests that the interplay between major components within the narrative
(structure, plot, and characterization) and key narrative “spaces,” is both
extensive and complex.
My contention here is not that “space” itself functions as the sole
determinate within the Hebrew aesthetic, but rather that key “spaces” act
as determinate factors (among other factors) within Hebrew narratives
such as the book of Ruth. It seems to me that a reading of the text which
takes seriously the value and influence of narrative space serves to greatly
enhance the interpretative process. Having outlined their influence
throughout the book, one can hardly imagine what the story of Ruth would
look like if the spaces within it were rid of their ontological value, devoid of
the presence they seem to exert within the narrative (although many
interpretations of the text do precisely this). These spaces reinforce and, to
some extent, determine the structure, plot and characterization of the
narrative, so much so that one could read the entire narrative in terms of
the interplay between legal and illegal space. The book would thus be
plotted in terms of its circular movement from “legality,” through “illegality”
to a final resolution in “legality” or, the movement from “Bethlehem,”
through “the fields” to return at “Bethlehem” again.
Legality Illegality Legality

Bethlehem The Fields Bethlehem
Lack Necessity Resolution
Given the structure of Ruth – that of an overarching narrative framework

(chapters 1 and 4) which “legalizes” a central narrative kernel (chapters 2
and 3) – the book also presents a second movement from “lack,” through
“necessity” to “resolution.” This later movement represents precisely the
manner in which the text, in its current form as a book, functions;
transforming the “illegality” of Ruth’s relationship with Boaz into an almost

noble act of necessity, a means to a greater end whereby Ruth and Boaz
themselves are merely vanishing mediators in the larger story of the
continuance of David’s lineage (cf. Brenner, 1993a: 141). In this sense, we
might well add to the book of Ruth the subtitle, “Overcoming Moab,”
suggesting the centrality of this very movement from illegality to the legal,
from “the field(s)” to “Bethlehem,” from Ruth’s own Moabite heritage
(represented by the appellation “Ruth the Moabite”) to her final role as a
surrogate for Naomi’s child.
CONCLUSION
Determinate “Space” within the Hebrew Aesthetic

The foregoing investigation began from one basic premise; that despite
the many benefits which modern “literary” approaches to biblical narrative
offer (their keen eye for narrative “technique” and the interconnectedness
of the text, etc.), such approaches tend to ignore any deeper, structurally
determinate, factors at work within text itself; factors which cannot simply
be reduced to components of “narrative technique.” In an effort to critique
this very deficiency, we have appealed to Russian folklorist, Vladimir Propp
– specifically his reduction of the many components of the Slavic fairy tale
to a set of clearly defined functions – as a means of critiquing the pseudo-
depth of narratological criticism (its infatuation with characterological
sophistication and the intricacies of the text). On a broader level, I have
suggested that the resolute “scientificity” of Propp’s deductive method
(the “specificity” of his model to its object, the scientific positivism of which
his work is symptomatic) offers a similar critique of contemporary
“interdisciplinarity”; the excessive borrowing of methods and models from
all manner of fields and disciplines (a process which Louis Althusser so
ardently opposed). Read in this manner, Propp himself represents the self-
imposed limits of “the scientific discipline,” the very limits of applicability.
In analysing recent attempts to “apply” Propp’s work to Hebrew narrative
(of which Pamela Milne’s work was particularly noteworthy), this Proppian
limit was clearly evident. Proppian analysis of the HB ultimately highlights
the strong aesthetic differences between Hebrew narrative and the Slavic
fairy tale, and reinforces the inapplicability of simply “applying” Propp to
a foreign object of study. Precisely at this point however, at the apex of this
Proppian limit, we have raised the possibility of a kind of Jamesonian
transcoding, maintaining this very limit, rather than an attempt to
circumvent it – an approach which produces several important side effects.
First, in maintaining the absolute aesthetic difference between Propp’s
Conclusion 107
fairy tale and Hebrew narrative, we are forced to recognize that the HB
itself requires a deductive method geared solely to itself; and secondly, a
closer analysis of Propp’s work suggests the existence of a determinate factor
at work within the Slavic fairy tale (what I have termed the “journeying
vector”) which finds no direct correlate within the Hebrew aesthetic.
The strong difference between these two aesthetic codes (namely the
HB and Slavic fairy tale) was further examined by means of the analogous
differences between modern cinema and the stage-play (Hitchcock’s North
by Northwest, and Rope); a difference which hinges largely upon the starkly
different function of “space” within each. Further analysis led to the
conclusion that “space” itself functions as a determinate factor within the
Hebrew aesthetic, concomitant to the function of the “journeying vector”
within the Proppian fairy tale. In an effort to test this hypothesis our
attention turned, initially at least, to the Bethel narrative of Genesis 28:10-
22; a story which seems to exhibit precisely the “stage-like” quality previously
discussed. The narrative also suggested that certain “spaces” act in
determinate fashion within Hebrew narrative precisely because of the
inherent, “ontological” value they seem to possess. This, in turn, led us to
ask what in fact structured the value of spaces, characters and the like
throughout the HB; to enquire as to what lies behind the Hebrew
Weltanscahuung itself. Regina Schwartz’s Curse of Cain, and in particular
the notion of the “law of scarcity,” suggested the existence of a single
constitutive division (a division between “in” and “out”) which structures
the biblical text.
In this sense, the Genesis creation narratives outline a process of division
on the grandest scale, the inauguration of a cosmic split (the very division
of primordial chaos) which henceforth structures all aspects of the HB.
The two primary spaces established by Yahweh’s creative action (“the
garden” and “the field[s]”) act as archetypal spaces within the Hebrew
aesthetic, precisely as representations of underlying “legal”/“illegal”
dichotomy, upon which the text is structured. From this perspective we
then traced the development of “illegal space” throughout the book of
Genesis, represented by the realm of “the field(s).” The final chapter
represents an attempt to gather up the ideas discussed in previous sections
and apply them to an ideal test-case; the book of Ruth. The text was analysed
on three major levels, namely the manner in which key “spaces” in the
narrative exerted their influence over structure, plot and characterization
within the book, ultimately suggesting that the book as a whole can be
read as a movement from “illegal” to “legal” space – from the fields of Moab
to Bethlehem.
While it has not been my intention, in writing this book, to develop a

comprehensive hermeneutical approach to the HB, I have sought to sketch
out some basic coordinates regarding the interpretation of Hebrew
narrative, which may eventually give rise to just such an endeavour. My
intention has been twofold: to affirm the unique nature of the Hebrew
aesthetic, and the consequent need for a thoroughly deductive approach
to Hebrew narrative, and secondly to suggest that such an approach should
give due recognition to the determinate, structural factors within the text,
of which “space” is undoubtedly a primary example. It is my firm belief that
reading a given narrative from the perspective of determinate space, will
present the reader with a host of new interpretative options which will
only enrich the reading process.
ENDNOTES
Introduction
1. See, for instance, the ambiguous position occupied by the chapter on
“structuralism/formalism” – i.e., somewhere between older, more traditional
disciplines and those newer, vaguely “poststructuralist” approaches – in The
Bible and Culture Collective (1995: 70-118).
2. The appellation “Narratology” is intended to gather together the common
elements among biblical critics who see the Hebrew Bible precisely as a literary
“work of art”; those who focus their attention specifically on “narrative techniques”
and “stylistic devices” within the text. The term “Narratology” has been retained
over and against the competing notion of “Poetics” (defined by Berlin as “the
science of literature…[that] sees its rules and principles from within literature
itself, without recourse to sciences outside of literature”), precisely because of
the broader connotations which the former term implies (Berlin, 1983: 16).
3. To quote Umberto Eco, “the text is nothing else but the semantic-pragmatic
production of its own Model Reader” (Eco, 1979: 10). What is less recognized is
the extent to which the very discipline of Narratology – and semiotics more
generally – emerged from the Thomistic aesthetic of participative beauty, that
aesthetic taste is a product of the interrelation of author and reader/viewer, an
interrelation which facilitates the reading/viewing process itself. This is, of course,
a purely historical and genealogical point, rather than necessarily theological-
hermeneutical. It is, for example, a well-known fact that Umberto Eco’s structural
semiotics developed directly from his earliest analysis of Thomistic aesthetics,
and the medieval visio (see Eco, 1988: 173-89; 216-22).
4. Note, for example, the manner in which Robert Alter critiques Meir
Sternberg’s early work, citing his tendency to “write about biblical narrative as
though it were a unitary production just like a modern novel [or movie] that is
entirely conceived and executed by a single independent writer who supervises
his original work from first draft to page proofs” (Alter, 1981: 19).
5. In this sense, Propp occupies a somewhat analogous position to Bertolt
Brecht, whose notion of theatre was that of a negative aesthetic – a theory of
performance specifically geared to the revolutionary conditions of Eastern
German life (cf. Blau, 1989: 175-97; Oesmann, 1997: 136-50).
6. As Pamela Milne attests, “attempts to employ Propp’s work in the analysis
of biblical texts have not been very fruitful to date” (Milne, 1988: 263).
7. Mieke Bal notes precisely this same characteristic of methodological “rigor”

in her earliest engagement with structuralism; “Going through the early
structuralist texts has been decisive for my thinking…I was enchanted, not by the
objectivity or generality never reached, but by the very pursuit of rigor” (Bal,
1991: 5).
8. Scripture quotations in this volume are taken from the Tanakh (1985).
Chapter 1
1. The current volume, with its focus on “Narratology” is concerned primarily
with the trajectory of narrative theory (caught to some degree in the wake of the
vigorous appropriation of French structuralist theory to biblical texts in the 70s)
largely typified in Robert Alter’s landmark book, The Art of Biblical Narrative,
and the work of such scholars as Shimon Bar-Efrat, Adele Berlin, and Meir
Sternberg; with their particular emphasis on the immense rhetorical sophistication
of biblical Hebrew narrative and the heightened characterological depth of its
dramatis personae. To a lesser extent, the work of scholars such as Mieke Bal,
Danna Nolan Fewell, David Gunn, David Jobling, and the “The Bible and Culture
Collective,” will also feature, while Pamela Milne’s Vladimir Propp and the Study
of Structure in Hebrew Biblical Narrative occupies a place of special interest due
to its focus on those works which attempted to apply the Proppian analysis to the
HB.
2. While it is clear that Narratology emerged from the broader disciplines of
Russian Formalism and French Structuralism, one could say, more radically,
that Narratology, as a discipline, emerged historically from early medieval
hermeneutics, that is, as a method geared toward the reading of the HB (hence
the infamous four levels of interpretation now canonized in Henri de Lubac’s
Exégèse médiévale [cf. de Lubac, 2000: 1-41; Jameson, 1981: 29-32]).
3. This explains to some degree the attraction of formalist/structuralist method
for someone like Jack Sasson, whose use of Proppian formalism represents an
attempt to traverse the ambiguous state of biblical genre classification, specifically
regarding the book of Ruth – a text which has traditionally defied consensus
regarding its literary type and genre (Sasson, 1995).
4. Propp identified the following functions, each indicated by a number
(1-31) and symbol: I. Member of family absents self from home: b; II. Interdiction
announced: g; III. Interdiction violated: d; IV. Villain tries to meet: e; V. Villain
receives information: z; VI. Villain attempts trickery: h; VII. Victim deceived: q;
VIII. Villain harms family: A; VIIIa. Member of family lacks or desires: a; IX.
Hero approached about lack: B; X. Seeker decides on counteraction: C; XI.
Hero leaves home: ↑; XII. Hero tested: prepares for magical agent: D; XIII. Hero
responds to test of donor: E; XIV. Hero gets magical agent: F; XV. Hero transferred
to object of search: G ; XVI. Hero and villain in direct combat: H; XVII. Hero
branded: J; XVIII. Villain defeated: I; XIX. Initial lack liquidated: K; XX. Hero
returns: ↓; XXI. Hero pursued: Pr; XXII. Rescue of hero from pursuit: Rs; XXIII.
Unrecognized, hero arrives home or other country: o; XXIV. False hero: L; XXV.
Difficult task: M; XXVI. Task resolved: N; XXVII. Hero recognized: Q; XXVIII.
Endnotes 111
False hero exposed: Ex; XXIX. Hero given new appearance: T; XXX. Villain
punished: U; XXXI. Hero marries and ascends throne: W
5. This recent inclusion of Proppian analysis to the field of biblical studies
doubtless reflects the pre-eminence of Propp’s work within the larger field of
formalist/structuralist thought, which has demonstrated an increasing influence
in biblical criticism since the early 70s. However, in plotting the emergence of
recent “literary” approaches to the HB which tend to incorporate formalist/
structuralist themes, we should not ignore the earlier influence of such biblical
scholars as Brevard Childs and James Muilenburg, whose “Form Criticism and
Beyond” proved so influential for a generation of biblical critics (cf. Muilenburg,
1992: 49-69; Childs, 1979).
6. While her program is less narrowly defined, Adele Berlin’s attempt to develop
a specific biblical “poetics” is marked by a similar specificity: “The type of poetics
that I am advocating is less foreign to biblical studies because it is derived from
and restricted to the Bible. I do not seek a theory that can be applied to all
narrative, but only a theory of biblical narrative” (Berlin, 1983: 19).
7. Indeed, Barbara Green has raised this very question regarding the
“application” of Mikhail Bakhtin’s work to Hebrew narrative (Green, 2000).
8. A statement which already misses the specificity of Propp’s work, the fact
that he dealt specifically with the Slavic “fairy tale,” and not “folktales” in general
(Sasson, 1995, 214; cf. Propp, 1978: 62-63).
9. Intellectual life in France in the late 50s to 60s presented a clear choice: one
was either a structuralist or a Heideggerian – a fact which highlights the importance
of a figure like Jacques Lacan, who managed, one might argue, to successfully
fuse the two (cf. Lacan, 2002: 31-106).
10. It should be noted, however, that the idea of “metacommentary” itself
arose in response to the impact of Russian Formalism and French Structuralism
in the late 50s and early 60s (Jameson, 1972; 1988a: 3-16).
11. It should be noted that several attempts to apply Jameson’s notion of
“Transcoding” to biblical texts have been undertaken, particularly in connection
with the journal Semeia (cf. Jobling, 1992: 95-127; Boer, 1996).
12. “If being is predicated of the one which exists and unity is predicated of
being which is one, and being and the one are not the same, but belong to the
existent one of our hypothesis, must not the existent one be a whole of which the
one and being are parts?” (Plato, 1970: 253).
13. In Slavoj Žižek’s words, “the point de capiton is rather the word which, as
a word, on the level of the signifier itself, unifies a given field, constitutes its
identity: it is, so to speak, the work to which ‘things’ themselves refer to recognize
themselves in their unity” (Žižek , 1989: 95-96).
14. Note that functions I, IX, XI, XV, XX, XXI, XXII, and XXIII all involve
some form of travel. (cf. Propp, 1968: 26-60)
Chapter 2
1. Perhaps then we might suggest that such smaller, “episodic” narrative units
represent what is most authentic, or essential to the Hebrew Weltanschauung.
2. Props themselves take on a ontology of their own, much like objects in an

Andrey Platonov novel; objects which seems to exist, to live in their own right as
characters within the story (Platonov, 2003).
3. Namely: the annunciation of the birth of a hero to his barren mother; the
encounter with the future betrothed at a well; the epiphany in the field; the
initiatory trial; danger in the desert and the discovery of a well or other source of
sustenance; the testament of the dying hero (cf. Alter, 1981: 51).
4. Yairah Amit goes so far as to suggest that this failure to adequately account
for narrative space derives from the influence of Hermann Gunkel’s work within
the field of biblical studies, in particular his view that “setting” is a secondary
consideration when approaching biblical narrative (Amit, 2001: 115-16).
5. Sternberg’s work is at times reminiscent of Gérard Genette’s attention to
temporal shifts in narrative, the notion of analepsis as a narrative equivalent of
the cinematic “flashback,” etc. (cf. Genette, 1980: 33-85)
Chapter 3
1. As Gerhard Von Rad writes, “the place has something emphatically
coincidental about it” (Von Rad, 1963: 278).
2. This Benjaminian naming occupies a strange place between both
“descriptivism” (the notion that words, already imbued with meaning, possess a
kind of adequatio with those objects which reflect their own internal, a priori
characteristics) and “anti-descriptivism” (where words are connected to a certain
object via a kind of “primal baptism,” an immutable fusing of signifier and signified
which cannot be undone). In opposition to both of these perspectives, the
Benjaminian [re]naming of Bethel maintains that all names are arbitrary (neither
contain their own internal characteristics, nor gain such characteristics through
the process of “primal baptism” – if so then Luz would always be Luz) other than
that which correctly designates the internal essence of Bethel itself (cf. Kripke,
1980; Žižek , 1989: 89-90).
Chapter 4
1. During the past fifty years “literary criticism” has come to occupy pride of
place within the field of biblical studies, dispossessing, to some extent, the earlier
“historical” criticism which had dominated the field since the late 1800s. As part
of this paradigm shift, scholars, in recent times, have tended to show far more
awareness of the complexities of the interpretative process itself; the interplay
between reader and text, and the subjective nature of the act of “reading” itself.
The emergence of “reader response criticism,” “deconstructionist” and “feminist”
criticism, and a host of other interpretative methodologies are somewhat
symptomatic of our collective attempt to come to terms with such interpretative
complexities in an academically responsible manner. Contemporary scholarship
recognizes the foolishness of thinking that any one reading of a text can be
wholly naïve, or objective, in the strict sense of the term. Rather than claiming to
Endnotes 113
have wrested objective “truth” from the text, it is far better to define one’s position
as clearly as possible, to place one’s cards on the table, in the hope of presenting
certain observations and ideas with a degree of clarity. Since each act of
interpretation is itself unique, and since the text itself is capable of inspiring
innumerable interpretations and meanings, the best one can do it to clearly
demarcate the boundaries and presuppositions of one’s own approach to the
text. In this sense, I feel it somewhat necessary to define my own stance toward
the biblical text, to outline my own Weltanschauung, as it were, and thus leave it
up to the reader to decide the extent to which this author’s presuppositions have
influenced the conclusions reached throughout the book. Thus, the title of this
chapter has a double meaning, referring both to my own view of the biblical text,
and to the worldview which the text itself seems to project – in reality, the result
will undoubtedly be an amalgam of the two. In the interests of clarity then, let me
outline some of my own presuppositions, those guiding assumptions which inform
the reading process, and stand behind my own study of the text. First, I have
approached the HB primarily as a “literary” entity, an object which bears no
necessary connection to real, “historical” events. This is not to say that the text at
no stage correlates to actual, historical occurrences in the “real” world, but
rather that such a correlation is not a given. Thus the various characters and
events portrayed in the HB are “literary” in nature; viewed specifically as they
relate to the text itself rather than any external, historical reality. Secondly, given
that “meaning” is not something contained within the biblical text (or indeed any
text), as much as it is something which arises from the reading process itself, my
intent throughout the course of this volume it is not to extract meaning from the
HB, but to offer a new method for interpreting Hebrew narrative which focuses
primarily on the function of space throughout the text.
2. Indeed, it is precisely this claim to “historicality” which, for many scholars,
sets the HB apart from other early texts; “If Herodotus was the father of history,
the fathers of meaning in history were the Jews. It was ancient Israel that first
assigned a decisive significance to history and thus forged a new world-view
whose essential premises were eventually appropriated by Christianity and Islam
as well” (Yerushalmi, 1982: 8).
3. Note, for example, the trauma of sensory overload often associated with
autism.
4. Here Heidegger’s notion of the human Welt is particularly interesting;
particularly his distinction between the “world” of inanimate objects, animals
and humans, is paramount. For Heidegger, “the stone [as inanimate object]…is
worldless…the animal is poor in the world…man is world-forming” (Heidegger,
1995: 177; italics in original).
5. The effectiveness of someone like Noam Chomsky lies in his ability to
constantly remember the past, in the face of the present. In this sense Chomsky
represents the exact opposite to the unhappy vocation of Orwell’s protagonist in
1984; while Winston effectively erases the past (re-writing old news paper articles
and the like), Chomsky continually reminds us of the past (documented in such
popular sources as the “New York Times”) as a means of exposing contradiction
in the present (cf. Chomsky, 2004).
6. Anyone who has waded through Totality and Infinity will recognize the
immense difficulty in “popularizing” a work of this scale and complexity.
7. It is noteworthy that, within the Western philosophical trajectory, Heidegger’s
connection to Nazism has become an almost fetishistic object. Note the surfeit
of books and articles which have emerged in the last fifty years or so (and even
within the last ten years) that deal explicitly with Heidegger’s politics (cf. Janicaud,
1996; de Beistegui, 1998; Fritsche, 1999; Phillips, 2005).
8. In Levinas’ words, “If freedom is exclusively a property of Being, then in
what sense can it correlate with the ethical and political concerns raised by
human beings and designate the possibility of good as well as evil?” (Levinas,
1989: 52-53).
Chapter 5
1. Cf. Psalms 74.12-17; 89.9-14; 93; 104.1-9; and Isaiah 51.9-11.
2. David Jobling notes a similar “in/out” dichotomy at work within the Genesis
creation narratives (cf. Jobling, 1987: 29).
3. cf. Psalm 89:9-12; 74:13-14; Isaiah 27:1-2; 59:9-11; Habbukuk 3:8-11,
14-15; Job 26:12-13; 38:4-11.
4. As Jobling suggests, the created order is also defined in terms of a division
between “wet” and “dry”; “Moisture in the text is relevant only to the conditions
of agriculture. ‘Inside,’ there is a special, copious water supply (2:10-14). ‘Outside,’
the supply is unsatisfactory (vv. 5-6), and this dryness of the earth is stressed in
the curse on man” (Jobling, 1987: 30).
5. “The field(s)” is analogous to Philip K. Dick’s notion of “kipple” in his classic
science fiction novel, Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep (the basis of Ridley
Scott’s 1982 film Bladerunner); a kind of personified entropy wherein the natural
process of entropy is personified in the form of a dark, ineluctable force which
opposes life itself (Dick, 2004: 347-494).
6. Phillip Gosse, a respected zoologist and member of the Plymouth Brethren
published his most controversial book Omphalos: An Attempt to Untie the
Geological Knot in 1957. In it he attempted to come to terms with the notion
(popularized in the early to mid nineteenth century) that the earth was in fact far
older than the biblical record suggested, whilst still maintaining his fundamentalist
Christian beliefs in the biblical account of creation. In what has come to be
known as the “Omphalos hypothesis,” Gosse argued that in order for the world
to be “functional,” God created the earth complete with mountains and canyons,
trees with growth rings, etc. – extending even to Adam and Eve who, Gosse
reasoned, were indeed created with navels. The apparent evidences for the
antiquity of the earth, such as fossils and geologic strata, were merely
“prochronic” artefacts (those outside of time) and were thus unable to give
accurate evidence for the age of the earth. Gosse thus asserted that the earth was
created with the appearance of pre-existence – the various strata complete with
imbedded fossils are in fact created by God, in Stephen Gould’s words, to “give
modern life a harmonious order by granting it a sensible (if illusory) past.” In this
manner, Gosse managed to short-circuit the creationist chicken before the egg
Endnotes 115
scenario, by means of a divine ruse intended to test the believer’s faith. More
importantly, however, Gosse’s thesis provides an effective parallel to the biblical
account, wherein the created order is not brought into being as a nascent organic
force, but ontologically whole (cf. Gould, 1985: 99-100).
7. Despite this fact, the dominate space throughout the narrative is not “the
field(s)” but rather “the ground” (hmd)); it is the ground which is cursed, the
ground which opens up to receive Abel’s blood, and the ground from which Cain
is ultimately banished.
8. For Fokkelmann, the term Mt (designating Jacob’s integrity, or wholeness
of character) signifies Jacob’s “singleness of purpose” to fulfill the oracle given to
his mother – namely by inheriting his father’s blessing and taking his brother’s
birthright (Fokkelman, 1991: 91).
9. The narrative suggests that Esau himself cherishes “the field(s),” a lawless
and wild place, over and against the lawful space which is his birthright; namely
the land (Cr) – Gen. 26:3, cf. 26:12, etc.) promised to Abraham. In essence,
Esau rejects the new “Garden of Eden” for the realm of “the field(s).”
10. The structural similarities between these stories add another dimension
to the well attested motif of what Northrop Frye has termed the “theme of the
passed-over firstborn” (cf. Frye, 1982: 182). As Everet Fox suggests, the younger
brother’s divine chosen-ness (his “lawfulness”) which does not directly reflect
any special merit on his part, serves to highlight the inscrutable nature of God’s
choice – reflecting perhaps Israel’s political insecurities as the “younger brother”
among more powerful political entities (Fox, 1993: 60, 65).
11. Isaac’s desire for food “from the field(s)” is perhaps symptomatic of the
somewhat ambiguous status which Isaac himself exhibits throughout the book
of Genesis.
12. One could say that “the field(s)” is en exclusion interne (“internally
excluded”); that it cannot be adequately nominated or symbolized, but must
instead simply be designated “X.” “The field(s)” functions precisely as the Kantian
“excluded middle,” the “I, which cannot even be called a conception, but merely
a consciousness which accompanies all conceptions. By this I, or He, or It, who
or which thinks, nothing more is represented than a Transcendental subject of
thought=X, which is cognized only by means of the thoughts that are its
predicates, and of which, apart from these, we cannot form the least conception”
(Kant, 1997: 235-36).
Chapter 6
1. “Since genealogies function in different areas and can undergo changes so
as to agree with the actual power structure, a society can operate with internally
differing genealogies, each of which serves a purpose. The realization that
genealogies are not passed down in order to preserve historical facts but to
reflect a contemporary power structure means that they must be regarded as
valuable sources for these power struggles, but do not necessarily transmit correct
facts about the tribal and family relationships” (Nielsen, 1997: 23).
2. In Licht’s words, the book of Ruth, “endeavours to show how the apparently
reprehensible female ancestor has been absorbed into the thoroughly respectable
family of Boaz in a perfectly proper way, and for irreproachable reasons (Licht,
1978: 125).
3. It should be emphasized here that my interests here are strictly synchronic
– it is not my intention to suggest that chapters 2 and 3 once existed as an
autonomous tale, (although this may well be the case [cf. Brenner, 1993a: 77]
but rather to plot a structural division between the central chapters of the book
and the outer chapters; a division which cannot help but influence one’s
interpretation of the text.
4. Note the cluster of superlatives which introduce Job in v. 1:
rm rdw Myhl) )ryw r#$yw Mt )whx #$y)h hyhw,
granting Job unprecedented status, a fact which prompts Athalya Brenner to
suggest that Job himself represents a kind of l#&m, or wisdom ideal (Brenner,
1989: 40).
5. R. L. Hubbard, for example, suggests that the omission of a time reference
in the phrase M#$ wyhyw (“there they stayed” 1:4b), suggests that the family’s stay
in Moab would be of indefinite duration (Hubbard, 1988: 91; cf. Fokkelman,
1991: 195)
6. The Targum of Ruth betrays a keen, almost hyper-awareness of the “illegal”
dimension to the “fields of Moab,” its scathing account of Elimelech’s migration
to Moab, effectively condemns Mahlon and Chilion as transgressors of the law,
who are ultimately punished, for their connection with foreigners, with sterility
and eventually death (Sperber, 1968: 120-21). As Michael S. Moore suggests,
the Targum reads the book of Ruth “as a xenophobic diatribe against Israel’s
enemies” (Moore, 1998: 213).
7. In citing the “intertextual links” between the Ruth and Tamar narratives,
Ellen Van Wolde notes the similarity in “spatial arrangement” (Van Wolde, 1997b:
437).
8. Whether the word gn is used here to denote sexual contact (as in Josh. 9:19;
Gen. 20:6; Prov. 6:29) or, in a more neutral sense, simply implying physical
contact, the danger to Ruth is unclear. David Shepherd equates the term pg(,
used by Naomi in 2:22, as a signifying an undesirable and hostile encounter; a
translation which he bases on the reoccurrence of pg( in other passages where
the word is used to denote hostile intent (Shepherd notes that, of the 16 instances
when pg( is used in a hostile sense, all occurrences [including Ruth] but one are
predicated by the preposition b [Shepherd, 2001: 453]). As Ellen van Wolde
suggests, in “the field” Ruth “runs a risk there not only as the Moabitess but also
as a woman, since despite the right to gleam behind the binders, women were
often molested, assaulted, or abducted when in the fields… As well as being
threatened by racial tensions or the dangers to which women are exposed, Ruth
is under threat as a “loose woman” in a patriarchal society in which only women
who are tied to a man are fully respected” (Van Wolde, 1997a: 45)
9. As Fewell and Gunn suggest, “A Naomi with a prejudice against foreigners,
a Naomi who thinks like Judah, is also consistent with a Naomi who sends Ruth
to the harvest field without advice or warning.” Indeed, the manner in which
Endnotes 117
Naomi instructs Ruth to act, not to mention the possible danger this places Ruth
in, suggests that Naomi is all too aware of Ruth’s origins, and is willing to risk the
young woman’s safety in order to secure her own (Fewell and Gunn, 1988: 106).
10. The narrative thus emphasizes the appropriateness of the events at
the “(city) gate,” as Barbara Green asserts, “principles and witnesses are
positioned…order of precedence is given,” etc. (Green, 1982: 57).
11. As Brenner notes, in her thesis that Ruth represents a combination of two
originally autonomous tales, the two sections of the book feature a single heroine;
Ruth in chapters 2 and 3, Naomi in chapters 1 and 4. In terms of the overall logic
of the book, however, it is clear that Naomi’s is the more dominant role (Brenner,
1993a: 77-78).
12. The connection between Boaz and “food” is particularly significant, given
its thematic value throughout Ruth as a whole. Because the full identity of Boaz
(his status as redeemer/benefactor) is initially withheld from both Ruth and
Naomi, his initial gift of food (an ’ephah of barley) to Ruth represents a certain
plus de sens, an “excess” which Ruth unknowingly offers to Naomi, the mechanism
through which Naomi will gain access to Boaz’s identity. In essence, the food
itself carries the identity of Boaz to Naomi, the “excess” stands in for Boaz’s
name as a kind of “objectified reflection” of Boaz himself. For Ruth this excess is
an “un-nameable surplus” (“X”), but from the reader’s perspective, the identity
of Boaz is already known.
Chapter 2 Food + hidden identify of Boaz (Boaz in culinary surplus)
Chapter 3 Food + Boaz (Boaz in his full substantial presence)
In chapter 2 Ruth possesses the surplus of food, and the hidden identity of
Boaz (the latent potential contained within the food), whereas in chapter 3 she
possesses both Boaz (in his full substantial presence), and the surplus.
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Milne, Pamela J. 1986. “Folktales and Fairy Tales: An Evaluation of Two Proppian
Analyses of Biblical Narratives.” JSOT 34: 35-60.
———1988. Vladimir Propp and the Study of Structure in Hebrew Narrative. Ed.
David Gunn. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press.
Moore, Michael S. 1998. “Ruth the Moabite and the Blessing of Foreigners.”
Catholic Biblical Quarterly 60: 203-17.
Muilenburg, James. 1992. “Form Criticism and Beyond.” In House, 1992: 49-69.
Nielsen, Kirsten. 1997. Ruth: The Old Testament Library. Eds. James L. Mays,
Carol A. Newson, David L. Peterson; trans. Edward Broadbridge. Louisville,
KY: Westminster/John Knox.
Oesmann, Astrid. 1997. “The Theatrical Destruction of Subjectivity and History:
Brech’s Trommeln in der Nacht.” The German Quarterly 70(2) (Spring):
136-50.
Orwell, George. 1954. 1984. London: Penguin Books.
Patte, Daniel. 1976. What is Structural Exegesis? Ed. Dan O. Via Jr. Philadelphia:
Fortress Press.
———1990. The Religious Dimensions of Biblical Texts: Greimas’s Structural
Semiotics and Biblical Exegesis. Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press.
Phillips, James. 2005. Heidegger’s Volk: Between National Socialism and Poetry.
Stanford: Stanford University Press.
Platonov, Andrey. 2003 [1999]. Soul. Trans. Robert and Elizabeth Chandler, et
al. London: The Harvill Press.
Plato. 1970. “Parmenides.” In Plato IV: Cratylus, Parmenides, Greater Hippias,
Lesser Hippias: 237-73. Trans. Henry N. Fowler. Cambridge, MA: Harvard
University Press.
References 123
Polzin, Robert. 1977. Biblical Structuralism: Method and Subjectivity in the

Study of Ancient Texts. Philadelphia: Fortress Press.
———1989. Samuel and the Deuteronomist: A Literary Study of the Deuteronomic
History – Part 2, 1 Samuel. Bloomington: Indiana University Press.
Propp, Vladimir. 1968. Morphology of the Folktale. Ed. S. Pirkova- Jakobson;
trans. L. Scott. Indiana University Research Centre in Anthropology, Folklore,
and Linguistics, Publication 10; Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1st
English edn.
———1978. “Structure and History in the Study of the Fairy Tale.” Semeia 10:
57-83.
Roth, Wolfgang. 1977. “Structural Interpretations of ‘Jacob at Jabokk’ Gn 32.22-
32.” Biblical Research 22: 51-62.
Sartre, Jean-Paul. 2004. Critique of Dialectical Reason, Vol. 1. Trans. Alan
Sheridan-Smith. London: Verso. Published in French as Critique de la raison
dialectique, preìceìdeì questions de meìthode. T.1 Theìorie des ensembles
pratiques. Paris: Gallimard, 1960. First English translation, London: New Left
Books, 1976; corr. edn, Verso, 1991.
Sasson, Jack. 1987. “Ruth.” In Alter and Kermode, 1987: 320-28.
———1995 [1979]. Ruth: A New Translation with a Philological Commentary
and a Formalist-Folklorist Interpretation. Biblical Seminar, 10; Sheffield:
Sheffield Academic Press, 2nd edn.
Saussure, Ferdinand de. 1959. Course in General Linguistics. Ed. Charles Bally,
et al.; trans. Wade Baskin. New York: McGrath-Hill.
Scholes, Robert. 1974. Structuralism in Literature: An Introduction. New Haven,
CT: Yale University Press.
Schwartz, Regina. 1997. The Curse of Cain: The Violent Legacy of Monotheism.
Chicago: University of Chicago Press.
Shepherd, David. 2001. “Violence in the Fields? Translating, Reading, and
Revising in Ruth 2.” Catholic Biblical Quarterly 63: 444-46.
Silberman, Neil Asher. 1989. Between Past and Present: Archaeology, Ideology,
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Sternberg, Meir. 1985. The Poetics of Biblical Narrative: Ideological Literature
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Theology). Philadelphia: Fortress Press.
Van Seters, John. 1975. Abraham in History and Tradition. New Haven, CT:
Yale University Press.
———1977. “The Yahwist as Theologian? A Response.” JSOT 3: 15-20.
———1983. In Search of History: Historiography in the Ancient World and the
Origins of Biblical History. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press.
———1986. “The Yahwist as Historian.” In SBL 1986 Seminar Papers: 37-55.
Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press.
———1992. Prologue to History: The Yahwist as Historian in Genesis. Louisville,
KY: Westminster/John Knox Press.
Van Wolde, Ellen. 1997a. Ruth and Naomi. London: SCM Press.
———1997b. “Ruth in Dialogue with Tamar.” In Athalya Brenner and Carole

Fontaine, eds, A Feminist Companion to Reading the Bible: Approaches,
Methods and Strategies: 426-51. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press.
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London: SCM Press, 2nd edn.
Whitlam, Keith. 1996. The Invention of Ancient Israel. London: Routledge.
Wittig, Susan. 1975. “The Historical Development of Structuralism.” In Susan
Wittig, ed., Structuralism: An Interdisciplinary Study. Pittsburgh: The Pickwick
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Yerushalmi, Yosef Hayim. 1982. Zakhor: Jewish History and Jewish Memory.
Seattle: University of Washington Press.
Žižek , Slavoj. 1989. The Sublime Object of Ideology. London: Verso.
INDEX OF AUTHORS
Alter, Robert 2, 7, 31-36, 48, 109, Fokkelman, J. P. 39, 42-44, 115-16

112 Fox, Everet 68, 115
Althusser, Louis 6, 18-21, 106 Fritsche, Johannes 114
Amit, Yairah 45, 112 Frye, Northrop 115
Bal, Mieke 13, 110 Genette, Gérard 112

Bar-Efrat, Shimon 26, 37-39, 110 Gould, Stephen Jay 115
Barthes, Roland 13 Greimas, Algirdas Julien 9, 13, 15
Beistegui, Miguel de 114 Green, Barbara 111, 117
Benjamin, Walter 22, 44
Berger, Peter 53-54, 69 Heidegger, Martin 19, 59-60, 113
Berlin, Adele 109-11 Herion, Gary A. 38, 76
Bertman, Stephen 89 Hubbard, R. L. 116
Bible and Culture Collective, The
109-10 Jacobson, Richard 8
Blau, Herbert 109 Jakobson, Roman 8-9
Blenkinsopp, Joseph 13, 15 Jameson, Frederic 12, 19-22, 54, 63,
Boer, Roland 111 88, 110-11
Brenner, Athalya 105, 116-17 Janicaud, Dominique 114
Jason, Heda 13, 15
Campbell, Edward F. 85, 90, 97 Jobling, David 13, 110-11, 114
Childs, Brevard 111 Joüon, P. 85
Chomsky, Naomi 113
Culley, Robert 15 Kant, Immanuel 50, 115
Kermode, Frank 7
Dalley, Stephanie 69 Kirkpatrick, Patricia G. 30
Davies, Philip R. 51, 55 Kisiel, Theodore 19
Deal, William E. 44 Kripke, Saul 112
Dick, Philip K. 114
Lacan, Jacques 19, 21, 101, 111
Eco, Umberto 117 Leach, Edmund 13, 76
Levinas, Emmanuel 56-57, 59-60,
Fewell, Danna Nolan 92, 110, 124-25 114
Fishbane, Michael 38, 76 Lévi-Strauss, Claude 19
Licht, Jacob 116 Roth, Wolfgang 13, 15

Lubac, Henri de 110
Sartre, Jean-Paul 62-64
MacIntyre, Alasdair 21 Sasson, Jack 13, 15, 17-18, 93, 98,
Mauss, Marcel 21 110-11
McGilligan, Patrick 28 Saussure, Ferdinand de 7-8
Millar, William 36 Scholes, Robert 16
Milne, Pamela J. 3, 13-18, 109 Schwartz, Regina 55-62, 71
Moore, Michael S. 97, 116 Shepherd, David 76, 116
Muilenburg, James 111 Silberman, Neil Asher 51
Sperber, A. 116
Nielsen, Kirsten 17, 97, 115 Sternberg, Meir 2, 32, 38, 110
Oesmann, Astrid 109 Trible, Phyllis 98

Orwell, George 51
Van Seters, John 26-27, 50, 52
Patte, Daniel 13 Van Wolde, Ellen 116
Phillips, James 114
Platonov, Andrey 112 Whitlam, Keith 48
Plato 111 Wittig, Susan 16
Polzin, Robert 13
Propp, Vladimir 2-4, 7, 9, 10-19, Yerushalmi, Yosef Hayim 113
21-23, 46, 106, 109-11
Žižek , Slavoj 111-12
INDEX OF R EFERENCES
Genesis 24:11-14 35 32:4 81

1 70-71, 73, 76, 95, 24:63 74 35:6 29
102 24:65 74 35:27-29 83
1:1-2 68 25 73, 78-79 36:35 81, 91
1:6 95 25:3 101 50:12-14 83
2–3 74 25:8-10 82
2 73-74, 76-78, 82, 25:19-26 78 Exodus
94-95, 102 25:23 78 3:1 29
2:5-6 114 25:27 29, 74 4:18 29
2:10-14 114 25:27-34 79 19:3 29
2:19 72 25:29 29, 74 19:14 29
3 74, 76, 82, 94-95 25:34 29 2:15b-21 29, 35
3:1 74 26:3 115
3:8 72 26:12 115 Numbers
3:10 95 27 79-80 25:1-3 92
3:14 75 27:1-11 79 25:1-5 91
3:17 75-76 27:3 80
3:18 75, 95 27:9 80 Deuteronomy
4 70, 74, 78 27:18-23 102 6:4
4:2 76 27:41 57 23:4-7 86, 91
4:3 80 28 40, 44 25:5-6 102
4:4 76, 80 28:10 42
4:5 102 28:10-22 5, 40-42, 47 Joshua
4:6-7 77 28:11 29, 42 9:19 116
4:10 95 28:13-15 43
4:8-12 77 28:17 42, 44 Ruth
5 76 28:18 42 1 85, 89-90, 99-100
19:32 91, 94 28:19 42 1:1 81, 88, 91-92
20:6 116 29:1 29 1:2 81, 91-92
22:9 29 29:1-20 29, 35 1:3-5 85, 92
23:16-20 82 30:14 74 1:5 90
23:17 82 30:16 74 1:6 81, 91, 100
24 35 32 13 1:13 90
24:10-61 29, 35 32:2 44 1:16-17 97
1:16-22 97 4:3 81, 91 Psalms

1:20 90 4:5 97 74:12-17 114
1:22 81, 88, 91, 97 4:7 97 74:13-14 114
2 89-90, 93, 97, 4:10 97 89:9-12 114
99-100, 104, 116-17 4:13 90, 97 89:9-14 114
2:2 97-98, 100 4:16 100 89:93 114
2:4 88 4:16-22 85 104:1-9 114
2:5 89 4:18-22 17, 97
2:6 81, 91, 97 Proverbs
2:8 89 1 Chronicles 6:29 116
2:9 93 1:46 81, 91 31:10 98
2:10 99-100 8:8 81, 91
2:12 89 Isaiah
2:13 99 Esther 15:8 81, 91
2:16-17 89 3:8-11 102 27:1-2 114
2:18 88 5–7 102 51:9-11 114
2:18-19 89
2:21 97 Job Jeremiah
2:22 93, 100, 116 1:1 116 48:33 81
3 89-90, 93, 97, 1:4b 116
99-100, 104, 116-17 1:1–2:13 90 Daniel
3:3 93, 100 1:9-12 102 1–6 13, 16
3:6 88 1:14-19 93 6:7-10 102
3:9 89, 99 2:4-6 102
3:10 89 3 91 Hosea
3:11 97, 99 3–42:6 90 9:1 94
3:13 89 26:12-13 114
3:15 88-89 38:4-11 114 Habbukuk
3:17 89 42 91 3:8-11 114
3:18 100 42:7-17 90 3:14-15 114
4 85, 89-90, 99-100

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The Ontology of Space in Biblical Hebrew Narrative

The Ontology of Space in Biblical Hebrew Narrative

Luke Gärtner Brereton Luke Gärtner-Brereton

Luke Gärtner-Brereton completed his undergraduate degree through the Australian

Published 2014 by Routledge

Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business

© Luke Gärtner-Brereton 2008

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

ISBN-13 978 1 84553 313 7 (hardback)

Firstly, I would like to express my thanks and appreciation to my wife,

Chapter 1. “A Cudgel by Itself Kills” 6

Chapter 2. Determining Space in Biblical Hebrew Narrative 25

Chapter 3. “How Awesome Is This Place!” 41

Chapter 4. The Hebrew Weltanschauung 46

“Identity Formation” and the Violence of Biblical

Chapter 5 Narrative Space and the Structure of Creation 67

Chapter 6 Determining Space in the Book of Ruth 84

Toward an Aesthetics of Biblical Hebrew Narrative

sophisticated, in many ways anticipating our own aesthetic (or even

With their heightened aesthetic sensibilities, such approaches tend to

In reducing the fairy tale to a series of functions, Propp granted primacy

Propp’s scheme to better fit a particular Hebrew narrative, or recast the

certain primacy to space, both ideologically and at the mechanical level of

“A CUDGEL BY ITSELF KILLS”

A Proppian Critique of Biblical Narratology

The Emergence of Russian Formalism

in General Linguistics,” through the earliest application of Saussurian

underlying “system” which structured such texts. This focus on “structure”

Vladimir Propp and his Morphology of a Folktale

continually examining the situation at every phase of the reasoning process”

The initial impetus for Propp’s Morphology stemmed directly from

from teachers to students, we have nothing comparable (Propp,

Prior to Propp’s work, folktales had been typically classified via an

the variety of personages exhibited. Propp proceeded to identify each of

Much to Propp’s own surprise, further comparison of the material

Proppian Analysis and the Hebrew Bible

exerted tremendous influence on the fields of structural anthropology and

[Morphology] to recognize that it is a study with a very limited scope and

The paradoxical upshot of Milne’s program is ultimately that there can

In reducing Proppian analysis to “a useful heuristic device for

Louis Althusser and the Notion of “Interdisciplinarity”

Propp himself is symptomatic of what can only be called a properly Slavic

As Jameson recognizes, the major effect to emerge from the massive

proposition, a position, or a system with greater “truth” value…

These older, orphaned techniques now exist, according to Jameson, on a

What Althusser so clearly articulated in this lecture was the desire

DETERMINING SPACE IN BIBLICAL HEBREW NARRATIVE

Let me introduce this chapter by examining its title more closely, as a

Aesthetic Difference within the Hebrew Bible

interrupted by the protagonist’s arrival at key spaces in the course of the

Space/Stage Arrival Departure

The place designated They arrived at the place Abraham returned

A certain place He [Jacob] came upon a He picked up his feet and

Mt Horeb He came to Horeb, the And Moses returned to

The Mountain And Moses went up So Moses came down

The priority given to “space” within Hebrew narrative – what might