JBL1214

Journal of Biblical Literature

VOLUME 121, No. 4 Winter 2002

The Circumscription of the King: Deuteronomy 17:16–17in Its Ancient Social Context

PATRICIA DUTCHER-WALLS 601–616

Ancestral Motifs in 1 Samuel 25: Intertextuality andCharacterization

MARK E. BIDDLE 617–638

What’s in a Name? Neo-Assyrian Designationsfor the Northern Kingdom and Their Implicationsfor Israelite History and Biblical Interpretation

BRAD E. KELLE 639–666

Experiments to Develop Criteria for Determining theExistence of Written Sources, and Their PotentialImplications for the Synoptic Problem

ROBERT K. MCIVER and MARIE CARROLL 667–687

Wisdom for the Perfect: Paul’s Challenge to theCorinthian Church (1 Corinthians 2:6–16)

SIGURD GRINDHEIM 689–709

Jewish Laws on Illicit Marriage, the Defilement of Offspring,and the Holiness of the Temple: A New Halakic Interpretationof 1 Corinthians 7:14

YONDER MOYNIHAN GILLIHAN 711–744

Book Reviews 745—Annual Index 796

US ISSN 0021–9231

JOURNAL OF BIBLICAL LITERATUREPUBLISHED QUARTERLY BY THE

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EDITORS OF THE JOURNALGeneral Editor: GAIL R. O’DAY, Candler School of Theology, Emory University, Atlanta, GA 30322Book Review Editor: TODD C. PENNER, Austin College, Sherman, TX 75090

EDITORIAL BOARDTerm Expiring

2002: BRIAN K. BLOUNT, Princeton Theological Seminary, Princeton, NJ 08542DAVID M. CARR, Union Theological Seminary, New York, NY 10027PAMELA EISENBAUM, Iliff School of Theology, Denver, CO 80210JOHN S. KSELMAN, Weston Jesuit School of Theology, Cambridge, MA 02138JEFFREY KUAN, Pacific School of Religion, Berkeley, CA 94709STEVEN L. McKENZIE, Rhodes College, Memphis, TN 38112ALAN F. SEGAL, Barnard College, Columbia University, New York, NY 10027-6598GREGORY E. STERLING, University of Notre Dame, Notre Dame, IN 46556STEPHEN WESTERHOLM, McMaster University, Hamilton, ON L8S 4K1 CANADA

2003: SUSAN ACKERMAN, Dartmouth College, Hanover, NH 03755MICHAEL L. BARRÉ, St. Mary’s Seminary & University, Baltimore, MD 21210ATHALYA BRENNER, University of Amsterdam, 1012 GC Amsterdam, The NetherlandsMARC BRETTLER, Brandeis University, Waltham, MA 02254-9110WARREN CARTER, St. Paul School of Theology, Kansas City, MO 64127PAUL DUFF, George Washington University, Washington, DC 20052BEVERLY R. GAVENTA, Princeton Theological Seminary, Princeton, NJ 08542JUDITH LIEU, King’s College London, London WC2R 2LS United KingdomKATHLEEN O’CONNOR, Columbia Theological Seminary, Decatur, GA 30031C. L. SEOW, Princeton Theological Seminary, Princeton, NJ 08542VINCENT WIMBUSH, Union Theological Seminary, New York, NY 10027

2004: JANICE CAPEL ANDERSON, University of Idaho, Moscow, ID 83844MOSHE BERNSTEIN, Yeshiva University, New York, NY 10033-3201ROBERT KUGLER, Gonzaga University, Spokane, WA 99258BERNARD M. LEVINSON, University of Minnesota, Minneapolis, MN 55455-0125THEODORE J. LEWIS, University of Georgia, Athens, GA 30602TIMOTHY LIM, University of Edinburgh, Edinburgh EH1 2LX ScotlandSTEPHEN PATTERSON, Eden Theological Seminary, St. Louis, MO 63119ADELE REINHARTZ, McMaster University, Hamilton, ON L8S 4K1 CanadaNAOMI A. STEINBERG, DePaul University, Chicago, IL 60614SZE-KAR WAN, Andover Newton Theological School, Newton Centre, MA 92459

Editorial Assistant: C. Patrick Gray, Emory University, Atlanta, GA 30322

President of the Society: John J. Collins, Yale University, New Haven, CT 06511; Vice President: Eldon JayEpp, Lexington, MA 02420-2827; Chair, Research and Publications Committee: David L. Petersen, CandlerSchool of Theology, Emory University, Atlanta, GA 30322; Executive Director: Kent H. Richards, Society ofBiblical Literature, 825 Houston Mill Road, Suite 350, Atlanta, GA 30329.

The Journal of Biblical Literature (ISSN 0021–9231) is published quarterly. The annual subscription priceis US$35.00 for members and US$75.00 for nonmembers. Institutional rates are also available. For informationregarding subscriptions and membership, contact: Society of Biblical Literature, P.O. Box 2243, Williston, VT05495-2243. Phone: 877-725-3334 (toll free) or 802-864-6185. FAX: 802-864-7626. E-mail: [email protected]. Forinformation concerning permission to quote, editorial and business matters, please see the Spring issue, p. 2.

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JBL 121/4 (2002) 601–616

THE CIRCUMSCRIPTION OF THE KING:DEUTERONOMY 17:16–17

IN ITS ANCIENT SOCIAL CONTEXT

PATRICIA [email protected]

Knox College, Toronto, ON M5S 2E6 Canada

The portrait of the king in Deuteronomic law (Deut 17:14–21) presents adistinctive view of kingship and royal authority. The role of a Deuteronomicking is carefully limited in ways that seem to reflect ideological interests. Vari-ous literary, redactional, and general social studies of “the law of the king” haveidentified key components. In particular Deut 17:16–17 sets limits on a king’sbehavior that appear especially intriguing if only because they are so antitheti-cal to usual assumptions about royal actions. But a social-scientific approachcan set this part of the law into the social contexts of ancient agrarian monar-chies and empires. The task of this article is, then, to ask: When we use social-scientific theories to examine the ideological circumscription of the king inDeut 17:16–17, what insights can be gained about the power politics of thesocial group espousing that ideology in the social context of the ancient world?Several preliminary remarks on issues of redaction, background and signifi-cance, and method are necessary.

I. Preliminary Issues

Redaction

The focus of this article will be two verses within the law of the king, Deut17:16–17, more specifically, vv. 16aa, 17aa, and 17b. These lines limit the king’sability to acquire horses, wives, and riches. A compositional and redactionalstudy of the law of the king is beyond the scope of this article, but we can

This article is a major revision of a paper presented at the SBL annual meeting in 1999 for ajoint session of the Biblical Law section and the Deuteronomistic History section. The theme of thesession was “Royal Authority in Deuteronomy and the Deuteronomistic History.”

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assume the generally accepted views on such issues. Most commentators notethe similarity in vv. 16aa, 17aa, and 17b, and many place them in the earliestDeuteronomic or proto-Deuteronomic layer of composition.1 Scholars thenmake various proposals on Deuteronomic and Deuteronomistic additions thateventually created not only these two verses but the whole law of the king andthe section of laws on the offices (Deut 16:18–18:22). Commentators alsopropose various dates for the redactional layers ranging from pre- or proto-Deuteronomic or Deuteronomistic development to exilic composition orredaction.2 Along with many scholars, we will assume that the lines in question,if not other parts of the law of the king and the laws on offices, are part of a pre-exilic, Deuteronomic composition.3 This assumption places the examination of

Journal of Biblical Literature602

1 Among other commentaries, see Peter C. Craigie, The Book of Deuteronomy (NICOT;Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1976); A. D. H. Mayes, Deuteronomy (NCB; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans,1979); Horst Dietrich Preuss, Deuteronomium (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft,1982); Patrick D. Miller, Deuteronomy (IBC; Louisville: John Knox, 1990); Moshe Weinfeld,Deuteronomy 1–11 (AB 5; New York: Doubleday, 1991); Eduard Nielsen, Deuteronomium (HAT;Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck, 1995); Ronald Clements, “Deuteronomy,” NIB 2:271–538. See alsomore specialized studies, e.g., on the law of the king: Moshe Weinfeld, Deuteronomy and theDeuteronomic School (Oxford: Clarendon, 1972; repr., Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1992); F.García López, “Le Roi d’Israel: Dt 17,14–20,” in Das Deuteronomium: Entstehung, Gestalt undBotschaft (ed. Norbert Lohfink; Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1985), 277–97; Gerald EddieGerbrandt, Kingship According to the Deuteronomistic History (SBLDS 87; Atlanta: ScholarsPress, 1986); Udo Rüterswörden, Von der politischen Gemeinschaft zur Gemeinde (BBB 65;Frankfurt am Main: Athenäum, 1987); Norbert Lohfink, “Distribution of the Functions of Power:The Laws Concerning Public Offices in Deuteronomy 16:18–18:22,” in A Song of Power and thePower of Song: Essays on the Book of Deuteronomy (ed. Duane L. Christensen; Winona Lake, IN:Eisenbrauns, 1993), 336–52 (originally, “Die Sicherung der Wirksamkeit des Gotteswortes durchdas Prinzip der Schriftlichkeit der Tora und durch das Prinzip der Gewaltenteilung nach denÄmtergesetzen des Buches Deuteronomium (Dt 16,18–18,22),” in Testimonium Veritate (ed. H.Wolter; Frankfurter Theologische Studien 7; Frankfurt am Main: Knecht, 1971), 144–55; Gary N.Knoppers, Two Nations under God: The Deuteronomistic History of Solomon and the Dual Monar-chies, vol. 1, The Reign of Solomon and the Rise of Jeroboam (HSM; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1993);idem, “The Deuteronomist and the Deuteronomic Law of the King: A Reexamination of a Rela-tionship,” ZAW 108 (1996): 329–46; Bernard M. Levinson, Deuteronomy and the Hermeneutics ofLegal Innovation (New York: Oxford, 1997); J. G. McConville, “King and Messiah in Deuteronomyand the Deuteronomistic History,” in King and Messiah in Israel and the Ancient Near East (ed.John Day; (JSOTSup 20; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1998), 271–95; Gary N. Knoppers,“Rethinking the Relationship between Deuteronomy and the Deuteronomistic History: The Caseof Kings,” CBQ 63 (2001): 393–415.

2 A related significant issue is the relationship between the view of kingship in Deuteronomyand in the Deuteronomistic History. The view that at least vv. 16aa, 17aa, and 17b are preexilicsuggests that they either precede or are contemporary with Deuteronomistic portrayals of king-ship. But the issues are complex and outside the scope of this paper. See especially Gerbrandt,Kingship; Knoppers, Two Nations; McConville, “King and Messiah”; and Knoppers, “Rethinkingthe Relationship” and the literature cited in those works.

3 See, e.g., Gerbrandt, Kingship, 103–8; Mayes, Deuteronomy, 270–71; García López, “Le

the implications of Deut 17:16aa, 17aa, and 17b within a monarchic politicalsituation in the seventh century B.C.E. when Judah was largely dominated byAssyria.4

Background and Significance

There are various theories as to the background and significance of thelimits placed on the king in Deut 17:16–17. Numerous scholars point out thatthese limits (and much of the law of the king) have a historical background inthe sustained prophetic critiques of royal authority and royal abuses of power. Arelated proposal is that the origin of the limits is in the actual experiences ofIsrael with its kings, their powers and their excesses.5 Against this understand-ing of the historical background, discussion of the law of the king, as a wholeand within the laws on offices, reveals two aspects of the significance of theselaws. (1) Deuteronomy 16:18–18:22 is significant because it places all authori-ties in the nation under the authority of Yahweh and within the covenant char-acter of law for the nation. (2) The laws on offices provide for a balance of

Dutcher-Walls: Deuteronomy 17:16–17 603

Roi,” 282–87; Rüterswörden, Von der politischen Gemeinschaft, 89–93; Weinfeld, Deuteronomy1–11, 55–57; and McConville, “King and Messiah,” 276–81. Thomas C. Römer summarizes:“There may be quite a consensus in critical scholarship about the seventh century B.C.E. as thestarting point of deuteronomism” (“Transformations in Deuteronomistic and Biblical Historiogra-phy,” ZAW 109 [1997]: 2).

4 While the written text of Deut 17:16aa, 17aa, and 17b will be taken as an expression ofDeuteronomic ideology, positing a written format for the expression of an ideology is not strictlynecessary to the task. One could posit a group within Judah’s elite classes in the seventh centurythat promoted such an ideology without a written expression of it because ideologies can be propa-gated through other material means, such as monumental architecture and ceremonial events. Anexamination of the role of literacy and writing in the expression of ideology, though beyond my task,is a significant, related topic. See Elizabeth DeMarrais, Luis Jaime Castillo, and Timothy Earle,“Ideology, Materialization and Power Strategies,” in Agency, Ideology, and Power in ArcheologicalTheory, Current Anthropology 37 (1996): 15–31; and Mogens Trolle Larsen, “Introduction: Liter-acy and Social Complexity,” in State and Society: The Emergence and Development of Social Hier-archy and Political Centralization (ed. John Gledhill, Barbara Bender, and Mogens Trolle Larsen;London: Unwin Hyman, 1988), 173–91. For examples of articles that understand this type ofexpression of ideology in ancient Israel, see Carol L. Meyers, “Jachin and Boaz in Religious andPolitical Perspective,” CBQ 45 (1983): 167–78; and Keith W. Whitelam, “The Symbols of Power:Aspects of Royal Propaganda in the United Monarchy,” BA 49 (September 1986): 166–73. Forworks that focus on Assyrian influence through figurative and cultural forms, see Jane M. Cahill,“Rosette Stamp Impressions from Ancient Judah,” IEJ 45 (1995): 230–52; and Christoph Uel-hinger, “Figurative Policy, Propaganda und Prophetie,” in Congress Volume: Cambridge 1995 (ed.J. A. Emerton; VTSup 66; Leiden: Brill, 1995).

5 See, e.g., Mayes, Deuteronomy, 270; Miller, Deuteronomy, 147; Clements, “Deuteron-omy,” 418, 427; see also Knoppers, “Deuteronomist,” 331–34; and McConville, “King and Mes-siah,” 276–81, who both provide a discussion of the issues and related bibliography.

powers among the leaders, which limits the power of all the offices, particularlythe king, so that the laws work together as a “constitution” for the nation.6

For many scholars, the law of the king, more specifically, is significant inplacing theological/ideological (if not actual) limitations on kingship. Scholarsdiscuss three broad limitations. (1) The law markedly reduces the powers of theking and thereby the possibilities of abuse of power. (2) The law places kingshipwithin the covenantal and community character of Israel as enjoined upon it byYahweh. (3) The law reminds the king that the full allegiance and loyalty of thewhole community, and in particular the king himself, are to be given to Yahweh.7

The specific clauses in the law of the king in Deut 17:16–17 concerninghorses, wives, and wealth also are seen by scholars to have various types of sig-nificance. All three prohibitions fit generally within an intent to limit royal pow-ers and thereby abuse, and to enjoin royal allegiance to Yahweh. The limit onhorses signifies a limit on a professional standing army as opposed to popularmilitias and has related implications concerning Yahweh’s leadership in “holywar.” It also entails a limit on foreign entanglements and alliances to securehorses for military purposes. The limit on wives signifies a move to limit foreignentanglements and in particular to limit temptations to apostasy that accom-pany such marriages outside the community of Israel. The limit on wealth sig-nifies a limit on commerce with foreign nations and/or a limit on the king’saccumulation of power and status above other Israelites.8

What is striking about all these discussions is how much they are orientedto understanding the background and significance of vv. 16–17 (and the law ofthe king by extension) almost exclusively in an internal Israelite context. Asreviewed above, the law and these verses are taken to originate in Israel’s his-torical experience with its kings and/or in prophetic critiques of kingship. Thetheological/ideological significance of the law and these verses is the limitationset on royal behavior within the community of Israel and under Yahweh’scovenant, granted that for some scholars this does limit foreign entanglementssymbolized by military, trade, or marriage alliances. Almost absent from thesediscussions is any recognition that, in the time period during which elements ofthe Deuteronomic law of the king were being developed (the seventh century


6 Although these authors differ on redactional issues, see in particular Miller, Deuteronomy,141; Lohfink, “Distribution”; Preuss, Deuteronomium, 137; and Clements, “Deuteronomy,” 417.

7 Again, although these authors differ on redactional issues, see Craigie, Deuteronomy,253–54; Mayes, Deuteronomy, 272–73; Lohfink, “Distribution,” 348; Gerbrandt, Kingship, 110;Miller, Deuteronomy, 147; Knoppers, “Deuteronomist,” 332; and Clements, “Deuteronomy,”425–26.

8 See Craigie, Deuteronomy, 255–56; Lohfink, “Distribution,” 349; García-Lopez, “Le Roi,”292–93; Gerbrandt, Kingship, 111–12; Rüterswörden, Von der politischen Gemeinschaft, 91; andMcConville, “King and Messiah,” 276.

B.C.E.), Judah was either a vassal of the Assyrian empire, was briefly attemptingto free itself from that empire, or was attempting to avoid/react to the Babylo-nian empire. While this article will not seek to discount the theories on vv. 16–17 that have been noted so far, it will attempt to expand the understanding ofthe internal social dynamics implied in the limitations on kingship in Deut17:16–17 and to place the background and significance of these verses withinthe larger social context of the Assyrian empire.

Method

In order to achieve the ends just noted, a social-scientific approach is nec-essary to focus on the patterns of interaction among the social actors involved,be they kings, elites, or empires. This approach will be complemented by thehistorical study of ancient Israel and Assyria, particularly utilizing recent workon political and ideological relationships within the Neo-Assyrian empire. Inaddition, because what is at issue in a law about kingship is a conceptualizationor ideology of kingship rather than the action of particular historical kings, themethods used must also be sensitive to the function of ideology in social powerrelations.

Building on the discussions of recent decades about ancient Israel’s socialworld and institutions,9 we will use systemic and comparative theories from thesocial sciences, including macrosociology and anthropology.10 Within systemicand comparative social-science theories on states and state development, tworecent approaches have been especially helpful for examining social powerrelationships and the impact of ideology on those relationships within ancientsocial contexts. Both the theory of dual-processual evolution and that of core-periphery relations are extensions and refinements of theories on early anddeveloping states, which have been familiar in biblical scholarship especially onearly Israel.11 The usefulness for our task of these two recent theories stems


9 The bibliography on sociological studies is extensive; for collections of relevant articles, seeCommunity, Identity, and Ideology: Social Science Approaches to the Hebrew Bible (ed. Charles E.Carter and Carol L. Meyers; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1996); and Social-Scientific Old Tes-tament Criticism (ed. David Chalcraft; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1997). For a review ofthe field, see A. D. H. Mayes, “Sociology and the Old Testament,” in The World of Ancient Israel(ed. R. E. Clements; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 39–63.

10 See, e.g., Gerhard Lenski, Patrick Nolan, and Jean Lenski, Human Societies: An Introduc-tion to Macrosociology (7th ed.; New York: McGraw-Hill, 1995).

11 On dual-processual evolution, see especially Richard E. Blanton, Gary M. Feinman,Stephen A. Kowalewski, and Peter N. Peregrine, “A Dual-Processual Theory for the Evolution ofMesoamerican Civilization,” in Agency, Ideology and Power in Archaeological Theory, CurrentAnthropology 37 (1996): 1–14; and Thomas Fillitz, “Intellectual Elites and the Production of Ideol-ogy,” in Ideology and the Formation of Early States (ed. Henri J. M. Claessen and Jarich G. Oosten;

from their attention to several relevant factors: ancient monarchic societies,complexity within social systems, and ideology as a societal component.

An ideology as a part of a culture’s socially constructed and shared mean-ings12 has a dual function: to provide cognitive meaning, “a more fundamentaldogmatic dimension,” and to provide practical guides to action, “a more prag-matic, operative dimension.”13 Thus, ideology is a “focussed expression of dif-ferent shared meanings and different interpretations of the same meanings asthey are related to specific socio-economic and political interests.”14 A conflictabout an ideology, or between variant ideologies, within a particular social set-ting will mirror conflict among or between social actors who have their owninterests in power, wealth, status, and so on.15

To take these clauses in vv. 16–17 as a part of an expression of royal ideol-ogy is thus to propose that we see these lines as an expression of a particular“worldview” that had concomitant social, economic, and political implicationsand to propose that the ideology was fostered by a group of elites withinseventh-century Judah. What is common to all the studies of agrarian states isthe pattern of struggle among elites for control of the apparatus of govern-ment—either as a “state apparatus” or, in the form most common to agrariansocieties, as the monarchy.16 Thus, the circumscription of royal authority


Leiden: Brill, 1996), 67–83. On core-periphery relations, see especially Christopher Chase-Dunnand Thomas D. Hall, Core/Periphery Relations in Precapitalist Worlds (Boulder, CO: Westview,1991); Edward M. Schortman and Patricia A. Urban, “Core/Periphery Relations in Ancient South-eastern Mesoamerica,” in Living on the Edge, Current Anthropology 35 (1994): 401–13; Centreand Periphery in the Ancient World (ed. Michael Rowlands, Mogens Larsen, and Kristian Kris-tiansen; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987); and Resources, Power, and InterregionalInteraction (ed. Edward M. Schortman and Patricia A. Urban; New York: Plenum Press, 1992).

12 A variety of definitions of “ideology” have been used in sociological literature, and a num-ber of conceptual debates have arisen. See, e.g., the discussion in Henri J. M. Claessen and JarichG. Oosten, “Introduction,” in Ideology, ed. Claessen and Oosten, 1–23.

13 From Myron J. Aronoff, who uses Geertz and Berger and Luckman to formulate his defini-tions (Myron J. Aronoff, “Ideology and Interest: The Dialectics of Politics,” in Political Anthropol-ogy Yearbook I [New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction Books, 1980], 4).

14 Ibid., 815 Ibid., 25.16 Gerhard E. Lenski, Power and Privilege: A Theory of Social Stratification (Chapel Hill:

University of North Carolina Press, 1984), 211; and Keith Whitelam, “Israelite Kingship: The RoyalIdeology and Its Opponents,” in World of Ancient Israel, ed. Clements, 121. For the notion that“kingdom” is the appropriate term for ancient monarchies, see Paul Garelli, “L’État et la LégitimitéRoyale sous l’Empire Assyrien,” in Power and Propaganda: A Symposium on Ancient Empires (ed.Mogens Trolle Larsen; Copenhagen: Akademisk Forlag, 1979), 319. Different studies have definedthe conflict as the struggles of local versus state institutions (Donald V. Kurtz, “The Legitimation ofEarly Inchoate States,” in The Study of the State [ed. Henri J. M. Claessen and Peter Skalník; TheHague: Mouton, 1981], 177–200), or as the struggles of kinship-based groups versus ruling elites(Shirley Ratnagar, “Ideology and the Nature of Political Consolidation and Expansion: An Archae-

implied in Deut 17:16–17 was probably not the only definition available, andconflict over how to define kingship involved both conceptual and practical ele-ments. Since all groups in a situation of ideological conflict claim theologicalvalidation and legitimation for their views, the various definitions of kingshipeach probably claimed to be upholding “true” nationalistic and Yahwistic inter-ests.17

II. Internal Social Dynamics

We begin a social-scientific examination of the “internal” implications ofvv. 16aa, 17aa, and 17b by asking what are the meanings of the prohibitionsagainst excessive horses, wives, and wealth, focusing on the “practical” or “real-world” function of the ideology—what this ideology claimed about what a kingcould or could not actually do in political and economic terms. Dual-processualtheory was developed in reaction to evolutionary theories of state developmentthat use a “simple stage typology to account for variation among societies ofsimilar complexity.”18 Instead, this theory investigates “the varying strategiesused by political actors to construct and maintain polities”19 that may not showa linear, evolutionary development but rather may show cycles of change,growth, contraction, and varying patterns of elite control of the state.

Dual-processual theory identifies two broad types of power strategies usedby elites in agrarian states. In the first, called an exclusionary strategy, “politicalactors aim at the development of a political system built around their monopolycontrol of sources of power.”20 In competition among elites for wealth, status,and power, or in competition of elites against a major power holder such as aking, an exclusionary political strategy emphasizes the building and exploitationof networks of social, economic, and political connections beyond a powerholder’s local group to build prestige and power. To develop exclusionary powerby networking, political actors exploit, for example, military technology andcontrol, patrimonial rhetoric and systems of ranked clan and descent groups,and trade and control of luxury and prestige goods.21

By contrast, the second power strategy, termed a corporate power strategy,aims to distribute, structure, and control power within limits set by an elite


ological Case,” in Ideology and the Formation of Early States, ed. Claessen and Oosten, 170–86), oras the struggles of rulers versus commoner communities (John Gledhill, “Introduction: The Com-parative Analysis of Social and Political Transitions,” in State and Society, ed. Gledhill et al., 1–29).

17 I am indebted to Dr. Marvin Chaney for this insight.18 Blanton et al., “Dual-Processual Theory,” 1.19 Ibid.20 Ibid., 2.21 Ibid., 4–5.

riages at will with key families or allies would hamper his use of an importantstrategic political tool.28

In a sense, “gold and silver,” or wealth, is the most transparent of the threelimitations put on the king in Deut 17. In agrarian societies, control of theapparatus of government brought the possibility of enormous accumulation ofwealth, since the whole economy was oriented toward extracting wealth fromall productive sources and channeling it to the center, the government, monar-chy, elites, and king.29 A limitation on the wealth of a king translates into cur-tailing the king’s control of the economic surplus by restricting his rights totaxation, trade, rents, fees, plunder and confiscation, and so on. The principalrivals to the king’s control of wealth were other elites, particularly the holders oflarge patrimonial or prebendal estates.30

The prohibitions against excessive horses, wives, and wealth in Deut17:16–17 are specific limitations of the king’s abilities to use typical exclusion-ary power strategies. It appears that the group propagating this aspect of royalideology knew very well the strategies a king can use to gain power against rivalsto the throne and against other elites. The king was not to be allowed to seekexclusionary control through development of a large chariot force, to exploitpolitical connections through marriage alliances, or to use trade networks andprestige goods to accumulate wealth. This sociological perspective thus rein-forces the idea that the significance of these verses lies in their limitation of theking’s power within the state of ancient Judah. But this sociological perspectivealso emphasizes, more than most scholars have seen, the internal politicalstruggles inherent in the propagation and application of such an ideologicalstance. In the background of such limits on kingship stand certain power hold-ers who are acting against other elites to increase their power over the king bylimiting his exclusionary powers.

III. External Social Dynamics

Historical studies that examine the impact on Israel and Judah of theAssyrian empire in the late eighth and seventh centuries B.C.E. form the back-ground for all further work.31 The destructiveness of Assyria’s western military

Dutcher-Walls: Deuteronomy 17:16–17

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28 This dynamic was explored without the use of sociological theory in Jon D. Levenson andBaruch Halpern, “The Political Import of David’s Marriages,” JBL 99 (1980): 507–18.

29 Lenski, Power and Privilege, 212.30 T. F. Carney, The Shape of the Past: Models and Antiquity (Lawrence, KS: Coronado

Press, 1975), 61.31 Representative works include Morton Cogan, Imperialism and Religion: Assyria, Judah,

campaigns and the vassal status of Judah during much of the period, with theconditions that status entailed, such as payment of tribute, are well established.Numerous studies have also examined the effects of the political and culturalconcomitants of Assyrian hegemony, particularly regarding the influence ofgenres of ancient Near Eastern and Neo-Assyrian treaties and oaths on biblicalliterature. These studies have focused on Deuteronomy and Deuteronomisticwriting and on covenant forms and theology, covering topics ranging from thegeneralized study of treaty and oath formulas and structures and their impacton the Deuteronomic stream of tradition, to strict verbal parallels such as thosebetween Assyrian and Deuteronomic curses.32 Although the influence ofancient Near Eastern treaties on the form and theology of covenant in Deuter-onomy is generally accepted, some issues remain.33 Recent articles have stud-ied further the use of Assyrian literary genres and specific verbal parallels tobiblical literature.34 Eckhart Otto has explored the far-reaching impact of theideological, social, and economic changes that accompanied Assyrian hege-mony on Deuteronomy, both on its principal conceptualizations in reactualiz-

610 Journal of Biblical Literature

and Israel in the Eighth and Seventh Centuries B.C.E. (SBLMS 19; Missoula, MT: Society of Bibli-cal Literature and Scholars Press, 1974); Moshe Elat, “The Political Status of the Kingdom of Judahwithin the Assyrian Empire in the 7th Century B.C.E.,” in Investigations at Lachish: The Sanctuaryand the Residency (Lachish V) (ed. Yohanan Aharoni; Tel Aviv: Tel Aviv University Institute ofArcheology and Gateway Publishers, 1975), 61–70; Benedikt Otzen, “Israel under the Assyrians,”in Power and Propaganda, ed Larsen, 251–61; Ehud Ben Zvi, “Prelude to a Reconstruction of His-torical Manassic Judah,” BN 81 (1996): 31–44; and Roy Gane, “The Role of Assyria in the AncientNear East during the Reign of Manasseh,” Andrews University Seminary Studies 35 (1997): 21–32.Also see such varied studies as Mario Liverani, “L’Histoire de Joas,” VT 24 (1974): 438–53; MosheWeinfeld, “Zion and Jerusalem as Religious and Political Capital: Ideology and Utopia,” in The Poetand the Historian: Essays in Literary and Historical Biblical Criticism (ed. Richard Elliott Fried-man; Chico, CA: Scholars Press, 1983), 75–115; K. Lawson Younger, Jr., Ancient ConquestAccounts: A Study in Ancient Near Eastern and Biblical History Writing (JSOTSup 98; Sheffield:Sheffield Academic Press, 1990); Antti Laato, “Second Samuel 7 and Ancient Near Eastern RoyalIdeology,” CBQ 59 (1997): 244–69.

32 The bibliography is extensive, including such representatives works as William L. Moran,“The Ancient Near Eastern Background of the Love of God in Deuteronomy,” CBQ 25 (1963):77–87; R. Frankena, “The Vassal-Treaties of Esarhaddon and the Dating of Deuteronomy,” OtSt14 (1965): 123–54; Weinfeld, Deuteronomic School; idem, “The Loyalty Oath in the Ancient NearEast,” UF 8 (1976): 379–414; D. J. McCarthy, Treaty and Covenant (2d ed.; AnBib 21A; Rome:Pontifical Biblical Institute, 1978); A. D. H. Mayes, “On Describing the Purpose of Deuteronomy,”in The Pentateuch: A Sheffield Reader (ed. John W. Rogerson; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press,1996).

33 See Gary N. Knoppers, “Ancient Near Eastern Royal Grants and the Davidic Covenant: AParallel?” JAOS 116 (1996): 670–97 and bibliography there.

34 William Hallo, “Jerusalem under Hezekiah: An Assyriological Perspective,” in Jerusalem:Its Sanctity and Centrality to Judaism, Christianity, and Islam (ed. Lee I. Levine, New York: Con-tinuum, 1999), 36–50; Bernard M. Levinson, “Textual Criticism, Assyriology, and the History ofInterpretation: Deuteronomy 13:7a as a Test Case in Method,” JBL 120 (2001): 211–43.

ing older laws within a revolutionary reform program and on particular expres-sions and laws.35

Perspectives from the social sciences can augment such scholarship. Inrecent years, sociology has seen the development of a theory of core–peripheryrelations, that is, of relations between a dominant, core state and the secondary,peripheral states on its borders.36 This theory has identified a number of vari-ables that must be taken into account in describing core–periphery relations.These variables include differentiation among societies at different levels ofcomplexity, the nature of the hierarchical relationships where dominationbetween societies exists,37 the existence of multiple power centers or cores in asystem,38 the different modes of production, kinship, tributary, and so on, in therelated states,39 and the variables along which core–periphery relations aremeasured.40 The most important factors include military, political, economic,and ideological relationships between the core and the periphery. Scholarshave furthermore identified three principal variations in the political-economicstructure of core–periphery systems. These are (1) a dendritic political econ-omy, where goods flow directly from the periphery to the core; (2) a hegemonicempire, in which the core dominates its periphery by military force but doesnot necessarily incorporate the peripheral states directly; and (3) the territorialempire, in which the periphery is incorporated into the political system of thecore through direct conquest, military occupation, and assimilation.41

The theory suggests that the Neo-Assyrian empire and its core–peripheryrelations can be characterized as a system in which the core dominated theperiphery in certain specific ways through direct and indirect rule but whichdid not fully assimilate its outermost peripheral states into the core.42 Assyria


35 Eckart Otto, Das Deuteronomium: Politische Theologie und Rechtsreform in Juda undAssyrien (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1999).

36 Partially developed by theorists interested in modern world systems, core–periphery the-ory has also focused on ancient and premodern states with an accompanying emphasis on the use ofarchaeological materials as a source of data. An assumed pattern of domination and development inthe core alongside passivity and underdevelopment on the periphery has proven much too simpli-fied. See such studies as S. N. Eisenstadt, “Observations and Queries about Sociological Aspects ofImperialism in the Ancient World,” in Power and Propaganda, ed Larsen, 21–33; Chase-Dunn andHall, Core/Periphery Relations; Christopher Chase-Dunn and Thomas D. Hall, “ComparingWorld-Systems: Concepts and Working Hypotheses,” Social Forces 71 (1993): 851–86; and Schort-man and Urban, “Core/Periphery Relations”; and various articles in State and Society, ed. Gledhillet al.

37 Chase-Dunn and Hall, Core/Periphery Relations, 19.38 Ibid., 12.39 Ibid., 22.40 Schortman and Urban, “Core/Periphery Relations,” 413.41 Robert. S. Santley and Rani T. Alexander, “The Political Economy of Core-Periphery Sys-

tems,” in Resources, Power, and Interregional Interaction, ed. Shortman and Urban, 23–49.42 Eisenstadt, “Observations and Queries,” 21–33; K. Ekholm and J. Friedman, “‘Capital’

represents the type where the process of expansion involved “relatively littlerestructuring of the basic structural and cultural premises of the conqueredand/or conquerors.”43

Historical scholarship has identified a differentiation between those areasof the periphery that remained in a vassal status and those that becameprovinces. Vassals retained more local political and economic structures andkept their own population and elites while being placed under explicit require-ments, particularly concerning loyalty and tribute. Provinces, on the otherhand, were more directly incorporated into the Assyrian political, economic,and ideological structures, with an Assyrian governor and military presence andoften major deportations of local populations.44 In both cases a well-developedadministrative system functioned to ensure Assyrian interests in its periphery.45

These considerations indicate that the Neo-Assyrian empire used aspects ofboth hegemonic and territorial structures in its core–periphery relationships.

While issues remain about the impact on the periphery of the policies ofthe Assyrian empire, its relations in the seventh-century in Syria-Palestine canbe summarized according to the primary core–periphery variables—military,political, economic, and ideological. Militarily, areas in Syria-Palestine under-went repeated invasions, vassal status, and in some cases permanent occupa-tion, characteristics of a tighter core–periphery bond. Politically, Judah as avassal would have experienced the typical requirements of loyalty, with the con-stant threat of more direct assertion of control.46 Economically, the empire


Imperialism and Exploitation in Ancient World Systems,” 41–58; Mogens Trolle Larsen, “The Tra-dition of Empire in Mesopotamia,” 75–103; J. N. Postgate, “The Economic Structure of the Assyr-ian Empire,” 193–221—all in Power and Propaganda, ed. Larsen; Hayim Tadmor, “WorldDominion: The Expanding Horizon of the Assyrian Empire,” in Landscapes: Territories, Frontiersand Horizons in the Ancient Near East: Papers Presented to the XLIV Rencontre AssyriologiqueInternationale, Venezia, 7-11, July 1997 (ed. L. Milano, S. de Martino, F. M. Fales, and G. B.Langranchi; Padua: Sargon Srl, 1999), 55–62.

43 Eisenstadt, “Social Aspects of Imperialism,” 22.44 Moshe Elat, “The Impact of Tribute and Booty on Countries and People within the Assyr-

ian Empire,” in Vorträge gehalten auf der 28. Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale in Wein 6-10 Juli 1981, AfO 19 (Horn, Austria: Verlag Ferdinand Berger & Söhne Gesellschaft, 1982),244–51; Peter Machinist, “Assyrians on Assyria in the First Millennium B.C.,” in Anfänge politi-schen Denkens in der Antike: Die nahöstlichen Kulturen und die Griechen (ed. Kurt Raaflaub;Munich: R. Oldenbourg Verlag, 1993), 77–104.

45 Jana Pecirková, “The Administrative Methods of Assyrian Imperialism,” ArOr 55 (1987):162–75; and Raija Mattila, The King’s Magnates: A Study of the Highest Officials of the Neo-AssyrianEmpire (SAAS 11, Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project; Helsinki: Helsinki University Press, 2000),161–68.

46 For discussion and details, see J. Maxwell Miller and John H. Hayes, A History of AncientIsrael and Judah (Philadelphia: Westminster Press, 1986), 314–406; Gösta W. Ahlström, The His-tory of Ancient Palestine from the Palaeolithic Period to Alexander’s Conquest (JSOTSup 146;Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1993), 607–740; Larsen, “Tradition of Empire,” 97; and Tad-mor, “World Dominion,” 56–60.

sought control over trade routes and access to raw materials, allowed certaintrade and commercial entities to continue, and relied on tribute as its primaryeconomic strategy on the periphery, all typical of a looser economic relation-ship with border states.47 Clearly Assyria depended on its vassals and provincesto produce wealth, and it set up economic relations to ensure that outcome.Any “extra” wealth that an area might produce was by obligation due to Assyriaand was not available to the local elites themselves unless it could be “hidden”from the empire.

The ongoing publication of the state archives of Assyria allows scholars tolearn more detail about Assyria’s relationships with its vassals. In particular, theseventh-century B.C.E. vassal treaties specify what behaviors and factors wereimportant to Assyria regarding its vassals.48 These treaties highlight the obliga-tions put upon vassals—not to pursue any disloyal behavior, not to engage intreasonous behavior, not to engage in any revolt or rebellion, not to make anyother oaths or treaties—and the positive requirement to pass on any reports ofrumors of opposition to Assyria or its king.49 Assyrian royal inscriptions aug-ment the study of the treaties themselves by showing how royal self-presenta-tion and propaganda viewed disloyalty by vassals. Oath and treaty violationswere perceived as breaking the oath of the gods, repudiating oath agreements,sinning against the oath, and breaking the treaty.50 Actions by vassals that wereconsidered disloyal and were thus treaty violations were described as conspir-ing with an enemy; rebelling; renouncing allegiance; imploring the aid ofanother country; plotting with another country against Assyria; plotting defec-tion, uprising, or revolution; and deciding not to pay tribute or suspending


47 Larsen, “Tradition of Empire,” 100; Moshe Elat, “Phoenician Overland Trade within theMesopotamian Empires,” in Ah, Assyria: Studies in Assyrian History and Ancient Near EasternHistoriography Presented to Hayim Tadmor (ed. Mordechai Cogan and Israel Eph>al; ScrHier 33;Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1991), 21–35; J. P. J. Olivier-Stellenbosch, “Money Matters: SomeRemarks on the Economic Situation in the Kingdom of Judah During the Seventh Century B.C.,”BN 73 (1994): 90–100; Seymour Gitin, “Tel Miqne-Ekron in the 7th Century B.C.E.: The Impact ofEconomic Innovation and Foreign Cultural Influences on a Neo-Assyrian Vassal City-State,”61–79; and William G. Dever, “Orienting the Study of Trade in Near Eastern Archaeology,” 111–19, both in Recent Excavations in Israel: A View to the West (ed. Seymour Gitin; ArchaeologicalInstitute of America Colloquia and Conference Papers 1; Dubuque, IA: Kendall Hunt, 1995).

48 “Treaty of Esarhaddon with Baal of Tyre,” text and translation by R. Borger; “The Vassal-Treaties of Esarhaddon,” text and translation by D. J. Wiseman, both in ANESTP, 533–39; A. KirkGrayson, “Akkadian Treaties of the Seventh Century B.C.,” JCS 39 (1987): 127–60; Simo Parpola,“Neo-Assyrian Treaties from the Royal Archives of Nineveh,” JCS 39 (1987): 161–89; Simo Parpolaand Kazuko Watanabe, Neo-Assyrian Treaties and Loyalty Oaths (SAAS 2, Neo-Assyrian Text Cor-pus Project; Helsinki: Helsinki University Press, 1988), 161–89; Bustenay Oded, War, Peace andEmpire: Justifications for War in Assyrian Royal Inscriptions (Weisbaden: Reichert, 1992).

49 Parpola and Watanabe, Neo-Assyrian Treaties, xv–xxv and xxxviii–xxxix.50 Oded, War, Peace, 87-99.51 Ibid.

annual tribute.51 Above all, the extant treaties witness the fanatical insistenceon loyalty from vassals in the period. “[I]mposing oaths of loyalty on defeatednations was a cornerstone of Assyria’s strategy of gradual territorial expan-sion.”52

Ideologically, Assyria understood itself to be the center of the world orderthat was established for Assyria and its king by the gods. This order was to bemaintained by the king and the apparatus of government.53 The non-Assyrianworld was a region of chaos, disorder, and disobedience that was to be tamedand transformed by Assyrian hegemony.54 Thus, Assyrian imperialism in rela-tion to its periphery had deep ideological justifications for the imposition oforder by warfare, conquest, control, deportation, and the entire administrativeand economic structures of its provinces and vassals.

Core–periphery theory identifies how such military, political, economic,and ideological domination by a core can have an impact on the formation anddevelopment of ideology within a peripheral state. Even where direct imposi-tion of various kinds of control, such as ideological coercion, are not used,peripheral states often adjust their behavior and thinking to the core’s require-ments and values. Motivations of elites within the periphery for this adaptationto the core can include fear about consequences and/or a calculation of benefitfor themselves in the situation.55 Recent work has modified the view that terrorwas the primary motivation among vassals for submission to the Assyrianempire. There is evidence that Assyrian policy regarding its periphery includedan awareness of “benefits” that could be extended to vassals and provinces,such as security for local rulers and elites56 (albeit that the periphery mighthave chosen other “benefits” if given a true unencumbered choice). Certainfactions among the elites within provinces and vassal states sought cooperation


52 Parpola, “Neo-Assyrian Treaties,” 161.53 The ideology of the Assyrian empire has been studied extensively in recent years. See, e.g.,

A. Leo Oppenheim, “Neo-Assyrian and Neo-Babylonian Empires,” in Propaganda and Communi-cation in World History, vol. 1 of The Symbolic Instrument in Early Times (ed. Harold D. Lasswell,Daniel Lerner, and Hans Speier, East-West Center; Honolulu: University Press of Hawaii, 1979),111–44; Mario Liverani, “The Ideology of the Assyrian Empire,” 297–317; Paul Garelli, “L’État etla Légitimité sous l’Empire Assyrien,” 319–28; and Julian Reade, “Ideology and Propaganda inAssyrian Art,” 329–43, all in Power and Propaganda, ed Larsen; H. Tadmor, “History and Ideologyin the Assyrian Royal Inscriptions,” in Assyrian Royal Inscriptions: New Horizons in Literary, Ide-ological, and Historical Analysis (ed. F. M. Fales; Oriens antiqui collectio 17; Rome: Istituto perl’Oriente, 1981), 13–33; Machinist, “Assyrians on Assyria”; Tadmor, “World Dominion.”

54 Liverani, “Ideology,” 306–7; Oppenheim, “Neo-Assyrian and Neo-Babylonian Empires,”120–21; Machinist, “Assyrians on Assyria,” 83–91.

55 Schortman and Urban, “Core/Periphery Relations,” 404.56 Giovanni B. Lanfranchi, “Consensus to Empire: Some Aspects of Sargon II’s Foreign Pol-

icy,” in Assyrien im Wandel de Zeiten (Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale 39, HeidelbergerStudien zum Alten Orient 6; Heidelberg: Heidelberger Orientverlag, 1997), 81–87.

with Assyrian hegemony in order to secure such benefits and increase theirown local power.57

This sociologically and historically informed model of core–peripheryrelations in the Neo-Assyrian empire highlights the international considera-tions that were part of the scene in seventh-century Judah—especially the mili-tary, political, and economic dominance of Assyria and its ideology of control ofits periphery. The circumscription of the king in Deut 17:16–17 can now be setinto this international social context. A king must not multiply horses, that is,must not increase professional military power nor seek other military alliances.This facet of ideology appears to adapt kingship to Assyria’s policy of militarydomination and to specific prohibitions in the vassal treaties (1) against militarypreparation that would threaten the Assyrian king or his successor, and(2) against any oaths or alliances with Assyria’s rivals. A king must not increasewives, that is, must not enter into political alliances through key strategic mar-riages. This facet of ideology appears to adapt kingship to Assyria’s policy ofpolitical domination and to specific prohibitions in the vassal treaties againstany political disloyalty and against oaths or alliances beyond the established onewith Assyria. A king must not increase gold and silver, that is, must not seekexclusionary control of the economic surplus. This facet of ideology appears toadapt kingship to Assyria’s policy of economic control of trade and economicwealth and to specific requirements for the payment of tribute.

These findings indicate that the ideology of kingship reflected in Deut17:16aa, 17aa, and 17b appears to have adapted its own concept of kingship tothe necessary requirements of survival for a monarch on the periphery of themajor world empire of its time. Externally, within the context of the peripheryof the Assyrian empire, the limits on the king deny him strategies to assert mili-tary, political, and economic independence and hegemony. They thus support astrategy of acquiescence to the domination of Assyria and an ideology thatstrictly defines the external relationships of the kingdom.

This social-scientific perspective on the external dynamics of the limits onhorses, wives, and wealth adds important considerations that previous scholar-ship has overlooked about the background and significance of the limits. Theexternal social context is a crucial locus for understanding the genesis and sig-nificance of the ideology implied in the limits. These findings indicate thatJudah’s vassal status had a profound impact on this aspect of royal ideology.

IV. Conclusion

Some of the intriguing implications of both the internal and externaldynamics must be considered. When both sets of dynamics are combined,


57 Ibid., 84–85.

there is a complementarity between them that is required for both approachesused in the paper to be valid. The results indicate that the ideological limits onthe king could have proceeded from a particular faction within the social con-text of preexilic Judah.58 With an eye to Judah’s international relationships, thisfaction seems to be advocating circumscriptions on kingship so that the nationwill maintain a loyal vassal relationship with Assyria. At the same time, with aneye to internal power struggles, the faction also seems to be advocating thesesame circumscriptions in order to place the king in a less powerful position rel-ative to other elites internally, including the faction itself. In characteristicexclusionary power strategies, this in turn gives the faction further influenceover foreign policy. The suggestion that this faction would thereby havereceived from Assyria support and other “benefits” fits well within the picturedeveloped here.59

Further, this addition to study of the background and significance of thelimits complements other scholarship.60 Particularly intriguing is the interac-tion with the suggestion that these limits enjoin loyalty and allegiance to Yah-weh from the king and, by extension, to the whole covenant community. Thefindings of this article imply that at least one faction found it possible to advo-cate that the king attempt a careful balance between being loyal to Yahweh andbeing loyal to Assyria, that is, that the king can be both a good servant of Yah-weh and a good vassal to Assyria.61 That two such loyalties could be proposedby the faction as at least compatible if not fully complementary is an intriguingperspective on the ideology of ancient preexilic Judah.62

Other implications of our findings indicate avenues for further study,including integrating these findings with other parts of the law of the king andthe laws on offices in Deuteronomy, comparing the portrayal of kingship in theDeuteronomistic History, and comparing the ideology of kingship in the royaland enthronement psalms.


58 This is an extension of my earlier work, “The Social Location of the Deuteronomists: ASociological Study of Factional Politics in Late Pre-Exilic Judah,” JSOT 52 (1991): 77–94. Theissues of defining the faction on the basis of Deuteronomy, the Deuteronomistic History, orJeremiah remain to be settled, given the somewhat different approaches to kingship within thesebodies of literature. See the sources cited in n. 2 above. These issues also clearly relate to the idea of“dual loyalty,” which is explored below.

59 See Lanfranchi, “Consensus to Empire,” 84–85.60 See pp. 603–5 above.61 This implication clearly would modify the suggestion by Otto that the adoption and re-

direction of the Assyrian loyalty oath from Assyria to Yahweh were anti-Assyrian strategies forJudah (Otto, Das Deuteronomium, 364–65).

62 Such “dual loyalties” may not be unique in biblical literature. Immediate and so far unex-plored but intriguing parallels come to mind: Isa 30 regarding trust in Yahweh and avoiding analliance with Egypt against Assryia, narrative sections of Jer 27–29 and 38 regarding loyal Yahwismand allegiance to Babylon, and the status of Nehemiah (and Ezra?) as Persian appointees and loyalYahwists.

JBL 121/4 (2002) 617–638

ANCESTRAL MOTIFS IN 1 SAMUEL 25:INTERTEXTUALITY AND CHARACTERIZATION

MARK E. [email protected]

Baptist Theological Seminary at Richmond, Richmond, VA 23227

While it is rather tenuous to speak of general consensus with respect tovirtually every question of interest to biblical studies, several broad areas ofagreement seem to have been reached over the past several decades concern-ing the narrative of David’s encounters with Nabal and Abigail recorded in1 Sam 25. First, students of the passage usually consider it a relatively self-contained, unified account representing a tradition predating the Deuterono-mistic History (= DtrH).1 Second, a number of scholars emphasize the highly

1 K. Budde considers 1 Sam 25:2–42 to be “aus einem Gusse und vorzüglich erhalten, einwahres Kabinetstück guter Erzählung” (Die Bücher Samuel [KHC 8; Tübingen: J. C. B. Mohr,1902], 163). The following scholars are among those who hold similar positions: O. Eissfeldt, DieKomposition der Samuelisbücher (Leipzig: Hinrichs, 1931), 19; J. Mauchline, 1 and 2 Samuel(NCB; London: Oliphants, 1971), 24–26, 167; P. K. McCarter, Jr., “The Apology of David,” JBL 99(1980): 493. With respect to the non-Deuteronomistic character of the account, I. Willi-Pleinobserves that the stories concerning David’s wives found in both the Narrative of David’s Rise(= NDR) and the Succession Narrative (= SN) do not betray the negative attitude characteristic ofthe Deuteronomist’s discussion of Solomon’s many wives, for example (“Frauen um David:Beobachtungen zur Davidshausgeschichte,” in Meilenstein: Festgabe für Herbert Donner [ed. M.Weippert and S. Timm; Ägypten und Altes Testament 30; Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1995], 353).Scholars debate the possible exception of a portion of Abigail’s lengthy speech to David, whichsome think exhibits evidence of Deuteronomistic redaction. T. Veijola argues that Abigail’s speechredirects the tale (Die Ewige Dynastie: David und die Entstehung seiner Dynastie nach derdeuteronomistischen Darstellung [AASF B 193; Helsinki: Suomalainen Tiedeakatemia, 1975], 47–48, 51; see also L. Schmidt, Menschlicher Erfolg und Jahwes Initiative: Studien zu Tradition, Inter-pretation und Historie in Überlieferungen von Gideon, Saul und David [WMANT 38; Neukirchen:Neukirchener Verlag, 1970], 122; McCarter, “Apology,” 493 and n. 12). It is no longer concernedwith the gift but with David’s future. Veijola notes that Abigail is said to fall to the ground twice andthat v. 27 contains the only occurrence of hjp` in the narrative (the usual term is hma) and con-cludes that vv. 21–22, 23b, 24a–26, 28–34, and 39a are Deuteronomistic additions to the account. J.Van Seters rejects as simplistic these arguments concerning the interpolation of vv. 28–31. Withoutthis material, he suggests, the account would be “rather trivial” (In Search of History: Historiogra-

617

intertextual character of the passage, especially in relation to the Ancestral Nar-ratives (= AN).2 Third, it has become commonplace to interpret 1 Sam 25 pri-marily in terms of the apologetic purposes of the so-called Narrative of David’sRise (= NDR).3


phy in the Ancient World and the Origins of Biblical History [New Haven: Yale University Press,1983], 267 n. 81).

2 In particular, the several examples of parallels between the vocabulary of 1 Sam 25 and ofcertain narratives in Genesis have led some to attribute 1 Sam 25 to the Yahwist (Budde, BücherSamuel, 163; P. Dhorme, Les Livres de Samuel [EBib; Paris: Gabalda, 1910], 236; G. Hölscher,Geschichtsschreibung in Israel: Untersuchung zum Jahwisten und Elohisten [Lund: Gleerup,1952], 376; and, more recently, H. Schulte, Die Entstehung der Geschichtsschreibung im AltenIsrael [BZAW 128; Berlin: de Gruyter, 1972]), others to argue that the J (or JE) text was known tothe author of the David account (most recently R. Alter, The World of Biblical Literature [SanFrancisco: Basic Books, 1992], 164), and still others even to conclude that the Yahwist and theauthor of the David account were personal acquaintances (H. Bloom, D. Rosenberg, and W. Gold-ing, The Book of J [New York: Vintage, 1991] and more recently D. Rosenberg, The Book of David[New York: Harmony Books, 1997]). Many scholars note similarities between other portions of theDavid story in 1 and 2 Samuel and portions of the AN. The source-critical significance of these sim-ilarities is yet to be satisfactorily determined. Chiefly at issue is the question of whether the Genesisnarrative influenced the author of the David story, as a conventional understanding of the composi-tion history of Genesis would require, or the Genesis accounts are “parables” based on the Davidichistory. See A. G. Auld, “Samuel and Genesis: Some Questions of John Van Seters’ ‘Yahwist,’” inRethinking the Foundations: Historiography in the Ancient World and in the Bible: Essays in Hon-our of John Van Seters (ed. S. L. McKenzie and T. Römer in collaboration with H. H. Schmid;BZAW 294; New York: de Gruyter, 2000), 23–32; R. Boer, “National Allegory in the HebrewBible,” JSOT 74 (1997): 95–116; R.-J. Frontain, “The Trickster Tricked: Strategies of Deceptionand Survival in the David Narrative,” in Mappings of the Biblical Terrain: The Bible as Text (ed. V.Tollers and J. Maier; Bucknell Review 33; Lewisburg, PA: Bucknell University Press, 1990),10–192; C. Ho, “The Stories of the Family Troubles of Judah and David: A Study in Their LiteraryLinks,” VT 49 (1999): 514–31; J. D. Pleins, “Son-Slayers and Their Sons,” CBQ 54 (1992): 29–38; S.Prolow and V. Orel, “Isaac Unbound,” BZ 40 (1996): 84–91; G. Rendsburg, “David and His Circlein Genesis xxxviii,” VT 36 (1986): 438–46; C. Smith, “The Story of Tamar: A Power-filled Challengeto the Structures of Power,” in Women in the Biblical Tradition (ed. G. Brooke; Studies in Womenand Religion 31; Lewiston: Mellen, 1992), 24; M. Steussy, David: Biblical Portraits of Power (Stud-ies on Personalities of the Old Testament 8; Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 1999),90; Y. Zakovitch, “Through the Looking Glass: Reflections/Inversions of Genesis Stories in theBible,” BibInt 1 (1993): 139–52; see also J. Blenkinsopp (“Theme and Motif in the Succession His-tory [2 Sam. XI 2ff] and the Yahwist Corpus,” in Volume du Congrès: Genève 1965 [VTSup 15; Lei-den: Brill, 1966], 44–57) and W. Brueggemann (“David and His Theologian,” CBQ 30 [1968]:156–81), who call attention to parallels between the David story and Gen 2–11.

3 According to the “classical” form of this interpretation, the NDR expresses the redactor’sconcerns with efforts to consolidate the Davidic dynasty during the Solomonic period. 1 Samuel 25,too, it is argued, reflects the redactor’s tendency to avert any criticism of David and to demonstratehis chosen status. See A. Weiser, “Die Legitimation des Königs David: Zur Eigenart und Entste-hung der sog. Geschichte von Davids Aufstieg,” VT 16 (1966): 337–38, 47–48. Those who regardAbigail’s second address as the product of the Dtr redactor emphasize the apologetic tendencies ofthis redactional material. T. Veijola, for example, sees two themes: (1) an effort to protect Davidfrom “helping himself” and incurring bloodguilt, and (2) the opportunity to prophesy his “sure

This article will briefly examine these three perspectives on 1 Sam 25, willsuggest an alternative understanding of the account, and will explore implica-tions of this understanding for the question of the relationship between Gene-sis and the NDR. First, we will argue that the text displays an intricate, almostbaroque structure that seems more consistent with literary artifice than oraltradition and calls into question the value of the account as a historical source.Second, we will show that the intertextual character of 1 Sam 25 seems to bealmost satirical, and certainly ironic, in nature. With respect to the intriguingquestion of the direction of dependence, the intertextual intricacies embodiedin 1 Sam 25, and in particular the resulting ironic portrayal of David, suggestthat much of the account has been composed utilizing elements of the writtenpatriarchal tradition. Third, we will suggest that the redactor responsible forincluding 1 Sam 25 in the NDR was not apparently motivated by an interest inexonerating David. Finally, we will reevaluate the customary early dating for1 Sam 25. As will be shown, given the literary character, intertextual depen-dence on the patriarchal/matriarchal tradition, and subversive agenda of 1 Sam25, the assumption that it predates the DtrH by several centuries must beabandoned.

EXCURSUS: ON METHOD

The term “intertextuality” finds a number of usages in the literature. In the contextof the act of reading, it often refers to the implications of the observation that anyreader approaches any “text” (including nonwritten texts such as films or works ofart) as a component in a nexus of other “texts.” The act of reading establishes rela-tionships between texts regardless of genetic dependence. The focus of this study,in contrast, will be on intertextualities which the author (a) intended as such and(b) expected his or her readers to recognize as such so that their reading of one or

Biddle: Ancestral Motifs in 1 Samuel 25 619

house” (Ewige Dynastie, 54). J. Conrad objects that the normal dating of this redactional effort tothe Solomonic period fails to account for the fact that David’s actions would have recalledSolomon’s acts of violence and would have therefore been likely “to occasion unrest” (“Zumgeschichtlichen Hintergrund der Darstellung von Davids Aufstieg,” TLZ 97 [1972]: 326–30). Heargues that the account can better be understood as an implicit critique of the exchange of power inthe north, especially under Jehu. J. Levenson (“1 Samuel 25 as Literature and as History,” CBQ 40[1978]: 24–28) and B. Halpern (J. Levenson and B. Halpern, “The Political Import of David’s Mar-riages,” JBL 99 [1980]: 507–18) argue that 1 Sam 25 reflects David’s politically savvy consolidationof power in the south via marriage to Abigail (who may have been David’s sister; see 1 Sam 25:42;2 Sam 17:25; 19:13; 1 Chr 2:16–17; see also Steussy, David, 75–76, 79; and S. McKenzie, KingDavid: A Biography [Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000], 55, 170–71), the wife of a Calebitechieftain, and in the north via marriage to Ahinoam, Saul’s wife. For a literarily oriented reading ofthis material see D. Gunn, The Fate of King Saul: An Interpretation of a Biblical Story (JSOTSup14; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1980), 91–102.

both of the related intertexts would be shaped.4 This study will contend that theauthor of 1 Sam 25 intended it to be read against the background of the AN, thatthe author has marked links between the two texts, and that an intertextual readingof 1 Sam 25 will reveal subtleties in the characterization of the leading figures,especially David.5

Efforts to assess the significance of the apparent intertextuality in 1 Sam 25 arecomplicated by the difficulty in determining whether similarities are the result ofliterary dependence (and, if so, the direction of the borrowing) or reflections of acommon repertoire of narrative conventions. For example, as will be examinedbelow, 1 Sam 25 displays a number of parallels with Gen 24. A significant body ofscholarship argues that the Genesis text dates from a quite late period, too late tohave been a source for the allusions in 1 Sam 25 if the latter does in fact predateDtrH.6 With regard to another example of linguistic parallels between the Deuter-onomistic history and the book of Genesis, Y. Zakovitch explains many of the diffi-cult features of Gen 34 (the rape of Dinah) as “assimilations” to 2 Sam 13 (the rapeof Tamar).7 In contrast, R. Alter describes the phenomenon of “type-scenes” suchas the annunciation and birth of the hero to a barren mother, the encounter at awell that results in a marriage, and so on.8

We will argue, however, that 1 Sam 25 depends genetically on the AN as evi-denced especially (1) by Nabal’s name and function—a clear marker that theSamuel account is a literary conceit based on the Genesis accounts; (2) by thecumulative weight of the many verbal allusions, a phenomenon described by D.McDonald in relation to the relationship between the apocryphal book of Tobit


4 Compare U. Broich, “Formen der Markierung von Intertexualität,” in Intertextualität:Formen, Funktionen, anglistische Fallstudien (ed. U. Broich and M. Pfister; Konzepte der Sprach-und Literaturwissenschaft 35; Tübingen: Max Niemeyer, 1985), 31: “Intertextualität [liegt] dannvor, wenn ein Autor bei der Abfassung seines Textes sich nicht nur der Verwendung anderer Textebewußt ist, sondern auch vom Rezipienten erwartet, daß er diese Beziehung zwischen seinem Textund anderen Texten als vom Autor intendiert und als wichting für das Verständnis seines Texteserkennt.”

5 For examples of continuing interest in this more or less “diachronic” concern with geneticrelationships between texts, see Intertextuality in Ugarit and Israel: Papers Read at the Tenth JointMeeting of the Society for Old Testament Study and Het Oudtestamentisch Werkgezelschap inNederland en Belgie (ed. J. de Moor; Leiden: Brill, 1998).

6 See H. H. Schmid, Der sogenannte Jahwist: Beobachtungen und Fragen zur Pentateuch-forschung (Zurich: TVZ, 1976), 152–53; B. Diebner and H. Schult, “Alter und geschichtlicherHintergrund von Gen 24,” DBAT 10 (1975): 10–17; M. Rose, Deuteronomist und Jahwist: Unter-suchungen zu den Berührungspunkten beider Literaturwerke (ATANT 67; Zurich: TVZ, 1981),133–41; J. Van Seters, Abraham in History and Tradition (New Haven: Yale University Press,1975), 240–42; S. Sandmel, “Haggada within Scripture,” JBL 80 (1961): 112; F. Winnett, “Re-examining the Foundations,” JBL 84 (1965): 14; E. Blum, Die Komposition der Vätergeschichte(WMANT 57; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1984), 386–89.

7 Y. Zakovitch, “Assimilation in Biblical Narratives,” in Empirical Models for Biblical Criti-cism (ed. J. Tigay; Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1985), 188–92.

8 R. Alter, The Art of Biblical Narrative (New York: Basic Books, 1983), 51. See especially hisdiscussion of the accounts of David’s marriages (p. 61).

and Homer’s Odyssey as “density of parallels”;9 and (3) by “the capacity of detailsin [the pretext, in this case the MP/N] to explain the [intertext, here 1 Sam 25].”10

As a result, 1 Sam 25 invites readers to recognize links to the AN.

I. Structure

1 Samuel 25 displays an interesting parallel structure. The account beginswith a dual introduction setting the events to be narrated in the context of thelarger story of David (v. 1) and providing the necessary background informationfor the Nabal-Abigail-David story itself (v. 2). A corresponding chiasticallyarranged dual conclusion offers additional information concerning David’smarriages during his fugitive period (v. 43) and concerning the fortunes ofDavid’s first wife in Saul’s court (v. 44). The placement of the se·tûmâ (s) sug-gests that the Massoretes may have analyzed the introduction and conclusion ina similar fashion. This dual framework raises the question of whether vv. 1, 2–3,43, and 44 are components of the narrative or editorial elements functioning toanchor the narrative in its current context and mark it as semi-independent, afirst clue to the compositional nature of the Abigail/David account.11 Severalscholars note the abrupt transition from v. 1 to v. 2, the chronological and geo-graphical difficulties presented by v. 1, and the somewhat extraneous nature ofvv 43–44.12

The body of the narrative consists of three sections, roughly parallel instructure but unequal in length. All three depict the process of sending mes-sengers,13 the delivery of messages, reactions to messages, reports of the suc-cess of the embassy, and the principles’ counterresponses. In the first act,David “hears” ([mvyw, v. 4) about Nabal’s sheep shearing and “sends” (jlvyw, v. 5)messengers seeking gifts, just as he later (act II) “hears” ([mvyw, v. 39) about


9 D. R. McDonald, “Tobit and the Odyssey,” in Mimesis and Intertextuality in Antiquityand Christianity (ed. D. McDonald; SAC; Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International, 2001), 14.G. W. E. Nickelsburg expands and refines McDonald’s criteria of density and “interpretability” in“Tobit, Genesis, and the Odyssey” in the same volume, pp. 52–54.

10 Paraphrasing McDonald, “Tobit and the Odyssey,” 14. 11 In a study of intertextuality in modern, especially belletristic, literature, U. Broich identi-

fies several possible markers of intertextuality supplemental to the text itself (“Formen derMarkierung,” 35–38). Of these, the fifth (mottoes, forewords, postscripts) calls to mind the frame-work structure surrounding 1 Sam 25.

12 See Budde, Bücher Samuel, 163; Dhorme, Livres de Samuel, 219–20; Eissfeldt, Composi-tion, 19; and J. Grønbaek, Die Geschichte vom Aufstieg Davids [1. Sam. 15–2. Sam. 5]: Traditionund Komposition (ATDan 10; Copenhagen: Munksgaard, 1971), 178–79.

13 David sends messengers except in the thwarted raid on Nabal’s household. Abigail acts onbehalf of Nabal’s household, although without Nabal’s permission. Oddly enough, she receives hercommission from “one of the !yr[n.”

Nabal’s death and “sends” (jlvyw, v. 39) messengers to bring Abigail. Betweenthese two movements, Abigail is told (dygh lbn tva lygybalw, v. 14) aboutDavid’s first embassy and Nabal’s response, and she sends the gifts David hadrequested.14 One of the more interesting aspects of this parallel structure15

involves the emissaries’ reports to their principles (v. 12 || vv. 36–37): David’smen return from Nabal and “tell him all these things” (!yrbdh lkk wl wdgywhlah) motivating him to take up arms, just as Abigail, Nabal’s wife—eventually—“tells him [Nabal] these things” (hlah !yrbdhAta wtva wlAdgtw) so that “hisheart dies within him.”

This parallel structure is imbalanced, however. The second section, con-siderably longer than the other two, involves a number of duplications and nar-rative anachronisms. The narrator twice reports that Abigail sees Davidapproaching (vv. 20, 23). Abigail falls twice in obeisance before David (vv. 23,24). A superfluous parenthetical comment (vv. 21–22) makes explicit David’sinward reaction to Nabal’s insult already implied in the earlier, simpler narra-tion of his actions (v. 13). Abigail’s servant quite ably and accurately discerns thedanger for Nabal’s household inherent in the situation without benefit of thenarrator’s revelation of David’s thought processes. In fact, Abigail’s servant doesnot even know, as the reader does, of David’s decision to arm and ride againstNabal. In the servant’s view, David’s initial message and Nabal’s insultingresponse contain a sufficient impetus to set into motion a very dangerous seriesof events indeed.

The chapter also seems to have interests other than maintaining the Davidof the fugitive period clearly in focus. He first appears as the charismatic leaderof a band of men that is not hierarchically structured. They are simply his men(wyvna), who share his fortunes, who ride with him to avenge an insult (v. 13).They owe him allegiance, but they are not members of a royal entourage . . . notyet. David always, and the narrator usually, refers to them as !yr[n (vv. 5, 8, 9,12, etc.). Nabal, Abigail, their servant, and sometimes the narrator, however,frequently refer to them with the more officious !ydb[ or !ykalm (vv. 10, 14, 40,41). It might be objected that these latter terms are often interchangeable andneed not be understood in the technical, “bureaucratic” sense and that the nar-rator has employed them for the sake of variety. Two points in the narrativeconfirm that it does not restrict its vision to the fugitive David but foreshadows


14 Significantly, perhaps, the language varies in the middle section. Not only is Abigail “told”(instead of “hearing” for herself), but she does not formally “send” the gifts ahead. She “takes” thegoods and “places” them on the pack animals, then tells her servants to “go on ahead.” The parallelsin this section are thematic and not linguistic.

15 In contrast, T. Veijola notes that the encounter between David and Abigail displays a chi-astic structure: Abigail speaks and offers gifts; David takes the gifts and responds (Ewige Dynastie,50).

him as the imperious king of a later period. Abigail describes David’s men notas comrades in arms but as courtiers and servants of the king “who walk at hisfeet” (David rides; his servants comprise the royal entourage). Later still, Abi-gail herself rides to her second meeting with David, when she becomes hiswife, attended by a queenly entourage of maidservants “walking at her feet” (v.42). Veijola points out other such anachronisms. Abigail’s speech, for example,anticipates David’s response to her (vv. 26a, 33, 34) just as it also betrays knowl-edge of Nabal’s impending death (v. 26b).16

II. Intertextuality

1 Samuel 25 exhibits a series of verbal similarities to three episodes in theAN: the wooing of Rebekah (Gen 24), the encounter between Jacob and hisbrother Esau (Gen 32–33), and Jacob’s secretive departure from Laban (Gen30–31). These allusions, together with nuances provided by the context of1 Sam 25 as the central component of 1 Sam 24–26, contribute significantly tothe characterization of major figures in 1 Sam 25. They construct a nexus ofintertextuality that results in composite portrayals of Nabal (Nabal = Laban andNabal = Saul), Abigail (Abigail = Rebekah and Abigail = Jacob), and David(David = Jacob and David = Esau and David = Abraham/Isaac).

The Composite Portrayal of Nabal

The depiction of Nabal participates in an intricate system of allusionsextending beyond 1 Sam 25 into much of the NDR. In this system, Nabal func-tions as a counterpart to Laban and, by way of comparisons between Laban andSaul, ultimately as a representative of Saul as well. Employing a literary “com-mutative property,” the author/redactor of 1 Samuel establishes the relation-ship Nabal = Laban = Saul, an equation already indicated by possible plays onNabal’s name in Gen 31:28 and 1 Sam 26:21 (lks, cf. 1 Sam 13:13).17


16 Ibid., 49.17 Significantly, perhaps, the verb lks, “to act foolishly,” occurs only eight times in the

Hebrew Bible: apart from the three occurrences in the Saul/Laban accounts, once in reference toAhitophel (2 Sam 15:31) and twice in reference to David (2 Sam 24:10 || 1 Chr 21:8). Thus, theDavid narratives account for five of eight occurrences (the others are Isa 44:25; 2 Chr 16:9). I.Provan argues on the basis of 2 Sam 13–14 and 15–17 that the David of the SN “knows nowherenear as much in these stories as the other wise people around him” (“On ‘Seeing’ the Trees WhileMissing the Forest: The Wisdom of Characters and Readers in 2 Samuel and 1 Kings,” in In Searchof True Wisdom: Essays in Old Testament Interpretation in Honour of Ronald E. Clements [ed. E.Ball; JSOTSup 300; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1999], 153–73). David, who is regularlyunable to discern the truth in a situation or to see clearly the consequences of his actions, benefits

Nabal and Laban

Parallels between 1 Sam 25 and the Jacob/Laban narratives are less strik-ing and direct than those involving Abigail and her counterparts to be examinedbelow, but no less intriguing. First, according to U. Broich, intertextuality maybe marked in the “communication system outside the text” through the choiceof names for characters.18 Nabal’s unusual name is clearly such a literary artifice(surely, no parent would name a son “Fool”), a palindrome, drawing attentionto parallels between Laban and Nabal. M. Garsiel further confirms the parono-masia involving lbn, hlbn, l[ylbA@b, @yyAlbn, @bl, bl, and @bal in 1 Sam 25 andpoints out that the rabbis had already identified Nabal and Laban with oneanother.19 Furthermore, this choice of name indicates the direction of thegenetic relationship, since it is inconceivable that “Laban” could have arisen asa play on “Nabal.”

Second, both the encounter between David (through his intermediaries)and Nabal and the final encounter between Jacob and Laban involve the reso-lution of questions of payment for services rendered in the protection of flocksand of the possible theft of property. Like Jacob, David portrays himself asfaithful in the protection of his “master’s” flock (Gen 31:6, 31–32, 36–42; 1 Sam25:7; cf. 25:15–16), and both ask for “something” (hm;Wam], Gen 30:31, ironically;1 Sam 25:7, cf. 25:15, 21) in payment. Laban and Nabal contend that the goodsintended as payment are, in fact, their belongings, to which Jacob and Davidhave no authentic claim (Gen 31:26–30, 43; 1 Sam 25:11). Both accounts stressthe hero’s innocence of capital offense: Jacob in the matter of the stolen te·raµpîm(which were “not found,” Gen 31:32–33, 37) and David in the matter of Nabal’sdeath (“evil not found [in David],” 1 Sam 25:28). When Jacob departs with hiswives, Laban’s daughters, Laban accuses him of “stealing his heart” (Gen 31:20,26); when Nabal’s heart becomes stone and he dies, David takes his widow aswife.

Finally, the conflicts between Laban and Jacob and Nabal and Davidoccur in the context of sheep shearing:

/naxoAta, zzOg“li &l'h; @b;l;w“ (Gen 31:19)

lm,r“K'B' /naxoAta, zzOg“Bi yhiy“w" (1 Sam 25:2)

/naxoAta, lb;n: zzEgOAyKi (1 Sam 25:4; cf. also 25:7, 11)


from the folly of his enemies (Saul, Nabal, and Ahitophel, for example) and the wisdom of mem-bers of his entourage (Abigail, Hushai, for example). In this respect, David’s “wise” posture regard-ing avenging himself against Saul is a remarkable exception.

18 Broich, “Formen der Markierung,” 39–40.19 M. Garsiel, The First Book of Samuel: A Literary Study of Comparative Structures, Analo-

gies, and Parallels (Ramat-Gan, Israel: Revivim, 1985), 127. “Rabbi Simon said, ‘Nabal is Laban—

Surprisingly, zzg only occurs another five times in Genesis–2 Kings (Gen 38:12,13; Deut 15:19; 2 Sam 13:23, 24). The two usages in Gen 38 concern Tamar’sdeception of Judah, who has gone to shear sheep. 2 Samuel 13 recounts Absa-lom’s sheep-shearing celebration, at which he murders drunken Amnon.20

Saul and Laban

A number of scholars have called attention to similarities in biblical depic-tions of Saul and Laban, especially in terms of their relationships to their sons-in-law David and Jacob.21 A number of these parallels and allusions involveintertextualities between the framework of the Abigail/Nabal narrative (1 Sam24 and 26) and the passage (Gen 31) that is also the focal point for parallelsbetween Laban and Nabal. Just as David protests his innocence of “insubordi-nation” ([vp) and “sin” (afj) in his dealings with Saul (1 Sam 24:12 [Eng.24:11]), Jacob demands that Laban specify charges of “insubordination” ([vp)and “sin” (afj) to justify Laban’s pursuit (Gen 31:36). In fact, the father-in-law’sunwarranted pursuit of the son-in-law is perhaps the major theme in both texts(#dr, 1 Sam 24:15; 26:18, 20; Gen 31:23; cf. 31:36). In both, the father-in-lawseeks assurances that the son-in-law will protect the father-in-law’s progeny(1 Sam 24:22–23; Gen 31:44). Finally, Laban and David each invoke God to“judge between” the parties to the conflict (1 Sam 24:13, 16; Gen 31:53).

Other parallels between Saul and Laban occur outside the complex of1 Sam 24–26. “Deceit” characterizes dealings between Saul and Laban andtheir households (1 Sam 19:17; Gen 29:25; 31:20): most notably, Saul andLaban deceive their prospective sons-in-law in negotiations concerning mar-riage (1 Sam 18:17–29; Gen 29:15–29);22 in turn, their daughters outwit them tothe advantage of their sons-in-law in instances involving te·̧raµpîm (1 Sam 19:8–17;Gen 31:29–35).23 In an “inversion” of a theme characteristic of the intertextual


just as Laban was a swindler, so was Nabal a swindler’” (Yalqut Sim>oni on 1 Sam 25, cited by Gar-siel on pp. 130–31).

20 Sheep-shearing time in Hebrew narratives seems to connote deception and danger. SeeHo, “Family Troubles,” 519–20.

21 Frontain, “Trickster,” 176; M. Garsiel, “Wit, Words, and a Woman: 1 Samuel 25,” in OnHumour and the Comic in the Hebrew Bible (ed. Y. Radday and A. Brenner; JSOTSup 92;Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1990), 163; Steussy, David, 90; and others.

22 S. McKenzie (King David) is only the most recent scholar to consider the account of Saul’soffer of Merab to David as wife (1 Sam 18:17–19) a late interpolation. Along with 18:1–5, 10–11,and 29b–30, the LXX does not attest it. Despite this likelihood, however, the interpolation—whichestablishes parallels between Laban’s deception in Jacob’s marriages to the sisters Leah and Racheland Saul’s dishonesty in offering David first Merab and then Michal—evidences the interpolator’srecognition of the equation of Saul with Laban, which was manifested already in the NDR. SeeFrontain, “Trickster,” 176.

23 See further H. J. Stoebe, “David und Mikal: Überlegungen zur Jugendgeschichte Davids,”

relationship between Samuel and Genesis, Jacob’s love for Rachel (Gen 29:18)and Michal’s love for David (1 Sam 18:20) mirror each other.24 The comparisontends to heighten the irony of Samuel’s portrayal of David, who shares many ofJacob’s less noble qualities but apparently does not love his wife as Jacob did.

Saul and Nabal

The lynchpin of this matrix of associations is the identification of Nabalwith Saul evident in the inclusio surrounding 1 Sam 25. Indeed, as has beenwidely recognized, this identification seems to be the point of the structure ofthe complex. David’s sparing of Nabal comments on David’s sparing of Saulrecorded in the framing doublet (1 Sam 24 || 1 Sam 26). R. P. Gordon and,especially, R. Polzin catalogue a total of five verbal/thematic features that link1 Sam 24 to the framing chapters, thereby equating Saul with Nabal:25 (1) theconcentration on the question of David’s status (compare Nabal’s question in1 Sam 25:10 to Saul’s in 1 Sam 17:55–58) centered on the portrayal of David asSaul/Nabal’s “son” (1 Sam 24:16; 25:8; 26:17, 21, 25; cf. also 24:12); (2) theobservation that Saul/Nabal repaid David evil for good (1 Sam 24:18 [Eng.24:17]; 25:21); (3) the characterization of the disputes between Saul/Nabal andDavid as disputes (byr) to be adjudicated by God (1 Sam 24:16 [Eng. 24:15];25:39); (4) the assertion that YHWH smote (#gn, 1 Sam 25:38) or will smite (#gn,1 Sam 26:10) David’s enemy (Laban and Saul, respectively); and (5) the motifof “seeking” David (1 Sam 24:3, 10; 26:2, 20),26 which reaches its apex in Abi-gail’s wish/prediction that David’s enemy, “who seeks [his] life,” may/willbecome “like Nabal” (1 Sam 25:26; cf. 25:29). In addition to these lexical andthematic parallels, Polzin also points out the high incidence in 1 Sam 24–26 ofthe terms “and now” (ht[w, over one-third of all occurrences of the term in1 Sam appear in chaps. 24–26) and “behold” (hnh) functioning as “formal sign-post[s].”27


in Von Ugarit nach Qumran: Beiträge zur alttestamentlichen und altorientalischen Forschung:Otto Eissfeldt zum 1. September 1957 dargebracht von Freunden und Schülern (ed. W. F. Albrightet al.; BZAW 77; Berlin: Töpelmann, 1958), 237.

24 See Zakovitch, “Through the Looking Glass,” esp. 149–51; Ho, “Family Troubles,”515–16.

25 R. P. Gordon, “David’s Rise and Saul’s Demise: Narrative Analogy in 1 Samuel 24–26,”TynBul 31 (1980): 37–64; R. Polzin, Samuel and the Deuteronomist: A Literary Study of theDeuteronomic History, Part Two: 1 Samuel (Indiana Studies in Biblical Literature; Bloomington:Indiana University Press, 1989), 205–15 (contra G. A. Nicol, “David, Abigail and Bathsheba, Nabaland Uriah: Transformations Within a Triangle,” SJOT 12 [1998]: 135).

26 The motif extends beyond 1 Sam 24–26; see 1 Sam 19:2, 10; 20:1, 16; 22:23; 23:10, 14, 15,25; 27:1, 4.

27 Polzin, Samuel, 206.

The Composite Portrayal of Abigail

A. Bach accurately observes that “Abigail [is] the focus of her own narra-tive. . . . All the other characters interact only with Abigail.”28 David nevermeets Nabal in person. Once informed of Nabal’s rash reaction to David’sembassy, Abigail seizes the initiative, to maintain it throughout the crisis. Sheconceives and executes a plan to spare David from his own rash counterreac-tion. Ultimately, her intervention does not benefit Nabal. Instead, one canargue that she achieved revenge against Nabal on David’s behalf.29 Even hersubsequent marriage to David may have been the fruit of the idea she plantedin David’s mind (1 Sam 25:31; see further below). Allusions to characters in theAN, namely, the matriarch Rebekah and the patriarch Jacob, serve to enhanceAbigail’s stature as the key actor in the account.

Abigail and Rebekah

Intriguingly, Hebrew narrative does not often describe people of eithergender in terms of their physical beauty. In fact, only thirteen people aredescribed as “good-looking” in Genesis–2 Kings with the language employed in2 Sam 25.30 All three of Israel’s matriarchs and five of the women in David’s lifeare distinguished for their particular beauty. Joseph, David, Absalom, Adoni-jah, and an unnamed Egyptian soldier31 are the five men noted for their good


28 A. Bach, “The Pleasure of Her Text,” USQR 43 (1989): 42.29 Assuming that some historical kernel underlies 1 Sam 25 (given the literary artifice evident

in the narrative, a debatable assumption), S. McKenzie concludes that Nabal’s death, attributed toYHWH’s intervention, may in fact be traceable to “a . . . sinister cause—murder—plotted by Davidbut carried out by someone else. . . . In this case, the prime suspect has to be Abigail” (King David,100)

30 In addition to the descriptions of “good-looking” people in Genesis–2 Kings, there arethree references to “good-looking” cows in Gen 41 and a law concerning the attractive female pris-oner of war taken as a wife in Deut 21:11. 1 Samuel 9:2 describes Saul as more b/f, often translated“handsome,” than any other man in Israel. Since it emphasizes Saul’s stature, it is unclear whetherthe text refers to Saul’s looks or to his fitness for battle. At any rate, the text does not employ theformulaic expression used of David, Abigail, and the matriarchs. The formulaic expression is inter-textually significant in two respects. First, as P. Beentjes points out in a study of inner-biblical quo-tations, biblical authors employ such formulae as a means to mark intertextual relations(“Discovering a New Path of Intertextuality: Inverted Quotations and Their Dynamics,” in LiteraryStructure and Rhetorical Strategies in the Hebrew Bible [ed. L. de Regt, J. de Waard, and J.Fokkelman; Assen: Van Gorcum, 1996], 49). Second, of those described with versions of this for-mula, only Abigail and Rebekah, the matriarch whose depiction in Gen 24 represents the primarypretext for the portrayal of Abigail as David’s bride, “survive” their beauty unscathed. Josephbecomes a target of sexual predation because of his looks, as do Tamar, Bathsheba, and Abishag.Good looks also play a role in the fates of Absalom, Adonijah, and even David. Abigail’s beauty, incontrast, does not in the end endanger her; it brings ruin to Nabal.

31 harm vya yrxm vya (2 Sam 23:21 Qere).

looks. This concentration alone seems intertextually significant. Other com-mentators have also noted the obvious ambiguity of beauty, especially in theDavid stories.32 Just as Joseph’s good looks attracted unwanted attention,beauty proves a particular danger for David’s women and contributes to thearrogance and ultimate downfall of two of his sons. YHWH’s advice to Samuelnot to regard the prospective king’s outward appearance (Whaer“m'Ala, fBeTeAla', 1Sam 16:7) may be read as the moral of this theme in the story of David.

Of greater interest to this study are the linguistic options.

ha,r“m'Atp'y“ hV;ai (Sarah, Gen 12:11)daom] awhi hp;y: -yKi hV;aih; (Sarah, Gen 12:14)

daom] ha,r“m' tb'fo r:[}N"h'w“ (Rebekah, Gen 24:16)ayhi ha,r“m' tb'/f -yKi hq;b]rI (Rebekah, Gen 26:7)

ha,r“m' tp'ywI ra'ToAtp'y“ ht;y“h; ljer:w“ (Rachel, Gen 29:17)

ra'To tp'ywI . . . hV;aih;w“ (Abigail, 1 Sam 25:3)

daom] ha,r“m' tb'/f hV;aih;w“ (Bathsheba, 2 Sam 11:2)hp;y: t/ja; (Tamar II, 2 Sam 13:1)

ha,r“m' tp'y“ hV;ai (Tamar III, 2 Sam 14:27)daom]Ad[' hp;y: hr:[}N"h'w“ (Abishag, 1 Kgs 1:4)

ha,r“m' hpeywI ra'ToAhpey“ #se/y (Joseph, Gen 39:6)yairo b/fw“ !yIn"y[e hpey“A![i. . . aWhw“ (David, 1 Sam 16:12; cf. 16:18)ha,r“m' hpey“A![i . . . r['n" (David, 1 Sam 17:42)

hp,y: Avyai (Absalom, 2 Sam 14:25)ra'ToAb/f aWh (Adonijah, 1 Kgs 1:6)

Rachel is described with the fullest form of what seems a formulaic description:(daom]) ha,r“m' / ra'To (tp'y“ or tb'/f).33 Only the descriptions of Rachel, Joseph (the


32 See especially Meir Sternberg, The Poetics of Biblical Narrative: Ideological Literatureand the Drama of Reading (Indiana Literary Biblical Series; Bloomington: Indiana UniversityPress, 1985), 354–64. See also R. L. Hubbard, Jr., “The Eyes Have It: Theological Reflections onHuman Beauty,” ExAud 13 (1997): 57–72.

33 Biblical Hebrew employs several terms to describe physical beauty. Most commonly aform of the root hpy (“beautiful, handsome”) appears alone (adjective: Job 42:15; Prov 11:22; Cant1:8, 15, 16; 2:10, 13; 4:1, 7; 5:9; 6:1, 4, 10; verb: Ezek 16:13; Ps 45:3; Cant 4:10; 7:2, 7; compare Jer4:30; Ezek 31:7). The adjective b/f (“good”), descriptive of positive qualities in a wide range ofsemantic fields, appears alone much less frequently in reference to physical beauty (Neh 3:4 and,

Hebrew Bible’s prototype of the lk,c, individual [1 Sam 25:3], although thisterm is not used of Joseph), and Abigail employ the optional ra'To, althoughother verbal parallels between 1 Sam 25 and the AN suggest that Gen 24 pro-vides a focal intertext for the Abigail story. Incidentally, the fact that parallelsbetween the language of 1 Sam 25 and Genesis are not limited to texts belong-ing to one of the classical pentateuchal sources undermines the notion that1 Sam 25 is strictly related to J. Instead, it either knows the whole ancestral tra-dition, or the Genesis and the David story (both the NDR and the SN) havecross-pollinated at several stages of lengthy growth processes.

Perhaps significantly, Abigail’s beauty, emphasized in the introduction,plays no overt role in the development of the plot in 1 Sam 25. Nabal’s wealthfirst attracts David’s attention. There is no indication in the text34 that Davidknew Abigail prior to the first encounter recorded in 1 Sam 25. Even in thisencounter, David responds exclusively to her speech. Nothing is said of David’sreaction to her physical appearance. In fact, the only indication that he mayhave noted her beauty comes at the end, when he sends for her to become hiswife. Unlike the others said to be beautiful, Abigail’s beauty does not precipi-tate the events that unfold in her story. Apparently, the allusion functions pri-marily to predispose the reader to regard her in matriarchal/royal light.

Rebekah and Abigail may also be the two most industrious women in theHebrew Bible, at least judged according to the haste with which they pursuetasks. The verb rhm occurs a total of forty-one times in Genesis–2 Kings. Elevenof these occurrences are feminine forms. Of these eleven, three have Rebekahas the subject (Gen 24:18, 20, 46) and four have Abigail (1 Sam 25:18, 23, 34,42).35 Rebekah hurries to give Abraham’s servant something to drink and towater the camels. Then Rebekah graciously washes the feet of Abraham’s ser-vant and of his companions (wta rà !y`nah ylgrw wylgr $jrl, Gen 24:32) wearyfrom their long journey. H. Gunkel found this aspect of Rebekah’s behavior, herextraordinary kindness and hospitality, particularly expressive of her suitabilityas the bride chosen for the heir of the promise.36 Abigail, in turn, hurries to


perhaps, 1 Sam 9:2 and Esth 8:5). Human beings can also be characterized as “comely” (hwan, Cant1:5; 2:14; 4:3; 6:4; compare Jer 6:2; verb form, Cant 1:10), “lovely” (!y[in:, Can 1:16; 2 Sam 1:23; ![n,2 Sam 1:26; Ezek 32:19; Cant 7:7), and “desirable” (dm'j]m', Ezek 24:16; Cant 5:16; dm,j,, Ezek 23:6,12, 23). Not surprisingly, the Song of Songs contains the highest concentration and widest variety ofsuch descriptions of beauty. Interestingly, however, the formula characteristic of the AN, theNDR, and the SN does not appear in Song of Songs.

34 But see n. 9 above.35 The remaining four are Gen 18:6 (Sarah hurries to bake bread), Exod 2:18 (Reuel inquires

how his daughters have been able to finish watering the flocks so quickly), Judg 13:10 (Samson’smother hurries to tell Maon about her encounter with the messenger), and 1 Sam 28:24 (the witchof Endor hurries to prepare food for the weakened King Saul).

36 H. Gunkel, Genesis: Translated and Interpreted (Mercer Library of Biblical Studies 1;Macon, GA: Mercer University Press, 1997), 251–53, 256.

load donkeys with gifts and provisions for David and his men, and she hurries todismount her donkey and to bow to David upon encountering him. Conversely,after graciously and humbly identifying herself as servant to David’s servants,willing even to wash their feet (ynda ydb[ ylgr $jrl hjp`l ^tma hnh, 1 Sam25:41), she hurries to mount and ride after David’s messengers, who have cometo bring her to David as his bride. Both women demonstrate their industry, gra-ciousness, and decisiveness.

Whereas Rebekah encounters Isaac only once in Gen 24, Abigail’s rela-tionship with David develops in two movements in 1 Sam 25. As a result,echoes of Gen 24 can be heard in varying degrees in the accounts of both of theAbigail–David meetings. The description of Abigail’s initial behavior at the firstmeeting, which is also pressed into double duty as a parallel to the account ofthe encounter between Jacob and Esau, bears verbal resemblance (lygyba artw(ypal lptw rwmjh l[m drtw rhmtw dwdAta, 1 Sam 25:23) to the parallel descrip-tion of Rebekah’s behavior when she first meets Isaac (artw hyny[Ata hqbr a`twlmgh l[m lptw qjxyAta, Gen 24:64). There is an intriguing parallel betweenGen 24:18, dr<Tow" rhem'T]w", in reference to Rebekah lowering her water jar to givethe servant to drink, and 1 Sam 25:23, dr<Tew" rhem'T]w", in reference to Abigail low-ering herself from her mount (@m dry in the meaning “to dismount” only hereand in Judg 4:15).

Perhaps the most striking parallel between the two accounts involves themoments when the courtships of these two women prove successful. The ver-bal similarities between the texts that narrate the departures of Rebekah andAbigail (Gen 24:61 || 1 Sam 25:42) as they set out for new husbands are unmis-takable. The only significant differences are the numbers of attendants (one forRachel, five for Abigail as befits her newly royal status), the point at which theyare mentioned in the sentence (Rachel’s attendant much earlier than Abigail’s),the fact that Abigail’s attendants do not ride (they attend a queen-to-be), andthe animals ridden (camels vs. donkeys):

Gen 24:61vah yrja hnkltw !ylmghAl[ hnbkrtw hytr[nw hqbr !qtw

1 Sam 25:42dwd ykalm yrja &ltw Hlgrl twklhh hytr[n `mjw rwmjhAl[ bkrtw lygyba !qtw

Abigail and Jacob

1 Samuel 25 also exhibits a number of verbal parallels to the account ofJacob’s encounter with his brother Esau. Both Jacob (yn"p;l] Wrb][i wyd:b;[}Ala, rm,aoYw",


Gen 32:17) and Abigail (yn"p;l] Wrb][i h;yr<[;n“li rm,aTow", 1 Sam 25:19)37 send servantsahead to greet their antagonists with gifts intended to pacify. The Jacob narra-tive makes a great deal of this notion of passing by or passing on ahead (rb[) inGen 32–33 (32:17, 22, 23, 24, 32; 33:3, 14), often in phrases employing forms ofthe equally thematic !ynp (32:17, 22, 32; 33:3, 14). Both Jacob and Abigail greettheir antagonists by bowing their faces to the ground in the fashion commonwhen one encounters a marked superior. Both refer to “gifts” they offer theircounterparts (^l tabh rà ytkrbAta, Gen 33:11; ^tjp` aybhArà tazh hkrbhyndal, 1 Sam 25:27).

The Composite Portrayal of David

The identification of Nabal with Laban and Saul serves unambiguously tocharacterize Saul as a swindler, a manipulative and deceitful master (Laban),niggardly in rewarding service faithfully rendered (Nabal). Nabal’s villainy findsits counterbalance in Abigail’s virtue. She is the wise supplicant (Jacob) appeas-ing the wrath of the wronged warrior, David (Esau); she is the beautiful andindustrious matriarch (Rebekah) who will be queen. In contrast to these por-trayals of the churl and the queen, the figure of David is surprisingly ambiva-lent: wronged Jacob justified in seeking freedom from indentured servitude toa treacherous master and father-in-law and, at the same time, ruddy Esau, thedisenfranchised, intent upon revenge.

David and Jacob

David’s likeness to Jacob as depicted in 1 Sam 25 has already been dis-cussed above in the context of parallels between Laban and Nabal. The com-parison is intensely ironic. Although Jacob departs from Laban’s service in ajustifiable act of self-preservation, nothing Jacob does is entirely innocent.Jacob’s dealings with Laban differ from his previous dealings with his brotherEsau only in that Laban, Jacob’s equal in deceit and greed, is, at least at first,able to defend himself. Similarly, the comparison underscores David’s willing-ness to extort property and eventually status, just as Jacob had stolen Esau’sbirthright and defrauded him of blessing.

David and Esau

In keeping with several texts in the NDR that characterize David, likeEsau, as ynI/md“a' (1 Sam 16:12; 17:42; cf. Gen 25:24), parallels to the AN in 1 Sam25 tend paradoxically to emphasize David’s similarities to the marauder Esau,


37 K. Budde also compares 1 Sam 25:19 with Gen 32:14ff. with the comment that both stemfrom J (Bücher Samuel, 164).

the converse of the Jacobean, cunning Abigail. For example, just as Esauapproached his brother in the company of a band of four hundred men (^lhwm[ `ya twamA[braw ^tarql, Gen 32:7; cf. 33:1), David moved against Nabalwith an equal force (`ya twam [braw dwd yrja wl[yw, 1 Sam 25:13; cf. 30:10, 17).Several passages in Genesis center on the key encounter between leading fig-ures: Abraham’s servant runs to meet Rebekah at the well (htarql, Gen 24:17).Isaac comes to meet them both on their return (wntarql, Gen 24:65). Labanruns to meet his newly arrived kinsman, Jacob (wtarql, Gen 29:13), and Leahruns to him to inform him that he is to spend the night with her according toher bargain with Rebekah (wtarql, Gen 30:16). Again, however, the clearestparallel involves the encounters between Jacob/Abigail and Esau/David andtheir four hundred men (^tarql, Gen 32:7; wtarql, 33:4; htarql, 1 Sam25:20; ytarql, 25:32, 54).

Another series of phrases used in both texts to describe the focal encountercalls attention to the element of danger that characterizes the Jacob/Esau andAbigail/David encounters. The verb vgp, “to meet, encounter,” occurs fourteentimes in the Hebrew Bible. Eight of them clearly refer to dangerous or disas-trous encounters where the connotation seems to be “to (be) ambush(ed)” or“to fall upon (to fall prey to)” (Exod 4:24, 27, YHWH trying to kill Moses; Isa34:14; Hos 13:8; Prov 17:12, all referring to encounters with predatory animals;Job 51:14, encountering darkness at noonday; Jer 41:6, Ishmael meeting agroup of officials whom he intends to kill; 2 Sam 2:13, Joab and his men meet-ing with Abner’s men “to play” games that result in twenty-four dead). Threetexts employ the term somewhat more happily (Ps 85:10; Prov 22:2; 29:13),although the meaning of the latter two is somewhat unclear. The verb clearlysounds the note of danger in the Jacob/Esau and Abigail/David passages (Gen32:18; 33:8; 1 Sam 25:20). Jacob and Abigail fully expect the worst.

II. The Significance of These Parallels:Selective Narration, Narrative Gaps, and Narrative Dead Ends

Narratology has called attention to the presence and function of “narrativegaps” in Hebrew literary prose. Narrators, who must selectively tell their tales,employ silences in much the same way composers of music employ rests for thesake of variety and interest and, especially, to invite the reader to speculateabout what might have been narrated. Narrators either omit the unnecessary tocontrol the pace or omit the essential to invite reader participation.

1 Samuel 25 exhibits a number of these omissions or gaps. David hearsthat Nabal is shearing sheep, and he sends messengers to Nabal seeking gifts(vv. 4–5). No mention is made of the necessary intermediate step—David’sgoing to the location of Nabal’s flocks—until that information is supplied, first


in David’s communication to Nabal (v. 7) and later as confirmation in the ser-vant’s conversation with Abigail (vv. 15–16).

This supplementary technique, where the reader learns some significantdetail at a point in the account subsequent to the introduction of the topic,characterizes 1 Sam 25. Nabal’s servant reports the outcome of David’s over-tures to Abigail, stressing that the fate of all in Nabal’s household depends onher wise and decisive response. She is key because Nabal, whom the narratorhas already introduced as a “hard, evil-doing Calebite” (v. 3), is beyond reason,according to the servant (wyl;ae rBeD"mi l['Y"liB]A@B, aWhw“, v. 17). This chain of supple-mentary information concerning Nabal continues. Since no one can reasonwith Nabal, Abigail does not inform him of her plan to appease David. She actsindependently and, above all, quickly. Later she, too, expands the portrait ofNabal. “His name is fool and rightly so,” she tells David (v. 25). This motifclimaxes when Abigail tells Nabal what she has done (v. 37) not when he isdrunk but when he is “stone cold” sober.38 Given Nabal’s character, this waseither a moment of danger for Abigail or a moment of defiance and possiblyeven aggression. She does not tell him beforehand of her plans because he mayprevent her from executing them; she tells him afterward, when he is sober andable to understand clearly, presumably because she can predict his reaction.She utilized his foul temperament as a weapon against him. She killed him withhis own temper just as she spared David the consequences of his.

The servant’s exchange with Abigail is key in another respect, as it func-tions as a nexus in another chain of supplementation. David’s servants deliverDavid’s outwardly very respectful and peaceful message “and then they waited”(WjWnY:w", v. 9). After Nabal insults them and their leader, they simply return toDavid (v. 12). David’s message does not seem to convey any explicit threat, andthe messengers apparently do not respond at all, with threats or otherwise, toNabal’s insults. Yet, when they report to David, he orders them to prepare forbattle. Meanwhile, Nabal’s servant, although not privy to the events now takingplace in David’s camp, correctly intuits the true nature of the situation and themagnitude of the underlying threat and, as Mordecai charged Esther with theduty to deliver her people, makes Abigail aware that only she can forestall theimpending crisis. Only later, just before the meeting between Abigail andDavid, does the narrator explicitly supply precise information concerningDavid’s intentions in the parenthetical remark in vv. 21–22.

At least one feature of the narrative, however, resists categorization eitheras a narrative gap or as an example of supplementation. Abigail sends her ser-


38 P. Leithart has recently suggested that the phrase “when his wine was going out of him”refers to urination (“Nabal and His Wine,” JBL 120 [2001]: 525–27). The image, in Leithart’s view,“is not simply a vulgar detail,” but serves to identify further Nabal and Saul by means of the parallelbetween urination and defecation (1 Sam 24:3[4], Saul enters the cave “to cover his feet”).

vants ahead of her to meet David. It is unclear whether—and if so, why—shelingers. The text (1 Sam 25:19) would seem to support either the notion thatshe brought up the end of the column of gift-laden donkeys or that she delayedfor a time and made her way alone. The former interpretation seems to be thesimpler reading of 1 Sam 25:19—“You lead the way and I will follow.” Theseries of statements immediately following, however, makes no mention what-soever of the servants or of the gifts. Abigail rides alone under cover of themountain; she sees David before he sees her, apparently in part because she isunaccompanied (vv. 20, 23). The text does not report that David encounteredthe servants and the donkey-laden gifts before encountering Abigail herself. Infact, only Abigail’s reference to the gifts (v. 27), which have apparently arrivedat some point, although this detail goes unreported, confirms that her servantsare indeed on the scene.

This feature of the account raises two questions. First, why did Abigaildelay her departure? Second, when did the servants and the gifts arrive? Sev-eral possibilities suggest themselves. Could it be that she felt the need to hastenthe dispatch of the gifts but now paused to ready herself for meeting David? Orwas she primarily concerned with ensuring her own safety? On balance, thetext seems to have in mind a situation similar to Jacob’s provisions for his meet-ing with Esau. The gifts are sent ahead of the gift-giver in the hopes of appeas-ing the aggrieved party prior to an encounter with him. Yet the expectationraised by Abigail’s instructions to her servants that they go on ahead—namely,that a series of encounters between David and the servants culminating in theencounter between David and Abigail herself will be recounted—is unfulfilled.

Has the narrator forgotten that Abigail sent the gifts ahead? From a narra-tive standpoint, what role does this feature play, since it is left incomplete? Canit properly be termed a “narrative gap”? Or is it more accurately a “narrativedead end”?

Given the clear linguistic affinities between 1 Sam 25 and specific episodesin the AN, this narrative dead end, which parallels a major motif in one of theselinguistically parallel passages, may provide a clue for evaluating the nature ofthese affinities and parallels. Since the “sending-ahead” motif plays no explicitor plausible implicit role in 1 Sam 25, it seems likely that its sole function is toallude to the Jacob–Esau encounter.

IV. The Portrayal of David in 1 Samuel 25

In terms of the function of the narrative, an analysis of these intricaciessuggests that the story does not, in fact, celebrate David. Instead, the allusionsto the AN, in particular, have the effect of portraying Abigail as the hero of theaccount. Nabal, of course, is a fool, but David is heavy-handed and loutish as


well. Nabal is too shortsighted to realize the risk inherent in insulting David,but David is too shortsighted to recognize the risk to his future posed by rashvengeance. David is greedy and opportunistic; he “hears, sends, and takes” (cf.1 Sam 8:10–18).

Two categories of features of the narrative confirm this interpretation.First, several prominent elements have no purpose except to allude to the ANand to accounts of David’s later career. Abigail’s beauty plays no manifest role in1 Sam 25 apart from making the reader aware that she belongs in the companyof Sarah, Rebekah, Rachel, Bathsheba, and the others. Similarly, the motif of“sending ahead,” a narrative dead end in 1 Sam 25, can only be understood as anot-so-subtle comparison of Abigail to Jacob and, by extension, of David toEsau. References to his four hundred men and verbal parallels with the story ofJacob’s encounter with Esau also emphasize David’s similarity to Esau and indi-cate the potential danger to Abigail in her initial encounter with this armedband and its angry leader.39

Several redundancies also betray the narrator’s awareness of David’s lessnoble traits. As the narrative insists by repeated declarations of David’s murder-ous intention toward Nabal, David is violent. He and his queen (Abigail isaccompanied by not one, but five attendants walking at her feet) are imperious.This element surely does not belong in the context of David’s fugitive experi-ence and must be a comment on his later behavior. He is greedy—a sender andtaker.

1 Samuel 25 does not seem, then, to be a naively or simply pro-David justi-fication of his behavior during his fugitive period. It does not exonerate him(after all, according to the logic of the narrative, Nabal’s death is a foregoneconclusion).40 Instead, 1 Sam 25 is well aware of David’s shortcomings andchooses delightfully involved literary techniques to portray them. Apparently,Israel’s storytellers were very capable of depicting complex heroes. Pro-Davidand anti-David are insufficient categories.

V. 1 Samuel 25 and Hebrew Historiography

The preceding analysis implies that several assumptions underlying theprincipal source-critical models concerning 1 Sam 25 merit revision. A stan-dard approach views both the NDR (including 1 Sam 25) and the J or J/E patri-archal/matriarchal materials as only one step removed from naive folk tradition.41


39 It may be significant that the books of Samuel frequently make this comparison. Does thephenomenon imply some critique of David?

40 Cf. Gunn, Fate of King Saul, 101–2.41 See, e.g., Stoebe, “David und Mikal,” 242.

This aesthetic assessment, which emphasizes observable similarities betweenthe NDR and J in style, language, and motif, complements the argument thatthe NDR represents Israel’s very earliest historiography, predating by severalcenturies the DtrH, into which it was later incorporated. This scenario placesthe author of 1 Sam 25, presumably identical with the author of the NDR, verynear to the events themselves. This author’s purposes in narrating David’s mar-riage to the beautiful, cunning, and wealthy Abigail will have been to illustrateDavid’s cunning good fortune and, in the context of 1 Sam 24–26, his innocenceof any and all disloyalty in his relationship with Saul (Nabal). More recently, anumber of scholars have explained the similarities between NDR and Genesisin terms of a late date for J; that is, J is quite late since it depends on the NDR,if not indeed on DtrH.

Several observations support a view of the relationship between 1 Sam 25and Genesis that differs from either of the currently held models.42 Allusions tothe AN betray dependence on the text of Genesis in an advanced stage of itsdevelopment or the reverse, on the one hand, and a level of literary artifice, onthe other, that seems to suggest a very deliberate literary effort. In particular,four characteristics of the Abigail-David story deserve emphasis.

First, rather than representing a discrete narrative stemming from folktradition and traceable to origins very near the events narrated, the story bearsthe marks of a literary creation spun from whole cloth. Nothing indicates thatan existing folktale has been redacted for inclusion in the NDR. Although theintricate structure of the narrative might lead one to hypothesize the presenceof multiple sources or redactions, no clear pattern of interpolations or editorialchanges is evident. Further, the only reliable historical datum distillable fromthe account is David’s marriage to Abigail. For the purposes of the narrative,however, the author has altered even that information by changing the name ofAbigail’s husband to the ridiculous Nabal/Churl, thereby personifying a majortheme of the account. The placement of the story at the center of 1 Sam 24–26and the allusions establishing the equation Nabal = Saul = Laban confirm thesuspicion that the characterization of Nabal and the report of events cannot betreated as historically reliable. The story is a literary parable skillfully composedon the basis of themes and motifs derived from existing literature.43

Second, the notion that 1 Sam 25 seeks primarily to defend David againstcharges that he rebelled against Saul and perhaps even that he was complicit in


42 The complexity of the issue cautions against prematurely extending these conclusions tothe entirety of the NDR.

43 C. Edenburg argues similarly with respect to 1 Sam 26 (“How [not] to Murder a King:Variations on a Theme in 1 Samuel 24; 26,” SJOT 12 [1998]: 64–83). In her view, the author of1 Sam 26 (= the author of 1 Sam 25?) composed the second variation of the account of David’srefusal to exact vengeance on Saul from themes and motifs provided by existing materials.

Saul’s death fails to account for the narrative’s hints that David exercisedrestraint toward Saul only by constraint or, more likely, that this restraint wasonly apparent, a subterfuge. In this regard, 1 Sam 25 undercuts and decon-structs the surface-level portrayal of David found in 1 Sam 24 and 26. After all,Nabal actually owed David nothing. He had not contracted for David’s protec-tion. It is difficult to escape the conclusion that, in fact, the only threat toNabal’s flocks had been David himself. Surely, Nabal did not owe David pay-ment for a theft not committed. Given the parallelism between Nabal and Saul,David’s attempt to extort Nabal’s possessions compares to David’s appropria-tion of the throne from Saul’s household. Abigail won David’s willingness torefrain from avenging Nabal’s insult only by convincing David of the certaintyof vengeance even without David’s direct intervention. As the story has it, infact, Abigail herself turned against her husband, just as, according to the NDR,Jonathan and Michal turned against their father, Saul—and, perhaps, Ahinoamagainst her husband (1 Sam 14:50).44 Indeed, throughout both the NDR andthe SN, David’s innocence results only from the willingness of members of hiscircle, chiefly Joab, to do David’s dirty work.45 If this is a Solomonic-era defenseof David’s purity and thus of the integrity of Solomon and the Davidic dynasty,it is perplexingly cynical.

Third, at least in the case of 1 Sam 25, it is difficult to understand, as agrowing number of scholars do, similarities between Genesis and Samuel interms of “political allegory.”46 Such an understanding would require theassumption that, for some reason, the author(s) of the various episodes in Gen-esis mined 1 Sam 25 for elements to be used in the Jacob/Laban, Jacob/Esau,and Isaac/Rebekah narratives. 1 Samuel 25 would have been the source foralmost the entirety of the Jacob account! Furthermore, in this view, theauthor(s) of the Genesis narratives would have relied on the figure of Abigailfor motifs in the depiction of both Jacob and Rebekah; David would have pro-


44 McKenzie’s suggestion that the assumption that Saul’s wife, Ahinoam, and David’s wife,Ahinoam of Jezreel, were identical (cf. Nathan’s assertion to David that “[YHWH] gave you yourmaster’s house and your master’s wives into your bosom,” 1 Sam 12:8)—e.g., that David took Saul’swife, surely an act of rebellion (cf. 2 Sam 3:7; 12:11–12; 16:21–22; 1 Kgs 2:13–25)—may explainSaul’s accusation that, by siding with David, Jonathan, the “son of a perverse, rebellious woman”(Ahinoam?) has done so “to the shame of [his] mother’s nakedness” (1 Sam 20:30) (King David,114, 160).

45 Although in some instances Joab and others of David’s circle apparently act from their ownmotives (the ambush of Abner, for example), in every case they accomplish for David something hecannot or will not do for himself (the assassination of Ishbaal and the execution of Absalom, forexample). In at least one instance, the reality of David’s motive underlying his apparent innocenceis laid bare, namely, Joab’s betrayal of Uriah. David’s deathbed recommendation to Saul concern-ing Joab confirms the notion that David kept Joab around largely because Joab’s violent propensi-ties benefited the king.

46 See n. 3 above.

vided the model for both Jacob and Esau. The latter is particularly difficult.Why would an author or authors utilize elements of the NDR’s portrayal ofDavid to characterize Esau, the disenfranchised patriarch of the Edomites? Thecontrary is much more easily imagined, namely, that the author of 1 Sam 25selected elements of the Genesis narratives in order to construct a complex,ironic, almost satirical portrait of David that foreshadows the later characteriza-tion of the David who uses Joab as his hatchet man, who takes Bathsheba, andwho admonishes Solomon to settle David’s old scores.

Finally, this foreshadowing of the ruthless David depicted in the SN callsattention to parallels between Abigail/Nabal and Bathsheba/Uriah and to thecentral role of women at key moments in David’s life. Abigail and Nabal playessentially the same role in the NDR that Bathsheba and Uriah play in the SN.Michal figures prominently in both the NDR and the SN.47 In terms of charac-terization, it seems appropriate, therefore, to suggest that indications of David’slater flaws already appear in the NDR.48


47 See Willi-Plein, “Frauen um David.”48 In terms of source analysis of Samuel, these observations suggest that it may also be appro-

priate to question the differentiation of NDR and SN as distinct sources. See S. Frolov, “SuccessionNarrative: A ‘Document’ or a Phantom?” JBL 121 (2002): 81–104, for a concise review of researchand insightful critique of the “Succession Narrative” hypothesis.

For further information, please contact either Thomas Brodie or Christine Farget:

Tel: +353 61 410 115 Fax: +353 61 468 604 E-mail: [email protected]

LimerickIreland

Do

min

ican

Biblical Centre

Biblical / Classical Research LibraryThe newly-founded Dominican Biblical Centre for Teaching and Research,Limerick, Ireland, seeks quality books in the field of Ancient Near East, the

Scriptures and the Greco-Roman world. Collections such as the LoebClassical Library would be particularly welcome.

the references to an entity called “Bit-H…umri” do not represent a state that wasinvolved in the 734–731 campaign but a new geopolitical entity established byTiglath-pileser at the end of those years. He reintroduces the old designation“Bit-H…umri” to define a newly constituted Assyrian vassal kingdom. Thus, thereferences to “Bit-H…umri” in III R 10,2 (and ND 4301 + 4305) may reflect theterminology of a later perspective and may not be synonymous with the refer-ences to Samaria.

If Tiglath-pileser established a new political entity called “Bit-H…umri,” aquestion arises concerning what that entity included. As noted above, Layard29b indicates that Damascus held the territory of Galilee at the close of the war.Thus, this territory did not revert to Israel but became an Assyrian province.Furthermore, the present text mentions several cities that are “on the border ofBit-H…umri” (line 6). Tadmor reconstructs this text so that the southern borderof Aram was at Abel-Beth-Maacah and Ramoth-gilead.74 According to thisreconstruction, all of Gilead south of Ramoth-gilead belonged to Israel. How-ever, S. Irvine rightly challenges Tadmor and asserts that Aramean territory hadextended deep into traditional Israelite territory.75 He argues that the borderextended into the Transjordan and included Bashan, Golan, and the region ofGilead from the Yarmuk to the Jabbok and beyond. Moreover, the Arameanborder west of the Jordan included not only Galilee but also the Jezreel Valley,the northern edge of the Ephraimite hill country, and the Plain of Sharon.Thus, these territories, under Aram’s control at the close of the war, did notrevert to Israel but became Assyrian provinces.

These observations lead one to conclude that Tiglath-pileser’s entity “Bit-H…umri” was limited to territory west of the Jordan and south of Jezreel. If thiswas the case and if “Bit-H…umri” is not the same as “(URU) Samaria” or “(KUR)Samaria,” it seems reasonable to suggest that the geographical area under thenew entity’s control would have been limited to Samaria and its immediatevicinity but also again including Judah. Thus, Judean independence reflected inII R 67 would have been only temporary until Tiglath-pileser reorganizedSyria-Palestine. The limitation of Bit-Humri�s territory to the area south of

Samaria and the continued absence of Judah from any Assyrian inscriptionsuntil after the fall of the northern kingdom suggest that Israel remained thedominant partner. Overall, it seems that Tiglath-pileser actually reestablished

Journal of Biblical Literature

JBL 121/4 (2002) 667–687

EXPERIMENTS TO DEVELOP CRITERIAFOR DETERMINING THE EXISTENCE OF

WRITTEN SOURCES, AND THEIR POTENTIALIMPLICATIONS FOR THE SYNOPTIC PROBLEM

ROBERT K. [email protected]

Avondale College, Cooranbong, NSW 2265, Australia

MARIE [email protected]

University of Canberra, Canberra, ACT 2601, Australia

Considerations of oral transmission have long been a staple of Gospelstudies.1 The experimental examination of the characteristics of human mem-ory has likewise been a significant part of the academic discipline of psychology

1 Johann Gottfried Herder is credited with the first serious exploration of the consequencesof the fact that for some time between the life of Jesus and the writing down of the Gospels, theGospel materials existed in oral form (“Vom Erlöser der Menschen: Nach unsern drie ersten Evan-gelien,” in Johann Gottfried Herders Werke [Frankfurt am Main: Deutscher Klassiker, 1994],9:609–724). Considerations of orality and oral transmission have received considerable attention inGospel studies at different times. For example, Rudolf Bultmann’s influential History of the Synop-tic Tradition (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1963) used the methodology of Formgeschichte to attempt ahistory of the development of Christian thought during the time that the Jesus tradition existed inoral form. This methodology dominated Gospel studies for a significant period. The revival of inter-est in the historical Jesus in more recent times has again put considerations of this oral period of thetradition at center stage. Of several examples, one might cite John Dominic Crossan, The Birth ofChristianity (San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 1998), 49–89. Discussions of orality have alsoconsistently surfaced in works dealing with the Synoptic Problem. From its first emergence as a sig-nificant issue in Gospel research to the present, explanations based on oral transmission have beenadvocated, albeit as a minority position. Perhaps the best known advocates of this position areHarald Riesenfeld, The Gospel Tradition and its Beginnings: A Study in the Limits of ‘For-mgeschichte’ (London: Mowbray, 1957), and Birger Gerhardsson, Memory and Manuscript(Uppsala: Gleerup, 1961).

667

from its inception.2 Yet, with a few notable exceptions,3 those working in thefield of Gospel studies have made little use of the insights that might derivefrom experimental psychology.

This article reports on three of a series of six experiments designed toexplore some of the characteristics whereby materials copied from written textsmay be distinguished from orally transmitted materials. The experimentaldesign is the result of a collaboration between academics from the two diversefields of Gospel studies and experimental psychology. The article will concludewith a consideration of some of the implications for the study of the SynopticProblem that might derive from the results of the experiments.

Experiment 5

Although the penultimate experiment in the series, this experiment is per-haps the most instructive. Forty-three students chose to participate in thisexperiment as one option for a class requirement. They were randomlyassigned to three groups based on their time of arrival at the designated room,and they signed a willingness-to-participate form after reading a brief explana-tion of the experiment.

The participants in each group were given a list of eight subjects fromwhich they were to choose the six that they knew most about. The eight sub-jects were (1) the sinking of the Titanic; (2) the presidency of John F. Kennedy;(3) the AIDS epidemic; (4) the death of Diana, princess of Wales; (5) the “com-ing out” of Ellen DeGeneres; (6) the Monica Lewinski affair; (7) Cathy Free-man’s sports career; and (8) the war in Kosovo. Short descriptive notes abouteach of these were prepared by the experimenter and made available for desig-nated parts of the experiment. These varied in length from 217 to 336 words,with six of the eight between 240 and 290 words. Each included a number ofspecific facts.


2 The experiments of Hermann Ebbinghaus, reported in 1885 in Über das Gedächtnis:Untersuchungen zur experimentellen Psychologie (Leipzig: Dunker & Humblot, 1885), using non-sense syllables to investigate the characteristics of human memory, provided a significant impetusto the development of experimental psychology (see Hermann Ebbinghaus, Memory: A Contribu-tion to Experimental Psychology [New York: Dover, 1964]). Since that time, tens of thousands ofsophisticated experiments have investigated many different aspects of memory. A convenient sum-mary of many of the significant findings of memory research can be found in Alan D. Baddeley, ThePsychology of Memory (New York: Basic Books, 1976).

3 Both W. S. Taylor (“Memory and the Gospel Tradition,” ThTo 15 [1959]: 470–79) andCrossan (Birth of Christianity, 78–84) make use of the work of Frederic C. Bartlett, Remembering(1932; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1961). Nor should the article by John Bradshaw(“Oral Transmission and Human Memory,” ExpTim 92 [1980–81]: 303–7) be overlooked. But suchexamples are rare.

The instructions given to the first group were as follows:

First: Write about the first two of the events on your list without any referenceto sources. Please write less than 1 page on each event. Use the twoforms with the title, “No Sources” (this is vital), and identify the topicabout which you are writing.

Second: Please ask for summaries of the next two events on your list. You will beallowed to read them as often as you wish. But before you write aboutthe event, give back the written summary. Now write about the events inyour own words. You can mix your own material and material from thesummary in order to get a fair summary of everything you would want tosay about the event. Please write less than 1 page on each event. Useyour own words, and you may include things about the event that are notin the summary. Use the forms with the heading “Source used butreturned” (this is vital), and identify the topic about which you are writ-ing.

Third: Please ask for summaries of the last two of these events on your list. Youcan read them as often as you like. Now write about the events in yourown words. You do not have to return the summaries before you write.You can mix your own material and material from the summary in orderto get a fair summary of everything you would want to say about theevent. Please write less than 1 page on each event. Use the forms withthe heading “Source used and retained” (this is vital), and identify thetopic about which you are writing.

Those in the second group were asked to do these same tasks but in a dif-ferent order: the first two with the sources available as they wrote, the secondtwo without any reference to sources, and the third two after reading and thenreturning the sources. The third group did them in the following order: sourcesused but returned; sources used and retained; no sources.

In analyzing the responses, participants’ written information was typed ina column parallel to a copy of the original, and the common vocabulary andphrases were underlined for each respondent. The hypothesis under test wasthat there should be a discernible difference in both the amount of commonvocabulary and items of fact between the group that was writing purely fromtheir own recollection of the event and the other two groups which had beenprovided with a summary of the event. It was further expected that those whowere able to retain the summary of the event and allowed to copy freely from itwould differ again—both in the amount of common vocabulary and in thenumber of words that were in exactly the same sequence—from the groupwhich returned the summary. Thus, the measures of interest were (1) commonvocabulary, (2) the maximum number of words in exact sequence, and (3) thenumber of items of fact that were recorded.

The two topics chosen by most of the volunteers were the sinking of the

McIver and Carroll: Determining the Existence of Written Sources 669

Titanic (40 responses) and the death of Diana (37). The type of differences thatmight be observed in the three groups may be illustrated by the materials gen-erated by volunteers D19, D10, and D13. D19, for example, wrote the follow-ing with no prompting other than “Write about” the sinking of the Titanic“without any reference to sources.”


[Summary provided to other partici-pants]

Advertised as unsinkable, built to be thelargest ship of that time and the epitome ofluxury, the Titanic struck an iceberg andsank on her maiden voyage. Conditionswere calm in the Atlantic on the night ofApril 14, 1912. In an apparent effort tobreak the Trans-Atlantic record, the Titanicwas travelling at a speed of 22 knots (41km/h) when it struck the iceberg. At firstpassengers and crew were not aware of howserious the damage was. But the designer ofthe ship was on board, and was soon able toreport to the captain that five of the water-tight compartments had been breached, andthat the ship would surely sink in the nextfew hours.

There were insufficient lifeboats, and anearby ship, the California, failed torespond to radio messages and flares. Not allof the available seats in the lifeboats wereused, and about 1500 passengers and crewdrowned. These included the Captain. Hislast known words to the escaping crew andpassengers were, “Be British.” He was lastseen diving from the bridge into the water.

In September 1985 a joint US-Frenchscientific expedition located the remains ofthe Titanic at a depth of 3,962 m, about 595Kms off the coast of Newfoundland. Theship was photographed using a deep-searobot.

The sinking of the Titanic has been madeinto a movie, which currently is the highestgrossing movie ever produced.

[Response of D19—No Sources]

The Titanic was a huge cruiseship built by the British White Star-line Company in Ireland. This shipwas said to be unsinkable due to it’sdesign and it was also said to be thefastest. It was ment to be the mostdecidant cruize ship on the openseas and that it was but tradegystruck in the Atlantic sea. The shiphit an iceburg and the first four ofthe compartments of the bottomfilled with water making the fronttop heavey and thus the ship sank.Because they had been so confidentthere were not enough lifeboats foreveryone and ove 15000 people per-ished.

[Note: Original spelling retained.]

There were 11 words in common between the original and the response (5% ofthe 240 words in the original, 10% of the 107 words in the response). Therewere two words in exactly the same order, and 6 common elements, of which 3were in the same sequence. No two responses were the same, but this responseis nearly average on the statistics that were measured. The average number ofcommon words for those who wrote on the sinking of the Titanic without asource was 13.9, with 2.1 as the average number of words in exactly the samesequence.

It is instructive to compare the above with responses given from the othertwo groups:


[Original Summary]

Advertised as unsinkable, built to be thelargest ship of that time and the epitome ofluxury, the Titanic struck an iceberg and sank onher maiden voyage. Conditions were calm in theAtlantic on the night of April 14, 1912. In anapparent effort to break the Trans-Atlanticrecord, the Titanic was travelling at a speed of 22knots (41 km/h) when it struck the iceberg. Atfirst passengers and crew were not aware of howserious the damage was. But the designer of theship was on board, and was soon able to report tothe captain that five of the watertight compart-ments had been breached, and that the shipwould surely sink in the next few hours.

There were insufficient lifeboats, and anearby ship, the California, failed to respond toradio messages and flares. Not all of the availableseats in the lifeboats were used, and about 1500passengers and crew drowned. These includedthe Captain. His last known words to the escap-ing crew and passengers were, “Be British.” Hewas last seen diving from the bridge into thewater.

In September 1985 a joint US-French scien-tific expedition located the remains of the Titanicat a depth of 3,962 m, about 595 Kms off thecoast of Newfoundland. The ship was pho-tographed using a deep-sea robot.

The sinking of the Titanic has been made intoa movie, which currently is the highest grossingmovie ever produced.

[D10—Source used, butreturned]

The titanic was the biggestship ever to be made—it wasso luxurious ahead of its time.It was on its maiden voyage onApril 14 1912 when it struck aniceberg & sunk. The crew &passengers weren’t aware ofthe extent of the damage butthe designer was on board &he said that it was going tosink. The wasn’t enoughlifeboats for everyone. Theboats weren’t filled to capacityand in the end 1500 peopledied including the captain.

In 1985 a french scientistdiscovered the titanic at at [sic]depth of 3,965m below sealevel 595km off the coast of. . . .

A movie was made and it isone of the biggest moviesmade.


[Original Summary]

Advertised as unsinkable, built to be thelargest ship of that time and the epitome ofluxury, the Titanic struck an iceberg andsank on her maiden voyage. Conditionswere calm in the Atlantic on the night ofApril 14, 1912. In an apparent effort tobreak the Trans-Atlantic record, the Titanicwas travelling at a speed of 22 knots (41km/h) when it struck the iceberg. At firstpassengers and crew were not aware of howserious the damage was. But the designer ofthe ship was on board, and was soon able toreport to the captain that five of the water-tight compartments had been breached, andthat the ship would surely sink in the nextfew hours.

There were insufficient lifeboats, and anearby ship, the California, failed torespond to radio messages and flares. Not allof the available seats in the lifeboats wereused, and about 1500 passengers and crewdrowned. These included the Captain. Hislast known words to the escaping crew andpassengers were, “Be British.” He was lastseen diving from the bridge into the water.

In September 1985 a joint US-Frenchscientific expedition located the remains ofthe Titanic at a depth of 3,962 m, about 595Kms off the coast of Newfoundland. Theship was photographed using a deep-searobot.

The sinking of the Titanic has been madeinto a movie, which currently is the highestgrossing movie ever produced.

[D13—Source usedand retained]

The titanic was built as thelargest ship of the time. It wasadvertised as unsinkable. On April14 1992, in an effort to break arecord the titanic was travelling atfull speed when it hit the iceberg.

The passengers were not sure ifit was serious at first. The designerof the ship soon reported howeverthat the 5 watertight compartmentshad been breached, and the shipwould sink within a few hours.

There were insufficientlifeboats. Not all the available seatsin the lifeboats were used and about1500 passengers drowned.

In 1985 a joint US-French scien-tific expedition located the remainsof the titanic at a depth of 3962m.The ship was photographed using adeep sea robot.

Titanic has been made into amovie which is currently the highestgrossing movie ever produced.

As perhaps might have been expected, the responses of D10 (SourceReturned) and D13 (Source Retained) show a much greater commonality withthe summary that was provided than that of D19 (no sources). This was true onall the statistics gathered: the number of common words, the percentage ofcommon words compared to the original, the number of words in exact

sequence, the number of common factual elements, and the number of factualelements in sequence.


4 Starting with the null hypothesis (H0) that there was no difference between the threedifferent conditions (no source, source returned, source retained), an ANOVA analysis of the totalsample for the percentage of common words vs. original yielded a P-value of 4.51E-27. Thus, ifthe null hypothesis is true, the probability of achieving this experimental result was0.00000000000000000000000000451. This is so unlikely that the null hypothesis—there is no dif-ference between the three experimental conditions—should be rejected (it is not uncommon toreject null hypotheses at a = 0.01). In other words, there is a (statistically) significant differencebetween the results obtained from the three experimental conditions. A two-tailed t-test assumingunequal variances was also done on the two conditions “source returned” and “source retained.”This yielded P(T<=t) = 5.48E-09. There is also a (statistically) significant difference between theexperimental results from these two conditions. The analogous statistics for the words in exactly thesame order are ANOVA P-value = 1E-11; t-test P(T<=t) = 1.54E-05. For the results from theresponses on sinking the Titanic alone, the ANOVA statistics for the three conditions for number ofcommon elements, and number of common elements in sequence are 3.2E-09 and 2.08E-06 resp.

No. of com- % common words Words in exact Common Elements inmon words (vs. original) sequence elements sequence

D19 11 5 2 6 3

D10 49 20 6 14 10

D13 112 47 18 18 14

In fact, the averages of all these measures showed the same kind of progression.Eighteen of the 43 volunteers completed six responses in the experiment, andmost of the rest completed four of them. If all these responses are pooled, theaverage responses for the above statistics are as follows:

For all data ( n= 66, 69, 78, resp.) For Titanic only (n = 14, 13, 13)

% common words Words in exact Common Elements in(vs. original) sequence elements sequence

No sources 5.00 2.45 5.14 3.07

Source returned 15.3 5.43 15.4 9.77

Source retained 28.4 12.6 15.6 12.4

These results are readily amenable to statistical analysis. All the differenceswere found to be statistically significant, aside from the differences in commonelements and the sequence of common elements between the source returnedand source retained.4

Experiments 1 and 2

Experiments 1 and 2 unexpectedly revealed significant information con-cerning the importance of genre in the oral transmission of material. In both ofthese experiments, after reading a brief description of the experiment and sign-ing a willingness-to-participate form, volunteers were able to listen to some-thing read to them as often as they wished. They then went into another roomand repeated what they had heard as accurately as possible into a tape recorder.They were then asked to copy in writing a similar item provided to them as awritten text. The experiment had been set up in the hope that it might produceresults similar to the parallels found in the Synoptic Gospels. This was true ofthe first part of the experiment, which relied on oral memory. But the emphasison verbatim accuracy given to the participants in their instructions producednear 100% accuracy in the copying from a written text, something not found inthe parallels between the Synoptic Gospels. Exact word-for-word parallels arenot found in any Synoptic parallel of 32 words or more. It was this observationfrom the results of experiments 1 and 2 that led to the development of the care-fully constructed instructions in experiment 5, which did produce copying of akind that can be found in some Synoptic parallels (see below).

What did produce significant results in experiments 1 and 2, however, isthat the genre was different for the two experiments. In the first, a joke wasused; in the second, four aphorisms. Financial incentives were announced forthe first volunteer to repeat what had been heard word for word.5 In the event,while most were able to reproduce the joke in a way that retained its humor,nobody came close to getting it word for word. On the other hand, several vol-unteers came very close to getting three of the four aphorisms word for word. Itis highly instructive to compare the results obtained by the volunteers whoachieved some of the results on the two tasks that came closest to reproducingthe original joke or aphorisms:


The t-test for the “returned” vs. “retained” are P(T<=t) = 0.898 and P(T<=t) = 0.20 respectively(this t-test is not significant at a = 0.01). It is interesting to speculate that a larger sample mightyield statistically significant results for the number of elements in sequence, but it is highly unlikelythat an increased sample size would make any difference to the result of the total number of ele-ments (without consideration of order). It was decided not to do this latter test on the total resultsbecause of the variation in the number of elements present in each of the eight sources that wereprovided to the volunteers.

5 For the joke, this was $20. For the aphorisms, $10 to the first volunteer to get three apho-risms word for word, and $10 for the first volunteer to get all four word for word.


6 Michael Crichton (writing as Jeffrey Hudson), A Case of Need (Hingham, MA: Wheeler,1994), 217, used by permission. Other materials used as stimuli were either written specifically forthe experiment, or adapted from unattributed materials from the Internet.

Experiment 1

[Original]

There’s this desert prison, with anold prisoner, resigned to his life, and ayoung one just arrived. The young onetalks constantly of escape, and, after afew months, he makes a break. He’sgone a week, and then he’s brought backby the guards. He’s half dead. Crazywith hunger and thirst.

He describes how awful it was to theold prisoner. The endless stretches ofsand, no oasis, no signs of life anywhere.The old prisoner listens for a while, hesays, “Yep, I know. I tried to escapemyself twenty years ago.”

The young prisoner says, “You did?Why didn’t you tell me, all these monthsI was planning my escape? Why didn’tyou let me know it was impossible?”

The old prisoner shrugs, and says,“So who publishes negative results?”6

[Response from participant A15]

There was a prison in the desert andthere was an old man there who was-old prisoner there who was resigned tohis fate. A young prisoner is bought inand he’s crazy about planning hisescape, he escapes and after a monthand a week later he’s brought back madwith hunger and thirst . . . now I’ve for-gotten the next bit . . . um . . . . He . . .the old prisoner . . . he tells the old pris-oner that um about the endlessstretches of sand and no oasis and nosigns of life he . . . the old prisoner says,“Yeah, I know, I tried to escape when Ifirst came in.” And the young prisonersays, “Why didn’t you tell me when Iwas planning all those maps of myescape?” And the old prisoner says,“That they never publish negative . . .nobody publishes negative results.”

Experiment 2

[Original]

You are more likely to be struck bylightning than to be eaten by a shark.

You are more likely to be infected byflesh-eating bacteria than you are to bestruck by lightning

More people working in advertisingdied on the job in 1996 than died whileworking in petroleum refining.

More people are killed annually bydonkeys than die in air crashes.

[Response from participant B7]


You are more likely to be infectedby a flesh-eating bacteria than you areto be struck by lightning.


Um… There were more peopleworking in advertising in 1996 thanwork in petroleum refining.

The genres of the two samples used in the experiment were chosen with adeliberate eye on the materials attributed to Jesus in the Gospels. Theseinclude many aphorisms and a large number of parables. It was thought thatjokes may share several of the characteristics of the parables of Jesus: they areindependent units that require the preservation of a certain number of basicelements to make “sense,” even if, like joke 1 used in experiment 1, many ofthose who transmitted it did not understand its import. In this way parables andjokes may well be relatively resistant to change.

As it turns out, while the basic meaning of the joke might be relativelyresistant to change, it is not transmitted word for word. That this is a character-istic of oral transmission of material has been noted often enough.7 What iscurious, though, is that the situation is different for aphorisms. They tend to beremembered nearly word for word. While volunteer B7 was one of those whomost nearly achieved word-for-word transmission, most of the volunteerstended to remember parts of the aphorisms exactly, and forget the rest. Volun-teer B6 provided an excellent example of this:


7 For example, see summary of evidence in Ian M. L. Hunter, Memory (rev. ed.; Har-mondsworth: Penguin, 1964), 143–83; cf. Walter J. Ong, Orality and Literacy: The Technologizingof the Word (1982; London/New York: Routledge, 1993), 57–68.

Experiment 2

[Original]


You are more likely to be infected byflesh-eating bacteria than you are to bestruck by lightning

More people working in advertisingdied on the job in 1996 than died whileworking in petroleum refining.


[Response from participant B6]

You are more likely to be struck bylightning than you are to be eaten by ashark.

You are more likely to be infected by. . . oh I’ve forgotten . . . You are morelikely to be infected by a somethingmicrobiotic . . . (laughs) . . . whateverthan to be struck by lightning .

Um . . . More people annually die bybeing . . . from a donkey than . . . froman air crash.

Oh I’ve completely stuffed up, butthat’s all right, and then there wassomething about the um . . . advertisingcrew dying in 1996 than in . . . oh what-ever.

The same characteristic was noted with regard to poems that were used inanother experiment.8 Those parts of the poems that were remembered wereusually remembered exactly, and those parts that were forgotten were forgot-ten entirely.

Potential Implications for the Synoptic Problem

That there are strong cultural differences between the students takingpart in these experiments and the anonymous writers who produced the Synop-tic Gospels is self-evident, and it is a plausible if untestable supposition thatsome of these differences may affect the kind of characteristics that have beenmeasured in these experiments. The Gospels arose out of a primarily oral cul-tural background, while tertiary students are immersed in a culture biasedstrongly toward written texts, and memory plays a different role in oral cul-tures.9 Yet anthropologists report that long verbatim recall exists in purely oralcultures only in the case of shorter poems and the words of some songs, not inthe recounting of stories or jokes. What is remembered are the underlyingmeaning and facts, and even these have a degree of fluidity that can be discon-certing to an observer from a text-based culture.10


8 Experiment 3 used two jokes and two poems. Participants were able to read one joke andone poem, and only heard the other joke and poem. The two jokes and two poems were then repro-duced from memory. The poem available for reading was transmitted better than that which wasonly heard, but in both cases the different lines of the poem were recalled virtually word for wordor not at all. Experiment 4 used a joke that participants could read. Half were then required toreturn the joke, and half were able to retain it so that they could refer to it as they wrote out the jokein their own words. The results of experiment 4 parallel those reported for experiment 5 in thispaper. Experiment 6 involved asking the participants of experiments 3 and 4 to recall what theycould of the joke/jokes/poems after a period of a week, a month, and a year. Space considerationshave precluded a fuller reporting on the results of experiments 3, 4, and 6 in this paper.

9 The first author has had several private communications stressing this fact from friends whohave worked in Papua, New Guinea, or who have worked closely with Australian Aborigines.Bartlett himself recounts a remarkable case of a Swaziland herdsman with near total recall of theexact numbers and prices of cattle sold one year earlier (Remembering, 249–50). It would be inter-esting indeed to repeat the kind of experiments reported here in a community with a living oral cul-ture.

10 Ong provides a useful survey of the evidence, beginning with the work of Milman Parryand Albert Lord (Orality, 57–69). While the narrative poets of Yugoslavia recorded by Parry andLord claimed to reproduce long poems line for line and word for word, actual recordings show thatthe two renditions are never the same. Jack Goody reports that oral peoples do try for verbatim rep-etition of poems. Their success “is minimal by literate standards” (ibid., 62). Jeffrey Opland, forexample, estimates that in Africa there is “at least sixty per cent in correlation with other versions”of the poem (ibid.)—a very good result, but not verbatim memorization. Music, though, can oftenproduce verbatim reproduction of the lyrics (ibid., 63). Ian M. L. Hunter discusses the popularbelief “that nonliterate cultures encourage feats of word-for-word remembering” (“Lengthy Verba-

The basic limitations placed on memory by the abilities of the humanbrain are constant between these cultures, and this may explain why lengthyverbatim recall is so rare. Of particular importance are the limitations of short-term memory. Most individuals are able to store only between four and sevenitems in short-term memory.11 These items in short-term memory are continu-ally being replaced as new input arrives at the senses and need to be particu-larly “memorable” if they are to move to medium or long-term memory. Whatappears to be stored in medium and long-term memory are not usually theexact words, but the underlying meaning of the words. There are exceptions tothis general observation, particularly in respect to poetry and words set tomusic. Furthermore, actors are able to memorize large bodies of text word forword, but this type of memorization requires much rehearsal from an unchang-ing written text, something not available in an oral culture.12 In the absence ofsuch special conditions, what is remembered is the meaning, not the exactwords. This can be illustrated from the experiments reported here. What isremembered from jokes and the historical accounts, for example, are not theexact words but the macro-meaning of the text. Some phrases are retained, butnot long sequences of words. The long sequences of words were found to betransmitted only by means of copying from written texts.

Criteria for DeterminingWhether Copying Has Taken Place

The experiments are able to provide a test to determine when a previouslyexisting written text has been used as the basis of another text. That a writtendocument underlies a certain text is not always discernible. For example, manyof the volunteers who retained the written summary in experiment 5 did notproduce long sequences of words. But here is the point. For the jokes and thedescriptions of historical events, only those who retained the text and couldcopy from it produced long sequences of words that were exactly the same. It isinstructive to examine the following three graphical representations of thestatistics for the “largest number of words in exact sequence” from the totalsample of experiment 5:


tim Recall: The Role of Text,” in Progress in the Psychology of Language [ed. Andrew W. Ellis;London: Erlbaum, 1985], 1:207–36). His conclusion is that lengthy verbatim recall does not takeplace in nonliterature cultures. Indeed, it is only possible where there are written texts againstwhich to test the memorized version for accuracy.

11 George A. Miller, “The Magical Number Seven, Plus or Minus Two: Some Limits on OurCapacity for Processing Information,” Psychological Review 63 (1956): 81–97; Donald E. Broad-bent, “The Magic Number Seven after Fifteen Years,” in Studies in Long Term Memory (ed. AlanKennedy and Alan Wilkes; London: Wiley, 1975), 3–18.

12 Hunter, “Lengthy Verbatim Recall,” 210, 234.

While there is overlap between the various categories, it is clear that longsequences of 16 or more words belong exclusively to the group that retainedthe source and could copy from it. From the perspective of the development ofa test for the presence of copying, the critical group is the group that returnedthe source before writing. The longest sequence of words in the exact order foralmost all of them was fewer than 8. None of them had a sequence of wordsgreater than 15.13 This result is represented graphically on the following page.

The experiments have also shown that this characteristic is accurate onlyfor narrative material, and that it is possible that longer sequences of wordsfrom poems and shorter aphorisms might be remembered exactly.14 Thus it is


13 The shape of the graph suggests that a Poisson distribution would be the most suitableapproximation of the distribution. The sample average is 5.43 (n = 69). The probability that a Pois-son distribution of l = 6 returning values x ≥ 16 is 0.00017. In other words, in fewer than 2 out of10,000 times would such an event occur. Hence, 16 or more words in exact sequence is so unlikelyto occur when copying has not taken place that it appears to be a sensible cutoff point to determinewhether or not copying has occurred. Even 15 or more words in sequence has a low probability,although two volunteers achieved it. An explanation lies to hand for volunteer D37, who repro-duced the saying “Ask not what your country can do for your—ask what you can do for your coun-try,” as “Don’t ask what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country.” In otherwords, this is further evidence of the memorability of aphorisms, especially one expressed as a chi-asm.

14 Kenneth Bailey, in two separate articles describing informal oral traditions in modern Arabvillages, distinguishes proverbs and poems from other oral material because there is no flexibility inthe wording of proverbs and poems. They are always said in exactly the same manner (“InformalControlled Oral Tradition and the Synoptic Gospels,” Asia Journal of Theology 5 [1991]: 34–54,esp. 42; idem, “Middle Eastern Oral Tradition and the Synoptic Gospels,” ExpTim 106 [1995]:

Number of Words in Exact Sequence

70

60

50

40

30

20

10

0

0 4 8 12 16 20 24 28 32 36 40 >40

No source

SourceReturned

SourceRetained

Number of words

Fre

qu

ency

now possible to state a general test to determine the existence of writtensources: Any sequence of exactly the same 16 or more words that is not an apho-rism, poetry, or words to a song is almost certain to have been copied from awritten document.

Conclusion 1: There are at least nine parallel passages in theSynoptic Gospels where copying has almost certainly occurred.

The application of this test to the Synoptic Gospels would reveal thoseparallels passages whose relationship can only be ascribed to copying. The firststage of applying the test is to discover the parallel passages with 16 or morewords that are exactly the same in form and sequence. There are 23 such pas-sages, which are listed in the following table:


363– 67, esp. 366). In addition, Ong notes that words set to music are usually transmitted exactly(Orality, 63). James D. G. Dunn uses Bailey’s distinction between oral material that is handeddown with (a) no flexibility, (b) some flexibility, and (c) total flexibility to good effect (Dunn, “Jesusin Oral Memory: The Initial Stages of the Jesus Tradition,” in Society of Biblical Literature 2000Seminar Papers [Atlanta: SBL, 2000], 287–326).

Number of Words in Exact Sequence: Source Returned

16

14

12

10

8

6

4

2

0

0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 >15Number of words

Fre

qu

ency

The second stage of applying the test to determine if copying has takenplace is to discard those passages that are aphorisms, distinctive sayings, orpoetry, since long sequences of words of aphorisms and distinctive sayings canbe transmitted orally. Thus, the following seven parallels should be set to oneside:

Short aphorisms or distinctive sayings: Matt 6:24 // Luke 16:13 (“No onecan serve two masters . . .”); Mark 1:24–25 // Luke 4:34–35 (the words of thedemons); Matt 7:7–8 // Luke 11:9–10 (“Ask and it will be given you . . .”); Matt


15 Albert Huck, A Synopsis of the First Three Gospels (9th ed.; Tübingen: Mohr, 1935).

No. of words Referencein exact Huck number15

sequence Matthew Mark Luke

31 10:16–25 13:3–13 58, 59, 213–1529 10:13–16 18:15–17 18828 11:25–30 10:21–24 67–68, 141–4228 24:45–51 12:41–48 226, 158–5926 1:21–28 4:31–37 1226 6:24 16:10–13 34, 17424 3:1–12 3:1–20 1–524 7:7–12 11:9–13 38–39, 14824 8:18–22 9:57–62 49, 13824 12:38–42 11:29–32 87, 15223 16:21–28 8:31–9:1 122–2323 12:38–40 20:45–47 21023 24:15–28 13:14–23 216–1823 26:17–25 14:12–21 234–3522 11:1–19 7:18–35 64–65, 81–8221 8:5–13 7:1–10 46, 7920 15:1–20 7:1–23 11519 22:41–46 12:35–37 20917 8:1–4 5:12–16 4517 20:20–28 10:35–45 19216 15:32–39 8:1–10 11816 16:21–28 9:21–27 122–2316 24:29–35 13:24–31 219–21

8:20 // Luke 9:58 (“Foxes have holes . . .”); Mark 12:38–40 // Luke 20:45–47(“Beware of the scribes . . .”); Matt 26:24 // Mark 14:21 (“Son of Man goes as is. . .”); Matt 20:28 // Mark 10:45 (“Son of Man did not come to be served . . .”).

A further seven parallels are ambiguous from the perspective of the exper-imental results. These saying are distinctive, and so it is conceivable that theymay have been transmitted by oral means. But they are embedded in passagesthat have a number of long sequences of words that are exactly the same, whichwould incline an observer to the supposition that copying has taken place. Nev-ertheless, they probably should be set aside from the list of indisputable exam-ples of copying, because of the possibility that their form is distinctive enoughthat it could be remembered exactly. These passages are as follows:

Longer distinctive sayings: Matt 12:41–42 // Luke 11:29–32 (“The men ofNineveh will rise up . . .”16); Mark 10:13–16 // Luke 18:15–17 (“Let the childrencome to me . . .”); Matt 16:24–26 // Mark 8:34–36 // Luke 9:23–25 (“If anyonewould follow me, let them take up their cross . . .”); Matt 8:9 // Luke 7:8 (wordsof the centurion: “I say go, and he goes . . .”); Matt 15:8–9 // Mark 7:6–7 (“[Thispeople] honors me with their lips . . .”); Matt 15:32 // Mark 8:2 (“I have compas-sion upon the crowd . . .”).

This leaves the following passages, which, by the criteria developed above,almost certainly contain copied material:

• three parallels in the apocalyptic discourse: Matt 24:15–28 // Mark13:14–23; Matt 24:29–35 // Mark 13:24–31; Matt 10:21–22 // Mark13:12–1317

• three narrative accounts: Matt 3:1–12 // Luke 3:1–20 (preaching of Johnthe Baptist, particularly Matt 3:7b–12 // Luke 3:7b–9, 16–17); Matt11:1–19 // Luke 7:18–35 (messengers from John the Baptist); Matt8:1–4 // Luke 5:12–16 (healing of a leper)

• a short discourse: Matt 11:25–30 // Luke 10:21–24 (“Father . . . you havehidden these things from the wise . . .”)

• a parable: Matt 24:45–51 // Luke 12:41–48 (parable of wise and wickedservants)

• a citation from Ps 110: Matt 22:41–46 // Mark 12:35–37


16 In Matt 12:41–42 // Luke 11:29–32 the total passage with extended sequences of wordsextends over 53 words; while Matt 16:24–26 // Mark 8:34–36 // Luke 9:23–25 is in a total passage of51 words.

17 Mark 13:28–31 // Luke 21:29–38, also from the apocalyptic discourse, show 15 words inexact sequence, and thus fall just outside the criteria of 16 or more words.

Of the material that almost certainly contains copied material, it is possibleto identify one common source with confidence: a Greek version of Ps 110, per-haps the LXX.18 If it was decided on other grounds that it was unlikely that oneevangelist copied directly from an existing Gospel, then it would be necessaryto postulate a minimum of two further sources: one, the apocalyptic discourse(Mark 13 and parallels), which all three Gospels used, and one used by bothMatthew and Luke but not Mark (perhaps Q?). Indeed, once one has admittedthat evidence for such a document exists, it would not be improbable that sev-eral of the passages that have been temporarily set aside may have been copiedfrom such a document.

It is instructive to compare the visual appearance of the parallels listedabove as almost certainly containing copying with that given earlier in the arti-cle from volunteer D13 in experiment 5. The parable in Matt 24:45–51 // Luke12:41–48 might serve as an example:


18 The LXX text of Ps 110:1 from Gramcord (which uses Rahlfs’s edition) is exactly the sameas that found in Matt 22:44 and parallels. Note that there are a further three parallels that have 15words in exactly the same sequence that involve parallels to Ps 110:1: Matt 22:41–46 // Luke 20:41–44; Mark 12:35–37 // Luke 20:41–44; and Mark 13:28–31 // Luke 21:29–38.

Matt 24:45–51 (88 words in common[81% of words in the Matthean version];longest sequence exactly the same = 28words)

45 Tiv" a[ra ejsti;n oJ pisto;" dou'lo" kai;frovnimo" o}n katevsthsen oJ kuvrio" ejpi;th'" oijketeiva" aujtou' tou' dou'nai aujtoi'"th;n trofh;n ejn kairw'/ 46 makavrio" oJdou'lo" ejkei'no" o}n ejlqw;n oJ kuvrio" auj-tou' euJrhvsei ou{tw" poiou'nta: 47 ajmh;nlevgw uJmi'n o{ti ejpi; pa'sin toi'" uJpavr-cousin aujtou' katasthvsei aujtovn.48 eja;n de; ei[ph/ oJ kako;" dou'lo" ejkei'no"ejn th'/ kardiva/ aujtou': cronivzei mou oJkuvrio", 49 kai; a[rxhtai tuvptein tou;"sundouvlou" aujtou', ejsqivh/ de; kai; pivnh/meta; tw'n mequovntwn, 50 h{xei oJ kuvrio"tou' douvlou ejkeivnou ejn hJmevra/ h|/ oujprosdoka'/ kai; ejn w{ra/ h|/ ouj ginwvskei,51 kai; dicotomhvsei aujto;n kai; to; mevro"aujtou' meta; tw'n uJpokritw'n qhvsei: ejkei'

Luke 12:41–48 (88 words in common[51% of words in the Lukan version])

41 Ei\pen de; oJ Pevtro": kuvrie, pro;"hJma'" th;n parabolh;n tauvthn levgei" h]kai; pro;" pavnta"_ 42 kai; ei\pen oJkuvrio": tiv" a[ra ejsti;n oJ pisto;"oijkonovmo" oJ frovnimo", o}n katasthvsei oJkuvrio" ejpi; th'" qerapeiva" aujtou' tou'didovnai ejn kairw'/ [to;] sitomevtrion_43 makavrio" oJ dou'lo" ejkei'no", o}nejlqw;n oJ kuvrio" aujtou' euJrhvseipoiou'nta ou{tw". 44 ajlhqw'" levgw uJmi'no{ti ejpi; pa'sin toi'" uJpavrcousin aujtou'katasthvsei aujtovn. 45 eja;n de; ei[ph/ oJdou'lo" ejkei'no" ejn th'/ kardiva/ aujtou':cronivzei oJ kuvriov" mou e[rcesqai, kai;a[rxhtai tuvptein tou;" pai'da" kai; ta;"paidivska", ejsqivein te kai; pivnein kai;mequvskesqai, 46 h{xei oJ kuvrio" tou'

e[stai oJ klauqmo;" kai; oJ brugmo;" tw'nojdovntwn.

This parallel contains several long sequences of words that are in exactly thesame order, and has a visual appearance very like that observed in those whoretained their written source in experiment 5.

Characteristics of Orally Transmitted Materials

The experimental results have yielded a test to determine whether copy-ing is present. Is it further possible to use them to derive a test to show thatmechanisms of memory are present? Perhaps, although such a test has to beexpressed more generally than that developed for revealing whether copying ispresent.

The response of volunteer A10 is a suitable place to begin a considerationof the characteristics of material in the transmission of which memory plays asignificant part. This response contained one of the highest percentages ofcommon material in the first part of experiment 1: 62% of words in commonwith the original, and a maximum of six words in sequence:19


19 The joke is different from that heard by volunteer A15, which is given earlier in the article.Two jokes were used in experiment 1, one that was heard orally, and one that was copied. The jokeheard and the joke copied were randomly varied. Most volunteers did not understand the first jokecited, and all the highest frequencies of common vocabulary belonged to those who heard this sec-ond joke, which all the volunteers understood.

douvlou ejkeivnou ejn hJmevra/ h|/ ouj pros-doka'/ kai; ejn w{ra/ h|/ ouj ginwvskei, kai;dicotomhvsei aujto;n kai; to; mevro" aujtou'meta; tw'n ajpivstwn qhvsei. 47 !Ekei'no"de; oJ dou'lo" oJ gnou;" to; qevlhma tou'kurivou aujtou' kai; mh; eJtoimavsa" h] poi-hvsa" pro;" to; qevlhma aujtou' darhvsetaipollav": 48 oJ de; mh; gnouv", poihvsa" de;a[xia plhgw'n darhvsetai ojlivga". Panti;de; w|/ ejdovqh poluv, polu; zhthqhvsetaipar! aujtou', kai; w|/ parevqento poluv,perissovteron aijthvsousin aujtovn.

The following observations might be made about the parallels that can beobserved in the responses of both volunteers A15 and A10:

1. It is possible that oral transmission might produce a high percentage ofcommon vocabulary, but the words that are exactly in the samesequence tend to be found in short phrases of only a few words.

2. The common phrases are scattered throughout the text.

3. The length of the two versions need not be the same.

4. Changes may be observed in the tenses and moods of the verb (e.g.,volunteer A15 [see p. 679 above] uses the past tense, while the originalwas in the present tense).


Experiment 1

[Original]

There was an Irishman, an English-man and Elle sitting together in a car-riage on a train going through Tasmania.Suddenly the train went through a tun-nel and as it was an old style train, therewere no lights in the carriages and itwent completely dark.

Then there was this kissing noise andthe sound of a really loud slap. When thetrain came out of the tunnel, Elle andthe Irishman were sitting as if nothinghad happened, but the Englishman hadhis hand against his face as he had beenslapped there.

The Englishman was thinking: “TheIrish fella must have kissed Elle and shemissed him and hit me instead.

Elle was thinking: “The English fellamust have tried to kiss me and actuallykissed the Irishman and got slapped forit.”

The Irishman was thinking, “This isgreat! The next time the train goesthrough a tunnel I’ll make another kiss-ing noise and slap that English idiotagain.”

[Response from participant A10]

There was an Englishman, an Irish-man and Elle on a train in Tasmania andthey were going through a tunnel and asit was an old train and there was nolights, it suddenly went dark. There wasa kissing noise and then a slap heard.And when they came out the other sideof the tunnel, the Englishman wasthinking, the Irishman must have triedto kiss Elle, missed and got me. Elle wasthinking, the Englishman must havetried to kiss me but kissed the Irishmaninstead. The Irishman was thinking,next time we go through a tunnel I’llhave to make that kissing sound againand slap that silly Irishman—theEnglishman.

5. Often synonyms are used, as well as short phrases of different wordsthat have the same meaning (e.g., “resigned to his fate” [volunteer A15]vs. “resigned to his life” [original]).

Conclusion 2: Memory plays a significant role in therelationship between the Synoptic Gospels.

The qualities listed above as typical of transmission of material where themechanisms of memory are present are characteristic of the majority of theparallels between the Synoptic Gospels. This appears to be true of even thosefew parallels that exhibit a high percentage of common vocabulary. Matthew21:23–27 and Mark 11:27–33 serve to illustrate parallel passages that havemore than 50% of words in common.


Matt 21:23–27 (83 common words [72%of the Matthean version]; 9 words inexact sequence)

23 Kai; ejlqovnto" aujtou' eij" to; iJero;nprosh'lqon aujtw'/ didavskonti oiJajrcierei'" kai; oiJ presbuvteroi tou' laou'levgonte": ejn poiva/ ejxousiva/ tau'tapoiei'"_ kai; tiv" soi e[dwken th;n ejxou-sivan tauvthn_ 24 ajpokriqei;" de; oJ!Ihsou''" ei\pen aujtoi'": ejrwthvsw uJma'"kajgw; lovgon e{na, o}n eja;n ei[phtev moikajgw; uJmi'n ejrw' ejn poiva/ ejxousiva/ tau'tapoiw': 25 to; bavptisma to; !Iwavnnoupovqen h\n_ ejx oujranou' h] ejx ajnqrwvpwn_oiJ de; dielogivzonto ejn eJautoi''" lev-gonte": eja;n ei[pwmen: ejx oujranou', ejrei'hJmi'n: dia; tiv ou\n oujk ejpisteuvsate aujtw'/_26 eja;n de; ei[pwmen: ejx ajnqrwvpwn,fobouvmeqa to;n o[clon, pavnte" ga;r wJ"profhvthn e[cousin to;n !Iwavnnhn. 27 kai;ajpokriqevnte" tw'/ !Ihsou' ei\pan: oujkoi[damen. e[fh aujtoi'" kai; aujtov": oujde;ejgw; levgw uJmi'n ejn poiva/ ejxousiva/ tau'tapoiw'.

Mark 11:27–33 (83 common words[66% of the Markan version])

27 Kai; e[rcontai pavlin eij" !Ierosov-luma. Kai; ejn tw'/ iJerw'/ peripatou'nto"aujtou' e[rcontai pro;" aujto;n oiJajrcierei'" kai; oiJ grammatei''" kai; oiJpresbuvteroi 28 kai; e[legon aujtw'/: ejnpoiva/ ejxousiva/ tau'ta poiei'"_ h] tiv" soie[dwken th;n ejxousivan tauvthn i{na tau'tapoih'/"_ 29 oJ de; !Ihsou'" ei\pen aujtoi'":ejperwthvsw uJma'" e{na lovgon, kai;ajpokrivqhtev moi kai; ejrw' uJmi'n ejn poiva/ejxousiva/ tau'ta poiw': 30 to; bavptisma to;!Iwavnnou ejx oujranou' h\n h] ejx ajnqrwv-pwn_ ajpokrivqhtev moi. 31 kai; dielogiv-zonto pro;" eJautou;" levgonte": eja;nei[pwmen: ejx oujranou', ejrei': dia; tiv [ou\n]oujk ejpisteuvsate aujtw'/_ 32 ajlla;ei[pwmen: ejx ajnqrwvpwn_ — ejfobou'ntoto;n o[clon: a{pante" ga;r ei\con to;n!Iwavnnhn o[ntw" o{ti profhvth" h\n. 33 kai;ajpokriqevnte" tw/' !Ihsou' levgousin: oujkoi[damen. kai; oJ !Ihsou'" levgei aujtoi'":oujde; ejgw; levgw uJmi'n ejn poiva/ ejxousiva/tau'ta poiw'.

These passages show all the characteristics listed for orally transmittedmaterial: while it has a very high common vocabulary, the words that are exactlythe same in form and sequence are found only in short phrases. There aremood and tense changes (e.g., levgonte" vs. e[legon in Matt 21:23 and Mark11:28). The common vocabulary is scattered throughout the passage, and thetwo passages have a slightly different length.

Furthermore, these passages of high common vocabulary are relativelyrare in the parallels between the Synoptic Gospels. Of the 348 passages of over60 words in the UBS Greek New Testament that have a separate subheading,only 36 have more than 50% common words. The probability that two parallelsdepend on some facility of memory, such as memorization of oral tradition,becomes greater for the parallel passages with much smaller percentages ofcommon vocabulary that do not have long sequences of words in common.These types of parallels are in the vast majority in the Synoptic Gospels. It istherefore not unlikely that memory and mechanisms of oral transmission of tra-dition may have played a greater role in the formation of the Synoptic Gospelsthan has usually been thought.

Summing Up

The experiments reported in this article reveal that the characteristics ofhuman memory mean that what is remembered from jokes and historicalaccounts is the macro-meaning, not the exact words. On the other hand, somegenres, such as aphorisms and poetry, tend to be remembered word for word ornot at all. This means that it is possible to transmit longer sequences of wordsaccurately using aphorisms, poetry, and words set to music. These observationsled to the formulation of a criterion to establish the presence of copying: unlessfound in poetry, words set to music, or aphorisms, 16 or more words that areexactly the same in two or more documents indicate that a process of copyinghas taken place. Applying this criterion to the parallels in the three SynopticGospels reveals that there are at least nine passages where it is almost certainthat a process of copying has occurred. The presence of these nine passagesmakes it likely that there are other passages that are also the result of copying.Nevertheless, overall, the majority of the parallels in the Synoptic Gospels havecharacteristics that are more typical of a process of transmission that involvesmemory rather than straight copying: the common vocabulary is found in shortsequences of words; there are changes of mood, tense, and grammatical con-struction; synonyms are common; and the passages are of different length. Inother words, as with the jokes and historical accounts transmitted in the experi-ments by means that involved memory, the macro-meaning is often the samebut the words are not identical.


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B O O K S f o r

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JBL 121/4 (2002) 689–709

WISDOM FOR THE PERFECT:PAUL’S CHALLENGE TO THE CORINTHIAN

CHURCH (1 CORINTHIANS 2:6–16)

SIGURD [email protected]

Beeson Divinity School, Birmingham, AL 35229

What was at stake when the church in Corinth was divided? Abandoningthe older quest for a Corinthian heresy, recent studies have rightly tended tounderstand the factions in Corinth against the background of the conventionsof Greco-Roman rhetoric. It should not be overlooked, however, that Paulunderstood these factions as symptomatic of a grave theological error inCorinth.1 The thesis of this article is that by attempting to excel by worldly stan-

1 The trend to focus on the factions as an ethical problem rather than a theological one seemsto have started with Johannes Munck, who remarked that “the Corinthians’ wrong conception ofthe Gospel as wisdom is connected with their misunderstanding of other points; but there is nodogmatic controversy in the first four chapters . . . the Corinthians’ shortcomings in respect of theirbickerings are regarded in this section as primarily ethical failures” (Paul and the Salvation ofMankind [London: SCM, 1959], 152). Munck also saw theological implications of the conflict, butother scholars have tended to understand the conflict in exclusively sociological terms. Laurence L.Welborn observes: “The terms with which scivsma is associated make it clear that it is neither a reli-gious heresy nor a harmless clique that the author has in mind, but factions engaged in a strugglefor power”; and he thinks that “[i]t is no longer necessary to argue against the position that the con-flict which evoked 1 Corinthians 1–4 was essentially theological in character” (“On the Discord inCorinth: 1 Corinthians 1–4 and Ancient Politics,” JBL 106 [1987]: 87, 88). According to StephenM. Pogoloff, “Paul is addressing an exigence of the ethical dimensions of division, not doctrinaldivergence” (LOGOS AND SOPHIA: The Rhetorical Situation of 1 Corinthians [SBLDS 134;Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1992], 104). The judgment of Raymond Pickett goes along the same lines:“Paul gives no indication that any theological conceptions, or misconceptions, are the cause of thedissensions” (The Cross in Corinth: The Social Significance of the Death of Jesus [JSNTSup 143;Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1997], 37). Similarly, Peter Marshall, Enmity in Corinth:Social Conventions in Paul’s Relations with the Corinthians (WUNT 2/23; Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck, 1987), 181; David G. Horrell, The Social Ethos of the Corinthian Correspondence: Inter-ests and Ideology from 1 Corinthians to 1 Clement (Studies of the New Testament and Its World;Edinburgh: Clark, 1996), 220. Duane Litfin emphasizes Paul’s theological interpretation of the

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dards, the Corinthians were running the risk of defining themselves as those forwhom the gospel was hidden and thus forfeiting their salvation. After a briefsurvey of recent research on the factionalism in Corinth, we shall see how Paul’sdiscourse on wisdom in 1 Cor 2:6–16 serves his rhetorical purpose by under-mining the basis for the factions. A true comprehension of the gospel is irrecon-cilable with the bickering that characterized the Corinthian church. In order todemonstrate our thesis, we will show that the divine wisdom in 1 Cor 2:6–16 isto be identified with the gospel, that this wisdom is hidden under its apparentfoolishness for those who want to be wise according to the standards of thisworld, and that the perfect, who receive this wisdom, are all Christians. We willthen see that Paul is challenging the Corinthians: Will they side with the wise ofthis world, or will they show themselves as being among the perfect, that is, theChristians, who have rejected the standards of the world? The factionalism,based on competition by worldly standards, indicates that the former is thecase. For Paul, sociology is indicative of theology. The uniqueness of 1 Corin-thians, therefore, can be fully appreciated only when the letter is examined inits theological as well as its sociological world.

I. The Factions

First Corinthians 1:10–4:21 may be characterized as deliberative rhetoric,the thesis statement being found in 1:10: “Now I appeal to you, brothers andsisters, by the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, that all of you be in agreementand that there be no divisions among you, but that you be united in the samemind and the same purpose.”2 The reasons for the factionalism in Corinth were


issues, but he downplays the implications, insisting that there is “no indication that Paul had discov-ered within their midst theological error of the most grievous sort. There is not the slightest hint tosuggest that the Corinthians had exchanged the Gospel Paul had preached for another, or that theywere somehow vitiating its efficacy by denying or distorting some of its central tenets” (St. Paul’sTheology of Proclamation [SNTSMS 79; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994], 180).Similarly, R. Dean Anderson, Jr., Ancient Rhetorical Theory and Paul (Biblical Exegesis & Theol-ogy 18; Kampen: Kok, 1996), 248. See also Troels Engberg-Pedersen, who criticizes Gerd Theis-sen’s point of view for being “restricted to that of social function” (“The Gospel and Social PracticeAccording to 1 Corinthians,” NTS 33 [1987]: 560). Similarly, William Baird and James D. G. Dunnhave noted the scholarly neglect of the theological dimension of the conflict (William Baird, “‘OneAgainst the Other’: Intra-Church Conflict in 1 Corinthians,” in The Conversation Continues: Stud-ies in Paul & John in Honor of J. Louis Martyn [ed. Robert T. Fortna and Beverly R. Gaventa;Nashville: Abingdon, 1990], 131; James D. G. Dunn, 1 Corinthians [NTG; Sheffield: SheffieldAcademic Press, 1995], 43).

2 George A. Kennedy, New Testament Interpretation through Rhetorical Criticism (ChapelHill: University of North Carolina Press, 1984), 87; Laurence L. Welborn, “A Conciliatory Princi-ple in 1 Cor 4:6,” NovT 29 (1987): 334–35; Margaret M. Mitchell, Paul and the Rhetoric of Recon-

manifold.3 In 1:18–3:23 Paul focuses on the role of wisdom. As has beendemonstrated numerous times recently, this discussion reflects contemporarydiscussions on rhetoric.4 His rejection of persuasive words of wisdom in 2:4,and a number of the terms employed in this context, such as peiqov", ajpovdeixi",duvnami", tevleio"5 and the correlation of “word” and “wisdom”6 are best under-stood in this light.

The population of Corinth consisted mainly of freedmen (Strabo 8.6.23;Epict. Disc.4.1.157), a class that was known to indulge in boasting and self-dis-play, in order to enhance their status.7 Considering that words of the kauc-group occur with significantly increased frequency in the Corinthian letters (36

Grindheim: Wisdom for the Perfect 691

ciliation: An Exegetical Investigation of the Language and Composition of 1 Corinthians (HUT 28;Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck, 1992), 20–64, 198–225; Ben Witherington III, Conflict and Communityin Corinth: A Socio-Rhetorical Commentary on 1 and 2 Corinthians (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans,1995), 46; Raymond F. Collins, First Corinthians (SP 7; Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 1999),69. How closely related 1 Corinthians as a letter actually is to the known Greco-Roman examples ofdeliberative rhetoric need not concern us here. Cf. the critique of R. Dean Anderson, Jr. (AncientRhetorical Theory and Paul, 229–38). For our purpose, it suffices to notice that 1:18–4:21 containsa unified argument for the thesis in 1:10.

3 From 1 Cor 11:21–22 we learn that tensions were caused by the differences between thepoor and the rich. Laurence L. Welborn maintains that the factions in Corinth must be understoodas conflicts between the upper and lower classes. The root of these conflicts was the patronage sys-tem and the way the poor became dependent on the rich (“On the Discord,” 99). Similarly, John K.Chow, Patronage and Power: A Study of Social Networks in Corinth (JSNTSup 75; Sheffield:Sheffield Academic Press, 1992), 123–66. Cf. the more cautious judgment of Margaret M.Mitchell, however, maintaining that economy was only one among many reasons for the factions inCorinth (Paul and the Rhetoric of Reconciliation, 94–95). Although the slogans in 1:12 resemblepolitical slogans, their form does not warrant the conclusion that they should be labels of clearlydefined parties associated with Paul, Apollos, Cephas, and Christ (ibid., 82–86).

4 This is not to deny that Jewish wisdom traditions may have influenced Paul’s language here(Gerd Theissen, Psychological Aspects of Pauline Theology [trans. John P. Galvin; Philadelphia:Fortress, 1987], 353). But even Jeffrey S. Lamp, in his monograph on Jewish wisdom traditions in1 Cor 1–4, admits that rhetoric is the primary background (First Corinthians 1–4 in Light of JewishWisdom Traditions: Christ, Wisdom, and Spirituality [Studies in Bible and Early Christianity 42;Lewiston, NY: Edwin Mellen, 2000], 113–14).

5 Lars Hartman, “Some Remarks on 1 Cor. 2:1–5,” SEÅ 39 (1974): 116; Timothy H. Lim,“‘Not in Persuasive Words of Wisdom, but in the Demonstration of the Spirit and Power,’” NovT 27(1987): 145–47; Pogoloff, LOGOS AND SOPHIA, 141; Timothy B. Savage, Power through Weak-ness: Paul’s Understanding of the Christian Ministry in 2 Corinthians (SNTSMS 86; Cambridge:Cambridge University Press, 1996), 71; Bruce W. Winter, Philo and Paul among the Sophists(SNTSMS 96; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 154.

6 Hans Dieter Betz, “The Problem of Rhetoric and Theology According to the Apostle Paul,”in L’apôtre Paul: Personnalité, style et conception du ministère (ed. A. Vanhoye; BETL 73; Leuven:Leuven University Press, 1986), 28–32; Welborn, “On the Discord,” 101–2; Pogoloff, LOGOSAND SOPHIA, 109–11; Litfin, St. Paul’s Theology of Proclamation, 44, 64, 72–73, 96, 119, 122;Anderson, Ancient Rhetorical Theory and Paul, 239; Collins, First Corinthians, 85.

7 Savage, Power through Weakness, 39–41.

or 37 times) over against the other Pauline letters (fifteen times in the undis-puted letters and once in Ephesians), one may assume that Paul consideredboasting to be an issue that needed to be addressed particularly in Corinth. Heunderscored that boasting in anything save the Lord was excluded (1 Cor 1:31),as the divine election had turned the world’s status claims upside down(1:26–28).8 When Paul rejected the use of superior words of wisdom (2:1), hewas likely referring to the kind of rhetoric that was concerned with self-display,boasting, and abuse of others. The modifier “superior” seems to denote a formof oratory that sought impressive display, in order to be recognized as superior.9

Is it possible to more specific? Bruce W. Winter has made a good case thatthe standards Paul rejects in 1 Cor 1–4 are sophistic standards. The sophisticmovement appears to have gained a significant footing in Corinth at the time ofPaul. The sophists were known to recruit disciples and engage in bitterrivalry.10 It could be such a rivalry that is reflected in 1 Cor 1:12; 3:1–4.11 Possi-bly, Paul’s description of himself in 1 Cor 2:1–5 was designed to emphasize thecontrast between his arrival in Corinth and the conventions for a sophist’sarrival in a new town. The sophist was supposed to give a sample of his elo-quence, for acceptance or rejection by the city.12 Paul refused to provide such adisplay.13 His statement in 2:1 need not be taken as a flat rejection of rhetoric,therefore, but Paul would not allow his identity as a teacher to be determinedby anything other than the cross of Christ.

II. The Wisdom

To understand Paul’s discourse on the wisdom for the perfect in 2:6–16, itis important to note the rhetorical function of this passage in the wider context.At the end of the narratio (1:11–17), Paul appeals to his own example andintroduces the antithesis between “word of wisdom” and “the cross of Christ”(1:17). In the first subsequent section of argument (1:18–4:21), he elaborates


8 Dieter Sänger, “Die dunatoiv in 1 Kor 1, 26,” ZNW 76 (1985): 287–90; Winter, Philo andPaul, 191.

9 Savage, Power through Weakness, 72.10 Winter, Philo and Paul, 116-44.11 Ibid., 170-76.12 Favorinus, who was associated with the Second Sophistic, reports having given a sample of

his rhetoric at such an event (Dio Chrys., Or. 37.1). See also Winter, Philo and Paul, 135, 149–51.13 In this regard, Paul’s attitude resembles that of Dio Chrysostom, who in his forty-seventh

Oration provided a disclaimer that pleasure, beauty, or wisdom (sofiva) should not be expectedfrom his speech. See Winter, Philo and Paul, 152–61; similarly Witherington, Conflict and Commu-nity, 100–101.

on this antithesis in 1:18–3:23.14 The purpose of this section is to juxtapose twovalue systems, that of God and that of the world, and their opposing evaluationsof the gospel. Paul’s argument throughout this section centers on the reversal ofvalues that he introduces in 1:18: the word of the cross appears as foolishnessfor those who are lost, but proves to be the power of God for those who aresaved. This double character of the word of the cross is then delineated in thefollowing verses, so that the “foolish” character is elaborated on in 1:19–2:5 andthe “powerful” or “wise” character in 2:6–3:23.15 In 1:19–31 Paul explains howGod has turned the values of the world upside down.16 That which is consid-ered wise in the world is foolishness for God, and vice versa (1:21, 25; cf. 2:14).Appealing again to his own example, Paul then emphasizes that he takes care toperform his ministry in accordance with the divine reversal of values. There-fore, he is not concerned to appear impressive (2:1–5). God’s wisdom, commu-nicated to the elect, is then the focus of 2:6–16. After applying this principle tothe Corinthians (3:1–4) and once more to himself and to Apollos (3:5–17), Paulgives as his concluding advice in 3:18 a call to conform to this reversal of values:“If you think that you are wise in this age, you should become fools so that youmay become wise.”17 If the Corinthians could apprehend this divine standard,there would be no basis for the factionalism.18 In fact, their evaluation of their


14 It is possible to see the references to wisdom and foolishness in 1:18–19 and 3:19–20 asforming an inclusio, thus identifying 1:18–3:23 as a distinct unit (Collins, First Corinthians, 87).

15 Gerd Theissen observes the parallel structure between 1:18–2:5 and 2:6–3:23. The section1:18–2:5 he subsumes under the heading “The preaching as foolishness,” and 2:6–3:23 under “Thepreaching as wisdom,” finding parallel subsections in 1:18–25 (“The word of the cross as foolishnessin the world”) and 2:6–16 (“The preaching as wisdom among the perfect”); 1:26–30 and 3:1–4(“Application to the community”); 2:1–5 (“Application to the apostle”) and 3:5–23 (“Application tothe apostles”) (Psychological Aspects, 345).

16 Mitchell, Paul and the Rhetoric of Reconciliation, 87. Formally, Dio Chrysostom’s thirty-eighth discourse is a parallel. Advising that the Nicomedians achieve concord with the Nicaeans,Dio Chrysostom maintained that the conceived gain they would get from the conflict, “primacy,”was really no gain at all (Or. 38.32–40).

17 Contra Mitchell (Paul and the Rhetoric of Reconciliation, 209), we take this to be the cru-cial piece of advice in 1 Cor 1–4. As we will argue, Paul understands the factions theologically,grounded in the Corinthians’ failure to allow their value system to be transformed by the messageof the gospel.

18 It has frequently been suggested that Paul’s argument in chs. 1–4 is directed specifically tothose of the upper classes in the Corinthian church (Gerd Theissen, The Social Setting of PaulineChristianity: Essays on Corinth [trans. John H. Schütz; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1982], 72; ElisabethSchüssler Fiorenza, “Rhetorical Situation and Historical Reconstruction in I Corinthians,” NTS 33[1987]: 399; Welborn, “On the Discord,” 105). Paul seems to be just as concerned, however, tocombat any notion that membership in the church should be misunderstood as a tool for climbingon the social ladder as to explain that being in Christ meant relinquishment of authority and status.The warning against treating the Christian message as a means for enhancing or maintaining one’sstatus seems to have a universal application, for the upper and lower classes alike. That members of

teachers would be radically transformed. Rather than understanding them-selves as “belonging to” this or that teacher, they would see the teachers asbelonging to them (3:21–23), the teachers being understood in functional,rather than status terms.19

These observations lead to the conclusion that it is the same divine wis-dom that is in view throughout the section,20 a conclusion that is confirmed


the lower classes are among Paul’s intended audience seems to be confirmed when he describesthe Corinthians as saying “I belong to . . .” (1:12). The followers, those who wanted to enhance theirown status by being associated with someone of repute, are addressed here. Likewise, it is probablynot correct that while addressing the entire church, Paul’s real concern in chs. 1–4 is a faction thathad claimed independence from him (N. A. Dahl, “Paul and the Church at Corinth According to1 Corinthians 1:10–4:21,” in Christian History and Interpretation: Studies Presented to John Knox[ed. W. Farmer, C. F. D. Moule, and N. R. Niebuhr; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,1967], 325). He is just as eager to dismiss a party that bears his own name (Pogoloff, LOGOS ANDSOPHIA, 101–2). Moreover, the letter is characterized by deliberative rhetoric, rather than beingan apology (see n. 2). See also William Baird, who thinks that Paul was not facing a single front ofopposition in 1 Cor (“‘One Against the Other,’” 123; similarly Dunn, 1 Corinthians, 43).

19 Winter, Philo and Paul, 195.20 Theissen maintains that the wisdom of 2:6–3:23 should be understood as a higher level of

the wisdom mentioned in 1:18–2:5. This interpretation is based on the assumption that the “per-fect” should be identified as a mature group of believers (see below) and that a new element isintroduced with “the rulers of this age” (2:6, 8), but he finds it odd that 1 Cor 2 would be the onlyinstance where we hear of a revelation restricted to a particular circle of Christians (PsychologicalAspects, 346–52; similarly Angela Standhartinger, “Weisheit in Joseph und Aseneth und den paulin-ischen Briefen,” NTS 47 [2001]: 496). In light of the parallel structure between 1:18–2:5 and 2:6–3:23, it would be more natural to understand the wisdom mentioned in both passages as the samedivine wisdom (Sänger, “Die dunatoiv in 1 Kor 1, 26,” 287; E. Elizabeth Johnson, “The Wisdom ofGod as Apocalyptic Power,” in Faith and History: Essays in Honor of Paul W. Meyer [ed. John T.Carroll, Charles H. Cosgrove, and E. Elizabeth Johnson; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1990], 141). Asfor “the rulers of this age,” this must be a reference to the earthly authorities responsible for thecrucifixion, a parallel to “the mighty” of 1:26. An identification of the rulers with demonic powerswas especially popular among the commentators who explained Paul’s terminology against thebackground of Gnosticism (Ulrich Wilckens, Weisheit und Torheit: Eine exegetisch-religions-geschichtliche Untersuchung zu 1.Kor 1 und 2 [BHT 26; Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck, 1959], 61;Walter Schmithals, Gnosticism in Corinth: An Investigation of the Letters to the Corinthians [trans.John E. Steely; Nashville: Abingdon, 1971], 137). But that is unwarranted. Paul never makes anyidentification of the a[rconte" as the ajrcaiv of Col 1:16; Eph 6:12. Even though a[rcwn in the singu-lar is used for Satan, there is no evidence before the second century that the word is used fordemons (A. Wesley Carr, “The Rulers of This Age—1 Cor ii:6–8,”

when we observe how those who appropriate this wisdom are repeatedly desig-nated with a dative that sets them apart as an elect group (“saved” in 1:18,“called” in 1:24, and “perfect” in 2:6). In 1:18 this message is called “the powerof God,” a designation that is taken up in 1:24 and identified with “the wisdomof God.” This wisdom of God is then recalled in 2:6. This wisdom is announcedalso to those who are not spiritual, but to them it appears to be foolishness(2:14), the same reversal of values that characterizes this wisdom in 1:23–24.The wisdom of 2:6, therefore, must be identified with the wisdom of God in1:21, 24.21 In 1:21–24 this wisdom is paralleled with “the gospel” (1:17), “theword of the cross” (1:18), “the foolishness of the proclamation” (1:21), and“Christ crucified” (1:23).22 In 1:30 Christ Jesus is said to have become wisdom


denotes secular leaders, but maintains that the connotations are of “a structural power either bycumulative inbuilt fallenness or by association with still stronger cosmic powers” (The First Epistleto the Corinthians [NIGTC; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2000], 238). As justification for seeing a ref-erence to spiritual beings, Thiselton refers to the authority of Walter Wink (Naming the Powers:The Language of Power in the New Testament [Philadelphia: Fortress, 1984], 44), whose evidencein turn is taken from the Ascension of Isaiah (second century C.E.), but he does not show that thesetraditions antedate Paul.

21 Wolfgang Schrage, Der erste Brief an die Korinther, vol. 1 (EKK 7/1; Neukirchen-Vluyn:Neukirchener Verlag, 1991), 240; Michael Wolter, “Verborgene Weisheit und Heil für die Heiden:Zur Traditionsgeschichte und Intention des ‘Revelationsschemas,’” ZTK 84 (1987): 304; HelmutMerklein, Der Erste Brief an die Korinther: Kapitel 1–4 (ÖTK; Gütersloh: Gerd Mohn, 1992), 224;Collins, First Corinthians, 123.

22 Margaret M. Mitchell, “Rhetorical Shorthand in Pauline Argumentation: The Functions of‘the Gospel’ in the Corinthian Correspondence,” in Gospel in Paul: Studies on Corinthians, Gala-tians, and Romans for Richard N. Longenecker (ed. L. A. Jervis and P. Richardson; JSNTSup 108;Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1994), 70. Apparently 2:1–2 provides additional evidence forthis identification by linking together “mystery” and “Jesus Christ crucified.” But the readingmusthvrion in 2:1, although well attested (the Chester Beatty papyri and the first hand of Sinaiticus,as well as Alexandrinus and the Codex Ephraemi) and preferred by N-A27 and most translations, isprobably not original. More likely to be correct is the widely attested variant martuvrion (Vaticanus,a later hand of Sinaiticus, Codex Bezae, Origen, and the Majority text). The case must be consid-ered together with 1:6, where the two alternative readings are martuvrion tou' qeou' and martuvriontou' Cristou'. The best way to explain all the data is to take martuvrion tou' Cristou' as original in 1:6and martuvrion in 2:1. The variant martuvrion tou' qeou' in 1:6 is then explained as an adaption to themartuvrion tou' qeou' in 2:1. The variant musthvrion is explained as an adaption to the musthvrion in2:7. If, on the other hand, musthvrion is considered original in 2:1, there is no adequate way ofaccounting for the other variants. Bruce M. Metzger insists that martuvrion in 2:1 is a copyist’s errorthrough a recollection of 1:6, but then he cannot explain how the reading martuvrion tou' qeou' orig-inated in 1:6 (A Textual Commentary on the Greek New Testament [2d ed.; Stuttgart: United BibleSocieties, 1975], 545). Moreover, reading musthvrion in 2:1 would take much of the force out of itsoccurrence in 2:7. It is also easier to assume that a copyist had substituted musthvrion for martuvrionthan vice versa. In the early church, the term musthvrion was far more commonly used for thegospel than was martuvrion (G. Zuntz, The Text of the Epistles: A Disquisition upon the CorpusPaulinum [London: Oxford University Press, 1953], 101; Gordon D. Fee, “1 Corinthians 1:2, 2:1,and 2:10,” in Scribes and Scripture: New Testament Essays in Honor of J. Harold Greenlee [ed.David Alan Black; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1992], 6–7.)

from God for us. The most likely conclusion, therefore, is that the wisdom,which is spoken in a mystery, is the message of the death of Christ, or morecomprehensively, the gospel regarding Christ (cf. 1:17a; Rom 1:16).23 Thisinterpretation gains further confirmation when the term musthvrion recurs inthe plural in 4:1, apparently as a reference to the gospel or God’s plan of salva-tion.24

This wisdom is not an advanced Christian teaching, therefore, such as aspecial message concerning eschatology. The future glory of the Christian is thegoal of the wisdom, not its content. This corresponds to a telic force of thepreposition eij" in the phrase eij" dovxan hJmw'n (2:7b). Sometimes it is suggestedthat the phrase “that which God has prepared for those who love him” (2:9)indicates that the mystery is about eschatology, about the eternal inheritancefor believers.25 This phrase, however, gives a description of what the rulers ofthis world did not know (2:8). They are later contrasted with “us,” who have


23 Peter Stuhlmacher, “The Hermeneutical Significance of 1 Corinthians 2:6-16,” in Tradi-tion and Interpretation in the New Testament: Essays in Honor of E. Earle Ellis for His 60th Birth-day (ed. Gerald F. Hawthorne and Otto Betz; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1987), 334; Fee, FirstEpistle, 105–6; Schrage, Erste Brief, 227, 250–51.

24 C. K. Barrett, The First Epistle to the Corinthians (2d ed.; BNTC; London: Black, 1992),100; Fee, First Epistle, 160; Schrage, Erste Brief, 321.

25 Based on the force of 1 Cor 2:9, Markus Bockmuehl concludes that the content of the hid-den wisdom is “a deeper knowledge of the inheritance which is in store for those who love God”(Revelation and Mystery, 162–64). Similarly, Birger A. Pearson, The Pneumatikos-Psychikos Ter-minology in 1 Corinthians: A Study in the Theology of the Corinthian Opponents of Paul and ItsRelation to Gnosticism (SBLDS 12; Missoula, MT: Society of Biblical Literature, 1973), 34–35.Robin Scroggs argues that the mystery is a teaching that Paul reserves for mature Christians, whichis kept secret to the Corinthians since they are only immature, not mature (“Paul: Sofo" and pneu-matiko",” NTS 14 [1967–68]: 44–48). Based on the use of the term musthvrion in apocalyptic litera-ture and in Rom 11:25; 1 Cor 15:51, he identifies this secret mystery as Paul’s teaching regardingeschatology. As a further argument for this interpretation, there are important parallels in apoca-lyptic literature to the idea of a limited revelation of the mystery of God. In 1 En. 104:12 the factthat the wise people will be given the Scriptures is called a mystery, and 2 En. 24:3 relates that themystery is not revealed to the angels. Fourth Ezra teaches that the mystery is revealed only to thewise (12:34–38; 14:26, 46–48), but there the idea of a limited revelation is related to the merit the-ology of that book (10:38–39; 12:36). Moreover, Paul understands the mystery as hidden in a wayradically different from the way it is understood in the apocalyptic literature (and by Scroggs). Themystery is not kept secret, but openly proclaimed (see below). It still remains hidden to some peo-ple, however. Furthermore, Scroggs ignores the identification of the wisdom of God with the wordof the cross (2:8). It was not ignorance regarding Paul’s secret teaching of the end of days that ledthe rulers of this world to take Jesus to the cross. Rather, it was the importance of the person ofJesus and the importance of his work; in Pauline terminology: the gospel or the word of the cross.

Several scholars have espoused a comprehensive understanding of the content of the mys-tery, so that it includes Paul’s teaching regarding eschatology. See Raymond E. Brown, The SemiticBackground of the Term ‘Mystery’ in the New Testament (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1968), 41;Wilckens, “Zu 1 Kor 2,1-16,” 510; Merklein, Der erste Brief an die Korinther: Kapitel 1–4, 229, 234.See also Markus Barth, Ephesians 1–3 (AB 34; New York: Doubleday, 1974), 125–26.

received the spirit of God, “so that we know that which is given us from God”(2:12). The best contextual clue to what it is that “is given us from God” is foundin 1:30, where Christ Jesus is referred to as God’s gift. That Christ is the before-hand planned gift of God to his people (cf. 2:9) would also be the interpretationthat fits best with Paul’s teaching elsewhere. When he writes about somethingthat is predetermined by God, it is usually the elect themselves (Rom 8:29–30;9:23; 11:2; Eph 1:5) or the gospel of Christ (Rom 1:1–3; Gal 3:8; Eph 1:9–10).

III. Hiddenness and Revelation

This divine wisdom, which is hidden in a mystery,26 is revealed by the HolySpirit (2:10, 12). That the mysteries of divine wisdom must be revealed is a con-cept that is known from Jewish wisdom literature (Wis 6:22–24). Divine wis-dom is also said to reveal mysteries (Sir 4:18; Wis 7:21–22). More closelyrelated are the passages in Daniel where secrets are revealed to the prophet(Dan 2:19–23),27 not by virtue of his superior wisdom (Dan 2:30), but becausethe Holy Spirit is in him (Dan 4:6).

The connection with Daniel prompts the question of whether Paul has aparticular experience in view. Possibly Paul has in mind his experience on theroad to Damascus,28 but there is no clear reference to that event in this context.Neither does the quotation from the Scriptures (v. 9) betray the source of therevelation.29 The function of this quotation is to explain the concept of hidden-ness, not that of revelation. What Paul is concerned to point out in the followingverses is that appropriation of divine wisdom requires a special ability. Naturalhuman beings lack this ability (2:14), which is an exclusive attribute of the spiritof God (2:11b). Therefore, only those who have been given this spirit canunderstand God’s wisdom (2:12). Paul’s mention of revelation seems to be a


26 The prepositional phrase in 2:7, ejn musthrivw/, can be taken either with lalou'men or withqeou' sofivan. The latter is in line with how Paul’s argument runs in this passage (E. B. Allo, SaintPaul: Première Épître aux Corinthiens [2d ed.; EBib; Paris: Gabalda, 1934], 41; Karl Prümm, “Mys-tères,” DBSup 6:193; Fee, First Epistle, 104–5; Schrage, Erste Brief, 251).

27 H. H. Drake Williams III, The Wisdom of the Wise: The Presence and Function of Scrip-ture Within 1 Cor. 1:18–3:23 (AGJU 49; Leiden: Brill, 2001), 166–68.

28 Seyoon Kim points out that it was on this occasion that Paul changed from viewing the cru-cified Christ as a skavndalon to viewing him as the wisdom of God (1 Cor 1:23; Gal 3:13), that thedesignation “Lord of glory” recalls Paul’s descriptions of how Christ appeared to him (1 Cor 9:1; 2Cor 3:18; 4:4–6; Gal 1:16), and that in parallel mystery passages in Col 1:23c–29; Eph 3:1–13, anessential part of the mystery is the inclusion of the Gentiles, which in turn was the essence of thecall Paul received when he met the risen Christ (Gal 1:16) (The Origin of Paul’s Gospel [WUNT2/4; Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck, 1981], 78–82).

29 Contra Gregory K. Beale, John’s Use of the Old Testament in Revelation (JSNTSup 166;Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1999), 251–52.

general reference to the fact that knowledge of this mystery is given by revela-tion through the Holy Spirit, not by the use of human wisdom.

This is not a matter of a revelation of things otherwise unheard of, but ofthe ability, by means of what is called revelation, to appropriate what ispreached openly. In 1 Cor 1:23 it is clearly seen that this wisdom of God ispreached to all, to those who are saved as well as to those who perish.30 Appar-ently, this wisdom had also been announced to the rulers of the world, but theyfailed to apprehend it. Had they done so, they would not have crucified Christ(2:8). When Paul says that wisdom is spoken among the perfect (2:6), the mean-ing must be that what is spoken is only received as wisdom by the perfect. Thisconcept of revelation finds its closest parallel in Eph 1:17:31 “that the God ofour Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of glory, may give to you a spirit32 of wisdomand of revelation in the knowledge of him.” The kind of revelation that is spo-ken of here is related to a condition of the heart (Eph 1:18).33 The heart that isrightly disposed toward the Lord receives this revelation.

Some scholars maintain that there is also a reference to redemptive historyhere. The thought would then be that the mystery was previously hidden but isnow revealed as a consequence of the Christ-event. The “us” of v. 10 wouldthen refer to the generations after the revelation in Jesus Christ.34 It is unlikely,


30 Prümm, “Mystères,” 190, 198; A. E. Harvey, “The Use of Mystery Language in the Bible,”JTS 31 (1980): 330; Bockmuehl, Revelation and Mystery, 160.

31 The position adopted in this essay is that of Pauline authorship of Ephesians. See HeinrichSchlier, Der Brief an die Epheser: Ein Kommentar (3d ed.; Düsseldorf: Patmos, 1962), 22–28; A.Van Roon, The Authenticity of Ephesians (NovTSup 39; Leiden: Brill, 1974), 11–29; M. D. Goul-der, “The Visionaries of Laodicea,” JSNT 43 (1991): 15–39; D. A. Carson, Douglas J. Moo, andLeon Morris, An Introduction to the New Testament (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1992), 305–9;Stanley E. Porter and Kent D. Clarke, “Canonical-Critical Perspective and the Relationship ofColossians and Ephesians,” Bib 78 (1997): 78–81; Peter T. O’Brien, The Letter to the Ephesians(Pillar New Testament Commentary; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1999), 4–41.

32 A reference to the Holy Spirit is probably intended (Joachim Gnilka, Der Epheserbrief[HTKNT; Freiburg: Herder, 1971], 90; Barth, Ephesians 1–3, 148; Andrew T. Lincoln, Ephesians[WBC 42; Dallas: Word, 1990], 57; Ernest Best, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on Eph-esians [ICC; Edinburgh: Clark, 1998], 163; O’Brien, Ephesians, 132), as in 1 Cor 2:10.

33 There is a debate among commentators about whether there is a reference to baptismhere. At any rate, a personal transformation is in view (Gnilka, Epheserbrief, 91; Barth, Ephesians1–3, 148, 150; Rudolf Schnackenburg, Ephesians: A Commentary [3d ed.; Edinburgh: T & T Clark,1991], 74–75; Lincoln, Ephesians, 58; O’Brien, Ephesians, 134).

34 Archibald Robertson and Alfred Plummer, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on theFirst Epistle of St. Paul to the Corinthians (2d ed.; ICC; Edinburgh: Clark, 1914), 43; RudolfBultmann, Theology of the New Testament (London: SCM, 1952), 1:106; Nils Alstrup Dahl,“Formgeschichtliche Beobachtungen zur Christusverkündigung in der Gemeindepredigt,” in Neu-testamentliche Studien für Rudolf Bultmann zu seinem siebzigsten Geburtstag am 20. August 1954(BZNW 21; Berlin: Töpelmann, 1954), 4; Brown, Semitic Background, 49; Barrett, First Epistle,71; Fee, First Epistle, 105. Hans Conzelmann refers to this idea as the Revelationsschema, whichhe finds fully developed in the Deutero-Pauline letters. A Zwischenstufe can be observed in

however, that any such reference is intended here. The contrast is not betweenthe present and the past but between that which is from God and that which isof the flesh. Note how the two different systems of power and wisdom are des-ignated by Paul: on the one hand, “of this age” (1:20; 2:6, 8), “of the world”(1:20, 21, 27, 28; 2:12), “according to the flesh” (1:26, 29), “of human beings”(1:25; 2:5, 13), and on the other hand, “of God” (1:21, 24, 25; 2:1, 7, 12), “of theSpirit” (2:10, 13, 14), and “of Christ” (2:16). These designations clearly pointtoward a fundamental dualism between that which is without God and thatwhich belongs to God, rather than to a dualism between the before and thenow.35 Moreover, the “us” of v. 10 recalls the “we” of v. 6, who speak wisdomamong the perfect. In the immediate context this group is contrasted with “therulers of this age,”36 who were responsible for the crucifixion of the Lord.37 Theopposing groups in question both have the privilege of living in the decisive agein redemptive history, but only one of the groups has received divine revelationthrough the Spirit. As recipients of divine revelation, the “us” of v. 10 are iden-tified as an elect group, and, in the larger context, this picks up the motif of thedivine calling and election of 1:24–28. This elect group is set over against thosewho appear to be wise, mighty, of noble descent, and powerful according to thestandards of this world, not over against a group of any other period. Paulteaches a reversal of values that is made manifest through divine revelation.

Certainly, there is ample evidence for connecting the term “mystery” withthe idea of a divine plan that was previously hidden but has been revealed at thecoming of Christ (Rom 16:25–26; Eph 3:4–5, 9–10; Col 1:26–27). But thisseems to be a later development of the term. There is no certain evidence ofthis connotation in the early Pauline letters.38


1 Corinthians (Der erste Brief and die Korinther [KEK; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht,1969], 80). Chantal Reynier points out the parallels to Rom 16:25–26 and Col 1:26, but concedesthat the pattern of temporality that he finds in those verses is not so clearly manifest in this passage(Évangile et mystère: Les enjeux théologiques de l’épître aux Éphésiens [LD 149; Paris: Cerf, 1992],142). Walter Grundmann further notes the parallel to the immature in Gal 3:23–4:11 and observesthat the coming of Christ brings humanity to maturity (“Die nhvpioi in der urchristlichen Paränese,”NTS 5 [1958–59]: 190–91). But the fact that the metaphor in Gal 3:23–4:11 is the same does notnecessarily mean that the referent is the same. While in 1 Cor 3:1–3 the characterization of theCorinthians as immature is used as a rebuke, in Gal 3:23–4:11 it is not implied that those who wereimmature before the coming of Christ are to be scolded. It is unwarranted to see a reference to theprogress of redemptive history based on the fact that the same metaphor is used as in Gal3:23–4:11.

35 Litfin, St. Paul’s Theology of Proclamation, 175.36 See n. 20 above.37 Fee explains that the mystery “remains hidden” from the rulers of this world (First Epistle,

105). But the inference of the categories “hidden from all,” “revealed to some,” and “hidden fromothers” is based on eisegesis.

38 Wolter, “Verborgene Weisheit,” 305; Bockmuehl, Revelation and Mystery, 209.

The time marker “before the ages” (v. 7b) refers not to a time when thedivine wisdom was hidden (as is the case in Rom 16:25; Eph 3:9) but to a timewhen it was being prepared.39 Nor does this time marker refer to past history,as in the parallel expression in Eph 3:9. In Eph 3:9 the preposition is ajpov,which can refer to past ages, but here the preposition is prov, which has to betranslated “before the ages,” that is, referring to eternity, as it does in the onlyNT parallel, Jude 25.

A different “redemption historical” view has been proposed by James A.Davis. He maintains that Paul in this passage sets divine wisdom against thewisdom of the Torah.40 The negative descriptions in 1:26–29 refer to the Jews,who seek wisdom in the Torah. With the coming of Christ the law is set aside assomething that belonged to an earlier period.41

There are several problems with this interpretation, however. It is remark-able that Paul would call the wisdom of the Torah a wisdom of this age and awisdom of the world.42 Davis thinks that the Torah can be identified with thewisdom of this age because it was designed for a prior world order. As we haveseen, however, the force of Paul’s argument is not that this wisdom is of theprior world order but of this world order. The close association of the wisdomof the law with the flesh that this interpretation implies (1:26) is also problem-atic. In Rom 7:7–25 it is pointed out how the law can function as an opportunityfor sin (vv. 7, 11), but Paul takes care to guard against a flat identification of thelaw and the flesh (v. 14). If Paul in 1 Cor 1:26 were saying that the wisdom ofthe law is a wisdom of the flesh, we would expect a modification similar to thatin Rom 7:14. True, Paul may call a confidence in the righteousness of the law aconfidence in the flesh (Phil 3:4, 6), but he never makes a similar statementregarding the wisdom of the law. It is intrinsically unlikely that he would do so,while insisting that the gospel he preached was found in the Torah (Rom 3:21b,31; Gal 3:8; 4:21).43


39 Similarly Thiselton, First Epistle, 242; contra Reynier, Évangile et mystère, 142.40 James A. Davis, Wisdom and Spirit: An Investigation of 1 Corinthians 1.18–3.20 Against

the Background of Jewish Sapiential Traditions in the Greco-Roman Period (Lanham, MD: Uni-versity Press of America, 1984), 89. Similarly Stuhlmacher, “Hermeneutical Significance,” 341.Angela Standhartinger has proposed that the wisdom in 1 Cor 1:17–3:4 should be understoodagainst the background of Joseph and Aseneth. As Joseph, to whom wisdom is attributed (Jos. Asen.4:7; 13:14–15), is given to Aseneth (Jos. Asen 15.6), so the crucified Christ, the divine wisdom, isgiven to the church (Standhartinger, “Weisheit,” 496). The parallel is very remote at best. The wed-ding motif, essential in Joseph and Aseneth, is missing from 1 Corinthians.

41 Davis, Wisdom and Spirit, 72–73, 77–78, 94.42 Litfin, St. Paul’s Theology of Proclamation, 206.43 Davis observes that the terms used for the rejected wise persons (1:20) could be taken to

refer to Jewish scribes and wise persons. Even though this may be correct, it shows only that Paul ispolemical toward contemporary Jewish wisdom; it does not say why. Martin Hengel, one of thescholars on whom Davis relies, observes that the predicates given to Christ in 1 Cor 1:30—wisdom,

Michael Goulder has attempted to revive F. C. Baur’s hypothesis that1 Corinthians reflects the conflict between the Petrine and Pauline forms ofChristianity. According to this view, the false wisdom is the halakic interpreta-tion of the Torah, and Paul’s reply is that one should “not go beyond what iswritten” (4:6), a case in point being the kosher laws discussed in chs. 8–10.44

The advantages over James A. Davis’s interpretation are obvious. It would be inkeeping with Paul’s teaching elsewhere to identify a particular Jewish approachto the law, not the Torah as such, with the flesh and this world order, as opposedto that which comes from God. A main obstacle to this interpretation too, how-ever, is that it can only poorly account for the licentiousness Paul addresses inCorinth (chs. 5-7).45 It is also doubtful that Paul’s opponents would concedethat their halakic interpretation of the Torah was merely “words taught byhuman wisdom” (2:13), as these rulings were clearly understood to be estab-lished by divine authority.

Containing no likely reference to redemptive history, the connotations ofthe term “mystery” in this context are therefore best understood as being some-thing that is inaccessible. The hidden wisdom, which is the word of the cross,appears to the wise person of this world as weakness and foolishness. Althoughit is proclaimed openly, it remains hidden from those who want to be wiseaccording to the standards of this world.46 One can come to know this wisdomonly if one abandons any claim to what is regarded as credentials in this world(1 Cor 3:18; cf. 1:26–29) and appropriates for oneself the reversal of values thatcharacterizes the message of the cross. This is the paradoxical nature of thegospel.47


righteousness, sanctification, and redemption—correspond to the salvific gifts that a pious Jewwould ascribe to the Torah (The Son of God [London: SCM, 1976], 74). This observation canequally well be related to the idea that Paul believed that the effect of his message was that the lawwas fulfilled (Rom 3:31; 8:4). William Baird (review of Wisdom and Spirit: An Investigation of1 Corinthians 1:18–3:20 Against the Background of Jewish Sapiential Traditions in the Greco-Roman Period by James A. Davis,” JBL 106 [1987]: 150–51) also points out that Davis’s study lacksany serious attempt at understanding 1 Corinthians in its historical context and that his hypothesiscannot explain the practices Paul goes on to address in chs. 5–10.

44 Michael D. Goulder, “SOFIA in 1 Corinthains,” NTS 37 (1991): 516–21. Cf. C. K. Barrett,who identifies a Peter-party but also stresses the difference between a party who claimed allegianceto Peter and Peter himself (“Cephas and Corinth,” in Essays on Paul [Philadelphia: Westminster,1982], 33, 37).

45 Richard Hays, “The Conversion of the Imagination: Scripture and Eschatology in1 Corinthians,” NTS 45 (1999): 397.

46 Wolter, “Verborgene Weisheit,” 304; Romano Penna, “The Wisdom of the Cross and ItsFoolishness as Foundation of the Church,” in Wisdom and Folly of the Cross, vol. 2 of Paul theApostle: A Theological and Exegetical Study (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 1996), 54–55.

47 Gerhard Sellin, “Das ‘Geheimnis’ der Weisheit und das Rätsel der ‘Christuspartei’ (zu1 Kor 1–4),” ZNW 73 (1982): 81, 89–90; Stuhlmacher, “Hermeneutical Significance,” 339–40;Reynier, Évangile et mystère, 154–55; Merklein, Der erste Brief an die Korinther: Kapitel 1–4, 228;

IV. Who Are the Perfect?

The wisdom that is in a mystery is something Paul speaks among the per-fect.48 Who are these? Did Paul count the Corinthians among the perfect?Another way of putting this question is whether all Christians,49 or only some ofthem,50 are counted among the perfect or the spiritual (pneumatikov"), which isused synonymously.

The antithesis between pneumatikov" and yucikov" is puzzling, as Paul’susual antonym for pneumatikov" is savrkino". Much energy has been expendedexplaining the background for this terminology. The previously popular viewthat this terminology reflects early Gnosticism has generally been abandoned.51


Jean-Noël Aletti, “Sagesse et Mystère chez Paul: Réflexions sur le rapprochement de deux champslexicograpiques,” in La Sagesse Biblique: De l’Ancien au Nouveau Testament (ed. Jacques Trublet;LD 160; Paris: Cerf, 1995), 366–67; Thiselton, First Epistle, 231, 241; Standhartinger, “Weisheit,”494. Dismissing the older assumption that the Corinthians held to an “over-realized eschatology,”E. Earle Ellis correctly observes that the Corinthians had a misguided conception of how thebeliever shared in the glory of Christ (“‘Christ Crucified,’” in Prophecy and Hermeneutic in EarlyChristianity [1974; WUNT 18; reprint, Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck, 1978], 78; similarly Wilckens,Weisheit und Torheit, 20). They thought that they already in this life should experience their partic-ipation in the resurrection. Paul shows them, however, that a true apprehension of God’s wisdommanifested itself in a sharing in the crucifixion of Christ in this life. Thus, a true apprehension ofthe wisdom of God manifested itself in what for the world appeared as weakness and foolishness.

48 Tevleio" is variously translated. The basic idea of its Hebrew equivalent, !mt, is that ofwholeness and completeness (B. Kedar-Kopfstein, “!mt,” TWAT 8:691), a meaning that also can beobserved in the Greek tevleio" (cf. 1 Cor 13:10). In opposition to nhvpio", it is used with the mean-ing “mature,” the thought being that of someone who is fully grown. When used in an ethical senseit has the connotations of integrity and undividedness (Gerhard Delling, “tevlo" ktl.,” TDNT8:67–77).

49 Günther Bornkamm, “musthvrion ktl.,” TDNT 4:819; P. J. Du Plessis, TELEIOS: The Ideaof Perfection in the New Testament (Kampen: Kok, 1959), 184; Martin Winter, Pneumatiker undPsychiker in Korinth: Zum religionsgeschichlichen Hintergrund von 1. Kor. 2,6–3,4 (MarburgerTheologische Studien 12; Marburg: Elwert, 1975), 214; Fee, First Epistle, 100–103; Johnson, “Wis-dom of God,” 142; Schrage, Erste Brief, 249; Merklein, Der erste Brief an die Korinther: Kapitel1–4, 225, 234; Christian Wolff, Der erste Brief des Paulus an die Korinther (THKNT 8; Berlin:Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 1996), 54; Collins, First Corinthians, 129; Thiselton, First Epistle,233, 267–68.

50 Allo, Première Épître aux Corinthiens, 40; Hugo Odeberg, Pauli brev till korintierna(Tolkning av Nya Testamentet 7; Stockholm: Svenska Kyrkans Diakonistyrelses Bokförlag, 1944),66; Wilckens, Weisheit und Torheit, 53; Rudolf Schnackenburg, “Christian Adulthood According tothe Apostle Paul,” CBQ 25 (1963): 357–58; Margaret E. Thrall, The First and Second Letters ofPaul to the Corinthians (CBC; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1965), 24; Scroggs, “Paul,”44–48; Brown, Semitic Background, 42; Stuhlmacher, “Hermeneutical Significance,” 334;Theissen, Psychological Aspects, 352; Barrett, First Epistle, 69; Witherington, Conflict and Com-munity, 126; Bockmuehl, Revelation and Mystery, 164–65; Standhartinger, “Weisheit,” 496. Thesescholars typically stress that insight into the wisdom that only the perfect can apprehend is poten-tially available to all Christians since they have received the Spirit. Similarly Karl Prümm, whostresses that the appropriation of the mystery is gradual (“Mystères,” 191, 197–98).

51 Schmithals, Gnosticism in Corinth, 138; Winter, Pneumatiker und Psychiker, 210, 230;

Instead it has become more common, alongside the tendency to find roots oflater full-blown Gnosticism in Hellenistic Judaism, to look for the backgroundfor this terminology in a Hellenistic-Jewish context.52 More specifically, it isoften considered to be dependent on the Hellenistic-Jewish exegesis of Gen2:7. Philo finds here a contrast between the heavenly person and the earthlyperson. His terminology is somewhat confusing, but may be summarized as fol-lows: In Gen 1:26–27 Philo sees the creation of the heavenly, immortal part ofthe soul, the nou''", created, or rather breathed, by God, according to the imageof the Logos. In Gen 2:7, however, the heavenly part was joined with theearthly, mortal part, the sw'ma (Opif. 134–35; Leg. 3.161; Somn. 1.34; Her. 56).This dichotomy can in turn be seen to correspond to two different types ofhuman beings, the heavenly and the earthly (Leg. 1.31–32), one that lives byreason, by the divine spirit (qeivw/ pneuvmati), and one that lives by blood and thepleasures of the flesh (Her. 57).53 Against the Corinthian understanding of spir-ituality as a nature given by God, Paul presumably emphasizes that true spiritu-


John Painter, “Paul and the pneumatikoiv at Corinth,” in Paul and Paulinism: Essays in Honor ofC. K. Barrett (ed. M. D. Hooker and S. G. Wilson; London: SPCK, 1982), 245; Theissen, Psycho-logical Aspects, 353–54. Wilckens, in his earlier work, concluded that in 1 Cor 2:6–16 Paul hadadapted to the terminology of his Gnostic opponents to such a degree that he had betrayed his owntheology (Weisheit und Torheit, 60), but Wilckens later abandoned this position (“Zu 1 Kor2,1–16,” 524–26, 529). The hypothesis of Gnostic terminology has been taken up by Schrage, who,anachronistically, assumes that Paul has been influenced by the language of the Nag Hammadiwritings (Erste Brief, 263).

52 See C. K. Barrett, “Christianity at Corinth,” in Essays on Paul, 12, 24; R. McL. Wilson,“Gnosis at Corinth,” in Paul and Paulinism, ed. Hooker and Wilson, 110–12.

53 Pearson, Pneumatikos-Psychikos Terminology, 17–21; Richard A. Horsley, “PneumatikosVs. Psychikos: Distinctions of Spiritual Status Among the Corinthians,” HTR 69 (1976): 275–78;idem, “Wisdom of Word and Words of Wisdom in Corinth,” CBQ 39 (1977): 233; Wilckens, “Zu1 Kor 2,1–16,” 531; Gregory E. Sterling, “‘Wisdom Among the Perfect’: Creation Traditions inAlexandrian Judaism and Corinthian Christianity,” NovT 37 (1995): 362–65; Thiselton, First Epis-tle, 268–69. It is maintained that in 1 Cor 15:42–49 Paul gives his alternative interpretation of Gen2:7. Over against the Philonic interpretation Paul stresses that the earthly person Adam in time isthe primary, and the heavenly person, who is Christ, in time is the secondary. Moreover, he rejectsthe idea of two parts of human beings as created by God. Thus, Paul overturns the Corinthians’ ideaof spiritual existence as something attainable for human beings by cultivating the heavenly part ofhimself, and he replaces it with a dualism between “the present age” and “the age to come” (Pear-son, Pneumatikos-Psychikos Terminology, 24–26; Horsley, “Pneumatikos Vs. Psychikos,” 274;Wilckens, “Zu 1 Kor 2,1–16,” 532; Sterling, “‘Wisdom Among the Perfect,’” 360-61). It is unlikelythat in 1 Cor 15:42–49 Paul is concerned to combat the Philonic interpretation of Gen 2:7, how-ever. Paul insists that the natural (yucikov") person was the first and the spiritual (pneumatikov")person was the second, but Philo does not see any temporal sequence in the creation account;rather it presents a logical order. Hence, there is no temporal priority of the heavenly person overthe first actual person in the Philonic interpretation of Gen 1:26–27; 2:7. Neither is there any con-trast between the heavenly person and the first actual person (Robin Scroggs, The Last Adam: AStudy in Pauline Anthropology [Philadelphia: Fortress, 1966], 120–22).

ality is not something inherent in human beings, but something that must begiven by the Holy Spirit.54

The explanatory value of this reconstruction of the theology of Paul’sopponents is very sparse, however. As we have seen, the problem that Paul isconcerned with here is the tendency among the Corinthian Christians to evalu-ate their teachers by the standards of rhetoric. There is no need to identify adeliberately anti-Pauline teaching in Corinth. Neither is the Philo-hypothesisreally helpful in explaining the specific pneumatikov"–yucikov" terminology, asthis contrast does not occur in Philo. Nor does Philo ever use the term pneu-matikov" for the heavenly part of human beings or this kind of human being.55

Richard A. Horsley, who is one of the main proponents for this hypothesis, isforced to conjecture that this terminology originated among the Corinthiansthemselves and that they associated it with the Philonic distinction between theheavenly and the earthly person.56

It must be admitted, however, that Paul’s choice of the term yucikov" issomewhat mysterious.57 The term yucikov" is relatively rare in first-centuryGreek, but in all its NT occurrences it denotes something in absolute antithesisto that which is of God and God’s spirit (1 Cor 15:44, 46; Jas 3:15; Jude 19). It ispossible that Paul chose this term in this context in order to denote a moreabsolute opposition to pneumatikov" than what he intended with the wordsavrkino"/sarkikov" (see our discussion of 3:1–4 below).

The way Paul’s argument runs in 1 Cor 1–3 leads us to think that the “per-fect” must be identified with all believers. We have seen that the content of wis-dom is the gospel and that the revelation of this wisdom comes about by theHoly Spirit through a reversal of values on the recipient’s part: that whichappears to be foolishness is acknowledged as divine wisdom. The “perfect,”those who appropriate this wisdom (2:6), seem to be all those who accept thegospel, all Christians.


54 Egon Brandenburger, Fleisch und Geist: Paulus und die dualistische Weisheit (WMANT29; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1968), 135; Pearson, Pneumatikos-Psychikos Termi-nology, 38–39; Wilckens, “Zu 1 Kor 2,1–16,” 515; Sterling, “‘Wisdom Among the Perfect,’” 371–72.Similarly Joachim Theis, Paulus als Weisheitslehrer: Der Gekreuzigte und die Weisheit in 1 Kor1–4 (BU 22; Regensburg: Pustet, 1991), 497.

55 According to a search in the TLG data base. See Horsley, “Pneumatikos Vs. Psychikos,”271.

56 Horsley, “Pneumatikos Vs. Psychikos,” 284.57 According to a search in the TLG data base there is no parallel in contemporary literature

to the contrast between persons who are yucikoiv and pneumatikoiv. Fee suggests that Paul’s use ofpneumatikov" is based on the LXX use of yuchv for “natural human being” (First Epistle, 116; cf.Thiselton, First Epistle, 267). In accordance with his tendency to support simultaneously almost allhypotheses regarding the background for Paul’s terminology in 1 Cor 2, Thiselton also suggests thatStoic terminology may have influenced Paul, but he does not provide any evidence that shows whyyucikov" would be an apt term as an antonym for pneumatikov" (First Epistle, 270).

The recipients of the revelation, hJmi'n dev of 2:10, which refers to the samegroup as the immediately preceding toi'" ajgapw'sin aujtovn (v. 9), must be takenas an inclusive reference, with which Paul also intends the Corinthians.58 Theperfect are also called the spiritual, those who have received the spirit of God(v. 12), and these understand that which comes from God. The opposite ofbeing a pneumatikov" is being a yucikov", which means to be unreceptive towhat comes from the spirit of God.

The antithesis that has been prominent all the way since 1:18 is thatbetween the believers and those who are lost:59

“those who are saved” vs. “those who are lost” (1:18)“those who believe” vs. “Jews demand signs and Greeks desire wisdom”

(1:21–22)“those who are called” vs. “the wise” (1:24, 27)“the perfect” vs. “the rulers” (2:6)“for our glory” vs. “those who perish” (2:7, 6)“to us God has revealed” vs. “none of the rulers of this world knew”

(2:10, 8)“those who love him” vs. “they crucified the lord of glory” (2:9, 8)“the Spirit that is from God” vs. “the spirit of the world” (2:12)“spiritual” vs. “natural human being” (2:15, 14)“the mind of Christ” vs. “foolishness for them” (2:16, 14)

An identification of the perfect with all those who have come to faith inChrist would correspond to a Jewish background for the term tevleio". In theOT (Gen 6:9; 2 Sam 22:24; Job 1:1; Ps 15:2; 18:24; Prov 11:5), as well as inQumran (1QS 2:2; 4:22; 1QH 9:36) and in Jewish wisdom literature (Sir 39:24;44:17), !mt is used for someone who is righteous.60 The Qumran literature alsoattests to the thought that divine wisdom was a prerogative of the Qumrangroup (1QS 4:22; 9:18; 11:6–7; 1QH 10:13–14; 20:11–12).

As weighty evidence for not taking the Corinthians as being among theperfect, however, we note that they are referred to as fleshly and immature in


58 Schrage, Erste Brief, 256; Merklein, Der erste Brief an die Korinther: Kapitel 1–4, 234;Wolff, Erste Brief, 58. Allo concedes that the hJmi'n dev must be taken inclusively and refer to allChristians but maintains that in v.13 Paul goes on to talk about a limited group, the perfect andspiritual (Première Épître aux Corinthiens, 45). This distinction is untenable. The object of revela-tion in v. 10 must be the wisdom of vv. 6-10, the wisdom spoken among the perfect (v. 6).

59 Plessis, TELEIOS, 179.60 Kedar-Kopfstein, “!mt,” 696, 700; R. B. Y. Scott, “Wise and Foolish, Righteous and

Wicked,” in Studies in the Religion of Ancient Israel (VTSup 23; Leiden: Brill, 1972), 160–61. Scottnotes, however, that even though there is an absolute distinction in wisdom literature between therighteous (qdx, which is a correlate of !mt) and the wicked, the acquisition of wisdom is understoodmore as a gradual process.

3:1–4. The contrast between the tevleio" and the nhvpio" is well attested.61 Paulsays that he had to speak to the Corinthians as fleshly and that he could notspeak to them as spiritual, which is a precondition for understanding the wis-dom that comes from God (2:13–15).

Paul’s use of the term tevleio" in other contexts also seems to militateagainst taking the term as a referent for the Corinthians. Tevleio" usually refersto a state that is seen as a goal for believers. Apart from here, this adjective isused seven times in the canonical Pauline letters, five times referring to thebelievers or the church as a whole. In four of those instances it seems todescribe a state not yet fully achieved: The Corinthians are urged to strive forperfection in understanding (1 Cor 14:2, where tevleio" also is set over againstnhvpio"). The goal of the different ministries in the church is to establish thechurch as a perfect person (Eph 4:13). It is the goal of the teaching of Paul topresent every person perfect in Christ (Col 1:28), and Epaphras prays that theColossians will stay perfect (Col 4:12). In the fifth instance, Paul encouragesthose who are perfect to share his attitude in pressing toward the goal (Phil3:15). The identification of “those who are perfect” is a major exegetical prob-lem in Philippians. Observing that o{soi in Paul is commonly used inclusively(cf. Rom 6:3; 8:14; 2 Cor 1:20; Gal 3:27; 6:16), so as to refer to all (at leastpotentially), Peter T. O’Brien rightly concludes that “o{soi ou\n tevleioi is open-ended: it does not assert that every believer at Philippi is ‘mature,’ but it leavesthe way open for the ‘conscientious judgment of every reader’ whether he orshe fits the description. Paul is skillfully seeking to draw all his readers into thisgroup.”62 This use of the term “perfect” also reflects the paradoxical nature ofthe gospel. Paul has just waived all claims of perfection for himself (3:12) and isnow in effect saying that Christian perfection is bound up with the acknowledg-ment that one is lacking in perfection.63

The parallel in Eph 4:13 is particularly interesting. The perfection is therelinked with knowledge of the Son of God and unity in faith. Turning to Corinth,


61 Delling, tevlo", 69.62 Peter T. O’Brien, The Epistle to the Philippians (NIGTC; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans,

1991), 436–37. Similarly Jean-François Collange, The Epistle of Saint Paul to the Philippians (Lon-don: Epworth, 1979), 135; Gordon D. Fee, Paul’s Letter to the Philippians (NICNT; Grand Rapids:Eerdmans, 1995), 356; Markus Bockmuehl, The Epistle to the Philippians (BNTC; London: Black,1998), 225–26.

63 Francis W. Beare, The Epistle to the Philippians (2d ed.; BNTC; London: Black, 1969),131; Ulrich B. Müller, Der Brief des Paulus and die Philipper (THKNT; Leipzig: Evangelische Ver-lagsanstalt, 1993), 171. Paul’s denial of his own perfection in 3:12 need not be understood as mili-tating against taking o{soi inclusively (contra Gerald F. Hawthorne, Philippians [WBC 43; Waco:Word, 1983], 156; Wolfgang Schenk, Die Philipperbriefe des Paulus [Stuttgart: Kohlhammer,1984], 267).

we note that the believers there are scolded for their lack of unity; the church ischaracterized by schism and strife (1 Cor 3:3). These observations lead to theconclusion that the Corinthians, by virtue of their disunity, demonstrate thatthey are not among the perfect. Perfection, on the other hand, is a state towardwhich Christians should strive, an effort in which the Corinthians are regret-tably lacking. The instance in Col 1:28 seems to confirm this conclusion.64 Inthis passage as well, perfection is not a present reality for every Christian butrather an eschatological reality.65 We note also that the concept of revelation inthis passage parallels Eph 1:17, where the thought is of a gradual progress ininsight.66

These findings, then, seem to concur with the impression we get fromHeb 5:11–6:3, where the author complains that the recipients of his letter stillneeded milk and could not take solid food, and therefore must be characterizedas immature. The solid food, more advanced biblical teaching, is reserved forthe perfect, that is, those who because of practice have trained their senses todistinguish (diavkrisin, cf. sugkrivnonte" in 1 Cor 2:13 and ajnakrivnei in 2:15)between good and evil.

1 Corinthians 3:1–4 is puzzling. Paul now says that the Corinthians arefleshly and walk in a human fashion. Although he introduces the terms nhvpio",a well-known antonym for tevleio", and savrkino"/sarkikov", his own favoriteantonym for pneumatikov", he does not recall the key negative term from2:6–16, yucikov". Nor does he flatly deny that the Corinthians are spiritual, but


64 For Pauline authorship of Colossians, see Werner G. Kümmel, Introduction to the NewTestament (Nashville: Abingdon, 1975), 340–48; Peter T. O’Brien, Colossians, Philemon (WBC 44;Waco: Word, 1982), xli–liv; Carson, Moo, and Morris, Introduction, 331–34; Porter and Clarke,“Canonical-Critical Perspective,” 78–81; Bockmuehl, Revelation and Mystery, 178–79. Jean-NoëlAletti concludes that the letter “est très probablement de Paul” (Saint Paul Épitre aux Colossiens[EBib 20; Paris: Gabalda, 1993], 22–30, 208–9, 277–80). See also John M. G. Barclay, who main-tains that if Colossians were not by Paul it must have been from someone so close to him that it stillis a “Pauline” letter (Colossians and Philemon [NTG; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1997],35). Similarly James D. G. Dunn, who thinks that Paul authorized Timothy to write the letter (TheEpistles to the Colossians and to Philemon [NIGTC; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1996], 38).

65 O’Brien, Colossians, Philemon, 89–90; Murray J. Harris, Colossians & Philemon (Exegeti-cal Guide to the Greek New Testament; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1991), 73; Dunn, Epistles, 126.Eduard Schweizer notes that the word parivsthmi can be used both for installation into office andpresentation before God’s judgment (The Letter to the Colossians [London: SPCK, 1976], 111).Some scholars understand this as a perfection attainable in the present life for which Christians areencouraged to aim (Eduard Lohse, Die Briefe an die Kolosser und an Philemon [2d ed.; KEK; Göt-tingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1977], 124–25; Joachim Gnilka, Der Kolosserbrief [HTKNT;Freiburg: Herder, 1980], 104; Aletti, Colossiens, 146). If this interpretation is correct it would be ineven better accordance with our general argument here, “perfection” being a goal for believers.

66 Barth, Ephesians 1–3, 150.

with strong censure he observes that he could not speak to them as such (3:1).67

There seems to be a different perspective here. Whereas Paul in 2:6–16thought in terms of an absolute dualism, in 3:1–4 the perspective is of a distinc-tion between mature and immature Christians.68 As the terminological linksshow, however, the absolute dualism is not forgotten. The maturity that Paulwants the Corinthians to reach is characterized by nothing else than a realiza-tion of the implications of the state they had already reached as Christians.Their value system and consequent behavior, however, are indicative of a lackof conformity with the gospel.

In an attempt to account for all the evidence,69 our conclusion must runalong similar lines as Peter T. O’Brien’s interpretation of the tevleioi in Phil3:15 (see above). There seems to be an intentional ambiguity on Paul’s part.Paul is challenging the Corinthians to define themselves in relation to hisgospel. The wisdom he preaches appears as foolishness for those who pursuewisdom by the standards of sophistic rhetoric, but for the spiritual, or perfect, itis the wisdom of God. Where do the Corinthians fall down?

This interpretation seems to be confirmed by the two instances outsidethis context where Paul uses the term pneumatikov" as an attribute of persons.In 1 Cor 14:37 and Gal 6:1 Paul implies that the qualities of the spiritual personare to be expected from every believer, but he still sees the need to encourageit. To be spiritual is thus at the same time a status bestowed upon every Chris-tian and a goal for which every Christian must strive.

In 1 Cor 2:14–16 the Corinthians are challenged to show themselves asspiritual. This does not mean that Paul wants them to reach a state previouslycompletely unknown to them. Rather, they are urged to make use of the giftthey received when they came to faith in Christ. They received the spirit of Godand became spiritual. Let them now show themselves as such. The effect of ourinterpretation is that one becomes perfect in the same way as one becomes aChristian: by accepting the word of the cross in faith, which amounts to a rever-sal of the values of the world.70 To be spiritual, then, is to have apprehended theword of the cross in such a way that it has transformed the entire existence of


67 Fee finds a Pauline irony here. Even though the Corinthians are among the perfect, Paulstill has to talk to them as immature (First Epistle, 102–3). Similarly, J. Christiaan Beker, Paul theApostle: The Triumph of God in Life and Thought (Edinburgh: T & T Clark, 1980), 218; Johnson,“Wisdom of God,” 143.

68 Davis, Wisdom and Spirit, 125–30.69 Cf. Schrage, who speaks of a “doppelte Linienführung” (Erste Brief, 249). Schnackenburg

observes concerning the Corinthians that “they are pneumatics and yet they are not” (“ChristianAdulthood,” 358).

70 Similarly Delling, “tevlo",” 76; Barrett, First Epistle, 69; and Pearson, who observes thatanyone who has received the gift of the spirit can be called spiritual, but that the full realization ofthis existence still lies in the future (Pneumatikos-Psychikos Terminology, 41).

the believer into its image—to a cruciform life, a life characterized by self-sac-rificing love, and where power is manifest through weakness.71

By expecting of the Christian preachers that they excel by means ofsophistic rhetoric, the Corinthians side with the rulers of this world and thusput themselves in a position where they are unable to receive the gospel.Hence, Paul cannot speak to them as spiritual, but he has to speak to them asfleshly and immature. They are in danger of forfeiting the divine gift they havereceived.72

V. Conclusion

We have seen that, although there is no identifiable heterodox teachingPaul is combating in 1 Cor 1–4, his evaluation of the schisms is profoundly the-ological. The factionalism is rooted in a misapprehension of the gospel. Insteadof having their self-identity in the word of the cross, the Corinthians rely on akind of rhetoric that was supposed to allow them to excel in personal status, tothe detriment of others. This is a characteristic of worldly wisdom, which standsin an antithetical relationship to God’s wisdom. Divine wisdom, identified withthe gospel, remains hidden under its apparent foolishness for those who wantto be wise according to the standards of this world, even though it is proclaimedopenly. By pursuing worldly status, the Corinthians are running the risk ofdefining themselves among those for whom the gospel is hidden and thus for-feiting the divine gift. The divisions are therefore indicative of the fact that theCorinthians are jeopardizing their salvation. Paul has to challenge them to showthemselves as what they already are, as spiritual. Only as such can they appre-hend divine wisdom. Paul therefore renews the call to abandon all claims towhat is impressive in this world and rather to identify with the cross of Christ,in self-sacrificing love, and with the power of God, which is manifest in weak-ness. The fruit of this will be the unity of the church.


71 Aída Besançon Spencer and William David Spencer, “The Truly Spiritual in Paul: BiblicalBackground Paper on 1 Corinthians 2:6–16,” in Conflict and Context: Hermeneutics in the Ameri-cas (ed. Mark Lau Branson and C. René Padilla; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1986), 245–48.

72 Similarly Wilckens, “Zu 1 Kor 2,1–16,” 511–13; C. C. Newman, Paul’s Glory Christology:Tradition and Rhetoric (NovTSup 69; Leiden: Brill, 1992), 239; Thiselton, First Epistle, 247.

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JBL 121/4 (2002) 711–744

JEWISH LAWS ON ILLICIT MARRIAGE,THE DEFILEMENT OF OFFSPRING,

AND THE HOLINESS OF THE TEMPLE:A NEW HALAKIC INTERPRETATION

OF 1 CORINTHIANS 7:14

YONDER MOYNIHAN [email protected]

99 Augur Street, Hamden, CT 06517

I. A New Halakic Interpretation

In 1 Cor 7:12–13 Paul rules that no believer married to an unbelievershould initiate divorce. The next verse provides justification for the ruling intwo parts: first Paul sets forth the principle that grounds the ruling, hJgivastaiga;r oJ ajnh;r oJ a[pisto" ejn th'/ gunaiki; kai; hJgivastai hJ gunh; hJ a[pisto" ejn tw'/ajdelfw'/, “for the unbelieving husband is sanctified by the wife, and the unbe-lieving wife is sanctified by the brother.”1 In v. 14b this grounding principle issubstantiated by the proof, ejpei; a[ra ta; tevkna uJmw'n ajkavqartav ejstin, nu'n de;a{giav ejstin, “otherwise your children would be impure, but as it is they areholy.”2 The modern interpreter must answer a number of questions: What does

I would like to thank Adela Yarbro Collins for her careful readings and improvements of sev-eral drafts of this article. Christine Hayes generously made available the manuscript of her forth-coming book Gentile Impurities and Jewish Identities: Intermarriage and Conversion from theBible to the Talmud (Oxford University Press). Richard Saller gave guidance regarding pagan fam-ily mores. Thanks also to participants in the 2001 New England SBL conference, especially H.Attridge, D. Martin, S. Berg, M. Goff, and K. Wilkinson, who provided challenging feedback to anearlier presentation of this research.

1 The gavr is argumentative, and the ejn phrases are instrumental. Paul similarly uses instru-mental ejn phrases with hJgivasqai in Rom 15:16, where he calls the offering of the Gentiles “sancti-fied by the Holy Spirit” (hJgiasmevnh ejn pneuvmati aJgivw/).

2 Conzelmann rightly points out that the present indicative is rare in the principal clause ofan unreal condition, which evpei; a[ra introduces (Hans Conzelmann, I Corinthians [Philadelphia:Fortress, 1975], 123 n. 36). Nu'n dev marks “reality in contrast to an assumed case,” and should be

711

Paul mean when he claims that an unbelieving spouse (a[pisto") is sanctified(hJgivastai) by the believing spouse? What relationship between impurity andholiness does the children’s status presuppose? Why would the Corinthianshave accepted Paul’s identification of their children as holy? How is the impu-rity or holiness of the children related to the sanctification of the spouse? Howdoes the holiness of the children prove that the unbelieving spouse is madeholy by the believing spouse? Unfortunately no “handbook of ancient Corin-thian sexuality and social status” is extant, nor do we have access to the instruc-tion contained in Paul’s earlier letter mentioned in 5:9,3 or to the letter to Paulin which the Corinthians asked about sexual conduct and marriage (7:1).4 Towhat, therefore, may we turn for illumination on the logic underlying theruling?

Some scholars have turned to ancient halakot in an attempt to understandPaul’s argument in 1 Cor 7:12–16, and with justification.5

there had a number of prominent Jewish members and was familiar with cer-tain aspects of Jewish law. If the Crispus and Sosthenes mentioned in 1 Corin-thians are the same as the synagogue leaders who appear in Acts 18, then theCorinthian congregation would have been under the influence of Jewish-Christian leaders from the beginning. Paul, a self-described @Ebrai'o" ejx@Ebraivwn and a Farisai'o" (Phil 3:5), knew Jewish law thoroughly and wouldhave been able to advise concerned believers about halakic issues and to expectat least some of them to understand halakic argumentation when he made it.

It is clear that our passage is halakic: Paul’s goal in writing the instructionin 7:12–16 is to apply the commandment of the Lord against divorce casuisti-cally to “mixed” marriages in which one partner is a believer and the other isnot.7 Like the halakic interpreters behind 4QMMT, who distinguish betweenwhat is bwtk and what !yb`j wnjna, and the rabbis named in the Mishnah, whoseinterpretations are clearly distinguished from key verses of Torah,8 Paul distin-

Gillihan: A New Halakic Interpretation of 1 Cor 7:14 713

mission to the city, and another leader, Sosthenes, is beaten by a crowd of Jews after Paul appearedbefore the proconsul Gallio on charges of worshiping God contrary to Jewish law. Men with thesenames appear in 1 Corinthians: Sosthenes addresses the congregation with Paul in 1:1, and in 1:14Paul refers to Crispus as one of the only Corinthians whom Paul had baptized. Acts depicts Paulpreaching to the Jews at Corinth (18:1–5, 8) and residing with Titius Justus, a sebomevno" to;nqeovn—probably a Gentile who worshiped in the synagogue and followed some Jewish regula-tions—who lived next to the synagogue (18:7). The centurion Cornelius is similarly described inActs 10:2, 22 (eujsebh;" kai; fobouvmeno" to;n qeovn). Ernst Haenchen writes that such descriptions“may . . . imply membership of the group of Gentiles who took part in synagogue services without,by adopting the whole of the law, becoming really proshvlutoi, i.e., fully entitled members of theJewish religious community” (The Acts of the Apostles [Louisville: Westminster, 1971], 346).

In Acts, Paul ultimately directs his greatest evangelical energy to the Gentiles after the Jewsopposed him (18:5–6). Evidence from 1 Corinthians supports Luke’s picture of a mixed group ofconverts: in 1:18–25 Paul contrasts the message of the gospel to the traditional desires of Jews formiracles and Greeks for wisdom, emphasizing that the cross, God’s power and wisdom, is able tobring salvation to both peoples. The Corinthian community may have been concerned about cir-cumcision (7:18); concern about food purity (8:1–6) is consistent with the Jewish community, andthe fact that some at Corinth observed stricter purity regulations than others suggests a mixture ofethnic or religious background that would lead naturally to varying “strengths” of conscience(8:7–13).

The presence of a sizable Jewish community at Corinth is evidenced also in Philo’s Legatioad Gaium, in which he mentions Corinth among those towns in which the Jews have establishedcolonies (§281). In addition an inscription over a door of a Corinthian building, dated between 100B.C.E. and 200 C.E., reads . . . GwGHEBR . . . , which scholars reconstruct as [suna]gwgh; @Ebr[aivwn];it marked a modest synagogue. See A. Deissmann, Light from the Ancient East (New York: GeorgeH. Doran, 1927), 16–17 n. 7.

7 Jesus’ commandment occurs in the oldest traditions, Mark 10:1–12 and Q (Luke 16:18);Matt 5:32 (from Q) and 19:9 (from Mark) both add the exception of porneiva.

8 See, e.g., 4QMMT B 27–29, 64–66, 70, 76–77. All citations of 4QMMT will be from theedition of John Strugnell and Elisha Qimron, Qumran Cave 4.V: Miqs\at Ma>asåe Ha-Torah (DJD10; Oxford: Clarendon, 1994). In the Mishnah, citations of Scripture are not typically marked, butthe names of various rabbis are attached to debated rulings. For example, in m. Yeb. 12:6 the rite of

guishes between the revealed commandment, which he identifies as comingfrom oJ kuvrio" (7:10–11), and his interpretation, which he introduces with levgwejgwv oujc oJ kuvrio" (7:12).9 The commandment of the Lord in 7:10–11 isaddressed to toi'" gegamhkovsin and binds both spouses; clearly the addresseesare believers married to believers, since both are expected to recognize theauthority of a commandment “from the Lord,” and to obey. In 7:12–16, how-ever, only one spouse is obligated to observe the commandment, while thea[pisto" is entitled to consent to remain living with the believer or to divorce(see 1 Cor 7:15a). There is no hint that the living arrangement will bring aboutbelief in the unbeliever. In 7:14 Paul gives the principle that justifies the ruling:the unbelieving spouse is sanctified by the believing spouse. As evidence thatthis principle is true Paul points to the fact that the children are holy, not


h\a·lîs\â is described with verbatim citations of Deut 25:7–10 interspersed with notes about how vari-ous rabbis performed portions of the ceremony. In 13:1 legal opinions about which women areentitled to refuse levirate marriage are given, preceded by the name of the rabbinic school orteacher responsible for the opinion. Citations of the Mishnah are from Mishnayoth, vols. 1–7 (ed.P. Blackman; Gateshead: Judaica Press, 1983).

9 When Paul distinguishes between his interpretation of a commandment and the command-ment, he is simply following halakic form and considers his interpretation binding: in 7:20 he claimsthat his rulings direct the congregation toward the commandments of God, and in 7:25 and 40 Pauldescribes himself as “one on whom the Lord has conferred the mercy of being trustworthy,” and asone who has “the Spirit of God” (trans. Conzelmann). The binding authority of Paul’s interpreta-tion is also apparent in his explanation of his ruling that all should remain as they were when theywere called by God (1 Cor 7:17): after exhorting the circumcised and uncircumcised to remain asthey are he writes, “thus I ordain in all the congregations.” It is interesting that Paul applies halakicexegetical method to a new authoritative legal source: Jesus’ recollected words. Paul’s exegeticalmethod reveals the authority that Jesus’ teaching had already acquired, since here it bears the sameauthority as the Torah. See Raymond F. Collins’s generally good discussion, Divorce in the NewTestament (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 1992), 34–35, 42–46. Collins’s statement that Paul’shalakic treatment of divorce is “rather comprehensive, though non-legalistic” (p. 40), however,seems like special theological pleading: How is casuistic rule-making not legalistic? What does“legalistic” mean?

The interpretive voices of pre- and post-Pauline halakot, such as the “we” of 4QMMT andthe various named rabbis of the Mishnah, similarly assumed for themselves authority to prescribeand proscribe behavior, and to judge purity and protect holiness among the people of Israel.Although “rabbinic discussions [in the tannaitic literature] are characterized by differences of opin-ions, disputes, and debates,” it is often clear in the Mishnah whose views were rejected and whosewere regarded as authoritative (Gary Porton, “Halakah,” ABD 3:27). The concluding lines of4QMMT illustrate the Qumran sect’s assessment of their interpretive authority: “Consider all thesethings and ask Him that He strengthen your will and remove from you the plans of evil and thedevice of Belial so that you may rejoice at the end of time, finding that some of our practices arecorrect. And this will be counted as a virtuous deed of yours, since you will be doing what is righ-teous and good in His eyes, for your own welfare and for the welfare of Israel” (C 28–32). Whileboth Paul and the authors of MMT claimed responsibility for interpretations of revealed law, bothbelieved that their interpretations were uniquely able to bring their adherents into conformity withthe commandments of God.

impure. The children’s present holiness proves that the unbeliever is alreadysanctified, and that the sanctification does not refer to a future act of enteringthe community. If the unbelieving spouse were not already sanctified, then thechildren would be impure. As it now stands, they are holy; thus the a[pisto" issomehow already sanctified, even though remaining an unbeliever. What logicis at work here?

First, it is apparent that the holiness of the children depends solely on thesanctification of both parents. If both parents are sanctified, the children areholy; were one spouse not sanctified, then the children would be impure.10 Therelationship between impurity and holiness here is strikingly different fromthat found in other Pauline passages, where “impurity” (ajkaqarsiva) is aspecies of immoral activity, while “holiness” (aJgiasmov", aJgiwsuvnh) is mani-fested in activity that is moral and pleasing to God.11 There is no hint of a moraljudgment of the children in Paul’s claim that they are holy instead of impure.Rather, their holiness is a status that the children attain solely on the basis oftheir parents’ sanctification. Now, while Paul must argue that the unbelievingspouse is sanctified, he takes for granted that the Corinthians will agree with hisassertion that the children are holy.12 What warrants the Corinthians’ accep-tance of Paul’s identification of the children as holy? Paul’s argumentative proofis presented e concessu and seems most naturally to depend on the children’sparticipation in the life of the community, whom Paul regularly calls a{gioi.13

Because the children come and go and interact freely with the holy community,their holy status must be recognized and accepted; were they not holy, theypresumably could not be counted among the a{gioi, on account of their impu-


10 Against speculation that the sanctification of the children must include baptism, not only isbaptism nowhere to be found as a requirement for the children’s holiness, but a definite require-ment is given: both parents must be sanctified. Within the context of Paul’s argument in 7:12–16,only the sanctification of both parents may be identified as the cause of the children’s holiness.Although it is likely that children were baptized when an entire household converted, such as inActs 18:8, such an act of sanctification is not crucial for Paul’s judgment that they are holy. In Paul’sargument their holiness depends on the sanctification of both parents; indeed, if baptism were con-sidered to be the cause of the children’s holiness, Paul could not adduce their holiness as proof thatthe unbeliever is sanctified by the believer. See A. Robertson and A. Plummer, A Critical andExegetical Commentary on the First Epistle of St Paul to the Corinthians (ICC; 2d ed.; Edinburgh:T & T Clark, 1914), 142, and section 2, below, for further discussion.

11 In 1 Thess 4:7 Paul writes: ouj ga;r ejkavlesen hJma'" oJ qeo;" ejpi; ajkaqarsiva/ ajll! ejn aJgiasmw'/,and in 2 Cor 7:1, kaqarivswmen eJautou;" ajpo; panto;" molusmou' sarko;" kai; pneuvmato", ejpi-telou'nte" aJgiwsuvnhn ejn fovbw/ qeou'. Similarly in Eph 5:3, moral impurity is of the same order asporneiva and pleonexiva, none of which are fitting among toi'" aJgivoi". Paul also identifies impurityas a category of immoral activity in Rom 1:24; 6:19; 2 Cor 6:17; 12:21; Gal 5:19; 1 Thess 2:3; so alsoCol 3:5; Eph 4:19; 5:5; Rev 17:4.

12 Jeremias, Infant Baptism, 45.13 Rom 1:7; 8:27; 12:3; 15:25, 26, 31; 16:2, 15; 1 Cor 1:2; 6:1, 2; 14:33; 16:1, 15; 2 Cor 1:1; 8:4;

9:1, 12; 13:12; Phil 1:1; 4:22; Phlm 5, 7; 2 Thess 1:10.

rity. It seems most likely that the children in question are being raised as believ-ers, or at least have full access to the religious life of the community. Otherwiseit is difficult to imagine how their holiness could function as an argumentativeproof.14

In 7:15 Paul allows the believing spouse to be divorced if the unbelieverinitiates it. If the unbeliever initiates divorce, then clearly she or he persists inunbelief, yet the status of the children is not mentioned and is assumed toremain one of holiness. Thus, while the unbeliever remains in the marriage, sheor he is sanctified by the believing spouse. In 7:16 Paul introduces the possibil-ity that the believing spouse may save the unbeliever, that is, that under theinfluence of the believing spouse the unbeliever will believe in Christ and enterthe community. This is unrelated to the fact that the unbeliever is sanctified byhis or her relationship to the believer. The fact that Paul presents this possibilityin ambiguous terms—to paraphrase, “For how do you know whether you willsave your unbelieving spouse?”15—confirms that the unbeliever’s sanctificationdoes not imply salvation.16 If this is true then the sanctification of the unbe-liever has less import for the unbeliever, and more for the marriage. A pressingconcern of the members of the Corinthian congregation seems to have beenthat they not be in forbidden marriages; for this to happen both partners had tobe sanctified, that is, legally eligible. By ruling that the unbelieving spouse issanctified by the believer, Paul effectively ruled that mixed marriages are, infact, licit. Thus, in 7:14 the meaning of hJgivastai is “is sanctified” in the sense of“is eligible” for licit marriage to a believer.17 That the unbeliever may initiate


14 Whether we may infer that 1 Cor 7:12–16 solely addressed the concerns of believers mar-ried to unbelievers whose children were brought up within the community is not completely clear,but this social situation would fit Paul’s argument most closely, contra Gerhard Delling, who claimsthat the children are grown adults who have rejected baptism and faith in Christ (Delling, “Nunaber sind sie heilig,” in Gott und die Götter: Festgabe für Erich Fascher zum 60. Geburtstag[Berlin: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 1958], 84–93). See Conzelmann, I Corinthians, 123, for apersuasive argument against Delling.

15 tiv ga;r oi\da" guvnai, eij to;n a[ndra swvsei"_ h} tiv oi\da" a[ner eij th;n gunai'ka swvsei"_16 Paul’s ruling addresses two specific questions: (1) What is the force of the Lord’s com-

mandment for a believer married to an a[pisto"? (2) What is the status of a believer whose a[pisto"spouse secures a divorce? The possibility exists that the believer may influence the unbeliever, butthis is not a certainty; if the unbeliever divorces, it is in the best interest of the believer to accept thedivorce and to be free of the former obligations of the marriage. Paul’s justification for this, “forGod has called you for peace” (v. 15), suggests that the strife that would result from refusingdivorce, either by insisting that the commandment of the Lord was binding upon both parties or bypursuing a lawsuit in the public court, would be inconsistent with the principle that the communityof believers should not engage in public conflict with or attempt to judge unbelievers. See 1 Cor5:12; 6:1–8; Rom 12:18–13:7.

17 Calvin’s interpretation of this aspect of the verse remains valuable: “Tametsi autem hancsanctificationem varie accipiunt, ego simpliciter ad coniugium refero, hoc sensu: videri in speciemposset fidelis uxor contagionem ducere ab infideli marito, ut sit illicita societas: sed aliter res habet.

divorce suggests that the power of the sanctification is limited to the duration ofthe marriage; thus it appears that the effect of the sanctification is limited tocausing the marriage, while it lasts, to be between mutually eligible partners.18

Paul’s use of sanctification language is further illuminated by halakot con-cerning marriage in m. Qiddushin. Here @yviWDyqi, “sanctifications,” refers to aman’s betrothal of a woman; @yviWDyqi also refers to the betrothal gift, and to theact of licit betrothal itself. The noun @yviWDyqi is derived from the piel verb vDEq',one idiomatic meaning of which is “to betroth.”19 In m. Qidd. 2:120 we find astriking linguistic parallel to 1 Cor 7:14 as the verb to sanctify is used consis-tently to describe an act of licit betrothal:

A man betroths (`dqm) [a woman] by himself (wb) or through his agent. Awoman is betrothed (t`dqtm) by herself (hb) or through her representative.A man betroths (`dqm) his daughter [to another] . . . either by himself orthrough his representative.

If we translate the piel and hithpael participles in this ruling more literally, itsrelationship to Paul’s ruling becomes unmistakable: the rabbis recognized thata man sanctifies a woman for licit marital union when he gives her the @y`wdq; awoman is sanctified by her fiancé for licit marital union when she accepts the@y`wdq, and so forth. The rabbis’ Hebrew, like Paul’s Greek, makes the object ofsanctification the spouse, and both use instrumental prepositions to expressagency: hJgivastai ejn appears to be a faithful appropriation of b `dqm/t`dqtm.21


Pluris enim est pietas unius ad coniugium sanctificandum quam alterius impietas ad inquinandum.Pura igitur conscientia habitare potest fidelis cum infideli: nam quoad usum et communionem toriac totius vitae, sanctificatur, ne sua immunditia fidelem inquinet” (Commentarius in EpistolamPauli ad Corinthios I [ed. G. Baum et al.; Brunsvigae: C. A. Schwetschke et Filium, 1892], 411–12).

18 Paul concludes by addressing the situation of an believer whose unconverted spousedivorces: ouj dedouvlwtai oJ ajdelfo;" h] hJ ajdelfh; ejn toi'" toiouvtoi" (v. 15b). The believer is forbiddento initiate divorce, but, as Conzelmann writes, “is not subjected to any constraint because of thepagan’s behavior. He can marry again,” if the a[pisto" divorces (I Corinthians, 123). This passageexemplifies Paul’s rule in 1 Cor 5:12 that believers have judicial authority over other believers, butnot over unbelieving outsiders: were the a[pisto" a believer, then Paul would have had authority tocommand him or her to remain married and to pronounce judgment on violators of the command-ment. ( 0 her 1 Cor 5:3–5, where the offender obviously claims membership in the communityof believers. In addition, 6:1–8 illustrates Paul’s conception of the community as having judicialauthority in disputes between members, an authority entirely independent of the legal structuresoperative outside of the community.) In the eschatological future, however, Paul anticipates o{ti oiJa{gioi to;n kovsmon krinou'sin (1 Cor 6:2). See Conzelmann, I Corinthians, 102, 104–5 for comment.

19 See P. Blackman’s discussion in Mishnayoth vol. 3, Seder Nashim, 449.20 The piel of `dq is used identically throughout the tractate; for another example, see m.

Keth. 7:7.21 Note, however, that the use of the preposition b to identify the personal agency by which

betrothal occurs is unusual. Most frequently, as Hayes points out, the object of the preposition is“the mechanism—the object or act—by which the betrothal becomes valid: an act of cohabitation,

It is significant that Paul uses the passive of aJgiavzw to describe the sanctifica-tion of the unbeliever, male or female, given that the Mishnah (esp. b. Qidd.2.1–3.11) distinguishes between the male act of betrothing (piel `dqm) and thefemale act of being betrothed (hithpael t`dqtm or, more usually, pual t`dwqm).Paul’s usage puts the believer, male or female, in the more powerful “male” roleof sanctifying/causing licit betrothal, while the unbeliever implicitly becomes“feminized.”22

The rabbis assumed that the act of betrothal, or “sanctification,” impliedthe licitness of the marital union.23 This is precisely what Paul implies in 1 Cor7:14—the marital union is licit because the unbelieving spouse is “sanctified”—a legal status typically associated with the female spouse. Paul seems to beusing the Greek equivalent of a Pharisaic-rabbinic betrothal idiom. It is appar-ent that he must introduce a new literalness into the idiom aJgivasqai ejn / Ab `dqin order to argue that the unbeliever is sanctified for licit marital union. Whenthe rabbis wrote that a man ̀ dqm his future spouse, the “sanctification” presup-posed the licitness of the marital union on the basis of the pre-betrothal statusof both spouses. The meaning of `dq is “to betroth” rather than literally “tosanctify,” since the eligibility of the betrothed was assumed. In contrast, Paulwrote his ruling to address the status of already existing marriages.24 When he


a gift of a certain minimal value, or a written document” (“Paul on Mixed Marriages,” in GentileImpurities).

22 Obviously some precision in the translation is lacking: in m. Qidd. 2:13 the object of thepreposition is the subject of the verb, so that the idiom is reflexive: “a man betroths (a woman) byhimself or through his agent”; “a woman becomes betrothed (to a man) by herself or through herrepresentative.” The Ab phrases identify the independent agency of both parties in the betrothalagreement, who act in their own behalf, respectively: the man as he offers and the woman as sheaccepts the betrothal gift to secure the marriage contract. In 1 Cor 7:14 the objects of the ejnphrases are the spouses of the sanctified, and these phrases identify the agency of each spouse toguarantee that the partner is sanctified and that the betrothal is licit. The Jewish custom of ascrib-ing independent agency to both parties in a marriage contract makes Paul’s ruling possible: becausea man may offer a betrothal gift to a woman by himself, he has the ability to identify her formally asa licit, “sanctified” partner; likewise because a woman may accept a betrothal gift from a man byherself, she has the formal ability to identify him as a licit partner. While it is not clear that suchcareful thought preceded Paul’s usage of this idiom, it seems clear enough that the idiom wouldhave been available to the former Pharisee, and that he found it convenient and appropriate for hisargument.

23 In m. Yeb. 2:3–4 we find similar language of holiness used to describe prohibitions: a child-less brother’s widow may be prohibited from marrying a brother-in-law because of h`wdq—that is,because he is a high priest, a mamzer, or a Gibeonite. In each case holiness is violated: in the for-mer, that of the high priest, who should not marry a widow; in the last two, that of the Israelitewoman, who must not marry a mamzer or Gibeonite.

24 This is apparent from the location of 1 Cor 7:12–16, immediately before Paul’s commandsto “remain as you are” in 7:17–24. Most importantly, in v. 25 he changes subjects and begins speak-ing peri; tw'n parqevnwn, “about the unmarried.” Thus, the rulings in 7:10–16 pertained to thosealready married, and those in 7:25–38 to the unmarried. It is unlikely that Paul would have recom-

wrote that one spouse hJgivastai by the other, he meant that the act or state ofbeing married to a believer, and not the premarital status of the spouses, liter-ally sanctifies the unbelieving spouse as an eligible partner and effects the licit-ness of the union. We might say that the Pharisaic/rabbinic betrothal idiom hascome under the influence of the commandment of the Lord against divorce, sothat licitness of marriage is now judged on the basis of the indissolubility of themarital bond (by the believer) rather than on the basis of the premarital statusof each spouse.25

M.Qiddushin 3:12 illuminates the significance of the children’s status in1 Cor 7:14. This passage treats the status of the children of licit and illicit sexualunions. The rabbis ruled as follows:

@y`wdq `y` !wqm lkw . . . .rkzh rja ^lwh dlwh hryb[ @yaw @y`wdq `y` !wqm-lk

fwydh @hkl hxwljw h`wrg lwdg @hkl hnmla wz .hzyaw !wgph rja ^lwh dlwh hryb[ `yw

`y lba @y`wdq wyl[ hl @ya` ymAlkw .@ytnlw rzmml lar`y tb lar`yl hnytnw trzmm

. . . .hrwtb` twyr[h lkm tja l[ abh hz .hzyaw rzmm dlwh @y`wdq !yrja l[ hl

In every case in which there is holiness26 [in the marriage arrangement] andthere is no transgression, the offspring follows the father [in status]. . . . Andin every case in which there is holiness but there is transgression, the off-spring follows the parent of inferior status. . . . And in the case of any womanwhose marriage to such is not holiness, but with others would be holy, theoffspring is a mamzer. And which is such? In the case of a man who has sexualintercourse with one of the prohibited degrees of marriage in the Law. . . .

Two degrees of licit marriages are recognized here: in the superior, bothspouses are eligible to marry each other; in these cases the status of the off-


mended or even allowed believers to marry nonbelievers. It is likely that his insistence that widowsremarry movnon ejn kurivw/ (7:39) means that they may marry only those within the believing commu-nity.

25 It is not correct to call Paul’s ruling a “concession” for which he creates the legal fiction ofthe unbeliever’s sanctification, pace Christine Hayes, who writes, “Paul is lenient and willing toview the unbeliever as if eligible for marriage with the believer and to view the marriage as if licitand valid” (Gentile Impurities). First, Paul forbids Corinthian believers from divorcing unbelievers,against the apparent wishes of some to separate themselves from all nonbelievers (e.g., 1 Cor5:9–10). This is an imposition of stricter law, not a concession to believers’ desires (although tothose upon whom divorce from a beloved but unbelieving spouse was urged, Paul’s ruling wouldhave come as a relief!). Second, in Paul’s view, the Lord’s prohibition against divorce binds anybeliever to any existing marriage and necessarily makes any believer’s spouse a licit partner. Paul’slegal fiction is limited to making explicit the basis of the unbeliever’s status as a licit partner, whichthe prohibition against divorce already implies. The principle of sanctification by marriage was cre-ated not in order to justify an exception to the rule against believer–unbeliever intermarriage, asHayes claims, but to add weight to Paul’s ruling against divorce in the case of mixed marriages.

26 Blackman translates @y`wdq as “licit betrothal.” My translation emphasizes, however, thatlicit marriage is described as “holy” in the Mishnah.

spring follows that of the father. The inferior form of licit marriage involvedsome transgression of eligibility laws and resulted in the higher-status spousehaving children of lower status.27 A harsher penalty fell upon those whoseunion was with absolutely forbidden partners, namely, the near-of-kin and oth-ers specified in Lev 18:6–18.28 Offspring of such unions were mamzerim.29

Mamzerim were impure and posed a threat to the holiness of the land ofIsrael, especially to the temple. Biblical and postbiblical Jewish legislatorsemphatically stressed their exclusion: Deut 23:3 forbids them and their descen-dants, to the tenth generation, from entering the holy assembly of Yahweh.30


27 The transgressions of the law allowed here are even punishable by scourging, according tom. Mak. 3:1. No one of priestly lineage was allowed to marry a divorced woman, a widow, or a per-son of mamzer or Gibeonite status or descent. This includes, of course, a woman who has per-formed h \a ·lîs \â. If a person of priestly descent married one of these lower statuses, that one waspenalized by a diminishing of the status of the offspring. For a similar ruling, see m. Yeb. 2:4. Therationale for this ruling was that the [rz, “seed,” of the holy priestly line would be profaned (Lev21:7; cf. Ezek 44:22).

28 The rabbis described these, vis-à-vis the woman, as @y`wdq wyl[ hl @ya`, “in which there isnot for her licit betrothal (or ‘sanctification’) regarding them.” Those forbidden were, specifically,hrwtb twyr[h, “the (ones whose) nakednesses (are forbidden) in the Torah.” See also m. Yeb. 2:3.

29 For an excellent discussion of ancient Jewish rulings on marriage and the status of off-spring, see Christine Hayes, “Intermarriage and Impurity in Ancient Jewish Sources,” HTR 92(1999): 3–36. Hayes traces the development of prohibitions against Jewish–Gentile intermarriagebeginning with those in Leviticus and Deuteronomy, which were limited to the seven Canaanitenations and motivated both by the fear that the Gentile spouse would alienate the Jewish spousefrom the Israelite religion (e.g., Deut 7:2–4) and by specific interethnic enmities (Deut 23). Thelater rulings in Ezra 9:1–2; 10:19; Nehemiah; Mal 2:11–12; 4QMMT; and Jubilees, which prohibitall Jewish–Gentile intermarriage, were motivated or justified by the “novel reason that maritalunion with a Gentile profanes (that is, renders nonholy) the holy seed” of the Jewish people (ibid.,10). See Hayes’s expanded discussion in Gentile Impurities.

B. Schereschewsky provides a handy survey of the rabbinic passages (“Mamzer,” EncJud11:840–42); for philological analysis, see A. Geiger, Urschrift (Breslau, 1857), 52–55; A. Büchler,“Familienreinheit und Familienmakel in Jerusalem,” in Festschrift Adolf Schwarz zum siebzigstenGeburtstage 15. Juli 1916 (ed. Samuel Krauss; Berlin: R. Lèowit, 1917), 133–62; and L. Freund,“Über Genealogien und Familienreinheit,” in ibid., 163–92. Geiger argues that rzmm derived fromrz ![m and meant, in the biblical texts (Deut 23:3; Zech 9:6), a child born of a mixed marriage.Against this view, see L. Epstein, Marriage Laws in the Bible and the Talmud (Cambridge, MA:Harvard University Press, 1942), 160, 184, and the extended discussion, 279–90. Epstein arguesthat mamzer could not have meant “of a mixed marriage” because the Deuteronomist “had not yetissued a general prohibition against such marriages.” Epstein concludes, without philological analy-sis, that the term mamzer in Deut 23:3 appears to be racial, and most likely refers to an ethnicgroup that occupied the city of Ashdod, knowledge about which perished at an early stage (p. 184).Space does not permit full discussion, but see n. 48 below.

30 “Even to the tenth generation” (yrIyci[} r/D !G") in Deut 23:3 originally meant “forever,” asthe gloss !l;/[Ad[' after yrIyci[} r/D !G" in 23:4 proves. See below, n. 48, for discussion of the redactionof Deut 23:3–5. The holiness of the camp of Israelites is given as the reason for these exclusions inDeut 23:14. In m. Yeb. 8:3 the mamzer, whether male or female, is eternally forbidden to marry anIsraelite.

Similarly, in 4QFlor 1 i 2–4 the mamzer is forbidden to enter the temple, ayk!` w`wdq.

The dangers and legal consequences of marriages between unequal part-ners and other forbidden sexual unions occupied Jewish thinkers in the cen-turies preceding and following Paul’s career.31 The earliest extant postbiblicalhalakot on mixed marriages are found in 4QMMT, which the editors identify asa composition of the Essenes written between 159 and 152 B.C.E.,32 andJubilees, which should be dated ca. 170–140 B.C.E.33 If we date the final redac-tion of the Mishnah to around 200 C.E. and accept that it contains earlier rul-ings that originated with the Pharisees, then we have a selection of halakotconcerning mixed marriages from a variety of Jewish groups writing over threeand a half centuries. Roughly in the middle of this period, between 53 and 55C.E., Paul handed down his ruling in 1 Cor 7:12–16.34

Two sections of MMT are germane. The first, B 39–49, identifies forbid-den sexual unions within the context of regulations aimed at maintaining thepurity of the temple.35 Two prohibitions pertaining to impure males, includingmamzerim, appear here: first, they were prohibited from marrying Israelites;


31 This concern stands in stark contrast to the apparent lack of concern for the illegitimatestatus of children born of forbidden marriages in Roman society. While Augustus’s reforms forbadeillegitimate children from enrollment in the registry of freeborn citizens, this law was not appliedconsistently. It was possible for freeborn citizens to be identified as illegitimate offspring with littlesocial stigma. See S. Dixon, The Roman Family (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1992),124–26.

32 On the composition of the document, see the remarks of Qimron and Strugnell, QumranCave 4.V, 116–21, 131–32, 161–62; also Lawrence H. Schiffman, Reclaiming the Dead Sea Scrolls(New York: Doubleday, 1995), 83–95, 245–55; and idem, “The Sadducean Origins of the Dead SeaSect,” in Understanding the Dead Sea Scrolls (ed. H. Schanks; New York: Random House, 1992),35–49; also James C. VanderKam’s answer to this article, “The People of the Dead Sea Scrolls:Essenes or Sadducees?” in the same volume, pp. 50–62.

On the dating of 4QMMT, see Qimron and Strugnell, Qumran Cave 4.V, 121. See A.Yardeni’s analysis of the paleography and dating of the manuscripts of MMT in Qimron andStrugnell, 3–25. For a cogent challenge to the common identification of MMT as a letter addressedto the opponents of the Essenes, see S. Fraade, “To Whom It May Concern: 4QMMT and itsAddressee(s),” RevQ 76 (2000): 507–26. Fraade argues that MMT most likely “was composed withintramural study as its function, but in the form of a communication between the leadership of thecommunity and its extramural opponents” (pp. 524–25).

33 James C. VanderKam, “Jubilees, Book of,” ABD 3:1030–31.34 Hans Dieter Betz and Margaret Mitchell, “Corinthians, First Epistle to the,” ABD 1:1140.35 39 [And concerning the Ammonite] and the Moabite and the mamzer [and him whose tes-

ticles] have been crushed [and him] whose male member [has been cut off], who (nevertheless)enter 40 the congregations [ . . . and] take [wives to be]come one bone 41 [and enter the sanctuary. . . ] 42 [ . . . ] impurities. . . . 44 [ . . . and] one must not let them be united (with an Israelite) andmake them 45 [one bone . . . and one must not] let them en[ter] 46 [the sanctuary. . . . 48 [For allthe sons of Israel should beware] of any forbidden unions 49 and be full of reverence for the sanc-tuary. (Trans. Qimron and Strugnell, Qumran Cave 4.V, 50–51). 4QMMT

second, they were prohibited from entering the holy temple because of theirdefiling impurities. In MMT the two prohibitions seem to stand in some formalrelationship.36 The text refers to violation of the prohibition against intermar-riage thrice, and each time alongside the prohibition against impure statusesentering the temple: in B 39–40 the prohibited status groups are said to enterthe congregation, take (Israelite) wives, and enter the sanctuary. The onlyextant word from the immediately following sentence(s) is twamf (B 42), whichcertainly refers to the impurities associated with the prohibited statuses andimplies the defilement of the people and temple. B 43–46 continue thisthought by presenting in quick succession prohibitions against cohabitation,intermarriage, and entering the sanctuary. While the details of the relationshipbetween unlawful marriage and entrance into the temple in these lines are lost,B 48–49 stress that reverence for the sanctuary should motivate observance ofmarriage restrictions. What relationship between illicit marriage and templepurity underlies this exhortation? First, the authors worried that impurespouses would enter the holy temple; second, illegal sexual unions generatedmoral impurity, which defiled the people and threatened the land; third, thefact that the offspring of such illegal marriages were impure mamzerim, wor-ried them.37 Were the authorities to fail to stop the practice of illegal marriage


36 See also 1QS 4:10, which juxtaposes twnz jwrb hb[wh y`[m @wdz tanq with tdwb[b hdn ykrdhamf.

37 Rulings on the illegal unions that produce mamzerim vary in the Mishnah: in m. Yeb. 4:12the rabbis rule that any child born of a remarriage or a marriage between a brother-in-law and awoman to whom he had submitted to h\a·lîs\â, or her near kin, is a mamzer. The Sages agree only thatchildren of those who married the near of kin of one’s divorced wife are mamzerin; all other chil-dren are not. In 4:13 the following positions are described regarding who is a mamzer: R. Akiba, theoffspring of every case of prohibited near-kin marriage; Simon the Temanite, any born of a sexualunion punishable by death at the hands of heaven; R. Joshua, any born of a sexual union punishableby death at the hands of the court. In 10:1 the rabbis rule that any children born to a woman whomistakenly believes her husband to be dead and marries another, are mamzerim; 10:3, 4 elaboratethis scenario.

It is clear is that status as a mamzer could also be expressed as “defilement of seed,” as inMMT B 81; in some illegal marriages the rabbis ruled that seed was not defiled—that is, the off-spring were not mamzerim—but the status of children followed that of the lesser party in the mar-riage. Given the “radicalization” of the law that we find in the Dead Sea Scrolls and Jubilees, it isreasonable to infer that the offspring of illegal marriage, which Yahweh pledges to destroy, wasthoroughly defiled—mamzer—and not merely compromised in status. See below for a discussionof the relevant passages.

It should be noted that the rabbis never advocate the execution of innocent mamzerim.Indeed, m. Hor. 3:8 concludes, $rah ![ lwdg @hkl !dwq !kj dymlt rzmm, “(if) a mamzer be ascholar, he ranks above the high priest that is an ignorant man.” While we recognize in the rabbis’rulings on mamzeruth a distinction between moral and ritual impurity—the mamzer is rituallyimpure but not morally guilty— the mamzer’s ritual impurity is more problematic than the ritualimpurity of the maimed or leprous, since mamzer impurity is a direct product of morally impuresexual activity. Solutions to their existence could never be comprehensive and satisfactory, as rab-

among the people, the impurity38 of mamzerim would be multiplied through-out Israel, defiling the temple.39

Thus we recognize that the impure status of the mamzer precluded his orher access to that which was holy, namely, the temple, and that recognition ofthis principle motivated Jews to avoid illegal marriages. MMT B 75–82 con-firms that the author had the status of offspring in mind when he ruled againstcertain unions:

75 Concerning the practice of zenuth that exists among the people: (thispractice exists) despite their being so[ns] of holy [seed] . . . Because they(Israel) are holy, and the sons of Aaron are [most holy.] 80 And you know thatsome of the priests and the people intermarry 81 and mix and defile the holyseed and also 82 their own seed, with female outsiders.40


binic debate over their status proves. See Epstein, Marriage Laws, 279–90; and Hayes, GentileImpurities, ch. 7. Jubilees idealized Yahweh’s divine eradication of defiled seed from the face of theearth (see below).

38 The specifically “impure” status of a mamzer is recognized by R. Tarfon in m. Qidd. 3:13,where he rules that it is possible “to purify” (rhfyl) the offspring of a mamzer.

39 Qimron and Strugnell emphasize that “in early Judaism, contaminating the Temple wasconsidered the most severe sin” (Qumran Cave 4.V, 131). The Essenes’ distress at its defilementappears in CD 4:12–18, where `dqmh amf appears as one of the three “nets of Belial” that haveensnared Israel. The others are arrogance and twnz, illegal sexual union. Again, illegal sexual union ispaired with defilement of the temple. CD 4:20–5:2 elaborates on the species of zenuth. See JosephA. Fitzmyer’s discussion in “The Matthean Divorce Texts and Some New Palestinian Evidence,” inTo Advance the Gospel (2d ed.; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1998), 91–97.

40 The translated text is as follows:

. . . lar`y `dwq bwtk`m `dq 76 [[rz yn]b hmhw ![h ^wtb hs[nh twnwzh l[w 75!ynhkh txqm` !y[dwy !t[aw] 80 [!y`wdq y`wd]q @wtha ynbw !y`wdq hmh` llg[b] 79

twnwzh ![ ![[rz] ta 82 [#aw `dwqh ][rz ta[ !]yamfmw !ykkwtm[ !hw] 81 [!ybr[tm ![h]w

This translation draws upon that of Christine Hayes and reflects Hayes’s argument that the type ofintermarriage against which MMT legislates is not priestly–lay (as Qimron argues [Qumran Cave4.V, 171–75]) but Israelite–Gentile (Hayes, “Intermarriage and Impurity,” 27–29). Hayes’s argu-ment makes four points: (1) B 79 distinguishes between the “holy” seed of the laity of Israel and the“most holy” seed of the priests. “Contamination of holy seed [l. 81] must thus refer to contamina-tion of ordinary Israelites.” (2) The ![ in the phrase ![h ^wtb in line 75 refers specifically to thelaity of Israel, as in line 80, and not generally to the nation. This claim is supported by the assertionthat ![ means “lay Israelites” as opposed to “priests” throughout MMT, “a fact duly acknowledgedby Qimron.” (3) The term twnz does not generally refer to priestly–lay intermarriage in the Dead SeaScrolls but to incest, polygamy, intercourse with a menstruant, and marriage to a Gentile (CD 4:17,20–21; 7:1). It is, therefore, “at least equally possible” that twnz here means “intermarriage withGentiles.” (4) Finally, “the mixture of holy seed and most holy seed (which is what intermarriage ofIsraelite and priest would be) would in no way impair the status of the holy seed, though it mayreduce the status of the most holy. Yet lines 81–82 make it clear that both the seed of the priestsand the seed of the Israelites are being harmed. In order to account for the profanation [sic] of bothholy and most holy seed, the zenut mentioned here must involve a third party.” The third party,whose profane seed can defile both holy and most holy seed, must therefore be that of the Gentiles.

The Essenes recognized that illegal marriage resulted in the defilement of holyseed—their concern is not merely that the status of offspring is loweredthrough intermarriage, but that the holy seed is actually defiled, resulting in theproliferation of impure mamzerim, whose presence threatened the temple.

The same relationship between illegal marriage, mamzerim, and thedefilement of the temple appears in Jubilees.41 In Jub. 16:8–9 Yahweh vows toeradicate the seed of Lot from the face of the earth, because they came throughincest with his daughters. In 16:9 this judgment is justified thus: “they were pol-luting themselves and they were fornicating in their flesh and they were caus-ing pollution upon the earth” (16:5).42 This pollution, first, came from moralimpurity that defiled the holy people: as the author writes, “Israel is a holynation to Yahweh his God, . . . there is nothing which appears which is as defiledas [sexual immorality] among the holy people” (33:20). If allowed to survive,the presence of the mamzerim might suggest that Yahweh ignored or evenblessed the incest of Lot and his daughters.43 However, Yahweh’s vow to oblit-erate the mamzerim suggests that their impure status was a primary pollutant:the polluted and polluting offspring of twnz must be destroyed—the parents’repentance from moral impurity was not enough. Concern for the holiness ofIsrael also warranted execution for Israelites who married foreigners and com-mitted adultery (30:7–17) or incest (41:25–28).44 The swift execution of theoffenders—especially women—was likely intended to prevent conception fromproducing mamzerim. It is important to note that Jubilees, like the rabbis, doesnot advocate the execution of mamzerim by a human court. However, Jubilees


41 Similarities between the rulings in MMT and Jubilees are not surprising, given that numer-ous copies of Jubilees were found at Qumran in several caves and an explicit reference to it seems tobe made in CD 16:3–4. 4Q384 frag. 9.2 also refers to a [!y]t[h twqlj[m rps], which seems to bethe same book mentioned in CD 16:3–4 (!hytw[wb`b !hylbwyl !yt[h twqljm rps). The rest of thetitle, if it was present, is now lost. Copies of Jubilees were found in caves 1, 2, 3, 4, and 11.

42 The translation is from O. S. Wintermute, “Jubilees: A New Translation and Introduction,”OTP 2:35–142; see also the translation by James C. VanderKam, The Book of Jubilees (2 vols.;CSCO 510, 511; Louvain: Peeters, 1989), 94–95.

43 See the discussion of Jacob Neusner on different conceptions of impurity and purity in theSecond Temple period in his The Idea of Purity in Ancient Judaism (New York: Brill, 1973),114–16. Jubilees appears to attribute the existence and effects of sin and impurity to the influenceof demons. For example, in his “testament,” Noah warns his sons that “the demons have begun tomislead you and your children” to disobey the commandments of Yahweh (7:27). This same view isclearly articulated in the “discourse on the two spirits” in 1QS 3:13–4:26. This may be contrasted tothe Levitical view of impurity, which divests it of demonic origins. See Jacob Milgrom, Leviticus1–16: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB 3A; New York: Doubleday,1991), 43.

44 Jubilees 30:15–16 makes explicit the idea that anyone who sins sexually or allows sexual sinto persist unchallenged is guilty of defiling the sanctuary of Yahweh; curses come upon the entireland until the sin is properly punished (cf. 41:26).

tantly, the ancestors of David—and perhaps even more importantly Solomon—who built the temple, remained “demonstrably” unpolluted.48


of violating his neighbor’s wife (hV;ai). At least in this species of illegal sexual intercourse, abetrothed virgin has full legal status as a wife; if she does not call out for help then she is to bestoned for adultery along with her rapist.

48 In light of the Deuteronomic prohibition against mamzerim entering the sanctuary, r/D !G"yrIyci[} (Deut 23:3), it is interesting that David represents the tenth generation of the offspring ofJudah and Tamar (1 Chr 2:3–3:9; Ruth 4:18–22; also Matt 1:2–6; cf. Luke 3:31–33). Solomon wasborn in the eleventh generation, and under his reign the temple was finally built. If the Davidicgenealogy was reconstructed with the Deuteronomic ruling in mind, then we have evidence thatJewish theologians as early as the turn of the fourth century B.C.E. (see Ralph Klein, “Chronicles,Book of 1–2,” ABD 1:994–95; also idem, “Ezra-Nehemiah, Books of,” ABD 2:732) perceived thesexual union of Judah and Tamar as twnz, and Perez’s status as mamzer. Only after the impurity ofmamzeruth had departed from the family line—that is, in the eleventh generation—could the tem-ple be built.

In order for Deut 23:3 to support the purity of the Davidic line after the tenth generation,the Chronicler was required to distinguish the prohibitions against the Ammonite and Moabitefrom entering the assembly of Yahweh (Deut 23:4–5) from the prohibition against the mamzer(Deut 23:3): the mamzer must be excluded only for ten generations, but the Ammonite andMoabite forever. Two aspects of Deut 23:3–5 appear to make such a distinction difficult: first,while the mamzer is excluded “even unto the tenth generation,” it appears that this phrase means“forever,” since the same phrase is thus glossed in the prohibition against the Ammonite andMoabite in v. 4. Second, the wording of vv. 3 and 4 is perfectly identical, except for the names ofand pronouns referring to the excluded parties, and the addition of !lw[ d[ in v. 4. It appears thatDeut 23:4 is intended to complement or refine 23:3; in any case, the grouping of the prohibitions isa natural one, given that the Ammonites and Moabites were mamzer races, offspring of the incestu-ous union of Lot and his daughters (Gen 19:30–38). (Contra Epstein [Marriage Laws, 184],mamzer in Deut 23:3 refers not to an ethnic group but to progeny of transgressive sexual inter-course. In support of this, the only other biblical occurrence of mamzer is in Zech 9:6, whichdescribes the destruction of Philistine cities. That a mamzer will occupy Ashdod seems to meanthat those whom the Philistines regarded as legitimate heirs and rulers of the land will be overrunby another race [LXX, ajllogenei'"] in war, and the “pride of Philistia,” its wealth, cities, and people,will belong to the conquerors. Understood is that Philistine women will become the wives of thevictors, thus producing, in the eyes of the Philistines, illegitimate or “mixed” offspring. The conclu-sion of the curse against Philistia, “Ekron shall become like the Jebusites,” is significant: after Davidconquered the Jebusites, he “took more concubines and wives,” apparently from among them[2 Sam 5:13 NRSV].)

It appears, however, that the Chronicler’s requirement to distinguish between the mamzerand the Ammonite and Moabite was already fulfilled by Deut 23:5: this verse obfuscates themamzer status of the Ammonites and Moabites by providing an alternative reason for their exclu-sion: “because they did not meet you with food and water on your journey out of Egypt, andbecause they hired against you Balaam son of Beor, from Pethor of Mesopotamia, to curse you”(NRSV). I would argue that Deut 23:5 was appended to vv. 3–4 precisely in order to distinguishbetween the exclusions of the mamzer and of the Ammonite and Moabite, with the result that themamzer could be excluded only for ten generations, while the others were excluded forever. Withthis distinction in place it became possible to identify Solomon as legally pure from mamzer status,since he was the eleventh generation after the mamzer Perez, and eligible to enter the hw:hy“ lh'q]—that is, to build the temple. Were the Ammonite and Moabite excluded on account of their mamzer

The Jewish communities that produced these rulings were concerned todefine and promote licit marital unions among the people of Israel; the people’sconcern for the status of their children enabled these laws to be enforced.While the rabbis disagreed with the authors of MMT and Jubilees about thetypes of marriage that would create impure offspring, all of these communitiesassumed a general relationship between holiness and impurity within the con-text of marriage: illegal sexual unions and marriages generated moral impuritythat threatened the holiness of the temple. Children of absolutely forbiddensexual unions were mamzerim and were forbidden to enter the holy templewhere the holy people worshiped their holy God.49

Paul perceived that certain members of the Corinthian community—per-haps Jewish believers, or pagan believers who shared Jewish concerns—wishedto avoid impure marriages, and he recognized that their motivation for seekingdivorce from an unbeliever might be concern for the holiness of the community


status, as Deut 23:3–4 alone suggests, then the Davidic line would have been forever defiled anddenied access to the temple. Thus, Deut 23:5 guaranteed the purity of the line after Solomon, mostimportantly insofar as access to the temple was concerned. It is reasonable to date Deut 23:3–4 tothe earlier stage of the text, that is, the seventh–sixth centuries B.C.E. (see Joseph Blenkinsopp,“Deuteronomy,” NJBC, 95), and v. 5 to the later, postexilic stage, most likely during the time ofEzra and Nehemiah, when anxieties over intermarriage were first expressed in terms of the holi-ness of Israelite seed. Both the genealogy of 1 Chr 2–3, which contains too few generations for thetime between Judah and David (see S. Japhet, I and II Chronicles [Louisville: Westminster JohnKnox, 1992], 76–77) and the law of the mamzer in Deut 23 appear to have been manipulated. It islikely that the schematic arrangement of the genealogy from Perez to Solomon into eleven genera-tions was based on the mamzer law that we find in Deuteronomy, and that both this law and theDavidic genealogy were worked out in the context of the reforms of Ezra and Nehemiah. For asummary of debate about the relationship between Ezra and the Chronicler, see Robert North,“The Chronicler: 1–2 Chronicles, Ezra, Nehemiah,” NJBC, 362–63.

Later the rabbis also renarrated the story of Judah and Tamar to eliminate the taint of incest.Ginzberg focuses on the legends that treat Tamar and Judah as extremely pious (Legends, 2:33–37):she is a prophet who knew that David and the Messiah would come through her offspring, and he iscompelled to have sexual intercourse with her by “the angel that is appointed over the passion oflove” (p. 34). After the trial, absolute absolution is granted by a heavenly voice which proclaims, “Yeare both innocent! It was the will of God that it should happen!” (p. 36) See Ginzberg’s notes forreferences to the rabbinic sources (Legends, 5:332–36).

49

(he himself had introduced such concerns!). Paul speaks exclusively in theCorinthian letters about the community as the temple whose holiness must beguarded. In 2 Cor 6:16 he writes, “What agreement has the temple of God withidols? For we are the temple of the living God . . .” (RSV). If the letter fragment2 Cor 6:14–7:1 came to the Corinthian community before 1 Corinthians waswritten, then it is likely that the community understood the commandment toavoid “being unequally yoked with unbelievers (ajpivstoi")” in 6:14 as againstmixed marriage, and that they perceived the impurity that mixed marriagebrought as a threat against the “temple” of the community. Paul obviouslyunderstood these convictions. In 1 Cor 6:19 he calls the individual body of abeliever a temple of the Holy Spirit; if one sins sexually, then this temple isdefiled.50 As Adela Yarbro Collins has argued, Paul’s “excommunication” of theincestuous man in 1 Cor 5:3–5 represents an attempt to guard the holiness ofthe believing community against the impurity generated by sexual sin.51 Paulrecognized the threat to the holiness of the temple—now the community ofbelievers—that sexual sin posed, but when ruling on the licitness of marriagebetween believers and unbelievers, he was more influenced by the legalauthority of the prohibition of the Lord against divorce than by the thought thatbeliever–nonbeliever intermarriage might generate impurity that wouldthreaten the “temple.”52


50 Cf. 1 Cor 3:16–17, in which Paul warns that any who destroy God’s temple—the commu-nity of believers—would be destroyed by God. While this warning refers to instigating factionalism,it confirms that Paul’s identification of the community as the temple functioned as a deterrent tobehavior that would compromise its integrity. Paul assumed that reverence for the temple wouldmotivate the Corinthians’ obedience.

51 Adela Yarbro Collins, “The Function of ‘Excommunication’ in Paul,” HTR 73 (1980):251–63.

52 Pace Hayes, it does not seem necessary to identify a principle of “carnal impurity” underly-ing Paul’s rulings on believer–unbeliever intermarriage and the status of their offspring. Paul doesnot anywhere suggest that sexual intercourse with an unbeliever is sufficient to transmit impurity tothe believer and into the body of Christ. Instead, impurity comes into the community through spe-cific impure sexual acts, such as intercourse with a prostitute (povrnh, 1 Cor 6:15–16) or incest(1 Cor 5:1–5). Were impurity contracted by contact with unbelievers, then the community wouldhave to withdraw from all contact with outsiders—and this is precisely what Paul argues is not thecase in 1 Cor 5:9–13. Instead, the main source of impurity against which believers must guard is theactions of believers: “Do not associate with the immoral” means “Do not tolerate believers whobehave immorally,” not “Do not have dealings with unbelievers.” In Paul’s view, then, unbelieversare not inherently impure, although they engage in activities that are morally impure. Paul’s desirefor unmarried or widowed believers to remain celibate or to marry only other believers stems fromhis desire for the community to avoid the influence of unbelievers, and the appearance that unbe-lievers have the approval of the community. Hayes’s analysis of later interpretations of Paul’s rul-ings is excellent: not only the patristic writers but also the Corinthians themselves detectedsomething akin to the principle of “carnal impurity” in Paul’s letters, but this principle is a post-Pauline inference, and one against which Paul argued in his lifetime. It seems to me that Paul’sconcern with impurity is virtually identical to that in Jub. 30:15–16; see n. 44 above.

Paul used Jewish betrothal language in a new way when he ruled that anunbeliever is “sanctified” by a believing spouse. Given the prohibition of Jesusagainst divorce, any marriage in which there was a believer was ruled to be licit,and Jewish language of betrothal provided a linguistic proof that the sanctifica-tion of the spouse and the licitness of the union were guaranteed. Paul’s legalstance toward intermarriage more closely resembles that of the Mishnah thanMMT or Jubilees. While he recognizes a boundary separating the communityof believers from unbelievers, analogous to the boundary between Jews andGentiles,53 he does not agree with MMT and Jubilees that insider–outsidermarriage results in the ritual defilement of offspring. Instead, like the rabbis,Paul allows that (at least preexisting) marriage between an insider and an out-sider may be sanctified—that is, licit—although it is not the superior form oflicit marriage.54 Paul differs from the rabbis, however, in his stance toward thestatus of the offspring of exogamy: he does not rule that offspring born withinan exogamous marriage take on the status of the inferior spouse (see m. Qidd.3:12); instead he affirms that the children are “holy,” that is, have full access tothe temple constituted by the sanctified community. Finally, it is worth notingthat the two species of sexual sin that Paul addresses at greatest length in1 Corinthians—incest (5:1–5) and other forms of porneiva such as prostitution(6:15–20)—appear to be condemned entirely on the grounds that they gener-ate moral impurity which defiles the body of Christ, not mamzer offspringwhose ritual impurity threatens the holiness of the community. This does notexclude the possibility that Paul, like the rabbis, might have regarded the off-spring of incest and other “severe” forms of porneiva as ritually impure mam-zerim. We may only point out that Paul emphasizes moral impurity much morestrongly than ritual impurity, and his only statement on mamzeruth denies thatexogamy automatically results in ritually impure children. It is completely pos-sible, however, that Paul would have agreed with the Jewish consensus that the


53 In Romans Paul explicitly reorients the Jew–Gentile ethnic boundary to mark the bound-ary between the morally and soteriologically defined groups: the “circumcised” are any, Jew orGentile, who are obedient to God’s commandments, and the “Jew” is one who inwardly and spiritu-ally follows God (Rom 2:27–29). The “children of Abraham” are any, Jew or Gentile, who partici-pate in the patriarch’s archetypal faith in God’s promises (Rom 4). True “Israel” consists of all ofthe “children of the promise,” Jew and Gentile, chosen by God (Rom 9:6–18), who persist in faith(11:13–24). When Paul proclaims that “all Israel will be saved” (Rom 11:26), he has in mind thepromises to ethnic Israel as they apply to the newly defined community of believers, since he seemsto maintain that ethnic Jews who “persist in unbelief” (ejpimevnwsin th'// ajpistiva/) will not be includedin the community of God’s people (11:23).

54 The superior form Paul identifies as that which occurs ejn kurivw/, that is, between twobelievers (1 Cor 7:39). See Conzelmann’s comments on 1 Cor 7:10, 39 (I Corinthians). Clearly amarriage ejn kurivw/ is one in which both spouses have come under the authority of Jesus Christ andso observe the commandments of “the Lord” against divorce (7:10–11), etc.

children of incest and other forms of porneiva were mamzer, and that he wouldhave excluded such children from the holy community.55

We have answered the questions posed at the beginning: (1) What doesPaul mean when he asserts that a nonbeliever is “sanctified” by the believingspouse? The marriage is between two people of “sanctified” status, so the mar-riage is licit. The commandment of the Lord against divorce may be observedin mixed marriages without fear that the marriage is forbidden. (2) How doesthe sanctification occur? It appears that the prohibition of Jesus against divorceeffected the sanctification of all marriages in which at least one spouse was abeliever. In mixed marriages the prohibition implied that the unbeliever was,for the believing spouse, a licit partner. (3) How is the impurity or holiness ofthe children related to the sanctification of the spouse? And (4) how does theholiness of the children prove that the unbelieving spouse is made holy by thebelieving spouse? Paul proves that believer–unbeliever intermarriages werelicit by pointing out that their children are not mamzerim, impure offspring ofillegal marriage, but holy. The children of such intermarriages were allowedinto the holy space of the temple; that is, they were allowed to participate fullyin the religious life of the community of a{gioi. If their parents’ marriage werenot licit, or, as Paul and the rabbis put it, if the unbelieving spouse were not“sanctified,” then the impurity of the children would exclude them from the“temple.” With this proof Paul points to the Corinthians’ practice of includingthe children of mixed marriages in the life of the community, aiming to per-suade them by presenting their own actions as confirmation that they alreadyknew and acted in accordance with the truth that he proclaimed.

It is interesting that in 1 Cor 7:14 Paul’s conception of the threat to holi-ness that the offspring of sexual impurity posed did not differ much from that ofother Jewish interpreters of the law in the centuries preceding and followinghis career. For his contrast between the children’s potential statuses as impureor holy to work, Paul had to accept that certain kinds of nonmoral impuritylegitimately should exclude individuals from participating in the worship of thecommunity.56 It is questionable whether Paul would have enforced such exclu-


55 Would Paul have included a mamzer in the life of the community? What stance would Paulhave taken toward the offspring of the stepmother–stepson incest condemned in 1 Cor 5:1–5?Acceptance or rejection are both conceivable; I suspect that the latter is likely, given that it wouldhave been difficult to admit mamzer offspring into the community without appearing to approve ofthe sexual union whence the child came, and that Paul applies the principle of mamzer exclusion in1 Cor 7:14. It is possible that elsewhere Paul might have argued that while the sexual sin wasmorally defiling, the offspring were not ritually defiled and could become full members of the holycommunity, but there is no direct evidence to support this view. Possibly Paul could have con-ceived of a person who was ajkavqarto" kata; savrka ajlla; a{giazovmeno" ejn Cristw'/ !Ihsou'. Suchspeculation lacks historical precision, but makes good theological and ethical sense in communitiesthat continue to esteem Paul’s writings as authoritative.

56 Paul’s ruling does not leave open the possibility that the offspring of illicit marriages should

sion, since he argues at length elsewhere that other traditionally excluded sta-tuses, for example, uncircumcised Gentiles, are not to be excluded from fullparticipation in the holy community of believers.57 If Paul would have includeda mamzer in the community just as he included the uncircumcised, as we mighthope that he would, then we may perceive an ad hoc quality in Paul’s argumentin 1 Cor 7:12–16 and an inconsistency in his interpretation of Jewish law. Heuses Torah positively when he anticipates that it might be effective rhetorically,given a particular audience with Jewish concerns, and elsewhere negates itwhen it is more useful. This might, however, be too hasty a judgment and per-haps should be phrased more positively: Paul employs legal language that suitshis rhetorical context and is free to vary his interpretation of the law in order tomaximize his persuasiveness. In the apostle’s own words,

To the Jews I became as a Jew, in order to win Jews; to those under the law Ibecame as one under the law—though not being myself under the law—thatI might win those under the law. To those outside the law I became as oneoutside the law—not being without law toward God but under the law ofChrist—that I might win those outside the law. (1 Cor 9:20–21 RSV)

II. Interpretations of 1 Corinthians 7:14among Moderns and Ancients

The logic underlying Paul’s ruling has been described as “inscrutable” bymany modern scholars, and attempts to discern the reasoning have producedamazing varieties of interpretations. Gerhard Delling provides an appropriatemaxim: “so viele Köpfe, so viele Sinne.”58 The range of modern scholarly opin-ions surveyed by Delling and many other interpreters after him confirms thenear opacity of Paul’s logic.59 Modern attempts to contextualize Paul’s languageand logic within various social and linguistic environments have produced read-ings that cohere with certain strands of thought about sanctification and impu-rity, but coherence is gained by violating the grammar and syntax of the wordsor at the cost of the integrity of Paul’s argument: problematic terms in 1 Cor7:14, especially “holiness” and “purity,” are ignored or altered, or statementselsewhere in 1 Corinthians that contradict a proposed interpretation are


be freed from mamzer status as a general rule: if this were the case, then his argument that theunbeliever is a licit partner for the believer would have no proof.

57 See, e.g., Rom 2:28–29; 3:29–30; 1 Cor 7:18; Gal 2:11–3:28.58 Delling, “Nun aber sind die heilig,” 84.59 Ibid., 84–87; see also, e.g., Jerome Murphy-O’Connor, “Works without faith in I Cor., vii,

14,” RB 84 (1977): 349–52; Raymond F. Collins, Divorce in the New Testament (Collegeville, MN:Liturgical Press, 1992), 40–64.

ignored. Such coherence-producing innovations occur with equal frequencywhen scholars use comparative material in rabbinic and pagan sources, or nocomparative material at all. I would like to suggest that the various approachesof contemporary scholars to Paul should be understood as analogous to the var-ious backgrounds of Paul’s Corinthian contemporaries: Paul’s contemporariesat Corinth most likely had as much difficulty understanding Paul’s language andlogic as modern interpreters do.

The varieties of interpretation fall into three broad categories. In the firstgroup are scholars who argue that the sanctification of the unbelieving spousecan mean only that the unbeliever becomes one of the a{gioi by coming underthe influence of the believing spouse. J. C. O’Neil takes the perfect verb hJgivas-tai “to refer to a future event,” citing such usage in classical literature and otherparts of the NT, including Rom 14:23.60 On the basis of these parallels he con-cludes that “Paul means to signify by these words that there is hope for the sal-vation of the unbelieving partner,” since, for Paul, sanctification occurs onlythrough baptism and entry into the community of believers.61 The same logicconvinces him that the children’s holiness could only have come through bap-tism.62 Margaret Mitchell proceeds similarly, arguing, “Because a{gio" is thespecific term for a Christian insider, if an unbeliever becomes ‘sanctified’[aJgiavzesqai], this means that they join the community. . . . Their contact with‘the body of Christ’ through their spouse may bring sanctification.”63 In abolder formulation, W. D. Davies cites 1 Cor 7:14 as evidence that “[a] Chris-tian husband or wife can make his or her partner Christian.”64 The physical


60 See J. C. O’Neil, “1 Corinthians 7,14 and Infant Baptism,” in L’Apôtre Paul: Personnalité,Style, et Conception du Ministère (ed. A. Vanhoye; Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1986),358–59.

61 Ibid., 360, 358. As proof that the sanctification of the unbelieving spouse and the holinessof the children come through baptism, O’Neil points to 1 Cor 1:13, in which Paul seems to arguethat the salvation of the Corinthians came only through Christ’s crucifixion and the believers’ bap-tism in his name.

62 Ibid., 360–61.63 Mitchell, Paul and the Rhetoric of Reconciliation, 123 n. 352. Mitchell adduces Heb 10:14;

Acts 20:32; 26:18; and 1 Cor 6:11 as proof that the sanctification of unbelievers must mean that theyjoin the community. Against claims that Paul consistently uses forms of aJgiavzw to mean “sanctifiedthrough baptism,” or “sanctified by joining the community” it should be recognized that the verboccurs only five times in the undisputed Pauline letters, and only in 1 Cor 6:11 does it seem to havea connection to baptism. Even there it is not clear that the sanctification is a concomitant of bap-tism. Elsewhere it means “consecrated” in a quasi-cultic sense as an offering to God (Rom 15:16),“made holy” by Christ Jesus, without reference to baptism (1 Cor 1:2), and “made holy” by God, notJesus Christ or baptism (1 Thess 5:23). To be sure, these uses presuppose that the sanctified are oiJa{gioi, the body of believers, most of whom had been baptized, but the verb is rare and has a rangeof meanings that precludes simple identification with a result of baptism or even faith in Christ.

64 W. D. Davies, Paul and Rabbinic Judaism: Some Rabbinic Elements in Pauline Theology(2d ed.; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1955) 56. It is surprising that Davies does not note the halakic

union of the unbeliever with the believer within the marriage results in theunbeliever’s inclusion into the “quite physical” unity of the body of Christ.65 Aclose reading of 1 Cor 7:12–16—especially the doubtfulness of the unbeliever’ssalvation expressed in v. 16—demonstrates that these interpretations arewrong. In Calvin’s still-insightful words, “Interea nihil prodest haec sanctifica-tio coniugi infideli: tantum eo valet, ne eius copula fidelis inquinetur, et pro-fanetur ipsum matrimonium.”66

The second approach is by far the commonest: most scholars analyze theact of sanctification as the transmission of an “objective,” or dinglich, nonsoteri-ological holiness, as though in this situation Paul used or invented a conceptionof holiness not found elsewhere in his letters. It is a thing or quality transferredfrom one person to another, in a way identical to ancient conceptions of impu-rity. These scholars argue that the holiness of the children is a result of the sameprocess that sanctifies the spouse. Paul’s argument is, in effect, that if the prin-ciple that sanctified the spouse were not active, then the children could notpossibly be sanctified. But because they are holy—and somehow the Corinthi-ans agree that they are—then the unbelieving spouse must also be affected bythe sanctifying process. G. R. Beasley-Murray puts it thus:

Above all it is to be recognized that the holiness of the child is commensuratewith that of the unbelieving parent; a valid explanation of the former mustalso account for the latter. ‘The unbelieving husband has become conse-crated (hJgivastai) in the wife . . . as may be understood from the fact thatyour children are consecrated (a{gioi). It is impermissible to draw a distinc-tion between two conceptions of holiness here, on the grounds that the par-ent is said to be only hJgivastai, whereas the child is a{gio".67


nature of 1 Cor 7:12–16 in his study of “rabbinic elements” in Paul’s thought. Almost equally sur-prising is the omission of any discusion of the relationship between the children’s status and thesanctification of unbelieving spouse in Peter J. Tomson, Paul and the Jewish Law. His explanationof the unbeliever’s sanctification is similar to that of Davies: “Apparently de facto union with aChristian constituted de facto union with the body of Christ” (p. 119). See his analysis of “Paul’sdivorce halakha” (1 Cor 7:12–16) (pp. 116–22).

65 Davies, Paul and Rabbinic Judaism, 56. Richard Hays argues almost identically: “Or, to putit a bit more provocatively, holiness is—as it were—a venereal disease, passed from one spouse tothe other. . . . [Paul] deduces that the unbelieving spouse is sanctified through the believing spouse.This line of thought leads naturally to the idea expressed in verse 16, that perhaps the unbelievingspouse will be saved through the believer. . . . It is usually assumed that Paul refers here to the hopethat the unbeliever will be converted through the love and witness of the believer; however, givenPaul’s mysterious notion of quasi-physical vicarious sanctification (v. 14), it seems equally possiblethat he holds out the hope for God somehow to save even the unbeliever on the soteriological coat-tails of the believer” (The Moral Vision of the New Testament [San Francisco: HarperCollins,1996], 360).

66 Calvin, Commentarius in Epistolam Pauli ad Corinthios I, 412.67 G. R. Beasley-Murray, Baptism in the New Testament (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1962),

Because he insists on equating the unbeliever’s sanctification with the chil-dren’s holiness, Beasley-Murray must conclude that Paul uses a conception ofholiness that differs markedly from that which occurs regularly in his epistles: itis not the result of baptism, nor does it refer to the inclusion of the children orthe unbeliever in the people of God, either by conversion or by vicarious partic-ipation in the believer’s sanctification.68 Instead Paul conceives of holiness as aquality setting apart the entire family through the sanctification of a singlemember, just as the ajparch; furavmato" consecrates the entire fuvrama in theJewish sacrificial system.69 Beasley-Murray appeals to Paul’s use of this sacrifi-cial analogy with reference to Israel in Rom 11:16–20: while that which is spe-cially set apart for God might persist in unbelief, the possiblity exists that theconsecrated people will come to believe, and thereby become fully sanctified inChrist. In the same way the unbelieving children and spouse become conse-crated to God as a result of the believing spouse’s sanctification, and the possi-bility exists that these unbelievers will attain salvation as a result of thebeliever’s influence.70

This appealing—and very Lutheran71—explanation fails on several


193. Beasley-Murray cites with approval the paraphrastic NEB: “The heathen husband nowbelongs to God through his Christian wife . . . otherwise your children would not belong to God,whereas in fact they do” (p. 193 n. 3).

68 Ibid., 194. See also his polemic against the notion that holiness is transmitted to familymembers through physical contact, both sexual union and childbirth (pp. 194–95).

69 Ibid., 195–96; see Num 15:20 (LXX); Rom 11:16.70 Ibid., 196–97, 199. Raymond F. Collins argues similarly: the unbelieving spouse and the

children “are not separated from God; rather they belong to God because of the holiness of theirparents. Paul’s argument is analogous to the Jewish understanding of the family. In traditionalJudaism, the family was subsumed into a covenantal relationship with Yahweh because of thefather. . . .

“Since children of mixed marriages have been drawn into the holiness sphere of their Chris-tian parent, there is no need to assume that these children are called holy because they haveadopted a mode of conduct similar to that of their parents. There is certainly an ethical implicationin Paul’s use of ‘holy’ and its congates (hagi-) but there does not seem to be any reason to assumethat in verse 14cd ‘holy’ has a denotation that is principally ethical, whereas, in the first part of theverse (v. 14ab), its principal meaning was ‘belonging to God’” (Divorce, 53).

71 Beasley-Murray repeats the basic argument set forth by Delling (“Nun aber sind sieheilig,” 91–92) four years prior to Beasley-Murray’s Baptism: “die [erwachsene] ‘Kinder’ selbstlehnten die Taufe ab,” in the same way as the unbelieving parent. The aim of Paul’s instruction in1 Cor 7:14 is to address the believing spouse’s fears “daß der Verkehr mit ungetauften Kindernverunreinigen könnte (und natürlich so verunreinigen könnte, daß die christliche Existenz derEltern dadurch gefährdet wäre). ‘Von euren Kindern trennt ihr euch ja auch nicht!’”

As Delling acknowledges (p. 91), his argument closely follows that of Martin Luther. Lutherwrites: “Wenn ein christlich Gemahl große Kinder hätte mit einem unchristlichen Gemahl (wie esdazumal oft geschah), und die Kinder sich noch nicht wollten taufen lassen, noch Christen werden;sintemal niemand soll zum Glauben gezwungen, sondern von Gott williglich gezogen werdendurchs Evangelium: so soll darum die Mutter oder der Vater die Kinder nicht lassen, noch mütter-

grounds, the first of which is grammatical: ejpei; a[ra is an emphatic subordinat-ing conjunctive phrase introducing the causal clause that provides the warrantfor the claim that the unbelieving spouse is sanctified:72 “because then” (if theunbeliever were not sanctified) the children would be impure, but in fact theyare holy. Beasley-Murray interprets the passage as though ejpei; a[ra were wJ",ou{tw", or kaqwv": “just as” or “in the same manner that” the children are holy.Paul’s Greek identifies a causal, not an analogous, relationship between theunbeliever’s sanctification and the children’s holiness. The two statuses exist insome relationship; indeed, Paul’s Greek makes clear that the children’s holinessproceeds out of the unbeliever’s sanctified status. Paul, however, also makesclear that the unbeliever is sanctified by the believing spouse—and so the sta-tuses of the unbelieving spouse and of the children are clearly of different ori-gins. Further, if we affirm a causal relationship between the unbeliever’ssanctification and the children’s holiness, then we need not identify the statusesas perfectly equal. The holiness of the children and the unbelieving spouse pro-vided both with access to the community. The forms in which the unbelievingparent and the children exercised this access, however, might have differeddramatically. The unbeliever may have been eligible for @y`wdq, licit marriage toa member of the believing community, without being sanctified in Christthrough faith and baptism, while the holy children may have been raised asbelievers; it is also possible that the sanctified unbeliever may have been savedthrough the believing spouse by becoming a believer, while the holy childrenmay have abandoned faith in Christ as adults. The strength of Paul’s argumentlies in the fact that the offspring of licit marriages were holy, that is, eligible toparticipate in the religious life of the community. Doubtless many children ofbeliever–unbeliever mixed marriages did thus participate, which provided Paulwith proof that such marriages were licit.

Conzelmann implies that Jewish conceptions of impurity and holinesshave been transformed by the eschatological framework of Paul’s thought. Fol-lowing Delling, Conzelmann argues that Paul subtly corrects the Corinthians’conception of holiness and impurity as transmitted by a purely material fashion,and introduces the idea that both are communicated by “ascription” (Zuord-nung).73 While formerly holiness was constantly threatened by impurity that


liche oder väter0s that Paul subtly corrects the Corinthians’

could be transferred by physical contact, Paul reveals that, through Christ, theholiness of the “saints” now overcomes impurity and renders all relationships—and therefore all participants therein—sanctified for the believer:

the “world” is denied any power of its own; in concrete terms, this means anysuch power over believers. The world is desacralized. . . . Through the believ-ing partner, the marriage between a pagan and a Christian is withdrawn fromthe control of the powers of the world. In living together with the world, the‘saints’ are the stronger party.74

Conzelmann equates the sanctification of the unbeliever with the children’sholiness by asserting that “the understanding of holiness (and uncleanness) in v.14b is the same as in v. 14a,” and he then contributes two suggestive questions,which he answers with tentative affirmation: “Is Paul . . . simply appealing toactual views and to facts, that is, that the Christians do not as a matter of factregard their children born of mixed marriages as unclean? Not even the unbap-tized?”75

Conzelmann suggests that the relationship between the holiness of theunbelieving spouse and the children is that of analogy: just as the children ofbelievers are holy and undefiled/undefiling to the believer, so also holy/sancti-fied status is ascribed to the unbelieving spouse, who remains undefiling to thebeliever. Jerome Murphy-O’Connor proceeds similarly but protests that thesanctification of the unbeliever must mean something equivalent to other dis-cussions of sanctification in Paul.76 He concludes that the unbeliever’s act ofremaining in the marriage must justify Paul’s assessment of her or him as “holy,”since the unbeliever acts in accordance with the commandment of the Lordagainst divorce. His or her behavior is marked by a certain uprightness, as isthat of the children, which makes the analogy between their holiness and theunbeliever’s sanctification perfect:

just as children whose conduct has been formed according to Christian stan-dards grow naturally into the act of faith, so there is hope that the unbeliever,whose conduct (at least in one area) already conforms to Christian standards,will also come to accept Christ one day.77

Similarly O. Larry Yarbrough and Dale Martin argue that Paul viewed thestatuses of the children and the unbelieving spouse as the result of the same


74 Conzelmann, I Corinthians, 122.75 Ibid., 123. Conzelmann provides some guidance: the children are born of mixed, not

Christian, marriages, and were most likely not baptized; if they were baptized, “the whole problembecomes unintelligible,” since the baptismal source of their holiness would make the unbelievingparent’s status irrelevant (pp. 123 nn. 39, 41).

76 Murphy-O’Connor, “Works without faith in I Cor., vii, 14,” 352–56.77 Ibid., 361.

sanctifying or purifying force radiating out from the believer. Yarbrough arguesthat Paul inferred from the holy status of the children, whom the Corinthiansagreed became holy “because of the believing parent,” that

the believing partner also sanctifies the non-believing partner, becauseotherwise (ejpei; a[ra) the children would also be unholy (lit. “unclean”). Thatis, what the believing partner accomplishes for the child he also accomplishesfor the non-believing spouse.78

Martin’s argument is similar: Paul claims

that the unbelieving partner is made holy “in” the believing partner (7:14).That is why their children, who would otherwise be “unclean” (akatharta) arenow “holy” (hagia). In Greek, “holiness” language does not always function inopposition to “uncleanness” or pollution; but here it obviously does, as indi-cated by Paul’s opposition of hagia and akatharta in verse 14 (hagioteµs is thesolution to the problem of akatharsia). Paul extends the boundaries of purityto include even the unbelieving partner and the children in a marriage.Whereas we often think about contamination as resulting from proximity,Paul here allows that the opposite of contamination, cleansing, may also workby proximity.79

This approach leaves the logic of holiness and impurity in the passage unclear;indeed, both Yarbrough and Martin attempt to clarify the opposition betweenajkavqarta and a{gia in v. 14b by glossing the terms as perfect antitheses: holyversus unholy (Yarbrough) or pure versus impure (Martin).80

Finally, Martin interprets the preposition ejn in the phrases ejn tw'/ ajdelfw'/and ejn th'/ gunaikiv as a marker of location or association, as in the phrase ejnCristw'/ !Ihsou' (e.g., Rom 8:1):

Paul extends the boundaries of purity.to include even the unbelieving partne-j0 -1.2248 TD-00203 Tw[(Whr and the children in a e chrriage.)] ] ] ] Hit ingstthat the oprity.to puChstw'TJT*0.0129 Tw(Thly thsu lepowerhat th oby a,n a cea)T a tiouion, asrity then thn-blievinsus.jT*-0017 T8w(ThiseuChstw'ns)s whrity i by Pas ap asre ocation orn” thChstw';y Patendssn, ase

unbelieving spouse is purified by his or her location “in” the believingspouse.81

As Martin acknowledges, this reading leaves a major problem unresolved: if theunbeliever is sanctified by location and contact within the believing commu-nity, how is it that she or he remains without salvation? What concept of sancti-fication does not include salvation?82 If we understand the phrase hJgivasqai ejninstrumentally and recognize it as a Greek appropriation of the Pharisaic/rab-binic betrothal idiom Ab `dq, then the problem is resolved: Paul simply meansthat the marriage is licit, since by Jewish convention the eligible status of onespouse was confirmed by the other’s act of entering into a “holy” or licit mar-riage contract.

Attempts to interpret the sanctification of the unbeliever and the holinessof his children as results of the same process create as many problems as theysolve. For one thing, the glosses required to turn holiness and impurity into aperfect antithesis obscure the logic of the legal formula behind Paul’s ruling,83

and the relationship between the spouse’s sanctification and the children’s holystatus becomes merely an analogy. The children’s holiness is not dependent onthe unbeliever’s sanctified status, nor is it clear how their impurity would berelated to the unbeliever’s lack of sanctification. The logic underlying Paul’s rul-ing, as I have argued, is best expressed in a formula that retains his categories:“saint” (male or female member of the holy community) + legal (“sanctified”)partner →holy offspring; “saint” + illegal partner →defiled, impure offspring,mamzerim.84 This formula was hardly an innovation, as its appearance in other


81 Martin, Corinthian Body, 218.82 Ibid., 218–19.83 See Hayes’s discussion of the relationship between the categories holy/profane and

pure/impure (“Intermarriage and Impurity,” 5). See also Jacob Milgrom, “Priestly (‘P’) Source,”ABD 5:454–61; D. Wright, “Holiness (OT),” ABD 3:237–49.

84 Martin argues that Paul introduced the idea that holiness, like impurity, may result “fromproximity,” citing the rabbinic idea that purity could be transferred from pure water to impurewater “simply by contact . . . before being introduced into a miqveh” as an analogy to Paul’s ideas in1 Cor 7:14 (Corinthian Body, 293 n. 57). This reading is flawed in that the rabbis did not believethat purity could be transferred from one body of water to another “simply by contact.” Martin citesonly E. P. Sanders’s discussion of rabbinic/Pharisaic conceptions of purity in Judaism: Practice andBelief 63 BCE-66 CE (Philadelphia: Trinity Press International, 1992), 226; it is worth examining thePharisaic practice and belief in m. Miqwa<ot, especially ch. 6, which provides the basis for Sanders’sdiscussion. In this mishnah the rabbis prescribe a technique by which drawn (and thereforeimpure) water in one pool may be purified by commingling (bwr[) with pure water in another pool.The procedure for commingling two nearby pools is given as follows: “One brings a tube . . . andputs his hand beneath it until it is full of water, and he draws it along to let [the surface of the purewater in the miqweh] touch [the surface of the drawn water], even if [the contact is] by a hair’sbreadth, it suffices” (the translation is Blackman’s, with my modifications). As Sanders notes,twawqm were sometimes constructed next to or below a storage pool (rxwa) or another hwqm. Drawnwater in one pool could be commingled (brw[m; wbr[tn) with pure water in another by the con-

halakic literature proves. Paul’s innovation, as most commentators rightlystress, was in the extension of the terms of sanctification to outsiders, his sanc-tioning of a species of exogamy, that is, that which preceded one of the partner’sjoining the community of believers.

Other scholars attempt to understand 1 Cor 7:14 within the context ofother halakot regarding marriage. Joachim Jeremias contextualizes our passagewithin rabbinic debates about proselyte baptism and the question of how chil-dren born to proselytes were initiated ritually into the Jewish community. Heidentifies “the language of Jewish ritual” in Paul’s unusual usage of aJgiavzesqai,and notes:

Judaism distinguishes between children who were begotten and born “not inholiness” (i.e. before conversion to Judaism), and children who were begot-ten and born “in holiness” (i.e. after conversion to Judaism). The former werebaptized when the parents changed their religion; the latter were not. . . .Anyone who was born “in holiness” did not need the baptismal bath. This ter-minology of the law concerning proselytes is adopted in I Cor. 7.14c, whenPaul says that the children of Christian parents are not “unclean,” but “holy.”85

However, he argues, this does not mean, as might appear, that the Paulinechurch did not baptize infants born to Christian parents: in Col 2:11 “Paul . . .names baptism ‘the Christian circumcision’ (hJ peritomh; tou' Cristou')”; thus itis likely that the holiness of the children in 1 Cor 7:14 depends on baptism,which, as a new form of circumcision, could very well have been administeredon the eighth day after birth.86


struction of a connecting hole (hbwqn) (m. Miqw. 6:1) or by the use of a pipe (@wls) full of pure waterjoining their surfaces (m. Miqw. 6:8). (See the translation and comments of P. Kehati, Tohorot, vol.4 [Jerusalem: Maor Wallach, 1986], 75–76.) It is important to note that the drawn water was notpurified simply by contact; rather it was considered to be mixed into the pure water and to haveacquired its properties completely. If the pure water was less than forty seahs, then the minglingprocedure would not work unless the drawn water were less than three logs, but a miqweh contain-ing forty or more seahs of pure water could not be rendered impure by any amount of drawn water.

The miqweh water analogy is misleading, therefore, for two reasons: first, neither Paul northe rabbis behind m. Miqwa<ot suggest that purity could be transmitted in the same way that impu-rity could be transmitted, that is, by mere physical contact. Second, while Paul rules that an unbe-liever may be sanctified (not purified), he clearly does not mean that the unbeliever becomesthoroughly integrated into the community: while unclean water must become indistinguishablymixed with pure water to take on the latter’s purity, Paul clearly rules that the unbeliever need notbecome a member of the believing community in order for the sanctification to occur. A different setof rules governing relationships between unlike entities is at work.

85 Jeremias, Infant Baptism, 46–47. Jeremias cites Keth. 4.3; Yeb. 11.2; Tos. Bekh. 6.3 (540);Tos. Yeb. 12.2 (254); b. Sanh. 57b, 58a (Bar); b. Yeb. 42a, 98a. It is obvious that he depends on theparallels and comments offered in Str-B 3:374. For criticism of Jeremias’s dependence on Strack-Billerbeck, see E. P. Sanders, “Defending the Indefensible,” JBL 110 (1991): 468–72.

86 Jeremias, Infant Baptism, 39–40, 47–48. Oscar Cullmann repeats and defends this view inhis Baptism in the New Testament (London: SCM, 1950), 25–26, 43–46, 61–64.

Several shortcomings mark Jeremias’s study. Relatively minor problemsare the doubtfulness that Colossians is a genuine letter of Paul,87 and Jeremias’ssimplistic identification of the “circumcision of Christ” in Col 2:11 with thedescription of baptism in 2:12.88 A more important methodological problem isthat Jeremias does not quote the rabbinic literature that he cites at any length,and he makes no linguistic comparisons between “similar” concepts and rulingsexpressed in the rabbis’ Hebrew and Aramaic, and Paul’s Greek. He points to“the language of the Levitical purification ceremonies” to explain Paul’s use ofajkavqarta in 1 Cor 7:14, but cites no examples.89 The reader is left to wonderwhat Levitical law or context Jeremias had in mind. Further, he identifies “holi-ness” as defining the state into which children are born; this state is determinedon the basis of the parents’ conversion to Judaism, but Jeremias does notattempt in any way to relate this holiness to the concept of impurity that Pauluses. Perhaps of greatest detriment to his comparative task, the halakot thatJeremias cites discuss the status of children born after their parents convertedto Judaism. His parallels do not pertain specifically to true “mixed marriages,”and are therefore inappropriate for comparison with 1 Cor 7:12–16.90

J. Massyngberde Ford attempted another halakic interpretation of ourpassage, suggesting that it answers the concerns of a “brotherhood of Phar-isees” at Corinth. These “‘Pharisee-Christians’ regarded themselves as a ‘cho-sen race,’ a ‘royal priesthood, a holy nation, God’s own people’ (1 Pet. ii. 9) andbegan to adopt priestly genealogical rules on account of this.”91 Ford’s thesisrequires at least one exceedingly dubious interpretation of the text: she mustargue that an a[pisto" husband or wife is not one who does not believe in thegospel of Christ; rather an a[pisto" is the equivalent of a member of the ![$rah, one “who through ignorance was careless in the observance of laws ofLevitical purity and of those relating to the priestly and Levitical gifts,” or a


87 See Eduard Lohse, Colossians and Philemon (Hermeneia; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1971),177–83.

88 Even if we accept the letter as authentic, Col 2:11 does not make explicit the identificationof baptism with circumcision, let alone the idea that baptism had come to replace circumcision inthe Pauline churches (contra Lohse, Colossians and Philemon, 101–2). It makes perfect sense tounderstand circumcision as a metaphor for spiritual or moral transformation; such metaphor wasfamiliar among Jewish communities. This transformation, done “without hands”—that is, by thespiritual power of Christ—was accompanied by the physical act of baptism, done in the communityby community members. It makes less sense to identify spiritual circumcision with physical bap-tism (which, like circumcision, was done “by human hands”) than to recognize that the two are sep-arate and complementary aspects of coming under the authority and power of God by entering intothe community of believers. For metaphorical uses of circumcision in Jewish literature, see Deut10:16; 30:6; Jer 4:4; 1QS 5:5.

89 Jeremias, Infant Baptism, 46.90 So also Ford, “‘Hast Thou Tithed Thy Meal?’” 76.91 Ibid., 79.

mamzer, offspring of forbidden sexual union or uncertain parentage; both were“non-pure Jewish-Christian[s],” believing members of the Corinthian commu-nity but ineligible to be married to those of priestly status.92 The impossibilityof this interpretation is evident when one reads the immediately followingverses: clearly the a[pisto" is not a member of the believing community, sincePaul indicates that he or she is not saved, that is, a “convert” who has believedin Christ and been baptized, nor is it possible to know whether he or she willbe, even through the influence of the believing spouse (1 Cor 7:16).

It is thoroughly unclear whether the Corinthians would have understoodPaul’s argumentation in 1 Cor 7:14. I suggested at the beginning of this articlethat some members of the congregation were familiar with Jewish ideas aboutmixed marriages and the status of offspring; certain prominent members of thesynagogue such as Crispus and Sosthenes might have understood Paul’s lan-guage and ideas fully, while others would have missed the Hebrew-basedbetrothal idiom and the logic of marriage laws altogether. If his audience mis-understood Paul and, like so many modern interpreters, made sense of the rul-ing without any knowledge of the Hebrew idiom and the rules governing thestatus of offspring of mixed marriages, this would not have been the first timePaul failed to get his point across. Throughout the Corinthian correspondencewe witness Paul correcting interpretations and developments of ideas and prac-tices that he himself had introduced to the community.93 Dale Martin arguesthat Paul’s disputants probably found his argument in 1 Cor 7:14 unpersuasive,since Paul’s claims that sexual intercourse with a prostitute pollutes the body ofChrist (1 Cor 6:15–20) while a believer sanctifies an unbelieving sexual partnerthrough marriage seem contradictory.94 To those without an adequate knowl-edge of Jewish law Paul’s logic is inscrutable;95 we may safely assume that thosewho understood his argumentation fully in ancient times, as today, were in theminority—if any may ever make such claim!

This study supports the old notion that Jewish and pagan groups had dif-ferent linguistic and logical structures governing certain aspects of sociality and


92 Ibid., 77, 74–75.93 See especially 1 Cor 5:9–13. Many scholars argue that problems with libertinism, ecstatic

worship, and emphases on knowledge and wisdom at Corinth arose out of teachings and practicesthat Paul himself introduced. First Corinthians was written to correct a sort of “hyper-Paulinism”by introducing greater theological emphasis on the cross. See, e.g, Conzelmann, I Corinthians,15–16. Further, as Mitchell rightly observes, when judged by its effectiveness in resolving theproblems at Corinth, “1 Corinthians was a failure.” Not only were the factions not reconciled, Paulalso managed to incur the enmity of both sides, as is evident from the strife in 2 Corinthians (Pauland the Rhetoric of Reconciliation, 303; cf. Martin, Corinthian Body, 251). Compare Paul’sprotests in Rom 3:3-8 against the claim that he taught antinomianism.

94 Martin, Corinthian Body, 250–51.95 As Martin notes (Corinthian Body, 218).

that such structures were not always mutually intelligible—but it also confirmsthat local logic and linguistic symbols describing social relationships could takeon new meanings when transferred to and interpreted within new cultural con-texts. This reading of 1 Cor 7:14 illustrates the opacity of one culture’s languageand logic (ancient Jewish) to another (modern Western) in a way that shouldsuggest the range of difficulties that pagan readers of Paul encountered in first-century Corinth. At the same time that our verse reveals differences betweenancient Jewish and pagan ways of thinking about the world and human sociality,it also illustrates the powerful penetration of Jewish culture into Greco-Romanculture. In our verse is embedded, in Greek language, a virtually unassimilablefragment of Hebrew legal thought. Its presence in the Pauline corpus, how-ever, which has been authoritative for all Christian communities since the sec-ond century, has demanded its assimilation, and generations of Christianinterpreters have struggled and managed to find, innovate, or supply, and thenapply its meaning within their various communities, despite their ignorance ofthe ancient Jewish legal logic upon which 1 Cor 7:14 depends.96 Their suc-cess—however limited—confirms that a text’s coherence, or at least its appro-priation within a system of thought, does not always depend on the author’sintention. This is, of course, old news to scholars of religion.97

Tracing the history of the interpretation of this text among the ancients is atask worthy of fuller treatment than is possible here.98 In conclusion, we shouldtake careful notice of the fact that in 1 Cor 7:12–16 Paul used language thatheld different meanings for pagan and Jewish readers, that he did so in a waythat enabled both to understand his message in terms that seemed familiar.Much has been written about the cultural context in which Paul’s prohibitionsof men’s and women’s initiation of divorce would have made most sense. Someinterpreters, most importantly Joseph A. Fitzmyer, Peter J. Tomson, and E. P.Sanders, and M. Davies, observe that in 1 Cor 7:10–11 Paul followed Jewishlaw when he wrote that a man may not divorce (ajfivenai) his wife, but a woman


96 The same could be said for the obscure “Hebrew” thought in 1 Cor 10:4: Would paganreaders have had any context at all for interpreting Paul’s reference to the ajkolouvqousa pevtrafrom which the wandering Israelites drank in the wilderness? As Conzelmann notes, in this verse“Paul sets out from a Jewish haggadic tradition,” namely, that of the peripatetic rock described alsoin t. Sukkah 3:11 (I Corinthians, 166 n. 25, 167).

97 See, e.g., Krister Stendahl’s dry summary of his seminal essay, “Paul and the IntrospectiveConscience of the West”: “We may have wasted too much time in trying to demonstrate a fact wellknown in human history—and especially in the history of religions: that sayings which originallymeant one thing later on were interpreted to mean something else, something which was felt to bemore relevant to human conditions of later times” (Paul among Jews and Gentiles [Philadelphia:Fortress, 1976], 94).

98 Now see Hayes, “Mixed Marriages in Patristic Writings,” in Gentile Impurities (ch. 5), for agood survey of the topic.

99 Fitzmyer, “Matthean Divorce Texts,” 80–82, 89–91; Tomson, Paul and the Jewish Law,117; E. P. Sanders and Margaret Davies, Studying the Synoptic Gospels (London: SCM, 1989),327. For an argument against Fitzmyer et al., see Collins, Divorce, 16–22. Collins’s demonstrationthat Paul’s language makes best sense when understood from a Greco-Roman perspective, inwhich women could initiate divorce, does not eliminate the possibility that Paul deliberately choselanguage that would make sense to both Jewish and pagan believers. As Collins himself concludes,“Paul’s words are general enough to cover any legal situation” (Divorce, 22). More importantly,Paul’s use of ajfivenai and cwrisqh'nai in vv. 10–11 is precise enough to cover the legal concerns ofJewish believers, while remaining intelligible to pagans.

100 See, e.g., M. Keth. 7:10. Ancient evidence shows that some Jewish women divorced theirhusbands, but the most common legal practice allowed only males to divorce. See John J. Collins,“Marriage, Divorce, and Family in Second Temple Judaism,” in Families in Ancient Israel (ed. L.Perdue et al.; Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1997), 119–21.

101 See Fitzmyer, “Matthean Divorce Texts” for divorce language in the ancient Greek litera-ture.

102 The same might be argued for Paul’s use of hJgivastai ejn. While readers or hearers familiarwith Pharisaic law might recognize the betrothal idiom Ab `dq and interpret ejn in a strictly instru-mental way, others might have interpreted ejn as denoting proximity or relationship: the unbelieveris sanctified in the believing spouse, so that within the entire scope of interactions expected for amarried couple, including sexual intercourse, there is no risk of defilement. So, e.g., Delling, “Nunaber sind sie heilig,” 92; Martin, Corinthian Body, 218. The possibility of reading ejn as instrumen-tal and as spatial/relational in 1 Cor 7:14 could support a portrait of Paul as a careful and cleverwriter who constantly recognized and negotiated the disconnections, tensions, and connectionsbetween Jewish and Greco-Roman ways of thinking. This was not, of course, a skill invented onlyafter the birth of Christianity—as Elias Bickerman, Martin Hengel, Saul Lieberman, and othershave shown, Jewish peoples interacted with their Greek and Roman neighbors for centuries pre-ceding the turn of the era. (For more recent discussions, see Hellenism in the Land of Israel [ed.John J. Collins and Gregory Sterling; Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2001];Erich Gruen, Heritage and Hellenism: The Reinvention of Jewish Tradition [Berkeley: Universityof California Press, 1998]; Tessa Rajak, The Jewish Dialogue with Greece and Rome: Studies in Cul-tural and Social Interaction [Leiden: Brill, 2001].) Doubtless the Pharisee from Tarsus was wellpracticed and skilled in negotiating between the cultures by the time of his “conversion” to theJesus movement.


must not be separated (cwrisqh'nai) from her husband,99 since Jewish law didnot allow women to initiate divorce.100 At the same time Paul’s language clearlymakes sense within a pagan context, since both verbs mean “to divorce” in com-mon usage,101 and both Greek and Roman law allowed wives or husbands toinitiate divorce. Indeed, in the second prohibition against divorce in 1 Cor7:12–13 Paul uses ajfivenai to refer to the action of either the husband or thewife, which conforms to pagan, not Jewish, custom. Within Paul’s “divorcehalakah” we encounter a fascinating blend of language and logic drawn fromboth Jewish and pagan cultures. Paul phrased his prohibition of divorce in away that both Jewish and Gentile readers could understand, despite the differ-ent legal norms of the two groups.102 In 1 Cor 7:12–16, I suggest, we encounterPaul—self-consciously or not—performing as mediator between two culturesand transformer of both.

103 As classically described, e.g., by Peter Brown, The World of Late Antiquity: AD 150–750(London: Thames & Hudson, 1971).

104 See, e.g., the recent work of Troels Engberg-Pedersen, Paul and the Stoics (Louisville:Westminster John Knox, 2000), and the essays edited by idem, Paul in His Hellenistic Context(Minneapolis: Fortress, 1995). Other outstanding work has been done by Hans Dieter Betz, H.Maccoby, Abraham Malherbe, Dale Martin, Margaret Mitchell, and Jerome Murphy-O’Connor.


While Paul was without doubt the apostle to the Gentiles, he remainedrooted in Pharisaic traditions. The transformation of classical culture throughthe introduction of elements from the east103 can be clearly witnessed in ourpassage: here the Jewish–Greek boundary is at its most porous, as a formerPharisee writes in Greek to a primarily pagan audience in a prosperous city andintroduces an utterly foreign logic of sociality in deceptively familiar terms.Pagan culture deeply penetrated the apostle’s psyche, as recent analyses of histexts against the backgrounds of pagan thought have shown,104 but, as Paul’s let-ters prove, Jewish culture also penetrated the pagan world. The symbols andlogic of both cultures were transformed, often violently, by the encounter, asthe analogy of modern interpretation and appropriation suggests. The implica-tions of pre-Pauline, pre-Christian pagan-Jewish cultural interpenetration fas-cinated the earliest chroniclers of Christian history. Eusebius saw suchmoments as evidence of God’s divine hand preparing the world for the gospelof Christ. Others had different opinions, but analysis of such speculations isanother project altogether.

Dictionary of Biblical Interpretation, ed. John H. Hayes. 2 vols. Nashville: Abingdon,1999. Pp. l + 653; xxxii + 675. $195.00.

As everyone in the field of biblical studies has probably noted, ours is a time of dic-tionaries and encyclopedias (and there is even a short entry in this work on Bible dictio-naries and encyclopedias across the centuries). This recent contribution to the genreprovides a wealth of concisely expressed information and will surely be a handy additionto the reference section of any library serving the needs of students in biblical studies,whether at the undergraduate or graduate level, and the scholars who teach them. (It isunfortunate, however, that the title is the same as a slightly earlier work edited by R. J.Coggins and J. L. Houlden [London: SCM, 1990, 1994].) It is not possible in this reviewto do much more than give some basic description of the coverage and to offer a fewcomments by way of appraisal.

There are three basic types of entries dealing with (1) the history of the interpreta-tion of writings treated as Scripture by various faith communities, (2) biographies of fig-ures important in the history of biblical studies, and (3) “methods and movements.”Each entry has a bibliography and cross-references to other relevant entries. Moreover,entries devoted to important figures also have lists of their works.

A number of the entries on figures and on methods and movements provide handyinformation that is not so readily accessible elsewhere (but cf. Historical Handbook ofMajor Biblical Interpreters [ed. Donald K. McKim; Downers Grove, IL /Leicester, UK:InterVarsity Press, 1998]). For those such as this reviewer with a particular curiosityabout the people who have contributed to the field, there are many entries on figuresacross the ages, from the ancient world (e.g., Hillel, Akiba, Philo, Justin Martyr, Origen,Eusebius, Augustine, Theodoret, Theodore of Mopsuestia) on through the medievalperiod (e.g., Ibn Ezra, Maimonides, Aquinas) and into later centuries down to the pre-sent, including some on still-living figures (e.g., Brevard Childs, James Barr, MosheGreenberg, William Farmer, Martin Hengel).

With all that is provided, it is almost churlish to complain about what is omitted.But it is not readily clear why there are certain omissions, both among topics and amongfigures treated. For example, among my own illustrious predecessors in Edinburgh we

JBL 121/4 (2002) 745–783

BOOK REVIEWS

745

Book reviews are also published online at the Society of Biblical Literature’s WWW site:http://www.bookreviews.org. For a list of books received by the Journal, see

http://www.bookreviews.org/books-received.html

have William Manson, but not H. A. A. Kennedy (whose studies on the influence of theLXX upon NT language, on the relevance of Philo, and on the mystery cults as back-ground for Pauline Christianity were pioneering and remain noteworthy). There areentries on figures in classical studies whose contribution was essentially to the study ofthe background of the NT, such as A. D. Nock and Eduard Norden, but no entry onFranz Dölger or Erik Peterson. We have entries on M.-J. Lagrange and J. Bonsirven,but no entry on Jean Daniélou, and there are entries on L. Goppelt, H. Lietzmann, andJ. Jeremias, but none on Ethelbert Stauffer. Among major Evangelical figures, we haveMerrill Tenney, but, very curiously, no entry on G. E. Ladd, arguably one of the mostimportant figures in the post–World War II American Evangelical effort to enter andengage the scholarly mainstream in biblical studies. Among entries on modern Jewishfigures, we have, for example, H. Montefiore and S. Sandmel, but Joseph Klausner doesnot appear.

Missing figures from the ancient world include Valentinus, Heracleon (apparentlythe earliest commentary on the Gospel of John), and the second-century ChristianPtolemy (whose Letter to Flora is a remarkably noteworthy hermeneutical statement),although there is a modest-sized entry on “Gnostic” interpretation (which mainly con-sists of observations based on the Nag Hammadi texts). Likewise, I find no entries onQumran or Pesher; and I cannot divine where else to look in the work for discussion ofwhat is rather widely recognized as an important body of texts in the history of biblicalreception/interpretation.

As for “methods and movements,” there is a panoply of entries that comprises animpressive scope. But, again, there are curious absences. To illustrate, there are entrieson biblical interpretation labeled as Afrocentric, Feminist, Hispanic, Asian, Gay/Les-bian, Liberation, Post-Colonial, Psychoanalytic (and another entry on “Psychology andBiblical Studies”), Womanist, Mujerista, Orthodox (Eastern Christian), and Evangelical(North American, white). Yet I can find no entry on the use of the Bible in the African-American tradition or in Pentecostalism.

Other illustrative entries introduce “Electronic Hermeneutics” (the impact of dig-ital technology), “Quranic and Islamic Interpretation,” “Post-Modern Biblical Interpre-tation” (advocative, but conveying little as to rationale or results), “Ethiopian BiblicalInterpretation,” and on the many modern methods and approaches, such as Form Criti-cism, Redaction Criticism, Rhetorical Criticism, Literary Theory and Literary Criticism,Social-Scientific Criticism, Intertextuality, Canonical Criticism, two entries on “Inner-Biblical Interpretation,” and a three-part entry on “Mythology and Biblical Studies.”David Jeffrey’s entry on the Bible in “Western Literature” offers an overview of a vastfield for which the dictionary that he edited is an essential reference work (A Dictionaryof Biblical Tradition in English Literature [Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1992]).

Yet, to mention other things absent, although there are entries on a number ofJewish interpreters down through the centuries, as well as on Midrash and Hasidism,there is no entry on Jewish biblical interpretation. Nor does one find an entry on Gema-tria. Likewise, while there are entries on Luther, Melanchthon, Calvin, and other Refor-mation figures, there is no entry on Reformation exegesis. We have an entry on C. I.Scofield, which mentions his famous annotated edition of the Bible, but otherwise noth-ing on Dispensational interpretation (a massively influential type among millions from


the late nineteenth century to the present). Nor does one find an entry onDialectical/Neo-orthodox, or Existentialist interpretation (though, to be sure, one findsentries on key relevant figures such as K. Barth and R. Bultmann).

Very curiously, there is also no entry on Exegesis, Allegorical Interpretation, orTypology (the last happening to be the dominant interpretative mode in the first fewcenturies of Christianity!), although, by contrast, there is an entry on Cultural Studies.Now, in some cases there are entries that speak in some measure to what is missing. Forexample, the entry on “Alexandrian School” begins by noting that it is “particularly asso-ciated with the practice of allegorical interpretation.” At the very least, we should expecta bare entry on allegorical interpretation that, if nothing else, refers us to other relevantentries. The same can be said for a number of other matters.

There is an entry on Hermeneutics; but it is almost totally devoted to develop-ments of the last couple of centuries, after two sentences each on Philo, Augustine, andLuther! And it is no good replying that these three all have separate entries. So do all themodern figures from Schleiermacher onward, to whom the entry is almost whollydevoted. To be fair, we are indeed a cut-flower age intellectually, and the entry onlyreflects our somewhat adolescent outlook that our age is when things worth noting hap-pened. The entry on Augustine does mention that De doctrina christiana was “muchconcerned with principles of scriptural interpretation,” but we get little as to what this,perhaps the most important classical Christian text on biblical interpretation, had tooffer.

We expect that in this particular dictionary the entries on individual biblical anddeutero-canonical writings should focus on the history of their interpretation and influ-ence/reception through the centuries, showing how faith communities have appropri-ated the text in question as Scripture. Some entries do this well, e.g., the entries on Songof Songs, Romans, Revelation, and Tobit. John Sawyer’s entry on Isaiah distills a fasci-nating story of reception-history laid out more fully in his recent study, The Fifth Gospel:Isaiah in the History of Christianity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996).Other entries are disappointing, however. For example, given that 1 Enoch is treated asScripture in Ethiopian Christianity, one would hope to learn how it is interpreted; butthe entry merely reviews critical introductory studies. Indeed, a number of entries onindividual canonical/deutero-canonical writings are virtually indistinguishable fromwhat one can find in other Bible dictionaries or in the introductions to commentaries,the discussion limited to scholarly opinions on date, authorship, provenance, literaryintegrity, textual transmission, and so on.

However, anyone who has been involved in producing such a major referencework will surely agree that the dominant notes to sound are gratitude at what is given,rather than carping at what was overlooked or forgotten, and pleasure in the entries thatextend and complement what one can find in other reference works, rather than disap-pointment in those that fail to do so. Students and others (such as this reviewer) whosecuriosity exceeds the limits of their education will find here a useful first port-of-call forbasic introductions to, and further leads on, a wide variety of people and phenomenathat make up the history and practice of biblical interpretation. The price, however, maymake it mainly an acquisition for libraries.

Larry W. Hurtado, University of Edinburgh, Edinburgh EH1 2LX, UK

747Book Reviews

History of Biblical Israel: Major Problems and Minor Issues, by Abraham Malamat. Cul-ture and History of the Ancient Near East 7. Leiden: Brill, 2001. Pp. xv + 476. $99.00.

This collection of twenty-six articles and papers, two of which appear for the firsttime, represents over fifty years of research by an internationally respected scholar inthe field. The focus of the volume, aptly identified as the starting point and chief sourcefor this treatment of Israel’s history, is the biblical text, often examined in connectionwith comparative epigraphic sources and, in some instances, in relationship to archaeo-logical evidence or to social-scientific analysis. The author discusses the historical impli-cations of a variety of aspects of the biblical portrayal of Israel, beginning with theancestral traditions and extending to the fall of Jerusalem.

The volume is divided into five parts. The first two, “The Dawn of Israel” and“Forming a Nation,” comprise nine essays, all within the scope of what Malamat callsthe “proto-history” of Israel, terminology which he prefers either to “pre-history” or to“history” in describing the span of time conventionally associated with the biblical tradi-tions of the ancestral narratives, the exodus, Sinai, the wilderness, conquest and settle-ment, and, in part, the “judges.” The volume’s opening essay, “The Proto-History ofIsrael: A Study in Method” (originally published in 1983), addresses the question ofwhether the biblical traditions of the premonarchic era are amenable to the historian’spurposes and offers Malamat’s own approach as a middle way between, on the onehand, a scholarly “neofundamentalism” which gives uncritical acceptance to the biblicalportrayal as history and, on the other, a “hypercritical” skepticism, which he (in 1983)associates with the work of scholars such as J. A. Soggin, T.L. Thompson, and J. VanSeters. Malamat’s position is that the biblical sources can be exploited for the purposesof historical reconstruction provided the historian takes into account the “reflection”and “telescoping” that were integral to their production and which resulted in a ten-dency toward schematization. For the historian, a key to overcoming the limitationsimposed by such nonhistorical contours of the portrayal of this period in the biblicaldocuments is to correlate the latter with sources from elsewhere in the ancient NearEast, a task which Malamat takes up in the next two essays, “Mari and Early Israel” and“Pre-monarchical Social Institutions in Israel in the Light of Mari” (originally publishedin 1985 and 1988, respectively). Malamat’s comparison of the documents preservedfrom ancient Israel and from Mari posits common origins, though not necessarily directrelations, between the two, supporting what Malamat calls a “typological” or “phe-nomenological” comparison (as opposed to a “genetic” one). The fourth essay, “TribalSocieties: Biblical Genealogies and African Lineage Systems,” brings the methods andresults of social anthropologists to bear on the use of biblical kinship and settlement tra-ditions as historical sources. In ch. 5, “The Exodus: Egyptian Analogies,” Malamatargues that a number of episodes mentioned in various Egyptian texts dating to the thir-teenth and early twelfth centuries are analogous to the exodus tradition and that thesesupport Malamat’s view of the biblical exodus tradition as a “telescoped” or “punctual”account of what was a more “durative” historical occurrence (pp. 56–67). Chapters 6–9consist of four essays treating the historical era represented by the books of Joshua andJudges, during which time the territorial holdings of the Israelite tribes became solidi-fied for the succeeding centuries and Israel passed from “proto-history” to history (pp.5–6). In the first of these articles, “Conquest of Canaan: Israelite Conduct of WarAccording to Biblical Traditions,” Malamat argues that these traditions, once stripped oftheir “theological varnish” and examined from the viewpoint of military science, reflect


tactics and maneuvers of warfare that would have belonged to the historical perioddepicted (the thirteenth to eleventh centuries B.C.E.). Similarly in the following essay,“The Period of the Judges,” Malamat looks behind the surface depiction of a unitedIsrael (though repudiating the common tendency of scholars to associate each traditionnarrowly with only one or two tribes) to discern specific events involving cooperationamong several member tribes within a larger Israelite confederation, in some cases evenpositing historical interrelationships among discrete traditions (e.g., Israelite advancesand setbacks over against Transjordanian rivals, as reflected in the traditions of Ehud,Gideon, Abimelech, and Jephthah; pp. 129–40).

Part 3, “The Rise of the Davidic Dynasty” contains three essays dealing chieflywith the institutions of diplomatic marriage and covenant in the attainment and consoli-dation of power under David and Solomon, as well as a lecture and discussion that tookplace in the home of Prime Minister David Ben-Gurion in 1963 (ch. 13, “Organs ofStatecraft in the Israelite Monarchy”). Part 4, “Twilight of Judah and the Destruction ofthe First Temple” consists of two articles described best by their titles—“The HistoricalBackground of the Assassination of Amon, King of Judah” and “Josiah’s Bid forArmageddon: The Background of the Judaean-Egyptian Encounter in 609 B.C.”—alongwith two essays on the international political factors operative in the fall of Judah (chs.16 and 17). Part 5 contains essays on a variety of “Historical Episodes in the FormerProphets and in the Prophetical Books”: “Doctrines of Causality in Hittite and BiblicalHistoriography: A Parallel”; “Military Rationing in Papyrus Anastasi I and the Bible”;“Foot-Runners in Israel and Egypt in the Third Intermediate Period”; “Amos 1:5 in theLight of the Til Barsip Inscriptions”; “The Historical Background of Two Prophecies ofthe Nations”; and “Jeremiah and the Last Two Kings of Judah.” Three additional essays,which do not fall readily under any of these headings, are located in an excursus section,which is followed by a section of addenda providing updates for most of the essays in theform of bibliography and some discussion. Next follows an index of primary sources(including biblical, ancient Near Eastern, and Greco-Roman sources) and a subjectindex.

Notwithstanding the inclusion of some essays of early date (two having been pub-lished originally in 1951), much of the discussion in this volume is of a very timely naturein addressing methodological issues still being worked out in the use of biblical docu-ments as historical sources; cf., for instance, the discussion of Israel’s “proto-history”with R. Hendel’s recent use of the category “mnemohistory” in dealing with historicaland nonhistorical elements of biblical tradition (“The Exodus in Biblical Memory,” JBL120 [2001]: 601–22]). This mention of timeliness also applies to the discussion of theMari texts in relation to early Israel’s tribal social institutions (for a recent discussion ofthe latter, see F. M. Cross, From Epic to Canon: History and Literature in AncientIsrael [Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1998], esp. 3–70). Malamat’s treat-ment of these and other issues makes a valid contribution to current discussion. Intrigu-ing and often persuasive is Malamat’s frequent “teasing out” of possibilities from thebiblical and extrabiblical evidence: e.g., implications of ties between the House of Davidand the Ammonite royal house during the early monarchy; “good (things)” as a refer-ence to covenant in biblical and extrabiblical usage (pp. 272, 305 n. 12); a suggestedreading of Arad Ostracon no. 88 as a “prophetic-political text, where God speaksthrough his prophets, apparently encouraging Josiah to go war [sic] against Egypt” (p.327); and a suggested relationship between the anti-Babylonian summit hosted by

749Book Reviews

Zedekiah in Jerusalem (Jer 27) and “increased prophetic activities,” including the call ofEzekiel (p. 313). In places, Malamat provides brilliant synthesis (see especially ch. 16,“The Twilight of Judah: In the Egyptian-Babylonian Maelstrom”).

On the latter point, it should be noted that the volume is not offered as a syntheticand complete history in the manner of Gösta Ahlström’s The History of Ancient Pales-tine (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1993). Nonetheless, the combination of an uneven cover-age of Israelite history—the divided monarchy is represented only sparsely—andoccasional redundancy (e.g., ch. 16, “The Twilight of Judah: In the Egyptian-BabylonianMalestrom,” and ch. 17, “The Kingdom of Judah between Egypt and Babylon: A SmallState within a Great Power Confrontation”) found in the volume is somewhat disap-pointing. The degree to which Malamat takes for granted certain aspects of the biblicalportrayal of Israel as historically reliable, especially as regards premonarchic times andthe reigns of David and Solomon, will certainly be contested in the current climate ofdiscussion. Furthermore, Malamat’s assumptions at certain points—such as his inclina-tion to view the “military” details of the book of Joshua, even the marching around Jeri-cho (pp. 84–85), as indicative of historical realities as opposed to theological or narrativeelements—seem to overlook more obvious or likely explanations, and at times morerestraint is warranted in drawing conclusions (e.g., where Egyptian military failure atHarran in 610 B.C.E. is inferred from a restored reading of “Eg[ypt]” in the BabylonianChronicle [pp. 292–93] or, where Malamat, in explaining Jer 12:5, acknowledges theabsolute dearth of evidence for competitive athletics in ancient Israel and still argues forthe existence of “Foot-runners in Israel and Egypt,” based on Egyptian Taharqa stele,which (as Malamat indicates) refers to running as military training along a road not assport on a “racetrack” [pp. 362–65]). Both the cohesiveness of the volume and thereader’s ease in making use of it could have been enhanced by the adoption of a singleformat for annotations and of consistent spellings for proper names and technical terms(see, e.g., Psamtik [pp. 300–321] vs. Psammetich [p. 325]; Ascelon [p. 281] vs. Ashkelon[p. 331]; Jehoahaz [pp. 302–3] vs. Jehoachaz [p. 375]; Accadian [p. 357 n. 18] vs. Akka-dian [p. 398]), though the indexes are thorough and helpful in this regard.

The shortcomings identified are more than outweighed by the numerous insightsthe author provides into the “major problems and minor issues” involved in the biblicaltraditions of Israel’s monarchic and premonarchic history. The collection and publica-tion of these essays in a single volume serves not only as a monument to Professor Mala-mat’s impact on the field through five decades, but also as a significant contribution tothe ongoing scholarly debate regarding the history of ancient Israel.

Joel S. Burnett, Baylor University, Waco, TX 76798

Ringen um die Verfassung Judas: Eine Studie zu den theologisch-politischen Vorstellun-gen im Esra-Nehemia Buch, by Christiane Karrer. BZAW 308. Berlin/New York: deGruyter, 2001. Pp. x + 488. €108.00.

The Covenant Renewal in Ezra-Nehemiah (Neh 7:72B–10:40): An Exegetical, Literaryand Theological Study, by Michael W. Duggan. SBLDS 164. Atlanta: Society of BiblicalLiterature, 2001. Pp. xii + 372. $49.95.

The two monographs reviewed here are recent contributions to the growing fieldof Persian-period studies in general, focusing in particular on the community of Yehud


as described and envisioned by Ezra-Nehemiah in particular. Ever since interest in thefifth and fourth centuries began to rise over a decade ago, the kind of research that char-acterized many Persian-period studies tended to be deliberately conscious of ideologicalfactors and often utilized social-scientific insights and methods. In general, there hasbeen an overall shift away from concerns with individuals (Ezra, Nehemiah, Zerubba-bel, etc.) and their achievements or even the historical origin of specific conflicts towardthe rhetorical representation of social structures or constitutive elements in the religiousand political infrastructure of Persian Yehud. Similarly, the two studies at hand—both ofwhich are revised versions of dissertations written at the University of Kiel and theCatholic University of America respectively—also exemplify the general trend towardsocial structures and rhetorical representation, while making significant unique contri-butions to the study of the society and literature of Yehud in the Persian period. Karrerutilizes sociological and political theory in her exegesis to discuss the concept of Yehud’ssociopolitical structure or “constitution” (Verfassung) in Ezra-Nehemiah, while Dugganoffers a close literary reading of the covenant renewal (Neh 7:72b–10:40) as a key textfor the literary and theological program of Ezra-Nehemiah.

Christiane Karrer advances the thesis that the political structure that characterizedin either a real or desired form the society of postexilic Yehud had a significant impacton the development of the book of Ezra-Nehemiah, and that different segments of thebook reflect different stages of composition as well as different interpretations of theidea of Yehud’s social and political constitution (p. 1). Two central ideas emerge fromthis thesis. First, the book of Ezra-Nehemiah can and should be read diachronically; thedifferent segments of the text not only point to different authors or editors for the book’sliterary sources but also propose different social and theological ideologies. As a point ofcomparison for the negotiation of different ideologies within a single text, Karrer refersto the origins of the monarchy as described in 1 Sam 7–12 (pp. 16–19). Second, Karrerutilizes the semantic ambivalence inherent in term “constitution” (Verfassung), whichsignifies both a prescriptive (ideal) state of existence of a community (constitution in thelegal sense) and a concrete, descriptive one (the actual state or constitution that charac-terized a community; pp. 2–6). Rather than trying to resolve this ambivalence, she pro-poses an exploration of the semantic potential of this term by juxtaposing the tensionsthat emerge between the ideal and the concrete in Ezra-Nehemiah. Thus, the text bothdescribes what constitutes the community of postexilic Yehud, while also advocating aspecific vision of what should constitute the ideal community. Significantly, this vision isnot uniform throughout Ezra-Nehemiah, which contains at least three different socio-political ideologies that are negotiated within the canonical text of the book.

Following an extensive review of scholarship (pp. 21–63), Karrer’s analysis pro-ceeds in two main stages. The first stage (ch. 2) describes the impossibility of construct-ing a consistent image of Yehud’s sociopolitical constitution through a linear reading ofthe text. Karrer begins her analysis with a lexical analysis of the key terms used todescribe political or social entities in Ezra-Nehemiah. Her analysis of these terms corre-lates to a comprehensive schematization of Ezra-Nehemiah on the basis of grammaticalagency (Aktantenanalyse) provided in the appendix of Karrer’s book (pp. 379–456),designed to facilitate a careful analysis of the Hebrew and Aramaic terminology. Karrerconcludes that such an analysis reveals the existence of different conceptions regardingthe people of Judah or Jerusalem as well as the understanding of other social and ethnicgroups or political offices. A subsequent review of the text in its entirety (pp. 107–24)

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also suggests that a linear reading of the book does not lead to a consistent understand-ing of these social and political entities and that a more diachronically oriented approachto the topic may be required to identify the existence of more coherent ideological sys-tems regarding the idea of constitution in Ezra-Nehemiah.

This conclusion opens the way for the second stage of Karrer’s analysis, which issubdivided into three distinct sections (chs. 3, 4, and 5) and which demonstrates theexistence of three distinct ideological visions represented respectively by the Nehemiahsource, the Ezra source, and the editorial framework unifying these two components.Central to her reading is a clear definition of the textual basis for each of these literarycomponents, which is followed in each case by an examination of their respective socio-political structures. Beginning with the Nehemiah source, which she understands to bethe earliest of the three texts and to which she assigns Neh 1:1–75b, 12:27–43, 13:4–31,she notes that within this text certain coherent features do in fact emerge. Specifically,the designation of the people as Judahites (!ydwhy) includes both people within and out-side the boundaries of Yehud (p. 152). Furthermore, she observes that there is no exclu-sive understanding of the gôlâ as the sole representatives of the community, since thereis no reference to a return of exiles in the Nehemiah source (p. 153). Ethnicity thusemerges as a defining parameter for the people of Yehud (pp. 154–61) and interactionwith foreigners is kept to a minimum (p. 189). Regarding the distribution of power,Karrer notes that the governor (hjp) is the only one whose rights are specificallydefined, and the position is presented as the highest political office, occupied byNehemiah himself (p, 165). The two main themes of the Nehemiah source are thereforethe external separation of Judah from non-Judahites and the internal centralization of

Ezra-Nehemiah suggests that the realization of such a community did not proceed with-out conflicts (p. 283).

The last chapter of Karrer’s analysis concerns the editorial framework as well asthe overarching ideology of the text of Ezra-Nehemiah in its entirety (Gesamtkomposi-tion) independent of the sociopolitical structures envisioned by the Nehemiah and Ezrasources (pp. 284–378). The textual basis for this analysis is in effect the entire book ofEzra-Nehemiah, including the lists found in Ezra 2, Neh 7:6–72b, 11:21–12:26, whichmatch the ideology represented by the Hebrew narrative frame of Ezra 1–6 (Ezra1:1–4:6; 6:16–22). As one might expect, the sociopolitical structure that emerges here isone that mediates between the two positions represented by the two main sources. Theintegration of the Nehemiah and Ezra sources into the larger narrative structure effectsan expanded image of the community as comprised of returning exiles (erweiterte Rück-kehrergemeinschaft), including both secular and cultic sectors, a diarchy, so to speak,which is further reflected in the combined leadership of Jeshua and Zerubbabel in Ezra1–6 (p. 317). As the text unfolds, the significance of these two figures moves into thebackground and the leadership is gradually shifted toward the people in general (p.322). The temple (i.e., the sacrificial cult) emerges as the institutional medium betweenthe community and the Achaemenid rulers, signifying Yehud’s autonomy with regard toits neighbors as Persian imperial representation (p. 333), establishing important sym-bolic links to the preexilic institutions of temple and monarchy, while presenting thesetwo themes in an entirely new way (p. 351). In doing so, the overarching sociopoliticalstructure of Ezra-Nehemiah suggests a very specific view of history which takes intoaccount the uniqueness implicit in the political situation of Yehud as a province in thelarger Persian empire, while maintaining the element of continuity with Judah’s past(p. 374).

Karrer’s most significant contribution to the interpretation of Ezra-Nehemiah liesin her appreciation of the book’s ideological complexity. Her rejection of a single coher-ent sociopolitical structure characterizing the book is well argued, and her reading of thetext as a negotiation of two separate political visions through the mediation of an over-arching editorial framework responds positively to the ideological tensions contained inEzra-Nehemiah. Perhaps the greatest danger inherent in such an approach is a potentialcircular logic with regard to the division of sources, which could be defined on the basisof a particular ideological structure and in turn used to support the idea of a coherentideology characteristic of a particular textual segment. However, Karrer’s discussion isnuanced and well placed within the context of contemporary interpretations, thus gen-erally avoiding this particular problem. Only her definition of the Ezra source appearssomewhat forced, but her conclusions regarding the Ezra material as a text that is criti-cal of centralized political power, which can be read as a counterposition to the Nehe-miah story, is cogently argued and matches the conclusions of, e.g., T. C. Eskenazi,whose name is perhaps surprisingly absent from this particular part of Karrer’s analysis.One aspect that should have received more attention is the influence of Persian imperialpolicies on social and religious developments in postexilic Yehud. Karrer acknowledgesthe imperial context of Achaemenid hegemony over Yehud, presupposing a certainamount of flexibility (Freiraum) for the development of local, political organization (p.14), and she discusses the contributions of other studies to this subject, (e.g., T. Willi, P.Frei, and Rütterswörden on the German scene and K. C. Hoglund and E. Stern in the

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English-language literature; pp. 26–49). Nevertheless, insights from these discussionshave relatively little representation in the exegetical portion of her book. With regard tomethodology, an insightful aspect of Karrer’s study is the underlying understanding ofthe sociopolitical structure or Verfassung of Yehud as both descriptive and prescriptive.Her attempt to engage rather than overcome this inherent semantic ambiguity (which isperhaps somewhat more effective in German than it is in English) bears much potentialand to some extent parallels similar approaches in the discipline of cultural studies, inparticular the interpretation of states and nations as imagined communities, a discoursethat is not addressed in this book. This idea could have received more explicit attentionin the analytic sections of Karrer’s discussion. It is specifically discussed only in theintroduction of the book, although it contributes to the methodological assumptions thatgovern the study as a whole.

While Karrer’s study is decidedly diachronic in its reading of Ezra-Nehemiah,Duggan’s analysis of the covenant renewal ceremony in Neh 7:72b–10:40 is explicitlysynchronic and literary in its orientation. He suggests that the text in question provides ahermeneutical key to the book of Ezra-Nehemiah as a whole. Methodologically, Dug-gan’s approach is still relatively rare in Ezra-Nehemiah studies, which has prompted sig-nificantly more social-scientific studies and which has not experienced the sameproliferation of literary interpretations as other parts of the biblical canon. Dugganpoints out that while several studies incorporate elements of synchronic analysis (pp.38–48), diachronic approaches clearly dominate the field, and Eskenazi’s study (pub-lished now almost fifteen years ago) is still the most significant engagement of Ezra-Nehemiah as literature (pp. 48–56). The reluctance to engage Neh 7:72b–10:40synchronically is directly tied to the traditional inclusion of Neh 8 with a hypotheticalEzra source, since it deals with the character of Ezra and interrupts the story of Nehe-miah’s reforms. Furthermore, the penitential (historical) Psalm of Neh 9 (called “theLevites’ prayer” in Duggan’s study) has often been seen as having a distinct composi-tional origin from other material in Ezra-Nehemiah, and shifts from first-person mem-oir to third-person narrative in the text have generally been seen as literary rupturesindicating seams at which the different components of the text have been patchedtogether. Duggan does not deny the value of such diachronic speculations and providesan extensive discussion of existing theories (pp. 1–37). Nevertheless, he suggests thatmuch can be gained from a synchronic reading of the text as well and points out that“[n]either the memoir nor the narrative account constitutes a complete story in itself.Only the combination of the two provides a narrative whole. The problem of marriagewith foreigners that first arises in the autobiographical section (9:1–4) is resolved in thenarrative section (10:9–44)” (p. 14).

Before beginning his analysis of the covenant renewal account, Duggan presentsan outline of the book of Ezra-Nehemiah as a whole in order to contextualize his subse-quent analysis. He notes that the joint appearance of Ezra and Nehemiah suggested byNeh 8:9, which has always presented a problem for historical analyses of the text andwhich has prompted the association of Neh 8 with the Ezra source, fulfills an importantliterary function in a synchronic reading of the text. It serves to highlight the centralimportance of the covenant renewal account for the book as a whole, and serves as thedefining moment for the postexilic community. “The mission of Ezra and Nehemiah


converge precisely at this point when they are mentioned together for the first time”(p. 67). Duggan then discusses the delimitation as well as the overall structure of thecovenant renewal account, which he suggests proceeds in three distinct stages, of whichthe last is again subdivided into two subunits (p. 75): (A) Ezra reads the Torah (7:72b–8:12); (B) the leaders study the Torah (8:13–18); (C.1) the people read the Torah (9:1–37); (C.2) the people express commitment to the Torah (10:1–40). This structure, heargues, indicates the linear progression from Ezra to the community’s leaders and finallyto the people of the community, which Duggan goes on to demonstrate in greater detailfor each of the text’s subunits.

Duggan’s analysis is structured as a careful reading of the text divided on the basisof its individual subunits: the public reading of the law by Ezra (Neh 7:72b–8:12) andthe celebration of the Festival of Booths (8:13–18), the penitential rite initiated by theLevites (9:1–5), the Levites’ Prayer (9:6–37), and the covenant commitment (10:1–40).Each section is introduced by a translation with textual critical notes, followed by a liter-ary analysis focused on the text’s internal structure, which notes chiastic patterns, paral-lel formulations and dynamic progressions, and a lexical examination, which considerssignificant key terms and expressions, often with reference to intertextual connectionsto other parts of the biblical canon. Since the covenant renewal account involves a pub-lic reading of the law, Duggan is particularly interested in the links between this text andthe legal material of the Pentateuch. Each section is concluded by a thematic summary.The only exception to this procedural pattern is found in Duggan’s reading of theLevites’ Psalm, the longest and most pivotal subsection of the covenant renewalaccount. Here the lexical examination is replaced by a careful line by line analysis ofevery significant expression of the prayer (pp. 200–225) and a comparative form-criticalanalysis of the prayer in light of other historical as well as penitential psalms in theHebrew Bible. By uniting these two genres, Duggan suggests, Neh 9 effects a particularview of history, largely infused by Deuteronomic theology, which contextualizes theneed for penance in a larger historical scheme. This is achieved most significantly byreaching back “beyond the origins of trouble in the land to the wilderness era, the exo-dus, the covenant with Abraham and ultimately the beginning of creation” (p. 229). Theprayer thus serves to expand the historical understanding of the people and to bringabout a new, positive vision of the future. “[T]he exile is no longer the central event fordefining the people in terms of their history, past and present (Neh 9:30–31, 32–37; cf.Ezra 9:7–8, 14–15); the covenant with Abraham (9:8a; cf. 32b)—including its promise ofthe land (9:8b–d, cf. 9:15c–d, 22–25, 36b)—is now the focal point of history” (p. 229).The natural conclusion of this development is the ratification of the new covenant by thepeople, as described in Neh 10:1–40, which marks a conscious turning away from therebellious patterns of the people’s ancestors (p. 289).

Duggan’s analysis suggests a dynamic unfolding of theological themes throughoutthe covenant renewal account. He draws special attention to three conclusions thatemerge from his analysis. The first relates to the people’s relationship to the Torah,which is marked by a developing acquaintance and increasing appropriation. The peoplehear the Torah in an oral reading (8:12), the leaders study the Torah (8:13–18), thepeople read the Torah in their attempt at communal self-definition (9:1–5), and the peo-ple commit to the Torah’s principles and stipulations (10:1–40) (pp. 295–96). Second,

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Duggan argues that the covenant renewal account signifies the growth of democracy,unity, and autonomy for the community, especially as the community separates itselffrom all foreigners (9:2) (p. 296). Finally, the covenant renewal account marks a changein leadership, which is decentralized from Ezra to the community leaders, resulting in a“commingling of secular and clerical categories among the eighty-four signatories” (p.297). Related to the last two points is an earlier observation, which is not specifically sin-gled out in the conclusion, namely, the decrease of Persian authority over the affairs ofthe community. Duggan notes that following the covenant renewal account “the Persiankings do not issue edicts that determine the course of history in Judah (cf. Neh 13:6–7).Instead, the stipulations that the community proclaims provide the basis for Nehemiah’ssubsequent work of reform (10:31–40; cf. 13:4–31)” (p. 289). This idea is intriguing,although the fact that this text appears toward the end of Ezra-Nehemiah does not leavea very large textual basis on which to base such a conclusion. The covenant renewalaccount could be seen not only as a pivotal event, but also as the culmination of thebook’s plot development, in which case the idea of a decrease in Persian hegemony afterthe covenant renewal account is not entirely convincing.

Given the relative lack of literary approaches to Ezra-Nehemiah, Duggan’s study isa welcome contribution to the study of this text. However, his claim that the covenantrenewal account is the crux of interpretation for the whole work (p. 1, emphasis added)may be exaggerated. Depending on what questions one brings to the text, one’s expecta-tions as well as one’s methodology will necessarily differ. Certainly for studies with amore historical or sociological orientation, such a reading may not necessarily be appro-priate, and some studies may benefit from a more diachronic approach to the text (as,e.g., Karrer’s book demonstrates). For example, it would be rather misleading if onewere to reconstruct historical developments (e.g., a possible decline in Persian authorityin Yehud at a given point in history) on the basis of this analysis. However, these are notthe questions Duggan brings to the text, and given the parameters he provides for hisstudy, his exegesis emerges as a cogent and well-crafted reading. If anything, his readingcould be seen as somewhat too neat and coherent. He himself suggests in his criticalappreciation of Eskenazi’s contribution to the study of Ezra-Nehemiah: “. . . the verytidiness of Eskenazi’s work alerts the critic to its limitations, namely, of imposing a pre-determined construct upon the text” (p. 54). While the charge of imposing a pre-determined structure cannot be applied to Duggan’s reading, which does exhibit muchliterary flexibility and attentiveness to the text, there are places where one might expecta few more loose ends or a greater allowance for ideological complexity. In particular,Duggan’s view of Judahite ethnicity, which plays a relatively significant part in the unifi-cation of the community during the covenant renewal account, is more stable than manyrecent studies of ethnicity would allow, ones that suggest that identity is always a highlycontested discourse. Nevertheless, the book is an extremely valuable study of thecovenant renewal account in Nehemiah, which demonstrates successfully that a syn-chronic reading of Ezra-Nehemiah is possible, albeit not exclusively binding, and thatthe shifts and ruptures of the text need not present obstacles, but can indeed be usedconstructively in the interpretation of the book. As such, Duggan’s study is one of themost significant literary contributions to the study of Ezra-Nehemiah since Eskenazi’sIn an Age of Prose (Scholars Press, 1988).

Armin Siedlecki, Emory University, Atlanta, GA 30322


Archaeology and the Galilean Jesus: A Re-examination of the Evidence, by Jonathan L.Reed. Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International, 2000. Pp. xiii + 253. $30.00.

Crossing Galilee: Architectures of Contact in the Occupied Land of Jesus, by MarianneSawicki. Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International, 2000. Pp. vii + 260. $23.00.

Jesus and the Village Scribes: Galilean Conflicts and the Setting of Q, by William E.Arnal. Minneapolis: Fortress, 2001. Pp. xiv + 290. $26.00.

This review examines three books in the field of Christian origins that employrecent archaeological discoveries and modern sociological theories in their respectivehistorical reconstructions of the setting of Jesus. Integral to each book is the commoninterest in the ways in which the Herodian building projects, especially the establish-ment of the cities of Sepphoris and Tiberias in Galilee, could have impacted Jesus andhis movement in the region. Based on the work of Reed, Sawicki, and Arnal, scholarsinterested in questions related to historical Jesus studies are compelled to be as aware ofthe material culture of Roman Galilee as the textual remains of the Gospels, Josephus,and the Mishnah. Each volume makes a persuasive argument for the necessity of inte-grating archaeological and literary studies and illustrates the role that anthropologicaland sociological theories play in this process. The authors provide a multitude of com-pelling, sometimes contentious analyses of the setting of Jesus that demonstrate theindispensable role that interdisciplinary studies will play in any serious attempt to recon-struct the earliest phase of Christian origins.

Owing in part to his extensive field experience at Capernaum and Sepphoris,Jonathan L. Reed’s Archaeology and the Galilean Jesus demonstrates the contributionarchaeology has made to our reconstructions of the setting of Jesus. By beginning withquestions generated from Galilean archaeology, rather than starting with questions thatarise from the textual material, Reed often provides innovative and insightful recon-structions of the setting of Jesus. Except for the introductory and concluding chapters,each chapter integrates textual studies with the material culture remains excavated inGalilee in order to answer specific questions about the setting of Jesus. Reed deliber-ately and “unabashedly” favors the archaeological data and describes the basic pattern ofeach chapter as first examining “an archaeological profile” before sketching “the impli-cations for the Gospel and historical Jesus research” (p. 20). Reed’s conscious attempt tobegin with questions that derive from archaeology makes this book an important contri-bution to historical Jesus studies.

Chapter 1 serves as the introduction and provides an excursus on how archaeologi-cal material from early Roman Galilee has the potential further to impact our recon-structions of the historical Jesus. After examining the earlier “quests,” Reed situates hisproject clearly within the bounds of the “third wave” of Jesus research, in which thesociopolitical environment of Galilee is central to the interpretation of Jesus. Owing tothe inability of ancient texts to provide a reliable picture of the early Roman Galileancontext, archaeological evidence must be used to fill in our reconstruction of everydaylife in antiquity.

Chapters 2 and 3 comprise the largest section of the book and establish Reed’sposition regarding several contentious issues about the demography of Galilee. In ch. 2,Reed begins his more detailed analysis of the setting of Jesus with questions about theethnic and religious identity of the Galileans. By observing settlement patterns and spe-

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cific elements from the material culture that suggest links to Judea (especiallyJerusalem), he argues that Judean colonizers who moved to Galilee during the earlyRoman period were the primary occupants of Galilee. Relying heavily on the archaeo-logical survey of Lower Galilee conducted by Zvi Gal (The Lower Galilee during theIron Age, 1992), he shows that Galilee was virtually abandoned during the seventh andsixth centuries B.C.E. The Assyrian conquest, followed by mass deportations, appears tobe confirmed by the rare material remains for at least two centuries after 732 B.C.E. Thisarchaeological evidence suggests that there was no continuous “Israelite” culture in theregion from which Jesus and his first followers were descended (contra A. Alt and, morerecently, R. Horsley and M. Sawicki). Reed also dismisses the theory of E. Schürer, whoposited that the Galileans were Gentiles (most likely Itureans) converted to Judaismunder the Hasmoneans. By observing the settlement types and pottery that are extantfrom the Persian through Late Hellenistic periods, Reed argues that there is no evi-dence for an Iturean population moving into the area of Galilee. Rather, based on four“indicators of Jewish religious identity” that have been found in both Galilean andJudean domestic space([1] chalk (stone) vessels; [2] stepped, plastered pools [identifiedas miqwaµ<ôt]; [3] secondary burial with ossuaries in loculi tombs; and [4] bone profilesthat lack pork [pp. 44–49]), he concludes that the inhabitants were mostly transplantsfrom the region of Judea.

Reed closes the chapter with several interesting probes into the consequences ofthis information for “the Jesus tradition.” For example, regarding “purity and Jesus,”Reed observes that in both the sayings attributed to Q and Mark, Jesus does not censureany of the practices associated with the above-mentioned religious indicators. In a sec-tion entitled “The Temple and Jesus in Jerusalem,” he points out that for Galileans a pil-grimage to Jerusalem may have been more than “a religious phenomenon.” Since theywere descended from Judeans, a pilgrimage “may also have renewed kinship ties; it isnot unreasonable to assume that many Galileans stayed with kin in Jerusalem” (p. 58).

While the arguments of this chapter are well developed and convincing, they willnot be without their detractors. For example, some readers might question the identifi-cation of stepped, plastered pools in Galilee as Jewish ritual baths. On a more significantnote, Reed’s use of material remains to determine ethnic and religious identity, andlinking groups genealogically to each other based on similar ritual practices, are notwithout their theoretical challenges. A more detailed description of the theoreticalissues that arise when artifacts are so employed would benefit the reader.

Chapter 3 makes a major contribution to NT studies by providing (for the firsttime) a careful analysis of the population numbers for many of the Galilean sites men-tioned in the Gospels and other early Jewish literature. Reed observes that establishingthese numbers is important because scholars have all too often connected the urbaniza-tion of Galilee with the “Hellenization” of the region. Using the problematic (yet popu-lar) dichotomy between “Hellenistic” and “Jewish,” scholars have connected the growthof the urban centers in Galilee with the importation of Hellenism, while assuming therural sites maintained their “Jewish” character. For example, if a population estimate forthe site of Capernaum suggests that there were 25,000 people living there in the earlyRoman period, then one might argue that Capernaum was a “cosmopolitan and urbanmilieu” with many Hellenistic features, rather than a Jewish fishing village. In order tocounter this scholarly trend, Reed seeks not only to determine appropriate population


estimates, but also to establish the notion “that high population numbers are not acipher for Hellenism” (p. 66).

After a thorough explanation of the methodology used to determine populationnumbers in antiquity (pp. 69–77), Reed deduces the population figures for Sepphoris(8,000–12,000), Tiberias (6,000–12,000), Capernaum (maximum 1,700), Nazareth(maximum 400), and several other Galilean sites. The estimates are very reasonable andshould become the scholarly standard. Since both Sepphoris and Tiberias underwentthe majority of their growth in the Herodian period (at the time Jesus was in the region),the remainder of the chapter deals with what the implications of the urban developmentwould have been for the traditional peasant population living in the rural villages, andwhat the implications might be for historical Jesus studies. The development of theHerodian centers has become the dominant point of discussion for scholars interestedin the setting of Jesus (this is also recognized in the work of Sawicki and Arnal below).Reed’s evidence for the urban centers causing a worse condition for the “peasants’ rela-tive state of deprivation” (p. 97) is meticulous, and sets the bar high for anyone whowants to argue that the rise of large urban centers was of benefit to the rural peasants.He summarizes this condition as follows, “This placed an economic strain on Galileanpeasants, added stress to families and challenged current values, and created new rural-urban dynamics” (p. 96). Based on this conclusion, Reed examines numerous sayings ofJesus that appear to appeal directly to the peasants’ economic state and ideologicalworldview.

Chapter 4 examines a wide array of arguments concerned with the issue of how therise of Sepphoris could have impacted the Galilee, with particular attention to the rela-tionship between the city and the teachings of Jesus. Since the full archaeologicalreports from the excavations at Sepphoris are yet to be published, Reed’s summary ofthe ancient city in this chapter provides a plethora of useful information. He notes thatscholars have often associated the city with “Hellenism” and thus considered it to be atodds with the “Judaism” of Jesus. For the remainder of the chapter, Reed argues againstthis rigid dichotomy and aims to advance the discussion beyond the basic questions ofJesus’ itinerary by stressing exploration related to topographical, political, economic,and ethnic factors related to the growth of the city and its impact on the Galileans. Inconclusion, he returns to the question of Jesus’ relation to the city and proposes two the-ories: (1) “it is likely that Jesus on occasion ventured into Sepphoris during his youth,”and (2) “if anything, it would have been Antipas’s power that kept him from Sepphorisduring his ministry” (p. 138). These intriguing conclusions leave the door open for schol-ars to explore this topic further.

Chapter 5 provides a detailed analysis of the Roman-period city of Capernaum.Since Capernaum is so frequently mentioned in the Gospels, yet virtually unknown out-side of the NT, it is on the opposite end of the spectrum from Sepphoris. Rather thanask why Jesus is not linked to the city, Reed now must be concerned with why Jesusselected this site as his operational center. Capernaum is characterized by Reed as “aslight step up from Nazareth,” in that it would have contained a wider spectrum of eco-nomic possibilities (from low-level bureaucrats to beggars) than a small peasant village.With access to the lake and an interregional road connecting it to Tiberias, CaesareaPhilippi, and Damascus, the site would have been well situated for some trade and traf-fic connections. Nevertheless, Reed stresses that Capernaum was not well suited for

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major international contacts, since most of the traffic would have used the King’s High-way that passed on the East side of Lake Kinneret. Similarly, Capernaum is found to bea rather “unimportant and peripheral” political participant in Galilee. Thus, as to whyJesus may have used this site as his “hub,” Reed concludes that Capernaum offeredmore opportunities than a small peasant village (like Nazareth), without the social andpolitical pressures that were found in the large urban centers (like Sepphoris andTiberias).

The final two studies included in the book are more directly related to understand-ing the context and message of the “Sayings Gospel Q” within early Roman Galilee.Based on his study of the place-names, urban and spatial imagery, ideological stancetoward Tyre and Jerusalem, and various theological themes found in Q, in ch. 6 Reedconcludes that the most likely setting for Q was the villages of early Roman Galilee.Chapter 7 is a detailed analysis on the Sign of Jonah saying from Q (Matt 12:40–42 andLuke 11:29–32) within a Galilean setting. In this chapter, Reed provides a thought-pro-voking study of why a comparison between Jonah and Jesus would have been particu-larly fitting in Galilee, the homeland of both “prophets.” Reed concludes, “there aretantalizing hints that in Galilee the comparison with Jonah included both a componentof openness to Gentiles and a critical edge toward Jerusalem, both important themes inQ’s theology” (p. 211). While these two chapters use a different methodology (focusingprimarily on literary material and using archaeology secondarily), they provide furtherexamples of the potential that this interdisciplinary approach can have for historicalJesus studies.

One of the advantages of reading Archaeology and the Galilean Jesus in conjunc-tion with the work of Sawicki and Arnal is the possibility for comparison of both theirmethodologies and results. Reed’s ability to construct an archaeological profile of sev-eral of the key sites from early Roman Galilee has supplied scholars with a wealth ofmaterial to use in their reconstructions of the setting of Jesus. Yet, while Reed acknowl-edges the need for and consistently utilizes sociological and anthropological theories ininterpreting his archaeological data (pp. 20–21), some readers will be disappointed tofind a relatively modest discussion of the models he employs. In distinction from Reed’sroutinely implicit use of models, Marianne Sawicki’s work is primarily focused on theexplication and development of models that will allow for the interpretation of thearchaeological and literary data. In fact, in many respects the present contribution ofSawicki is a challenge to NT scholars to continue to develop theoretical models that canaccount for the rise of Christianity. Crossing Galilee: Architectures of Contact in theOccupied Land of Jesus is a thorough attempt to clarify the theoretical model that Saw-icki has been developing for at least a decade (five of the nine chapters have appearedearlier in various forms). Sawicki provides a thought-provoking and often controversialreconstruction of life in the Galilee during the early Roman period.

In ch. 1, Sawicki calls for those who are interested in the “meanings of Jesus,” touse an “indigenous Israelite logic of circulation and containment.” The latter phrase,while never succinctly defined, is the uniting element of the following eight chapters.Rather than develop and use theories that have been refined by studying cultures fromother times and places, Sawicki argues that those interested in the historical Jesus mustapply a theory that derives primarily from the “Galilean built environment.” The cul-tural theory that will best describe the actual setting of first-century Galilee is one that


“may be read off of urban, village, and lakeside ruins, in doorsteps, highways, fortifica-tions, and floor plans.” While encouraging the use of cross-cultural comparison in ourreconstructions of first-century Galilee, Sawicki is quick to warn against using sociologi-cal theories that are too similar to our own modern backgrounds. In this regard she iscritical of attempts by NT scholars to impose models such as the Mediterranean “honor-shame template” on life in the villages visited by Jesus.

Chapter 2, “Containment Designs in the Kinneret Region,” begins the explanationof the author’s indigenous circulation model. Sawicki suggests that by studying thearchaeological remains one can begin to reconstruct the “perceived reality” of the first-century Galileans. By observing the material culture of the “built environment,” such asthe way a door to a house worked in ancient Galilee, the way water was contained andcirculated, and the location of the harbors on Lake Kinneret, Sawicki argues that there isa certain congruence that is observable. Close scrutiny of the architecture and city/vil-lage planning reveals “an indigenous logic of containment and selective opening.” In ch.3, Sawicki expands the field of investigation to include ideas of kinship found in theMishnah and circulation patterns found in the Jerusalem temple. She concludes thatthere is a reconstructable pattern of circulation, founded in ancient Israel on the con-cepts of stableness and fluidity, that was significantly disrupted during the Herodian-ledRoman colonization of Palestine. Architectural and literary remains suggest an indige-nous concern to ground or stabilize containers so that they would not go wrong. Patternsof movement and containment in the house, temple, and village were directed by rulesand pathways that grounded everything, including open pots, married and unmarriedwomen, lineages, priests, and water.

In ch. 4, Sawicki reviews in detail the positive and negative consequences of con-structing and using models. The chapter contains a helpful summary of the main goal ofthe book: “a spatial interpretation of Galilee, couched in terms of the indigenous logic ofcirculation, supplies something that is lacking in all three of the predominant ‘modeling’strategies: . . . economic-conflict models, gender-ideological conflict models, and honor-shame models. None of those earlier modeling programs has been able to show howhuman beings, including Jesus of Nazareth, were able to exert individual and collectiveagency by means of their common built environment, through competent and creativeuse of their common spaces” (pp. 61–62).

In chs. 5 and 6, Sawicki returns to her description of the indigenous circulationpatterns and begins to show how they were disrupted by the colonial efforts of the first-century Romans and then rebuilt by the rabbis of the later centuries. The many Hero-dian building projects, the development of the Roman road system, the construction ofbaths and markets in the cities, and the rebuilding of the Jerusalem temple are examplesof the ways the Romans attempted to reorganize the indigenous patterns as they “physi-cally and psychologically colonized the land.” In response, the indigenous Jewish leadersdeveloped new architectural formats that served as a means of resistance to the coloniz-ers. The bet midrash, the miqveh, and the synagogue zodiac are understood by Sawickito have been innovations that offered “symbolic resistance to the incursions of empire.”

The next three chapters offer the reader the most speculative, controversial, yetoften thought-provoking aspects of the book. Sawicki proposes several theories regard-ing the way that women in particular were influential in the rise and spread of earlyChristianity. Often working with very scarce literary evidence, Sawicki proposes various

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theories regarding the family background of Jesus, the relationship between Mary andJoanna, the key role of Joanna (“Herodian dignitary”) and Mary Magdalene (a traveling,anti-Herodian businesswoman) in the Jesus movement. Even more speculative, Sawickisuggests the possibility that Jesus was employed in the Herodian building projects ofTiberias, that he “may have first functioned as an exorcist under the sponsorship of theHerodians,” and, based on the Gospel of Luke, that he “was taken for a Herodian pro-tégé, or at least a Herodian subject, by the civil authority in Jerusalem.” The mostunconvincing suggestion proposes a context for the theory that a Roman soldier rapedMary prior to her marriage to Joseph. Interjected into these reconstructions of the life ofJesus and his first followers in Galilee and Jerusalem, Sawicki provides several interest-ing ideas about the way in which the Jesus movement, in contrast to the rabbis spoken ofin the Mishnah, responded to the colonizing pressures of the Romans.

Some readers may find the final chapter, “Bibliographical Commentary,” to be ofgreat benefit. While the reader may often be frustrated with the lack of direct refer-ences to recent scholarship (author’s names are provided, but no titles or dates appear inthe body of the work, except in ch. 4), the bibliography is a useful resource for identify-ing not only the sources, but what Sawicki understands to be the value or problem withthe secondary material. In this regard, the final chapter is not without its own controver-sies due to often harsh critiques of scholars who have used other anthropological andsociological models in their reconstructions of earliest Christianity.

Due to Sawicki’s keen interest in the theoretical issues surrounding the recon-struction of the setting of Jesus, this study is a noteworthy addition to the literature onearly Roman Galilee. There are several shortfalls in the study, mainly related to the dif-ficulties involved in developing a “new” model that both derives from and seeks toexplain the Galilean setting when there is still relatively little published evidence aboutdaily life in the region. Sawicki’s work would likely be of more value if she had availableall the data that is presented in Reed’s Archaeology and the Galilean Jesus. For instance,rather than rely on evidence that is not from the early first century in Galilee as data forher model (for example: the Jerusalem temple, the Mishnah, and a sixth-century C.E.village house at Qatzrin), more detailed evidence from first-century Capernaum wouldstrengthen the argument. Sawicki’s discussion of travel patterns in the region and theoften referenced “indigenous,” “Israelite” inhabitants of Galilee would also benefit frommore careful analysis. For instance, how is the term “Israelite” meaningful in the earlyRoman Galilean context in light of Reed’s convincing critique of an indigenous Israelitepopulation in the region? Nevertheless, by providing a study that is so profoundlyexplicit about the need for and use of models in our reconstructions of the setting ofJesus, Sawicki presents a significant challenge to anyone interested in the so-called“third quest” for the historical Jesus.

The final work on early Roman Galilee is William E. Arnal’s Jesus and the VillageScribes: Galilean Conflicts and the Setting of Q. The study is an updated version ofArnal’s 1997 University of Toronto dissertation, completed under the supervision ofJohn Kloppenborg. Like Reed and Sawicki, Arnal is heavily indebted to recent archaeo-logical discoveries in the Galilee. The key component of his reconstruction of earlyRoman Galilee is the socioeconomic impact of the Herodian building projects. Whilethe main thesis of the book is more confined than those of Reed and Sawicki, he pro-vides a useful example of how careful attention to the social, political, and economic


conditions of Galilee can improve our reconstructions of Jesus’ early followers. ForArnal, the main question concerns the makeup of the group responsible for Q. The bookis essentially divided into two parts. Chapters 1 through 3 provide a detailed analysis(and discrediting) of the hypothesis that Q (or any early Christian literature) attests tothe presence of itinerant preachers in the nascent Jesus movement. Chapters 4 and 5present an insightful argument for Arnal’s alternative hypothesis: that Q is the productof a group of Galilean village scribes, a theory first proposed by Kloppenborg a decadeago. On the whole, the book is well conceived as a model of interdisciplinary work. Arnalcombines archaeology, literary criticism, and sociological theory in order to produce atimely contribution to the field of Christian origins.

In the introduction, Arnal not only establishes the basic tenets of the study; heoffers a justification for NT scholars to give more weight to Q scholarship. That the exis-tence of Q is a hypothesis should not detract from its value to the study of Christian ori-gins. All NT scholarship is based on hypotheses; they are the guiding principles of allscientific research. Thus, Arnal observes, “The problem with Q is not that it does notexist but that it tends to call into question some of the cherished historical conclusions ofthe last four or five decades of New Testament scholarship” (p. 4). Similarly, Arnalexplains and defends his use of a stratified model of Q that is based on the work of Klop-penborg (Q1: formative stratum, Q2: redactional stratum, and Q3: late additions andglosses). He notes that the criticism of the stratification thesis is not based on a difficultywith its methodology or results, “but rather its implications for the historical Jesus andthe earliest development of Christianity” (p. 7). Since most of the sayings with whichArnal is concerned (those containing the “rhetoric of uprootedness”) are found in theformative stratum of Q, the theory of Q-stratigraphy is a central tenet of his thesis.

The body of the study begins with several investigations into the origins and prolif-eration of the itinerancy hypothesis. Tracing the hypothesis to A. von Harnack’s 1884commentary on the Didache, Arnal connects the idea that itinerant prophets were cen-tral figures in the earliest period of Christianity to the late-nineteenth-century “con-cerns of the Age of Progress.” Using “an incipiently structural-functionalist model,”Harnack understood the references to apostles, prophets, and teachers (Did. 11–15) todelineate specific “offices” in earliest Christianity. The designations “apostles” and“prophets” were understood as itinerant “offices,” while the “teachers” were character-ized as settled, local officials of the church. According to Harnack, the Didache bearswitness to the transition that was occurring from mainly itinerant “offices” (“charismat-ics”) to “local offices,” represented by the references to “bishops and deacons” (“monar-chical episcopate”). In ch. 3, Arnal provides a critique of this interpretation by analyzingthe text of the Didache in detail (pp. 73–91); in ch. 1, his interest is in the affinitiesbetween Harnack’s late-nineteenth-century setting and the itinerancy hypothesis ingeneral. Arnal illustrates how Harnack may have “unconsciously” constructed hisscheme of Christian origins to fit with the notions of “process” and “culture,” as well asthe “sense of progress that characterized the age” (p. 18). He suggests, “In placing agreat wandering at the foot of ecclesiastical history, Harnack is merely replicating whathis own culture thinks about history: that it is the playing out of the process by which afiery and vibrant genius comes to temporal incarnation” (p. 20).

Similarly, in ch. 2, Arnal describes the widespread acceptance and various mani-festations of the theory by scholars in the past four decades. He also seeks to explain the

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trend by examining the Sitz im Leben of the scholars who have defended it. FollowingHarnack, in the 1970s Gerd Theissen became the most influential proponent of theitinerancy hypothesis when he linked the concept of itinerant charismatics to the for-mative level of the Jesus movement and the Synoptic tradition (see, e.g., The FirstFollowers of Jesus: A Sociological Analysis of the Earliest Christians, 1978). “Jesushimself, Theissen claims, did not intend to found communities but to call into being amovement of wandering charismatics” (p. 24). Arnal describes how Theissen, as a“structural-functionalist,” developed a theory of Christian origins in which the Jesusmovement, with its itinerant preachers, “functioned” as a renewal movement thatresponded to the social crises created by the political, cultural, socioeconomic, and“socio-ecological” pressures from the urban-based aristocracy. Because of their radicalethics and explicit apocalypticism, the teachings of the itinerant followers of Jesus“served the function of containing the aggression fostered by the various forces of socialdisruption” (p. 29). Since his publications in the 1970s, Arnal observes, “Theissen’s workhas been formative for nearly all subsequent research and has set the agenda for socialinquiry into earliest Christianity even among those who disagree with his conclusions”(p. 29). He concludes this section with a lengthy review of a recent variation on the itin-erancy theory, the so-called “Cynic hypothesis.” Arnal notes that a comparison of the Qsayings and the sayings of the Cynics is not valuable when simply used to provide a socialdescription of Jesus or the earliest Jesus movement. While Arnal observes several “intel-lectually progressive” results from the Cynic comparison, he argues that it should not beused to defend the idea that the Jesus movement was itinerant.

In the conclusion to the chapter, Arnal turns to the question of why the itinerancyhypothesis has been given such a predominant place in recent reconstructions of Chris-tian origins. Like the possible affinities between Harnack’s “Age of Progress” and hisnotion of early Christianity, Arnal argues “that the main intellectual impulse behind theresurgence of the itinerancy hypothesis is its contemporary resonance (and, indeed, rel-evance)” (p. 59). This “resonance” is explained in a variety of ways, for example: as adesire to see the rise of Christianity as exceptional, charismatic, and/or unique; as part ofa “modern focus on defiance of convention as a truly revolutionary stance” (p. 60);“because it manifests and posits the characteristics of postmodernity” (p. 62); and as“self referential … of the loss of prestige suffered by most academics in recent times” (p.64). While this critique of the scholars who have recently used the itinerancy hypothesismay not be groundless (anthropologists have used similar critiques to describe their cul-tural biases for decades), it is problematic when applied on a very general level toexplain a wide variety of scholars and their work. Arnal’s analysis at the end of ch. 2boarders on being so broadly conceived that it is inadequate as an explanation. Forexample, to conjecture that those scholars who use the itinerancy thesis do so because ofthe general loss of prestige academics experienced at the end of the twentieth century isunhelpful unless accompanied by concrete examples. Additionally, some readers may bedisappointed to find that Arnal does not provide a thorough critique of his own self-referential proclivities and does not explore the “retrojections of contemporary culturalconcerns” that are present in his study.

In ch. 3, Arnal turns to a detailed analysis of the ancient texts that have been usedas evidence for the existence of early Christian itinerants: the Didache and Q. Readersinterested in the redaction and social-historical context of the Didache and the growth


of church “offices” in the first century will be interested in Arnal’s study. His primaryarguments are: (1) Theissen’s “tripartite order of charismatics” (apostles, prophets, andteachers) is not attested in the text as referring to distinct offices, (2) itinerancy andtravel are not clearly defining features of their activity, and (3) even if one argues thatitinerancy is indicated in the text, it is only possible after “an organized, community-based, and translocal set of churches” had been established. After a careful analysis of itsredactional elements, Arnal relates the offices mentioned in the Didache to the develop-ment of early Christian leadership roles found in the Pauline letters and the pseudo-Pauline Pastorals. He argues that Theissen’s reconstruction (beginning with itinerantsand moving toward settled church offices) should be turned on its head. Thus, any hintof itinerant charismatics in the text should not be ascribed to the early period, but to thelatest period of development. In the next section, Arnal observes that any references totravel and uprootedness in Q must be grounded in the social description of Q’s contextin early Roman Galilee. Q’s Mission Speech (as the main source for the idea that the textprovides evidence for itinerant, wandering charismatics) is found to lack proof that itin-erancy was practiced by the people behind Q. Rather, the references to travel need tobe understood both in the larger context of all the sayings of Q, where the “realities ofsettled village life” are of primary concern, and in the social, political, and economic set-ting of Galilee, where the Mission Speech makes better sense as part of a “local agendainvolving short trips,” rather than as describing a wandering charismatic lifestyle.

The remainder of the book is a detailed analysis of the people responsible for Q. Ifnot itinerant charismatics, then who? Chapter 4 examines the effects of the Roman-Herodian policies on the Galilean villages and argues that the most likely group respon-sible for Q was the “small class of literate administrators” (village scribes) who wouldhave been required in the many autonomous towns of early Roman Galilee. The conclu-sion of his socioeconomic survey suggests that with the building of Tiberias there was “amore effective incorporation of the region to the immediate west of the lake into theeconomic orbit of the Roman Empire. The result for the smallholders in that hithertorelatively autonomous area was a more effective collection of taxes, a progressive mone-tization of the economy, increased trade, increased cash cropping, and increased consol-idation of holdings and consequent tenancy” (p. 158). With these observations about thesocial impact of the Herodian policies, Arnal argues that the village scribes were the“most affected by,” “most resentful of,” and “most inclined to react to” the new socio-economic conditions imposed by the Roman administration. He concludes, “While per-haps alienated from the populace by virtue of their involuntary complicity in the neworder, what sources exist suggest that there was enough general resentment of thesocial, economic, and cultural changes enforced by the new regime for these scribes toimagine that their indignation was generally shared by their fellow villagers and thusthat their response to the situation would be shared as well” (pp. 154–55).

Chapter 5 links Arnal’s reconstruction of the social setting of Galilee and the vil-lage scribes with the “rhetoric of uprootedness” found in the sayings of Q (in particular,the earliest phase: Q1). Arnal maintains that the Q group was located in the region ofCapernaum (in agreement with Reed), and, regarding the date of the sayings, contendsthat Q1 derives from “an extremely early and rather isolated phase of the Jesus move-ment as a whole” (p. 168). Considering that Q was a written text, that the authors werefamiliar with literary traditions and rhetorical techniques, and that the language, style,

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and imagery of Q suggest familiarity with administrative (delegating) and teaching situa-tions, Arnal supports his contention that the people behind Q should be located withinthe context of a village-based scribal tradition. He then observes the details of several Qsayings, especially the Beatitudes, in order to illustrate how Q’s “inversionary rhetoric”could have communicated a repudiation of the Galilean social hierarchy. In light of theshifts in socioeconomic conditions that accompanied the Herodian incursions intoGalilee, the group behind Q is characterized as promoting “an ethos of communalism”that encouraged the wealthy “to cease their predatory behavior” (p. 195).

Arnal’s book is innovative and challenging. His careful attention to the archaeolog-ical data is a valuable addition to Reed’s study (reviewed above). Like Sawicki, Arnalconsistently references the benefits and shortfalls of various sociological theories; hisuse of models is critical and well informed. No doubt some readers will be unable to fol-low his carefully constructed proposal of a Q1 community, yet even the reader who is notconvinced of the existence of Q or its redactional stratigraphy will learn much fromArnal’s dedication to logic and his critique of scholarly conventions.

Reed, Sawicki, and Arnal have pushed the analysis of the historical Jesus into thetwenty-first century with credible, interdisciplinary studies that reflect a growing aware-ness of the benefits of archaeology for biblical scholars. Since most Galilean sites areeither unexcavated or only partially excavated, the future remains very bright for morestudies of this nature to press our old reconstructions of Christian origins in new direc-tions. Any reader interested in the current state of historical Jesus research will do wellto begin the quest with these studies.

Milton Moreland, Huntingdon College, Montgomery, AL 36106

Matthew 8–20, by Ulrich Luz. Trans. James E. Crouch. Hermeneia. Minneapolis:Fortress, 2001. Pp. xxxvii + 606. $69.00.

At long last we have more of Ulrich Luz’s brilliant Matthew commentary availablein English translation. The history is a little complicated. Chapters 1–7 of the commen-tary in English translation had already been published by Augsburg in 1989 (German,1985), long before Luz’s commentary was co-opted for the Hermeneia series. In an edi-tor’s note at the beginning of the present volume, Helmut Koester promises a new vol-ume 1 (chs. 1–7) for Hermeneia, to be produced after the publication of volume 3 in theHermeneia series (covering chs. 21–28). The new volume 1 will be a “a revised edition .. . reflecting the author’s changes and including full bibliographic information as well asindices for the entire work” (p. xxxvii).

The present volume contains all of volume 2 of the German EKK (Evangelisch-Katholischer Kommentar zum Neuen Testament) together with about one-third of vol-ume 3 (which covers chs. 18–25). Although volume 2 of the German edition waspublished in 1990 and is hence twelve years old, there is unfortunately no updating in thepresent volume and hence its bibliography is outmoded by more than a decade. It seemsa pity that it was not brought up to date when the obvious occasion of putting it into theHermeneia format presented itself, but this may well be due to the fact that when thepresent volume was being produced Luz was still busy working on the fourth volume.Since volume 3 of the German was published in 1997, the bibliography for chs. 18–20 in


the present volume is not quite so badly out of date. Volume 4 of the German has recentlybeen published and contains the commentary on chs. 26–28, adding now yet anotherdimension, namely, extensive treatment of the influence of Matthew’s passion and resur-rection narratives in the history of art (including many pictures) and even music.

Unquestionably the most unusual and remarkable trait of this commentary is theextensive space given to Wirkungsgeschichte, “history of influence,” that is, examinationof the way in which each pericope has been interpreted throughout the history of thechurch and the cumulative effect of earlier interpretations upon later ones. This pro-vides exceptionally rich insight into what might be called the interpretive potential ofeach passage. Indeed, it was this aspect of the commentary, as Luz worked through thetext, that impacted him in the most significant way. What became increasingly apparentto him in the study of Wirkungsgeschichte was the openness or multivalency of texts andthe extent of the role that the interpreter’s own setting and presuppositions play in theinterpretation of texts. The revolutionary implications for traditional, historical-criticalexegesis in its quest of a single, objective meaning—the intention of the author—havebeen spelled out by Luz in his Matthew as History: Interpretation, Influence and Effects(Minneapolis: Fortress, 1994), which can serve as a companion volume to the commen-tary. The history of interpretation demonstrates that texts can have different meaningsin different contexts. The range of constructive uses of a pericope is in effect virtuallyunlimited.

This does not mean for Luz, however, that any or every interpretation of a text isacceptable. He advocates the use of two criteria that can be used in separating validinterpretations from false ones: correspondence with the essential elements of the his-tory of Jesus and congruence with an expression of love. Because of our inability toarrive at a final, definitive interpretation of any passage, Luz rightly insists upon theimportance of humility and dialogue.

The amount of attention to Wirkungsgeschichte and its significance for interpreta-tion makes this commentary unique. Working my way through it, I was repeatedlystruck by its distinctiveness. Unlike the typical commentator, Luz does not feel obli-gated to comment on every detail of the text in more or less equal depth. Thus at specificpoints one can be surprised, and perhaps even disappointed, by the thinness of treat-ment. One is more than compensated, however, by the fact that Luz effectively cutsthrough to the heart of a passage in such a thought-provoking and productive way. Hefurthermore often provides what amount to mini-essays on the crucial questions raisedby the text.

Without exaggeration I can say that Luz’s commentary must certainly be one of themost interesting commentaries ever written. Others seem dry by comparison. It is not ascholar’s commentary written for other scholars, although unquestionably there isplenty of scholarly detail: three sizes of type are employed; excursuses, detailed discus-sions, and footnotes abound. But this commentary will primarily be a boon to all whoteach or preach, and who are concerned with the application of the text to the present.

As much as I admire and value this wonderful commentary, I must mention twomisgivings. First, despite his lengthy discussion of the subject of miracles in the Gospel(pp. 52–58), to my mind Luz is unconvincing when he concludes that the miracle storiesthat imply a breaking of natural law cannot be understood as referring to what actuallyhappened. They are instead to be understood, he argues, as “designed to make some-

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thing happen” in us (p. 58). Undeniably there is much truth in this latter observation,but what finally are we to make of the narratives themselves? Luz seems controlled bythe enlightenment notion of a closed system of cause and effect that cannot allow fortranscendent or supernatural events. Thus he concludes that whereas “all of the synop-tic healing miracles and exorcisms are conceivable (which does not mean that histori-cally they happened) . . . it is a different matter with nature miracles and raisings of thedead that at the present time probably have to be described as not (not yet?) conceiv-able” (p. 58 n. 34; parentheses are Luz’s).

We are thus bound by the principle of analogy, according to Luz, with the resultthat nothing that is unparalleled in our experience can be accepted as historical. Thisview is reminiscent of the old modernist perspective that is no longer quite as persuasivein our post-Newtonian era as it used to be. Unfortunately, such a perspective hardlyhelps the reader to know what to make of the remarkable story of Jesus as recorded byMatthew, which at so many key points is without analogy. On this point Luz ends upsounding rather like R. Bultmann, with the Gospel in the last analysis amounting to amythological or symbolic story that somehow has relevance to our experience in the pre-sent: in Luz’s language, “events that want to happen again in our understanding” (p. 58).

My other misgiving is that the history of interpretation and the influence of the texttake on an inordinate importance in the commentary. Luz’s understandable fascinationwith Wirkungsgeschichte is what drives the commentary and ultimately dominates thediscussion more than the actual exegesis of the text of Matthew. The reason for this isnot hard to see, given Luz’s remark that “the principle of the history of effects seems torender impossible an authoritative function of its original meaning” (Matthew as History[p. 76], cited above).

Luz’s philosophy is spelled out in his discussion of 16:13–20, where he writes thefollowing: “In this commentary, as a Protestant struggling with the predominance of‘sola scriptura,’ I advocate a hermeneutics of the ‘trajectory’ of biblical texts and repeat-edly have made myself the advocate of new discoveries of the potential of biblical textsin new situations. The meaning of a biblical text for me consists not merely in the repro-duction of its original sense but in the production of new meanings in new situationsguided by the trajectory of the texts and supported by the totality of the Christian faith”(p. 372; italics are Luz’s).

What concerns me is that Luz puts the “new meanings” of a text on the same levelas the “original sense.” The result is that what the author may have intended or, moreexactly, what the implied author attempts to say in the text, is regarded as having no spe-cial importance but as merely one option among others for the interpretation of a text.Like a work of art, the text has a life and meaning of its own apart from its creator. Inkeeping with this poststructuralist perspective, Luz does not distinguish between mean-ing and significance, i.e., between what the text meant and what the text means, orbetween interpretation and application. They are one and the same to him. Texts, to besure, can often be read in more than one way, as Luz shows us. But to my mind it is stillworth attempting to establish the original sense of a passage—with all the admittedproblems in so doing—and then to discuss the degree to which applications of a text indifferent, later situations may or may not be valid, and the extent to which the text mayremain polyvalent to our present understanding.

It is of course naive to suggest that any interpreter can be neutral in approaching a


text, or to deny that the meaning of a text is to some extent constituted in the very act ofreading itself. But even with the admission of these important caveats, it seems unfortu-nate to suggest that we have no access to the original sense of a passage or, that even ifwe do, what the implied author wants to say has no privilege in the interpretation of atext. Should not the attempted exegesis of the text in its original historical meaning haveprimacy in a commentary rather than how the text has been understood over the pasttwo millennia of church history, as enriching as such insights can be? For those whowant a commentary that attempts to exegete the text itself rather than exploring the his-tory of interpretation of the text, Luz may therefore at times disappoint. Paradoxically,therefore, it may be that the very strength of the commentary is at the same time itsAchilles’ heel.

Because of its heavy emphasis on Wirkungsgeschichte, Luz’s commentary is revo-lutionary. It is not saying too much to conclude that it virtually redefines the genre ofcommentary altogether. It is at the same time, however, deeply perceptive, highly infor-mative, even entertaining. It is full of wisdom and mature insight, as well as respect forthe Christian faith as manifested through the centuries. It is, in short, a masterpiece, andit will rightly take its place as indispensable in the study of the Gospel of Matthew.

Donald A. Hagner, Fuller Theological Seminary, Pasadena, CA 91182

Corinth, The First City of Greece: An Urban History of Late Antique Cult and Religion,by Richard M. Rothaus. Religions in the Graeco-Roman World 139. Leiden: Brill, 2000.Pp. x + 173. $75.00 (cloth).

Readers may well wonder whether a book whose subject matter lies outside theordinary purview of NT studies deserves notice. Rothaus looks at Corinth in the fourththrough sixth centuries, only occasionally touching on earlier centuries. Yet the bookmerits attention, and not simply because its geographical focus is near and dear to thehearts of those interested in the first urban Christians. What the author undertakes hasobvious ramifications for NT scholars: he writes a history of religion in Corinth and itsenvirons (Kenchreai, Isthmia, Lechaion), focusing on the interaction between polythe-ism and Christianity; he bases this history on the rich archaeological record of theCorinthia and attempts to integrate it with the literary record; and, as he leads readersthrough the many categories of archaeological data, he evaluates excavation reports andchallenges many of the reigning interpretations of the data. Thus, the book, which is notwithout serious flaws, is significant to NT scholars for several reasons. First, Rothausoffers synthetic and integrative treatment of a topic that lacks such studies. Second, hemodels the kind of history writing NT scholars would do well to emulate as they situateearly Christian communities socially. In addition, the book is a serviceable map both toCorinth’s archaeological record and to the excavations that unearthed and assembled it,making it as relevant to scholars of early Roman Corinth as to scholars of late antiquity.

The book has nine chapters, the first two of which serve as an introduction to thebody of the study in chs. 3–8. Chapter 1, “Reconsidering Late Antique Religion,” offersa seven-page statement of how Rothaus approaches his subject. The book’s focus is cul-tic practice, because the material record speaks more directly about religious activitythan about religious beliefs. From this perspective, Rothaus finds the labels Christian

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and pagan understood as mutually exclusive categories inappropriate. For at Corinththere appears to be a range of cultic activities, some of which both Christians and poly-theists could perform. The second introductory chapter, “The Late Antique City,” intro-duces us to Corinth in the late Roman period. There, in twenty-one pages, Rothauscharacterizes the social and political realities of late antique Roman Greece generally.Then he turns to the archaeological record to document the Corinthian situation. Fromthe fourth to the sixth centuries, the city suffered significant damage on occasion,brought about by seismic or (perhaps) barbarian activity, and its civic center underwentmajor alteration. Yet Rothaus also finds evidence of its resilience, general prosperity,and remarkable continuity with earlier centuries. For instance, he finds little evidencefor the building of rural villas and thus no sign of the decentralization that overtook thewestern empire at this time.

The next six chapters, the heart of the book, use Corinth’s considerable (thoughfragmentary) material record to characterize the changing religious topography ofCorinth and other nearby sites in the late Roman period. The major religious change ofthe time was the christianization of the empire and the concomitant decline of polythe-ism, and Rothaus is keen to characterize that shift on Corinthian soil. Contrary to whatthe growing hegemony of Christianity might suggest, Rothaus sees polytheism main-taining its vitality in Corinth, although it does change. Thus, Rothaus seeks to showthroughout the body of the book that it is most accurate to speak of Christianity andpolytheism coexisting, not of the former superseding or wiping out the latter, in lateRoman Corinth.

Two chapters, the third and the eighth, articulate this position the most clearly andfully. In ch 3, “Broken Temples,” Rothaus observes that Corinth’s many temples hadbeen demolished or destroyed by the late fourth or early fifth century. The demise ofthe temples did not signal the Christian conquest of pagan Corinth, however. Rothausoffers evidence of traditional cultic practices surviving at several sites, albeit on a dimin-ished scale, documenting this continuity most fully at the Asklepios temple. At the sametime, Christian burials were taking place at the perimeter of these former temple sites,which suggests to Rothaus some level of interaction between Christian and polytheisticCorinthianses change. Thus, Rothaus seeksre atism, oumenting TwoPhristiani From

places Rothaus regards as strategically and symbolically important. These chaptersstress the ambiguity of the material record, for Rothaus is not convinced that monumen-tal church building marked the mass conversion of Corinthians to the new faith. Rather,he sees basilica construction as evidence of imperial determination to christianize theempire.

Chapter 9, the book’s conclusion, reiterates this last point and sets it alongside theevidence presented in other chapters for the long cohabitation of Christians and poly-theists in Corinth. Rothaus stresses that christianization, which did eventually help todisplace polytheism, came from the top down. No local groundswell for Christianitypushed the process along, for the Corinthians seemed to carry out Christian and poly-theistic practices side by side, and likely did not distinguish between them.

A critique of the book begins by noting that this summary of Rothaus’s main argu-ment lends a coherence and clarity to the book that it often lacks. The source of thesedeficiencies is twofold, the first being the book’s poor organization. Chapter 1, forinstance, which considers the relationship between polytheistic and Christian culticpractices, gives some idea of the book’s approach, but is much too brief to serve as a the-oretical preface to the entire study. These seven pages logically belong at the beginningof ch. 8, a very short chapter, as a methodological introduction to Rothaus’s treatment ofthe finds at the Fountain of Lamps, where the issue of the overlap between Christianand polytheistic cultic activity is central.

Clarity and coherence also suffer from an ill-considered employment of theorythat ranges from superfluous to inadequate. The book’s opening pages introduce math-ematical set theory to define the relationship between polytheistic and Christian culticpractices, but such a framework is hardly needed to describe the relationship betweenthem. In fact, it clouds the issue instead of clarifying it. On the other hand, at severalpoints Rothaus needs to ground his discussion in a theoretical framework but fails to doso, at least adequately. His speculation in ch. 7 about what prompted Christians to muti-late statues rests on the claim that ancients attributed power to them, an assertion herepeats several times without defining the term “power” or exploring why art of this sortwould have attracted it. Likewise, when he discusses Christian basilica construction andtheir location in ch. 6, he talks about the control of liminal areas and sacralizing the land-scape with little explanation of what he means and why such notions are relevant. Betterorganization and thorough treatment of method at the start could have brought the bookgreater unity and saved it from being theoretically scattered. (On a related note, closerediting would have caught the book’s numerous typographical errors, missing biblio-graphical entries, and a serious lacuna between pages 18 and 19.)

The book also seems dated, even to a reviewer who does not specialize in lateantiquity. Rothaus distinguishes his understanding of Christian–polytheistic relationsfrom interpretive positions that no longer rule the field; he sets up his picture of anevolving but nevertheless vital polytheism displaced only gradually by Christianityagainst the view that Christianity overwhelmed a moribund paganism or that imperialdisfavor meant its quick demise. Two decades of scholarship have taken issue with theseviews, however, and it is telling that Rothaus makes no reference to important recentstudies, such as Pierre Chuvin’s A Chronicle of the Last Pagans (Cambridge, Mass.:Harvard University Press, 1990), Peter Brown’s Authority and the Sacred: Aspects of theChristianisation of the Roman World (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995),

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and Ramsay Macmullen’s Christianity and Paganism in the Fourth to Eighth Centuries(New Haven: Yale University Press, 1997). The book is based on a 1993 dissertation, butthat hardly excuses it from such major bibliographical gaps and inattention to the stateof late antique scholarship.

If Rothaus’s study deserves to be read, it is not because it is a magisterial and com-pelling study of late antiquity. It does offer valuable insights into the local religious situ-ation in late Roman Corinth, but what NT scholars will find useful is its informed,critical, and self-deprecating viewpoint—that of an archaeologically savvy historian whoknows his way around Corinth’s material record and offers frank assessments of the pub-lished reports and the excavations that produced them, who at the same time is honestabout the merits of his own speculative reconstructions of religious life in the ancientMediterranean world.

Although the book is methodologically flawed, there exists no historical study ofreligion at Corinth so well informed by the archaeological record. The treatment of reli-gion in Donald Engels’s study of Roman Corinth, for instance, is perhaps the weakestchapter (5) in a book that was not well received by historians or Corinthian archaeolo-gists (Roman Corinth: An Alternative for the Classical City [Chicago: University ofChicago Press, 1990]). (Rothaus finds Engels full of factual errors and off base in his useof archaeological data.) Oddly, what promised to be the definitive study of Corinthianreligion in the Roman era, an article by archaeologist James Wiseman for Aufstieg undNiedergang der römischen Welt II.18.2 (delayed to 18.4, then 18.6), will never appear.

We must depend on Rothaus to correlate data from various sites and to comparethe material and literary records, so as to reach a synthetic and integrated view ofCorinthian religion. This is no easy undertaking, and what Rothaus comes up with, whileilluminating and usually worth considering, is not always convincing. Yet when he is con-vincing, such as his treatment of religion at Kenchreai (ch. 4), NT scholars should takenote. Pausanias mentioned sanctuaries of Aphrodite and Isis there, and the chief excava-tor of the site, Robert Scranton, identified these with buildings in two excavation areas.Rothaus rejects these identifications, contending that Pausanias’s brief account “cannotbe used to identify the structures excavated at Kenchreai” (p. 66), and he makes a strongcase for the so-called sanctuaries actually being a urban villa and nymphaeum, respec-tively. In so doing, he offers an instructive lesson in the hazards of fitting the materialrecord to ancient literature. Moreover, if Rothaus’s alternative interpretation is correct,existing portraits of Egyptian religion in the Corinthia, such as Dennis Smith’s article inHTR 70 (1977): 201–31 on Egyptian cults at Corinth, need revision.

As these last comments indicate, what makes Corinth: The First City of Greeceinvaluable to NT scholars is not only the close attention it gives to coordinating theancient literary and archaeological records and its serviceability as a guide to the latter.The book also voices much needed judgments about existing archaeological interpreta-tions and about the quality and reliability of final reports and the excavations that pro-duced them. The Corinth Excavations recently celebrated a century of excavation atancient Corinth and has produced eighteen sizable volumes of final reports (many withseveral parts) since 1929. Excavations at Kenchreai and Isthmia have a shorter historybut have also published many substantial volumes. All told, preliminary and final reportsalong with numerous specialized studies constitute a vast material record in print, to saynothing of the materials yet to be published. Naturally, these publications vary in qual-


ity, as did the excavation work behind them. Furthermore, decades of research subse-quent to the earliest volumes have sometimes rendered their interpretive sections partlyor largely out of date. Unfortunately but understandably, contemporary Corinthianarchaeologists are reticent to draw attention to flaws in final reports—sometimes themajor scholarly achievement of their mentors or colleagues—so Rothaus’s knowledge-able and candid assessments are indispensable. For example, it is important for NTscholars to know that Corinth’s Asklepios temple was well dug and well published,whereas the forum’s Temple E was not (which may account for the ongoing disputeamong archaeologists as to whether it was a temple to the imperial cult or a capitolium).What Rothaus offers, then, is not simply a roadmap to the Corinthian archaeologicalrecord but also a Michelin guide that evaluates it.

Rothaus’s competence in many categories of archaeological data—topography,architecture, pottery, lamps, sculpture—makes the book a fine primer for NT scholars,who generally know little about the subject. His book will be of obvious interest to stu-dents of Paul and the Corinthian correspondence. While many scholars have tappedCorinth’s epigraphical record, as limited as it is (e.g., Andrew D. Clarke, Secular andChristian Leadership in Corinth: A Socio-Historical and Exegetical Study of 1 Corinthi-ans 1-6 [AGJU 18; Leiden: Brill, 1993]), such is not the case with other types of data. Wehave begun to see studies using a fuller range of data, such as Peter Gooch’s study of cul-tic dining in Corinth (Dangerous Food: 1 Corinthians 8-10 in Its Context [Studies inChristianity and Judaism 5; Waterloo, ON: Wilfrid Laurier University Press, 1993]). Yetmost NT scholarship, even recent social-historical and sociological studies of Paul andthe Christian community at Corinth, continues to pay insufficient attention to archaeol-ogy, even though it is a rich source of information about the social realities of the city inthe early Roman era (e.g., Robert M. Grant, Paul in the Roman World: The Conflict atCorinth [Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2001]; Bruce W. Winter, After Paul LeftCorinth: The Influence of Secular Ethics and Social Change [Grand Rapids: Eerdmans,2001]). It is especially disappointing to see a new and exhaustive commentary (1,146pages!) on 1 Corinthians (Anthony Thiselton, The First Epistle to the Corinthians: ACommentary on the Greek Text [NIGTC; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2000]) give lip ser-vice to Corinth’s archaeological record after the appearance sixteen years ago of VictorPaul Furnish’s commentary on 2 Corinthians, which made Corinth’s material recordwidely known and showed its importance (II Corinthians [AB 32A; Garden City, NY:Doubleday, 1984]). Perhaps Rothaus can help remedy this lamentable situation.

Why such inconsistency in NT scholarship’s use of Corinthian archaeology? Com-ments in Rothaus’s book make it clear that this spotty attention to the material recordmay not result solely from NT scholarship’s failing. At several points Rothaus reports thedifficulty he had gaining access to excavation notebooks and excavated material—evengetting responses to straightforward questions and simple requests. As the book opens,he condemns the proprietary disposition of many Corinthian archaeologists, which hasresulted in the closeting of data and stifling of open inquiry. If a relative insider encoun-tered such resistance, it would not be surprising to learn of NT scholars with archaeolog-ical interests snubbed by excavators who have no scruples about restricting accessto—hence controlling interpretation of—“their” data. Here again Rothaus proves aknowing guide to those uninformed about the world of Corinthian archaeology.

Richard E. DeMaris, Valparaiso University, Valparaiso, IN 46383

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The Religion of Paul the Apostle, by John Ashton. New Haven/London: Yale UniversityPress, 2000. Pp. x + 261. $28.50

The Oxford scholar John Ashton is well known for his work on the Fourth Gospel.With this book, Ashton turns his attention to Paul. Ashton attempts to understand theapostle’s religious life by comparing Paul’s experiences with shamanism. In so doing,Ashton hopes to shed light not only on Paul’s religion but also on the genesis and earlygrowth of the Christian religion as a whole.

Following an initial chapter that defends his comparative approach, Ashton’s chap-ters examine “Paul the Enigma,” “Paul the Convert,” “Paul the Mystic,” “Paul the Apos-tle,” “Paul the Prophet,” and “Paul the Possessed.” Ashton also includes excursuses onJesus as a shaman, merkabah mysticism, Albert Schweitzer’s Mysticism of Paul theApostle, and the historicity of Acts. Together the chapters and excursuses make theargument that (1) we need an approach to Paul that does justice to the distinctively mys-tical and religious character of his career; (2) a comparison with shamanism providessuch a method; and (3) the application of this method reveals that Paul’s effectivenessand Christianity’s early growth were largely due to demonstrations of spiritual power.

Ashton is uneasy with a tendency among NT scholars to overlook the specificallyreligious dimension of Paul’s writings and career. Ashton positions himself in line withAdolf Deissmann’s claim that scholars of his day had transferred Paul from his primarysphere of vital religion to the secondary sphere of theology. Ashton builds upon Her-mann Gunkel’s theory that Paul’s own life must provide the key to his teaching on thespiritual life. The author laments that even when scholars attempt to describe Paul’sreligion, such as Albert Schweitzer’s Mysticism of Paul the Apostle and E. P. Sanders’sPaul and Palestinian Judaism, they still tend to focus on his theology and on Paul as atheologian. In the case of Schweitzer and Sanders, Ashton relies somewhat heavily upontheir interpretations of Paul’s thought, but he faults these scholars for concentratingtheir arguments too exclusively on what Paul believed instead of what he experienced.In agreement with Schweitzer’s Mysticism of Paul the Apostle, to which Ashton’s titlealludes, Ashton wants to steer away from the theological categories of the Reformation.But Ashton complains that “Schweitzer’s mysticism is curiously cerebral” and decrieshow Schweitzer starts with Paul’s conceptual framework instead of his life. Ashton con-curs with Schweitzer and Sanders that being “in Christ” is a more important expressionin Paul’s thought than justification by faith. However, whereas Schweitzer characterizedthe center of Paulinism as “the mystical doctrine of redemption through the being-in-Christ,” Ashton says the center is “the mystical sense of glorification through transfor-mation in Christ.” The change from doctrine to sense is essential for Ashton. Ashton alsocriticizes Sanders’s comparison of Paul’s pattern of religion with that of PalestinianJudaism, suggesting that Sanders “takes the confusion even further” than Schweitzer.Ashton complains that Paul’s pattern of religion turns out to be, in Sanders’s work,Paul’s theology of salvation instead of his religious experiences. Sanders contends thatwe must be content with concentrating on how religion appears in Jewish and Paulinethought, but this does not satisfy Ashton. We may note that Ashton’s approach to thereligious dimension is a noteworthy contrast to Troels Engberg-Pederson’s recent book,Paul and the Stoics (Louisville: John Knox, 2000). Engberg-Pederson acknowledgesboth the religious and theological aspects of the texts but consciously chooses the theo-logical route because he declares it to be the only one available. By contrast, Ashton


argues that the religious and experiential domain is the one that merits attention andtakes us to the essence of the apostle’s work.

Asserting that he has found a method to examine the experiences that lie beneathPaul’s thought, Ashton takes up the comparison with shamanism. The author anticipatesthe concern that many scholars might not take seriously a book that compares Paul’sreligion with shamanism. He readily acknowledges that Paul was not himself a shaman;unlike a shaman, Paul was a missionary whose authority went beyond a local community.The book includes no case for a causal connection between the apostle and shamanism,although the author explores the possibility. Instead, the comparison with shamanism isa heuristic device for entering imaginatively into Paul’s life and world. Using descrip-tions of shamans’ careers supplied by Mircea Eliade and Ioan Lewis, Ashton places hisfinger on numerous similarities between what we know about such figures across a vari-ety of cultures and what we learn of Paul’s experiences through his letters and Acts.Shamans, like Paul, usually receive a call through a traumatic experience. The authoralso notes the frequency of otherworldly journeys, much like Paul’s in 2 Cor 12:2–4 and1 Cor 5:3–4 (which Ashton calls experiences of merkabah mysticism). Also, for shamansand Paul, a career of power and authority over spirits follows the call. Ashton detects apicture shared by Acts and Paul’s letters of the apostle as a miracle worker and master ofspiritual powers.

For Ashton’s argument, the key similarities between Paul’s religious experienceand shamanism are the traumatic call and the spiritual power that follows the distress ofthe call. Ashton gives what happened to Paul on the Damascus road a pride of place andmakes it the starting point for all of Paul’s experience and teaching. Ashton calls Paul’sDamascus experience “a shamanistic type of initiation” and “a kind of dying and rising”that was determinative for the rest of Paul’s experience and thought. Despite Paul’sinfrequent allusions to this occurrence, Ashton declares that Paul’s experience of his callor conversion was the principal subject of his letters’ reflections.

A word about Ashton’s use of Acts will lead us to the third part of his argument.Ashton calls “purists” those who will not use Paul’s descriptions of his call in Acts. Heargues that in Acts we find the precious testimony of what Paul’s call meant to his fellowbelievers, some of whom may have been Paul’s personal friends. Ashton argues thatsuch an interpretation of Paul’s call is valid alongside Paul’s own letters. It is not thatAshton takes Acts at face value. He gives more historical weight to those elements thatdo not fit Acts’ chief theological agendas. A case in point is Paul’s practice of proving thatJesus is the Messiah by means of Scripture, which Ashton considers part of Luke’s theo-logical project. Whereas Acts 18:4 says that Paul continually persuaded Jews and Greeksin the synagogue at Corinth, Ashton finds it historically unlikely that a stranger fromabroad would turn anyone into a convert through theological arguments. Moreover,Paul himself says in 1 Cor 2:4 and 2 Cor 12:12 that instead of persuasive words, he useda display of spiritual power, which fits Luke’s description of Paul’s ministry in Ephesusand elsewhere. In contrast to historians who limit themselves to Paul’s letters and thenonmagical parts of Acts, Ashton finds the miraculous feats of particular importance forfinding the key to Paul’s evangelistic success. Ashton argues that Paul’s exorcisms andmagical cures drew attention to his message. Supporting the general picture supplied byRamsay Macmullen and Peter Brown, Ashton argues that exorcisms and prodigiousfeats brought about Christianity’s expansion. The author suggests that we must suspend

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not only disbelief but also distaste if we want to understand Paul’s effectiveness as anapostle and the growth of the early church.

While Ashton is likely correct that Paul’s experience on the Damascus road col-ored the whole of his subsequent life, he pushes the limits too far regarding how muchwe can know about Paul’s experience before his call and how Paul understood this piv-otal occurrence. Building upon Ioan Lewis’s supposition that the shaman’s vocation fol-lows a royal road from affliction to cure, Ashton suggests that Paul went through atroubled period immediately preceding his conversion and thinks that we can know agood deal about it. The upshot of this approach is too much hypothetical psychologizingwithout a secure basis in historical data. I could not help wondering if the author had, inat least some measure, contrived Paul’s experiences before his call so as to fit Lewis’saccount of the typical shaman’s career. It is for good reason that scholars like Schweitzerand Sanders have focused their attention on Paul’s thought in order to describe his reli-gion. We simply have far more data available for that.

It is difficult to decide if Ashton wages a polemic against theological readings ofPaul’s letters or if he primarily seeks to offer a corrective to what he perceives to be aone-sided emphasis on Paul’s theology. The author argues that to understand Paul, weneed to give clear primacy to his religious experience over his theology. Ashton believesthat Paul’s life is the best means for understanding his thought, and he frequently statesthat he only desires to offer an alternative means for understanding the apostle. How-ever, at other times he also places the study of religious experience and theology atalmost opposite poles. One might ask whether the latter is necessary. Paul was, ofcourse, not a systematic theologian. For Paul, God had intervened in the world and con-tinued to do so. Such events provoked experiences, feelings, and theological reflection.Must we place these in opposition to one another? When the book comes across as apolemic against theology, one wonders how much this is due to Ashton’s own theologicalposition: “Paul clearly thinks of Christ as a kind of spiritual presence. Most of this is,strictly speaking, nonsense” (p. 138). When the book appears to offer a supplementarymeans for understanding the apostle, Ashton’s work is frequently enlightening andsometimes profound.

Despite the caveats, the book has its genius. The portrait of Paul’s religious life andthe comparison with shamanism enable us to enter imaginatively into Paul’s life andworld. Ashton provides a window to help us witness the historical Paul as a real first-century missionary who was possessed by Jesus Christ. Even if Ashton occasionally exag-gerates the comparison with shamanism, he succeeds in making the case that thecomparison is fruitful. Ashton’s study leads the reader down a path to understandingPaul’s relation to the realm of spirits in a world where belief in such beings pervadedpeople’s lives. In Ashton’s case, the descriptions bring a freshness to Paul’s way of expe-riencing his religious life. For example, the Spirit is like electric power imparted throughthe gospel, and the Spirit is the key to Paul’s mastery of other spirits in his evangelisticwork. Moreover, the phenomenon of spirit possession sheds light on Paul’s language ofoccupation (Rom 6–8) and what he meant by being “in Christ.” Finally, Ashton presentsa forceful case when he argues that Paul’s mastery in the realm of spirits was the key tohis effectiveness as a missionary. Even if readers do not completely accept this claim,Ashton’s argument will persuade readers that this aspect of Paul’s ministry was at least afundamental ingredient of Paul’s success.


The Religion of Paul the Apostle is a significant book because it makes stridestoward doing justice to the specifically religious character of the Pauline writings. Thistype of endeavor deserves more attention. We may recognize that the apostle Paul waspossessed by Jesus Christ, but how can we best describe this? The words of MeisterEckhart, whom Ashton quotes, get at the difficulty: “If I have spoken of it, I have notspoken of it, for it is ineffable.” The enduring appreciation of Schweitzer’s Mysticism is atribute to the worthiness of this attempt to describe the religious dimension of Paul’scareer. While Ashton’s book manifests limitations that go along with trying to describeand label matters that are somewhat beyond reach, the author is a learned historian andinterpreter who is to be commended for his bold, lively, and well-written book.

Dustin W. Ellington, Duke University, Durham, NC 27708

Paul and the Salvation of the Individual, by Gary W. Burnett. Biblical InterpretationSeries 57. Leiden: Brill, 2001. Pp. vii + 246. $89.00.

The purpose of this volume is to redress a perceived imbalance in Pauline scholar-ship. Burnett believes that both the New Perspective on Paul and social-scientific inter-pretation, while sometimes helpfully illuminating Paul’s concern for groups (e.g., Jews,Gentiles), neglect or deny Paul’s valuation of the individual.

I am sympathetic with Burnett’s charge that recent studies have sometimes erasedthe individual in an attempt to understand early Christianity, but this agreement onlyheightens my disappointment in his failure to address the issue clearly, thoroughly, andfruitfully. Unfortunately, Burnett’s inadequate definition of “individual” hampers theproject from the start, limiting the scope of the project and preventing him from engag-ing with Paul fully. In the introductory chapter he explains that he seeks to understandPaul’s concern for “the individual qua individual, irrespective of social or, indeed, histor-ical identity” (p. 10). Thus, Burnett does not seek to uncover Paul’s attitude toward theindividual in relationship with others and how the individual acts as a creative force(either negatively or positively) in shaping society and culture; rather, he wants to knowPaul’s attitude toward the individual without regard to the individual’s relationship withothers, the “individual qua individual.” This reaction against group-focused studies is fartoo extreme, however, and the disappointing but unsurprising result is that Paul’s con-cern for the “individual qua individual” is discovered only in the universality of thegospel: all persons are individually responsible for sin and all persons are individuallysaved by faith. He states, “The fact, however, that faith has now been removed from anethnic or strictly community setting . . . and can be exercised by any person . . . throwsthe spotlight on the individual and his or her personal response” (p. 165). And again,“the universality of his gospel gives it an a priori emphasis on the individual” (p.167).

The book is in two parts. Part 1 seeks to provide a social-scientific (ch. 2) and his-torical (chs. 3–5) basis for the exegesis of three texts in Romans in part 2. The survey ofcontemporary social-scientific thought on the individual is brief but adequate. He cor-rectly draws attention to Anthony Cohen’s critique of the tendency in the social sciencesto submerge the individual and to reify culture, and he is correct that the same tendencyexists among some biblical scholars. Cohen’s “primacy of the self” thesis properly high-lights the self-consciousness and individuality of persons, which rightly regards them as

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agents of culture. Burnett summarizes, “For Cohen, culture is quite simply the productof thinking selves, which filter and process their social experiences through their ownperceptions” (p. 24). However, Burnett fails to maintain Cohen’s concern for the indi-vidual as an agent of culture, as well as his careful definitions. Three chapters that surveythe “increase in individualism” in the Hellenistic world as seen in ancient philosophyand religion follow. This shift highlights the need for definitions. Since the terms “indi-vidual” and “individuality” and “individualism” (as well as “individualist” and “individu-alistic”) can easily become confusing, clear definitions would have helped the reader,especially since even Burnett appears to confuse the terms at times (cf. pp. 87, 159).Given his repeated assertions that individualism was “on the increase” (e.g., pp. 57, 218),it would be helpful to know what specifically was increasing. It is also unclear what hemeans when he speaks of ancient persons having “a lively sense of the individual” (p. 57)or there being “high degrees of individuality” in Mediterranean society (p. 52). Further-more, and perhaps more significantly, he fails to engage satisfactorily contemporaryscholarship on the discussion of individualism in the ancient world, limiting his concernto signs or suggestions of its existence rather than to a discussion of its meaning andvalue to ancient persons. Attention to this matter might have rescued the project. Atleast since the early 1980s with Michel Foucault’s Histoire de la sexualité, Le souci de soi(Paris: Gallimard, 1984) scholarly discussion of the individual and individualism in theancient world has focused its attention on the various attitudes expressed by ancient per-sons regarding the value of the individual and individualism. Luther Martin, for exam-ple, has claimed that ancient attitudes (expressed in religion and philosophy) towardindividualism were predominantly negative, stating, “the emergence of individualism. . . presented rather a problematic to be solved” (Technologies of the Self [Amherst:University of Massachusetts, 1988], 50). The difference in approach can be seen in thedifferent examples they cite. Burnett cites the atypical individualistic exploits of Achillesin the Iliad in order to demonstrate the existence of individualism in the ancient world;whereas Martin cites the wanderings of Lucius, the “Hellenistic Everyman,” inApuleius’s Golden Ass, wandering in search of salvation from his unique identity, inorder to understand a typical attitude toward individualism. Martin does not deny thatindividualism existed in the ancient world; his concern is to understand the value placedon it, but Burnett fails to appreciate this point and dismisses his anti-individualism thesisas irrelevant (pp. 7–8).

A similar lack of engagement is reflected in Burnett’s use of Christopher Pelling’sstudy of Thucydides (“Conclusion,” in Characterisation and Individuality in Greek Lit-erature [ed. C. Pelling; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1990]). He cites Pelling’s con-clusions as evidence for the existence of individualism in Athens (pp. 33ff.), failing tonotice, however, that Pelling had emphasized Thucydides’ moralizing treatment of indi-vidualism as a negative cultural characteristic that led to the fall of Athens. This failureto interact with contemporary scholarship is most unfortunate, however, in his treat-ment of Christopher Gill, who, during the past twenty years, has produced an impres-sive and important body of work on the subject of ancient persons, theorizing that theancient Greek notion of the self was more “objective-participant” than “subjective-indi-vidualist.” Burnett distorts and dismisses Gill in little more than one page (pp. 34f.),which is especially ironic given the potential of Gill’s “objective-participant” view forilluminating and clarifying Burnett’s categorization of the Mediterranean as an essen-


tially “collectivist society” with individualistic behavior becoming more pronounced (p.56). In particular, Gill’s study of the four-personae theory of Cicero in de Officiis mightwell have benefited Burnett’s work. Finally, Burnett treats Bruce Malina’s work on thedyadic nature of ancient persons with contempt: “What are we to make of Malina’s firstcentury individual . . . ? Such a person would be a shell of a human being, a social droneincapable of the behaviour that makes us truly human” (p. 45). Admittedly Malina some-times states his views in an unguarded fashion, but this absurd distortion of his ideas isinappropriate. This decision to ignore the dyadic quality of human existence, rather thanto consider it fairly, further hastens Burnett down the wrong road.

In part 2 Burnett intends to apply the conclusions of part 1 to Paul, but it is appar-ent that only Cohen’s “primacy of the self” thesis finds use here, unfortunately, however,only in truncated form. The failure in chapters 3 through 5 to grapple with ancient atti-tudes toward the meaning and value of the individual and individualism leaves Burnettwithout a significant contextual entry point for discerning Paul’s valuation, resulting in ashort-circuited effort that ultimately offers little more than confirmation that Paul rec-ognized the individuality of persons (p. 138) (that is, that persons are self-conscious, cre-ative agents), without any analysis of Paul’s valuation of the specific expressions of thatindividuality in the creative shaping of culture. Burnett might have examined, for exam-ple, 1 Corinthians, which provides an abundance of material for such a study, with Paulpromoting the creative agency of individuals to shape their culture in specific ways (e.g.,1 Cor 12–14), while also recognizing that this same individuality can be expressed innegative ways (e.g., 1 Cor 5–11). Romans too provides potent examples for analysis(5:12–21; 12:1–15:13). Instead, however, he restricts his study to three salvation pas-sages in Romans. Before analyzing these passages, by which he seeks to demonstratethat Paul had a “lively interest” in the individual (p. 215), Burnett surveys the field ofRomans studies (ch. 8), demonstrating the overwhelming interest in corporate mattersin Paul (e.g., the relationship between Jew and Gentile) among contemporary scholars,including Tom Wright, James Dunn, E. P. Sanders, Will Campbell, A. J. M. Wedder-burn, J. C. Beker, Francis Watson, Mark Nanos, Stanley Stowers, and Neil Elliott. Bur-nett does not deny that Paul has corporate concerns, he claims instead that theconsensus view exceeds Paul’s corporate concerns and neglects his concern for the indi-vidual. Again, I agree with this assessment of the state of Pauline scholarship; however,the more balanced assessment Burnett desires (p. 221) eludes him, as a result of his con-cern only for the “individual qua individual” and not for the individual as a creative agentshaping the collective. Chapter 7, a study of Rom 1:16–17, argues that Paul understoodsalvation to be a personal matter of faith, realized by the deliberate choice of a self-con-scious individual. “The defining criterion of the new community of ‘faith’ of necessityputs the spotlight firmly on the individual. Faith implies a personal, cognitive responseon the part of individuals, and necessitates individual and deliberate choice” (p. 147).Similarly, in ch. 8 Burnett argues that Rom 3:21–28 reveals Paul’s concern for individu-als because there he identifies the human problem (sin) and the divine solution (faith) asdirected toward the individual. Again, however, Burnett offers no more than recogni-tion of individuality in truncated form. He states, “Response to God by a people oper-ates first and foremost at the level of the individual—trust and confidence are mental,cognitive processes that originate in individual brains—and faithful obedience is carriedout by individuals as deliberate, willful action” (p. 154). Undoubtedly it is true that faith,

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trust, and faithfulness are the acts of a self-conscious individual, but they are always actsof an individual in relationship with others. This discussion of faith cries out for attentionto Paul’s regard for the value of the individual in relationship and in community. Thecovenantal, communal, corporate nature of faith surfaces repeatedly in the discussion ofthe relevant texts, and Burnett is well aware of this, as his discussion of faith in the OTreveals (pp. 149–54), yet he steadfastly refuses to allow these passages to “deflect” himfrom his purpose and influence his understanding of the individual as viewed in Scrip-ture and in Paul. He can write, “The fact that the covenant underpins Paul’s theologicalreflection and what he has to say about faith should not deflect us from recognizing theindividual relevance of his theology” (sic, p. 167). Finally (ch. 9), according to Burnett,Rom 7:7–25 demonstrates Paul’s concern for the “individual qua individual,” becausethe experience expressed there is necessarily the experience of an individual person nota group. According to Burnett the passage describes the experience of any individualperson whose life is lived by the law and is, therefore, a “grave warning” to his readers,“both Jew and Gentile . . . of the dangers of slipping back into a law-observant religion”(p. 212). “Paul’s argument works primarily at the level of the individual, where it is theindividual who struggles with sin within and the sense of what he ought to do . . . Paulonce again has the individual and personal aspects of salvation clearly in mind” (p. 214).

Since Burnett purports to offer a critique of the New Perspective on Paul regard-ing its neglect of the individual, and given his emphasis on the salvation of the individ-ual, it is striking that he takes no position on or even discusses James D. G. Dunn’sinfluential claims concerning justification, righteousness, and “works of the law.” Dothese works refer to an individual’s attempt to attain righteousness by legal obedience,as the traditional view maintains, or do they refer to a group’s attempt to preservenational righteousness through the maintenance of group boundaries, as the New Per-spective avers? Does Burnett agree with Dunn that “the need to attain one’s own righ-teousness was no part of traditional Jewish teaching” (Theology of Paul [Grand Rapids:Eerdmans, 1998], 369)? Or does he agree with the critics of the New Perspective whoclaim that Paul reveals the existence of elements of works-righteousness within the gen-eral covenantal nomism of first-century Judaism (e.g., Rom 9:30–10:4; Gal 3:10–14; Phil3:2–11)? Sadly, Burnett missed a significant opportunity to offer a valuable assessmentand critique of the New Perspective’s view of the individual on the matter of salvation.

Paul and the Salvation of the Individual does not achieve its author’s worthy goalof restoring balance to Pauline studies by revealing the importance of the individual inPaul’s thought. In fact Paul’s interest in the individual person is far greater than thisstudy reveals and goes well beyond an interest in personal salvation. For Paul each indi-vidual has unique and creative gifts to be exercised enthusiastically for the benefit andshaping of the community of Christ’s followers. Burnett’s imposition of the category“individual qua individual” appears to be entirely alien to Paul’s thought and ultimatelythe cause of his inability to engage with Paul. Ironically, by imposing this category onPaul rather than following Paul’s own creative shaping of categories for the individual(e.g., the individual in-Christ, in-Adam, or in the Christian community), Burnett hasignored in Paul the very individuality he sought to reveal.

Robert Keay, St Marys College, University of St Andrews, KY16 9JU UK


Polycarp and the New Testament: The Occasion, Rhetoric, Theme, and Unity of theEpistle to the Philippians and Its Allusions to New Testament Literature, by PaulHartog. WUNT 2.134. Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck, 2002. Pp. x + 281. €49.00 (paper).

By any standard Polycarp of Smyrna must be reckoned as one of the most notablefigures in the early postapostolic church. Yet despite his importance for the history ofthe church in the early second century, Polycarp’s one surviving letter has seldom beengiven attention for its own sake, as scholarship has tended to discuss it primarily in termsof its significance for other matters (such as the authenticity of the Ignatian letters). Thisbook declares its intention to rectify this state of affairs by examining Polycarp’s letter tothe Philippians on its own terms and for its own sake, and only then with regard to whatit may contribute to other important questions—in this case, Polycarp’s contribution toour understanding of the early formation of the NT.

Chapter 1 offers a nice review of past scholarship. Noting the way that most previ-ous research was driven by extrinsic concerns, Hartog embraces the recent call to treatdocuments such as Polycarp’s letter first in terms of its own circumstances and situation.He therefore properly directs attention to matters of introduction and prolegomena.Chapter 2 reviews and assesses the sources of (and the information they preserve about)the life of Polycarp, while the third surveys Smyrna, Philippi, and the churches there.He then turns to the letter itself as he discusses the text and authenticity of Philippians(ch. 4) and investigates the background of the letter, especially the indications of previ-ous contact between Polycarp and the Philippian congregation (ch. 5). In ch. 6 he turnsto the identity and role of the heresy mentioned in Philippians 7. He rightly rejects P. N.Harrison’s claim that the primary focus of the letter is a crisis sparked by Marcion (or hisfollowers). He also critiques H. O. Maier’s “twin problem” view that the letter deals withtwo separate and largely unrelated problems, docetic heresy and avarice of the pres-byter Valens. Yet his own proposal—that Polycarp’s response to the problem of Valens isthe letter’s primary focus, that the Valens incident reveals a failure of leadership atPhilippi that leaves the congregation vulnerable to false teachers, and thus the referenceto heresy is a generic anti-docetic exhortation—seems to differ from Maier only withrespect to secondary details. Chapters 7 and 8 survey (rather cursorily) epistolary andrhetorical features of the letter, ch. 9 analyzes the theme of “righteousness” and its func-tion in the letter, and ch. 10 addresses the question of the document’s integrity (is it oneletter or two?).

The stated topic of the book is the focus of the remaining three chapters. Theseaddress NT allusions in Philippians (ch. 11), Polycarp and Scripture, including Poly-carp’s alleged Marcionite leanings and questions related to the development of the NTcanon (ch. 12), and Polycarp and Paul (ch. 13). A conclusion, bibliography, and threeindices conclude the volume.

Chapters 9 and 10 constitute the book’s major contribution to the study of Philip-pians. In his investigation of the theme of “righteousness” (ch. 9), Hartog pays closeattention not only to the meaning of the term—confirming earlier studies that indicatedthat Polycarp used “righteousness” in “the ethical sense of morality rather than in a the-ological notion of ‘justification’” (p. 145)—but also to the theme’s function in the letter.Polycarp employs the theme not only to deal with the matter of Valen’s sin, but also to

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shape what he hopes will be the congregation’s response: “forgiveness instead ofvengeance or anger,” and “patient endurance even in unfortunate circumstances.”Whereas previous investigations have paid primary attention only to the letter’s content,Hartog integrates his discussion of content with observations about the letter’s form,function, and purpose, and does so fruitfully. In the process, he paints a portrait of Poly-carp as a creative and dynamic pastor quite at odds with the traditional view that he wasa rather colorless and marginal figure.

The proposal put forth by P. N. Harrison in his 1936 monograph—that Philippiansis really two letters, the first (comprising chs. 13–14) written shortly before the death ofIgnatius, and the second (chs. 1–12) written some twenty or more years later, in the late130s C.E.—has dominated research on the topic ever since, with many scholars simplytaking his proposal as an established fact. Shorn of its rhetorical flourishes and specialpleading, however, Harrison’s case is really quite weak, and at its core depends almostentirely on Harrison’s estimation of what a “sensible man” would have done in Poly-carp’s circumstances. Drawing together previous critiques and utilizing the results of hisown discussion of the letter’s epistolary features and rhetorical situation, Hartog pre-sents in ch. 10 a convincing rebuttal of Harrison’s two letter hypothesis and a persuasivecase for the unity of the letter.

Chapter 11, “New Testament Allusions” (which one would anticipate, in view ofthe book’s title, to be the heart of the book) is a major disappointment. An initial aware-ness of a central problem—“one must ask whether [Polycarp] is using New Testamentliterature or oral, catechetical materials”—appears to have little impact on the followingdiscussion. Recognizing the need for “objective criteria” to help identify quotations andallusions, Hartog proposes—after a one-paragraph discussion of previous approaches(e.g., R. Hays, M. Fishbane)—his own methodology. It consists of five “tests for demon-strating instances of use” of the NT: verbal quantity, density, recurrence, singularity,and formulaic introduction. But there is no rationale given for this method, nor is thereany discussion of how these “tests” are to be applied: does an alleged instance of use, forexample, need to pass just one test or more than one of these five tests? If more, howmany? Nothing at all is said in this regard, and the following discussion leaves theimpression of an ad hoc rather than systematic application of the tests.

The situation does not improve when the discussion turns to the examination ofspecific passages in Philippians. The discussion of the Pauline material, apart from thePastorals, occupies the equivalent of one printed page. One is informed that 1 Cor 6:2 is“clearly referred to” in Phil 11.2, and that Rom 14:10–12 is “clearly used” in Phil 6.2—but no evidence is presented to support these statements. It is said that “various otherminor correspondences with 1 Corinthians and Romans are found throughout Phil”—but no information is given. With regard to Galatians, Hartog states that “Polycarpbegins a quotation . . . from Galatians with eijdovte" o{ti (5.3).” But there is no such intro-ductory phrase in Phil 5.3; presumably he means 5.1, where the formula introduces aproverbial statement (“God is not mocked”) that also occurs in Gal 6:7. But no evidenceor arguments are offered to indicate why one should conclude in favor of Polycarp’sdependence on Galatians rather than traditional or catechetical materials.

The discussion of Polycarp’s possible use of other portions of the NT is similarlysuperficial and incomplete. One example from the treatment of the Synoptic Gospels


must suffice. The discussion of Phil 2.3 and its possible links to the Sermon on theMount and 1 Clem. 13 (with which Polycarp apparently is familiar) oversimplifies thecomplexity of the matter (e.g., the four clauses in Phil 2.3 are part of a differentlyordered seven-clause series in 1 Clem. 13) and neglects significant data (e.g., the readeris not informed that the modifications Polycarp allegedly makes to Matt 7:2 result in atext that is identical with Luke 6:38). Furthermore, there is no discussion of the possiblesignificance of the introductory formula, in this instance, “remembering what the Lordtaught when he said.”

The contrast in quality between chs. 9–10 and ch. 11 is also observable in chs. 12(“Polycarp and Scripture”) and 13 (“Polycarp and Paul”). These chapters essentially setout answers or responses to the series of ten questions raised on the first page of theintroduction. When Hartog is able to draw upon and extend the insights reached in chs.2–10 (as in ch. 12, points 1, 2, and 3, or ch. 13, points 1, and 4) he makes some well-takenobservations. At other points, however, the weaknesses evident in ch. 11 recur. Again,one example is offered, this one involving one of most contentious and significant histor-ical questions regarding Polycarp: did he consider texts now found in the NT to beScripture? Hartog rightly recognizes that the interpretation of Phil 12.1 (“Only, as it issaid in these scriptures, ‘Be angry and do not sin’ [= Ps 4:5 LXX, cited in Eph 4:26a] and‘Let not the sun set on your wrath’ [= Eph 4:26b]”)—a passage that he did not discuss inch. 11—is crucial for answering the question. Following a listing of six possible ways tounderstand the passage, he eventually concludes: “In sum, Polycarp seems to have usedthe label ‘Scriptures’ for Ephesians.” But other than citing three scholars who share hisview of the matter, Hartog provides no evidence or arguments to support his opinion,nor does he interact with some significant contrary estimations of the matter (e.g., D.Rensberger, whose work Hartog cites elsewhere). Thus the reader never learns why oron what basis Hartog embraces the view he adopts.

If one may utilize a food analogy, this book is like a meal in which the appetizerproves to be more nourishing than the main course. Chapters 2–10 offer a very goodintroduction to Polycarp’s letter. The main topic, however, remains in need of a defini-tive treatment.

Michael W. Holmes, Bethel College, St. Paul, MN 55112

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