B IB L I C A L I N T E R P R E T AT I ON

B E Y O N D H I S T O RI CI T Y

Biblical Interpretation beyond Historicity evaluates the new perspectives that have
emerged since the crisis over historicity in the 1970s and 1980s challenged biblical
scholarship. Several new studies, as well as the ‘deconstructive’ side of literary
criticism that emerged from writers such as Derrida and Wittgenstein, among oth-
ers, have led biblical scholars today to view the texts of the Bible more as literary
narratives than as sources for a history of Israel. Increased interest in archaeologi-
cal and anthropological studies in writing the history of Palestine and the ancient
Near East have also led to the need for an evidence-based history of Palestine.
This volume analyses the consequences of the question “If the Bible is not
history, what is it then?” The editors, Hjelm and Thompson, are members of the
Copenhagen School, which was formed in the light of this question and the com-
mitment to a new approach to both the history of Palestine and the Bible’s place
in ancient history. This volume features essays from a range of highly regarded
scholars, and is divided into three sections: “Beyond Historicity”, which explores
alternative historical roles for the Bible, “Greek Connections”, which discusses
the Bible’s context in the Hellenistic world and “Reception”, which explores
extra-biblical functions of biblical studies.
Offering a unique gathering of scholars and challenging new theories, Biblical
Interpretation beyond Historicity is invaluable to students in the field of Biblical
and East Mediterranean Studies, and is a crucial resource for anyone working on
both the archaeology and history of Palestine and the ancient Near East, and the
religious development of Europe and the Near East.

Ingrid Hjelm is Associate Professor at the University of Copenhagen and Director

of the Palestine History and Heritage Project. She is the author of The Samaritans
and Early Judaism (2000) and Jerusalem’s Rise to Sovereignty (2004) in addition
to a considerable number of articles within the field of Samaritan studies, the his-
tory of ancient Israel and the Hebrew Bible. Her latest book, co-edited with Anne
Katrine de Hemmer Gudme, is Myths of Exile (2015).
Thomas L. Thompson is Professor Emeritus, University of Copenhagen and
author of some 130 articles and ca. 20 books, including The Historicity of the
Patriarchal Narratives (1974), The Early History of the Israelite People (1992),
The Bible in History: How Writers Create a Past (1999) and Biblical Narrative
and Palestine’s History (2013). He is currently working as Project Developer on
the Palestine History and Heritage Project.
 COPENHAGEN INTERNATIONAL SEMINAR

General Editors: Ingrid Hjelm and Thomas L. Thompson

both at the University of Copenhagen
Editors: Niels Peter Lemche and Mogens Müller
both at the University of Copenhagen
Language Revision Editor: James West
at the Quartz Hill School of Theology

Available:
JAPHETH BEN ALI’S BOOK OF JEREMIAH
Joshua A. Sabih

THE EMERGENCE OF ISRAEL IN ANCIENT PALESTINE

Emanuel Pfoh

ORIGIN MYTHS AND HOLY PLACES IN THE

OLD TESTAMENT
Lukasz Niesiolowski-Spanò

STUDIES IN THE HISTORY, LITERATURE AND

RELIGION OF BIBLICAL ISRAEL
John Van Seters

ARGONAUTS OF THE DESERT

Philippe Wajdenbaum

THE EXPRESSION ‘SON OF MAN’ AND THE

DEVELOPMENT OF CHRISTOLOGY
Mogens Müller

BIBLICAL STUDIES AND THE FAILURE OF HISTORY

Niels Peter Lemche

BIBLICAL NARRATIVE AND PALESTINE’S HISTORY

Thomas L. Thompson

‘IS THIS NOT THE CARPENTER?’

Edited by Thomas L. Thompson and Thomas S. Verenna
 THE BIBLE AND HELLENISM
Edited by Thomas L. Thompson and Philippe Wajdenbaum

RETHINKING BIBLICAL SCHOLARSHIP

Philip R. Davies

REPRESENTING ZION
Frederik Poulsen

MYTHS OF EXILE
Edited by Anne Katrine de Hemmer Gudme and Ingrid Hjelm

REWRITING PETER AS AN INTERTEXTUAL CHARACTER

IN THE CANONICAL GOSPELS
Finn Damgaard

BIBLICAL INTERPRETATION BEYOND HISTORICITY

Edited by Ingrid Hjelm and Thomas L. Thompson

HISTORY, ARCHAEOLOGY AND THE BIBLE FORTY

YEARS AFTER ‘HISTORICITY’
Edited by Ingrid Hjelm and Thomas L. Thompson

Forthcoming:
SYRIA-PALESTINE IN THE LATE BRONZE AGE
Emanuel Pfoh

THE JUDAEO-KARAITE RECEPTION Of THE HEBREW

BIBLE
Joshua A. Sabih

PLATO AND THE CREATION OF THE HEBREW BIBLE

Russell E. Gmirkin
 B I B L I CA L
IN T E RP RE T A T IO N
BE Y O N D
H I S T O R I C IT Y
Changing Perspectives 7

Edited by Ingrid Hjelm and

Thomas L. Thompson
First published 2016
by Routledge
2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN
and by Routledge
711 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10017
Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business
© 2016 selection and editorial matter Ingrid Hjelm and Thomas L.
Thompson; individual chapters, the contributors.
The right of the editors to be identified as the authors of the editorial
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in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents
Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or
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Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or
registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation
without intent to infringe.
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Biblical interpretation beyond historicity / edited by Ingrid Hjelm and
Thomas L. Thompson. — First [edition].
pages cm. — (Changing perspectives ; 7) (Copenhagen international
seminar)
Includes index.
1. Bible—Criticism, interpretation, etc.—History—20th century. 2. Bible—
Criticism, interpretation, etc.—History—21st century. I. Hjelm, Ingrid,
editor.
BS511.3.B55 2016
220.6—dc23
2015028474

ISBN: 978-1-138-88952-1 (hbk)

ISBN: 978-1-315-69077-3 (ebk)

Typeset in Times New Roman

by Swales & Willis Ltd, Exeter, Devon, UK
IN MEMORY OF A COLLEAGUE AND FRIEND
FREDERICK H. CRYER
1947–2002
This Page is Intentionally Left Blank
 CONTENTS

List of contributors xi
Acknowledgements xiii
List of abbreviations xiv

Introduction 1
I N G R I D H J E L M AND T HOMAS L . T HOMP S ON

PART I
Beyond Historicity 13

1 A new “biblical archaeology” 15

P H I L I P R . D A V IE S

2 Old and new ways of interpreting Isaiah 40–55 29

F R E D E R I K P O UL S E N

3 Contextualizing composite works: the case of 4QMMT

with a sociolinguistic twist 43
T R I N E B J Ø R N UNG HAS S E L BAL CH

PART II
Greek Connections 59

4 Is the Old Testament still a Hellenistic book? 61

N I E L S P E T E R LE MCHE

5 From Plato to Moses: Genesis-Kings as a Platonic epic 76

P H I L I P P E W A J D E NBAUM

ix
  CONTENTS

6 Greek genres and the Hebrew Bible 91

R U S S E L L G MI RKI N

7 When the Septuagint came in from the cold103

M O G E N S M ÜL L E R

PART III
Reception117

8 Of Qumran, the canon, and the history of the Bible Text 119
F R E D E R I C K H. CRYE R

9 Deconstructing the continuity of Qumran Ib and II

with implications for stabilizing the biblical texts 130
G R E G O R Y L . DOUDNA

10 Canon formation, canonicity, and the Qumran library 155

J E S P E R H Ø GE NHAVE N

11 New Children of Abraham in Greenland – the creation

of a nation 169
F L E M M I N G A . J. NI E L S E N

12 Closing the conference: whose mythic, rhythmic,

theological and cultural memory is it anyway? 187
J I M WE S T

Source Index 197

Author Index 204

x
 CONTRIBUTO RS

Frederick H. Cryer Formerly Research Associate in Old Testament studies,

project leader for DSS 4 and founding member of the Copenhagen School.
Author of Divination in Ancient Israel and its Near Eastern Environment: A
Socio-Historical Investigation (1994).
Philip R. Davies Professor Emeritus, University of Sheffield, founding editor
of the Journal for the Study of the Old Testament and author of In Search of
Ancient Israel (1992), Scribes and Schools (1998) and Rethinking Biblical
Scholarship: Changing Perspectives 4 (2014).
Gregory L. Doudna Received his PhD in Theology from the University of
Copenhagen in 2001. He is currently engaged in independent research on
the Dead Sea Scrolls, especially in regard to questions of chronology and
carbon-14 dating. He is the author of 4Q Pesher Nahum: A Critical Edition
(2001).
Trine Bjørnung Hasselbalch Received her PhD in theology from the University
of Copenhagen. She has specialized in the Dead Sea Scrolls, lately focusing
on the relationship between biblical and pseudepigraphic literature. She is the
author of Meaning and Context in the Thanksgiving Hymns (2015).
Ingrid Hjelm Associate Professor of Old Testament at the University of
Copenhagen. Author of Jerusalem’s Rise to Sovereignty: Zion and Gerizim
in Competition (2004) and The Samaritans and Early Judaism: A Literary
Analysis (2000). Co-edited with Anne Katrine de Hemmer Gudme, Myths of
Exile (2015). She is currently director of the Palestine’s History and Heritage
Project.
Jesper Høgenhaven Professor of Old Testament at the University of Copenhagen
since 2007. Author of Gott und Volk bei Jesaja: Eine Untersuchung zur bib-
lischen Theologi (1988). He was formerly director of the Copenhagen Dead
Sea Scrolls initiative.
Russell Gmirkin An independent scholar living in Portland, Oregon, where he
does research and writes on ancient Greek and biblical history and literature.

xi
 LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS

He is author of Berossus and Genesis, Manetho and Exodus: Hellenistic

Histories and the Date of the Pentateuch after 2006), and Plato and the
Creation of the Hebrew Bible (forthcoming).
Niels Peter Lemche Professor of Old Testament at the University of Copenhagen
1987–2013, and founding member of the Copenhagen School. Author of Early
Israel (1985), The Old Testament Between Theology and History (2008) and
Biblical Studies and the Failure of History, Changing Perspectives 3 (2013).
Mogens Müller Professor of New Testament at the University of Copenhagen
since 1982. Author of The First Bible of the Church: A Plea for the Septuagint
(1996) and The Expression ‘Son of Man’ and the Development of Christology:
A History of Interpretation (2008).
Flemming A. J. Nielsen Received his PhD from the University of Copenhagen
and is currently teaching as Lecturer at the University of Greenland. He is
the author of The Tragedy in History: Herodotus and the Deuteronomistic
History (1997).
Frederik Poulsen A postdoctoral researcher at the Department of Biblical Studies,
University of Copenhagen and author of God, His Servant, and the Nations in
Isaiah 42:1–9 (2014) and Representing Zion: Judgment and Salvation in the
Old Testament (2015).
Thomas L. Thompson Professor of Old Testament at the University of Copenhagen
1993–2009 and founding member of the Copenhagen School. Author of The
Historicity of the Patriarchal Narratives (1974), The Early History of the
Israelite People (1992) and Biblical Narrative and Palestine’s History (2013).
He is currently working as project developer for the Palestine History and
Heritage Project.
Philippe Wajdenbaum PhD in anthropology from the University of Brussels, he
is the author of Argonauts of the Desert: Structural Analysis of the Hebrew
Bible (2011) and co-edited The Bible and Hellenism: Greek Influence on
Jewish and Early Christian Literature (2014).
Jim West Professor of Biblical Studies at the Quartz Hill School of Theology
in California and Adjunct Professor of Old Testament at the Ming Hua
Theological College, Hong Kong. He has written a series of commentaries
on the Bible, and works of biblical studies, theology and Church History.

xii
 ACKNOWLEDGEM ENTS

Anne Katrine de Hemmer Gudme and Jesper Høgenhaven, both from the
University of Copenhagen, are to be thanked for joining us in organizing the con-
ference on Changing Perspectives, which was held from 9–12 October 2013 at the
Faculty of Theology, University of Copenhagen. Also to be thanked are the dean
of the faculty, Professor Kirsten Busch Nielsen, and the faculty for housing the
conference and for their support. Gratitude is also due to the H. P. Hjerl Hansen
Memorial Fund for Danish Research on Palestine and The Carlsberg Foundation
for funding the conference. Thanks to authors and participants of the conference.
We are also grateful to Philippe Wajdenbaum for his generous help in proofread-
ing the manuscript.
Finally, Museum Tusculanums Forlag is to be thanked for permission to pub-
lish a revision of Frederick Cryer’s article, “Of Qumran, the Bible and the History
of the Bible Text”, which first appeared in L. Fatum and M. Müller (eds.), Tro og
Historie: Festskrift til Niels Hyldahl i anledning af 65 års fødselsdagen, den 30.
December 1995. København: Museum Tusculanums Forlag: 36–46.

xiii
 ABBREVIAT I ONS

BEThL Bibliotheca Ephemeridum Theologicarum Lovaniensium

BWANT Beiträge zur Wissenschaft vom Alten und Neuen Testament
BZAW Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft
CIS Copenhagen International Seminar
DJD Discoveries in the Judaean Desert
FAT Forschungen zum Alten Testament
FRLANT Forschungen zur Religion und Kultur des alten und neuen Testament
JHS The Journal of Hebrew Scriptures
JSOT Journal for the Study of the Old Testament
JSOTSup Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Supplements
RGG Religion in Geschichte und Gegenwart. Edited by K. Galling. 7 vols.
3rd edn. Tübingen, 1957–65
SBL Society of Biblical Literature
SBL.SCSS Society of Biblical Literature Septuagint and Cognate Studies
SJOT Scandinavian Journal for the Old Testament
VTSup Vetus Testamentum Supplements
Wunt Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament
ZAW Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft

xiv
 INTRODUCTI ON

Ingrid Hjelm and Thomas L. Thompson

Volume 7 of the Changing Perspectives series presents a broad discussion, which

both evokes and evaluates several of the many different changes in perspective
which have come about in the interests of biblical scholars since the 1980s, when
questions of the historicity of origin stories were largely abandoned and antiquar-
ian traditional texts were widely seen as allegorical, mythical, or fictive. Mov-
ing away from traditional historical-criticism’s positivism and its interests in a
text’s historical author, context and reference, many scholars turned away from
history writing and towards questions of literary strategy, hermeneutics and ide-
ology (e.g., Garbini 1988; Thompson 2013 [1991]). The move towards minimal-
ism and the establishment of the Copenhagen School, however, was not just a
reaction to Albrecht Alt, William Foxwell Albright and their followers’ use of
the Bible as a primary witness to Israel’s past. The entire academic mentality of
the 1960s and 1970s fostered quite a number of works that were critical of the
conservative historicism which dominated the field. Works by Bernd J. Diebner,
Heike Friis, David Gunn, Morton Smith, Jan Fokkelmann, Hans Heinrich Schmid,
Rolf Rendtdorff, Hans Vorländer, Manfred Weippert, James Barr and Northrop
Frye opened up new avenues for interpreting Israel’s past as reflected in the Bible.
They were as much an inspiration to the minimalists as were those who dealt more
explicitly with Israelite archaeology and history in the Late Bronze and Iron Ages.
Another source of inspiration from the 1960s onwards was the deconstruction
tendencies that had become widespread in literary studies (e.g., Jacques Derrida,
Ferdinand de Saussure, Gottlob Friedrich Frege, Ludwig Wittgenstein and Martin
Heidegger). Such discussions naturally led to a more general scepticism in writing
(biblical) history and a move towards viewing the Bible as theology and expres-
sions of cultural memory. From seeing biblical tradition as a continuous narrative
that had been updated concurrently to the history it told, biblical narrative became
loosened from its own chronology and setting, and dated at a distance from the
events narrated. Especially the so-called ‘Deuteronomistic History’ underwent a
transformation from historical sources to historical narratives and became ‘fic-
tional historiography’ in John Van Seters’s inversion of Otto Eissfeldt’s theory of
‘fictionalised history’ (Hjelm 2004: 19; Hjelm forthcoming). Both these authors
claimed an underlying historicity with basis in oral tradition (Eissfeldt) and ancient

1
 I ngrid H jelm and T homas L . T hom p son

conventions of history writing such as found in Herodotus’ Historia (Van Seters).

Albeit using their paradigms and chronology, Thomas L. Thompson, Niels Peter
Lemche, Philip Davies and others mainly saw biblical narratives as invention and
creation with very little historical nucleus.
Archaeology, for its part, moved increasingly towards independence and away
from biblical archaeology’s history of Israel. As we have argued in our introduc-
tion to Volume 6 of Changing Perspectives (Hjelm and Thompson, 2016), Lem-
che’s Early Israel was a response to the rejection of the historicity of origin stories
and of their biblically driven, historical narratives. It marks a departure from a
biblically oriented, ethnocentric ‘history of Israel’ in favour of a history of Pal-
estine. While biblical studies, following these developments in the 1980s, main-
tained its historical orientation in literary and intellectual history (Lemche 1985;
2008; Gunn and Davies 1987), new prospects in both archaeology and history
decidedly embraced a ‘landscape’-oriented history of Palestine and its regions
(Miller and Hayes 1986; Coote and Whitelam 1987).

The minimalist-maximalist debates

In the years following the publication of Lemche’s Early Israel, interest in
regional histories were linked to the changes of perspective on the history of Judah
and Israel. A number of regional histories were published, such as those of Ernst
Axel Knauf on the polities of Late Bronze Midian and Iron Age Ishmael, Stefan
Timm’s on Moab, Ulrich Hübner on Ammon and, indeed, Bob Becking on Sama-
ria (Knauf 1988, 1989; Timm 1989; Hübner 1992; Becking 1992). These stud-
ies were part of or reflected interests related to the Tübinger Atlas des vorderen
Orients, which developed in Tübingen in the 1970s and early 1980s. Interest in
such regional studies in Tübingen was also inspired by the earlier dissertations
written under Kurt Galling, such as Siegfried Mittmann’s on the regional history
of the northern Transjordan (Mittmann 1970) and that by Manfred Weippert on
the history of Edom (1971). These pioneer works were followed by early studies
in settlement history associated with the Tübinger Atlas, among which were seven
maps and two volumes of commentary related to the Bronze Age settlements in
the Sinai, the Negev and Palestine by Thomas L. Thompson. Individual problems
were also addressed in the critical study of the biblical narratives, related to the
settlement in the southern Transjordan, by Manfred Wüst and the survey of early
synagogues in Palestine by Frowald Hüttenmeister and Gottfried Reeg (Thomp-
son 1975, 1979; Wüst 1975; Hüttenmeister and Reeg 1977).
Methodologically significant is the growing interest in the historical interpreta-
tion of settlement patterns as the point of departure for historical studies (see, today,
esp. Lipschits et al. 2003, 2006, 2007, 2011) and establishing a historical strat-
egy, which supported the new, historical orientation away from biblical studies and
towards extra-biblical, i.e., inscriptional, archaeological and geographical data, with
a primary anthropological perspective. Such efforts in the 1970s and 1980s changed
how we looked upon Palestine’s ancient history and created a need for an inclusive,

2
 I ntroduction

evidence-based history of Palestine to replace the prevailing ethnocentric and bibli-

cal history of Israel. These works laid the methodological and historiographic foun-
dations for research on a comprehensive and regional history of ‘Greater Palestine’.
In contrast, a ‘history of Israel’, as it had been defined by ‘biblical archaeology’,
was, one could say, now a thin and provincial matter. Issues related to the historicity
of biblical narratives and their use for the history of Palestine became subordinate
to the project of writing a comprehensive history of Palestine.
The new historical interests in surface surveys since the 1960s provided an
interpretive matrix in geography and landscape studies that was both independ-
ent of the interests and perspectives of ‘biblical archaeology’ and potentially of
great use to critical history writing. The potential of these new perspectives was
exploited in Israel Finkelstein’s 1986 PhD dissertation: The Archaeology of the
Israelite Settlement. Finkelstein argued well for an historical understanding of
Israel’s origins within a context of the whole of Palestine. Apart from its eth-
nocentric bias, already implicit in his dissertation’s title, the study was largely
independent of a biblical perspective, and his conclusions and detailed obser-
vations undermined the three once-popular models of Israelite origins through
conquest, immigration or peasant-revolt models (Finkelstein 1988). Finkelstein’s
perspective helped turn historical studies towards an independent archaeologi-
cal perspective of Palestine’s history and set the stage for further development
(Finkelstein 1988; cf. Thompson 1992: 158–63).
The early 1990s saw a number of approaches following the collapse of his-
toricity and the new historical directions opened up by regional archaeological
surveys. As archaeology began to open up new directions for its research, great
uncertainty prevailed in biblical studies, provoked by the dominant question at the
time: ‘If the Bible is not history, what is it, then?’ Such uncertainty was pa­tent, for
example, in the central contradictions of Gösta Ahlström’s posthumous History
of Palestine, whose title and large format promised a perspective which raised
expectations that this history would follow in the directions which the new histo-
ries of the 1980s had pointed out. The first seven chapters, indeed, hold to the per-
spective of such a history of Palestine. However, from the beginning of Chapter
8, entitled ‘Judges’, one reads a critical evaluation of the possibilities of writing a
history of Israel, given the historical inadequacies of biblical narratives as histori-
cal sources for a critical history. No longer is Ahlström’s focus directed towards
Palestine’s history, but rather on Israel and the Bible’s projection of this mythic
past (Ahlström 1993). The uncertain, shifting strategy and focus of Ahlström’s
History of Palestine reflects the theological heritage intrinsic to histories of Israel,
which continues to plague the field. A more direct effort to demythologize bib-
lical tradition was raised by a short monograph of Niels Peter Lemche, which
illustrates how the biblical figure of the Canaanites represents an invented peo-
ple, whose role in biblical origin stories is to play the Bible’s antithesis to Israel
(Lemche 1991). A dozen years later, Mario Liverani engaged the dilemma
Ahlström had faced by writing a history of Israel in two main parts (Liverani
2005). Part I presents ‘A Normal History’, from the Late Bronze Age to the end

3
 I ngrid H jelm and T homas L . T hom p son

of the Neo-Babylonian period, and Part II, ‘An Invented History’, is much in the
spirit of Lemche’s study on the Canaanites. Liverani treats the literary functions of
the Patriarchs, Conquest, the Judges, United Monarchy, Temple and Torah. The
strategy is provocative and largely convincing. His ‘normal history’, however,
lacks the critical voice of Part II and still remains a rational paraphrase of biblical
narrative and a synthesis based in biblical and extra-biblical sources, maintaining
the perspectives of traditional histories of Israel.
A year after Lemche’s study on the Canaanites appeared, Thomas L. Thompson
published his Early History of the Israelite People (Thompson 1992), which
raised the question of the historical context of the concept of ‘all-Israel’ as a
people and drew the conclusion that this concept embraced the essential mythic
themes of exile and return. It centred its argument in an historic presentation of
the differences between the origins of settlement and the development of the poli-
ties of the highland regions in the small patronage kingdoms of Israel and Judah.
(This theme is more adequately developed today in Pfoh 2009.) Thompson’s
Early History established a sharp distinction between the historical and literary
qualities of evidence used in writing a history of Palestine. Particularly at stake
was the Bible’s ethnocentric understanding of ‘all-Israel’ and the once-assumed
continuity of this concept with pre-exilic Palestine. A popular revision of this
study was published a few years later (Thompson 1999). This was restructured in
a three-fold presentation which dealt first of all with the legendary and mythic,
rather than historical quality of biblical narrative, followed by an archaeologically
and regionally based outline of Palestine’s known history, including the distinc-
tion between Iron Age religious forms in Palestine and literary and theological
religious expressions in the Bible. The final section of the book deals with a for-
malistic presentation of central theological themes of the Bible. In more recent
literature, we find this categorical distinction between Judah and an historical and
non-Jewish Israel carried out in a growing separation of what provides evidence
for the history of Palestine’s past and the biblical tradition (Hjelm 2004; Kratz
2013; Knoppers 2014).
Perhaps the most influential work of the early 1990s was Philip Davies’s sim-
ple and brilliant essay, which analysed the biblical concept of ‘Israel’, clearly
distinguishing three different Israels: biblical Israel, the ancient Israel of scholar-
ship, and the Israel that once existed in the past (Davies 1992). The simplicity of
the distinction – which Davies, himself, has pointed out (Davies 2008: 47–57) –
was matched only by biblical archaeology’s need to maintain this trinity’s unity!
Reactions to this essay launched the minimalist-maximalist debates.
Alternatively, one might well consider reactions to Keith Whitelam’s essay,
The Invention of Ancient Israel: The Silencing of Palestine’s History (Whitelam
1996), the title of which takes its point of departure from Davies’s scholarly con-
struct of ‘ancient Israel’ as a product of modern scholarship. The central theme of
Whitelam’s book, moreover, relates to a central Zionist myth, portraying Palestine
as an empty land and the people of Palestine as ‘invented’, and thereby silencing
their history. Zionist interests in biblical scholarship have hardly been invisible

4
 I ntroduction

(see Masalha 1992, 1997; Prior 1995, 1997, 1998; Pappe 2016). However, it is
taboo to speak of such political involvement in academic biblical studies, and
Whitelam paid a heavy price for breaking the silence.

The Copenhagen School

In May 1993, Thompson moved from Marquette University in Milwaukee,
Wisconsin to Copenhagen. Shortly thereafter, Fred Cryer and Niels Peter Lemche
joined him for a weekly lunch and seminar, shortly after the Tel Dan inscription was
published. The ensuing so-called ‘minimalist-maximalist’ debates deeply divided
scholarship for more than a decade over the politically explosive question of the his-
toricity of the biblical legends of David and the ‘United Monarchy’ (see Athas 2003;
Hagelia 2009). The initial intention of the meetings in Copenhagen had little to do
with such issues, however, but were quite simple and directly related to the wishes
of three colleagues to get to know each other better and to plan how to coordinate
and further their work through the coming years. The focus, however, soon shifted
towards discussions about the rapidly changing perspectives in Old Testament
studies. These were particularly considerable for Lemche and Thompson, for both
had concentrated their early work on the Bronze Age and ancient Near Eastern
comparative studies, but were, in the early 1990s, considering the possibilities of a
Hellenistic context for biblical studies and associations of the Old Testament with
Greek, Qumran and New Testament literatures. Deconstruction of old paradigms
and a move towards a later dating of biblical texts had become highly influenced by
evidence from the Dead Sea Scrolls, which forced scholars to rethink processes of
canonization of biblical texts and entities. Questions about the very existence and
form of biblical texts in the seventh through fifth century bce became pertinent, and
the uncertainty in regard to the historicity of the Patriarchs, the Egyptian Diaspora
and the United Monarchy spread to representations of the divided kingdoms in
Kings and Chronicles. Although archaeology played a major role in the deconstruc-
tion, it represented only one aspect of debates about biblical texts.
Among the first fruits of these discussions was the launching of the mono-
graph series, The Copenhagen International Seminar, dedicated to bringing the
work of, especially, young non-English-speaking scholars, whose perspectives
on the Old and New Testaments were open to the changes occurring in the field.
It would support international and interdisciplinary studies in the Bible and its
related fields, such as the early history of Palestine, Syro-Palestinian archaeology,
comparative ancient Near Eastern and Greek religion and literature, as well as the
physical cultural, religious, and intellectual history of Palestine, social structures
and anthropology. The series was launched by the publication of Mogens Müller’s
The First Bible of the Church in 1996 by the Sheffield Academic Press. The same
year also marked the beginning of the European Seminar on Historical Methodo­
logy at the European Association of Biblical Studies, 1996–2012 (Grabbe 1997,
1998, 2001, 2004, 2005, 2007, 2008–10). Moving even further, archaeology
had not only challenged the historicity in regard to biblical representations of

5
 I ngrid H jelm and T homas L . T hom p son

the so-called ‘pre-exilic’ kingdoms of Israel and Judah, it also questioned our
knowledge about the post-exilic provinces Shomron/Samaria and Yehud, the lat-
ter of which eventually came to understand itself within an ‘all Israel’ perspective.
These periods, which had been usually considered ‘dark ages’, became visible in
several works from the late 1990s and early twenty-first century. Many of these
new achievements can be found in Proceedings (Lipschits et al. 2003, 2006, 2007,
2011) from four different congresses, which focused on Judaea in the Babylonian
and Persian periods. The new information, much of which has been provided by
leading Israeli archaeologists, affects our understanding of Palestine as a whole
in the Persian period, but especially so the relationship between the provinces of
Shomron and Yehud (Knoppers 2014).
In the course of the discussions of the monograph series in the weekly seminar,
Fred Cryer also urged that a volume or two should be published, bringing together
some of the essays and articles from the 1970s and 1980s, which had actually
changed either their own perspectives or those dominant in the field. It was with this
suggestion that the volumes of Changing Perspectives were first conceived. How-
ever, as with so many interesting and distracting projects in academic life, the actual
work itself was long delayed; Fred Cryer suffered an untimely death in 2002, and it
was not before Thompson took retirement in 2009 that work on this project began
to bear fruit. The first volume of the Changing Perspectives appeared in 2011,
by John Van Seters and volumes by Thomas L. Thompson, Niels Peter Lemche,
and Philip Davies quickly followed (Van Seters 2011; Thompson 2013; Lemche
2013; Davies 2014). The present volume, together with History, Archaeology and
the Bible Forty Years After “Historicity”, Changing Perspectives 6, brings articles
resulting from the Changing Perspectives conference, which was held in Copen-
hagen on 9–12 October 2013. The theme of the conference was inspired by these
first four volumes of the series and included papers within Hellenistic studies, theo-
ries of composition, theories of history, anthropology, archaeology, Ancient Near
Eastern religion, and comparative literature, Dead Sea texts and cultural me­mory
studies. The aim of the conference was to assess some of the major changes within
the field of Old Testament scholarship, to investigate those changing perspectives
within a broader context and to suggest future prospects of the discipline. Each par-
ticipant was asked to present and discuss the challenge of these new perspectives
for his or her core area of research. In recognition of our indebtedness to Fred Cryer
for this series and the conference itself, we are presenting in this volume an article
of his on some of the insights he has drawn from the Dead Sea Scroll texts concern-
ing the formation of the canon and the history of the biblical text.
The chapters in this volume, Biblical Interpretation Beyond Historicity, is
divided thematically into three sections, the first of which offers discussions,
which give examples of interpretations of biblical texts independent of any
assumption of their historicity. Davies, however, in his chapter, ‘A New Biblical
Archaeology’, takes up the question of biblical texts as historical artefacts, capa-
ble of being integrated with material artefacts as a critique of tendencies towards
what was once described as ‘archaeological fundamentalism’, which assumes that

6
 I ntroduction

only archaeologists can write a competent history. His own strategy is to focus on
the textual and material data in such a way that a history can be written that makes
sense of both the Bible and archaeology.
Frederick Poulsen takes up a critique of the circular argument of historical-
critical scholarship’s efforts to read and interpret Isaiah 40–55 as reflecting Judae-
ans in exile in Babylon in the Neo-Babylonian period: on one hand, reconstruct-
ing the history of the sixth century and, on the other, the purpose, message, and
content of the chapters in light of this historical reconstruction, a process which
centres the concern of ‘second Isaiah’ in the theme of ‘return’. Instead, Poulsen
argues that Isaiah, here, addresses concerns about Jerusalem and its imminent
restoration. Rather than a historical and literal understanding of escaping Baby-
lon, it develops a metaphorical language to communicate ethical and spiritual
matters. Moving beyond a mere historical reading, the paper explores some of the
poetic and theological potentials of the metaphor of ‘the way’. The chapter also
focuses on aspects of the text which reconnect modern exegesis with pre-modern
interpretations.
Trine Bjørnung Hasselbalch opens her discussion about the perspective of social
linguistics in regard to the Hebrew Bible in the context of ‘memory studies’, point-
ing out that narrative plot in the Old Testament is not motivated simply by historical
events, situations, and developments. Theories about entextualization (that is, the
process of presenting something in a textual form) suggest, rather, a complex rela-
tionship between redacted works and their environment, which involves a number
of contextual factors other than ‘history’. When choosing or rejecting material for
their compositions, authors and redactors were not so much writing or constructing
history, but, rather, engaging in the ‘shaping of identity’ by incorporating a number
of relevant historical, spatial, social, and cultural perspectives.
The volume’s second part presents three chapters, which deal with the Hel-
lenistic context of the Bible and its Greek connections, and closes with a chapter
on the growing interest in Septuagint studies. The first of these, by Niels Peter
Lemche, takes up the question, once again, of the Old Testament as a Hellenistic
book, with reference to his well-known article from 1992/3, an article which Fred
Cryer had seen as central to understanding the rapidly changing perspectives in
biblical studies. In the some twenty years since Lemche had first published this
article, much has changed and Old Testament studies have moved in the direction
of the Old Testament being not simply a Hellenistic, but, rather, a Hellenistic-
Roman book. Lemche now argues that, although it may be Hellenistic, it is not a
Greek book, and goes on to discuss some recent contribution to a present kind of
pan-Hellenism. He also goes on to discuss some biblical texts, which have not yet
been discussed in this context, most importantly the Song of Songs.
Philippe Wajdenbaum takes up the argument, supporting the understand-
ing of the Old Testament as a Hellenistic book by addressing the narratives of
Genesis-Kings to conclude that they may rely on such Greek classical sources as
Homer, Herodotus, and Plato. In Laws, he argues, Plato imagined a twelve-tribe
State governed by divine laws, of which about fifty are common with laws in

7
 I ngrid H jelm and T homas L . T hom p son

the Pentateuch. Plato encouraged his ideal state founder to use myths, tales, and
fables to illustrate how obedience to the law is rewarded by the deity and how
disobedience is punished. Genesis to Kings seems inspired by this Platonic pro-
ject. The books from Genesis to Joshua present the story of the foundation of such
a state, while Judges, Samuel, and Kings seem patterned much as Plato’s Atlantis.
It is a myth of a state that could have been perfect, had its kings not neglected to
obey the divine laws before its deity determined its destruction.
Russell Gmirkin, in close agreement with Wajdenbaum, takes up a survey of
a number of Greek and Hellenistic texts that he finds ready at hand in biblical
writings, where there is no apparent parallel in ancient Near Eastern literature.
These involve genres of narrative writing such as apologetic historiography and
origin stories, as well as forms of legal writing, such as constitutions and collec-
tions of civil and sacred law, of ethical commandments, hortatory introductions,
and particular clauses, referring to motives, which we find in Plato’s Laws. He
also discusses parallels of literary oracles and diatribes, dramatic representations,
and erotic poetry. Gmirkin concludes that the Hebrew Bible appears to have been
based on the idea of an ethical national literature, which is centred on its law code,
much in the spirit of Plato’s Laws, and argues that the consideration of such ante-
cedents to the biblical text opens important new avenues of research.
The New Testament scholar Mogens Müller closes the book’s second part on
‘Greek connections’ with a discussion on the growing interest in the Septuagint.
By this, he refers to recognition during the last decade of the Old Greek transla-
tion as a witness to Jewish Scripture in its own right and not merely as a possible
witness to an ‘original’ Hebrew text and support for its reconstruction. Müller
points out that we have, indeed, come to recognise that the Old Greek version
at times preserves an older version of the biblical text than that now accessible
through the Masoretic text. The Septuagint is increasingly understood, today, as
the version of the Bible for Hellenistic Jewry in the diaspora and especially in
Egypt, and forms an important chapter in the reception history of biblical tradi-
tion. This, Müller goes on to argue, makes it possible to speak of a theology of the
Septuagint, which, in some instances, provides the link between the Hebrew Bible
and the New Testament.
One of the most important developments in the scholarship of the Copenhagen
School involves questions of the reception of biblical literature, not only in regard
to its relationships with Hellenism and the late dating of biblical texts generally,
but also with questions related to the reception of the biblical traditions as Bible.
Largely due to the influence of Fred Cryer in the 1990s, such reception history in
Copenhagen begins with the reception of these writings from the perspective of the
Dead Sea Scrolls. It is appropriate, therefore, that our third and final section deals
with the reception of biblical texts and opens with a chapter by Cryer, which deals
with the history of the biblical texts from the perspective of the closing of the canon
(Cryer 1996). Cryer introduces his argument with six observations regarding the
special status given in the Dead Sea Scrolls to books, which became incorporated
in the canonical Hebrew Bible. This stood in contrast to the status which was given

8
 I ntroduction

even to the most popular non-biblical Dead Sea Scroll works. In spite of the con-
sistency of such evaluation, Cryer feels compelled to question whether such special
status implies that the canon had already been closed. He concludes, against expec-
tations, that the community that lived and worshiped in Qumran did not know any
integral canon of the Old Testament that corresponded with the canon of the later
Hebrew Bible. The discrepancies in status suggests, rather, that the Old Testament
canon was far from closed at the beginning of the second century ce.
In the chapter following Cryer’s, Greg Doudna offers a detailed, archaeologi-
cally oriented argument, calling quite insistently for a significant revision of the
chronology for the deposition of the Dead Sea Scrolls in the caves. In history
and archaeology, dating is the essence of things. A radical change in date for the
deposits has substantial implications for interpretation. Doudna, here, challenges
Emanuel Tov’s argument for the continuation of a pluralism of Judaean biblical
text-types until the last quarter of the first century ce (Tov 2012), a dating based
on the existence of non-MT biblical texts in the caves at Qumran. The revision
Doudna suggests lowers the deposition of these variant texts as much as a century
to the time of Herod. If accepted, it introduces a radical change in our understand-
ing the process which led to the stabilization of the biblical text.
Jesper Høgenhaven also discusses the implications of the Dead Sea Scrolls
from the perspective of the history of reception. Høgenhaven explores whether the
notion of canonicity is necessarily associated with an actual formation of canonical
collections, or whether we may, rather, have to do with developments taking place
at very different and, to a great extent, independent levels. Høgenhaven argues
that as long as we accept the strict definition of the term ‘canon’, Fourth Ezra and
Josephus are the earliest known witnesses for the notion of a normative and exclu-
sive collection. No direct evidence for the existence of a list of canonical books
is known to be prior to the end of first century ce. He agrees with John Barton in
arguing that to speak of an ongoing process of ‘canon formation’ or ‘canonization’
runs the risk of distorting the extant evidence and suggesting that there must nec-
essarily have been a constant underlying force or ‘drive’ towards a closed canon.
Of course, notions of ‘canonicity’ may have existed earlier; for example, at the
time the Qumran scrolls were written and deposited. When we adopt a definition
of ‘canon’ and ‘canonicity’, which is sufficiently strict and formal, however, we
remain at a loss for any text to document such an intellectual enterprise.
Flemming Nielsen explores the flexibility of biblical narrative’s fictional qual-
ities, by drawing them into the context of political nation building in Greenland.
As fiction rather than as sources for anyone’s historical past, Nielsen cogently
argues that the origin traditions of Genesis reflect both the origin and reception
history in the religious communities of Persian and Hellenistic Jewry and, simi-
larly, numerous nations have been created and infused with new identities through
the inspiration of biblical texts. He offers, as his example, Greenland. New chil-
dren of Abraham have been raised from the rocks of Greenland in the wake of the
arrival of a certain Norwegian missionary in 1721. Less than a century later, all
the Inuit people of Western Greenland – within reach of the European vessels of

9
 I ngrid H jelm and T homas L . T hom p son

the day – had been baptized and saw themselves inscribed in the Bible as one of
the peoples that had been scattered throughout the earth from the Tower of Babel.
Jim West closed the Changing Perspectives conference, and now this volume,
with a chapter listing some of the contributions of Thompson, Lemche, Whitelam,
and Davies to the field of Biblical Studies from the perspective of a generalist. In
particular, West discusses the past, present, and potential future of the methodolo-
gies, which these scholars have constructed and utilized in connection with their
practical application in non-technical publications as well as in pastoral work,
giving particular attention to the usefulness of their approaches for the Church.

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12
 Part I

BEYOND HI ST O R ICIT Y
This Page is Intentionally Left Blank
 1
A NEW “BIBLI CAL
ARCHAEOLOGY”

Philip R. Davies

A brief retrospect
To expound the principles of “new biblical archaeology”, I begin with a short
retrospect on what was called “Minimalism”. This was, of course, a term coined
by opponents, which entirely missed the point by focusing on the (minimal) extent
of biblical narrative held to contain reliable historical data. “Minimalist” was
attached to a small number of scholars who were supposed to form a “school”. In
reality, what was under way was not the invention of a new revolutionary or even
revisionist ideology, but a response, in an appropriate manner, to the collapse of
biblical archaeology, the faults of which have now been widely recognized (see,
for example, Davis 2004). “Minimalism” has remained a term of opprobrium,
even while its conclusions have been quietly accepted. Its approach is now firmly
in the mainstream.
The collapse of biblical archaeology may seem to have occurred quite rapidly,
but the entire enterprise had been under challenge for some time. Whether the
patriarchs, the Exodus and the Conquest had really belonged to history was a
question that occupied the teachers of my own student years in the 1960s, even if
their urge was regularly to affirm some kind of historical core. Nowadays, these
episodes are less of an issue than the so-called “United Monarchy”, or, more pre-
cisely, the figure of King David. In many (more ignorant) quarters, “minimalism”
is symbolized by the denial of the historical existence of this figure. The reason is
that a stake in biblical historicity is not now, as previously, mainly a matter of reli-
gious commitment to the Bible as scripture. It is much more the city of Jerusalem
that matters, a city now annexed and its Iron Age identity named as the “City of
David”, celebrated as “Israel’s eternal capital”.
Biblical historicity is now more a political than a religious issue. This, I think,
partly explains the animosity that the word “minimalism” still evokes in some
quarters, even at times attracting the label of “anti-Semitic”, a term evidently no
longer used only to mean hatred of Jews, but opposition to the claims and deeds
of the government of the State of Israel.
A review of the history of biblical scholarship written in fifty years’ time will
surely recognize that “minimalism” represented a return to normal scholarly

15
 P hilip R . D av ies

discourse after three-quarters of a century of misdirection. It will comprehend

that in the twentieth century Palestinian archaeology, which had so much to offer
to biblical scholarship, turned its back on biblical criticism and pursued its own
naïve course up a blind alley.
Reinhard Kratz has recently pointed out (Kratz 2013: 141) that Wellhausen’s
distinction between the religion of “ancient Israel” and the religion of Judaism
remains a fundamentally important insight. We can now entertain a much richer
complex and more positive appreciation of early Judaism or Judaisms, and a
rather different view of the religious practices in Iron Age Israel and Judah than
did Wellhausen. But he did, following the lead of de Wette, rightly perceive that –
as we would not have to put it – the biblical Israels are a product of various
Judahite/Judean communities and not the other way round.
The principle that biblical texts betray the history of the period of their pro-
duction underlay the literary-critical reconstruction of ancient Israelite and
Judahite religion, and made possible a scholarly history based on the chrono-
logical sequence of sources rather than the chronology within the narratives. The
documentary sequence that emerged in Wellhausen’s work has, of course, been
severely reconfigured, even dismantled, during more than a century of scholar-
ship, and the notion of a documentary structure itself has been questioned. But
the central insight and conclusion of the nineteenth-century reconstruction has
survived: that the Mosaic Torah stands not at the beginning of Israel but at the
beginning of Judaism.
Just at the moment of this realization, the development of a scientific archaeo­
logy, an archaeology of tells and pottery, of chronology and history, and not just
the exposure of walls and buildings and the collection of museum pieces, became
possible. The new discipline might have provided just what literary-historical
criticism lacked: an independent means of verification, improvement and correc-
tion of its critical reconstruction. Instead, confronted with the re-emergence of the
biblical stage – places, ruins, names – biblical archaeology made two fundamental
mistakes: rejecting the conclusions of Higher Criticism and overturning its basic
principle on the dating of sources. Instead, it took a view that, because Elsinore
Castle can still be seen and visited, Hamlet is, therefore, a figure of history, and
Shakespeare a historian. Textual analysis was abandoned and, instead, biblical
archaeology set itself to search for evidence that the biblical story was, after all,
quite true, and not the critical historical reconstruction derived from it. The goal
of archaeology became its premise.
Because of this antagonism of “biblical archaeology” to Higher Criticism, it
was never going to be finally undone by any kind of literary-critical exegesis.
It was definitively brought down only in the 1970s, with the results of the West
Bank survey (see Finkelstein 1988), and many of those who then quickly became
ex-biblical archaeologists claimed that archaeology itself had triumphed over
the “philologists” or “theologians,” who reached similar conclusions through
literary-historical criticism. The belief, incidentally, that literary criticism is
somehow representative of a theological or philological approach is curious,

16
 A new “ biblical archaeology ”

even ridiculous, but one of the paradoxes of Albrightean “biblical archaeology”

was an antipathy to theology that concealed a commitment to the integrity of the
biblical literature. That it was Israeli archaeology that undid a large chunk of
national history in removing from history the contents of Genesis to Joshua was
ironic, but also enormously helpful. It “erased history”, to use the phrase coined
by Halpern (1988), but also undermined Noth’s hypothesis (Noth 1948) that the
stories of ancestral immigration, exodus and conquest were an early Israelite
tradition – this hypothesis representing another backtrack from the principle
established by Wellhausen. The kind of “Israel” that might have created such a
tradition had not existed.
Biblical archaeology had failed not only in its historical agenda but also in
offering any alternative sense of the biblical narratives about the past, because
it had, explicitly or implicitly, decreed that the truth of the Bible was essentially
historical truth, and hence its narratives were to be read literally. This defect was
avoided elsewhere through the postulation of Israelite “tradition” or “traditions”,
which were not necessarily always historically reliable. Such an approach per-
mitted archaeological data to be evaluated somewhat more critically in assessing
the historicity of these written “traditions”. The essential difference between the
two ways of applying archaeology to the Bible came most fully into light in a
conversation in the Expository Times, between G. Ernest Wright (Wright 1960)
and Gerhard von Rad (von Rad 1961). Each proposed his own different concep-
tion of biblical theology. Wright, who was a good archaeologist, also sought to
make explicit the theology underpinning biblical archaeology (generating the
so-called “Biblical Theology” movement): the Bible was a testimony to mighty
divine acts, and it was in those acts, and not the written story about them, that
the divine revelation, the “truth”, was embedded. Who had been writing these
stories about the past, how, when or where, did not matter: the testimony could
be evaluated quite independently by archaeology, without the aid of literary-
historical criticism. For von Rad, the theology of the Old Testament lay in the
sacred tradition of Israel, which von Rad did not confuse with historical truth;
rather, it expressed a historical faith. In this von Rad anticipated the more recent
fashion to regard the biblical narratives of the past as expressions of collective
memory, as expressions of ideologies of identity, rather than bare records of
facts, paying attention to the contours of the memory/story itself rather than
merely investigating its accuracy.

Picking up the pieces of “biblical archaeology”

The collapse of “biblical archaeology” and its associated “biblical theology”
means that a quite different agenda is required for the historian seeking to make
use of biblical narratives about the past. To begin with, the degree of discrep-
ancy between the archaeologically reconstructed account of “Israelite origins”
and the biblical stories of a pre-monarchic era suggest a substantial gap between
the story’s setting and its composition. How big the gap is really does not matter

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 P hilip R . D av ies

much, although there seems to be an anxiety among some scholars to hold on

as far as possible to the monarchic (“pre-exilic”) period for an early consolida-
tion of much of the content. This is probably part of the reason why the reign
of Josiah is so popular at present (see, for example, Finkelstein and Silberman
2001, 2007). Awareness of this gap does not, of course, “erase history”, but
shifts our attention to a different segment of history, the time of the text, not the
time it writes about; this shift creates the need for a different way of reconstruct-
ing history. From this perspective, archaeology is needed to provide a context
for the creation of the writings. This is not only because, as I want to argue,
the production of a text is the crucial point of intersection between exegeti-
cal and archaeological work, but also because the scriptural texts represent the
most important artefacts to have come out of Palestine, the ones that ultimately
explain the importance of the land and its history in our own times. The religion
of Judaism – which can intelligibly be dated only to the second century ce at the
earliest – is much more a product of the scriptures and the “Israels”, depicted in
those scriptures, than it is the outcome of any events that occurred in the Iron
Age. This enshrines a universal truth, in fact: our own actions, individually and
collectively, are determined less by what happened in the past than by how we
choose to remember it.
Historical-critical exegesis has until recently dominated the literary approach.
However, in the new perspective, the historian must also utilize other literary-
critical techniques, especially those that relate to narrative analysis. The biblical
stories have to be seen as works of fiction rather than as reportage, and hence
we have to look more closely at literary features such as genre, point of view,
type-scene, character and plot in order to understand their purpose and dynam-
ics. While these features can be examined without any reference to the historical
production of the text, my own view is that even fiction has its “political uncon-
scious” (to use the phrase of Fredric Jameson), and that in principle no story,
no telling or retelling of a story, can entirely mask its historical context, even if
we cannot always decode that context adequately. Hence, even if, for instance,
the stories of David (or of Jesus) are nothing more than a reworked assemblage
of types and tropes, there remains the question: why tell this story? Why now?
Why tell it this way, deploy this particular repertoire, impart these variations?
These are also the kinds of questions which invoke the study of cultural mem-
ory, whose essential feature, in my view, is a focus on the act of remembering,
its purpose and function, and not on the degree of reliability of that memory.
Remembering, especially in writing, is still a historical act, and a written mem-
ory is a cultural artefact, part of the cause and effect of the historical process
that we seek either to understand or to create, depending on our philosophy
of history. These considerations mark the difference between the now-defunct
“biblical archaeology” and whatever kind of negotiation between archaeology
and the biblical text may now be necessary – which I call the “new biblical
archaeology”. However, first, it is necessary to ask: is such a negotiation any
longer possible or desirable?

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 A new “ biblical archaeology ”

Text and artefact

In the history of altercation between biblical text and archaeology, several dif-
ferent methodologies have been proposed. One is the old biblical archaeology
procedure of finding events and circumstances in the archaeological record that
“confirm” or “correspond to” or “converge with” individual biblical data. This is
what, for example, Dever maintains, though with decreasing confidence, because
his latest book demonstrates very little “intersection” with the biblical text (Dever
2012). Dever exhibits some awareness of the results of literary-historical criti-
cism, but his approach has little or no place for them. Most archaeologists work-
ing on Iron Age Palestine are knowledgeable about the biblical story but ignorant
about biblical scholarship. One example of many that could be offered is the com-
ment by Faust (Faust 2012: 2), that “In contrast to previous studies, archaeological
evidence constitutes the main source of information for this work, while the infor-
mation that can be obtained from the Bible . . . will be presented, in most cases,
as an additional and complementary tool.” Note “information obtained from the
Bible”, not “information acquired through biblical scholarship”! Israel Finkelstein
is something of an exception to this general criticism, and his two books with Neil
Asher Silberman (2001, 2007) show more interest than most of his colleagues
in reconciling critical textual scholarship with archaeological data. But his com-
ment (quoted in Ha-Aretz [English language edition, 27 August 2013]) that “I see
myself as a historian practicing archaeology”, gives the impression that the his-
tory of ancient Israel and Judah can be conducted as a purely archaeological exer-
cise, rather than (as his Tel Aviv colleague Ussishkin has maintained) as requiring
the skills of a historian who will use archaeology among other data.
The opposite view – that history should be left to literary critics – is rarely to
be found nowadays (there is a hint of this in Provan, Long and Longman [2003:
47]): “History is fundamentally openness to acceptance of accounts of the past
that enshrine other people’s memories” (original emphasis); how “openness”
interacts, if at all, with critical analysis is not clear. Yet a good deal of bibli-
cal scholarship still operates in something of a data-vacuum, projecting historical
contexts for texts without due regard to what archaeology, anthropology, or soci-
ology may imply. On the whole, however, biblical scholars dealing with history
are aware of the necessity of integrating exegesis with archaeological data. What
we may be less good at is recognizing just how partial the data often are and just
how provisional, open to dispute and subject to ideological bias archaeological
work can be. Analysts of the biblical texts should not feel obliged to play a sub-
sidiary role on that score.
A common approach to the relationship between archaeology and text is that
each addresses essentially different kinds of phenomenon. Archaeology reveals
lifestyles, architecture, diet, ecology, large-scale events, while the biblical sto-
ries deal with individuals, conversations, private transactions, most of which are
invisible to excavation and survey. This observation is true, but only up to a point.
Increasingly, archaeology is inferring the functioning of households, distribution

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 P hilip R . D av ies

of gender roles, belief systems, symbolic universes, ethnicity and many other
issues that impinge on the setting of biblical narratives. Conversely, literary-
critical exegesis can amplify, explain and perhaps adjudicate on incomplete or
disputed archaeological data (or more usually, their interpretation). Private con-
versations or transactions lie beyond recovery by archaeology, of course, but in
the grey areas, where neither text nor archaeology alone can quite reach, each may,
in fact, benefit from trying to touch the other, making it possible jointly to under-
stand where neither can succeed by itself. At all events, the different kinds of data
that each discipline deals with cannot be used as an excuse for non-engagement.
It is true, of course, that a great deal of history lies beyond archaeology and liter-
ary sources, but more is recoverable by using both together in a properly critical
relationship than by relying on either alone.
The point is that both literary-historical exegesis and archaeology are human
sciences. Biblical scholarship is not a theological science: the biblical texts may
or may not be telling us about the nature and activity of a god, but that belief
represents a historical datum. The texts tell us about how human beings, individu-
ally and collectively, imagined and lived as if gods existed, and how the thoughts
and behaviours of people were informed and controlled by those who claimed to
have access to the gods, and who had the power to declare what had happened,
what was happening and what would happen in the future. The biblical texts show
us how religion works, what it does to people and what people do with it. Both
archaeology and biblical exegesis study human behaviour and aim at the same
goals, by examining the relics of past human life.
The word “relic” hints at how these two approaches really converge. The
shared object of examination is the object, the artefact. It is from artefacts –
whether buildings, art objects, flora and fauna, pottery, traces of habitation,
pollen – that archaeology gleans most of its data. But the biblical text is an
artefact too. In the case of literary-historical exegesis, exegetes are in effect
hypothesizing or reconstructing an artefact, one that is dated to a particular time,
place and kind of author, or perhaps to a series of these during its evolution. The
artefact was not, of course, uncovered by the spade, but it might have been. I
have had the personal pleasure of hypothesizing from exegesis of the Qumran
War Scroll a certain stage of literary development that was subsequently dem-
onstrated from a Cave IV fragment. Indeed, the Qumran manuscripts actually
provide a very helpful resource as both literary and material artefacts, and indeed
have to be analysed as both by the exegete and the archaeologist. In the case of
biblical texts, however, only the exegete can operate. Yet while the exegete’s
conjectured artefacts may be hypothetical, it cannot be denied that there were
once upon a time discrete pieces of writing that became prototypes of the canon-
ized texts that we now possess. These texts need to be explained, and until an
archaeologist recovers a surviving piece of that text’s history, it is the job of the
literary-historical critic to decide where best these conjectured artefacts should
be placed. Then perhaps the archaeologists might dig with the spade in one hand
and the scholarly monograph in the other!

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 A new “ biblical archaeology ”

Text and archaeology: contradiction, concurrence,

collaboration
In this last section I will offer three case studies of ways in which historical
research involves, or might involve, the combination of archaeology and historical-
critical exegesis. These are meant to illustrate how collaborative historical
enquiry is achievable, whether through agreement or disagreement between the
two disciplines.

Contradiction: Jerusalem and text production

The belated arrival of archaeology in any serious sense into the sixth century bce
has opened up several important new questions. Rather than do our best with the
biblical stories of mass deportation and empty land, of dramatic restoration and
of almost complete silence about seventy years or more of Palestinian history,
we can now draw upon surveys and excavations. Who lived in Judah after 586,
and where? How poor was the economy? These are questions for archaeology,
and, with some disagreement, it is trying to answer them. When was Jerusalem and
its temple rebuilt? Where was the Persian-era city of Jerusalem located exactly?
Here, we have evidence from both kinds of data. In several recent articles, Israel
Finkelstein (for example, Finkelstein 2008, 2009) has advanced an argument
based purely on archaeology, deducing from the rubble from a small excavation
on the Temple Mount, and from remains on the Ophel hill, that Jerusalem in the
Persian and Early Hellenistic periods at this time had a very small population.
He concludes that the northern part of the ridge of the City of David was unin-
habited, the southern part of the ridge was probably uninhabited as well, and the
population was confined to the central part of the ridge, a total of 20–25 dunams,
according to his estimate containing 400–500 people, of whom there were 100
adult men. He concludes: “On a broader issue, the archaeological evidence from
Jerusalem casts severe doubt on the notion that much of the biblical material was
composed in the Persian and Early Hellenistic periods” (Finkelstein 2008: 514).
I emailed Finkelstein to ask where he thought Haggai, Zechariah, Second
Isaiah, Chronicles, and ben Sira were written, and he replied, in effect, “that
is your problem”, as if archaeology dictates and the biblical scholar has to live
with its verdict. But these writings were created as historical artefacts, and if
he claims to be doing history and not just archaeology, it is also his job to take
them into account. To be fair, Finkelstein’s reply does not really represent his
position, since he has recently begun to engage with Thomas Römer on the his-
torical setting of the figures of Abraham and Jacob (2014a, 2014b). But a similar
interdisciplinarity is needed here, too. Biblical scholars might conclude that ben
Sira was not written by the grandfather of the translator or that Chronicles is a
Hasmonean composition, and likewise Haggai and Zechariah. They might argue
that the variety of scriptural texts found at Qumran developed over a few genera-
tions. However, if all of these conclusions taken together seem improbable, then

21
 P hilip R . D av ies

Finkelstein’s reasoning must be defective. In fact, his data are also defective. For
example, he has not been able to accurately estimate settlement on the Temple
Mount, where the bulk of the population may have lived, since Jerusalem was
almost certainly a temple and palace city. Second, a disproportionate number of
the population may have been adult males, namely priests and scribes, whose
families did not necessarily live in the city. Moreover, even if he is right about the
population estimate, how many men does it take to write a scroll? How many to
staff a temple or a provincial governor’s residence? If the production of biblical
books, including authoring and editing and copying, was undertaken by a small
elite, sufficient to service the temple and palace and no more, we can use that
information to resolve issues such as the number of copies of a text that may have
existed at any one time. We might explain the conservatism of the Hebrew lan-
guage and style, assess the degree of knowledge among the scribes of the entire
corpus, and much else about the production of the scriptural canon. The sociology
of text production is precisely an area in which biblical exegesis and archaeology
need to collaborate. But there needs to be a serious conversation involving a criti-
cal look at the whole range of apparently contradictory evidence. If it were not
for the literary artefacts that we have reason to think once existed there, we might
well conclude, on the basis of Finkelstein’s reasoning, that nothing was written
in Jerusalem. But we cannot conclude that without much more consideration.
Biblical scholars and archaeologists have to query each other’s data in cases like
this, for we have a problem that needs sharing, not passing over for the other side
to deal with. (Since this essay was first written, Finkelstein has modified his posi-
tion in the direction recommended here: Finkelstein, Koch and Lipschits 2011.)

Concurrence: An original “Israel”?

My second case study concerns the question of whether the populations of Israel
and Judah comprised some kind of political union before the appearance of the
Omride kingdom based in Samaria. The evidence of the West Bank survey, which
has not been increasingly developed, tends to show a difference not only in the
time and rate of political and social development but also in social habits, between
the two populations, leading to the suggestion that they originated independently.
That is, there was no original “Israel” comprising them together.
The question formed one chapter of Thompson’s quite comprehensive and
far-sighted 1992 Early History of the Israelite People, but here only archaeo-
logical evidence was considered, though there was a section on the “Intellectual
Matrix of Biblical Tradition”. What I want to bring into the issue is the content
of that “tradition” (I would rather speak more precisely of the “narrative” and
employ narrative-analytical methods) concerning the origins of Israel and Judah.
Starting with the observation that the Pentateuchal texts speak unambiguously
of a twelve-tribe “Israel”, without any indication of a separate Judah, and yet
the books of Samuel speak of two “houses” of Israel and Judah, which devel-
oped into the two “kingdoms” of Israel and Judah in the books of Kings. It is

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 A new “ biblical archaeology ”

remarkable, from the point of view of narrative analysis, that there is no expla-
nation of how Judah became a separate “house” or even how it formed its own
kingdom (see further, Davies 2013). The first appearance of a separate “house
of Judah” is in 1 Sam. 17, where, in the battle against the Philistines, “men of
Judah” suddenly materialize among “men of Israel”. The transition is not entirely
unanticipated as, in Joshua and Judges, Judah has already acquired some kind of
special status, though still as a member of a single twelve-tribe entity. There is
also a deep shadow of ambiguity in the specifically Judahite canonical collection
of Prophets. This largely condemns Israel/Samaria for apostasy and ultimately
questions Samaria’s status as part of Israel, yet accepts that the two kingdoms
are in some way part of a single religious entity, even as that entity is not called
“Israel”, at least not in the Former Prophets.
Is this ambivalence a refraction of political controversy in the Persian-
Hellenistic era, within Judah, concerning relations with Samaria? Yes, to some
extent that seems very probable. But is the portrait of two separate “houses” also
reflecting a memory that accords with historical facts or with continuing histori-
cal identities, such as “Judahite=Jew”? (See Schwartz 2013 for a brilliant analysis
of this identity.) Insofar as it accords with archaeological indications, it should
be considered as a persistent memory rather than as a newly invented one. The
appearance from nowhere of a “house of Judah” in 1 Samuel, the failure to explain
how this house apparently seceded from the “house” of Israel, the failure to be
clear about whether Judah was part of Saul’s kingdom or not, about whether David
was an Israelite or not, all require some kind of explanation. In my view, the most
plausible explanation is that these features betray an incomplete fusion of con-
flicting memories of, on the one hand, the origins of Judah and, on the other, the
origins of a twelve-tribe Israel – which, I have argued, is a more recent memory
dating from the sixth century (Davies 2007). The biblical critic might not be able
to answer this with any certainty on literary analysis alone, but, if taken with other
data, a more confident answer is possible. For if Judah and Israel were distinct
polities from the beginning, they would have had different origin stories. There
seems to be a growing consensus among those who consider the question (see
Fleming 2012) that the Pentateuchal narrative is largely Samarian in content. If
so, what was the story told in Judah about its own origins? It seems to begin only
with David. Now, if we for a moment take the references to the “house of David”
in the Tel Dan and Mesha inscriptions – despite some reservations about both of
these – we have a conclusion consistent with other data; namely, that Judah and
David were mutually entailed. Both archaeology and the biblical narrative suggest
that the “house of David” (or the kingdom of Judah, according to Kings) behaved
as a vassal of the king of Israel, and perhaps to speak of a “kingdom of Judah”
before the eighth century is anachronistic. But my point is not to argue for a par-
ticular conclusion, but to show that while attempts to understand the nature of the
historical relationship between the neighbouring kingdoms through either biblical
exegesis or archaeology alone will transgress the limitations of either, an integra-
tion of their data, including data from inscriptions, can yield historical knowledge.

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 P hilip R . D av ies

Collaboration: the Exodus and self-identity

I mentioned earlier that Moses stands not at the beginning of Israel, but at the
beginning of Judaism. In this last section, I am going to deal with the origins
and ethnicity of Israel. This was not the political entity that was known by oth-
ers under that name (and known as “house of Omri”), but an imagined “people”,
defined by its attachment to a single deity and a set of customs and behaviour,
projected as divine injunction and condition of their attachment.
For centuries, the recitation of the Exodus story has been the central ritual of
Jewish identification, one shared by religious and non-religious Jews. The failure
of efforts to verify the Exodus story, historically, has left the crucial question of
how this story arose. Is it a disguised rehearsal of escape from Egyptian hegemony
in Palestine? Is it an amalgam of numerous flights from Egypt by Palestinian
residents, who had once fled there in times of famine? Was there a “core group”
within the earliest Israelites that had experienced such an event?
Here, I suggest, is a question whose answer lies within the competence of
the biblical exegete and not the archaeologist. It is a case where we should also
begin with the principle that the historical setting of a text is that of its tell-
ing and not of the time it narrates. From the perspective of cultural memory,
we should be asking, who is remembering this, when and why. It may seem
perverse to omit the question “how true is it?” However, it is unlikely that the
tellers of the story had any interest in asking this question, let alone knowing
the answer. It was the past as imagined, and its historicity is, frankly, quite
irrelevant to an analysis of the memory. Where we can compare a memory, a
story, a text, with a known historical fact, then we have a basis for studying the
history of the memory, which is extremely useful both to the historian and to
the analyst of cultural memory. However, here, we don’t have a historical event
we can identify.
So we start with a text. First, 2 Kings 17:24–9:

The king of Assyria brought people from Babylon, Cuthah, Avva,

Hamath, and Sepharvaim, and placed them in the cities of Samaria in
place of the people of Israel; they took possession of Samaria, and settled
in its cities. When they first settled there, they did not worship YHWH;
therefore YHWH sent lions among them, which killed some of them. So
the king of Assyria was told, “The nations that you have carried away
and placed in the cities of Samaria do not know the law of the god of
the land; therefore he has sent lions among them; they are killing them,
because they do not know the law of the god of the land.” Then the king
of Assyria commanded, “Send there one of the priests whom you car-
ried away from there; let him go and live there, and teach them the law
(mišpaṭ [mishpat]) of the god of the land”. So one of the priests whom
they had carried away from Samaria came and lived in Bethel; he taught
them how they should worship (yr’) YHWH.

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 A new “ biblical archaeology ”

This story is well known, because it provides the basis for the traditional Jewish
belief that the Samaritans are not Israelites and their worship, though superficially
Jewish, is invalid. It also has some curious features, namely the ideas that the
mishpat of YHWH could be successfully disseminated by a priest from a sanctu-
ary and that this would be authorized by the imperial ruler. It also invites us to
enquire after the meaning of “the mishpat of the god of the land” and of the “wor-
ship” of YHWH.
Whether the story has any historical truth in it remains to be investigated. Two
factors need considering. First, the cult of YHWH was established in the province
of Samaria, to the extent that the identity of “Israel” was preserved there, and
an Israelite identity, based not on custom and worship, was shared with Judah,
at least after the end of the Judahite kingdom. Second, this process of artificial
enculturation seems to be reflected in the Book of Deuteronomy, where the king
is handed a book, consisting of mishpatim by the priests, and where the Levites
are dispersed among the town and villages. They are not present at the cult
centres – which can no longer offer animal sacrifices – but assist in the resolu-
tion of local disputes, building up, in the process, a body of traditional customs
relating mostly to social and domestic lifestyles. Within Samaria, after 722, there
would have been some variety in these customs, but, within Judah, much less. Let
us recognize that Deuteronomy reflects an effort to define or redefine “Israel” in
terms of mishpatim and of exclusive worship of YHWH.
While behaving the same way, and sharing the same customs, is an essential
ingredient of identity-formation – we might say ethnic identification – it is not
sufficient to endow that identity with any distinct character. For that, it is neces-
sary to have a shared story. Here, Deuteronomy also prescribes the mechanism.
While its authors express little or no interest in cultic matters, they do endorse
the notion of a central sanctuary. Partly, this may be in order to remove the influ-
ence of local cults on mishpat and yir’ah, but, more importantly, to provide a
single focus of national identity, a place where the name of the god was reserved
and to which Israelites were expected to go for the three great festivals (Deut.
16:6). These were already well-established agricultural festivals, but probably
locally celebrated. They are now converted into moments of national memory, the
memory of the founding of Israel: the Exodus, the lawgiving and the wilderness
wanderings. The book itself addresses the Israelites, individually and corporately,
in the name of Moses, and on the eve of entry into the promised land, close to that
remembered moment of foundation.
From this perspective, Deuteronomy is a document that prescribes the content
of Israelite ethnic identity and also shows how it is to be achieved. The text in
2 Kings 17 actually describes such a process as having occurred, and I take this
little story to allude to a process that was not purely imaginary, but something
that the authors knew. The question of imperial authorization is also significant,
because, although it seems unlikely in the case of Assyria, such authorization in
either Judah or Samaria or both under the Persians is a possibility much discussed
recently. The authorization of the mishpat of YHWH is, ultimately, not imperial

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 P hilip R . D av ies

but divine in Deuteronomy. Unlike other national customs, those of Israel are
not developed, but imposed. Israel remembers and configures itself as a divinely
created nation. This Israel is created, according to the Kings story, in the post-
monarchic period, in imperial provinces, and, after a period of crisis, when ethnic
identity needs definition – something not required in a kingdom where alternative
forms of collective identity are available, such as the king himself.
Deuteronomy, in this view, is not a programmatic document, and certainly
not a Josianic lawbook. It is the codification of an enterprise deliberately under-
taken. My immediate suspicion is that this process originated not in Judah, but in
Samaria, and that the story of Josiah’s law book is an effort to Judaize it as well
as give it native royal authority, rather than Persian imperial authority. That, how-
ever, is for further research.
This entire hypothesis may be wrong, but it has postulated an artefact, created
for a specific reason that fits with a particular historical context. It places Moses
and the Torah at the beginning of the biblical Israel, the beginning of monothe-
istic and aniconic religion of Judaism and Samarianism, which Deuteronomy
addresses together as an ethnos of twelve tribes. The hypothetical artefact I have
proposed can be challenged by others, who might set the scroll and perhaps even
the creation of the new Israel in another time or place. I see no way in which
exegesis alone can determine the correct placement. On the other hand, can, or
will, the resources of archaeology be applied to clarifying this?
Such a task would represent a new agenda for archaeology. Archaeology is
already able to tell us about the evidence for worship of a single aniconic god in
post-monarchic Judah and Samaria. Instead of pursuing the chimera of a historical
Exodus, it would be looking for evidence of the birth of a new Israel, for the evi-
dence of pilgrim festivals, including trips from communities in Egypt, across the
Sinai. Negatively, it might look more closely at the reign of Josiah and his succes-
sors for any sign that a new kind of Israel had been born late in the seventh century.
It would not, in short, be chasing the biblical story, but a critical reconstruction of
history. It would be following biblical scholarship instead of ignoring it or dictat-
ing to it. It would be looking for the origins of a real, historical “Israel” instead of
(like Faust) trying to create a spurious ethnic awareness between populations in
Israel and Judah on the basis of four-roomed houses or avoidance of pork.

Prospects
I fear that the prospects for this agenda for a new “biblical archaeology” are not
that good. Nearly all the work integrating textual and material data is done by bibli-
cal scholars knowledgeable about archaeology and not archaeologists knowledge-
able about biblical exegesis. Archaeologists and biblical scholars have separate
formations, recognize largely separate goals, are institutionally and professionally
isolated. On the positive side, many biblical scholars, if they can find the time,
participate in digs, although they do not contribute much of their professional

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 A new “ biblical archaeology ”

expertise to these operations, and there are several conferences attended by both,
with the resultant conversations. But how can biblical scholars have a conversa-
tion with an archaeologist about literary-historical criticism? Biblical scholars are
not going to be able to control excavation in Israel in the way that religious funda-
mentalists can. Nowadays, motor shows increasingly feature concept cars, vehi-
cles that look stunning but will never be built. Perhaps we can think of the new
“biblical archaeology” as a concept vehicle and just enjoy fantasizing about it.

Bibliography
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———. 2013. “1 Samuel and the ‘Deuteronomistic History’”. In Is Samuel Among the
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Davis, T. W. 2004. Shifting Sands: The Rise and Fall of Biblical Archaeology. New York:
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Dever, W. G. 2012. The Lives of Ordinary People in Ancient Israel. Where Archaeology
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———. 2007. David and Solomon: In Search of the Bible’s Sacred Kings and the Roots of
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______2008. “Jerusalem in the Persian (and Early Hellenistic) Period and the Wall of
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———. 2009. “Persian Period Jerusalem and Yehud: A Rejoinder”. JHS 9: 2–13.
———. Koch, I. and Lipschits, O. 2011. “The Mound on the Mount: A Possible Solution
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——— and Silberman, N. A. 2001. The Bible Unearthed. Archaeology’s New Vision of
Ancient Israel and the Origin of Its Sacred Texts. New York: Free Press.
Fleming, D. E. 2012. The Legacy of Israel in Judah’s Bible: History, Politics, and the
Reinscribing of Tradition. New York: Cambridge University Press.
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———. 1995. “Erasing History: The Minimalist Assault on Ancient Israel”. Bible Review
11/6: 26–35, 47.
Kratz, R. G. 2013. Historisches und biblisches Israel. Drei Überblicke zum alten Testament
Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck.
Noth, M. 1948. Überlieferungsgeschichte des Pentateuch. Stuttgart: Kohlhammer.
Provan, I., Phillips Long, V. and Longman III, T. 2003. A Biblical History of Israel,
Louisville, KY: Westminster/John Knox Press.

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Schwartz, D. R. 2013. “Judeans, Jews, and Their Neighbors”. In Between Cooperation

and Hostility. Multiple Identities in Ancient Judaism and the Interaction with Foreign
Powers. R. Albertz and J. Wöhrle (eds.). Göttingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht: 13–31.
Thompson, T. L. 1992. Early History of the Israelite People. Leiden: Brill.
Von Rad, G. 1961. “History and the Patriarchs”. Expository Times 72: 213–16.
Wright, G. E. 1960. “Modern Issues in Biblical Studies: History and the Patriarchs”.
Expository Times 71: 292–6.

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 2
O LD AND NEW WAYS OF
INT ERPRETING ISA I AH 4 0 – 5 5

Frederik Poulsen

Introduction
In the study of the prophet Isaiah, the year 1789 is a year of revolution. Until
the Enlightenment, the book was – with a few notable exceptions (for example,
Abraham Ibn Ezra in his 1145 Isaiah commentary) – considered to contain the
visions that Isaiah ben Amoz received in the eighth century bce. Yet the rise
of historical criticism challenged traditional and orthodox views on the unity
of the book. In the third edition of his Isaiah commentary, published in 1789,
Johann Christoph Döderlein formulated his influential theory of a dual authorship
(Berges 2008: 31). Accordingly, Isaiah 40–66 should not be assigned to eighth-
century Isaiah, but rather to an anonymous sixth-century author. Furthermore, the
historical setting of these chapters is best understood to reflect a time of exile and
deportation after the destruction of Jerusalem in 587 bce.
A hundred years later, Bernhard Duhm made his famous revision of Döderlein’s
thesis by distinguishing Isaiah 40–55 from Isaiah 56–66 (see the third edition of
his 1892 Isaiah commentary, Duhm 1914). According to Duhm, the former chap-
ters called “Deutero-Isaiah” reflect the period of the Babylonian exile (587–539
bce), whereas the latter chapters called “Trito-Isaiah” reflect the period of resto-
ration following the Persian conquest of the Babylonian empire (after 539 bce).
Throughout the twentieth century, the hypotheses of Döderlein and Duhm have
had a foundational impact on the scholarly approach to Isaiah, in so far as Isaiah
40–55 has largely been read as reflecting the Babylonian exile. On the one hand,
these chapters have been used to reconstruct the history of the sixth century bce.
This is apparent, for instance, in Peter Ackroyd’s Exile and Restoration, in which
Deutero-Isaiah, along with Jeremiah and Ezekiel, is used as an “obvious” source
to describe the period of exile (Ackroyd 1968: 15). On the other hand, the purpose,
message and content of Isaiah 40–55 have been interpreted, subsequently, in light
of historical reconstructions. As is well known, a basic assumption of historical
criticism holds that the meaning of the biblical text is determined by the origi-
nal author’s intention and by its historical setting. Placing the message of Isaiah
40–55 within the context of the Babylonian exile, past research has regarded the
return of the Judaean exiles as the main concern of these chapters.

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 F rederi k P oulsen

Nevertheless, in the 1970s, the dominance of historical criticism began to

erode, which has affected the study of Isaiah as well. Rather than merely searching
for historical referents and distinct authors and editors behind the biblical texts,
a series of new approaches and interests have emerged. Their manifold focuses
include the final form of Isaiah and its literary and editorial unity, the poetic and
dramatic nature of the book, intertextual connections and inner-biblical allusions,
and the impact of the book with its history of interpretation.
This chapter illuminates this change of perspective by looking at the Isaianic met-
aphor of “the way”. Whereas historical-critical scholars often have understood “the
way imagery” literally as referring to the escape from Babylon, recent Scandinavian
scholars such as Hans Barstad, Øystein Lund and Lena-Sofia Tiemeyer have chal-
lenged this view by focusing on the figurative and spiritual nature of the material.
Taking Isaiah 49:8–12 as a test case, the chapter explores the poetic and theological
potentials of the metaphor of “the way”. By doing so, it shows how this approach
might reconnect modern exegesis with ancient interpretations.

The traditional interpretation: a literal way of out of Babylon

As was indicated, historical-critical scholars have often seen the return of the Judaean
exiles from Babylon as the main concern of Isaiah 40–55.1 Duhm, for instance,
states: “Als seine Aufgabe bezeichnet der V[erfasser] . . . die Ankündigung, dass
Jahve in nächster Zeit auf wunderbarem Wege quer durch die Wüste sein Volk von
Babel nach Jerusalem zurückführen werde” (Duhm 1914: xix).
Accordingly, many of the passages, which contain references to “a way”,
have been interpreted literally as depicting an imminent exodus from Babylon to
Jerusalem. These passages normally include Isaiah 40:3; 42:16; 43:1–7; 43:16, 19;
48:20–21; 49:8–12; 52:11–12; 55:12–13, whereas the way imagery in the remain-
ing passages is considered to be a metaphor: 40:14; 40:27; 42:24; 48:17; 53:6;
55:7–9 (Lund 2007: 1). This view apparently builds on the following assump-
tions: Deutero-Isaiah, for the most part, has been written in Babylon; it addresses
the needs of the exilic community living there; and its purpose is to announce the
end of exile and the return to Jerusalem. According to Clifford (1984), a fresh
exodus and conquest is the prophet’s answer to the frustrated Judeans living in
Babylonian captivity. This interpretation of Isaiah 40–55 continues the line from
the first half of the twentieth century and culminates in the 1960s with the con-
tributions of G. von Rad, W. Zimmerli, B. W. Anderson and J. Blenkinsopp. The
view, however, lives on in the following decades, and is still present in many
commentaries (see Anderson 1962; Zimmerli 1963a; Blenkinsopp 1966; von Rad
1968; Stuhlmueller 1970; Baltzer 1971; Preuß 1976; Fishbane 1979: 121–40;
Clifford 1984; Watts 1990).
Within this historical frame, Deutero-Isaiah’s use of way and exodus motifs is
not marginal, but a dominant theme. Some features in the overall composition of
the sixteen chapters support such a claim. Deutero-Isaiah is introduced by a pro-
logue in 40:1–11, which informs readers that the guilt of the people has been taken

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 I S A I A H 4 0 – 5 5 : O L D A N D N E W I N T E R P E RTAT I O N S

away, that a way will be prepared through the wilderness, and that YHWH, as a
shepherd, will gather his flock. Moreover, the final epilogue (55:12–13) contains
an urge to “go out”. Two minor units, which also contain admonitions to “go out”,
suggest a subtle device in the composition: 48:20–21 divides the chapters into two
parts, 40–48 and 49–55, whereas 52:11–12 concludes a larger text block before
the passage about the suffering servant in 52:13–53:12.
It is recognized that individual elements of the way and exodus motifs do not
reveal a seamless picture as they occasionally stand in tension and do not form
an unequivocal whole (Zimmerli 1963a: 201). The Babylonian exile still serves
as the historical base for a harmonizing description of a new exodus: YHWH
commissions the Persian king Cyrus as his tool (44:24–45:7), who in his task of
liberating Israel will conquer and destroy Babylon (43:14–15; 46:1–2; 47). This
event initiates a new exodus (43:16–21; 48:20–21; 52:11–12; 55:12–13). YHWH
will once again fight for his people (40:10; 42:10–16; 49:24–6; 50:2–3; 51:9–11);
a way will be made straight in the wilderness, which the redeemed people will
follow (40:3–5; 42:16; 43:19); and, as in the Sinai desert, YHWH will care for his
wandering people (41:17–20; 43:19–21; 48:21; 49:9–11). The journey leads to
the Promised Land (49:8–12) and to the restoration of a new and holy Jerusalem
(44:28; 52:1; 54:11–16). The servant figure of Isa. 49, who, in vv. 9–12, shall
establish the land and apportion the desolate heritage, is said to represent a new
Moses (Baltzer 1999: 44–7; Clifford 1984: 45; Hugenberger 1995: 119–38).
Within this overall narrative, “the way” denotes the physical way back from
Babylon that the redeemed people shall follow. As Zimmerli contends, “the way”
literally refers to the way through the concrete wilderness that separates Babylonia
from Syria (1963a: 199). Trito-Isaiah, however, reinterpreted and transformed it
into an ethical and figurative sense (“in einem übertragenden, bildlichen Sinne”,
for example, Isaiah 58; 60–62), yet in Deutero-Isaiah, the way in the exodus pas-
sages largely has a literal sense (Zimmerli 1963b: 220–21; cf. Lim 2010).

Criticism of the traditional view: a metaphorical understanding

Several critical voices have emerged against the traditional interpretation that
Deutero-Isaiah proclaims a new exodus out of Babylon. The criticism that began
to appear in the 1970s mainly derives from the assumption that Deutero-Isaiah
does not address the exiles in Babylon, but by contrast the people in Jerusalem.
Rather than a new exodus, the chapters concern YHWH’s return to Zion, the
return of the whole of the Diaspora and the battle against Judah’s enemies as part
of the restoration and glorification of a future Jerusalem. A serious appeal against
the traditional interpretation is that it first establishes a historical framework by
means of the exile (that is, before 539 bce) and then assumes that the central theme
or problem is Israel’s inability or unwillingness to leave Babylon (Lund 2007: 6).
Redaction-critical observations downplay the importance of the exodus motif.
The smaller units, which contain admonitions to depart (48:20–21; 52:11–12;
55:12–13) are later additions, whose theme has nothing to do with the original

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chapters (Spykerboer 1976: 188). Furthermore, Klaus Kiesow (1979) argues for
a twofold meaning of the way imagery: Isa. 40–48 depicts the making and divine
protection of the way, whereas Isa. 49–52 depicts the way as an expression of
YHWH’s return. The two motifs reflect different editorial stages and cannot
be fused into a coherent narrative. Kiesow emphasizes that the way in 40:3, for
instance, does not concern the way out of Babylon, but YHWH’s return to Zion
(cf. 40:10–11; 52:7–10).
Another type of criticism has to do with the failure of recognizing the meta­
phorical nature of these texts. According to Hans Barstad’s main thesis, the
language of Deutero-Isaiah (and other prophets) is strongly metaphorical (1989: 3).
A common failure, however, is the attempt of many interpreters to read the meta-
phors literally. The so-called “exodus texts” about a way, a desert and related
themes do not portray a literal and historical event; rather, they are metaphors for
something different. The way image in 40:3–4 offers poetic allusions to the return
of YHWH; the blooming desert in 41:17–20 refers to the spiritual restoration of
the people rather than to care along their journey from Babylon, and the urge to
depart in 55:12–13 concerns the idea of holy war rather than a new exodus. Even
43:14–21, which appears to juxtapose the deliverance from Egypt and that from
Babylon, concerns the national restoration of Judah (Barstad 1989: 97).
Øystein Lund (2007) has – in line with Barstad – focused on the ethical and meta­
phorical aspects of Deutero-Isaiah. He asserts that in the traditional interpretation,
there is a tendency towards distinguishing too sharply between “the way” in a literal
sense (a way between Babylon and Jerusalem) and “the way” in a metaphorical
sense (ethical and spiritual matters). As an alternative, Lund seeks to demonstrate
that the motif of the way, in almost all passages, can be interpreted figuratively,
illustrating the relationship of the people to their God. (For a similar study, which
concludes that “exile” within the Old Testament is transformed from the literal to a
metaphor of physical and spiritual suffering, see Halvorson-Taylor 2011.)
Finally, Lena-Sofia Tiemeyer reduces the number of exodus references to four
or five text passages (43:16–21; 48:20–21; 51:9–11; 52:10–12, and perhaps 43:2),
of which only two contain clear allusions to a new exodus and, as should be noted,
from the Diaspora at large (51:9–11; 52:10–12).2 Tiemeyer’s approach reveals the
problem at stake: the traditional interpretation starts from the few passages with
explicit references to an exodus, seeks for passages with similar motifs (way,
desert, etc.), harmonizes them and construes the synthesis as “the new exodus”.
While focusing on the discrete units, the criticism asserts that the motif often does
not occur at all, and, in the few instances where it actually does occur, it serves a
specific rhetorical purpose.
This criticism of the traditional interpretation argues that

1 The exodus motif is not the central theme in Isaiah 40–55, but one among
many.
2 References to an exodus occur too infrequently and sporadically to be con-
strued into a synthesis of “a new exodus”.

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 I S A I A H 4 0 – 5 5 : O L D A N D N E W I N T E R P E RTAT I O N S

3 This synthesis combines different types of motifs (YHWH’s epiphany, the

shepherd motif, the battle against chaos, the way and the desert imagery) that
initially have nothing in common.
4 The references do not necessarily relate to a concrete historical event; rather,
they are metaphors for ethical and spiritual matters.
5 The central message of Deutero-Isaiah is not the deliverance from Babylon,
but the restoration of Jerusalem.
6 The passages that do speak about the people’s return concern the whole of the
Diaspora as part of the glorification of Jerusalem.

There is something refreshing in Barstad’s, Lund’s and Tiemeyer’s attempts to

“liberate” the texts from a preconceived historical-critical reading.3 Rather than
descriptions of actual events, we are dealing with metaphors. If we, however, do
want to look for an original historical setting, the nature of the language applied
constitutes a special problem. Metaphorical and poetical language does not indi-
cate the historical situation in which it emerged as easily as literal language does
(Barstad 1989: 109). The given historical situation needs first to be reconstructed
as historical-critical scholars have attempted. Yet the variety and richness of lan-
guage and metaphors in Isaiah 40–55 suggest that much more than a mere return
from Babylon is implied. Many passages can be read as general illustrations of
situations of despair and hope – in Babylon, in Judah, or elsewhere. The meta-
phorical nature of the language thereby explains how poetry can be reused and
applied to new historical situations.
When studying Isaiah and other prophets, we should therefore consider the
possibility that many of these texts – already when they originated – were under-
stood within a genuine metaphorical framework. The conventional model that
the meaning of the texts originally was literal and that later reception eventually
produced figurative or allegorical interpretations is too simplistic. Implied in this
model is that the literal or historical meaning is the single true interpretation,
whereas the figurative meaning is a substitute and alteration falsely imposed from
outside the text (cf. Childs 2004: 184). Yet not only the difference between meta-
phor and allegory can sometimes be vague, but also the difference between letter
and metaphor. As Tiemeyer stresses, “the reader of a biblical text must be open
to the possibility of encountering metaphors even in those cases that can be read
literally” (Tiemeyer 2011: 166).

Test case: Isaiah 49:8–12

We now turn to Isaiah 49:8–12 as a test case for this approach to the biblical texts:
NRSV:
8 Thus says YHWH: In a time of favour I answered you, on a day of salva-
tion I have helped you;a I have kept you and given youb as a covenant to
the people, to establish the land, to apportion the desolate heritages;

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9 saying to the prisoners, “Come out”, to those who are in darkness, “Show
yourselves”. They shall feed along the ways,c on all the bare heights shall
be their pasture;
10 they shall not hunger or thirst, neither scorching wind nor sun shall strike
them down, for he who has pity on them will lead them, and by springs
of water will guide them.
11 And I will turn all my mountainsd into a road, and my highways shall be
raised up.
12 Lo, these shall come from far away, and lo, these from the north and from
the west,e and these from the land of Syene.f

Textual notes:

a
Many interpreters understand the verbs, although in the perfect tense, to
denote present or future actions: Kiesow 1979: 87–8; Paul 2012: 94;
Tiemeyer 2011: 187; Westermann 1969: 215; cf. 1QIsaa, which renders all
verbs in imperfect. Haag (1985: 43, 51) maintains the perfect tense (cf. New
Revised Standard Version).
b
NRSV reads ָ‫ ;ו‬cf. LXX.
c
1QIsaa has “all the mountains” (‫)כל הרים‬.
d
LXX, Peshitta and Targum lack the suffix “my”; Duhm (1914: 344) emends
“my mountains” (‫הרי‬-‫ )כל‬to “every mountain” (‫הר‬-‫)כל‬.
e
MT reads “from Zaphon” (‫פֹון‬.‫ ; ִמ ָּצ‬that is, from the north) and “from the sea”
(‫ ; ִמּיָם‬that is, from the west).
f
MT reads “Sinim” (‫)סִינִים‬, whose geographical location is unknown. NRSV
follows 1QIsaa by reading Syene (‫)סוניים‬: the ancient name of modern
Aswan, located at the Nile in the southern part of Egypt.

Within Isa. 49:1–13, vv. 8–12 constitute the second of two minor oracles (vv. 7,
8–12), which have been appended to the description of the servant figure in vv.
1–6. The speech formula in v. 8a clearly separates the poetic section in vv. 8–12
from the prose section in v. 7. Yet both oracles, along with the final hymn in v. 13,
function as an editorial comment to the preceding verses, unfolding and clarifying
the task of the servant, which initially consists of bringing Israel back to God and
restoring its survivors (vv. 5–6).4
A traditional interpretation of Isa. 49:8–12 claims that these verses depict a
new exodus out of Babylon, the journey through the wilderness and the return to
Zion (Bentzen 1943: 80–84; Childs 2001: 379–87). According to Childs, vv. 8–12
have been editorially shaped “to enhance a coherent description of the servant’s
role in the new exodus of the chosen people . . . [and to expand] the servant’s
task in terms of the restoration of the land (v. 8) and the gathering of the dias-
pora (v. 12)” (2001: 386–7). Blenkinsopp (2002: 306) sees the task description
as a reminiscence of Cyrus’s mission (42:7; 44:26–8; 45:13): “the mission origi-
nally confided to Cyrus has now passed by default to him [that is, the prophetic

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 I S A I A H 4 0 – 5 5 : O L D A N D N E W I N T E R P E RTAT I O N S

individual]”. Accordingly, themes and language of Isa. 40–48 are simply repeated
and juxtaposed: YHWH as shepherd (40:11), bare hills to pasture (41:18), hun-
ger and thirst satisfied (48:21), sources of water (41:18; 43:20; 44:3; 48:21) and
mountains no longer constituting obstacles on the way back to the land (40:4;
42:16). Goldingay and Payne (2006: 175) find parallels to the conquest narrative
in Josh. 13–19: “Yhwh will re-allocate the land in the way that Joshua allocated it
when Israel first came to Canaan” (2006: 175).
Clifford’s commentary (1984: 150–55) offers a good example of the traditional
interpretation.5 The servant figure is regarded as a new Moses, modelled on the
narrative in Exod. 3:1–4:17. His task is to lead Israel to a new Exodus-conquest.
The image of the people as a flock in vv. 9–11 is said to reflect passages such as
Exod. 15:13–17 and Ps. 78:52–5. Israel’s “return to its own land means that its
subjection to Babylon is ended (“servant of rulers,” v. 7d); kings of the world have
to recognize a power superior to Babylon’s” (Clifford 1984: 153). Imprisonment
in darkness is considered to be a metaphor for exile, from which the people will be
released. They will be shepherded by YHWH and return to their land.
Interpreters, however, acknowledge that the world-wide nature of the return
in v. 12 questions the traditional interpretation of the passage. First, the prophet
apparently has more than the Babylonian exiles in mind (Blenkinsopp 2002: 306;
Goldingay and Payne 2006: 177). Second, the verse strongly suggests that the
place, from which the speaker addresses his audience, can hardly be elsewhere
than the centre of the four corners of the world, that is, Jerusalem (Hermisson
2003: 373). Furthermore, it has been argued that the passage contains no explicit
allusions to an exodus event, if any: only the broadly used verb “to go out” (‫)יצא‬
in v. 9 and the indefinite reference to springs of water (‫ )מסלתי מים‬in v. 10 (Barstad
1989: 59; Tiemeyer 2011: 187). The return from the Diaspora in v. 12 is not
described as a second exodus. According to Barstad, there is no evidence in Isa.
49:8–12 that the prophet thinks of the Babylonian exile, wherefore we should
refrain from reading the text this way (1989: 63).
The delicate matter is that the passage renders a figurative portrait in vv. 9–11
and what can be seen as a literal return in v. 12, but containing metaphorical
undertones (Lund 2007: 248).6 The verses thus fluctuate between literal and meta-
phorical expressions, which can be interpreted as a literal return to Jerusalem and
a figuratively renewed walk with YHWH (Lund 2007: 246).
In vv. 8–9a, the task of the servant is described by three verbs: to establish
(‫ )להקים‬the land, to apportion (‫ )להנחיל‬the desolate heritages and to speak (‫ )לאמר‬to
the prisoners and those in darkness.7 Because the task fits the servant figure in
exile and in Judah, the verses provide no clear warrant for seeing Babylon as the
geographical centre of the events. It is thus wrong simply to understand “prison-
ers” as literally referring to the people in Babylonian exile (Barstad 1989: 57).
Furthermore, according to Barstad, we have no evidence that the exiles suffered
under bad conditions in Babylon. Along with the imagery of darkness, imprison-
ment is, here, a metaphor for the miserable condition of the people of God. The
restoration of the land is a metaphorical picture of the restoration of this people’s

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 F rederi k P oulsen

present condition, whether dwelling in Judah, Babylon or elsewhere. The task

here relates to that of v. 5, in which the servant shall gather and restore Israel
before YHWH.
The shepherd imagery of the people as a flock under YHWH’s guidance in vv.
9b–10 contains metaphorical potentials (Lund 2007: 239; Tiemeyer 2011: 188).
The motif is well known from the Bible as an image of YHWH’s provision and
care (Ps. 23; Isa. 40:10; Ezek. 34:11–12).8 Vv. 9b–10 can be interpreted in the
same manner as an expression of YHWH’s renewed activity: YHWH is again
going to look after them. The image of the way has been integrated into this
image, suggesting that the juxtaposition of “flock” and “ways” points to the theme
of divine guidance. The “bare height” thus symbolizes places of illegitimate wor-
ship. Furthermore, hunger, thirst, scorching wind and sun indicate that the scene
is set in the desert. As Lund has observed, the word pair “hunger and thirsts”
often describe the conditions in a desert and the implications of judgement (2007:
241–2). The desert symbolizes the miserable condition of the people, that is, spir-
itual suffering. Simply put, the dry desert represents divine judgement and absence
of God. Analogically, the springs of water, to which YHWH now will guide his
people, represent salvation. Water in the desert is a common theme in Deutero-
Isaiah (41:18; 43:19–20; 48:21) and is related to the presence of God. The place
where God is present – whether a garden, a mountain, a temple or a city – is associ-
ated with a life-giving fountain (cf. Gen. 2:10–14; Ps. 46:5; Ezek. 47:1–12; Joel
4:18 [ET 3:18]; Zech. 14:8). According to Ps. 84:6–8[5–7], the wandering to Zion
in itself makes the dry valley of Baca into a place of springs and prosperity. In
light of this psalm, we have further evidence for interpreting “the way” imagery
metaphorically: the way that leads to divine water is the way of life, that is, a life in
accordance with the will of God (Lund 2007: 243). There is no warrant in the text
itself for reading these verses as a literal return of the Diaspora (cf. v. 12).
God’s transformation of nature in v. 11 echoes the prologue to Isaiah 40–55. In
40:3–4, a way is prepared for YHWH by levelling the mountains. This language is
clearly metaphorical. Rather than a physical processional road, the way here
alludes to YHWH’s intervention on behalf of his people, resulting in restoration
and a prosperous future (Barstad 1989: 20). The mountains are more than merely a
geographical phenomenon. They symbolize the barriers and obstacles that prohibit
the realization of the divine plan. Although the road (‫ )דרך‬and highways (‫ )מסלת‬can
refer to literal roads which the scattered people in the Diaspora will follow (v. 12;
cf. Isa. 11:16), they can also figuratively refer to the ways in which the people of
YHWH will leave their sufferings and hardship behind (Tiemeyer 2011: 189).
As mentioned, the gathering of peoples from the four corners of the world
in v. 12 is mostly understood as a literal portrayal of the return of the Diaspora.
Importantly, the text does not explicitly mention Babylon, but the entire world by
means of a compass, in so far as “from far away” stands for the east9 and Syene
stands for the south (cf. 43:5–6). Peoples from all over the world come to its
centre, where YHWH is present. Yet who will come: the Israelites living in the
Diaspora (43:5–6; 49:18, 22) or the foreign nations as such (2:2–4; 60)? In light

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of vv. 9–10, the former seems most plausible, but the text is not abundantly clear
about this. Assuming the latter option would support a metaphorical interpreta-
tion of the passage, then foreign peoples come to YHWH, meaning that the entire
world will worship him (cf. 45:14, 23). Nevertheless, restoring and repopulating
Jerusalem expresses YHWH’s salvific action towards his people.
In sum, the passage can be read as a literal description of the gathering of the
exiles from Babylon and elsewhere. Yet the dense use of metaphors, common in
Isaiah 40–55 and other parts of biblical tradition, suggests a figurative interpreta-
tion centred on God’s care and provision for his people. Isaiah 49:8–12 constitutes
an oracle of salvation addressed to the people of God wherever they are: a general
promise of divine presence and guidance.

Connecting modern exegesis and ancient interpretations

Sensing the metaphorical framework that undergirds the biblical texts may con-
nect modern exegesis with ancient interpretations preceding historical criticism.
As is well known, interpreting texts allegorically was a common approach from
Antiquity and roughly until the Enlightenment. Philo of Alexandria, the Church
Fathers and the medieval scholars practised allegorical exegesis, even of biblical
books and passages without any apparent figurative speech forms. To them, the
modern insistence on the literal or historical sense as the only sense would appear
as perverse. Rather than a simple technique, allegorical readings presume that the
texts have deeper symbolic meanings. Pursuing multiple senses of Scripture is a
fundamental recognition of the texts’ ability to work in more contexts and to be
applied in new situations.
The widespread allegorical approach of ancient interpreters is, of course, not
a proof that the biblical narratives were composed as allegories. Originally, the
laws of Moses may have been written purely as political and ritual legislation and
not also – as Philo would argue – as a path for the human spirit’s encounter with
God. The Song of Songs may have been composed solely as a set of erotic lyrics
and not also as an allegory of God’s love for Israel. Nevertheless, later Jewish and
Christian interpretations testify to the profound potential that the biblical narra-
tives and language have for fostering metaphorical readings.
Ancient interpretations of Isaiah 49:8–12 reveal a sincere understanding of
“the way” imagery as a metaphor pointing to a deeper divine reality. Eusebius of
Caesarea interprets the prison in v. 9 as the chains of sin, and Cyril of Alexandria
relates it to death and Hades (Wilken 2007: 375–6). Furthermore, Eusebius
understands Scripture itself as a path to God (cf. Philo): “The ways and the paths
that the ancient men of God travelled are the inspired Scriptures. Those who
have obtained the divine promise feed on them and enjoy this godly and spiritual
food since they have found this good pasture” (Wilken 2007: 375). Theodoret
of Cyr understands the hunger in v. 10 as hunger for the Word: “[The Lord]
promises those who have believed in him that they would have an abundance of
divine nourishment and that they will have sources of salvation at their disposal

37
 F rederi k P oulsen

forever” (Elliott and Oden 2007: 117). Cyril of Alexandria, likewise, expounds
the food and water in v. 10 allegorically: “The food there will profit their souls.
For they will eat bread from heaven and drink living water” (Elliott and Oden
2007: 118).
Turning to the interpreters in the medieval period and the Reformation, I was
very surprised when I read Martin Luther’s lecture on this passage. (For an intro-
duction to Luther as interpreter of Isaiah, see Sawyer 1996: 126–40; Childs 2004:
181–206; Raeder 2008). Although Luther often has been considered as a forerun-
ner of historical criticism and its sole attention to the literal and historical sense,
he is indeed aware of the metaphorical nature of biblical language. He practically
regards none of the passages that have later been identified as “way passages”
to concern a physical exodus from Babylon. Nevertheless, the appeal to leave
Babylon in Isaiah 48:20 is an exception. Luther recognizes that these words con-
cern the Jews and their liberator, King Cyrus. He, however, asserts that scarcely
3,000 men remained faithful in exile, and that the appeal is words of irony for all
ungodly Jews (Luther 1972: 167–8). In the rest of the “exodus passages”, we find
a thorough metaphorical interpretation.
In v. 8, the office and task of the servant as “a covenant to the people” are trans-
ferred to the preacher; he is “the covenant between God and the people” (Luther
1972: 178). The “land” stands for the inhabitants, and the “desolate heritages”
stand for those who had been seduced by ungodly teachers through idolatries.
Now, “it is the church’s function through the Gospel to gather the scattered people
to the sound faith . . . our entire function lies in helping people . . . by the Word of
God” (Luther 1972: 179).
In v. 9, the prisoners are those who – bound by the Law of Moses, the papacy,
monasticism and evil traditions – hope to be saved by their own righteousness.
Only the Gospel about free grace, without merit, will break this bond. Those who
are in darkness are the ignorant and the blind, who will be enlightened by the mes-
sage of peace and led to the right way by the light of the Gospel. Compare with
this, the interpretation of Isaiah 42:7, where the blind and the prisoners stand for
ignorance and impotence, because “apart from Christ there is nothing but dark-
ness and dungeon” (Luther 1972: 69). As a result of the Gospel, the pastures on
which the people shall feed are to be found everywhere: “the Word sets forth
pasture for every life situation, and for all circumstances and people. The woman,
the servant, the girl can hear the Word of God at home, on the hills, and in the
woods” (Luther 1972: 180).
In v. 10, eating and drinking refer to teaching and exhorting; the Gospel will
feed the believers. The wind and sun refer to the Law of Moses and conscious-
ness. In this figurative sense, the sun denotes “any law that afflicts consciences
through sin, wrath and sting” (cf. the interpretation of Isaiah 41:17, where the
desert wasteland refers to “the torments of afflicted consciences” [Luther 1972:
47]). Yet these obstacles are replaced by the freedom of the Word. The shepherd
who has pity is the Lord himself. His guidance through his Word leads to the
springs of water, which represent the gifts and mysteries of the Spirit.

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 I S A I A H 4 0 – 5 5 : O L D A N D N E W I N T E R P E RTAT I O N S

In v. 11, Luther briefly states that levelling the mountains means to make
“every uprightness and every sin alike” and refers to his own exposition of Isaiah
40:3–5 (Luther 1972: 181). Preparing the way of YHWH here means to take up
a new, divine life, because “way” in Hebrew denotes “a plan of life”; further-
more, “to prepare the way of the Lord means to prepare ourselves for the Lord’s
activity in us” (Luther 1972: 8). This preparation entails humbling oneself from
arrogance and glory. According to Luther, the mountains and valleys in Isaiah
40 are metaphors: “Valleys are sinners, fools, lowly. Mountains are presumptu-
ous saints. Here before God all things must be levelled” (1972: 10). The stony,
troublesome and inconvenient way symbolizes life according to the Law; “the
gospel, however, teaches the straight and level way, to believe in Christ and to
serve the neighbor” (Luther 1972: 10).
In v. 12, the four directions of the compass denote “a gathering of all people
from all places and conditions” (Luther 1972: 182). Significantly, these directions
do not merely refer to geography, but to different stages and social positions in
human life: the slave, the maid, the master and the old man shall come. People
will come from all walks of life. Yet they will be accepted while remaining in
their circumstances; only “their conscience will have been set free through the
righteousness of faith” (Luther 1972: 182). In sum, Luther asserts that “this is
metaphorical language to indicate that the Word of God will come to all with
supreme benefit from the same Shepherd, while they all remain in their own
places and circumstances” (Luther 1972: 182; my emphasis).

Conclusion
The richness and variety of metaphors in Isaiah 40–55 indicate that much more
than a historical return from Babylon is at stake. In these chapters, we encoun-
ter poetry and metaphors for central ethical and theological matters concerning
the relationship to God. Due to the creative and changing nature of language,
metaphors and the function of them are hardly stable throughout the centuries of
interpretation. Their meaning is complex and readers can sense and elaborate on
different aspects of their content. Without doubt, ancient interpreters may have
understood the biblical metaphors differently than we do today. Nevertheless,
their readings can serve as useful guides and sources of inspiration for detecting
metaphors, even in cases where we would not expect to find them.

Notes
1 Parts of the following two sections have been published in Danish; see Poulsen 2012.
See also Poulsen 2015: 144–63.
2 Tiemeyer 2011: 168–202. I do not agree, however, that Isa. 43:16–21 does not contain
the idea of a new exodus; see Poulsen 2012: 96–105.
3 A similar attempt is made by Jesper Høgenhaven (2005) who reads the passages about
the polemics against idolatry (40:18–20; 44:9–20; 46:1–7) in a different historical and
intellectual perspective than the Babylonian exile.

39
 F rederi k P oulsen

4 The elusive identity of the servant figure of Isa. 49:1–6 lies outside the scope of this
article; for an overview of interpretations, see, for instance, Haag 1985: 34–167; North
1969: 6–116. Kratz (1991: 135–9) understands the servant as those who have already
returned from Babylon and now have received the mission to gather the remaining peo-
ple from the Diaspora.
5 Another good example is the commentary by Grimm and Dittert (1990: 331–8), in partic-
ular p. 332: “Zuerst formuliert das Gotteswort . . . das Ziel: die erneute Landverteilung; es
wendet sich dann in 2 Halbzeilen der Voraussetzung von allem weiteren, dem Exodus, zu:
die Gola wird aus der babylonischen Gefangenschaft herausgerufen . . . Der Dienstauftrag
schließt mit einer verhältnismäßig breiten Schilderung des Weges durch die Wüste, auf die
es Dtjes hier aus seelsorgerlichen Gründen in besonderer Weise anzukommen scheint.”
6 See also Grimm and Dittert 1990, 338: “Jes 49:8–12 spricht zwar, wie wir vermuten,
in eine historische Situation hinein, zeichnet aber doch auch ein biblisches Muster
von Gottes Heilshandeln am Menschen in babylonischer Gefangenschaft. Es umfaßt
Aufbruch, Weg und Ziel.” Goldingay 2005: 377–8: “Admittedly up until v. 11, the
language of vv. 8–12 could reflect hardship in Judah itself and could offer pictures of
Yhwh’s prospering the Judaeans’ ‘walk’ rather than referring to a more literal journey
from exile to Jerusalem, but v. 12 surely points to the latter.”
7 Omitting “I have kept you and given you” (‫)ואצרך ואתנך לברית עם‬, Duhm (1915: 344)
understands YHWH as subject of the actions in vv. 8b–9a. Goldingay and Payne (2006:
174) and Paul (2012: 329) make the same claim without any omissions.
8 Lund (2007: 240–41), however, is right that the shepherd motif in Jeremiah and Ezekiel
often occurs in connection with the motif of return (cf. Jer 3:15; 23:3–4; 31:10; 50:19;
Ezek 34:11–31; 37:24).
9 Cf. Lund 2007: 245. “From far away” (‫ )מרחוק‬in Isaiah often refers to regions in the east
(cf. Isa. 5:26; 39:3; 43:6). In 46:11, “from a far country” (‫ )מארץ מרחק‬parallels “from the
sunrise” (‫ ;ממזרח‬i.e. from the east).

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Century B.C. Old Testament Library. Philadelphia, PA: Westminster.
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(eds.). London: SCM Press Ltd.: 177–95.
Baltzer, D. 1971. Ezekiel und Deuterojesaja. Beiheft zur Zeitschrift für die alttestamentli-
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Baltzer, K. 1999. Deutero-Jesaja. Kommentar zum Alten Testament X,2. Gütersloh:
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Barstad, H. 1989. A Way in the Wilderness: The “Second Exodus” in the Message of
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Berges, U. 2008. Jesaja 40–48. Herders Theologischer Kommentar zum Alten Testament.
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Blenkinsopp, J. 2002: Isaiah 40–55. A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary.
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Childs, B. S. 2001. Isaiah: A Commentary. Old Testament Library. Louisville, KY:

Westminster John Knox Press.
———. 2004. The Struggle to Understand Isaiah as Christian Scripture. Grand Rapids,
MI: Eerdmans.
Clifford, R. J. 1984. Fair Spoken and Persuading: An Interpretation of Second Isaiah.
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Hebrew Bible. Supplements to Vetus Testamentum 141. Leiden and Boston, MA: Brill.
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Høgenhaven, J. 2005. “‘All who make idols are nothing’: Polemics against idolatry
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Analysen. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht.
Kratz, R. G. 1991. Kyros im Deuterojesaja-Buch: Redaktionsgeschichtliche Untersuchungen
zu Entstehung und Theologie von Jes 40–55. Forschungen zum Alten Testament 1.
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Lim, B. H. 2010. The “Way of the Lord” in the Book of Isaiah. Library of Hebrew Bible/
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———. 2015. Representing Zion: Judgement and Salvation in the Old Testament.
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Bible/Old Testament: The History of Its Interpretation. II: From the Renaissance to the
Enlightenment. M Sæbø (ed.). Göttingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht: 363–406.
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Reference to the Polemics Against Idolatry. Meppel: Krips Repro B.V.
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Tiemeyer, L.-S. 2011. For the Comfort of Zion: The Geographical and Theological
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tischen Überlieferungen Israels. München: Chr. Kaiser Verlag.
Watts, R. E. 1990. “Consolation or Confrontation? Isaiah 40–55 and the Delay of the New
Exodus”. Tyndale Bulletin 41.1: 31–59.
Westermann, C. 1969. Isaiah 40–66: A Commentary. D. M. G. Stalker (trans.). Old
Testament Library. London: SCM Press.
Wilken, R. L. 2007. Isaiah: Interpreted by Early Christian and Medieval Commentators.
Grand Rapids, MI: Ee’rdmans.
Zimmerli, W. 1963a. “Der ‘neue Exodus’ in der Verkündigung der beiden großen
Exilspropheten” [1960]. In his Gottes Offenbarung. Gesammelte Aufsätze zum Alten
Testament. Theologische Bücherei 19. München: Chr. Kaiser Verlag: 192–204
———. 1963b. “Zur Sprache Tritojesajas” [1950]. In his Gottes Offenbarung. Gesammelte
Aufsätze zum Alten Testament. Theologische Bücherei 19. München: Chr. Kaiser
Verlag: 217–33.

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 3
C ON T EXTUALIZING C OM POSI TE
WORKS
The case of 4QMMT with a sociolinguistic twist

Trine Bjørnung Hasselbalch

Thanks to the Copenhagen School, many biblical texts have now been placed in
(relatively late) socio-historical contexts not identified primarily through readings
in the narratives of the Old Testament. This chapter addresses the methodologi-
cal issue of how we can interpret texts as expressions of specific socio-historical
contexts. More specifically, it addresses the challenge of determining the socio-
historical contexts of composite works. Naturally, the ideational contents
expressed in investigated texts and comparable literature must be included in
attempts at relating them to their appropriate context. Very often, however, it
is the contents of a text – its representational meaning – that become the deter-
minative factor in such analyses. This chapter also seeks to uncover the role of
non-representational meanings attached to the constituent parts of a composite
work, that is, their meaning in the eyes of the composers (and users). Within this
approach, we will focus on the composers’ reasons for including specific and
existing components in their works, even when these seem to be at odds with
other parts of such works. In other words, the functions of the constituent parts
come into focus. This kind of analysis may lead to surprising, yet plausible, sug-
gestions, having the potential to challenge scholarly consensus (if such exists) on
the contextual meaning of a text.
4QMMT is a case in point. This composite work is usually handled as an epistle
or a tractate, written shortly before or after the Dead Sea Community established
itself apart from the religious establishment in Jerusalem. The earliest manuscripts
have been dated to around 75 bce, the youngest manuscripts to around 50 ce. Even
if the extant 4QMMT manuscripts are to be dated to the first century bce, a major-
ity of scholars maintain that the work as a whole was composed in the mid-second
century bce (Schiffman 2010: 120; García Martínez 1996: 18–27; Strugnell 1994:
70–73). It clearly mirrors a conflict between religious and political groups with
differing opinions about crucial cultic practices of Jews at the time, and scholars
have eagerly debated which parties were involved and have suggested various

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 T rine B j ø rnung H asselbalch

divisions of roles between groups and noble individuals specified by name.

Hasmonean, Pharisaic, Sadducee and (pre-)Qumranic groups are involved and the
number of such recognizable parties in the text (two or three?) is a matter of dis-
pute. For a review of the positions, see Reinhartz (2009: 90–95). In either case, the
promotion of a particular interpretation and practice of cultic purity laws is seen
as the main object of 4QMMT: either it urges the cultic authorities in Jerusalem
to abide by the practice it endorses or it teaches Dead Sea Community members
the importance of abiding strictly by it, now that the Jerusalem establishment has
failed. In this presentation, I argue that the cult practice, as such, is not the main
issue of 4QMMT. Rather, this writing is concerned with the development of a
positive self-understanding among community members and an alternative way to
fulfil the law away from the, by now largely irrelevant, Jerusalem establishment.

4QMMT
4QMMT has been central to researchers’ understanding of the relationship of the
Dead Sea Community, or its predecessor, to religious authorities and to admin-
istrators of the Temple cult in Jerusalem. As yet, there is no consensus about its
exact socio-historical setting.
From the beginning, the editors suggested that 4QMMT was a genuine letter,
sent from the Dead Sea Community leadership to authorities in Jerusalem at the
beginning of the community’s independent history (Qimron and Strugnell 1985).
For instance, references to David and other kings have been seen as indicating that
the anonymous addressee must have been a noble person. Another possibility is that
kings were simply used as models for pious and impious behaviour respectively,
cf. 4Q521 (Messianic Apocalypse) 2ii7, which possibly conflates kingship and the
idea of what it means to be pious. In light of passages in other Dead Sea Scrolls,
4QMMT has been seen as a hostile address by some, but the tone of the text itself
is, in fact, rather amiable. The Editio Princeps already characterizes 4QMMT as
“moderate” in its polemics (Qimron and Strugnell 1994: 116), and others underline
the un-polemic tone (Schiffman 2010: 120; Eshel 1996: 59–61). In any case, as a
piece of correspondence, 4QMMT would seem to throw light on the circumstances
which led to the establishment of the Dead Sea Community and its separation from
Jerusalem: ideologically, with regard to religious practice and geographically.
According to other readings, 4QMMT was not composed as a letter in the
narrow sense of the genre, but as a didactic work or a tractate in the form of an
epistle. In contrast to their previous suggestion, and due to its formal character-
istics, Qimron and Strugnell took this position in their Editio Princeps (1994:
113). Fraade reads 4QMMT as an “intramural” tractate created within the Dead
Sea Community and addressing neophytes or prospective members (Fraade 2000:
523). Yet others suggest that it was the community’s rationalizing construction of
its past and an attempt to legitimize the break from Jerusalem authorities (Brooke
1995: 81–2). Regardless of the fact that 4QMMT lacks a formal address or greet-
ing, Jesper Høgenhaven holds that it was composed in the epistolary genre. He

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 C ontextualizing composite works : 4 Q M M T

suggests that this was done as a rhetorical device and that the composition was
written with an internal addressee in mind (Høgenhaven 2003). In either case,
the idea is that 4QMMT was written in a community that had distanced itself
from Jerusalem for some time – ideologically, emotionally, geographically, etc.
Charlotte Hempel, in contrast, rejects the common idea that 4QMMT was nar-
rowly connected with Qumran and a dissident group. She suggests that 4QMMT
was an early instance of the kind of interpretive debate on law issues that we find
in the Mishna (Hempel 2010: 285–6; 291–2).
My aim is neither to attack nor to defend any of these positions. I believe
Maxine Grossman is correct to say that a number of different readings of 4QMMT
are viable and that we are not in a position to draw firm conclusions about its socio-
historical setting. Grossman insists that one must consider the argument made in
the text as well as its tone and degree of meshing with other texts (Grossman
2001: 7–8). I shall meet this reasonable requirement by dealing with the potential
for the composite character and evocative meaning of 4QMMT. Not only are
reflections on such evocative meaning potentials of the text an advantage if we
wish to make qualified guesses about its original context(s), it is essential, and this
is what I hope to demonstrate.
4QMMT is a composite text, divided by the first editors into three parts due
to differences in genre, themes, linguistic features, etc. At the beginning, which
is only extant in 4Q394, there are remains of a calendar (section A). 4Q394 con-
sists of three groups of fragments, each witnessing a section of unbroken text;
fragments 1–2, 3–7 and 8. Fragments 1–2, designated as such by Qimron and
Strugnell in the Editio Princeps, contain 18 lines of calendrical text distributed
on five columns. Fragments 3–7, presumed to follow frgs. 1–2, opens with three
lines of calendrical text. Tov (1993) lists frgs. 1–2 as a separate document, 4Q327
(Calendrical Doc. Eb), and others have rejected the placing of these fragments
in 4Q394 on palaeographical, linguistic and material grounds. If the sceptics are
correct, only the three lines at the beginning of frgs. 3–7 witness an incipient
calendrical section, but it is most likely that these three lines were preceded by
a lengthy calendrical section (Schiffman 2010: 124–5; VanderKam 1997: 183).
The large middle part is a halakhic section (section B) in the first-person plural
and containing about 22 rulings about cultic purity. The final part (section C), also
using a “we” form, is often called the epistolary section because it addresses some-
one (at times in the second-person singular), urging him to consider their arguments.
In scholarly investigations, each of the sections is typically thought to explain
a distinct aspect of 4QMMT. Section C has often been the centre of discussions
about the identity of the composers and audience, as well as the rhetorical situa-
tion behind its composition. In regard to the message of the document, on the other
hand, scholars mostly search the halakhic section B for answers. Observance of
the strict purity regulations presented there are usually seen as the central message
of the whole document. This is the general trend regardless of whether 4QMMT
is seen as an attempt to address Temple authorities about a particular cultic praxis
or a post festum, intramural teaching or legitimation after the split (Brooke 1995:

45
 T rine B j ø rnung H asselbalch

83–7; Schiffman 2010: 114; Weissenberg 2009: 196). Roughly speaking, the
halakhic section is seen as presenting the central matter, whereas the epistolary
section is taken to indicate something of the social and rhetorical situation. To
some degree, this also applies to Hanne von Weissenberg’s recent book-length
treatment of 4QMMT, where she directs attention to the epistolary section in par-
ticular as a source for knowledge about the purpose of 4QMMT. Weissenberg
investigates scriptural references and allusions in the epistolary section. She then
relates the result of her analysis to the message of the halakhic section, which she
finds to be central to the whole document: “The particular concern for the purity
of the Temple and the Holy City in the halakhic section reflect the holiness and
importance of Jerusalem and the Temple for the author/redactor of 4QMMT.”
This, according to her, was not only the case at the time of composition, but was a
lasting truth about 4QMMT throughout its existence at Qumran:

The late copies of 4QMMT found at Qumran suggest that at least for
some part of the Qumran movement, the Jerusalem Temple was the only
legitimate sanctuary until the very end of their existence. The cultic regu-
lations needed continuous attention and study in order to maintain the
knowledge of the correct procedures while the community was waiting
for the reformation of the cult. (Weissenberg 2009: 125)

Weissenberg’s study is important because of how it involves the epistolary sec-

tion in the search for the message of 4QMMT. She has made a thorough analysis
of the scriptural usage taking place in the epistolary section. Analysis will have
its starting point in some of her very interesting observations. The conclusions
I reach differ slightly from hers, and this is largely because I include evocative
meaning potentials and take a different point of view on the functions of the vari-
ous sections (calendrical, halakhic, epistolary) of the work.

Methodological points: the function of text in cultural memory

As a composite text, 4QMMT includes various existing texts or traditions: it
includes a calendar and thus points to a particular cultic practice, that is, a tradi-
tion that was (actually or ideally) put into practice in communal life. It rehearses
and interprets laws known from the law tradition. It quotes Scripture and alludes
to scriptural traditions. The finding of several copies suggests that 4QMMT was
adopted by the Dead Sea Community for repeated use and was thus made into
some sort of tradition. The reworking of tradition is a process of creating and
reviving a social memory, producing new meaning.
The sociologist and cultural memory theoretician Maurice Halbwachs’s notion
of tradition displays how vital communal functions have been fulfilled in the past,
and it does so in order to endow the representatives or functionaries of this tradi-
tion with an aura of good virtues in the present (Halbwachs 1992: 120–66). The
implication of this is that the making and use of tradition, also in literary writing,

46
 C ontextualizing composite works : 4 Q M M T

is an activity undertaken by people who see themselves as fulfilling important

societal functions. Writings, imbued with tradition, should be investigated as the
result of a social activity to this end, rather than conveyers of certain messages.
Traditions can be exchanged or revitalized if required by present-day needs. This
is then to be seen as the contingent identity work of a community. The composite
nature of 4QMMT – its revitalizing integration of different traditions – reflects a
social process and the identity work of a community. Therefore, while the explicit
propositions made in 4QMMT definitely informs us of its meaning, an under-
standing of the function of the juxtaposed parts is none the less paramount to a
fuller understanding of the work’s socio-historical significance.
With this in mind, I specifically want to direct attention to Ian Hodder’s impor-
tant distinction between two kinds of meaning, which he identifies in material
culture. First, there is representational meaning, which is communicative, lin-
guistic and structured. It can be grammaticalized and can function in a symbolic
way. Obviously, text and talk flourish with representational meaning, and, mostly,
it is what we search for when we interpret texts. Second, there is evocative mean-
ing, found with material objects that “come to have abstract meaning through
association and practices” (Hodder 2003: 166). Hodder builds on concepts devel-
oped by Derrida (1978) on the relationship between oral and written discourse,
and Ricœur’s (1971) roughly corresponding distinction between inscribed and
un-inscribed meaning in discourse is also relevant. Evocative meaning is not
structured or grammaticalized, and it is not easily described, because it is tied to
the communal use of the material objects: “insofar as members of a society expe-
rience common practices, material symbols can come to have common evocations
and common meanings” (Hodder 2003: 166). The meaning of a particular utensil,
for instance, may be completely obscure to outsiders; only people familiar with
its use will know its practical meaning and be capable of also attaching symbolic
meaning to it. Thus, it is difficult for modern interpreters to grasp the evocations
of things in their ancient contexts of production, use and re-use, because “Past
and present meanings are continually being contested and reinterpreted as part
of social and political strategies” (Hodder 2003: 166). It is less common to focus
on this second kind of meaning in literature even though, according to Hodder,
representational and evocative (or practiced) meaning “interpenetrate and feed
off each other in many if not all areas of life” (Hodder 2003: 164).
The idea of evocative or implicative meaning in texts will have a role to play
in my analysis of 4QMMT: evocative meaning is discernible in the juxtaposition
of different genres and traditions, because the relationship between the parts is
not self-evident but context-dependent. Evocative meaning is “mute” and difficult
to grasp. But our acknowledgement of the existence and relevance of evocative
meaning may have repercussions on our interpretation of the text’s representa-
tional meanings.
In order to engage the concept of evocative meaning for the analysis of texts, I
apply the sociolinguistic concept of entextualizing. This concept implies that the
(re-)use of known texts has a metadiscursive dimension: when someone inserts a

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piece of text into another text, for example, through allusion or rephrasing, she
does so because she has recognized its existence and significance. She knows,
or infers, something about its previous context and situation of use, something
which adds to the meaning of the text she is composing. In the words of linguist
Jan Blommaert:

This decontextualisation and recontextualisation adds a new metadiscur-

sive context to the text; instead of its original context-of-production, the
[inserted] text is accompanied by a metadiscursive complex, suggesting
all kinds of things about the text (most prominently, the suggestion that
the discourse is indeed a text). (Blommaert 2010: 187)

Entextualization also takes place when larger portions of texts belonging to dif-
ferent genres or originating in different contexts have been juxtaposed. Besides
their representational meanings, these portions of texts will have carried evocative
meanings that have also motivated the juxtaposition. The implication is that, in
the analysis of a work such as 4QMMT, it is insufficient to take only representa-
tional meaning into account, at least if the goal is to reach back to something of an
“original” meaning. For a more thorough treatment of entextualizing and evoca-
tive meaning, readers are referred to my discussion of these issues in relation to
the Hodayot (Hasselbalch 2015: 12–17).

Communication in 4QMMT
The addressee of 4QMMT has been seen both as neophyte and outsider. Both
alternatives are paired with particular reconstructions of the historical situation.
These interpretations implicitly identify the addresser in the text with the com-
poser (and like-minded people in his group), and they assume that the argument
appearing on the surface of the text represents the actual agenda of the composer.
In this way, when the addresser in the epistolary section urges the addressee to act
or behave in a certain manner to the benefit of himself and “the people”, the whole
document is primarily seen as the composer’s attempt to urge Jerusalem authori-
ties, neophytes, or someone else to practice cultic law regulations in accordance
with the interpretation of the law by the composer.
I want to pursue another option, which has been outlined by John S.
Kloppenborg in an article about James’ address to “the twelve tribes in the dias-
pora”, where he analyses James and 4QMMT as rhetorically analogous. He finds
that the identification of addressers and addressees is a rather more complicated
matter that has, to some extent, been covered up by the author. It follows from
this that the identification of a main purpose or agenda is far from straightfor-
ward. Both compositions, Kloppenborg says, are addressed to outsiders, and they
employ similar techniques in order to persuade their ostensible audience and con-
struct the speaker’s ethos by appealing to “exemplary figures of Israel’s past” that
are reputable both to writer and addressee (Kloppenborg 2007: 260). Thus, the

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speaker of 4QMMT explicitly refers to David, “a man of righteous deeds”, as if

to appeal to this property also in the addressee – a Maccabean ruler or high priest
(Kloppenborg 2007: 257).
But Kloppenborg also points out a number of allusions to scriptural sources
about David and makes the point that they serve to construct the speaker’s own
ethos in a favourable way:

Davidic echoes in the vocabulary of MMT are not only pathetical, appeal-
ing to the self-interest of a leader of Israel, as Qimron and Strugnell
recognize: they are also ethical, implying that the writer is versed in the
particulars of what is needful for the appropriate rule of God’s people.
(Kloppenborg 2007: 258, emphasis added)

In other words, the writer establishes an “ascribed ethos” for himself, rather than
pointing to his factual achievements, which, due to the fact that he represented a
group of dissenters, might be (and were, according to Kloppenborg) ill-received
in Jerusalem. In comparison, the author of James casts his speaker in the image of
Solomon, as someone who knows how to obtain wisdom and practice it accord-
ing to the Torah, and as someone who defends the poor against their suppressors.
When it comes to James, Kloppenborg takes his reading approach further and
tries to demonstrate that the author of James did not, in fact, construct his appeal
so as to reach only the ostensible audience of Jews in the Diaspora; he had a dou-
ble readership and, implicitly, also addressed Jesus’ believers expected to “read
over the shoulder” (Kloppenborg 2007: 268). In order to reach out to this “audi-
ence within the audience”, he made a number of subtle allusions to Jesus’ sayings.
The allusions to Solomon, on the other hand, were intended to conceal that the
actual addresser belonged in the Jesus movement in Jerusalem. Kloppenborg does
not make a similar argument for 4QMMT, but there is reason to believe that its
author, too, wrote to an “audience within an audience”. Perhaps his audience con-
sisted of like-minded people who would be inclined to identify themselves with
the addressing “we” of his composition. In the following, we shall see that allu-
sions to Scripture, in the epistolary section, undergird this proposition.

Scriptural usage and identity construction in the epistolary

section (C)
It is generally recognized that the epistolary section uses Deuteronomy exten-
sively through more and less direct reference (Brooke 1997: 83–4; Weissenberg
2009: 197; Strugnell 1994: 57–73; Bernstein 1996: 29–51). Deut. 7:26 is quoted
and conflated with Deut. 12:31 in C 5–7; Deut. 31:29 and Deut. 30:1–2 are both
used in C 12–16 and C 20–21 (Brooke 1997: 76, 82; Bernstein 1996: 47–50).
According to Weissenberg, it is no coincidence that Deut. 12’s discussion of
a reform, involving cultic centralization and purity regulation, is used twice in
4QMMT, because, in her view, 4QMMT is motivated by hope of a cultic reform,

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involving both of these issues. Weissenberg observes that the halakhic section
(B) refers to Deut. 12:5 (4QMMT B 27–33; 58–62), focusing on cultic unity and
centralization, whereas the epistolary section refers to Deut. 12:2–7; 29–31, pas-
sages concerned rather with cultic purity (Weissenberg 2009: 121–4; 193). In
Weissenberg’s words, the allusions in 4QMMT (Ms 4Q398 frgs. 11–13) “signi-
fies the author/redactor’s interest in both issues reflected in the source text, the
purity and the unity of the cult” (Weissenberg 2009: 194). She makes the inter-
esting point that the halakhic section and the epistolary section differ in their
approaches to cultic purity. While the purity regulations of the halakhic section
are cultic in the strict, ritual sense, the epistolary section seems to be talking about
cultic purity in a broader sense, and including moral issues. Weissenberg develops
her argument especially on the basis of the following passage near the beginning
of the epistolary section (4Q397 14–21, l. 5–7=C 5–7):

‫ בגלל] החמס והזנות אבד[ו הרבה] מקומות [ואף] כתו[ב בספר מושה ולו]א תביא תועבה א[ל ביתכה כי] תועבה‬...
‫שנואה היאה‬

[because of] violence and fornication [many] places have been ruined.
[And also] it is writ[ten in the book of Moses:] you shall [no]t bring an
abomination in[to your house for] abomination is an odious thing.

Looking at the biblical denotations of ‫( חמס‬violence), ‫( זנות‬fornication), ‫מקומות‬

(places), and ‫( תועבה‬abomination), Weissenberg concludes that they cover “a wide
range of transgressions: actions that are against God’s will and endanger the purity
of the cult and the correct praxis in the Temple” (Weissenberg 2009: 196).
According to her, “places that have been ruined” could refer to the destruction of
places in the vicinity of Jerusalem during Josiah’s cultic reform (2 Kgs 23) and
serve as a warning about yet another destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem.
“Places” are, in any case, to be seen as cultic (Weissenberg 2009: 194–5).
“Abomination” designates grave, moral transgressions (idolatry being the most
frequently mentioned), which will render the Promised Land and its cultic praxis
unclean, whereas “violence” and “fornication” cover “actions against God’s will”
in a broad sense (Weissenberg 2009: 196). In Weissenberg’s view, this proves that
cultic impurity was likened to grave, moral sin.
In Deut. 7:26, “your house” is a reference to the home of any Israelite, as he is
wandering in the wilderness, shortly to enter the Promised Land. This place is
quoted in 4QMMT C (4Q497 14–21, 6–7), you shall [no]t bring an abomination
into your house, and Weissenberg suggests that ‫ בית‬in the context of 4QMMT
might signify the temple. This interpretation is reasonable but not unquestionable.
The use of ‫ בית‬to designate temple seems straightforward in some of the literature
that is unequivocally positive to the Temple service, for example, the Temple
Scroll, interpolating the phrase ‫( ועושה אשמה גדול ומטמא הבית בעעוון החטאה‬and causes
great guilt, and defiles the house with the sin of iniquity) into its reworking of
Deut. 16:19–20 (White Crawford 2005). Sirach (Ecclus 47:9–10; 50:1–24)

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designates the Temple ‫ בית‬on some occasions (Knibb 2005: 402–3). In the Animal
Apocalypse (1 En. 83–90), a part of 1 Enoch which is openly critical to the
Temple, ‫ בית‬appears to designate the Temple, but arguably also the city of
Jerusalem, or the Tabernacle from the wilderness period, and perhaps even the
desert camp (Tiller 1993: 36–51; Dimant 1982: 185). According to Knibb, the
Apocalypse of Weeks, which is critical of the Temple and ignores its rebuilding
on the return from exile, has the notion that “the state of exile continued long after
the return and would only be brought to an end with the inauguration of the new
age”, which was the writer’s own age (Knibb 2005: 408). According to Knibb,
such a rejective stance to the contemporary, physical Temple is also found in
Jubilees and may have affected the connotations of ‫ בית‬in 4QMMT, even if this
document does not explicitly reject the Temple.
Be that as it may, Weissenberg’s suggestion is in line with her understanding
that scriptural places like Deut. 12:31 – for abomination is an odious thing – and
Deut. 12:2 are central both in the epistolary section and in 4QMMT generally. In
her view, namely, the concern is for the purity of the Temple cult. Moreover, cult
purity is “not restricted to the correct observation of ritual purity”, but involves
moral conduct in the form of “the correct implementation of Israelite religion and
the purification of the cult from all foreign and idolatrous elements” (Weissenberg
2009: 197).
In Weissenberg’s analysis, moral uprightness, as such, was not the agenda
of 4QMMT, but it was included out of fear that moral misconduct might affect
cultic purity. This way, Weissenberg basically sides with Klawans (2000: 72–5)
and others, who underline the focus on Temple and cult in 4QMMT and the
Temple Scroll, and contrast this with the larger role given to morality in sec-
tarian documents like Pesher Habakkuk, the Community Rule, the Damascus
Document, the Hodayot and 4Q512 Purification Ritual. Just as Klawans takes
the halakhic section as his point of departure for the comparison with other
Dead Sea Scrolls, Weissenberg insists on interpreting the epistolary section and
its scriptural usage in light of it: 4QMMT, according to her, urges the fulfill-
ing of the covenant “as described in the Halakhic section” (Weissenberg 2009:
218–19). This is not self-evident, however, and the use of Scripture in fact
points in a different direction. For a start, Weissenberg’s view does not resonate
with the way the speaking “we” characterizes itself in the subsequent lines of
text 4Q397 14–21, 7–9:

[‫ ] [ו]מהתערב בדברים האלה ומלבוא ע[מהם ]לגב אלה ואתם י[ודעים‬. . . ‫]ואתם יודעים ש]פרשנו מרוב הע[ם‬
‫ ]מצא בידנו מעל ושקר ורעה כי על [אלה] אנחנו נותנים‬. . . ‫]שלוא‬

[And you know that] we have segregated ourselves from the multitude of
the peop[le . . . and] from mingling in these affairs, and from associating
wi[th them] in these things. And you k[now that there is not] to be found
in our actions disloyalty or deceit or evil, for concerning [these things]
we give [ . . . ]

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They do not practice “disloyalty (‫ )מעל‬or deceit (‫ )שקר‬or evil (‫”)רעה‬. In the Hebrew
Bible, “disloyalty” (‫ )מעל‬often implies idolatry, but, at other times, it implies moral
wrongdoing from person to person, which must be settled both through compensa-
tion from one person to another, and through a trespass offering, given to a priest
(Lev. 5:21–6; Num. 5:6–8). In the Pentateuch, the noun ‫“( שקר‬deceit”) is generally
used in warnings not to swear falsely against anyone (Ex. 20:16, 23:7; Lev. 19:12;
Deut. 19:18). In light of this, the self-designations indicate that the addressing “we”
considers itself to be morally irreproachable. Interestingly, ‫ שקר‬and ‫ מעל‬are used in
parallel expressions in the just-mentioned setting of Lev. 5, which also contains
other expressions met in the epistolary section of 4QMMT. It is not unlikely that the
text of 4QMMT refers, by way of paraphrase, to the text of Lev. 5:20–26 (and Num.
5:6–8), with its talk about moral transgressions committed against one’s neighbour.1
In any case, by pointing to this theme and claiming freedom from guilt, the addresser
directs attention away from previous talk of sin and cultic purity. Together with
Weissenberg’s observations about how scriptural references to Deuteronomy points
to morality as an issue, this observation impairs the idea that purity and cult refor-
mation is actually on the agenda in the epistolary section.
This brings us back to the interpretation of ‫ בית‬in the reference to Deut. 7:26. This
reference would mean something different to an implicit “audience within the audi-
ence” which identified itself as the “we” of the text and found itself to be (literally or
metaphorically) located outside of the Temple and cult in Jerusalem. To this audi-
ence, “home”, in a more profane sense, is exactly how the word ‫ בית‬might resonate
in the quotation of Deut. 7:26. Alternatively, and perhaps even more likely, ‫ בית‬might
be seen as the equivalent of Israel’s dwelling place, or the “camp” (Tiller 1993:
36–51; Dimant 1982: 185). In all likelihood, members of this audience would read
4QMMT as a text about how they could compensate for the defiling of the Temple
cult by their own lawful (cultic) behaviour – not least morally. In this way, 4QMMT
can be seen as a forerunner to sectarian documents promoting the idea of the com-
munity as a remnant that could atone for Israel at large, and conduct itself as an
alternative temple. This way of thinking is seen, for instance, in the sectarian
Community Rule (Collins 2009: 358). 1QS 8 14, in a context that repeatedly desig-
nates the community “holy house”, quotes Isa. 40:3 about preparing the way of the
Lord in the wilderness. Clearly, the idea is to express the experience or idea of
belonging to a distinct, dissenting community, which is nevertheless also God’s
dwelling place. I suggest that 4QMMT already made a similar suggestion, albeit
indirectly, through its use of scriptural allusions and other kinds of entextualization.
Halakhic issues were hardly the only motivation for the use of Deuteronomy
in 4QMMT. Deuteronomy introduces itself as “the words that Moses spoke to all
Israel beyond the Jordan – in the wilderness” (Deut. 1:1), and therefore being in
the wilderness and envisioning the future experience of being in the homeland is
a major perspective. The wilderness tradition reflects a communal life without
a temple, with no resort to a capital in Jerusalem or elsewhere, and it is likely
that this circumstantial, exilic theme was brought into play also in 4QMMT’s
usage of Deuteronomy. Recent studies show not only that the wilderness theme

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permeates the Pentateuch to a larger degree than usually thought, but also that the
stance of this literature both to wilderness and land is surprisingly ambiguous.
In Laura Feldt’s view, already in the Pentateuch “The wilderness is a primary
arena for intimate meetings with Yahweh, it is a place of personal and communal
religious transformation, where the relation and form of communication between
deity and humans are reflected upon, discussed, and negotiated” (Feldt 2012: 82).
Among the so-called “sectarian” Dead Sea documents, the wilderness/Damascus
is such a resource for a religious community, and this idea is also detectable in the
New Testament. Brooke (1995) points out that Luke-Acts, which in other respects
has been compared to 4QMMT, often depicts Jerusalem as a place of conflict,
whereas the wilderness (across the Jordan) is a place of counterbalance.
Clearly, when read as a letter addressed to those administering the cult in
Jerusalem, 4QMMT’s use of scriptural phrases from Deuteronomy 12 can easily
be seen as arguments in favour of a cultic reform in Jerusalem. However, when
read as an implicit address to people who would be inclined to include themselves
in the speaking “we”, the message – brought forward also through scriptural allu-
sions – may have worked in a markedly different way: Deut. 12 as a scriptural
context points to a situation where the Israelites were yet without a centralized
cult, but were presented to the idea of having one and encouraged to act so as to
achieve this. Deut. 7:26 is spoken in reference to a slightly different situation,
where beit does not refer to an as yet non-existing temple, but to the private home!

How the sections of 4QMMT functioned

Schiffman has argued that the calendrical section was added at some point after
the composition of “the MMT proper” (which according to him is the halakhic and
epistolary, in his words “homiletical”, section). He expresses surprise that calen-
drical issues had not been integrated from the beginning, because “One would
certainly have expected these to have been mentioned in a document giving the
legal reasons for the foundation of the sect, and that, in our view, is the purpose of
MMT” (Schiffman 1996: 84–5). But this initial lack of calendrical issues makes
sense if the purpose was not to give “the legal reasons for the foundation of the
sect”, but to strengthen its identity as an exiled, yet lawful people. If the aim of
composing 4QMMT was to edify people belonging to the “in-group” with respect
to their legitimacy vis-à-vis Jerusalem, the calendar might serve the specific pur-
pose of marking a boundary and signal to them: “if you go with this calendar,
you belong to ‘us’ and here is a message for you, too.” The use of a calendar that
deviates from that of an opponent group is well suited to demonstrate a difference
in belief and praxis and to properly identify the people behind the message.
By appending the solar calendar, 4QMMT demarcates its authors’ position
over against the Jerusalem cult, which was ruled by the incompatible lunar cal-
endar. Appended and replaceable calendars are seen in other Dead Sea Scrolls,
for example, the calendrical section in 1QS X 1–8, which is not the same as the
calendrical section in the parallel, but older manuscript 4QSe. Therefore, the idea

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 T rine B j ø rnung H asselbalch

is feasible that calendars demarcate social positions but do not necessarily express
the central message of a text. It might, in fact, be offensive, and thus counter-
productive, to insist explicitly on one’s own calendar over against that of the
addressee if the purpose of the address was ultimately to persuade him to conduct
cultic affairs according to the addresser’s own principles. As far as the “audience
within the audience” is concerned, it makes sense to stress the evocative meaning
of the calendrical section: not itself the message, its function was to indicate the
social and rhetorical framework for the message of the whole document.
A similar argument can be made with respect to the halakhic section B; namely,
that it defined the social and ideational setting of 4QMMT, whereas the episto-
lary section C delivered the fundamental message. Admittedly, its lengthy and
detailed treatment of purity regulations, together with its appealing form, leaves
the impression that the strict and correct observance of purity regulations was
the agenda of the whole composition, and this affects the contexualization of the
work. Schiffman (2010: 120), for instance, argues on the basis of the halakhic sec-
tion that 4QMMT in its entirety was written by people who were initially closely
connected to the Sadducees, but had become discontent with their compliance
with the new cultic practice introduced by the Maccabeans from 152 bce onwards.
Schiffman may be correct that the halakhic section had been issued by early dis-
senters to their Sadducean brethren. Nevertheless, it may have been incorporated
into the larger document 4QMMT at a later point in time and to a different pur-
pose, whether as dialogue with opponents, intramural teaching, or (if we allow for
“an audience within the audience”) both. In either case, the halakhic section was
reused not only for what it literally says (its inscribed meaning), but for what it
otherwise evoked in the composers and their ideal audience.
Basically, it is the appealing form of the epistolary section that gives 4QMMT
the impression of being an epistolary text of some kind. In this sense, the episto-
lary section is formative for the whole document. Its focus is not wholly different
from that of the halakhic sections, but slightly. This has also been indicated by
Hogeterp (2008: 369–70), finding in section C elements of dualistic and escha-
tological thinking, as well as the notion that justification to some degree depends
on God’s providence. In this way, too, section C differs from section B, which
focuses exclusively on lawful behaviour. In any case, by juxtaposing the halakhic
and the epistolary section, the composers of 4QMMT have been able to estab-
lish common ground on matters of cultic purity, and, simultaneously, they have
developed and (with some degree of subtlety) advocated new approaches to the
fulfilling of the law. In this way, entextualization has provided a dynamic rhetori-
cal instrument to a community facing a life away form their cultic centre.

Concluding remarks
To return to Weissenberg, she is sympathetic to the idea that 4QMMT is a didactic
text, yet she questions a trend to see in 4QMMT a continuous manifestation of
the Dead Sea Community’s need to justify its schism from the establishment in

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Jerusalem. To her, the document is a sign of a continued concern for the purity of
the cult in Jerusalem, and of ongoing discussions with outsiders on this matter –
not of the Dead Sea Community’s tendency to isolate itself from the larger Jewish
community (Weissenberg 2009: 24). Thus, she sees the central message presented
in the halakhic section as the central message of the whole document. By taking
an extra look at some of the scriptural references in the epistolary section, we have
found indications that its message may have been different. Where the halakhic
section revolves around matters of cultic purity, the epistolary section hints at
broader, moral issues, and the quotation of Deut. 7:26 may not at all be a refer-
ence to Temple affairs; Deuteronomy as a frame of reference for the epistolary
section highlights the theme of exile and the awareness of living, geographically
or mentally, away from Jerusalem.
In the discourse of 4QMMT, the halakhic section repeats a viewpoint that was
probably central to the writer’s group over time. They had probably presented
their viewpoint in the face of the cultic establishment in Jerusalem, and maybe
they had kept repeating their message for a good while. But this is not to say that
the purpose of composing 4QMMT was to insist once more on this position. In the
context of 4QMMT, the halakhic section was, instead, emblematic of a particular
rhetorical situation that the composer’s community experienced and of which he
expected the ideal readers to be aware. It was something he appealed to as part
of the collective memory he shared with the “audience within the audience”. It
served to properly retrieve the ideological base and fundamental situation of the
writer’s group in relation to the message that he now wanted to pass on: that “we”
lawfully take the cultic obligation upon us as best we can where we are, away
from the establishment in Jerusalem. When we use the epistolary section and its
use of Scripture as reading lenses, 4QMMT seems already to cultivate a wilder-
ness identity and push the matter of cultic purity in the Temple, so prominent
in the halakhic section, into the background, suggesting instead to the implied
audience (within the audience) that it was possible for its members to compensate
for the defiling of the Temple cult by their own morally correct behaviour on the
outside, in their “homes”. Read this way, 4QMMT is a forerunner to sectarian
Dead Sea Scrolls promoting the idea of a community remnant that could atone
for Israel at large, and conduct itself as an alternative Temple (Collins 2009: 358).
Such a function in the years leading to a full and irreversible split would explain
the manifold copies and, presumably, ongoing use of 4QMMT.

Note
1 The extant text of 4QMMT is distorted, and it is impossible to draw any firm conclu-
sions. The ending of the quoted passage is ‫ אנחנו נותנים א‬. . . (“we give . . . ”). Two pos-
sible reconstructions would be “we give trespass offering” (‫ )אשמה‬or “we give a ram of
the flock” (‫ )איל צאן‬or a similar text reflecting, and responding to, the injunction in Lev.
5:24b–25 to give compensation, or to bring a trespass offering to the priest. Neither of
these would be an exact reproduction of the Masoretic text (nor the similar passages in

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Num. 5:7; Ezra 10:19), but then again, the preceding text is not either. If this admittedly
speculative suggestion is correct, it is noteworthy that atonement through the agency of
the priest, not flawlessness, is the ostensible explanation for the addressers’ irreproach-
able morality.

Bibliography
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Preliminary Observations”. See Kampen and Bernstein (1996): 29–51.
———. G. Martinez and J. Kampen (eds.). 1997. Legal Texts and Legal Issues.
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Blommaert, J. 2010. The Socio-Linguistics of Globalization. Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press.
Brooke, G. J. 1995. “Luke-Acts and the Qumran Scrolls: The Case of MMT”. In Luke’s
Literary Achievement. Collected Essays. C. Tuckett (ed.), 72–90. Sheffield Academic
Press: Sheffield.
———. 1997. “The Explicit Presentation of Scripture in 4QMMT”. See Bernstein et al.
(1997): 67–88.
Collins, J. J. 2009. “Beyond the Qumran Community. Social Organization in the Dead Sea
Scrolls”. Dead Sea Discoveries 16/3: 351–69.
Derrida, J. 1978. Writing and Difference. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul.
Dimant, D. 1982. “Jerusalem and the Temple in the Animal Apocalypse (1 Enoch 85–90)
in Light of the Ideology of the Dead Sea Sect”. Shnaton 5–6: 177–93 (Hebrew).
Eshel, H. 1996. “4QMMT and the History of the Hasmoneans Period”. See Kampen and
Bernstein (1996): 53–65.
Feldt, L. 2012. “Wilderness and Hebrew Bible Religion – Fertility, Apostasy and
Religious Transformation in the Pentateuch.” In Wilderness in Mythology and Religion.
Approaching Religious Spatialities, Cosmologies, and Ideas of Wild Nature. L. Fekdt
(ed.). Berlin: De Gruyter: 55–94.
Fraade, S. 2000. “To Whom It May Concern. 4QMMT and Its Addressee(s)”. Revue de
Qumran 19: 507–26.
García Martínez, F. 1996. “4QMMT in a Qumran Context”. See Kampen and Bernstein
(1996): 15–27.
Grossman, M. L. 2001. “Reading 4QMMT: Genre and History”. Revue de Qumran 20:
3–22.
Halbwachs, M. 1992. On Collective Memory. Edited, Translated, and with an Introduction
by Lewis A. Coser. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press.
Hasselbalch, T. B. 2015. Meaning and Context in the Thanksgiving Hymns. Linguistic and
Rhetorical Perspectives on a Collection of Prayers from Qumran. Atlanta, GA: SBL Press.
Hempel, C. 2010. “The Context of 4QMMT and Comfortable theories”. In The Dead Sea
Scrolls: Texts and Context. C. Hempel (ed.). Leiden: Brill.
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Collecting and Interpreting Qualitative Materials. N. K. Denzin and Y. S. Lincoln
(eds.), 2nd edn. London: Sage Publications: 155–75.
Høgenhaven, J. 2003. “Rhetorical Devices in 4QMMT.” Dead Sea Discoveries 10/2:
187–204.

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Hogeterp, A. L. A. 2008. “4QMMT and Paradigms of Second Temple Jewish Nomism”.

Dead Sea Discoveries 15: 359–79.
Kampen, J. and M. J. Bernstein (eds.). 1996. Reading 4QMMT: New Perspectives on
Qumran Law and History. Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press.
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Kloppenborg, J. S. 2007. “Diaspora Discourse: The Construction of Ethos in James”. New
Testament Studies 53: 242–70.
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Oxford Old Testament Seminar. J. Day (ed.). New York: T&T Clark International: 401–16.
Qimron, E. and J. Strugnell 1985. “An Unpublished Halakhic Letter from Qumran”. In
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Testament Epistles”. In Text, Thought, and Practice in Qumran and in Early
Christianity. R. A. Clements and D. R. Schwartz (eds.). Leiden: Brill: 83–105.
Ricœur, P. 1971. “The Model of the Text. Meaningful Action Considered as Text”. Social
Research 38: 529–62.
Schiffman, L. H. 1996. “The Place of 4QMMT in the Corpus of Qumran Manuscripts”. See
Kampen and Bernstein (1996): 81–98.
Schiffman, L. H. 2010. Qumran and Jerusalem. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans.
Strugnell, J. 1994. “MMT: Second thoughts on a Forthcoming Edition”. In The Community
of the Renewed Covenant. The Notre Dame Symposium on the Dead Sea Scrolls, E. Ulrich
and J. C. VanderKam (eds.). Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press: 57–73.
Tiller, P. 1993. A Commentary on the Animal Apocalypse of 1 Enoch. Atlanta, GA:
Scholars Press.
Tov, E. 1993. The Dead Sea Scrolls on Microfiche. A Comprehensive Facsimile Edition
of the Texts from the Judean Desert. Companion Volume. E. Tov in collaboration with
S. J. Pfann. Leiden: Brill.
Weissenberg, H. von. 2009. 4QMMT. Reevaluating the Text, the Function, and the Meaning
of the Epilogue. Leiden: Brill.
VanderKam, J. C. 1997. “The Calendar, 4Q327, and 4Q394”. See Bernstein et al. (1997):
179–94.
White Crawford, S. A. 2005. “Reading Deuteronomy in the Second Temple Period”. In
Reading the Present in the Qumran Library. The Perception of the Contemporary by
Means of Scriptural Interpretations. K. DeTroyer and A. Lange (eds.). Atlanta, GA:
Society of Biblical Literature: 127–40.

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 Part II

GR E E K C ONNE CT IO N S
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 4
IS T HE OLD TES TAM E NT STI LL A
HELLENISTIC B OOK?

Niels Peter Lemche

Prolegomena Isa 27:1 and KTU 1.5:I.1–2

Isaiah 27:1: On this day Yahweh will punish with his sword, the hard,
big and strong one, / Leviathan the fleeing serpent, and Leviathan the
winding serpent, / and kill the dragon which is in the sea.
KTU 1.5:I.1–2 is part of the Ugaritic Ba’lu epic cycle:
For you killed Latanu, the fleeing serpent, you finished off the winding
serpent, the mighty one with seven heads.

More than a thousand years separates the two texts. The Isaiah text, belonging
to the “little apocalypse”, is normally dated to about the same time as the Book
of Daniel, that is the second century bce, and the Ugaritic text to the fourteenth
century bce. Still, it is basically the same text with almost identical content. The
victim of the god’s attack is the same, biblical Leviathan, Ugaritic Latanu (or
Lotanu), and while the Isaiah text has as a parallel the dragon in the sea, the
Ugaritic description of Latanu implies that the monster has seven heads; that is,
Latanu is the hydra, the famous sea monster of Greek legends.
This part of the parallel is not sensational. The interesting part is the use of the
same two words ‫ ָּב ִר ַח‬/bāriḥa and ‫ ֲע ַקּלָתֹון‬/‛aqallatana in both passages, the Ugaritic
words in the accusative. The use of one of these words in isolation may be acci-
dental, but the use of both words as a pair is more than an accident. It simply
indicates that we have here a fixed pair in tradition when it comes to the descrip-
tion of the monster of the sea. Moreover, both in the Hebrew Bible and in the
preserved Ugaritic texts, ‫ ֲע ַקּלָתֹון‬/‛aqallatana is only found here.
I open with this example to show that Middle Eastern tradition was always
stronger than it is at times assumed today. Nobody is in doubt that Isaiah 27 is a
late text. If we talk about the Old Testament as a Hellenistic book, Isaiah 27 is
definitely Hellenistic. So maintaining that the Old Testament is a Hellenistic book
or a book from the Hellenistic Period – which is not necessarily the same – does
not mean that everything is Greek and, so to speak, foreign to oriental tradition. I
will come back to this later.

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The Old Testament: a Hellenistic book?

More than twenty years ago, I gave a lecture in the Teologiske Forening in
Copenhagen about the Old Testament as a Hellenistic book. It appeared in an
English translation in the Scandinavian Journal of the Old Testament in an English
translation as “The Old Testament – A Hellenistic Book?” (Lemche 1993) The
background was the growing sense at that time among Old Testament scholars
that most of the literature found in the Old Testament was late, from the Post-
exilic or the Persian Period. I found the ascription of a major part of biblical litera-
ture to these periods disturbing and saw it as a repetition of the mania, prevalent
when I was young, to date everything as early as possible, preferably to the Period
of the Judges or the United Monarchy of David and Solomon. Moreover, the new
late dating also increased the tendency to date everything to periods about which
we have so little solid historical knowledge.
The Persian Period once was such a dark period in the history of Palestine. We
had, and still have, precious little information from this period. Of course, making
the same kind of “links” as used before to create connections between a biblical
text and a specific time when it is supposed to have been put together, there would
be quite a number of informative elements about the Persian Period in the Old
Testament, especially in the books of Ezra and Nehemiah. A mighty burden was
laid on these books, especially the Book of Nehemiah, as reflecting actual condi-
tions in Yehud after the exile. As it has turned out, the existence or non-existence
of the wall of Nehemiah has become a crucial part of the discussion. If it could be
verified that Nehemiah really had built such a wall – the demand is that the wall
can be found – the mission of Nehemiah to Jerusalem could at least be verified.
If it cannot be found, there is indeed a problem (Ussishkin 2006; Lipschits 2009;
Finkelstein 2009).
The logic has been the same as always: biblical scholars assume that biblical
stories talk about something that existed not only in biblical literature, but also in
the real world, the physical world of ancient Israel. Because of these stories in the
Old Testament, we know about the period of, say, David and Solomon, and are
therefore able to date these stories to the time of these two kings of Israel. The
argumentation is, of course, false because it is circular and there is no reason to
continue the discussion on this level. In the case of David and Solomon, it has
also been verified – at the same time falsifying the biblical claim that there was
such a period – it has been verified that there was no great Israelite state in central
Palestine in the tenth century bce, the time normally ascribed to the kingdom ruled
by such great biblical figures.
However, to return to the Persian Period, we have literature concerning this
period, including some of the Minor Prophets and maybe so-called “Third Isaiah”.
In addition, we have a few references in extra-biblical literature, most notably a
few letters from the colony of Yehudin in Elephantine. We do not have a history
of the period, nor even a summary, comparable to the story about the kingdoms
of Israel and Judah in the books of Kings. The tradition history of the books

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 T he O ld T estament : still H ellenistic ?

of Ezra and Nehemiah, as well as the source criticism necessary to distinguish

between legend and history in these books, is not at all easier than is the case of
the Pentateuch and the Deuteronomistic history. Here, I am not joining the posi-
tion of Thomas Römer (Römer 2005), expanding this history and perhaps relying
too much on a modern concept of what constitutes a book. In the form we have
them, they are extremely late, and the redaction history is most complicated. The
connection between the two books is being discussed, and the information con-
tained in them spurious, not least when it comes to the person of Ezra, who would,
if we follow the information about him presented in his book, have been at least
150 years old when he visited Jerusalem. Ezra is said to be the son of Seraiah,
son of Azariah, son of Hilkiah, son of Shallum (Ezra 7:1; cf. 1 Chron. 5:39–41).
Hilkiah was the high priest in Jerusalem in Josiah’s narrative, who found the law
book (2 Kings 22). It was, therefore, that, when I was preparing the original lec-
ture on the Old Testament as a Hellenistic book, I simply decided to pull out all
the plugs. The working hypothesis was: let’s see how it works, if we assume that
these writings came into being in Hellenistic times and not in the Persian Period
or an even yet earlier period.
And now to the content of the lecture about the Old Testament as a Hellenistic
book: the Old Testament, identified as the Hebrew Bible, is not – strictly speaking –
a Hellenistic book. It came into being in Roman times as a rabbinic collection
of writings from the Jewish world. However, the Greek Old Testament, the
Septuagint, is without doubt a Hellenistic book. After all, the language is Greek.
Because it is obvious that the Septuagint includes mostly Jewish writings, orig-
inally not in Greek, this collection of writings must be older than their Greek
translations. The question is, simply, how old are such writings?
A major part of the discussion has to do with the physical existence of biblical
books. Apart from the Priestly (Aaronite) Blessing in Numbers 6:24–6, no part
of the Hebrew Old Testament is extant before the Dead Sea Scrolls. The date of
these scrolls can certainly be discussed, but that date will invariably be within
the Hellenistic Period. So we may agree on one thing: we have no evidence of
the physical existence of Hebrew Scripture, as such, from before the Hellenistic
Period. This should be the point of departure, whenever the date of biblical books
is discussed, though it almost never is! Normally, scholars have assumed a date,
say, in the seventh century bce, for large parts of the historiography found in the
Old Testament. Even so, they also skip half a millennium and connect such an
imaginary date in the Iron Age to the physical testimony of the existence of this
historiography as if it were not a problem. It is a problem! It is a transgression of
some of the most important principles of source criticism – not the biblical version
of that discipline, but the kind of criticism employed by historians since Barthold
Georg Niebuhr and refined ever since, the aim of which was and is to sift between
primary and secondary sources. As the first Niebuhr applied this technique to
Livy’s Roman history, it became mandatory to all subsequent, serious histori-
ans (Niebuhr 1811–12). The problem for biblical historians was, and still is, that
they have tended to identify the oldest source found in a written document with

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a primary source, understood as a contemporary source. To a great extent, they

have ignored the fact that also the oldest part of an ancient document may be a
secondary source! They have been absolutely blind to the claim of the “father” of
Danish historians, Christian Erslev (1852–1930), that secondary sources are also
of value if they are read as testimonies from the time when they came into being.
This also implies that primary sources embedded in a document, which can only
be considered a secondary source, are likewise part of the outlook of the people
who drafted older information into their own retelling of the past.
It has been difficult to persuade Old Testament scholars to apply the source
criticism of professional historians, and it certainly still is. Those who attended
the recent IOSOT congress in Munich in August 2013, and heard the opening
lecture by the president, Christoph Levin (Levin 2013) will know this. After
five minutes, I was ready to enlist Levin among the members of the Copenhagen
School. However, after fifteen minutes, we were again back in the Iron Age in a
traditional way. Time is not a problem to many colleagues. However, it is a fun-
damental problem that must be dealt with in any historical study, which uses later
documents as the basic source.
My lecture/essay “The Old Testament, a Hellenistic Book?” was reissued in a
revised edition some eight years later in Did Moses Speak Attic?, edited by Lester
Grabbe, which published the results of two sessions of the European Seminar in
Historical Methodology in 1998 and 1999 (Grabbe 2001). At the end of this col-
lection, Grabbe summed up my essay in four points:

1 The Old Testament has little to do with real history. It is therefore a poor
source of historical information.
2 Much Old Testament literature belongs to the Diaspora.
3 The History of Israel seems to be modelled on the Greek pattern, beginning
with Herodotus.
4 The Persian Period does not seem to meet the requirements of the contexts of
the books of the Old Testament.

This is only a general and not very accurate résumé, which does not really cover
my intentions. Contemporary sources may also be imprecise and even legendary.
We need only think of Suetonius’ biographies of Roman emperors. Whether or
not a historical source is accurate is quite a different question, although we would
be ready to accept more mistakes and distortions in a text considered to be much
later than the events described by the text in question.
The second point is more important and involves several issues. Among these
we may mention the content of the literature in question and the tendencies found
here. But we also have to consider the conditions for intellectual work at the time
when we think the literature in the Old Testament was written. When it comes to
content, we have to make a distinction between at least two issues: first, the physi-
cal evidence of sources used by the authors of this literature. If a certain source
of the Old Testament is quoting or at least basing its text on Assyrian annals, as

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 T he O ld T estament : still H ellenistic ?

is most likely the case in the short notice of Sennacherib’s attack on Hezekiah in
2 Kings 18:13–15, we have a point of departure for a critical assessment of these
verses in 2 Kings. Somehow, the author of the text in 2 Kings had access to the
Assyrian version, although we do not really know when and where such was the
case. However, the content of such a text goes beyond the physical impression
of the text and also involves the tendencies, that is, the programme of the text in
question. This is the second point: what is the idea of retelling an ancient annalis-
tic source, as in 2 Kings 18, when the note is immediately followed by a series of
legendary sections of no historical importance, except as an illustration of the aim
of the author who chose to retell the past in his legendary way?
Here, the issue of the conditions for the establishment of such literature as
found in the historical books of the Old Testament is important. There can be no
doubt that this literature represents an intellectual achievement of a major sort.
Where and when do we find the preconditions for such activity? Could it be in
Jerusalem in the seventh century bce after it grew to become a major regional
centre as a result of a migration of intellectuals from Samaria after the Assyrian
conquest in 722 bce, in the way that had been proposed by Albrecht Alt more
than sixty years ago (Alt 1953)? I have dealt with this issue in a number of places
recently and will not invest much energy in the question now (for example,
Lemche 2010, 2012b, 2013). However, Samaria was not razed to the ground by
the Assyrians in 722 bce. Rather, some 20,000 to 30,000 people were deported
from Samaria to Assyria. These were not exclusively the intellectual elite, as it is
known that Sargon employed prisoners from the west in building his palace. This
removes the basis for identifying the expansion of Jerusalem to the settlement of
a stream of refugees from Samaria to Jerusalem. A more likely explanation of the
growth of Jerusalem is that Jerusalem was the only city in the south still standing
after Sennacherib’s visit in 701 bce. Even Lachish, the biggest city of the south,
was totally destroyed by the Assyrians. Sennacherib himself tells us this, both in
writing and in pictures.1 Archaeology has also shown that nearly every built-up
place in Hezekiah’s kingdom was demolished by the Assyrian army.
If anything, Old Testament literature – the historical books as well as prophets –
are obsessed with the idea of exile. A complete analysis of exilic motives in the
first two parts of the Hebrew Bible has still to be done, but the towering theme of
this literature is exile and the return from exile. I presented my case for the pres-
ence of this theme in The Old Testament between Theology and History (Lemche
2008: 186–253; see also Gudme and Hjelm 2015). The exile – no matter which
exile – simply dominates. Hardly has Israel arrived in its land before it is warned
of impending exile. Before the story has begun, we are almost leaving the country
again, hoping for a return that will bring the Israelites back from everywhere they
now live. Of course, this theme is not something that reflects an Israel that lives in
its land of old; it is part of the mental matrix of a diaspora community longing to
return to a land that abounds with milk and honey, or so they were told. It is not
post-exilic literature; it is exilic literature, and this exile has a permanent status:
the place where Israel now lives.

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 N iels P eter L emche

As to the third point, that historiography in the Old Testament presupposes

Greek history writing, I must say that, in 1992, this was hardly a new idea.
Already, John Van Seters had presented ideas about the relationship between the
two kinds of historiography (Van Seters 1983). Several scholars, including Sarah
Mandell and David Freedman (Mandell and Fredman 1993), as well as Flemming
Nielsen (Nielsen 1997) and Jan-Wim Wesselius (Wesselius 2002), have since
expanded the idea of Greek influence on Old Testament historiography. My main
contribution to this discussion has been the argument that it is not Herodotus who
presents the closest parallel to biblical narrative, but Livy. Historiography in the
Old Testament does not have the work of the great Greek history writers as its
closest parallel, but rather the Hellenistic type of historiography that we find in
Livy’s Ab urbe condita, his enormous history of ancient Rome.
Finally, I argued that it was unlikely that biblical literature had its home in
Palestine in the Persian Period, nor is it likely that it originated in Iron Age
Jerusalem. It is hard to find in the remains from these periods the preconditions
for major intellectual activity, which is the raison d’être for establishing great
literature. By and large, Palestine, and especially the southern highlands, provides
one of the poorest cultural environments in the whole of the ancient Near East! Its
architecture was typically substandard, not least the remains of official buildings,
and there was hardly any art worth remembering. In daily life, we find evidence
of the poverty of the material culture with small settlements, which, for one reason
or another, are called “cities” by many scholars.
I simply cannot find evidence of activity here that reflected a developing civi-
lization, able to produce some of the finest literature of the ancient world. In
contrast, we should look to Greek cities and especially Athens in the fifth century
bce – to stay with a medium-sized settlement, yet larger than anything found in
Palestine from the Iron Age. Here, we see the kind of prerequisites there are linked
to extensive literary activity, second to none in world history, including fabulous
expressions of art and architecture, in short, a developing and extrovert society.
The contrast could not be greater to the poverty and anonymity of Palestine’s
highlands in the Iron Age. The Ancient Near East created great literature and great
art and architecture, but such was created in major cities found all over the Near
East – except in Palestine.
It would be easy, and probably too easy, to ascribe all the literature on an intel-
lectual level comparable to that found in the Old Testament to a time when Greek
influence created a new synthesis after the conquest of Alexander, although we
find an increasing tendency to propagate such a date and environment of biblical
literature. I have at different occasions spoken about a kind of “pan-Hellenism”
arising and I have warned against it, at least in those cases where the argumentation
is not very sophisticated. However, any criticism of the recent studies by Russell
Gmirkin on Berossus and Manetho (Gmirkin 2006) and Philippe Wajdenbaum’s
Argonauts of the Desert (Wajdenbaum 2011) must rely on a proper reading of
these studies, rather than on an unargued rejection of the idea of, for example,
seeing Plato as a model for biblical law. I believe that a strong case can be made

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 T he O ld T estament : still H ellenistic ?

in favour of both Gmirkin’s and Wajdenbaum’s approaches. My case study is the

Primeval Story in Genesis 1–11.

The Primeval Story

In the already mentioned collection Did Moses Speak Attic?, I published another
piece on the Old Testament and Hellenism to analyse the mental set-up of biblical
writers and, in this particular case, the author(s) of the Primeval Story (Lemche
2001). John Van Seters had already years ago claimed Greek influence on Genesis
1, tracing the structure of the world back to Greek natural philosophy of the sixth
century bce (Van Seters 1988). However, my point was then much the same as
it is today. There is a lot more than Greek tradition in Genesis 1–11. Already in
Genesis 2, however, we feel at home in a Mesopotamian context, suggesting that
we have a mixture of Greek and oriental traditions in the Primeval Story. This
points to an author who may have lived in one of the centres of Mesopotamia,
such as Seleucia, the newly founded capital of the Seleucid empire, or at least in a
place where Greek and oriental traditions met and blended to form a new tradition.
The major disadvantage of such a theory is that we don’t know where it really
happened, although, from the physical remains – especially architecture – we can
see such blending manifested all over Western Asia.
I will try to be more specific in dealing with the Primeval Story, by defining
its different themes and tracing their origins before returning to the collection of
stories and looking for a home for the establishment of this collection.
The first narrative segment deals with creation. Enough has already been said
about its relation to Greek natural philosophy. The division of chaos into the four
elements, in the Bible darkness and light, water and the dry land, is paralleled by
Greek ideas about the composition of the universe. It is not very interesting
whether Thales and his colleagues were inspired by oriental ideas, though it is
likely. It is, however, important to observe that the enactment of creation in
Genesis is logical and progressive and that the separation between the elements
makes use of the verb ‫בדל‬, in the hif’il: “to divide”. To argue that we find Greek
influence here is not a real problem. Traditionally, Genesis 1 is considered part of
the Priestly source and everybody, except a few Israeli scholars, agrees that this
source is late.
The second major element deals with the creation and fall of man, Genesis
2–3. It opens with a description of what was not yet here. Man is created, and
everything else is created after that. The first two humans are placed in God’s
garden, the Eden, and are allowed to eat from its fruits apart from the fruits from
the tree of wisdom, and, of course, they transgress the prohibition and are exiled
from God’s presence.
The third element involves murder. After their parents had been exiled from
Paradise, Cain kills his brother Abel. The play is on the tragic history, which has
begun. Cain is the father of civilization! Thereafter, in the fourth narrative ele-
ment, we find, at the end of Genesis 4 and Genesis 5, a variation of sundry minor

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 N iels P eter L emche

themes, with reference to such figures as Lamech and Enoch. We also have a
competing toledoth, presenting Enosh as the first man. A list of the ancient long-
living descendants of Adam is also included (Genesis 5:3–32).
The fourth narrative segment seems to be a diversion from the main line, the
story of the giants, the nephilîm, which of course does not mean “giants” but “the
fallen ones”. The implication of this name will soon become apparent.
The fifth major narrative element relates the flood and the extinction of human-
kind – apart from a single family that can bear the tradition. Two more additional
themes follow: the covenant between God and humankind (Genesis 9), and the
mapping of humankind on the face of the earth (Genesis 10). The sixth and final
major theme includes the story of the tower of Babel, the origins of languages and
the dispersion of humankind over the face of the earth.
Due to the character of the Old Testament, we do not have much that allows us
to trace these themes in the tradition of Palestine, not to say the Levant. It is typi-
cal and has been noted that Ugarit has several legends, most notably the collection
about Ba‛lu and his colleagues, but nothing about creation. While the fighting
between gods constitutes a major theme in the Ba‛lu cycle, we have no creation
story here and nothing linked to the stories of Genesis 1–11. However, that the
ancient tradition was not entirely forgotten by the biblical writers is implied in the
quotation that opened this lecture. The idea of the deity’s fight against the sea is
definitely a motif found in several places in the Old Testament, sometimes linked
to creation, or at least to motifs connected with creation. However, a fully devel-
oped description of the creation is unknown. It may have existed, but we can only
base our argumentation on what we have.
The story of the creation of humankind and the fall of man in Genesis 2–3 bris-
tles with Mesopotamian motives, not a great surprise as the author makes it very
clear that the scenery belongs to the east, even east of Sinear, an Egyptian name
for Mesopotamia. The very opening, the non-being of civilization, is paralleled in
Babylonian epics. Famous are the opening lines of Enuma Eliš:

When above, heaven was not mentioned

Below the earth, no one had pronounced a name

Then follows the name of the garden of God, Eden, that is, Akkadian edinnu, a loan-
word from Sumerian edin, meaning “plain” or even “the grazing land between the
two rivers”. The tree of life fits in, but not the tree of wisdom. The story of the fall is,
on the other hand, unique to Genesis. The closest parallel could be the humanization
of Gilgamesh’s friend Enkidu, when, for the sake of a harlot, he moves from a natu-
ral stage of innocence, close to gods and wild animals, to the human stage, where
relations with the innocent or primeval world of the gods (and animals) are broken.
The story of Cain’s murder of his brother, Abel, has no parallel in oriental litera-
ture, although the central motif of brotherly conflict is not unknown. The best parallel
is probably Livy’s story of the rivalry between Romulus and his brother Remus.

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 T he O ld T estament : still H ellenistic ?

There is no reason to use much space on the story of the flood. The version
in Genesis is more or less a rewritten Gilgamesh (cf. Lemche 2012a). The intro-
duction of the raven as the first bird sent out by Noah, but not returning, is an
intertextual reference to Gilgamesh (Genesis 8:7). In the version in Gilgamesh,
the raven is the third bird sent out from the ark, the bird that does not return
because it finds the world dry again (Gilgamesh XI: 153–4).
The remaining narrative motifs found in Genesis 1–11 have no obvious paral-
lels in Mesopotamian tradition. The Mesopotamian tradition as represented by
Atraḫasis combines creation and flood, as did the Sumerian story of the creation
and the flood. Enuma Eliš is only concerned with creation but links it to the motif
of the god Marduk fighting the dragon/the sea Tiamat.
If we now consider the themes not easily found in Babylonian tradition, we need
to look at the competing Greek pre-Hellenistic tradition about the early history of
the gods and earth, as found in Hesiod in his two major works Erga kai Hemerai
(Works and Days) and Theogony. These two works by this great Greek author of the
late eighth and early seventh century have very different subjects. Theogony deals
with the birth of the gods, and Erga kai Hemerai includes the story of the different
generations created by the gods. The first thing created, according to Theogony,
however, is Chaos, not totally dissimilar to the text, so well-known to theologians:

Verily, at the first, Chaos came to be, but, next, wide-bosomed Earth,
the ever sure foundation of all the deathless ones who hold the peaks of
snowy Olympus, and dim Tartarus . . . From Chaos came forth Erebus
and black night; but of Night were born Aether and Day, whom she con-
ceived and bore from a union in love with Erebus. And Earth first bore
starry Heaven . . . And she brought forth long Hills . . . she bore also the
fruitless deep with his raging swell, Pontus, without sweet union of love
(Theogony 116–32)

Thereafter follows the description of the various divine rulers of the world –
Uranos, Cronos, and Zeus – followed by the battle between the Titans and the
Olympic gods, resulting in the Titans being imprisoned in the depths of the
Tartaros. It is of importance that Prometheus is presented as the son of Iapetos
and, in some scholia to Hesiod, named the father of Deucalion, the hero of the
Greek story of the flood. In Erga kai Hemerai, we find the classical division of
the generations of humankind into the Golden Age, the Silver Age, the Bronze
Age and the Iron Age (the present age). However, between the Bronze and Iron
Ages, we have another age of the demi-gods, some of whom died in battle, while
others were settled by Zeus at the end of the world (Erga kai Hemera 156–73).
No account of a story of the flood is in the extant works of Hesiod. As a matter of
fact, in pre-Hellenistic Greek literature not much is said about this event, although
indications in Pindar (his Olympian Ode 9) and especially Plato (Critias) show
that some traditions about floods existed.

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It is characteristic of the pre-Hellenistic Greek evidence that, although Hesiod

informs his reader about the genesis of the world, of gods and human beings, no
Primeval Story exists including more of the elements in combination as told by
Genesis 1–11. Invoking pre-Hellenistic Greek parallels to the Primeval Story in
Genesis will engage some of the themes preserved in Genesis 1–11, but will not
present a parallel to the Primeval Story as such.

The Hellenistic Period

Berossus
Although preserved only in fragments, it is clear that the first version of the
Primeval Story, which is known and can be dated, is the one presented by Berossus
in the first part of his Babyloniaca, his history of Babylon. Recent work on
Berossus – especially by Russell Gmirkin (Gmirkin 2006) – makes it unnecessary
to spend much time on the intention of his work, on his career and background,
although both subjects are important, as they show how the ancient Near East
was transformed in a Hellenistic world.2 Neither will I spend time on the intricate
transmission of his works, a great story in its own right, which could have been
written by Umberto Eco. Berossus, or Bel-re’u-šunu, according to his Babylonian
name, who may have been born when Babylon was still ruled by the Persians,
was acquainted with the ancient traditions of Mesopotamia (he is supposed to
have been a priest of Bel). Adjusting to the new realities, he evidently wrote his
Babyloniaca in Greek literary style for the benefit of his new Greek masters, com-
bining motifs from different Babylonian epics, Enuma Eliš, Gilgamesh, probably
the poem of Erra and more. He also incorporated the Sumerian-Babylonian tradi-
tion of the long-living antediluvian kings, as presented in the Sumerian king list.
In the fragments preserved, he presents the origins of the world as the revela-
tions of the sea monster Oannes in a fashion not dissimilar from the very begin-
ning of Genesis 1, as everything was darkness and water. Hereafter follows the
list of the kings before the flood. This is a series of long-living heroes, the last
being Xisousthros, who should turn out to be the Babylonian Noah. The story of
the flood according to Berossus is close to the version in Gilgamesh. As in the
Babylonian epics, Xisousthros does not die but is taken away together with his
wife to live with the gods. Following the flood, we have a series of kings that
bring us down to Berossus’ own time.
Berossus has been taken as a kind of blueprint for the Primeval Story in Genesis,
and it is true that Genesis 1–11 comes very close to the version of the Primeval Story
found in Berossus’ Babyloniaca. Of interest is the incorporation into Genesis of the
motif from the Sumerian king-list of the original kings of Babylon in the pedigree
of Seth in Genesis 5. This combination of king-lists and creation and flood is not
found in older Babylonian sources and can be used when arguing that Berossus was
a direct source of inspiration for the author of Genesis 1–11. However, Genesis
1–11 includes themes not present in the preserved parts of Berossus’ Babyloniaca.

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For example, the motif of the giants in Genesis 6:1–4 is not in Babyloniaca. Neither
is the parable of the tower of Babel. But let us see how the Primeval Story develops
in other works that can be clearly dated to the Hellenistic Period.

The Book of Jubilees

The Book of Jubilees preserves the most extensive retelling of the Primeval
Story found in Hellenistic literature. Its version is closely related to Genesis
1–11, although there are some significant variations from the biblical version –
differences that do not owe their existence to the particular theme of Jubilees’ chro-
nology. At times, one has the impression that the author of Jubilees may have known
the narrative of Genesis 1–11 in a form rather different from the present versions.
Jubilees follows Genesis 1–3 closely, but has a more expansive description
of the individual parts of the creation. This author knew and had in front of him
the combined story of creation and the fall of man (including both Genesis 1 and
Genesis 2–3). On the other hand, the short reference to Enoch in the Hebrew
Bible’s Genesis is much more extensive and detailed in Jubilees’ version, remind-
ing us of the Enoch traditions in the Genesis Apocryphon or the Coptic and
Ethiopian Enoch traditions. Here, it is likely that the author of Genesis 1–11 sim-
ply reduced this tradition about Enoch to but a short reference as he found it of
little interest for the main thrust of his rewriting of the early history of the world.
The same may have happened to the note about the giants in Genesis 6:1–4.
Again, Jubilees has a more complete version, which makes it clear that this ele-
ment – not found in ancient near eastern mythology – is linked to the Greek myth
of the Titans. We hear nothing about the fate of these giants in Genesis 6, although
the combination of the story of the Titans in Jubilees with the story of the flood
makes the assumption likely that Genesis 6:1–4 is understood as an introduc-
tion to the story of the flood. Jubilees follows the Greek myth and has the Titans
chained to the depths of the earth. Other biblical references to this myth, for exam-
ple, the fate of the king of Tyre in Ezekiel 28:12–19, implies that this myth was
known to biblical authors. A look at the different versions of this myth in Genesis
and Jubilees confirms the impression that the author of Genesis 1–11 deliberately
skipped parts of his Primeval Story, considering them unnecessary. It also sug-
gests that the relationship between Genesis 1–11 to Jubilees is not a one-way
relationship. Jubilees, in many ways, rewrites Genesis, but, thereafter, it seems
that some redactions have taken place in Genesis 1–11, some shortenings and
omissions which are not reflected in the version found in Jubilees.
The new and most interesting point in Jubilees is the incorporation of the myth
of the Titans, which, in older Greek literature, was part of the story of the origins
of the gods as told by Hesiod. This linkage is not known to the ancient Near East.
This seems to owe its existence to some reworking of oriental and Greek tradi-
tion, which found their way into Genesis. Josephus, who includes a retelling of the
Primeval Story of Genesis in his Antiquitates, duly acknowledges the relationship
between the giants in Genesis and the Greek Titans:

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Many of God’s angels came together with women and begat insolent
sons who despised everything that was good because they had confi-
dence in (their) power: They dared to perform the same thing as those
who are called giants among the Greeks. (Antiquitates I:III,1)

Ovid’s Metamorphoses
The inspiration for this chapter came to me recently, while reading the first part of
Ovid’s Metamorphoses, a work from the time of Augustus. Although this work is
perhaps a couple of hundred years younger than Genesis 1–11, it is probably the
closest retelling of the Primeval Story in Genesis that we have. Ovid’s story of
creation opens with the chaos. Everything is mixed together in struggle, with cold-
ness fighting heat and dryness fighting moisture. No sun, no moon, no air. Then a
god creates the world by separating the elements and separating earth from heaven.
This god moulds the earth from clay and pours water over it, creating the ocean
that surrounds the earth. After this, the greenness of the earth comes and animals
begin to appear on earth as birds do in the air, and only thereafter is humanity cre-
ated. Ovid then falls back on the classic tradition of the four ages of the world: the
golden age, the silver age, etc. A disharmony appears when the giants try to storm
heaven by piling up the mountains. They are duly punished and hurled down from
high, their blood mingling with earth to create “human forms”, vertisse hominum.
Hereafter, the gods decide to bring the flood over the earth. But two persons are
saved: Deucalion, the son of Prometheus, and Pyrhha, his wife. They strand on the
Parnassos to be instructed, after the deluge, in how to re-establish mankind.
Obviously, Ovid is drawing on ancient traditions with roots both in the classical
and in the oriental world. As such, his Metamorphoses is a very clear example of
how Hellenism involved the blending of Greek and oriental traditions. However,
much more is involved. In Ovid’s version, we find nearly all the central themes of
the ancient Babylonian tradition, except a list of the antediluvian kings. In some
way, it may have been substituted by the classical environment’s preferred tale
of the four ages of early mankind. Ovid’s story of the Titans is more interesting
as he obviously combines the story of the tower of Babel with the myth of the
Titans, thus solving a problem, which is evident in Genesis and not quite solved
in Jubilees: where does one place the story of the Titans, so vital to classical tradi-
tion? A preliminary version is, however, found in the Odyssey (11:305–20).
We don’t know where all of this literary activity occurred. It is clear that
Berossus wrote under the impression of the new, all-dominating circumstances
in which the Greek world met the oriental and dominated it in a massive way.
Although it is absurd to say that there were no links between the two worlds
before Alexander, his conquest of the East led to a blend of civilizations on a
scale never seen before. The impact of the classical world on the oriental one was
also massive from the very beginning (the lingua franca also almost immediately
became Greek), but it was blended with local traditions. And, as said before, what
happened in art and architecture also happened in literature.

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 T he O ld T estament : still H ellenistic ?

Genesis 1–11 reflects this mixture of elements from different cultures. The
basis of the collection definitely belonged to Seleucid Mesopotamia, a world
that included a Jewish stratum in a diaspora that survived from the time of
Nebuchadnezzar to the time of Ben Gurion. Babylon/Mesopotamia was a major
centre of learning, not yet the world of the Talmud, but still reflecting a Judaism
in process. But are there alternatives? Perhaps there are not, given the original for-
mulation of the Primeval Story, which is definitely Mesopotamian. In this respect,
Babylon comes to mind. Is there any other place where the elaboration on this
story as found in Jubilees may have a home?

Conclusion: the Museion

The establishment of the learned centre of Alexandria, especially the Museion,
may have been a decisive factor in the development of Hellenism. The presence
here of a Jewish population, which grew as time went by, is a fact. They may have
been responsible for the intellectual activities, which, among many other things,
included the formation of the biblical story of the origins of the world in an edition
not far from that which has been handed down to posterity.
Most contemporary scholars will react instinctively against such a theory, believ-
ing the connection between Jerusalem and Judaism to be a primary and necessary
one. Evidence, however, speaks against it, especially if the two leading Israeli
archaeologists, Israel Finkelstein and David Ussishkin, are correct. There was no
Jerusalem of any significant size, beyond that of a large village, during the Persian
and Early Hellenistic periods (Ussishkin 2006; Finkelstein 2009). According to
their estimate, Jerusalem first began to grow at the beginning at the second century
bce. Only from Hasmonean times and onwards might a production of literature, as
found in the Old Testament, be possible. Although, arguing for the Old Testament
as a Hellenistic book, I do not think that an argument can be presented for a late
date of everything that is presented in this book. The broadening of perspective,
allows for yet another history of this literature. On the other hand, such a theory as
this, which places the formation of the Pentateuch in the Diaspora, and especially
in a learned centre such as Alexandria, creates a scenario that could be of interest
when applying source criticism to both this and other parts of the Old Testament
as well. More than twenty years ago I proposed – more as a joke than seriously
meant – that the Pentateuch came into being in four different pubs on the outskirts
of ancient Babylon. One pub had the name J, with good beer and a merry company.
The stories they told were brought to the other side of the road, the E-pub, where the
beer was not quite as good and the people less interesting. Further down the street
we find the D-pub, and at the end of this road the P-pub for Jewish fundamentalists.
It all lasted for about half a year. The inspiration came from Johannes Pedersen
(Pedersen 1931), arguing that the language in all four traditional sources in the
Pentateuch was always the same from a morphological point of view, something
which is impossible when we speak about a living language. This pub-hypothesis
was at the time not for publication, but none the less became widely known.

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Now, I believe that I have to change the town in this hypothesis to Alexandria,
to Hebrew speaking people, living here and benefiting from the positive climate
towards intellectual activities under the Ptolemaic rulers. The idea is that the
strands, sources, documents, whatever found in the Pentateuch that would easily
fit in as part of such an intellectual environment. I will go no further, but only
add that even the inclusion in the Pentateuch of the much-discussed northern ele-
ments, as in the Jacob-traditions, would make sense here. It would probably have
been easier to reconcile differences between the north and south in a place like
Alexandria than in Palestine proper, where the animosities between Shechem
and Samaria and Jerusalem and Hebron never ended. Living in a close proximity
outside of their country of origin can create strange bedfellows. This is no more
than a loose end, but something which I believe is worth exploring, so I will end
with one final remark: the Old Testament as a Hellenistic book does not preclude
the study of sources for this literature. I opened with the quotation from Ugarit,
which is found, partly verbatim, in Isaiah 27. The oriental tradition has never
been distant.

Notes
1 Thus for the pictures Ussishkin 1982, and for the text Luckenbill 1924.
2 For a recent discussion, cf. Haubold et al. 2013.

Bibliography
Alt, A. 1953. “Die Heimat des Deuteronomiums”. Kleine Schriften zur Geschichte Israels,
Vol. II Munich: C. H. Beck’sche Verlagsbuchhandlung: 250–75.
Finkelstein, I. 2009. “Persian Period Jerusalem and Jehud: A Rejoinder”. Journal of
Hebrew Scriptures 9: 24 (http://jhsonline.org/Articles/article_126.pdf).
Gmirkin, R. E. 2006. Berossus and Genesis, Manetho and Exodus: Hellenistic Histories
and the Date of the Pentateuch. CIS, 15. London: T&T Clark.
Grabbe, L. L. 2001. Did Moses Speak Attic? Jewish Historiography and Scripture in the
Hellenistic Period. JSOR Supp., 317. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press.
Haubold, J., G. B. Lanfranchi, R. Rollinger and J. Steele (eds.). 2013. The World of
Berossos. Classica et Orientalia, 5. Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz.
Hjelm, I. and Gudme A. (eds.). 2015. Myths of Exile. CIS. London: Routledge.
Lemche, N. P., 1993. “The Old Testament-A Hellenistic Book?”. SJOT 7163–93
———. 2001. “How Does One Date an Expression of Mental History? The Old Testament
and Hellenism”. See Grabbe (2001): 200–24
———. 2008. The Old Testament Between Theology and History: A Critical Survey.
Louisville, KY: Westminster/John Knox Press.
———. 2010. “The Deuteronomistic History: Historical Reconsiderations”. In Raising Up
a Faithful Exegete: Essays in Honor of Richard D. Nelson. K. L. Noll and B. Schramm
(eds.). Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns: 41–50
———. 2012a. “Gammeltestamentlige tekster som genskrevet litteratur”. In Bibelske
Genskrivninger. J. Høgenhaven and M. Müller (eds.). Forum for Bibelsk Eksegese, 17.
Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum: 51–7.

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———. 2012b. “Shechem Revisited: The Formation of Biblical Collective Memory”. In

Focusing Biblical Studies: The Crucial Nature of the Persian and Hellenistic Periods.
Essays in Honor of Douglas A. Knight. J. Berquist and A. Hunt (eds). Library of Hebrew
Bible/Old Testament Studies, 544. New York: T&T Clark: 35–48.
———. 2013. “When the Past Becomes the Present”. Scandinavian Journal of the Old
Testament 27: 96–106.
Levin, C. 2013. Die Entstehung des Judentums als Gegenstand der alttestamentlichen
Wissenschaft (Lecture, 4 August 2013).
Lipschits, O. 2009. “Persian Period Finds from Jerusalem: Facts and Interpretations”.
Journal of Hebrew Scriptures 9: 20 (http://jhsonline.org/Articles/article_122.pdf).
Luckenbill, D. D. 1924. The Annals of Sennacherib. Chicago, IL: Oriental Institute.
Mandell, S. and D. N. Freedman 1993. The Relationship Between Herodotus’ History and
Primary History. South Florida Studies in the History of Judaism, 60. Atlanta, GA:
Scholars Press.
Niebuhr, B. G. 1811–12. Römische Geschichte, 2 Bde. Berlin: In der Realschulbuchhandlung.
Nielsen, F. A. J. 1997. The Tragedy in History; Herodotus and the Deuteronomistic
History. JSOT Supp., 251; CIS, 4. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press.
Pedersen, J. 1931. “Die Auffassung des Alten Testaments”. ZAW 49: 161–81.
Römer, T. 2005. The So-Called Deuteronomistic History: A Sociological, Historical and
Literary Introduction. London: T&T Clark.
Ussishkin, D. 1982. The Conquest of Lachish by Sennacherib. Tel Aviv: The Institute of
Archaeology.
———. 2006. “The Borders and De Facto Size of Jerusalem in the Persian Period”. In
Judah and Judeans in the Persian Period. O. Lipschits and M. Oeming (eds.). Winona
Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns: 147–66.
Van Seters, J. 1982. In Search of History: Historiography in the Ancient World and the
Origins of Biblical History. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press.
———. 1983. In Search of History: Historiography in the Ancient World and the Origins
of Biblical History. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press.
———. 1988. “The Primeval Histories of Greece and Israel Compared”. ZAW 100: 1–22.
Wajdenbaum, P. 2011. Argonauts of the Desert: Structural Analysis of the Hebrew Bible.
CIS. Sheffield: Equinox.
Wesselius, J.-W. 2002. The Origin of the History of Israel: Herodotus’ Histories as
Blueprint for the First Books of the Bible. JSOT Supp., 345. Sheffield: Sheffield
Academic Press.

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 5
FROM P LATO TO M OSES
Genesis-Kings as a Platonic epic

Philippe Wajdenbaum

Introduction: recent theories of Greek influences

on the Hebrew Bible
In the past decades, there has been a significant evolution in biblical scholarship
in dating the Hebrew biblical texts to the Persian and Hellenistic eras. Thomas
L. Thompson and Niels Peter Lemche were at the forefront of supporting such
Hellenistic dating of the Hebrew Bible (Lemche 1998b [1993]; Thompson 1992;
1999). This late dating has been bolstered by several studies that have emphasized
the similarities of styles and contents between ancient Greek writings and the
Bible. Previously, scholars such as Cyrus Gordon (1962), Michael Astour (1965)
and Martin L. West (1997) had gathered a significant number of such parallels,
and concluded that these similarities were due to a common Near Eastern matrix
for both Hebrew and Archaic Greek cultures (see also Brown 1995). However,
even though the early formation of Greek mythology owes to traditions from the
Levant, this does not exclude the idea that the redaction of the Hebrew Bible had
been directly influenced by Greek culture at a later period (Louden 2011: 12–13).
In 1983, John Van Seters emphasized the resemblance between the so-called
Primary History (Genesis-Kings) and Herodotus’ Histories (Van Seters 1983; see
also Lemche 2013b and 2013c).
In 2001, Thomas L. Brodie proposed the hypothesis that Genesis was modelled
directly on Homer’s Odyssey (Brodie 2001; on Homer as a source for Genesis,
see appendix 3, 447–94). For Brodie, scholars should search in existing texts from
antiquity as possible direct sources of inspiration for the Hebrew Bible, rather than
in the alleged JEDP sources of the documentary hypothesis. Invoking Occam’s
Razor, Brodie argued that the documentary hypothesis may have long seemed a
valid and plausible model, but Homer and, perhaps, also other Greek classical
authors, seem far better candidates for possible sources of biblical authors from
the Persian era. For Brodie, this hypothesis should be adopted, as it is both simpler
than the documentary hypothesis and can be verified (Brodie 2001: 421). Brodie
explains that ancient writers typically imitated earlier writers. This practice was
not considered plagiarism, a modern and, therefore, anachronistic notion. Brodie
further listed several criteria for determining textual dependence, such as exter-
nal plausibility of contact between the compared texts, as well as similarities of

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themes, action, or plot, and, not least, similarity of order: “When random elements
occur in two documents in the same order the similarity requires an explana-
tion . . . If a series of details emerge then they become significant – especially if
clustered together or in the same order” (Brodie 2001: 429).
In 2002, independently of Brodie, Jan-Wim Wesselius produced a compara-
tive study, concluding that the nine books of the Primary History were directly
dependent upon Herodotus’ nine books of the Histories and had been written by
a single author sometime in the fifth century bce (Wesselius 2002). The idea of a
single author for Genesis-Kings had already been put forward by Spinoza, in the
eighth chapter of his Theological and Political Treatise.
In 2006, Russell Gmirkin argued that the Pentateuch had not been written before
the first part of the third century bce, drawing its inspiration from the Hellenized writ-
ers Berossus and Manetho (Gmirkin 2006). As Gmirkin explains, the tradition found
in The Letter of Aristeas may well reflect not only the translation of the Pentateuch
into Greek, but its very redaction in Hebrew during the early Hellenistic era:

the Septuagint scholars at Alexandria appear to have been occupied with

both the composition of the Pentateuch in Hebrew and its translation into
Greek . . . access to the Alexandrian Library will have provided a major
incentive for conducting the work of composition there rather than in
Jerusalem. (Gmirkin 2006: 253)

In 2011, the classical scholar Bruce Louden also reached a similar conclusion,
namely, that some biblical books might have been influenced, directly or indirectly,
by Homer’s writings (Louden 2011: 318–24). Brodie, Louden, and I (Wajdenbaum
2011) have independently made similar observations about the story of Joseph
(Gen. 37–50) in comparison to Odysseus’ return to Ithaca (Odyssey 14–24) and
have also reached similar conclusions regarding the number of parallels between
Homer’s Odyssey and Genesis. The similar order in which these parallels appear
indicate that Genesis was modelled after the Odyssey. Louden writes (2011: 324):

The parallels, and the divergences, suggest to me both that some form of
the Odyssey, served as a model for individual parts of Genesis (particularly
the myth of Joseph) and that, like the Odyssey, the redactors of Genesis
linked together many different genres of myth to form parts of a larger
nostos, return story.

Brodie writes (2001: 492):

there is already sufficient evidence to propose that Genesis’s use of

Homer is a reasonable working hypothesis. The author of Genesis used
the Odyssey, especially in composing chapters 11–50 . . . The unified
way in which Genesis uses the Odyssey indicates that Genesis as a whole
reflects a single process of composition.

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 P hilippe Wajdenba u m

Since the Homeric epics were written in the eighth or seventh century bce, their
spreading throughout the Levant in the Persian or Hellenistic eras would make
them probable sources of inspiration and emulation for Judaean writers. All these
recent hypotheses converge in considering possible Greek sources of inspiration
for the Hebrew Bible.

Plato’s Laws as a framework for the Pentateuch and Joshua

In recent years, I have compared the works of Plato, and especially his politi-
cal treatises such as the Republic (Politeia), Critias (or Atlantis) and the Laws
(Nomoi), with Genesis-Kings (I have discussed some of these parallels in
Wajdenbaum 2010, 2011, and 2013). Plato is well known for having first con-
ceived the Republic, which describes a utopian State, where knowledge was the
privilege of an educated elite, while the common people would be told myths
and fables, with the social function of producing virtue (Plato, Rep. 414e–15d).
According to Plato’s Letter VII, it seems that the philosopher tried to establish his
ideal state in Sicily, after gaining the support of local tyrants, but he failed in this
effort and returned to Athens. Therefore, in his old age, Plato conceived a revised
version of the ideal state, which he understood to be based on legislation and more
realistic than his earlier version in the Republic. Plato wrote the Laws around
350 bce, his last and longest dialogue. Plato’s state in the Laws was introduced
through a discourse attributed to an Athenian, a Spartan and a Cretan. The three
protagonists of the dialogue reflect how the future state will blend Athenian laws
with Spartan and Cretan customs (Morrow 1960). Plato, through the voice of his
Athenian character, describes the territorial organization of the state. It will be
conquered by military force, after which the settlers will draw lots and divide the
land into twelve parts given to twelve tribes. These tribes will be subdivided into
paternal families, and into plots of land, one part being in the main city and one
part in the countryside. These estates will be transmissible from fathers to sons,
and it will be forbidden to sell them, so that the cadastre will remain eternally
immutable. This territorial organization is very similar to biblical Israel as seen in
Leviticus 25:23 (not to sell the plots of land // Plato, Laws 741b–c), Numbers 26
(the census of the twelve tribes and the plan for the division of the land // Laws
745b–c) and Joshua 14–19 (the division of the conquered land by lottery). It is
also reminiscent of Ezekiel’s vision of a restored Israel, with twelve equal pieces
of land for the twelve tribes stemming from Jerusalem (Ezek. 47:13–48:35). This
similar division of the land is only the most obvious similarity between Plato’s
Laws and the Pentateuch. Plato discusses all the laws of his imaginary state,
among which, some thirty are common to the Pentateuch.
In Exodus, children of slaves shall belong to their masters (Exod. 21:4 // Laws
930d–e). Murder and outrage to parents shall be punished by death (Exod. 21:
12–17 // Laws 872d–73b). If someone injures someone else by hitting him, he
shall pay for his recovery (Exod. 21:17–19 // Laws 876e–77b). A master may kill
his own slave (Exod. 21:20–21 // Laws 865c–d). If an ox kills someone, it shall

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be killed and so his master (Exod. 21:28–32 // Laws 873e). A thief breaking in at
night can be killed (Exod. 21:37–22:3 // Laws 874c). One shall pay if he lets his
flocks graze on his neighbour’s field and if a fire arises (Exod. 22:5–6 // Laws
843d–e). Although several of these laws common to Exodus and Plato can be
traced back to the ancient Code of Hammurabi, most of them appear in Plato in
sections 870ff. and Exodus 20–23 in a rather similar order, which might be sig-
nificant evidence of literary dependence in accord with Brodie’s criterion.
In Leviticus 18, the prohibition of incest and male homosexuality is formulated
in rather similar terms to what is used in Plato’s Laws (836b–42a). In an excursus
in this section, Plato explains that such laws against homosexuality will not easily
be accepted. Therefore, writes Plato through the voice of the Athenian, the legisla-
tor should use mythical preambles so as to persuade the people of the divine origin
of all the laws. These preambles should illustrate how the god rewards obedience
and punishes disobedience. In these pages, Plato gives advice to the hypothetical
legislator who would found the ideal state: he should become himself a poet, using
myths in order to illustrate the laws. (On Plato’s use of myth as a means of persua-
sion in order for the people to accept the laws as divine, see Brisson 1994; Mouze
2005.) But, as explained previously by Plato in the Republic (370–83), these
revised myths should depict the deity in a more moral way than in the stories found
in Homer and Hesiod. In both the Republic and the Laws, Plato suggested that one
rewrite Greek myths into moral tales in order to produce virtue. Another significant
parallel with Leviticus defines how a bloodline for the priests will be developed for
the new state. The purity of the line and the physical integrity of the priests will be
accordingly checked (Leviticus 21:1–24 // Laws 759a–d). In both Plato’s state and
biblical Israel, slaves (permanent slaves in the Bible) must be of foreign origin and
are not to be treated with harshness (Lev. 25:39–47 // Laws 777b–d).
In Numbers, not only do we find the similar tribal organization as explained
above, but the rule known in Greece as epiclerate, the marriage of the daughter(s)
of a man who had no sons within their tribe and preferably within their own fam-
ily. This rule is applied in the story of the daughters of Zelophehad (Numbers 27
and 36 // Laws 924c–e). It is significant that this biblical law is illustrated with the
help of a story in accordance with Plato’s advice.
In Deuteronomy, one finds similar laws to Plato’s as in the laws concerning
cult centralisation (Deut. 12 // Laws 909d-–10a). So, too, the prohibition against
offering sacrifices in any place (Deut. 17:2–7 // Laws 910b–c). Also the “law
of the king” reiterates Plato’s moderate king, which reflects a common notion,
namely, that a king is not needed in the ideal state. However, if the people request
a king, such a monarch must follow the laws (Deut. 17:14–20 // Laws 709e–10b).
Other significant parallels are found among the prohibitions, such as of witchcraft
(Deut. 18:9–14 // Laws 933c–e) and of judges accepting gifts (Deut. 16:18–20 //
Laws 955c–d). The prescription of exile for involuntary homicide is similar
(Deut. 19:4–6, the cities of refuge // Laws 865a–c, exile from the country), as
is the legislation regarding proportionality of punishments (Exod. 21:22–5; Lev.
24:17–21; Deut. 19:21 // Laws 933e–34a) and the very old, ancient Near Eastern

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law prohibiting the removal of the sacred boundary stones (Deut. 19:14 // Laws
843a–b). (In regard to the order of the laws in both texts, it is important to note that
this law is found right after the laws against homosexuality in Plato.) Common
laws are also found in regard to false witnesses (Deut. 19:16–19 // Laws 937b–c)
and the honesty of merchants (Deut. 25:13–16 // Laws 916d). In both texts, the
discovery of a corpse, when the murderer is unknown, is followed by a ritual
purification of the city (Deut. 21:1–9 // Laws 874b). (In Plato, this law is found
right after the murderous animal and the nocturnal thief.) One also finds similar
laws regarding the protection of orphans (Exod. 22:22–4; Deut. 24:17 // Laws
927b–e), disowning a son (Deut. 21:18–21 // Laws 929a–d), not lending with
interest (Exod. 22:25; Deut. 23:19–20 // Laws 742b), and freedom in regard to
the gathering of fruit when passing through a field (Deut. 23:24–5; 24:19–22 //
Laws 844d–45d). (This law is placed right after the boundary stones in Plato.)
There are similar laws defining the principle that the sins of the fathers not fall on
their children (Deut. 24:16 // Laws 856c–e). Finally, a juridical fiction is created
to preserve a male inheritor of a plot of land: namely, that an extinct lineage be
preserved through the adoption of a son who is named after the deceased (Deut.
25:5–10, the levirate // Laws 877e–78b).
The resemblance between the Pentateuch’s presentation of Israel’s future laws
and Plato’s ideal state in the Laws is substantial and has been noticed, at least
since Josephus (Against Apion 2.222–4). In the fourth century ce, Eusebius of
Caesarea, in the twelfth book of the Preparation for the Gospel, discussed the
possibility that Plato had borrowed his laws from Moses, as Moses was then
understood to have lived a thousand years before Plato. It is quite significant that
Eusebius produced this comparison around the time that the Roman Emperor
Constantine converted to Christianity. Since then, modern scholars have only
rarely addressed this striking comparison. (For several exceptions, see Weinfeld
1993: 22–4; Kupitz 1997; Kaiser 2000. Hagedorn (2004: 38) states that there was
a common background to Greek and Hebrew law, and does not discuss questions
of possible borrowings. Sinks (1934) believes that Plato copied Moses, relay-
ing the argument of the Church Fathers. His comparisons seem a development
of those found in Eusebius’ Preparation for the Gospel. See also the work of
Gmirkin in this volume, as well as his monograph, Plato and the Creation of the
Hebrew Bible (forthcoming).) Rather, modern biblical scholars invented the doc-
umentary hypothesis, which posited that the legislative parts of the Pentateuch,
P (“Priestly source”) and D (“Deuteronomist”), were not part of the earliest
text of the Pentateuch, which consisted of narratives from J (“Yahwist”) and
E (“Elohist”) strata. This “historical-critical” hypothesis of the redaction of the
Pentateuch has grown into what is almost an academic dogma, which needs be
addressed in any scholarly discussion. However, it has been criticized by many
as being built on circular reasoning (see Rendtorff 1997). The biblical narrative
from Genesis to Kings consists of both stories and laws and, today, it is entirely
legitimate and hardly uncommon to doubt that there ever were independent texts
such as J, E, D and P (Brodie 2001: 495–501).

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The parallels with Plato’s Laws, listed above, do not support the alleged dis-
tinction between P and D material in the Pentateuch. There are, indeed, more
parallels with Deuteronomy 12–26. However, there are a number of significant
parallels with every legislative book of the Pentateuch. Through a reductio ad
absurdum, we might argue that if the documentary hypothesis, regarding biblical
texts, were true, that theory would have to account for the redaction of Plato’s
Laws. In other words, one would need to imagine that Plato’s text was composed
much as had been the Pentateuch according to the documentary hypothesis: that
is, from distinct “sources” in “strata”, and having been edited by several redac-
tors, who are to be separated from each other by centuries. It happens, however,
that classical scholars are well able to trace how Plato conceived his ideal state.
Primarily, Plato seems to have used the Athenian law code from the fourth century
bce (as seen in texts from Demosthenes) as well as Dorian customs, which are well
attested in other sources (such as Xenophon, who was also a disciple of Socrates;
see Morrow 1960). Classical scholars are unanimous on the fact that Plato wrote
the Laws himself. Yet, modern philosophers often disregard this “late” dialogue
on the argument that it contains poor philosophy, except for the tenth book, which
speaks about the existence of the soul. This rejection of a legislative text of Plato
by modern philosophers, interestingly, resonates with the “supersessionism” that
biblical scholarship has used to date biblical laws of D and P as “late” and rep-
resenting a priestly-governed Israel, remote from the allegedly more “authentic”
J and E sources. (On supersessionist issues implicitly at stake in biblical scholar-
ship, see Römer 2004; Lemche 2005.) Plato, who is revered as the forefather of
Western philosophy, wrote his plan for an ideal state, which looks exactly like
the blueprint one might use to create the story of biblical Israel. Plato wrote laws
without stories, yet he specifically suggested that one support this vision of an
ideal state in the form of narrative and myth, which he referred to as the “truest
tragedy” (Laws, 817a). According to Occam’s Razor, which Brodie has invoked
in comparing the Odyssey and Genesis, complex theories should give way to sim-
pler ones. It is, therefore, possible to maintain that, during the Hellenistic era, a
group of Hellenized Judaean scholars chose to emulate Plato’s plan by using his
Laws as a source for several secular laws. These authors also used Greek myths
and narratives, borrowed from various classical authors, and transcribed them into
Hebrew and a Near Eastern setting, creating the story we read in Genesis-Kings.

Plato’s Republic and Critias as sources for Genesis-Kings

It is likely that other Platonic dialogues have been used by the author(s) of Genesis-
Kings. As observed by Łukasz Niesiołowski-Spanò (2007), myths about crea-
tion and primitive humanity in Genesis 1–11 could derive from Platonic myths,
as found in such dialogues as Timaeus (the creation of the world), Phaedro and
Phaedo (discussing the soul or spirit). One might also consider Plato’s Statesman,
which tells of the first humans living in nature without working and discussing
with animals (Wajdenbaum 2011: 92–9). Plato’s famous Allegory of the Cave, in

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book VII of the Republic (514b–17b), shares a similar framework with the Exodus
narrative. In the cave allegory, a man is freed from a cave, where his comrades
and he had been held. The shadows they saw on a wall appeared to them as dei-
ties. Once freed from the cave, the man realizes that the shadows had been mere
projections of objects, passing in front of a source of light. Realizing this, he
understands that the light of the sun was the ultimate source of light. In this well-
known allegory, the shadows on the wall are a metaphor for the traditional Greek
gods and the light of the sun is, itself, a metaphor of the single god who created the
world, much as described in Plato’s Timaeus. The man freed from the cave, whom
Plato compares to a philosopher, is then compelled to go back into the cave to free
his comrades that he might bring them to a higher spiritual horizon. However, he
might also try to refuse this difficult task for fear that he would not be heard by
his former comrades. This allegory originally speaks of the fate of Plato’s master,
Socrates, who was condemned to death by the Athenians on the accusations of
denying the existence of the Greek gods. In the Republic and Timaeus, however,
Plato showed that Socrates never did deny their existence, but rather made them
the creatures of a single and eternal entity. The cave allegory might also represent
a canvas for the story of Moses. Moses is freed from the slavery of the Israelites
in Egypt (comparable to Plato’s cave), first by being raised at the court and, later,
by fleeing to Midian. Moses meets Yahweh (comparable to Plato’s idea of the
good, a metaphor of the single god) on Mount Horeb. Yahweh reveals his name
to him, and grants him the task of going back to Egypt to liberate the people of
Israel and bring them to the Promised Land. The plan of this Promised Land is, in
fact, very similar to the twelve-tribe law-governed state, conceived by Plato in the
Laws. Moses, like Plato’s character from the cave allegory, is tempted to refuse
this difficult mission, because he fears that the Israelites will not listen to him
(Exod. 4:1–13; see further how the Israelites wish they had stayed in Egypt, Exod.
14:11–12; and Moses fears that they will stone him, Exod. 17:2–4).
In Critias or Atlantis, Plato told the tale of an ideal state that came to its demise,
destroyed by the divine wrath of Zeus, because the successive generations of
kings had neglected the divine laws, which their ancestors had sworn to respect
forever. The ceremony for the oath sworn by the first kings of Atlantis is very
similar to the narrative of Israel receiving God’s laws in the wilderness. In both
stories, oxen or bulls are sacrificed, and their blood dashed on the participants
(compare Exod. 24:1–11 and Plato, Critias 119d–20c). The narrative pattern of
Plato’s Critias shows similarities to Judges, 1–2 Samuel and 1–2 Kings. In these
narratives, Israel and Judah are eventually destroyed by the divine wrath because
of the faults of their kings, starting from Saul’s disobedience (1 Sam. 15), David’s
assassination of Uriah (2 Sam. 11), and Solomon’s idolatrous worship of his
many concubines’ foreign gods (1 Kings 11). Atlantis’s riches and temple (Plato,
Critias 115b–17a) show similarities with Solomon’s in 1 Kings 4–10. The books
from Genesis to Joshua tell of the foundation of an ideal state, which is very simi-
lar to that of Plato’s in the Laws. However, this biblical state is condemned and
destroyed, because of the successive generations of royal neglect of the divinely

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given laws, which the ancestors had sworn to respect forever, much as the cause
of the destruction of Plato’s Atlantis.
In its course, Genesis-Kings finely crafts a continuous epic from several cen-
tral Platonic notions and narratives, beginning with the story of the creation of
the world and primitive humanity (Gen. 1–5). A succession of narratives follows.
The story of the great flood is followed by the construct of a patriarchal era, the
founding of the first cities (Plato, Laws 677a–82e // Gen. 6–11), the liberation
of prisoners (Exod. 1–15), the foundation of a twelve-tribe state (several laws of
the Pentateuch, the conquest narrative and the division of the land in Joshua). An
eventual downfall is caused by the faults of its successive kings (from Judges to
Kings). Although some of these themes might seem “general” or “universal” in
ancient literature, the considerable core of comparable laws in the two corpora
forces us to consider the possibility of literary dependence. Ultimately, Genesis-
Kings can be read as a story of a single figure, Israel, who, in Genesis, is a man
with twelve sons, Jacob. In the following books, Israel becomes a nation of twelve
tribes. This progressive dialectic conforms to Plato’s concept of the state as a
reflection of the soul on a grand scale (Rep. 368e–69a).

The Greek epics rewritten in Genesis-Kings

In addition to a Platonic framework, the author(s) of Genesis-Kings seem(s) to
have rewritten parts of the Homeric epics, the myths of Hesiod, the Histories of
Herodotus, and many Greek myths and stories, through the filter of monothe-
ism, and probably through Plato’s advice on decent poetry in books II and III of
the Republic. There are many examples to support this claim, which I will only
briefly summarize in this chapter. The nine books of the Primary History seem
deliberately to dismantle the main Greek epics and rewrite them into a different
order, yet leaving here and there traces of such rewriting; for example, by keep-
ing a similar order in the presentation of multiple episodes or laws. Each of these
books seems to have a predominant Greek source. The first part of Genesis (1–11,
the so-called Primeval History) displays a clear knowledge of Mesopotamian
myths. However, as argued by Gmirkin (2006: 89–139; see also Lemche, in this
volume), this knowledge is best accounted for in the Hellenistic era by the use
of Berossus’ Babyloniaca. These first chapters of Genesis also bear echoes of
Platonic philosophy and rewritten elements of Hesiod’s poems. For instance, the
story of Eve and the Serpent in Gen. 3 is comparable to the story of Pandora and
Prometheus in Hesiod’s Works and Days, 90–105. Evidence of Genesis’ knowl-
edge of Hesiod’s Theogony appears in the use of the name Japheth (Gen. 10:1–2)
as an ancestor of the peoples of Asia Minor, including Ionian Greeks (biblical
Yavan, Gen. 10:2–5). The biblical Japheth is a homophone to Hesiod’s Iapetos,
who is known to be the ancestor of the Greeks through his grandson Deucalion,
the survivor of the Flood in further Greek texts (Pindar Olympian 9.40–56; see
Wajdenbaum 2011: 75, 105, 108). The cycle of Abraham shows similarities to the
epic of the Argonauts. Abraham almost sacrificed his son Isaac to Yahweh, but

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an angel stopped him at the last moment. Instead of his son, Abraham sacrificed
a ram, which he found stuck in a thicket by its horns. Yahweh then renewed the
promise that Abraham’s descendants would inherit the land of Canaan (Gen. 22).
Quite similarly, Athamas, king of Boeotia, almost sacrificed his son Phrixus to
Zeus, but a winged golden ram took Phrixus on its back and brought him safe to
Colchis, and there Phrixus sacrificed it to Zeus and hung its Golden Fleece on an
oak tree (see Herodotus, 7.97; Apollonius of Rhodes Argonautica, 2.1140–95;
Apollodorus Library, 1.9.1; Hyginus Fables, 2). One generation later, Jason and
the Argonauts set sail to Colchis to bring the Golden Fleece back to Greece. On
the way back, while the Argonauts were stranded on the coast of Libya, Euphemus
received the promise by the god Triton that his descendants would inherit the
land of Cyrene. Generations later, Battus, a descendant of Euphemus, consulted
the oracle of Delphi about his stutter. The voice of the god Apollo ordered him
to take the descendants of Euphemus to the promised land of Cyrene. Although
Battus first protested that he did not feel up to this task and that he stuttered, he
eventually led his people to Cyrene and ruled over them for forty years (Pindar,
Pythian 4.5–10; Herodotus 4.150–55, 179; Apollonius of Rhodes, Argonautica,
4.1750–65; see Calame 2011). This story is quite strikingly similar to that of
Abraham receiving the promise of a land for his descendants, and Moses fulfilling
this promise by bringing the Israelites to the gates of Canaan. Like Battus, Moses,
too, at first protested, arguing that he could not speak well (Exod. 4:10) and led
his people for forty years in the wilderness (Deut. 1:3).
The second part of Genesis, on the other hand, seems rather modelled on
Homer’s Odyssey. The story of Abraham’s servant, looking for a bride for Isaac
and meeting Rebecca, displays, in almost each verse, parallels to the encounter of
Odysseus and the Phaeacian princess, Nausicaa, and her family in books 6–13 of
the Odyssey, as demonstrated by Y. S. Kupitz (2014; see also Brodie 2001: 458,
464–5; Louden 2011: 136–48). The story of Joseph in Genesis 37–50 shows many
detailed similarities with Odysseus’ return to Ithaca in books 14–24 of the Odyssey
(Brodie 2001: 472–81; Louden 2011: 63–97; Wajdenbaum 2011: 136–42). Both
characters are believed long dead by their relatives, and both come to them in
disguise: Odysseus appears in his own palace dressed as an old beggar, whereas
Joseph confronts his brothers dressed as an Egyptian minister. Odysseus relates a
story, in which he claims to have spent seven years in Egypt as a friend of the king
(Od. 14.277–87), a visit which is similar to Joseph’s two sets of seven years and
his role as Pharaoh’s minister in Gen. 41 (cf. also, Jacob in Gen. 29–31; Brodie
2001: 472; Wajdenbaum 2011: 136). Odysseus tells how he had almost been sold
as a slave by merchants who tore off his tunic (Od. 14.340–45), a story which is
hardly distant from the story of Joseph, who was sold as a slave to merchants after
his brothers had torn his tunic off (Gen. 37:23–8). Both characters put their rela-
tives to the test, and both are prone to hiding to shed a tear. Both interpret a dream,
involving animals being killed, as an omen of future events (Od. 19.535–65 and
Gen. 41.1–7ff.). At the close of both stories, both figures reveal their identities
to their loved ones, evoking scenes of embracing and weeping until, finally, both

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Joseph and Odysseus meet with their aged fathers. The recent studies by Kupitz,
Louden, and me tend to converge in confirming Brodie’s hypothesis that Homer’s
Odyssey is the predominant source of Genesis, and that chapters 11–50 tend to
follow the same order as the Odyssey; as Brodie writes (2001: 491):

There is also some similarity of order. The opening and closing of the
Odyssey (Bks. 1 and 24) are used respectively for the opening and clos-
ing of Genesis 11–50 (chaps. 11–13 and 50) and there is a general ten-
dency, both within Genesis 11–50 as a whole, and within each block or
chapter, to follow the order of the original.

The Exodus narrative, as shown above, combines elements from Plato’s cave alle-
gory (the liberation of prisoners by a man who had received a revelation) and the
story of Battus of Cyrene. Many of the laws of the so-called “Covenant Code” (Exod.
20–23) are also in Plato’s Laws. Moreover, the ritual for the oath, sworn by the
Israelites, is similar to that of the kings of Plato’s Atlantis. The long chapters describ-
ing the building of the Tabernacle and the Arch (Exod. 25–31 and 35–40) seem to
match Plato’s theory of imitation in book X of the Republic (595a–97e). Bezazel,
the craftsman, for example, imitates a model of furniture which had been conceived
by God. (Philo of Alexandria, who read the Pentateuch according to Plato’s philoso-
phy, interpreted these chapters in such manner, in De Vita Moses, 2.14–15. See also
the Epistle to the Hebrews 8:2, 9:1, 9:24–5.) The dramatic casting of the Golden
Calf (Exod. 32), while Moses was with Yahweh on the mountain, finds a parallel
in the story of Odysseus’ men, who devour the sacred cattle of Helios (Odyssey
12.260–425), while Odysseus was away praying (Louden 2011: 222–43). In Exodus
32:19, Moses broke the first tablets of the law, written by the finger of God, out of
anger at seeing the Israelites worshiping the Golden Calf. The tablets of the law,
therefore, had to be rewritten (Exod. 34:1). Perhaps, through a “meta-fictional” pro-
cess, the biblical author(s) inform(s) us of their own process of writing. However, it
was Plato’s Laws that were rewritten. Leviticus and Deuteronomy contain few narra-
tives and mostly laws, whereas Exodus and Numbers blend narratives and laws. As
seen above, many of these laws are paralleled in Plato’s Laws. Nevertheless, most
of the religious laws of the Pentateuch find no equivalent in Plato, who writes that
in his future state, religious laws and sacrificial institutions, whether coming from
Delphi, any other oracle or any other tradition, should not be changed (Plato, Laws
738c). This leaves room for the biblical authors to have included Judaean/Samaritan
religious customs into the writing of the Pentateuch, along with the prohibition of
“Canaanite” cultic practices. The conquest of the land and its division into twelve
tribes in the Book of Joshua matches Plato’s plan for the ideal state. However, the
conquest narrative itself seems modelled on the fall of Troy. For instance, the story
of Rahab, spared by Joshua’s army for having protected two spies by hanging an
object from her window, seems borrowed from the similar story of Antenor (com-
pare Joshua 2:1–24 and 6:22–3 with Pausanias’ Description of Greece, 10.27.2; see
West 1997: 488–9; Louden 2011: 112; Wajdenbaum 2011: 209).

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The Book of Judges contains many stories, which are paralleled in Herodotus’
Histories. For instance, Gideon’s three hundred elite warriors, who defeated
the coalition of the Eastern armies (Judges 6–7), remind us of the Spartan king
Leonidas and his three hundred soldiers who held firm against Xerxes’ immense
army, until they were eventually defeated (Herodotus 7.205–20). Samson, as
noted by many scholars, is reminiscent of Heracles. Several episodes of Heracles’
ancestry and youth are also paralleled in the story of Jacob (Gen. 25–8), whereas
the rest of Heracles’ adult life echoes the life of Samson; as if there had been
a conscious and deliberate dismantling of Heracles’ story between Genesis and
Judges (Wajdenbaum 2011: 223–9). Philippe Guillaume (2014) has shown how
the period of the Judges seems to match Hesiod’s Age of Heroes in Works and
Days. The story closing the Book of Judges, the civil war against the tribe of
Benjamin, is reminiscent of the Roman foundation myth of the abduction of the
Sabine women, as has been noticed by many scholars (Gudme 2014).
The Book of Samuel bears many accurate echoes of Homer’s Iliad, most spe-
cifically in battle scenes. David’s famous fight against Goliath uses several typical
motifs from the Iliad. David’s cousin, Asahel who has swift feet (2 Sam. 2:18),
seems modelled on Homer’s “swift-footed Achilles” (Wajdenbaum 2011: 252–3).
The dramatic story of David’s assassination of his loyal soldier, Uriah (2 Sam. 11),
and the subsequent revolt of his own son, Absalom (2 Sam. 13–18), find accurate
parallels in the Iliad. For example, the motif of the sealed letter, containing orders
to kill its bearer, is found in Il. 6.150–60 (the story of Bellerophon), and the epi-
sode of the son raping a father’s concubine(s), in an act of rebellion, is found in
Il. 9.440–80 in the story of Phoenix.
Finally, the Book of Kings presents its narrative as relying on accounts of
events of the past and are referred to by its author as dependent on the Annals of
Solomon and the Annals of the Kings of Israel and Judah (on the use of such cited
references in the Hebrew Bible and Apocrypha, see Stott, 2008). Yet, the author(s)
of Kings seem(s) to have also borrowed elements of such data from Herodotus’
Histories (Wesselius 2002: 94–6; Wajdenbaum 2011: 283–8). Solomon’s osten-
tatious wealth, in clear conflict with Deuteronomy 17 (Thompson, 1999: 65),
seems modelled on the wealth of Croesus of Lydia (Wajdenbaum 2011: 270–74).
The kingdoms of Israel and Judah were ultimately destroyed, according to the
author(s) of Kings, because the Israelites and Judaeans worshiped Canaanite gods,
since most of their kings had allowed these cults. This framework, as already
mentioned above, is also found in Plato’s myth of Atlantis, where the first kings
had sworn to respect the divine laws forever, engaging their offspring. However,
as generations passed, they neglected these laws until Zeus decided to destroy
Atlantis. To sum up this short overview, it seems that Plato’s political writings
were used as a blueprint for the structure of the continuous narrative of Genesis-
Kings, whereas Greek myths, especially the cycles of the Argonauts, Heracles,
and the Trojan War, as well as Herodotus’ Histories, were used as direct sources
for stories. These Greek myths and stories seem to have been rewritten in the
Bible in accordance with Plato’s advice on poetry. We may observe that the first

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part of Genesis-Kings (the Pentateuch) seems to use the Odyssey as its predomi-
nant source for narratives of travels away from home and back (the Greek nostos),
whereas the second part (from Joshua to Kings) seems to use the Iliad as its pre-
dominant source in its narratives centring on conquest and warfare. This structure,
interestingly, corresponds to Virgil’s use of the Odyssey in books I–VI of the
Aeneid and of the Iliad in books VII–XII. (On Virgil’s use of Homer, see Knauer
1964. On the analogy between Virgil’s use of Homer and the Primary History’s
use of Herodotus, see Wesselius, 2002: 66. On the analogy between the Greek
nostos, Virgil and the biblical narrative, see Lemche 1998a: 119.)

Conclusions: towards a change of paradigm

The historical-critical paradigm, which has been built on the hypothesis that
the earliest strata of the Pentateuch were written long before the rise of classi-
cal Greek literature, excluded, de facto, that the latter could have influenced the
former. Consequently, parallels between Greek and biblical literature have long
been neglected or ignored by scholars. At best, they were understood to have
had a common, ancient Near Eastern background. Since the dating of the redac-
tion of the Hebrew Bible has now convincingly been set in the Hellenistic era
by several scholars, we can now contemplate the possibility that Greek classical
texts may have been used as direct sources of inspiration by the biblical authors.
This, most probably, is to be placed in the context of the Hellenization of Judaea
and in the foundation of Alexandria’s Great Library (see Nodet 2014; Gmirkin
2014). Although alleged common background is often claimed as a more reason-
able explanation than direct borrowing for the occurrence of biblical and Greek
parallels, our examination of the number and details of such parallels, as well as
the order in which they appear in respective texts, makes it increasingly plausi-
ble that the authors of Genesis-Kings did borrow directly from Greek sources.
It is also likely that this applies to other books of the Hebrew Bible. In my opin-
ion, the same reasoning that has brought a great number of scholars to recognize
Song of Songs as a Hellenistic-era book, on the basis of parallels with Alexandrian
poetry (see the studies by Burton (2005), Loprieno (2005), and Hunter (2005),
all in Hagedorn (ed.), 2005), can also be applied to Genesis-Kings, on the basis
of numerous parallels with Greek classical texts. The present chapter offers only
a few selected examples. Most of the Greek classical texts are dated rather accu-
rately (except for the most ancient ones, such as Homer and Hesiod), whereas the
dating of the main biblical texts is still a matter of debate between the holders of
pre-exilic or exilic era dates, and the holders of Persian and Hellenistic era dates.
In this respect, Greek texts often present us with a firm point of comparison for
biblical, undated texts. Moreover, such comparison is less circular than the model
of the documentary hypothesis (in all its variants and refinements, such as Noth’s
Deuteronomistic History). Indeed, the Greek sources are verifiable, whereas the
JEDP sources have never been observed outside of the works of the scholars who
discuss such alleged sources. As Brodie writes (2001: 421): “Consequently the

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invoking of unknown documents – such as JEDP for the Pentateuch – is, at best, a
last resort, to be undertaken only if there is no connection with known documents.”
Finally, the model of a Bible inspired by Greek sources bears the epistemo-
logical condition of being falsifiable, in contrast to the documentary hypothesis,
which posits the existence of texts that are, in essence, lost to us (on the criterion
of falsifiability borrowed from Karl Popper, see Lemche 2013d: 301). If manu-
scripts of the Hebrew Bible, preceding the Hellenistic era, were found, this would
falsify the present theory that Plato’s writings were among the sources of Genesis-
Kings. However, the Aramaic papyri of Elephantine indicate that, in the fifth and
fourth centuries bce, Judaeans in Elephantine did not know the Bible, its stories,
characters, or laws (except for the Feast of Unleavened Bread). Nevertheless,
they were in contact with Jerusalem’s authorities, and this could be interpreted
as evidence that the Bible had not yet been written at that time (Gmirkin 2006:
28–33; Wajdenbaum 2011: 39–40). The recent theories that count Homer and
Herodotus among possible direct sources for Genesis-Kings place its redaction
in the Persian era, as per Brodie and Wesselius. However, if we are to consider
Plato as an essential and unifying source for these books, this suggests a date in
the early Hellenistic era as a terminus a quo. This chronology, in turn, allows us to
read the prophecies of Noah about “Japheth dwelling in the tents of Shem” (Gen.
9:27) and Bileam, about “fleets from Kittim subjugating Eber and Assour” (Num.
24:24), as vaticinia ex eventu of the invasion of the Near East by Alexander and
his Macedonian troops (see Lemche 1998a: 159–60; 2013b: 260; Wajdenbaum
2011: 77, 187; Thompson and Wajdenbaum 2014b: 1).

Bibliography
Astour, M. 1965. Hellenosemitica. An Ethnic and Cultural Study in West Semitic Impact on
Mycenaean Greece. Leiden: E. J. Brill.
Brisson, L. 1994. Platon, les mots et les mythes, comment et pourquoi Platon nomma le
mythe. Paris: La Découverte.
Brodie, T. L. 2001. Genesis as Dialogue, A Literary, Historical and Theological
Commentary. New York: Oxford University Press.
Brown, J. P. 1995. Israel and Hellas. Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die Alttestamentliche
Wissenshaft 231. Berlin and New York: W. de Gruyter.
Burton, J. B. 2005. “Themes of Female Desire and Self-Assertion in the Song of Songs and
Hellenistic Poetry”. See Hagedorn (2005): 180–205.
Calame, C. 2011 [1996]. Mythe et histoire dans l’antiquité grecque – La fondation symbol-
ique d’une colonie. Paris: Les Belles Lettres.
Gmirkin, R. E. 2006. Berossus and Genesis, Manetho and Exodus: Hellenistic Histories
and the Date of the Pentateuch. Library of Hebrew Bible/Old Testament Studies, 433;
Copenhagen. International Series, 15. New York and London: T&T Clark
______2014. “Greek Evidence for the Hebrew Bible”. See Thompson and Wajdenbaum
(2014a): 56–88.
———. Forthcoming. Plato and the Creation of the Hebrew Bible. Copenhagen.
International Seminar. London: Routledge.

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Gordon, C. H. 1962. Before the Bible: The Common Background of Greek and Hebrew
Civilisations. London: Collins.
Gudme, A.-K. de Hemmer 2014. “Sex, Violence and State Formation in Judges 19–21”.
See Thompson and Wajdenbaum (2014a): 165–74.
Guillaume, P. 2014. “Hesiod’s Heroic Age and the Biblical Period of the Judges”. See
Thompson and Wajdenbaum (2014a): 146–64.
Hagedorn, A. C. 2004. Between Moses and Plato – Individual and Society in Deuteronomy
and Ancient Greek Law. Forschungen. zur Religion und Literatur des alten und neuen
Testaments 204, Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht.
———. (ed.). 2005. Perspectives on the Song of Songs. Berlin and New York: W. de Gruyter.
Hunter. R. 2005. “‘Sweet talk’ – Song of Songs and the Tradition of Greek Poetry”. See
Hagedorn (2005): 228–44.
Kaiser, O. 2000. “Das Deuteronomium und Platons Nomoi. Einladung zu einem Vergleich”.
In Liebe und Gebot. Studien zum Deuteronomium. H. Spieckermann (Hg.) and R. G.
Kratz (eds.). Forschungen. zur Religion und Literatur des alten und neuen Testaments,
p. 69. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht: 60–79.
Knauer, G. N. 1964. “Vergil’s Aeneid and Homer”. Greek and Byzantine Studies 5: 61–84.
Kupitz, Y. S. 1997. “La Bible est-elle un plagiat?”. Science et Avenir, hors-série no. 86: 85–8.
———. 2014. “Stranger and City Girl – An Isomorphism between Genesis 24 and Homer’s
Odyssey 6–13”. See Thompson and Wajdenbaum (2014a): 117–45.
Lemche, N. P. 1998a. The Israelites in History and Tradition. A Critical Survey. Louisville,
KY: Westminster/John Knox Press.
———. 1998b [1993]. “The Old Testament – a Hellenistic Book?”. In Did Moses Speak
Attic? – Jewish Historiography and Scripture in the Hellenistic Period. L. L. Grabbe,
(ed.). Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Supplement Series, 317. Sheffield:
Sheffield Academic Press: 287–318.
———. 2005. “Conservative Scholarship on the Move”. Scandinavian Journal of the Old
Testament 19:2: 203–52.
———. 2013a. Biblical Studies and the Failure of History. Changing Perspectives 3.
Copenhagen. International Seminar. Sheffield: Equinox.
———. 2013b [1999]. “History Writing in the Ancient Near East and Greece”. See
Lemche (2013a): 253–63.
———. 2013c [2000]. “Good and Bad in History: The Greek Connection”. See Lemche
(2013a): 264-75.
———. [2001] 2013d. “How Does One Date an Expression of Mental History? The Old
Testament and Hellenism.” See Lemche (2013a): 289–306.
Loprieno, A. 2005. “Searching For a Common Background: Egyptian Poetry and the
Biblical Song of Songs”. See Hagedorn (2005): 105–35.
Louden, B. 2011. Homer’s Odyssey and the Near East. Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press.
Morrow, G. R. 1960. Plato’s Cretan City. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press.
Mouze, L. 2005. Le Législateur et le poète, une interprétation des Lois de Platon. Lille:
P.U. du Septentrion.
Niesiołowski-Spanò, Ł. 2007. “Primeval History in the Persian Period?”. Scandinavian
Journal of the Old Testament 21: 106–26.
Nodet, É. 2014. “Editing the Bible. Alexandria or Babylon?”. See Thompson and
Wajdenbaum (2014a): 36–55.

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Rendtorff, R. 1997. “The ‘Yahwist’ as a Theologian? The Dilemma of Pentateuchal

Criticism”. Journal for the Study of the Old Testament 3: 2–9.
Römer, T. 2004. “La formation du Pentateuque selon l’exégèse historico-critique”.
In Introduction à l’Ancien Testament. T. Römer, J.-D. Macchi and C. Nihan (eds.).
Geneva: Labor et Fides: 67–84.
Sinks, P. W. 1934. “The Laws of Plato compared with the Laws of Moses”. Bibliotheca
Sacra 91:361: 65–77 and 91:362 : 204–210.
Stott, K. M. 2008. Why Did They Write This Way? Reflections on References to Written
Documents in the Hebrew Bible and Ancient Literature. Library of Hebrew Bible/Old
Testament Studies 492. London: T&T Clark.
Thompson, T. L. 1992. The Early History of the Israelite People from the Written and
Archaeological Sources. Leiden: Brill.
———. 1999. The Mythic Past: Biblical Archaeology and the Myth of Israel. New York:
Basic Books = The Bible in History: How Writers Create a Past. London: Jonathan
Cape.
Thompson, T. L. and P. Wajdenbaum (eds.). 2014a. The Bible and Hellenism – Greek
Influence on Jewish and Early Christian Literature. Copenhagen International Seminar.
London: Routledge.
———. 2014b. “Introduction: Making Room for Japheth”. See Thompson and Wajdenbaum
(2014a): 1–15.
Van Seters, J. 1983. In Search of History: Historiography in the Ancient World and the
Origins of Biblical History. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press.
Wajdenbaum, P. 2010. “Is the Bible a Platonic Book?”. Scandinavian Journal of the Old
Testament 24: 129–42.
———. 2011. Argonauts of the Desert – Structural Analysis of the Hebrew Bible.
Copenhagen International Seminar. Sheffield and Oakville, CT: Equinox
———. 2013. “In Search for Platonic Israel”. In The Politics of Israel’s Past: The Bible,
Archeology, Biblical Studies, and Nation Building. E. Pfoh, and K. Withelam (eds.).
Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press: 28–48.
Weinfeld, M. 1993. The Promise of the Land. The Inheritance of the Land of Canaan by the
Israelites. Berkeley, Los Angeles and Oxford: University of California Press.
Wesselius, J.-W. 2002. The Origin of the History of Israel - Herodotus’ Histories as
Blueprint for the First Books of the Bible. Journal for the Study of the Old Testament
Supplement Series 345. London and New York: Sheffield Academic Press.
West, M. L. 1997. The East Face of Helicon – West Asiatic Elements in Greek Poetry and
Myth. Oxford and New York: Clarendon Press.

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 6
GREEK GENRES AND THE
HEBREW BIB LE

Russell Gmirkin

The Hebrew Bible has traditionally been considered a collection of texts with
deep Ancient Near Eastern cultural roots, composed mostly during the monarchic
period that preceded Jerusalem’s fall and the Babylonian and Persian periods that
followed that event. Yet external witnesses to biblical texts first appear in the
Hellenistic Era with the translation of the Pentateuch into Greek in ca. 270 bce.
An exclusively Ancient Near Eastern background of the Hebrew Bible as a whole
thus appears to be little more than an assumption. In the last two decades, biblical
scholarship has increasingly come to accept the possibility that the major texts of
the Hebrew Bible, including both the Pentateuch and the Primary History, might
in fact be the product of the Hellenistic Era (Lemche 1993). These reflect Greek
cultural influences that entered the Eastern world in the wake of Alexander the
Great’s conquests of 333–23 bce. They perhaps even reflect Greek literary influ-
ences that also became accessible in the East, especially after the establishment
of the Great Library of Alexandria around 290 bce, a library visited by Jewish
scholars ca. 270 bce at the creation of the Septuagint translation, according to the
tradition found in The Letter of Aristeas (Gmirkin 2006: 240–56).
An important test for the Hellenistic Era composition of the Hebrew Bible
is an analysis of the literary genres that appear in the biblical corpus to see if
they reflect Ancient Near Eastern or Greek literary categories. Many biblical texts
do in fact appear to follow distinctively Greek literary conventions. This article
surveys Greek and Hellenistic literary genres that are easily detected in biblical
writings and are without Ancient Near Eastern parallels. These include genres of
narrative writing such as foundation stories, apologetic history and tragic history;
genres of legal writing, including constitutional law, ethical commandments and
hortatory legal forms; prophecies against foreign nations; tragedy, erotic poetry
and philosophy, and finally, the overarching genre of the national literature.

Genesis traditions (“On Nature”)

Genesis 1 opens the biblical narrative with an account of the origins of the uni-
verse, of the earth and heavenly bodies, of plant life and animals. Genesis 2–6
continues with accounts of the origin of man, of woman, of knowledge, suffering

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and toil, of agriculture, of cities, of metallurgy. Genesis 10 describes the origin

of the nations. While an indebtedness to Mesopotamian traditions is evident – in
particular to the Babyloniaca of Berossus (Gmirkin 2006: 89–139) – the primaeval
history also draws on Greek traditions, especially the literary genre Peri Phusis,
“On Nature”, authored by natural philosophers. Texts with this title began in the
fifth century bce, starting with Anaximander, the student of Thales. Such texts
speculated on the genesis and evolution of the universe, of life, of humans, of the
nations, and of political and social institutions (Naddaf 2005).

Foundation stories
A popular genre of Greek literature was the ktisis or foundation story, which might
take either poetic or prose form, and might be set in either legendary or historical
times. Several foundation stories had a prequel, typically set in the heroic age, in
which a famous ancestor was promised the land as a divine gift for his descend-
ants. This phase has an obvious parallel to the land promises made to Abraham,
Isaac and Jacob in the patriarchal narratives of Genesis (Weinfeld 1993: 1–21).
The main storyline of a foundation story dealt with the organization of a colo-
nizing expedition, its travels to a new land, its peaceful or violent acquisition
of territory, the establishment of a constitution and laws, cities, temples and the
allotment of individual land parcels for the colonists. The reasons for setting out
for a new land were varied, and included negative circumstances at home such as
overpopulation, famine, plague, natural disaster, civil disturbances that resulted
in the expulsion of one faction, defeat at war, or escape from impending conquest
and enslavement. After a decision to send out an expedition was made, the selec-
tion of a leader or oikist was paramount and typically involved the consultation of
the god at an oracle site such as Delphi. The divine selection of an oikist often took
the designated leader by surprise, as it did Moses in the episode of the burning
bush when Yahweh chose Moses as the Israelites’ deliverer. The oikist acted as
expedition commander, military commander, religious authority and lawgiver for
the new city-state. The expedition set out as an armed host, under the leadership of
the oikist. The oracle sometimes provided landmarks and directions for travel to the
promised land. The journey often took years, sometimes even generations, and
might suffer setbacks and defeats. Some colonizing expeditions even sought to
return to their original land, like the rebellious children of Israel in the wilderness.
The expedition involved both the migration of the colonists and the transfer of the
deity to a new land, with sacred fire transported from the home temple to its new
sanctuary in the promised land. Occupation of the land might be either peaceful
or violent. Some expeditions sent out spies in advance of the armies, and initial
attempts to conquer territory were sometimes repelled. The oikist, after acquiring
territory for the colonists, established its constitution and laws, laid out land for
its chief cities and temples and allotted equal portions of land for the colonists.
These activities all correspond to the actions of Moses as lawgiver and founder of
the Israelite nation, together with his successor, Joshua.1

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It can hardly be doubted that the ancestral land promises of Genesis and the
stories of the exodus, sojourn, law-giving and conquest conform to the literary
patterns of Greek foundation stories. Indeed, the Aegyptiaca, written by the Greek
author Hecataeus of Abdera around 315 bce, contained a fictionalized founda-
tion story of the Jewish nation as an Egyptian colony that follows the same broad
outline of events. Although this foundation story was wholly independent of the
biblical account,2 it contained many features in common with the biblical foun-
dation story, including the establishment of the constitution, laws and religious
institutions by Moses, his division of the people into twelve civic tribes and the
assignment of inalienable land allotments to the colonists.3 The recognition of
the essential unity of the patriarchs, the exodus, the Sinai theophany, sojourn and
conquest accounts as individual episodes within a Greek foundation story has par-
ticular relevance to the theme of this book series: “Changing Perspectives in Old
Testament Scholarship”. The literary unity of the foundation story in Genesis–
Joshua is fundamentally incompatible with the old redaction critical model in
which it was posited that these story units were originally independent traditions
that were only unified at the end of a centuries-long process of revision and redac-
tion (Rendtorff 1977, 1990).

Apologetic historiography
Greek historiography4 tended to fall into one of three categories, each supported
by a different type of evidence:

1 History, that is, that evidence dealing with historical times, involving his-
torical personalities and events of definite date, supported by eyewitness
accounts and official records supplemented by literary sources;
2 Legend, usually set in the heroic age leading up to and including the Trojan
War, pre-dating inscriptions and written records, but supported by widely
credited literary or oral traditions, and often linked to historical times by pur-
ported genealogical connections that also provided a means of approximate
calculation of era (Burns 1930: 49–50; cf. Plato, Timaeus 22a–b, 23b), and
3 Myth, in the realm of pure story, whose subject matter often dealt with inter-
actions of gods and men in the world preceding the flood of Deucalion.

The Greeks credited their legends, and many Greek historians freely combined
legendary and historical sources in their efforts to reconstruct the past. The Greeks
commented on their inability to write a history for periods prior to the floods in the
time of Ogygus and Deucalion, since these catastrophes wiped out both the politi-
cal states that existed in earlier periods and their written records (Plato, Timaeus
20e, 22b–23c; Critias 109d–110a; Laws 2.657a; 3.676a–677b). Greek sources,
however, also acknowledged that Egyptian records extended back to much
earlier times (Herodotus, Histories 2.142; Plato, Timaeus 21e–22a, 22e–23a,
27b; Aristotle, Politics 7.1329b). In the Hellenistic Era, instances of the emerging

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genre of apologetic historiography5, such as Manetho’s Aegyptiaca and Berossus’s

Babyloniaca, exploited the great age of the earliest written records as a basis for
nationalistic histories that touted the antiquity of the Egyptian and Babylonian
civilizations over that of the Greeks. The Babyloniaca, in particular, advertised
cuneiform records that claimed to record kings from before the Flood, which
allowed quasi-historical treatment of primordial times in ancient Mesopotamia
(Gmirkin 2006: 107–13). The Primary History, found in the books of Genesis to
Kings, was directly modelled on the Babyloniaca. It also combines myth, leg-
end and history, and, like the Babyloniaca, claimed to possess historical data
that allowed an exact chronology that extended back to earliest primordial times,
although it is evident that the biblical authors, in actuality, only possessed limited
local historical sources from the monarchic period.

Tragic history
In the fourth century bce, a new form of history writing arose among the students
of Isocrates, an Athenian sophist whose school of rhetoric emphasized the noble
aims of public speaking as a device for instilling or encouraging virtue in the
citizen body. The tragic style of historiography effectively subordinated history
writing to the artistic aims of Greek tragedy by providing dramatized accounts of
historical events to illustrate moral themes.6 Tragic history often aimed at either
inspiring feelings of patriotism and pride at the bravery of the defenders of Greek
liberties, or evoking emotions of horror and pity at the downfall of cities or nations.
In its positive aspects, this tragic style of historiography was closely related to the
genre of panegyric, a form of patriotic speech given at a public event in which
noble individuals and events of an idealized past were recounted. The moralizing
commentary on events effectively served the function of a Greek chorus, express-
ing horror from the sidelines. Biblical historiography, with its free invention of
plausible events and speeches in ancient settings, conformed closely to the con-
ventions of Greek history writing. Historical episodes written in Deuteronomistic
style demonstrate special affinities with tragic Greek historiography, such as in
the depiction of the downfall of Samaria and Jerusalem as cautionary examples
of the consequences of impiety,7 in their conscious attempts to evoke emotions of
horror and pity at these events,8 and in the explicit moral commentary that accom-
panied these accounts.9

Law collections
The Pentateuchal law collections have traditionally been viewed as having exclu-
sively possessed Ancient Near Eastern antecedents, such as the Hammurabi Law
Code and other Old Babylonian as well as Middle Assyrian law collections. It
is not my purpose here to discuss the abundant use of Athenian laws or the text
of Plato’s Laws of ca. 350 bce by the biblical legislators (Wajdenbaum 2011:
147–50, 158–86; Gmirkin, forthcoming: Chapter 3). Nor will I discuss the similar

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rites associated with the adoption of laws by citizenry in the Greek world and
the biblical text (Gmirkin, forthcoming: Chapter 4). Instead, I will confine my
remarks to genres of legal writings. Broadly speaking, Ancient Near Eastern law
collections were confined to listing various categories of civil crimes and their
penalties, sometimes accompanied by simple criteria for establishing guilt or
comments regarding the need to refer the case to the king for serious cases. Such
law collections never addressed religious matters. Discussions of cultic matters
were exclusively found in esoteric religious texts intended for use by technical
experts and temple personnel, and which sometimes featured curses against those
who revealed their contents to outsiders. By contrast, it was usual among the
Greeks to combine sacred laws relating to the national cults and civil law, and to
publish both in inscriptional form for viewing by the citizenry (Lupu 2005; Parker
2004). This corresponds to the public character of the various Pentateuchal law
collections, all of which combined sacred with civil laws.

Constitutions
Constitutional writings dealt with the form of government, defining the vari-
ous branches and offices of government, the manner in which magistrates were
selected for office, and their duties and legal limitations. The legal genre of con-
stitution arose among the Greeks as a result of the common participation of Greek
citizenry in administering their own government, which necessitated a detailed
knowledge of the procedures relating to public offices.
Constitutional provisions appeared in inscriptions and in quotations preserved
by Athenian orators, in theoretical writings about politics by Plato, Xenophon,
Aristotle and others, and in the collection of 153 constitutions assembled by
Aristotle and his students, of which we still possess the Athenian Constitution.
The Pentateuch contains substantial constitutional content, most explicitly in the
constitutional sub-document Deut. 16:18–18:22, which detailed the selection
and responsibilities of the magistrates who would govern Israel in the Promised
Land.10 The legal genre of constitution was entirely unknown in the Ancient Near
East (Gmirkin, forthcoming: Chapter 2).

Ethical commandments
Pentateuchal laws with ethical content appear to form a distinct genre, typified
by the Decalogue, which contained ten divine commandments that can be inter-
preted as laws, but which contained no legal penalties for disobedience. Other
such ethical injunctions in the same second-person format also appear elsewhere
in the Pentateuch, and include such famous commands as “Love God” (Deut.
6:5) and “Love your neighbour” (Lev. 19:18). This form of commandment also
widely appeared in the Book of Proverbs and in wisdom literature throughout
the Ancient Near Eastern and Greek worlds, where such ethical commands were
typically from a father addressed to his son. In the Greek world, this category

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of brief ethical instruction – the maxim – was often used in school settings to
inculcate citizen virtues in children. A venerated collection of such sayings, “The
Commandments of the Seven Wise Men”, was inscribed on a wall of the temple
at Delphi, and included such sayings as “Honour the gods”, “Honour your father
and your mother”, “Seek wisdom” and “Help your friends”. Their attribution to
the wise legislators of the past gave these commandments a quasi-legal authority,
and their publication on the walls of the temple at Delphi gave them an aura of
divine authority, like the Ten Commandments.11

Hortatory legal content

Biblical laws are commonly accompanied by persuasive content: lengthy horta-
tory introductions intended to put the listener in a receptive frame of mind, shorter
exhortations attached to smaller groups of laws, and motive clauses, directly
attached to individual legal provisions, which either explained the purpose of a
law or exhorted the citizen to obey it. Such features are found in all the biblical law
collections, and are especially prominent in Deuteronomy, but are entirely absent
from Ancient Near Eastern law collections.12 These rhetorical features appear
instead to have drawn from Plato’s Laws, which advocated the innovative use of
persuasive introductions (prooimia) and exhortations (paramuthia) attached to
the laws and gave detailed instructions for legislators on how to accomplish this.13
The related notion of law as education or teaching – that is, as Torah – was another
legislative innovation found in Plato’s Laws.

Deuteronomy
The Book of Deuteronomy is a unique case. Close structural parallels between
Deuteronomy and Plato’s Laws were first noted in Kaiser 2000 (cf. Hagedorn
2004: 36–7) and adduced as evidence of cultural contacts between Jews and
Greeks. A case can be made that Deuteronomy was composed following explicit
directions found in Plato’s Laws, which pictured the legislator assembling the col-
onists and addressing them in a speech with a lengthy introduction. This invoked
the deity’s blessing on the nation about to be formed, contingent on the citizenry’s
obedience to the laws, followed by an oral presentation of the entire law collec-
tion, suitably interspersed with persuasive introductions and exhortations (Plato,
Laws 4.712b, 715e–720a). The correspondence to the actual text of Deuteronomy
appears to show literary dependence on Plato’s Laws (Gmirkin, forthcoming:
Chapter 4).

Oracles Against the Nations

All of the Major Prophets and several of the Minor Prophets include collec-
tions of prophecies of the genre known as Oracles Against the Nations (OAN).
OAN include Isa. 13:23; Jer. 46–51; Ezek. 25–31; Amos 1:1–2:3; Zeph. 2.1:15;

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Obadiah; Nahum; Hab. 1–2; Zech. 9:1–8. Collections of OAN typically sur-
veyed several of Judah’s nearby neighbours or distant foreign powers, predict-
ing dire catastrophes against each one in turn. This distinctive genre is without
parallel in the Ancient Near East, but closely resembles Greek oracle collec-
tions, mostly attributed to Bakis or one of the Sibyls, which contained predic-
tions of disaster against various foreign nations.14 The biblical OAN appear to
have been written in imitation of the Sibylline Oracles, which are known to
have penetrated the east with Alexander’s invasion of 333–23 bce (Parke 1983:
125–35). Indeed, Egyptian Jews produced their own collection of pseudony-
mous Sibylline Oracles in the second century bce, showing their familiarity with
the genre.15

Plays
Job is one of only two biblical books in the form of staged dialog (the other being
the antiphonal poems between lovers in Song of Songs). This has led some to
propose that the author of Job was acquainted with Plato’s dialogues. Indeed, one
of the central tenets of Plato’s theology was that the righteous were happy and the
wicked miserable, notwithstanding the apparent contrary evidence of empirical
experience (Plato, Republic 3.392a–c; Laws 2.661c, 662b, 663d–e; 3.660e). But it
is more commonly proposed that Job was written in the form of a Greek tragedy
for public performance. Interesting literary and thematic parallels exist between
Job and the Prometheus cycle of plays by Aeschylus in the fifth century bce.16 The
resolution of Job’s philosophical dilemma by the appearance of God in a storm
has been compared to the deus ex machina of Greek tragedy, especially in the
plays of Euripides.17 The seemingly total absence of Pentateuchal references in
Job suggests that the book could have been written after Alexander’s conquests of
the Levant in 332 bce but before the composition of the Pentateuch.

Erotic poetry
The Song of Songs is a collection of erotic poems written in a pastoral setting
strongly reminiscent of the bucolic or pastoral style of poetry originated by
Theocritus of Syracuse, the court poet of Ptolemy II Philadelphus in the 270s bce.
Many scholars have noted the affinities between Song of Songs and the Idylls of
Theocritus, including subject matter, style, voice (especially with respect to the
assertiveness of female sexuality), and striking instances of shared imagery.18 A
Hellenistic Era date and influence from Alexandrian poetry, especially Theocritus,
has wide acceptance among biblical and classical scholars.

Philosophy
The affinities of Ecclesiastes with Stoic and Epicurean Greek philosophy are well
known.19

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National literature
The Hebrew Bible, taken as a whole, was an authoritative, restrictive collection of
texts with ethical content of varying genres centred on the books of Moses. This
book collection does not correspond to any category of textual collection known
from the Ancient Near East, such as library, document archive, or scribal school
curriculum. Instead, the Hebrew Bible appears to be based directly on the idea
of a restrictive national literature centred on its law code as described in Plato’s
Laws. Plato’s program for creating an ethical national literature began with Laws
itself, a legislative and educational document for which Plato claimed a measure
of divine inspiration,20 and which was intended to serve as the supreme standard
for inclusion of other books in the collection.21 Traditional hymns and prayers were
to be reviewed, edited, revised and supplemented with new material in line with
theological guidelines laid out in Plato’s Laws (Plato, Laws 7.800a–801d, 802b).
Poetry, prose, plays, myths, music and all other literary works, oral or written, were
to be reviewed by the legislators of the arts and slated for inclusion or exclusion
from the national canon of literature (Plato, Laws 7.811c–e). Approved works were
to be used in schools (Plato, Laws 7.811c–812a ) and performed at public festivals
(Plato, Laws 2.664b–665c; 7.811a, 812e–813a; 8.840b–c ) for the education and
enculturation of the citizenry. This ethical national literature provides a direct ante-
cedent to the Hebrew Bible, which appears to have been created according to the
procedures and standards that Plato laid out (Gmirkin, forthcoming: Chapter 6).
In conclusion, the consideration of Greek literary antecedents to the biblical
text corroborates the hypothesis that the Hebrew Bible was a Hellenistic Era crea-
tion, written by authors well conversant with Greek literary forms. Some of these
literary antecedents to biblical genres appeared in the fourth century bce, such
as tragic history originated by Isocrates or the synthesis of education, persuasive
rhetoric and legislation originated by Plato. Others first appeared in the Hellenistic
East in the third century bce, such as apologetic national histories and bucolic
poetry, in sources often closely associated with Alexandria. The biblical use of
written sources such as Plato, Berossus and Theocritus appears best explained by
Jewish access to the Great Library of Alexandria, as supported by the later tradi-
tion found in The Letter of Aristeas in connection with the Septuagint translation.
The basic realization that the biblical authors had access to Greek culture, learn-
ing and literature at nearby Alexandria opens up many important new avenues of
research. Knowing some of the prominent titles on Jewish bookshelves as they
wrote the Bible – especially Plato’s Laws, which appears to have exerted a pro-
found influence – should provide keen insights into the thinking of the biblical
authors who helped shape our modern cultural and literary heritage.

Notes
1 The conquest account in Joshua was extensively compared against features in Greek
foundation stories in Weinfeld 1993. Although Weinfeld extensively discussed both

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ancestral promises and the conquest of the land, he omitted any comparison between
Greek foundation stories and the exodus and sojourn under Moses.
2 According to the foundation story by Hecataeus of Abdera – and in contrast to the
biblical account – the land of Judaea was uninhabited before Moses and his colonizing
expedition. Moses was said to have established Jerusalem and its temple and to have
conquered nearby territories. The biblical independence of the story from Hecataeus is
extensively discussed at Gmirkin 2006: 34–66.
3 See Gmirkin 2006: 63 for the reconstructed text of the foundation story by Hecataeus of
Abdera, which was used as a major source on the Jews in the fragment of Theophanes
of Mytilene quoted at Diodorus Siculus, Library 40.3.1–8.
4 History, properly speaking, is an inquiry (‘istoria) about the past. Historical inquiries
into events of the past might be conducted using a variety of sources of varying cred-
ibility: eyewitness reports (autopsy), contemporary inscriptional or written records,
literary traditions, oral traditions (mneme, “memory”), legends and myths. Herodotus,
the “father of history”, wrote his great work, Histories, based on inquiries into all these
forms of information. The literary product of such research is called “historiography” or
history-writing, that is, prose narrative about the past that contains purported factual or
“historical” content. Aims of historiography in antiquity included providing an objec-
tive investigation into the events of the past (Herodotus, Thucydides, Aristotle); enter-
taining the reader (Herodotus, Ephoros, Theopompus); providing practical examples
of statesmanship or military strategy for the education of future leaders (Thucydides,
Aristotle, Polybius); to moralize, motivate, or draw ethical lessons from the past by
inspirational or cautionary examples (Isocrates, Ephoros, Theopompus) and to pro-
mote the national greatness of an ancient civilization (Hecataeus of Abdera, Manetho,
Berossus, Megasthenes).
5 The nationalistic genre of apologetic historiography arose in the Hellenistic east
with Hecataeus of Abdera’s Aegyptiaca (ca. 315 bce), soon followed by Manetho’s
Aegyptiaca (ca. 285 bce), Berossus’s Babyloniaca (278 bce), and Megasthenes’ Indica
(after 278 bce). See Sterling 1992: 103–36.
6 Tragic historians between the time of Isocrates and Polybius included Ephoros, Duris
and Theopompus. See, generally, Ullman 1942 and Walbank 1960. See Nielsen 1997:
46–81 and Mandell and Freedman 1993: 70–71 on earlier tragic elements in Herodotus.
Aristotle’s Rhetoric was in agreement with Isocrates on the usefulness of history for
providing examples useful for rhetoricians to prove a case. Tragic historians effectively
used history as a tool of moral rhetoric. Polybius disparaged the moralizing view of the
tragic historians, but viewed history as a storehouse of examples useful for military and
political leaders.
7 The fall of Samaria and Jerusalem were the result of the covenant curses of Deut.
4:25–8; 28:48–68; 29:20–28; 31:16–21, 26–9 that befell them as a result of their acts
of impiety and apostasy, as described at 2 Kgs 17:6–23; 21:2–16; Jer. 7:1–26; 11:1–13;
16:10–13;19:3–6; 25:1–7; 32:26–36; 44:1–23.
8 2 Kgs 25:1–11, 18–21; Jer. 9:9–12; 15:4–6; 16:1–9; 19:2–11; 25:9–11; 26:6, 9; 34:19–
22; 39:1–8. Deut. 28:15–68 was filled with scenes of horror and pity in the form of
predicted curses, and the Book of Lamentations with similar scenes of retrospective
sorrow. The astonishing character of the national tragedy was artificially heightened
by the fictional scene of utter desolation of the lands under God’s curse, as predicted at
Deut. 4:25–6; 28:21–5, 63–4; 30:28 and reported at 2 Kgs 17.5–6, 18; 23:24, 26; Jer.

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4.26–9; 9.10–12; 12.10–11; 25.11, 18; 26.9; 32:43; 33:10, 12; 34:22; 44:2, 6. Greek
tragedies often heightened the horror of events by having a prophetic figure such as
Teiresias or Cassandra appear and utter dire predictions of oncoming woes, often as the
result of royal impiety.
9 2 Kgs 17:6–23, 34–41; 21:2–16 (anticipating Jerusalem’s fall); Jer. 19:2–15; 44:1–14,
20–23. Ethical commentary on kings and major events are found in Deuteronomistic
passages throughout Judges–Kings and Jeremiah, exclusive of the novelistic books of
Samuel. The ethical evaluations of the kings of Judah and Israel are reminiscent of the
rhetorical category of epideictic, a speech of praise or censure, especially at a public
funeral, that was considered important as a means of shaping public behaviour (cf.
Hauser 1999).
10 The constitutional character of this passage was first discussed in Lohfink 1993.
11 For inscriptions and papyri containing the Commandments of the Seven Wise Men, see
Robert 1968 and Oikonomides 1987. The Commandments were widely circulated in
antiquity, including in the East after Alexander’s conquests, and many ancient authors
speculated on the identities of the ancient originators of specific sayings.
12 See Gmirkin, forthcoming: Chapter 4, “Greek and Ancient Near Eastern Law
Collections”. Motive clauses were first discussed in Gemser 1953. Arguments for the
existence of motive clauses in a few Ancient Near Eastern laws were made in Sonsino
1980, but on close analysis it can be shown in all cases that the subordinate clause
dealt with the evidentiary basis for the verdict or disposition of the case, not the motive
behind the law itself.
13 Plato, Laws 4.718b–723d. At Laws 4.721a–e, Plato gave an example of a law expressed
in simple “single” apodictic form as a command, with a restatement in casuistic form
specifying the penalty for disobedience. He then gave an example in his innovative
“double” form, with an addition of persuasive explanations and exhortations that are
easily seen to functionally correspond to the biblical “motive clause” as defined by
Gemser and others.
14 For parallels between biblical OAN and Greek oracle collections, see Lange 2006:
266–7, 273–5; Hagedorn 2007: 432–48; Parke 1983: 13. Due to the assumed antiquity
of the biblical OAN, these authors did not consider the possibility of direct literary
influence from Greek oracle collections, despite the striking similarities between the
two genres.
15 For the Egyptian origin of the Jewish oracles of ca. 170–40 bce in SibOr book 3, see
Collins 1983: 322, 355–6; Frazier 1984: 708–9.
16 Cf. Pope 1973: xxx–xxxi. In Prometheus Bound, the protagonist was chained at Mount
Caucasus in a situation reminiscent of Job in his distress. Conversations between
Prometheus and various visitors centred on the tyranny of Zeus. Prometheus was even-
tually restored to freedom and favour and (it is thought) the reputation of Zeus was
restored as the embodiment of justice in Prometheus Unbound. See also Daube 1996.
17 The use of dramatic devices from Euripides in the Book of Job (deus ex machina and
Euripidean prologue) was first argued in Kallen 1918: 25–8.
18 A very thorough comparison of Theocritus and Song of Songs appears in Burton 2005:
180–205. For earlier scholarship that dated Song of Songs to the early Hellenistic Era
based on its links with the poetry of Theocritus, see Burton 2005: 180 n. 1. Bloch and
Bloch (1995: 24 n. 20) compared imagery at Song 1:5 and Idyll 10.26–7, Song 1:9 and
Idyll 18.30–31, Song 2:15 and Idyll 1.48–9; 5.112–13.

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19 See Bartholomew 2009: 54–8 for secondary literature and extensive discussion on pos-
sible Greek philosophical influences and Hellenistic Era date. The philosophical con-
tent of Ecclesiastes cannot be directly identified with any one of the Greek schools of
philosophy, but the interaction with Greek theories of reason and natural observation
seems apparent.
20 Plato, Laws 7.811c. On Plato’s theory of divine inspiration of prophets, poets (includ-
ing playwrights), and certain great legislators, politicians and philosophers, see Büttner
2011. Plato’s claim that Laws (although a prose composition) was a unique form of
poetry (Laws 7.811c–d) and that its constitution was the finest of tragedies (Laws
7.817b–d) thus constituted a claim to divine inspiration, as did his claim that his con-
stitution and laws were the expression of “divine reason” (Laws 4.713e–714a).
21 Plato, Laws 3.664d; 7.802b–c, 811c–812a; 9.858c–859a; 12.957d. For Plato’s Laws as
an elevated form of writing that possessed “an almost scriptural status”, see Nightingale
1999.

Bibliography
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Bloch, A. and C. Bloch 1995. The Song of Songs: A New Translation with an Introduction
and Commentary. Berkeley: University of California Press.
Burns, A. R. 1930. Minoans, Philistines and Greeks. New York: Albert Knopf.
Burton, J. B. 2005. “Themes of Female Desire and Self-Assertion in the Song of Songs and
Hellenistic Poetry”. In Perspectives on the Song of Songs. A. C. Hagedorn (ed.). Berlin:
Walter de Gruyter: 180–205.
Büttner, S. 2011. “Inspiration and Inspired Poets in Plato’s Dialogues”. In Plato and the
Poets, P. Destrée and F.-G. Herrmann (eds.). Leiden: Brill: 111–29.
Collins, J. J. 1983. “Sibylline Oracles”. In Old Testament Pseudepigrapha, vol. 1: Apocalyptic
Literature and Testaments. J. S. Charlesworth (ed.) London: Doubleday: 317–472.
Daube, D. 1996. “Reflections on Job and Greek Tragedy”. In Studies in Memory of
Abraham Wasserstein, vol. 1. H. M. Cotton, J. J. Price and D. J. Wasserstein (eds.).
Jerusalem: Hebrew University: 72–81.
Frazier, P. 1984. Ptolemaic Alexandria, vol 1. Oxford: Clarendon Press.
Gemser, B. 1953. “The Importance of Motive Clauses in Old Testament Law”. VTSup 1:
50–66.
Gmirkin, R. E. 2006. Berossus and Genesis, Manetho and Exodus: Hellenistic Histories and
the Date of the Pentateuch. Copenhagen International Series 15. New York: T&T Clark.
———. Forthcoming. Plato and the Creation of the Hebrew Bible. Copenhagen
International Series.
Hagedorn, A. C. 2004. Between Moses and Plato: Individual and Society in Deuteronomy
and Ancient Greek Law. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht.
————. 2007. “Looking at Foreigners in Biblical and Greek Prophecy”. Vetus
Testamentum 57: 445–7.
Hauser, G. A. 1999. “Aristotle on Epideictic: The Formation of Public Morality”. Rhetoric
Society Quarterly 29: 5–23.
Kaiser, O. 2000. “Das Deuteronomium und Platons Nomoi: Einladung zu einem Vergleich”.
In Liebe und Gebot: Studien zum Deuteronomium. H. Spieckermann and R. G. Kratz
(eds.). Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht: 60–79.

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Kallen, H. M. 1918. The Book of Job as a Greek Tragedy. New York: Moffat, Yard and
Company.
Lange, A. 2006. “Literary Prophecy and Oracle Collection: A Comparison between Judah
and Greece in Persian Times”. In Prophets, Prophecy, and Prophetic Texts in Second
Temple Judaism. M. H. Floyd and R. Donel Haak (eds.). New York: T&T Clark:
248–75.
Lemche, N. P. 1993. “The Old Testament – A Hellenistic Book?”. Scandinavian Journal
of the Old Testament 7: 163–93.
Lohfink, N. 1993. “Distribution of the Functions of Power: the Laws Concerning Public
Offices in Deuteronomy 16:18–18:22”. In A Song of Power and the Power of Song:
Essays on the Book of Deuteronomy. D. L. Christenson (ed.). Winona Lake, ID:
Eisenbrauns: 336–55.
Lupu, E. 2005. Greek Sacred Law: A Collection of New Documents. Leiden: Brill.
Mandell, S. and D. N. Freedman. 1993. The Relationship between Herodotus’ History and
Primary History. South Florida Studies in the History of Judaism, 60. Atlanta, GA:
Scholars Press.
Naddaf, G. 2005. Greek Concepts of Nature. Albany: State University of New York Press.
Nielsen, F.A. J. 1997. The Tragedy in History: Herodotus and the Deuteronomist History.
Copenhagen International Seminar. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press.
Nightingale, A. W. 1999. “Plato’s Lawcode in Perspective: Rule by Written Law in Athens
in Magnesia”. Classical Quarterly 49: 100–22.
Oikonomides, A. N. 1987. “Records of ‘The Commandments of the Seven Wise Men’ in
the 3rd century B.C.”. The Classical Bulletin 63: 67–76.
Parke, H. W. 1983. Sibyls and Sibylline Prophecy in Classical Antiquity. New York:
Routledge.
Parker, R. 2004. “What Are Sacred Laws?”. In The Law and the Courts in Ancient Greece.
E. M. Harris and L. Rubenstein (eds.). London: Duckworth: 57–70.
Pope, M. H. 1973. Job. Garden City, NY: Doubleday & Company.
Rendtorff, R. 1977. Das Überlieferungsgeschichtliche Problem des Pentateuch. BZAW
147. Berlin: de Gruyter.
———. 1990. The Problem of the Process of Transmission in the Pentateuch. Sheffield:
Sheffield Academic Press.
Robert, L. 1968. “De Delphes a l’Oxus: Inscriptions grecques nouvelles de la Bactriane”.
Comptes Rendus de l’Académie des Inscriptions 112: 442–54.
Sonsino, R. 1980. Motive Clauses in Hebrew Law: Biblical Forms and Near Eastern
Parallels. Chico, CA: Scholars Press.
Sterling, G. E. 1992. Historiography and Self-Definition: Josephus, Luke-Acts and
Apologetic Historiography. Leiden: E. J. Brill.
Ullman, B. L. 1942. “History and Tragedy”. Transactions and Proceedings of the American
Philological Association 73: 25–53.
Wajdenbaum, P. 2011. Argonauts of the Desert: Structural Analysis of the Hebrew Bible.
Sheffield: Equinox Publishing.
Walbank, F. W. 1960. “History and Tragedy”. Historia: Zeitschrift für Alte Geschichte 9:
216–34.
Weinfeld, M. 1993. The Promise of the Land: The Inheritance of the Land of Canaan by
the Israelites. Berkeley: University of California Press.

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 7
W H E N THE S EP TUAGI NT CAM E I N
FROM THE CO LD

Mogens Müller

I
To a generation of scholars, educated with a more or less fixed conception of the
Masoretic text as something of a Grundtext and the Septuagint as primarily a trans-
lation and thus of secondary interest, a lot has really happened during the last three
or four decennia. The concept of a principally reliable Hebrew Grundtext of the Old
Testament has gradually been replaced by an attitude, for which Emanuel Tov is a
representative spokesman. He states that “it is probably accepted by most scholars
that equal attention should be paid to MT and the LXX, and that both MT and the
LXX could reflect an original reading” (Tov 2013: 376). Tov further declares:

Now more than ever it seems to me that there never was an “archetype”
or “original text” of most scripture books. For most biblical scholars
assume editorial changes over the course of many generations or even
several centuries. If this assumption is correct, this development implies
that there never was a single text that may be considered the original text
for textual criticism; rather, we have to assume compositional stages,
each of which was meant to be authoritative when completed. (Tov
2013: 380, original emphasis)

In 1985, leading up to the new Danish Bible translation, which appeared in 1992,
I asked in a newspaper review of the volume with the preliminary translation of
the Twelve Minor Prophets, why it was not the Septuagint to be translated, but
rather the Hebrew text (Müller 1985, but also Müller 1996 and 2012a, an answer
to Holst 2006). Nearly unanimously, my question met with rejection. I was ques-
tioning the obvious. At that time, it did not make any notable impression that, in
the New Testament, for instance, Habakkuk 2:4 is quoted by Paul in its Septuagint
form. The Masoretic wording would have been unfit for the apostle’s argument in
Galatians 3:11 and Romans 1:17: ὁ δὲ δίκαιος ἐκ πίστεως ζήσεται (although simi-
larly resembling the Septuagint, the meaning of the same quotation in Hebrews
10:38 with an inserted μου after δίκαιος seemingly offers another understanding
of πίστις). The fact that the New Testament authors generally held the Old Greek

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translation as their authoritative biblical text was earlier neutralized by the belief
in the Hebrew text as the text, a tradition going all the way back to Jerome, and
resumed by Luther and the other reformers, who worked on Bible translations
into the vernaculars. I refer to the designation “Old Greek”, the Old Testament
of the Christian Bible, to avoid identification with the Septuagint also including
the Apocrypha (I am aware that speaking of a Bible in New Testament times is
an anachronism, although I think that, generally, the number of “holy” books was
fixed at this period (cf. Josephus, Contra Apionem I 38–41).

II
There is no sign that any of the New Testament authors were conscious of a
choice between alternatives. At least some of them would only have had access
to the Greek text. Awareness of differences between the Hebrew and the Greek
wording of certain biblical sayings first became apparent towards the middle
of the second century ce. From the very beginning, a bone of contention had
been the virgin in the Septuagint version of Isaiah 7:14 (quoted in Matthew
1:23). The earliest known author to testify to this discrepancy is Justin. In his
Apology/ies from ca. 150, he quotes the Greek version of Isaiah 7:14 in a ‘proof
from Scripture’ argument (I 33.1–4; cf. 54.8). Later, however, in his Dialogue
with the Jew Tryphon, he discusses the saying at several places, defending the
Greek wording over against new Jewish translations being made in the second
century ce, replacing παρθένος with νεᾶνις (43.5–8; cf. 66.1–4; 67.1; 68.7–8;
71.3; 84.1–3). As the first Christian author known to us to do so, Justin intro-
duced the story about the genesis of the Greek translation of the Holy Scriptures
of Judaism as initiated by the Egyptian king Ptolemaeus. He does not refer to
any source. Without further ado, he expands the narrative as we know it from
Aristeas, Philo and Josephus in order to cover the translation, not only encom-
passing the Pentateuch (as its Jewish authors would have it), but all of the
holy books, which he summarily refers to as the “prophecies” (αἱ προφητείαι,
Apology I 31.1). (For the developments in the Jewish and Christian reception of
the story of the genesis of the Greek translation of the Pentateuch, see Müller
1996, esp. ch. 3 and ch. 4.)
The proscriptive right of the translation of the seventy is affirmed a little later
(ca. 180) by Irenaeus by reference to its use by the apostles. As the deciding argu-
ment for not attending to the new Greek translations (that is, those by Aquila and
Theodotion), this bishop of Lyon thus argues in Adversus haereses III 21.3:

For the apostles, since they are of more ancient date than all these [her-
etics], agree with this aforesaid translation [interpretatio]; and the trans-
lation harmonizes with the tradition of the apostles. For Peter, and John,
and Matthew, and Paul and the rest successively, as well as their follow-
ers, did set forth all prophetical [announcements] just as the interpreta-
tion of the elders contains them [quemadmodum Seniorum interpretatio

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continet]. For the one and the same Spirit of God, who proclaimed by the
prophets what and of what sort the advent of the Lord should be, did by
these elders give a just interpretation of what had been truly prophesied.
(21, 3–4; translation according to The Ante-Nicene Fathers)

This is not the place to go into detail regarding the ever more fantastic versions
of the story about the genesis of the Greek translation. It should, however, be
remarked that some authors express the conviction that the Septuagint actually
represents alternative readings. The most prominent spokesman for this under-
standing is Augustine, who, in concluding a longer discussion of the problem in
De civitate Dei XVIII 42–3, writes:

If then, we see, as it behoves us to see in these Scriptures no words that

the Spirit of God did not speak through men, it follows that whatever
is in the Hebrew text but not in that of the seventy translators is some-
thing that the Spirit of God did not choose to say through the latter, but
only through the prophets. Likewise he spoke, as he pleased, some things
through Jeremiah, still others through one or another prophet, or the
same things but in different forms through the latter prophet as well as
the former. Moreover, anything that is found in both places is something
that one and the same Spirit chose to say through both kinds of instru-
ment, but in such wise that the one kind led the way in prophesying and
the other came after with a prophetic translation of their words [prophet-
ice illos interpretando]. For just as a single Spirit of peace inspired the
former when they spoke true and concordant words, so the same single
Spirit manifested himself in the latter when without mutual consultation
they nevertheless translated the whole as with one mouth. (43; transla-
tion according to LCL)

III
Confronted with the task of creating a Latin Bible, consisting partly of revisions,
partly of new translations, Jerome (after 390 ce) came to the decision regarding
which text to translate, choosing the Hebrew at the expense of the Septuagint,
referring to the Hebraica veritas. In this connection, Jerome flatly rejected the
whole story of the creation of the Greek translation with all the fantastic traits it
had come to enjoy in Christian reception. He declared outright that he

did not know who the first author was, who, with his lie, had set up
the seventy huts in Alexandria, where the translators, separated from
each other, wrote the same, when Aristeas . . . and, much later, Josephus
had said nothing of the kind, but, instead, that they were assembled in a
basilica [sic!], where they wrote: collating, not prophesying (contulisse
scribant, non prophetasse). For it is one thing to be a prophet, another

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to be a translator; one predicts when the Spirit inspires him, the other
translates what he has achieved insight into by learning and hard work
with the words (Aliud est enim vatem, aliud esse interpretem: ibi spiri-
tus ventura praedicit, hic eruditio et verborum copia ea quae intellegit
transfert). (Prologus in Pentateucho, my translation)

The only inspired text, accordingly, was the Hebrew, which, moreover, in the
perception of Jerome, was uniformly transmitted – in strong contrast to the Greek,
where confusion was widespread. Through his Hexapla, Origen had tried to offer
a remedy for this calamity, but without success. The rejection of any consideration
of a prophetic translation clearly invited Jerome to use the Hebraica veritas as the
obvious point of departure for his Latin version. Accordingly, whereas Jerome
had spoken earlier of the translation used by the apostles as the vera interpretatio
(Praefatio in evangelio II 1515.19), he was later convinced that, because they
had translated before the coming of Christ, but had not known of it, the seventy
“expressed themselves in dubious sentences”. However

after His suffering and resurrection, we are not as much writing prophecy
as history; you narrate what you have heard otherwise than what you
have seen. The better the understanding, the better the rendering (quod
melius intellegimus, melius et proferimus). (Prologus in Pentateucho I
4.35–9)

This de-mythologized view of the Septuagint was – as stated above – taken over
much later by Luther, and it was only after the textual discoveries in the caves
in the neighbourhood of Qumran that it became clear that any idea of a fixed
Hebrew Grundtext is an illusion. Nevertheless, it took a generation for scholars
to realize the impact of what this meant for evaluating the Septuagint as not
only a more or less trustworthy rendering of a Hebrew text, but as expressing
a reception of its Holy Scriptures by Hellenistic Judaism. Although we also
have testimony of efforts to bring the Greek wording into greater accord with a
Hebrew text, which was later labelled a Proto-Masoretic text, from the period
before the beginning of the Christian era, we must realize that the Hebrew and
Greek versions existed for centuries as valid and fully representative editions of
the biblical text.
The widespread idea that, already by the second and third centuries ce, the
Jews had withdrawn from Hellenistic culture and, thereby, had also resigned
from the use of a Greek Bible, is contested by Lange (Lange 2012). That
Judaism had not withdrawn from Hellenism has been clearly confirmed by the
excavations of early Jewish synagogues in Palestine, including the fifth-century
synagogue of Beit Alpha with a Greek dedicatory inscription and numer-
ous Greco-Roman themes, such as the zodiac and sun chariot of Hellas (see
Hüttenmeister and Reeg 1977; Sukenik 2003: cf. articles in Lange, Krivoruchko
and Boyd-Taylor 2009).

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IV
Where the concept of a Grundtext dissolves, it becomes problematic to speak of
the original wording, and it invites us to consider the possibility that the surviving
textual versions are expressions of an ongoing reception of holy traditions. Thus,
the old truism that all translation is interpretation should be remembered, the more
so as every acceptance of a tradition demands interpretation. As Hans Hübner has
formulated it (Hübner 1995: 244), there is no such thing as Sacra Scriptura per
seipsam: “Denn wo Geschichtlichkeit ist, da ist Rezeption. Rezeptionslosigkeit
ist eine ontologische Unmöglichkeit . . . Es gibt nie Tradition an sich, es gibt nur
interpretierte Tradition” (original emphasis).
This is reflected in different ways in the translations of the various bibli-
cal books contained in the Septuagint. In general, there is a tendency towards
a growing literal rendering in the later translations, a tendency probably coin-
ciding with the efforts to revise older translations in greater harmony with the
Hebrew text and further cultivated in the new translations of the second century
ce. Old witnesses to this endeavour are the fragments of a Greek version of the
Minor Prophets found at Wadi Murabba’at in 1952 and Nahal Hever in 1962
(8HevXIIGr), supporting the notion of the existence of forerunners to Aquila
(as expressed in the title of Barthélemy 1963). An impact of these earlier revi-
sions has now also been introduced in explaining some of the deviations from
the Septuagint in the so-called “reflection quotations” in the Gospel of Matthew,
otherwise the “Bible” of the author of this gospel (see Menken 2004). The very
attempt to offer a literal rendering, regardless of the grammar of the target lan-
guage, was not necessarily determined by ineptitude, but perhaps offered as an
expression of resistance, a “kind of recalcitrance, a reluctance to accede totally to
a Hellenizing ‘project’, which, by the same token, could not be ignored” (Rajak
2009: 153).
At the other end of the spectrum we find the Septuagint version of the Book
of Isaiah. One of the pioneers in recent times of evaluating the Septuagint as an
independent theological document, Isaac Seeligmann (1907–82), characterized it:

This translation, in fact, is almost the only one among the various
parts of the Septuagint which repeatedly reflects contemporaneous his-
tory . . . those places where the paraphrase of the text contains allusions
to events happening in the more or less immediate neighbourhood of the
translator’s place of residence give one a surprising image of the transla-
tor’s notion that the period in which he lived was to be the time for the
fulfillment of ancient prophecies, and of his efforts to contemporize the
old biblical text and revive it by inspiring it with the religious concep-
tions of a new age. (Seeligmann 1948: 4; cf. the conclusion drawn by A.
van der Kooij and F. Wilk (Karrer and Kraus 2011: 2491): “Die JesLXX
stellt eine frühe Interpretation des Jesajabuches dar, bezeugt also eine
Etappe in der Rezeptionsgeschichte des hebr. Jesajatextes.”)

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And Seeligmann concluded: “it is . . . as ancient testimonies of the Jewish exege-

sis that the Books of the Septuagint must be investigated and studied” (Seeligmann
1948: 121).
This interpretative character of the Greek translation was already recognized
by one of the fathers of Septuagint scholarship, Zacharias Frankel (1801–75)
(Frankel 1841 and 1851; cf. Rösel 1994: 4). Later, Adolf Deissmann (1866–1937)
could speak of Paul as a “Septuagint Jew”. Therefore – according to him – to
understand Paul from the perspective of religious history, it is necessary to “know
the spirit of the Septuagint . . . The historical presupposition of Paul’s religious
life is not the Hebrew Old Testament, and not necessarily what we should call
‘Old Testament Theology,’ but the faith contained in the Greek Old Testament”
(Deissmann 1925: 79–80, quoted according to English translation 1957: 99).
Next, Georg Bertram (1896–1979), controversial because of his National Socialist
sympathies, coined the term “Septuagint piety” and characterized the Septuagint
as praeparatio evangelica (see Bertram 1954–59; 1961 and 1967). (Cf. for
instance also Bertram 1936: 109: “Die Septuaginta gehört mehr in die Geschichte
der Auslegung des Alten Testamentes als in die des alttestamentlichen Textes.”
Bertram’s perception of the meaning of the Septuagint got a prolonged afterlife
through his many contributions to Gerhard Kittel (ed.), Theologisches Wörterbuch
zum Neuen Testament, and its English edition Theological Dictionary to the New
Testament.)
The Jewish religious historian, Hans-Joachim Schoeps (1909–80) accepted this
characterization, but evaluated this development negatively, precisely because he saw
the deviations in the Greek from the Hebrew as the source of many Pauline misunder-
standings in regard to covenant and law caused by the legalistic shift in perspective in
Hellenistic Judaism (Schoeps 1959: esp. 16–21; further also 224–30). One way or the
other, however, it was accepted that the Septuagint represented something different,
theologically, when compared to the Hebrew Bible (cf. also Tov 1987).

V
When the Septuagint had been brought back from its exile and it became clear
that it represented the reception of biblical traditions in Hellenistic Judaism, it
invited a scrutiny of its own theology and ideology. Of course, it is important
not to imply that yet later understandings and interpretations were the intent of
the translator or translators. A number of scholars have called for greater cau-
tion in this regard. Not least, Anneli Aejmelaeus has, time and again, pointed
out that neither the Septuagint nor the translator should be made responsible for
what is found in the Hebrew Vorlage or for what was the result of a new inter-
pretation of the Greek. Nor should it be overlooked that the translators avoided
dead metaphors and that they – more than is usually thought – were both led
by conventions of translation and were influenced by extant translations. Also,
although the translation could possess personal characteristics, it was not a pri-
vate affair, calling for creativity and innovation. It may be expected that, even

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when they seem to offer independent translations, they may be dependent on

the usage and beliefs of the community. Without knowing the intention of the
translator, one should not talk about interpretations, at least not new interpreta-
tions. So, at the end of the day, against what she labels “maximal interpreta-
tion” (Maximalauslegung), Anneli Aejmelaeus pleads for a minimal scholarly
interpretation (Minimalauslegung). Even when there are changes, both versions
of Scripture are parts of a greater stream of tradition, through which gradual
developments of theological views are independently effected (summary of
Aejmelaeus 2006: esp. 24, 33, 39, 40, 42, 47–8). (A collection of earlier contri-
butions is available in Aejmelaeus 1993.)
In a less minimalistic way, Albert Pietersma distinguishes between “the
Septuagint as produced” and “the Septuagint as received”. A certain translation
may have furthered an understanding among readers with access only to the Greek
rendering that was not intended by the translator (see, for instance, Pietersma 2006:
esp. 50–52). (The article’s “proof-text” is Psalm 28(29), esp. v. 6.) The interpreter
of the Septuagint, therefore, has to be very cautious not to exegete the text on the
basis of its reception, but instead to concentrate on the possible decisions made by
the translators on the basis of the Hebrew text during their production. With regard
to the Psalms, Pietersma presupposes “that the Greek translation of Psalms typi-
cally makes sense”, “that at times the Greek translator exegetes the source text”
and “that messianic interpretation can be found in the Greek Psalter” (Pietersma
2006: 50). In conclusion, however, he insists that just as one has to distinguish
between “original text-form and text-forms of transmission”, “a similar distinction
should be applied to the semantics of the text as produced and the semantics of the
text as received” (Pietersma 2006: 75, original emphasis).
These considerations, of course, are especially apposite with regard to the
sayings in Christian reception interpreted as prophecies of the Messiah and con-
sequently applied to Jesus Christ (cf. the overview article by Knibb 2006 for
references). Maybe it is symptomatic that most of the references to prophetic
predictions of the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ are not specified, but in
an inclusive way described of Scripture as such (as, for example, 1 Corinthians
15:3–4, with the repeated κατὰ γραφάς). The interpretative strategy of the pesher-
commentary, known from the Qumran writings and obviously in use in Paul and
the oldest gospels (see Müller 2011), allows the “fulfillment” to decide the, until
then, hidden meaning of the “prophecy” (cf. esp. 1QpHab 7.1–5). It does not
suggest verbatim agreement as later presupposed in the “proof from Scripture”
argument found in the Lukan writings and expressly in Justin. In these cases, it
would be senseless to reckon with an intended meaning on behalf of the transla-
tors. However, their wording may have unintentionally invited the application.

VI
The translation which Jerome at first had characterized as the vera interpretatio
because of the apostles’ use of it, turned out to be a version of the Jewish Holy Writ

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in its own right. Interestingly, at various places it is even probable that the Greek
version reflects a Hebrew text earlier than the Masoretic. Thus, the Swiss scholar
Adrian Schenker has shown, in a series of studies, that the Masoretic text, in fact,
has eliminated older readings, presumably for theological reasons. A crucial case
is Jeremiah 31:34 – in LXX 38:34 – where the singular “law” in the Masoretic text
seems to be a correction of an older plural preserved in the Septuagint’s νόμους,
pointing to new commandments and not to the law from Sinai (see Schenker 2006;
cf. for instance also Schenker 2007). The plural form is taken over in the quota-
tion in Hebrews 8:10, with the result that all Bible translations from the Vulgate
onwards contain both readings. To a certain degree, this supports the old accusation
raised by Justin (Dialogue with the Jew Trypho, 71.1–2), that the Jews had made
changes in their Bible to preclude Christian use of it. This accusation turned up
again in the seventeenth century where some few Catholic scholars made a frontal
attack on the Protestant divinization of the Hebrew Bible (Müller 2008: 723–4 for
more details). Thus, the Septuagint is not only expressing a later reception of what
became the Masoretic Bible, but in some cases it even reaches behind this text.
It also confirms that the Septuagint, in some respects, stands as an alternative
to the Masoretic text. Naturally, this raises the question of whether it is possible
to write a theology of the Septuagint as a pendant to the theology of the Hebrew
Bible. Some of the same problems arise. The various books in the Hebrew Bible
reached their actual form over a long period and derive from different authors, or
better, from different redactors and their circles. In contrast, the Greek transla-
tions were made in a shorter period – the later of them also being influenced by
the former – but varying in their commitment to the original. In more recent times,
the question of the alternative character of the Septuagint has been put on the
agenda by Martin Rösel, not least in his monograph from 1994 (Rösel 1994), and
later in a series of articles (see esp. Rösel 2006a, and also the recent summary in
Rösel 2010). Another scholar, Natalio Fernández Marcos, has also pleaded for the
fruitfulness of studying the books of the Septuagint as a “source of historical and
religious information for the exegesis and development of Jewish thought in the
first three centuries before Christ” (see Marcos 2001: 313).
It has to be reckoned a fact that, in various cases, the Septuagint translators
transformed the biblical text to be more appropriate for their new context. This
concern shows itself expressly in the allegorical interpretation in the High Priest’s
instruction to his Egyptian guests in Aristeas 128–71. For instance, this interpre-
tation indicates that the “cultic” regulations about clean and unclean animals, in
fact, are about moral virtues. To a lesser degree, in a series of cases, a similar alle-
gorical interpretation is active. This “theology of the Septuagint” is an object of
study in its own right, and scholarship on it is just beginning. Thus, Rösel (Rösel
2006b: 251) proposes the following topics for a “theology of the Septuagint”:
“Designations and imagery of God”, “God and foreign Gods”, “Israel and the
nations”, “humanity and its fate” and “νόμος and ethics”. Timothy McLay (McLay
2010: 610) even offers a definition: “Theology is a reflective activity in which
the content of religious expressions is to some extent abstracted, contemplated,

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subjected to reflection and discussion, and deliberately reformulated.” (Cf. also

M. Müller, “Theology in the LXX?”, in the forthcoming The Oxford Handbook
of the Septuagint.)

VII
It could be said that a Septuagint “theology” somehow hibernated in the New
Testament, at many places displaying the special wording of the Old Greek trans-
lation, building its argument on it. The quotation from Isaiah 7:14 in Matthew
1:23 is a prominent example, but certainly not the only one. Sometimes the dif-
ference between the Hebrew Grundtext and the employment of the Greek render-
ing in the New Testament was felt to be so embarrassing that Christian Bible
translation tradition, at various places in the Old Testament, simply replaced the
Hebrew wording with the Septuagint’s, among them Isaiah 7:14; 40:3. In the lat-
est generation of Bible translations, such discrepancies have been tolerated. For
instance, in the Danish official Bibles, the 1931 translation of the Old Testament
has a footnote to Isaiah 7:14, declaring that the Septuagint wording was preferred.
Later, in 1992, a footnote explains that the Hebrew word translated with “young
woman” is rendered in the Greek translation with “virgin”. A reference is given
to Matthew 1:23 and Luke 1:27. The “apostles” use had left its sacrosanct traces
and there was no option for the New Testament to conform its quotations to the
Hebrew text.
However, where the text is no longer seen as primarily static and the interest
no longer in the reconstruction of an original text (Urtext), readers are called to
consider it from the perspective of creative reception. The next step could be
rewriting, exactly as it occurred in the numerous examples of this genre or inter-
pretation strategy, which is commonly labelled “rewritten Bible/ Scripture”. At
least, such “rewritings” show that the tertium comparationis between original
books and their rewritings has not – to say the least – been exclusively seen in
terms of “referentiality”, but in the theology or ideology they sought to propagate.
What, in our eyes, is related as a historical fact, they treat in a fictional way, the
intended effect on the hearers or readers obviously having priority. In other words,
we observe a freedom, which may explain why the translators allowed themselves
to behave as theologians.
This development should not be characterized as a sidetrack or even a blind
alley in the history of Judaism. In several cases, it represented an understanding,
which was also present in periods of early Judaism, other than the Hellenistic
and becomes constitutional in yet later history. This pertains, for instance, to the
introduction of the term κύριος to represent the tetragramaton. Perhaps κύριος, in
the LXX, reflects the circumstance that adonai had filled in replacing Yahweh
in the reading of scripture in the liturgy. At least, κύριος substitutes for Yahweh in
the LXX as well as adonai, a title introduced in prophetic speech addressing God.
This usage has to be seen in the context of the development towards a monothe-
istic conception of God and a growing reluctance to pronounce his name. Thus,

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where the Hebrew text of Leviticus 24:16 prescribes the death penalty if anyone
blasphemes the name of the Lord, the Greek translation orders the same penalty
if any “names the name of the Lord (ὀνομάζων δὲ τὸ ὄνομα κυρίου)” (see Rösel
1998 and 2000: esp. 222–30, but also Rösel 1991 and 2006b: 245–8).

VIII
The premises of Jerome and Luther for preferring the Hebrew text, namely, that
it represented a Grundtext and that the Septuagint was “only” a translation, have
proved false. More or less reluctantly, consequences have been drawn in the recent
decades, as already mentioned, not least provoked by the Dead Sea Scrolls, which
showed that a uniformly transmitted Hebrew text was not a point of departure, but
rather the result of generations of learned Jews’ hard work in establishing what,
in the Middle Ages, became the Masoretic text. As a consequence, the Old Greek
translations of the books, which were later to be included in the Biblia Hebraica,
stand out as a representative version of the Holy Scripture of early Judaism. The
later Septuagint, which included the Old Testament Apocrypha, was, of course,
a Christian affair, as we have no evidence that the apocryphal books ever gained
the same status as the writings included in Biblia Hebraica. The Old Testament of
the Church can, therefore, no longer be seen as merely a translation of a Masoretic
Biblia Hebraica. Moreover, the Septuagint is the Old Testament of the Church – as it
had been, by the way, all the while for the Eastern churches, which had not bothered
with the Hebraica veritas for some time. How one manages two Old Testaments is
but a practical problem. As the situation is now, in a Christian context, it should be
just as possible to have an Old Testament translated from the Septuagint as we have
one from the Masoretic text. To some degree, the problem resembles having four
gospels in the New Testament, all pretending to tell the same story.
This situation is also reflected in the history of translations of the Septuagint. It took
more than a hundred years to create a successor to the first translation into a modern
language, namely, L. C. L. Brenton’s The Septuagint Version of the Old Testament
According to the Vatican Text (Brenton 1844), in a new edition from 1851 also includ-
ing the Apocrypha (Brenton 1851). Thus, the first volume of the scholarly ambitious
La Bible d’Alexandrie was first published in 1986 – and since then, sixteen other
volumes have followed, though the project is not yet completed. More recently, we
have seen A New English Translation of the Septuagint and Other Greek Translations
Traditionally Included under That Title, edited by Albert Pietersma in 2007, to be
followed in 2009 by the Septuaginta Deutsch: Das griechische Alte Testament in
deutscher Übersetzung, edited by Wolfgang Kraus and Martin Karrer and published
by the German Bible Society, in 2011, followed by two volumes, Erläuterungen und
Kommentare, amounting to more than 3,000 pages (see M. Müller 2012b).
It is interesting to note, as confirmed by the names of the editors of Septuaginta
Deutsch, that interest in the Septuagint is not restricted to Old Testament schol-
ars. Obviously, it transcends the old division between Old and New Testament

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scholarship, which had been created by the specialization initiated in the period of
the Enlightenment. This division of tasks was not only motivated by the existence
of the different languages of the Bible, but certainly also by the emancipation from
the understanding of the Old Testament in dogmatic theology. Today, however,
there is a tendency in segments of biblical scholarship to work across the bounda-
ries between the two Testaments. That tendency has also been supported by the
paradigmatic shift in biblical exegesis to concentrate more attention on the people
producing the biblical texts than on the story they are telling and its “referentiality”.
This new development is not least a merit of the so-called “Copenhagen School”,
not Niels Bohr’s concerning quantum mechanics (the centenary of which we cel-
ebrated in 2013), nor Louis Hjelmslev’s concerning linguistics, but that of Niels
Peter Lemche, Thomas L. Thompson and Philip Davies. As a result, that big gap
between the two parts of the Bible in earlier scholarship has diminished. The vir-
tual continuity has also been emphasized through a growing awareness of the fact
that Jesus had been a Jew, not only in origin, but also in his interpretation of
Judaism, as well as that earliest Christianity began within Judaism.

IX
The reinvigoration of the study of the Septuagint is a result of a “canonical”
approach to the text of the Old Testament. It is due to a secular version of what
Augustine labelled “prophetic translation”, now explaining the various differ-
ences as having been the result of an ongoing reception of biblical traditions.
Along with the acknowledgement that the transmitted Hebrew text is the result of
a longer process of transmission and, in some cases, several redactions, the Old
Greek version generally represents a new step in this development. In other cases,
it went forth in the shape of “rewritten Bible/Scripture”. In a number of places,
the Old Greek text inspired and facilitated an adoption by the New Testament
authors in their attempt to recount the Jesus story as the fulfilment of the prophecy
contained in the holy books of Judaism. Further, in a series of cases, crucial con-
cepts in the New Testament – as for instance εὐαγγέλιον – were taken over from
the Septuagint. Thus the New Testament’s employment of the Septuagint simply
“canonizes” this version by making it the “first Bible of the Church”. Realizing
the consequences of this insight is an important step forward. However, recent
developments in scholarship seem to indicate that the Ice Age of the Septuagint,
first advanced by Jerome and then by Luther, is, at last, drawing to a close.
With warm thanks to Dr Jim West, Tennessee, for having helped me, once
again, improve my English.

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———. 2006. “Von Sprache zur Theologie. Methodologische Überlegungen zur Theologie
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Barthélemy, D. 1963. Les Devanciers d’Aquila: Première publication intégrale du texte

des fragments du Dodécapropheton. VTSup 10. Leiden: Brill.
Bertram, G. 1936. “Das Problem der Umschrift und die religionsgeschichtliche Erforschung
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———. 1954–59. “Vom Wesen der Septuaginta-Frömmigkeit”. WO 2, 274–84.
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Holst, S. 2006. "Hebraica veritas! . . . aber was heisst hier schon 'Wahrheit'?" In
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Lemche, and H. Tronier (eds.). Forum for Bibelsk Eksegese15. Copenhagen:
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Hübner, H. 1995. Biblische Theologie des Neuen Testaments. Band 3. Hebräerbrief,
Evangelien und Offenbarung. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht.
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Karrer, M. and W. Kraus (eds.). 2011. Septuaginta Deutsch. Erläuterungen und
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(ed., 2006): 3–19.
Knibb, M. A. (ed.). 2006. The Septuagint and Messianism. BEThL 195. Leuven: Peeters.
Lange, N. de. 2012. “Jewish Greek Bible versions”. In The New Cambridge History of the
Bible. Volume 2. From 600 to 1450. R. Marsden and E. A. Matter (eds.). Cambridge:
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Lange, N., J. G. Krivoruchko and C. Boyd-Taylor. 2009. Jewish Reception of Greek Bible
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Marcos, N. F. 2001. The Septuagint in Context. Introduction to the Greek Version of the
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McLay, T. 2010. “Why Not a Theology of the Septuagint?”. In Die Septuaginta – Texte,
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WUNT 252. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck: 607–20.
Menken, M. J. J. 2004. Matthew’s Bible. The Old Testament Text of the Evangelist. BEThL
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Müller, M. 1985. “Tolv små profeter”. Review in Kristeligt Dagblad vol. 90, 16. November.
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———. 2008. “Die Septuaginta als Teil des christlichen Kanons”. In Die Septuaginta –
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———. 2011. “Pesher Commentary and Its Afterlife in the New Testament”. In The
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———. 2012a. “Biblia semper interpretanda est. The Role of the Septuagint as a
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———. 2012b. “A German Translation of the Septuagint. A reminder of an unsolved
canonical problem”, Literaturberichte, ThLZ 137: 1276–87.
———. Forthcoming. “Theology in the LXX?”. In The Oxford Handbook of the Septuagint.
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Rajak, T. 2009. Translation and Survival: The Greek Bible and the Ancient Jewish
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Rösel, M. 1991. “Die Übersetzung der Gottesnamen in der Genesis-Septuaginta”. In Ernten
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———. 1994, Übersetzung als Vollendung der Auslegung. Studien zur Genesis-
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———. 1998. “Theo-logie der griechischen Bibel. Zur Wiedergabe der Gottesaussagen im
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———. 2000. Adonaj – warum Gott‚ Herr‘ genannt wird. FAT 29. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck.
———. 2006a. “Der griechische Bibelkanon und seine Theologie”. See Müller et al.
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———. 2006b. “Towards a ‘Theology of the Septuagint’”. In Septuagint Research. Issues
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Wooden (eds.). SBL.SCSS 53. Atlanta, GA: 239–52.
———. 2010. “Die graphe gewinnt Kontur. Die Stellung der Septuaginta in der
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Schenker, A. 2006. Das Neue am neuen Bund und das Alte am alten. Jer 31 in der hebräischen
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———. 2007. “Gibt es eine graeca veritas für die hebräische Bibel? Die “Siebzig” als
Textzeugen im Buch Haggai als Testfall”. In Im Brennpunkt. Die Septuaginta, Band
3: Studien zur Theologie, Anthropologie, Ekklesiologie, Eschatologie und Liturgie der
griechischen Bibel. H.-J. Fabry and D. Böhler (eds.), 57–77. BWANT 174. Stuttgart:
Kohlhammer.
Schoeps, H.-J. 1959. Paulus. Die Theologie des Apostels im Lichte der jüdischen
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Tov, E. 1987. “Die Septuaginta in ihrem theologischen und traditionsgeschichtlichen
Verhältnis zur hebräischen Bibel”. In Mitte der Schrift? Ein jüdisch-christliches
Gespräch, Texte der Berner Symposions vom 6.–12. Januar 1985. M. Klopfenstein
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 Part III

R E C E PT I O N
This Page is Intentionally Left Blank
 8
O F Q UM RAN, THE CA NON, AND
T H E HISTORY OF THE BI BLE TEXT

Frederick H. Cryer

The closing of the canon of the Old Testament is a matter of primary importance
for the study of the Old Testament, the New Testament and emerging Judaism
(Lemche 1993). If the canon was more or less well-formed and unalterable, already
as early as the sixth, fifth, or fourth centuries bce, as was once assumed, then such
movements as the establishment of the Samaritan cultus, with its severely delimited
(Pentateuchal) canon, or the expansive (Septuagintal) canon of the diasporan com-
munity in Egypt, which, in turn, is reflected in the canon of the fledgling Christian
movement, can only be seen as sectarian reactions to an already-existing “ortho-
doxy”. The tradition itself, as represented by, for example, 4 Ezra (14:18–48),
dates Ezra’s writing down of the canon to the thirtieth year after the fall of
Jerusalem: that is, in 557 bce. Scholars have, however, long been aware that this
cannot hold; after all, already, Chronicles, Daniel, and Esther, at the very least,
were written after this date. It was once conventionally assumed that the schism
between infant Judaism and the Samaritan movement provided a date for the com-
pletion of the Pentateuch. However, this date has proved elusive and has moved
steadily downwards in recent decades. Most recently, a second-century date has
been proposed. However, it is worth observing that we possess no ancient copies of
the Samaritan Pentateuch, so the identification of the SP at the time of the schism
with its medieval version is problematic. If, however, the canon should prove to
have closed at a much later date, then the picture becomes one of multi-formed
and luxuriantly explosive growth, which took its departure from, more or less, the
same roots. Therefore, much depends not only on our dating of the development of
the canon, but also on our characterization of the processes by which it took place.
Early in the years subsequent to the discovery of the finds in Khirbet Qumran,
it was determined, as so many biblical scholars have preferred to think, that the
community in Qumran knew a collection corresponding to the canonical Masoretic
text (MT), and that they, in addition to this collection, also possessed some books
on which the members of the community, being sectarians, placed special empha-
sis. In other words, it has been thought that there existed an OT canon in Qumran
which reflected the interests of some form of “orthodoxy” — however inchoate
at the time, and which was in a sense garnished by supplementary “sectarian”
works. Although our understanding of the situation within early Judaism from

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the close of the first millennium bce and later has naturally gained greatly in
nuance since 1947, this view is still shared in one form or another by many bibli-
cal scholars and semitists. To support it, the following arguments either have been
or conceivably could be advanced:

1 All the books of the canonical MT, with the exception of Esther and Nehemiah,
are attested at Qumran. It is often claimed that all but Esther are attested (cf.,
for example, Boling 1971: 94), but in fact there is no sign of Nehemiah at
all, and the presence of 1 Chronicles is also doubtful. 1 Chronicles 19:6 is
thought to be identical with 4Q5I. It has long been known that Chronicles is
dependent on a different version of Samuel than MT Samuel, so the hypo-
thetical 1 Chronicles 19:6 of Qumran, which equals 2 Sam. 10:6 in terms of
content, but not in wording, may, in reality, merely be a quotation from that
version. Nor can it be proved that 4QM126a is a quotation from 1 Chronicles
or from some other source. The Temple Scroll also cites some information in
the same sequence as 1 Chronicles 28. This, however, cannot count as evi-
dence for literal dependence on Chronicles (pace D. Swanson 1992), as, once
again, the model may have been the Chronicler’s source.
2 The Qumran Pesharim interpret only works (primarily prophetic ones) which
we happen to know from the canonical MT. Note, for example, the following
statement of D. N. Freedman: “Even more important . . . are the numerous
commentaries on the books of the Bible. These demonstrate beyond cavil the
authority of the Hebrew Bible, in the community” (Freedman 1971: 131).
Actually, though, even in 1971, the discrepancy between the MT and the
Qumran “proto-biblical” texts was becoming evident. Either Freedman can-
not really have read some of the other contributions in the work he edited,
such as J. A. Sanders (1971: 113–31), which shows how immense the varia-
tion within the Qumran “biblical” materials were already known to be twenty-
odd years ago, or else he is operating with some kind of transcendent concept
of the “Hebrew Bible”.
3 Qumran’s phylacteries contain only snippets of Exodus and Deuteronomy,
but no works extraneous to the canon.
4 Qumran understands the nature of the community’s transmission of the divine
word to be largely interpretative, whether in the form of Pesharim, Halakah,
or otherwise (Fishbane 1988). Interestingly, Fishbane’s concept of Mikra is
as strangely transcendent of the actual textual picture at Qumran as had been
Freedman’s “Hebrew Bible” earlier.
5 When Qumran’s special literature quotes an authoritative source, it is vir-
tually always some part of the canonical MT, and only very rarely the
Pseudepigrapha.
6 When various citation formulas are used, what is quoted almost always comes
from the MT (cf. Fishbane 1988: 347–56).
7 The “special writings” so popular in Qumran (for example, the Manual of
Discipline, Jubilees, Enoch, the Damascus Document, the War Scroll) quote

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or gloss the canonical MT. Contrariwise, the works contained in the MT do

not quote them. This is not to say that they were all composed at Qumran. In
fact, it is extremely likely that the Qumran collection not only included texts
that came from outside of the community, but also some texts that were not
even representative of the views of the community.

All of this might lead one to conclude that there existed in Palestine, prior to the
existence of the Qumran community, a more or less integral and well-defined col-
lection of texts that either enjoyed or was approaching “canonical” status in the
first century ce – or even earlier – and which was reasonably equivalent to our
MT. The most extreme adherent of an early Old Testament canon is the conserva-
tive scholar R. T. Beckwith (1985).
It is the purpose of this chapter to add my voice to those who point out that
there is reason to doubt the adequacy of this claim. One reason for doubt consists
in the fact that no single one of the 11 caves so far excavated contained only the
39 works of the Masoretic collection, or even the 54 works of the more expansive
collection underlying the LXX, whose Pentateuch Jewish tradition already dates
to the third century bce. Rather, the collection in Qumran numbered around 800
documents (ca. 550 of them in Cave 4 alone), and of these only about one-quarter
correspond to the works which make up the canonical MT. In short, any claim
that the books contained in the canonical MT was already known and acknowl-
edged as distinct from the other works in use in the Qumran community would
have to be based on some obvious formal criterion, sufficient to distinguish works
belonging to the former body from works proper to the latter. I am thinking of
such characteristics as

1 The means of preserving the texts, on the assumption that “proto-biblical”

texts might have been stored differently than others, whether to ensure their
survival, to enable easy access to such hypothetically central texts or for
whatever reason.
2 The means of recording the texts, that is, on the assumption that the texts
of an authoritative (“canonical”) tradition, would have been more carefully
copied than other texts, collected by the community.
3 The number of copies of the “biblical” texts, as opposed to texts in other
categories, on the assumption that the works of an established and quasi-
“canonical” tradition, would have achieved maximal distribution, as a result
of their centrality to the tradition and their having been longest in circulation.

Now it is a fact that storage jars were in use in Qumran to preserve the commu-
nity’s documents as well as possible; but their use was entirely general, with no
distinctions as to genre or whatever. Moreover, as was previously remarked, one
might have imagined that a single cave might have been singled out to protect the
works of a highly sacred “canon” either from contact with works of (presumably)
less purity or from dangers of a more general (and physical) nature. However,

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this, too, was not the case in Qumran with the “proto-biblical” manuscripts, as
is shown by a brief look at the list of Qumran documents, organized by cave and
type (that is, “biblical” vs “non-biblical”) by type, which have been published in
Florentino Martinez’s recent volume of translations (Martinez 1994).
As far as the recording of the texts is concerned, Emanuel Tov has recently
pointed out that the apparently slipshod and highly plene orthographic style of
recording the sect’s own particular documents, a style which is accompanied by
a range of morphological features that are peculiar to Qumran and, to a more
limited extent, the Samaritan tradition, recurs in conjunction with attempts to
copy specifically “biblical” manuscripts. He goes so far as to designate this ortho-
graphic style a “peculiarity of Qumran” (cf. Tov 1986; see, further, Lübbe 1994;
Ulrich 1991: 30–31). It seems to me that Ulrich, who is usually a most careful
scholar, over-hastily identifies the categories of textual transmission studied by
Tov into the categories “full-defective”, whereas, in reality, he identifies a sizable
number of distinct morphological features, and even correlates them with aspects
of the Samaritan oral tradition (see Tov 1986: 38–9). Note also the following
remark of S. A. White, in conjunction with the materials preserved in two of the
“Pentateuchal paraphrases”: “There is no scribal indication that this is non-biblical
material; the text simply flows out of biblical and into non-biblical material as if
there were no difference between the two” (White 1991: 226). Hence, it is quite
clear that there were no obvious physical features which might have informed a
reader in Qumran that the “proto-Masoretic” scroll he was now about to read dif-
fered markedly from other scrolls in Qumran. This conclusion is also supported
by Tov’s study, which notes, among many other things, that the two morphologi-
cal and orthographical styles, which he uncovers in the documents at Qumran, do
not follow the lines of “canonical – non-canonical” (Tov 1986: 41).
As far as sheer numbers are concerned, it is important to note that the so-called
“biblical” manuscripts are by no means as dominant as one might expect, if there is
a question of a pre-existent “canon”. Admittedly, Deuteronomy was the most popu-
lar work in Qumran, with fragments of twenty-seven distinct texts. Of works of the
classical Torah, this was followed by the numbers sixteen each for Genesis and
Exodus, followed by ten for Leviticus, and only six for Numbers. With the excep-
tion of the Book of Isaiah, with twenty-one manuscripts, the remaining “biblical”
books are quite limited in number (five copies of Jeremiah; six of Ezekiel; seven of
the Dodekapropheton). These numbers are hardly overwhelming when compared
with the nineteen copies of Jubilees found in Qumran, plus the fifteen copies of
Enoch and the twelve copies of the Damascus Document, not to speak of the ten
copies of the Rule of the Community, the eight copies of the Songs of the Sabbath
Sacrifice or the six copies of the recently-published Halakhic Letter (4QMMT).
I use the word “copies” with reservations and it is likely that we shall be forced
to work out a new terminology to describe the actual situation. A weekly semi-
nar conducted by Thomas. L. Thompson, Niels Peter Lemche, and myself at the
University of Copenhagen on the developmental history of the Old Testament
text recently concluded that the only materials in the Ancient Near East that were

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ordinarily “copied”, that is, which scribes attempted to reproduce verbatim, usu-
ally were liturgical and ritual texts. As far as I am aware, narrative texts were
very freely rendered. The variation within the tradition of a given narrative text
will range from alternative orthographies (plene versus defective and the admis-
sion of dialectal peculiarities) to the admixture of additional vocabulary stock (for
example, glossation for enrichment or intelligibility). This goes all the way to the
creation and inclusion of entire sequences, as well as the deletion of others. To
illustrate this, we might compare the LXX and MT David and Goliath narrative
(already, Wellhausen 1871: 104–5; Barthélemy et al. 1986). Ulrich has pointed to
the essence of the problem at stake here (Ulrich 1988; 1991), although it seems
that he has not always been prepared to admit the consequences of his own insight
(see, however, Ulrich 1992). If the book, rather than the line or phrase, is the unit
the scribes strove to reproduce, then they were prepared not merely to tolerate a
great deal of variation; they also actively produced it themselves. Thus, the classi-
cal pursuit of the archetypical text, while not wrong (the dependency relationship
between texts A and B, where both possess common material, is inevitably a
matter of whether A is dependent on B, B on A, or both on a third source, C), is
nevertheless irrelevant, at least for the exciting centuries preceding the closure
of the canon. We need a perspective – and a terminology that enables it – that
expresses the relative richness of a creatively developing textual tradition, rather
than one which insists on ignoring all the variation in favour of a simplified model
of origins.
Numbers, then, do not suggest that the works later enshrined in the Masoretic
canon already defined that canon in the community, which worshiped for a few
centuries in Khirbet Qumran. At the most, what can be said is that they, at that
time, shared a place of honour together with a wide number of other materials.
I submit that the above considerations are sufficient to enable us to conclude
that, as attested by the Qumran documents and approximately contemporary works
attested elsewhere, there did not exist in early Judaism any well-defined inven-
tory of texts corresponding to the notion of “canon” in later ecclesiastical usage
(Ulrich 1992: 269–76). Now it is important to acknowledge that the Qumran finds
comprise the earliest historical evidence in our possession as to the development
of the canon. Our earliest copies of the Septuagint derive from the fourth and
fifth post-Christian centuries. Despite the faith generally invested in the Aristeas
Letter by New Testament scholars and others, it is and remains a mere tradition
in regard to the date of the LXX. The Mishna, which does not mention the exten-
sive “extra” materials from Qumran, exists only in medieval editions. These may
naturally have been edited so as to bring them into line with the understanding
of canon from a much later time. New Testament citations of Septuagintal docu-
ments are so limited and specialized that it can’t be argued on that ground that
the New Testament authors knew of an integral Old Testament canon. Moreover,
there is sufficient variation in the Greek text underlying the New Testament cita-
tions of the LXX that it may be doubted whether that text, too, had any stability
in the first century ce. Evidence of the lack of closure of the Old Testament may

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be seen in the fact that the New Testament quotes the Book of Enoch as if it were
authoritative, just as 1 Corinthians 2:9 cites an unidentified apocryphal or pseude-
pigraphic work. Interestingly, I Corinthians 2:9 uses the Septuagintal kathos
gégraptai formula, which corresponds to the omnipresent kî’ kāthûb of Qumran
and emphasizes the authoritative nature of the source in question. Similarly, in
Qumran, Hebrew-language works which later figure in the Apocrypha in Greek
(for example, Tobit, Ben Sira) are attested, which suggests that, if Qumran knew
any sort of “canon”, it was rather larger than was that of the future MT. Moreover,
as was already pointed out by G. Vermes almost twenty years ago, the Damascus
Document (CD), which has been found in fragmentary form in Qumran and in
medieval copies from the Cairo Geniza, cites both Jubilees and the Testament
of Levi “as though they were Scripture (CD 16:3–4 and 4:16)”. He proceeded to
add, “the Psalms Scroll from Cave 11 includes a number of apocryphal poems not
appended to, but interspersed among, the canonical compositions” (Vermes 1977:
203; cf. VanderKam 1993). In other words, if there was a “canon” of the Hebrew
Bible; they did not know this in Qumran; nor, on the evidence of the Septuagint,
did they do so in Alexandria.
Now I think it is possible to argue for the existence in Qumran of a sort of
“two-tier” system with respect to the question of canonical status. There were
clearly a large number of works, most of which are reflected in the Masoretic
canon of the medieval period, which are cited in Qumran’s “special” works, but
which do not cite them in return. Conversely, works in the “second tier” – that is,
such documents as Jubilees, Enoch, or the Damascus Document – may on occa-
sion cite each other.
There were, then, two bodies of literature, which at least some groups within
early Judaism regarded as defining God’s self-revelation to Israel. It remains to
say a few words about the relative degrees of authority enjoyed by each of these
two tiers. It might be thought that the first tier, the one consisting of works which
are later reflected in the canon of the MT, enjoyed undisputed primacy. However,
it is a simple fact that the textual tradition in Qumran was multi-textual and multi-
formal, which is to say that a number of variant texts competed with one another,
and there are no clear indications that “Masoretic” or “proto-Masoretic” texts or
text types enjoyed any sort of supremacy. This led Ulrich to conclude that “it was
the sacred work or book that was important, not the specific edition or specific
wording of the work” (Ulrich 1991: 36; 1994: 221–4; on Qumran variant texts, see
Barrera 1994a: 238–9; 1994b: 97).
To this consideration must be added the fact that the Qumran tradents thought
it was permissible to improve on the “biblical” writings. This is, for example, clear
in their attempts to reformulate such works more or less completely, as is the case
with Genesis in the books of Jubilees, the Temple Scroll as a replacement of the
Pentateuch (Wacholder 1983), or the Aramaic-language Genesis Apocryphon. It is
also obviously the case with the so-called “Pentateuchal paraphrases”, for which
some scholars prefer the designation “rewritten Bible”, a phrase which has been
current in the literature since Vermes launched this understanding as far back as in

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1961 (Vermes 1961; Dimant 1994: 154 n. 15). Moreover, it was possible for Jewish
figures outside of Qumran to place “rewritten Pentateuchal” documents on the same
footing as the “biblical” texts, as, for example in Josephus’ use of a text, which
combines Genesis 12:10–20 with 14:1–16 in his putative address to the rebels, who
are ensconced in and defending Jerusalem in De Bello Judaico V, 9.4.379–81:

In old times, there was one Necao, king of Egypt, who was also called
Pharaoh; he came with a prodigious army of soldiers, and seized Queen
Sarah, the mother of our nation.
What did Abraham our progenitor then do? Did he defend himself
from this injurious person by war, although he had three hundred and
eighteen captains under him and an immense army under each of them?
(Josephus, De Bello Judaico, 1960: 209–10).

For some reason, this wonderful passage is ignored by most Old Testament schol-
ars. It shows that Josephus, a scholar who had rigorously pursued Greco-Roman
models in his attempts to write about the past, was capable of holding the seventh-
century Egyptian Pharaoh Neco (elsewhere mentioned in the Old Testament in 2
Kings 23:29, 33–35 to be the contemporary of Abraham, dated by the MT Bible
to about a thousand years earlier). The conflationary nature of this passage puz-
zled me for years, until I became aware of the relevance of the Qumran genre of
“rewritten Pentateuch”.
If we ignore that we are dealing with a convention of classical “history writ-
ing” (Cryer 1994: 22–40) and that there is no reason to suppose that the address
itself ever took place, it nevertheless remains clear that Josephus is assuming,
in the passage in question, that this bit of “rewritten Pentateuch” has sufficient
authority to carry some conviction to contemporary Jews. Josephus’ speech is of
a piece with the similar inventions in Greek and Roman “history writing”. I put
the phrase in inverted commas because I have long felt that there is no such thing
as “historiography” in ancient texts, but only a variety of rhetorical canons for
talking about the past (Cryer 1994: 35–40; Thompson 1992: 372–83). Naturally,
Josephus’ rhetorical point of departure must not be left out of account. He saw
it as his task to depict the Jewish revolt to the Romans as the work of a hand-
ful of fanatics who were operating in defiance of their own religious tradition.
Hence, it is at least possible that Josephus, in this passage, simply creates his
own bit of “Scripture” to illustrate his point. After all, the Romans will have had
neither the means nor the interest in checking his citations, and we do not know
whether Jews resident in Rome, who no doubt regarded Josephus as a traitor and
pariah, would have entered into dialogue with him. It thus functions on the same
level as his countless Old Testament citations; that is, as a legitimating instance
for the point he is attempting to make. It should, in justice, be added that we
do not, to my knowledge, possess this specific bit of “rewritten Pentateuch” in
Qumran, but it is nevertheless a fair inference that some such document under-
lies Josephus’ speech.

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All of this suggests that the “proto-Masoretic” documents did not enjoy such
high status that they were inviolate against alteration or simple replacement. This
should be more than evident when we consider the version of the Pentateuch
which was quoted by the author of Acts 7. Here, the author apparently assumes
that he is citing the very essence of Jewish tradition, as the summary of events
in the Pentateuch, placed in the mouth of the martyr Stephen, is, at least in its
context, supposed to be recognized by the Jewish “council” and “high priest” as
corresponding to Jewish self-understanding. Here, I think, the rhetorical stance
of the author is of less potential importance. If it had adhered in this instance to
an aberrant textual basis, the nascent Christian Church was in jeopardy of being
flatly contradicted by Jewish polemicists. Hence, I believe that the text being
cited in Acts 7 was probably thought by both Jews and Christians of the time
as legitimate representation of the Hebrew tradition – or, at least, its author had
reason to believe that this was the case. However, the version of Genesis cited
by Stephen has Abraham purchasing a burial place for his family “from the sons
of Hamor in Shechem”, which represents a conflation of MT Gen. 23:1ff. (where
he buys a burial cave from “Ephron the Hittite ” in “Machpelah east of Mamre
(that is, Hebron)” (Gen. 23:19) with MT Gen. 34:1ff., which deals with the rape
of Jacob’s daughter Dinah and with the retaliatory massacre of Shechem by
Simeon and Levi. Moreover, whereas the Masoretic text has only Joseph being
buried in Shechem (cf. Josh. 24:32), Acts 7:16 presupposes that all of the patri-
archs were eventually interred there. Furthermore, of the numerous covenants
contracted between Yahweh and the fathers in MT Genesis, the version used by
the author of Acts apparently knew only a version, which emphasized the cov-
enant of circumcision, as recorded in MT Gen. 17 (cf. Acts 7:8). The Pentateuch,
cited in Acts, also divides the career of Moses into three forty-year phases of
activity. The first phase is in Acts 7:23, where forty years is given, which has
Moses “instructed in all the wisdom of the Egyptians”, about which the MT says
nothing whatever. Acts 7:30 has a second phase, in which Moses lived forty
years “in the land of Midian, where he became the father of two sons”, which
fails to mention the oasis of Kadesh. The third phase in Acts 7:36 counts forty
years after “having performed wonders and signs in Egypt and at the Red Sea
and in the wilderness”. The only apparent diversion from this is the mention
of the death of Aaron, which is described in Numbers 33:38–9 as having taken
place “in the 40th year after the people of Israel had come out of the land of
Egypt”. Finally, whereas the MT is careful to stress that Moses received his ora-
cles “face to face” from Yahweh (Num. 12:7–8; Deut. 34:10), Acts’ Pentateuch
insists on the intermediation of angels in conjunction with the giving of the Law
(Acts 7:30, 38, 53).
In other words, neither the New Testament authors nor Josephus regarded the
direct ancestor manuscripts of the modern Masoretic Pentateuch as so authori-
tative that they defined the centre of the Pentateuchal tradition. In short, there
was clearly no “canon” of the OT, not even of as important a part of it as the
Pentateuch, by as late a date as the time of the composition of Acts (usually

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thought to be at the end of the first century ce or the beginning of the second
century, or even later). Moreover, although it goes beyond our present purposes
to discuss the matter at more detail in this connection, it cannot even be proved
that the Pentateuchal works in Qumran were identical in terms of such macro-
structural elements as whole verses and chapters with those known to us from
the Masoretic and Septuagintal traditions (Cryer 1998). The reader is invited to
consider that, if this may be argued with any degree of plausibility with respect to
the works of the Pentateuch, how much more flexibility there is apt to have been
with works of less centrality.
Actually, this should have been obvious to us all along. We should consider
that the business of “rewriting” (a notion that requires more precision than has
been accorded to it as yet) the Bible is already fully and extensively present in
the editions of narrative tradition from the Pentateuch and the Deuteronomistic
History that we find in the Chronicles 1 and 2. In other words, some materi-
als inside the Hebrew Bible patently “rewrite” other materials contained in it.
The “rewriting” of proto-Masoretic tradition that we encounter in Qumran, and
which is additionally presupposed by both Josephus and Acts 7, is precisely this
sort of thing.
To sum up: the community that lived and worshiped in Qumran did not know
an integral canon of the Old Testament corresponding to the later Masoretic
Text. Indeed, the freedom, in respect to tradition, which is displayed by the
“proto-biblical” texts in Qumran, the New Testament, Josephus, as well as by
inner-biblical rewritings of Pentateuchal and Deuteronomistic narratives, all
show that there was no conception of an integral canon of the Old Testament
within nascent Judaism from the second century bce to the beginning of the
second century ce at the earliest. This conclusion has at least one important cor-
ollary. If there was no firm conception as to which texts defined early Judaism,
the religio-historical picture of first-century Palestine changes from that deline-
ated at the beginning of this chapter to a number of competitions among religious
groups, which possessed varying sociological and power-political bases. There
was, apparently, a temple-based Judaism in Jerusalem which competed with
that advocated by the “Qumran community” (to use a threadbare notion that
might best be dropped for a more inclusive concept), that of Samaria, of the
diaspora movements, and of emergent Christianity. It would, hence, be inap-
propriate to speak of a conflict between a coalescing “orthodoxy” and various
“sects”. Indeed, orthodoxy may perhaps have developed in the aftermath of the
devastations of Palestine in 70 and 135 ce, which relegated Qumran to destruc-
tion and Samaria to backwater irrelevance, leaving the diaspora communities
to choose between representatives of the Jerusalemite tradition and those rep-
resenting the new Christian movement. Whatever the truth of the matter may
ultimately prove to be, the acknowledgement that the Old Testament canon
was far from closed at the beginning of the second century ce has important
consequences, which it may take some time for us to appreciate; but we must
do so, for it is a fact.

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and Jerusalem: E. J. Brill/Magnes: 290–98.
Thompson, T. L. 1992. The Early History of the Israelite People From the Written and
Archaeological Sources. Studies in the History of the Ancient Near East 4. Leiden:
E. J. Brill.
Tov, E. 1986. “The Orthography and Language of the Hebrew Scrolls Found at Qumran
and the Origin of These Scrolls”. Textus 13: 31–57.
Ulrich, E. 1988. “Double Literary Edition of Biblical Narrative and Reflections on
Determining the Form to be Translated”. In Perspectives on the Hebrew Bible: Essays

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 O f Q umran , the canon , and the B ible T ext

in Honor of Walter J. Harrelson. J. L. Crenshaw (ed.). Macon, GA: Mercer University

Press: 101–16.
———. 1991: “Pluriformity in the Biblical Text, Text Groups, and Questions of Canon”.
In The Madrid Qumran Congress. Proceedings of the International Congress on
the Dead Sea Scrolls. J. Trebolle Barrera and L. Vegas Montaner (eds.). Leiden:
E. J. Brill: Vol. 1, 23–41.
———. 1992. “The Canonical Process and Textual Criticism”. In “Sha’arei Talmon”.
Studies in the Bible, Qumran and the Ancient Near East Presented to Shemaryahu
Talmon. E. Tov et al. (eds.).Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbraun: 267–91.
———. 1994. “The Biblical Scrolls from Qumran Cave 4. An Overview and a Progress
Report on their Publication”. Revue de Qumran 14: 207–28.
VanderKam, J. C. 1993. “The Scrolls, the Apocrypha, and the Pseudepigrapha”. Hebrew
Studies 34: 35–51.
Vermes, G. 1977 [1981]. The Dead Sea Scrolls: Qumran in Perspective. London: William
Collins and Son Ltd [Philadelphia, PA: Fortress Press].
Wacholder, B. 1983. The Dawn of Qumran. Cincinnati, OH: KTAV.
Wellhausen, J. 1871. Der Text der Bücher Samuels. Gottingen: Vandenhocck und Ruprecht.
White, S. A. 1991. “4Q364 & 365: A Preliminary Report”. In The Madrid Qumran
Congress. Proceedings of the International Congress on the Dead Sea Scrolls.
J. Trebolle Barrera and L. Vegas Montaner (eds.). Leiden: E. J. Brill: Vol. 1, 226.

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 9
DECONSTRUCTI NG THE
C ONTINUITY OF QUM RAN I B
A ND I I WITH IM P LIC ATI ONS FOR
ST ABILIZING THE BI BLI CAL
TEXTS

Gregory L. Doudna

At a certain point, there was a change from pluriformity, or multiple versions of

biblical or pre-biblical texts, to a stabilized or fixed biblical text. For Jews associ-
ated with the Jerusalem Temple, this is what came to be known as the Masoretic
Text (MT). The prevailing scholarly understanding is that this stabilization of the
biblical text happened following the destruction of the Temple of Jerusalem of
70 ce in the era between the First and Second Jewish Revolts (ca. 70–135 ce). In
this scenario, the destruction of the Temple was what Shemaryahu Talmon called
“the Great Divide” (Talmon 2002). Before the destruction of the Temple, there
was textual pluriformity or pluralism; after the destruction of the Temple, there
emerged uniformity, whether by accident or by purposeful human action.
Critical to this scholarly understanding is the range and variety of versions of
biblical texts found at Qumran, combined with a certainty that the Qumran texts
came to an end at the time of the First Revolt (66–70 ce). The Qumran texts are
believed to be evidence for pluriformity or pluralism in biblical texts in Judea in
the first century ce before the Temple was destroyed. Starting in the late 1990s,
a small number of voices have challenged the dating of the Qumran text depos-
its to as late as the First Revolt, but those challenges have had little discernible
impact on scholarly discourse concerned with the Qumran texts (Crown 2005;
Doudna 1998: 458–64; 1999; 2001: 683–754; 2006; 2013: 107–19; Hutchesson
1999; Young 2002; 2005; 2013).
While, on one level, dates for the stabilization of biblical texts and of deposits
of scrolls in caves are issues regarding the assessment of evidence – analyses of
archaeology, palaeography, radiocarbon datings, and so on – on another level,
there has been a strong continuing influence on scholarly thinking of an under-
lying story which filters perception of external data. This story is of a single
community which occupied Qumran from the earlier part of the first century bce
until 68 ce, when Qumran was destroyed by fire by Romans. External evidence or

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data is made to fit within this story and, in somewhat circular form, is perceived
to reinforce or prove the correctness of the story. As Jean-Baptiste Humbert so
well put it: “The narrative takes over and imposes its authority upon the process of
archaeological interpretation” (2003b: 426). The story is that which is alluded to
ubiquitously in scholarly language of a “Qumran community”, Qumran’s “main
period of habitation ending 68 ce”, Qumran’s “period of sectarian habitation”,
and the like. These expressions are shorthand for a larger story. Scholars know
this story and what these terms imply and assume: they refer to the underlying
story. This chapter examines several lines of argument relevant to the notion that
there was a single community at Qumran through both of what Qumran excavator
Roland de Vaux called Period “Ib” (ca. early first to late first century bce accord-
ing to current understanding) and “Period II” (?–68 ce). This chapter will argue
against the notion that the same community or people continued in both of these
two periods. Indeed, there was a “main period” of Qumran’s activity and peo-
ple associated with the site in that period placed the deposits of scrolls in caves
near the site, but that “main period” was Period Ib and did not include activity at
Qumran after that – neither in Period II, III, or at the time of Bar Kokhba.
The significance of this argument is that it removes the main obstacle to a schol-
arly realization that stabilization of the Hebrew biblical text happened before, not
after, the destruction of the Temple of Jerusalem of 70 ce, otherwise suggested by
the character of first-century ce biblical texts before 70 ce found at Judaean Desert
sites other than Qumran. All biblical texts found at the other Judaean Desert sites
are identical to MT, whereas none of the Qumran biblical texts are. This descrip-
tion has been established in a large number of studies by many scholars, notably
Emanuel Tov (2012), and recently confirmed anew by tables of data with counts
of variants of Qumran and Judaean Desert biblical texts compared to the medieval
Leningrad Codex compiled by Ian Young (2002; 2005; 2013). Getting the date
right for the Qumran scroll deposits removes the obstacle to seeing that the transi-
tion from the pluralism and variety reflected in the Qumran texts to the uniform,
post-stabilization, carefully copied, exact-MT biblical texts found in all cases at
all other Judaean Desert sites is best dated ca. late first century bce or early first
century ce. In this light, the later First Revolt and destruction of the Temple had
nothing to do with either the stabilization of the biblical text or the deposits of the
scrolls of Qumran, both of which were earlier than the disasters of 70 ce.

The story of Ib/II continuity at Qumran

A foundational assumption of the excavators of Qumran of the 1950s, which con-
tinues in scholarly discourse today, was the belief that a single group, associated
with the texts in the caves, inhabited the site – from the beginning to the end, in the
midst of the region’s political upheavals for close to two centuries, until the site’s
destruction at the time of the First Revolt. There was one break between the end
of Period Ib and the start of Period II (when the site was abandoned, then resettled
by the same group). Below are representative statements of this story:

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The essential fact is the communal occupation of Periods I and II . . . In

31 B.C. an earthquake damaged the buildings which afterwards remained
abandoned up to the years just before and just after the beginning of
the Christian era. They were then reoccupied by the same community,
Period II, and survived until A.D. 68, when they were destroyed by the
Roman army . . . For a period of almost two centuries, therefore, a com-
munity lived in this abandoned region. (de Vaux 1973: 48, 86)
The Qumran settlement existed for over 150 years until its destruction
in 68 ce . . . communal meals and assemblies were a feature of Khirbet
Qumran during its entire occupational history . . . the rebuilding of these
dining halls provides strong evidence that Khirbet Qumran not only was
inhabited by the same group during all of its main phases (de Vaux’s
Periods I and II), but that these buildings retained their same functions; in
other words, communal living and dining were key components of the life-
style at this site for over 150 years. (Atkinson and Magness 2010: 340–41)

An alert reader might notice at the outset an incongruity in the language of the
“entire occupational history” of Qumran as having ended in 68 ce. The incongru-
ity is: the destruction at the time of the First Revolt was not the end of the site’s
occupational history, since there was repair, resettlement and reuse of the site
after the fire of 68 ce. Use of the site did not end until some years later (“Period
III”). Furthermore, the destruction of Qumran at the time of the First Revolt was
simply the second of two major destructions according to the reconstruction
of the excavators (the first at the end of Period Ib late first century bce; the second
at the end of Period II 68 ce). That is, the occupation of the site ended twice before
the third and final time in the first century ce, according to the reconstruction of
the excavators.
However, it was the second time Qumran came to an end that was the focus of
this story. The excavators assumed as certain that there was discontinuity between
the people of Period II and of III who occupied Qumran after the fire of 68 ce.
This interpretation of discontinuity between Periods II and III stands in contrast
to the people of Period Ib and of II who had occupied the site at some point after
an abandonment at the end of Ib. The excavators were certain that the people of
Ib and II were identical, despite some greater differences between Ib and II than
between II and III. The First Revolt was the fulcrum of the story of Qumran and
the perceived endpoint of the scrolls in the Qumran caves. This story was estab-
lished at the time of the original excavation of Qumran in 1951 when first-century
ce pottery and coins were discovered and before the excavators had knowledge
of the existence of Period III and of Bar Kokhba-era activity at the site or of an
earlier Period Ib or a yet earlier Period Ia (de Vaux 1953).
When these four additional periods were discovered in 1953–56, these were
interpreted within the story already fixed around the hypothesis of a single group at
Qumran, ending in the first century ce during the First Revolt (de Vaux 1954; 1956).

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 D econstructing Q umran I b and I I ’ s continuity

Today, there is not the same certainty among archaeologists regarding the continu-
ity between the first century bce and the first century ce that was held by the original
excavators. A number of archaeologists have explicitly rejected the notion of conti-
nuity of a single group through Periods Ia, Ib and II, for example, Bar-Adon (1981),
Humbert (1994), Hirschfeld (2004), and Magen and Peleg (2007). These archaeolo-
gists do not all use the terminology of “Ia”, “Ib” and “II” in their periodizations, but
each argue for discontinuities in people and functions of the site ca. the second half
of the first century bce, corresponding to de Vaux’s Ia/Ib or Ib/II transitions.
A deconstruction of such arguments of discontinuity between Qumran’s Period
II and III now appears to be under way, with the Oxford dissertation of Dennis
Mizzi (2009) and a publication of Mizzi’s (2010) on the glassware of Qumran.
These have shown a continuity of archaeological finds in Periods II and III, as
well as Joan Taylor’s book, The Essenes, the Scrolls, and the Dead Sea (2012b),
which argues for continuity between Periods II and III.
Other archaeologists and scholars have proposed a discontinuity in habitation
within Period II itself, in which an earlier group was replaced by a later one. De
Vaux himself suggested that, at some point before the end of Period II, “the com-
munity” had abandoned Qumran, and persons other than the community inhabited
Qumran in the community’s place until the end of Period II, when the site was
destroyed during the First Revolt: “On peut supposer que l’ensemble de celle-ci
[la Communauté] avait en effet quitté les lieux, en mettant ses trésors à l’abri,
mais qu’un parti d’hommes résolus avait tenté de défendre le bâtiment” (de Vaux
1954: 234).
De Vaux did not think that these later people of Period II inhabited Qumran
for a long time. However, more importantly, de Vaux saw a change in habitation
in the course of Period II as compatible with the finds at the site. More recently,
Frederick Bruce and Stephen Pfann, in the article “Qumran” in the Encyclopedia
Judaica (2007), state that there is sufficient archaeological evidence indicating a
change in people between the sectarian inhabitants of Period Ib and the occupants
of Qumran before the destruction of the site in 68 CE to justify the identification
OF a new archaeological period, representing a non-sectarian habitation which
they called "Period IIb". Bruce and Pfann state that Period IIb might have lasted
some two to three years, although their archaeological grounds for supposing this
period was only two to three years and no longer are unclear.1
David Stacey argues that Qumran was linked to the Royal Estate at Jericho
and that Qumran served as a military watchtower, and also for water-intensive
industrial processes, supplying the demands of the Estate, especially during
Herod’s extensive building activity of the late first century bce. As the Royal
Estate at Jericho declined after the death of Herod, so too did the demand for
goods produced at Qumran. With the abandonment of the Royal Estate and its
use of Qumran ca. 50 ce, there would have been an influx of people at Qumran
with a different impetus and purpose (Stacey 2013: 70). (However, that the Royal
Estate in Jericho was active during the first century ce after Herod (37–4 bce) and
Archelaus (4 bce–6 ce) has been questioned.2)

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De Vaux, Bruce and Pfann, and Stacey have each supposed that the final stage
of occupation of Period II, which ended at the destruction of the First Revolt,
postdated the major scroll deposits of Cave 1Q, Cave 4Q, and so on, which they
suppose were done earlier by different people than the occupants of Qumran of
Period II at the time of the First Revolt. That is, this is a picture in which the scroll
deposits of Caves 1Q, 4Q, and so on, were done by a next-to-last occupation
group at Qumran before the destruction at the time of the First Revolt, instead of
the last occupation. But, traditionally, Period Ib was regarded as the next-to-last
occupation before the First Revolt. A notion of discontinuity between the people
of the scroll deposits in contrast to a later people in Period II has therefore long
been present in some archaeological interpretations of Qumran, even though it has
been little recognized or acknowledged.
Few archaeologists today, apart from Jodi Magness, assume linkage of
the scrolls in the caves of Qumran to all occupants of the site prior to 68 ce.
Nevertheless, the language of de Vaux and Magness is ubiquitous in scholarly
books, articles, and discussions, referring to “the” people of Qumran and “the
main period” of the community’s habitation as having ended with the First Revolt.
Conflating the activity in Periods Ib and II, this language simply takes for granted
the existence of a single group in both periods.

Date of the end of Period Ib

De Vaux supposed “Period Ib” ended in 31 bce with a destruction by earthquake
and fire. However, publication of the pottery of the Netzer excavations of Jericho
by Rachel Bar-Nathan (2002) has shown that pottery of Qumran’s Period Ib was
identical to pottery from the first part of the reign of Herod uncovered at Jericho.
It became clear that Qumran Ib continued into the reign of Herod later than the 31
bce date of de Vaux, a conclusion earlier argued by Magness (1995; 1998a) and
now confirmed correct:

The earthquake of 31 b.c.e did not put an end to the settlement at the
two sites nor did it cause any change in the repertoire of vessels. In fact,
between 31 and 20 b.c.e (designated at Jericho as Herodian I), there was
continuity in Hasmonaean pottery types while very few new types were
introduced. The greatest change in pottery, according to the ceramic evi-
dence from Jericho, occurred with the Romanization of pottery types in
Judaea during the middle of Herod’s reign, toward 20 b.c.e (designated
at Jericho as Herodian II). (Bar-Nathan 2006: 274)
. . . the final dating of Period Ib at Qumran, which seems to be HR1.3
(Bar Nathan 2002: 100)
The revised stratigraphic chronology suggested by Magness is in accord-
ance with our research (Magness dates . . . Period Ib to 31 [sic]–ca. 4
[sic] bce, and Period II to ca. 1–68 ce). (Bar Nathan 2002: 203 n. 3)

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 D econstructing Q umran I b and I I ’ s continuity

The 4 bce date for the end of Ib attributed by Bar-Nathan to Magness is not quite
accurate. Magness has consistently dated the end of Ib as “9/8 bce or some time
thereafter”, sometimes expressed as simply “ca. 9/8 bce” (1995: 64; 2004: 57).
Magness’s focus on 9/8 bce is based on an argument from a hoard of Tyrian sil-
ver tetradrachmas found buried at Qumran’s Locus 120 of latest date 9/8 bce.
Magness argued that the L120 hoard was buried before the end of Ib and not after
the end of Ib, as de Vaux had supposed. In Magness’s reconstruction, the hiding of
the hoard was prompted by a crisis after the latest coins. The crisis resulted in the
end of Ib almost immediately after the hiding of the hoard. After an abandonment
of unknown duration of one or more winter flooding seasons following the end of
Ib, Qumran was resettled (beginning of Period II). Those who resettled the site did
not know of the valuable hoard, hidden under the floor of Locus 120. Since it was
buried under the upper of two floor levels of L120, the upper floor in Magness’s
reconstruction becomes a second Ib floor (a post-31 bce floor level above an ear-
lier, pre-31 bce floor level), not a floor built in Period II as de Vaux had thought.
In Magness’s scenario, there is no Period II floor in L120 (Magness 2007: 250).
As a distinct issue, Magness argued that the people who resettled Qumran in
Period II, were the same as those who had abandoned the site at the end of Period Ib.
This raises the question of why, then, the returning people would have no knowledge
of the hoard which Magness proposes had been wealth accumulated and hidden
by the community before the end of Ib (Magness 1998b; 2004: 73–9). Magness
leaves this question unanswered (2004: 45). One obvious possibility would be that
the people of Period II did not know of the L120 hoard’s existence because they
were not the same people who had buried it; that is, there was discontinuity between
Periods Ib and II. The appeal of Magness’s scenario, in addition to its compatibility
with downdating the end of Ib to later in the reign of Herod, is that the latest date
of the coins (9/8 bce) is close to the time of the death of Herod (4 bce). This was
a period with upheaval and civil war, as recounted by Josephus, and provided a
context for the crisis that, as de Vaux and Magness interpreted it, resulted in the
end of Qumran’s Period Ib in destruction by fire. (The Ib fire has, however, been
questioned.4) Although the specifics of the end of “Period Ib” remain disputed, there
is no doubt, in the wake of the Bar-Nathan 2002 Jericho pottery publication, that
Qumran’s Period Ib ended later than de Vaux had thought. Minimally, it extended
into some part of Herod’s reign after 31 bce and, possibly, just before the end of the
first century bce. Let us now turn to specific aspects of the assumption of continuity
of a “community” at Qumran through both Periods Ib and II until 68 ce.

Pottery
Based on parallels at Jericho, Bar-Nathan reported that the 708 bowls of Qumran
L86/89 appear to have ended in Period Ib and not in Period II or III: “In view of
the absence of this bowl from first-century ce contexts at Jericho, the dating of the
material from Qumran Period II might have to be revised” (Bar-Nathan 2002: 89;
contra Humbert 2006: 39: “This pottery [of L86/89] belongs to the final phase of

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Qumran occupation, i.e. to the middle of the first century A.D”, and contra Cross
1995: 62 n. 3: “an inscribed bowl from 86/89 seems clearly to be dated, palaeo-
graphically, to the first century AD”). Similarly, distinctive wheel-made “Qumran
lamps” (called “hellenistic lamps” by de Vaux) were manufactured at Qumran
exclusively in Ib and not in II or III. Thirty-nine of these lamps were found in
the excavations of Qumran, according to the latest count by Jolanta Mlynarczyk
(2013). All are from Qumran’s Period Ib, late first century bce. These lamps also
turn up in smaller numbers at Masada, Jericho, and Qumran Cave 1Q all dated
narrowly to the time of Herod late in the first century bce, none from first cen-
tury ce (Bar-Nathan 2002: 110–12). Mlynarczyk concluded on the basis of the
numbers of the distributions that all lamps of this type had been manufactured
at Qumran. When Period Ib ends, these lamps end everywhere. In contrast to the
significant numbers of these items produced at Qumran in Period Ib, none of these
bowls or lamps were likely from Periods II or III. These two items suggest that the
most distinctive pottery from Qumran may have been manufactured exclusively
during Period Ib, whereas the pottery of Qumran Periods II and III was either not
unique to Qumran or, perhaps, not manufactured there. De Vaux’s later writing
moved in this direction. In his 1959 Schweich Lectures, he stated:

The pottery of Period II is very plentiful . . . There are certain features

which underline the autonomy of Khirbet Qumran, where, as we have
said, there was a manufacturing centre, but, taken as a whole, this pot-
tery [of Period II] has exact counterparts in that found in Jewish tombs
of the first century a.d. in the Jerusalem area, in the soundings against
the north wall of Jerusalem (the dates of these have been established by
coins of the Procurators and Agrippa I), and finally in the excavations of
Herodian Jericho. (de Vaux 1973: 33)

To the above, de Vaux added a footnote, in the context of this Period II discus-
sion: “The pottery of Qumran now appears less ‘autonomous’ or ‘original’ than I
stated it to be at an earlier stage” (1973: 33 n. 2). Also of relevance on this point,
attempts to classify locations of original manufacture of pottery found at Qumran
based on INAA (Instrumental Neutron Activation Analysis) were published by Jan
Gunneweg and Marta Balla (2003: 3–57, 2010). An alternative analysis has been
published, with a differing interpretations by Jacek Michniewicz (Michniewicz
2009). Michniewicz disagrees with one of the basic claims of Gunneweg and
Balla – that pottery found at Qumran manufactured at Jericho can be distinguished
by technical means from pottery found at Qumran manufactured at Qumran
(Michniewicz: “there are no clues that would allow even a part of the vessels to be
ascribed to a workshop in Jericho or Qumran” (2009: 142)). Michniewicz’s analy-
ses render equivocal some previously published identifications of non-Qumran
sites of origin for pottery found at Qumran. Michniewicz characterizes the dis-
agreements not as disputes over the validity of the published scientific data, but
rather as issues of interpretation.

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 D econstructing Q umran I b and I I ’ s continuity

Language
There appears to be a shift in language from an apparently exclusive use of Hebrew/
Aramaic by people at the site in Ib to a substantial use of Greek in II and III, as
reflected in the inscriptional material of Qumran published by André Lemaire
(2003). In Ib, there are practice alphabets and writing exercises in Hebrew/
Aramaic and numerous Hebrew/Aramaic inscriptions. In L124 (interpreted by de
Vaux as debris from Ib), there were eight inscriptions, all in Hebrew/Aramaic and
one with a possible word “priest”.5 The unusual “deed of gift”, published in DJD
36 as KhQ1 and the KhQ2 ostracon found with it, with some male names and
a possible reading of “priest”, found next to the Qumran cemetery in 1996, are
probably late first century bce, in keeping with the palaeographic description of
Ada Yardeni of the writing of KhQ1 as “early Herodian semi-cursive”.6
The situation is very different in Period II. David Hamidović adds inscriptions
reported by Magen and Peleg, Émile Puech, and James Strange to the inscriptions
from Qumran, the caves, and Ain Feshkha, published by Lemaire, to arrive at 93
total inscriptions of which 21 are in Greek. However, “none of the Greek inscriptions
dates from Period I” (Hamidović 2009: 466, 471). Whereas the Hebrew/Aramaic
inscriptions, so prevalent at Qumran in Period Ib, continue to a reduced extent in
Period II, the change is dramatic. Of seven certain plus two uncertain Greek inscrip-
tions from the buildings of Qumran published by Lemaire (at L8, L27, L30, L35,
L54, L110, L121, and uncertainly L78 and L111), seven are attributed to Period
II and an inscribed jar from L8 to either II or III. Lemaire summarizes: “Pour les
autres inscriptions grecques, seule une analyse stratigraphique détaillée permettrait
de distinguer celles postérieures à 68; mais le plupart sont probablement antérieures”
(Lemaire 2003: 381). The only one not given a date by Lemaire is a stone weight
with Greek letters found in L110 among debris including three coins all of which
are first century ce. Therefore, that Greek inscription also appears to be Period II/III.
These Greek inscriptions of Period II and/or III include the name “Joseph” in
Greek on a stamp found in L30 apparently in use at the time of the First Revolt.
According to Josephus, a “Joseph son of Simon” was made commander of Jericho
at the time of the First Revolt of 66–70 ce (J.W. 2.567). This “Joseph son of
Simon” may be identified with Joseph Cabi b. Simon, a former high priest of the
Jerusalem Temple of ca. 62 ce of Ant. 20.196. Was this the Joseph of the Qumran
L30 stamp?7 A small percentage (ca. 3 per cent) of the 900 plus texts in the caves
of Qumran is in Greek, and these are probably all or mostly first century bce,
contemporary with the many Hebrew and Aramaic texts. Out of ca. 930 Qumran
texts, 27 are in Greek, compared to ca. 750 Hebrew and ca. 150 Aramaic, accord-
ing to Tov (2008: 339). However, given the possibility that those Greek texts
originated and were used elsewhere than Qumran and were brought to the site for
disposal or hiding, it is unclear that that bears on the language in use at Qumran in
Ib as indicated by the inscriptional material.
An opisthograph, 4Q460/4Q350, on which a list of quantities in Greek with
check marks (4Q350) is written on the back of a Hebrew literary text (4Q460),

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has occasioned much discussion. The Qumran provenance of 4Q460/4Q350 need

not be doubted for reasons discussed elsewhere (for example, Cotton and Larson
2003: 113–26), but what is to be made of the Greek checklist? If the scrolls in the
caves were imported for the purpose of permanent disposal, the secondary use of
the reverse side of one of the imported texts, 4Q460, may have been to write an
ephemeral checklist either before its shipment to Qumran, while en route or at
Qumran – in any case, before the text was put in Cave 4Q. In favour of the first
or second possibilities and against the third is the lack of evidence at the site for
the use of Greek in daily life at Qumran in Period Ib, the era of the deposits of the
scrolls per the present argument. The possibility that the Greek list was written on
the back of 4Q460 by a later rummager in Cave 4 (at some point after the texts had
been deposited) is difficult to exclude, however.
There is no reason to suppose from the absence of Greek inscriptions at
Qumran in Ib that there were scruples against using Greek, or that absolutely no
one knew Greek. But it does suggest that Greek was not much in use by the people
at Qumran in Ib. It heightens the question of whether the non-Greek users of Ib
and the heavy Greek users of II were the same group as is commonly supposed.

Women
For Period Ib, there seems to be no evidence for women at Qumran. There are no
women’s names among the names of the ostraca from Period Ib, nor are there any
known clear cases of gendered finds from Period Ib suggesting the presence of
women. But it is certain that there were women at Qumran in both Periods II and
III in the first century ce. Evidence of the presence of women is based on gendered
finds such as jewellery, beads, and spindle whorls, as discussed in the studies
of Taylor (1999: 317–21) and Magness (2004: 113–49). Whereas none of these
items seem to have been found in Ib contexts at Qumran, the situation in II and
III is very different. A spindle whorl (No. 633) was found in 1953 in de Vaux’s
L99 “Railway” Trench in a fill of Period II items. Two years later in the same area
the excavators found an earring (No. 2003), presumably also from Period II. For
Period III, a spindle whorl (No. 401) was found in L20, and a bracelet and a green
bead were found in L43 in a Period III context. A bead was found at L35 in a
context which has a Vespasian 69–70 ce coin, and therefore belongs to III. A bead
from L44 is either II or III. Fibulae, possibly from women, were found in several
II/III contexts, including L44, L56, L96. A fourth is possible from the “Railway”
Trench. That some of these fibulae had belonged to women is suggested by the
fibula from L44 (No. 1020), found with two bronze rings (Nos. 1018, 1019). In
the “Railway” Trench, a “rod or fibula of bronze” (No. 2007) was found with the
earring mentioned above. In addition to the de Vaux finds, Magen and Peleg also
reported finding “bracelets” and “rings (some with stone insets)”, though without
disclosure of locus or stratum (2007: 21). A wooden comb was found in Cave 1Q.
That comb might have belonged to a woman. However, no other women’s item
was found with it and it is difficult to exclude the possibility that men also used

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combs. Ton Derks and Wouter Vos comment on the comb/gender issue of the era
in the wider Mediterranean world:

there is a wealth of contextual data that supports the association of

combs with women . . . representations of combs and other grooming
tools, for instance, seem to figure nearly exclusively on memorials for
women . . . long lists of comb finds from more prosaic burials may be
cited as references to the same virtue of female beauty . . . comb finds
and iconographic depictions of combs provide strong arguments for the
comb as a marked symbol of female identity, especially in the ritual
context of the funeral. Against this background, the apparent absence
of combs, real or depicted, on male funerary monuments or in tombs for
men, is most striking. (Derks and Vos 2010: 62–3)

However, Derks and Vos also cite literary allusions to upper-class Roman men
using combs (for example, a mocking question to a bald man: “of what use will be
this piece of box-wood, cut into so many teeth, and now presented to you, seeing
that you have no hair?” (Martial, Epigrams 14.25). A remark that a worthy centu-
rion had broad shoulders and wild, uncombed hair may imply that some men did
comb their hair (Juvenal, Satires 14.194). Taylor’s study characterized combs as a
gendered women’s item (1999: 318), but Katharina Galor disagrees: “combs do not
elucidate any matters of gender as both archaeological and literary evidence suggest
that combs were used by both male and female (Whitehouse 200[6]: 748)” (Galor
2010: 32). Possibly weighing against Galor however, Magness cites an excavation
at Khirbet ed-Deir of a sixth-seventh century ce Byzantine monastery inhabited by
a male population published by Hirschfeld in which “no spindle whorls or shafts,
beads, or jewelry, combs, hairnets, mirrors, or cosmetic items” were found; note
the absence of combs (Magness 2004: 131, citing Hirschfeld 1999). It is intriguing
to consider a woman associated with the comb and the domestic pottery stored in
Cave 1Q at the time of the First Revolt. The woman (?) of Cave 1Q probably would
not have been alone, based on the two knife-pared, bow-spouted “Herodian” lamps
found in Cave 1Q, as reported in DJD 1. The trapezoidal shape of, and double line
incisions on, those lamps' nozzles, indicate those lamps belong to Smith's Type 2
class of "Herodian" lamps, believed to have begun in Judaea ca. 35 ce and the most
common type of lamp in Judaea at the time of the First Revolt (de Vaux 1955:11,
Fig. 3.1; Mlynarczyk 2013: 108–10). So this is plausibly activity dated to the time
of the First Revolt (based on the Smith Type 2 “Herodian” lamps), activity possibly
including a woman (based on the comb) in Cave 1Q at that time.
A bronze earring or nose-ring, with domestic pottery from the approximate
time of the First Revolt, was found in Cave 24, about 50 metres north of the scroll-
bearing Cave 11Q.8 Unlike Caves 1Q and 11Q, there were no scrolls or scroll jars
found in Cave 24. There was only an indication of the use of that cave by refugees
or possibly shepherds in the latter half of the first century ce. This activity appears
to have included the presence of at least one woman, analogous to the possible

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presence of a woman in Cave 1Q at approximately the same time, and perhaps for
similar reasons, as Cave 24. Therefore, it seems likely that women were among
the refugees or fugitives using caves around Qumran for temporary habitation or
storage of personal supplies at the time of the upheavals of the First Revolt, and
this is consistent with the finds indicating the presence of women at the site of
Qumran in the first century ce. Again, there is an apparent qualitative difference
between Ib and II/III at Qumran. All of the known signs of women’s presence
appear only in Periods II and III, with no sign of women at Qumran in Period Ib.
It is true that no women’s names have turned up in the ostraca from Qumran
Periods II or III, just as is the case with Ib. There seem to be no names securely
identified from Qumran’s Period III at all, and the absence of women’s names in
the finds from II may be attributable to the smaller database of such names and
accident, in contrast to the larger number of 100 per cent men’s names in Ib which
do give an impression of an actual absence of women at the site in Ib (with both
of these interpretations of Ib and II in keeping with the gendered finds pertaining
to these periods).

Animal bone deposits

Distinctive animal bone deposits found inside and under pottery in open areas of
the site of Qumran were said by de Vaux to be “the clearest proof” that the people
of Periods Ib and II were identical (de Vaux 1973: 120). De Vaux acknowledged
that most of the animal bone deposits were Ib (“the majority belong to Period Ib”)
(de Vaux 1973: 13). But de Vaux claimed that the same kind of deposits were also
found in Period II at loci 73, 80, 130, and 132 (de Vaux 1973: 13 n. 1). Followed
and cited by countless scholarly expositors has been de Vaux’s view that Period II
animal bone deposits were evidence that the same people of Period Ib returned to
Qumran to inhabit the site throughout Period II. However, after detailed analysis
of Locus 130 by Robert Donceel based on hitherto unpublished pencil drawings
and a topographical map, as well as stratigraphy, Donceel concluded that de Vaux
had erred in saying that any of the animal bone deposits of L130 date to Period II:
“nothing justifies the supposition according to which the so-called practice of
‘under-jar bone-deposits’ continued after the end of de Vaux’s ‘Period I’ (end of
the 1st cent. b.c.), at least in locus 130; the evidence of the pottery, lamps, and the
coins is unequivocal” (Donceel 2005: 69). Donceel allowed for the possibility that
the animal bone deposits could have continued at later times elsewhere at the site.
“Rien n’interdit d’ailleurs a priori d’envisager que le processus ait pu être con-
tinué ailleurs sur le site (c à d. en d’autres endroits de la périphérie des bâtiments)
à une époque plus récente” (Donceel 2005: 46). However, Donceel noted that it
would raise the question of why the animal bones stopped at the end of Period Ib
in L130, if they continued in Period II elsewhere.
Turning to L132, which adjoins L130, de Vaux claimed that only Period II
animal bone deposits were found in L132 (de Vaux 1973: 13 n. 1). But in his field
notes he noted that L132’s pottery was like that of L130 (“cleaning and removal

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of the pottery items with [bone deposits] 1, 2 and 3 in the southwest corner. The
ceramics are analogous to those of locus 130” (L132, 9/3/55)), and de Vaux
understood that L130’s pottery was from Period I (L130, 2/3/55). De Vaux’s field
notes also reported two coins (Nos. 2425, 2426) found with one of the animal
bone deposits at L132 at his entry for 14/3/55. Those two coins are now identi-
fied, albeit with question marks, as being from Alexander Jannaeus and [John]
Hyrcanus [I] (Pfann 2003: 57–8), which point to Period Ib, not II. As early as
1998, Robert Donceel reported that, on the basis of the de Vaux excavation materi-
als, all of the animal bones in the northern enclosure (L130, 132, 135) belonged to
Ib (Donceel 1998: 99–104).9 Yet, to the present day, Donceel’s detailed correction
of the dating of the animal bone deposits remains almost completely unacknowl-
edged and unaddressed in relevant secondary literature as if it were unknown. In a
2001 lecture, Humbert also reassessed de Vaux’s interpretation of L130 and con-
cluded that de Vaux had been mistaken, suggesting a “halting of bone deposits”
in the first century bce by new settlers at Qumran, possibly reflecting a change
in religious practice (Humbert 2003b: 435–6). These analyses concerning L130
and L132 – and their conclusions that the animal bone deposits in L130 and L132
ended in Period Ib – call for critical scrutiny of the two remaining loci in which de
Vaux claimed to have found Period II animal bone deposits: namely, L73 and L80.
Unfortunately the publication of loci L73 and L80 has been inadequate.
Yitzhak Magen and Yuval Peleg reported animal bone deposits in the first
century ce (Period II) from their excavations in 1993–2004: “vessels contain-
ing bones dating from the Hasmonean period were found in the southern dump,
and elsewhere from later periods, up to the site’s destruction. The disposal of
bones within the site was thus a permanent feature” (Magen and Peleg 2007: 43).
Unfortunately, Magen and Peleg did not disclose where “elsewhere” was. Nor
did they offer any other information concerning their claim. The excavations of
Randall Price and Oren Gutfeld of 2002–12 found still more animal bone depos-
its, but none, in their estimation, were of first-century ce date. These deposits were
“concentrated along (and even under) the eastern wall marking the eastern edge
of the settlement . . . Price assigns the animal bone deposits that he found to the
pre-31 bce phase of Period Ib” (Magness 2011: 358–9).
The currently available information can be summarized as follows: the animal
bone deposits are extensive, certain, and verified in Period Ib (possibly the remains
of some industrial process carried out at the site in addition to meals, suggest
Donceel (2005: 49, 72) and Stacey (2013: 55)). There are, moreover, unverified
claims of a few more such deposits from Period II. Is such lack of published docu-
mentation and verification for Period II animal bone deposits a solid foundation
for the assumption of Period Ib/Period II continuity (de Vaux’s “clearest proof”)?

Quantity of tableware
De Vaux’s, now traditional, view was that Qumran had communal dining through
both Periods Ib and II, ending in 68 ce. There was, however, no such dining in

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Period III. The destruction of 68 ce was the point at which, as de Vaux put it,
“community life at Qumran no longer exists” (de Vaux 1973: 43). This under-
standing is not supported by actual evidence. The argument for the practice of
communal dining at Qumran, even in Period Ib in which large quantities of table-
ware were found, has been contested:

The idea of ”community” was the intuition that very early on determined
the historic-archaeological characterization of the site . . . The collective
installations [at Qumran] that [de Vaux said] support his idea of com-
munity are not at all convincing . . . An impartial archaeological exami-
nation of the entire ruin does not detect the morphology necessary to
shelter a large society . . . The housing of a large group is not practical
here . . . To suggest that the most important members of the community
lived in the cliffs’ caves and in “camps” set up near the site is surpris-
ing. The caves are merely erosion pockets or crevices and one cannot
imagine that, even in antiquity, a group of sedentary people would have
lived for two centuries in tents . . . We must accept that Qumran does not
present any of the necessary criteria for an identification of a communal
life . . . The community at Qumran does not have substance. The two
hundred or two hundred fifty members that one wishes to place there are
a fabrication of the mind, and the archaeology does not lead in this direc-
tion. (Humbert 2003b: 425–32)

De Vaux, influenced by the concept of Qumran as a communally-eating,

sectarian settlement, extravagantly identified this room [L77] as a “refec-
tory” and “a place where the president of the assembly would have taken
his stand”, although evidence from Masada, already available to de Vaux
before his death, shows that such long, comparatively narrow, rooms
were used as storerooms. Similar storerooms have since been found at
Herodium and Jericho. (Stacey 2013: 41)

Atkinson and Magness’s response in defence of the traditional view paradoxically

seems only to further weaken the argument for Qumran’s uniqueness underlying
the sectarian community interpretation:

The sectarian practice of dining from individual dishes accounts for the
discovery of hundreds of small plates, cups, and bowls in pantries attached
to the communal dining rooms at Qumran (L86 and L114) . . . this cus-
tom seems to have been widespread in the first century bce, judging from
the large numbers of plates, saucers, and bowls found at sites around the
country. Andrea Berlin describes as follows the evidence from Gamla:
“Each person had a small plain buff fabric bowl for his own portion.”
(Atkinson and Magness 2010: 332)

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However, that debate is ultimately resolved with respect to Period Ib; the impor-
tant point is that the two large inventories of dining pottery found at the site at
L86/89 and L114 – the main basis for the argument for the interpretation of com-
munal dining at Qumran – both ended at the end of Ib (for L86/89: de Vaux 1973:
11–12; Magness 2004: 91–2; Bar-Nathan 2002: 203–4; 2006: 266–74. For L114:
de Vaux 1973: 5 n. 1; Magness 2004: 103–4; Atkinson and Magness 2010: 332 n.
48; Bar-Nathan 2002: 89 (J-BL5 bowls at L114)).
There is nothing found at Qumran from either Period II or III comparable to
the scale of the tableware of L86/89 and L114 of Period Ib. At the destruction of
Qumran during the First Revolt, there were multiple loci with small amounts of
dining pottery used by people living in rooms, reflective of individual or nuclear-
family/small household-scale or refugee levels in different rooms, with no
evidence of communal or large-scale dining. Period II is essentially indistinguish-
able from Period III with respect to quantities of tableware per person. Period Ib
differs dramatically from both II and III in quantity of tableware. The large quanti-
ties of cups and bowls are specific to Period Ib.
Magness reconstructs an upper-storey room built over L77 used for communal
dining in Period II. Her main arguments for the existence of communal dining
in Period II appear to be two. First, that communal dining would be expected to
have continued in II on the assumption of continuity of the same group from Ib.
And second, the animal bone deposits claimed by de Vaux to have continued in
Period II are interpreted to mean that communal dining continued in Period II.
After arguing for the existence of the L77 upstairs room, Magness cites tableware
in Period II debris in nearby L58 as having come from the communal dining con-
jectured to have taken place in L77 upstairs (Magness 2004: 101; Atkinson and
Magness 2010: 341). The problem in Magness’s argument is in the numbers. In
L86/89 of Period Ib were found, according to Magness, 279 shallow bowls, 798
hemispherical cups, 150 deep cups, 37 deep bowls and 11 table jugs for pouring
wine. The other main tableware find of Ib, L114, had 39 shallow bowls, 111 hemi-
spherical cups, 9 deep cups, 1 large bowl, and 1 table jug.
In L58 of Period II, however, no cups, and only 3 goblets, 7 bowls, 2 plates,
18 jugs, and 1 flask were found. The numbers are hardly comparable between
the Ib loci on the one hand, and L58 from II on the other. The low total numbers
of dishes in L58 (found in two separate piles) are not distinguishable from the
domestic pottery of a household, as in the cooking pottery and dishes found at
other loci in II and III. There is no evidence from L58 for the existence of com-
munal dining in Period II, whether in upstairs L77 or at any other locus.
Magness conjectured the existence of another upper-storey room used for
communal dining on the western side of the site in Period Ib associated with the
pottery of L114 (2004: 81–112). Even though the L114 pottery ended in Ib and
there is no comparable find of large numbers of tableware from Period II on the
western side, Magness nevertheless suggested that communal dining on the west
side also continued in Period II. In support of this, Magness cited de Vaux’s claim
of animal bone deposits in Period II in the northern enclosure (but that has been

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convincingly argued by Donceel and Humbert to have been unsupported and mis-
taken). Magness also conjectured that de Vaux’s description at L126 of “much
pottery, several bowls or plates, a flask, etc.” (23/2/55) could have been from the
conjectured Period II communal dining on the western side (Magness 2004: 104–5
n. 110). In short, Magness has made an argument for communal dining at Qumran
based on an interpretation of the real finds of Ib and then conjectured its continu-
ation in Period II without evidence. As pointed out by Bar-Nathan, disposals of
huge numbers of bowls in miqvehs or pools at Jericho during the Hasmonean era
and HR1 appear to have some relationship to L86/89 of Ib at Qumran. The same
kind of bowls appear in large numbers – so many similar kinds of bowls at the two
nearby sites, with possible evocation of ritual uses, that the question was raised
by Bar-Nathan whether the finds from Qumran Ib and the Hasmonean Palaces at
Jericho reflect practices of the same sect at the two sites:

the finds from Qumran (Period Ib) which are, in fact, identical to those
exposed in the Hasmonean palace complex at Jericho . . . the abundance
of mikva’ot [at the Hasmonean palace in Jericho] and the many bowls
and plates in them may be connected with the laws of impurity and
cleanliness in force in Jericho at this time. (Bar-Nathan 2002: 5)
the lack of imported pottery, and the profusion of bowls and their relation-
ship to the miqvaot [at Jericho], might all be related to unwritten Sadducee
laws and customs . . . the great resemblance of the pottery in Hasmonean
Jericho to that of Qumran Period Ib is notable. (In this frame we shall not
discuss whether this similarity indicates a similar sect in both sites, or
common Jewish laws or habits, which were practised throughout Judea.)
(Bar-Nathan 2002: 198)

The large numbers of cups and bowls at Qumran in Period Ib are therefore neither
unusual nor unique. What is unusual are scholarly claims that distinctive dining
practices or purity concerns, correlating to the profligate use of tableware com-
mon to the Hasmonean Palaces at Jericho and at Qumran in Period Ib, were pres-
ent at Qumran in the first century ce and in Period II, and differed from practices
at other first-century ce Judean sites, as well as in Qumran Period III. That notion
is without evidence.

Ownership of the site

An interpretation that Qumran Ib was an extension of the Hasmonean and Royal
Estate in Jericho is implicit in the Jericho Netzer excavations’ pottery volume of
Bar-Nathan of 2002. That interpretation has been developed explicitly by David
Stacey (2007: 237: “Qumran must be considered an integral, though outlying, part
of the Royal Estate”; 2013). If that interpretation is correct, Qumran may have
been owned or controlled by high priests during much of the first century bce. As

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Humbert put it, “Qumrân, par proximité appartient à Jéricho et qui tenait Jéricho
tenait Qumrân” (Humbert 2003a: 469). Historian Samuel Rocca refers to the first-
century bce high priest “Hyrcanus II who was, in fact, the owner of the palatial
environs [at Jericho]” (Rocca 2008: 115). Ownership of the site of Qumran would
be expected to have changed with political changes. There is no reason to sup-
pose the same ownership continued in Period II as in Period Ib. It follows that
the assumption that the people of Qumran of II were the same as the people of
Qumran of Ib is further weakened.

Scrolls
In all of the scrolls found in Qumran’s caves, nearly one thousand texts in all,
there is not one allusion to an event, name, ruler, figure, or historical context as
late as the first century ce. Nor is there a single text composed later than the first
century bce. On the other hand, there are numerous allusions to earlier figures and
contexts of the first century bce, as well as many scrolls among the finds which
were written in the first century bce (Atkinson 2007; Vermes 2007; Wise 2003).
Oddly, the most obvious conclusion from such distribution is hardly considered:
namely, that the Qumran texts had been deposited by the end of the first century
bce. The latest formal scribal hands in the Qumran texts are “late Herodian for-
mal” and were, accordingly, dated to the mid-first century ce by Frank M. Cross
(1961) – a date which has been applied to the Qumran texts ever since. However,
the naming and dating of the scripts of the Qumran texts originated in the prior
belief that the dating of the text deposits had already been established in the First
Revolt. On that only apparently secure starting point, it was assumed that scribal
copies among the Qumran texts had been produced continuously until just before
the First Revolt. In this way, the latest scribal hands in the Qumran texts became
“late Herodian formal” and dated to ca. 50 ce.
The origin of the dating of “late Herodian formal” script has been lost in collec-
tive scholarly memory to such an extent that such palaeographic datings are today
often regarded as evidence that Qumran texts were produced as late as ca. 50 ce
and that the interpretation which had created those dates is therefore confirmed,
without awareness of the circularity in the reasoning. In fact, such palaeographic
dating provides no independent verification that Qumran texts were produced as
late as the first century ce, since that result had been based on the premise that the
First Revolt was the endpoint. First-century ce Qumran text palaeographic dat-
ings are no stronger than the archaeological grounds for the “First Revolt” scroll
deposits.
The radiocarbon datings, carried out on 19 Qumran texts at Zurich and Tucson
in the 1990s, confirmed first-century bce dates of scribal copying of many Qumran
texts and also that a smaller percentage of second-century bce texts is plausible
or likely, but those radiocarbon datings have not confirmed Qumran cave literary
text activity from the first century ce.10 Compare this assessment from two radio-
carbon scientists: “The dates suggest a possible range from the third century bc to

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the first century ad for texts from caves near Qumran, with a strong concentration
of probable dates in the second or first century bc” (van der Plicht and Rasmussen
2010: 111). A revised palaeographic chronology, in which neither the latest for-
mal nor latest semi-cursive scribal hands among the literary texts of the Qumran
caves postdate the first century bce, does not create a problematic gap in typologi-
cal development in the first century ce. The gap is filled by “late Herodian formal”
writing, recognized to have begun earlier than previously supposed, and recogni-
tion of post-Qumran-scrolls’ formal and semicursive scripts which are pre-70 ce.
This direction of revision in palaeographic dating seems to be already under
way. Two of the three biblical texts used by Cross in 1961 to define post-70 ce
“post-Herodian formal” scripts (5/6HevPs, MurXII, MurGena) are now dated
before the First Revolt: namely, the Nahal Hever Psalms Scroll and the Murabba‘at
Minor Prophets scroll. The Psalms Scroll, characterized from the beginning as
postdating the latest Qumran scribal hands and listed in Cross’s charts as such, was
dated in DJD 38, “c.50–68 ce” (Flint 2000: 143). In 2006, Cross redated the Minor
Prophets Scroll of Murabba‘at (MurXII), which also had been understood from
the beginning to postdate all Qumran texts and to be of ca. early second-century
ce date, before the First Revolt (Cross 2006: 67: “the great Minor Prophets Scroll
from Murabba‘at, dating to ca 50–70 ce”). The existence of a well-attested class
of semicursive writing of the first-century ce prior to the First Revolt which post-
dates even the latest semicursive scripts in all of the Qumran texts, meanwhile, has
already long been recognized by Cross (1961: 190 n. 9)

Toward a better understanding of the ending of the scroll deposits

David Stacey has argued that, for the greater part of its history, Qumran was a site
of seasonal economic activity based on its supply of fresh water, which came in
quantity once per year in the winter rains (captured and stored in cisterns within the
buildings’ walls), which was used for industrial purposes for as long as the water
lasted. The site was largely abandoned until the next winter’s rains. In this reassess-
ment, Stacey criticizes the scholarly language regarding notions of “full-time habi-
tation” and “community” at Qumran as inaccurate. Such concepts were, at most
times in Qumran’s history, foreign to Qumran’s actual function as a site of dirty,
smelly industries, which bustled with activity part of the year when there was water
and, in Stacey’s view, lay dormant much of the rest of the time (Stacey 2013).
It is possible to distinguish discontinuity in ownership or control of the site
(landlords and overseers) from continuity at the level of the ones carrying out
such economic activities (labourers and craftsmen), willing to work under the new
employer or landlord. For scholars attempting to understand the scrolls found near
Qumran, the relevant focus might be on those in control of the site (and the site’s
discontinuities) rather than on a hypothetical local workforce (and its continui-
ties). The scrolls in the caves are unlikely to have been possessions of a seasonal
workforce. They represent a specialized literature, apparently for priests or those
associated with priests: namely, the literate and the elite. The priestly oriented

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contents of the texts and the physical proximity of Qumran to Jericho point toward
the Hasmoneans and priests for the source of the scrolls. An objection to this
observation – as deeply-rooted as it is illusory – is a notion that the Qumran texts
reflect programmatic opposition to Hasmonean high priests. As I wrote in 2013,
in an introduction to an essay addressing this point, a reader, following the discus-
sion closely to this point, might ask, rather, if the people of the scrolls should be
identified as the people operating the site when Qumran was a Hasmonean out-
post? Why should it be necessary to suppose two distinct sets of people, that is, a
Hasmonean operation of Qumran succeeded by a sect of the scrolls?
Such a question seems to come from a naive reader, unfamiliar with Qumran
scholarship. There is one point upon which scholars seem to have been in agree-
ment for as long as anyone can remember: it is that the sect of the Qumran texts
was opposed to the Hasmonean high priests. In prevailing Qumran scholarship,
it is simply inconceivable that the people of the texts of Qumran could have
been favourable to, for example, Hyrcanus II, the high priest of the Temple in
Jerusalem in 76–67 and 63–40 bce. However, the imagined, naive reader’s ques-
tion referred to above is actually quite astute. The reasons claimed for supposing
that the Qumran texts were written in opposition to all Hasmonean high priests,
it turns out, are far less secure than they have seemed. Surprisingly, as I develop
in my study of Doudna 2013, nothing in the Qumran Community Rule (S) texts
calls for reading those texts as opposed to the Temple or to priests who controlled
the Temple. Such interpretations are unfounded and chimerical, no matter how
deeply ingrained such interpretations have been in scholarly discourse. Nothing
in the Qumran texts calls for supposing the authors of the sectarian texts were
other than supportive of most Hasmonean high priests. Texts which have been
interpreted as polemical against all Hasmonean rulers and their regimes instead
reflect an antagonism to one Hasmonean ruler’s regime from supporters of the
previous high priest. Condemnations in some texts of a Hasmonean regime are
not a rejection of all Hasmonean high priests, but rather arise out of the authors’
loyalty to what they understood to be the legitimate Hasmonean high priest, who
had been forced into exile. Traditional arguments for supposing an intrinsically
adversarial relationship between the authors and scribes of the Qumran texts and
the Hasmonean high priests evaporate upon examination. There is no evidence in
the texts of calendar conflict with Hasmonean high priests; no criticism for com-
bining king and high priest; no notion that the Hasmoneans had wrong priestly
ancestry; no opposition to Alexander Jannaeus, or to John Hyrcanus I before him.
Contrary to common conceptions, none of these notions are in the Qumran texts.
Instead of the Qumran texts being opposed to the Hasmonean high priests, the sect
of the texts was the sect of – a network of synagogues loyal to – the Hasmonean
high priests and Jerusalem Temple, except at the end when rival Hasmonean high
priests competed for allegiance (Doudna 2013).
We may well imagine that the scroll deposits were texts from Jericho or from
synagogues in the vicinity of Jericho and that they were taken to Qumran for
deposit in the caves during an era that came to an end within a context of change

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in the control of the Palaces in Jericho. It was a time when the palaces were placed
under Herodian ownership, a situation with new relationships between Herod and
the priests associated with the last Hasmoneans. Under a scenario of discontinuity
in ownership of the site or interruption in the source of the scrolls as the reason for
the end of the scrolls in the caves of Qumran, the scrolls deposits might have been
an activity directed by priests or officials associated or formerly associated with
the Hasmonean Estate in Jericho. Local seasonal workers engaged in industries at
Qumran need not have been involved in decisions to deposit scrolls in the caves,
or in the circumstances in which those deposits ceased.
The argument that the scrolls in the caves were long-term or permanent disposals
has been well made by Joan Taylor (2012a; 2012b: 273–303; cf. Stacey 2013: 63).
Probably the best recent argument for a different theory of an emergency hiding
(with the intent of retrieving the scrolls never realized) is that of Mladen Popović
(2012). Whether the scrolls were deposited with or without intent to recover them,
the scroll-bearing caves close to the site of Qumran show signs of significant dis-
turbances and intrusions, subsequent to the deposits. For example, it is unlikely
the scrolls in Cave 4Q had originally been deposited unrolled, opened, and strewn
about. Yet at the same time, as has often been remarked, the disturbed conditions of
the scrolls in Cave 4Q were ancient and not far removed in time from the deposits
of those scrolls, since the strewn and scattered scrolls in Cave 4Q were found on the
cave’s floor, below ca. 1,900 years of dirt and animal dung (Cross 1995: 34 n. 1).
In light of the known phenomenon of temporary habitation and refugee activity
around the time of the First Revolt in the caves near Qumran and at the site itself,
such activity is one possibility for the early disturbances of the scrolls in the caves.
Another possibility would be from first-century ce persons earlier in Period II.
In the case of Cave 4Q, the unwrapped and unrolled scrolls strewn on the cave’s
floor could suggest that scrolls, originally placed in the cave in an orderly manner
wrapped and tied, had been successively torn open and looked at, then discarded,
that is, rummaging by someone literate. An hypothesis of ancient rummaging by
literate scroll readers could account for the presence of the unattached leather
straps and tabs found in Caves 4Q and 8Q of the kind used to secure rolled-up
scrolls. That is, they were torn off and discarded in the process of opening scrolls
for examination, anciently – by people at Qumran of the first century ce, not
depositing those texts but accidentally finding them there. As the tables of data
of Ian Young have confirmed, the Qumran biblical texts are pre-stabilization and
not exact MT texts, whereas the biblical texts found at other Judaean Desert sites
are post-stabilization exact MT texts. In agreement with Young in the interpreta-
tion of these data distributions, we conclude that the exact MT stabilized Judaean
Desert biblical texts reflect the true circumstances of Hebrew biblical texts in
first-century ce Judea before the First Revolt, while the Temple of Jerusalem was
still standing. All of the Qumran scrolls are earlier than this. They are, therefore,
associated with the end of Qumran’s Period Ib, and the dating of the stabilization
of the biblical text seems best dated late in the first century bce or early first cen-
tury ce, perhaps related to the new temple of Herod.

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Conclusion
This chapter has surveyed several issues bearing on the assumption of continuity
between Qumran’s Periods Ib and II, including pottery, language, women, dining,
animal bone deposits, ownership, and scrolls. Such considerations suggest that it is
misleading to speak of a single “main period of habitation” of a single group or com-
munity at Qumran, which ended at the time of the First Revolt. Qumran’s Periods
Ib and II should not be conflated in scholarly discourse as if they imply a single con-
text. A less inaccurate picture may be that the true “main period” of Qumran was
simply “Period Ib” of the first century bce. This “main period” of Qumran – Ib –
is to be distinguished from all subsequent activity at the site, which was reduced
in scale. And the functioning of the site during its height of activity in the first
century bce was dependent upon control from nearby Jericho more than has been
appreciated. An earlier dating of the latest Qumran scrolls, toward the close of
the first century bce, may support a better understanding of the formation of the
Jewish Bible from multiple editions and fluid forms of copying, before the final
text stabilized. This may not only have begun later than traditionally supposed (as
per other studies in the present volume), but also have ended earlier than tradi-
tionally supposed, compressing the span of this process.

Notes
1 Bruce and Pfann: “Period IIb: During the last years of Period II (ca. 66–68
ce) . . . Qumran was taken over by another group . . . Hoards of Revolt coins, stone-
ware, new pottery forms (differing in form and proportions from the communal pan-
tries of loci 89 and 114), and light weapons (including knives and arrow heads) were
recovered from this period, which preceded the Roman occupation of the site” (Bruce
and Pfann 2007: 771). Since both of Bruce and Pfann’s examples of communal pottery
found at Qumran in contrast to remains of IIb – L89 and L114 – ended in Ib (de Vaux
1973: 5 n. 1 [L114], 11–12 [L89]), it is not clear on what archaeological grounds Bruce
and Pfann’s “IIb” should not be regarded as having begun earlier than 66 ce, conceiv-
ably as early as the time Bruce and Pfann suppose IIa to have begun, raising the ques-
tion whether Bruce and Pfann’s IIa has evidence for existence.
2 Magness comments: “The fact that only 37 coins dating between the years 6 and 48 ce
were found in the excavations [of the Palaces at Jericho], together with an apparent drop
in the amount of pottery recovered and the discovery of only four fragments of imported
Roman discus lamps, suggest to me that these buildings were no longer used or main-
tained as palaces after Archelaus was removed from rule” (Magness 2003: 424–5).
3 Note that Bar-Nathan’s dating here of the end of Qumran Ib to the time of Jericho
HR1 is not clearly a misprint and is in keeping with Bar-Nathan’s logic and argument,
despite Bar-Nathan’s expressed agreement later in the volume with Magness’s later
dating of the end of Qumran Ib to the time of HR2.
4 Following the publication of de Vaux’s excavation notes in 1994, I noted that evidence
seemed lacking in those notes for a Qumran Ib fire, and I suggested that “the notion that
Qumran Period Ib ended with a destruction by fire should probably be dispensed with
for lack of evidence. As basic as a Ib fire has been in almost all discussions of Qumran

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archaeology up to now, I was surprised to discover in de Vaux’s excavation notes in

Humbert & Chambon 1994 that in not a single locus can a Period II fire layer be identi-
fied over a Period Ib fire” (Doudna 1999: 35–6). This interpretation was subsequently
taken up by Humbert (2003b: 436) and Hirschfeld (2004: 88). Atkinson and Magness,
however, without noting these discussions or offering new argument, continue to refer
to the end of Qumran Ib by fire as if it is an uncontested fact (2010: 325).
5 De Vaux wrote in his field notes concerning L124: “We continued the excavation in the
area where the inscribed potsherds were found . . . It appears that this pottery had been
thrown there after the earthquake [of 31 bce], during the cleaning of the building. It was
therefore outside. We collected one or two more inscribed potsherds” (L124, 16/3/55).
Throughout the present article, references to and renderings in English from de Vaux’s
synthesis of his Qumran excavation field notes are from the Pfann (2003) edition.
6 Rather than the Period II/First Revolt dating of Cross and Eshel in DJD 36 (Cross
and Eshel 2000; Doudna 2007: 106–11 (Ib dating); 2007: 112–14 (possible “priest”
reading); Puech 2007: 21 (“sa datation paléographique peut s’étaler sur un siècle
auparavant, avec une forte préférence dans la période hérodienne ancienne et même
hasmonéenne tardive”); Yardeni 1997 (“early Herodian semi-cursive”)). No inscription
in Greek was found at Qumran from Period Ib.
7 With regard to L30, in light of the often-remarked pattern of an absence of major new
building features in Period II at Qumran in contrast to Ib, it may be that the plastered
furniture from the upper storey of L30, which has occasioned so much discussion, was
from Period Ib, that is, inherited already there in L30 by the people of II. Note the plas-
tered furniture debris item (No. 2465) found in the sediment of L130 of Period Ib which
Robert Donceel observed was “de même apparence que le mobilier tombé de l’étage du
locus 30” (Donceel 2005: 36).
8 “the entire ceramic corpus from this cave [Cave 24] – jars (at least ten), cooking-pots
(at least six), juglets (at least five), and the oil-lamp, suggest the last phase of the
Herodian period or even a post 70 ce date” (Patrich 1994: 90).
9 “Tout en travaillant sur les lampes de terre-cuite qui en proviennent nous avons tenté
de recomposer la stratigraphie de cet emplacement du N-O du site à partir de toutes les
informations disponibles, et sommes arrivés à la conclusion qu’aucune de ces déposi-
tions n’y est postérieure à la phase Ib du R.P. de Vaux (c’est-à-dire la fin du Ier s. av.
J.C.) . . . la date la plus récente pour ces dépositions dans ce locus 130 d’ossements
d’animaux dans les vases ou des tessons (date étayée notamment par les monnaies) est
la fin de la période Ib du R.P. de Vaux” (Donceel 1998: 99–104).
10 See my analysis at Doudna 2013: 108–12.

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 10
C AN ON FORM ATION, CANONI CI TY,
AN D THE QUM RAN LI BRARY

Jesper Høgenhaven

The discovery and publication of the Qumran manuscripts has shed new light on
the early history of the Hebrew biblical text, as well as on the history of interpreta-
tion of Jewish sacred writings. A great part of the literary material which eventu-
ally became part of the various biblical canons is clearly present in the scrolls in
the form of texts identical to or very closely resembling the texts that later came
to constitute the Jewish and Christian canonical collections of holy scripture. Of
the roughly 930 identifiable manuscripts found at Qumran a reasonable estimate
is that between a fourth and a fifth part of these manuscripts contain texts that are
“biblical” in this sense. Exact numbers cannot be given because of the fragmentary
state of most Qumran manuscripts, but Emanuel Tov (2010: 113) estimates that
24.09–24.30 per cent of the manuscripts contain biblical texts (224–6 manuscripts
out of a total of some 930 texts from Qumran, not counting tefilin and mezuzot).
Eugene Ulrich (1999: 18) arrives at the figure 25 per cent (200 out of roughly 800
manuscripts). On the problems of definition and identification, see further below.
It is not surprising, then, that the findings of Qumran have been cited as providing
important information regarding the processes leading to the formation of canoni-
cal collections of Hebrew Bible and Old Testament writings. In the following, I
argue that the material realities of the Qumran library yield little, if any, informa-
tion on the actual formation of a biblical “canon” of the Hebrew Bible. Notions of
“canonicity” and interest in canonical collections are at home, at a level and in a
context which is quite different from the world of the Qumran caves.

Terminology and definitions

When addressing topics such as canon, canonicity, Bible, and biblical texts, one
runs the risk of getting entangled in one or more extensive debates on terminol-
ogy. This is not the concern in this chapter. Suffice it to say, a significant number
of the terms we are accustomed to use is, by common acknowledgement, anach-
ronistic, in the sense that there obviously was no “Bible” at the time that the
Qumran manuscripts were written. Hence, there were no “biblical” manuscripts
or “biblical” texts at Qumran in a strict sense. I depend on a recent clarifying arti-
cle by Søren Holst for the useful distinction between two meanings of “biblical”,

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 J es p er H ø g enhav en

both of which are used by scholars with regard to texts from the Qumran library.
“Biblical”, according to Holst, may be taken to describe a quality assigned to
specific texts and literary works by the Qumranites themselves, a meaning that
would use the term “biblical” very much as a synonym for “scriptural”, “sacred”,
“authoritative”, or “divinely inspired”. The second function, given to the term
“biblical”, in this context, is to designate texts or literary compositions which are
virtually identical or reasonably close to texts which are part of later biblical col-
lections (Holst 2012: 112–14). In this usage, “biblical” may be said to function
as a deliberate and useful anachronism: a pragmatic and implicit reference to an
abbreviated discourse. To my knowledge, this second meaning is by far the most
common, and if we can peacefully agree that this is what is actually meant when
we speak of a “biblical” Qumran scroll or manuscript, little harm would be done.
As regards the terms “canon” and “canonical”, however, it must be admitted that
the issues are slightly more complicated, and a few words on definitions and usage
cannot be avoided. For practical purposes, and to save time, I follow Eugene Ulrich’s
argument for a strict definition of “canon” as “the collection or list of books of the
Scriptures” (Ulrich 1999: 56). Ulrich emphasizes three aspects of this use of the term:

1 It represents a reflective judgement; that is, it involves conscious reflection

on the authoritative status of the canonical collection, as distinct from the
simple practice, within a community, of regarding certain books as authorita-
tive or inspired;
2 It denotes a closed list, and
3 It concerns “biblical” (in the broad sense argued above) books (Ulrich 1999:
57–8). To the notion of canon, belongs the idea of the authority of the books
within such a canon and the notion of the exclusive character of the list. To
speak of an “open canon”, accordingly, defies the definition of the term.

A canon implies, to use Bruce Metzger’s expression, an “authoritative collection of

books”, as distinguished from a “collection of authoritative books” (Metzger 1987:
282). To “canon” belong notions of normativity and exclusivity. Emphasis is on the
exact limits of a collection, with specific books included and all others excluded.
Such a narrow definition of canon has the advantage of avoiding a number of
disputes, regarding allegedly early testimonies to the existence of a Jewish canon.
As John Barton has convincingly shown, discussions about the formation of a
Jewish canon have often been confused by the lack of a common definition of
what is meant by “canon”. Some scholars use the term in a much broader sense
than the definition advocated here, taking “canonical” status to mean simply the
recognition of a given book as authoritative, but without the implication that the
book belongs to an exclusive group of books with fixed and unchangeable limits
(Barton 2007: 27–8). If we test the strict definition of “canon”, with emphasis on
the understanding of an “authoritative collection” with closed and well-defined
borders, against the earliest extant references to collections of sacred books within
Judaism, we arrive easily at the negative result we would expect. As Ulrich states:

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There is, to my knowledge, no evidence prior to the late first century ce,
either in Judaism or Christianity, to suggest that there was either a fixed
list of books, or a fixed text of either individual books or, a fortiori, a
unified collection of books. Thus, prior to the end of the first century, we
do not have a canon in either Judaism or Christianity. (Ulrich 1999: 59)

Or, with a slightly different formulation:

There was no canon as yet, no clearly agreed-upon list of which books

were “scripture” and which were not. This was the situation at least up to
the fall of the Second Temple in 70 ce probably as late as the end of the
first century and, arguably, even up to the second Jewish revolt against
Rome in 132–135 ce. (Ulrich 1999: 20–21)

The earliest references to a collection of holy books (Ben Sira,

Qumran, New Testament)
To be sure, there are earlier sources that testify to the existence, within Jewish
circles, of a notion of collections of sacred books, held in high regard and, in some
sense, recognized as authoritative. It is also possible to find references to such
collections as having certain shapes, which resemble the later tripartite canon.
Ben Sira’s prologue, with its reference to “the law and the prophets and the other
books of the fathers”, has often been understood as pointing to the existence of
three groups of sacred writings (Buhl 1885: 8–9; Beckwith 1985: 110–11). While
the identification of the law with the books of the Pentateuch seems inevitable,
it has been argued that the catalogue of great persons from Israel’s past, which
we find in Ben Sira 44–9, suggests that the prologue refers to a collection closely
resembling the prophets of later Jewish canons. This praise of the fathers, how-
ever, is not directly concerned with the recognition of literary collections. The
prominent place of figures like Enoch (44:16, cf. the repeated praise of Enoch in
49:14) and Noah (44:17–18) in the list makes it at least theoretically possible that
Ben Sira would have thought of the Enochic literature (and in theory, books asso-
ciated with Noah such as the Birth of Noah texts (4Q534–6) from Qumran, too)
as belonging to the “prophecies”. In any event, it is uncertain whether the books
labelled “prophets” or “prophecies” are understood to form a closed collection.
Furthermore, it is not clear that the prologue refers to three categories of sacred
writings, since “the law and the prophets” could be a comprehensive designation
for what the author saw as sacred literature (“scripture”), while “the other books
of the fathers” might simply mean “all other books” (Barton 2007: 47). As most
interpreters would agree, we possess no means of establishing exactly which writ-
ings are subsumed under the heading “the other books of the fathers”, or whether,
indeed, a closed or an open body of writings is connoted. The sequence of the
prologue, introducing the literary contribution by Ben Sira in direct continua-
tion of the reference to his studying the books of the fathers, could plausibly be

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interpreted as an indication that the third group of writings was not perceived as
having closed borders (see, however Beckwith (1985: 111), for a different view).
What the prologue does show, then, is that there was, at the time of its composi-
tion, a recognized authoritative body of writings called the “law” – by all indica-
tions identical to the Pentateuch – and, apart from the law, an unknown number
of authoritative books, some of which could be called “prophets” or “prophecies”.
There is no evidence in the text for any particular interest in delineating fixed
borders for sacred literature.
Along with such known references to an established collection of holy writ-
ings, implied in the Ben Sira prologue and the New Testament, the Qumran library
has added the often cited passage in Miqsat Ma’ase ha-Torah (or Halakhic Letter,
4QMMT). This admonishes the reader to search “the Book of Moses, the books of
the prophets and of David”, an expression which formally comes rather close to
the reference in Luke 24:44 to “the law of Moses, the prophets, and the psalms”.
(The passage – 4QMMT C 10 in the composite text established by Qimron and
Strugnell – is partly restored. The words “in the book of Moses” (‫ )בספר מושה‬are
readable in two manuscripts – 4Q397 14–21 10 and 4Q498 14 i 2 – while “in the
book of the prophets and in David” (‫ )בספר הנבאים ובדויד‬is preserved only in one
manuscript – 4Q497 14–21 10 – with the first letter of ‫ נביאים‬and the last letter of
‫ דויד‬missing; cf. Qimron and Strugnell 1994: 58–9 and plates VI and VIII.) While
it is possible to interpret these texts as witnesses to a tripartite collection, it is not
certain that “prophets” and “David” (or “prophets” and “Psalms”) should be taken
as designations of different parts of such a collection, and the passage can also be
read as referring to a bipartite collection (Trebolle Barrera 2002: 130). A further
New Testament passage, the saying of Jesus concerning the blood of the right-
eous: “from the blood of Abel to the blood of Zechariah” (Matt 23:35; Luke
11:51), has also been regarded as indirect evidence for the existence of a “canoni-
cal” collection, beginning with Genesis and ending with Chronicles (cf. Beckwith
1985: 115). At any rate, these references do not yield any information regarding
either the scope or content of the literary bodies in question or any notion of col-
lections with fixed borders.
Viewed against the strict definition of “canon”, none of these references pre-
suppose or establish the notion of a canon. They, rather, refer to bodies of sacred
writings, which may or may not have had well-established limits at the time, but
delineating such limits was not the concern of the sources. The exclusive character
of the collection is not the focus. The references, to sum up, using Metzger’s for-
mulation, are to collections of authoritative books, not to authoritative collections.

The earliest references to a fixed canon (Fourth Ezra and

Josephus)
The notion of “authoritative collections”, which are perceived as both normative
and exclusive, seems to appear for the first time in ancient Jewish writings at the
end of the first century ce.

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In the closing vision of Fourth Ezra (14:18–50), Ezra, having received a num-
ber of divine revelations, is instructed by the divine voice to retreat into solitude,
taking with him five skilled scribes, trained in writing rapidly, to whom Ezra,
who has been given the Holy Spirit, over a period of forty days dictates the sacred
books, which comprise ninety-four writings. Ezra is then instructed to make the
twenty-four books public, for those both worthy and unworthy to read them, but to
keep the seventy books, which are destined for the wise and which are described
as the spring of understanding, the fountain of wisdom and river of knowledge.
While the emphasis of the writer is clearly on the writings which are not included
among the twenty-four public books, it seems obvious that the reader’s familiarity
with such a numbered body of books is implied, although not explicit. The num-
ber of “canonical” books given (twenty-four) is, of course, the same number as
we find in later rabbinic sources. An identification with the books of the rabbinic
tripartite canon, therefore, seems to suggest itself.
A roughly contemporary source is Josephus’ famous “canonical” passage in
Against Apion, which has a partial list, including five books of Moses, thirteen
prophetic books and four books said to contain “hymns to God and precepts for
the conduct of human life” (Contra Ap I, 37–46). While the passage is not in itself
a full list of the twenty-two authoritative books, said to be the acknowledged
corpus of Jewish literature, Josephus clearly implies that he would, upon demand
and without hesitation or difficulty, be able to produce such a list. It is not clear,
obviously, either from Fourth Ezra or Josephus, exactly which books were under-
stood to belong to the respective “canons” or how they were counted to attain the
numbers twenty-two or twenty-four (cf. Beckwith 1985: 235–41).
It is important to understand Josephus’ statements about the well-defined
and exclusive nature of the holy books, recognized by the Jews, within the
context of his work, which is clearly apologetic and to which I will return
below. His emphasis, at any rate, is clearly on the exclusive and unchangeable
character of the collection – “no one has dared either to add anything or to take
away from them or to alter them” – which makes it, in my view, very difficult
indeed to imagine that Josephus would have been open to including any new
books in his canon. (In other words, I disagree with Barton’s assessment: “In
maintaining the small compass of Jewish Scripture, he [Josephus] does not, as
a matter of fact, say that no other book could conceivably be found that would
meet the criterion of prophetic authorship, only that no more than twenty-two
have until now been found to do so” (Barton 2007: 59).) Josephus’ notion does
indeed appear to be that of a normative and exclusive collection, and it, fur-
thermore, seems a difficult and somewhat awkward assumption that he should
have held an isolated position or have been, to use Barton’s formulation, “out
of step with his contemporaries” in this respect (Barton 2007: 59; cf. Mason
2002: 125–6). As recently shown by Steve Mason, the phenomena, found in
contemporary Jewish literature, which are considered evidence against a closed
canon: the fluidity of text forms, the lack of any clear distinction between “bib-
lical” and “non-biblical” material and the freedom with which biblical texts

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and narratives are rearranged, are found in abundance in Josephus’ own work
(Mason 2002: 126).
This observation leads to the point that canonical catalogues and references
to the existence of well-defined, exclusive, and, in some sense, logically struc-
tured “canons” are statements on a formal or theoretical level. They are in fact
literary phenomena in their own right, and must be viewed and interpreted as
such. They do not necessarily function as prescriptive texts regulating the actual
interpretation and use of biblical texts; nor do they necessarily describe with any
degree of accuracy an existing practice when it comes to producing, handling,
and interpreting texts.

No canon at Qumran?
The Qumran library – which is chronologically situated between the two groups
of sources mentioned, the early references to (non-exclusive) collections of
“authoritative texts” and the later witnesses to an exclusive “authoritative collec-
tion” – has been described as “a new window on the ancient world and the bibli-
cal text in the making” (Ulrich 1999: 24). The material remains in the Qumran
caves have often been cited as if they were evidence against a fixed canon at
the time of the scroll deposit. However, it is not obvious how the existence of a
“canon” could have manifested itself in the library found in those caves. First and
foremost, there are no codices at Qumran. Books, including sacred books, were
individual scrolls (Ulrich 1999: 19–20; cf. Kraft 2002). Materially, there could
be no Bible before the introduction of the codex, allowing the entire “canonical”
collection of works to be bound and preserved in the third or fourth century ce. It
is difficult to assert exactly when the codex became the dominant form of Hebrew
Bible manuscripts. The oldest known Hebrew Bible codices are the ninth-century
codices found in the Cairo Genizah (cf. Kraft 2002; and see Roberts and Skeat
1983 for the importance of Christian practice for the adaptation of the codex
form). Since we have no catalogues of “canonical writings” at Qumran or in any
earlier or contemporary source, this means, in practice, that we have no means
of determining whether a particular selection of the literary works found in the
Qumran library was regarded as belonging to a closed and recognized authorita-
tive collection.
At the material level, no discernible distinction can be demonstrated between
biblical and non-biblical manuscripts, as far as scribal practices in the production,
handling, or preservation of scrolls are concerned. The practice of writing the
divine name in regular Hebrew letters as opposed to Paleo-Hebrew letters has been
understood as a possible distinctive marker of “scriptural” manuscripts, but the
distinction is not carried through in all manuscripts at Qumran (VanderKam 1998:
385–6). Generally, this is due to the lack of any clear and consistent distinctions in
scribal practice between “biblical” and “non-biblical” Qumran manuscripts (Tov
2004: 250–54). This feature of the Qumran library has often been regarded as
evidence that there was no canon at the time of the deposit. Significantly, the lack

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of any tangible distinctive markers associated with literature regarded as “canoni-

cal” is, of course, the very reason that makes it equally possible for scholars to
argue that there was, indeed, a Jewish canon at the time the scrolls went into
the caves at Qumran. The Qumranites did, in fact, view certain books as part of
a recognized collection, while other works stood beyond its borders (Beckwith
1985: 358–66). The important point is that there is no way of settling the dispute
by appealing to the materiality of the manuscripts. The “new window” provided
by the Qumran library, interesting as it is in its own right, hardly gives us any
information regarding the rise, background, or early development of the notion of
a fixed canon. This is an intellectual endeavour, which we should expect to take
place and unfold in a different context and on a different level from the material
findings of those caves.
Nevertheless, the existence and circulation of certain books and their treat-
ment in the Qumran library have, at times, been regarded as indirect evidence for
an early canonical collection. The library includes both most of the works later
to be recognized as canonical and works which were later regarded by Rabbinic
Judaism (and various Christian communities) as not belonging to the canon.
Some of the books central to the later Jewish canon were, indeed, among the
most widely distributed and most often copied works found in the caves, such
as Psalms, Deuteronomy, Genesis, Exodus, and Isaiah, as well as the remaining
parts of the Pentateuch. Popularity, in terms of the number of copies, was not
limited to books later to become canonical, however. In fact, First Enoch seems
to have been among the most popular works at Qumran, judging from the number
of manuscripts preserved: Tov (2010) counts 36 copies of Psalms, 35 copies of
Deuteronomy, 23–4 copies of Genesis, 21 copies of Exodus, and 21 copies of
Isaiah. Copies of First Enoch (including fragments of the Book of Giants) number
approximately twenty. In other words, if, theoretically, the notion of an exclusive
canon did exist at the time of the deposit, and if the borders of the canon had
resembled the canon of Rabbinic Judaism as it was later defined, there is no indi-
cation that such a notion influenced the popularity, reproduction, or handling of
books regarded as authoritative or important.

Normative or authoritative texts in the Qumran library

When we look at the way texts are cited and alluded to by other texts within the
Qumran library – an important sign of how their authority or normative status
was perceived – the picture becomes somewhat more complex. It is possible to
point to certain patterns of intertextual treatment which seem to be reserved for
certain – but not all – older works. Within the Qumran library, it appears that
Isaiah, some of the Minor Prophets and Psalms were works deemed worthy of
being the object of pesher commentaries. The commentary genre is significant
in this respect because, apart from its many other interesting aspects, it explicitly
establishes and articulates, on the formal and literary level, a hierarchy between
the text commented upon and the comments, thus recognizing the former text as

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in some sense an authoritative source or vehicle for divinely inspired truth. At the
same time, the commentary also testifies, inevitably, to a notion that the divinely
inspired truth needs to be clarified through a process of commenting and interpret-
ing, pointing to an ever-present dialectic between scripture and tradition (cf. the
formulation by John Barton (1996: 76): “The more ‘strained’ the interpretation, it
may be said, the more ‘canonical’ the text being interpreted must have been – why
should people trouble to extract improbable meanings from a text, unless that text
is somehow a given for them?” (as quoted in VanderKam 1998: 386). Judging
from the extant writings in the Qumran library, then, only a limited number of
books were considered suitable for treatment in pesher commentaries, all later
to become part of the Jewish canon and all, except for Psalms, included in the
prophetic section of the canon. This exclusive treatment of certain books could,
of course, be understood as a witness to the particular authority and importance
ascribed. It is also clear, however, that the ancient practice of commenting on
certain books – and not on others – testifies only to the fact that the books com-
mented on were regarded as sacred and authoritative, perhaps to a greater degree
than other works. This interpretative practice – which regards individual books
or works – tells us nothing about the existence of an “authoritative collection”. It
could, however, very plausibly be interpreted as a significant element in the intel-
lectual background that would have been a necessary condition for the emergence
of “canonicity” as an ideal. It may well be – though we have no means of testing
the assumption – that the books reserved for pesher commentaries, in fact, consti-
tuted a kind of “core group” of texts alongside the Pentateuch, holding a special
kind of authority and that this very idea made them the inevitable “core” of the
canon, when its limits were defined.
At the same time, one must bear in mind that the Qumran texts also provide a
number of examples of extensive rewriting and rearrangement of texts, which later
became “canonical” biblical texts. These existed both in the form of expanded
versions of existing works, which had been restructured or given harmonizing or
explanatory supplements (as in the Reworked Pentateuch texts), and in the form
of entirely new literary compositions (as, for example, the Temple Scroll or the
Genesis Apocryphon). This literary activity would seem to represent a very dif-
ferent approach to the traditional sacred books, but, again, it is hardly possible to
draw any conclusions regarding the existence or non-existence of the notion of a
closed “canon” (On the concept of “Rewritten Bible”, cf. Zahn, 2011. When Geza
Vermes (1961) introduced the term, he had in mind, among other ancient Jewish
writings, the Genesis Apocryphon.)
The scope of books which were clearly and explicitly treated and referred to as
authoritative in writings dependent on them can be significantly widened when we
examine the practice of quoting explicitly from other works. Sometimes, specific
quotation formulae are used, such as ‫כתוב‬, “it is written”, or references to the title
of the composition cited, such as “the book of the prophet Jeremiah” or “the book
of the prophet Daniel” (for an overview of quotation formulae containing either
‫ כתוב‬or ‫אמר‬, see VanderKam (1998: 392–4), and cf. Bernstein, 2000: 840).

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4QEschatological Midrash (4Q174 1–3 ii 3) introduces a quotation with the

formula ‫בספר דניאל הנביא כתוב‬.Q 4Q182 has the introduction ‫כתוב עליהם בספר ירמיה‬
(Q
4Q182 1,4, partly restored), and the same formula is found in Isaiah commentary
C (4Q163 1,4). Interestingly, the body of sacred writings cited in Qumran compo-
sitions includes, apart from the obvious inclusion of the Pentateuch, the Book of
Jubilees, which is quoted twice, as authoritative or as sacred scripture, in the
Damascus Document. CD 16:2–4 explicitly quotes Jubilees with its title (“The
Book of the Divisions of the Times in their Jubilees and in their Weeks”) as
the source for a time when Israel was blind to the Torah. CD 10:8–10 seems to
quote Jub. 23:11 without an explicit quotation formula (but with the introduction
“he has said” ascribing divine authority to the text quoted). (Another Qumran text,
4Q228, seems to quote Jubilees as an authoritative work, using the formula ‫כי כן‬
‫“( כתוב‬for thus is it written”) and apparently the same title for the work (“Divisions”)
as in CD 10:8–10 (Attridge et al. 1994: 178–83).) Such habits of quoting, of
course, do not, in themselves, give us any information regarding the existence or
non-existence of a “canonically” defined collection, but should, obviously, warn
us against too hastily made assumptions about what a hypothetical canon list at the
time of the Qumran library might and might not have comprised.

The function of canon lists

The passages in Fourth Ezra and Josephus, roughly contemporary, constitute the
earliest extant witnesses to the idea of a Jewish scriptural canon in the sense of a
fixed and exclusive body of writings – an “authoritative collection” – recognized
for their divine authority. Although, apparently, no canon had been heard of, there
seems to be a relatively narrow span of time from the apparent fluidity reigning
in the caves at Qumran, to the only slightly later claims that Jewish sacred books
were meticulously numbered, whether that count be 24 as in Fourth Ezra or 22 as
in Josephus – no more and no less.
So, was the well-defined canon, presupposed in Fourth Ezra and Against
Apion, a recent invention?
In this context, it becomes important to analyse and understand the function
and purpose of canon lists in their own right. This type of catalogue is not simply a
report of a given factual situation, describing an existing practice in a 1:1 relation-
ship. Quite to the contrary, the purpose of writing and divulging lists of canonical
scriptures is inevitably to further theological or ideological agendas, affirming or
reformulating notions of identity and belonging, emphasizing and insisting on the
authenticity of one’s traditions, or a combination of several of the above.
An important observation concerning canon lists is that they do not, in their
own understanding, reflect or relate decisions made by the religious or political
communities from which they spring. The canons they refer to are not presented
as the result of some decision made at any certain time, a notion which would
involve the risk of having, in some sense, a necessarily arbitrary character. Rather,
the canon is presented as loaded with authority, venerated for many generations

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and inevitably recognized by the community without dispute. This way of present-
ing the fixed body of authoritative writings belongs intrinsically or generically to
the nature of canon lists. As modern interpreters of these texts, we need to take
care not to translate what they claim into assumptions about ancient practice. This
is not to say that the notions conveyed by Fourth Ezra and Josephus could not
have been significantly older. Indeed, it seems plausible to assume that these texts
are building on existing tradition, but in the absence of older references, we have
no means for determining when the interest in a fixed authoritative collection was
first introduced or formulated.
At any rate, the apologetic agenda of Josephus’ passage in Against Apion is
easily to be seen (cf. Mason 2002). Josephus makes the point that the Jews pos-
sess particularly excellent instruments for preserving their traditions unchanged
in their authentic and original shape. In close connection with the remarks con-
cerning the unchangeable, fixed body of holy writings, which stands in contrast
to the myriads of mutually conflicting books of the Greeks, he cites the metic-
ulously documented genealogies as defining the uniqueness and purity of the
priestly lineage. His concern is obviously the demonstration of the authenticity of
Jewish sacred tradition over against any other extant tradition. As Steve Mason
has recently shown, the point Josephus is striving to establish does not primarily
concern the shape or content of the Jewish canon, but rather its significance as an
expression of the harmonious and age-old character of the Jewish records of their
origins and history (Mason 2002: 114–15). Against this background, it is hardly
surprising that the notion of a closed and well-defined canon seems to have little
influence on Josephus’ own way of selecting, rearranging, and rewriting material
from his “biblical” sources.
Not only do canon lists not correspond exactly to material realities or prac-
tices; in general, they can stand in conflict with them. It is quite apparent from
Athanasius’ 39th festal epistle (367 ce), which produces lists of the canonical writ-
ings in the Old and the New Testaments and is the earliest known source to do so
explicitly, with reference to “canon”. Athanasius struggles with the untidiness of
ecclesiastical practice and makes concessions by admitting certain books not rec-
ognized as belonging to the canon, to be read in churches for the edification of the
communities (the Greek text with English translation of Athanasius’ 39th festal
epistle, conveniently, can be read at http://www.bible-researcher.com/athanasius.
html). While making such necessary concessions, he insists on the canonical list
as the established truth and that it be recognized by the entire Church.

Canon lists and “canonical” manuscripts

Apart from explicit lists of canonical books or references to such lists, canons,
once articulated and put into writing, would be expected to have a material exist-
ence in the form of collections of writings, corresponding or conforming to such
canonical lists. With the introduction of the codex, it becomes possible to bind
all the writings regarded as belonging to an exclusive authoritative collection

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together in a single manuscript, thus materially reflecting and manifesting the

borders of the “canon”.
However, when we study the situation before the invention of the printing
press, manuscripts very often exhibit more variation with regard to writings
included and excluded, and to the order and arrangement of books, than the canon
lists seem to demand. We need only take a glance at some of the most important
Greek Bible codices to be assured of the variety, which actually prevailed on the
practical level: Codex Sinaiticus, in addition to the canonical books of the OT,
includes 2 Esdras, Tobit, Judith, 1–4 Maccabees, Wisdom, and Ben Sira, but it
lacks the remaining apocrypha. In its NT section, this codex includes the Epistle
of Barnabas as well as that of the Shepherd of Hermas. Codex Vaticanus has a dif-
ferent selection of OT writings, lacking Maccabees. Codex Alexandrinus includes
Maccabees, the Odes, and, in the New Testament section, 1 and 2 Clement. The
index at the beginning of the codex shows that it must have included the Psalms
of Solomon, which appear placed rather as an appendix, after the New Testament.
An example from outside the Greek world is the famous sixth-century Syriac
Milano codex, which includes Wisdom, Jeremiah’s letter, two letters of Baruch,
Judith, Sirach, the Syriac Apocalypse of Baruch, Fourth Ezra, 1–4 Maccabees,
and Book 6 of Josephus’ Bellum.
The point to be gained here is that even after the introduction of the manuscript
codex, which, by nature, entails a much more definite sense of a closed collection
than the plurality of scrolls in a library, the fluctuation of what is included and
excluded does not cease at the level of individual manuscripts.
This is not to say that there was no contact or mutual influence between the
levels of canon lists and manuscript production. All indications are that there were.
There can be little doubt that canon lists had been produced with the purpose of
influencing and shaping the treatment, reading and transmission of books in the
real world. Athanasius, again, provides a good example of this. In fact, the Jewish
Hebrew Bible manuscripts of the Middle Ages exhibit a high degree of conformity
to the canonical standards as far the borders of the collection are concerned. When it
comes to the order of books within the canon, however, variations are still consider-
able, until the introduction of printed editions (Ginsburg 1966: 1–8; Beckwith 1985:
206–11, and the tables 449–68 (Appendix 2)). It is a well-known fact that Codex
Leningradensis, on which modern editions of Biblia Hebraica are based, places
Chronicles at the beginning of its third section, which ends with Ezra-Nehemiah.
Variations in the order of books did not cease entirely with the appearance of printed
Bibles (Cf. Ginsburg 1966: 779–976). Nevertheless, this relatively homogenous
picture probably emerged as the result of a long and complicated process.

Canon formation
In an excellent introduction to the canon and text of the Old Testament, Frants
Buhl, in 1885, stated that, even if we were perfectly justified in looking for lists
of canonical writings in the period, leading up to the Christian era, the oldest,

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unambiguous catalogues of this nature do not occur until a century later, around
100 ce (Buhl 1885: 16). Interestingly, Buhl’s remark about the plausibility of ear-
lier canonical lists is not repeated in the reworked and expanded German transla-
tion of his introduction (Buhl 1891). Somewhat anachronistically, we might, then,
pose the question: if Buhl had been able to foresee the discovery of the Qumran
scrolls, would he have had to change anything substantial?
The lack of direct evidence in the Qumran library for the existence of a well-
defined “canonical” collection has, at times, been contrasted to the explicit
emphasis on an exclusive collection of Jewish holy writings found in Fourth Ezra
and Josephus. The pluriformity and fluctuation of sacred writings on the practical
level of manuscripts and copies found in the caves have been compared to the
apparent orderliness presupposed in the only slightly later Jewish sources. As we
have tried to argue, however, the theological and ideological notion of canonicity
is not necessarily or very firmly associated with an actual formation of canoni-
cal collections at the material level. The development of canon theories seems to
unfold in a different context. Nothing prevents us from asking if notions of “can-
onicity” could have existed prior to their earliest recording in late first-century
sources. However, given the lack of extant sources dealing with this particular
topic, answers remain hard to find. In other words, as long as we accept the strict
definition of the term “canon”, we are stuck with Buhl’s statement that Fourth
Ezra and Josephus are the earliest known witnesses for the notion of a normative
and exclusive collection.
The evidence of the Qumran library makes it more than doubtful whether we
could join Buhl in his bold statement that we would be entitled to expect any such
list from the first century bce to correspond exactly to the later scope of the canon.
The popularity and distribution of books at Qumran, such as First Enoch and
Jubilees, should warn us against this assumption. The clear-cut distinction made
by Buhl in his day, based on the evidence then available, between a narrowly
delineated Palestinian canon and a broader Alexandrian canon, is obsolete. The
general observation that no direct evidence for the existence of a list of canonical
books is known, prior to the end of the first century ce, remains valid. Granted, it
is not difficult to point to historical and social factors which might be interpreted
as prompting or furthering the development of canonical ideas in that period.
For example, the destruction of the Jerusalem temple, the threat to Jewish tradi-
tions following the uprisings of 66–72 ce and 132–35 ce, and the emergence of
Christianity being among the most obvious. As far as the earlier period is con-
cerned, to speak of an ongoing process of “canon formation” or “canonization” is,
as John Barton has convincingly argued, not only anachronistic but runs the risk
of distorting the extant evidence and suggesting that there must necessarily have
been a constant underlying force or “drive” towards a closed canon (Barton 2007:
61–3). This does not exclude, of course, that notions of “canonicity”, in Jewish
circles, may have existed earlier, for example, at the time the Qumran scrolls
were written and deposited. We may even point to certain aspects of handling and
interpreting selected older texts within the Qumran literature (notably in the form

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of pesher commentaries), which would accord very well with such notions. When
we adopt a definition of “canon” and “canonicity” which is sufficiently strict and
formal, however, we remain at a loss, so far at least, for any text to document such
an intellectual enterprise prior to our well-known first-century ce sources.

Bibliography
Attridge, H. et al. 1994. Qumran Cave 4. VIII: Parabiblical Texts, Part 1, Discoveries in
the Judaean Desert XIII. Oxford: Clarendon Press.
Barton, J. 1996. “The Significance of a Fixed Canon of the Hebrew Bible”. In Hebrew Bible/
Old Testament. The History of Its Interpretation. Vol. I: From the beginnings to the
Middle Ages (Until 1300). Part 1: Antiquity. M. Sæbø (ed.). Göttingen: Vandenhoeck
und Ruprecht: 67–83.
———. 2007, Oracles of God. Perceptions of Ancient Prophecy in Israel after the Exile.
Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Beckwith, R. 1985. The Old Testament Canon of the New Testament Church and Its
Background in Early Judaism. London: SPCK.
Bernstein, M. 2000. “Scriptures: Quotations and Use”. In Encyclopedia of the Dead Sea
Scrolls. Volume 2. L. H. Schiffman and J. C. VanderKam (eds.). Oxford: Oxford
University Press: 839–42.
Buhl, F. 1885. Den gammeltestamentlige Skriftoverlevering. Copenhagen: Gyldendalske
Boghandels Forlag.
———. 1891. Kanon und Text des Alten Testamentes. Leipzig: Akademische Buchhandlung
(W. Faber).
Ginsburg, C. D. 1966. Introduction to the Massoretico-Critical Edition of the Hebrew
Bible. With a Prolegomenon by Harry M. Orlinsky: The Massoretic Text: A Critical
Evaluation. New York: Ktav Publishing House.
Holst, S. 2012. “Hvornår er en tekst bibelsk? Bearbejdede Mosebøger blandt
Dødehavsrullerne”. In Bibelske genskrivninger. Forum for bibelsk eksegese 17.
J. Høgenhaven and M. Muller (ed.). Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanums Forlag: 111–38.
Kraft, R. A. 2002. “The Codex and Canon Consciousness”. See McDonald and Sanders
(2002): 229–32.
McDonald, L. M. and J. A. Sanders. (eds.). 2002. The Canon Debate. Peabody, MA:
Hendrickson Publishers.
Mason, S. 2002. “Josephus and his Twenty-Two Book Canon”. See McDonald and Sanders
(2002): 110–27.
Metzger, B. 1987. The Canon of the New Testament. Its Origins, Development, and
Significance. Oxford: Clarendon Press.
Qimron, E. and J. Strugnell. 1994. Qumran Cave 4. V: Miqsat Ma’ase ha-Torah.
Discoveries in the Judaean Desert X. Oxford: Clarendon Press.
Roberts, C. H. and T. C. Skeat. 1983. The Birth of the Codex. London: The British
Academy/Oxford University Press.
———. 2004. Scribal Practices and Approaches Reflected in the Texts from the
Judaean Desert. Studies on the Texts from the Desert of Judah 54. Leiden and
Boston, MA: Brill.
______ 2010. Revised Lists of the Texts from the Judaean Desert. Leiden and Boston,
MA: Brill.

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Trebolle Barrera, J. C. 2002. “Origins of a Tripartite Old Testament Canon”. See McDonald,
and Sanders (2002): 128–45.
Ulrich, E. 1999. The Dead Sea Scrolls and the Origins of the Bible. Grand Rapids, MI and
Cambridge: Eerdmans/Brill.
VanderKam, J. C. 1998. “Authoritative Literature in the Dead Sea Scrolls”. Dead Sea
Discoveries 5 (3): 382–402.
Vermes, G. 1961. Scripture and Tradition in Judaism: Haggadic Studies. Studia Post-
Biblica 4: Leiden: Brill.
Zahn, M. 2011. Rethinking Rewritten Bible: Composition and Exegesis in the 4QReworked
Pentateuch Manuscripts. Studies on the Texts of the Desert of Judah 95: Leiden and
Boston, MA: Brill.

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 11
NE W CHILDREN OF ABRAHAM
IN GREENLAND – THE
C REATION OF A NATI ON

Flemming A. J. Nielsen

The realization that the biblical collection of stories is exactly a collection of

stories and “not a history of anyone’s past” (Thompson 1999: xv) encourages us
to deal with their origin in the religious communities of Persian and Hellenistic
Jewry as well as their stupendous reception history throughout the world. During
this reception history, more and more oral cultures have become cultures of lit-
eracy and have seen themselves inscribed in the biblical texts.
In the fourth century ce, Bishop Ulfilas produced the world’s earliest translation
of the Bible into the language of an oral culture, Gothic (Schäferdiek 2007: 53).
In the wake of the disintegrating Roman Empire, Ulfilas’ Arian Christianity
spread to other Teutonic peoples, as did the religious language that the translator
had developed. For instance, the very word ‘God’ – common to all present-day
Germanic languages (Bjorvand and Lindeman 2007: 395) – was introduced
in writing by the bishop. When these peoples later became Roman Catholic,
Christian nations, significant parts of Ulfilas’ religious language were retained,
and their Christian sovereigns soon considered themselves to be heirs of the bib-
lical kings, David and Solomon. Among the Frankish kings, already, Clothar II
(584–629) had been compared to David, and his son Dagobert I (ca. 603–39) was
compared to Solomon (Ewig 1956: 21–2; Renna 1986), and two of the epithets
used by the Carolingian emperors were Novus Salomon and Pax mundi (Ewig
1956: 70). These are but a few examples of how the evolving European nations
came to see themselves inscribed in the Bible.

Greenland and the dual monarchy of Norway and Denmark

Greenland is a late offshoot from the European family of Christian nations. Even
though it is situated in the American hemisphere, Greenland is closely connected
to Europe: historically, politically, economically and culturally. Today, only
57,000 people share more than 2 million sq km, most of which is an Arctic desert
dominated by an ice sheet, which alone covers 1.7 million sq km. The habitable

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area is roughly the size of the British Isles. At the end of the tenth century ce,
Norse migrants settled in the south-western part of Greenland (Gad 1970: 26–89;
Seaver 2010) at a time when the island was, on the whole, uninhabited. Only in
the Smith Sound area in the extreme north are there remnants of the so-called
“Late Dorset” culture present from the eighth to the thirteenth century (Appelt and
Gulløv 1999). The Norsemen remained in the south for half a millennium. From
the beginning, they constituted a Christian free state run by chieftains, but in 1261
this state became incorporated into the kingdom of Norway, at the time a seaborne
empire that stretched from Scandinavia to the shores of Labrador in present-day
Canada (Gad 1970: 119–21). Late in the twelfth century, the people belonging to
the so-called “Neo-Eskimo culture” arrived in Greenland from America (Gulløv
2011: 24–5), without knowing, of course, that their arrival marked their impend-
ing absorption into the multicultural North Atlantic empire ruled by the distant
Norwegian king. This expansive culture based on new techniques for whaling had
originated on the Siberian coasts of the Bering Straits and on St. Lawrence Island
about 500 ce, and spread across the Bering Straits and the Alaskan and Canadian
coasts during the following centuries (Gulløv 2004). In the eastern part of the vast
territories that they controlled, they called themselves inuit, “human beings”.
In around 1350, the notorious Black Death devastated significant parts of
Europe, including Norway, and it proved impossible for Norway to sustain its
independence over the long term. In 1380, Norway and Denmark formed a united
monarchy, with a shared king from 1397. Conforming to general centripetal
migration patterns in Europe, after the Black Death had created space in formerly
over-populated areas, the Norsemen left Greenland – the periphery of the old
Norwegian empire – in search of more favourable living conditions in the fertile
lands of their ancestors (Kjærgaard 2010). The dual kingdom of Denmark and
Norway lasted until the time of the Napoleonic wars, in the beginning of the nine-
teenth century, when the region was caught between the conflicting interests of
two European superpowers: France and Great Britain. In 1814, the dual monarchy
was dissolved, and Norway entered into a personal union with Sweden, which
lasted until 1905 when Norway regained its independence.1
From 1380 to 1814, the dual monarchy of Denmark and Norway controlled
possessions and dependencies in present-day Germany and in the North Atlantic,
most notably the Faroe Islands, Iceland and Greenland. In 1620, the dual kingdom
became a colonial power, when a small territory in Tamil Nadu on the south-eastern
coast of India was leased from the local lord and called Tranquebar. In the
Caribbean, three islands were acquired in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries
and named the Danish West Indies. On the Gold Coast in Ghana, West Africa,
trading posts were established in the seventeenth century.2 Though not exactly
a superpower, the dual kingdom was sizable, an empire acknowledged as one of
the important European powers of the day. It included several peoples, speaking
different languages: Danes, Germans and Frisians living in the Danish part of the
kingdom. In continental Norway, there were Norwegians, Sami and Finns. In
the North Atlantic part of Norway, there were Icelanders, Faroese and Inuit. There

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 N ew C hildren of A braham in G reenland

were also the peoples of the overseas possessions: the Tamils in Southern India and
those living in what was called the Danish West Indies (today the Virgin Islands).
Tranquebar and the trading posts in Ghana were sold to Great Britain in the
mid-nineteenth century and the last of Denmark’s overseas colonies, the Virgin
Islands, were sold to the US in 1916. As regards the dependencies in the North
Atlantic, Denmark reluctantly kept the old Norwegian possessions when conti-
nental Norway became part of the kingdom of Sweden in 1814 (T. Kjærgaard
2014a; Gad 1979). Iceland declared independence during the Second World War,
in 1944, but the Faroe Islands and Greenland are still self-governing dependencies
of the kingdom of Denmark.

Sacral kingship
The Old Testament has been an important inspiration for the self-image of European
rulers. From 1660 to 1849, Denmark had autocratic kings. They exercised kingship
in a way that can be compared to medieval ideas of sacral kingship, inasmuch as the
biblical kings Solomon and David were their role models. Already, King Frederik
II (1534–88) personally selected biblical texts attributed to Solomon and David and
had these texts printed for the use of both his family and close friends, as well as
the general public. One of his descendants, King Christian V (1646–99), had them
reprinted in fine editions (Hein 2009, vol. 2: 87). According to 1 Kgs 10:18–20,
King Solomon made an ivory throne overlaid with gold and surrounded by no less
than fourteen lions. Among the regalia of the Danish king was a spectacular throne
made of narwhal tusk, the ivory of the North Atlantic. It was surrounded, by not
fourteen, but only three silver lions. As Saul and David had been anointed by the
prophet Samuel, the kings of Denmark commenced their rule by being anointed by
a bishop. During this important religious ceremony, the king, dressed in a cloak of
velvet and ermine, sat on his ivory throne, guarded by the silver lions.3 According
to the Danish Lex Regia – the Danish constitution of 1665 – no one but almighty
God outranked the king.4 He exercised both temporal and ecclesiastical jurisdic-
tion and was under an obligation to safeguard the well-being of the Lutheran
national church and to proclaim the Gospel throughout his empire. With this lat-
ter end in view, a veritable Government Department for the Dissemination of the
Gospel – Collegium de cursu Evangelii promovendo – was established, oversee-
ing missionary work among the Sami people in Lapland (Northern Norway), the
Tamils in Tranquebar, the Inuit in Greenland and, for a while, the population of
the Virgin Islands (Stampe 1946). No other European nation has ever had anything
similar to this department. The existence of such a singular institution under the
Danish, absolute monarchy and its remarkable achievements, not least in the North
Atlantic, are spectacular examples of the Bible’s reception history.
In Lapland, in northern Norway, religious books in the various Sami languages
were produced since early in the seventeenth century. The religion of the Sami
people was animistic, but the indigenous population was affected in various ways
by the neighbouring Christian culture from the Middle Ages. During the eighteenth

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century, missionary work was intensified and systematized, and gradually the reli-
gion of the Sami people changed, not least because their shamans, sorcerers and
witches were persecuted by the Christian rulers (The Sami People 1990).
Tranquebar, in Tamil Nadu, became the basis of the world’s earliest missionary
work to be carried out by Lutherans in the non-western world, when the Danish king
allowed two German missionaries, Bartholomäus Ziegenbalg and Heinrich Plütschau,
to go to India in 1706. Initially, the missionaries encountered hostility, as the Danish
merchants wanted no meddling, which might endanger their profits. However, in
spite of all difficulties, the Danish mission in Tranquebar was successful. Ziegenbalg
was extremely gifted in languages and became a master of Tamil, in both its classical
and local varieties, and brought learned Tamil closer to ordinary people. He was the
first scholar to complete a Tamil translation of the entire New Testament, which was
printed in 1715. The missionaries established local schools for as many students as
possible, including a seminary for training Tamil teachers. They translated school-
books, including both Scripture and sciences, into Tamil, set up printing presses and
collected and studied as many Tamil manuscripts as they were able to acquire.5
Even so, nowhere in the Danish-Norwegian empire had the endeavours of the
Danish king and his Government Department for the Dissemination of the Gospel
such dramatic and long-term effects as they had in Greenland, where an entirely oral,
animistic culture was changed and incorporated into the Danish-Norwegian empire,
and hence the western world. At the second coming of Christianity in 1721, it is
estimated that little more than 5,000 Inuit subsisted in Greenland (Nielsen 2012a:
115–16). The European resettlement was accomplished by the Norwegian mission-
ary Hans Egede and a circle of businessmen in the Norwegian town of Bergen, who
funded the project from its earliest years until 1726 (Solberg 1917). Hans Egede
arrived as the king’s representative and “royal Danish missionary and commis-
sioned chief of the royally chartered Bergen colony in Greenland” (Bobé 1952: 51).

Greenland as a dependency of Denmark-Norway

It is important to bear in mind that histories of colonization are very different
in the various parts of the world. There are good reasons why Greenland is not
mentioned in Marc Ferro’s famous book Le livre noir du colonialisme (2003).
The Inuit of Greenland were never enslaved or dislodged; no locals were ever
killed by Europeans under the jurisdiction of the Danish-Norwegian authorities;
Greenlanders have never been imprisoned before the twentieth century; no land
was confiscated and, from the very beginning of European presence in Greenland,
great efforts were made to preserve and develop the local language. Today
Greenlandic is the official language in Greenland, and it is spoken by the vast
majority of the population. No other aboriginal language in the whole American
hemisphere has a comparable status.
As has already been mentioned, Denmark-Norway was an empire populated
by several peoples. In the language of the day, the non-Christian peoples living in
Greenland and Lapland were termed “savages”, but all the same, they were also

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termed subjects of the king on a par with other citizens of the empire. As regards
Greenland, this can be shown as early as in 1605. Even though the Norsemen aban-
doned their settlements some time in the fifteenth century, Greenland was never
forgotten in Europe, and the sovereignty of the dual kingdom over Greenland was
continuously recognized by the other states of Europe, as had been the case since
the Middle Ages.6 Among the less memorable endeavours to become acquainted
with the dual kingdom’s remotest peoples were a series of brutal abductions in
the seventeenth century. A number of Greenlanders were captured and brought to
Denmark on three known occasions in 1605, 1606 and 1654; a fourth attempt in
1636 was unsuccessful (Bertelsen 1945: 9–25). Even though they were forcibly
removed from their native country, these Inuit were treated well during their stay
in Denmark, and a letter written by king Christian IV (1577–1648) to one of his
noblemen, Arild Huitfeld, instructs the addressee to house and provide for one of
the Greenlanders who were brought to Denmark in 1605: “Know that we herewith
send to you one of our subjects whom we have recently received from our land,
Greenland”, the king wrote.7 This is a very early testimony that the Danish king
regarded Greenland as one of his lands and that its inhabitants were the king’s
subjects like all other residents in the empire.
The Danish historian Thorkild Kjærgaard has shown that the Inuit people
in Greenland were, from the beginning of the European resettlement in 1721,
regarded as Danish compatriots (Kjærgaard 2014b). The Norwegian missionary
Hans Egede did not, in his own understanding, travel to a colony or some devel-
oping country; he simply went to a remote part of the old Norwegian empire
(Danbolt 1973: 1–2). In obvious contradistinction to their mode of conduct in
continental Denmark and Norway, the Danish-Norwegian authorities abstained
from upholding a monopoly of violence as regards the Inuit in Greenland. The
local government officials and the clergy had no jurisdiction over the indigenous,
non-Christian population. Danish and Norwegian legislation did not apply to
them, and no one could sentence them for any crime whatsoever. The Danes and
Norwegians working in Greenland were instructed to treat the Inuit respectfully,
and any kind of violence was prohibited. These regulations were observed to such
a surprisingly considerable extent that there is not a single known instance of a
murder of a native person committed by a European citizen of Denmark-Norway
in the whole eighteenth century, a time when bloodshed was generally widespread
in the American hemisphere (Kjærgaard 2014b: 111).
Nothing could be forced on the indigenous people of Greenland, who were
nomads and much more mobile in the Arctic climate than the European settlers
of the day. The only ways of exerting an influence on them were barter, trade and
missionary and educational activities. Soon, Christianity began to spread among
the Inuit and, as a precondition for being baptized, the catechumens promised to
abstain from blood feuds and acknowledge that life is holy and untouchable. If
the catechumen had already committed a murder, (s)he had to repent and prom-
ise to persist in doing good things in future. If a convert relapsed into their old
habits and committed a murder, the punishment was very mild. At a time when

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capital punishment was common in Denmark and Norway, murders committed

by Greenlandic converts were punished by exclusion from the religious fellow-
ship. Murderers could not receive Communion or attend other church services for
a while, or, even worse, they were forbidden from participating in the Christmas
or Easter services, which were important social events in the eighteenth century.
The punishment could be made even more rigorous by forbidding the culprit
from buying the European goods that became more and more indispensable to the
natives: coffee, tobacco and ammunition in particular. However, there were no
prisons (Kjærgaard 2014b: 113–15).
Hans Egede’s arrival marked the beginning of a project of development. What
was essentially an egalitarian indigenous society was Christianized and changed
into a stratified society within the first century of European presence in the coun-
try. Before the Second World War, the purpose of the Danish Greenland policy
was to ensure a steady development of society, protect the Inuit culture, and
safeguard the population against exploitation (Petersen 1975: 19). Therefore, the
territory was administered differently from the rest of the kingdom of Denmark
(and, before 1814, Norway). However, the administrative practice was of no
importance as regards the legal status of the native population. In 1931, the chief
administrative officer (Landsfoged) of South Greenland, Knud Oldendow, issued
a textbook on Greenlandic citizenship written in Danish and Greenlandic. In the
book, he quoted a letter from the Danish Ministry of the Interior stating what had
been the case for centuries at the time (1926): “native Greenlanders are citizens of
Denmark and enjoy the benefits of every Danish citizen”.8 After the Second World
War, in 1946, the Danish diplomats at the United Nations were pressurized into
acknowledging that Denmark was a colonial power on a par with nations such as
the UK, France, and Belgium, even though Denmark’s last real colony, the Virgin
Islands, had been transferred to the US in 1916 (Beukel et al. 2007: 376). By
changing the Constitutional Act of the Kingdom of Denmark in 1953, Denmark
quickly managed to escape the embarrassing position as a colonial power that was
enforced on her by the most powerful members of the UN. At that time, accord-
ing to the influential Greenlandic politician, Avgo Lynge, the Greenlanders had
ceased to be “Eskimos”, but had become “Danish Eskimos”. “Our present culture
has arisen from an amalgam”, he wrote, and he proudly stated that “we love all
this because it is ours” (Lynge 1945: 224; my translation from Danish).

Inuit and inuiit

As is well known, the idea that a group of people or several groups of peoples
may constitute a nation is not a matter of course. Such ideas may be imported
from outside. Inuit is what numerous groups of people call themselves. They are
dispersed along vast coastal areas of present-day Alaska, Canada, and Greenland,
and their languages constitute a dialect continuum. Inuit is the plural of inuk,
meaning “human being”. All Inuit groups considered themselves to be inuiit (ī),
a term denoting “real human beings” in contradistinction to inuit (ĭ) (Kleivan and

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 N ew C hildren of A braham in G reenland

Sonne 1985: 6). The same word, inuk, has possessed grammatical forms, inua
(the singular) and inui (the plural) used in the sense “owner”. All denizens of the
universe – as well as natural phenomena such as the sun, the moon, rocks, lakes, the
sea, the air and the weather, and immaterial phenomena such as fear and hunger –
had their inui, “owners”, and to the chosen ones, the shamans, it was possible to
communicate with the inui of all those beings and phenomena. Such dealings with
unseen forces of nature were rendered possible by assistant spirits, toornat, and a
complicated system of shamanistic rituals and taboo regulations served to secure
the proceeds of the chase.9
As regards other groups of people, Inuit of course interacted with Native
Americans. They called them eqqillit, meaning “those infested with nits”. As the
memory of the native Americans faded among those Inuit, whose ancestors had
migrated to Greenland as early as the twelfth century, the term eqqillit became
a name for “a legendary underground people, half human, half dog” (Fortescue
et al. 2010: 149: iŋqiliʀ). Inuit also had a name for European visitors, colonizers,
and migrants: qallunaat, meaning “frowning brows” (Fortescue et al. 2010: 318:
qavlunaaq). In addition, there were several groups of supernatural beings, some of
whom, the tornit, meaning “the strong ones”, are usually identified with an earlier
culture, the so-called “Dorset people” (Fortescue et al. 2010: 382: tunǝq) that were
superseded by the Neo-Eskimo culture (Gulløv 2004).
The Inuit had no idea that they were a particular people or nation; other Inuit
were merely persons whom they could easily talk to, negotiate with, and combat,
if necessary. Some Inuit groups had no or only sparse contact with other human
beings. In the far North of Greenland, a small isolated tribe of Inuit were discov-
ered by Europeans in 1818, when two British ships commanded by John Ross
came in search of the Northwest Passage and spent ten days on the coast of the
land of the Inughuit, “the great people”, as the natives there called themselves.
These English brought with them a West Greenlander, who had lived in Scotland
for two years. Through this interpreter, the expedition learned that the “Arctic
Highlanders”, living in what was later called the Thule area, considered them-
selves to be the only inhabitants of the universe. They believed that all the rest
of the world was an uninhabitable mass of ice. Their language did not contain a
word for “tomorrow”. Nor had they any word denoting possible inhabitants of the
Canadian shores of the Davis Strait. Not only were they unknown to the rest of
the world, the world was also unknown to them. They were terrified at the sight
of two European ships and hid their women and children in the mountains for
protection against what they thought were visitors from either the moon or the sun
(Ross 1819: xxxviii–xl, 103–50, 163–87; Gilberg 1996; Kjærgaard 2011: 133).
The case of each individual group of Inuit is, of course, different. Basque ships
navigated North Atlantic and West Greenlandic waters late in the Middle Ages
(Nogaret 1928: 152), Portuguese and British explorers came by in the fifteenth and
sixteenth centuries, and the Dutch traffic became heavy in the early seventeenth
century. The first successful Danish-Norwegian expedition to West Greenland
since the Middle Ages was carried out in 1605, ‌under the command of British

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naval officers (Gad 1970: 153–219). The Inuit in West Greenland were therefore
well aware of the existence of a world beyond the sea, even though some believed
that the Europeans spent their whole lives at sea and possessed neither land nor
houses (Egede 1738: 150).
In East Greenland, the Inuit were never completely unaware of the rest of the
world since trade routes between West and East Greenland existed. However, a
journey by boat from the east coast around the southern tip of Greenland, Cape
Farewell, to the west coast and back easily took two or even three years, so com-
munication between east and west was sparse and difficult (Jensen 2011: 76).
However, commodities and stories were exchanged and, when the first European
expedition to East Greenland led by the Danish naval officer Wilhelm August
Graah (1793–1863) had contact with the Inuit there in 1829–30, the Danes found
European goods in their houses and tents. Graah discovered that such goods – spear
and arrow heads, knives, needles, handkerchiefs and tobacco – were exchanged
for skins of polar bears, seals and dogs at market places frequented annually by
East and West Greenlanders. Graah also learned that the West Greenlanders
charged exorbitant prices for their European wares (Graah 1837: 81). In one tent,
he even found earthenware vessels, a copper kettle, mirrors and a ‌couple of boxes
with locks (Graah 1837: 86).

The Decalogue and the building of a Christian nation

By the time of the arrival of Christianity, completely new ideas were introduced
into the local pictures of the world. Paraphrasing Matt 3:9, it would be possible to
say that new children of Abraham were roused from the rocks of Greenland in the
wake of the arrival of the Norwegian missionary Hans Egede in 1721. Within less
than a century, all the Inuit of West Greenland within reach of the European ships
of the day had been baptized.
The Bible was highly instrumental in the building of the nation of Greenland.
The first written law in Greenlandic was the Decalogue, part of a short catechism
translated by Hans Egede in his own newly developed written Greenlandic as
early as in 1724.10 It contributed significantly to changing the conditions of life
in the Inuit society. The demand that you should worship only one God discarded
substantial parts of the animistic religion. The shaman’s favourite assistant spirit
was called Toornaarsuk, but the Europeans understood this figure to be the
supreme god of the Inuit (Sonne 1986). Known in Europe before Hans Egede’s
departure to Greenland, this spirit’s name was translated as “devil” in one printed
Greenlandic vocabulary (Bartholin 1673). This interpretation was adopted by the
missionaries and, as a result, the most important figure of Greenlandic shaman-
ism was demonized. Less prominent figures of tradition, such as the man in the
moon or the woman at the bottom of the sea, who controlled the Inuit’s prey were
ignored or ridiculed by the missionaries and their converts, as were the shamans
(angakkut). They quickly lost their general esteem as Christianity spread. The
famous Hinrich Johannes Rink (1819–1893), a Danish government official in the

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southern part of Greenland in 1855–68 and a well-known scholar of Greenland,

issued a treatise, concerning “the Greenlanders’ old faith and what has been pre-
served of it under Christianity” (Rink 1868). Rink emphasized that the Europeans,
including the missionaries, ignored Greenland’s spirit world, which they deemed
inferior, with the result that much of the old faith had actually been preserved
(Rink 1868: 192), even though the entire population of West Greenland had been
Christianized for two or three generations by his time.
Traditional Inuit tales often emphasize that conversion to Christianity had
been accomplished by free choice. They had been, themselves, the agents of such
change and nothing had been forced on them. Stories narrated how God had spo-
ken directly to the Greenlanders and continued to do so, without considering the
will of the Danish authorities. As a consequence, a number of Greenlandic “false”
prophets and prophetesses appeared (Thisted 1997: 14–17). The fact that many
old customs were abandoned, including all kinds of traditional public gatherings,
was due to the natives’ own conceptions of what the consequences of their new
faith ought to be (Rink 1868: 250). The idea that “[t]he missionaries banned the
[traditional] song contests” (Larsen 1974) is a modern misunderstanding, though
often repeated. “It is a well-known fact that the missionaries banned drum dance”,
my esteemed colleague Birgit Kleist Pedersen wrote in a recent piece (Pedersen
2014: 52, n. 2; my translation).
In 1740, Poul Egede, then missionary in the Disko Bay area, met a group of
converts who had been sadly observing some non-Christians having a good time,
with their traditional drumming and dancing. When the converts asked whether
the merry crowd belonged to Toornaarsuk, by which they meant the devil, the mis-
sionary answered mildly, confident that many of the singers and dancers would, in
due time, be praising God. In his diary, he added that he had known of many good
people who were unaware that their mere presence at drum-dance events could
be offensive to many believers (Egede 1788: 203). However, the missionary did
not indicate that he himself was offended or that the believers should keep away
from such occasions. Lars Dalager, trade assistant and merchant in Godthaab and
Frederikshaab in 1742–67, observed that the individual missionaries had each
their own thoughts about what Christianity should require among the converts
(Dalager 1915: 28). According to Rink, the Moravian Brethren generally adopted
more drastic measures against the old Greenlandic customs than did the Danish
state mission (Rink 1866: 38).11 One of the latter’s most remarkable representa-
tives, Henric Christopher Glahn (1738–1804), distinguished between permissible
and inadmissible songs (Glahn 1921: 81–4). Inadmissible were songs connected
with activities that the missionary regarded as superstitious, such as shamanistic
seances. Permissible were songs of entertaining and traditional war songs. In the
traditional culture, song contests had great entertainment value. They were also
used for settling quarrels and, to some extent, they even could ward off blood
feuds. Accordingly, Glahn wrote a sympathetic paper about Greenlandic songs
in 1766 and included it in his diary. A century later, Rink n‌ oted that “dancing in
the European fashion is a very favourite amusement”, but “remains of the ancient

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singing entertainments still exist in remote places” (Rink 1974: 223). He quoted
“[a] native more than usually gifted and educated” for stating the opinion that
“the ancient dance and song are neither blameable nor wrong . . . If kitingnek
[qitinneq, European dancing] be not hurtful, tivanek [tivaneq, traditional Green­
landic dancing] cannot be so. But if kitingnek be wrong, tivanek will be wrong
too” (Rink 1974: 277). The matter is still subject to discussions in the Greenlandic
Church today (Pedersen 2014: 52).
The third commandment of the Decalogue defines the rhythm of life in the
Christian community: six days’ work, followed by the Sabbath. In the pre-Christian
Inuit society, days had no names, and, in a subsistence economy, it may not always
be wise to forbid work every seventh day, even when the weather is perfect for
hunting and the country is teeming with prey. Already, Poul Egede reported that
the local converts had noted that the weather was generally foul on Sundays
because God would not tolerate work on the day of rest. In the interest of truth,
the missionary did correct his eager adherents, reminding them that the weather
had been fine the previous Sunday (Egede 1788: 196). However, the incident
illustrates that the idea of Sundays had struck root and the quandary caused by
the implantation of Christian ideals in the subsistence economy endured as long
as the subsistence economy persisted. This dilemma was articulated in the early
Greenlandic novel Tuumarsi, by Frederik Nielsen (Nielsen 1934). The story takes
places in a fictive settlement, where some of the families had no scruples about
trying to procure food on Sundays. The father of the main character of the novel,
however, observes the holiday, which causes the family to starve until an obser-
vant neighbour presents them with meat, which had been acquired on a Sunday
(Nielsen 1934: 17–18; Danish translation: Nielsen 1980: 19–20).
The sixth commandment, forbidding adultery, was recast as a ban on polygamy,
which was permissible in the traditional society where men were in a minority
because their work was dangerous and caused many fatal accidents. Nobody can
survive on their own in traditional Arctic societies and widowed women had no
choice but to become members of new extended families that would appreciate
their working skills. Still, judging from the missionaries’ descriptions of their
discussions with the locals, it seems that it was mostly men who thought that
polygamy was absolutely necessary. Women were more open-minded about the
new ideas about monogamy (Egede 1788: 123–4).
Another novelty was the concept of private property in the ninth and tenth
commandments, implying that a man can own a house, wife, servants, and live-
stock. Traditional Arctic societies are nomadic. In Greenland, people lived in
half-buried long-houses, built of stone and roofed with driftwood, whale bones,
and sod during the winter. In the summer, they lived in tents. In early spring, roofs
were removed from the houses to leave only the walls upright. When winter came,
new constellations of extended families were formed and the long houses were
re-roofed and reused by the first groups to arrive at them. Groups, arriving later,
had to search for other houses or build anew for themselves. Nobody owned such
houses permanently. Likewise, nobody owned his own bag. Every hunter had to

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share what he had, following detailed customary rules. If he refused to do so, his
kinsmen would either exclude him or ridicule him with satirical songs.

The biblical picture of the world prevails

In November 1724, Hans Egede was able to read out his translation of the Primeval
History to an audience of natives who were very pleased to learn about the crea-
tion of the world and the flood. At least, this is what the missionary wrote in his
diary (Egede 1725: 150). The translation is included in a comprehensive manu-
script collection from 1725, a veritable anthology of religious and linguistic texts
for the use of missionaries and converts: biblical texts from both Testaments, a
lengthy catechism, a prayer book, a small Greenlandic dictionary, a collection of
admonitory speeches, and a rudimentary Greenlandic grammar (Nielsen 2012a:
125–9). The material gives its reader precious insight into the world of ideas,
which the missionary presented to his audience.
This type of Christianity is characterized by fantasy stories, complicated dog-
matics, and severe demands for obedience. The stories concern spectacular events
such as creation, resurrection, Doomsday, and the “virgin birth”, with figures such
as God, God’s son, the Holy Spirit, guardian angels, and the dreadful devil with his
talons, as well as places such as heaven and hell with its eternal fire. Complicated
dogmatics describes the trinity, how Christ is both human and divine, original sin
and the necessity of Christ’s death. There is even an attempt at a philosophy of
religion as Egede tries to prove the existence of God. The Christian god, who will
throw the infidels to the devil and his hellfire at doomsday, is characterized as
vindictive and irritable, and, hence, recognisable to a people who are conversant
with spirits and taboos (Nielsen 2012b).
Through the “primeval history”, knowledge of a new and exotic world was
imparted to the Inuit and Greenland became part of this biblical world, created
by the Christian God. The Greenlandic nation evolved from the contact with the
Christian missionaries, whose ideas and stories were received enthusiastically.
When the missionaries arrived at new places in Greenland, they often found that
their own stories had travelled ahead of them (Nielsen 2012a: 129–30). The story
of the Flood proved to be perfectly understandable in Greenland and the locals
even found evidence for the catastrophe in the form of inland traces of marine
creatures, such as seashells and whale bones. The story itself was subjected to
lively theological discussion among the natives. They liked the fact that Noah had
been saved, but expressed their doubts as to whether all of the dead could really
have been evil. What about the women and children, they asked. Were they really
all that wicked (Egede 1788: 190–91)? A number of such incidents, reported by the
missionaries, show that their stories and teachings were questioned. Inuit, them-
selves, contributed significantly to the theological discussions and the phrasings of
Christian concepts in their own tongue (Nielsen 2012b: 47; Kjærgaard 2011: 141).
In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, the European learned world was
preoccupied with the physico-theological thinking that integrated natural history

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and theology. A number of the missionaries to Greenland, accordingly, conducted

extensive studies of Greenlandic geography, flora, and fauna, since nature itself
testified to the existence of God, to Creation, and to God’s solicitude for nature
and mankind (K. Kjærgaard 2014). They had no difficulty convincing the locals
about the meaningfulness of this type of discourse. Soon the converts learned that
they were a nation, one of many in the world, created by the Christian god. In
1859, Samuel Kleinschmidt (1814–86), famous for his linguistic and educational
achievements in Greenland (Wilhjelm 2013), issued a Greenlandic textbook on
world history (Kleinschmidt 1859). It appears from this book that Adam was born
in the year 4000 bce and that the Flood took place in the year 2345 bce. This is a
striking piece of testimony that, in Greenland as well as in Europe of the day, the
Bible had become the key to understanding the world.

Widening the intellectual horizons in Europe and Greenland

Biblical texts, through the interpretation of the missionaries, constituted the earli-
est teaching material, cultivating the emerging Christian nation. Because Hans
Egede and his fellow missionaries had sent annual reports to Europe about their
work, Egede’s early Greenlandic manuscripts also came to the knowledge of the
learned world, where they caused a sensation. They are the earliest texts written
in any of the Eskaleut family of languages, and autographs and eighteenth-century
copies of Hans Egede’s Greenlandic texts, written in his early years in Greenland,
1723 to 1725, are today kept in libraries and archives in at least five European
countries: Denmark, Norway, Germany, France, and Great Britain (Nielsen
2014a: 132). Knowledge of a ‘new’ language and culture widened the intellectual
horizon in Europe. Everything available about Greenland was studied eagerly.
As mentioned above, Dutch whalers and merchants, in particular, had frequented
Greenlandic waters every year and had bartered with the locals since early in the
seventeenth century. A Germanic-Greenlandic pidgin had developed and mutual
knowledge about the worlds of the bartering parties was spreading among both
Greenlanders and Europeans, even as misunderstandings could hardly be avoided.
The Greenlanders’ assumption that Europeans lived their whole lives at sea
and that they did not possess any land, much less houses, has already been men-
tioned. This was one of the reasons why a young Greenlander, Pooq, and his
friend Qiperoq were sent to Denmark in 1724 (Egede 1738: 149–50). Qiperoq
was reluctant, but Pooq was the first Greenlander ever to voluntarily travel by
European ship (Harbsmeier 2006: 356). Qiperoq died abroad while Pooq returned
safely to his homeland to tell of his adventures. It has recently been demonstrated
that Pooq’s song about his voyage was written down by Hans Egede shortly after
Pooq’s return and translated into Danish with the singer’s assistance (Nielsen
2014c). This was the earliest Greenlandic drum song that had ever been commit-
ted to writing and it was very influential in the early missionary years. More than
two centuries later, it appeared that a version of Pooq’s song was still being sung
on the east coast of Greenland. Even though the East Greenlandic version had

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changed much compared to the version Hans Egede had written down, Pooq’s
song, along with its mention of the Round Tower in the centre of Copenhagen,
with its spectacular interior spiral ramp, was still recognizable (Rosing 1968).
It has also been demonstrated that Pooq carried a small bilingual catechism
in the form of a handwritten manuscript by Hans Egede (Nielsen 2014a).
Professional scribes produced at least two copies of this catechism after Pooq’s
arrival in Copenhagen and the copies were acquired by two noblemen. One of
them, Frederik Rostgaard, a high-ranking member of the absolute monarch’s gov-
ernment, was forced to auction off his vast collection only two years later. The
other, Count Christian Danneskiold-Samsøe, died in 1728, which is why his col-
lections were sold at auction a few years later, in 1732. Both the sales catalogues
and the auction ledgers have been preserved and show that Danneskiold-Samsøe
bought many items at Rostgaard’s auction, including numerous Groenlandica.
Detailed lists in the two catalogues include several books about Greenland,
Greenlandic artifacts, and two copies of Pooq’s catechism (Nielsen 2014a:
130–32). These are important examples of learned men’s fascination with the
poorly known Arctic world which was now in the process of being incorporated
into the western world.
When Hans Egede settled in Greenland, time had come to correct many false
assumptions about what was known as mare septentrionalis. The Government
Department for the Dissemination of the Gospel and the businessmen in Bergen,
who had funded Egede’s project, sent questionnaires to Greenland in 1724.
Hans Egede’s answers are well preserved (Nielsen 2014b) and they correct sev-
eral European misunderstandings about Greenland and its inhabitants. A short
description of Greenland and Greenlandic culture, based on Egede’s reports, was
printed in two languages already in 1729 (Egede 1729) and 1730.12 A revised
and expanded edition of the work came out in 1741 after the missionary’s return
to Denmark (Egede 1741). It became a great success and, before the end of the
century, the book had been translated into German, Dutch, English, and French
(Bruun 1962: 640–41).

Conclusion
Thanks to the missionary activities initiated by a Norwegian priest and a king’s
dream of re-creating a medieval seaborne empire, an oral culture became a culture
of literacy and a self-aware, Inuit Christian nation emerged. The Inuit themselves
participated eagerly in the process and made important contributions to the for-
mulation of central Christian concepts in their own language. Since the Bible was
both an important part of the royal propaganda of the day and the Evangelical
mission’s primary source of inspiration, it was highly instrumental.
Even though Greenland is in the American hemisphere, the situation with
the Inuit in continental America (Alaska and Canada) has been quite differ-
ent. They have also been Christianized and, thereby, markedly influenced by
the biblical world. However, like so many other native American nations, their

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languages and cultures are highly endangered and their level of self-governance
does not compare favourably with that of the Inuit in Greenland, who are today
incorporated in the European state system as a self-governing part of the Danish
national community. Greenlandic (Kalaallisut) is the official language spoken
by the vast majority of the population. The cultural changes on both sides of the
Atlantic are important examples of the Bible’s reception history, which deserves
further study.

Notes
1 A short introduction to the history of Denmark can be found in Jespersen 2004. As
regards the dual monarchy and the Danish empire, see Albrechtsen et al. 1997–98;
Heinzelmann et al. 2006; Bregnsbo and Jensen 2005.
2 Introductions to the Danish colonial history are Rostgaard and Schou 2010; Brøndsted
(ed.) 1966–68.
3 Eller 1976; Møller 2012. For a thorough description of the throne, see Petterson 2012:
428–33.
4 A recent edition of the Danish Lex Regia is Tamm and Jørgensen (eds.) 2012.
5 Frykenberg 2008. An interesting anthology of Tranquebar studies is Fihl and
Venkatachalapathy (eds.) 2009.
6 T. Kjærgaard 2014b: 109. A detailed study of the early history of Greenland is Gad
1970.
7 My translation from Danish. The letter is printed in Bobé 1936: 14 (text no. 19).
8 Oldendow 1931: 31; my translation from Danish. I am indebted to my friend and col-
league, Thorkild Kjærgaard, for drawing my attention to Oldendow’s book.
9 For a short introduction to Inuit shamanism, see Kleivan and Sonne 1985. A full treat-
ment is Haase 1987.
10 H. Egede 1724: 132–40; the Decalogue is seen in Part 2 (pp. 136–7). Two versions of
the catechism are known after recent manuscript discoveries in London and Paris (F. A.
J. Nielsen 2014a).
11 Rink’s criticism of the Moravian Brethren is part of the introduction to the Danish
first edition of his famous Tales and traditions of the Eskimo. It was omitted from the
English translation (Rink 1997).
12 German; see Bruun 1962: 640.

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Kristendommen”. Aarbøger for Nordisk Oldkyndighed og Historie: 192–256.
———. 1974 [1877], Danish Greenland. Its People and Products. London: C. Hurst.
———. 1997 [1875]. Tales and traditions of the Eskimo. Mineola, NY: Dover Publications.
Rosing, J. 1968. “Sangen om det menneskegjorte fjeld”. Nationalmuseets Arbejdsmark:
171–80.
Ross, J. 1819. A Voyage of Discovery Made under the Orders of the Admiralty in His
Majesty’s Ships Isabella and Alexander for the Purpose of Exploring Baffin’s Bay, and
Enquiring into the Probability of a North-West Passage. I. London: Longman, Hurst,
Rees, Orme, and Brown.
Rostgaard, M. and L. Schou. 2010. Kulturmøder i dansk kolonihistorie. Copenhagen:
Gyldendal.
Schäferdiek, K. 2007. “Germanic and Celtic Christianities”. In The Cambridge History of
Christianity. II. Constantine to c. 600. A. Casiday and F. W. Norris (eds.). Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press: 52–69.
Seaver, K. A. 2010. The Last Vikings: The Epic Story of the Great Norse Voyagers. London
and New York: Tauris.
Solberg, O. 1917 “Det bergenske handelskompani av 1721 og Grønlands kolonisation”.
Bergens historiske forening. Skrifter 23: 5–61.
Sonne, B. 1986 “Toornaarsuk, an historical Proteus”. Arctic Anthropology 23: 199–219.
Stampe, L. 1946. “Collegium de cursu Evangelii promovendo. Omkring dets Stiftelse og
første Aar”. Dansk Teologisk Tidsskrift 9: 65–88.

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Tamm, D. and J. D. Jørgensen. 2012. Kongeloven. Thomæsons Håndskrift. Copenhagen:

Jurist- og Økonomforbundets Forlag.
The Sami People, 1990, Kautokeino: Nordic Sami Institute.
Thisted, K. (ed.). 1997. Jens Kreuzmann. Fortællinger og akvareller. Nuuk: Atuakkiorfik.
Thompson, T. L. 1999. The Bible in History. How Writers Create a Past. London: Jonathan
Cape.
Wilhjelm, H. 2013. Grönländer aus Leidenschaft. Das Leben und Werk von Samuel
Kleinschmidt. Neuendettelsau: Erlanger Verlag für Mission und Ökumene.

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 12
C L OS ING THE CONFERENCE
Whose mythic, rhythmic, theological and cultural
memory is it anyway?

Jim West

Setting the stage

There was a rich man who was dressed in purple and fine linen and who
feasted sumptuously every day. And at his gate lay a poor man named
Lazarus, covered with sores, who longed to satisfy his hunger with what
fell from the rich man’s table; even the dogs would come and lick his
sores. The poor man died and was carried away by the angels to be with
Abraham. The rich man also died and was buried. In Hades, where he
was being tormented, he looked up and saw Abraham far away with
Lazarus by his side. He called out, “Father Abraham, have mercy on me,
and send Lazarus to dip the tip of his finger in water and cool my tongue;
for I am in agony in these flames.” But Abraham said, “Child, remember
that during your lifetime you received your good things, and Lazarus in
like manner evil things; but now he is comforted here, and you are in
agony. Besides all this, between you and us a great chasm has been fixed,
so that those who might want to pass from here to you cannot do so, and
no one can cross from there to us.” (Luke 16:19–26 NRSV)

Along the lines of the story of Lazarus and the Rich Man, many in academic bibli-
cal studies believe that a great gulf separates the scholar from the thirsting layman.
They believe, moreover, that biblical studies are too complex and convoluted for
the laity to understand the results of research and that few lay folk are, actually,
even remotely interested in them. Furthermore, few academics attempt to traverse
the gap to bring just a cool drip of water to the suffering ignorant unwashed masses.
Leaving aside the possibility that the biblical scholar be represented by the role
of poor Lazarus and the thirsty rich man might stand in the place of the unlearned
massa perditionis, let me move quickly to my point, which is, simply stated, that
no such gulf, as is spoken of, exists. It is only skewed perception and myopic
vision which asserts that it does. Lay people, by and large, are quite interested in

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the intricacies of biblical research. They love to hear about archaeological discov-
eries. Newly found textual evidence thrills them and in-depth descriptions of the
meanings of biblical texts are “food for their souls”.
To be sure, they do not necessarily know the difference between a “minimal-
ist” and a “maximalist”. Nor do they necessarily know Sinaiticus from Vaticanus
or a Qumran variant from a Masoretic one. Plop a Hebrew Bible, a Greek New
Testament, a Septuagint or a Vulgate down on their living room table and they
will look at it and invariably say something like “it’s all Greek to me”. But all of
that does not mean that they are not interested in the Bible. They are (as I have
learned over and over again in thirty years of parish ministry and in teaching the
Bible to college students).
Enter the Infamous Five and what I will assert in what follows are their contri-
butions to biblical studies for people occupying the pews.
When the “Infamous Five” bounded onto the scene in the late 1980s and early ’90s,
they were immediately besieged by Hershel Shanks, William Dever and others,
who – in one way or other – could trace their intellectual/academic lineage to
roots of the Albright/Wright/Bright family tree. For reasons which remain mys-
terious (though I believe rooted in their ideological proclivities), they took up the
gauntlet presented by the new research and attacked, full steam ahead.
Well known, surely, is the fact that Keith Whitelam, in particular, became the pri-
mary victim of the indignity of being smeared by Shanks et al. as an “anti-Semite”.
That shameful behaviour accelerated when Whitelam’s book on Palestinian his-
tory hit the shelves (Whitelam: 1996).1 The mere suggestion, it seemed, that the
Palestinians be viewed as human beings worthy of respect, with a history of their
own worthy of investigation, annoyed, in the extreme, those whose concern was
strictly and merely and completely focused on “Israelite” or “Jewish” history.
Of course, Whitelam was not alone in being excoriated by the Albrightians.
Thomas L. Thompson was effectively excluded from academia for a decade or so
after the appearance of his ground-breaking volume on the Patriarchs (Thompson:
1974). Niels Peter Lemche has been described to me as “a very suspect charac-
ter”2 and Philip Davies and John Van Seters are seen by some as the “bad boys” of
“history of Israel” studies or, if you will, “just as bad as N.T. Wrong”.3
All of this may lead people to believe, mistakenly, that the “Copenhagen
School” and the “Sheffield School” or the “Copenhagen/Sheffield School” or the
“Minimalists” or whichever label they are given have nothing to say that may or
should be of interest to those outside their very narrow circle. Indeed, if certain
“maximalists” and their publications had their way, it would not just be the his-
tory of the Palestinians that would be silenced; it would be Lemche and Whitelam,
Davies and Thompson, and Van Seters too.
And yet, as the collections of essays in the “Changing Perspectives” series,
published now by Routledge by these scholars and their colleagues have shown
and are showing, they’ve contributed much and their minds have changed, and
their methodologies have evolved; that is, they have not just “taught” but that they
are “teaching” even now. And they are teaching interested lay people.

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Specifically, concerning their carefully crafted contributions to the guild (and

beyond), Thompson has moved into the arena of what I’ll describe as “myth-
studies” (Mythosgeschichte); Davies is experimenting with “cultural memory”;
Lemche as well (Erinnerungsgeschichte). Whitelam has most recently writ-
ten a volume which examines the history of Palestine in light of its “rhythms”
(Rhythmusgeschichte), and Van Seters has been practicing a variant (his oppo-
nents would say deviant) methodological course for many decades. All are
“toying” with methodologies which are quite far away from the widely prac-
ticed, highly vaunted and utterly bankrupt “historical criticism” (which I term
“Bullgeschichte”).
But more importantly, and more to the point for present purposes, their work is
not – I repeat – is not, of interest only to radicalized, left-leaning Marxist special-
ists (as is so often implied by their academic adversaries).4 Rather, their work has
much to contribute and indeed has contributed much to congregational life.
Allow me to say that again: the work of Thompson, Lemche, Davies, Whitelam
and Van Seters has much to say to pastors and preachers and people in pews.
Their work has not been and cannot be and should not be confined to academic
conferences and student assignments. Instead, it has much to say to the average
congregation and has a great deal to contribute to theological dialogue.
Hence, we arrive at the question which I wish to address today . . . .

Whose mythic, rhythmic, theological cultural memory is it

anyway?
Naturally, those gathered here for this Conference will hear echoes of books
authored by assorted Sheffieldien-Copenhageners in my question, and have prob-
ably already guessed that in the space remaining to me I intend to draw from those
texts observations worthy of inclusion in extremely practical parish exercises like
sermons, Bible studies and religious education classes. After all, excellent critical
scholarship is not just for ivory towers anymore (and never has been).

Myth?
Thomas L. Thompson explains his work of recent years thusly:

The Messiah Myth, moreover, is neither a book dealing with the his-
tory of the New Testament, a history of Jesus nor of the early church.
It rather analyzes and attempts to trace the antiquity and nature of the
sources for the messiah myth. It is a study in comparative literature. It
deals only indirectly with the historicity of Jesus, as it treats many of the
proverbs and parables that have been associated with such a figure. It
comes to deal with the use of the Gospels’ for such historical questions,
only insofar as they are related to the many sayings found in Matthew
and Luke, such as the sermon on the mount or, respectively, the plain,

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sayings, which some conservative New Testament scholars, such as those

involved in the Jesus seminar – and Maurice Casey – have considered
ipsissima verba of Jesus. My purpose was quite different: to demonstrate
that they were, in fact, sayings and tropes that were considerably older
than either the gospels or any hypothetical, historical Jesus. I preferred
to concentrate on Matthew, Luke and Isaiah in this study, because it is
in these texts that many messianic tropes, not least those associated with
the literary stereotype I have called a ‘Poor Man’s Song’ and the ancient
Near Eastern tale-type ‘A Testament of the Good King.’ To give priority
to Mark in such a monograph would make no sense whatever, as many
New Testament scholars have been able to recognize. (Thompson, 2013)

Will “this dog hunt”,5 in the community of faith? Indeed it will, for it gives leaders
in churches opportunities to discuss the theology of the Gospels, the question of
the Jesus of History or the Christ of Faith, the roots of the Gospel stories and many
related themes. And, whereas it may seem to some that people occupying pews
would shrink from such issues, I can insist that not only will they enjoy the topics
but they will be reinvigorated in their own study of the biblical text from them.
Even more, these issues are incredibly important as they stand at the very heart of
Christian faith. Was Jesus what the Gospels portray him to be, or was his image
an invention of the Church or was he some mixture of what the Gospels portray
him to be and a slathering of theological accretion? Or are the thoroughgoing
“mythicists” correct to assert that he never existed at all? Nothing stirs discussion
quite like those questions.

Rhythm?
Keith Whitelam writes:

The events of the Late Bronze Age allow us to see one phase of the regu-
lar rhythms of economic life in Palestine and the eastern Mediterranean.
These events are not the result of the collapse of a supposedly morally
inferior society (the Canaanites) being replaced by supposedly spiritually
superior invaders (the Israelites) who reinvigorate and redirect the his-
tory of Palestine. If we cast a glance at the extended history of Palestine,
we can see that the situation at the end of the Late Bronze Age, far from
being unique in its history, was but a recurring moment in time. Periods
of crisis throughout the region, following periods of relative prosperity –
at least for the privileged of society – are a regular, and we might say,
natural feature of the patterns of Palestinian history. If such periods were
to be termed pivotal moments, then the hinges of Palestinian history
were incredibly well oiled. The recession at the end of the Late Bronze
Age and the revival in the countryside that followed at the beginning of
the Iron Age is similar to many others in the history of Palestine.

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The conditions at the end of the Late Bronze Age represent less a turn-
ing point in the history of the region than a drawing to our attention of
the rhythms and patterns that underlie that history. The way in which the
vast majority of the inhabitants of the countryside responded with their
ingenuity, adaptability and mobility – provided the underlying continui-
ties, the threads that help to bind together the history of Palestine. The
indigenous population and its culture was not wiped out or replaced. For
countless individuals – who were wounded in local conflicts, or who wit-
nessed the death of loved ones, or who were made homeless or who saw
their crops and livestock destroyed – this was a catastrophe. But it was
not the pivot on which a new age turned; it was not ‘the Catastrophe’, as
it has been termed. (Whitelam, 2013: 32)

It is, to be direct, exceedingly difficult to overstate the importance of Whitelam’s

views for Christians. With the preponderance of space in the news given to
Christian Zionists, their views and their unwavering and blind support of the mod-
ern State of Israel, as if that State were the same entity as Ancient Israel (whatever
that was), Whitelam’s corrective is essential. Christians, church folk, not only
wish to understand the issues concerning Israel, the Palestinians and peace in the
Middle East, but they need to. No one working presently opens reader’s eyes to
the underlying historical issues as well.
Naturally, the practical implications of Whitelam’s views have serious conse-
quences for policy makers and their constituents. If Palestinian history is taken
as seriously as it ought to be, as seriously as Jewish history is at present, then the
conflict in the Middle East would have a completely different hue as covered in
the Western media. This, as one can imagine, is essential.

Theology?
Niels Peter Lemche has written:

Old Testament scholars of the last two centuries invested enormous

energy in the study of the history of ancient Israel. They only helped
to sharpen the crisis, as the gulf between real history and biblical story
continued to widen. Many Old Testament scholars tried in vain to stop
this development. Instead of accepting modern historical research, they
used the method of the ostrich and argued that nothing had happened
that damaged the impression of ancient Israel found on the pages of the
Old Testament in a serious way. For too long a time, scholars have main-
tained that the history of ancient Israel and the story of biblical Israel in
the Old Testament were more or less identical as far as the big picture
was concerned. We only need accept the biblical story as real history.
For many years scholars have tried to convince the laity that there is no
danger. The bible’s story and real history are the same. They did not see

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that they were building a palace on sand. Real history, following its own
rules, would sooner or later break down the edifice, and the consequence
could well be that the laity would simply regard the Old Testament as a
book of lies. (Lemche, 2008: 349)

It is precisely at the intersection of history and the Bible that the central question,
indeed, the question above all questions, comes to the surface: the question of the
purpose of the Bible. If, as some assert, the Bible’s purpose is to relate historical
facts then there is a serious problem with its reliability. Very few historical facts
have been verified in support of the biblical telling of things. On the other hand, if
the Bible is seen as a theological text, relating theological themes which have, at
best, a spider-web’s connection to their underlying history, then we are, surpris-
ingly, on much firmer ground.
Here, for people in the Church, the issues boil down to a proper understand-
ing of the function of Scripture. Is it to be seen as a sort of historical textbook?
If so, how can it be relied upon as such when there is so much contrary historical
evidence or, in some respects even worse, total silence? If not, then how can it be
understood and how can its truths be reconciled with the Truth? Lemche, in my
view, points us in the right direction here. The Bible is not about history per se, but
about something more profound and important: it is about God’s interaction with
humanity as reflected in “sermons” by the faithful and their tradents.

Cultural memory?
Philip Davies opines:

The minimalist option starts, typically, from recent archaeological data

that have been interpreted by the great majority of archaeologists as con-
figuring the origins of Israel in terms quite different from those in the
Bible. As a result, the fictionality of a great deal of that narrative has to
be taken seriously, in the sense of being provided with an explanation.
The unreliability of such a large part of the narrative also encourages a
very cautious attitude towards the remainder, with the view that nothing
unverified can be assumed to have occurred.
Those following the minimalist option prefer later dates for the compo-
sition of the Pentateuchal narrative and, indeed, other biblical literature,
because later dates provide better contexts for the creation of the stories,
not just because of the gap in time that would be necessary to explain
such fictions, but because later dates afford better political, social and
religious contexts for the enterprise. The later dates proposed dates range
from the reign of Josiah (late 7th century, shortly before the end of the
Judean monarchy) to the Hellenistic period, with the Persian period fig-
uring prominently. But how are these contexts determined? The answer

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is, by looking at ideology. The ideology of the texts does not lie all on
the surface, but also within and beneath the text. The concept, itself, and
the tools for analyzing it have long been available from Marxist analysis
and applied in other historical work. But there are other considerations.
Most of the biblical literature is agreed by all biblical scholars to have
reached its final shape after the end of the Judean monarchy: this can
support the ‘minimalist’ option because if literary editing was obviously
taking place, then the resources and motives for authoring texts can also
have been present. Whether such writing and rewriting took place earlier
remains, by contrast, conjectural. (Davies, 2008: 147–8)

As a thoroughly acclimated Bultmannian with tinges of minimalist tendencies, it

is very difficult for me to be objective concerning Davies’ assertions in this pas-
sage. The lateness of the biblical text and the paucity of archaeological support
for many of the “historical” claims made in it force readers to conclude either
that Bultmann and Davies and the minimalists are right and that, in Bultmannian
terms, the Bible is utterly theological and minimally historical in its interests and
goals – or it is wrong. For myself, I prefer to assert that the text of the Bible is
correct – even inspired – even “inerrant” – because its function is theological his-
toriography rather than “history as it actually was”.
My view of “inerrancy” can be summarized thusly: the belief that the Bible is
“inerrant” or that Evangelicals must and, by and large, do adhere to a doctrine of
“inerrancy” has been around for a pretty good while now. Usually, however, the
doctrine is approached from “below”, from the perspective of the Bible’s putative
inability to relate inaccurate historical details. Taken “from below”, the doctrine
takes a beating. Perhaps, then, it’s time to consider the doctrine “from above”; that
is, from the perspective of what the Bible actually is about and its ability to rightly
inform and guide. Rethinking the doctrine of scriptural inerrancy necessitates that
we begin to think of the Bible on its own terms and speak of it correctly along the
lines of those terms. Doing so allows us, it seems to me, to adopt (!) a doctrine of
inerrancy that is both scriptural and – from the point of view of believers – sustain-
able and meaningful. What, then, does it mean to speak of inerrancy from above?
Simply put, it means to speak of the Bible as incapable of causing believers to err
or stray from the revealed will of God. The Bible reveals the truth about the Divine
and the Human. Believers who adhere to that revelation are kept safe from errant
behaviour or belief, and the Scriptures do not err in teaching said proper behaviour
or belief. Furthermore, those who plant themselves in that revelation are “like a tree
planted by the waters” to borrow a phrase from Psalm 1. Scripture is inerrant, then,
because, rightly understood, it cannot and does not cause error in faith or prac-
tice. As an aside or addendum, the little phrase “rightly understood” is absolutely
essential. Scripture can be and regularly is distorted by those who can and do wish
to twist it to fit their own ends or suit their own needs. Scripture “rightly divided”
is inerrant. Scripture distorted or perverted is no longer Scripture, but mere text.

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Who then is capable of rightly interpreting Scripture? The person who has, first,
the requisite linguistic and hermeneutical skills, along with, then, the guiding pres-
ence of the Holy Spirit. One without the other results, always, respectively, in error
or fanaticism. As Zwingli rightly put it, on the one hand, “without the Spirit one
is guided by the flesh or human understanding and is therefore blind”, and on the
other, “the Spirit doesn’t depart from Scripture, but adheres to it (so that those who
speak of ecstatic utterances or secondary revelations are deceivers).”
For this reason, and this reason alone, the date of origin for any passage of Scripture
is irrelevant. “Who, what, how and when” are not the central questions: “why” is.
Similarly, even when we bring into consideration the final form of a passage or
book the central concern remains “why”. Why was this text written? Why would
its author deem the material important for his or her audience? Why would readers
or hearers respond to it?
Accordingly, Davies’ views are neither troublesome nor concerning; they are
wisdom and nurture because they virtually force people of faith to come to terms
with the actual nature and purpose of Scripture and disallow them from attempt-
ing to substitute that question or aim with inferior ones like historicity and Sitz
im Leben.

History?
John van Seters achieved fame (or infamy) with the publication of his volume
titled Abraham in History and Tradition (1975). A flurry of books have followed,
all following the same track set in that first ground-breaking and epoch-making
bombshell on the playground of the theologians and historians.6 The most recent
work, in the “Changing Perspectives” series, with which readers of this collection
of essays will be familiar, includes essays from the earliest period of his work to
the most recent, and users of that volume will be able to see how his thoughts have
not only developed, but been consistent in many significant aspects.
Of van Seters’ work, Niels Peter Lemche observed in a 1995 essay:7

In John Van Seters’ 1992 publication, Prologue to History, he continues

his re-evaluation of Wellhausen’s documentary hypothesis by attempt-
ing to define the work of J as a blend of historiographical and antiquar-
ian interests which is drawn from Greek historiography within a context
in the Jewish Diaspora in Babylon during the exilic period. Van Seters
resolutely and convincingly establishes the thesis that the Yahwistic tra-
dition is a product of the reemergence of Israel rather than of its “Golden
Age.” The completion of this huge project and Van Seters’ rejection of
any possible context for the Pentateuchal tradition within the time peri-
ods reflected in Genesis-II Kings is unequivocally a major achievement.8

What van Seters did, over the course of his fruitful career, was call into question
the widespread misprisions of the Patriarchal history, the development of biblical

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texts, and the way in which the Bible as a collection has come to be. Few things
are as important, or can be so important, to the average church-attending person,
since it is the Bible which is at the core of their understanding of faith and practice.
Indeed, it is precisely the issue of “historicity” which the so-called “minimal-
ists” have so cogently addressed and, in my estimation, appropriately. They have
“undermined” the faulty faith in history which has become so central to many seg-
ments of Christianity, becoming not only idol but fetish. As Bultmann wrote in the
middle of the twentieth century in his epoch-making Kerygma and Myth (1953):

We are therefore bound to ask whether, when we preach the Gospel

today, we expect our converts to accept not only the Gospel message,
but also the mythical view of the world in which it is set. If not, does the
New Testament embody a truth, which is quite independent of its mythi-
cal setting? If it does, theology must undertake the task of stripping the
Kerygma from its mythical framework, of “demythologizing” it.

Can Christian preaching expect modern man to accept the mythical view of the world
as true? To do so would be both senseless and impossible. It would be senseless,
because there is nothing specifically Christian in the mythical view of the world as
such. It is simply the cosmology of a pre-scientific age. Again, it would be impossible,
because no man can adopt a view of the world by his own volition – it is already deter-
mined for him by his place in history. Of course such a view is not absolutely unal-
terable, and the individual may even contribute to its change. But he can do so only
when he is faced by a new set of facts, so compelling as to make his previous view of
the world untenable. He has then no alternative but to modify his view of the world or
produce a new one. The discoveries of Copernicus and the atomic theory are instances
of this, and so was Romanticism, with its discovery that the human subject is richer
and more complex than the Enlightenment or idealism had allowed and nationalism,
with its new realization of the importance of history and the tradition of peoples.9

Summation
Whose mythic, rhythmic, theological, cultural memory is it anyway? The answer
is, by now, I hope, crystal clear: the Church’s as much as the Academy’s. Perhaps,
just perhaps, even more so. After all, the Bible is the Church’s Book.10
Our colleagues, our learned and wise co-workers in the field of biblical studies
have done the Church, the community of faith, a genuine service by forcing it and
its members (if they have ears to hear) to reconsider from a new and fresh perspec-
tive central concerns which occupy it every day. What is the Bible? Who was (or is)
Jesus? What are we to make of all of these things?
In short, the modern-day “minimalists” and their kindred spirits are reborn
Bultmannians whose time has come and who have arisen in the ranks of academia
to carry on the work of the Marburg Professor. And they are doing a magnificent
job of it.

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On behalf of the Church, I thank the Academy (in general) for its contribution to
our life and these five in particular for turning our attention to ultimate matters away
from what can scarcely be called the penultimate-ness of history for history’s sake.

Notes
1 The lamentable mistreatment Prof. Whitelam was subjected to at one of the meetings
of the Society for Old Testament Study is legendary.
2 Name withheld to protect the guilty. Suffice it to say that in a personal communication at
a meeting of SBL one of my former profs, who had seen Lemche and me having breakfast
together, came over later and said “You’re associating with a very suspect character.”
3 Again, name withheld to ensure the safety of the person thus declaring.
4 I recall sitting at a table in New Orleans at SBL and hearing a colleague say that “all
those minimalists are left-leaning Marxists”. I asked how such a claim could be made
since Marxism figured virtually not at all in their writings either implicitly or explicitly
and was told “well they just are”.
5 In the States, in the South in particular, this phrase is a metaphor for “workable”.
6 A list of van Seters’s books is available online here: http://www.amazon.com/John-
Van-Seters/e/B001HCYQ7S/.
7 Agreeing with and citing Thompson.
8 In the essay titled The Intellectual Matrix of Early Biblical Narrative: Inclusive
Monotheism in Persian Period Palestine (in Lemche’s ‘Changing Perspectives’ volume.)
9 Bultmann’s work is available online here: http://www.religion-online.org/showchapter.
asp?title=431&C=292.
10 Here, clearly I am attempting to goad Philip Davies and his suggestions in Whose Bible
is it, Anyway.

Bibliography
Bultmann, R. 1953. Kerygma and Myth. London: S.P.C.K.
Davies, P. R. 2008. Memories of Ancient Israel: An Introduction to Biblical History –
Ancient and Modern. Philadelphia, PA: Westminster John Knox Press.
Lemche, N. P. 2008. The Old Testament Between Theology and History: A Critical History.
Philadelphia, PA: Westminster John Knox Press.
Thompson, T. L. 1974. The Historicity of the Patriarchal Narratives; the Quest for the
Historical Abraham. Berlin: De Gruyter.
———. 2013. “Competence and New Testament Scholarship”. The Bible and
Interpretation, http://www.bibleinterp.com/articles/tho368003.shtml.
Van Seters, J. 1975. Abraham in History and Tradition. New Haven, CT: Yale University
Press.
Whitelam, K. 1996. The Invention of Ancient Israel: The Silencing of Palestinian History.
New York: Routledge.
———. 2013. Rhythms of Time: Reconnecting Palestine’s Past. Sheffield: Ben Black
Books.

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 SOURCE IND EX

Hebrew Bible Exodus

Genesis 1–15 83
1 91 3:1–4 35
1–3 71 4:1–13 82
1–5 83 4:10 84
1–11 67–70, 71, 73, 81, 83 14:11–12 82
2:10–14 36 15:13–17 35
2 67 17:2–4 82
2–3 67, 68, 71 20:16 52
2–6 91–2 20–23 79, 85
3 83 21:4 78
4 67 21:12–17 78
5:3–32 68 21:17–19 78
5 67 21:20–21 78
6:1–4 71 21:22–25 79
6–11 83 21:28–32 79
8:7 69 21:37–22:3 79
9 68 22:5–6 79
9–27 88 22:22–24 80
10:1–2 83 22:25 80
10:2–5 83 23:7 52
10 68, 92 24:1–11 82
11–50 85 25–31 85
12:10–20 125 32:19 85
14:1–16 125 32 85
22 84 34:1 85
23:1 ff. 126 35–40 85
23:19 126 Leviticus
25–28 86 5:20–26 52, 55–6n1
29–31 84 5:21–26 52
37:23–28 84 5:24b–25 55n1
37–50 84 5 52
41 84 18 79
41:1–7ff. 84 19:12 52

197
 S ource I ndex

19:18 95 24:17 80
21:1–24 79 24:19–22 80
24:16 112 25:5–10 80
24:17–21 79 25:13–16 80
25:23 78 28:15–68 99n8
25:39–47 79 28:21–25 99n8
Numbers 28:48–68 99n7
5:6–8 52 29:20–28 99n7
5:7 56n1 30:1–2 49
6:24–26 63 30:28 99n8
12:7–8 79 31:16–21 99n7
24:24 88 31:26–9 99n7
26 78 31:29 49
27 79 34:10 126
33:38–39 126 Josuah
36 79 2:1–24 85
Deuteronomy 6:22–3 85
1:1 52 13–19 35
1:3 84 14–19 78
4:25–26 99n8 24:32 126
4:25–28 99n7 Judges
6:5 95 6–7 86
7:26 49, 50, 52, 53, 55 1 Samuel
12:2 51 15 82
12:2–7 50 17 23
12:5 50 2 Samuel
12:29–31 50 2:18 86
12:31 49, 51 10:6 120
12 49, 53, 79 11 82, 86
12–26 81 13–18 86
16:6 25 1 Kings
16:18–18:22 95 4–10 82
16:18–20 79 10:18–20 171
16:19–20 51 11 82
17 86 2 Kings
17:2–7 79 17:6–23 99, 100n9
17:14–20 79 17:24–29 24
18:9–14 79 17 25
19:4–6 79 17.5–6 99n8
19:14 80 17:34–41 99, 100n9
19:16–19 80 18:13–15 65
19:18 52 18 99n8
19:21 79 21:2–16 99, 100n9
21:1–9 80 22 63
21:18–21 80 23:29 125
23:19–20 80 23 50, 99n8
23:24–5 80 23:24:26 99n8
24:16 80 23:33–35 125

198
 S ource I ndex

1 Chronicles 43:14–21 32
5:39–41 63 43:16 30
19:6 120 43:16–21 31, 32, 39n
28 120 43:19 30, 31
Ezra 43:19–20 36
7:1 63 43:19–21 31
10:19 56n1 43:20 35
Psalms 44:3 35
1 193 44:9–20 39
23 36 44:24–45:7 31
28(29) 109 44:26–8 34
46:5 36 44:28 31
78:52–55 35 45:13 34
84:6–8 36 45:14 37
Song of Songs, 97 45:23 37
1:5 100n18 46:1–2 31
1:9 100n18 46:1–7 39
2:15 100n18 46:11 40n9
Isaiah 47 31
2:2–4 36 48:17 30
5:26 40n9 48:20 38
11:16 36 48:20–21 30, 31, 32
13:23 97 48:21 31, 35, 36
27:1 61, 74 49:1–6 40n4
39:3 40n9 49:1–13 34
40:1–11 30–1 49:8–12 30, 31, 33–7, 38, 40n6
40:3 30, 32, 52 49:9–11 31
40:3–4 32, 36 49:9–12 31
40:3–5 31, 39 49:18 36
40:10 36 49:22 36
40:10–11 30–1, 32 49–52 32
40:11 35 51:9–11 31, 32
40:14 30 52:1 31
40:18–20 39n3 52:7–10 32
40:27 30 52:10–12 32
40–48 32, 35 52:11–12 30, 31
40–55 7, 32, 33, 39 52:13–53:12 31
41:17 38 53:6 30
41:17–20 31, 32 54:11–16 31
41:18 35, 36 55:7–9 30
42:7 34, 38 55:12–13 30, 31, 32
42:16 30, 31 58 31
42:24 30 60 36
43:1–7 30 60–62 31
43:2 32 Jeremiah
43:5–6 36 3:15 40n8
43:6 40n9 4.26–9 100n8
43:14–15 31 6 100n8

199
 S ource I ndex

7:1–26 99n7 Habakkuk

9:9–12 99n8 1–2 97
9 99n8 2:4 103
9.10–12 100n8 Zephaniah
11:1–13 99n7 2.1:15 97
12 100n8 Zechariah
12.10–11 100n8 9:1–8 97
15:4–6 99n8 14:8 36
16:1–9 99n8 Matthew
16:10–13 99n7 1:23 104, 111
18 100n8 23:35 158
18–21 99n8 Luke
19:2–11 99n8 1:27 111
19:2–15 100n9 11:51 158
19:3–6 99n7 16:19–26 187
20–23 100n9 24:44 158
23:3–4 40n8 Acts
25:1–7 99n7 7:8 126
25:1–11 99n8 7:16 126
25:9–11 99n8 7:23 126
25.11 100n8 7:30 126
26:6 99n8 7:36 126
26.9 100n8 7:38 126
31:10 40n8 7:53 126
31:34 110 7 126, 127
32:26–36 99n7 Romans
32:43 100n8 1:17 103
33:10 100n8 1 Corinthians
34:19–22 99n8 2:9 124
34:22 100n8 15:3–4 109
39:1–8 99n8 Galatians
44:1–14 100n9 3:11 103
44:1–23 99n7 Epistle to the Hebrews
44:2 100n8 8:2 85
46–51 97 8:10 110
50:19 40n8 9:1 85
Ezekiel 9:24–5 85
25–31 97 10:38 103
28:12–19 71 Septuagint
34:11–12 36 Isaiah
34:11–31 40n8 7:14 104, 111
37:24 40n8 40:3 111
47:1–12 36 Dead Sea Scrolls
47:13–48:35 78 1QpHab
Joel 7.1–5 109
4:18 36 1QS
Amos 8 14 52
1:1–2:3 97 10 1–8 53–4

200
 S ource I ndex

4Q397 Apollonius of Rhodes

14–21 50, 51, 158 Argonautica
4Q497 2.1140–95 84
14–21 158 4.1750–65 84
4Q498 Aristotle
14 158 Politics
Damascus Document (CD) 7.1329b 93
4:16 124 Athanasius 164
10:8–10 163 Berossus
16:2–4 163 Babyloniaca 70–1, 83, 92, 94, 99n
16:3–4 124 Cyril of Alexandria 37, 38
4QMMT (Miqsat Ma’ase ha-Torah) Diodorus Siculus 99n
43–56, 122, 158 Euripides 97, 100n
5/6HevPsalms 146 Hecataeus of Abdera
Apocrypha and Pseudepigrapha Aegyptiaca 93, 99n
Aristeas, The Letter of Herodotus
128–71 110 Histories
Book of Jubilees 2.142 93
23:11 163 4.150–55 84
Book of Judith 165 7.205–20 86
1 Enoch 7.97 84
83–90 51 179 84
4 Ezra 165 Hesiod
14:18–48 119 Erga kai Hemerai (Works
14:18–50 159 and Days)
Letters of Baruch 165 156–73 69, 70, 83, 86
1–4 Maccabees 165 Theogony
Psalms of Solomon 165 116–32 69, 70, 83
Ben Sira/Sirach/Ecclesiasticus 165 Homer
44:16 157 Illiad
44:17–18 157 6.150–60 86
44–9 157 9.440–80 86
47:9–10 51 Odyssey
49:14 157 1 85
50:1–24 51 6–13 84
Sibylline Oracles 97 11:305–20 72
Syriac Apocalypse of Baruch 165 12.260–425 85
Ancient Near East 14–24 77, 84
Ba’lu Epic Cycle 14.277–87 77, 84
KTU 1.5:I.1–2 61 14.340–45 77, 84
Gilgamesh 19.535–65 77, 84
XI:153–4 69 24 85
Enuma Eliš 68 Hyginus
Classical authors Fables
Aeschylus 100n 2 84
Anaximander 92 Juvenal
Apollodorus Satires
Library 1.9.1 84 14.194 139

201
 S ource I ndex

Livy 677a–82e 83
Ab urbe condita 66 709e–10b 79
Martial 715e–720a 96
Epigrams 738c 85
14.25 139 741b–c 78
Manetho 742b 80
Ægyptiaca 94, 99 n 745b–c 78
Megasthenes 759a–d 79
Indica 99 777b–d 79
Ovid 802b 98
Metamorphoses, 72–73 811c–812a 101n21
Pausanias 812e–813a 98
Description of Greece 817a 81
10.27.2 85 836b–42a 79
Pindar 843a–b 80
Olympian Ode, 69 843d–e 79
9.40–56 83 844d–45d 80
Pythian 856c–e 80
4.5–10 84 865a–c 79
Plato 865c–d 78
Critias 870ff. 79
109d–110a 93 872d–73b 78
115b–17a 82 873e 79
119d–20c 82 874b 80
Laws 874c 79
2.657a 93 876e–77b 78
2.661c 97 877e–78b 80
2.664b–665c 98 909d–10a 79
3.660e 97 910b–c 79
3.664d 101n21 916d 80
3.676a–677b 93 924c–e 79
4.712b 96 927b–e 80
4.713e–714a 101n20 929a–d 80
4.718b–723d 100n13 930d–e 78
4.721a–e 100n13 933c–e 79
7.800a–801d 98 933e–34a 79
7.802b–c 101n21 937b–c 80
7.811a 98 955c–d 79
7.811c. 101n20 Republic
7.811c–812a 98 3.392a–c 97
7.811c–d 101n20 368e–69a 83
7.811c–e 98 370–83 79
7.817b–d 101n20 414e–15d 78
8.840b–c 98 514b–17b 81–2
9.858c–859a 101n21 595a–97e 85
12.957d 101n21 Timaeus
662b 97 20e 93
663d–e 97 21e–22a 93

202
 S ource I ndex

22a–b 93 Early Christian authors

22b–23c 93 Augustine
22e–23a 93 De civitate Dei
23b 93 XVIII 42–3 105
27b 93 Eusebius
Theocritus Preparation for the Gospel 80
Idyll Irenaeus
1.48–9 100n18 Adversus haereses
5.112–13 100n18 III 21.3 104–5
10.26–7 100n18 Jerome
18.30–31 100n18 Praefatio in evangelio
Theodoret of II 1515.19 106
Cyrenaica 37–8 Prologus in Pentateucho
Theophanes of Mytilene 99n I 4.35–9 106
Virgil Justin
Aeneid 87 Apology/ies
Early Jewish authors 54.8 104
Philo of Alexandria I 31.1 104
De Vita Moses, 2.14–15 85 I 33.1–4 104
Josephus Dialogue with the Jew Tryphon
Against Apion 43.5–8 104
1.37–46 159 66.1–4 104
1.38–41 104 67.1 104
2.222–4 80 68.7–8 104
Antiquitates 71.1–2 110
1. 721. –3.1 72 71.3 104
20.196 137 84.1–3 104
De Bello Judaico 165 Origen
V 9.4.379–81 125 Hexapla 106

203
 AUTHOR INDEX

Ackroyd, P. 29 Blommaert, J. 48
Aejmelaeus, A. 108–9 Bobé, L. 172, 182n7
Ahlström, G. 3 Boling, R.G. 120
Albrechtsen, E. 182n1 Boyd-Taylor, C. 106
Albright, W.F. 1 Bregnsbo, M. 182n1
Alt, A. 1, 65 Brenton, L.C.L. 112
Anderson, B.W. 30 Brisson, L. 79
Appelt, M. 170 Brodie, T.L. 76–7, 80, 81, 84, 85, 87–8
Astour, M. 76 Brøndsted, J. 182n2
Athas, G. 5 Brooke, G.J. 44, 45, 49, 53
Atkinson, K. 132, 142, 143, 145, 150n4 Brown, J.P. 76
Attridge, H. 163 Bruce, F.F. 133, 134, 149n1
Bruun, C.V. 181, 182n12
Balla, M. 136 Buhl, F. 157, 165, 166
Baltzer, D. 30 Bultmann, R. 195, 196n9
Baltzer, K. 31 Burns, A.R. 93
Bar-Adon, P. 133 Burton, J.B. 87, 100n18
Bar-Nathan, R. 134–5, 143, 144, 149n3 Büttner, S. 101n20
Barstad, H. 32, 33, 35, 36
Barthélemy, D. 107, 123 Calame, C. 84
Bartholin, C. 176 Childs, B.S. 33, 34, 38
Bartholomew, C.G. 101n19 Clifford, R.J. 30, 31, 35
Barton, J. 157, 159, 162, 166 Collins, J.J. 52, 100n15
Becking, B. 2 Coote, R.B. 2
Beckwith, R.T. 121, 157, 158, 159, 161, Cotton, H. 138
165 Cross, F.M. 145, 146, 150n6
Bentzen, A. 34 Crown, A. 130
Berges, U. 29 Cryer, F. 8, 125, 127
Bernstein, M. 49, 162
Bertelsen, A. 173 Dalager, L. 177
Bertram, G. 108 Danbolt, E. 173
Beukel, E. 174 Daube, D. 100n16
Bjorvand, H. 169 Davies, P.R. 2, 4, 6, 23, 189, 192–3,
Blenkinsopp, J. 30, 34–5 196n10
Bloch, A. and C. 100n18 Davis, T.W. 15

204
 AUTHOR INDEX

de Vaux, R. 132–6, 139–42, 143, 144, Glahn, H.C. 177

149n1, 149–50n4, 150n5;9 Gmirkin, R.E. 66, 67, 70, 77, 80, 83,
de Wette, W.M.L. 16 88, 91, 92, 94, 95, 96, 98, 99n2,
Deissmann, A. 108 100n12
Derks, T. 139 Goldingay, J. 35, 40n6
Derrida, J. 47 Gordon, C. 76
Dever, W.G. 19 Graah, W.A. 176
Dimant, D. 51, 52, 125 Grabbe, L.L. 5, 64, 67
Dittert, K. 40n5;6 Grimm, W. 40n
Döderlein, J.C. 29 Grossman, M. 45
Donceel, R. 140, 141, 144, 150n7 Gudme, A.K. 65, 86
Doudna, G. 130, 147, 150n4;6;10 Guillaume, P. 86
Duhm, B. 29, 30, 34, 40n7 Gulløv, H.C. 170, 175
Gunn, D. 2
Egede, H. 176, 177, 178, 179, 180, 181, Gunneweg, J. 136
182n10
Egede, P. 177-179 Haag, H. 34, 40n4
Eissfeldt, O. 1, 2 Haase, E. 182n9
Eller, P. 182n3 Hagedorn, A.C. 80, 87, 96, 100n14
Elliott, M.W. 38 Hagelia, H. 5
Erslev, C. 64 Halbwachs, M. 46
Eshel, H. 44 Halpern, B. 17
Ewig, E. 169 Halvorson-Taylor, M.A. 32
Hamidović, D. 137
Faust, A. 19 Harbsmeier, M. 180
Feldt, L. 52, 53 Hasselbalch, T.B. 48
Ferro, M. 172 Haubold, J. 74n2
Fihl, E. 182n5 Hauser, G.A. 100n5
Finkelstein, I. 3, 16, 18, 19, 21–2, 62, Hayes, J.H. 2
73 Hein, J. 171
Fishbane, M. 30, 120 Heinzelmann, E. 182n1
Fleming, D.E. 23 Hempel, C. 45
Flint, P. 146 Hermisson, H.-J. 35
Fortescue, M. 175 Hirschfeld, Y. 133, 139, 150n4
Fraade, S. 44 Hjelm, I. 1, 4, 65
Frankel, Z. 108 Hodder, I. 47
Frazier, P. 100n15 Høgenhaven, J. 39n3, 44–5
Freedman, D.N. 66, 99n5, 120 Hogeterp, A.L.A. 54
Frykenberg, R.E. 182n5 Holst, S. 103, 156
Homer 72, 76, 77, 79, 81, 83, 84, 86,
Gad, F. 170, 171, 176, 182n6 87, 88
Galling, K. 2 Hübner, U. 2, 107
Galor, K. 139 Hugenberger, G.P. 31
Garbini, G. 1 Humbert, J.-B. 131, 133, 135, 141, 142,
García Martínez, F. 43 144, 145, 150n4
Gemser, B. 100n12 Hunter, R. 87
Gilberg, R. 175 Hutchesson, I. 130
Ginsburg, C.D. 165 Hüttenmeister, F. 2, 106

205
 AUTHOR INDEX

Jensen, E.L. 176 McLay, T. 110–11

Jensen, K.V. 182n1 Magen, Y. 133, 138, 141
Jørgensen, J.D. 182n4 Magness, J. 132, 134, 135, 138, 139, 141,
142, 143–4, 149n2, 150n4
Kaiser, O. 80, 96 Mandell, S. 66, 99n5
Kallen, H.M. 100n17 Marcos, N.F. 110
Kampen, J. 49 Martinez, F.G. 122
Karrer, M. 107, 112 Masalha, N. 5
Kiesow, K. 32, 34 Mason, S. 159–60, 164
Kjærgaard, K. 173, 174, 180 Menken, M.J.J. 107
Kjærgaard, T. 170, 171, 175, 179, 182n6 Metzger, B. 156
Klawans, J. 51 Michniewicz, J. 136
Kleinschmidt, S. 180 Miller, J.M. 2
Kleivan, I. 174–5, 182n9 Mittman, S.
Kloppenborg, J.S. 48–9 Mizzi, D. 133
Knauer, G.N. 87 Mlynarczyk, J. 136, 139
Knauf, E.A. 2 Møller, A.M. 182n3
Knibb, M.A. 51, 109 Morrow, G.R. 78, 81
Knoppers, G. 4, 6 Mouze, L. 79
Koch, I. 22 Müller, M. 5, 103, 104, 110, 111, 112
Kraft, R.A. 160
Kratz, R.G. 4, 16, 40n4 Naddaf, G. 92
Kraus, W. 107, 112 Niebuhr, B.G. 63
Krivoruchko, J.G. 106 Nielsen, F.A.J. 66, 99n5, 172, 178, 179,
Kupitz, Y.S. 80, 84, 85 180, 181, 182n10
Niesiołowski-Spanò, Ł. 81
Lange, A. 100n14 Nightingale, A.W. 101n21
Lange, N. de. 106 Nodet, É. 87
Larsen, H. 177 Nogaret, J. 175
Larson, E. 138 North, C.R. 40n4
Lemaire, A. 137 Noth, M. 17
Lemche, N.P. 2, 3, 4, 6, 65, 67, 69, 76,
81, 87, 88, 91, 119, 189, 191–2, 194, Oden, T.C. 38
196n2 Oikonomides, A.N. 100n11
Levin, C. 64 Oldendow, K. 182n8
Lim, B.H. 31 Oswald, H.C. (ed.) 38
Lindeman, F.O. 169
Lipschits, O. 2, 6, 22, 62 Pappe, I. 5
Liverani, M. 3 Parke, H.W. 97, 100n14
Lohfink, N. 100n10 Parker, R. 95
Longman III, T. 19 Patrich, J. 150n8
Loprieno, A. 87 Paul, S.M. 34, 40n7
Louden, B. 76, 77, 84, 85 Payne, D. 35, 40n7
Lübbe, J. 122 Pedersen, B.K. 177, 178
Luckenbill, D.D. 74n1 Pedersen, J. 73
Lund, Ø. 30, 31, 32, 35, 36, 40n8;9 Peleg, Y. 133, 138, 141
Lupu, E. 95 Petersen, F. 174
Lynge, A. 174 Petterson, C. 182n3

206
 AUTHOR INDEX

Pfann, S.J. 133, 134, 141, 149n1, 150n5 Spinoza, B. 77

Pfoh, E. 4 Spykerboer, H.C. 32
Phillips Long, V. 19 Stacey, D. 133, 134, 141, 142, 144, 146,
Pietersma, A. 109, 112 148
Pope, M.H. 100n16 Stampe, L. 171
Popović, M. 148 Sterling, G.E. 99n5
Poulsen, F. 7, 39n1 Stott, K.M. 86
Preuβ, H.D. 30 Strugnell, J. 43, 44, 45, 49, 158
Prior, M. 5 Stuhlmueller, C. 30
Provan, I. 19 Sukenik, E. 106
Puech, É. 150n6 Swanson, D. 120

Qimron, E. 44, 45, 158 Talmon, S. 130

Tamm, D. 182n4
Raeder, S. 38 Taylor, J. 133, 138, 139, 148
Rajak, T. 107 Thisted, K. 177
Rasmussen, K.L. 146 Thompson, T.L. 2, 3, 4, 6, 22, 76, 88, 125,
Reeg, G. 2, 106 169, 188, 189–90, 196n7
Reinhartz, A. 44 Tiemeyer, L.-S. 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 39n2
Rendtorff, R. 80, 93 Tiller, P. 51, 52
Renna, T. 169 Timm, S. 2
Ricoeur, P. 47 Tov, E. 9, 45, 103, 108, 122, 131, 137, 155,
Rink, H.J. 176–7, 177–8, 182n11 160, 161
Robert, L. 100n11 Trebolle Barrera, J. 124, 158
Roberts, C.H. 160
Rocca, S. 145 Ullman, B.L. 99n5
Römer, T. 21, 63, 81 Ulrich, E. 122, 123, 124, 156–7, 160
Rösel, M. 108, 110, 112 Ussishkin, D. 62, 73, 74n1
Rosing, J. 181
Ross, J. 175 Van der Plicht, J. 146
Rostgaard, M. 182n2 Van Seters, J. 1, 2, 6, 66, 67, 76, 189,
194–5, 196n6
Sanders, J.A. 120 VanderKam, J.C. 45, 124, 160, 162
Sawyer, J.F.A. 38 Venkatachalapathy, A.R. 182n5
Schäferdiek, K. 169 Vermes, G. 124–5, 145, 162
Schenker, A. 110 Von Rad, G. 17, 30
Schiffman, L.H. 43, 44, 45, 46, 53, 54 Vos, W. 139
Schoeps, H.-J. 108
Schou, L. 182n2 Wacholder, B. 124
Schwartz, D.R. 23 Wajdenbaum, P. 66, 67, 77, 78, 81, 83, 84,
Seaver, K.A. 170 85, 86, 88, 94
Seeligmann, I.L. 107–8 Walbank, F.W. 99n5
Silberman, N.A. 18, 19 Watts, R.E. 30
Sinks, P.W. 80 Weinfeld, M. 80, 92, 98n1
Skeat, T.C. 160 Weippert, M. 2
Solberg, O. 172 Weissenberg, H. von 45, 46, 49–50, 51, 52,
Sonne, B. 174–5, 182n9 54–5
Sonsino, R. 100n12 Wellhausen, J. 16, 17, 123

207
 AUTHOR INDEX

Wesselius, J.-W. 66, 77, 87 Wilken, R.L. 37

West, M.L. 76, 85 Wise, M. 145
Westermann, C. 34 Wright, G.E. 17
White Crawford, S.A. 51 Wüst, M. 2
White, S.A. 122
Whitehouse, R. 139 Yardeni, A. 150n6
Whitelam, K. 2, 4–5, 188, 189, 190–1, Young, I. 130, 131
196n1
Wilhjelm, H. 180 Zimmerli, W. 30, 31

208