Jewish Cultural Encounters in the Ancient Mediterranean and Near

Eastern World
 Supplements to the
Journal for the Study
of Judaism

Editor

Benjamin G. Wright, III (Department of Religion Studies, Lehigh University)

Associate Editors

Hindy Najman (Theology & Religion Faculty, University of Oxford)

Eibert J.C. Tigchelaar (Faculty of Theology and Religious Studies, KU Leuven)

Advisory Board

A.M. Berlin – K. Berthelot – R. Bloch – J.J. Collins

Y. Furstenberg – K. Hogan – O. Irshai – S. Kattan Gribetz
A.K. Petersen – S. Mason – J.H. Newman – M. Popović – I. Rosen-Zvi
J.T.A.G.M. van Ruiten – M. Segal – J. Sievers – W. Smelik
G. Stemberger – L.T. Stuckenbruck – J.C. de Vos

VOLUME 178

The titles published in this series are listed at brill.com/jsjs

 Jewish Cultural Encounters in
the Ancient Mediterranean and
Near Eastern World

Edited by

Mladen Popović
Myles Schoonover
Marijn Vandenberghe

LEIDEN | BOSTON
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Qumran Institute Symposium (3rd : December 2013 : University of

Groningen, Netherlands) | Popović, Mladen, editor. | Schoonover, Myles,
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Title: Jewish cultural encounters in the ancient Mediterranean and Near
Eastern world / edited by Mladen Popović, Myles Schoonover, Marijn
Vandenberghe.
Description: Leiden ; Boston : Brill, [2017] | Series: Supplements to the
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Contents

1 Ancient Jewish Cultural Encounters and a Case Study on Ezekiel 1

Mladen Popović

2 Taming Egypt: The Impact of Persian Imperial Ideology and Politics

on the Biblical Exodus Account 13
Konrad Schmid

3 Exchange, Replacement, or Acceptance? Two Examples of Lending

Deities among Ethnic Groups in Elephantine 30
Bob Becking

4 Netting Marduk? The Concept of Hidden Transcripts and the Transfer

of Cultural Knowledge from Mesopotamian to Judean Texts 44
Jonathan Stökl

5 The Prayer of Nabonidus in the Light of Hellenistic Babylonian

Literature 64
Caroline Waerzeggers

6 Levels of Meaning and Textual Polysemy in Akkadian and Hebrew

Exegetical Texts 76
Uri Gabbay

7 “Judaism” and “Hellenism”: Martin Hengel’s Work in Perspective 96

Jörg Frey

8 Choosing Between Papyrus and Skin: Cultural Complexity and

Multiple Identities in the Qumran Library 119
George J. Brooke

9 What Does India Have to Do with Jerusalem? Ben Sira, Language, and
Colonialism 136
Benjamin G. Wright

10 Hybridity, Hydrology, and Hidden Transcript: Sirach 24 and the

Judean Encounter with Ptolemaic Isis Worship 157
Judith H. Newman
vi CONTENTS

11 Reflections on the Cultural Encounter between the Jews and

the Greeks and Romans in Jewish Coin Iconography of the
Hellenistic-Roman Period 177
Anne Lykke

12 Philo’s Greek Scriptures and Cultural Symbiosis 190

Hindy Najman

13 “I Wish Those Who Unsettle You Would Mutilate Themselves!”

(Gal 5:12): Circumcision and Emasculation in the Letter to the
Galatians 201
J. Cornelis de Vos

14 Rabbis and Romanization: A Review Essay 218

Ishay Rosen-Zvi

15 Subversion and Subculture: Jewish Time-Keeping in the Roman

Empire 246
Sacha Stern

16 Elijah’s Cave in Haifa: Whose Holy Site is this Anyway? 265

Tal Ilan

Index of Modern Authors 297

Index of Ancient Sources 307
 CHAPTER 1

Ancient Jewish Cultural Encounters and a Case

Study on Ezekiel

Mladen Popović

1 Introduction

Although many of us are trained to look at the ancient world from one cultural
(or academic) perspective, we are all aware that the ancient world was both
culturally diverse and interconnected. This volume, originating from the Third
Qumran Institute Symposium in December 2013, takes as its starting point the
impact of encounters between cultures, groups, and individuals and focuses
on ancient Jewish religion, culture, and society.
To study ancient Israel, Judea, and Palestine—from the late Iron Age until
Late Antiquity—from a perspective of cultural encounters is apt, because of
the multifaceted dynamics of people’s movements from and to the region.
In other words, trade and travel, imperialism and diaspora, have shaped the
various cultural interactions between people from ancient Israel, Judea, and
Palestine and people from other parts of the ancient Mediterranean and Near
Eastern world. Also, history and cultural memories—available to us through
literary, documentary, archaeological, epigraphic, numismatic, and icono-
graphic sources—offer a unique vantage point to study such cultural interac-
tions from a longue durée perspective.
How does our understanding of ancient Judaism change if we consider the
role of cultural encounters in shaping historical development, literary traditions
as well as religious and political systems? How can we trace and understand
the movements of texts, religious or cultural practices, political institutions
and ideas over the ancient world? What happened when these were transmit-
ted between very different cultural spaces, and how did the encounters affect
the parties involved? What were the mechanisms of these cultural encounters,
and what kinds of persons or social forces were responsible?
In this essay I briefly introduce the overall theme of the volume, the various
contributions and how they interact with the theme, and I end with a brief
case study on Ezekiel to illustrate what is at stake when using a perspective of
cultural encounters to study ancient Judaism.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���7 | doi ��.��63/9789004336919_002

2 Popović

2 Jewish Cultural Encounters in the Ancient Mediterranean and Near

Eastern World

In historical and cultural studies and social sciences the notion of “cultural
encounter” is often used to study the context of cultures coming in contact
with one another and as the space where cultural identity and cultural resil-
ience are being shaped. There is, however, not a fixed concept of “cultural
encounter.” Theoretical positions include notions such as hybridity, métissage,
frontier studies, postcolonialism, entangled histories, or multilingualism.1 This
means that often “politics” comes to the fore as well, especially when notions
of imperialism or dominant versus dominated culture, as in postcolonial the-
ory, are involved.
The notion of “cultural encounters” is not the same as cultural context.
Elements of historical and cultural context, such as particular political situ-
ations, are not equivalent to cultural encounters or borrowings. A cultural
context is wider than a cultural encounter, but a cultural context may be deter-
mined (at least in part) by cultural encounters. Therefore, a cultural context
that is the result of a particular cultural-political encounter, such as imperial-
ism, may help to understand the impact of a particular cultural encounter in
shaping historical developments of cultural identity and literary or religious
traditions.
When using the notion of cultural encounters in the study of the ancient
world it is important to reflect on the nature of the sources at our disposal.
The nature of the sources used to study a cultural encounter determines the
shape of the historical investigation and also the types of questions raised.
Documentary sources, such as inscriptions and papyri, document a situation
of actual encounters in a particular place where actual social, cultural, and
religious exchanges are at stake, between individuals who can often be pre-
cisely identified. Literary sources, on the other hand, allow for deduction of

1 See, e.g., Elizabeth Hallam and Brian V. Street, eds., Cultural Encounters: Representing
“Otherness” (New York: Routledge, 2000); Lisa Bailey, Lindsay Diggelman, and Kim M. Phillips,
eds., Old Worlds, New Worlds: European Cultural Encounters, c. 1000–c. 1750, Late Medieval and
Early Modern Studies 18 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2009); Sebastian Jobs and Gesa Mackenthun,
eds., Embodiments of Cultural Encounters, Cultural Encounters and the Discourses of
Scholarship 3 (Münster: Waxmann, 2011); Luca Zavagno and Özlem C̦ aykent, eds., The
Islands of the Eastern Mediterranean: A History of Cross-Cultural Encounters, International
Library of Ethnicity, Identity and Culture 5 (London: I. B. Tauris, 2014); Murat Cankara,
“Rethinking Ottoman Cross-Cultural Encounters: Turks and the Armenian Alphabet,” Middle
Eastern Studies 51 (2015): 1–16; Anna Huebner, “Tourism and Cultural Encounters in ‘the Last
Frontiers,’ ” International Journal of Heritage Studies 21 (2015): 862–68.
Ancient Jewish Cultural Encounters And A Case Study On Ezekiel 3

hypothetical contacts or encounters on a more general level. The interpreta-

tion of literary sources with regard to cultural encounters often entails the
invoking of presuppositions based on contextual evidence that determines the
analysis of specific questions of a particular cultural encounter. In the case
study below on Ezekiel I will return to the problems involved in the issue of
literary influences in relation to real or perceived transfers from a given literary
corpus to another.
As various contributions in this volume demonstrate, the levels of cul-
tural encounters vary between vast geographical areas and local sites, and in
between such other ends of the spectrum. The impact of a particular cultural
encounter will have been different, and so will have the particular phenom-
ena that occurred. In addition to examples in this volume such as Elephantine
or Elijah’s Cave, I offer the following example of impact of Rome in Galilee
around the turn of the era.
Andrea Berlin has argued that the impact of Rome in Galilee was visible
specifically in the form of shrines and temples that honoured Roman dei-
ties and through the availability of pottery such as Terra Sigillata A. In 19 BCE
Herod the Great initiated the erection of a temple in honour of Augustus at
the Paneion. Around the turn of the era his son Herod Philip built a much
larger Roman-style temple over an earlier shrine at Horbat Omrit, advertising
this new temple via imagery on the new coins that he issued from the newly
established mint in Caesarea Philippi in 1 CE, which continued until the end
of his reign in 34 CE. A Judean reaction, Berlin argues, was visible through a
change in material culture at the local level of ordinary villages in the hill land
of Galilee and Gaulanitis.2
If we identify these two temples as Roman, it seems obvious that “Rome” came
in the guise of local leaders paying tribute to the global power. What we have
here then are non-Romans setting up dedications to Rome and the emperor. If
we take these temples as the manifestations at a local level of what was origi-
nally a Roman cultural trait, but now spread and shared “globally,” we may ask
whether it was shared locally outside of the local elite. In other words, was the
perceived change in material culture in Galilee and Gaulanitis a response of
some of the local Jews to the appropriation of Roman cultural traits by some of

2 Andrea M. Berlin, “Romanization and Anti-Romanization in Pre-Revolt Galilee,” in The First

Jewish Revolt: Archaeology, History, and Ideology, ed. Andrea M. Berlin and J. Andrew Overman
(London: Routledge, 2002), 57–73; eadem, “Jewish Life Before the Revolt: The Archaeological
Evidence,” JSJ 36 (2005): 417–70; eadem, “Identity Politics in Early Roman Galilee,” in The
Jewish Revolt against Rome: Interdisciplinary Perspectives, ed. Mladen Popović, JSJSup 154
(Leiden: Brill, 2011), 69–106.
4 Popović

their local rulers? Perhaps it is possible to understand the evidence as instances

of “glocalisation,” i.e., how homogenising elements of a global culture appear
in local cultures, modifying both in the process.3 Given the absence of inscrip-
tions and other written material from these villages that may provide further
indications as to how people there understood and presented themselves, it is
not easy to disentangle such issues of cultural identity in real life. Although this
example may reflect different ways in which global and local levels were at play
during a particular cultural encounter, it may also illustrate the limitations and
restrictions that the available sources put on any analysis.4
In this volume, various aspects of the notion of “cultural encounters” are
tackled differently by individual contributors. Konrad Schmid argues that the
Priestly texts (P) in Exodus developed the notion of Egypt standing outside of
the divine world order. This development in P seems to reflect the peaceful
world order of the Persian Empire at a point around 525 BCE when it included
the whole ancient world except for Egypt. In this example, a particular politi-
cal and cultural context, that of the early Persian Empire, may help to under-
stand the impact it had in shaping literary or religious traditions, that of the
Priestly version of the biblical exodus account regarding the story’s stance
towards Egypt.
Bob Becking discusses two Aramaic texts from the military colony of
Elephantine in what is now southern Egypt. These texts can be understood
as examples of the mutual acceptance of both the variety and the unity of the
divine in Elephantine in the fifth century BCE. As documentary evidence, these
texts illustrate a situation of real cultural encounter in a particular place and
at a particular time in which social, cultural, and religious exchanges occurred.
These texts demonstrate that it was acceptable to use the names of deities
originating in other religious traditions in order to refer to the divine realm in
general and that in the context of an oath a deity of someone else was accepted
as an observing witness.
Jonathan Stökl critically examines the usefulness and applicability of the
concepts found in James Scott’s Domination and the Arts of Resistance: Hidden
Transcripts. Using the example of the net mentioned in Ezek 17, Stökl sug-

3 For “glocalisation,” see, e.g., Erik Swyngedouw, “Globalisation or ‘Glocalisation’? Networks,

Territories and Rescaling,” Cambridge Review of International Affairs 17 (2004): 25–48; Kostas
Vlassopoulos, Greeks and Barbarians (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013); Martin
Pitts and Miguel John Versluys, eds., Globalisation and the Roman World: World History,
Connectivity and Material Culture (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015).
4 See also Mladen Popović, From Babel to Bible: Cultural Encounters of a Third Kind, inaugural
address 10 December 2013, University of Groningen, published in 2014.
Ancient Jewish Cultural Encounters And A Case Study On Ezekiel 5

gests that it be understood as a perceived hidden transcript or polemic against

Marduk. Instead of taking references to a small part of a tradition as an indica-
tion that a particular text was known in the same form as it is available to us
today, Stökl suggests that we approach so-called combat texts as intertexts and
that we read Ezekiel as alluding to a wider Combat Myth tradition of which the
book thereby became a part.
Caroline Waerzeggers draws on important, but largely overlooked literary
sources in cuneiform to argue that Babylonian scholars were engaged in a
lively and productive debate about Nabonidus in the Hellenistic period. This
debate took place in several Babylonian cities, allowed for divergent appraisals
of Nabonidus’s reign, and led to the creation of a variety of literary texts. This
may have provided a general cultural context, Waerzeggers suggests, in which
Babylonian-Jewish interactions that are behind such literary texts as Daniel 4
or the Prayer of Nabonidus may well have occurred, rather in a third or second
century BCE context than three centuries earlier.
Uri Gabbay argues that the Mesopotamian method of interpreting texts,
as exemplified in cuneiform commentaries from the second half of the first
millennium BCE, may have influenced Jewish exegetical texts. Dealing with
literary texts, as Stökl and Waerzeggers, Gabbay emphasizes the element of
language contact—the use of similar terminology in exegetical texts—and
argues for sociolinguistic contact (direct and probably oral) between Judean
and Babylonian scholars. Gabbay describes the type of contact reflected in the
commentaries as a self-conscious bilingual cultural encounter, but he leaves
room for several scenarios when such contacts might have occurred.
Discussing Martin Hengel’s landmark study Judentum und Hellenismus as
well as his subsequent work on Qumran and Hellenism, Jörg Frey deals with
the history of scholarship. The notion of cultural encounters between the Jews
and the Greeks lay at the core of Hengel’s work and has had a lasting legacy
on how subsequent scholarship approached the evidence of these cultural
encounters. Frey emphasizes the importance of critical reflection by schol-
ars on the categories utilized in research and interpretation, especially when
those categories, “Judaism” and “Hellenism,” contribute to expressions of iden-
tity or otherness.
George Brooke considers the choices being made by Jewish scribes of the
Hellenistic and Early Roman period specifically the selection of papyrus for
their manuscripts rather than writing on skin. Raising questions that cultural
theorists have become used to discussing in terms of agency, through which
people in everyday circumstances impose aspects of their identities on their
circumstances, Brooke argues that the choice between papyrus and skin
reflects an intersection between high culture and popular culture, between the
6 Popović

regional and the local, where also emulation of respect for the high culture of
the Egyptian priesthood might have been at play.
Benjamin Wright adduces the particular political and cultural context of
Seleucid hegemonic rule over Palestine in order to understand its impact upon
the book of Ben Sira’s work. On the basis of Ben Sira’s use of Hebrew and his
willingness to appropriate Hellenistic literature and ideas for his own pur-
poses, Wright characterizes Ben Sira’s interaction with Hellenistic culture as a
process of negotiation, of “using and refusing.” Using theoretical insights from
postcolonial studies, Wright argues that writing in Hebrew allowed Ben Sira a
space to develop a Jewish national discourse which also allowed him to avoid
the attention of the colonial powers, as he situated himself and his students as
the middle men between the colonizer and indigenous elites, on the one hand,
and the subordinated lower classes, on the other.
Judith Newman analyses Sirach 24 as an example of a multi-layered cultural
encounter in which “native” Judean Hokhmah (Wisdom) crossed the border
and met Sophia and Isis in Greco-Roman Egypt. Using postcolonial theories of
interculturality that assume dominant elite and subjugated cultures co-existed
not only in segregation but also in tension and even in conflict, Newman
argues that there is a hidden hybridity in the hymn of Sir 24. That is, when this
hymn was read in Alexandria, it was an act of considered resistance, a counter-
discursive move, to the political dominance and attraction/threat represented
by the ubiquitous Isis cult in the religious competition of the diaspora world.
Focusing on the use of iconographic traditions to illustrate situations of
real-life cultural encounters between the Jewish and the Greco-Roman world,
Anne Lykke analyses the differences in the iconography of the Jewish coinages
minted at the time of the Hasmonaeans and the coinage of King Herod Agrippa
I. Lykke argues that the Hasmonaean coinage, like that of other local autono-
mous states rising in the wake of the increasing disintegration of the Seleucid
Empire, displayed a tendency to follow the example set by the Seleucid coin-
age. She argues that Agrippa I relied heavily on Roman iconographic traditions
as a reference to the Roman sovereign and the imperial ruler cult, but also
positioned himself and his family firmly within these. Lykke shows how from
Hasmonaean and Herodian coinage—a material source and documentary evi-
dence over against literary sources—detailed knowledge can be drawn con-
cerning political, cultural, and social processes.
Hindy Najman argues that there is a reciprocal transformation of the
Greek and Hebrew culture through both translation of the Hebrew Bible
into Greek and integrated transfer of culture across linguistic, philosophical,
theological, and sociological divides. Philo of Alexandria’s own writings
exhibit reciprocal engagement between Jewish and Greek cultures through the
Ancient Jewish Cultural Encounters And A Case Study On Ezekiel 7

re-imagination of revelation, which, she argues, is reciprocally transformative.

Part of what makes this possible is Philo’s insistence on characterizing both the
Hebrew and the Greek as revealed as part of the radical and extensive transfor-
mation of the Hebrew and Greek in a Hellenistic context. Najman understands
Philo’s celebration of the Greek rendition of the law of Moses as one of the
most intense identifications of a Jewish thinker with a general culture, which
created an important precedent for cultural symbiosis.
Cornelis de Vos focuses on the literary source of Paul’s Letter to the Galatians
to discuss the cultural encounter between Paul, his opponents, and the
Galatians in Anatolia. De Vos takes both circumcision and emasculation (galli)
as clearly distinguishable elements of Jewish and Anatolian culture which can
serve as a means of comparing the cultures of the parties involved in Paul’s let-
ter. He argues that Paul used these Jewish and Anatolian cultural elements to
oppose and substitute them.
Against recent interpretations that suggest the rabbis saw themselves as
Romans, part of the Roman order, Ishay Rosen-Zvi argues that the Mishnah,
as a Tannaitic response to Roman rule, attests to a rabbinic self-consciousness
according to which they could not see themselves as integral parts of a Roman
Empire. He rethinks the comparison between Tannaitic literature and Second
Sophists from the second century CE and argues that unlike the Sophists, but
similar to Paul and his view on the ekklesia of believers, rabbinic literature did
not make do with the spaces the empire left for the provincials, but purported
to create an alternative space, which offered an entire world to inhabit. This
alternative might be understood as a form of cultural mimicry, but, Rosen-Zvi
concludes, this cannot be taken as an example of a self-conscious sense of
Romanization. Dealing with a literary source to study the encounter between
Roman and Jewish cultures, he makes an important case to understand the
enterprise itself of writing and compiling the Mishnah as a textual and yet real
alternative to Rome.
Focusing on Jewish calendar and time-keeping practices, especially lunar
practices, in the Roman Empire, Sacha Stern analyses documentary and epi-
graphic evidence. Stern argues that the Jewish lunar calendar did not simply
function as an act of resistance to Romanization. Jews, as were other groups in
the Roman Empire, were engaged in a complex manner with Julian and other
solar calendars, participating in a wider sub-culture of the Roman Empire,
which in some cases could be regarded as subversive and culturally dissident.
Following postcolonial theory, Stern argues that hybridity in the context of the
Serdica cyclical calendar or the Catania lunar date was not the natural result
of cultural osmosis or “assimilation,” but in fact a deliberate and subversive
cultural strategy.
8 Popović

On the basis of Greek, Latin, Aramaic, Hebrew, and Arabic inscriptions

etched on its walls that indicate that the site was frequented and venerated in
antiquity Tal Ilan is able to study the intricate history and use of Elijah’s Cave
in Haifa as a microcosm of cultural encounters over time between pagans,
Jews, and Muslims in the area (Christians come into play via study of literary
sources). The presence and positioning of the different inscriptions—erasing
previous inscriptions or displaying new inscriptions across previous ones—in
the cave show that violence was the order of the day, rather than a peaceful
co-existence. Ilan argues that we must understand the religious character of
Elijah’s Cave in terms of an on-going struggle, among the various religions and
religious dominations in the region to possess, disinherit, and repossess the
site.
From this brief overview, it should be clear that the contributions in this
volume show how different aspects come to the fore when using the notion of
cultural encounters to study ancient Jews’ meeting with other cultures, with
cultural identity and cultural resilience being at stake.

3 Ezekiel and Babylon

Here I wish to briefly return to my earlier work on the transmission of astro-

nomical, astrological, and physiognomic learning but now focus on the ques-
tion whether Ezekiel had direct access to Babylonian sources, as contributors
in this volume such as Jonathan Stökl and Uri Gabbay also reflect on the
wider issue of Babylonian-Judean knowledge transfer as a result of cultural
encounters.5
For Ezekiel as a historical character we only have the literary evidence of the
prophetic book at our disposal. All other evidence is circumstantial. According
to the prophetic book, around the year 593 BCE,6 Ezekiel—having been taken
to Babylon five years prior—had a vision.7 This vision stands at the beginning

5 See ibidem.
6 For this date, see, e.g., Karl-Friedrich Pohlmann, Ezechiel: Der Stand der theologischen
Diskussion (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 2008), 178–82. See also James E.
Miller, “The Thirtieth Year of Ezekiel 1:1,” RB 99 (1992): 499–503.
7 For the location, see most recently Abraham Winitzer, “Assyriology and Jewish Studies in Tel
Aviv: Ezekiel among the Babylonian literati,” in Encounters by the Rivers of Babylon: Scholarly
Conversations between Jews, Iranians, and Babylonians, ed. Uri Gabbay and Shai Secunda,
TSAJ 30 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2014); Caroline Waerzeggers, “Babylonians in Susa: The
Travels of Babylonian Businessmen to Susa Reconsidered,” in Der Achämenidenhof / The
Achaemenid Court: Akten des 2. Internationalen Colloquiums zum Thema Vorderasien im
Ancient Jewish Cultural Encounters And A Case Study On Ezekiel 9

of the prophetic book and describes a theophany, God appearing on his heav-
enly throne and accompanied by fire, thunder, and lightning. Amid all that
Ezekiel is said to have seen something that gleamed like ḥašmal. This Hebrew
word is a hapax legomenon, appearing only here in the first chapter of Ezekiel.
In the Septuagint it was rendered by the Greek word elektron. The theophany
is elaborated by a description of four wondrous creatures, with multiple faces
and wings, and rotating wheels. Above the four creatures was something like
a dome, raqiʿa, just like the dome referred to in the creation narrative in Gen 1.
The dome shone like crystal and above the throne there was what looked like
a sapphire throne. Something that seemed like a human form occupied the
throne, and upward from what appeared the figure’s loins Ezekiel is said to
have seen something that gleamed like ḥašmal. This vision—which is full of
linguistic and conceptual peculiarities, has a different version in Greek, and is
in its final form in the Hebrew Bible the result of the Fortschreibung—plays an
important role throughout the prophetic book as an expression of judgement
and renewal.8
The literary description of Ezekiel’s close encounter with the divine is also
interesting with regard to Ezekiel’s cultural encounter with Babylon. It seems
evident that the historical figure of Ezekiel, being in Babylon, would have been
familiar with expressions of Babylonian culture.9 In scholarship a general

Spannungsfeld klassischer und altorientalischer Überlieferungen, Landgut Castelen bei Basel,

23.–25. May 2007, ed. Bruno Jacobs and Robert Rollinger (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2010),
777–813. I am grateful to Avi Winitzer for sending me his text prior to publication.
8 See, e.g., Walther Zimmerli, Ezechiel, BKAT 13 (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener, 1969);
Pohlmann, Ezechiel; Christoph Uehlinger, “Virtual Vision Vs. Actual Show: Visualizing
Strategies in the Book of Ezekiel,” paper presented during the Society of Biblical Literature
Annual Meeting 2012 in Chicago; Christoph Uehlinger and Susanne Müller Trufaut, “Ezekiel
1, Babylonian Cosmological Scholarship and Iconography: Attempts at Further Refinement,”
TZ 57 (2001): 140–71. I am grateful to Christoph Uehlinger for sending me the text of his SBL
Chicago paper.
9 Generally speaking, there are two positions in scholarship with regard to explanations of the
cultural context of Ezekiel’s work. On the one hand, scholars point to the Babylonian context
Ezekiel was living in since 597 BCE that influenced his thinking; see, e.g., Othmar Keel, Jahwe-
Visionen und Siegelkunst (Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 1977); W. Boyd Barrick, “The
Straight-Legged Cherubim of Ezekiel’s Inaugural Vision (Ezekiel 1:7a),” CBQ 44 (1982): 543–50;
Nahum M. Waldman, “A Note on Ezekiel 1:18,” JBL 103 (1984): 614–18; Stephen Garfinkel, “Of
Thistles and Thorns: A New Approach to Ezekiel ii 6,” VT 37 (1987): 421–37; idem, “Another
Model for Ezekiel’s Abnormalities,” JANES 19 (1989): 39–50; Peter Kingsley, “Ezekiel by the
Grand Canal: Between Jewish and Babylonian Tradition,” JRAS 2 (1992): 339–46; Wayne
Horowitz, Mesopotamian Cosmic Geography (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1998); Nancy R.
Bowen, “The Daughters of Your People: Female Prophets in Ezekiel 13:17–23,” JBL 118 (1999):
10 Popović

assumption seems to be that Ezekiel as a member of the Judean elite would

have had almost naturally access to Babylonian scholars who shared with
him their scientific learning.10 This assumption is often used to explain the
few concrete leads for Babylonian learning in Ezekiel. Thus, in Ezekiel’s throne
vision two elements are often put forward as examples for Babylonian-Judean
interaction with regard to the exchange of scholarly learning. First, there is the
description of the dome that shone like crystal and the figure on the throne
of sapphire above that dome. Second, there is the obscure hapax legomenon
ḥašmal used in the description of the theophany.
Scholars have pointed to a Babylonian text as a presumed literary parallel
for these two elements in Ezekiel’s theophany description. In this scholarly
Babylonian text (KAR 307), marked as a secret of the great gods, three heav-
ens are mentioned, the middle one being sapphire-like. In that middle heaven
is Marduk who—seated on a raised dais—lets shine forth elmešu-light.11 The
Hebrew word ḥašmal is from this Akkadian word elmešu.12 The suggestion is

417–33; Uehlinger and Müller Trufaut, “Ezekiel 1, Babylonian Cosmological Scholarship

and Iconography”; Shawn Z. Aster, The Unbeatable Light: Melammu and Its Biblical
Parallels (Münster: Ugarit, 2012); Uehlinger, “Virtual Vision Vs. Actual Show”; Abraham
Winitzer, “Gilgameš in Ezekiel’s Eden,” paper presented during the Society of Biblical
Literature Annual Meeting 2012 in Chicago; Jonathan Stökl, “Ezekiel Goes to School: A
Possible Channel for the Transmission of Learning,” paper presented during the Society
of Biblical Literature Annual Meeting 2012 in Chicago; idem, “The ‫ מתנבאות‬in Ezekiel 13
Reconsidered,” JBL 132 (2013): 61–76. I am grateful to Jonathan Stökl for sending me the
text of his SBL Chicago paper.
 On the other hand, scholars point to the singularity of Ezekiel’s thinking and how
that developed from a mono-cultural tradition not influenced by Babylonian culture;
see Moshe Greenberg, Ezekiel 1–20: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary
(Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1983); Leslie C. Allen, “The Structure and Intention of
Ezekiel I,” VT 43 (1993): 145–61.
10 Garfinkel, “Of Thistles and Thorns”; Stökl, “Ezekiel Goes to School”; Uehlinger, “Virtual
Vision Vs. Actual Show”; Winitzer, “Gilgameš in Ezekiel’s Eden”; idem, “Assyriology and
Jewish Studies in Tel Aviv.”
11 Other Babylonian texts also refer to elmešu-light around the gods; see Horowitz,
Mesopotamian Cosmic Geography, 8–15; Winitzer, “Assyriology and Jewish Studies in
Tel Aviv.”
12 Benno Landsberger, “Akkadisch-hebräische Wortgleichungen,” in Hebräische
Wortforschung: Festschrift zum 80. Geburtstag von Walter Baumgartner (Leiden: Brill,
1967), 176–204 (190–98); Daniel Bodi, The Book of Ezekiel and the Poem of Erra (Göttingen:
Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1991), 82–94; Simo Parpola, Assyrian Prophecies (Helsinki:
Helsinki University Press, 1997), XLVIII and nn. 248, 249; Aster, The Unbeatable Light,
304–5.
Ancient Jewish Cultural Encounters And A Case Study On Ezekiel 11

that the two elements in Ezekiel’s vision are there because of Ezekiel’s direct
access to Babylonian knowledge such as in the Babylonian text KAR 307.
I wish to make two brief observations regarding the issue of literary influ-
ences in relation to real or perceived transfers from a given literary corpus to
another. First, if we only have literary evidence to go on for studying a cul-
tural encounter any hypothesis should be confronted with what we do know of
the presumed context on the basis of other evidence. Thus, it seems unlikely
that in the sixth-century BCE, Neo-Babylonian context in which the his-
torical figure of Ezekiel purportedly found himself he would have had direct
access to centres of Babylonian learning. Contrary to the evidence we have
for the eighth–seventh-century, Neo-Assyrian period, we currently have no
evidence for the sixth-century BCE, Neo-Babylonian period that gives us rea-
son to believe that non-Babylonians were given access to the cuneiform tradi-
tion of learned knowledge. In this period the Babylonian urban elite seemed
strict in its maintenance of cultural boundaries,13 whereas in the Persian and
Hellenistic periods they seemed to be less so, showing how attitudes toward
knowledge access and transfer are determined by the specific historical and
cultural circumstances.
Second, how precise is the literary parallel between Ezek 1 and KAR 307? In
Ezek 1 there is no mention of three heavens. Furthermore, in Ezek 1 the dome
is not like sapphire as in the Babylonian text KAR 307 (saggilmud-stone) but
like crystal.14 In Ezek 1 it is the throne that is like sapphire. The most specific
similarity between both texts seems to be the ḥašmal/elmešu-radiance. This
terminological parallel is hardly enough to substantiate the argument for
Ezekiel having direct access to Babylonian learned culture.15 For the study of

13 We have enough evidence that Judeans in general managed themselves well as villag-
ers and traders in their new Babylonian surroundings, but concrete evidence for elite
exchange is lacking, except for the Judean king Jehoiachin. See, e.g., Mladen Popović,
“The Emergence of Aramaic and Hebrew Scholarly Texts: Transmission and Translation
of Alien Wisdom,” in The Dead Sea Scrolls: Transmission of Traditions and Production of
Texts, ed. Sarianna Metso, Hindy Najman, and Eileen Schuller, STDJ 92 (Leiden: Brill,
2010), 81–114; idem, “Networks of Scholars: The Transmission of Astronomical and
Astrological Learning between Babylonians, Greeks and Jews,” in Ancient Jewish Sciences
and the History of Knowledge in Second Temple Literature, ed. Jonathan Ben-Dov and
Seth L. Sanders (New York: New York University Press, 2014), 151–91.
14 Cf. Exod 24:10.
15 Other examples from the book of Ezekiel for possible Babylonian-Judean knowledge
transfer are perceived structural and conceptual parallels between Ezek 2, 3 and 13 and
a learned Babylonian list of incantation formulae, Maqlû. See Garfinkel, “Of Thistles and
Thorns”; idem, “Another Model for Ezekiel’s Abnormalities”; Bowen, “The Daughters of
12 Popović

the cultural encounter between Judeans and Babylonians in the particular

context of sixth-century BCE Babylon, where Judean cultural identity and cul-
tural resilience were, at least for some, at stake, the book of Ezekiel, as a literary
source, gives no hard evidence to argue for knowledge transfer at the social and
cultural level of Babylonian intellectual elites.
Access to and dissemination of learned knowledge and texts were deter-
mined by specific circumstances which is why concrete manifestations of
Babylonian learning differed according to time and place. We cannot presume
a literary universe alone, an immaterial stream of tradition, available anytime
and anywhere, and accessible without further ado. This was not the case for
Babylonians, let alone for non-Babylonians like the Judeans in the sixth century
BCE.16 When dealing with literary sources, contextual evidence determines to
a large degree the analysis of specific questions of a cultural encounter, such
as with Babylon and Judea. It is important to be aware of such contextual pre-
suppositions being brought forward. This also applies to the scarce clues in
Ezekiel’s throne vision.17

Your People”; Stökl, “The ‫ מתנבאות‬in Ezekiel 13 Reconsidered.” But these parallels are very
general or phenomenological, and the perceived similarities could also be explained in a
different manner.
16 In Assyriology Leo Oppenheim coined the term stream of tradition. As a concept the
stream of tradition seems to have been taken as an omnipresence of the great literary and
scholarly works in Mesopotamian cultures for centuries. But more recently Assyriologists
have argued that the many literary and scholarly cuneiform tablets available to us now,
after modern excavations and discoveries, were not available as a whole to all and every-
where. Specific circumstances, places and people determine the availability of and the
access to texts and teachers; see, e.g., Eleanor Robson, “The Production and Dissemination
of Scholarly Knowledge,” in The Oxford Handbook of Cuneiform Culture, ed. Karen Radner
and Eleanor Robson (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 557–76.
17 We must differentiate between different forms of cultural knowledge and different pro-
cesses of access to and dissemination of such knowledge. Narrative parallels between the
Gilgameš-epic and Ezekiel (Winitzer, “Gilgameš in Ezekiel’s Eden”) or the Poem of Erra
and Ezekiel (Bodi, The Book of Ezekiel and the Poem of Erra; see also the critical review
of J. Nicholas Postgate in VT 43 [1993]: 137), the transmission of legal formulations or
astronomical and astrological knowledge should not all be lumped together and inter-
preted as the result of direct access to Babylonian scholars; see also Popović, “Networks of
Scholars,” 176–78.
 CHAPTER 2

Taming Egypt: The Impact of Persian Imperial

Ideology and Politics on the Biblical Exodus
Account
Konrad Schmid

1 The Bible and the Ancient Near East

For current historical research on ancient Jewish literature, it is a matter of

course that texts are influenced by the cultural and historical settings from
which they emerge. In biblical studies, such an approach was not always fully
accepted. A case in point is the so-called Babel-Bibel-Streit that emerged after
the Assyriologist Friedrich Delitzsch, on 13 January 1902 and in the presence
of the emperor Wilhelm II, delivered a lecture on the topic “Babel und Bibel.”1
Delitzsch suggested that the Bible is not a text sui generis, but rather is deeply
influenced by its Mesopotamian literary precursors that need to be credited for
their intellectual shaping of basic biblical concepts like creation and the flood.
There is no doubt that Delitzsch exaggerated his point, especially in his sub-
sequent work and publications, and he was rightly the focus of criticism for
advocating a kind of “pan-Babylonism.” His approach even provoked public
mockery, with his enthusiasm for Babylonia making its way into one of the
most prominent satirical magazines of the time, the “Simplicissimus.”2
But one should also acknowledge that the particula veri of his approach was
the acknowledgment that the Hebrew Bible is first and foremost a literary and
cultural artefact belonging to and in dialogue with ancient Near Eastern lit-
erature, quite like the Religionsgeschichtliche Schule argued, and not an entity
that emerged and existed in splendid isolation from its cultural environment.3
In what follows, I will address some specific features of the biblical exodus
account that reflect ideological influences from the period of its authors.

1 Reinhard G. Lehmann, Friedrich Delitzsch und der Babel-Bibel-Streit, OBO 133 (Fribourg:
Academic Press, 1989).
2 Thomas T. Heine, Simplicissimus 7/52 (1903): 409.
3 Gerd Lüdemann and Alf Özen, “Religionsgeschichtliche Schule,” TRE 28, 618–24.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���7 | doi ��.��63/9789004336919_003

14 Schmid

Despite the divergences in current Pentateuchal theory, it is safe to say that

the biblical book of Exodus developed over centuries.4 We can clearly iden-
tify a literary version of the exodus story from the Neo-Assyrian period5 and a
parallel version (now combined with the older one) that probably originated
in the early Persian period. Some scholars speak of them as “J” and “P,” respec-
tively. Whereas I agree with the latter designation,6 I will refrain from speaking

4 Thomas B. Dozeman, Konrad Schmid, Baruch J. Schwartz, eds., The Pentateuch: International
Perspectives on Current Research, FAT 78 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2011); cf. Konrad Schmid,
Genesis and the Moses Story: Israel’s Dual Origins in the Hebrew Bible, Siphrut 3 (Winona
Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2010), 7–16, 334–47; Joel S. Baden, “The Continuity of the Non-
Priestly Narrative from Genesis to Exodus,” Biblica 93 (2012): 161–86; idem, “From Joseph
to Moses: The Narratives of Exodus 1–2,” VT 62 (2012): 133–58; idem, The Composition of
the Pentateuch: Renewing the Documentary Hypothesis (New Haven: Yale University Press,
2012). For overviews of the related scholarship, see, e.g., Georg Fischer, “Zur Lage der
Pentateuchforschung,” ZAW 115 (2003): 608–16; Thomas Römer, “Hauptprobleme der gegen-
wärtigen Pentateuchforschung,” TZ 60 (2004): 289–307; idem, “La formation du Pentateuque:
histoire de la recherche,” in Introduction à l’Ancien Testament, ed. Thomas Römer, Jean-
Daniel Macchi and Christophe Nihan, MdB 49 (Geneva: Labor et Fides, 2004), 67–84; Eckart
Otto,“Kritik der Pentateuchkomposition: Eine Diskussion neuerer Entwürfe,” in Die Tora:
Studien zum Pentateuch: Gesammelte Aufsätze, ed. Eckart Otto, Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für
altorientalische und biblische Rechtsgeschichte 9 (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2009), 143–67;
Konrad Schmid, Literaturgeschichte des Alten Testaments (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche
Buchgesellschaft, 2008), 37–41; Baruch J. Schwartz, “The Pentateuch as Scripture and the
Challenge of Biblical Criticism: Responses among Modern Jewish Thinkers and Scholars,” in
Jewish Concepts of Scripture: A Comparative Introduction, ed. Benjamin D. Sommer (New York:
New York University Press, 2012), 203–28.
5 E.g., Eckart Otto, “Mose und das Gesetz: Die Mose-Figur als Gegenentwurf Politischer
Theologie zur neuassyrischen Königsideologie im 7. Jh. v. Chr.,” in Mose: Ägypten und das Alte
Testament, Stuttgarter Bibelstudien 189 (Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 2000), 43–83; Jan
Christian Gertz, “Mose und die Anfänge der jüdischen Religion,” ZTK 99 (2002): 3–20.
6 See the standard text assignments by Karl Elliger, “Sinn und Ursprung der priesterlichen
Geschichtserzählung,” ZTK 49 (1952): 121–43; Norbert Lohfink, “Die Priesterschrift und die
Geschichte,” in Congress Volume Göttingen 1977, ed. John A. Emerton, VTSup 29 (Leiden: Brill,
1978), 183–225; Eckart Otto, “Forschungen zur Priesterschrift,” TRu 62 (1997): 1–50. There is
debate regarding the original end of P, especially in the wake of Lothar Perlitt, “Priesterschrift
im Deuteronomium?,” ZAW 100 (1988): 65–88. Proposals include seeing the literary end at
one of five places: Exod 29; Exod 40; Lev 9; Lev 16; or Num 27. For Exod 29 see Eckart Otto,
“Forschungen zur Priesterschrift,” TRu 62 (1997): 1–50. For Exod 40 see Thomas Pola, Die
ursprüngliche Priesterschrift. Beobachtungen zur Literarkritik und Traditionsgeschichte von
Pg, WMANT 70 (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener-Verlag, 1995); Reinhard Gregor Kratz, Die
Komposition der erzählenden Bücher des Alten Testaments, UTB 2157 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck
& Ruprecht, 2000), 102–17; Michaela Bauks, “La signification de l’espace et du temps dans
l’‘historiographie sacerdotale,’ ” in The Future of the Deuteronomistic History, ed. Thomas
Taming Egypt 15

of “J” for reasons that I as well as others have developed elsewhere.7 There
may also be earlier precursors to the exodus story, especially when accounting

Römer, BETL 147 (Leuven: Peeters, 2000), 29–45. For Lev 9 see Erich Zenger, “Priesterschrift,”
TRE 27: 435–46; idem, Einleitung in das Alte Testament, Studienbücher Theologie 1,1 (Stuttgart:
Kohlhammer, 2004), 156–75). For Lev 16 see Matthias Köckert, Leben in Gottes Gegenwart:
Studien zum Verständnis des Gesetzes im Alten Testament, FAT 43 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck,
2004), 105; Christophe Nihan, From Priestly Torah to Pentateuch: A Study in the Composition of
the Book of Leviticus, FAT II/25 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2006), 20–68). For Num 27 see Jean-
Louis Ska, “Le récit sacerdotal. Une ‘histoire sans fin’?,” in The Books of Leviticus and Numbers,
ed. Thomas Römer, BETL 215 (Leuven: Peeters, 2008), 631–653. Between Exod 40 and Lev 26,
a staggering of endings within P is suggested by Jan Christian Gertz, ed., Grundinformation
Altes Testament, UTB 2745 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2007), 236. Christian Frevel
supports the traditional conclusion in Deut 34 in Mit Blick auf das Land die Schöpfung erin-
nern, HBS 23 (Freiburg: Herder, 2000); cf. Ludwig Schmidt, Studien zur Priesterschrift, BZAW
214 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1993), 271. For those who see the conclusion of Pg in Joshua see
Peter Weimar, Studien zur Priesterschrift, FAT 56 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2008), 17; Joseph
Blenkinsopp, “The Structure of P,” CBQ 38 (1976): 275–92; Norbert Lohfink, “Die Priesterschrift
und die Geschichte,” in Congress Volume Göttingen 1977, ed. John A. Emerton, VTSup 29
(Leiden: Brill, 1978), 183–225; Ernst Axel Knauf, “Die Priesterschrift und die Geschichten der
Deuteronomisten,” in The Future of the Deuteronomistic History, ed. Thomas Römer; BETL 147
(Leuven: Peeters, 2000), 101–18; Philippe Guillaume, Land and Calendar: The Priestly Document
from Genesis 1 to Joshua 18 (Habilitationsschrift, Bern 2008). For an argument against P as a
source in Exodus, see Christoph Berner, Die Exoduserzählung. Das literarische Werden einer
Ursprungslegende Israels, FAT 73 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010). However, see my review
in ZAW 123 (2010): 292–94. For a similar position for Gen 12–50 see Rainer Albertz, Exodus
1–18, Zürcher Bibelkommentare 2.1 (Zürich: Theologischer Verlag, 2012), 10–26; Jakob Wöhrle,
Fremdlinge im eigenen Land: Zur Entstehung und Intention der priesterlichen Passagen der
Vätergeschichte, FRLANT 246 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2012).
7 Thomas B. Dozeman and Konrad Schmid, eds., A Farewell to the Yahwist? The Composition
of the Pentateuch in Recent European Interpretation, SBL Symposium Series 34 (Atlanta:
Society of Biblical Literature, 2006); for the decisive literary break between Genesis and
Exodus, see Schmid, Genesis and the Moses Story, which builds inter alia on Thomas Römer,
Israels Väter: Untersuchungen zur Väterthematik im Deuteronomium und in der deuteronomis-
tischen Tradition, OBO 99 (Fribourg: Academic Press; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht,
1990); Albert de Pury, “Le cycle de Jacob comme légende autonome des origines d‘Israël,”
in Congress Volume Leuven 1989, ed. John A. Emerton, VTSup 43 (Leiden: Brill, 1991), 78–96.
On this issue, see the exchange between Joel S. Baden, “The Continuity of the Non-Priestly
Narrative from Genesis to Exodus,” Bib 93 (2012): 161–86, and Konrad Schmid, “Genesis and
Exodus as Two Formerly Independent Traditions of Origins for Ancient Israel,” Bib 93 (2012):
187–208.
16 Schmid

for probable oral versions of it, but I will not address these earlier stages in
this paper.8
If one admits that biblical authors were influenced by their historical
experiences and that the world of these narrators impacted the narratives
themselves, then it is to be expected that the various periods in which the book
of Exodus was produced would be reflected in its texts. Of course, the world of
the narrative has its own logic, but biblical texts, especially in the Pentateuch,
often give us glimpses into the world of the narrator as well.
This paper will discuss several conspicuous features in the Priestly exodus
account that relate to the story’s stance towards Egypt.9 These narrative per-
spectives point to a specific political situation at the beginning of the Persian
period that seems to have played a role in the author’s experience. I think
the Priestly exodus account provides a good example of early Jewish cultural
encounters in the ancient Near Eastern world.
The Priestly texts in the book of Exodus belong to the theocratic strand
of early Second Temple period literature in the Bible. In general, the Priestly
document (P) takes up the Persian imperial ideology of a comprehensive pax
Persica encompassing the entire ancient world.10 Yet at the same time, the
Priestly texts in Exodus develop the notion that Egypt stands outside of God’s
world order. They suggest that only by taming Egypt may God’s creative activ-
ity come to a meaningful end in the ultimate establishment of God’s glory
(‫ )כבוד יהוה‬in the world. Taming Egypt is an essential element of the Priestly
document’s portrayal of world history that starts with the beginning of time
and culminates in the establishment of Israel’s sanctuary. In what follows,
I will explain how and why the Priestly document develops this specific stance
towards Egypt, arguing in a way that includes observations about the world of
the narrative and the world of its narrators alike.

8 E.g., Uwe Becker, “Das Exodus-Credo: Historischer Haftpunkt und Geschichte einer
alttestamentlichen Glaubensformel,” in Das Alte Testament–ein Geschichtsbuch?!
Geschichtsschreibung und Geschichtsüberlieferung im antiken Israel, ed. Uwe Becker and
Jürgen van Oorschot, Arbeiten zur Bibel und ihrer Geschichte 17 (Leipzig: EVA, 2005),
81–100.
9 On P’s exodus account, see Peter Weimar, Untersuchungen zur priesterschriftlichen
Exodusgeschichte, FB 9 (Würzburg: Echter, 1973); Thomas Römer, “The Exodus Narrative
according to the Priestly Document,” in The Strata of the Priestly Writings: Contemporary
Debate and Future Directions, ed. Sarah Shectman and Joel S. Baden, ATANT 95 (Zurich:
TVZ, 2009), 157–74; Albertz, Exodus 1–18, 50–52.
10 Pierre Briant, From Cyrus to Alexander: A History of the Persian Empire, trans. Peter T.
Daniels (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2002), 175–203.
Taming Egypt 17

2 The Priestly Exodus Account and Its Theological Shape

Allowing for minor variations in detail, the Priestly version of the Exodus story
is usually considered to comprise the following verses in Exodus: 1:7, 13–14;
2:23*–25; 6:2–12; 7:1–2, 4–7, 8–10a, 11–13, 19–20*, 21b, 22; 8:1–3, 11*, 12–14a, 15; 9:8–
12; 11:10; 12:1, 3–8*, 18–20; 12:40–41; 14:1–4*, 8a, 10*, 15, 16–18a*, 21–23*, 26–29*.11
Its basic elements include the oppression of the Israelites in Egypt, the com-
missioning of Moses, the contest with the Egyptian magicians, the setting up
of the Pesach, Israel’s departure from Egypt, and the death of Pharaoh and his
army in the sea, after which the Israelites reach the wilderness of Sinai.12
While this narrative is about the early history of Israel, Norbert Lohfink and
Ernst Axel Knauf in particular have pointed out that it is not particularly help-
ful to approach the Priestly document and its exodus story as a historiographi-
cal work, as has often been done.13 Instead, the Priestly document intends to
present Israel’s beginnings not in terms of history, but in terms of foundational
myth. It is easier to describe this difference in German terms: P as a whole
writes not Geschichte, but Urgeschichte. The importance of this differentiation
will become clear in the following sections.

2.1 Creation Theology in P’s Account of the Crossing of the Sea (Exod 14)
The first feature to be discussed in the Priestly exodus story is the theologically
loaded wording in the account of the sea crossing in Exod 14. This wording
shows that the salvation of Israel and the destruction of Egypt in P are not
based on an arbitrary act of God: both elements are divine creational activities.14

11 Following basically the delineations proposed by Jan Christian Gertz, Tradition und
Redaktion in der Exoduserzählung: Untersuchungen zur Endredaktion des Pentateuch,
FRLANT 186 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2000), 394–96.
12 For the notion of Sinai in P, see Konrad Schmid, “Der Sinai und die Priesterschrift,” in
“Gerechtigkeit und Recht zu üben” (Gen 18,19): Studien zur altorientalischen und biblischen
Rechtsgeschichte, zur Religionsgeschichte Israels und zur Religionssoziologie, ed. Reinhard
Achenbach and Martin Arneth, BZAR 13 (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2009), 114–27.
13 Norbert Lohfink, “Die Priesterschrift und die Geschichte,” in Congress Volume Göttingen
1977, ed. John A. Emerton; VTSup 29 (Leiden: Brill, 1977), 213–53; Ernst Axel Knauf, “Der
Exodus zwischen Mythos und Geschichte: Zur priesterschriftlichen Rezeption der
Schilfmeer-Geschichte in Ex 14,” in Schriftauslegung in der Schrift: Festschrift für Odil
Hannes Steck zu seinem 65. Geburtstag, ed. Reinhard G. Kratz et al., BZAW 300 (Berlin: de
Gruyter, 2000), 73–84; idem, “Die Priesterschrift,” 101–18.
14 For more detail see Konrad Schmid, “The Quest for ‘God:’ Monotheistic Arguments in
the Priestly Texts of the Hebrew Bible,” in Reconsidering the Concept of Revolutionary
Monotheism, ed. Beate Pongratz-Leisten (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2011), 271–89.
18 Schmid

This may be demonstrated first by Exod 14:22, a verse that is unanimously

attributed to P:

‫ויבאו בני־יׁשראל בתוך הים‬ The Israelites went into the sea on
‫ביבׁשה והמים להם חמה‬ dry ground, the waters
‫מימינם ומׂשמאלם‬ [forming] a wall for them on their right
and on their left.

In the crossing of the sea, the Israelites went on dry ground, in Hebrew: ‫ביבׁשה‬.
The term ‫ יבׁשה‬only appears once in the Priestly document before Exod 14:22.
This is the statement in Gen 1:9, part of the Priestly account of creation:

‫ויאמר אלהים‬ And God said,

‫יקוו המים מתחת הׁשמים‬ “Let the waters under the sky be
‫אל־מקום אחד‬ gathered together into one place,
‫ותראה היבׁשה‬ and let the dry ground appear.”
‫ויהי־כן‬ And it was so.

In the miracle at the Sea of Reeds, something similar to the third day of cre-
ation takes place: the dry ground can be seen. The Priestly document appar-
ently intends to present this miracle in the same mold as the creational activity
of God during the very first days of creation.15
The wording of Exod 14:28a exhibits a similar affiliation with God’s cre-
ational activity at the very beginning of world history as well:

‫ויׁשבו המים‬ The waters returned

‫ויכסו את־הרכב‬ and covered the chariots
‫ואת־הפרׁשים‬ and the chariot drivers,
‫לכל חיל פרעה‬ the entire army of Pharaoh
‫הבאים אחריהם בים‬ that had followed them into the sea.

Within the Priestly narrative, this statement is quite similar in literary terms to
the flood waters’ covering of the earth in Gen 7:19–20:

‫והמים גברו מאד מאד‬ The waters swelled so mightily

‫על־הארץ‬ on the earth
‫ויכסו כל־ההרים הגבהים‬ that all the high mountains

15 See Schmid, “Quest,” 280.

Taming Egypt 19

‫אׁשר־תחת כל־הׁשמים‬ under the whole heaven were covered;

‫חמׁש עׂשרה אמה מלמעלה‬ fifteen cubits deep
‫גברו המים‬ the waters swelled,
‫ויכסו ההרים‬ and the mountains were covered.

The implicit theological argument underlying this thematic and terminologi-

cal link can be described as follows: The destruction of the Egyptian army in
the sea is tantamount to the eradication of the corrupted creatures during the
flood. Erasing the Egyptian army is thus another part of establishing God’s
creational world order. These links back to Gen 1 and 6 show that P’s exodus
account is more Urgeschichte than Geschichte. Leading the people out of Israel
and destroying the Egyptian military is part of God’s creational activity.

2.2 P’s Peaceful World View

Why is the destruction of Egypt’s power noteworthy? Outside of this single
episode, P displays a very peaceful view of the world. That is to say, P shows
no hostile attitude toward the nations; Israel’s God is not only Israel’s God,
but also the God for the whole world; and accordingly, God makes promises to
Israel, to the Abrahamic nations more broadly (Gen 17), and even to the whole
world (Gen 9).16
The flood story of Gen 6–9 seems to pose an obvious exception to such
peacefulness, but even here, P in fact criticizes the notion of divine violence.

16 For P, there is a specific relation between the “world cycle” (Gen 1–9) and the “Abrahamic
cycle” (Gen 11–Exod 1) in Genesis and the “Israel cycle” (Exod 1–40) in Exodus. It rep-
resents a concentric theological organization of the world in which the creator God
is Elohim for the world (Gen 9:1), El Shadday for the Abrahamic people (Gen 17:1), and
YHWH for Israel (Exod 6:2). For further detail on this see Konrad Schmid, “Judean Identity
and Ecumenicity: The Political Theology of the Priestly Document,” in Judah and Judeans
in the Achaemenid Period: Negotiating Identity in an International Context, eds. Oded
Lipschits, Gary N. Knoppers, and Manfred Oeming (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2011),
3–26. This conception might be inspired by the Persians’ own view of center and periphery
within their empire; cf. Herodotus (1.134): “After their own nation they hold their nearest
neighbors most in honour, then the nearest but one—and so on, their respect decreasing
as the distance grows, and the most remote being the most despised. Themselves, they
consider in every way superior to everyone else in the world, and allow other nations a
share of good qualities decreasing according to distance, the furthest off being in their
view the worst.” See further Briant, From Cyrus to Alexander, 181.
20 Schmid

As Rudolf Smend noted some 30 years ago, P’s presentation of the great flood
amounts to a critical interaction with the prophecy of doom.17
Especially in P’s theological argumentation in Gen 6, several allusions to the
prophetic tradition are detectable:

Gen 6:13: And God said to Noah: The end (‫ )קץ‬of all flesh has come (‫)בא‬
before me, for the earth is filled with violence because of them; now I am
going to destroy them along with the earth.

As Smend and others have noted, the beginning of this passage quotes the
book of Amos:

Amos 8:2: And [Yhwh] said to Amos: What do you see? I said: A basket
with ripe fruit (‫)קיץ‬. And Yhwh said: The end (‫ )קץ‬has come (‫ )בא‬for my
people Israel; I will no longer forgive.

This passage from Amos is already taken up in Ezek 7,18 which is probably also
reflected in Gen 6:

Ezek 7:2–3: You, son of man, shall say: Thus says YHWH the Lord to the
land of Israel: The end (‫ )קץ‬has come (‫ !)בא‬The end (‫ )קץ‬has come (‫ )בא‬to
the borders of that land! The end (‫ )קץ‬has come (‫ )בא‬to you.

How should one interpret P’s allusion in Gen 6 to these harsh statements from
the Prophetic books?19 P seems to proclaim that there was indeed a divine
judgment entailing the “end,” but that this event happened very long ago—at
the time of the flood—and that this divine will to make an “end” has been over-
come by God’s unconditional covenant with humankind, as stated in Gen 9.
Thus, P rejects the basic elements of the prophecy of doom: God will never

17 Rudolf Smend, “ ‘Das Ende ist gekommen’: Ein Amoswort in der Priesterschrift,” in Die
Botschaft und die Boten: Festschrift für Hans Walter Wolff zum 70. Geburtstag, ed. Jörg
Jeremias and Lothar Perlitt (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener-Verlag, 1981), 67–74.
18 For the textual variations in Ezek 7, see Karl-Friedrich Pohlmann, Der Prophet Hesekiel:
Kapitel 1–19, ATD 22.1 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1996), 100 n. 441, for the motif
of the “end,” 116–17.
19 For other links from P to the Prophetic tradition, see also Bernard Gosse, “Le livre
d’Ezéchiel et Ex 6,2–8 dans le cadre du Pentateuque,” BN 104 (2000): 20–25; Jan Christian
Gertz, “Noah und die Propheten: Rezeption und Reformulierung eines altorientalischen
Mythos,” Deutsche Vierteljahrsschrift für Literaturwissenschaft und Geistesgeschichte 81
(2007): 503–22.
Taming Egypt 21

again go to war with his creation, as his bow in the clouds symbolizes.20 In
light of P’s political theology one could add that, for P, the present situation of
a theocracy mediated by the Persian Empire is tantamount to the end of his-
tory. P takes up the judgment prophecies of Amos 8 and Ezek 7 (“the end has
come”), arguing that even though there was a divine proclamation concern-
ing the world’s divinely wrought destruction, this event occurred in primordial
times and was settled once and for all in the covenant of Gen 9.21
Hence, within P’s peaceful worldview, the case of Egypt and the destruc-
tion of Egyptian power in the sea make for a striking exception—even if it is
applicable only to the narrative world.22 Also worth noting is how P seems to
distinguish between Egypt’s military and Egypt’s “civilian population.”
Only the military is the target of divine destruction, whereas the people of
Egypt appear to be spared of God’s violence. This point is especially evident in
P’s account of the plagues against Egypt in Exod 7–11. It has often been noted
that the Priestly plague cycle is conceived not so much as a series of strikes
against Egypt to force Israel’s release from Pharaoh, but rather as a contest of
magicians.23
Against the magicians of Egypt, Moses and Aaron demonstrate before
Pharaoh that the God of the Israelites is the sovereign ruler of the world. In a
sequence of five elements—rods to snakes (7:1–7*), Nile water to blood (7:8–
22*), frogs (8:1–3), lice (8:12–15*) and boils (9:8–12)24—Moses and Aaron estab-
lish the supremacy of their God’s power over Egypt’s power. The first three

20 Udo Rüterswörden, “Der Bogen in Genesis 9: militärhistorische und traditionsgeschichtli-

che Erwägungen zu einem biblischen Symbol,” UF 20 (1988): 247–63; see also Erich Zenger,
Gottes Bogen in den Wolken: Untersuchungen zu Komposition und Theologie der priester-
schriftlichen Urgeschichte, 2nd ed., SBS 112 (Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 1987); Udo
Rüterswörden, Dominium terrae: Studien zur Genese einer alttestamentlichen Vorstellung,
BZAW 215 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1993); Othmar Keel, “Der Bogen als Herrschaftssymbol:
Einige unveröffentlichte Skarabäen aus Israel und Ägypten zum Thema ‘Jagd und Krieg,’ ”
ZDPV 93 (1977): 141–77.
21 Schmid, Genesis and the Moses Story, 166–67.
22 Berner, Exoduserzählung, 375–82 proposes a complicated literary genesis for the depic-
tion of the Egyptian army in Exod 14.
23 John Van Seters, “A Contest of Magicians? The Plague Stories in P,” in Pomegranates and
Golden Bells: Studies in Biblical, Jewish, and Near Eastern Ritual, Law, and Literature in
Honor of Jacob Milgrom, ed. David P. Wright et al. (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1995),
569–80; Thomas C. Römer, “Competing Magicians in Exodus 7–9: Interpreting Magic in
the Priestly Theology,” in Magic in the Biblical World: From the Rod of Aaron to the Ring of
Solomon, ed. Todd E. Klutz, JSNTS 245 (London: T&T Clark, 2003), 12–22.
24 Gertz, Tradition, 79–97, 395.
22 Schmid

miracles can be imitated by the magicians of Pharaoh, but by the fourth, they
have to acknowledge that “this is the finger of God” (Exod 8:14), and by the
fifth, they are afflicted by the boils and are no longer able to participate in the
contest: “The magicians could not stand before Moses because of the boils”
(Exod 9:11a).
Yet more than these characteristics of the Priestly plague cycle differenti-
ate it from the non-Priestly plagues. Additionally, in the non-Priestly plague
cycle, all of Egypt has to suffer from the strikes, whereas in the Priestly account
such is not the case. Instructive in this respect is the very first plague in Exod
7:19–22*:

‫ויאמר יהוה אל־מׁשה‬ And YHWH said to Moses,

‫אמר אל־אהרן‬ “Say to Aaron,
‫קח מטך‬ ‘Take your staff
‫ונטה־ידך‬ and stretch out your hand
‫על־מימי מצרים על־נהרתם‬ over the waters of Egypt, over its rivers,
‫על־יאריהם‬ its canals,
‫ועל־אגמיהם‬ and its ponds,
‫ועל כל־מקוה מימיהם‬ and all its pools of water,
‫ויהיו־דם‬ so that they may become blood;
‫והיה דם‬ and there shall be blood
‫בכל־ארץ מצרים‬ throughout the whole land of Egypt,
‫ובעצים ובאבנים‬ even in wood and stones.’ ”
‫ויעׂשו־כן מׁשה ואהרן‬ Moses and Aaron did just
‫כאׁשר צוה יהוה‬ as YHWH commanded
‫ויהי הדם‬ and there was blood
‫בכל־ארץ מצרים‬ in all the land of Egypt.
‫ויעׂשו־כן‬ But the magicians of Egypt did the same by
‫חרטמי מצרים בלטיהם‬ their secret arts;
‫ויחזק לב־פרעה‬ so Pharaoh’s heart remained hardened,
‫ולא־ׁשמע אלהם‬ and he would not listen to them;
‫כאׁשר דבר יהוה‬ as YHWH had said.

In this Priestly “plague,” unlike its non-Priestly counterpart, no one suffers. All
water in Egypt is turned into blood by Moses and Aaron, and there is an implicit
assumption that after they had performed the miracle, the blood immediately
turned back into water. Otherwise the Egyptian magicians would not have been
able to repeat the miracle. Thus the event apparently lasted only for a very
short time—the event being a miracle, not a plague.
Taming Egypt 23

If one looks for a moment at the parallel non-P version, it becomes obvious
that, firstly, the plague lasts longer, and secondly, it affects the population of
Egypt considerably: they have to search laboriously for water by digging in the
banks of the Nile.
The frog “plague” is similar. In P’s presentation, the coming of the frogs is a
brief event that disappears as quickly as it appears. The frogs are not a means
to torture Egypt, but are simply one element in the contest between Moses and
Aaron, on the one hand, and the magicians, on the other. In the non-P account
of the frog plague, the frogs go everywhere, invading all the houses and plagu-
ing every Egyptian.
Even the Priestly presentation of the death of the firstborn unfolds in a
highly reduced manner (a two verse announcement in Exod 12:12–13, which
is embedded in the Pesach account). The execution itself is not reported in P.25
Therefore, P’s shaping of Exod 14 is conceptually exceptional and demands
an explanation. P envisions wide-reaching political, cultural, and religious
peace for the whole known ancient world, but its stance towards Egypt’s mili-
tary is different. Why?

3 P’s Historical Situation and its Stance toward Egypt

One could imagine P already to have been acquainted with the deadly fate of
Pharaoh and his army from having had access to the pre-existing traditions of
Israel’s exodus from Egypt. This point is certainly an important one and might
be an explanation. Nevertheless, one must account for the fact that P was in
all probability written as an independent literary source. The reason that P was
not simply added to the pre-existing tradition as a further redactional layer
has to do precisely with its conceptual break from this tradition, as Christoph
Levin has pointed out.26 Especially in Gen 12–50, P’s theology of a single legit-
imate cult introduced by Moses could not be reconciled with the stories of
the ancestors, who built several altars and worshipped in several places.27 It is
therefore to be suspected that if P had been willing to exclude the element of
violence against Egypt’s army in Exod 14, then P probably could have done so.
Furthermore, the destruction of Egypt’s army is highlighted particularly within
P’s own text portions.

25 If one follows Gertz, Tradition, 394–96.

26 Christoph Levin, Der Jahwist, FRLANT 157 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1993), 437.
27 Levin, Jahwist, 437 n. 6.
24 Schmid

It is difficult to see a sufficient basis for this motivation solely within the nar-
rative world of P’s exodus account. Indeed, P is ultimately interested in the estab-
lishment of the sanctuary, a narrative development for which the destruction
of Egypt at the sea is not really necessary. As mentioned before, for P’s authors,
it may have been a given based on the exodus traditions they already knew,
but the inclusion of and specific interest in divine violence against Egypt still
remains noteworthy.
Therefore, one should consider other explanations. I find most promising
the approach of Albert de Pury, who suggested that P’s reference to violence
against Egypt may have arisen in response to the political situation in which P’s
authors operated in the early Persian period.28
The date of P is of course a matter of considerable debate. Scholars often
argue for a Neo-Babylonian or an early Persian origin, but even a pre-exilic
date is sometimes suggested.29 Others allow for stages of growth and interpret
P as the result of a process that began in the pre-exilic period and extended
into the Persian period.30
Especially for P’s cultic laws, such a long term perspective is probably cor-
rect. But for P’s overall narrative and its specific theological shape, the basic
arguments by Julius Wellhausen are, in my opinion, still valid: P presupposes
the cult centralization of Deuteronomy, which can be dated to the late Neo-
Assyrian period, and the classical prophets do not presuppose the legislation
of P. For this reason, P seems to be later than both D and the classical prophets.
But P’s specific introduction of the sanctuary as a mobile tent seems to predate
the dedication of the second temple in 515 BCE, so that if P is a Persian period
text, then it belongs to the early Persian period.
Indeed, the basic conception of political theology in P—the peaceful, well-
ordered organization of the world according to which different nations all
dwell in their own lands with their own language and culture—points to a
general dating of P’s composition in the Persian period. As argued above, this

28 Albert de Pury, “Pg as the Absolute Beginning,” in Les dernières rédactions du Pentateuque,
de l’Hexateuque et de l’Ennéateuque, ed. Thomas Römer and Konrad Schmid, BETL 203
(Leuven: Peeters, 2007), 99–128.
29 Richard Elliott Friedman, Who Wrote the Bible? (San Francisco: Harper Row, 1987), 161–216;
see also Avi Hurvitz, “Dating the Priestly Source in Light of the Historical Study of Biblical
Hebrew: A Century after Wellhausen,” in Lebendige Forschung im Alten Testament, ed. Otto
Kaiser (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1988), 88–100; idem, “Once again: The Linguistic Profile of the
Priestly Material in the Pentateuch and its Historical Age: A Response to J. Blenkinsopp,”
ZAW 112 (2000): 180–91.
30 William H. C. Propp, Exodus 19–40: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary,
Anchor Bible 2A (New York: Doubleday, 2006), 730–32.
Taming Egypt 25

worldview of P may well find expression in the Priestly flood story and plague
cycle. Moreover, it is probably most clearly evinced through the Priestly table
of nations in Gen 10:31

Gen 10:2, 5 ‫] בארצתם איׁש ללׁשנו למׁשפחתם בגויהם‬. . .[ ‫בני יפת‬

The sons of Japheth [. . .] in their lands, with their own language, by
their families, by their nations.

Gen 10:20 ‫אלה בני־חם למׁשפחתם ללׁשנתם בארצתם בגויהם‬

These are the sons of Ham, by their families, by their languages, in
their lands, and by their nations.

Gen 10:31 ‫אלה בני־ׁשם למׁשפחתם ללׁשנתם בארצתם לגויהם‬

These are the sons of Shem, by their families, by their languages, in
their lands, and by their nations.

It has long been recognized that one of the closest parallels to Genesis 10—that
is, to a structuring of the world as a differentiated unity consisting of various
nations and languages—is found in Persian imperial ideology and is attested,
e.g., in the Behistun inscription, which was disseminated widely throughout
the Persian Empire.32
The Persian imperial inscriptions declare that every nation belongs to
their specific region and has their specific cultural identities (cf. DNa 30–38;
XPh 28–35; DB I 61–71). This structure results from the will of the creator
deity, as Klaus Koch pointed out in his “Reichsidee und Reichsorganisation
im Perserreich,” where he identifies this structure as “Nationalitätenstaat als

31 See Jacobus G. Vink, “The Date and the Origin of the Priestly Code in the Old Testament,”
in The Priestly Code and Seven Other Studies, ed. Jacobus G. Vink et al., OTS 52 (Leiden:
Brill, 1969), 1–144, 161; Ernst Axel Knauf, “Die Priesterschrift und die Geschichten der
Deuteronomisten,” in The Future of the Deuteronomistic History, ed. Thomas Römer, BETL
147 (Leuven: Peeters, 2000), 101–18 (esp. 104–5); Nihan, From Priestly Torah, 383; see also
Jacques Vermeylen, “La ‘table des nations’ (Gn 10): Yaphet figure-t-il l’Empire perse?,”
Transeu 5 (1992): 113–32.
32 Rüdiger Schmitt, The Bisitun Inscriptions of Darius the Great: Old Persian Texts, vol. 1 of The
Old Persian Inscriptions, Corpus inscriptionum Iranicarum (London: School of Oriental
and African Studies, 1991); idem, Die altpersischen Inschriften der Achämeniden: Editio
minor mit deutscher Übersetzung (Wiesbaden: Reichert, 2009).
26 Schmid

Schöpfungsgegebenheit.”33 This fact may be illustrated by the tomb iconogra-

phy of three Persian kings in Naqš-i Rustam (cf. ANEP 769): The reliefs above
the tombs’ entrances include a cosmic representation of peaceful order among
the nations in the Persian Empire.
What is the place of Egypt within that structure? P’s surprising picture of
Egypt as a nation needing to be tamed in an otherwise well-organized and dis-
ciplined world might imply that P does not yet presuppose Egypt’s inclusion in
the Persian Empire. If that is the case, then P would predate the Persian con-
quest of Egypt, which happened in 525 BCE under Cambyses.34 In summary, P
seems to reflect the peaceful world order of the Persian Empire at a point when
it included the whole ancient world except for Egypt. This political situation
in the world of P’s authors might also explain why the divine violence against
Egypt seems directed more towards its army than towards its population.

4 The Establishment of God’s “Glory” in the Victory over Egypt’s

Army at the Sea

The defeat of Egypt’s army appears associated with yet another, important
theological Priestly theme in Exod 14: the establishment of God’s “glory” after
the destruction of Egypt’s army. It is well known that God’s “glory” (‫ )כבד יהוה‬is
a central concept in P, especially in its Sinai pericope.35 From Exod 16 on, the
‫ כבד יהוה‬is the most prominent mode of God’s revelation, though the concept
does not seem properly introduced within P’s narrative. However, if one looks
beyond the substantive and takes into account the usage of the root kbwd in

33 Klaus Koch, “Weltordnung und Reichsidee im alten Iran und ihre Auswirkungen auf die
Provinz Jehud,” in Reichsidee und Reichsorganisation im Perserreich, ed. Peter Frei and
Klaus Koch, OBO 55, 2nd ed. (Fribourg: Academic Press, 1996), 134–337, here 197–201; cf.
“Das Zurückführen von Göttern und Menschen an ihren, mit Städte- und Tempelnamen
gekennzeichneten Ort (ašru) rühmen auch akkadische Königsinschriften, vom Prolog des
Codex Hammurabi (Ia 65: ‘restore’ ANET 164; TUAT I 41) bis hin zum Kyros-Zylinder (Z. 32;
ANET 316; TUAT I, 409). Doch gibt es dabei, soweit ich sehe, nirgends einen Hinweis auf
Völker und Länder. Mit Dareios I. setzt also ein neuer, an der Nationenvielfalt ausgerich-
teter Schöpfungs- und Herrschaftsgedanke durch” (150–51).
34 Eugene Cruz-Uribe, “The Invasion of Egypt by Cambyses,” Transeuphatène 25 (2003):
9–60.
35 Ursula Struppe, Die Herrlichkeit Jahwes in der Priesterschrift, Österreichische Biblische
Studien 9 (Klosterneuburg: Österreichisches Katholisches Bibelwerk, 1988); Thomas
Wagner, Gottes Herrlichkeit: Bedeutung und Verwendung des Begriffs kābôd im Alten
Testament, VTSup 151 (Leiden: Brill, 2012).
Taming Egypt 27

P, then Exod 14 arguably serves as the basic etiology of God’s “glory” within P’s
narrative. This idea is observable in Exod 14:4a, which reads as follows:

‫וחזקתי את־לב־פרעה‬ I will harden Pharaoh’s heart,

‫ורדף אחריהם‬ and he will pursue them,
‫ואכבדה‬ so that I will gain glory (Nif. ‫ )כבד‬for myself
‫בפרעה ובכל־חילו‬ over Pharaoh and all his army;
‫וידעו מצרים‬ and the Egyptians shall know
‫כי־אני יהוה‬ that I am YHWH.

The “Egyptians” in this verse probably do not refer to “Pharaoh and all his
army,” since they are facing imminent destruction at this point. It is not they
who need to know “that I am YHWH.” Rather, the remaining Egyptians, the
people of Egypt, shall learn from the death of their king and the destruction of
their army “that I am YHWH.”36 The driving force behind this knowledge is the
establishment of God’s “glory” in the victory over the Egyptian army at the sea.
Exodus 14:17–18 also uses niphal ‫ כבד‬in order to describe the theological sig-
nificance of the destruction of Egypt’s army in the sea. This text highlights the
chariots and horsemen.

‫ואני הנני מחזק‬ Then I will harden

‫את־לב מצרים‬ the heart of Egypt
‫ויבאו אחריהם‬ so that they will go in after them;
‫ואכבדה‬ and so I will gain glory for myself
‫בפרעה ובכל־חילו‬ over Pharaoh and all his army,
‫ברכבו ובפרׁשיו‬ his chariots, and his chariot drivers.
‫וידעו מצרים‬ And Egypt shall know
‫כי־אני יהוה‬ that I am YHWH,
‫בהכבדי‬ when I have gained glory for myself
‫בפרעה‬ over Pharaoh,
‫ברכבו ובפרׁשיו‬ his chariots, and his chariot drivers.

Apparently, God’s victory over the Egyptians establishes his ‫ כבוד‬in P’s eyes.
With this reading of Exod 14, it is possible to understand the concept of ‫כבד‬

36 On the redactional verse of Exod 14:25 see Thomas Krüger, “Erwägungen zur Redaktion
der Meerwundererzählung (Exodus 13,17–14,31),” ZAW 108 (1996): 519–33 (532) who then
interprets the Egyptians as the Egyptian soldiers who recognize, just before their death,
that it is YHWH himself who fights against them.
28 Schmid

‫יהוה‬, which receives this exact designation for the first time in Exod 16, the
story of the manna (cf. Exod 16:7, 10).37

5 God and the Gods of Egypt in P

Another striking element in P pertains to its depiction of Egyptian religion. In

the uncontested P-verse of Exod 12:12b, God tells Moses:

‫ובכל־אלהי מצרים‬ On all the gods of Egypt

‫אעׂשה ׁשפטים‬ I will execute judgments:
‫אני יהוה‬ I am YHWH.

This is the only instance in P where ‫ אלהים‬denotes a plurality of deities, and

where deities other than YHWH himself are envisioned. P is a decidedly mono-
theistic text,38 propagating a sophisticated version of inclusive monotheism.
This inclusive monotheism acknowledges the empirical diversity of different
religions in the world, portraying all of them as guideposts that point to the
one creator deity that the narrative flow of P ultimately presents as YHWH.
William Propp has drawn attention to the fact that Exod 12:12 is formulated
as yiqtol: “I will punish.”39 This grammatical observation precludes the possibil-
ity that Exod 12:12 refers to the earlier humiliation of the Egyptian gods in the
plague cycle. Exodus 12:12 is ostensibly a narrative element not fully integrated
into the world of the narrative and provides a window into the world of the
narrator, who seems to expect a judgment on Egypt.40

37 See also Struppe, Herrlichkeit, 139–43.

38 See Schmid, “Quest,” 278–89.
39 Propp, Exodus 1–18, 400.
40 It might be possible to relate these “judgments” on the gods of Egypt to P’s specific loca-
tion of the miracle at the sea “in front of Ba’al Zaphon” (Exod 14:2). The place is probably
the antecedent to the sanctuary of Zeus Casios mentioned by Herodotus (2.6, 158; 3.5) and
is to be identified with Ras Qasrun on the sandbar of the Sabakhet (Sabkhat) el Bardawil.
Excavations show no evidence reaching back prior to the Persian conquest of Egypt see
Graham I. Davies, “The Wilderness Itineraries and Recent Archaeological Research,”
in Studies in the Pentateuch, ed. John A. Emerton, VTSup 41 (Leiden: Brill, 1990), 161–75
(162–64). It is noteworthy that, according to P, the Israelites are commanded to head back
(‫ )שוב‬to Ba’al Zaphon in order that the miracle can take place. See Krüger, “Erwägungen,”
521–22. The miracle in P is mainly a demonstration of God’s power rather than something
necessary for the deliverance of the Israelites.
Taming Egypt 29

To sum up: P’s exodus account is a historical text from a specific historical
period. As such, it not only creates a fictitious narrative world, but also (as one
would expect) provides glimpses into the author’s own world.41

41 In this respect, the argument of Benjamin D. Sommer is overstated in “Dating Pentateuchal
Texts and the Perils of Pseudo-Historicism,” in The Pentateuch: International Perspectives
on Current Research, ed. Thomas Dozeman et al., FAT 78 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2011),
85–108 (85). Consider, for example, the following statement against dating texts by profile:
“In this article I make a very simple point concerning the dating of texts. It is odd that one
needs to make this point; yet it does need to be made, because it pertains to a practice
that is as common within biblical studies as it is specious. Scholars in our field frequently
support a speculative dating of a text by asserting that, since the text’s ideas match a par-
ticular time period especially well, the text was most likely composed then. . . . According
to this approach, a scholar ascertains the themes of a passage, then thinks about when
that theme would be relevant, crucial, or meaningful to ancient Israelites, then dates the
text to that time-period. It should be immediately clear that this method of dating holds
no validity whatsoever.”
 CHAPTER 3

Exchange, Replacement, or Acceptance?

Two Examples of Lending Deities among
Ethnic Groups in Elephantine
Bob Becking*

1 Introduction

In this paper, I would like to pay attention to a collection of ostraca and papyri,
written in Aramaic and Demotic, from the fifth century BCE. In the begin-
ning of the twentieth century German and French archaeologists discovered
a great amount of written documents from the island of Elephantine in the
Nile in southern Egypt and the city Syene on the banks of the Nile opposite
Elephantine. These documents witness the presence of a Persian border gar-
rison for over a century: from shortly after Cambyses’s conquest of Egypt up to
the regaining of Egyptian independence around 400 BCE.
Research into these documents has been dominated by the type of
approach seen clearly in the magnificent book by Bezalel Porten published
in 1968.1 After all those years this book still is foundational. Its subtitle, how-
ever, betrays a preoccupation: Archives from Elephantine: The Life of an Ancient
Jewish Military Colony. By considering the yehudayîn of Elephantine as Jews
a minor paradigm was construed that yielded all sorts of specific questions:
How “Jewish” were these Jews? What was their connection with the emerging
Judaism in Persian Period “Israel”?2 Are the texts from Elephantine presenting
some sort of pre-biblical Judaism?3 It is only recently that scholars came to

* I would like to thank Mladen Popović for inviting me to the Groningen meeting and Jonathan
Stökl for his valuable remarks on a draft-version of this paper.
1 Bezalel Porten, Archives from Elephantine: The Life of an Ancient Jewish Colony (Berkeley, CA:
University of California Press 1968).
2 See most recently Angela Rohrmoser, Götter, Tempel und Kult der Judäo-Aramäer von
Elephantine: Archäologische und schriftliche Zeugnisse aus dem perserzeitlichen Ägypten,
AOAT 396 (Münster: Ugarit Verlag, 2014).
3 As suggested by Ernst Axel Knauf, “Elephantine und das vor-biblische Judentum”, in
Religion und Religionskontakte im Zeitalter der Achämeniden, ed. Reinhard Gregor Kratz,
Veröffentlichungen der Wissenschaftlichen Gesellschaft für Theologie 22 (Gütersloh:
Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 2002), 179–88.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���7 | doi ��.��63/9789004336919_004

Exchange, Replacement, or Acceptance ? 31

be more aware of the fact that at least ten different ethnicities are attested in
the Persian border garrison. Next to occupying Persians and autochthonous
Egyptians various mercenaries are attested: Yehudites, Arameans, Carians,
Cilicians, Khwarezmians, Bactrians, and Caspians. Phoenicians and an inhab-
itant from Sidon probably were in the area for trade reasons. An anonymous
member of the Lybian tribe of the Meshwesh functioned at the quay of Syene
where the grain had to be delivered.4 Among the witnesses in legal documents
Arabian names pop up.5 To apply an anachronism: ancient Elephantine was
a multi-cultural society. This implies that research needs to be done that will
scrutinize the existing evidence—written and archaeological—with as a focal
question: Was Elephantine an ethnic melting pot? Did the various groups live
in splendid isolation? Or can some sort of a common ground be detected on
the basis of which each group could be seen as part of the community, mean-
while constructing their identity as apart from the community?
In this paper, I would like to pay attention to two texts from the archives
of Elephantine, one about group-internal communication and one about
group external communication. Both texts are examples of the procedure of
“lending deities.”

2 “I Bless You in the Name of Bel and Nabû”

I would like to start with the remains of a letter: only the address and the salu-
tation are known:

1. To my brother Haggai, your brother

2. Yarhu. Peace to my brother
3. from Bel and Nabû, Šamaš and Nergal.6

The brothers, Yarhu and Haggai, were of Yehudite origin; yet Babylonian deities
are evoked in this communication. This statement contains two assumptions

4 In a demotic text: Wilhelm Spiegelberg, Drei demotische Schreiben aus der Korrespondenz
des Pherendates, des Satrapen Darius’ I., mit den Chnumpriestern von Elephantine (Berlin:
Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1928), 13–21; see Günter Vittmann, “Kursivhieratische und
frühdemotische Miszellen,” Enchoria 25 (1999): 123–24.
5 TADAE B2.8:13.
6 TADAE D7.30:1–3; see Hélène Lozachmeur, La collection Clermont-Ganneau: Ostraca,
épigraphes sur jarre, étiquettes de bois, 2 vols. (Paris: De Boccard, 2006), 410–12, no. 277.
32 Becking

that can be questioned: Were the siblings Yehudite and were the deities
Babylonian?
As for the “siblings,” Ginsberg, Grelot and Porten argue as follows.7 They take
the noun ʾḥ in a non-biological sense meaning something like “comrade; mate;
peer.” Haggai for them is a Jew, while Yarhu is construed to be a hypochoris-
tichon of a Phoenician name yrḥbʿl. Hence they present the inscription under
the telling title: “Greetings from a pagan to a Jew.” They see the presence of
Aramaic (!) deities in the salutation as a sign of syncretism at the daily level.
The personal name Haggai is known from the Hebrew Bible and should be
construed as a hypochoristicon “Yahweh is my feast.”8 The name occurs on a
few dozen Hebrew seals9 and on a recently published Hebrew ostracon from
the seventh century BCE.10 The inscriptions from Elephantine and Syene refer
to about ten individuals with the name Haggai. The letter on the marzeaḥ is
written to Haggai.11 The collection account that register gifts of two sheqel for
the temple of Yaho in Elephantine refers to six individuals called Haggai: to
Meshullam son of Haggai son of Hazzul; Hazzul son of Haggai son of Hazzul;
Nathun son of Haggai; Haggai son of Mica‌ʾ; Hag[gai] son of Menachem [son of]
Pawesi; and Jehošama daughter of Haggai.12 In other documents too, Yehudites
with the name Haggai occur.13 It can be assumed that they all were part of the
Yehudite group although this cannot be proven in a watertight way.
It is quite clear that the personal name yrḥw refers to the West Semitic moon
god yrḥ whose name occurs as a theophoric element in Ugaritic, Phoenician,

7 Harold L. Ginsberg, “Greetings from a Pagan to a Jew,” in Ancient Near Eastern Texts
relating to the Old Testament, ed. James B. Pritchard, 3rd ed. (Princeton, NJ: Princeton
University Press, 1969), 491; Pierre Grelot, Documents araméens d’Egypte, LAPO 5 (Paris:
Édition du Cerf, 1972), 88. See the remarks of Bezalel Porten in TADAE D7.30.
8 Hag 1–2; Ezra 5:1; 6:14.
9 For a list, see DCH III, 159–60.
10 André Lemaire and Ada Yardeni, “New Hebrew Ostraca from the Sphephalah,” in Biblical
Hebrew in Its Northwest Semitic Setting: Typological and Historical Perspectives, ed. Steven
Ellis Fassberg and Avi Hurvitz (Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 2006), 215–17.
11 TADAE D.7.29; see Bob Becking, “Temple, marzēaḥ, and Power at Elephantine,”
Transeuphratène 29 (2005): 37–47. Strangely enough the marzeaḥ-text is not taken into
account by Rohrmoser, Götter, Tempel und Kult.
12 TADAE C.3.15.
13 Some of them are identical with a Haggai from the collection account. Further Yehudites
by the name of Haggai can be found in the documents from the Clermont-Ganneau
collection; see Lozachmeur, Collection Clermont-Ganneau, 299–300, no.147.1; 401,
no. 266.4.
Exchange, Replacement, or Acceptance ? 33

and West Semitic personal names.14 I would, however, refer to the fact that in
Gen 10:26 // 1 Chr 1:26, the name of yeraḥ is listed among the decedents of Eber
which in my view is an indication that Yarhu could easily has been a Yehudite.
The Aramaic noun ʾḥ generally has the meaning “brother” in the biological
sense of the word.15 In texts with an epistolary character, however, the noun is
also used to refer to someone of equal status, a colleague, or a peer.16 Due to
the brevity of the document under consideration the meaning of the noun ʾḥ
is difficult to establish in each of its three attestations. All in all, I come to the
conclusion that it safe to assume that we are dealing in this letter here with a
group internal communication.
It is well-known that deities other than Yahô are invoked in the salutation of
letters from Elephantine even if they are composed for Yehudite group internal
communication. An interesting example is found in a letter by Giddel to his
master Michayah:

I send you peace and life.

I bless you by Yahô and Khnum.17

The God of Israel and the ram-headed Egyptian fertility God Khnum18 are pre-
sented as on par, comparable to the way “Yahweh and his Asherah” feature in
the blessings from Kuntillet el ʿAgrud.19 The salutation formula “may all Gods
seek for you welfare in all times” occurs in many letters from Elephantine
written by individuals whose personal names include the theophoric ele-
ment Yahô.20 The use of the collective plural “Gods” in this context is not an

14 See Frauke Gröndahl, Die Personennamen der Texte aus Ugarit, Studia Pohl 1 (Rome:
Biblical Institute Press, 1967), 145; Frank L. Benz, Personal Names in the Phoenician and
Punic Inscriptions, Studia Pohl 8 (Rome: Biblical Institute Press, 1978), 326.
15 Sometimes as “sister.”
16 See DNSWI, 31.
17 TADAE D7.21; recent translation in Rohrmoser, Götter, Tempel und Kult, 428.
18 On Khnum see Ahmad Mohamad Badawi, Der Gott Chnum (Glückstadt: J. J. Augustin,
1937); Gamal Mokhtar, “Similarity between the Ram Gods of Ihnasya and Elephantine,”
Mitteilungen des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts, Abteilung Kairo 47 (1991): 253–54;
Rohrmoser, Götter, Tempel und Kult, 35–37.
19 See the final report by Zeʾev Meshel, Kuntillet Ajrud (Horvat Teman): An Iron Age II
Religious Site on the Judah–Sinai Border (Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 2012).
20 TADAEA A3.7; A4.2. See Porten, Archives from Elephantine, 158–60; Dirk Schwiderski,
Handbuch des nordwestsemitischen Briefformulars: Eine Beitrag zur Echtheitsfrage der
aramäischen Briefe des Esrabuches, BZAW 295 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2001), 130–37.
34 Becking

indication for the veneration of a broad pantheon by the Yehudites. These pas-
sages should be construed as expression of some sort of civil religion.
The letterhead under consideration is therefore not unique for Elephantine
in containing the names of other deities. It is unique in the sense that four dei-
ties of Babylonian origin are mentioned.

– Bel—as elsewhere—a mask for Marduk, was the supreme divine being of
the Neo-Babylonians.21
– Nabû was worshipped as the son of Marduk. In origin Nabû was an Amorite
deity. He was the god of wisdom and writing and especially the god who
wrote down human destiny. In Neo-Babylonian times he was enormously
popular among Aramaic speaking populations.22
– Šamaš was the sun-god and the god of justice.23
– Nergal is the (southern) Mesopotamian god of death, pestilence and plague,
and Lord of the Underworld. Šamaš and Nergal stand for opposing realms:
heaven and underworld.24

These four gods do not occur in any other salutation formula in letters from
Elephantine. Bel occurs in a very fragmentary letter of which only “[. .] my
[lord(?)] Bel . . . [. . .] my lord . . . [. . .] there is n[ot]” is readable.25 Nabû is men-
tioned in the inscription on the sarcophagus of “Sheʾil, the priest of Nabû.”26
It is surprising that Babylonian gods are mentioned in this letter and not
for instance Persian divine beings. It is a striking fact that in the entire corpus
of texts from Elephantine no Persian divine name is mentioned with only one
albeit important exception. The Aramaic version of the Behistun inscription
found at Elephantine declares that Darius lived, acted and ruled under “the
divine favour of Ahura-Mazda.”27 The absence of references to Persian deities
in the day to day correspondence and legal transactions is difficult to explain.
It is hard to belief that the Persians remained silent about their religious world
view or entered into some sort of innere Migration. Most probably the Persians

21 Tzvi Abusch, “Marduk,” DDD 543–49.

22 Alan Millard, “Nabû,” DDD 607–10.
23 Edouard Lipiński, “Šemeš,” DDD 764–68.
24 Alasdair Livingstone, “Nergal,” DDD 621–22.
25 TADAE D1.22.
26 TADAE D18:1.
27 Amélie Kuhrt, The Persian Empire: A Corpus of Sources from the Achaemenid Period
(London: Routledge, 2007), 141–57; Gard Granerød, “By the Favour of Ahuramazda I
Am King: On the Promulgation of a Persian Propaganda Text among Babylonians and
Judaeans,” JSJ 44 (2013): 455–80.
Exchange, Replacement, or Acceptance ? 35

in Elephantine adopted the veneration of the Babylonian deities Nabû, Bel,

Šamaš and Marduk which would imply that the name for the divine is less
important than the concept of divinity.
For reasons well known—the past is a foreign land—this assumption can-
not be verified or falsified. Nevertheless, several pieces of written evidence can
be helpful in clarification.

– In Isa 46:1, Bel and Nabû are depicted as deities whose rule has come to an
end:

Bel has bowed down, Nebo stoops over

Their images are consigned to the beasts and the cattle.
The things that you carry are burdensome,
A load for the weary beast.

In this text Bel and Nabû are seen as once powerful Babylonian deities
whom the Persians disposed of in their superior power. They are referred to
in the context of a taunt-song probably connected with the carrying around
of their divine images at the Babylonian New Year festival.28
– In the Cyrus Cylinder, the Persian king is presented as follows by the priests
of the Esagil temple:

I am Cyrus, king of the world, great king, mighty king, king of Babylon,
king of Sumer and Akkad, king of the four quarters, the son of Cambyses,
great king, king of Anšan, grandson of Cyrus, great king, king of Anšan,
descendant of Teispes, great king, king of Anšan, of an eternal line of
kingship, whose rule Bêl and Nabû love, whose kingship they desire for
their hearts’ pleasure.29

28 See Peter Machinist, “Mesopotamian Imperialism and Israelite Religion: A Case Study
from the Second Isaiah,” in Symbiosis, Symbolism and the Power of the Past: Canaan,
Ancient Israel, and Their Neighbors from the Late Bronze Age Through Roman Palestina,
ed. William G. Dever and Seymour Gitin (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2003), 237–64;
Sven Petry, Die Entgrenzung JHWHs: Monolatrie, Bilderverbot und Monotheismus im
Deuteronomium, in Deuterojesaja und im Ezechielbuch, FAT II 27 (Tübingen: Vandenhoeck
& Ruprecht, 2007), 166–74; Hanspeter Schaudig, “Bel Bows, Nabu Stoops! The Prophecy of
Isaiah xlvi 1–2 as a Reflection of Babylonian Processional Omens,” VT 58 (2008): 557–72.
29 Cyrus Cylinder 20–22. Kuhrt, Persian Empire, 70–74; see the new translation in Irving
Finkel, ed., The Cyrus Cylinder: The King of Persia’s Proclamation from Ancient Babylon
(London: I. B. Tauris, 2013), 129–36.
36 Becking

With the reference to Bel and Nabû the Persian king is presented as having
accepted these Babylonian deities as of great importance for his empire.
This gesture is underscored by the request by Cyrus that the deities for
whom he had established chapels in the Esagila pray for him in front of Bel
and and Nabû:

In addition, at the command of Marduk, the great lord, I settled in their

habitations, in pleasing abodes, the gods of Sumer and Akkad, whom
Nabonidus, to the anger of the lord of the gods, had brought into Babylon.
May all the gods whom I settled in their sacred centres ask daily of Bêl
and Nâbu that my days be long and may they intercede for my welfare.
May they say to Marduk, my lord: “As for Cyrus, the king who reveres you,
and Cambyses, his son.”30

In this connection a remark made by Seidl needs to be considered. He

observed that in the Babylonian fragment of the Behistun-inscription the
name of Ahura-Mazda from the Persian and Elamite versions is replaced
by Bel, which would indicate that for the Persian kings—or at least their
scribes—both deities were to some degree equivalent to each other.31
– Bel and Nabû are referred to in a legal document from a locality at the banks
of the “New Canal” in the area of Borsippa dated in 515 BCE.32 In a promis-
sory note concerning the delivery of 35 kors of dates, the debtors—who bear
Babylonian names—swear by Bel and Nabû that they will deliver within
three months. Although the local context is clearly Babylonian, the docu-
ment is dated into the Persian period. This implies that the Persian powers
apparently accepted swearing by two gods of Babylonian descent.
– The fourth piece of evidence comes from a late Persian—early Hellenistic
funerary stele found in Daskyleion in North-western Anatolia. The inscrip-
tion reads:

‫אלה צלמה זי אלנף בר אשי‬ (1)

‫ךתימוה השפנל דבע וה‬ (2)
‫הנז אחרא ובנו לב‬ (3)
‫למעי לא הרע הוהי‬ (4)

30 Cyrus Cylinder 33–35.

31 Ursula Seidl, “Ein Monument Darius’ I. aus Babylon,” ZA 89 (199): 101–14.
32 B M 27797, see Ran Zadok, “The Geography of the Borsippa Region,” in Essays on Ancient
Israel in Its Near Eastern Context: A Tribute to Nadav Na’aman, ed. Yairah Amit et al.
(Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2006), 389–453 (407).
Exchange, Replacement, or Acceptance ? 37

Which I translate as:

This is his statue which Elnaph, the son of Asjahû, made for his soul.
I adjure you (by) Bel and Nabû: Who (ever) passes by this way let no one
do harm (to my tomb).33

It should be noted that Daskyleion was on the western edge of the Persian
empire. It was an Achaemenid administrative center, and a satrapal seat of
North-western Anatolia. Epigraphic and archaeological findings indicate
that Daskyleion was populated with a variety of ethnic groups: Persians,
Greeks, Lydian, and Phrygians. I construe the personal name Asjahû to refer
to a member of the proto-Jewish diaspora in Daskyleion.34 The formula
“I adjure you (by) Bel and Nabû” may contain traditional language. In a con-
text comparable to that in Elephantine it indicates that these deities were
invoked since they were seen as the divine guarantors of the Persian power.35
– Late calendrical texts from Hellenistic Uruk contain the description for
clothing ceremonies (lubuštu) of Bel, Nabû and others.36 From the con-
text it is unclear whether traditional Babylonian deities or contemporary
Hellenistic divinities are referred to.37

33 André Dupont–Sommer, “Une inscription araméenne inédite d’époque perse trou-

vée à Daskyléion (Turquie),” Comptes rendus des séances de l’Académie des Inscriptions
et Belles–Lettres 110 (1966): 44–57; George M. A. Hanfmann, “The New Stelae from
Daskylion,” BASOR 184 (1966): 10–13; Frank Moore Cross, “An Aramaic Inscription
from Daskyleion,” BASOR 184 (1966): 7–10; Margaretha Folmer, The Aramaic Language in
the Achaemenid Period: A Study in Linguistic Variation, OLA 68 (Leuven: Peeters, 1995), 563.
34 This name is not attested in the Hebrew Bible, but occurs on an Iron Age ostracon from
Tel Arad: (Arad 17:3), and in a list of names: Robert Deutsch and Michael Helzer, New
Epigraphic Evidence from the Biblical Period (Tel Aviv: Archaeological Center Publications,
1995), 92–102.
35 On Daskyleion, see Iren Kaan, “A New Discovery in Dascylium: the Persian Destruction
Level,” in Proceedings of the 6th International Congress of the Archaeology of the Ancient
Near East, 5 May–10 May 2009, ed. Paolo Matthiae et al. (Wiesbaden: Harrasowitz Verlag,
2010), 2:249–264; Takuji Abe, “Dascylium: An Overview of the Achaemenid Satrapal City,”
Acta Academiae Antiquitatis Kiotoensis 12 (2012): 1–17.
36 George Andrew Reisner, Sumerisch–babylonische Hymnen nach Thontafeln griechischer
Zeit (Berlin: W. Spemann, 1896), 17, no. 8 and 104–9, no. 56; see also Marc J. H. Linssen, The
cults of Uruk and Babylon: The Temple Ritual Texts as Evidence for Hellenistic Cult Practises,
Cuneiform Monographs 25 (Leiden: Brill, 2004), 65–67.
37 See Tom Boiy, Late Achaemenid and Hellenistic Babylon, OLA 136 (Leuven: Peeters, 2004).
38 Becking

– Finally, the veneration of the two deities—Bel and Nabû—is continued in

Babylonian Aramaic and Mandaic incantation bowls as having power over
threatening spirits as becomes clear from a spell in a Mandaic text:

I have besworn you, Oh evil Eye, and I adjure you by Bel, Nabû, and Nerig,
that you be exorcised and leave this soul and house.38

All this implies that the four gods mentioned are not specifically presented as
Babylonian deities or as the divine beings of the Aramaic contingent at Syene
and Elephantine. I construe them to be a reference to the divine in general.
The line in this letterhead could be interpreted as a parallel to the formula
“May all Gods seek for your welfare in all times.” I do not see the salutation
form as a sign of syncretism—at whatever level of religion—but as an indica-
tion of the awareness among various groups in Elephantine and Syene that
despite the difference in naming the divine, all groups accepted the existence
of the divine world that could be invoked by using either general terms or spe-
cific names. The same tendency can be detected in the Sayings of Aḥiqar. As
a school text, also found in Elephantine, this text represents an international
form of wisdom that is not bound to any one group only.39 The deities referred
to in these sayings—“the Lord of the holy ones” (bʿl qdšn); “El”; “Šamaš”; and
“gods” (ʾlhyn)—are also not to be seen as bound to a specific group only. The
mere fact that scholars still quarrel about the identity of the main deity, bʿl
qdšn—Baal-Šamayin,40 Šamaš,41 and Hadad42 are in competition—indicates
that a designation is used that would have been used by various groups.

38 Matthew Morgenstern, “Mandaic Magic Bowls in the Moussaieff Collection: A Preliminary

Survey,” in New Inscriptions and Seals Relating to the Biblical World, ed. Meir Lubetski
and Edith Lubetski (Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature, 2012), 157–69 (167); Nerig,
sometimes Nirig, is the Mandaic name for the deity Nergal, see Christa Müller-Kessler and
Karlheinz Kessler, “Spätbabylonische Gottheiten in Spätantiken mandäischen Texten,” ZA
89 (1999): 65–87.
39 Herbert Niehr, Aramäischer Aḥiqar, JSHRZ-NF 2 (Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus,
2007), 23.
40 James M. Lindenberger, “The Gods of Ahiqar,” Ugarit-Forschungen 14 (1982): 105–17;
Michael Weigl, Die aramäischen Achikar-Sprüche aus Elephantine und die alttestamentli-
che Weisheitsliteratur, BZAW 399 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2010), 73–79.
41 Edward Lipiński, The Aramaeans: Their Ancient History, Culture, Religion, OLA 100 (Leuven:
Peeters, 2000), 625.
42 Ingo Kottsieper, “El–ferner oder naher Gott? Zur Bedeutung einer semitischen Gottheit in
verschiedenen sozialen Kontexten im 1. Jtsd. v. Chr.,” in Religion und Gesellschaft: Studien
Exchange, Replacement, or Acceptance ? 39

All in all, the letterhead under consideration can be understood as an indi-

cation for an open society in which it was acceptable to use the names of dei-
ties originating in other religious traditions in order to refer to the divine realm
in general.

3 Did a Khwarezmian Convert into Judaism?

The second example is derived from a set of two related documents. These two
legal documents refer to a quarrel about a piece of land between Dargamana,
a Khwarezmian, and the Yehudite Mahseiah son of Jedaniah. A few notes on
both persons:

– Dargamana is presented as the son of Xvarshaina, a Khwarezmian. His name

as well as the name of his father is Old Persian.43 Khwarezmia was a satrapy
of the Persian Empire in an area now north of Afghanistan. In ancient times
the Khwarezmians were the inhabitants of Khwarezm/ Chorasmia, a prov-
ince in the eastern part of the Persian Empire. The area became part of the
Persian Empire before 522 BCE since it is listed in the Behistun inscription
as one of the areas over which Darius reigned.44 The area was famous for its
lapis lazuli.45 The trilingual Susa foundation charter of Darius I mentions
that the turquoise stones in his palace were brought there from Chorasmia.46
The Persian and Greek sources do not reveal any reason why Khwarezmians
would have been brought to serve in the border garrison in Elephantine.
In Elephantine, Dargamana was a mercenary serving in the degel–unit
of Artabana that contained Bactrians, Persians, and Babylonians. In an
accounts fragment from the second half of the fifth century BCE a person
whose name is lost was labelled “a Khwarezmian.”47
– Mahseiah son of Jedaniah has a name that is recurring in his family, prob-
ably due to some sort of papponomy. The name is also attested in Jer 32:12

zu ihrer Wechselbeziehung in den Kulturen des Antiken Vorderen Orients, ed. Rainer Albertz,
AOAT 248 (Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 1997), 25–74 (28); Niehr, Aramäischer Aḥiqar, 18–19.
43 Jan Tavernier, Iranica in the Achaemenid period (ca. 550–330 BC): Lexicon of Old Iranian
Proper Names and Loanwords, Attested in Non-Iranian Texts, OLA 158 (Leuven: Peeters,
2007), 168. Dargamana: “Long-minded.”
44 D B:6; Kuhrt, Persian Empire, 141.
45 Ronald W. Ferrier, “Persepolis,” Asian Affairs 3 (1972): 23–27.
46 DSf:10; Kuhrt, Persian Empire, 492.
47 TADAE D3.39b:3.
40 Becking

(grandfather of Baruch) and 51:59, and is clearly Yahwistic meaning “Yahô is

a shelter.” From the Elephantine documents it becomes clear that he and his
family belonged to the elite of the Yehudites.

The first document is dated in the Thronsbesteigungsjahr of Artaxerxes I (464

BCE). It is related to a cadastral quarrel between Dargamana and Mahseiah.
Since we only are informed by two documents, it is not easy to reconstruct
the quarrel in detail. What is clear is a conflict between two house-owners
in the more well to do neighbourhood of Elephantine whose properties were
adjacent. The ownership of Dargamana, however, seems to be disputed. The
case is brought to a court presided over by Damidata, a Persian judge. This first
document is presented as a withdrawal by Dargamana.48 The Khwarezmian is
convinced by the legal ownership of Mahseiah of the house with land which
Dargamana earlier claimed to be his property. The cross-over point in the
legal procedure had not been the presentation of a legal document of sorts by
Mahseiah, but an oath sworn by the Yehudite. The court forces Mahseiah to
swear an oath:

You swore to me by Yahô, and satisfied my heart about that land.49

Thereupon Dargamana refrains from his claims and has his withdrawal written
by Itu, son of Abah, the scribe. Some five years later, Mahseiah bequests this
plot of land and the building upon it to his daughter Mibtaiah. In the cadastral
boundaries in the document on that bequest it is stated that “above it [= the
land of Mahseiah/Mibtaiah] the house of Dargamana the son of Xvarshaina
adjoins.”50 Most probably Dargamana had become owner of an adjacent plot.
Two aspects of this text will be discussed. First I will look into the practice
of the “oath” and in a second step I will focus on the formula: “to satisfy the
heart.” As for the oath, it should be noted that the legal document is written in
a discursive or narrative modus. This implies that three times a finite verb is
used, ymʾt (4; 8; 11);51 a construction noun + l + participle is used once instead of

48 TADAE B2.2; see Alejandro F. Botta, The Aramaic and Egyptian Legal Traditions at
Elephantine: An Egyptological Approach, LSTS 64 (London: T&T Clark, 2009), 124–26.
49 TADAE B2.2:11–12.
50 TADAE B2.3:5–6.
51 The application of a verbum finitum is common in ancient Near Eastern discursive oath-
texts. See Blane Conklin, Oath Formulas in Biblical Hebrew, LSAWS 5 (Winona Lake, IN:
Eisenbrauns, 2011), 80.
Exchange, Replacement, or Acceptance ? 41

the oath formula. In an ostracon connected to the Sabbath this latter formula
occurs twice:

3) By the life of Yahô, if not, (then) I will take your life.

...
7) Now, by the life of Yahô, if not, (then) you will be responsible for the
account.52

The Aramaic formula used here—ḥy yhw—resembles the formula attested fre-
quently in the Hebrew Bible: ḥay yhwh.53
To swear an oath is a performative act.54 Swearing by a deity is a precari-
ous and daring speech-act.55 The practice of swearing an oath was well known
in the ancient Near East including Pharaonic Egypt.56 The deity is indirectly
invoked as an observing witness to the case. Ancient Egyptians, Persians,
Israelites, and Khwarezmians interpreted the divine realm to be a powerful
reality. This implies that the contents of Mahseiah’s oath were understood as
truth. The oath goes beyond a mere declaration. It implies that Mahseiah’s
statements could never be a lie. In case these words turned out not to be true,
the deity was expected to punish the liar.57
It should be noted that swearing by the deity of another group within
Elephantine was not uncommon. On a legal document on the withdrawal from
goods, the Yehudite woman Mibtaiah—a daughter of Mehsaiah—satisfied the
heart of her opponent, the Egyptian Peu, by swearing an oath by Sati. The god-
dess Sati, an alternative spelling of the divine name Satet, was the deification
of the flooding of the Nile. She was also venerated as the protective deity of
southern Egypt.58

52 TADAE D7.16:1–9; Conklin, Oath Formulas in Biblical Hebrew, 81.

53 Conklin, Oath Formulas in Biblical Hebrew, 24–30.
54 John Flowerdew, “Problems of Speech Act Theory From an Applied Perspective,”
Language Learning 40 (1990): 79–105; John Turri, “Epistemic Invariantism and Speech Act
Contextualism,” Philosophical Review 119 (2010): 77–95; Conklin, Oath Formulas in Biblical
Hebrew, 1–11.
55 Karl van der Toorn, “Herem-Bethel and Elephantine Oath Procedure,” ZAW 98 (1986): 282–
85; idem, “Anat-Yahu, Some Other Deities, and the Jews of Elephantine,” Numen 39 (1992):
80–101.
56 John A. Wilson, “The Oath in Ancient Egypt,” JNES 7 (1948): 129–56; Conklin, Oath
Formulas in Biblical Hebrew.
57 Conklin, Oath Formulas in Biblical Hebrew.
58 TADAE B2.8.
42 Becking

Document TADAE B7.3 contains an interesting oath.59 This oath-text set-

tles a quarrel between two Yehudites, Menachem the son of Šallum the son
of Ho[šiah(?) . .] and Meshullam son of Nathan on the ownership of a she-ass
which is in the hand of Pa[mose son of Pa]meṭ. Menahem swears by “H[. .] the
[god] in the place of veneration and by Anat-Yahô.”60 The first deity is often
thought to be Herem-Bethel.61 There exists an abundant discussion on these
divine beings next to Yahô. Suffice it here to state my view that Anat-Yahô and
Herem-Bethel should be viewed as the protective deities of the marzeaḥ in
Elephantine.62 In other texts from Elephantine that refer to the act of swear-
ing, no deities by whom the oath was sworn are mentioned.63
Let me return to the Mahseiah-Dargamana conflict. As a result of the swear-
ing of the oath, Dargamana states that his heart is satisfied. This expression
has its background in the terminology of the Aramaic business law and espe-
cially in document of conveyance. The expression is used here as an active
formulation: yṭb Ha + lbb + suf.: “to make good/content the heart of X.”64 This
implies that the oath of Mehsaiah has set the uncertainties of Dargamana
at rest so that he is satisfied as well as contended. The expression, cognates
of which occur in Aramaic, Akkadian and Demotic texts, is an indication of
remuneration especially in texts that describe the transfer of goods. In the text
under consideration it refers to the fact that the claimant is content and that
there is no longer a bone of contention between him and Mahseiah.
It is my assumption, that in the texts mentioned, the oath is taken in front of
the deity—or deities—of the more important partner in the quarrel. If this is
correct then Mahseiah was seen as of higher social standing than Dargamana.
The text does not imply that Dargamana converted to Judaism—or its pre-
decessor. The text confirms the acceptance of a deity of someone else as
an observing witness to a human agreement and hence a form of religious
acceptance that was without problems.

59 Recent translation in Rohrmoser, Götter, Tempel und Kult, 425–26.

60 Van der Toorn, “Anat-Yahu, Some Other Deities, and the Jews of Elephantine,” 282–85;
Marlene Elizabeth Mondriaan, “Anat-Yahu and the Jews at Elephantine,” Journal for
Semitics 22 (2013): 537–52; Rohrmoser, Götter, Tempel und Kult, 139–41.
61 See, however, Rohrmoser, Götter, Tempel und Kult, 144–49, 426: “W[eihegabe des Gotte]s.”
62 Becking, “Temple, marzēaḥ, and Power at Elephantine.”
63 TADAE B7.1:6; B8.9:3–4; Lozachmeur, Collection Clermont-Ganneau, 399–400, no. 265.
64 See Yochann Muffs, Studies in the Aramaic Legal Papyri from Elephantine, HdO 66 (Leiden:
Brill, 2003), 27–194; Botta, Aramaic and Egyptian Legal Traditions at Elephantine, 125.
Exchange, Replacement, or Acceptance ? 43

4 Framework and Conclusions

It is difficult to build a thesis on the basis of only two examples. Nevertheless, I

would like to make a few concluding remarks. In my opinion, the texts discussed
hint in a specific direction. They can be understood as examples of the mutual
acceptance of both the variety and the unity of the divine in Elephantine in
the fifth century BCE. Phrased differently, each group was aware of its own
myth of common ancestry and shared historical memories and the specifics
of its own religion. These specifics, however, were not seen as immutable or
sacrosanct. They only partially defined the identities of the different groups.
As a result of the cohabitation the various groups negotiated a network as a
superstructure for the identity of the whole and complex community. This
superstructure expressed that the element of solidarity was not restricted to
the own group, but broadened to the community in the border garrison in its
entirety. The cultural encounter of the Yehudites—as well as the other groups
mentioned—in Elephantine did lead to an open perception of “the other” and
not in a concealment of a closed and fenced community. It is the framework of
this acceptance of the “other” as partner in the superstructure that deities from
different religious traditions could be lent.65

65 See also Janet H. Johnson, “Ethnic Considerations in Persian Period Egypt,” in Gold of
Praise: Studies on Ancient Egypt in Honor of Edward Wente, ed. Emily Teeter and John A.
Larson, SAOC 58 (Chicago: Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago, 1999), 211–22.
 CHAPTER 4

Netting Marduk? The Concept of Hidden

Transcripts and the Transfer of Cultural Knowledge
from Mesopotamian to Judean Texts
Jonathan Stökl

1 Introduction

A question that exercises the mind of many scholars of the ancient Near East,
particularly of biblical scholars, is how to show that the particular text we are
working on has been influenced, directly or not, by another text, whether from
the same culture or another one.1 It is generally thought that when looking
for traditions rather than individual texts the evidence required can be rela-
tively light, but when identifying specific texts rather than wider streams of
tradition the demand for evidence is much stronger. Having said that, unless
an ancient author explicitly quotes another text there can never be absolute
proof. As historians and literary scholars we need to work with probabilities
rather than certainties, which in turn means that our conclusions have to be
stated carefully.
In the following I intend to add a voice of caution to the debate regarding
Mesopotamian influence on certain biblical texts. Evidence of influence of the
Enūma eliš has been detected with a surprising regularity in recent literature.2

1 See recently Jonathan Ben-Dov, “The Inadequacy of the Term ‘Influence’ in Biblical Studies”
(paper presented at the conference 3000 Years of Textual Transmission in the ANE, Tel-
Aviv University, June 2014); and with reference to tradition history, the debate between
Joshua Berman and Bernard Levinson and Jeffrey Stackert see: Joshua Berman, “CTH 133
and the Hittite Provenance of Deuteronomy 13,” JBL 130 (2011): 25–44; Bernard M. Levinson
and Jeffrey Stackert, “Between the Covenant Code and Esarhaddon’s Succession Treaty:
Deuteronomy 13 and the Composition of Deuteronomy,” JAJ 3 (2012): 123–40; Joshua Berman,
“Historicism and Its Limits: A Response to Bernard M. Levinson and Jeffrey Stackert,” JAJ 4
(2013): 297–309; Bernard M. Levinson and Jeffrey Stackert, “The Limitations of ‘Resonance’:
A Response to Joshua Berman on Historical and Comparative Method,” JAJ 4 (2013): 310–33.
2 The text of the Enūma eliš is now available in two editions, W. G. Lambert, Babylonian
Creation Myths, MC 16 (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2013) and Thomas R. Kämmerer and
Kai A. Metzler, Das babylonische Weltschöpfungsepos Enūma elîš, AOAT 375 (Münster: Ugarit-
Verlag, 2012). On a literary interpretation of the myth see the excellent study by Gabriel

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���7 | doi ��.��63/9789004336919_005

Netting Marduk ? 45

More specifically, I will address the question whether YHWH’s using a net is
necessarily and mainly a reference to Marduk’s combat with Tiāmat seeking
to subvert the Enūma eliš’s message that Marduk rules supreme. Instead, I will
show that this literary motive is used much more widely and that with the
evidence available to us it is more likely that the wider Combat Myth tradition
is invoked.3 As interlocutors I have chosen three essays by Carly Crouch and
Casey Strine because their work is recent and because they present the argu-
ment with a high degree of sophistication.4
As is well known, Meir Malul established the following criteria for show-
ing direct influence of one text on another: 1) strong similarities between the
texts in question, 2) a relatively convincing historical scenario for the exchange
to occur, and 3) the relative exclusiveness of phrases and ideas to the texts
in question—otherwise it becomes logically difficult to decide which of the
many texts is the source, and appeal to a wider tradition becomes stronger.5
While there are important differences between Joshua Berman’s case regard-
ing Deut 13 and CTH 133 and the case to be addressed here, both are searches for
a specific ancient Near Eastern text which is thought to have influenced a bibli-
cal text. In their discussion of Berman’s suggestion to connect Deuteronomy
to Hittite treaties and the associated suggestion to redate Deuteronomy from
the seventh century BCE to a much earlier time, Bernard Levinson and Jeffrey
Stackert review the literature on what constitutes evidence for such influence
of a specific ancient Near Eastern text on a biblical text.6 They rehearse Malul’s

Gösta, Enūma eliš—Weg zu einer globalen Weltordnung: Pragmatik, Struktur und Semantik
des babylonischen “Lieds auf Marduk,” ORA 12 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2014).
3 See also the sceptical tone of many of the essays in Jo-Ann Scurlock and Richard H. Beal, eds.,
Creation and Chaos: A Reconsideration of Hermann Gunkel’s Chaoskampf Hypothesis (Winona
Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2013) regarding the nature of Tiāmat’s and Marduk’s combat in the
Enūma eliš.
4 Carly L. Crouch and Casey A. Strine, “YHWH’s Battle against Chaos in Ezekiel: The
Transformation of Judahite Mythology for a New Situation,” JBL 132 (2013): 883–903; Carly
L. Crouch, “Ezekiel’s Oracles against the Nations in Light of a Royal Ideology of Warfare,”
JBL 130 (2011): 473–92; Casey A. Strine, “Chaoskampf against Empire: YHWH’s Battle against
Gog (Ezek 38–39) as Resistance Literature,” in Divination, Politics and Ancient Near Eastern
Empires, ed. A. Lenzi and J. Stökl, ANEM 7 (Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature, 2014),
87–108. See also Casey A. Strine, Sworn Enemies: The Divine Oath, the Book of Ezekiel, and the
Polemics of Exile, BZAW 436 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2013), 230–43, where Strine discusses Ezek 17.
I would like to thank Carly Crouch and Casey Strine for making their work available to me
prior to publication.
5 Meir Malul, The Comparative Method in Ancient Near Eastern and Biblical Legal Studies, AOAT
227 (Kevelaer: Butzon & Bercker; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1990).
6 Levinson and Stackert, “Limitations of ‘Resonance,’ ” 311–20.
46 Stökl

arguments that not only do we have to show that any given text is suitably sim-
ilar but also that there needs to be a convincing scenario of contact between
the two texts.7 According to Malul no such scenario would have to be shown
with absolute certainty. For the case under discussion the similarities between
the literary images for Marduk’s combat with Tiāmat and YHWH’s use of a net
are sufficiently clear to indicate that there is some similarity. It is also quite
likely that the author(s) of the book of Ezekiel would have at least heard a ver-
sion of the Enūma eliš at some point during their time in Babylon or elsewhere.
Berman, Stackert and Levinson agree regarding the “need to identify shared
elements that are highly distinctive.”8 This criterion goes also back to Malul
who puts considerable weight on stressing the importance of identifying a
solid basis not just for comparison but also for influence. Below I will argue
that it is precisely this criterion which cannot easily be fulfilled by comparing
the use of nets as weapons in Ezekiel and the Enūma eliš because of the much
wider stream of tradition underlying the ancient Near Eastern Combat Myth
tradition and particularly the use of a net.
As Caroline Waerzeggers has recently shown, it is difficult to find a social
location for the transmission of texts from Mesopotamian to Judean authors,
particularly with regard to texts access to which was restricted to specialists.9
According to the data that she has processed we do not know of any Judean in a
Mesopotamian city who was in direct contact with anyone either employed at
a temple or outside but with sufficient training to have access to “secret” texts.
While it is logically impossible to prove a negative—a single text in which a
Judean and someone with access to those texts are mentioned together—it
appears that it is more likely that Babylonian scribes with access to “secret”
texts kept their knowledge within their guild.10

7 Malul, The Comparative Method.

8 Berman, “CTH 133,” 27 cited in Levinson and Stackert, “Limitations of ‘Resonance,’ ” 313.
9 Caroline Waerzeggers, “Locating Contact in the Babylonian Exile: Some Reflections on
Tracing Judean-Babylonian Encounters in Cuneiform Texts,” in Encounters by the Rivers
of Babylon: Scholarly Conversations between Jews, Iranians and Babylonians in Antiquity,
ed. Uri Gabbay and Shai Secunda, TSAJ 160 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2014), 131–46. As is
well known, many Mesopotamian texts were not in wider circulation not only because
not many people could have read the more complicated ones, but also because they were
considered to be “secret.”
10 See also, e.g., Mladen Popović, “Networks of Scholars: The Transmission of Astronomical
and Astrological Learning between Babylonians, Greeks and Jews,” in Ancient Jewish
Sciences and the History of Knowledge in Second Temple Literature, ed. Jonathan Ben-Dov
and Seth L. Sanders (New York: New York University Press, 2014), 151–91.
Netting Marduk ? 47

Underlying Crouch’s and Strine’s work is Stefan Maul’s observation that

many Neo-Assyrian royal inscriptions make reference to the Combat Myth
tradition in order to aggrandise the ruler.11 Crouch reads references to nets
and water in Ezekiel’s famous oracle against Tyre (Ezek 32) as references to an
originally Western Semitic Combat Myth, and Strine reads the text as a “hid-
den transcript” subverting the Enūma eliš.12 The term “hidden transcript” goes
back to James Scott’s Domination and the Arts of Resistance, the result of Scott’s
research on (post)colonial societies and the interaction of subordinates and
powerholders in these societies and more generally.13
After a short introduction to Scott’s work I will review some of the
Mesopotamian evidence for nets (and other divine weapons) and their use in
Combat Myths. In particular, I will argue that reliance on Scott’s work has led
to an unwelcome renaissance of a form of tradition history in which references
to a small part of a tradition are read as an indication that a particular text was
known in the same form as it is available to us today.

2 James Scott’s Hidden Transcripts

In his 1990 work, Domination and the Arts of Resistance, James Scott suggested
reading the way that subaltern individuals and cultures interact with those
in dominant positions as an expression of the subaltern’s constant resistance
to the dominant power. In order to illustrate and capture the idea behind his
book, Scott quotes an Ethiopic proverb: “When the great lord passes the wise
peasant bows deeply and silently farts.”14
Scott’s work is based on ethnographic work in a Malay village for which he
initially used a class-based analysis.15 From the perspective of the 21st century
his conclusion that power relations have an immediate impact on discourse

11 Stefan M. Maul, “Der assyrische König—Hüter der Weltordnung,” in Priests and Officials
in the Ancient Near East: Papers of the Second Colloquium on the Ancient Near East—The
City and its Life: Held at the Middle Eastern Culture Center in Japan (Mitaka, Tokyo), March
22–24 1996, ed. Kazuko Watanabe (Heidelberg: Universitätsverlag C. Winter, 1999), 201–14;
Stefan M. Maul, “ ‘Wenn der Held (zum Kampfe) auszieht . . .’: Ein Ninurta-Eršemma,” Or
60 (1991): 312–34.
12 Strine, “Chaoskampf against Empire.”
13 James C. Scott, Domination and the Arts of Resistance: Hidden Transcripts (New Haven, CT:
Yale University Press, 1990).
14 Scott, Domination and the Arts of Resistance, v.
15 James C. Scott, Weapons of the Weak: Everyday Forms of Peasant Resistance (New Haven,
CT: Yale University Press, 1985), esp. 284–89.
48 Stökl

appear hardly revolutionary: among themselves the poor speak differently to

when they speak to those who have power over them. Much of his study is
concerned with relationships between the powerful and those in serfdom and
slavery within a society, but he also includes sections on how this kind of rela-
tionship pans out between colonial powers and empires on the one hand and,
on the other hand, societies which are subsumed in the larger powers. The
common ground between these cases is that those with power and those with
much less power interact with each other.
Scott argues that instead of openly contesting the claims of the powerful,
slaves, servants and other subalterns create social spaces behind the scenes
“in which offstage dissent to the official transcript of power relations may be
voiced.”16 The hidden transcripts of the subaltern can be found “expressed
openly—albeit in disguised form.”17 According to Scott all manner of expres-
sions such as folktales, songs and jokes may contain criticism of the power-
holders which is hidden behind anonymity or by having an obviously harmless
reading and a “hidden” critical interpretation.18 The harmless reading is the
performance of deference to the powerholder—the smile of the serf to the
landowner who has the power to execute him. According to Scott, the sub-
altern is using this ritualised performance of deference to have time to read
the real intentions behind the powerholder’s actions, particularly where they
may be potentially dangerous for the subaltern.19 The powerholder, conversely,
performs an equally ritualised role of mastery while trying to read whether the
subaltern is planning something that might be dangerous to them. The public

16 Scott, Domination and the Arts of Resistance, xi.

17 Scott, Domination and the Arts of Resistance, xi–xii.
18 This is a major departure from a Gramscian reading of these power-relations in which the
subaltern are understood to be complicit in the running of the current hegemony—until
it self-destructs. What Scott, in my view, does not take enough on board is the fact that
by permitting the subaltern classes to have social sites (of resistance), the powerholders
effectively provide them with a safety-valve to let off steam where resistance is not only
found, but also has space to dissipate, which, in turn, makes it more likely that the power-
ful stay in power. But see Scott, Domination and the Arts of Resistance, 184–92.
19 Scott, Domination and the Arts of Resistance, 3–4. On the ritualised nature of the interac-
tion, see pages 45–107. In explaining the interaction between the powerful and the sub-
altern, Scott draws on reactance theory as developed by social psychologists. This theory
suggests that the heavier the threat of violence and coercion the less likely the subject
is to change their belief-system, even though they may (unwillingly) comply with the
demands made of them. Indeed, it might not be bad if some Western politicians read
through Scott’s book before deciding how to interact with other cultures.
Netting Marduk ? 49

transcript of the situation is usually closer to the desires of the powerholder,

but is never entirely “written” by them.20
Scott’s way of reading the texts produced by such encounters relies on hav-
ing access to the public transcript and to at least one of the hidden transcripts:
“Without a privileged peek backstage or a rupture in the performance we
have no way of calling into question the status of what might be a convincing
but feigned performance.”21 In other words, Scott is arguing that the public
transcript functions as a kind of control to the interpretation of the hidden
transcript. Thus, a public transcript clarifies “its” hidden transcript but only
together can they give a fuller account of events and interpretations of the
events by those who have experienced a certain situation.
The section that follows turns to the way that hidden transcripts operate.
According to Scott’s understanding of the interaction between the subaltern
and the powerholders, hidden transcripts are a way for either group to safely
express their views uninhibited by social control and the public transcript that
it produces. But any hidden transcript “always remains a substitute for an act
of assertion directly in the face of power.”22 Subaltern hidden transcripts are,
by definition, negations of the extent of the powerholder’s control. They are
written by the subordinates in social spaces that the subordinates have won
through resistance from the powerholders. Scott goes on to analyse the tech-
niques used to produce hidden transcripts, most of which rely on their polyse-
mic nature allowing for “harmless” interpretations as well as subversive ones.23
However, without some form of a “control” all we have is a polysemic text.
One of the most famous, and maybe most obvious texts that have been read
as hidden transcripts or hidden polemics is the naming of the sun and the
moon as the “two great lights” in Genesis 1. Many scholars interpret this text
as denying the sun and moon gods Šamaš and Yariḫu their astral hypostases
and their very existence; instead, the sun and moon are treated as natural

20 This means that, technically speaking, there are always a public transcript and at least
two hidden transcripts: the hidden transcript of the powerless and the hidden transcript
of the powerholder.
21 Scott, Domination and the Arts of Resistance, 4.
22 Scott, Domination and the Arts of Resistance, 114–15.
23 Scott, Domination and the Arts of Resistance, 136–82. In Biblical Studies the term is often
used to describe this kind of polysemic attitude is hidden polemic, see, e.g., Dalit Rom-
Shiloni, “When an Explicit Polemic Initiates a Hidden One: Jacob’s Aramaean Identity,”
in Words, Ideas, Worlds: Biblical Essays in Honour of Yairah Amit, ed. Athalya Brenner
and Frank H. Polak, Hebrew Bible Monographs 40, Amsterdam Studies in the Bible and
Religion 5 (Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press, 2012), 206–35; Yaira Amit, Hidden Polemics
in Biblical Narrative, BibIntSer 25 (Leiden: Brill, 2000).
50 Stökl

phenomena created by the biblical God.24 In the context of the ancient Near
East referring to the sun and moon as “big lights” would likely have been under-
stood as a deliberate action by the author of the text to demote the two deities.
Such a control is rather more elusive in the context of Ezek 32. As I will
argue in the following, even if we see the reference to the net as a reference to
the Combat Myth tradition, we cannot deduce that Marduk in the Enūma eliš
was intended to be the target. It is, of course, possible that this is the case, but
due to the pervasiveness of the Combat Myth tradition and its many occur-
rences it seems to me more likely that the allusion is less specific than has been
claimed by Crouch and Strine.
From 587 BCE onward, Judeans25 were not only practically under the con-
trol of outside powers as they had been previously as vassals of first the Neo-
Assyrian and later the Neo-Babylonian empire, but also integrated into the
Neo-Babylonian and Persian empires. As vassals but particularly as an inte-
grated part of the empire, Judeans were firmly in the situation of subordinates
with regard to their imperial overlords. This is illustrated well by the plethora
of work on forced migration and on (post)colonialism in the Bible in general
and in Second Temple texts in particular.26

24 See, e.g., Claus Westermann, Genesis 1–11: A Commentary, trans. John J. Scullion, A
Continental Commentary (London: SPCK, 1984), 126–31, in German: Genesis I (1–11), 3
vols., BKAT 1/1 (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1974). Foundational for this
work is, of course, Hermann Gunkel, Schöpfung und Chaos in Urzeit und Endzeit: Eine reli-
gionsgeschichtliche Untersuchung über Gen 1 und Ap Joh 12 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck &
Ruprecht, 1895). For further details see also Eckart Frahm, “Counter-texts, Commentaries,
and Adaptations: Politically Motivated Responses to the Babylonian Epic of Creation in
Mesopotamia, the Biblical World, and Elsewhere,” in Conflict, Peace and Religion in the
Ancient Near East, ed. Akio Tsukimoto, Orient 45 (Tokyo: Society for Near Eastern Studies
in Japan, 2010), 3–33 (14–17); Eckart Frahm, “Creation and the Divine Spirit in Babel and
Bible: Reflections on mummu in Enūma eliš I 4 and rûaḥ in Genesis 1:2,” in Literature as
Politics, Politics as Literature: Essays on the Ancient Near East in Honor of Peter Machinist,
ed. David S. Vanderhooft and Abraham Winitzer (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2013),
97–116.
25 The translation of ‫ יה)ו(די‬as “Judean” here is not to be understood as excluding the trans-
lation “Jew.” It merely follows the formation of the Hebrew and Aramaic word as a gentilic
adjective derived from the geographical name ‫—יה)ו(ד‬Judah / Yehud. For a debate on the
translation of the term ιουδαιος see the forum on the Marginalia Review of Books: http://
marginalia.lareviewofbooks.org/jew-judean-forum/.
26 See, e.g., Emanuel Pfoh, The Emergence of Israel in Ancient Palestine: Historical and
Anthropological Perspectives (Copenhagen international Seminar London: Equinox,
2009); John J. Ahn and Jill A. Middlemas, eds., By the Irrigation Canals of Babylon:
Approaches to the Study of the Exile, LHBOTS 526 (London: T&T Clark, 2012); Jeremiah W.
Netting Marduk ? 51

According to Scott’s theory, ancient Judeans would have had to find pro-
tected spaces which their imperial overlords could not access. Considering that
after their punitive activities neither the Babylonians nor the Persians likely
operated a system of supervision and spying even remotely akin to that of the
former German Democratic Republic, it must have been relatively easy to find
such (social and geographical) spaces. In addition to the physical space, ques-
tions of language and dialect matter as well. Scott cites studies of Northern
English dialect use in which the change of dialect from a working class dialect
to a “standard” dialect can be perceived as a betrayal of the working class envi-
ronment. Judeans could always communicate in Judean Hebrew—and if the
texts in the Hebrew Bible are at least partially the result of such activity, this
process seems to have worked.
It is quite likely that the book of Ezekiel contains hidden transcripts in reac-
tion to the Babylonian and Persian overlords. The question, then, changes from
being one of whether they are there to the question whether we are able to
identify them with any confidence.27 That means we need to ask how much
relevant public transcript we have access to. The Persians appear not to
have been overly concerned with the Judeans—to them, no doubt a small
group of serfs—to warrant their explicit inclusion in a historical narrative. It
is well known that apart from royal inscriptions no royal Babylonian archive is
known today, which means that apart from the Babylonian Chronicle covering

Cataldo, Breaking Monotheism: Yehud and the Material Formation of Monotheistic Identity,
LHBOTS 565 (New York: Bloomsbury; London: T&T Clark, 2012); John J. Ahn, Exile as
Forced Migration: A Sociological, Literary, and Theological Approach to the Displacement
and Resettlement of the Southern Kingdom of Judah, BZAW 417 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2011);
Jon L. Berquist, “Constructions of Identity in Postcolonial Yehud,” in Judah and the
Judeans in the Persian Period, ed. Oded Lipschits and Manfred Oeming (Winona Lake, IN:
Eisenbrauns, 2006), 53–66; Katherine Southwood, Ethnicity and the Mixed Marriage Crisis
in Ezra 9–10, OTM (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010); Tracy M. Lemos, “ ‘They Have
Become Women’: Judean Diaspora and Postcolonial Theories of Gender and Migration,”
in Social Theory and the Study of Israelite Religion: Essays in Retrospect and Prospect, ed.
Saul M. Olyan, SBLRBS 71 (Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature, 2012), 81–109.
27 With respect to other Judeans, the authors of texts such as Ezekiel were likely in a position
of authority and perhaps even physical power. This means that the writings they pro-
duced are not merely the hidden transcripts of the powerless with regard to the Persians,
but with regard to the inner-Judean discourse they produced either the hidden transcript
of the powerholders or the public transcript. Scott’s helpful analysis of the overall picture
does not appear to address questions of this level of complexity.
52 Stökl

Nebuchadnezzar’s early years, there is no further textual evidence referring to

Judah in this time period.28

3 Catching a Transcript with a Net

In a number of recent publications Crouch and Strine have interpreted the

image of YHWH wielding a net as a weapon in battle as a veiled reference to
Marduk’s defeat of Tiāmat as told in Enūma eliš, tablet 4 and therefore as pro-
paganda against Babylon’s supreme deity.29 According to Crouch and Strine,
the message of the hidden transcript is that YHWH is better at defeating Chaos
than Marduk (and that therefore allegiance to him promises more success).30
The following argument will to a considerable degree be negative, presenting
the evidence that a net as a weapon is not specific enough to show that the ref-
erent is Marduk rather than any other god who is related to the Combat Myth.
The result, however, can also be understood in a positive way, fine-tuning
Crouch’s and Strine’s conclusions: the net as YHWH’s weapon should be under-
stood as a reference to the wider Combat Myth tradition.31 This does not mean
that Jewish literati of the Second Temple period could not have read Ezekiel
and the Enūma eliš together as Kristevan intertexts, but that is a question of
reader response rather than likely authorial intent.32 In the following we will
first go through the Akkadian evidence for nets and then address Crouch’s

28 A BC 5. For a convenient English translation see Jean-Jacques Glassner, Mesopotamian

Chronicles, ed. Benjamin R. Foster, SBLWAW 19 (Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature,
2004). There are, of course, a few short inscriptions and seals which illuminate the situa-
tion, but they are neither attempts by the Persians to write the history of Yehud, nor the
result of Judean attempts to write their own history either. Such attempts are essentially
restricted to the material in the Hebrew Bible.
29 See Lambert, Babylonian Creation Myths, and Kämmerer and Metzler, Das babylonische
Weltschöpfungsepos Enūma elîš.
30 For references to Crouch’s and Strine’s work see n. 4 above.
31 For an overview of Mesopotamian Combat scenarios in connection to Creation accounts
see Lambert, Babylonian Creation Myths, 202–47.
32 On the concept of these literarati see Ehud Ben Zvi, “Reading and Constructing Utopias:
Utopia/s And/in the Collection of Authoritative Texts/Textual Readings of Late Persian
Period Yehud,” Studies in Religion / Sciences religieuses 42 (2013): 1–14; Ehud Ben Zvi,
‘The Memory of Abraham in Late Persian / Early Hellenistic Yehud / Judah,” in The
Reception and Remembrance of Abraham, ed. Pernille Carstens and Niels-Peter Lemche
(Piscataway: Gorgias, 2011), 13–60. See also Irmtraud Fischer, “Von der Vorgeschichte zur
Nachgeschichte: Schriftauslegung in der Schrift—Intertextualität—Rezeption,” ZAW 125
(2013): 143–60.
Netting Marduk ? 53

and Strine’s arguments in favour of interpreting YHWH’s net as an allusion to

Enūma eliš.

3.1 Mesopotamian Nets

Akkadian has a great variety of terms which are translated as “net” into English.
Among them are birru, pūgu, saparru, šētu, šuškallu.33 Most of these refer to
various forms of nets for hunting, for subdividing rooms and as “carrier bags.”
For our purposes in this essay the following three are relevant: saparru A,
šuškallu and šētu.34
According to the CAD šētu normally refers to a net for hunting birds and
other animals. Unsurprisingly, it can also used metaphorically to indicate a
plan or a tactic for ensnaring an enemy, or in reference to sorcery. Thus, in
Erra iv 18–19 Erra is described as having dealt with the Babylonians as follows:
‘You ensnared them in a net and caught and destroyed them, warrior Erra.’
Similarly, in ARM 26 197 the qammatum of Dagan of Terqa announces to Zimri-
Lim of Mari that Dagan of Terqa is preparing a net with which to catch the king
of Ešnunna.35 According to Etana II, Šamaš is equipped with a šētu by which
the eagle and the snake swear an oath, and which is dangerous to the eagle. In
Erra III: 33 the eponymous anti-hero is said to have used a net, just like that
which was used to kill “wicked Anzu.”36 The version of the Myth of Anzu that
has survived features Ninurta disposing of him, but he does not use a net to do
so, so that it is not clear whether Erra knows of a different version of the Myth
of Anzu or is intentionally referring to two texts at the same time.
The Akkadian word šuškallu, itself a Sumerian loan, refers to nets that are
weapons. Like the šētu it is used by Šamaš and by other gods. The Sumerian
myth Lugale describes Ninurta as the “battle-net” (III: 32; šú.uš.kal mè), and in
KAR 32: 29 Šamaš is praised “O Šamaš, your net catches the evil ones.” This kind

33 Simo Parpola and Robert M. Whiting, eds., Assyrian—English—Assyrian Dictionary

(Helsinki, The Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project, 2007), 227. Thomas R. Kämmerer and
Dirk Schwiderski, Deutsch-Akkadisches Wörterbuch, AOAT 255 (Münster: Ugarit-Verlag,
1998), 268, list the following: abartu, alluḫappu, azamillu, bunzerru, kutum libbi, mišertu,
musaḫḫiptu, mutērtu, muttabiltu, nuballu, pasūtu, pūgu, salītu, samaḫḫu, sannu, sapāru,
šapargallu, šēšû, šētu, šuškallu.
34 For the following see also Daniel Bodi, The Book of Ezekiel and the Poem of Erra, OBO 104
(Fribourg: Universitätsverlag; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1991), 162–82.
35 In ARM 26.209: 9–10 an āpilum of Dagan announces an oracle against Babylon that Dagan
will gather it into a “net and dagger” (ana pûgim u šakārim upaḫḫarka).
36 For an evocative interpretation of Erra as the ancient equivalent to Apocalypse Now, see
Andrew R. George, “The Poem of Erra and Ishum: A Babylonian Poet’s View of War,” in
Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East, ed. H. Kennedy (London: I. B. Tauris, 2013), 39–71.
54 Stökl

of praise is not restricted to deities, as in his famous prism Tiglath-pileser I

(ca. 1114–1076 BCE) describes himself as the “strong king, net for the insubmis-
sive, overwhelmer in battle with criminals.”37 Like šētu, šuškallu is also used to
express the actions of sorcerers. Somewhat unsurprisingly, šētu and šuškallu
can stand in parrallel (e.g., Ištar and Dumuzi, 131: 70).38
The third and last term for which I will present evidence here is saparru. It
is the word chosen in Enūma eliš IV 41 to express the weapon that Marduk fash-
ions in order to entrap Tiāmat’s entrails.39 In an attempt to distinguish saparru
from šētu and šuškallu, CAD suggests the translation “throwing net,” but it is
relatively clear that we are dealing with another term for a net used in com-
bat and hunting alike. The precise difference between šētu and saparru is not
immediately obvious, but there are many options: shape, different mesh size,
material and dialect. The term is attested in several prayers and hymns which
are addressed to Marduk, in which it usually refers not to Marduk’s weaponry
but to the deceitful actions of others with which they try to entrap the person
uttering the prayer.40
Use of the saparru is by no means limited to Marduk, so that a reference to a
saparru would automatically raise his spectre in all contexts. Other gods have
nets as their epithet—thus both Nisaba and Ninurta are described as “the net
of the gods” (sapār ilī), and the term is famously used for human kings. In one
of Assurbanipal’s inscriptions we find the following: “the net (var. onslaught) of

37 R IM A.0.87.1 iii 32–34, A. Kirk Grayson, Assyrian Rulers of the Early First Millennium BC. I
(1114–859 BC), RIMA 3/1 (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1991), 18. Grayson translates
šuškallu as “snare.” For easier flow I have opted for “net” here.
38 Walter Farber, Beschwörungsrituale an Ištar und Dumuzi: Āttī Ištar ša harmaša Dumuzi,
Veröffentlichungen der Orientalischen Kommission 30 (Wiesbaden: Steiner, 1977), 131.
39 Kämmerer and Metzler, Das babylonische Weltschöpfungsepos Enūma elîš, 206; Lambert,
Babylonian Creation Myths, 89. With characteristic stringency and logic, Lambert regards
qerbiš as referring to the inside of Tiāmat, rather than the inside of the net. The reason
for this lies in qerbiš in line 48 which, according to Lambert, Babylonian Creation Myths,
475 cannot be translated as “within it/them” (referring to the seven winds). He there-
fore translates line 41 as “He made a net to enmesh the entrails of Tiāmat.” Kämmerer
and Metzler, Das babylonische Weltschöpfungsepos Enūma elîš, 206, 208 do not share
Lambert’s observation and both times have qerbiš refer to the inside of the weapon used.
According to Philippe Talon, The Standard Babylonian Creation Myth Enūma Eliš, SAACT
4 (Helsinki: The Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project, 2005), 121 saparru is also attested in IV
44, IV 95, V 64, V 71 and VI 83.
40 E.g., Nabû-šuma-ukīn’s uninnu-prayer to Marduk, line 30, see Takayoshi Oshima,
Babylonian Prayers to Marduk, ORA 7 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2011), 316–27.
Netting Marduk ? 55

the great gods, my lords, which cannot be escaped, ensnared them.”41 Tiglath-
pileser III boasts how he “overwhelmed the lands of Bīt-Kapsi, Bīt-Sangi and
Bīt-Urzakki and the tribe of Puqudu like a net (saparru).”42 Esarhaddon uses the
term to refer to his own achievements in hunting down his enemies: “Neither
he who made the sea his fortress nor he who made the mountain his strong-
hold escaped my net (or) succeeded in escaping.”43 Šamši-Adad V spreads his
net over all of the land of Nairi.44 Finally, like the other two terms saparru is
also used in magical and medicinal contexts. Thus in a Neo-Babylonian com-
mentary we read that: “the drawing that he makes in front of the bed is a net,
it ensnares all evil.”45
Building on Lambert’s analysis of Marduk in the Enūma eliš as a “Ninurta
redivivus” when he battles chaos on behalf of the other gods, Stefan Maul sug-
gested that the Assyrian kings understood their battles with earthly enemies
as real-life “Reaktualisierungen des mythischen Kampfes des Helden Ninurta
und sich selbst als dessen irdisches und gegenwärtiges Abbild.”46 According to

41 Prism A iv 61–62: sapar ilī rabûti bēlēya ša la naparšudi isḫupšunūti, see Rykle Borger,
Beiträge zum Inschriftenwerk Assurbanipals: Die Prismenklassen A, B, C = K, D, E, F, G, H, J
und T sowie andere Inschriften (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1996), 44, 235.
42 For the first three see RINAP 1. 7: 6–7, For Puqudu see RINAP 1.47: 13–15, Hayim Tadmor and
Shigeo Yamada, The Royal Inscriptions of Tiglath-pileser III (744–727 BC) and Shalmaneser
V (726–722 BC), Kings of Assyria, RINAP 1 (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2011), 31, 118–19.
43 R INAP 4.1: 17–19, Erle Leichty, The Royal Inscriptions of Esarhaddon, King of Assyria (680–
669 BC), RINAP 4 (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2011), 22.
44 R IMA 3/2 A.0.103.1:i 53b–16a, A. Kirk Grayson, Assyrian Rulers of the Early First Millennium
BC: II (858–745 BC), RIMA 3/II (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1996), 183–84.
45 Z A 6 242: Sp. 131: 18, Jos Epping and Johann N. Strassmaier, “Neue babylonische Planeten-
Tafeln III,” ZA 6 (1891): 217–44. Other magico-medicinal uses are attested, e.g., in STT 168:
15–16, Oliver R. Gurney and Peter Hulin, The Sultantepe Tablets II, 2 vols., Occasional
Publications of the British Institute of Archaeology at Ankara 3, 7 (London: British Institute
of Archaeology at Ankara, 1964). In Iraq 31 87, Wolfram von Soden, ‘Zur Wiederherstellung
der Marduk-Gebete BMS 11 und 12’, Iraq 31 (1969): 82–89, the illness is keeping the person
as if in a net.
46 Wilfred G. Lambert, “Ninurta Mythology in the Babylonian Epic of Creation,” in
Keilschriftliche Literaturen: Ausgewählte Vorträge der XXXII. Rencontre Internationale;
Münster, 8.–12.7. 1985, ed. Karl Hecker and Walter Sommerfeld, Berliner Beiträge zum
Vorderen Orient 6 (Berlin: Reimer, 1986), 55–60. For the quote see Maul, “Der assyrische
König—Hüter der Weltordnung,” 329; see also Maul, “Wenn der Held.” On the related
issues see now also Lambert, Babylonian Creation Myths, 202–47. Karen Sonik urges
some caution regarding Lambert’s suggestion because, according to her, the equation of
Marduk with Ninurta would suggest the equation of Tiāmat and Anzû, which she con-
tests, see Karen Sonik, “From Hesiod’s Abyss to Ovid’s rudis indigestaque moles: Chaos and
56 Stökl

Maul the use of flood imagery to describe the destruction wrought by Assyrian
kings on foreign lands illustrates this well. Thus, the expression abūb(ān)iš
sapānu which is otherwise limited to Ninurta’s actions, and to the actions of
gods who acquired aspects of Ninurta character, is used in Neo-Assyrian royal
inscriptions.47 The flood as a weapon can point at least to Ninurta and Marduk

Cosmos in the Babylonian ‘Epic of Creation,’ ” in Creation and Chaos: A Reconsideration

of Hermann Gunkel’s Chaoskampf Hypothesis, ed. Jo-Ann Scurlock and Richard H. Beal
(Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2013), 1–25.
47 This is true for Shalmaneser III, Šamši-Adad V, Tiglath-pileser III, Sargon II and
Sennacherib. For Shalmaneser II, see RIMA 3/2 A.0.102.1: 53’–64’a; A.0.102.2:i 11–12a; 1
41b–51a; 2 47b–56a; ii 86b–89a; RIMA 3/2 A.0.102.4:l.e. 1–9; RIMA 3/2 A.0.102.6:i 24–27; i
42–48; i 57–ii 2; iv 26–36; RIMA 3/2 A.0.102.8:20–24a; 24b–40; 1’–5’a; RIMA 3/2 A.0.102.10:i
10–18 (referring to Tukulti-Ninurta II); RIMA 3/2 A.0.102.12:9–20; RIMA 3/2 A.0.102.14:15–21;
156b–159a; RIMA 3/2 A.0.102.16:1–5 (referring to Tukulti-Ninurta II); 286’b–290’; RIMA 3/2
A.0.102.28:29–34a; RIMA 3/2 A.0.102.29:34b–39a; RIMA 3/2 A.0.102.31:9b–17a; RIMA 3/2
A.0.102.32:4b–9a; RIMA 3/2 A.0.102.33:6b–13; RIMA 3/2 A.0.102.38:1’–4’a, Grayson, Assyrian
Rulers of the Early First Millennium BC: II (858–745 BC), 9–10, 13, 16, 20, 23–24, 26, 34–35,
41, 44–45, 49, 51, 59–60, 64, 69, 74, 82, 104, 106, 109–11, 115. For Šamši-Adad V the only text
is RIMA 3/2 A.0.104.1:9b–27, Grayson, Assyrian Rulers of the Early First Millennium BC:
II (858–745 BC), 234. For Tiglath-pileser III the inscriptions are: RINAP 1.47: 1–4, 22–23,
51: 1–4, 52: 1–4, Tadmor and Yamada, The Royal Inscriptions of Tiglath-pileser III (744–727
BC) and Shalmaneser V (726–722 BC), Kings of Assyria, 116–17, 119, 135–36, 138. RINAP 1.20:
14–16, RINAP 1.39: 8–11, RINAP 1.47: 18–19, 24–25 have a related expression, DU6 abūbi
uabbit, Tadmor and Yamada, The Royal Inscriptions of Tiglath-pileser III (744–727 BC) and
Shalmaneser V (726–722 BC), Kings of Assyria, 59, 97, 119–20. Sargon II uses the image in
lines 288–289 (=ARAB 2.32) of his annals and line 134 (=ARAB 2.68) of the Prunkinschrift
from where the expression is restored also in lines 168–169 (ARAB 2.39) of the annals,
see Andreas Fuchs, Die Inschriften Sargons II. aus Khorsabad (Göttingen: Cuvillier,
1994), 148–46, 329–30 (lines 288–289), 168–69, 335 (lines 372–373), 229, 351 (line 134 in
the Prunkinschrift); Daniel David Luckenbill, Ancient Records of Assyria and Babylonia:
Historical Records of Assyria from Sargon to the End, ARAB 2 (Chicago: University of
Chicago Press, 1927), 16, 20; Hugo Winckler, Die Keilschrifttexte Sargons: Nach den
Papierabklatschen und Originalen: Band I. Historisch-sachliche Einleitung, Umschrift und
Übersetzung, Wörterverzeichnis (Leipzig: Eduard Pfeiffer, 1889), 46–47, 58–59, 123. In addi-
tion abūbi uabbit is attested in Sargon’s letter to Aššur, TCL 3 col i: 90 (=ARAB 2.151), II: 185
(=ARAB 2.158), Walter Mayer, “Sargons Feldzug gegen Urartu—714 v. Chr.,” MDOG 115 (1983):
65–132, in his Cyprus Stele (ARAB 2.183; Florence Malbran-Labat, “Inscription assyrienne,”
in Kition dans les textes, ed. Marguerite Yon, Publications de la Mission Archéologique
Française de Kition-Bamboula 5 [Paris: Editions Recherches sur les civilisations, 2004],
345–54 was unavailable to me), the Bavian inscription (ARAB 2.341) and the Nebi Yunis
inscription (ARAB 2.348). It is hoped that through Grant Frame’s publication of Sargon
II’s inscriptions in the RINAP series these references will become more widely available
and that further references will come to light. For Sennacherib the inscriptions are: RINAP
Netting Marduk ? 57

and the net can point to a large number of different Mesopotamian deities.
This indicates that their joint occurrence should be read as an allusion to the
wider Combat Myth tradition rather than only to specifically the Enūma eliš.
Following Maul, Crouch has suggested regarding Tiglath-pileser III and
Sargon II in that light as well.48 Tiglath-pileser III refers to himself as a
saparru49 and Sargon makes use of ḫuḫāriš / ḫuḫāru, a generic term for
a bird-trap, and thus also for nets.50 Crouch attaches importance to the fact
that ḫuḫāru is a weapon used by Šamaš.51 As we have seen, Šamaš also uses
other weapons among them the saparru. In a recent article, Crouch offers the
Ištar temple inscription from Assur as another example.52 In this text, Ištar
uses the great storm and a net (saparru) as elements from the Combat Myth
tradition; it is a much more convincing example for a “rewritten” Enūma eliš. As
Eckart Frahm has pointed out, Neo-Assyrian theologians were keenly involved

3/1.34: 6b–11, A. Kirk Grayson and Jamie Novotny, The Royal Inscriptions of Sennacherib,
King of Assyria (704–681 BC), 2 vols., RINAP 3/1–2 (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2012),
221. RINAP 3.1.1: 25 has allabib abūbiš, Grayson and Novotny, The Royal Inscriptions of
Sennacherib, King of Assyria (704–681 BC), 34, RINAP 3.1.19 ii: 13’ DU6 abūbi ušēme, Grayson
and Novotny, The Royal Inscriptions of Sennacherib, King of Assyria (704–681 BC), 163,
RINAP 3.1.26 i: 14’–17’ has DU6 abūbi ušbi’, Grayson and Novotny, The Royal Inscriptions
of Sennacherib, King of Assyria (704–681 BC), 210, RINAP 3.1.34: 16–17 DU6 abūbi uabbit,
Grayson and Novotny, The Royal Inscriptions of Sennacherib, King of Assyria (704–681 BC),
222. Sennacherib’s account of his destruction of Babylon also contains flood imagery, but
there he claims that his destruction of Babylon exceeded in totality that brough on by the
deluge, RINAP 3.1.25 vi: 7’–16’, Grayson and Novotny, The Royal Inscriptions of Sennacherib,
King of Assyria (704–681 BC), 205–6. In the case of Esarhaddon things are not quite as
clear. He does describe himself as the king whose passage is like the flood (LUGAL ša
tallaktašu abūbumma), RINAP 4.94 rev. 7–14, Leichty, Esarhaddon, 184, but this allusion
is one step further removed. Flood imagery also occurs in several other of Sennacherib’s
inscriptions, but usually to describe Marduk’s anger and causing the Araḫtu to swell over
and flood the land. See RINAP 4.104 i 34–ii 9a, 104 i 37–ii 22, 114 i 19–ii 11, 116: 13’–17’, Leichty,
Esarhaddon, 196, 203, 236 and 245.
48 Carly L. Crouch, War and Ethics in the Ancient Near East: Military Violence in Light of
Cosmology and History, BZAW 407 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2009), 36–64.
49 R INAP 1.7: 6–7, 47: 13–15, see above n. 47.
50 AHw I: 353 and CDA 119. For the text see Fuchs, Inschriften Sargons II, 99 (no. 317), 181 (no.
339).
51 Crouch, War and Ethics, 50.
52 Carly L. Crouch, “Ištar and the Motif of the Cosmological Warrior: Assurbanipal’s
Adaptation of Enuma Elish,” in “Thus Speaks Ishtar of Arbela”: Prophecy in Israel, Assyria
and Egypt in the Neo-Assyrian Period, ed. R. P. Gordon and H. M. Barstad (Winona Lake, IN:
Eisenbrauns, 2013), 129–41.
58 Stökl

in adapting Babylonian theological traditions for their context. Thus, there is

an Assyrian version of the Enūma eliš in which Aššur replaces Marduk.53
Rather than seeing this as Sargon, Tiglath-pileser III—and Ištar herself—
claiming Marduk’s authority for themselves, I think all these texts allude to—
and are themselves part of—the wider Combat Myth tradition rather than
specifically the Enūma eliš. Crouch, however, reads all the references to flood
and to net, whether on their own or together, as allusions to the Enūma eliš that
ancient readers and listeners would have picked up upon: “Sargon’s references
[. . .] are most convincingly understood as references to the creation myth.”54
In his study of the links between the Erra epic and Ezekiel, Daniel Bodi
also studies nets as divine weapons, particularly in the Erra epic.55 According
to Bodi, in Erra—and elsewhere in Akkadian literature—the net is used as a
weapon to punish perjurers and those who betrayed others. I am hesitant to
follow Bodi’s interpretation entirely, but it would not be surprising that being
caught in a net might be a fitting punishment for people who have conspired
(“made nets,” e.g., Amos 7:10) against someone else, approximating lex talionis
as a principle to decide punishment.56

3.2 Ezekiel’s Nets

In four recent studies Crouch and Strine have suggested that the depiction
of YHWH as divine warrior, especially with a net as a weapon, is a conscious

53 See Frahm, “Counter-texts, Commentaries, and Adaptations” where he shows the impor-
tance of the myth to both Assyrians and Babylonians in the first millennium BCE.
54 Crouch, War and Ethics, 50.
55 Bodi, Erra, 162–82. In his study Bodi repeatedly refers to Jean-Jacques Heintz’s unpub-
lished doctoral thesis which has not been available to me: Jean-Georges Heintz, “Le Dieu
au Filet, Étude d’un thẻme de souveraineté divine du Proche-Orient antique dans ses rap-
ports avec les origines du ‘ḥerem’ biblique,” Unpublished PhD dissertation, École Biblique
et Archéologique Française, Jerusalem (1965).
56 On the issue in Amos see Crouch, War and Ethics, 110–15; John Barton, Ethics in Ancient
Israel (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014), 102–9 and in Ezekiel Crouch, “Ezekiel’s
Oracles against the Nations,” 488–89. I am not sure whether identifying the punishment
meeted out by YHWH on the nations as a lex talionis type punishment can solve the theo-
logical problem of the deity’s actions being essentially war crimes. While it is true that
to an ancient Near Eastern mind this would not have presented an issue as gods oper-
ated on a different ontological level altogether, I am not sure that all modern western
philosophies of state would share the believe that as soon as an act is state/authority-
sponsored punishment it is not wrong. On the issue, see more recently also Nili Wazana,
“ ‘War Crimes’ in Amos’s Oracles against the Nations (Amos 1:3–2:3),” in Literature as
Politics, Politics as Literature: Essays on the Ancient Near East in Honor of Peter Machinist,
ed. D. S. Vanderhooft and A. Winitzer (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2013), 479–501.
Netting Marduk ? 59

allusion to Marduk’s use of the net in the Enūma eliš, and that the authors
of Ezekiel are trying to subvert that text’s message by inserting YHWH in
Marduk’s role.57
In the first and programmatic of these essays, Crouch draws on Lawrence
Boadt’s work on Ezekiel’s Oracles against the Nations.58 In chapter 32 Ezekiel
pronounces a divine oracle against Egypt, in which a considerable amount
of Combat Myth imagery is used. Egypt is depicted as the “dragon of the sea”
(‫ )תנין‬and YHWH’s weapons are a net (‫ ;רׁשת‬v. 3) and a sword (‫ ;חרב‬v. 10). Verses
4–9 are filled with the things that YHWH is going to do with Egypt when he
has defeated it. Curiously, in verse 11 YHWH says that Babylon shall come and
carry out his divine judgement on Egypt. For Crouch and Strine, this refer-
ence to Babylon opens up the strong possibility that not only the West-Semitic
Combat Myth tradition is appealed to here, but that the Akkadian version is
alluded to as well.59
Crouch argues that just as the net (saparru) was a reference to the mythical
combat at creation in the inscriptions of Tiglath-pileser III, the net (‫ )רׁשת‬in
Ezek 32:3 is a clear allusion to the mythical combat between God and Chaos.
She identifies both the battle of Ba‌ʾlu with Yammu from CTA 2.4, and the
Enūma eliš as targets for the allusion. The strength of her argument lies in the
fact that the oracle against Tyre in Ezek 26–28, which directly precedes the sec-
tion against Egypt (Ezek 29–32), is replete with flood imagery, and it is likely
that Tyre is intentionally identified as a form of chaos.

57 Crouch and Strine, “YHWH’s Battle against Chaos in Ezekiel”; Crouch, “Ezekiel’s Oracles
against the Nations”; Crouch, “Ištar and the Motif of the Cosmological Warrior”; Strine,
Sworn Enemies: The Divine Oath, the Book of Ezekiel, and the Polemics of Exile.
58 Lawrence Boadt, Ezekiel’s Oracles Against Egypt: A Literary and Philological Study of
Ezekiel 29–32, BibOr 37 (Rome: Biblical Institute Press, 1980). Crouch also acknowledges
the work of John Day, God’s Conflict With the Dragon and the Sea: Echoes of a Canaanite
Myth in the Old Testament, COP 35 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985).
59 John Day, God’s Conflict, David Toshio Tsumura, Creation and Destruction: A Reappraisal
of the Chaoskampf Theory in the Old Testament (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2005);
David Toshio Tsumura, “The ‘Chaoskampf’ Motif in Ugaritiv and Hebrew Literatures,” in
Le Royaume d’Ougarit de la Crète à l’Euphrate: Nouveaux axes de recherché, ed. Jean-Marc
Michaud, Proche-Orient et Littérature Ougaritique 2 (Sherbrooke: GGC, 2007), 473–99,
and others have argued that the western Combat Myth tradition is not linked to creation
and is in this respect separate from the Mesopotamian Combat Myth tradition which
in Enūma eliš combines both aspects in Marduk’s defeat of Tiāmat. Carly L. Crouch,
“Made in the Image of God: The Creation of ‫אדם‬, the Commissioning of the King and the
Chaoskampf of Yhwh,” JANER 16 (2016): 1–21 has argued for a western Semitic connection
between the Chaoskampf and Creation, as can be seen in Gen 1 and Pss 8, 18 and 89.
60 Stökl

While the Tyre oracles and the Egypt oracles both show YHWH defeating
water-based chaos, I am not convinced by the argument that the two long
oracle sections against Tyre and Egypt are linked so closely to each other as to
form one larger oracle. In my view the parallels between Tyre’s fate in Ezek 27,
29 and Egypt’s fate in Ezek 31 and 32 are not sufficiently similar. Further, there
is no reason to assume that the allusions to the Combat Myth theme in both
sets of oracles is necessarily against a Chaoskampf associated with creation.
I agree with Crouch in the assessment that biblical authors could allude to a
Chaoskampf at creation but that does not mean that all such battles are auto-
matically to be read that way.
The other two key pericopes in Ezekiel in which YHWH uses a ‫ רׁשת‬are in
12:1–16 (v. 13) against Zedekiah and in 17:11–24 (v. 20) against Egypt. Regarding
Ezek 12:3 Crouch and Strine argue that Ezekiel is making the argument that
YHWH has replaced Marduk as the main god of Babylonia rather than Judah
here—which in turn means that YHWH’s counterpart on earth is no lon-
ger the king of Judah but the king of Babylon.60 Zedekiah is explicitly pun-
ished—for breaking an oath, so that the use of the net is entirely appropriate.
Additionally—although less relevant for Ezek 12 and 17, a deity could have
more than one king as their earthly counterpart.61 Presumably any member
of the Judean and Israelite elites in the eighth century BCE would have pon-
dered the question with regard to the Assyrian empire but also with regard
who really was YHWH’s counterpart—the king of Israel or the king of Judah.
However, the literary image that is used in Ezek 12:13 is that of the net and the

60 Crouch and Strine, “YHWH’s Battle against Chaos in Ezekiel.” Bernard F. Batto, “The
Combat Myth in Israelite Tradition Revisited,” in Creation and Chaos: A Reconsideration
of Hermann Gunkel’s Chaoskampf Hypothesis, ed. Jo-Ann Scurlock and Richard H. Beal
(Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2013), 217–36 (224–25) revives an idea by Naphtali
Tur-Sinai that Hebrew ‫ שפרה‬is a loaned form of Akkadian saparru. See also Naphtali
H. Tur-Sinai, The Book of Job: A New Commentary, rev. ed. (Jerusalem: Kiryath Sepher,
1967), 382–84, which would mean that this passage is also playing with the Combat Myth
tradition.
61 There are numerous cases of kings claiming the authority of local gods. For an explora-
tion of the issue, cf. Jonathan Stökl, “Divination as Warfare: The Use of Divination across
Borders,” in Divination, Politics and Ancient Near Eastern Empires, ed. Alan Lenzi and
Jonathan Stökl, ANEM 7 (Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature, 2014), 49–63. The clas-
sic case of gods commanding other kings is well made by J. J. M. Roberts, “Nebuchadnezzar
I’s Elamite Crisis in Theological Perspective,” in Essays on the Ancient Near East in Memory
of Jacob Joel Finkelstein, ed. Maria deJong Ellis, Memoirs of the Connecticut Academy of
Arts and Sciences 19 (Hamden, CT: Archon Books, 1977), 183–87.
Netting Marduk ? 61

snare which a skilful hunter uses to catch his prey, an altogether different use
of the same implement.62
Using Scott’s concept of hidden transcripts, Strine argues that far from
being a potential problem the ambiguity of Ezekiel’s intertext can be inter-
preted as an indication that Ezekiel is interacting as a subaltern with the
Babylonian elite text Enūma eliš.63 From that point of view, Ezekiel’s ambi-
guity would become part of the author(s)’s communicative strategy in speak-
ing clearly to their Judean/Jewish audience and at the same time having full
deniability if questioned by their Babylonian overlords. In this construction,
the relevant passages in the book of Ezekiel would have to have been writ-
ten during the sixth century BCE as there would not have been much need to
compete with Marduk as depicted in the Enūma eliš but with relevant—but
no longer extant—Zoroastrian texts.64 This argument creates a logical circle,
and one that uses its great weakness regarding the ambiguity of the intertext
as an apparent strength. It is clear that in Ezek 12, 17 and 32 YHWH is portrayed
as a divine hero and thus in competition with Marduk—and all other gods
who claim to have such great authority. However, this just follows the normal
ancient Near Eastern rhetorical and theological strategy by subordinate pow-
ers to see defeat—and loss of divine statues, etc., as the result of the power of
their own god.65 Thus, Ezekiel compares not just with Marduk as we find him
in the Enūma eliš but also with Ninurta, Ištar and all the other hero-gods who
have ever fought a Chaoskampf.66

62 See also Daniel I. Block, The Book of Ezekiel: Chapters 1–24, NICOT (Grand Rapids:
Eerdmans, 1997), 376–78, 547–48; Moshe Greenberg, Ezekiel 1–20: A New Translation with
Introduction and Commentary, AB 22 (New York: Doubleday, 1983), 214–16, 316–24; Walther
Zimmerli, Ezechiel 1–24, BKAT 13/1 (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1969),
266–67, 386–87. For images of the net used to catch humans see, e.g., Othmar Keel, The
Symbolism of the Biblical World: Ancient Near Eastern Iconography and the Book of Psalms,
trans. Timothy J. Hallett (London: SPCK, 1978), figures 110–111 (90). The Egyptian use of the
imagery in fig. 111 would suggest either that they have adopted the same language, or that
the imagery of catching humans in nets is not specific enough.
63 Strine, “Chaoskampf against Empire.”
64 One recent attempt to use later Zoroastrian texts for the study of the Hebrew Bible is Jason
M. Silverman, Persepolis and Jerusalem: Iranian Influence on the Apocalyptic Hermeneutic,
LHBOTS 558 (London: T&T Clark, 2012). While good arguments can be made for some of
the texts being considerably earlier than their attested earliest manuscripts, there is little
by way of confidence which text was written when and in what form. Considering the
kind of upheavals that Zoroastrianism underwent it is—I think—unlikely that the texts
remained entirely unchanged.
65 See above and Roberts, “Nebuchadnezzar I’s Elamite Crisis in Theological Perspective.”
66 For an editio minor see Lambert, Babylonian Creation Myths, 264.
62 Stökl

4 Conclusions

As we have seen, the usage of nets as weapons is widespread among deities and
humans alike in the ancient Near East. Among others, Ninurta and Marduk use
the weapon as part of their arsenal to win the battle against chaos. Most con-
spicuously, the net is far from being the only weapon, the flood being another
one. From the deity defeating chaos and establishing order, the imagery is
picked up by the Neo-Assyrian monarchs in their royal inscriptions to describe
their actions and the destruction they are unleashing on foreign lands. Maul,
Crouch and others have pointed out that it is likely that kings see themselves as
earthly agents of deities and therefore carrying out their part in the establish-
ment of order. Indeed, it is likely that the cluster of attestations of the net being
used as a weapon against perjurers and conspirators, as noted by Bodi, should
be linked to this aspect of establishing order, as usually the person using the
net is a deity directly and explicitly involved in some form of a Chaoskampf.67
In order confidently to identify a text as a hidden transcript, it is necessary
to know more about its precise setting and thus with which other texts it may
have been in conversation. While it seems possible that Ezek 32 was conceived
before the beginning of the Persian Empire the mentioning of the “sword of
Nebuchadnezzar” is by no means a fixed point in the dating of the text, as
the literary character Nebuchadnezzar is a magnet for many traditions, par-
ticularly at a much later date.68 The dating of Ezek 27–31 is even less clear.
Moreover, without the Tyre oracles, the major link between flood imagery and
net imagery and the various Mesopotamian combat myths is considerably
weakened.
Crouch, Strine and others have argued that Ezekiel is, in effect stating that
the king of Babylon is said to have become YHWH’s new king. In Ezekiel’s eyes,
the Babylonian king is strong and must therefore be acting on YHWH’s behalf.
According to these scholars, this requires that YHWH replace Marduk as the
king’s main deity. Even if we were to accept the previous line of reasoning, this

67 I cannot follow the logic in Crouch, “Ezekiel’s Oracles against the Nations,” 489, that the
concept of lex talionis is limited to non-royal circles. It seems to me that this phenomenon
is generally widespread and can be seen also in royal inscriptions.
68 See e.g., Jonathan Stökl, “Nebuchadnezzar: History, Memory and Myth-Making in the
Persian Period,” in Bringing the Past to the Present in the Late Persian and Early Hellenistic
Period: Images of Central Figures, ed. Ehud Ben Zvi and Diana Edelman (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 2013), 257–69; also Caroline Waerzegger’s contribution to this volume.
Because of the Babylonian involvement in Egypt, Zimmerli, Ezechiel 25–48, 767–73 thinks
that 568/67 BCE, Nebuchadnezzar’s campaign against Egypt, is a likely datum ad quem for
the oracle.
Netting Marduk ? 63

point appears to be problematic. Rather than restricting himself to one king

YHWH could easily have “taken” two kings, like in the days of old, when the
Northern Kingdom of Israel still existed. Thus, Ezekiel’s message need not be
anti-Babylonian but rather directed against those who say that YHWH was no
longer a force to be reconned with.
The—to me more appealing—alternative is to read Ezekiel as alluding to
a wider Combat Myth tradition of which the book thereby becomes a part.
It seems likely that educated Judeans in the Second temple period likely had
some access to wider ancient Near Eastern traditions and skilfully placed
their own writing in this wider context.69 It is tempting cautiously to see at
least some texts in the book of Ezekiel as the product of such groups, as I have
argued elsewhere.70
With regard to YHWH’s net in Ezek 13, 17 and 32, YHWH is claiming a role
elsewhere performed by Ninurta, Ištar, Ba‌ʾlu and Marduk. Judah’s god is defi-
nitely depicted as a hero, but not only as a newer, better Marduk. Instead he
continues the long ancient Near Eastern Combat Myth tradition. Like other
deities before him he becomes part of (or continues his involvement with) this
common tradition in which the strength of one’s deity was expression of one’s
own strength (whether real or imagined). Each individual textual example in
this tradition takes much that already exists and adds something new too. In
order to identify one specific version as the “donor” the cross-references have
to be stronger than a simple net.

69 Frahm, “Creation and the Divine Spirit,” strongly argues that the Enūma eliš would have
been known widely enough during this period. Interestingly, Crouch herself argues
against understanding Deuteronomy as a hidden polemic or hidden transcript because
Assyria is not explicitly mentioned in the text (Carly L. Crouch, Israel and the Assyrians:
Deuteronomy, the Succession Treaty of Esarhaddon, and the Nature of Subversion, ANEM
8 [Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature, 2014]). Presumably, as a hidden transcript
this would be precisely the strategy to adopt in order to hide one’s intentions from the
powerholders.
70 Jonathan Stökl, “ ‘A Youth without Blemish, Handsome, Proficient in All Wisdom,
Knowledgeable and Intelligent: Ezekiel’s Access to Babylonian Culture,” in Exile and
Return: The Babylonian Context, ed. Caroline Waerzeggers and Jonathan Stökl, BZAW
(Berlin: de Gruyter, 2015).
 CHAPTER 5

The Prayer of Nabonidus in the Light of Hellenistic

Babylonian Literature

Caroline Waerzeggers*

1 Introduction

Among the many surprises to emerge from Qumran in the mid-twentieth

century was a first-century BCE Aramaic manuscript that mentions Nabonidus,
the last independent king of Babylon who reigned from 556 to 539 BCE.1 The
manuscript was badly damaged but the few lines that could be reconstructed
struck a familiar chord. The Prayer of Nabonidus—as the text became known—
preserved historically accurate recollections of the Babylonian king, some five
hundred years after his death. This was remarkable because only indirect and
garbled memories of this king had been recognized in the biblical text (i.e.,
Daniel) so far.2 How did the Prayer’s authors get access to genuine informa-
tion about Nabonidus? It was quickly assumed that the Prayer must stand in
some connection to Babylonian traditions about Nabonidus, traditions that
ultimately go back on sixth-century stories and/or cuneiform texts. But how
should this connection be pictured in view of the cultural and historical dis-
tance between the Qumran community and the Babylonian precedents? This
problem remains unsolved despite the fact that, in the words of Matthias
Henze, the short text has come “[to] resembl[e] a well-plowed field with many
scholars having put their spade to it in search of new clues.”3 Recently, the
question of the text’s dependence on Babylonian sources has received renewed

* The research for this article was carried out within ERC StG project “BABYLON” (P241118).
1 4Q242; for a recent edition of the text see John J. Collins, “242. 4QPrayer of Nabonidus ar,”
in Qumran Cave 4.XVII: Parabiblical Texts, Part 3, ed. George J. Brooke et al., DJD 22 (Oxford:
Clarendon, 1996), 83–93.
2 Fritz Hommel, “Die Abfassungszeit des Buches Daniel und der Wahnsinn Nabonids,”
Theologisches Literaturblatt 23 (1902): 145–50; Sidney Smith, Babylonian Historical Texts
Relating to the Capture and Downfall of Babylon (London: Methuen, 1924), 36. Wolfram von
Soden, “Eine babylonische Volksüberlieferung in den Danielerzählungen,” ZAW 53 (1935):
81–89.
3 Matthias Henze, The Madness of King Nebuchadnezzar, JSJSup 61 (Leiden: Brill, 1999), 65.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���7 | doi ��.��63/9789004336919_006

Prayer of Nabonidus in Light of Hellenistic Babylonian Literature 65

attention, most notably from Carol Newsom and Reinhard Kratz.4 Both authors
assert that the Prayer displays familiarity with the Babylonian religio-political
and cuneiform literary climate that prevailed under Nabonidus and his Persian
successor and victor, Cyrus the Great, in the sixth century BCE.
In this contribution, I will argue that there is an alternative locus where
meaningful interconnections with Babylonian Nabonidus traditions exist.
This locus consists of cuneiform historical literature from the late Persian and
Hellenistic periods, known from epigraphic contexts in Babylon and Uruk. As
to the on-going discussion about Nabonidus’s appearance in Qumran, these
materials invite us to rethink models that assume centuries of transmission
through texts, memories, or both. Instead, these materials offer the possibility
of considering a more collateral, synchronic development—one that engaged
literary communities across regions.

2 Sixth-Century Precursors?

The extant manuscript of the Prayer of Nabonidus, though fragmentary, pres-

ents a prayer addressed by Nabonidus, the king of Babylon, to the Most High
God. The king finds himself in the Arabian desert town of Teima, where he
spent the last seven years suffering from an illness inflicted upon him as pun-
ishment for an unspecified sin. After praying in vain to the statues of false
gods, Nabonidus turns to the Most High God who forgives and cures him.
At the behest of a Jewish diviner, Nabonidus then writes down the story of
his conversion, resulting in the account, drafted in the grammatical first per-
son, contained in the manuscript.
Since its discovery in the mid-1950s, the Prayer has been regarded as the
missing link between two literary traditions that were already suspected of
being connected.5 Increasing access to cuneiform texts in the late nineteenth

4 Carol A. Newsom, “Why Nabonidus? Excavating Traditions from Qumran, the Hebrew
Bible, and Neo-Babylonian Sources,” in The Dead Sea Scrolls: Transmission of Traditions
and Production of Texts, ed. Sarianna Metso, Hindy Najman, and Eileen Schuller, STDJ 92
(Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2010), 57–79; idem, “Now You See Him, Now You Don’t: Nabonidus
in Jewish Memory,” in Remembering Biblical Figures in the Late Persian and Early Hellenistic
Periods: Social Memory and Imaginiation, ed. Diana V. Edelman and Ehud Ben Zvi (Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 2013), 270–82; Reinhard G. Kratz, “Nabonid in Qumran,” in Babylon:
Wissenskultur in Orient und Okzident, ed. Eva Cancik-Kirschbaum, Margarete van Ess, and
Joachim Marzahn, Topoi 1 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2011), 253–70 (263–64).
5 E.g., Józef T. Milik, “ ‘Prière de Nabonide’ et autres écrits d’un cycle de Daniel,” RB 63 (1956):
407–15; Collins, “242. 4QPrayer,” 86; Reinhard G. Kratz, Translatio Imperii: Untersuchungen zu
66 Waerzeggers

century and an improving understanding of Babylonian history had led to

a growing awareness that behind the figure of Nebuchadnezzar in the book
of Daniel lurks a garbled memory of Nabonidus. In chapter 5, for instance,
Belshazzar—historically the son of Nabonidus—is wrongly said to be the son
of Nebuchadnezzar. The episode in chapter 4, where Nebuchadnezzar roams
the wilderness for seven years before converting to the Most High with the
help of Daniel, reminded Assyriologists of Nabonidus’s self-imposed exile in
Teima and his exaltation of the moon god Sîn upon return—a sequence of
events known to them first from the Verse Account of Nabonidus, a sixth-
century BCE Babylonian poem about Nabonidus’s downfall published in
the 1920s, and then from the Harran Stele, a commemorative inscription of
Nabonidus discovered at about the same time as the Prayer.6 The Prayer con-
firmed not only that the name of Nabonidus had not been forgotten in Jewish
tradition, but that his memory was indeed connected to a tale of expulsion
and conversion, as in the episode of Nebuchadnezzar’s madness in Dan 4.
Moreover, in referring to the city of Teima, the Prayer offered correct informa-
tion about Nabonidus above and beyond what was known to the authors of
Daniel. The question arose which source(s) had supplied that information.
Meaningful connections have repeatedly been drawn between the Prayer
and a handful of well-known cuneiform texts dated to the time of Nabonidus’s
rule and his downfall: the Verse Account of Nabonidus, the Nabonidus Chronicle,
and especially the Harran Stele of Nabonidus.7 The last text is thought to exhibit
particularly close stylistic and thematic affinities to the later Jewish texts. As

den aramäischen Danielerzählungen und ihrem theologiegeschichtlichen Umfeld, WMANT 63

(Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1991), 99–111; Peter W. Flint, “The Daniel Tradition at
Qumran,” in Eschatology, Messianism and the Dead Sea Scrolls, ed. Craig A. Evans and Peter W.
Flint; Studies in the Dead Sea Scrolls and Related Literature 1 (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans,
1997), 41–60 (58); André Lemaire, “Nabonide et Gilgamesh: L’Araméen en Mésopotamie et à
Qoumrân,” in Aramaica Qumranica, ed. Katell Berthelot and Daniel Stökl Ben Ezra, STDJ 94
(Leiden: Brill, 2010), 125–55 (126–30).
6 For the Harran Stele’s latest edition, see Hanspeter Schaudig, Die Inschriften Nabonids von
Babylon und Kyros’ des Großen samt den in ihrem Umfeld enstandenen Tendenzschriften.
Textausgabe und Grammatik, AOAT 256 (Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 2001), 486–99. The first edi-
tion of the Verse Account was by Smith, Babylonian Historical Texts; for a more recent edition,
see Schaudig, Die Inschriften Nabonids, 563–78.
7 E.g., Rudolf Meyer, Das Gebet des Nabonids, Sitzungsberichte der Sächsischen Akademie
der Wissenschaften zu Leipzig 107/3 (Berlin: Akademie-Verlag, 1962), 53–81; Collins, “242.
4QPrayer,” 85–6; Florentino García Martínez, Qumran and Apocalyptic: Studies on the Aramaic
Texts from Qumran, STDJ 9 (Leiden: Brill, 1992), 130–32; Reinhard Kratz, “From Nabonidus to
Cyrus,” in Ideologies and Intercultural Phenomena, ed. Antonio Panaino and Giovanni Pettinato,
Melammu Symposia III (Milan: Università di Bologna, 2002), 143–56 (152); Kratz, “Nabonid
in Qumran,” 264–66; Newsom, “Why Nabonidus?” 67–79; idem, “Now You See Him,” 277–79.
Prayer of Nabonidus in Light of Hellenistic Babylonian Literature 67

connections can only be indirect, scholars also insist that original elements
remain as distant echoes in the Prayer and the book of Daniel, distorted by a
blurry, even dark and unknowable, process of transmission spanning centuries,
languages, geographies and cultures. Two broad paths of transmission have
been proposed. Some authors refer to a textual chain of transmission, one real-
ized through many stages of redaction. For instance, the Prayer of Nabonidus
is often said to rely on an older original than the Daniel stories because it has
more accurate and fuller detail than the garbled echoes contained in Daniel.8
The Prayer thus “occupies an intermediate place in the tradition between the
Babylonian accounts of a historical incident and the formation of the biblical
legend.”9 Other authors award a greater significance to the role of oral tradi-
tions and collective memory in bringing the cuneiform versions of the sixth
century down to the Jewish authors in the Hellenistic period.10
These views share the assumption that Babylonian precursors to the Qum-
ranic and Danielic texts are to be sought in the cuneiform text corpus of the
sixth century. Knowledge of these cuneiform traditions was such that specific
stylistic and conceptual elements, especially of the Harran Stele, were retained,
while the huge distance (temporal, linguistic, cultural) accounts for various
transformations and adaptations of these elements–including the transfer of
Nabonidus materials onto the persona of Nebuchadnezzar, the introduction
of the theme of madness or disease as an explanation for the king’s stay in Teima,
the conversion theme, and the role of the Jewish visionary in enabling that con-
version. In her recent contributions on the issue, Carol Newsom argued that
while the Nabonidus materials continued to be actively transformed by later
generations, their origins should be sought in debates taking place in the Jewish
exilic community of Babylonia at the time of Nabonidus, and that collective
memories of a public reading of the Harran Stele explain the affinities between
the Danielic and Qumranic traditions with this particular cuneiform text.11

3 Hellenistic Babylonian Literature

There are a number of reasons why sixth-century cuneiform texts might not
be the most relevant in a discussion of the Jewish Nabonidus traditions found

8 See the literature in n. 5 above. For a critique, see Andrew Steinmann, “The Chicken and
the Egg: A New Proposal for the Relationship between the Prayer of Nabonidus and the
Book of Daniel,” RevQ 20/80 (2002): 558–70.
9 Collins, “242. 4QPrayer,” 86.
10 Cf. Newsom, “Why Nabonidus”; idem, “Now You See Him.”
11 Newsom, “Why Nabonidus”; idem, “Now You See Him.”
68 Waerzeggers

in Daniel and at Qumran. At roughly the same time when these latter texts
were composed in Judea, Babylonian “historians” in southern Mesopotamia
engaged in a lively debate about the historical significance of this king and the
fall of Babylon to Cyrus in 539 BCE.12 This debate provides a roughly contem-
porary setting for contextualizing the (re-)activation of interest in this royal
figure within Jewish communities. I explicitly will not tackle in this contribu-
tion the crucial question of cultural contact that this suggestion raises, but I do
think that this challenge is not any more problematic than the one raised by
the current proposal of locating the starting point of the Jewish traditions in an
(intimate) acquaintance with Babylonian literary culture by the sixth-century
Judean exilic community.13
My argument is based on four observations. First, one of the cuneiform
texts that is named as a sixth-century source in the discussion, the Nabonidus
Chronicle, may not in fact date from the sixth century at all, but more likely
from roughly the Hellenistic period. Second, some of the putative sixth-cen-
tury models were still accessible in the fourth to second centuries BCE. More
importantly, these texts were not merely around, but were actively studied and
used by Hellenistic Babylonian authors. Among these texts figures the Harran
Stele, the most important Babylonian intertext identified in the discussion
about the Jewish Nabonidus tradition so far. In order to explain the similari-
ties between the text of the Harran Stele and the stories found in Daniel or
the Prayer, it is therefore unnecessary to hypothesize about Judean audiences
attending (undocumented) public readings of the text in the sixth century BCE
and the subsequent passing down of such recollections across generations. This
interlocutor was still read, consulted and talked about by Babylonians at the
time when the Jewish stories were written. Third, Nabonidus was a figure that
generated keen interest in Hellenistic Babylonia. The significance of his reign
in the longue-durée of Babylonian history was intensively debated. Fourth, in
this Babylonian debate we can find similar adaptive techniques, themes and
motives as in the Jewish Hellenistic stories about Nabonidus. In particular, it

12 The date of composition of these two texts is debated in biblical scholarship. The Prayer’s
manuscript has been dated to the first century BCE on paleographic grounds by Frank
Moore Cross, “Fragments of the Prayer of Nabonius,” IEJ 34 (1984): 260–64, but the com-
position is deemed to be slightly older. The final redaction of the Daniel stories is set in
the second century BCE but some of the materials may be late Persian in date, cf. John J.
Collins, Daniel (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1993), 35–37.
13 See, e.g., Mladen Popović, “Networks of Scholars: The Transmission of Astronomical and
Astrological Learning between Babylonians, Greeks and Jews,” in Ancient Jewish Sciences
and the History of Knowledge in Second Temple Literature, ed. Jonathan Ben-Dov and Seth
L. Sanders (New York: New York University Press, 2014), 151–91.
Prayer of Nabonidus in Light of Hellenistic Babylonian Literature 69

displays the same co-existence of texts that talk overtly about Nabonidus (as in
the Prayer) and texts that hide his identity beneath the mask of an earlier king
(as in the Daniel stories). Moreover, in this Hellenistic Babylonian corpus, the
theme of disease and divine punishment is also associated with the persona
of Nabonidus.
My first point relates to dating cuneiform historical literature. The
Nabonidus Chronicle is an important source in any discussion of Nabonidus’s
reign, including the one about the historicity of certain elements in the Jewish
texts.14 This chronicle is presented, in biblical as well as Assyriological schol-
arship, as a product of the sixth century BCE: either it is held to be an objec-
tive eye-witness report of events leading up to the demise of Nabonidus in
539 BCE, or it is thought to supply an ideological message written in support
of the new regime within living memory of Nabonidus’s reign.15 Either way,
the text is seen as a product of the time it talks about. However, the only sur-
viving manuscript of the text was found in library collections associated with
the Esagil temple of Babylon and dating mostly from the Hellenistic to the

14 The most recent editions of the text are Albert K. Grayson, Assyrian and Babylonian
Chronicles, TCS 5 (Locust Valley, NY: J. J. Augustin, 1975), no. 7; Jean-Jacques Glassner,
Mesopotamian Chronicles, SBLWAW 19 (Atlanta, GA: SBL, 2004), no. 28.
15 For the former opinion, see among many others Grayson, Assyrian and Babylonian
Chronicles, 12–13; Amélie Kuhrt, “Babylonia from Cyrus to Xerxes,” in Persia, Greece and
the Western Mediterranean c. 525 to 479 B.C., ed. John Boardman et al., vol. 4 of Cambridge
Ancient History, 2nd ed. (1988): 112–38 (120, 122); Paul-Alain Beaulieu, “Nabonidus the Mad
King: A Reconsideration of his Stelas from Harran and Babylon,” in Representations of
Political Power: Case Histories from Times of Change and Dissolving Order in the Ancient
Near East, ed. Marlies Heinz and Marian H. Feldman (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns,
2007), 137–66 (138); Amélie Kuhrt, “Cyrus the Great of Persia: Images and Realities,” in
idem, 169–91 (176); Amélie Kuhrt, The Persian Empire: A Corpus of Sources from the
Achaemenid Period (London: Routledge, 2007), 47; Matt Waters, “Cyrus and the Medes,”
in The World of Achaemenid Persia: History, Art and Society in Iran and the Ancient Near
East, ed. John Curtis and St. John Simpson (London: I. B. Tauris, 2010), 63–71 (69). For
the second opinion, see Wolfram von Soden, “Eine babylonische Volksüberlieferung von
Nabonid in den Danielerzählungen,” ZAW 53 (1935): 81–89 (82); idem, “Kyros und Nabonid:
Propaganda und Gegenpropaganda,” in Kunst, Kultur und Geschichte der Achämenidenzeit
und ihr Fortleben, ed. Heidemarie Koch and David N. Mackenzie, AMIE 10 (Berlin: Dietrich
Reimer, 1983), 61–68 (61); Kratz, “From Nabonidus to Cyrus,” 145; Stefan Zawadzki, “The
Portrait of Nabonidus and Cyrus in Their(?) Chronicle: When and Why the Present
Version Was Composed,” in Who was King? Who was not King? The Rulers and Ruled in
the Ancient Near East, ed. Petr Charvát and Petra Maříková Vlčková (Prague: Institute of
Archaeology of the Academy of Sciences of the Czech Republic, 2010), 142–54.
70 Waerzeggers

Parthian periods.16 This means that the surviving manuscript is between two
hundred and four hundred years younger than the events it talks about. Is it
a copy of a sixth-century original or is it a much later literary product? There
are a number of reasons why the latter option might be the more likely.17 The
text deploys a narrative structure that carries a suggestive contrast between
evaluations of Nabonidus’s reign and that of his opponent Cyrus; in that sense,
it seems more apt to describe the text as historical literature than as a “data-
base of facts.”18 Another reason to be cautious about a sixth-century origin of
the present version is that its language at times is inconsistent with this early
date, most strikingly in the use of the title “King of Parsu” for Cyrus.19 Most
importantly, the text should be placed within a larger body of historical writ-
ings produced in (the margins of) the late Babylonian Esagil temple by schol-
ars and priests associated to the institution.20 One of these scholars affiliated
to Esagil was Berossus (third century BCE).21 In his Greek history of Babylonia

16 These libraries were in active use between ca. 400 and 60 BCE, cf. Francis Joannès, “De
Babylone à Sumer: Le parcours intellectuel des lettrés de la Babylonie récente,” Revue
Historique 302/3 (2000): 693–717 (703). See for an extensive discussion of these libraries,
Philippe Clancier, Les bibliothèques en Babylonie dans la deuxième moitié du Ier millénaire
av. J.-C., AOAT 363 (Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 2009). On the provenance of the Nabonidus
Chronicle, see also Caroline Waerzeggers, “The Babylonian Chronicles: Classification and
Provenance,” JNES 71 (2012): 285–98 (288).
17 Caroline Waerzeggers, “Facts, Propaganda or History? Shaping Political Memory in the
Nabonidus Chronicle,” in Political Memory in and after the Persian Empire, ed. Jason M.
Silverman and Caroline Waerzeggers, SBLANeM 13 (Atlanta, GA: SBL, 2015), 95–124.
18 For the latter opinion, see Robartus J. van der Spek, “Berossus as a Babylonian Chronicler
and Greek Historian,” in Studies in Ancient Near Eastern World View and Society Presented
to Marten Stol on the Occasion of his 65th Birthday, ed. Robartus J. van der Spek (Bethesda,
MD: CDL, 2007), 277–318 (280).
19 Peter R. Bedford, Temple Restoration in Early Achaemenid Judah (Leiden: Brill, 2001),
120–21; Matt Waters, “Cyrus and the Achaemenids,” Iran 42 (2004): 91–101; Daniel T. Potts,
“Cyrus the Great and the Kingdom of Anshan,” in Birth of the Persian Empire, vol. 1 of
The Idea of Iran, ed. Vesta S. Curtis and Sarah Stewart (London: I. B. Tauris, 2005), 7–28;
Matt Waters, “Parsumaš, Šušan, and Cyrus,” in Elam and Persia, ed. Javier Álvarez-Mon
and Mark B. Garrison (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2011), 285–96.
20 Cf. Caroline Waerzeggers, “Babylonian Kingship in the Persian Period: Performance and
Reception,” in Exile and Return: The Babylonian Context, ed. Jonathan Stökl and Caroline
Waerzeggers, BZAW 478 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2015), 181–222.
21 On Berossus, see Geert De Breucker, “Berossos and the Mesopotamian Temple as Centre
of Knowledge during the Hellenistic Period,” in Learned Antiquity: Scholarship and Society
in the Near-East, the Greco-Roman World, and the Early Medieval West, ed. Alasdair A.
MacDonald et al., Groningen Studies in Cultural Change 5 (Leuven: Peeters, 2003), 13–23;
Paul-Alain Beaulieu, “Berossus on Late Babylonian Historiography,” in Special Issue of
Prayer of Nabonidus in Light of Hellenistic Babylonian Literature 71

(Babyloniaca), he used a variety of cuneiform sources including myths, literary

texts, and chronographic materials such as king lists and chronicles. He also
read and studied original inscriptions of past kings that were still around in
Babylon in his lifetime. As shown by Bert van der Spek, his discussion of the
palace of Nebuchadnezzar II was largely based on evidence extracted from
original building inscriptions of that king.22 This shows that ancient inscrip-
tions were part of the active archive of Babylonian scholars who wrote about
their past in the fourth century and later. It is quite possible that the Nabonidus
Chronicle constitutes a piece of historical literature produced from inquiry,
somewhat similar to how Berossus compiled his work, through a combination
of original research and received texts. An inquisitive Babylonian could have
gathered much of what the chronicler knew about Nabonidus from original
inscriptions.23 For instance, the account of the campaign to Hume may very
well rely on the report of this same event in the Babylon Stele of Nabonidus.24
That stele was erected near the Ishtar gate of Babylon where visitors could have
read it in the Hellenistic period. This is supported by the fact that Berossus too
is known to have used this stele as a source for his Babyloniaca.25
The same holds true for the Harran Stele, which brings me to my second
point. The circulation of this text is always assumed to have been limited to a
sixth-century audience, giving rise to the problematic question of how its mes-
sage might have been preserved across centuries. For instance, Carol Newsom

Oriental Studies: A Collection of Papers on Ancient Civilizations of Western Asia, Asia Minor
and North Africa, ed. Yushu Gong and Yiyi Chen (Beijing: University of Beijing, 2006),
116–49; van der Spek, “Berossus as a Babylonian Chronicler”; Geert De Breucker, “Berossos
Between Tradition and Innovation,” in The Oxford Handbook of Cuneiform Culture, ed.
Karen Radner and Eleanor Robson (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 637–57; Geert
De Breucker, “De Babyloniaca van Berossos” (Ph.D. diss., Rijksuniversiteit Groningen,
2012); Geert De Breucker, “Berossos: His Life and His Work,” in The World of Berossos,
ed. Johannes Haubold et al., CLeO 5 (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2013), 15–28; Johannes
Haubold, Greece and Mesopotamia: Dialogues in Literature (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 2013); Johannes Haubold, “Berossus,” in The Romance Between Greece
and the East, ed. Tim Whitmarsh and Stuart Thomson (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 2013), 107–16.
22 Van der Spek, “Berossus as a Babylonian Chronicler.”
23 The argument is further developed in Waerzeggers, “Facts, Propaganda, or History.”
24 Schaudig, Die Inschriften Nabonids, 514–29.
25 Most clearly in his account of Nabonidus’s rise to power; cf. Stanley M. Burstein, The
Babyloniaca of Berossus, Sources from the Ancient Near East 1/5 (Malibu, CA: Undena
Publications, 1978), 28; William Gallagher, “The Istanbul Stela of Nabonidus,” WZKM 86
(1996): 119–26 (123); Beaulieu, “Berossus,” 141; De Breucker, “De Babyloniaca,” 110, 556;
Haubold, Greece and Mesopotamia, 82.
72 Waerzeggers

in her recent articles on the subject, hypothesized that elements of the stele’s
narrative structure and contents entered the collective memory of the Judean
exilic community following a public reading of the monument in the sixth
century, and that these elements resurfaced centuries later, adapted, trans-
formed and elaborated in the stories of Daniel and at Qumran. Such a long and
uncertain process of transmission is, however, unnecessary. A copy of the stele
was re-used during renovation works at the temple of Larsa in the Hellenistic
period—that is, at roughly the time when Jewish authors began to cultivate
an interest in the matter.26 That the stele was not just used as an architectural
element, but also actively read and consulted by Babylonian scholars, is borne
out by the fact that some of the stele’s content seems to have been re-worked
in the Royal Chronicle (also known as the Nabonidus Epic), a literary text about
the reign of Nabonidus that was found in Hellenistic libraries of (or near) the
Esagil temple of Babylon, just like the Nabonidus Chronicle.27
These last two texts lead on to a third observation that is relevant for con-
textualizing Jewish Nabonidus literature. Epigraphic finds from Babylon and
Uruk, dating roughly from the fourth to second centuries BCE, reveal that
Babylonian “historians” were keenly interested in the Nabonidus–Cyrus epi-
sode. Besides the Nabonidus and Religious Chronicle, several works emerged
in this late period that explored that earlier watershed moment of Babylonian
history from different angles and in different formats—in focused discus-
sions (the Chronicle about Shulgi, an untitled literary fragment) as well as in
integrated histories (the Babyloniaca, the Dynastic Prophecy).28 These liter-

26 Schaudig, Die Inschriften Nabonids, 532.

27 Edited by Schaudig, Die Inschriften Nabonids, 591–95; cf. Wilfred G. Lambert, “A New
Source for the Reign of Nabonidus,” AfO 22 (1969): 1–8. The passage in question relates to
the city of Dadan during Nabonidus’s stay in the Arabian desert (v 20), which is shared by
the Harran Stele (2 I 25).
28 Chronicle about Shulgi: Antoine Cavigneaux, “Shulgi, Nabonide, et les Grecs,” in An
Experienced Scribe Who Neglects Nothing: Ancient Near Eastern Studies in Honor of Jacob
Klein, ed. Yitzhak Sefati et al. (Bethesda, MD: CDL, 2005), 63–72. Untitled literary frag-
ment about Nabonidus: Schaudig, Die Inschriften Nabonids, 474–75 (text 2.20). Dynastic
Prophecy: Albert K. Grayson, Babylonian Historical-Literary Texts, Toronto Semitic Texts
and Studies 3 (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1975), 28–37; Robartus J. van der Spek,
“Darius III, Alexander the Great and Babylonian Scholarship,” in A Persian Perspective:
Essays in Memory of Heleen Sancisi-Weerdenburg, ed. Wouter F. M. Henkelman and
Amélie Kuhrt, Achaemenid History 13 (Leiden: Nederlands Instituut voor het Nabije
Oosten, 2003), 289–346 (311–24); Matthew Neujahr, Predicting the Past in the Ancient Near
East: Mantic Historiography in Ancient Mesopotamia, Judah, and the Mediterranean World,
BJS 354 (Providence, RI: Brown Judaic Studies, 2012), 58–63.
Prayer of Nabonidus in Light of Hellenistic Babylonian Literature 73

ary texts are the remains of a lively “debate” on the significance and nature
of Nabonidus’s reign and the Persian conquest within the long history of
Babylonian kingship. The use of the label “debate” is justified, in my opinion,
for three reasons. First, although most of these texts derive from the milieu of
the Esagil temple of Babylon (ca. the fourth to the second centuries BCE), the
Chronicle about Shulgi is from Uruk and was discovered in a private archive
(251 BCE).29 Apart from providing a more secure temporal anchorage than the
materials from Babylon, this information is important because it shows that
interest in Nabonidus was shared across urban and social spaces. Second, the
appraisal of Nabonidus’s reign in these texts is all but univocal. The authors
of the Dynastic Prophecy took a negative view on the matter; the author of
the Royal Chronicle espoused a positive view on Nabonidus’s reign, and the
author of the untitled literary text seems to present a more neutral view.
Third, the authors used different genres to formulate and shape their ideas.
The Nabonidus Chronicle combines narrative elements with the enumera-
tive style of a traditional Babylonian chronicle.30 The Royal Chronicle has also
been classified as an “epic” by modern scholars.31 The untitled literary text is
written in the genre of a traditional building inscription. And in the Dynastic
Prophecy the discussion about Nabonidus is integrated in a long prediction
of future events. Taken together, these various features lead to the conclusion
that there was a lively debate among Babylonian scholars in the Hellenistic
age about the value and significance of Nabonidus’s reign in the longue-
durée of Babylonian history. The voices that contributed to this debate were
located in different cities and social contexts, they disagreed with each other,
and they creatively adapted and transformed existing sources into new texts.

4 Jewish Nabonidus Literature

How is this relevant for understanding Jewish Nabonidus literature? The fact
that Nabonidus was a topic of debate among Babylonian authors in the late
Persian and Hellenistic periods, at the same time when Jewish authors culti-
vated an interest in this historical figure, invites us to rethink models that seek

29 Cavigneaux, “Shulgi, Nabonide, et les Grecs.”

30 Waerzeggers, “Facts, Propaganda or History.”
31 Peter Machinist and Hayim Tadmor, “Heavenly Wisdom,” in The Tablet and the Scroll: Near
Eastern Studies in Honor of William W. Hallo, ed. Mark E. Cohen, Daniel C. Snell and David
B. Weisberg (Bethesda, MD: CDL, 1993), 146–51 (150).
74 Waerzeggers

to situate the conception of the Jewish traditions in the sixth century BCE.32
A contemporary setting of cultural contact, in the fourth to second centuries
BCE, is at least as likely a scenario as long drawn-out processes of remem-
brance and transmission across centuries. By adjusting the time frame to con-
temporary horizons in the late Persian and Hellenistic periods, we obtain a
larger literary landscape of possible intertexts. On the one hand, established
affinities of Daniel and the Prayer with the Harran Stele, the Verse Account and
the Nabonidus Chronicle can be retained, as these texts were part of the active
archive of Babylonian authors at that time.33 Explaining these affinities, then,
does not require bridging centuries, but connecting living literatures. On the
other hand, the adjustment brings new compositions into purview that may
be relevant for contextualizing the Jewish texts, the Chronicle about Shulgi
most strikingly so. Antoine Cavigneaux and Paul-Alain Beaulieu already drew
attention to the remarkable resemblances between this cuneiform text, Dan 4
and the Prayer of Nabonidus.34 The incipit identifies it as an exaltation of the
god Anu, addressed by its anonymous author in the first person singular. The
text then goes on to describe the reign of Shulgi, a Sumerian king of the late
third millennium BCE, in terms that are easily recognized as a covert refer-
ence to Nabonidus. Shulgi is accused of wrongly favoring the god Sîn over the
supreme god Anu, and for this he is punished with a skin disease. After an
unfortunate break in the text, a diviner is mentioned who apparently helps
Shulgi to recover from his illness. The logic of the text requires that along with
his recovery Shulgi converted to the authority of Anu, but this passage is lost.
It will be clear that several of the familiar elements of the Jewish Nabonidus
literature are present in this text: the use of the first person singular, the inflic-
tion of a disease as divine punishment for adoration of a false god, the inter-
vention of a diviner in the healing or conversion process, and the covert but
easily recognizable allusions to another king than the one explicitly talked
about. Why the author of the chronicle chose Shulgi for this purpose is not so

32 Paul-Alain Beaulieu came to a similar conclusion with regard to the motif of Nabonidus’s
madness—a later, secondary development in his opinion (Beaulieu, “Nabonidus the Mad
King,” 139).
33 The Chronicle and the Stele were discussed above. The manuscript of the Verse Account is
located in a collection of the British Museum (80–11–12) that holds significant amounts of
material produced by Esagil’s learned community between ca. 400 and 60 BCE (Mathieu
Ossendrijver, personal communication), but overall the collection is mixed in content
and also includes texts from other sites, cf. Julian E. Reade, “Introduction,” in Tablets
from Sippar 1, ed. Erle Leichty, vol. 6 of Catalogue of the Babylonian Tablets in the British
Museum (London: British Museum, 1986), xx–xxi.
34 Cavigneaux, “Shulgi, Nabonide, et les Grecs,” 71; Beaulieu, “Nabonidus the Mad King,” 138–39.
Prayer of Nabonidus in Light of Hellenistic Babylonian Literature 75

difficult to guess. Like Nabonidus, Shulgi was a divisive figure in Mesopotamian

historiography—on the one hand, remembered as a great conqueror and
empire-builder but, on the other, detested for his hubris and divine aspiration.
To the author they were comparable figures of history and for that reason he
could merge them, while the reader will still have been able to recognize both.
It is even possible, as Antoine Cavigneaux pointed out, that a third referent—
living at the time of the text’s production in the mid-third century BCE—was
covertly alluded to.35
Biblical scholars have always found it puzzling that the name of Nabonidus
should have been preserved in Qumran at a time when the memory of this
king had already been taken over by the figure of Nebuchadnezzar in the book
of Daniel. The Chronicle about Shulgi, however, shows that covert and open
traditions about Nabonidus existed side by side in Babylonia as well. There,
this situation had nothing to do with collective forgetting or with a “phenom-
enon common in folk literature” of replacing a lesser-known name with a more
famous one; it was rather an erudite attempt to explain certain occurrences in
history on the basis of patterns in existing historiographical traditions.36

5 Conclusion

It is possible that Jewish tales about Nabonidus emerged from distant memo-
ries of historical events, readings, or performances that happened in the sixth
century BCE—picked up by the exilic community and passed down genera-
tions for centuries. But it may not be the most straightforward scenario, given
that Babylonian scholars engaged in a lively debate about Nabonidus at the
very moment when the Jewish stories must have emerged—i.e., in the fourth
to the second centuries BCE. Moreover, this debate exhibits some technical
features—such as the hidden identity of Nabonidus behind the towering figure
of a king from an earlier past—that bring the Babylonian and the Jewish tradi-
tions remarkably close to each other, not only in time but also in expression. The
shared interest in Nabonidus by communities from the Levant to Uruk suggests
a connected literary field and common uses of the past.

35 Cavigneaux, “Shulgi, Nabonide, et les Grecs,” 72.

36 Susan Ackerman, “The Prayer of Nabonidus, Elijah on Mount Carmel, and the
Development of Monotheism in Israel,” in The Echoes of Many Texts: Reflections on Jewish
and Christian Traditions. Essays in Honor of Lou H. Silberman, ed. William G. Dever and
J. Edward Wright, BJS 313 (Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press, 1997), 51–65 (esp. 54).
 CHAPTER 6

Levels of Meaning and Textual Polysemy in

Akkadian and Hebrew Exegetical Texts

Uri Gabbay

1 Background

Akkadian commentaries are known from about one thousand cuneiform tab-
lets, stemming from various cities from the eighth century BCE up to the first
century BCE.1 The base texts (i.e., the subjects of the commentaries) were the
“canonical” texts of ancient Mesopotamia, copied during the first millennium
BCE in Mesopotamia with a minimal amount of variation. Moreover, many of
the commentaries deal with texts that, according to other sources, were con-
sidered to have been composed by the gods themselves. Most of the commen-
taries are on the very large corpus of divinatory texts, attributed to the god Ea
(or to the gods Šamaš and Adad in the case of extispicy texts).2 Although some
of the commentary texts employ far-fetched etymologies and wordplay, these
are usually part of an authentic attempt to understand difficult passages in
the text and to harmonize specific texts with other texts or perceptions.
In a recent article I discussed the Akkadian adjective or adverb kayyān(u),
“regular, real, actual,” used in commentaries to indicate the literal, contextual
meaning of a word or phrase, in contrast to a more expository interpretation
of a text.3 I suggested connecting this term to the Hebrew terms waddai and

1 For a recent comprehensive study of Akkadian commentaries, see Eckart Frahm, Babylonian
and Assyrian Text Commentaries: Origins of Interpretation, GMTR 5 (Münster: Ugarit Verlag,
2011). For a short overview of Mesopotamian commentaries, see Uri Gabbay, “Akkadian
Commentaries from Ancient Mesopotamia and Their Relation to Early Hebrew Exegesis,”
DSD 19 (2012): 267–312. I would like to thank Yakir Paz for discussions and references as
well as Gene McGarry for correcting my English. In the period between the completion of
this article and its publication my book on commentaries has appeared: Uri Gabbay, The
Exegetical Terminology of Akkadian Commentaries, CHANE 82 (Leiden: Brill, 2016). Some of
the issues raised in this article are also discussed and revised in the book.
2 Gabbay, “Akkadian Commentaries,” 274–78.
3 Uri Gabbay, “Actual Sense and Scriptural Intention: Literal Meaning and Its Terminology
in Akkadian and Hebrew Commentaries,” in Encounters by the Rivers of Babylon: Scholarly
Conversations between Jews, Iranians, and Babylonians in Antiquity, ed. Uri Gabbay and Shai
Secunda, TSAJ 30 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2014), 335–71.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���7 | doi ��.��63/9789004336919_007

Levels of Meaning and Textual Polysemy 77

mamash, which are used similarly in Tannaitic halakic midrash. In this article I
will discuss the implications of the “regular” and expository interpretations for
the issue of textual polysemy. I will first summarize my earlier discussion and
review the hermeneutic significance of these Akkadian and Hebrew terms,
providing one example for each term (2). In the next section (3), I discuss the
distinction between expository and “real, regular” explanation in the wider
context of multiple interpretations and polysemy. Lastly, in the conclusion (4),
I will discuss the question of Babylonian influence on early Hebrew exegesis.

2 Literal vs. Nonliteral Interpretations4

The term kayyān(u), “regular, real, actual,” is attested several times in com-
mentaries dating to the late Achaemenid period or the early Seleucid period.5
The term, a predicative adjective or an adverb, usually appears as the first of
several interpretations of a word or phrase and indicates its literal meaning in
the commented text. The term may occur immediately after the citation of the
commented text, or it may follow a clarification of or variation on the com-
mented form; when it appears, this latter element is usually the infinitive of a
verbal form in the commented text.6 Finally, The term kayyān(u) is undeclined,
probably always appearing in the masculine singular, regardless of the gender
and number of the word or phrase to which it refers.
I will demonstrate the usage of this term with an oft-cited example.7 The
large medical diagnostic series of ancient Mesopotamia begins with a tablet
that deals with ominous predictions based on observations made by the healer
on his way to the patient. For example:

If (the healer) sees a baked brick (Akkadian: agurru) (on his way to the
patient)—that patient will die.8

4 For a full treatment, see Gabbay, “Actual Sense and Scriptural Intention.”
5 For a list of attestations, see Gabbay, “Actual Sense and Scriptural Intention,” 337 n. 6.
6 See, e.g., Egbert von Weiher, Spätbabylonische Texte aus Uruk, Teil III, ADFU 12 (Berlin: Gebr.
Mann, 1988), 187, no. 99:44—rakābu kayyān(u) “to mount–actual.” For other attestations, see
Gabbay, “Actual Sense and Scriptural Intention,” 344 n. 43.
7 See Frahm, Babylonian and Assyrian Text Commentaries, 38; Irving L. Finkel, “Remarks on
Cuneiform Scholarship and the Babylonian Talmud,” in Encounters by the Rivers of Babylon:
Scholarly Conversations between Jews, Iranians, and Babylonians in Antiquity, ed. Uri Gabbay
and Shai Secunda, TSAJ 30 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2014), 311–13.
8 Andrew R. George, “Babylonian Texts from the Folios of Sidney Smith, Part Two: Prognostic
and Diagnostic Omens, Tablet I,” RA 85 (1991): 142–43.
78 Gabbay

A commentary on a tablet from Uruk dating to the late Achaemenid period

cites this omen and offers several interpretations:

‘If he sees a baked brick (agurru)—the patient will die’—real (kayyān(u));

secondly: (agurru, the word for ‘baked brick,’ refers to the healer seeing) a
man who returned from the river ordeal, (because the element) a (from
the word agurru means) ‘water,’ (and the element) gur (from the word
agurru means) ‘return’ (i.e., a-gur[ru] refers to the one who returns from
the water, from the river ordeal); thirdly: (agurru refers to the healer see-
ing) a pregnant woman . . . (because the element) a (from the word agurru
means) ‘son,’ (and the element) gur (from the word agurru means) ‘carry’
(i.e., a-gur[ru] refers to she who carries a son, a pregnant woman).9

The commentary presents three interpretations of the observation of an

agurru, which is the Akkadian word for a baked brick. The first interpretation,
to which I will return shortly, acknowledges that the word agurru refers to a
baked brick. The second and third interpretations, however, seek to explain
the word in a way that is directly related to the death of the patient. Both inter-
pretations do so by notariqon, breaking agurru into its phonetic components
and reading them as allusions to phenomena connected to the creation of new
life—that is, the birth mentioned in the third interpretation—or the granting
of a new life, in the case of the person who survived the river ordeal according
to the second interpretation. These interpretations seek to connect the omi-
nous observation in the protasis of the commented text to the prediction in
the apodosis, probably by assuming that the “new lives” revealed by the word
agurru through exegesis were substitutes for the near-death of the patient.10 It
is important to note that these interpretations do not assign a symbolic mean-
ing to the baked brick by an analysis of the noun agurru through notariqon.11
Rather, the interpretations assume that agurru itself refers directly to a preg-
nant woman or a man returning from the river ordeal.
But the first interpretation simply notes that the “baked brick” in the omen
is nothing other (Akkadian: kayyān(u)) than a baked brick. This statement is

9 Hermann Hunger, Spätbabylonische Texte aus Uruk. Teil I, Ausgrabungen der Deutschen
Forschungsgemeinschaft in Uruk-Warka 9 (Berlin: Gebr. Mann, 1976), 35, no. 27:r.21–23;
George, “Babylonian Texts,” 146–47 (the texts in parentheses are my own clarifications
and are not part of the original commentary).
10 George, “Babylonian Texts,” 154; Finkel, “Remarks on Cuneiform Scholarship,” 312–13.
11 It should be noted that in other commentaries this is the case: the commented lemma is
read literally, and the signified object is interpreted as a symbol of something else.
Levels of Meaning and Textual Polysemy 79

significant, because a literal reading of the word agurru as “baked brick” yields
a protasis that has nothing to do with the death of the patient in the apodo-
sis. Furthermore, a literal reading of agurru makes the literal meaning of the
entire line difficult: since baked bricks were a usual construction material in
Mesopotamia, the omen would effectively predict the death of every patient
visited by a healer, who could scarcely avoid seeing a baked brick on his way
to the patient.12 Nevertheless, the commentary notes this as a documented or
possible interpretation of the text, even though it causes problems in under-
standing the rationale behind the text as a whole.
The Akkadian term kayyān(u) does not relate to the character of interpreta-
tion or the type of meaning. Although the adjective kayyān(u) is usually trans-
lated “regular,” it does not relate here to a regular interpretation or meaning,
as opposed to a non-regular, figurative, allegorical, or even hidden meaning
(see below). The basic meaning of the adjective kayyānu is indeed “regular.”
However, kayyānu does not simply refer to something regularly occurring,
but—derived from the verb kânu (Semitic: kwn), “to be firm, real, loyal,
honest”—has at least three semantic components that are integral to its mean-
ing: “firm,” “true, real,” and “actual.” These last two semantic components of the
adjective kayyānu are especially attested in the seventh century BCE onwards,
the period in which the commentaries were written. Thus, in literary texts
outside the genre of commentaries, the adjective kayyānu (and its by-form
kayyamānu)13 can refer to a “true, real” or “loyal” person on the one hand, and
to an “actual, real” lion or the “actual, real” concrete foundation of a temple,
on the other.14 In light of this last semantic component, the term kayyān(u)
in commentaries, then, is used to indicate the difference between the “actual,
real,” object lying behind the word, and that which is not this object, when the
text is read or interpreted differently.
To return to our example, the ancient commentator assembled various
interpretations of the omen in an effort to understand the text. He pointed out
that the literal meaning is a possibility, even though this literal meaning does
not have an underlying logic in the context of the omen. It is important to note
that the commentator was not asserting that the text has a “regular” or obvious
meaning and a hidden, cryptic meaning. This point will be discussed in more
detail below.

12 See Frahm, Babylonian and Assyrian Text Commentaries, 38.

13 See Gabbay, “Actual Sense and Scriptural Intention,” 343 n. 35.
14 See discussion and examples in Gabbay, “Actual Sense and Scriptural Intention,” 342–44.
80 Gabbay

The term kayyān(u) may be compared to the Hebrew terms waddai and
mamash, which occur in Tannaitic halakic midrash.15 The word mamash liter-
ally means “concrete, actual,” and refers to the concrete essence of the object
signified by the word in the text.16 The following commentary from Sifra dem-
onstrates its use:

“In order that future generations may know that I made [the Israelite
people] live in booths” (Lev 23:43)—Rabbi Eliezer says: they were actual
booths (sukkot mamash). Rabbi Akiva says: the booths were the clouds
of glory.17

I will not deal here with the complex transmission history of this interpreta-
tion, which appears in other sources as well,18 but rather simply focus on the
term mamash. The first interpretation, by Rabbi Eliezer, notes that the booths
mentioned in the verse refer indeed to actual (mamash) booths, while the
second interpretation, by Rabbi Akiva, understands the word “booths” here—
in a way that seems to go beyond its literal or actual sense—as the clouds of
glory. It should be noted, however, that the two interpretations here are not
just literal and figurative, as it might seem at first sight. As noted by Sagiv,19 the
clouds are indeed mentioned as protecting the Israelites in the desert already
in several attestations in the Bible (e.g., Exod 40:34–38; Num 14:14). Especially
revealing is Isa 4:5–6, which states that the clouds of glory will form a protect-
ing booth. Thus, the two interpretations do not reflect a literal and a figurative
interpretation, but rather two traditions of understanding what these booths
actually were.

15 Wilhelm Bacher, Die exegetische Terminologie der Jüdischen Traditionsliteratur. Erster Teil:
Die Bibelexegetische Terminologie der Tannaiten (Hildesheim: Georg Olms, 1965), 48–49,
105. I wish to thank Ishay Rosen-Zvi for sharing with me his ongoing work on Midrashic
Terminology. For a thorough introduction to this corpus, see Menahem I. Kahana, “The
Halakhic Midrashim,” in part 2 of The Literature of the Sages, ed. Shmuel Safrai et al.
(Assen: Van Gorcum, 2006), 3–105.
16 A full discussion will be found in the forthcoming work of Rosen-Zvi on Midrashic
Terminology.
17 Sifra Emor, 12:4, cf. Weiss, 103. I have made some changes to the translation of Jacob
Neusner, Sifra: An Analytical Translation, 3 vols., BJS 138 (Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press,
1998), 3:270.
18 See Y. Sagiv, “The Holydays Portion in the Sifra: A Proto-type Computerized Edition and
an Inquiry on One Chapter” (Master’s thesis, Hebrew University, Jerusalem 2004), 55–67
[Hebrew].
19 Sagiv, “The Holydays Portion,” 55–60.
Levels of Meaning and Textual Polysemy 81

The term mamash is paralleled by the term waddai, and the two terms may
be used interchangeably in identical or similar texts appearing in different
sources.20 This term, an adverb or an undeclined predicative adjective,21 is
used to distinguish between a literal understanding of the commented text
and another explanation. When waddai is used in reference to the literal
meaning of a word, it can be translated as “actual,” but semantically waddai has
another component: “real, true,” as seen in other, nonexegetical occurrences of
the adjective waddai, where it can refer to a “true” or “loyal” person.22 In early
midrash, “real” does not refer to the “true” interpretation versus the “non-true,”
more elaborative interpretation, but to “real” in its sense as “actual,” referring to
the actual object signified by the word, in contrast to alternative meanings exe-
getically attributed to the signifier. The following example demonstrates how
waddai can be used to distinguish between a straightforward reading of a term
and a reading achieved through a hermeneutical technique, such as notariqon.
Exodus 2:22 states that Gershom, the son of Moses and Zippora, was born in a
foreign (nokhriyah) land. The commentary in the Mekhilta of Rabbi Yishmael
gives two opinions on how to understand the word nokhriyah:

“Foreign” (nokhriya)–Rabbi Joshua says: it was a foreign land to him—

real (waddai). Rabbi Elazar the Modiite says: in a land foreign to the Lord
(that is, nokhriya indicating nekhar, “foreign” and yah, “Lord”) . . .23

In the first interpretation, waddai indicates that “foreign” is the standard signi-
fied of the adjective nokhriya. The second interpretation, however, construes
the signifier as “foreign to the Lord,” nekhar yah, and hence changes the signi-
fied as well. Here too, the interpretations are not just literal and nonliteral,
since it is indeed not clear what is foreign, or to whom it is foreign. Is “for-
eign land” an allusion to Midian or to Egypt? Does it refer to a land foreign

20 A full discussion will be found in the forthcoming work of Rosen-Zvi on Midrashic

Terminology.
21 For the syntax of waddai, see Menachem Zvi Kaddari, “wadai (bewadai) in M(ishnaic)
H(ebrew),” in Studies in Bible and the Ancient Near East Presented to Samuel E.
Loewenstamm on His Seventieth Birthday, ed. Yitshak Avishur and Joshua Blau, 2 vols.
(Jerusalem: E. Rubinstein, 1978), 1:383–95 [Hebrew].
22 Cf. Gen. Rab., wa-yigash 93:20 (Theodor-Albeck, 1167), where Judah is described as a reli-
able person using the adjective waddai. Cf. Nachum M. Bronsnick, “The Term ‘Vaday,’ and
Its Usage as a Metaphor for Hashem,” Ha-ma‘ayan 49 (2008–20099): 22, n. 8 [Hebrew].
23 Mekhilta de-Rabbi Yishma‘el, Amalek 1 (Horowitz-Rabin, 191). I have made some changes
to the translation of Jacob Neusner, Mekhilta according to Rabbi Ishmael: An Analytical
Translation, 2 vols., BJS 154 (Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press 1988), 2:24.
82 Gabbay

to Moses himself or to all the Israelites? The notariqon, although suggesting a

new reading, is an authentic attempt to understand what “foreign” means in
this context.
In the examples above, mamash and waddai have been applied to a noun
and an adjective. When mamash or waddai is used in the interpretation of
a verb, the form of the verb may be simplified or altered. The verbal form to
which mamash or waddai refers can also occur in the commentary as a verbal
noun, in the sense of a gerund.24
To sum up, both mamash and waddai signify the literal meaning of a term
through their relationship to the semantic notion of “actual” and “real,” and
they are usually used to distinguish a literal interpretation from a nonliteral
interpretation. Their syntactical role is usually adverbial or adjectival (predica-
tive); they are not declined according to gender and number. Both terms may
refer to the commented phrase or word itself or, in the case of a verbal form, to
a paraphrased verb or verbal noun.25
The use of the terms mamash and waddai shares many parallels with the
use of kayyān(u) in Akkadian. The basic hermeneutical use of kayyān(u)
marks a literal interpretation in contrast to another, non-standard interpreta-
tion, and this is also the basic function of the terms waddai and mamash. In
both cases the literal interpretation is not necessarily the interpretation that
best fits the context; the nonliteral interpretation may give a more satisfac-
tory reading. Semantically, the meaning “actual, real” shared by both Hebrew
terms parallels the Akkadian term, which, as demonstrated above, does not
mean only “regular” but also “actual, real.” Especially illuminating is the mean-
ing of the term waddai, which in other contexts may signify “true, loyal,” like
Akkadian kayyān(u). In commentaries, both the Hebrew and Akkadian terms
can refer to the concreteness of a signified object—the baked brick in the
Akkadian case or the booths in the Hebrew case, in the examples above—and
not necessarily to a “literal” interpretation of the signifier. The terms can also
be used to distinguish between two readings of the signifier itself, as seen in
the Akkadian example where agurru, “baked brick,” was reread as a pregnant
woman or a man returning from the river ordeal, and in the example from
Sifra where nokhriya, “foreign,” was reread as nekhar-yah, “foreign to the Lord.”
As noted above, kayyān(u) appears after a citation as an adverb or undeclined

24 E.g., Mekhilta de-Rabbi Shim‘on bar Yohai 23:5 (Epstein-Melamed, 215): ki tifga‘ (Exod
23:4) → pegi‘a mamash; Sifra, be-huqqotai 2:6 (Weiss, 112): ve-’avadtem (Lev 26:38) → ’ovdan
mamash; Sifra, sheratzim 10:1 (Weiss, 56): yamut (Lev 11:39) → mitah waddai.
25 A full discussion can be found in the forthcoming work of Rosen-Zvi on Midrashic
Terminology.
Levels of Meaning and Textual Polysemy 83

predicative adjective, at times following the infinitive of the verbal form in the
commented text (which in Akkadian can act nominally as a gerund as well),
and other times alone. Likewise, mamash and waddai appear after a quotation
as adverbs or as undeclined predicative adjectives, sometimes with a simplified
or generalized verbal form (occasionally the verbal noun acting as a gerund),
and sometimes alone, following the commented word or an entire phrase.
In my opinion, the Hebrew and Akkadian terms (and the phenomena they
represent) are related; specifically, the exegetical use of the Hebrew terms
waddai and mamash has been influenced by the use of the Akkadian term
kayyān(u); the Hebrew words may be calque translations of the Akkadian
word. It is possible that two separate societies would independently develop
concepts of literal versus nonliteral interpretations. But that their exegetical
terms for distinguishing between them should be semantically, syntactically,
and morphologically similar, if not identical, and serve the same function and
role, is not likely in my view without some cultural contact.26

3 Multiple Interpretations: Simultaneous or Exclusive?

In the rabbinic occurrences discussed above, the literal, or “actual, real” inter-
pretation and the nonliteral, “non-actual, non-real” interpretation were pre-
sented as the competing views of two different schools.27 The “booths” in
question are either conventional booths, according to one opinion, or “booths
of glory,” according to another; the interpretations are mutually exclusive and
not simultaneously valid ways of reading the text (at least originally). What is
the status of the “actual” versus the “non-actual” interpretation in the cunei-
form example? In Assyriological scholarship, multiple interpretations of an
omen recorded in a commentary are usually understood as simultaneously
valid ways of understanding a polysemous text. For example, Andrew George
notes the following in his edition of the commentary:

26 Sacha Stern kindly referred me to the phrase keyni matnita (< ken hi’ matnita), “thus is
the Mishna,” appearing in the Palestinian Talmud; cf. Jaacov Epstein, Introduction to
the Mishnaic Text, 3rd ed., 2 vols. (Jerusalem: Magness Press, 2001), 1:439–595 [Hebrew];
A. Godlberg, “ ‘Kini matnita’—perush o hagaha,” in Sha‘arei Lashon: Studies in Hebrew,
Aramaic and Jewish Languages Presented to Moshe Bar-Asher, 3 vols., ed. Aharon Maman,
Steven Fassberg, and Yohanan Breuer (Jerusalem: Bialik Institute, 2007), 2:1–6 [Hebrew].
Although this phrase uses the root kwn (as in Akkadian kayyān(u)), it is uncertain whether
these terms should be connected.
27 For the schools in halakic midrash, see Kahana, “The Halakhic Midrashim,” 17–39.
84 Gabbay

[I]t appears that the commentator’s lexical speculation on the syllables a

and gur provides three variant observations, all of which can be expected
to yield the same fatal prognosis as the brick. In this way the scope of
the text is widened by extrapolating prognoses from portents not actu-
ally recorded in it. . . . There is evidence that the sort of hermeneutic
ingenuity brought to bear on the brick . . . was recognized as lying in stark
contrast to what was considered the “normal” reading of the text. The
key word here is the term kayyānu, “regular” . . . The commentator first
accepts the brick for what it is. This is, as he reports, the “normal” read-
ing of the text . . . The three variant observations extracted from the brick
through etymological speculation are, by inference, not normal; that is to
say, they are achieved cryptically.28

In George’s opinion, the commentator has listed three equally valid interpreta-
tions of the omen. In contrast to George, I do not think that the commenta-
tor’s intention is to extrapolate prognoses from the text by providing a series
of speculative cryptic interpretations that coexist alongside the omen’s basic,
literal, regular meaning. As demonstrated above, the nonliteral interpreta-
tions of agurru reflect an attempt to tackle a real difficulty posed by the literal
meaning of the text: the literal meaning cannot be valid, and so an alterna-
tive interpretation must be proposed. Consequently, I do not see the com-
mentary as evidence for an ancient understanding of the text as having two
simultaneously valid levels of meaning, “normal” and cryptic. Rather, I see the
commentary as documenting the study of the omen by recording several inter-
pretations—each solving one issue but raising another difficulty—that were
most likely provided by more than one scholar, as in the examples from Sifra.
This leads me to a discussion of the status of multiple interpretations in
general in Mesopotamia. Here as well, the Hebrew case serves as an instructive
parallel, and here, too, the exegetical terminology may provide some support.
Usually, in Akkadian commentaries, the first interpretation is introduced with
no designation, followed by šanîš, “secondly,” for the second interpretation.
If other interpretations exist they are usually introduced by šalšiš, “thirdly,”
rebîš, “fourthly,” and so forth (but see further below). What does “secondly”
refer to? Another valid interpretation of a polysemous text, at times a way of
extrapolating a hidden meaning? Or a second source for an explanation, from
a documented or at least potential source? A conclusive answer is not possible,
but an examination of the term šanîš outside the corpus of commentaries may
be instructive.

28 George, “Babylonian Texts,” 155.

Levels of Meaning and Textual Polysemy 85

The large canonical divinatory corpus of Mesopotamia includes many

omens that have variants, usually in the apodosis. Often, in the first millen-
nium BCE, this is simply indicated by a Glossenkeil, i.e., a simple colon-like
double impression of the stylus. But when these omens are cited in commen-
taries or in divinatory reports to the Assyrian king, the variant is sometimes
introduced with šanîš, “secondly,” or “alternatively.”29 What does this term
signify here? It may, like the Glossenkeil, simply introduce a variant reading
recorded by the compiler of the text. Over time, however, these variant read-
ings came to be considered integral parts of the canonical omen entry, and
thus šanîš was seen as introducing an “additional” rather than an “alternative”
reading. Indeed, sometimes commentaries address variants in a text, explain-
ing why each of them occurs, thus seeing both variants as integral parts of the
text and not as two sources for one text.30
However, other texts make clear that šanîš indeed refers to an awareness
of two sources for a single text; this may reflect the actual process of copying,
since scribes consulted several sources when preparing new tablets. Two tab-
lets from Nineveh containing an incantation against the demoness Lamaštu
exhibit two variant verbal forms with the term šanîš between them, clearly
indicating the documentation of variants: “she came up—alternatively: she
comes out—from the marshes.”31 Similarly, in a medical text, where different
amounts of certain ingredients are recorded in a pharmaceutical recipe, šanîš
appears between them, not as an indication that two treatments are possible
(although the variants may have been interpreted as such), but rather as a
reflection of the compilation of the text from different sources.32 This is dem-
onstrated by a very similar but more detailed formulation, šanîš ša pī tuppi

29 See, e.g., George, “Babylonian Texts,” 146; Hermann Hunger, Astrological Reports to
Assyrian Kings, SAA 8 (Helsinki: Helsinki University Press, 1992), 279, no. 502:r.6; note the
more common use of KI.MIN in the same text, line r.1, and cf. the remark in CAD š/I, 397a.
30 See Gabbay, “Akkadian Commentaries from Ancient Mesopotamia,” 292–93.
31 See Walter Farber, Lamaštu: An Edition of the Canonical Series of Lamaštu Incantations
and Rituals and Related Texts from the Second and First Millennia B.C., Mesopotamian
Civilizations 17 (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2014), 82, 154–55 (I:104), cf. the note
on p. 210.
32 B AM V, 430 iii 34', 431 iii' 38. See also a ritual text that begins with a conditional sen-
tence, where the term šanîš indicates two variant details in the protasis: Tzvi Abusch and
Daniel Schwemer, Corpus of Mesopotamian Anti-Witchcraft Rituals: Volume One, Studies
in Ancient Magic and Divination 8 (Leiden: Brill, 2011), 138 and 144, no. 7.6.7:2,4. Note also
in a literary text, where šanîš is translated by Lambert as “variant.” Wilfred G. Lambert,
Babylonian Wisdom Literature (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1960), 102–03 (cf. the note
on p. 314, which connects the line to omen literature).
86 Gabbay

šanî, “alternatively, according to a second/different tablet,” clearly referring to

an alternative source, that occurs on three tablets from Nineveh in magical-
medical contexts identifying variant ingredients used in treatment,33 and on
a Neo-Babylonian tablet from Ur, where the phrase introduces an alternative
ritual accompanying the recitation of an incantation, surely alluding to a sec-
ond source.34
Coming back to the Akkadian commentaries, is it possible to demonstrate
that when šanîš introduces an interpretation, it simply indicates that the inter-
pretation derives from an alternative source, and not that it is one of two or
more valid interpretations of a text?
A few commentaries demonstrate an attempt to distinguish between the use
of šanîš to introduce variant readings and its use to introduce alternative inter-
pretations. An astronomical commentary from Seleucid Babylon cites various
lines from the astronomical series Enūma-Anu-Enlil.35 In this text, when two
textual variants, or two texts describing the same phenomenon, are cited, the
term šanîš is used to distinguish between them,36 but the different interpreta-
tions given to the texts are designated as ša pî šanî, “second oral source,”37 as
well as ša pî šalši, “third oral source.”38 In this case, while the variant addressed
in the commentary is indicated by the neutral term šanîš, the different inter-
pretations are clearly ascribed to different oral sources; the interpretations are
not a series of theoretical speculations, nor do they record multiple levels of
meaning in the text. In my view, this is an explicit formulation of a phenome-
non that occurs also when šanîš is used alone to mark different interpretations.
Other commentaries also refer to multiple interpretations as reflecting a
diversity of sources, and not a diversity of meanings coinciding in one text. Thus,
as in the example given above where the sources for different interpretations

33 Anais Schuster-Brandis, Steine als Schutz- und Heilmittel: Untersuchung zu ihrer

Verwendung in der Beschwörungskunst Mesopotamiens, AOAT 46 (Münster: Ugarit-Verlag,
2008), 376 (A II: 2; with parallels).
34 O. R. Gurney, “A Tablet of Incantations against Slander,” Iraq 22 (1960): 224:21. In this con-
text, note also that diviners are instructed—using a similar phrase, tuppi šanîmma, “a
second tablet”—to look up omens in more than one source for a correct prediction; see
A. Leo Oppenheim, “A Babylonian Diviner’s Manual,” JNES 33 (1974): 200:48 (contra the
translation on 205 n. 32).
35 Erica Reiner, “No. 71: Commentary on Enūma Anu Enlil,” in Cuneiform Texts in the Metro­
politan Museum of Art, vol. 2: Literary and Scholastic Texts of the First Millennium B.C., ed.
Ira Spar and Wilfred G. Lambert (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, 2005), 285–86.
36 Ibid., lines 3’, 6’, 9’, r.1, 4, 5, 6, 8, 9, 10, 18.
37 Ibid., lines 4’, 10’, 11’, r.2, 3, 6, 7, 9, 11, 13, 15, 16, 18.
38 Ibid., line r.11 (see p. 287).
Levels of Meaning and Textual Polysemy 87

were attributed to oral lore, a commentary from the Neo-Assyrian period notes
that an alternative interpretation is according to “an oral source from a second
scholar” (ša pī ummâni šanê).39 In other cases, the source is attributed to writ-
ten lore—a “second tablet,” as in the non-exegetical occurrences noted above.
Thus, a commentary on extispicy from the Neo-Assyrian period introduces an
alternative interpretation with the phrase “secondly, in a second tablet” (šanîš
ina tuppi šanîmma).40 Similarly, in other commentaries from this period an
almost identical phrase appears after an interpretation: “from a second tablet”
(ša tuppi šanî, ša libbi tuppi šanîmma).41
Still other commentaries assign an interpretation without variants to an oral
source by appending a note stating that “(it is) oral lore.”42 In this respect, one
should remember that the standard native designation for commentaries is
ṣâtu u šūt pî, the first word (ṣâtu) referring to written lexical correspondences,
and the second (šūt pî, plural of ša pî, “oral source”) referring to the oral sources
of the commentary.43
Another indication that the content of a commentary derives from a
source is the use of the particle mā before an interpretation, found in some
commentaries dating to the Neo-Assyrian period.44 The particle mā is a typi-
cal indicator of direct speech in the Neo-Assyrian dialect.45 Thus, the particle
introduces the interpretation as if it were the “speech” of the source for the
interpretation. In one case, an extispicy commentary from Nineveh pres-
ents an interpretation in the form of a dialogue between a scholar and a

39 Wilfred G. Lambert, “An Address of Marduk to the Demons. New Fragments,” Archiv für
Orientforschung 19 (1959–1960): 118. Note that this remark occurs after an interpretation
that includes šanîš, where two alternatives are given.
40 Ulla Susanne Koch, Secrets of Extispicy: The Chapter Multābiltu of the Babylonian Extispicy
Series and Nisirti baruti Texts mainly from Aššurbanipal’s Library, AOAT 326 (Münster:
Ugarit Verlag, 2005), 239–40, nos. 25:23–25.
41 Koch, Secrets of Extispicy, 310, no. 33: r.41 (cf. 250, no. 62:92); Wilfred G. Lambert, Babylonian
Creation Myths, Mesopotamian Civilizations 16 (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2013),
134:109–110.
42 See references in Frahm, Babylonian and Assyrian Text Commentaries, 44 nn. 168, 169, 171.
See also Robert D. Biggs, “An Esoteric Babylonian Commentary,” Revue d’Assyriologie 62
(1968): 54:18.
43 Frahm, Babylonian and Assyrian Text Commentaries, 43–45.
44 Cf. Frahm, Babylonian and Assyrian Text Commentaries, 110, n. 571.
45 Cf. Jaakko Hämeen-Anttila, A Sketch of Neo-Assyrian Grammar, SAAS 13 (Helsinki:
University of Helsinki, 2000), 133; also note the possible use of mā to introduce the speech
of a translator, see Simo Parpola, Letters from Assyrian Scholars to the Kings Esarhaddon
and Assurbanipal. Part II: Commentary and Appendices, AOAT 5/2 (Kevelaer: Butzon &
Bercker, 1983), 153.
88 Gabbay

student, and mā introduces the exegetical question raised by the teacher.46

Following this, another interpretation is presented, again using the parti-
cle mā, but this interpretation is not explicitly framed as spoken directly by
the scholar.47 In a commentary to the composition “Marduk’s Address to the
Demons” from Assur, many explanations are preceded by mā, including cases
where a second explanation is introduced with either šanîš or ša pī ummâni
šanê, “an oral source from a second scholar,” as discussed above.48
To sum up, the compilation of multiple interpretations in Akkadian com-
mentaries is not in and of itself evidence that a text was regarded as poly-
semous (although this does not indicate that the concept of polysemy was
absent in Mesopotamia; see below). Rather, such compilations record a variety
of interpretations of a given text postulated in various sources. It is true that
the gathering of these interpretations into one text, the commentary, may have
fostered the perception that the commented text was polysemous, since none
of the interpretations is singled out as correct, but this was not the intention of
the compiler of the commentary.
A similar phenomenon is found in rabbinic exegesis, where various views,
often attributed to specific individuals or schools, are presented as alternative
interpretations of a biblical verse, as in the examples presented above. Again,
such compilations of alternative interpretations may suggest that the verse
can be understood in multiple ways, but the motive of the compiler was to col-
lect the various documented interpretations given to a verse.49

46 Ulla Sussanne Koch, Babylonian Liver Omens: The Chapters Manzāzu, Padānu and
Pān tākalti of the Babylonian Extispicy Series mainly from Aššurbanipal’s Library,
Carsten Niebuhr Institute of Near Eastern Studies Publications 25 (Copenhagen:
The Carsten Niebuhr Institute, 2000), 136, no. 19:26.
47 Koch, Babylonian Liver Omens, 137, no. 19:27.
48 Other commentaries in which mā occurs are Rochberg-Halton, Aspects of Babylonian
Celestial Divination, 226:12(?), 22, r.3’; KAR 94, passim; Frahm, Babylonian and Assyrian
Text Commentaries, 385–86; Erica Reiner and David Pingree, Babylonian Planetary Omens,
Part Two: Enūma Anu Enlil, Tablets 50–51, Bibliotheca Mesopotamica 2/2 (Malibu, CA:
Undena Publications, 1981), 42, III.28b–c, 29a. Note that some of the commentary tablets
using mā may originally have had an identical archival context; see Frahm, Babylonian
and Assyrian Text Commentaries, 269–70.
49 According to some scholars, the act of compilation may have led quite early to a percep-
tion of the biblical text as polysemous, or indeed may have coincided with the perception
of polysemy. For the question of polysemy in early rabbinic sources, see Marc Hirshman,
“Aggadic Midrash,” in part 2 of The Literature of the Sages, ed. Shmuel Safrai et al. (Assen:
Royal Van Gorcum, 2006), 118–20; Shlomo Naeh, “ ‘Aseh libkha hadrei hadarim: ‘Iyun nosaf
be-divrei hazal ‘al ha-mahloqot,” in Mehuyavut yehudit mithadeshet: ‘Al ‘olamo ve-haguto
shel David Hartman, ed. Avi Sagi and Zvi Zohar, 2 vols. (Tel-Aviv: Hakibbutz Hameuhad,
Levels of Meaning and Textual Polysemy 89

Rabbinic sources may also include anonymous alternative interpretations,

as do the Akkadian commentaries. They are introduced by the phrase davar
aḥer, literally “an alternative speech,” unattributed to any specific scholar. This
phrase is sometimes understood as a reference to a different hermeneutic tech-
nique, a way of extrapolating another meaning from a biblical verse. However,
this is not the case in early halakic midrash. As demonstrated by Abraham
Goldberg, davar aḥer in these early sources usually introduces an interpreta-
tion that can be found in a different source. Specifically, when the phrase davar
aḥer occurs in a midrash attributed to the school of Rabbi Akiva, it marks an
interpretation elsewhere attributed to the opposing school of Rabbi Ishmael,
and vice versa.50
Is there any relationship between the terms šanîš and davar aḥer on the
semantic as well as the functional level?51 At first glance they seem to be unre-
lated, since Hebrew davar aḥer refers to an “alternative” interpretation, and
Akkadian šanîš refers to a “second” interpretation (while šalšiš is used for
a third). However, it is likely that šanîš usually introduced an alternative or
rival interpretation, not the second of two valid interpretations; šalšiš simply
indicates an additional alternative interpretation.52 In some (admittedly rare)
cases šanîš is used to introduce each of several variant interpretations, even
when the series includes four or (perhaps) five interpretations. In such cases
šanîš clearly marks alternative interpretations.53

2001), 2:851–75; Daniel Boyarin, Border Lines: The Partition of Judaeo-Christianity

(Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2004), 151–201; Steven Fraade, “Rabbinic
Polysemy and Pluralism Revisited: Between Praxis and Thematization,” AJS Review 31
(2007): 1–40.
50 Abraham Goldberg, “Leshonot ‘davar aḥer’ be-midreshei ha-halakha,” in Studies in
Rabbinic Literature, Bible, and Jewish History, ed. Yitzhak Gilat, Haim Levine, and Zvi Meir
Rabinowitz (Ramat Gan: Bar-Ilan University, 1982), 99–107. Nevertheless, as noted by
Goldberg, this does not exclude a few occurrences of davar aḥer that refer to alternative
interpretations attributed to the same school (see, 100 n. 7; 106).
51 For function, see Frahm, Babylonian and Assyrian Text Commentaries, 378 n. 1812.
52 Thus AHw, 1164a, which understands šanîš in commentaries and variants as “otherwise,
or” (as opposed to a different šanîš, in other contexts, which is understood as “secondly”).
CAD Š/I, 386–87, translates both “a second time” and “differently, otherwise, or” in the
same entry of šanîš, referring to the verb “to do again, to do for a second time,” but pre-
senting the occurrences referring to variants and alternative interpretations under “dif-
ferently, otherwise.” Note that Akkadian šanû (from which šanîš is derived) can mean not
only “second” but also “different”; AHw, 1164b and 1165b, raises the possibility that šanû I
(“second”) and II (“other”) are identical.
53 See Miguel Civil, ed., Ea A = nâqu, Aa A = nâqu with Their Forerunners and Related Texts,
with the collaboration of Margaret W. Green and Wilfred G. Lambert, MSL 14 (Rome:
90 Gabbay

Supporting the hypothesis that šanîš could be connected to davar aḥer is

the fact that Akkadian šanû, “second,” is indeed translated by a form of aḥer,
“other,” in Aramaic. An inscription from Seleucid Uruk identifies the dignitary
who was in charge of restoring parts of the Rēš Temple of the god Anu in Uruk:
“Anu-uballiṭ, whose second name (ša šumšu šanû) is Kephalon.”54 A series of
bricks from the Irigal temple in the same city bears an Aramaic inscription
naming the same person, using Aramaic ʾḥrn for šanû: ʾnʾblṭ z[y š]mh ’ḥrn
qplwn.55 In fact, a phrase similar to ša šumšu šanû, namely šanîš šumšu,56 is
used to indicate variants in textual context in a similar way to šanîš.57 Note also
the simple use of šanû or ša šanî.58 Thus, it would not be surprising if davar

Pontificium Institutum Biblicum, 1979), 506:11–12 (dated to the mid-fifth to mid-fourth

century BCE Nippur); see also Frahm, Babylonian and Assyrian Text Commentaries, 248;
Sally Freedman, If a City Is Set on a Height: The Akkadian Omen Series Shumma Alu ina
mele Shakin, 2 vols., OPSNKF 19 (Philadelphia: The University of Pennsylvania Museum,
2006),73–74:11–15, r.7. This last text is probably from Babylon, at the end of the second
century BCE. See Frahm, Babylonian and Assyrian Text Commentaries, 197, 307–309. Note
that the discussed commentary was part of a sequence that also included parchment
scrolls, see below with n. 65. Interestingly, another commentary written by the same
scribe (or his son), enumerates a third interpretation as šalšiš, “thirdly.” Irving L. Finkel,
“No. 69: Explanatory Commentary on a List of Materia Medica,” in Cuneiform Texts in the
Metropolitan Museum of Art, vol. 2: Literary and Scholastic Texts of the First Millennium
B.C., ed. Ira Spar and Wilfred G. Lambert (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, 2005),
280–81, no. 69:7.
54 See Adam Falkenstein, Topographie von Uruk, I: Uruk zur Seleukidenzeit, ADFU 3 (Leipzig:
Harrassowitz, 1941), 6; L. T. Doty, “Nikarchos and Kephalon,” in A Scientific Humanist:
Studies in Memory of Abraham Sachs, ed. Erle Leichty, Maria Dej Ellis, and Pamela Gerardi
(Philadelphia: The University Museum, 1988), 97.
55 See R. A. Bowman, “Anu-uballiṭ-Kefalon,” AJSL 56 (1939): 231–33; Falkenstein, Topographie
von Uruk, 31.
56 Hunger, Spätbabylonische Texte, 63, no. 54:7’; Koch, Secrets of Extispicy, 270, no. 29:9.
57 These are probably related to šanû šumšu, introducing different omens dealing with the
same subject in extispicy commentaries; see Koch, Babylonian Liver Omens, 135, no. 19:18
and 425, no. 85, iv:2’; Koch, Secrets of Extispicy, 241, no. 25:31, and passim in extispicy com-
mentaries. For the Old Babylonian predecessors for this, see Abraham Winitzer, “Writing
and Mesopotamian Divination: The Case of Alternative Interpretation,” JCS 63 (2011):
77–94.
58 Cf. Frahm, Babylonian and Assyrian Text Commentaries, 60 n. 271. For references see Koch,
Secrets of Extispicy, 392–93, no. 59:5, 10; Reiner, “No. 70: Medical Commentary,” 284, no.
70:2; Freedman, If a City Is Set on a Height, 73:8; F. N. H. Al-Rawi and A. R. George, “Enūma
Anu Enlil XIV and Other Early Astronomical Tablets,” Archiv für Orientforschung 38/39
(1991/92): 64:4, 13, 20; CT 51, 136:14 (cf. Frahm, Babylonian and Assyrian Text Commentaries,
105); perhaps Hunger, Astrological Reports to Assyrian Kings, SAA 8 (Helsinki: Helsinki
Levels of Meaning and Textual Polysemy 91

aḥer corresponds to Akkadian šanîš (and other forms using the adjective šanû)
not only functionally but lexically as well.
To sum up, when Akkadian and Hebrew exegetical texts present multiple
interpretations, as a rule they are not recording levels of meaning in the com-
mented text; rather, they are documenting various explanations of the text pro-
posed by different sources. As demonstrated, this parallel between Babylonian
and Jewish scholarly practice may actually reflect cultural contact if the terms
šanîš and davar aḥer are connected, although in my opinion the evidence for
this is not as strong as the evidence for a connection between the terms
for literal meaning, kayyān(u) and mamash and waddai, discussed above.
The recognition that the Akkadian commentaries record a variety of opin-
ions on the meaning of a text, rather than various levels of meaning con-
tained in the text, does not mean that the concept of polysemy was unknown
in ancient Mesopotamia. The Mesopotamian ideographic writing system,
polysemous by nature, makes it possible to attribute a special meaning to a
written word, in addition to its signified object.59 Such exegesis appears not
only in commentaries but also in expository translations from Sumerian to
Akkadian, which do not necessarily replace the literal or contextual meaning
of a word or phrase, but rather add to it another meaning, owing to the polyse-
mous nature of cuneiform writing.60 But this is not the principle at work when
multiple interpretations are listed in Akkadian commentaries. In the case of
Hebrew midrash the case is more complex, but as noted above, here too the
basic meaning of davar aḥer does not necessarily imply a polysemous text,

University Press, 1992), 201, no. 355:r.4’. Note that these forms occasionally occur in the
same tablets that also use šanîš.
59 See Frahm, Babylonian and Assyrian Text Commentaries, 39–40, 63–64.
60 See Stephen J. Lieberman, “A Mesopotamian Background for the So-Called Aggadic
‘Measures’ of Biblical Hermeneutics?” Hebrew Union College Annual 58 (1987): 179–83.
For levels of meaning seen in Akkadian translations of Sumerian texts, see Stefan
Maul, “Küchensumerisch oder hohe Kunst der Exegese? Überlegungen zur Bewertung
akkadischer Interlinearübersetzungen von Emesal-Texten,” in Ana Šadî Labnāni lū allik.
Beiträge zu Altorientalischen und Mittelmeerischen Kulturen: Festschrift für Wolfgang
Röllig, ed. Beate Pongratz-Leisen, Hartmut Kühne, and Paolo Xella, AOAT 247 (Kevelaer:
Neukirchener Verlag, 1997), 253–67; Stefan Maul, “Das Wort im Worte: Orthographie und
Etymologie als hermeneutische Verfahren babylonischer Gelehrter,” in Commentaries—
Kommentare, ed. Glen W. Most, Aporemata 4 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck-Ruprecht,
1999), 1–18; Uri Gabbay, “Deciphering Cuneiform Texts through Modern and Ancient
Conceptions of Literal Meaning,” in Le sens littéral des Écritures, ed. Oliver-Thomas Venard
(Paris: Les Éditions du Cerf, 2009), 161–69.
92 Gabbay

although it does not exclude the possiblilty that the text was perceived as such
(see above).

4 Conclusion

In this article I hope to have demonstrated two propositions. First, Akkadian

and early Hebrew exegesis have much in common, both in the way they pres-
ent multiple interpretations and in the way they distinguish between literal
and nonliteral interpretations. Second, these phenomena are indicated with
similar terminology. While one may argue that a phenomenological similarity
is not sufficient to establish cultural contact, the use of similar terminology to
describe the phenomena points in my opinion towards contact rather than
coincidence.
The natural question that arises is how, when, and where such contact
between Akkadian and Hebrew exegesis could have occurred, and unfortu-
nately, I have no good answer for this. There are a few hypothetical scenarios
for this transmission of knowledge. It could have taken place in Mesopotamia
already during the Neo-Babylonian period or the early Achaemenid period, in
the first generations of the exile before the return to Zion; in this scenario, the
new exegetical practices circulated orally or in writing among Jewish scholars
for several centuries before they first appear in the extant halakic midrash.
However, recent study of this period suggests that this is an unlikely scenario,
since the Babylonian elite of this period appears to have been a closed society.61
Nevertheless, this option should still be considered in my view, since other tex-
tual corpora do demonstrate contact in this period,62 and since sporadic schol-
arly contact may still have occurred in this period. A second possibility is that
this transfer of knowledge took place in Mesopotamia later, during the late
Achaemenid period and the Seleucid and Arsacid periods,63 closer to the time

61 Cf. the contribution of Caroline Waerzeggers in this volume.

62 E.g., the Babylonian influences on the book of Ezekiel; see Abraham Winitzer, “Assyriology
and Jewish Studies in Tel Aviv: Ezekiel among the Babylonian literati,” in Encounters by
the Rivers of Babylon: Scholarly Conversations between Jews, Iranians, and Babylonians
in Antiquity, ed. Uri Gabbay and Shai Secunda, TSAJ 30 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2014),
163–216.
63 For various opinions on how long cuneiform texts (or at least ancient Babylonian tradi-
tion) continued to circulate in Mesopotamia, see Mark J. Geller, “The Last Wedge,” ZA 87
(1997): 43–95, and Aage Westenholz, “The Graeco-Babyloniaca Once Again,” ZA 97 (2007):
278–80.
Levels of Meaning and Textual Polysemy 93

when the terms surface in halakic midrash; in this scenario, the terminology
would have been brought from Babylonia to Palestine in texts or by traveling
scholars during these periods, i.e., in the last centuries BCE. A third possibility,
related to the previous one, also assumes contact at a relatively late date, but
posits that these terms circulated for a long while in Babylonian Jewish schools
before they were brought to Palestine in the first centuries BCE by scholars
who migrated from Babylonia, such as Hillel.64 Yet, all these suggestions, even if
historically possible, are entirely hypothetical. There is no evidence to suggest
how this connection occurred. Perhaps noteworthy is the Babylonian practice
of writing commentaries and omens on parchment, known from colophons
dating to the last centuries BCE,65 which may have played some role in the
transmission of the Babylonian exegetical tradition to Judean scholars, espe-
cially if the commentaries were written in an alphabetic script.66 Nevertheless,
this transmission need not have been mediated by written texts and could
have occurred orally, leaving no historical traces.
So, in the absence of any historical evidence that demonstrates how, when,
and where this cultural transmission occurred, can one still claim that it did?67

64 See Antoine Cavigneaux, “Aux sources du Midrash: l’Herméneutique babylonienne,” Aula

Orientalis 5 (1987): 251 n. 39; Maul, “Das Wort im Worte,” 15.
65 D T 84; cf. Finkel, “No. 69: Explanatory Commentary,” 283; Erle Leichty, The Omen Series
Šumma Izbu, TCS 4 (Locust Valley, NY: J. J. Augustin, 1970), 201:13; Freedman, If a City Is Set
on a Height, 75: r. 20, 149: r. 5’; Reiner, “Nos. 36–38: Celestial Omens,” 182, no. 38:5’.
66 See Westenholz, “The Graeco-Babyloniaca Once Again,” 278–80 (with previous litera-
ture), especially the citation from a communication with Joachim Oelsner on p. 279 n.
19 (even though Westenholz takes a minimalist approach, he follows Oelsner in main-
taining that these parchments were written in an alphabetic script). See also Joachim
Oelsner, “Überlegungen zu den ‘Graeco-Babyloniaca’,” in He Has Opened Nisaba’s House of
Learning: Studies in Honor of Åke Waldemar Sjöberg on the Occasion of His 89th Birthday on
August 1st 2013, ed. Leonhard Sassmannshausen, Cuneiform Monographs 46 (Leiden: Brill,
2014), 159, 163.
67 I would like to stress that the contacts between the Akkadian and the Hebrew exegeti-
cal corpora differ, in my view, from the contacts between Akkadian medicine, magic,
and divination and the Babylonian Talmud, dealt with by Mark Geller in his essay, “An
Akkadian Vademecum in the Babylonian Talmud,” in From Athens to Jerusalem: Medicine
in Hellenized Jewish Lore and in Early Christian Literature, ed. Samuel Kottek, et al.
(Rotterdam: Erasmus, 2000), 13–32. While in the case of medicine and magic the con-
tacts reflect the persistence of a tradition within a geographical unit (Mesopotamia), the
exegetical parallels are closer in the earlier material (even though they are attested in
Palestine and not in Mesopotamia), which suggests that early contact in Mesopotamia
resulted in the creation of textual and exegetical traditions that were later brought to
94 Gabbay

In my opinion: yes. I suggest that the evidence presented here, as well as other
evidence, attests to sociolinguistic contact between Judean and Babylonian
scholars. In almost every case where one finds a probable connection between
Akkadian and Hebrew exegetical terms, the Hebrew term is not a loanword
but a translation or semantic borrowing, using a Hebrew word that is seman-
tically equivalent to the Akkadian original. Thus, kayyān(u) was not loaned
into Hebrew, but translated, or calqued, as mamash and waddai. Similarly,
Akkadian šanîš may have had some influence on Hebrew davar aḥer. Various
linguistic and sociolinguistic theories explain different forms of language con-
tact that result in loanwords, semantic borrowings, or code-switching.68 I do
not dare to characterize scholarly contact between Judeans and Babylonians
in Mesopotamia on the basis of a few calque translations, but I would ten-
tatively describe the type of contact reflected in the commentaries as a self-
conscious bilingual cultural encounter. This stands in contrast to recent
studies, especially by Mladen Popović and Jonathan Ben-Dov, who see the
similarities between Jewish and Akkadian texts not as a reflection of direct
contact, but as part of a larger cultural contact, mediated especially through
Aramaic, resulting in a common body of knowledge.69 While I certainly agree
with this conclusion in the case of other genres, such as astrological texts, in
the case of commentaries I suggest that the evidence for contact between
Jewish and Mesopotamian exegetical texts is too particular and sophisticated,
extending to form and not just content, and goes beyond the level of general
knowledge. In my opinion, the commentaries suggest direct scholarly contact,
probably oral, between Jewish and ancient Mesopotamian scholars.

Palestine. It is perhaps not a coincidence that the terms waddai and mamash are not
used in later periods; this may indicate that they were remnants of an older exegetical
tradition.
68 See, in general, Uriel Weinreich, Languages in Contact: Findings and Problems (The Hague:
Mouton Publishers, 1963); Yaron Matras, Language Contact (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 2009); Raymond Hickey, ed., The Handbook of Language Contact (West
Sussex: Wiley-Blackwell, 2010).
69 See Mladen Popović, “Networks of Scholars: The Transmission of Astronomical and
Astrological Learning between Babylonians, Greeks, and Jews,” in Ancient Jewish Sciences
and the History of Knowledge, ed. Jonathan Ben-Dov and Seth L. Sanders (New York: New
York University Press, 2014), 153–94; Jonathan Ben-Dov, “Time and Culture: Mesopotamian
Calendars in Jewish Sources from the Bible to the Mishnah,” in Encounters by the Rivers of
Babylon: Scholarly Conversations between Jews, Iranians, and Babylonians in Antiquity, ed.
Uri Gabbay and Shai Secunda, TSAJ 30 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2014), 217–54.
Levels of Meaning and Textual Polysemy 95

In conclusion, I hope to have demonstrated that a detailed comparative

examination of exegetical terminology may supply some evidence for the
“Babylonian connection” of early Tannaitic midrash, although the evidence
accumulated so far does not attest to a major Babylonian influence on Hebrew
midrash. Surely, later Hellenistic influence and internal developments were
much more significant. Nevertheless, the comparative evidence does suggest
the Babylonian origins of some modes of thought and interpretation that
underlie early Hebrew exegesis.
 CHAPTER 7

“Judaism” and “Hellenism”: Martin Hengel’s Work

in Perspective

Jörg Frey*

1 “Judaism” and “Hellenism” as Alternative Categories in Scholarship

“Judaism” and “Hellenism” have been used as alternative categories in “history

of religions” interpretations of New Testament texts and ideas. The crucial
question usually was whether a given term, motif, or idea could be explained
from “Judaism” or “Hellenism.” This was the fundamental alternative in the dis-
cussions of “history of religions” school at the beginning of the twentieth cen-
tury and also in subsequent periods of research. But what did scholars imagine
when they talked about “Judaism,” how did they understand “Hellenism,”
and how did the two terms interfere in their constructions? What was their
function in a liberal Protestant concept in which scholars were interested
in “explaining” problematic elements or ideas from an alleged “Hellenistic
syncretism” or as relics of “Jewish particularism”?1
Until the middle of the twentieth century—or more precisely before the
Qumran discoveries—the scholarly image of “Judaism” was still largely shaped
by the images (or prejudices) of “classical” (i.e., Rabbinic or Talmudic) Judaism,
partly linked with the idea of “Late Judaism,” which was considered to be an era

* Paper read at the Groningen conference in December 2013, slightly reworked and expanded.
I am grateful to Jacob Cerone for correcting and polishing my English style.
1 On the method and interests of the “history of religions” school, see Gerald Seelig,
Religionsgeschichtliche Methode in Vergangenheit und Gegenwart: Studien zur Geschichte und
Methode des religionsgeschichtlichen Vergleichs in der neutestamentlichen Wissenschaft, ABG 7
(Leipzig: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 2001); for dogmatic interests, see Karsten Lehmkühler,
Kultus und Theologie: Dogmatik und Exegese in der religionsgeschichtlichen Schule, FSÖTh
76 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1996). On the history of the school, see further
Gerd Lüdemann and Martin Schröder, Die Religionsgeschichtliche Schule in Göttingen: Eine
Dokumentation (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1987), and Gerd Lüdemann, ed., Die
“Religionsgeschichtliche Schule”: Facetten eines theologischen Umbruchs, Studien und Texte
zur Religionsgeschichtlichen Schule 1 (Frankfurt: Peter Lang, 1996).

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���7 | doi ��.��63/9789004336919_008

“ Judaism ” and “ Hellenism ” 97

of decline from the level of the prophetic religion.2 “Hellenism,” on the other
hand, was usually linked with paganism or, later, with allegedly pre-Christian
Gnosticism. As the early Christian authors and texts appeared rather removed
from Rabbinic thought, many scholars preferred a Hellenistic, syncretistic, or
Gnostic explanation of early Christian phenomena and ideas such as the cultic
veneration of Christ, Paul’s views of atonement and redemption, or the reli-
gious language of the Fourth Gospel. These patterns were still influential in
the middle of the twentieth century, expressed in Rudolf Bultmann’s works on
Paul and John and in the works of his students or his “school.”

2 Martin Hengel’s “Judentum und Hellenismus” in its Scholarly

Context

This was the scholarly context in view when Martin Hengel wrote his famous
Tübingen Habilitationsschrift on “Judentum und Hellenismus.”3 The Bultmann
school with its disregard of history and—to a large degree—of Judaism domi-
nated the Protestant theological faculties in Germany, especially in New
Testament exegesis. And Martin Hengel, then working as a tutor (“Repetent”)
at the famous “Tübingen Stift,” had the impression that most of his colleagues
were “intoxicated by the sweet wine from Marburg.” Early Christianity was
generally regarded “a mainly syncretistic religion . . . , strongly influenced by
mystery religions and a pre-Christian Gnosis.”4 In critical opposition to those
views, Hengel had started studying Palestinian Judaism and had written his
doctoral dissertation on the Zealots.5 But with regard to Paul and the early

2 Cf. most influentially J. Wellhausen, Israelitische und jüdische Geschichte (Berlin: Reimer,
1894).
3 The work was submitted as Habilitationsschrift to the Theological Faculty of the University
of Tübingen in 1966 and then published in 1969: Martin Hengel, Judentum und Hellenismus:
Studien zu ihrer Begegnung unter besonderer Berücksichtigung Palästinas bis zur Mitte des 2.
Jh.s v. Chr., WUNT 10, 3rd ed. (Tübingen: J. C. B. Mohr, 1988); idem, Judaism and Hellenism:
Studies in their Encounter in Palestine in the Early Hellenistic Period, trans. John Bowden,
2 vols. (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1974). For the background, cf. Martin Hengel, “Judaism and
Hellenism Revisited,” in Theologische, historische und biographische Skizzen: Kleine Schriften
7, ed. Claus-Jürgen Thornton, WUNT 253 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010), 179–83.
4 Cf. Martin Hengel, “Judaism and Hellenism Revisited,” 181.
5 Martin Hengel, Die Zeloten: Untersuchungen zur jüdischen Freiheitsbewegung in der Zeit von
Herodes I. bis 70 n. Chr., AGSU 1 (Leiden: Brill, 1961); idem, The Zealots: Investigations into
the Jewish Freedom Movement in the Period from Herod I until A.D. 70, trans. David W. Smith
(Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1989). Cf. the enlarged third edition: Martin Hengel, Die Zeloten:
98 Frey

Christian literature written in Greek, it was necessary to study “Hellenism,” or

rather “Jewish Hellenism,” not only with Alexandria and Philo in view but also
with regard the Palestinian mother country where the earliest Jesus traditions
had their origins.6
The massive monograph, written during a two-year research grant from
1964 to 1966, is a landmark study that has fundamentally questioned the tradi-
tional opposition between “Judaism” and “Hellenism” in “history of religions”
studies and ultimately changed the direction of New Testament scholarship.
The main point of the work was the demonstration that prior to the rise
of the Jesus movement the encounter between Judaism and Hellenism in
Palestine from the time of Alexander had thoroughly shaped Palestinian
Judaism in that period. Hengel phrased this in the provoking (and therefore
controversial) thesis that Palestinian Judaism before the turn of the era could
also be labelled “Hellenistic Judaism.”7
Further conclusions, especially regarding Christology,8 the early Christian
mission,9 and early Christian historiography,10 were drawn in subsequent stud-
ies. Based on his study of the early influence of Hellenism within the Jewish
tradition, Hengel could demonstrate the development of Christological titles
such as “Kyrios” or “Son of God” was not inspired by the influence of pagan-
ism in a later stage of “Hellenistic” Christianity (as the “history of religions”
school and also the Bultmann school had stated) but developed quite early
in pre-Pauline traditions on the basis of Jewish traditions (e.g., the LXX, the

Untersuchungen zur jüdischen Freiheitsbewegung in der Zeit von Herodes I. bis 70 n. Chr.,
3rd ed., WUNT 283 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2011).
6 Cf. Martin Hengel, “Judaism and Hellenism Revisited,” 182.
7 Martin Hengel, Judentum und Hellenismus, 193; idem, Judaism and Hellenism, 1:104.
8 Martin Hengel, Der Sohn Gottes: Die Entstehung der Christologie und die jüdisch-hellenis-
tische Religionsgeschichte (Tübingen: Mohr, 1975); idem, The Son of God: The origins of
Christology and the history of Jewish-Hellenistic Religion, trans. John Bowden (Philadelphia:
Fortress, 1976).
9 Martin Hengel, “Die Ursprünge der christlichen Mission,” NTS 18 (1971/72): 15–38; idem,
“Zwischen Jesus und Paulus: Die ‘Hellenisten’, die ‘Sieben’ und Stephanus (Apg 6,1–15;
7,54–8,3),” ZTK 72 (1975): 151–206; cf. the English translation of both studies in Between
Jesus and Paul: Studies in the Earliest History of Christianity, trans. J. Bowden (Philadelphia:
Fortress, 1983).
10 Martin Hengel, Zur urchristlichen Geschichtsschreibung (Stuttgart: Calwer, 1979); idem,
Acts and the History of Earliest Christianity, trans. J. Bowden (London: SCM, 1979).
“ Judaism ” and “ Hellenism ” 99

Messianic reading of psalms, Jewish Wisdom traditions).11 This was the funda-
mental attack against Bousset and Bultmann.
In the German exegetical context with the dominance of the Bultmann
school, Hengel’s views were revolutionary at their time, and it took several
years until his views could gain a wider influence. In the English-speaking
world, there was a greater openness to Hengel’s historical approach than in
the German context with its focus on Bultmannian “hermeneutics” in which
Hengel’s challenging views appeared too historical and rather conservative.
Ultimately, Hengel’s works thus became a main stimulus for the development
of a “new history of religions school” with the new appreciation of the Jewish
roots of early Christology and the development of christological titles within
the framework of Jewish monotheism or a “binitarian” view.12
In a conference paper in 1999, Hengel again revisited and explained his
views.13 But while he easily admits that there is “much to supplement, to
improve, and sometimes to correct” (especially in the light of the texts and
sources published since the 1960s), he emphasizes that there is no reason to
revise the essential results of his former study. Thus, he rephrases the topic sug-
gested to him: “Judaism and Hellenism revisited . . ., but not revised.”14
Almost fifty years after Hengel’s study, especially after the release of
the entirety of the Dead Sea Scrolls and in view of considerable changes
in the general views of the Qumran texts, it seems appropriate to revisit again

11 Thus especially Hengel, Der Sohn Gottes, idem: The Son of God. See also idem, Studies in
Early Christology (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1995). On the christological works of Hengel,
see also Roland Deines, “Martin Hengel—A Life in the Service of Christology,” TynBull 58
(2007): 25–42.
12 Cf. basically Larry Hurtado, Lord Jesus Christ: Devotion to Jesus in Earliest Christianity
(Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2003); idem, One God, One Lord: Early Christian Devotion and
Ancient Jewish Monotheism (Philadelphia: Fortress, rev. and enl. 2nd ed. (Edinburgh: T&T
Clark, 1998). The term “eine neue religionsgeschichtliche Schule” appears first in a blurb
written by Martin Hengel on the cover of Hurtado’s book One God—One Lord. It is then
programmatically adopted by Jarl Fossum, “The New Religionsgeschichtliche Schule: The
Quest for Jewish Christology,” in SBLSP 1991, ed. E. Lovering, (Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press,
1991), 638–46.
13 The paper was split and published in two parts: Martin Hengel, “Judaism and Hellenism
Revisited,” in Hellenism in the Land of Israel, ed. John J. Collins and Gregory E. Sterling
(South Bend, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2001), 6–37, and idem, “Qumran and
Hellenism,” in Religion in the Dead Sea Scrolls, ed. John J. Collins and Robert A. Kugler
(Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2000), 46–56. In his collected essays, Hengel has republished
the combined article as it was originally written: Martin Hengel, “Judaism and Hellenism
Revisited,” (see note 3). Cf. ibid., 179–83 on the scholarly context of Hengel’s study.
14 Martin Hengel, “Judaism and Hellenism Revisited,” 179 n. 3.
100 Frey

the categories and some of the evidence adduced by Hengel. Of course, the
vast amount of historical and textual data would require a much more exten-
sive discussion which cannot be provided in the present context. So, instead,
we shall look at the scholarly categories which have been criticized from dif-
ferent perspectives.

3 The History of the Categories “Judaism” and “Hellenism”

In the opening chapter of his work, Hengel focuses on the terms that form his
title: “Judaism” and “Hellenism.” He notes that the term Ἰουδαϊσμός (as roughly
corresponding “Judaism”) occurs first in 2 Macc 2:21, just within the period dis-
cussed. Ἑλληνισμός is used in the same context for the efforts of “Hellenization”
(2 Macc 4:13), but its normal meaning is simply the correct mastership of
the common Greek language.15 But of course, Hengel considers the history
of the terms, especially “Hellenism,” in the study of ancient history with par-
ticular reference to Johann Gustav Droysen, who first adopted and shaped the
term.16 According to Droysen,17 “Hellenism” is a term for the era starting with
Alexander the Great, shaped by the expansion of Greek language and culture
to the oriental world, and for the universal culture developed in that period.
The category, however, is linked with a number of problems, and we must be
well aware that within the Hellenistic cultural framework there was actually a
plurality of ethnic, cultural, and religious traditions that continually coexisted
or mixed.18
“Judaism,” on the other hand, points neither to a particular period nor to
a clearly defined cultural “realm” that could be dichotomically opposed to
“Hellenism.” So, the terms are by no means as mutually exclusive as they were
considered in some periods of scholarship. Things are even more complicated
as Judaism is also a living religion with numerous debates on identity issues,
whereas “Hellenism” does not denote any contemporary view.

15 Thus Martin Hengel, Judentum und Hellenismus, 2.

16 Cf. ibid., 2f. on Droysen’s doctoral disputation, and then especially Johann G. Droysen,
Geschichte des Hellenismus, 2 vols. (Hamburg: Perthes, 1836–43).
17 Droysen, Geschichte des Hellenismus, 1:4.
18 Cf. on the problems of the term, Reinhold Bichler, ‘Hellenismus’: Geschichte und Problematik
eines Epochenbegriffs, Impulse der Forschung 41 (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche
Buchgesellschaft, 1983). The plurality of cultures and concepts within the Hellenistic era
is amply demonstrated in the conference volume Hellenismus: Beiträge zur Erforschung
von Akkulturation und politischer Ordnung in den Staaten des hellenistischen Zeitalters, ed.
Bernd Funck (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1996).
“ Judaism ” and “ Hellenism ” 101

The scholarly alternative between Judaism and Hellenism is also rooted

in the early nineteenth century.19 In his fundamental Geschichte des
Hellenismus, Droysen not only introduced the term in its later meaning into
classical scholarship20 but also expressed the idea that emerging Christianity
was closer to Hellenism than to Judaism.21 At the same time, the first biblical
theologians distinguished between different “theologies” or “teaching types”
(“Lehrbegriffe”) within the New Testament, thereby using and establish-
ing the distinction between “Jewish-Christian” and “Hellenistic”22 or “Jewish
Christian” and “Pauline” theologies.23 Most influentially, Ferdinand Christian
Baur, in his Hegelian reconstruction of early Christian history, presupposed
the fundamental opposition between “Jewish-Christian” and “Pauline” thought
and made it the principle of his reconstruction of the history of early Christian
ideas.24 In his view, Pauline theology was basically phrased in opposition to

19 On the history, see Wayne A. Meeks, “Judaism, Hellenism and the Birth of Christianity,”
in Paul Beyond the Judaism-Hellenism Divide, ed. Troels Engberg-Pedersen (Louisville, KY:
Westminster John Knox, 2001), 17–27, 263–65.
20 Cf. generally Droysen, Geschichte des Hellenismus. On the history of the term see Hans D.
Betz, “Hellenismus,” TRE 15:19f., and Bichler, “Hellenismus,” 5–22.
21 Cf. Droysen, Geschichte des Hellenismus, 1:4ff. and 21 n. 1 (quoted by Hengel, Judentum und
Hellenismus, 3). See also Hans-Joachim Gehrke, Geschichte des Hellenismus, ed. J. Bleicken
et al., Oldenbourg Grundriss der Geschichte 1A (München: Oldenbourg, 1990), 129: “Für
Droysen lag im Hellenismus die entscheidende Voraussetzung für die Offenbarung und
Entfaltung der christlichen Religion, im faktischen Rahmen wie in der gedanklichen
Entwicklung.”
22 Thus Wilhelm M. L. de Wette, Biblische Dogmatik Alten und Neuen Testaments: Oder kri-
tische Darstellung der Religionslehre des Hebraismus, des Judenthums und Urchristenthums:
Zum Gebrauch akademischer Vorlesungen (Berlin: Realschulbuchhandlung, 1813), who
distinguished between three types of teaching: “Jewish-Christian,” “Alexandrian or
Hellenistic,” and “Pauline.”
23 On the beginnings of Biblical Theology and the first authors writing a “Theology of the
New Testament,” see Jörg Frey, “Zum Problem der Aufgabe und Durchführung einer
Theologie des Neuen Testaments,” in Aufgabe und Durchführung einer Theologie des
Neuen Testaments, ed. Cilliers Breytenbach and Jörg Frey, WUNT 205 (Tübingen: Mohr
Siebeck, 2007), 24–26.
24 Cf. ibid., 25–26; more thoroughly on Baur, see now Martin Bauspiess, Christof Landmesser,
and David Lincicum, eds., Ferdinand Christian Baur und die Geschichte des frühen
Christentums, WUNT 333 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2014), especially Anders Gerdmar,
“Baur and the Creation of the Judaism-Hellenism Dichotomy,” idem, 108–28, and Robert
Morgan, “F. C. Baur’s New Testament Theology,” 259–84.
102 Frey

Jewish-Christianity, thus overcoming the Jewish particularistic views in the

universal spirit of Hellenism.25
In the subsequent period of the emerging “history of religions” school and
in the school’s major contributions such as Bousset’s “Kyrios Christos,”26 the
image of Hellenism changed. Based on newly discovered oriental sources,
scholars were now impressed by the syncretism developed in the Hellenistic
period, including mystery religions and oriental Gnosticism.27 But the funda-
mental opposition between the Jewish religion and Hellenistic syncretism was
still maintained and now utilized to construct an evolutionary scheme of differ-
ent “phases in the development of Christianity with its expansion into succes-
sive geographical spheres, each with its own culture, beginning with the purely
Jewish circle of the earliest Jesus movement and ending with the wide world of
syncretistic Hellenism.”28 Pauline christological and soteriological views were
now basically explained from the cultic veneration of Christ in the gentile-
Christian community and ultimately from the influence of non-Jewish, pagan
concepts of dying and rising deities.29 So the “history of religions” scholars saw
a wide gap between Jewish monotheism and early Christian Christology and
also between the religion of Jesus and his earliest Palestinian followers on one

25 See Ferdinand C. Baur, Das Christenthum und die christliche Kirche in den ersten
Jahrhunderten (Tübingen: L. Fr. Fues, 1860), 1–7, 42–46. On the particularism-universalism
issue, see also Anders Runesson, “Particularistic Judaism and Universalistic Christianity?
Some Critical Remarks on Terminology and Theology,” ST 54 (2000): 55–75, and Anders
Gerdmar, Rethinking the Judaism-Hellenism Dichotomy: A Historiographical Case Study of
Second Peter and Jude, ConBNT 36 (Stockholm: Almquist & Wiksell, 2001), 248–51.
26 On Bousset’s concept, see Jörg Frey, “Eine neue religionsgeschichtliche Perspektive,”
in Reflections on Early Christian History and Religion—Erwägungen zur frühchristli-
chen Religionsgeschichte, ed. Cilliers Breytenbach and Jörg Frey, AJEC 81 (Leiden: Brill,
2012), 131–36; cf. now also Larry W. Hurtado, “Wilhelm Bousset’s Kyrios Christos: An
Appreciative and Critical Assessment,” Early Christianity 6 (2015): 17–29; Kelley Coblentz
Bautch, “Kyrios Christos in Light of Twenty-First Century Perspectives on Second Temple
Judaism,” Early Christianity 6 (2015): 30–50.
27 Cf. with regard to Johannine research, Jörg Frey, “Auf der Suche nach dem Kontext des
vierten Evangeliums,” in Die Herrlichkeit des Gekreuzigten, ed. Juliane Schlegel, WUNT 307
(Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2013), 57–60.
28 Meeks, “Judaism, Hellenism, and the Birth of Christianity,” 21.
29 Cf. basically Hans Böhlig, Die Geisteskultur von Tarsus im augusteischen Zeitalter mit
Beurteilung der paulinischen Schriften, FRLANT 19 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht,
1913). The exegetical debate was strongly influenced by Wilhelm Heitmüller, “Zum
Problem Paulus und Jesus,” ZNW 13 (1912): 320–37, who rejected the tradition of Paul’s
studies in Jerusalem and thus established the view of a wide gap between the Palestinian
religion of Jesus and his followers and the Hellenistic and syncretistic ideas of Paul.
“ Judaism ” and “ Hellenism ” 103

side and the type of Christianity developed by Paul and the Hellenistic church.
Thus, Paul was actually considered the real founder of Christianity or, as others
have phrased, “the mythmaker.”30
Rudolf Bultmann largely adopted the views of the “history of religions
school” by partly replacing the “Hellenistic” background with the milieu of a
supposedly pre-Christian Gnosticism. In this form, the opposition between
Judaism and Hellenism was commonplace until the 1960s when Hengel wrote
his Judentum und Hellenismus.
So Hengel, in the opening of his work, can start from the observation
that the distinction or even dichotomy between “Judaism” and “Hellenism”
is one of the common presuppositions of traditio-historical work on the
New Testament.31 Other variations of the dichotomy were the opposition
between Jewish apocalypticism and Hellenistic mysticism but also between
Palestinian and Hellenistic Judaism or—with regard to the Jesus movement—
between the Palestinian and the Hellenistic primitive community. One should
not ignore that these dichotomies were connected with ideological prefer-
ences. Since Baur, Hellenism was largely considered more universalistic than
Judaism, and the Hellenistic influence on the early Jesus movement was con-
sidered to be the key for its universal success or even for its religious truth.
But whereas many scholars since Baur considered Hellenism as decisive for
the step beyond Jewish particularism towards a universalistic perspective of
Christianity,32 others, often from a more conservative point of view, were eager
to defend hebraica veritas against modern or ancient philosophical tendencies.
In contrast to the Greek and philosophical traditions in Christian theology
(e.g., with regard to the idea of the “immortality of the soul”), those scholars
emphasized the fundamental difference between Hebrew and Greek thought.33
In view of these scholars, “real Christianity . . . was thoroughly Jewish, not

30 Thus the provoking title by the Jewish author Hyam Maccoby, The Mythmaker: Paul and
the Invention of Christianity (London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 1986); cf. idem, Paul
and Hellenism (London, SCM: 1991); similarly Gerd Lüdemann, Paul: The Founder of
Christianity (Amherst, NY: Prometheus Books, 2002).
31 Hengel, Judentum und Hellenimsus, 1; idem, Judeaism and Hellenism, 1.
32 Ferdinand C. Baur already expressed this perspective in his reconstruction of early
Christian history.
33 Thus quite influentially Torleif Boman, Hebrew Thought Compared with Greek (London:
SCM, 1960). Other scholars such as Oscar Cullmann, Otto Michel, and others adopted
some of those categories with the interest to claim that the Hebrew way of understand-
ing resurrection, for example, over against the immortality of the soul was the true one,
thus rejecting the “Hellenizing” interpretations as developed in the early Church (of the
second century).
104 Frey

Hellenistic at all or Hellenized only in its outer forms or later corruptions,”34

and this made its distinctiveness against its pagan context. While the ideo-
logical preference for Hellenism was often equated with a modern view with
rationality, universalism, individualism, and open-mindedness, the stress on
the remaining validity of Jewish thought and tradition was considered conser-
vative in historical and theological terms.
We should, therefore, not ignore that Hengel’s doctoral advisor Otto Michel
was one of those conservative scholars in post-World-War II Germany who
decidedly advanced the interest in Jewish texts and also priority of the Jewish
tradition, particularly Jewish and early Christian apocalypticism or even more
generally “Hebrew thought.”35 Thus, in some way, though not explicitly, Hengel’s
work can also be interpreted as an attempt to overcome the one-sidedness of
this scholarly tendency by questioning the traditional divide between Judaism
and Hellenism in early Christianity. He had to find his way between the some-
what one-sided perspectives of the approach of his Tübingen advisor and
predecessor and the historically unconvincing constructions of the Bultmann
school. In view of the complex situation of scholarship in the 1960s, it would
be too simple to see Hengel’s work only in the tradition of the utilization of the
category “Hellenism” as established by Baur,36 or in opposition against Bousset
and Bultmann. In his attempt to overcome the false alternative between a
“Jewish” (i.e., Hebrew, Palestinian, or apocalyptic) and a “Hellenistic” (i.e., syn-
cretistic or gnostic) explanation of early Christian thought, Hengel found his
way between the different camps of scholarship and brought the discussion to
a new stage.

34 Cf. Meeks, “Judaism, Hellenism and the Birth of Christianity,” 21. Meeks mentions
F. V. Filson and in Germany G. Dalman, A. Schlatter, G. Kittel, and J. Jeremias (ibid., 264).
We could further add some writings by the influential scholar Oscar Cullmann from Basel
and by Hengel’s Doktorvater in Tübingen, Otto Michel.
35 Cf. e.g., Michel’s late and rather aphoristic article “Hebräisches Denken,” EvTh 48 (1988):
431–46. On Michel, cf. the brief obituary by Martin Hengel, “Ein Leben für die Bibel. Zum
Tod von Prof. D. Otto Michel,” in Theologische, historische und biographische Skizzen:
Kleine Schriften 7, ed. Claus-Jürgen Thornton, WUNT 253 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010),
480–84; furthermore Klaus Haacker, “Otto Michel”, in Neutestamentliche Wissenschaft
nach 1945: Hauptvertreter der deutschsprachigen Exegese in der Darstellung ihrer Schüler,
eds. Cilliers Breytenbach and Rudolf Hoppe (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener, 2008),
341–52, and also the (somewhat too glorifying) memory volume by Helgo Lindner (ed.),
“Ich bin ein Hebräer”: Zum Gedenken an Otto Michel (1903–1993) (Giessen: Brunnen, 2003).
36 This seems to be the misunderstanding in the severe criticism by Gerdmar, Rethinking,
251–55; see idem, “Baur and the Creation of the Judaism-Hellenism Dichotomy,” 112–13.
“ Judaism ” and “ Hellenism ” 105

4 Hengel’s Argument and Major Results

The argument of the massive volume can only be sketched in a very reductive
manner: Hengel presents extensive material on Hellenism as a political and
economic force in Palestine under the Ptolemies and the influence on trade,
commerce, and social structure. A second part explores the spread of Greek lan-
guage, education, and culture in Palestinian Judaism (e.g., by the use of Greek
names, Greek inscriptions, and the Hellenistic influence on Palestinian-Jewish
literature written in Greek). An extensive third part focuses on the encoun-
ter and conflict between Palestinian Judaism and the spirit of Hellenism from
Qoheleth and the earlier Wisdom speculation through the apocalypses of the
Danielic period to what Hengel calls “early Essenism.” The fourth part, finally,
presents a novel interpretation of the Hellenistic reform in Jerusalem. Here,
Hengel follows the ideas of the Jewish classicist Elias Bickerman in the main
point that the reform was not merely caused by foreign influences but pro-
moted by members of the Jewish aristocracy, who wanted to turn Jerusalem
into a modern Greek polis.37 As a consequence, Hengel can also interpret
the Jewish counter-reaction by the Maccabees, the Essenes and, ultimately, the
Zealots and the later Rabbinic restoration as movements which, in their refu-
tation of Hellenism or Roman paganism, were nonetheless influenced by the
cultural forces they wanted to reject.
The work was published in three editions and was quickly translated into
English and later also into Italian and Japanese.38 Further studies continue
the inquiry39 and demonstrate the high degree of Hellenization in Palestinian

37 Cf. Hengel, Judentum und Hellenismus, 555–56 (ET: 304). Here Hengel follows Elias
Bickerman, Der Gott der Makkabäer: Untersuchungen über Sinn und Ursprung der
Makkabäischen Erhebung (Berlin: Schocken Verlag, 1937); see also Hengel, “Judaism
and Hellenism Revisited,” 191. On Bickerman see Martin Hengel, “Elias Bickerman:
Erinnerungen an einen großen Althistoriker aus St. Petersburg,” Hyperboreus 10 (2004):
171–98; reprinted in Theologische, historische und biographische Skizzen: Kleine Schriften 7,
ed. Claus-Jürgen Thornton, WUNT 253 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010), 374–402.
38 On Hengel’s publications, see Jörg Frey, Gesamtbibliographie Martin Hengel 1959–2010,
in Theologische, historische und biographische Skizzen: Kleine Schriften 7, ed. Claus-Jürgen
Thornton, WUNT 253 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010), 557–611.
39 See Martin Hengel, Juden, Griechen und Barbaren, SBS 76 (Stuttgart: Katholisches
Bibelwerk, 1976), idem, Jews, Greeks and Barbarians: Aspects of the Hellenization of
Judaism in the pre-Christian period, trans. J. Bowden (London: SCM; Philadelphia: Fortress,
1980); idem, “Qumran und der Hellenismus,” in Qumrân: Sa piété, sa théologie et son milieu
ed. Mathias Delcor, BETL 46 (Paris-Gembloux: Duculot; Leuven: University Press, 1978)
333–372; idem, “The Interpenetration of Judaism and Hellenism in the pre-Maccabean
106 Frey

Judaism of the first century CE40 and the thorough Hellenization even of the
centre of Judaism, Jerusalem, which could be called a “Jewish and Hellenistic”41
town.
With his rich presentation and thorough interpretation of the material,
Hengel has made a fundamental case for the view that Hellenism had already
influenced Palestinian Judaism at a very early stage, in thought, literature,
and culture. While this was accepted by the majority of scholars, the idea that
Hellenistic influence could not be denied even in the anti-Hellenistic reaction
(e.g., in Essenism or in later Rabbinism)42 raised more critical questions.43
Further consequences for the reconstruction of the history of early
Christianity and for the making of early Christology were drawn in subse-
quent studies that had a decisive influence on the further development of
New Testament scholarship. The most important results can be summarized
as follows:

1. The Jewish encounter with Hellenism largely predates the period of the
Jesus movement and emerging Christianity. Hengel could even say, cum grano
salis, that from about the middle of the third century BCE all Judaism should be
designated “Hellenistic Judaism.”44 Of course, in this argument, “Hellenistic”
should not be understood in terms of syncretism, nor is it seen as a term of a
development towards a superior level of religion. It is just another expression
for the fact that there is no “realm” in Judaism of that period that could remain
untouched by the cultural challenge of Hellenism. But the conclusion is clear:

period,” in The Cambridge History of Judaism, vol. 2: The Hellenistic Age, ed. W. D. Davies
and Louis Finkelstein (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 167–228; idem,
“The Influence of Hellenistic Civilization in Palestine down to the Maccabean Period,”
in Emerging Judaism, ed. Michael E. Stone and David Satran (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1989)
147–66.
40 Martin Hengel, The Hellenization of Judaea in the First Century after Christ, trans. J. Bowden
(London: SCM; Philadelphia: Trinity, 1989); German original; idem, “Das Problem der
“Hellenisierung” Judäas im 1. Jahrhundert nach Christus,” in idem, Judaica et Hellenistica:
Kleine Schriften 1, WUNT 90 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1996), 1–90.
41 Martin Hengel, “Jerusalem als jüdische und hellenistische Stadt,” in Hellenismus: Beiträge
zur Erforschung von Akkulturation und politischer Ordnung in den Staaten des hellenist-
ischen Zeitalters, ed. Bernd Funck; (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1997), 269–306, reprinted
in idem, Judaica, Hellenistica et Christiana: Kleine Schriften 2, WUNT 109 (Tübingen: Mohr
Siebeck, 1999), 115–56.
42 Cf. also Hengel, “Qumran und der Hellenismus,” 333–72.
43 For discussion, see below in section 5.
44 Cf. Hengel, Judentum und Hellenismus, 193; idem, Judaism and Hellenism, 1:104.
“ Judaism ” and “ Hellenism ” 107

The distinction between “Palestinian” and “Hellenistic Judaism” is inadequate

and has to be abandoned.45
2. This has further consequences for the understanding of the early Jesus
movement: As Hengel writes, “the differentiation between the (primitive)
Palestinian community and the Hellenistic-Jewish community of the diaspora,
especially that of Antioch . . . needs to be defined more sharply.”46 The wide-
spread assumption of a two stage development from Jesus through the Aramaic
or Palestinian primitive community and the Hellenistic Jewish Christian com-
munity to the Hellenistic gentile Christian community (e.g., in Antioch) as
the background of Pauline thought has to be abandoned. The Aramaic speak-
ing community and the Greek speaking community (of the “Hellenists”) in
Jerusalem were rather contemporary phenomena so that there is no gap but an
on-going tradition or even interaction between Aramaic and Greek speaking
Jesus followers. As a further consequence, the gap between Jesus and Paul is
much smaller than the “history of religions” school or Bultmann had assumed.
In this gap “between Jesus and Paul,” Hengel sees the “Hellenists” from Acts
6 who apparently had an important function in the early Christian mission.47
3. The development of Christology was not a long and slow process within
the history of the “Hellenization” of Christianity, as Harnack and others had
assumed, and the christological titles such as Kyrios or “Son of God” are not to
be explained from pagan parallels. Rather, all the important titles are rooted
in the (Hellenistic) Jewish tradition. Furthermore, the adoption and develop-
ment of several forms of pronouncing the christological dignity of Jesus hap-
pened very quickly48 in the early years after the Easter events, to a considerable
part still within the context of the Aramaic language, and is present already in
formulae and hymns adopted by Paul.49

45 Hengel, Judentum und Hellenismus, 194; idem, Judaism and Hellenism, 1:105.
46 Hengel, Judentum und Hellenismus, 194–95; idem, Judaism and Hellenism, 1:105.
47 Cf. Hengel, “Zwischen Jesus und Paulus.” It should be noted, however, that the function
of those “Hellenists” in Hengel’s reconstruction is different from their function in Baur’s
concept. Cf. on the history of research, Heinz-Werner Neudorfer, Der Stephanuskreis in
der Forschungsgeschichte seit F. C. Baur (Giessen: Brunnen, 1983).
48 Cf. Martin Hengel, “Christologie und neutestamentliche Chronologie: Zu einer Aporie
in der Geschichte des Urchristentums,” in Neues Testament und Geschichte, ed. Heinrich
Baltensweiler and Bo Reicke, Festschrift Oscar Cullmann (Zürich: TVZ; Tübingen: Mohr
Siebeck, 1972), 43–67; idem, “Christology and New Testament Chronology,” in Between
Jesus and Paul, 30–47, 156–66.
49 Hengel’s work on Judaism and Hellenism has largely contributed to the rise of a new “his-
tory of religions” perspective on early Christianity, especially the view of an early high
Christology from Jewish sources as advocated in the Anglo-Saxon context by scholars
108 Frey

5 Hellenistic Influence even within the Anti-Hellenistic Reaction?

An important aspect in Hengel’s argument is the idea that even in the critical
reaction of traditionally Jewish circles (e.g., in the Maccabean revolt or in the
Qumran community), the influence of the Hellenistic culture can be demon-
strated. The historical question is, therefore, to what degree Hellenistic influ-
ences can really be demonstrated in apocalyptic traditions or—as Hengel put
it in the 1960s—in “the theology of early Essenism.”50

5.1 The Argument in Judentum und Hellenismus: Foreign Influences in

Apocalypticism and Essenism?
In Judentum und Hellenismus, Hengel extensively discusses the Qumran evi-
dence, based on the state of publication in the 1960s. Of course, in subsequent
articles until 2003,51 he noticed and adopted numerous aspects of the on-going
discussion. But his fundamental view that even Qumran and the yaḥad were
influenced by the Hellenistic “Zeitgeist” has remained unchanged.
At first, Hengel focuses on the movement of the pre-Maccabean Ḥasidim
(or the συναγωγὴ Ασιδαίων from 1 Macc 2:42) as the circles from which, in his
view, the earliest Jewish apocalypses originate.52 In his presentation of the

such as William Horbury, Jewish Messianism and the Cult of Christ (London: SCM, 1998);
idem, Messianism among Jews and Christians (London: Bloomsbury T&T Clark, 2003);
idem, “Jewish Messianism and Early Christology,” in Contours of Christology in the New
Testament, ed. Richard N. Longenecker (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2005), 3–24; Hurtado,
One God—One Lord; idem, Lord Jesus Christ. On Hurtado’s work, see also Frey, “Eine neue
religionsgeschichtliche Perspektive.” Cf. also the insightful overview by Andrew Chester,
“High Christology—Whence, When and Why?” Early Christianity 2 (2011): 22–50.
50 Hengel, Judentum und Hellenismus, 394 (ET 1:218).
51 Hengel, “Qumran und der Hellenismus”; idem, “Qumran and Hellenism,” republished as
part of the article “Judaism and Hellenism Revisited,” 198–207; idem, “Les manuscrits de
Qumrân et les origines chrétiennes,” in Hommage rendu à André Dupont-Sommer. Séance
du 14 Novembre 2003, Institut de France, Academie des inscriptions et belles-lettres, CRAI
4/2003 (Paris: Palais de l’Institut, 2003), 41–51. German Original: idem, “Qumran und das
frühe Christentum,” in idem, Studien zum Urchirstentum. Kleine Schriften 6, ed. Claus-
Jürgen Thornton, WUNT 208 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2009), 488–96.
52 It should be noted here that Hengel still dated the earliest parts of 1 Enoch contemporary
with or later than Daniel (Judentum und Hellenismus, 321; idem, Judaism and Hellenism,
1:176). At the time when he wrote his work, the relevance and early date of some the
Qumran manuscripts of the book of Enoch was not yet known, as Jozef T. Milik’s edition
(The Books of Enoch: Aramaic Fragments of Qumrân Cave 4 [Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 1976]) was not yet published. In the background of Hengel’s views, there is still Otto
Plöger’s concept of the divide between non-eschatological theocratic circles and eschato-
logical or apocalyptic circles in late Biblical Judaism.
“ Judaism ” and “ Hellenism ” 109

early apocalyptic texts and ideas, Hengel especially points to presumably

foreign influences on early Jewish apocalypticism: He mentions, for instance,
the Greek background of the Danielic scheme of the four kingdoms (Dan 2
and 7), Egyptian and Greek parallels to oracles and prophecies, Greek parallels
to the myth of Asasel in 1 En. 6–8, to the idea of the netherworlds in 1 En. 22,
and foreign backgrounds of astrology and time speculation. From here, he con-
cludes that even in apocalyptic circles, foreign (Greek, but also Babylonian and
Egyptian) influences were quite strong. In a second chapter, he interprets the
worldview of upcoming Essenism on the basis of the Qumran texts then avail-
able. Again he points to new developments and foreign influences in Essenism
(e.g., in the terms of knowledge, the development of cosmic dualism and
determinism, the views about angels and about heavenly luminaries including
astrology). For the structure of the community, Hengel considers Pythagorean
influence (as suggested by Josephus’s account on the Essenes) and concludes
that like the Ḥasidim, the Essenes had also strongly adopted foreign influences
from the Hellenistic world, from Babylon and Iran as well as from Ptolemaic
Egypt.53 Thus, apocalypticism and Essenism are considered the most impor-
tant entrance doors for non-Jewish elements into ancient Judaism.

5.2 The Argument in “Qumran und der Hellenismus”: Impact through

Resistance
In a major article on “Qumran und der Hellenismus” from 1976, Hengel gives
a more precise argument on Hellenistic influences on Qumran. In spite of the
fact that the Qumranites lived in a fundamental opposition to Hellenism, he
argues that even the opposition is a sign of impact. To support this, Hengel
mentions a number of points to demonstrate that the Hellenistic “Zeitgeist”
influenced the life and teachings of the Qumran group.54

(a) At first, he points to the architecture of Khirbet Qumran which, in spite of

its lack of luxury, is shaped by a sophisticated system of water supply—a fea-
ture that occurs in Palestine only in the Hellenistic period. From here, Hengel
concludes that the Essenes knew and utilized the technical achievements of
the time. In the Hodayot,55 Hengel also finds the knowledge of artificial irriga-
tion and plantation.56

53 Hengel, Judentum und Hellenismus, 450; idem, Judaism and Hellenism, 1:246.
54 Hengel, “Qumran und der Hellenismus,” 335.
55 1QHa 16:5ff. = 1QH 8:4ff. (ed. Sukenik).
56 It is doubtful, however, whether the Copper Scroll 3Q15 5:5ff points to the Essene water
installations at Qumran (thus Hengel, “Qumran und der Hellenismus,” 262).
110 Frey

(b) Second, he points to the Greek texts present in the Qumran corpus, in
spite of the group’s self-limitation to writing in Hebrew, the sacred language.
Hengel mentions Greek letters in 4Q186, the presence of some Greek loan
words, and quotes the rule of CD 14:8ff. that the mebaqqer should be know­
ledgeable of every secret of humans and of every language.
(c) Third, Hengel points to the traces of the knowledge of Hellenistic military
technique in the War Rule (which shows at least the knowledge of Hellenistic
warfare, although this is hardly significant for the Essenes).
Apart from those rather outward aspects, Hengel points to the social and
legal status and organization of the yaḥad which has some features that were
not yet conceivable in Persian times:
(d) The first element is the community of goods, which corresponds to a
broad range of popular philosophical ideals and seems to be opposed to the
lifestyle of the Hellenizers in Jerusalem, the family of the Tobiads etc.
(e) Another aspect is that entering the yaḥad is a sign of individual repen-
tance which mirrors an individualization of the repentance that differs from
earlier views in the prophets but is paralleled in Greek philosophical schools
(e.g., the Epicureans).
(f) A much discussed aspect is the character of the group as a free religious
community, independent of descent, which is unparalleled in the earlier peri-
ods of Israel but paralleled by Hellenistic voluntary associations. It is noted
that the term yaḥad strikingly corresponds to the Greek term τὸ κοινόν.
Most difficult to demonstrate are parallels in the religious views of the yaḥad
and the related texts.57 Hengel points to a number of observations:
(g) Hengel observes that for the first time in Jewish thought Qumran texts
present a “system” of universal wisdom that encompasses God, humanity,
history, and eschatology. Most interesting are new phrases such as 1QS 3:15:
“all that is and will be” or the motif of the raz nihyeh (in 1Q27). For Hengel,
this demonstrates the rise of a kind of “philosophical” reflection on being as
such—in some analogy to Stoic reflections on the Logos.
(h) In more detail, Hengel refers to the Treatise on the Two Spirits (1QS
3:13–4:26), the teaching about angels and demons, and the astronomical views,
including astrology, which are considered to be influenced from non-Jewish
traditions.
Thus, the Qumranites’ strife for a systematic, more rational reflection
of world and history is linked with analogous tendencies in ancient Greek
philosophy. The Qumran group as the most radical offspring of the opposi-
tion against the Hellenistic reformers can therefore demonstrate that the

57 Hengel, “Qumran und der Hellenismus,” 275ff.

“ Judaism ” and “ Hellenism ” 111

“Hellenization” of Judaism did not leave untouched even the circles most vig-
orously opposed to it.58

5.3 Aspects of the Critical Discussion

Of course, Hengel’s learned and extensive presentation is based on the state of
the publication and exploration of the Qumran texts in the 1960s (or the 1970s,
in the article “Qumran und der Hellenismus”). At that time, scholars could not
yet see the real width and diversity of the Qumran corpus nor consider the
distinction between sectarian and non-sectarian texts that was introduced by
later scholarship. For Hengel, and in his time, it was still common to combine
the data from the Qumran texts and the ancient accounts about the Essenes.
Thus, large parts of the argument should be phrased differently (and perhaps
more cautiously) today.
In general, scholarship has followed Hengel’s paths and increasingly inves-
tigated aspects of exchange between the Hebrew and Jewish tradition and the
Greek world. In Qumran texts published later, further elements of Hellenistic
culture (e.g., the rectangular architecture of the New Jerusalem in the New
Jerusalem text) could be found. Even for the Qumran settlement, scholarship
has become much more aware of trade ware from other places and evidence
of interchange with the regional culture.59 Most interesting is the comparison
between the Qumran rule texts and the statutes of Greco-Roman voluntary
associations.60 The parallels include various elements of the social status and
organizational structure, but not the concept of self or the theological views of

58 Hengel, “Qumran und der Hellenismus,” 294.

59 Thus, the original idea of the strictly isolated Qumran Essenes was demonstrated to be
erroneous. On the archaeological evidence, see Jörg Frey, “Qumran und die Archäologie:
Eine thematische Einführung,” in Qumran und die Archäologie: Texte und Kontexte, ed.
Jörg Frey, Carsten Claußen, and Nadine Kessler, WUNT 278 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck,
2011), 3–49.
60 Cf. recently the extensive monograph by Yonder M. Gillihan, Civic Ideology, Organization,
and Law in the Rule Scrolls: A Comparative Study of the Covenanters’ Sect and Contemporary
Voluntary Associations in Political Context, STDJ 97 (Leiden and Boston 2012); earlier
Moshe Weinfeld, The Organizational Pattern and the Penal Code of the Qumran Sect: A
Comparison with Guilds and Religious Associations of the Hellenistic-Roman Period, NTOA
2 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1986), and the lucid comparison by Randolf
Herrmann, “Die Gemeinderegel von Qumran und das antike Vereinswesen,” in Jewish
Identity in the Greco-Roman World: Jüdische Identität in der griechisch-römischen Welt, ed.
Jörg Frey, Daniel R. Schwartz, and Stephanie Gripentrog, AJEC 61 (Leiden: Brill, 2007),
161–203.
112 Frey

the yaḥad.61 The explanation may be that in the Hellenistic period the various
associations were formed under comparable legal situation62 and that at least
some of the most educated covenanters were basically familiar with Hellenistic
and Roman constitutions, which was probably also a part of Jewish education
in Jerusalem in the second century BCE.63 Notwithstanding the problems of
some of the more detailed observations mentioned above, the structural com-
parisons of the organizational patterns basically confirm Hengel’s general view
about the influence of Hellenistic culture, even in the circles of the Qumran
community or the related movement.
Of course, in many aspects, the image drawn by Hengel in the 1960s and
some later articles must be refined or modified. Thus, the beginnings of Jewish
apocalypticism are now generally located earlier than the Maccabean crisis
with the early Enochic tradition. This is clearly demonstrated by the earliest
manuscripts of the Book of the Watchers, and also confirmed by the fact that
the Visions of Amram also predates the yaḥad. Another tradition that can now
be considered much more accurately is the Palestinian Jewish sapiential tradi-
tion. Whereas in the 1960s only very few fragments of the works now called
Instruction and Mysteries were edited, the two fragments from Cave 1 (1Q26
= 1QInstruction and 1Q27 = 1QMysteries) and the release of the texts from
Cave 4 has opened the eyes for the wealth and character of those works which
are testimonies of a very particular development in Jewish Wisdom thought,
which are roughly contemporary with Ben Sira but prior to the yaḥad. So the
systematic view of world and history as presented in the Treatise on the Two
Spirits (1QS 3:13–4:26) and the term raz nihyeh so prominent in Instruction
and Mysteries are not inventions or particular appropriations of Hellenistic
ideas by the yaḥad but developments within Palestinian Jewish circles before
the Maccabean crisis. These were then adopted by the yaḥad together with
those sapiential texts. Recent scholarship tends to consider more strongly the
inner-Jewish development of traditions of, among other things, wisdom, dual-
ism, and angelology instead of attributing them simply to external (Persian or
Greek) influences on a previously “pure” Israelite tradition.64

61 Cf. the summary in Herrmann, “Die Gemeinderegel von Qumran,” 202.

62 Ibid., 203.
63 Thus Gillihan, Civic Ideology, 512.
64 On dualism, see the discussion in Jörg Frey, “Different Patterns of Dualism in the
Qumran Library,” in Legal Texts and Legal Issues: Proceedings of the Second Meeting
of the International Organization of Qumran Studies, Cambridge 1995, Published in Honor of
J. M. Baumgarten, ed. Moshe J. Bernstein, Florentino García Martínez, and John Kampen,
“ Judaism ” and “ Hellenism ” 113

Perhaps this is the most interesting point of criticism: In his Judentum und
Hellenismus, Hengel followed the paths of those scholars strongly considering
the Jewish roots of the early Jesus tradition (including his “Doktorvater” Otto
Michel) in opposition to the idea that early Christianity in Paul and later was
thoroughly influenced by pagan Hellenism or Gnosticism. But in the view of
those scholars and in their concept of apocalypticism, Jewish apocalyptic (and
Essenism as a part of it) was considered the main door for foreign elements to
enter the early Jewish tradition. Thus, apocalypticism and Essenism were, in
some way, considered the most “syncretistic” parts of Second Temple Judaism.
What Hengel tried to avoid for the period of early Christianity he accepted for
an earlier period of the history of Judaism where the encounter with foreign
elements led to the development of apocalyptic and Essene thought. In a later
article, Hengel admits that, in his Judentum und Hellenismus, he had too easily
adopted the view of a “syncretistic process” for the period mentioned here.65

6 The Problem of the Categories

This may lead us to the consideration of the categories used and thus to fur-
ther aspects of the general discussion of Hengel’s work. In spite of its wide
acceptance and the scholarly admiration it attracted, there were also a num-
ber of critical reactions. Mention should be made of a few very learned and
rather conservative Jewish scholars such as Arnoldo Momigliano or Louis H.
Feldman. Hengel’s investigation into the encounter of Palestinian Judaism with
the Hellenistic culture, his interpretation of the background of the Hellenistic
reform in Jerusalem, and his overall view of an early and thorough influence of
Hellenistic culture on Palestinian Judaism could affect the views of a tradition-
oriented Jewish scholarship.
In an early review, the Jewish historian Arnoldo Momigliano questioned not
only Hengel’s (and Bickerman’s) interpretation of the Maccabean crisis by gen-
erally pointing to the fact that we actually know rather little about Palestinian
Judaism in the third century BCE, but he also asks whether he has entirely
grasped the implications of the categories utilized in his research.66

STDJ 25 (Leiden: Brill, 1997), 275–335; idem, “Apocalyptic Dualism,” in Oxford Handbook of
Apocalypticism, ed. John J. Collins (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014), 271–294.
65 Hengel, “Judaism and Hellenism Revisited,” 183.
66 Arnaldo Momigliano, “Review of M. Hengel, Judentum und Hellenismus,” JTS 21 (1970):
149–53. On the adoption of Bickerman’s interpretation cf. also the larger review article
114 Frey

It was especially Louis H. Feldman who has challenged Hengel’s views in

two extensive review articles67 in which he not only provides a detailed criti-
cism of Hengel’s argument and evidence but also points to a theological bias
which is—in Feldman’s view—visible when the results are connected with
Hengel’s view of Jesus, Stephen, and Paul.68 In his second article, Feldman
explicitly doubts the degree of Hellenization in the land of Israel and points
to the remaining differences between the diaspora and the motherland.69 He
also rejects the idea that the early Jesus movement could develop because of
its high degree of Hellenization.70 In conclusion, Feldman asks for “the power
of Judaism that enabled it to remain strong despite the challenge of Hellenism
and later of Christianity” and to resist the cultural “Zeitgeist”?71
However, despite those strong critiques, many Jewish authors praised
Hengel’s work (and criticized only with the expression of high respect). With
regard to the categories of “Judaism” and “Hellenism,” Lee I. Levine could state
that after Hengel’s work the discussion on the “Hellenization” of Judaism was
continued in a much more nuanced manner,72 quite different from the earlier
traditions of the utilization of the terms.
A more thorough discussion of the categories was particularly enhanced
by Scandinavian projects. An important volume on Paul Beyond the Judaism-
Hellenism Divide edited by Troels Engberg Pedersen in 200173 questioned the
common distinction (or even “divide”) and the related presuppositions and a
Swedish scholar, Anders Gerdmar, in his PhD dissertation called for “Rethinking
the Judaism-Hellenism Dichotomy.”74 Although his work was focused on the
two epistles of Jude and 2 Peter, a work that has not found many followers of

by Fergus Millar, “The Background to the Maccabean Revolution: Reflections on Martin

Hengel’s Judaism and Hellenism,” JJS 29 (1978): 1–21.
67 Louis H. Feldman, “Review of Martin Hengel, Judentum und Hellenismus,” JBL 96 (1977):
371–82; idem, “How Much Hellenism in Palestine?” HUCA 57 (1986): 83–111.
68 Feldman, “Review,” 382.
69 Feldman, “How Much Hellenism in Palestine,” 110.
70 Feldman, “How Much Hellenism in Palestine,” 101.
71 Feldman, “How Much Hellenism in Palestine,” 111.
72 Lee I. Levine, Judaism and Hellenism in Antiquity: Conflict or Confluence? (Seattle and
London: University of Washington Press 1998), 12f. On the scholarly reactions to Hengel,
see ibid., 13f.
73 Engberg-Pedersen, Paul Beyond the Judaism-Hellenism Divide. See also his previous col-
lective volume Troels Engberg-Pedersen, ed., Paul in His Hellenistic Context (Edinburgh:
T&T Clark, 1994).
74 Gerdmar, Rethinking.
“ Judaism ” and “ Hellenism ” 115

his views,75 the hint to the ideological backgrounds of the dichotomy between
“Judaism” and “Hellenism” and their utilization as scholarly categories deserves
attention. Gerdmar, however, sees the roots of the utilization of those catego-
ries, even in Hengel’s work, in the Hegelian concept of history, and in the schol-
arly tradition F. C. Baur established.76
In his introductory essay to the volume mentioned above, Engberg Pedersen
plainly states that the divide between Judaism and Hellenism is inadequate
and has to be abandoned. Hellenism is not an area separated from Judaism but
a wide space in which Judaism and other ethnic, cultural, and religious tradi-
tions could coexist and mix. Thus if Hellenism is further used as a category, it
“should be understood in a very broad, ‘almost empty’ sense.”77 This is a view
which is largely in accordance with Hengel’s findings, but phrases the quest for
a more appropriate terminology and the dangers hidden in the unconscious
use of the terms. The consequence is that the search for the background or
adequate context of a given motif cannot be done according to alternative cate­
gories “Jewish” or “Hellenistic,” nor simply “Palestinian Jewish” or “Hellenistic
Jewish,” but requires more precise inquiry and comparison.
In the same volume, Wayne Meeks, Dale Martin, and Philip Alexander lucidly
sketch the various ideological implications of the use of the terms in exegetical
scholarship78 since Baur. It is rightly observed that the Hegelian philosophy of
history has stimulated a dichotomic concept so that “Hellenism” and “Judaism”
were considered in a fundamental opposition (in Droysen as well as in Baur).
The antagonism was then considered to be overcome in the “Early Catholic

75 Gerdmar saw the Judaism-Hellenism dichotomy efficiently utilized in the exegesis of

these two letters and in the assumption of a development from the (more Jewish) epistle
of Jude to the (more Hellenistic) Second Peter. He tries to demonstrate that Jude also has
numerous elements of Hellenistic language and rhetoric (which is certainly true) and
that Second Peter also draws thoroughly on Jewish tradition (which is correct to a certain
degree). But when he, for those reasons, turns round the commonly accepted sequence
of the letters and establishes Second Peter as the earlier one and Jude as the later one, his
argument is far from being convincing. See my review in TLZ 128 (2003): 393–95; cf. also
Jörg Frey, “The Epistle of Jude Between Judaism and Hellenism,” in The Catholic Epistles
and the Apostolic Tradition, ed. Karl-Wilhelm Niebuhr and Robort Wall (Waco, TX: Baylor
University Press, 2009), 309–30 and 463–75.
76 See also A. Gerdmar, “Baur and the Creation of the Judaism-Hellenism Dichotomy.”
77 Engberg Pedersen, “Introduction: Paul Beyond the Judaism/Hellenism Divide,” 4.
78 Meeks, “Judaism, Hellenism, and the Birth of Christianity”; Dale B. Martin, “Paul and the
Judaism/Hellenism Dichotomy: Toward a Social History of the Question,” 29–62, 265–72;
Philip S. Alexander, “Hellenism and Hellenization as Problematic Historiographical
Categories,” 63–80, 272–76.
116 Frey

Church” or, more simply, in the universalistic concept of Christianity. In this

concept, the use of the category “Hellenism” can be (but is not necessarily)
linked with an anti-Jewish tendency insofar as “Judaism” (as the opposite of
Hellenism) is equated with particularism and legalism, or (in the work of some
ancient Historians) even with Barbarism. Thus, for Droysen, Christianity grew
out of the synthesis of “Barbarian” Jahwism and purified paganism—a pattern
which is made out of classical Greek categories (Greeks and Barbarians) but
also implies some kind of teleology. Of course no contemporary scholar would
accept such a construction and the categories implied, and Hengel’s work is
well aware of the dangers and inadequacies of Droysen’s categories.
Gerdmar, however, points to Hengel’s provoking phrase that the Hellenization
of Judaism actually functioned as praeparatio evangelica, a preparation for the
Gospel.79 In adoption of the famous expression from Eusebius, Hengel men-
tions the idea of a worldwide mission (Matt 28:18–20) that presupposes the
idea of a worldwide culture. He points to the koine as a common language and
also to the individualization of religion in Hellenistic times. Thus, in Hengel’s
view, some aspects that contributed to the final “success” of the Christian
movement were only developed within the Hellenistic culture, its universal-
ism, and its individualism. Of course, in Eusebius, the spread of Christianity
is interpreted in a salvation historical or providential framework, as already
early Christian authors link the new message with the idea of the “fullness of
time” (Gal 4:4). For Hengel, it is rather the question which aspects of contem-
porary culture actually contributed to the spread of the early Christian mis-
sion so that such a movement would have been inconceivable before (e.g., in
Persian times). Gerdmar, however, utters the suspicion that Hengel’s idea is
“an etiology to explain a certain form of Christian development”80 based on
idealistic thinking and Christian confessionalism. If the “Hellenists” from Acts
6 play a central role in Hengel’s reconstruction of the early Christian mission,81
and the Hellenists, not the Aramaic community, fulfil the original intention of
Jesus’ teaching, Gerdmar suspects a kind of anti-Jewish bias which would bring
Hengel’s views in a line with the ideological tradition of Droysen and Baur.
However, such a critique seems to unduly mix a number of aspects: Hengel’s
brief remarks on Jesus’ intentions may be somewhat imprecise, but the cen-
tral role of the Greek-speaking Jesus-followers in the spread of the Gospel can

79 Cf. especially Martin Hengel and Hermann Lichtenberger, “Die Hellenisierung des anti-
ken Judentums als Praeparatio Evangelica,” in Judaica et Hellenistica: Kleine Schriften 1,
WUNT 90 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1996), 295–313.
80 Gerdmar, Rethinking, 252.
81 Cf. Hengel, “Zwischen Jesus und Paulus.”
“ Judaism ” and “ Hellenism ” 117

hardly be denied. And it seems to miss Hengel’s view if Gerdmar interprets the
distinction between the Greek-speaking and the Aramaic-speaking commu-
nity as a continuation of the Hellenism-Judaism dichotomy, especially since
Hengel presupposes personal contacts and a close exchange between the two
groups within the Jerusalem community (e.g., through the Greco-Palestinians
such as Barnabas, John, Mark, and others).82 Furthermore, from the outset
of his work, it has been Hengel’s intention to avoid a separation between the
Palestinian Jewish “primitive community” and the Hellenistic Jewish com-
munity and, thus, to avoid the alternatives of the scholarly tradition of Baur,
Heitmüller, Bousset, and Bultmann.
A final aspect can be added here. In a recent PhD dissertation from Jerusalem,
Michael Tuval83 has studied the differences between Palestinian Judaism and
diaspora Judaism by analysing the works of Flavius Josephus and some of the
developments between his earlier Jewish War and the later Jewish Antiquities.84
From here, Tuval develops a new perspective on diaspora Judaism as a form of
Judaism which is not less Jewish (or simply assimilated) but in certain respects
also more decidedly Jewish. Whereas being Jewish was a matter of course in
Eretz Israel, any Jewish existence in the diaspora was not merely based on
genealogy or tradition but also on the decision to uphold the traditional eth-
nic and religious affiliation even in a foreign milieu. So, diaspora Jews had to
consider, for instance, how to educate their children and how to deal with the
issues of purity, food, and marriage regulations because nothing was a matter
of course. The result is that even diaspora Judaism or Judaism in the Hellenistic
Roman world outside of Eretz Israel was not automatically assimilated to its
gentile milieu but a particular, but no less real form of Judaism. This might
be a further step to overcome the divide between Palestinian and diaspora
Judaism: Not only is Palestinian Judaism thoroughly Hellenistic, but Judaism
in the Hellenistic-Roman diaspora is not necessarily less Jewish. These ideas
deserve thorough consideration, and in a subsequent project Tuval is currently
working to apply his insights also to the study of Paul.

82 Hengel, Judentum und Hellenismus, 193ff.; Idem, Judaism and Hellenism, 1:105.
83 Cf. Michael Tuval, From Jerusalem Priest to Diaspora Intellectual: Temple, Torah, and Priests
in the Works of Flavius Josephus in the Context of Jewish Diaspora Literature of the Second
Temple Period, WUNT 357 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2013).
84 Contrary to the plea of Steve Mason and his choices in his commentary on the Judean
Antiquities, I do not adopt that rendering of Ioudaios here. Cf. Daniel R. Schwartz,
“ ‘Judaean’ or ‘Jew’? How should we Translate Ioudaios in Josephus,” in Jewish Identity in
the Greco-Roman World. Jüdische Identität in der griechisch-römischen Welt, ed. Jörg Frey,
Daniel R. Schwartz, and Stephanie Gripentrog, AJEC 61 (Leiden: Brill, 2007), 3–28.
118 Frey

7 Conclusion

As the present discussion shows, every generation is again called to check the
categories utilized in research and interpretation, and this is even more true if
those categories also contribute more or less to the expression of identity or
otherness. “Judaism” and “Hellenism” are categories of such a general relevance,
and Hengel’s landmark study has contributed a lot to a more nuanced use of
those categories in scholarship. Although some of his arguments might be
in need of revision due to the later release of the large number of previously
unknown Qumran texts and to the modified views of the Qumran library, com-
munity, and of other developments in the Second Temple period, Hengel’s gen-
eral views have shaped further scholarship and contributed to a historically
more appropriate view of the History-of-Religions issues in late Second Temple
Judaism and the growing Jesus movement.
 CHAPTER 8

Choosing Between Papyrus and Skin: Cultural

Complexity and Multiple Identities in the
Qumran Library
George J. Brooke

1 Introduction

This paper will consider the choices being made by Jewish scribes of the late
Second Temple period when they selected papyrus for their manuscripts rather
than writing on skin. The existence of the same composition in more than one
material format raises complex questions that cultural theorists have become
used to discussing in terms of agency, through which people in everyday cir-
cumstances impose aspects of their identities on their circumstances. This
paper will argue that the choice between papyrus and skin reflects an intersec-
tion between high culture and popular culture, between the regional and the
local. The analysis that follows attempts to move the modern description of
those responsible for producing and collecting the scrolls found in the eleven
caves at and near Qumran beyond narrow introvertionist sectarianism of one
sort or another towards a sense of self-worth based in intellectual and religious
integrity that was nevertheless able to take advantage of multiple aspects of
the cultures of the day.1
As Emanuel Tov has suitably remarked with regard to the use of papyrus as
a writing material, “the situation in Qumran differs totally from the other sites
in the Judean Desert. While in almost all the other sites in the Judean Desert
documentary papyri form the majority among the papyrus texts, in Qumran
almost all papyri are non-documentary (literary). Non-documentary papyri
are found in only two other sites, Murabba‘at and Masada, and there too they

1 On the character of sectarianism reflected in the so-called sectarian compositions from the
eleven caves at and near Qumran see inter alia, Eyal Regev, Sectarianism in Qumran: A Cross-
Cultural Perspective, Religion and Society 45 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2007), 378 (predominantly
“introversionist”); Cecilia Wassen and Jutta Jokiranta, “Groups in Tension: Sectarianism
in the Damascus Document and the Community Rule,” in Sectarianism in Early Judaism:
Sociological Advances, ed. David Chalcraft (London: Equinox, 2007), 224 (antagonism, differ-
ence, and separation).

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���7 | doi ��.��63/9789004336919_009

120 Brooke

form a small minority.”2 Such distinctiveness seems to demand some kind of

explanation. Several have been given and they will be variously referred to as
we proceed; this paper seeks to offer some further reflections on this topic.

2 The Use of Papyrus in the Hellenistic Levant

There are several landmark studies on the use of papyrus in antiquity.3 It is not
necessary to rehearse the many valuable insights that can be found in such
works. As part of a small preamble to this present essay I wish briefly to set out
three matters that need to be kept in mind as the papyrus evidence from the
Qumran caves is considered and given some context: the source of papyrus,
the varied qualities in which it was produced, and the economics of its produc-
tion and distribution.
The first matter concerns the location of papyrus production. It seems to
me that most scholars are willing to subscribe to the view that in the Graeco-
Roman period, as probably earlier, the majority of papyrus was produced in
Egypt. It was used locally for various products,4 but was exported as writing
material all over the Near East and the Mediterranean world.5 It is entirely
possible to envisage some papyrus production elsewhere than in Egypt, even
locally in Palestine; Pliny describes papyrus in Mesopotamia and Syria.6
Emanuel Tov has noted that the papyrus plant (gm’) could be referred to in Isa
35:7 and Job 8:11 and was probably known in Judea in the late Second Temple
period; he has suggested that it “could have grown in such places as Ein Feshkha

2 Emanuel Tov, “The Corpus of the Qumran Papyri,” in Semitic Papyri in Context: A Climate of
Creativity. Papers from a New York University Conference Marking the Retirement of Baruch A.
Levine, ed. Lawrence H. Schiffman, Culture and History of the Ancient Near East 14 (Leiden:
Brill, 2003), 85–103 (86); idem, Scribal Practices and Approaches Reflected in the Texts Found in
the Judean Desert, STDJ 54 (Leiden: Brill, 2004), 44.
3 The easiest way to access the large bibliography and to acquire a sense of current papyro-
logical scholarship is through the articles in Roger S. Bagnall, ed., The Oxford Handbook of
Papyrology (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009).
4 For example, “small boats, sails, clothing, carpets, sandals, riddles, and ropes.” Jules Toutain,
The Economic Life of the Ancient World (London: Kegan Paul, Trench, Trubner & Co.,
1930), 130.
5 Adam Bülow-Jacobsen, “Writing Materials in the Ancient World,” in The Oxford Handbook of
Papyrology, ed. Roger S. Bagnall (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), 4. He notes that for
Greek and Latin documents that survive from antiquity sixty-five percent of documentary
texts and seventy-one percent of literary texts are written on papyrus.
6 Pliny the Elder, Nat. 13.72–73.
Choosing Between Papyrus and Skin 121

or the Huleh marshes, and indeed there is ancient evidence for the growth
of papyrus at various locations in Israel.”7 Nevertheless Tov has uncontrover-
sially concluded that because “there is no evidence for the local production of
papyrus from the plant, the material used for writing may have been imported
from Egypt.”8
Thus the most likely matter is that the papyrus fragments that have been
found in some of the caves at Qumran belong to sheets or rolls of papyrus
that would have been imported from Egypt.9 The presence of papyrus thus
very probably indicates a connection of some sort with manuscript material
deriving from a place other than the contexts local to Qumran, whether local
in the Judean wilderness or slightly further afield in Jerusalem and beyond.
The presence of papyrus, wherever it might have been inscribed, is an indica-
tion of the international character and broader cultural context of some part
of the collection now found in the eleven caves at and near Qumran. The use of
imported papyrus seems to be another challenge to some modern reconstruc-
tions of the separatist identity of the movement that seems to lie behind the
collecting of the manuscripts found in the eleven caves at and near Qumran,
the site where some of the movement probably lived and worked in the last
century and a half before its destruction by the Romans in 68 CE.
A second factor to be borne in mind is that it seems to have been well
known that papyrus was produced in various qualities and sizes, controlled
in large part by royal monopoly. Since the Egyptians themselves never seem to
have recorded the manufacturing process, reference is frequently and appro-
priately made to Pliny’s observations on papyrus production, even though it
does not seem that he ever witnessed papyrus being made.10 Pliny’s descrip-
tion is summarised and its problems commented upon suitably by Adam
Bülow-Jacobsen.11 Whatever the case concerning some details of production,

7 Tov, Scribal Practices and Approaches, 33. For evidence of this Tov relies on Naphtali Lewis,
Papyrus in Classical Antiquity (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1974), 6. Lewis argues that
extensive writing material production from papyrus might only have occurred outside
Egypt in Babylonia.
8 Tov, Scribal Practices and Approaches, 33.
9 Note only the slight exaggeration in the comment by Naphtali Lewis, Life in Egypt under
Roman Rule (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1983), 129: “in antiquity Egypt supplied the writing-
paper for the whole Mediterranean world.” Lewis made his comment in the context of
discussing a daily harvest of 20,000 armfuls of papyrus at one plantation.
10 Pliny the Elder, Nat. 13.74–82. For some principal scholarly items on papyrus production,
including some items with comments on the papyrus fragments from Qumran, see the
bibliography in Tov, Scribal Practices and Approaches, 46.
11 Bülow-Jacobsen, “Writing Materials in the Ancient World,” 4–8.
122 Brooke

according to Pliny the best quality papyrus had been traditionally associated
with its use by priests for religious texts (and so designated hieratic), but by
the Roman period the best qualities seem to have been reserved for imperial or
state use, with hieratic becoming the designation for the third quality product.
The price of papyrus would no doubt have varied according to its quality.
A comprehensive assessment of the quality of the fragmentary papyrus
manuscripts from the Qumran caves has yet to be undertaken; because of the
poor state of preservation of many of the papyri, it might never be possible to
offer a comprehensive assessment of what remains.12 However, it can be noted
immediately that the most extensive opisthographs to survive in the caves are
papyrus collections of liturgical texts.13 As for size, it seems that the use of
some common size papyrus sheets probably limited column height to about
nineteen lines of writing, akin to the larger size of Hebrew manuscript column
on leather, but a considerable way from anything de luxe.14 Bülow-Jacobsen
describes 20–30 cm in height as “normal” for a roll of papyrus, a maximum size
being 40 cm.15 The quality and size of the papyri from Qumran do not seem to
be anything out of the ordinary.
A third point concerns the economics of papyrus production and distribu-
tion. Little is known for certain about the economics of papyrus production
in Egypt. Perhaps this explains why few scholars concerned with the scrolls

12 On this matter Qumran scholars can take heart from the work of their papyrological col-
leagues who sometimes fail to comment on the quality of the papyrus when they edit
a manuscript. See, for example, the general lack of such comments in the multiple edi-
tions provided in Rodney Ast et al., eds., Papyrological Texts in Honor of Roger S. Bagnall,
American Studies in Papyrology 53 (Durham, NC: The American Society of Papyrologists,
2013). However, note the discussion of school papyri: “A student did not have much
chance of getting his hands on good-quality papyrus. Editors have often remarked on the
coarse look of school papyri, their roughness, their mediocre, if not definitely poor qual-
ity.” Raffaella Cribiore, Writing, Teachers, and Students in Graeco-Roman Egypt, American
Studies in Papyrology 36 (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1996), 58.
13 (a) Recto 4Q499 (Hymns/Prayers), verso 4Q497 (War Scroll-like Text A); (b) Recto 4Q503
(Daily Prayers), verso 4Q512 (Purity Ritual B); (c) Recto 4Q505 (Words of the Luminariesb)
and 4Q509 (Festival Prayersc), verso 4Q496 (War Rulef) and 4Q506 (Words of the
Luminariesc). The presence of War Rule material here might indicate that that composi-
tion was understood primarily as liturgical.
14 Leather scrolls with a “large” writing block are described by Tov as ranging from 15 to 30
cm in height; some with very large writing blocks (nearly all copies of biblical books)
range from 23 to 51 cm in height. 4Qpap Tobita is roughly 17 cm high, 4Qpap Hf 19 cms high
and 4QpapSc 20 cm high, all close to the lower limit of “normal;” see Tov, Scribal Practices
and Approaches Reflected in the Texts Found in the Judean Desert, 46, 87–90.
15 Bülow-Jacobsen, “Writing Materials in the Ancient World,” 21.
Choosing Between Papyrus and Skin 123

have tried to determine and assess such evidence as there might be in order to
understand better some of the likely reasons for the use of papyrus by those
producing the scrolls. Often it seems to be supposed that papyrus was widely
used for everyday documentary purposes, as is evident from various manu-
script finds in the Judean wilderness other than Qumran and from the rubbish
tips of first millennium CE Egypt, and that as a result it was readily available as
a popular writing material in earlier periods and other locations too. But the
case in the period contemporary with the contents of the Qumran caves seems
to have been otherwise at least for the better grades of papyrus.
Pliny does indeed describe how there are several different graded qualities
of papyrus from the finest, possibly reserved traditionally for religious texts, to
the poorest which was used solely for wrapping. Size is one criterion of quality
and price with the best grade papyrus being thirteen fingers wide. Pliny notes
that the standard sizes and qualities were adjusted by Claudius—an indicator
of royal involvement: Claudius is linked to the production of slightly thicker
papyrus too so that the ink would not bleed through, and with increasing the
width of sheets to a foot (Nat. 13:74). Roman domination of Egypt continued
the royal monopolies set up under the Ptolemies or even inherited by them
from earlier rulers.16 Apparently there was some opening up of the market in
the years immediately after Alexander’s conquests, but by the end of the first
quarter of the third century BCE the monopoly was back in place.
The production of papyrus in Egypt was controlled by royal monopoly and
as such those in power fixed its price; there was no commercial interface of
supply and demand that might inhibit price inflation, though the actual price
of papyrus seems to have been relatively stable for large parts of the Hellenistic
period. Roger Bagnall suggests that “the labour involved in making papyrus
was considerable, and its price was therefore significant, most typically several
days’ average worker’s wages for a roll. . . . For members of the propertied classes,
the cost was no deterrent, but for poor peasants it might be.”17 Furthermore,
when merchants travelled with goods in the eastern Mediterranean of the late
Second Temple period, they would have been taxed on their goods in transit,
thus adding to sale prices by something in the region of twenty-five per cent. It
is not unlikely then that high quality papyrus was a writing material mostly for
elites who could afford it.

16 The conclusions of Gustave Glotz remain tenable, “The Price of Papyrus in Greek
Antiquity,” Annales d’histoire economique et sociale 1 (1929): 3–12.
17 Roger S. Bagnall, Reading Papyri, Writing Ancient History (London: Routledge, 1995), 13.
Bagnall places himself with those who consider papyrus more, rather than less, expensive.
124 Brooke

As a reflection of the royal monopoly Pliny records how Tiberius intervened

to conserve a supply of papyrus when the production of the plant apparently
failed at some point during his reign, so as to guarantee a supply of papyrus
for imperial uses. Though its actual manufacture seems to have been relatively
cheap in terms of raw materials, but intensive in labour costs, apart from a
short period at the beginning of the Ptolemaic period, it seems to be the case
that the price of the final product was largely controlled by royal monopoly.
It is regularly stated that the high cost of top-grade papyrus during the early
years of the Roman Empire which was sometimes a matter of imperial con-
cern, was simply a continuation of much earlier policies in Egypt where papy-
rus, produced and stored by royal license created a valuable tax revenue for the
Ptolemies and rulers before them. It seems safe to conclude that high-grade
papyrus often used, perhaps even reserved for religious texts, reflected elite
activity. The evidence from Qumran, inasmuch as it can be ascertained, seems
to indicate the use of normal sizes, though the quality remains undetermined.
Was the use of papyrus by some scribes associated with the movement an elite
occupation or nothing out of the ordinary?

3 The Evidence in Brief

To begin to put together an approach towards answering some of the points

already mentioned let us look briefly at the evidence from the Qumran caves.
More than one list of the papyri from Qumran (and other Judean Desert sites)
and some of their characteristics has been published.18 Those lists and the
studies that accompany them have provided valuable overviews of the data
and this study depends heavily upon them. The vast majority of the papyrus
manuscripts come from Caves 4, 6 and 7.19 The precise number of manuscripts
is impossible to gauge, since in some instances several small fragments have
been associated together, possibly inappropriately, and in other instances at
least one scholar has seen fit to identify numerous manuscripts from fragments

18 See especially Emanuel Tov, “E. Lists of Specific Groups of Texts from the Judaean Desert:
1. Papyrus Texts (Hebrew, Aramaic, Nabataean, Greek, Latin),” in The Texts from the
Judaean Desert: Indices and An Introduction to the Discoveries in the Judaean Desert Series,
ed. Emanuel Tov, DJD XXXIX (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2002), 204–10; idem, “The Corpus
of the Qumran Papyri,” 100–103; idem, Scribal Practices and Approaches Reflected in the
Texts Found in the Judean Desert, 289–94.
19 In addition to Caves 4, 6 and 7, three papyri are noted from Cave 1, one from Cave 9, and
one from Cave 11.
Choosing Between Papyrus and Skin 125

which others had seen fit to put together.20 I do not want immediately to begin
to explain away what seem to be anomalies in the evidence, but it is probably
best to begin the description of at least some of the evidence by looking at the
range of items found on papyrus scrolls in Cave 4.
Cave 4. There are at least six issues in the Cave 4 papyrus remains that need
to be kept in mind. All might have some bearing on how the papyrus manu-
scripts should be viewed.
First, several scholars have indicated that a few of the papyrus remains
attributed to Cave 4 at Qumran quite probably, even certainly, come from
elsewhere. This particularly concerns a few of the documentary texts. 4Q347
(4QpapDeed F ar), for example, is part of Hev 32 and has been wrongly associ-
ated with Qumran. 4Q359 (4QpapDeed C?) might fall under similar suspicion.
It is likely that Bedouin claims concerning provenance were taken at face value
and need to be constantly held under review. The effect of this small observa-
tion is to make all the more remarkable the introductory observation noted
above, namely that the papyri from Qumran overwhelmingly and distinctively
contain literary rather than documentary compositions.21
Second, it is necessary to draw attention straightaway to the multiple frag-
ments of papyrus that preserve writing in the Cryptic A script. Originally gath-
ered under two sigla, 4Q249 and 4Q250, Stephen Pfann has attempted the
analytical task and in separating out the fragments from one another has sug-
gested that there might be up to twenty-seven separate manuscripts within
the 4Q249 designation and eleven copies of texts within 4Q250, some of which
are opisthographs.22 While Pfann has acknowledged that the text on many of
these fragments remains unidentified, he has also proposed that amongst the
fragments allocated to 4Q249 there could be up to nine copies of the Rule of
the Congregation (Serekh ha-‘Edah). If such is indeed the case, then there is
already a strong signal that the use of papyrus was considered appropriate
within sectarian circles and indeed for esoteric communication. Such sectar-
ian possibilities are confirmed if the existence of a Qumran scribal practice is

20 See the comments below on 4Q249 and 4Q250.

21 Tov, Scribal Practices and Approaches, 47: “The great majority of Qumran papyri contain
literary texts. There are also ten documentary texts from Caves 4 and 6, but it is possible
that they did not derive from Qumran.”
22 Stephen J. Pfann, “3. Cryptic Texts,” in Qumran Cave 4.XXVI: Cryptic Texts and Miscellanea,
Part 1, ed. James VanderKam and Monica Brady, DJD XXXVI (Oxford: Clarendon Press,
2000), 515–701. See now, with important ramifications for the discussion here, Asaf Gayer,
Daniel Stökl Ben Ezra, and Jonathan Ben-Dov, “A New Join of Two Fragments of 4QcryptA
Serekh haEdah and its Implications,” DSD 23 (2016): 139–54.
126 Brooke

permitted,23 since about twenty of the remaining fifty or so compositions on

papyrus from Cave 4 are penned with at least some features of such a practice.
In noting the possibility of the extensive number of papyrus manuscripts in
Cryptic A script, it might also be significant that the majority of these manu-
scripts have been dated in the second century BCE. The basic text assigned
the siglum 4Q249, Midrash Sepher Moshe, has been carbon dated with a range
that covers most of the second century BCE,24 so it is reasonable to conclude
that the fragments of papyrus in a similar Cryptic script are more or less
contemporary.
Third, one feature of the papyrus collection from Cave 4 that I have long
had in mind and wonder whether it is of any significance concerns the generic
spread of the evidence. Whereas the case of the Rule of the Congregation could
be that there are multiple copies in Cryptic script on papyrus and only a single
copy on skin, the reverse seem to be strikingly the case in most other instances.
Tov has very helpfully highlighted how in very many cases what survives from
Cave 4 are single papyrus copies or versions (just occasionally more than
one) of compositions that are otherwise known in multiple copies on skin.
The significant list is worth reciting (in number order): there is one papyrus
copy of a Pesher (4Q163=4QpappIsac), one of Tobit (4QpapToba ar=4Q196),
perhaps two of Jubilees (4Q217; 4Q223–224), two of the Rule of the Community
(4QpapSc=4Q257; 4Q255 is an opisthograph [see below]), one of the Damascus
Document (4QpapDh), one Calendrical Document (4QpapCalDoc A?=4Q324b),
one Apocryphon of Jeremiah (4QpapApocr Jer B?=4Q384), one Pseudo-Ezekiel
(4Qpap psEzeke=4Q391), one MMT (4QpapMMTe=4Q398), one Hodayot
(4QpapHf=4Q342), and four opisthographs which still perplex scholars, but in
three of which there are distinctive compositions, mostly or entirely of a litur-
gical character: (a) Recto 4Q433a (Hodayot-like Text B), verso 4Q255 (Rule of the
Communitya);25 (b) Recto 4Q499 (Hymns/Prayers), verso 4Q497 (War Scroll-like

23 This has long been supported by Tov in his many analytical works on the Qumran man-
uscripts, but the precision of the category has been challenged by Eibert Tigchelaar,
“Assessing Emanuel Tov’s ‘Qumran Scribal Practice’,” in The Dead Sea Scrolls: Transmission
of Traditions and Production of Texts, ed. Sarianna Metso, Hindy Najman and Eileen
Schuller, STDJ 92 (Leiden: Brill, 2010), 173–207.
24 See note in DJD XXXIX, 379 n. 2: “it would suggest that 4QMSM is one of the earliest extant
scrolls produced by the Community.”
25 Note the following comment by Philip S. Alexander, “Literacy among Jews in Second
Temple Palestine: Reflections on the Evidence from Qumran,” in Hamlet on a Hill:
Semitic and Greek Studies Presented to Professor T. Muaoka on the Occasion of his Sixty-
Fifth Birthday, ed. Martin F. J. Baasten and W. Th. van Peursen, OLA 118 (Leuven: Peeters,
2003), 17: “4QSa is a papyrus manuscript and the suggestion that it may be a private,
Choosing Between Papyrus and Skin 127

Text A); (c) Recto 4Q503 (Daily Prayers), verso 4Q512 (Purity Ritual B); (d) Recto
4Q505 (Words of the Luminariesb) and 4Q509 (Festival Prayersc), verso 4Q496
(War Rulef) and 4Q506 (Words of the Luminariesc). The list is worth rehearsing
because it includes mostly single papyrus copies of nearly all the compositions
that have been identified as those with the leading sectarian characteristics.26
Why are just one or perhaps two copies of each of those compositions pre-
served on papyrus? Was there a deliberate decision to preserve at least one
copy on papyrus for some reason, perhaps for archival purposes?
Tov has noted, rightly in my opinion, that “while the number and nature
of the surviving Qumran texts are to a great extent due to happenstance, it
cannot be coincidental that the aforementioned literary compositions are, as
a rule, represented by four-five, sometimes seven-eight, copies on leather and
one (sometimes, two or three) on papyrus.”27 Tov has wondered whether the
papyrus copies and the leather copies of the same compositions derived from
different sources. He offers a very important and suggestive correlative list of
those major compositions for which there are no extant papyrus copies: New
Jerusalem, Mysteries, Enoch, Astronomical Enoch, Aramaic Levi, Pseudo-Daniel,
Instruction, Tohorot, Berakhot, Narrative and Poetic Composition (4Q371–373),
Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifice, Mishmarot, Barkhi Nafshi, Visions of Amram,
Temple Scroll, Reworked Pentateuch, and Ordinances. Those fall into four
groups: Aramaic compositions, scriptural works, wisdom texts and liturgical
materials. Despite that list, Tov’s overall conclusion is that the majority of the
papyri contain compositions that are either clearly sectarian or “of interest to
the Qumran community.”28 In addition, for Tov, “most papyri may reflect per-
sonal copies owned by members of the Qumran community, while some may
have been imported from other sources.”29 Other scholars have recognized

possibly scholarly copy of the Serekh is reinforced by the fact that it is on the verso.
The recto contains a copy of an otherwise unknown Hodayot-like text in a much more
professional hand. This text was written first, and the roll was then re-used by a scholar
to make his own copy of the Community Rule. Indeed, given its palaeographic date—
palaeographically it is our oldest exemplar—it is not beyond the bounds of possibility
that 4QSa represents the first draft of the Community Rue, put together by the scholar
who first compiled that work.”
26 One might exclude Tobit, the Apocryphon of Jeremiah and Pseudo-Ezekiel from the list,
though the latter two have quasi-sectarian characteristics.
27 Tov, “The Corpus of the Qumran Papyri,” 91; idem, Scribal Practices and Approaches, 48.
28 Tov, “The Corpus of the Qumran Papyri,” 92, 99.
29 Ibid., 99.
128 Brooke

this likelihood too.30 We might question the balance in that proposal in some
respects, not least inasmuch as literary papyri in the wider cultural context
might be personal possessions or belong to other kinds of library collections.31
Fourth, can anything be derived from the dates of the papyrus manuscripts?

Pesher (4Q163=4QpappIsac) ca. 85 BCE

Tobit (4QpapToba ar=4Q196) ca. 50 BCE
Jubilees (4Q217; 4Q223–4Q224) 217: 60–50 BCE
223–4: 75–50 BCE
Jubilees? (4Q482; 4Q483) ca. 20 CE
Rule of the Community (4QpapSc=4Q257) 100–75 BCE
Damascus Document (4QpapDh) ca. 15 BCE/end of
1st BCE
Calendrical Document (4QpapCalDoc A?=4Q324b)
Apocryphon of Jeremiah (4QpapApocr Jer B?=4Q384) ca. 35 CE
Pseudo-Ezekiel (4Qpap psEzeke=4Q391) ca. 150–100 BCE
MMT (4QpapMMTe=4Q398) early Herodian
Hodayot (4QpapHf=4Q342) 30–1 BCE

Opisthographs
(a) Recto 4Q433a, 75 BCE
verso 4QpapSa=4Q255 125–100 BCE
(b) Recto 4Q499 (Hymns/Prayers), ca. 75 BCE
verso 4Q497 (War Scroll-like Text A) 50 BCE
(c) Recto 4Q503 (Daily Prayers), 100–75 BCE
verso 4Q512 (Purity Ritual B) 85 BCE
(d) Recto 4Q505 (Luminariesb) 70–60 BCE
and 4Q509 (Festival Prayersc), 70–60 BCE

30 See, e.g., Michael O. Wise, Thunder in Gemini and Other Essays on the History, Language
and Literature of Second Temple Palestine, JSPSup 15 (Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1994), 125–
37; Daniel K. Falk, “Material Aspects of Prayer Manuscripts at Qumran,” in Literature
or Liturgy? Early Christian Hymns and Prayers in their Literary and Liturgical Context
in Antiquity, ed. Clemens Leonhard and Helmut Löhr, WUNT 2/363 (Tübingen: Mohr
Siebeck, 2014), 43–45. Falk makes some astute observations, but unhelpfully argues in
favour of the papyri being personal copies by suggesting that the three kinds of composi-
tion on papyri (liturgical prose prayers, religious poetry, and sectarian rules), are the very
genres of text that someone might wish to have private access to. But as the list of items
from Cave 4 on papyrus indicates, there is much greater variety than that.
31 Tov identifies some parallels in both private and more public collections. Tov, Scribal
Practices and Approaches, 45–46.
Choosing Between Papyrus and Skin 129

verso 4Q496 (War Rule f ) ca. 55 BCE?

and 4Q506 (Words of the Luminariesc) 506: ca. 50 CE

Some brief comments can be made. To begin with it seems that the dates of
the various papyrus manuscripts in Cave 4 are spread over two centuries just
as for those written on skin. Possibly there are small clusters, in the second
century BCE with the Cryptic fragments, in the beginning of the first century
BCE (S+4Q433a, 4Q163) and at the turn of the era or later. This suggests that the
papyrus manuscripts were not the work of a single set of scribes at one time,
nor the possession of just one or two community members. Nevertheless these
three periods might be marked by (1) the secretive work of a founding elite in
the second century BCE, (2) the activities of a Maskil as instigator of the Rule
of the Community and explicit scriptural interpretation at the start of the first
century BCE, since 4QpapSa and 4Qpap pIsac are the earliest or amongst the
earliest representatives of the compositions they contain, and (3) as a period
of archival representation in the generations either side of the turn of the era.32
The notion of archival representation might indicate that a custom emerged of
having (at least) one copy of all the major sectarian compositions on papyrus,
perhaps to ensure durability in one form or another or possibly to emulate
hieratic practice in Egypt or elsewhere.33
A fifth point to be observed with the papyri collection from Cave 4 is that
some papyri are opisthographs. In fact, and for entirely natural reasons since
both sides can more readily carry writing than can skin, the papyri are dispro-
portionately represented amongst opisthographs. I have provided a study of the
papyrus and leather opisthographs elsewhere,34 and noted that for some there
could well be a connection between what was written on both sides, whilst for
others it is far less clear that there was any link. The presence of a Hodayot-like
composition on one side and 4QpapSa on the other might reflect a link of some
sort; possibly both were texts for the Maskil. And although penned in different
generations the combination of texts on a single manuscript as some kind of

32 Tov rightly notes that there are twenty-four compositions that are known on papyrus
alone; these include wisdom texts, poetry, prayers and liturgical materials, rewritten
scripture; two are in Aramaic. Tov, “The Corpus of the Qumran Papyri,” 95.
33 Manuscripts of both skin and papyrus could remain in circulation for as long as two cen-
turies or more: see the summary statement to that effect based on a range of evidence
by Mladen Popović, “Qumran as Scroll Storehouse in Times of Crisis? A Comparative
Perspective on Judaean Desert Manuscript Collections,” JSJ 43 (2012): 551–94 (564).
34 George J. Brooke, “Between Scroll and Codex? Reconsidering the Qumran Opisthographs,”
in On Stone and Scroll: Studies in Honour of Graham I. Davies, ed. James K. Aitken,
Katherine J. Dell, Brian A. Mastin, BZAW 420 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2011), 123–38.
130 Brooke

liturgical corpus implies some kind of intentional collecting of compositions

of a similar genre, perhaps for personal or again just as likely for archival use.
Building on the observations of others, a sixth point is noted by Tov: 4Qpap
pIsac “uniquely displays several scribal signs not known from other texts.”35
Partly in dialogue with a draft of this essay and partly on the basis of his own
comparative work, Pieter B. Hartog has made the strong suggestion that the dis-
tinctive marginal marks in 4Qpap pIsac may reflect an attempt by a sectarian
scribe not just to mark sense divisions, which some of the signs evidently do,
but also to emulate the scribal practices evident in the Greek hypomnemata.36
Overall there are hints from the evidence from Cave 4 that papyrus was
used for a number of reasons: secretive purposes, by the leadership within the
group, for the purposes of textual collection and for representative reasons.
Before offering some further cultural context for the use of papyrus, a few com-
ments on the finds in both Caves 6 and 7 are in order.
Cave 6. It is not often recalled that the majority of manuscript remains
from Cave 6 are written on papyri. These include what might be some copies of
scriptural works, which generally in the Qumran collection are written on skin.
The best preserved Cave 6 papyrus seems to represent a form of the books of
Kings (6Q4; from the second half of the second century BCE) that is shorter than
that of the MT, more akin in some respects to that of the LXX and Vulgate. The
presence of scripture on papyrus is noteworthy, since such is probably absent
from the other caves, especially Cave 4 (except for Greek scriptural manu-
scripts). Indeed the fact that there are no copies of the Temple Scroll or Rewritten
Pentateuch on papyrus might be yet another indicator of their authoritative
scriptural status. “The writing of Scripture on papyrus was forbidden by rab-
binic literature, see m. Meg. 2:2 (at the same time early Christian writings were
written on that material).”37 In addition to Kings, the Book of Giants, associated
with the authoritative Enoch corpus, is also preserved on a papyrus manuscript
from Cave 6 (6Q8). It might also be observed that there is manuscript evidence
for the Jewish scriptures translated in Egypt into Greek being written on papy-
rus; indeed what else would have been expected. The presence of at least one
documentary text (6Q26) together with the somewhat distinctive make-up of
the remains in Cave 6 have often been used to suggest that this was a personal
collection, but Mladen Popović has rightly urged caution before extrapolating

35 Tov, Scribal Practices and Approaches, 52.

36 Pieter B. Hartog, Pesher and Hypomnema: A Comparison of Two Commentary Collections
from the Hellenistic–Roman Period (PhD diss., Katholieke Universiteit Leuven, 2015),
397–98.
37 Tov, Scribal Practices and Approaches, 32.
Choosing Between Papyrus and Skin 131

from the distinctiveness of some evidence to thinking that the contents

of Cave 6 represent a personal collection.38
Cave 7 is better known as a special case. The manuscript fragments from this
cave are exclusively papyrus and exclusively the compositions on them are in
Greek. This seems as such to be some kind of special collection. That, however,
does not mean that the contents of the cave should be ignored, but how they
should be used as one of several keys to interpreting the papyrus manuscripts
in the other caves is not entirely clear. It is tempting to suppose that the con-
tents of Cave 7 do indeed represent the personal collection of a member of the
movement whose first language might have been Greek and his place of origin
more likely Egypt than Jerusalem. C. H. Roberts has dated the Cave 7 collection
from about 100 BCE to about 50 CE;39 the manuscripts were not all written at
one time and must, therefore have been collected over some time, perhaps
as the prize possessions of one family over several generations.
The venture in this volume is to provide some cultural context to help us
read various features of Judaism in antiquity, so I turn now to a few brief obser-
vations that attempt to combine the more general remarks about papyrus with
the particular observations on Caves 4, 6 and 7. It might be possible on the
basis of such evidence to support or undermine some of the standard observa-
tions about the papyri that were found in the Qumran caves, particularly the
persistent and dominant notion that the papyrus represents exclusively per-
sonal collections of manuscripts.

4 Papyrus as a Cultural Marker: Agency and Emulation

With the production and distribution of papyrus being a royal monopoly, it

is not inappropriate to consider it as a cultural marker. From a Jewish per-
spective it is a gentile product that carries non-Jewish cultural codes. In
addition, with the best grades of papyrus being reserved for religious texts,
the production of Jewish religious or literary texts on standard size papyrus
rolls could be construed as a counter-cultural act of some kind, either exter-
nally directed as a challenge to the dominant Egyptian religious texts or
internally directed as a statement for fellow-Jews that Judaism might seek to
emulate or replace such cultural markers. In this section of this brief essay,

38 Popović, “Qumran as Scroll Storehouse in Times of Crisis?” 573.

39 Maurice Baillet, “Textes des Grottes 2Q, 3Q, 6Q, 7Q à 10Q,” in Les ‘Petites Grottes de Qumrân,
ed. Maurice Baillet, Josef T. Milik and Roland de Vaux, DJDJ III (Oxford: Clarendon Press,
1962).
132 Brooke

I will attempt to draw together several features of what has been pointed out
above concerning the likely cost of papyrus, its Egyptian royal and bibliothecal
associations, and the journey from Egypt to Jerusalem and its environs.
First, we have noted that the production and price of papyrus was a royal
monopoly in Egypt in much of the Second Temple period. The purchase of
papyrus in Jerusalem or elsewhere in the eastern Mediterranean almost
certainly involved additional costs as products were taxed at various customs
posts. It is likely that good grade papyrus, that which was worth trading or
importing for literary compositions, was principally a material used by elites
for restricted purposes. If the quality of the papyrus of the generally very poorly
preserved Qumran fragments could be ascertained, then the cultural marker of
price would associate the use of papyrus in the Qumran caves most readily
with elites of one kind or another. Where the composition on papyrus is prob-
ably non-sectarian, then it would seem to be an indication of an attempt by
some Jews to emulate at least one feature of high culture as that might be rec-
ognized through such material artefacts in the Eastern Mediterranean. Traded
papyrus is not the stuff of rubbish tips, but of the well-to-do, especially of well-
to-do priests or their associates.
Second, with skin being readily available as a locally-produced writing
material in Judea, even in the third century BCE, the choice of papyrus might
well be understood not just as one option amongst others, but as deliberate.
The question then arises concerning what such choice might indicate. Pliny
has noted (Nat. 13.74) that papyrus was produced in different qualities with
the best quality in the pre-imperial period being known as “hieratica” because
it was reserved for religious books. Thus not only might papyrus represent a
foreign non-Jewish writing material, but its finest quality might associate it
with the production of pagan religious texts. To the outsider the Jewish use
of papyrus for Jewish literary texts might signal something confrontational
or complimentary, either as something intended to suggest how Judaism as
a cultural phenomenon could replace or better its non-Jewish counterparts,
or as something intended to emulate the best of non-Jewish practice in
some respect.
Third, it is possible to recognize that there is a diachronic perspective to
be taken into account. If Pfann is correct in his assessment of what is to be
observed in the multiple small fragments linked to nine possible copies
of the Rule of the Congregation, then papyrus was deemed suitable early on
in the movement’s life in the second century for those compositions that con-
tained some of the distinctive aspirations of the movement, not least in terms
of the role of the priesthood and the place of education, the imposition of
Choosing Between Papyrus and Skin 133

appropriate hierarchy and the clarification of who might perform various roles
at particular ages. In the early stages of the movement, there seems to have
been some need for this information to be conveyed secretively. What kind of
elite would decide to adopt papyrus for such dissemination of its ideas? As a
high cultural marker the use of papyrus indicates not a popular movement of
dissent, but a self-confident elite that no longer wanted to be part of the exclu-
sivist agenda of the Hasmoneans. Is the use of papyrus at this stage an indica-
tion of some degree of Hellenistic acculturation amongst such dissenters?
Any such acculturation is not straightforward. We have noticed that the
earliest copies of some compositions, such as the Rule of the Community and
Pesher Isaiah, were also presented on papyrus. It is as if the leadership of the
movement in its constitutional expression and its innovative scriptural inter-
pretation has some kind of investment in the use of papyrus for at least some
of its texts. About a century later the use of papyrus becomes slightly more
common but then, at least with respect to liturgical materials, for satisfying
the concerns of a representative collector or two.
Fourth, those in cultural studies who argue that there is a persistent role for
the agency of the individual within the wider social frames of reference would
encourage the reader of the Qumran papyrus collection to consider that over
the generations certain individuals chose to work with papyrus rather than
skin for a range of reasons. It seems entirely feasible to suppose that in a gen-
eral political context where there was possibly ongoing concern about degrees
of Hellenistic influence or domination from elsewhere, then the use of a mate-
rial associated with such a broader cultural context might well indicate some
measure of compromise with various aspects of such culture.
Matters could even be expressed more strongly, in terms of the emulation
of such culture with respect to the aspiration of some to have a representative
sample of significant compositions on papyrus as the core of a library, whether
personal or communal. If the Ptolemies could do it at Alexandria, even giving a
well-known place to the Jewish scriptures in Greek, then there is surely a possi-
bility that some Jews could do it in Judea, perhaps in some instances for private
purposes (Cave 6?), and in other cases for a broader process of group collect-
ing. There is thus a surprising degree of individual agency that both reflects
and confirms social practice, and that represents non-Jewish high culture in
the Qumran collection.
If that was indeed the case, then the practice of certain individuals might
have had multiple motivations. In relation to the Qumran collection as a
whole, I have preferred to understand the deposit of damaged manuscripts in
Cave 1, somewhat distant from the site itself, as a kind of Genizah, the location
134 Brooke

for manuscripts now out of use. Such a practice, which sees some manuscripts
wrapped in cloth and the jars they are put in sealed with pitch, surely not a
sign of regular reuse, seems to be taking place in the first century CE, but not
necessarily because the Romans are in the vicinity—such care indicates noth-
ing urgent. This practice in relation to Cave 1 might have a positive counterpart
in some aspects of what can be discerned in Cave 4, a cave near the site, which
was probably in regular use as some kind of repository, as the remains of marks
for shelving seem to indicate.
I speculate at this point that there were in fact four intertwined motivations
(two internal and two external) which influenced the ongoing use of papyrus
by some members of the movement that is associated with the Qumran site
and its manuscript deposits in caves. Looking at the motivations that are inter-
nal to the community or sectarian movement it is important to remember that
even these cannot be separated entirely from what is going on in the wider
cultural context. (1) On the one hand, there is the possibility of emulating what
was distinctive amongst the movement’s founders in the second century BCE
and the practices of the Maskil of the generation of the start of the first century
BCE. (2) On the other hand, there was a significant desire to collect, perhaps for
personal reasons, at least one genre of texts. And such collecting activity might
have also been expressed in ensuring at least one papyrus copy existed for each
of the community’s principal compositions alongside others. Turning to the
external motivations it is clear that these reflect more broadly the cultural con-
text. (3) Here one wonders whether there is first a sense of emulation of those
in Egypt responsible for the great library of Alexandria in which and perhaps
for which the translation of the Jewish scriptures into Greek had been under-
taken. Might this explain in part the persistence of papyrus in Caves 4, 6 and 7
for some quasi-scriptural or scriptural copies of authoritative texts in Greek on
papyrus? And (4) second, a motivation to emulate the priests of Egypt might
also be at play, not least since good quality papyrus was reserved for the use of
the priests. Here the emulation might not just be one of reverse flattery, to pro-
vide a substitute for what the priests of Egypt might be known for. In addition,
there might be significant emulation of respect.
The possibility of the emulation of respect for the high culture of the Egyptian
priesthood is represented in an essay by Martha Himmelfarb where she cites
the contemporary of Philo, the Greco-Egyptian Stoic philosopher Chaeremon,
who spent some time in Alexandria in the first century CE.40 Linked with the

40 Martha Himmelfarb, “The Torah Between Athens and Jerusalem: Jewish Difference
in Antiquity,” in Ancient Judaism in its Hellenistic Context, ed. Carol Bakhos, JSJSup 95
(Leiden: Brill, 2005), 113–29 (123).
Choosing Between Papyrus and Skin 135

Egyptian priesthood according to some traditions, Chaeremon seems to be

the author of a passage in which he describes the Egyptian priesthood of his
day as ascetic philosophers who give their whole life to contemplation of the
divine, many of whom are vegetarian and who abstain from sexual activity
while on temple duty. While it is very likely that the description is some con-
siderable way from reality and belongs to what Himmelfarb describes as “the
genre of idealizing descriptions of exotic barbarian sages known from other
writers,”41 nevertheless the genre persisted and might have created some sense
of the ideal for priesthood that was more widely known. The passage has been
compared with Philo’s description of the Therapeutae, who also lived not far
from Alexandria, and whose description is contemporary with the liturgical
collecting activity of the Qumran papyri. Himmelfarb argues that the way the
Torah outlined the roles of priests almost certainly inhibited him from try-
ing to describe the Jerusalem priests as counterparts to those in Egypt and so
she notes Jewish difference. But those Jews who were already in tension with
priestly activities in Jerusalem might not have felt the need for difference quite
so clearly. Indeed, one might even suppose that they could use such motifs
to mark themselves off from fellow Jews with whom they disagreed. Their
Jewishness rested most explicitly in seemingly not wanting to have the Torah
in Hebrew on papyrus; but beyond that there were many options.
Determining the reasons for the choice of papyrus for some of the man-
uscripts rather than skin is not an easy task. I have argued that overall, the
choice for papyrus for Jewish literary texts in any generation is a choice with
some possible markers of high culture, and elements of a non-Jewish sort. But
alongside such overall perspectives, the choice of papyrus for Jewish literary
texts at any particular time was no doubt the reflection of a complicated set
of motives. Those seem to have been specific to certain individuals, the result
of individual agency in a wider social context. At some times that individual
agency seems to be motivated by the best of intentions specific to the increas-
ingly sectarian movement with its distinctive forms of Judaism. At other times
that individual agency was possibly motivated by intentions that have perhaps
surprising counter-cultural dimensions, ways of marking oneself off from local
practices in Jerusalem and by its priesthood by reference to more regional
ideals that many Jews had found attractive for other reasons.

41 Himmelfarb, “The Torah Between Athens and Jerusalem,” 124.

 CHAPTER 9

What Does India Have to Do with Jerusalem?

Ben Sira, Language, and Colonialism

Benjamin G. Wright

Pared down, the love of mother tongue, the love of my little corner of
ground, is more like comfort. It is not really the declared love of coun-
try as in full-blown nationalism. When and how does the comfort felt in
one’s mother tongue and the comfort felt in one’s corner of the sidewalk,
a patch of ground or a church door—when does this transform itself into
the nation thing?
Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, “Nationalism and the Imagination” 1

∵
The Jewish sage, Joshua ben Sira, spent his life under the domination of
two Hellenistic foreign powers, first the Ptolemaic state administered from
Alexandria and second, after the Fifth Syrian War, the Seleucid state in
Antioch.2 He almost certainly lived in a Jerusalem divided by loyalties to one
power or the other. As a scribe/sage who belonged to a retainer class that
served the upper class Jewish elites (primarily priests), he had a great deal at

1 In Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, An Aesthetic Education in the Era of Globalization (Cambridge,
MA: Harvard University Press, 2012) 274–300 (279). In this paper, I owe a great debt to my
Lehigh colleague (and fellow cabal member), Khurram Hussain, who encouraged me to pur-
sue the ideas in this paper and who spent much time tutoring me in the nuances of the
Indian situation and the ways that colonialist and nationalist discourses work. I am also
grateful to my other cabal colleagues, Michael Raposa and Bill Bulman for their invaluable
feedback over libations.
2 On the Hellenistic empires generally, see François Chamoux, Hellenistic Civilization (Oxford:
Blackwell, 2003) and on the Seleucid empire, Susan Sherwin-White and Amélie Kuhrt, From
Samarkhand to Sardis: A New Approach to the Seleucid Empire (London: Duckworth, 1993).
On these empires and their impact on Jerusalem and the Judean temple-state, see Richard A.
Horsley, Scribes, Visionaries, and the Politics of Second Temple Judea (Louisville: Westminster
John Knox, 2007).

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���7 | doi ��.��63/9789004336919_010

What Does India Have to Do with Jerusalem ? 137

stake in the outcome both of the contest for hegemony over Palestine waged
between the Ptolemaic and Seleucid dynasts and of the inevitable political
maneuverings that took place among his superiors in Jerusalem.3 His praise
of the high priest Simon II in chapter 50 suggests that he emerged from these
events just fine, since Simon seems to have been among those who favored
the Seleucids rather than the Ptolemies.4 In the wake of this changeover in
power, the Seleucid ruler, Antiochus III, granted those who had supported him
a number of benefactions, among them a contribution to temple sacrifices,
an exemption from certain taxes for the leaders of the people, a temporary
exemption for those returning to Jerusalem within a specified time, and the
right to govern themselves according to their “ancestral laws.”5 As someone
who was likely a member of the governing apparatus in Jerusalem, Ben Sira
also stood to benefit from these provisions.
Within such a context of hegemonic rule by foreign powers, someone like a
Ben Sira might find himself betwixt and between—on the one hand, subject to
and working, at least indirectly, in the service of the colonizing powers and the
totalizing discourses that undergirded them, while, on the other hand, seek-
ing ways to resist those same powers and their attendant discourses.6 Anathea
Portier-Young has shown beautifully the ways in which several Second Temple
period apocalypses both challenge and resist the hegemonic powers by
giving their readers “tools and frameworks for thinking beyond hegemonic

3 For the designation scribe/sage and Ben Sira’s social location as part of a retainer class, see
Richard A. Horsley and Patrick Tiller, “Ben Sira and the Sociology of the Second Temple,” in
Second Temple Studies III: Studies in Politics, Class and Material Culture, ed. Philip R. Davies
and John M. Halligan, JSOTSup 340 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2002), 74–107. On
the struggle for hegemony over Palestine, see Anathea Portier-Young, Apocalypse Against
Empire: Theologies of Resistance in Early Jewish Literature (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2011),
chaps. 2–3.
4 See my article, “ ‘Put the Nations in Fear of You’: Ben Sira and the Problem of Foreign Rule,”
in Benjamin G. Wright III, Praise Israel for Wisdom and Instruction: Essays on Ben Sira and
Wisdom, the Letter of Aristeas and the Septuagint, JSJSup 131 (Leiden: Brill, 2008), 127–46 (esp.
128–30 and the literature cited there). More recently see, Marko Marttila, Foreign Nations in
the Wisdom of Ben Sira: A Jewish Sage between Opposition and Assimilation, DCLS 13 (Berlin:
de Gruyter, 2012).
5 For these provisions, see the letter from Antiochus to his governor Ptolemy in Josephus, Ant.
12.138–144 and Antiochus’s programma in Ant. 12.145–146. On their significance, see Portier-
Young, Apocalypse Against Empire, 55–62.
6 By totalizing discourses, I mean the ways in which the hegemonic powers control sovereignty
and the legitimation of indigenous authority, economics, administration, and other aspects
of the outer or public spheres that get reconfigured by the colonial power and that exercise
cultural hegemony that works to erase colonial difference on the part of the colonized.
138 Wright

constructions of reality” as well as in some cases empowering “resistant

action.”7 We certainly cannot situate Ben Sira in the same camp as the apoca-
lypticists, however.8 Rather, he seems to fit more comfortably with those elite
Jews who, Portier-Young writes, “sought to carve out a moderate accommoda-
tionist position that cooperated with the Seleucid empire in the political realm
but at the same time claimed a high level of continuity with ancestral tradi-
tions and identified both the city of Jerusalem and the Jerusalem cult as key
loci of Jewish identity.”9 Yet, the process of negotiation that Ben Sira and others
like him managed would seem to be more complex than political cooperation
on the one hand and attachment to ancestral customs and central places of
Jewish identity on the other. Those Jews who pursued this strategy also had to
engage the broader cultural project of those Hellenistic powers as well. John
Barclay characterizes this interaction with Hellenistic culture as a process of
negotiation, of “using and refusing,” which was constitutive of that interaction.10
We can see this strategy at work in Ben Sira’s book, which is often character-
ized as the Second Temple Hebrew wisdom text par excellence but which also
reveals an author willing to appropriate Hellenistic literature and ideas for his
own purposes. Four different features of his book will illustrate the case.
First, in several passages, particularly those concerned with friendship,
Ben Sira shows a remarkable similarity to sayings of the Greek elegiac poet
Theognis, and Jack Sanders has made a persuasive argument that Ben Sira
depended on him for some passages.11 So, for example, although Sir 6:5–17

7 Portier-Young, Apocalypse Against Empire, 383.

8 In fact, much evidence in his book suggests that Ben Sira did not think much of those
who were producing apocalypses. See my “ ‘Fear the Lord and Honor the Priest’: Ben Sira
as Defender of the Jerusalem Priesthood,” in The Book of Ben Sira in Modern Research, ed.
Pancratius C. Beentjes, BZAW 255 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1997), 189–222. I did not consider
there how Ben Sira’s differences with the apocalypses might reflect disagreements over
how to treat foreign rule, but in the light of issues I raise in this paper, such questions
would be worth asking.
9 Portier-Young, Apocalypse Against Empire, 112.
10 John M. G. Barclay, “Using and Refusing: Jewish Identity Strategies Under the Hegemony
of Hellenism,” in Ethos und Identität: Einheit und Vielfalt des Judentums in hellenistisch-
römischer Zeit, eds. Matthias Konradt and Ulrike Steinert (Paderborn: Ferdinand Schöningh,
2002), 13–25 (esp. 17). Barclay only deals with Alexandrian Jewish texts as examples of
Jewish using and refusing.
11 For detailed argumentation for Ben Sira’s dependence on Theognis with examples of
relatively secure and more problematic texts, see Jack T. Sanders, Ben Sira and Demotic
Wisdom, SBLMS 28 (Chico, Calif.: Scholars Press, 1983), 29–38. For a more optimistic
(and unrealistic) assessment of Ben Sira’s dependence on Greek sources, see Theophil
What Does India Have to Do with Jerusalem ? 139

expands on the idea of Prov 18:24 (“Some friends play at friendship, but a
true friend sticks closer than one’s nearest kin”), Sir 6:10 shares close verbal
similarities to Theognis 115–116 and 643–644, and Sir 6:11–12 sounds very
much like Theognis 697–698.12 Second, Ben Sira knows and adapts Hellenistic
genres, particularly in his Praise of the Ancestors in chapters 44–50. Burton
Mack has concluded that although the Praise does not fit exactly any of the
three Hellenistic genres of biography, historiography, or encomium as the
ancient rhetorical handbooks describe them—although the encomium comes
closest—Ben Sira was conversant with these genres, and all three made con-
tributions to the Praise.13 Thomas Lee goes farther and contends that Ben
Sira consciously modeled the Praise after the different kinds of encomia that
he might have known.14 Third, while many authors have observed how Ben
Sira is unique among contemporary ancient Jewish texts in that he is the first
Jewish author to use his own name and thus display an awareness of the idea
of authorship, almost none have commented on the significance of that aware-
ness. If Ben Sira knew Greek texts and literary forms, and thus Greek literature
more broadly, his own sense of authorship might well have derived from the
Greek practice of authorial self-identification. Mack is certain that Ben Sira’s
identification derives from Greek practice:

In contrast to the authorship of Jewish works before his time and the
pseudonymity of much of the literature after his time, Ben Sira’s con-
sciousness and acknowledgment of being an author is a strange and

Middendorp, Die Stellung Jesu Ben Siras zwischen Judentum und Hellenismus (Leiden:
Brill, 1973).
12 Sir 6:10, “There are friends who sit at your table, but they will not stand by you in a time
of trouble” (‫יש אוהב חבר שלחן ולא ימצא ביומ רעה‬, MS A); Theognis 115–116, “Many are
companions over drinking and eating, but they are fewer in a grave matter” (Πολλοί τοι
πόσιος καὶ βρώσιός εἰσιν ἑταῖροι, ἐν δὲ σπουδαίωι πρήγματι παυρότεροι) and 643–644, “Many
become friendly companions at the bowl, but they are fewer in a grave matter” (πολλοὶ
πὰρ κρητῆρι φίλοι γίνονται ἑταῖροι, ἐν δὲ σπουδαίωι πράγματι παυρότεροι). Sir 6:11–12, “When
you are prosperous, they become your second self . . . but if you are brought low, they turn
against you” (‫ אם תשיגך רעה יהפך בך ומפניך יסתר‬. . .‫בטובתך הוא כמוך‬, Ms A); Theognis
697–698, “When I am doing well, my friends are many; but if something ill happens, few
have true hearts” (Εὖ μὲν ἔχοντος ἐμοῦ πολλοὶ φίλοι· ἢν δέ τι δεινὸν συγκύρσηι, παῦροι πιστὸν
ἔχουσι νόον).
13 Burton L. Mack, Wisdom and the Hebrew Epic: Ben Sira’s Hymn in Praise of the Fathers
(Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1985), 120–37.
14 Thomas R. Lee, Studies in the Form of Sirach 44–50, SBLDS 75 (Atlanta, GA: Society of
Biblical Literature, 1986).
140 Wright

wonderful anomaly. It was no doubt the result of his learning about texts,
education, and authorship on the model of the Greeks. This conception
of authorship expected that the author be responsible for his utterances,
and it rewarded him for their sagacity.15

Fourth, Ben Sira refers in the first person to his own travels and the importance
of the experience for the sage’s understanding. He says: “He who had no experi-
ence knows few things, but he who has traveled will increase cleverness. I have
seen many things in my traveling, and more than my words is my understand-
ing” (34:10–12).16 Moreover, of the sage he says: “He will serve among nobles,
and he will appear in front of rulers. He will travel to foreign nations, for he has
tested the good and bad things in people” (39:4). Assuming that these words
accurately reflect Ben Sira’s own experience, here we see that important wis-
dom can be learned through travel.17 Ben Sira clearly has a cosmopolitan sen-
sibility by which he understands that wisdom does not reside in one’s own
culture only but that one can acquire it in all sorts of places.
The evidence from Ben Sira’s book points to a sage who had a decent, even
good, knowledge of Greek language, literature, and ideas, which he was will-
ing to adapt for the purposes of his own teaching.18 Such familiarity raises a
number of questions that I cannot address in the current paper but that
ought to be recognized at this juncture. Where did Ben Sira learn his Greek?
To what kinds of educational institutions might he have had access where he
could get a Greek education?19 Could he write in Greek?

15 Mack, Wisdom and the Hebrew Epic, 187.

16 Translations of the Greek of Ben Sira (sometimes adapted slightly) come from A New
English Translation of the Septuagint and the Other Greek Translations Traditionally
Included Under that Title, eds. Albert Pietersma and Benjamin G. Wright (New York:
Oxford, 2007).
17 In my article “Ben Sira on the Sage as Exemplar,” in Praise Israel, 165–82, I argued that
in these first-person passages, Ben Sira is constructing an ideal sage for his students to
emulate. That does not mean, however, that they cannot also reflect some of Ben Sira’s
own experiences and values. See also, Jan Liesen, “Strategical Self-References in Ben Sira,”
in Treasures of Wisdom: Studies in Ben Sira and the Book of Wisdom—Festschrift M. Gilbert,
eds. Núria Calduch-Benages and Jacques Vermeylen, BETL 143 (Leuven: Peeters, 1999),
63–74.
18 So, for example, Theognis wrote in Ionic Greek. If Ben Sira read Theognis, he would have
known Greek fairly well.
19 Robert Doran builds a case that Greeks, like Jews, had a traditional model of education
in which students attached themselves to teacher who taught moral maxims, rhetoric,
and argumentation. See Robert Doran, “The High Cost of a Good Education,” in Hellenism
What Does India Have to Do with Jerusalem ? 141

As a scribe/sage who served those who had to interact with the Ptolemaic
and Seleucid empires that ruled Palestine, he likely would have had to know
Greek in order to function on the international stage, and his comments on
the sage’s travel allow us to infer that he did. Yet, when it came to his book, Ben
Sira wrote in Hebrew, not Greek. Given his social and occupational positions,
might the choice of Hebrew be ideological on his part? What would it mean for
him to make such a linguistic choice?
To anticipate my conclusions about Ben Sira, writing in Hebrew allows our
betwixt-and-between sage a space to develop a Jewish national discourse—a
language of the “nation thing”—that accords Hebrew the status of the lan-
guage of the Jews and Jewish nationalism and that at the same time allows
him to avoid the attention of the colonial powers as he trains young Jewish
scribe/sages who will themselves have to take their own places as the middle
men between the colonizer and indigenous elites, on the one hand, and the
subordinated lower classes, on the other.20
In order to gain some insight into the dynamics at work in Ben Sira, I decided
to engage in a thought experiment and have turned for comparison to a mod-
ern example of emerging nationalist discourse that I had been discussing with
colleagues in my department at Lehigh University: India in the late nineteenth
and early twentieth centuries.21 These discussions prompted a set of musings
about Ben Sira that in the end enabled me to think more productively about
the questions concerning language that I raised above. Although the establish-
ment of the modern nation-state of India differs substantially from what we
might understand as a nation in antiquity, the Indian situation offers a set of
historical circumstances to think with. Here Spivak’s concept of the “nation
thing” helps to bridge at least partially the wide gap between ancient Palestine

in the Land of Israel, eds. John J. Collins and Gregory E. Sterling (Notre Dame, IN: Notre
Dame University Press, 2001), 94–115. Would there have been such teachers in Ben Sira’s
Jerusalem? Or might someone like Ben Sira have gone to the Hellenistic cities on the coast
in search of a Greek education?
20 For the idea of nationalism as a project of mediation, see Partha Chatterjee, The Nation
and Its Fragments: Colonial and Postcolonial Histories (Princeton: Princeton University
Press, 1993), esp. 72–75; On language as helping to constitute imagined communities,
see Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of
Nationalism (London: Verso, 2006), chap. 5. I will return to these issues in Ben Sira below.
21 The reason for this choice is straightforward. Along with the extensive literature on India,
first I have colleagues at Lehigh University, my home institution, who know this material
well and who could help me avoid numerous pitfalls in such a comparative exercise, and
second, my writing of this paper serendipitously coincided with a two-day visit to our
campus from Gayatri Spivak.
142 Wright

and modern India. Certainly the nation-state is a project of modernity,

but as Spivak observes, “I say nation thing rather than nationalism because
something like nations, collectivities bound by birth, that allowed strangers in
gingerly, have been in existence long before nationalism came around.”22 As
was the case in the emerging nation of India, Ben Sira crafted a discourse by
which such a collectivity—Spivak’s “nation thing”—called Israel could be con-
structed, and Hebrew played a critical role in his efforts.
At its core, the nation thing is about sovereignty, that is, the exercise of
power, and in a situation of hegemonic subordination to a dominant power,
those who are subordinate are denied sovereignty over many of the domains
of life, most prominently in the public domains, such as politics, law, econom-
ics, and administration, but also to varying degrees in domains such as reli-
gion and culture.23 These “outer” domains are marked by the colonial power’s
endeavor to erase the difference between the colonizer and the colonized.
This exercise of erasure on the part of the colonial power might even preserve
a misleading veneer of colonial difference.24 Let us consider, for example,
Antiochius III’s programma, which allowed the Jews to govern themselves by
their “ancestral laws.” At first blush, this permission appears to recognize, and
even institutionalize, colonial difference, but upon closer examination, differ-
ence is erased. In fact, what once belonged uniquely to the Jews effectively gets
co-opted by the colonial power. To give the most benign reading, by granting
permission to govern by “ancestral laws,” Antiochus appropriated the status
of ancient Israelite leaders under whose authority these laws were thought to
have been promulgated—Moses, various kings, etc. The colonial king assumes
the authority and position vis-à-vis his subjects of the indigenous ruler as the
legitimizer of these customs. In a less innocent reading, one made in the light
of the Hellenistic ruler cults, the king rhetorically puts himself in the place of
the Jewish god who was the original source and authority of these laws, as their

22 Spivak, “Nationalism and the Imagination,” 279.

23 See Chatterjee, The Nation and Its Fragments, 26. See also, Portier-Young, Apocalypse
Against Empire, 62.
24 The idea of colonial difference and how it works lies at the heart of Chatterjee’s analysis
of the development of nationalism in India, see The Nation and Its Fragments, chap. 2
(but discussed throughout). In addition to the public and private spheres, Chatterjee (The
Nation and Its Fragments, 120) observes that the discourse of nationalism in Bengal also
reveals the “ideologically more powerful dichotomy” between inner and outer represent-
ing the material and the spiritual. The West might colonize those things that lay outside,
but the spiritual, inner could not be colonized. This distinction cannot really be main-
tained for Ben Sira. More on this below.
What Does India Have to Do with Jerusalem ? 143

real authorizer.25 Thus, the king not only becomes the only source of the Jews’
freedom to govern themselves, in effect, he has made these laws his laws; the
king, thus, displaces the legitimacy of the laws as originating with the Jewish
god and as Jewish laws, instead making legitimacy, authorization, and posses-
sion Seleucid.26 In either case, Antiochus clearly arrogates to himself legiti-
mating authority over these customs, and at any time he can withdraw what
he has given.
In the face of a denial of sovereignty and erasure of colonial difference, the
nation thing develops in those domains not accessible to the colonial powers,
that is, in the inner or private spheres. In India, as Partha Chatterjee explains:
“The nationalist response was to constitute a new sphere of the private in a
domain marked by cultural difference: the domain of the ‘national’ was defined
as one that was different from the ‘Western.’ The new subjectivity that was con-
structed here was premised not on a conception of universal humanity, but
rather on particularity and difference; the identity of the ‘national’ community
as against other communities.”27 Spivak goes farther than Chatterjee and sets
up the private and the public as opposites, calling nationalism a “recoding”
of an “underived private as the antonym of the public sphere.”28 Similarly
James C. Scott theorizes that within systems of subordination and domination
there exists a “public transcript” that must be acted out by both those who
dominate and those who are subordinated, but that “offstage” the subordinated
create a “hidden transcript,” “a backstage discourse consisting of what cannot
be spoken in the face of power,” within which power can be critiqued and
resisted.29 Out of sight, the hidden transcript allows the subordinated to
“dream out loud,” to construct a different discourse, one that can imagine a
different sort of life.30 In certain circumstances, this hidden transcript emerges

25 To what extent the Hellenistic ruler cults might have played a part in the king implic-
itly (or even explicitly?) assuming the position of the indigenous god in cases such as
Antiochus III and the Jews is not clear on the surface, but it should be understood as one
weapon in an arsenal used to assert hegemony over a conquered people. On the ruler cult
and the status of the king, see Angelos Chaniotis, “The Divinity of Hellenistic Rulers,” in
A Companion to the Hellenistic World, ed. Andrew Erskine (Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell, 2003),
431–45. For Seleucid rulers, see Sherwin-White and Kurt, From Samarkhand to Sardis,
116–18.
26 Cf. Portier-Young, Apocalypse Against Empire, 62.
27 Chatterjee, The Nation and Its Fragments, 75.
28 Spivak, “Nationalism and the Imagination,” 280.
29 James C. Scott, Domination and the Arts of Resistance (New Haven: Yale University Press,
1990), xi–xii, 5–6.
30 For the quoted phrase, see Portier-Young, Apocalypse Against Empire, 33.
144 Wright

openly, but in disguise, according to Scott, mostly in anonymous (and popular)

forms such as rumors, gossip, folktales, and the like.31
Where sovereignty can be had, there it is constituted, and language com-
prises one of the “inner” spheres where the subordinated can exercise sov-
ereignty, one of the offstage spaces where Scott’s hidden transcript can be
articulated plainly and out loud. One might perhaps think of community iden-
tity or discourse of the nation thing as being constituted by various fields of
identity. With Portier-Young one could look at a spatial field where Jerusalem
and its temple are situated as central markers, or one might also look to other
fields of identity such as the geographical (sacred or holy land), textual (sacred
books), or cultural (sacred myth and/or ritual). In situations such as colo-
nial India or ancient Palestine where the language of the colonizer is not the
mother tongue of the colonized, language forms a field of identity and func-
tions as a marker of cultural difference; it is one’s own and not shared with the
powers that be.32
We can conceive of language in different ways, of course. When Spivak
refers to one’s mother tongue, she undoubtedly intends something similar to
Benedict Anderson, when he writes, “What the eye is to the lover—that par-
ticular, ordinary eye he or she is born with—language—whatever language
history has made his or her mother tongue—is to the patriot. Through that
language, encountered at mother’s knee and parted with only at the grave,
pasts are restored, fellowships are imagined, and futures dreamed.”33 The
nation thing is conceived in language, and that was as true for ancient Jews

31 Scott, Domination and the Arts of Resistance, xiii. See the analysis in Portier-Young,
Apocalypse Against Empire, 31–35, who concludes that Scott’s notion of a “hidden tran-
script” does not really work for the apocalypses that she is studying. For Ben Sira, however,
I think that the idea offers analytical utility.
32 Of course, an orientalist impulse might motivate the colonizer to learn the language of
the colonized, and this did happen in India. Even in this situation, however, language
can serve as a shield against the colonizer. In ancient Palestine, there is no evidence that
I know of that the Seleucid dynasts or their functionaries made any attempt to learn
Hebrew, particularly since (a) Greeks erected clear walls between those who spoke Greek
and thus were cultured or civilized and those who were barbarian, that is, who did not
speak Greek and were thus uncivilized and (b) in the Persian period Aramaic became
a language of the Jews in addition to Hebrew, and thus, Hebrew would not necessarily
have comprised the national language of the Jews. See more on this below. With respect
to fields of identity, one could multiply the various fields that might be operational in
the construction of individual or community identity in any given case. I am grateful to
Khurram Hussain for the idea of fields of identity.
33 Anderson, Imagined Communities, 154.
What Does India Have to Do with Jerusalem ? 145

(and for Ben Sira) as it was for those in colonial India. Yet the notion of one’s
mother tongue carries with it an implicit image of the vernacular, the spo-
ken language in which one is raised. By the Hellenistic period, however, ver-
nacular Hebrew was certainly not the only language spoken in the towns and
villages of the former Persian province of Yehud, nor was it the only literary
language of the Jews. Under Persian domination, Aramaic achieved a status
similar to Hebrew, and itself became a Jewish language. As is well known, the
familiar “Hebrew” square script is really Aramaic script, which began to be
used for Hebrew in this period. Since many scribes would have been trained in
the Persian chancellery, Aramaic gained significant traction among the Jewish
literary elite. In the Hellenistic period, however, we encounter a rejuvenation
or resurgence of Hebrew in which Ben Sira’s book features prominently.34
What we encounter in Ben Sira, and in many colonial Indian writers, how-
ever, is not the vernacular but a literary language that without doubt differed
from the everyday language that one might learn “at mother’s knee.”35 Such
language offers a more sophisticated means of conceptualizing and articulat-
ing the nation thing, and in the case of Ben Sira in ancient Palestine, perhaps
it was better suited to the development of a discourse of the nation in that
literate elites such as our sage had access to a wide range of literary tradi-
tions, which accorded them an array of conceptual and rhetorical resources.
Moreover, the literary is a form of language not relegated to the private sphere,
but rather to choose a literary language is implicitly to enter (or re-enter) a

34 William M. Schniedewind provides evidence for the rise of Aramaic as a Jewish language
in the Persian period in his A Social History of Hebrew: Its Origins Through the Rabbinic
Period (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2013), chap. 7. He argues, however, that Aramaic
eclipsed Hebrew and that Hebrew would have been spoken mainly in villages where
Persian influence had not penetrated and among some elites “as a symbol of ethnicity,
political legitimacy, and national autonomy” (139). On the whole, however, in his view,
there is a gap in the Hebrew scribal tradition that suggests a significant decline in the
use of Hebrew in this period, even among the elites (144–55). These claims will certainly
engender significant debate among specialists. Claudia Camp proposes that Hebrew was
a “specialist’s art in the context of an Aramaic vernacular.” Yet, for the second century BCE,
“the language situation is not entirely clear.” She also notes the later resurgence of spo-
ken Hebrew under the Hasmoneans in a period only slightly later than Ben Sira. See her
paper, “ ‘All this is the Covenant of the Book of the Most High God’: Orality, Literacy and
Textual Authority in the Work of Ben Sira,” delivered to the Wisdom and Apocalypticism
Section, SBL Annual Meetings, 2003. That Hebrew experienced a kind of renaissance or
resurgence in the Hellenistic period, regardless of how much it had or had not declined in
the Persian period, suffices for the purposes of my argument in this paper.
35 For a discussion of Bengali and its relationship to developing nationalist discourse in
India, see Chatterjee, The Nation and Its Fragments, 51–54.
146 Wright

public domain. Here is where this type of language plays its most significant
role; in the hands of someone like Ben Sira, it becomes the foundation for and
vehicle of the nation thing, operating in a public sphere, yet concomitantly out
of sight of the hegemonic powers. In choosing to use Hebrew, Ben Sira could
speak the hidden transcript openly, not in the sidebar forms that Scott suggests
this revealing generally takes place—through rumor, gossip, jokes, theater of
the powerless, etc. Rather, in Ben Sira’s book the hidden transcript is not so
much disguised, operating in the shadows, as costumed and on stage, where it
still remains unrecognizable to the dominant powers, particularly since they
were likely little interested in learning the colonial language.
Chatterjee presents Indian nationalism as a project of mediation, the mid-
dle class playing a predominant role in the creation of national social institu-
tions and cultural forms. Occupying a middle class meant more than having
a certain level of economic power, however. The middle class also played the
role of mediator, “working upon and transforming one term of a relation into
the other.” In Bengal the middle class “constructed through a modern vernacu-
lar the new forms of public discourse, laid down new criteria of social respect-
ability, set new aesthetic and moral standards of judgment, and . . . fashioned
the new forms of political mobilization that were to have such a decisive
impact on the political history of the province in the twentieth century.”36 Due
to its middleness, the middle class simultaneously occupied positions of sub-
ordination (vis-à-vis the colonial powers and the Indian upper classes) and
dominance (vis-à-vis those of lower classes who followed them). In the Bengali
instance, “to be in the middle meant to oppose the rulers and to lead the
subjects.”37
Although we cannot speak of a middle class in ancient Jerusalem, Ben Sira
also found himself in the middle, but it was a different middle from the Bengali
middle class. In his case, it was a middle in which he mediated between the
upper class elites, mostly priests, whom he supported and who not only con-
trolled the central spatial field of Jewish identity, the temple in Jerusalem, but
also his livelihood and social position, and the lower classes, for whose welfare
the sages often took responsibility (Sir 4.1–10).38 Ben Sira had everything to

36 Chatterjee, The Nation and Its Fragments, 35–37, 92–94.

37 Chatterjee, The Nation and Its Fragments, 94.
38 For Ben Sira’s social in-between position and responsibilities, see Horsley and Tiller, “Ben
Sira and the Sociology of the Second Temple”; Wright, “ ‘Fear the Lord and Honor the
Priest’ ”; and Benjamin G. Wright III and Claudia V. Camp, “ ‘Who Has Been Tested by Gold
and Found Perfect?’ Ben Sira’s Discourse of Riches and Poverty,” Henoch 23 (2001): 153–74;
reprinted in Wright, Praise Israel, 71–96.
What Does India Have to Do with Jerusalem ? 147

gain from his support of the Jerusalem priesthood, and he did not take on or
oppose this class openly, although there are hints of criticism in his comments
about wealth and rich people, and he warns his charges about their dealings
with this class of people who have so much control over their lives (e.g., 7:6;
8:1–2; 13:4–7; 31:9–11). With respect to the Jewish people generally, the scribes/
sages seem to have exercised some of their mediation between the priests and
ordinary Jews through teaching of the law, a task likely delegated to them by
the priests.39 In this activity, the sages carved out some independence from the
priests and were able to keep for themselves at least some authority as those
who guarded, taught, and interpreted the divine law.40 In addition, Ben Sira
was a teacher of future scribes/sages, and his book originates out of his peda-
gogy. In that sense, he mediates in another sphere, one that has significance for
his construction of a Jewish nation thing, as I will argue below.
In Ben Sira’s book, the use of Hebrew is ideologically charged in the sense
that his is an ideology both in form and in content, in his choice of language
combined with what he is writing. First the “what.” A number of passages and
themes in the book are susceptible to nationalist readings that comport well
with some aspects of developing nationalist discourse in modern India. We
encounter probably the clearest case in chapters 44–50, the famous Hymn in
Praise of the Ancestors, where Ben Sira narrates a sequence of famous per-
sons from Enoch to Nehemiah, back to Enoch, then to Adam and immedi-
ately to the high priest Simon II. Although he has condensed considerably the
“history” of Israel as it is transmitted in a diverse set of precursor texts, Ben Sira
thought, as Mack writes, “it was important to touch upon and bring together
all of the orders of perceived reality in an integrative vision—creation and his-
tory, social order and human life. By evoking Hellenic logic about the orders of
things (cosmos, polis, anthropos), he rationalized his wisdom myth and focused
a reading of Israel’s history in a single, glorious image.”41
In fact, though, Ben Sira’s Praise extends well beyond Israel’s history, strictly
speaking, connecting the mythic past with the “historical” formation of Israel
and continuing to his present. While he launches his Praise in the mythic,
beginning with Enoch and Noah, he briefly revisits that mythic past toward the
end in 49:16, which enables Ben Sira to move from Adam, the first man, directly
to the high priest Simon II (50:1) in his own time, thus collapsing the entire
history of Israel (and humanity to a degree) in the distance of one (modern)

39 See Ben Sira 45:17, where Aaron is given the task to teach the Law.
40 See Horsley and Tiller, “Ben Sira and the Sociology of the Second Temple” and Wright,
“ ‘Fear the Lord and Honor the Priest,’ ” in Praise Israel, 103.
41 Mack, Wisdom and the Hebrew Epic, 174.
148 Wright

blank space. Yet, Ben Sira does not read Israel’s history (à la Mack) as much as
construct a specific Jewish past through his reading of the history of human-
kind at creation through Abraham to his own present. Unlike the Bengali con-
text in which a Bengali history written by Bengalis was considered necessary
because only such a history constituted a true history, Ben Sira’s precursor texts
were not “foreign.” Very much in the manner of the Bengali histories, however,
Ben Sira combined myth, history, and the contemporary in a single sequence
without distinguishing them from one another, moving easily from one to the
other, which allowed him to fashion a Jewish history that not only connected
creation to the contemporary but that also made the myth of divine Wisdom,
so prevalent in his book, constitutive of the Jewish nation thing.42
As I noted above, the rhetorical effect of Antiochus III’s programma was to
replace the Jewish deity with the king as the only legitimate authorizer of the
laws that governed the Jews, no matter what their origin. Ben Sira includes a
number of teachings about kings that one might read as both a response to
Antiochus’s actions and a claim about Israel as a nation. Of course, the dif-
ficulty with wisdom literature is that these texts present themselves and their
content as timeless—that is, they rarely refer to specific contemporary his-
torical circumstances and figures. Yet, like all texts, the book of Ben Sira was
composed in a historically, socially, culturally, and religiously situated time and
place (even if that “composition” took place over a period of time, when cir-
cumstances might change). However one might read any specific passage in
the book, Ben Sira’s thoughts about God as king, the place of human kings, and
God’s relationship to Israel contribute to the emerging discourse of the nation
thing in his work.
To put it succinctly, God establishes human rulers, because God rules
over the cosmos, but Israel has a special relationship to God, who rules Israel
directly.43 Ben Sira specifically calls God “king of all” in 50:15, and much of his
language about God implies kingly rule. So, for example, the various elements
in nature “do his will” (42:15) or follow his “commands” (43:5, 10, 13). When it

42 On place of the Bengali histories in nationalist discourse, see Chatterjee, The Nation and
Its Fragments, chap. 4; on Ben Sira’s goals in the Praise of the Ancestors, see Mack, Wisdom
and the Hebrew Epic.
43 On Ben Sira’s view of kingship, see Wright, “ ‘Put the Nations in Fear of You’ ”; Benjamin G.
Wright III, “Ben Sira on Kings and Kingship,” in Jewish Perspectives on Hellenistic Rulers,
eds. Tessa Rajak, et al. (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 2007), 76–91; Martha
Himmelfarb, “The Wisdom of the Scribe, the Wisdom of the Priest, and the Wisdom of
the King According to Ben Sira,” in For a Later Generation: The Transformation of Tradition
in Israel, Early Judaism, and Early Christianity, eds. Randal A. Argall et al. (Harrisburg, PA:
Trinity Press International, 2000), 89–99.
What Does India Have to Do with Jerusalem ? 149

comes to human rulers, 10:4–5 expresses Ben Sira’s thought in a nutshell: “The
government of the earth is in the hand of the Lord, and over it he will raise up
the right leader at the right time. Human success is in the hand of the Lord, and
it is he who confers honor upon the lawgiver.” Here the text asserts God’s con-
trol over all earthly rulers, but in 17:17 Ben Sira makes a more exclusivist claim
that establishes God’s rule over Israel: “He appointed a ruler over every nation,
but Israel is the Lord’s portion.”
In Ben Sira’s time, there was no king over Israel, and his attitude toward
the kings of the past is somewhat ambivalent.44 His reality was that the high
priest had taken over the trappings and responsibilities of secular rule in this
period, and he would be the person who had to deal with the colonial powers
that dominated Palestine. Moreover, rather than any nostalgia for a past that
included secular kings, Ben Sira seems perfectly content with this situation,
certainly in his own time, when Simon II was likely a major player in obtaining
the concessions outlined in Antiochus III’s programma. It is tempting, then,
to read Ben Sira’s language of kingship as intending to blunt such claims as
Antiochus III’s to authority and his legitimizing of the Jews’ “ancestral laws.”
Within Ben Sira’s framework for talking about kings and their power, Antiochus
(or his son Seleucius IV) can rule only because the deity that Antiochus osten-
sibly replaces has permitted him to do so. And that is not all—the Seleucids do
not really rule at all, since Israel is God’s portion. The imperial powers might be
able to control certain domains of Jewish life, but in the end, Ben Sira claims,
they really do not have power where it counts. Moreover, they do not even
realize it.
We can also read the prayer in chapter 36 within the larger context of Ben
Sira’s discourse of the nation thing.45 Here Ben Sira implores God to “lift up
your hand against foreign nations” (36:3) and “crush the heads of hostile rul-
ers” (36:12), which he places within the context of the Exodus story (36:3–7).
It has often puzzled scholars as to how such an emotional and violent prayer
of lament can reside in a work that seems so irenic elsewhere. Yet, Ben Sira
has made his views clear; he rejects the idea that human rulers have legiti-
mate rule over Israel. Within a nationalist discourse that denies legitimacy
to foreign rule, especially one conducted outside of the knowledge of the

44 See the comments in Wright, “Ben Sira on Kings,” 86–87; Himmelfarb, “Wisdom of the
Scribe,” 97.
45 Some scholars think that this prayer was added to the book later. Others, including me,
think that it was part of Ben Sira’s book. For a discussion, see Wright, “ ‘Put the Nations in
Fear of You,’ ” 134–36, and now, Marttila, Foreign Nations, 124–30, for detailed discussions
of the issue.
150 Wright

hegemonic powers—and here I think we see some of the hidden transcript

breaking through—expressions of emotion against those powers and the
desire to overthrow them, especially framed in mythic terms, can exist along
with more subtle expressions of the nation thing. By employing a traditional
Hebrew form, the prayer of lament, and by demonizing the foreign nations
while at the same time asking God to “gather all the tribes of Jacob and give
them their inheritance,” Ben Sira demarcates the Jewish nation in a clear and
dramatic fashion, emphatically asserting Jewish particularity and difference.
As in the Praise of the Ancestors, Ben Sira connects Israel in the present with
the mythic and historical pasts when he invokes the Exodus in the same con-
text with the creation and the prophets: “Bear witness to those whom you cre-
ated in the beginning, and fulfill the prophecies spoken in your name” (36:20).46
Ben Sira’s choice to use Hebrew as the vehicle for his discourse of the nation
thing blurs the distinction between form and content. Aramaic may have
been the lingua franca of the Persian Empire when it was in its ascendancy,
serving as a mechanism for consolidating empire, but with Alexander’s con-
quests in the ancient Near East a new imperial language arrived. As William
Schniedewind observes, the spread of Greek in this period introduced another
level of language as a marker of identity, dividing the world up into those who
spoke Greek (as represented by the Greek verb ἑλληνίζω “to speak Greek”) and
those who spoke gibberish, or barbarians (from the verb βαρβαρίζω “to violate
the laws of speech, behave like a barbarian”).47 In the Hellenistic context in
which Ben Sira grew up and lived, Greek not only functioned to divide the
world, but Hellenistic rulers “could use ‘Greekness’ as a marker of differential
status and a tool of dominance.” Thus, Greek was equated with power.48 At the
same time, in the fourth and third centuries BCE, Hebrew experienced a resur-
gence, and in the period just after Ben Sira, the Hasmoneans employed Hebrew
on coins, written in the older so-called “paleo-Hebrew” script, as an expres-
sion of Jewish nationalism.49 Ben Sira’s book stands as an important witness
to this resurgence, especially since his “house of study” (51:23), the first testi-
mony to training in Hebrew after the Exile, provides evidence for an emerging

46 One can observe a similar use of combative and martial language in India in the
Indian National Congress; on the dynamics in that situation, see William Gould, Hindu
Nationalism and the Language of Politics in Late Colonial India (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 2004), 67–75.
47 Schniedewind, Social History of Hebrew, chap. 8.
48 Portier-Young, Apocalypse Against Empire, 113; relying on the analysis of John Ma, “Kings,”
in Erskine, Companion, 177–95.
49 Schniedewind, Social History of Hebrew, 164–66.
What Does India Have to Do with Jerusalem ? 151

institutional study based in Hebrew.50 Thus, Ben Sira’s choice to write in

Hebrew both witnesses to and likely made a significant contribution to the
trend in the Second Temple period to fashion Hebrew as a marker of Jewish
identity.
In light of this resurgence and the subsequent political use of Hebrew as a
symbol of nationalism, our sage’s decision to use Hebrew takes on increased
import as part of the content of a developing discourse of a Jewish nation,
especially in the context of the events that followed the Fifth Syrian War, the
death of Antiochus III, and the reign of Seleucus IV, through which Ben Sira
presumably lived.51 The war had devastating consequences for some, perhaps
many, Jews. Certainly the need to provide resources for the Seleucid army (or
the Ptolemaic army as well) strained resources. Jerusalem had suffered signifi-
cant damage that had to be repaired, for which Ben Sira gives credit to Simon
II (50:1–4), and many of its residents fled or were displaced. Antiochus’s defeat
at the hands of Rome and the imposition of the Roman indemnity would
have left Antiochus III and his successor Seleucus IV looking for any available
resources, as the correspondence preserved on the Heliodorus stele intimates.52
By the end of Antiochus’s reign and likely through the reign of Seleucus IV,
the stresses on the Seleucid dynasts would have forced them to end any of the
financial concessions accorded to the Jews in Antiochus’s programma.
Ben Sira’s use of Hebrew as a possible response to the use of Greek as a
means of classifying people and as a tool of imperial policy fits also into two
other ideological reasons for the choice. First, Ben Sira’s efforts to establish
Hebrew as part of a discourse of Jewish nationalism fit into a wider movement
in this period to reclaim Hebrew as the national language of the Jews in which
he seems to have been a relatively early participant. At a slightly later time, the
book of Jubilees, for example, explicitly represents Hebrew as the language that
God used at creation and that was revealed again to Abraham after it had been
forgotten due to the Fall:

And the Lord God said to me [i.e., the Angel of the Presence], “Open his
[i.e., Abram’s] mouth and his ears so that he might hear and speak with
his mouth the language which is revealed because it ceased from the
mouth of all of the sons of men from the day of the Fall.” And I opened his

50 Schniedewind, Social History of Hebrew, 155, 167.

51 For more details than I can provide here, see Portier-Young, Apocalypse Against Empire,
chaps. 2–3 and the literature cited there. On Seleucus IV and Ben Sira, see Wright, “ ‘Put
the Nations is Fear of You’ ” and Martilla, Foreign Nations, 129–30.
52 See Portier-Young, Apocalypse Against Empire, 79–91.
152 Wright

mouth and his ears and his lips, and I began to speak with him in Hebrew,
in the tongue of creation. And he took his father’s books—and they were
written in Hebrew—and he copied them. And he began studying them
thereafter ( Jub. 12:25–27).

For the author of Jubilees, God spoke Hebrew at creation, as did the first
humans (and animals as well?). Spoken Hebrew subsequently was revealed
to Abraham, who was then able to speak and also to study books in Hebrew
that had been passed down in that language.53 For the author of Jubilees, who
wrote in Hebrew, the language of creation was tied intimately to the progenitor
of the Jews. Thus, for Jubilees, the burgeoning use of Hebrew in his time repre-
sented a recovery of a golden age where God revealed the language of creation
to the Jewish people.
Although not explicitly connected with the Hebrew language, Ben Sira’s
linking of the Torah, Wisdom, and creation, could be read in this light. In 24:23–
29, Ben Sira claims that cosmic Wisdom is embodied in the Jewish Torah, the
unique apportionment of Wisdom to the Jews.54 In the same passage, Ben Sira
connects the Torah to creation using the image of the rivers that flowed out of
Eden (24:25–27). In a final move, he ties his own book to Wisdom and leaves
his teaching as “prophecy” to later generations (24:30–34). The section, then, is
bookended by the Torah—written in Hebrew—and Ben Sira’s own teaching—
also written in Hebrew—and both are infused with cosmic Wisdom. Here we
might understand Ben Sira to be making an implicit claim that his teaching
deserves to sit alongside of the Torah. That Moses gave the Torah in Hebrew
is no small matter, even if Ben Sira does not spell it out. And his own writing
in Hebrew harks back both to Moses’s revelation and to creation.55 If he is not
explicitly recalling a golden age as in Jubilees, he clearly argues for continuity
between his time and an ideal past, connected to Moses and the primordial
past, a continuity we have already seen as part of the agenda in his Praise of
the Ancestors.

53 On Jubilees and writing, see Hindy Najman, “Interpretation as Primordial Writing:
Jubilees and its Authority Conferring Strategies,” JSJ 30 (1999): 379–410.
54 Ben Sira sees two separate apportionments of Wisdom, one to all people and one spe-
cifically to the Jews. See Greg Schmidt Goering, Wisdom’s Root Revealed: Ben Sira and the
Election of Israel, JSJSup 139 (Leiden: Brill, 2009).
55 Schniedewind, Social History of Hebrew, 170–71, argues that the use of Hebrew in the
Hellenistic period was intended as a revival of a golden age. He does not discuss Ben Sira,
however. His discussion begins from the “Golden Age Principle,” by which “people gener-
ally believe that at some time in the past, language was in a state of perfection” (170). It is
difficult to find this idea in Ben Sira.
What Does India Have to Do with Jerusalem ? 153

Second, Ben Sira’s choice of Hebrew allows him to speak the hidden tran-
script openly without drawing attention from the imperial powers. As we saw
above, Chatterjee, Spivak, and Scott all argue that the nation thing is largely
constituted in private or inner spheres to which the dominant powers have no
access. Chatterjee associates this private or inner sphere with the spiritual as
opposed to the material:

The discourse of nationalism shows that the material/spiritual dis-

tinction was condensed into an analogous, but ideologically far more
powerful dichotomy: that between the inner and the outer. The mate-
rial lies outside of us. . . . Ultimately it is unimportant. The spiritual,
which lies within, is our true self; it is that which is genuinely important.
It followed that as long as India took care to retain the spiritual distinc-
tiveness of its culture, it could make all the compromises and adjust-
ments necessary to adapt itself to the requirements of a modern material
world without losing its identity.56

Scott’s “hidden transcript,” which is expressed behind the back of power and
where dominant powers are primarily resisted, also functions in private, and
indeed for Scott, we only glimpse it when it emerges publicly.57
Whatever Ben Sira might have said and done in those inner and more pri-
vate spheres, we know his teaching to his students, at least as it has taken
written form.58 I take the context of pedagogy seriously here with respect
to Ben Sira’s use of Hebrew. I imagine that his charges would also have had to
learn Greek, if they were to function as part of the apparatus that had respon-
sibility for engaging the Seleucid administration in Palestine. How and where
they learned it, I do not know. Pedagogy of this sort is not a private or inner
enterprise and from that perspective, Ben Sira’s teaching belongs to Scott’s
category of those forms where the hidden becomes public. Yet the actual
discourse of the nation thing is at times only thinly disguised and at others,
such as chapter 36, there is no disguise at all. Moreover, as Spivak notes, “In
whatever nationalist colors it is dressed, whether chronological or logical, the
impulse to nationalism is ‘we must control the workings of our own public

56 Chatterjee, The Nation and Its Fragments, 120.

57 Scott, Domination and the Arts of Resistance, 4–5.
58 There is no question that much of Ben Sira’s teaching would have been conducted orally,
and many passages in the book refer to the oral context of wisdom instruction. See, for
example, 3:1, 4:24, 16:24–25.
154 Wright

spheres.’ ”59 Herein lies a tension that I think Ben Sira was trying to resolve.
The public spheres of politics, administration, and economics were dominated
by foreign powers and largely inaccessible to those like him, but ultimately
the nation thing cannot be relegated permanently to the private sphere of the
home or the spiritual. It might well begin and be nurtured there, but it has to
emerge publicly somewhere, as Scott recognizes.
For Ben Sira, it emerges in his pedagogy. By using Hebrew as its vehicle, he
accomplishes at least two things. He can reclaim a public space that he can
control, a space over which he has sovereignty, where he can argue openly for
a Jewish identity constituted in a Jewish nation thing, in which a particular
Jewish past, a Jewish foundational text, a Jewish cult, and a Jewish God are
central components.60 Using Hebrew allowed him to fly under the radar of
the dominant powers, whose attention would not likely be focused on spaces
where Greek did not dominate. More than this, however, as he trained young
scribes/sages to take their places in this apparatus, he ensured that the next
generation would enter its work having been formed by a discourse of the
Jewish nation thing. He could know with confidence that they could take
his place, their own identities grounded in a Jewish national identity able to
resist colonial domination. At the same time, they could take advantage of the
aspects of that culture—using and refusing as he had—that they might con-
sider productive and useful in order to “make all the compromises and adjust-
ments” that would be required of them within those dominant structures.
Pedagogy, then, for Ben Sira was both an act of construction, the production of
a discourse of a Jewish nation thing, and an act of resistance to the hegemonic
powers to which he was subject.
I asked earlier in this paper whether using Hebrew was an ideological
choice and what such a choice might mean. I am convinced that writing in
Hebrew was ideological on Ben Sira’s part, a conscious choice that opened
a number of important avenues for him. Fundamentally, Hebrew was an

59 Spivak, “Nationalism and the Imagination,” 280.

60 In addition to the Jewish past and the Jewish God, which I have discussed here, on
Ben Sira’s attitude toward temple and cult, see Robert Hayward, “Sacrifice and World
Order: Some Observations on Ben Sira’s Attitude to the Temple Service,” in Sacrifice and
Redemption: Durham Essays in Theology, ed. Stephen W. Sykes (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 1991), 22–34 and Wright, “Fear the Lord,” 100–104. On Torah in Ben Sira,
see Benjamin G. Wright III, “Torah and Sapiential Pedagogy in the Book of Ben Sira,” in
Wisdom and Torah: The Reception of ‘Torah’ in the Wisdom Literature of the Second Temple
Period, eds. Bernd U. Schipper and D. Andrew Teeter, JSJSup 163 (Leiden: Brill, 2013),
157–86 and the literature cited therein.
What Does India Have to Do with Jerusalem ? 155

expression of his own Jewish identity, an identity based on continuity with Jews
of the past whom Ben Sira understood to have had Hebrew as constitutive of
their identity. For him, to use Hebrew was to be Jewish and to be part of a
Jewish people, a Jewish nation thing. Hebrew thus functioned not simply as
the linguistic vehicle of a discourse of that Jewish nation thing; it became a
basic component of the content of that discourse. In the face of domination
by Ptolemaic and subsequently Seleucid dynasts and by a culture that had the
potential to threaten that identity, using Hebrew enabled him to speak openly
about a Jewish nation thing and his desire for God to remove foreign domina-
tion. In addition, Hebrew served as the vehicle for shaping the identities of his
students, who themselves would face these issues head on as they took their
places as scribes/sages. Thus, using Hebrew was itself a way of resisting hege-
monic rule.
Scholars have often asked how positive or negative Ben Sira’s attitude
toward Hellenism was, in many cases answering in the negative. So, for exam-
ple, Alexander Di Lella comments, “In his travels, Ben Sira must have seen the
baneful effects of Hellenization on the Jewish people. . . . His purpose was not to
engage in a systematic polemic against Hellenism but rather to convince Jews
and even well-disposed Gentiles that true wisdom is to be found in Jerusalem
and not in Athens, more in the inspired books of Israel than in the clever writ-
ings of Hellenistic humanism.”61 In a similar vein, Martin Hengel writes, “Thus
with Ben Sira two tendencies are in conflict: on the one side political-religious
engagement, protest against the arrogance of the liberal aristocracy which
was probably already predominantly moulded by the spirit of Hellenism, and
on the other side the traditional caution of the wise, which counseled silence
and subjection before the powerful.”62 Even though both of these scholars
recognize some of the nationalistic features of Ben Sira’s book, the framing
assumptions lying behind their assessments miss the mark in my estimation.
By making the issue one primarily of culture, it is easy to overlook that culture
was a tool or even at times a weapon of imperialism and colonialism. I do not
see Ben Sira’s problem primarily as one of culture—after all, he took advan-
tage of that culture when he thought it profitable—but rather he was respond-
ing to the domination of powers that employed language and culture as tools
of hegemony. Ben Sira’s use of some aspects of Greek culture in the service of

61 Patrick W. Skehan and Alexander A. Di Lella, The Wisdom of Ben Sira, AB 39 (New York:
Doubleday, 1987), 16.
62 Martin Hengel, Judaism and Hellenism, trans. John Bowden (Philadelphia: Fortress,
1981), 134.
156 Wright

his own agenda testifies more to his cultural hybridity, to his selective appro-
priation of Hellenistic culture, rather than to an overall positive or negative
attitude toward it.63 Ben Sira wanted to resist and render illegitimate foreign
domination over Israel. In the light of how he constructed the Jewish nation
thing and of his social position as someone “in the middle,” Hebrew offered
him the best vehicle for accomplishing those goals.

63 On the notion of cultural hybridity, see the classic work of Homi Bhabha, The Location of
Culture (London: Routledge, 1994).
 CHAPTER 10

Hybridity, Hydrology, and Hidden Transcript:

Sirach 24 and the Judean Encounter with
Ptolemaic Isis Worship
Judith H. Newman

Chapter 24 of the book of Ben Sira has drawn much attention because of its
correlation between the figure of Wisdom and the Torah of Moses. Most have
read the chapter as it expresses the sapiential inspiration of its scribal author
in second century BCE Jerusalem, assuming a Hebrew original. Yet Sir 24 as
a Greek text in particular provides us with a study in the enculturation of
Judean wisdom in Egypt.1 The Praise of Wisdom found in 24:1–22 has often
been described as an aretalogy and compared to hymns of praise extolling the
arête and great deeds of the goddess Isis. The cultural encounter between a
Jewish wisdom tradition and the Greek worship of Isis in Ptolemaic Egypt is an
example of a more multilayered kind of cultural encounter than first appears.
I would like to argue that the enactment of Sir 24 in Egypt served as a counter-
discursive move for Judeans to undermine the power and enticement of the
ubiquitous Isis cult in the religious competition of the diaspora world. This
argument should itself not be surprising because examples of literary and cul-
tural hybridity between religious traditions abound in the Hebrew Bible—the
transformation of the Canaanite El mythos in Exod 15 providing a well-known
example. Yet I propose a new approach to this familiar chapter which empha-
sizes materiality and extends the comparison beyond the hymn of self-praise
to include the sage’s role as mediator of wisdom. In this essay, I revisit the claim
of Isis influence on the chapter by considering the passage as it would have
been received in an Egyptian environment, with a particular focus on water in
its interrelated material and metaphorical senses. Sirach 24 offers a display of
hidden, or perhaps better, submerged, hybridity drawing particularly on the

1 I owe thanks to Nathalie Lacoste for her bibliographic research and her extensive and insight-
ful comments on a draft of this essay, as well as for inspiring me to address the material ques-
tion of waterworks in Egypt, the subject of her dissertation. Benjamin Wright’s response to
my paper also provided helpful direction. I am grateful to the organizers of the conference
and the privilege of attending the inaugural address of Mladen Popović for the chair of Old
Testament and Early Judaism at Groningen.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���7 | doi ��.��63/9789004336919_011

158 Newman

role of Isis as creator and bringer of the miraculous Nile flood. Sophia, who is
likewise associated with life-giving water sources in Sir 24, would vie for the
attention of Judeans and shore up the crucial role of the sage as mediator of
revelation in a region far removed from Jerusalem and its efficacious cult. To
substantiate this argument, I will first situate the book of Sirach in Egypt, then
address the expansion and nature of the Isis cult in the second century BCE,
before turning to the Greek aretalogies and their relationship to Sir 24.

1 Ben Sira in Egypt

I begin and end the paper in Jerusalem, because its temple features centrally
in the imagination of this text. Situating the book of Ben Sira in time and place
in Jerusalem has been conceived as an easy affair, backdating from the date
provided by the prologue.2 Because there is no mention of the desecration of
the temple by Antiochus IV Epiphanes, the date assigned is generally 195–180
BCE. The socio-historical setting is thus prior to the Hasmonean period, at a
time when Judea was shifting from Ptolemaic to Seleucid control, in which
priestly and other aristocratic elites lived with the likes of the scribe Ben Sira
as retainers. Yet this is not where my primary interest lies, but rather in the
cultural encounter implicit in the new context of the Greek translation of
the book as it finds a new home in Egypt sometime after the thirty-eighth year
of King Euergetes according to the prologue, beginning sometime in the last
two decades of the second century BCE.
There are two reasons why I focus attention on an Egyptian context rather
than Jerusalem. The first relates to the difficult state of the textual tradition
and the greater availability of the Greek text. Pancratius Beentjes has evaluated
the Hebrew manuscripts and fragments with their many variants and found a
complicated picture.3 Six medieval manuscripts from the Cairo Geniza com-
prise somewhat less than two-thirds of the book. The Hebrew manuscripts

2 The standard dating of Ben Sira is during the time of the high priest Simon II; see Patrick W.
Skehan and Alexander A. Di Lella, Wisdom of Ben Sira, AB 39 (New York: Doubleday, 1987),
8–10.
3 Pancratius C. Beentjes, The Book of Ben Sira in Hebrew: A Text Edition of all Extant Hebrew
Manuscripts and A Synopsis of All Parallel Hebrew Ben Sira Texts (Leiden: Brill, 1997). See
also the discussion of Maurice Gilbert who notes the problem of the many different read-
ings between the 1973 critical edition of the Hebrew texts and that of Beentjes. Gilbert,
“Methodological and Hermeneutical Trends in Modern Exegesis on the Book of Ben Sira,” in
The Wisdom of Ben Sira: Studies on Tradition, Redaction, and Theology, ed. Angelo Passaro and
Giuseppe Bellia, DCLS 1 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2008), 1–20.
Hybridity, Hydrology, and Hidden Transcript 159

from before the common era do not add much more; they include the earliest
manuscript from Masada which preserves parts of Sir 39:27–44:17, a hymn to
wisdom akin to a poem found in the Psalms scroll 11Q5, and just two small frag-
ments from chapter 6 (2Q18; 6:14–15; 20–31). Benjamin Wright has amply illus-
trated the difficulties of trying to reconstruct a Hebrew Vorlage of the Greek
text.4 The Greek text prepared by Joseph Ziegler for the Göttingen edition con-
tains more emendations and corrections than any other of the Septuagint.5
Indeed, the process of composition was likely not all of a piece, but reflects a
long process of anthologizing older textual traditions.6 As George Nickelsburg
has noted, “there is some evidence that the book was subject to a process of
ongoing composition and editing rather than being a onetime composition.”7
So, not only is there more Greek text to consider than Hebrew but also, Sir 24
is not extant in Hebrew. We cannot rule out the possibility that the chapter did
not exist in Hebrew.
A second reason for situating Sirach as a Greek text in Egypt relates to a
broader methodological concern about how we contextualize texts and
manuscripts. In making sense of the multiplicity of Sirach texts, the editors
of a recent volume on the textual history observe: “Instead of simply copying
and transmitting it, each generation of readers appears to have appropriated

4 Benjamin G. Wright III, No Small Difference: Sirach’s Relationship to its Hebrew Parent Text,
SBLSCS 26 (Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press, 1989), 232.
5 He laments the text’s incomparable difficulty in the very first sentence of his foreword; Joseph
Ziegler, Septuaginta Vetus Testamentum Graecum Auctoritate Societas Litterarum Gottingensis
editum XII.2: Sapientia Iesu Filii Sirach (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1965).
6 See the recent study of Jeremy Corley who has tentatively argued for four different redac-
tional stages of the book’s composition, “Searching for Structure and Redaction in Ben Sira,”
in The Wisdom of Ben Sira, Studies on Tradition, Redaction, and Theology, ed. Angelo Passaro
and Giuseppe Bellia, DCLS 1 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2008), 21–48. So, too, Maurice Gilbert posits
multiple authors, in the sense of two editions of the book, but does not provide details of
how he views the social context of the transmission of the book aside from its literary forms;
see Gilbert, “Methodological and Hermeneutical Trends,” 7–13. Gilbert’s article contains an
interesting discussion about which translation and which form might be considered sacred
and canonical in the Catholic Church because, in practice, different communities use differ-
ent versions of Sirach even though the Hebrew text of Ben Sira was apparently never used by
Christians.
7 George W. E. Nickelsburg, Jewish Literature Between the Bible and the Mishnah, 2nd ed.
(Philadelphia: Fortress, 2005), 54. He cites Johannes Marböck, “Structure and Redaction
History in the book of Ben Sira: Review and Prospects,” in Ben Sira in Modern Research:
Proceedings of the First International Ben Sira Conference 28–31 July 1996 Soesterberg,
Netherlands, ed. Pancratius Beentjes, BZAW 255 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1997), 61–79. For compo-
sition, see 76–79.
160 Newman

the text anew, updating it and interpreting it in light of their own experience.”8
This diachronic point is made more expansively and programmatically
by Timothy Beal in arguing for a methodological approach he calls the “cul-
tural history of scriptures.” He distinguishes this from reception history, with
its focus on the words of the text alone as a literary or philosophical project,
in favor of an approach that takes into account of scripture in its interaction
with socio-historical environments. This provides another means of assessing
the continuing life of texts and their formative role within cultural contexts as
they move through the centuries.9 The focus on cultural history is thus on the
active production of texts as they are interpreted, or in our case, translated,
with concern for “the material-aesthetic dimensions of biblical texts, media,
and ideas of the Bible and the biblical, especially in dialogue with anthropo-
logical, material-historical, and media-historical approaches.”10 In affirming
the approach of Beal, my concern lies with contextualizing diachronic com-
positional issues. This requires a shift in focus from thinking about Ben Sira as
intentional author of a single synchronic whole to considering the book itself
as a traveling and shifting accumulation of textual traditions with the context
for meaning shifting as well in different cultural situations.11 Put another way,
the hermeneutical horizon no longer rests on the rocky hills of the central
Judean highlands, but on the flat delta plain of Lower Egypt. With these meth-
odological and material textual issues and qualifications stated, we can turn to
consider Sirach in diaspora.12
The move to Egypt involves much more than simply a geographical relo-
cation of course, but a shift from a region of relative Judean independence
and cultural dominance to one in which diasporic populations and native
Egyptians lived under the close supervision of their Ptolemaic overlords. As
Sylvie Honigman has recently argued, the Jewish communities of Hellenistic
Egypt exhibit considerable regional diversity in the degree to which they shared

8 Jean-Sébastien Rey and Jan Joosten “Preface,” in The Texts and Versions of the Book of Ben
Sira: Transmission and Interpretation, ed. Jean-Sébastien Rey and Jan Joosten, JSJSup 150
(Leiden: Brill, 2011), vi.
9 See Timothy Beal’s programmatic essay, “Reception History and Beyond: Toward the
Cultural History of Scriptures,” Biblical Interpretation 19 (2011): 357–72.
10 Beal, “Reception History and Beyond,” 360.
11 On the conception of the amassing of meshalim in the wisdom tradition more generally,
see James L. Kugel, “Wisdom and the Anthological Temper,” Prooftexts 17 (1997): 9–32.
12 Wright has characterized the Greek translation as isomorphic and of considerably less
refinement than the prologue. The somewhat crude translation into Greek may suggest a
high view of Hebrew original; cf. the use of Hebrew liturgically in Egypt, as evidenced by
the second century BCE Nash papyrus.
Hybridity, Hydrology, and Hidden Transcript 161

and or adopted the local socio-cultural environments.13 The Jewish population

of Edfu in Upper Egypt, for example, comprised Persian arrivals in the third
century BCE who interacted with a local population in Upper Egypt that was
overwhelmingly Egyptian.14 By contrast, the Fayum region of Middle Egypt
was characterized by a relatively high proportion of immigrants from outside
Egypt who adopted Greek as their language of communication and were iden-
tified as Hellenes, that is, among those people who were given a tax-privileged
status. Such diversity might complicate our quest to delineate hybridity in the
case of Sir 24. Nonetheless, I find persuasive the suggestion that a translation
of Ben Sira was made in Lower Egypt, likely in Alexandria with its large popu-
lation of Judeans though the Fayum cannot be ruled out.15 Its contextualiza-
tion should take that region into account. It would seem Ben Sira’s grandson
perceived that the cosmopolitan urbanites were in need of some traditional
Judean wisdom religion.

2 The Success and Spread of the Isis Cult in Ptolemaic Egypt

During the Ptolemaic period, particularly in the second century, the Isis cult
dramatically expanded throughout the Mediterranean region and it is this
background which provides the context for decoding the encounter between
Isis and Ben Sira. One gauge for assessing the expansion is by comparing the
number of Isis and Serapis inscriptions in the Greco-Roman world. The third
century registers sixty-eight inscriptions (including nineteen on the island of
Delos alone); by the second century, there are 269 inscriptions (164 of which

13 Sylvie Honigman, “Jewish Communities of Hellenistic Egypt: Different Responses to

Different Environments,” in Jewish Identities in Antiquity: Studies in Memory of Menahem
Stern, ed. Lee I. Levine and Daniel R. Schwartz, TSAJ 130 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2009),
117–35. She evaluates five different and relatively well-documented settlements existing
in the Hellenistic period: Themes and Edfu in Upper Egypt; Trikomia, in the Fayum in
Middle Egypt; Herakleopolis, a harbor town on the Nile in Middle Egypt; and Alexandria.
14 The fourteen ostraca, two papyri, and nine funerary stelae found in Edfu, dating from the
third and early second century BCE, are all composed in Aramaic. The onomastica con-
tain 75 percent Hebrew names and 25 percent Aramaic names. Moreover, and significant,
the business papyrus lists two or three priests. The documents mention a fortress, scribes,
judges, and priests which for Honigman recall the organization of Jews of Elephantine.
For this reason and because of the mention of priests, she argues that Edfu had its own
temple. Honigman, “Jewish Communities,” 122.
15 Rudolf Smend, Die Weisheit des Jesus Sirach erklärt (Berlin: Reimer, 1906), 3–4.
162 Newman

are found on Delos).16 Various reasons have been given for this expansion,
though the cult was likely spread not because of any political pressure, but as
much for economic as for evangelical reasons reflecting the relocation of mer-
chants, priests, and private devotees. Beginning with the advent of the found-
ing of the Ptolemaic dynasty in 305 BCE, and expanding during the Roman era,
sea trade was a major avenue for the opening of Egyptian cult centers to Greek
and Eastern influences.17
The Isis cult itself offers a complex story of cultural encounter between
ancient Egyptian religion and the Hellenizing religious practice of the second
century Ptolemies. Isis had long been known and worshipped by Egyptians.
As Herodotus already observed in the fifth century: “All Egypt worships Isis
and Osiris.”18 She was identified as well with wisdom. Plutarch identifies her
as the daughter of Hermes or Prometheus: “For which reason, of the Muses at
Hermopolis they call the foremost one “Isis,” and “Justice-Wisdom.”19 During
the Ptolemaic era, Isis absorbed or was associated with many other deities
throughout the region and thus one of her frequent epithets was myrionymos,
according to Plutarch, the one who is invoked, “by many names.”20 Her appeal
to Greeks was enhanced by her close identification with Demeter. By contrast,
the identity of the consort of Isis largely shifts in the Hellenistic context from
Egyptian Osiris, the great god of the Nile and of the underworld/afterlife, to
Greek Serapis.21 Isis is credited with many feats during the Ptolemaic era, from
devising a system of writing in both hieroglyphs and demotic to ordering the

16 Robert A. Wild, Water in the Cultic Worship of Isis and Serapis (Leiden: Brill, 1981), 7. The
source for the inscriptions is SIRIS.
17 Mladen Tomorad, “Egyptian Cults of Isis and Serapis in Roman Fleets,” in L’Acqua Nell-
Antico Egitto: Vita, Rigenerazioine, Incantesimo, Medicamento Proceedings of the First
International Conference for Young Egyptologists: Italy, Chianciano Terme, October 15–18,
2003, ed. Alessia Amenta, Maria M. Luiselli, Maria N. Sordi (Rome: L’Erma di Bretschneider,
2005), 241–53. Cf. also J. Gwyn Griffiths, “Isis” in Oxford Encyclopedia of Ancient Egypt, ed.
Donald B. Redford (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), 2.188–191.
18 Herodotus, Hist. 2.42 (cf. 2.156).
19 Plutarch, Is. Os. 3.2.
20 Plutarch, Is. Os. 12–19 (355d–358d); cf. Apuleius, Metam. 11.5. See J. Gwen Griffiths,
Apuleius of Madauros: The Isis Book (Metamorphoses Book XI) (Leiden: Brill, 1975); Richard
L. Gordon, “Isis,” The Oxford Classical Dictionary, ed. Simon Hornblower and Anthony
Spawforth, 3rd rev. ed. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 768; Reginald E. Witt, Isis
in the Greco-Roman World (London: Thames and Hudson, 1971), 121: “Isis. . . . was the only
divinity whose epiclesis marked that the number of her names was not merely large but
even infinite.”
21 For more on the transformation from Osiris to Serapis, see Dorothy J. Thompson, Memphis
Under the Ptolemies, 2nd ed. (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2012), 197–246.
Hybridity, Hydrology, and Hidden Transcript 163

paths of the sun, moon, and stars. Yet the act of power which had the most
decisive impact on the imagination and daily life of all Egyptians was Isis as
creator of the Nile flood. The annual inundation was crucial for its fertilizing
effects on the agricultural land of the breadbasket of the world. The goddess
embodied the acts of nature that were involved in this alluvion. Her tears were
understood to initiate the flood; the movement of her wings was the cause
of the winds; and the sight of her hair marked the official announcement of
the flood.22 The deeper Egyptian roots of this mythos involved a commemora-
tion of the yearly resurrection of her consort Osiris who was associated, even
incarnated, in the Nile. In addition to this miraculous act of power, we should
make note of the iconography of Isis, which is found in a range of media from
sculptures, reliefs, and wall paintings to clay seal impressions. From phara-
onic times, her hieroglyphic name includes the character for ‘seat’ suggesting
her connection with the throne and sovereignty. She is frequently depicted
enthroned and suckling Horus/Harpocrates. The close association with royal
power continued into the Ptolemaic period such that she was identified with
the Ptolemaic dynastic cult.23 In addition to royal imagery, an equally frequent
depiction is as a standing figure holding a sistrum, a musical shaker used in
worship, and a situla or hydreion, a long-spouted vase used to hold sacred
water from the Nile.
Plentiful iconography was one sign of the spread of the Isis cult; this coin-
cided with the building of new sanctuaries for her worship. Beginning in the
Ptolemaic period, the sanctuaries of Isis and Serapis were known for having a
crypt designed in the form of a Nilometer, a subterranean crypt accessed by
covered stone steps that was a means for the measurement of Nile waters.24
This feature is much less common in temples of the Roman era.25 The situla
or hydreion that was a part of the Isis iconography suggests a water ritual, and
Robert Wild has argued that the hydreion developed alongside and eventually

22 Danielle Bonneau, La Crue Du Nil: Divinité Égyptienne à Travers Mille ans d’Histoire (332
av.–641 ap. J.-C.) (Paris: Librairie C. Klincksieck, 1964), 255–70.
23 Dimitris Plantzos, “The Iconography of Assimilation: Isis and Royal Imagery on Ptolemaic
Seal Impressions,” in More than Men, Less than Gods: Studies on Royal Cult and Imperial
Worship. Proceedings of the International Colloquium Organized by the Belgian School at
Athens (November 1–2, 2007), ed. Panagiotis P. Iossif, Andrzej S. Chankowski, and Catharine
C. Lorber (Leuven: Peeters, 2011), 389–416 (405).
24 Such crypts were found also outside of Egypt. Delos A, Delos B, Gortyn, Pompeii, and
perhaps also at Delos C and Thessalonica. Wild, Water in the Cultic Worship, 155.
25 Wild identifies six to eight of the sixteen sanctuaries known to have been built in the
Hellenistic period. For the Roman period, only three of the thirty-one sites, thus, roughly
forty percent compared to ten percent.
164 Newman

as one means of replacing the fixed Nile water container.26 Traditional

Nilometers of the Egyptian countryside had a strictly economic purpose: to
measure the level of the Nile in order to make assessments for taxation of local
agricultural land. I need not belabor the socio-political significance of this
institution for a country like the Netherlands where this essay was first pre-
sented, which has an entire layer of government related to the Waterschappen,
the water management system over the polders, with its own elected local offi-
cials. But we need to make a further point. Wild argues that situated within a
sanctuary, the Nilometer served cultic purposes. It allowed for a periodic rec-
reation of the Nile flood within the sanctuary, in order to serve as a visible sign
of the power of Isis and Sarapis over this phenomenon and the fertility associ-
ated with it. A secondary role was to have this sacred water available for other
ritual activities in the sanctuaries, thus drawing on the use of the hydreion.
Such a ritual function of the Nilometer is supported by its appearance in the
great Serapeion of Alexandria built either by Alexander himself or Ptolemy
I. Located as the city was at the mouth of the Nile where it flowed into the
Mediterranean, it could not have served an agricultural economic function,
but its position at the top of Rhacotis Hill seems a highly conspicuous means
of asserting the deities’ power over the Nile flood. Since the gods, particularly
Isis, were associated with royal power and legitimation, the sanctuary with
its Nilometer also symbolically served to reinforce the power of the govern-
ing regent.

3 Isis Aretalogies [and Their Intertextuality]

Cult sites with their sacrificial and other rites demanded liturgical texts,
whether written on papyrus, inscribed on stone, or on the hearts of the priests
conducting rituals. Already during the fourth century, the Greek aretalogy
(aretalogiai) developed as a means of praising the virtue (arête) of a specific
god by enumerating the qualities, deeds, and power (dunamis) of the god.27

26 Wild, Water in the Cultic Worship, 153–55.

27 There has been much scholarship on aretalogies. For Isis aretalogies, see Jan Bergman, Ich
bin Isis: Studien zum memphitischen Hintergrund der griechischen Isisaretalogien (Uppsala:
The University Press, 1968); Jean Leclant, “Aegyptiaca et milieux isiaques. Recherches sur
la diffusion du matériel et des idées égyptiennes,” ANRW II 17.3 (1984): 1692–1709. The Isis
inscriptions are now conveniently available in the three-volume collection by Laurent
Bricault, Recueil des Inscriptions Concernant les Cultes Isaiaques: RICIS (Paris: DeBoccard,
2005).
Hybridity, Hydrology, and Hidden Transcript 165

Such Greek hymns to Isis survive in different versions and from various regions
throughout the Mediterranean, from Thrace (Maroneia) and northern Greece
(Thessalonike) to the Aegean islands (Andros, Euboia and Ios) to Asia Minor
(Kios, Kyme, Telmessos), and Egypt (Narmuthis).28 Some of these aretalogies
are written in the third person to describe the goddess. Others are written in
the first person, often with a characteristic emphatic series of lines beginning
“I am . . .” (ἐγώ εἰμι). Some are in prose, some in verse, including hexameter and
iambic trimeter.29 A number of the aretalogies are so closely connected that
they are now generally regarded as variants of a first-person praise-scheme
produced in the second century BCE at Memphis by Hellenized priests, even
deliberately excluding many features of Egyptian Isis.30
The earliest Greek aretalogy inscriptions originating in Egypt are the four
hymns of Isidorus inscribed on the two pillars standing prominently on either
side of the entrance to the sanctuary in Medinet Madi (Narmuthis) in the
southwest Fayum region. The temple was built during the nineteenth century
during the reign of pharaoh Amenemhat II and IV as a temple of the cobra
goddess of harvest Renenutet.31 It was expanded during the Ptolemaic period.
Based on the date of the temple, the inscriptions are no later than the early first
century BCE. This does not rule out an earlier date of composition and indeed,
it is likely that papyrus copies had long existed in the temple library.
Hymn 1 contains characteristic themes of the Hellenistic Isis aretalogies:
she is named queen of the gods; she is known by different names in many
lands. She is responsible for justice and she is the creator of heavens and earth
whose power produces the fructifying flood. In short, the hymn represents the
portrayal of hegemonic divine power with universal domination:

Because of You heaven and the whole earth have their being;
And the gusts of the winds and the sun with its sweet light.
By your power the channels of Nile are filled, every one.

28 For a description of the aretalogies and bibliography including their editio princeps, see
Yves Grandjean, Une nouvelle arétalogie d’Isis à Maronée (Leiden: Brill, 1975).
29 Matthew E. Gordley, The Colossian Hymn in Context: An Exegesis in Light of Jewish and
Greco-Roman Hymnic and Epistolary Conventions (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007), 149.
30 Gordon, “Isis,” 769. For a reconstruction of the so-called “M” (Memphis) aretalogy, see
Dieter Müller, Ägypten und die griechischen Isis-Aretalogien, ASAW 53 (Berlin: Akademie
Verlag, 1961).
31 Andrea Jördens, “Aretalogies,” Shifting Social Imaginaries in the Hellenistic Period:
Narrators, Practices, and Images, ed. Eftychia Stavrianopoulou, Mnemosyne 363 (Leiden:
Brill, 2013), 143–76 (154).
166 Newman

At the harvest season and its most turbulent water is poured

On the whole land that produce may be unfailing.32

As will be apparent presently, the Isidorus hymns share thematic motifs with
Sir 24, yet another hymn, that of Kyme, exhibits more formal similarities
with Ben Sira:

I am Isis, the mistress of every land, and I was taught by Hermes, and
with Hermes I devised letters, both the sacred (hieroglyphs) and the
demotic, that all things might not be written with the same (letters).
I gave and ordained laws for men, which no one is able to change.
I am eldest daughter of Kronos.
I am wife and sister of King Osiris.
I am she who findeth fruit for men.
I am mother of King Horus.
I am she that riseth in the Dog Star.
I am she that is called goddess by women.
For me was the city of Bubastis built.
I divided the earth from the heaven.
I showed the paths of the stars.
I ordered the course of the sun and the moon.
I devised business in the sea. . . .33

Two men, Demetrious son of Artemidorus and Thraseas the Magnesian,

inscribed their names above the hymn, along with the statement that the are-
talogy was copied from the stele before the temple of Hephaistos in Memphis,
thus suggesting a long tradition of transmission and use. While we might dis-
cuss other hymns at greater length, this provides a sufficient sampling of the
two major genres, the second-person descriptors, and the first-person hymns,
to draw comparisons with Sirach.
It is thus clear that the Isis cult in Egypt was ubiquitous during the late sec-
ond century BCE when Ben Sira’s grandson was translating his grandfather’s

32 Hymn 1: 9–13 of Isidorus. The translation is by Vera F. Vanderlip, The Four Greek Hymns of
Isidorus and the Cult of Isis, ASP 12 (Toronto: A. M. Hakkert, 1972), 17.
33 While the inscription is dated to the first century BCE, it is generally acknowledged that
such hymns were composed long before. There was likely a long tradition of oral trans-
mission among specialist priests of Isis. This translated excerpt is from Marvin W. Meyer,
The Ancient Mysteries: A Sourcebook: Sacred Texts of the Mystery Religions of the Ancient
Mediterranean World (San Francisco, CA: Harper & Row, 1987), 172.
Hybridity, Hydrology, and Hidden Transcript 167

work. Whether through exposure to the temples dedicated to Isis and Serapis
or in other temples where she was worshipped alongside other gods, her ico-
nography, tales of her deeds, and her worship practices would have been widely
known. In daily conversation, her name was invoked, or used to swear by in
oaths. Those in proximity to her sanctuaries were familiar with the daily ritu-
als of the priests and temple personnel that included cleansing the sanctuary
with water from the Nile and dressing her statue with sacred robes. They wit-
nessed the annual festivals, the elaborate autumnal procession to the Nile to
celebrate its flooding and the renewal of creation, or the more raucous spring
Ploiaphēsia, or Navigium Isidis as it would come to be known by the Romans,
the launching into the sea of an unmanned boat loaded with votive gifts and
dedicated to Isis to ensure safe navigation during the season of trade.34

4 The Cosmogonic Aretalogy of Sir 24:1–22

How then, can we imagine the “cultural encounter” between this wisdom god-
dess and the Jewish communities in Alexandria as they received and read the
newly translated book of wisdom from their homeland with its own hymn of
praise of Wisdom in Sir 24? We must again consider the Judean population in
relation to the Egyptian cultural environment. There are a number of cultural
registers to take into account in evaluating the way in which Jews interacted
with their diasporic surroundings: in political, social, linguistic, educational,
ideological, material, and religious spheres.35 John Barclay distinguishes among
assimilation (forms of material or social convergence) acculturation (the shar-
ing of symbols, norms, and values), and accommodation. For example, many
Jews participated in civic life, engaged in a full range of occupations, and cer-
tainly spoke and (some) wrote Greek or Demotic in ways that reflect a level of
acculturation. Yet there were certain common boundary markers, including
the three most cited: male circumcision, dietary restrictions, and exclusive and
aniconic worship. In assessing the influence of Isis, we may single out both the
adaptation of a Greek liturgical genre, the aretalogy, as part of acculturation,
and religious practice related to worship which reflected a kind of hybridity
of form with a resistance to the dominant culture. To begin with the latter,

34 Nicola Spanu, “A Short Description of the Isis and Osiris Mystery Cult in the Roman
World,” (paper presented at the Department of Theology and Religion, University of
Birmingham, 2009).
35 John M. G. Barclay, Jews in the Mediterranean Diaspora: From Alexander to Trajan
(323 BCE–117CE) (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1996), 89–90.
168 Newman

Jews were well-known for their practice of revering only one god, their “God
Most High” which marked them as distinct from most of their polytheistic
neighbors.36 As part of a subject population in an empire in which the regents
were deified and themselves often worshipped, the Judeans’ exclusive worship
of their own god put them in alternate, if not sometimes suspect, relationship
to customary practice.
Here we may move beyond Barclay’s considerations of overt participation in
the dominant cultural forms to consider other means by which a minority pop-
ulation can relate to the majority. As political theorist James Scott has cogently
argued, relations between dominant and subordinate populations often fall
into certain patterns in public life. A subordinate group exhibits characteristic
means of deference to the dominant group in the public arena. He refers to
these modes of expression as the “public transcript.” He describes how ruling
elites try to give an impression of control and hegemony through public cer-
emonial expressions. Yet the dominated group will find ways to express their
critique of power when they are not within earshot of the dominant group.
The means of critique he calls the “hidden transcript” which allows for resis-
tance to the dominant powers. There are various strategies by which subor-
dinate groups create their own “hidden transcripts.” While subordinate or
marginalized communities are subject to the hegemony of the dominant dis-
course in the public transcript on display, the hidden transcript allows for a
reversal of power relations. In Scott’s words, this only happens when the action
“takes place ‘offstage,” beyond direct observation by power holders. The hid-
den transcript is thus derivative in the sense that it consists of those offstage
speeches, gestures, and practices that confirm, contradict, or inflect what
appears in the public transcript.”37 The hidden transcript comes in the form
of a masked discourse that critiques the dominant culture imposed on them.
While Judeans were not as a whole subordinate in a political or social sense
during the Ptolemaic period as slaves, prisoners or laborers to the extent Scott
describes, we may consider their difference in the cultic sphere as a kind of

36 On the worship of the Most High God, see Stephen Mitchell, “The Cult of Theos Hypsistos,”
in Pagan Monotheism in Late Antiquity, ed. Polymnia Athanassiadi and Michael Frede
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999), 128–48. Cf. also the brief but illuminating remarks
of Pieter van der Horst, “The Jews of Ancient Phyrgia,” Studies in Ancient Judaism and
Early Christianity, ed. Pieter van der Horst, AJC 87 (Leiden: Brill, 2014), 134–42 (141–142).
The cult was particularly popular in Asia Minor. Van der Horst describes the cult as “prob-
ably concerned syncretistic groups who made a conscious attempt to bridge the gap
between paganism and Judaism.”
37 James C. Scott, Domination and the Arts of Resistance: Hidden Transcripts (New Haven, CT:
Yale University Press, 1990), 4–5.
Hybridity, Hydrology, and Hidden Transcript 169

subaltern position. We might understand the cult of Isis as one such realm in
which the rituals associated with the goddess represent a hegemonic claim to
dominate the religious sphere. We have already noted the ubiquity and com-
manding positions of Serapeions, preeminently the temple in Alexandria on
Rhacotis hill. Such visual dominance is reinforced liturgically through audi-
ble means. The aretalogy of Isidorus claims that “All mortals who live on the
boundless earth, Thracians, Greeks and Barbarians” use their own names to
worship her. He reviews her many names concluding:

And the Greeks (call You) Hera of the Great Throne, Aphrodite,
Hestia the goodly, Rheia and Demeter.
But the Egyptians call You “Thiouis” that You, being One, are all
Other goddesses invoked by the races of men.38

The hymn also states that Isis offers particular care for all sailors, answering
prayers of the distressed ones who navigate “the Great Sea in winter.” Thus the
domain of Isis extends from heaven, to earth, and the seas, and moreover she
is the cause of the miraculous and life-giving Nile flood. The fall and spring fes-
tivals with their public pageantry reinforced this politico-religious domination
as part of the public transcript of the reigning Ptolemies.
Against the backdrop of such universal claims, we can look more closely at
the hymn to Wisdom in Ben Sira. The book of Ben Sira, as a work written in
Hebrew, translated into Greek and enacted through study in Egyptian Jewish
life, can be understood to reflect both the public transcript of accommoda-
tion to the dominant culture, but also the hidden transcript of critique of the
religious dominance of the Ptolemaic powers. We can locate expressions of
both the public and hidden transcripts in Jewish synagogues in Egypt, the
institution that was central to shaping communal ethnic life. As is well known,
synagogues were a feature of Jewish life in Egypt from at least the third cen-
tury BCE.39 The prologue by the grandson indicates the desire for many to be
exposed to his grandfather’s wisdom, with the expressed purpose “for those
living abroad who wished to gain learning and are disposed to live according
to the law.” The grandson seems clearly to value the Greek educational tradi-
tion of paideia, which is mentioned three times in the brief prologue, though
he surely understands it to include the traditional curriculum of the Mosaic
law and prophets. Thus, the mention of learning to live according to the law

38 The excerpt is from Hymn 1. Vanderlip, Four Greek Hymns, 17.

39 The first inscriptions are those of the prayer-houses of Schedia near Alexandria and
Crokodilopolis: CIJ 1440; CIJ 1532a.
170 Newman

suggests that we should likely situate the reading of Greek Sirach in the syna-
gogue, whether it was read publicly alongside the Torah of Moses when Jews
gathered on the Sabbath or used in teaching on other occasions. While pas-
sages within Sirach might suggest a smaller context of private tutoring, which
itself might have happened in a room of the synagogue, the grandson’s pro-
logue seems to envision a much broader context for learning the wisdom of
Ben Sira. The epigraphic evidence which identifies them as proseuchae, sug-
gests that these were places of prayer. There is inscriptional evidence for the
proximity of at least one synagogue to a Serapion. There is, moreover, evidence
that Jews used copious amounts of water at these synagogues, likely for ablu-
tions relating to ritual life.40
These synagogues bore the signs of a “public transcript” which made mani-
fest the Judeans loyalty to the Ptolemaic rulers. The inscription for the syna-
gogue at Nitriai dating to 140–116 BCE, begins with a typical dedication: “on
behalf of king Ptolemy and Queen Cleopatra his sister and Queen Cleopatra
his wife, benefactors (euergetai), the Jews of Nitriai dedicated the prayer hall
and the appurtenances.” The inscription does not include the longer “divine
benefactors” (theōn euergetōn) typically found in dedications of non-Jewish
temples with its clear articulation of the deification of the king.41
To turn from the public to the hidden transcript, the hymn distinctly invokes
the formal gestures of the aretalogy genre yet goes its own way by calling on
ancestral tradition and the emergent institution of sage and Torah teacher,
though now understood in diaspora. Unlike the aretalogies that were inscribed
on temples which was to enhance the public profile of a particular god and
enhance its status in the marketplace of religions in antiquity, the Praise of
Wisdom in Ben Sira seems to have been aimed not at the general public, but
an internal audience of Judeans, whether students in Jerusalem or local assem-
blies of Jews in Egypt.
The chapter begins with its own heading “Praise of Wisdom” (sophias
ainesis) thus signaling an independent composition distinct from the pro-
verbial instruction immediately preceding. The chapter falls into two parts,
Wisdom’s first person hymn of self-praise in Sir 24:1–22, and the characteriza-
tion of the Torah and the Sage in the remainder of the chapter Sir 24:23–34.

40 There is one instance of a water assessment in which two synagogues are taxed almost
twice the monthly amount assessed to a proximate bathhouse, suggesting an elevated
water usage. Anders Runesson, Donald D. Binder, and Birger Olsson, The Ancient
Synagogue from Its Origins to 200 C.E.: A Source Book (Leiden: Brill, 2010), 192.
41 Runesson, Binder, and Olsson, The Ancient Synagogue, 197.
Hybridity, Hydrology, and Hidden Transcript 171

Wisdom will praise her soul, and in the midst of her people she will boast,
In an assembly of the Most High she will open her mouth, and before his
power she will boast.
“I came forth from the mouth of the Most High, and like a mist I covered
earth
I encamped in the heights, and my throne was in a pillar of cloud.
A circle of sky I encircled alone, and in the deep of abysses I walked.
In the waves of the sea and in all the earth and in every people and nation
I led.
With all these I sought repose, and in whose inheritance I would settle”
(Sir 24:1–7).42

Sophia praises herself in the assembly of the Most High; and she is said to have
issued from the divine mouth thus implicitly an emanation or manifestion of
the divine. She herself opens her own mouth to speak. At the point of cre-
ation, she has the possibility of a universal domain and is seemingly available
to all. To consider initially the formal aspect of the hymn, Hans Conzelmann
is known for his strong identification of the hymn of Sir 24:1–22 with the Isis
aretalogies.43 He argued that Sir 24:3–7 draws directly from the hymns, iden-
tifying Sir 24:3–7 as only “lightly retouched” verses appropriated from an Isis
hymn.44 While the influence of Isis aretalogies has been widely accepted, his
narrower claim of a direct dependence has not. Not only did he fail to provide

42 The translation is from Benjamin G. Wright III, “Sirach: Introduction and Translation,”
in A New English Translation of the Septuagint and Other Greek Translations Traditionally
Included Under that Title, ed. Albert Pietersma and Benjamin G. Wright III (Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 2007), 715–62 (738).
43 Hans Conzelmann, “Die Mutter der Weisheit” in Zeit und Geschichte, ed. Erich Dinkler
(Tübingen: J. C. B. Mohr, 1964), 225–34 idem, “The Mother of Wisdom,” in The Future of
Our Religious Past: Essays in Honor of Rudolf Bultmann, ed. James M. Robinson (New York:
Harper & Row, 1971), 230–43. Conzelmann does not provide overt philological support
to substantiate the claim. John J. Collins, for one, understands Proverbs 8 to have been
influenced by the Isis aretalogies as well. A difference is that in that first-person account,
Wisdom describes her role as an instructor of the simple (Prov 8: 4–21). In the section that
describes wisdom’s role in creation, (Prov 8: 22–31) she largely loses agency as a being who
is created though she plays a role as a co-creator after she herself has been formed. John
J. Collins, Jewish Wisdom in the Hellenistic Age (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox,
1995), 50.
44 In his words, the verses “sind nichts anderes als ein praktisch wörtlich aufgenommenes,
nur an ein bis zwei stellen leicht retouchiertes Lied auf Isis.” Conzelmann, “Die Mutter des
Weisheit,” 228.
172 Newman

philological support for his claim, but he also dismissed the strong interpreta-
tive connections not only to the Genesis creation account of creation through
divine speech, but also to the pillar of cloud of the wilderness narrative that
are an integral part of this section of the hymn.45 Wisdom identified both as a
communication from the divine, and as a “mist” that already provides a hydro-
logical beginning, which only expands as the song continues.
The echoes of Isis are nonetheless clear. Wisdom sits enthroned in the
heights just as Isis herself is represented as the goddess seated on a royal
throne. Moreover, like Isis, Wisdom has a universal ambit through every people
and nation. This is hybridized, however, with the particularities of the Israelite
epic, with its evocation of creation by the Most High God, whose speech infuses
Wisdom into the created order through mist (Wis 9:1–2; cf. Prov 2:6; Ps 33:6).
Her enthronement on the pillar of cloud alludes to divine guidance through the
wilderness after their escape from enemy Egypt (Exod 13:21–22; 33:9–10).
The formal similarities between Sir 24 and the aretalogies go beyond a first
person voice and listing of deeds of power, to include a similar kind of inter-
textuality. Isodore’s aretaologies in particular exhibit this. As Vera Vanderlip
observed: “Epic words and phrases, too, I find, are localized in his hexameters,
precisely as in Homer, Hesiod, and the older Homeric hymns.”46 The Greek of
the Medinet Madi aretalogies reflects a knitting together of archaizing epic
phrases from the Iliad and the Odyssey. Yet the bits of the poem that are not so
recognizable show a distinctly more strained and vernacular Greek, suggesting
that the author Isidore had likely completed only the preliminary stages of a
classical education which included memorizing a select range of epic poetry.47
The contrast between Isidore’s own koine and the archaic epic-poetic diction
on which he draws also represents a difference from Sirach’s poetics. The pro-
logue of Sirach written by the grandson is of a considerably more fluid and
rhetorically polished Greek than that of the body of the book.48 The rather
stilted translation found in the body of Sirach points to a respect for the source

45 Conzelmann’s assertion that because the pillar here is “cosmic” the interpretive motif
cannot have a biblical origin does not recognize the connection already made between
the “cosmic” angel and this pillar (Exod 14:19) and the means by which God was said to
speak or instruct the Israelites by means of this pillar of cloud (Ps 99:7; Neh 9:19–20).
See James L. Kugel, The Bible As It Was (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1997),
335–37.
46 Vanderlip, Four Greek Hymns, 3.
47 See Rafaella Cribiore, Gymnastics of the Mind: Greek Education in Hellenistic and Roman
Egypt (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2001).
48 This point has been well made by Benjamin G. Wright III, “Access to the Source: Cicero,
Ben Sira, The Septuagint and Their Audiences,” JSJ 24 (2003): 1–27.
Hybridity, Hydrology, and Hidden Transcript 173

language of Hebrew. Thus, whereas Isidore was not able to write in an elevated
style of Greek on his own, Ben Sira’s grandson had attained a much more pol-
ished level of Greek fluency. While the grandson is not entirely explicit about
his motives, this differential again might represent a reaction against the
Ptolemaic cultural domination. The character of the Greek translation itself
can be understood as another aspect of the hidden transcript. The translation
implicitly asserts the superiority of the Hebrew language as expressing a better
form of wisdom associated with a particular culture and its cult. It provides a
sense that cannot be captured fully in the translation into Greek, even though
it is the language of the Ptolemaic Empire, not to mention the language of
the great classic civilization that had dominated the Mediterranean region
for centuries.49

5 The Textualization of the Sanctuary and the Hydrology of the Sage

While there is water imagery at the beginning of the hymn, it does not recur
until the end of the chapter in the description of the sage. The initial more
universal dimensions of Wisdom who encamps in the heights is succeeded by
the metaphor of sanctuary as a place for Wisdom to dwell. The word for sanc-
tuary evokes both the temple in Jerusalem and wilderness tabernacle. We thus
have parts of the sacred landscape of the homeland evoked. Significantly, in
this imagined sanctuary of Sir 24 there are no priests; there are no Ptolemaic
kings; there is no Nilometer crypt to represent the power of Isis over the flood.
Rather the spices mentioned as in connection with the fragrance she gives
forth, are the spices used for the sacrificial incense in the temple.50
While water imagery plays a role in the beginning of the hymn of Wisdom
to describe Sophia’s manifestation, the metaphors only increase after the for-
mal parallels to the aretalogy end. The pivotal verse is Sir 24:23 which identi-
fies the account of immanent wisdom narrated in the first part of the hymn
with the Torah of Moses as a full expression and source of it: “All these things

49 I thus accept Benjamin Wright’s characterization of the grandson’s translation, but dif-
fer somewhat in in my understanding of the function of the grandson’s translation. He
argues in part that the grandson was offering an apologia for not being able to translate
the Hebrew into a Greek that was rhetorically forceful because of his own commitment to
making a kind of literal translation akin to the Jewish-Greek scriptures of the Torah and
prophets.
50 Cf. Skehan and Di Lella, Wisdom of Ben Sira, 334–35; C. T. R. Hayward, The Jewish Temple:
A Non-Biblical Sourcebook (London: Routledge, 1996), 52.
174 Newman

are the book of the covenant of the Most High God, a law that Moyses com-
manded us, an inheritance for the gatherings of Iakob.”

It fills wisdom like Phison, and like Tigris in days of new things
It supplies understanding like Euphrates and like Jordan in days of
harvest,
It shines forth education like light, like Geon in days of vintage.
The first man did not complete knowing her and so the last one did not
track her out;
for her thought was filled from the sea, and her counsel from the great
abyss
And I, like a canal from a river and a water channel, issued forth into an
orchard.
I said, “I will water my garden, and I will drench my flower bed.” And look!
The canal turned into a river for me, and my river turned into a sea.
Still I will again make education enlighten like dawn, and I will shine
them forth to far off.
Still I will again pour out teaching like prophecy, and I will leave it behind
for generations of eternity.
See that I have not toiled for myself alone but for all who seek it out (Sir
24:24–34).

Water imagery is abundant in these verses as the book of the Torah, identified
with Wisdom, is now likened to the source of many waters. Five major rivers
of the known world are named in the Greek. The regularity and balance of
poetic parallelism would suggest that a sixth river would have been named in
verse 27, to balance “Geon” or the Gihon spring understood as a source water
for a river. Indeed, the Syriac identifies the Nile as a sixth river. It is not possible
to determine whether a Hebrew original contained mention of the Nile which
was deliberately omitted by a Greek translator or this was an inadvertent mis-
take owing to a Greek translator who mistook the Hebrew for river (yeʾor), a
term frequently used for the Nile, (“the river of Egypt”) for a form of the verb
to lighten (ʾur).51 In either case, the identification of Wisdom as the source not
just of a single river and its flooding, like Isis, but of all the waters of the world,
offers a competitive one-upmanship with the goddess. Yet the role of the Sage
here is also characterized through a parallel set of water metaphors. Like the
network of waterways characteristic of the Egyptian Delta region, the Sage’s

51 Skehan and DiLella suggest the omission of Nile was owing to such a confusion. Wisdom
of Ben Sira, 330.
Hybridity, Hydrology, and Hidden Transcript 175

wisdom begins as a canal which leads to a river and eventually leads to the Sea.
The Sage is now the conduit for Wisdom; the Sage has power to regulate the
alluvial and sapiential source through his mediation of the sacred repertoire of
the Judeans. His own teaching can be poured out like prophecy as an inheri-
tance for future generations to seek out.
The hydrology that is constructed in this chapter thus rivals the power of
kings and goddesses over the Egyptian landscape for Judeans in the Delta. In
thinking about the Judean imaginary of Greek Sir 24 in Egypt, it is instruc-
tive to consider by analogy a diaspora population of Egyptians worshipping
in a sanctuary of Sarapis on the busy island of Delos. “Located on the bank of
a heterotopic Nile, this temple allowed its priests to make Delos a home away
from home, and to reimagine a Greek sacred landscape as Egypt in miniature.”52
In Sirach, we see a different kind of reimaging taking place that involves
the textualization of the temple. For a Judean scribe, and student of Torah, the
imagination of the sacred landscape of the temple might now occur through
study with the Sage, who through the sapiential and ever-expanding Torah has
access to the source of all the headwaters of the world.

6 Conclusion

Reading and interpretation are culturally embedded practices. In this paper,

I have reconstructed one way to consider a cultural encounter in conceiv-
ing the performance of the text of Sir 24 in an Alexandrian context. Egyptian
Jews themselves lived in the midst of various cultural encounters, from native
Egyptian to Ptolemaic Greek. There are different models for considering inter-
cultural engagement during the Greco-Roman period. On one hand, there is
the language of Hellenization, acculturation, and assimilation, such as found in
John Barclay’s book on diaspora, which assumes that power and influence are
unidirectional. On the other, postcolonial theories of interculturality assume
dominant “elite and subjugated cultures of non-Greek groups co-existed in
segregation, but also in tension and even in conflict.”53 In my work on Ben
Sira, I have leaned toward the latter, with the view that the hidden hybridity
manifest in the hymn of Sir 24 when read in Alexandria is an act of consid-
ered resistance to the political dominance and attraction/threat represented

52 Ian Moyer, Egypt and the Limits of Hellenization (Cambridge University Press, 2011), 202.
53 Eftychia Stavrianopoulou, “Introduction,” in Shifting Social Imaginaries in the Hellenistic
Period: Narrators, Practices, and Images, ed. Eftychia Stavrianopoulou, Mnemosyne 363
(Leiden: Brill, 2013), 1–24 (2).
176 Newman

by the ubiquitous Isis cult. Her power over the source of waters, whether the
seas where Egyptian traders sailed their boats, or over the life-giving floods of
the Nile, was challenged by the bold assertion found in the hymn of Ben Sira.
Sophia of the God Most High plays a leading role in usurping the claims of Isis
through Wisdom’s own hymn of self-praise followed by the fluid inheritance
of wisdom she provides the Sage in his ongoing work of interpretation of the
cultural repertoire.
 CHAPTER 11

Reflections on the Cultural Encounter between the

Jews and the Greeks and Romans in Jewish Coin
Iconography of the Hellenistic-Roman Period
Anne Lykke

1 Introduction

Contrary to the written and archaeological sources, the numismatic material

from the Persian, Hellenistic, and particularly the Roman Imperial periods
in Palestine constitutes an almost uninterrupted material source from which
detailed knowledge can be drawn concerning the political, cultural and—by
extension—even social processes, which took place during this time. Ancient
Jewish coinage constituted only a smaller part of the ancient coinages minted
and issued in Palestine between the late fifth century BCE and the second cen-
tury CE by a number of different authorities.1
In the larger numismatic context, Jewish coinage is in many ways char-
acteristic. However, it must be emphasized that the distinction between the
identification of Jewish coins as Jewish and other coinages minted in Palestine
is primarily based on the ethnic cultural-religious origin of the minting
authorities. This distinction does not account for iconographic similarities or
dissimilarities with contemporary coinages. Simultaneously, any specific con-
siderations concerning the actual religious piety of the individual authorities
issuing these coins can only be expressed in some cases, such as during the
two Jewish wars against Rome, which will not be dealt with here. It is impor-
tant to be aware that a distinction of the coinage as Jewish does not automati-
cally imply an identification of the images used in these coins as such. This is
largely caused by the fact that in the ancient Jewish world neither religion, nor
culture, nor society was at any given time a homogenous entity within which
the development of a more widespread common iconographic language could
have taken place.

1 This article is based largely on Anne Lykke, Reign and Religion in Palestine: The Use of Sacred
Iconography in Jewish Coinage, ADPV 44 (Tübingen: Harrassowitz, 2015), esp. 1–7; and the
detailed bibliography in chaps. 2 and 4. The paper was originally presented at the conference
by Friedrich Schipper.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���7 | doi ��.��63/9789004336919_012

178 Lykke

In this paper, following some general considerations concerning the use of

coin iconography, a few examples reflecting the results of the cultural encoun-
ter between the Jewish and the Greco-Roman world will be discussed. The
development taking place is well illustrated by the differences in the iconogra-
phy of the Jewish coinages of the first century BCE and first century CE respec-
tively, here mainly illustrated by coins minted at the time of the Hasmonaeans
and the coinage of King Herod Agrippa I.

2 General Considerations Concerning the Use of Coin Iconography

The research of Jewish coinage was long determined by the idea that—due to
their cultural-religious context—the Jewish religion must have played a deci-
sive role in the molding of the iconography. Hence, iconography belonging in a
Jewish cultural context should primarily be understood and identified accord-
ingly. This is, as already outlined, a very exclusive approach to a much more
complex subject.
Due to its condensed form, the elaboration of which progressed over time,
coin iconography to some degree constitutes its own category within ancient
iconography. Specific for its use—naturally apart from the primary and essen-
tial monetary utilization of the medium—was that ancient coin iconogra-
phy always served as a public political medium and was instrumentalized
accordingly. With this medium, it was possible for a Hellenistic king or Roman
emperor, a local ruler or magistrate to rapidly communicate with the contem-
porary world and due, at least in part, to the often long periods of circulation—
with generations to follow. No other medium allowed for the same rapid spread
of information. With its incomparable wide-ranging and quick circulation,
coinage came to serve as the immediate tool for public political representation
or propaganda on different levels, as an aid in public self-portrayal respectively
the establishment of a public identity and as a mean of self-legitimization, but
also as a tool for the dispersion of more general statements. The medium coin-
age was a communicative medium, which required understanding on the part
of both the issuing authority and the recipient (i.e., the user).
This had to develop and to take root in the ancient Jewish world. Jewish and
pagan users and viewers of coinage relied on completely different experiences
with images—and probably also approached them with different expecta-
tions. One important consideration in connection with the development of the
ancient Jewish iconography is that, contrary to the polytheistic pagan world,
the amount of established iconographic traditions to revert to was much more
limited, especially at the beginning of Jewish coinage. Thus, the dependency
Reflections on the Cultural Encounter 179

respectively the imitations of contemporary Greco-Roman iconographic tradi-

tions was on the one hand during the earlier periods perhaps inevitable, but
significant during later periods, where the minting authorities had a much
larger corpus of pictorial traditions to fall back upon.
Nonetheless, the visual communication and approach to this topic was in
the Jewish world periodically dominated by specific religious considerations,
which distinguished themselves from the visual traditions of the Greco-Roman
world, where a completely unrestricted primary access to iconography existed.
This, on the one hand, was caused by the different experiences precondition-
ing the visual reception while on the other hand, was defined by completely
different religious expectations. This led to different methods of pictorial nar-
ration, with some degree of difference applied by issuing authorities.
It is to presume that also Jewish coin iconography was conceived and
employed with very specific intentions in mind, relating to and conditioned
by the cultural, religious and political context of the issuing authorities. It
should, however, not be missed that a traditionalism based on the value of
recognition also played an important role, which was very much determined
by the intended recipient. Especially the iconography of coins issued by local
authorities, primarily provincial rulers, municipal authorities of individual
cities, or to some extent even by varying religious authorities, often displays
a repetitive character or characteristic iconographic elements. These ele-
ments were to some extent, defined by the religious-ideological background
of these authorities, but even more so by their political context. In the case of
the Jewish authorities issuing, it is not always possible to clearly identify these
authorities or to reconstruct their monetary policies, the intended actions with
or ambitions behind their use of coin iconography. Therefore, it can also not
always be stated how or according to which expectations the minting authori-
ties acted, i.e., with whom precisely they communicated in their coinage. The
coin iconography, nevertheless, does hold some information, which helps to
clarify these issues.
Without a doubt, the increasing contact with the Greco-Roman world
resulted in considerable changes to the Jewish culture and to Jewish tradi-
tions.2 Moreover, the circumstances connected with the continuously chang-
ing and developing relationships between the cultures caused very specific
reactions in the coinages minted throughout the different periods. It can only

2 Martin Hengel, Judentum und Hellenismus: Studien zu ihrer Begegnung unter besonderer
Berücksichtigung Palästinas bis zur Mitte des 2. Jh.s v. Chr., WUNT I 10, 3rd ed. (Tübingen: Mohr
Siebeck, 1988), 192–93; Sean Freyne, Galilee, From Alexander the Great to Hadrian, 323 BCE to
135 CE: A Study of Second Temple Judaism (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1998), 101.
180 Lykke

in very few cases be stated without any doubt that the images discussed can be
interpreted as truly Jewish respectively to be originating from Jewish traditions.
Jewish coinage did in fact at times distinguish itself completely from other
contemporary coinages and an individuality only specific for this group was
cultivated, especially during periods of considerable political stress, such as
the time of the war between Mattathias Antigonus and Herod the Great or the
Jewish wars against Rome. Nevertheless, the contours delineating the differ-
ences between Jewish coinage and Greek and Roman respectively other local
Palestinian coinages varied greatly and changed throughout the centuries. It is,
furthermore, important to acknowledge that Jewish coinage cannot be treated
apart from its contemporary ancient numismatic contexts and its developing
and changing cultural-historic contexts and therefore not be viewed as a sepa-
rate entity. The examination of both the local use of the medium itself and
the chronological and cultural context of its use must be examined before the
content of the iconography can be fully understood.
Throughout decades of research, the main source for the identification of
the iconography found in Jewish coinage has been the texts of the Hebrew
Bible. It has also proven possible to find explanations in these texts, which
may be transferable to the coin images, offering a number of possible inter-
pretations, which all basically rely on the Jewish religious tradition. In some
cases, these interpretations are likely to be precise, but care has to taken in this
approach, as this can also cause the wrong deductions to be made. The varied
setting of the Jewish coinages during very different political periods asks for
more cautious and nuanced considerations. The specific use of imitations and
in extension the potential development respectively transformation of partic-
ular images would have been pursued out of specific reasons, which are more
understandable not only when assessed over a longer period of time, but also
when viewed outside their cultural-religious setting, hence against the cultural
matrix of the contemporary pagan world.

3 Hasmonaean Coinage

From the outset, the iconography of the Hasmonaean coins was, despite its
adherence to specific conservative religious values, designed and developed
according to the iconographic language of the coinage of the Hellenistic Greek
world within which they were issued. However, at no time did the iconography
hold any images that could have sparked religious controversy. The predomi-
nant uniformity found in Hasmonaean coin iconography could even suggest
that the coins were issued mainly to meet with the economic demands of
Reflections on the Cultural Encounter 181

the territory ruled by the Hasmonaeans, but at times small details reveal the
amount of considerations behind the use of the iconography.
Common for all Hasmonaean coin issues was the use of religiously
inoffensive iconography, such as the double or single cornucopia with a pome-
granate, lilies, roses, the anchor, the diadem, the wreath, and further similar
depictions, which was not in conflict with the Jewish aniconism dictated by
the Second Commandment (Exod 20:4). This corresponds to a similar devel-
opment of Jewish art and iconography in general during this time,3 although
examples of the contrary can also be found.4 An interesting aspect concerning
the Hasmonaean coins is the parallel use of Hebrew, Greek and Aramaic leg-
ends. The explanations for the varying use of languages and scripts lie in the
individual political aspirations of the Hasmonaean rulers and the historic cir-
cumstances affecting the rule of these and the political statements they were
making accordingly, which become especially apparent in connection with the
rulers Alexander Jannaeus and Mattathias Antigonus.5
Many of the images used in Hasmonaean coinage find parallels in the coin-
age of the Seleucids, such as the anchor and the diadem, but this was by no
means a one-way phenomenon.6 The obverse-reverse combination of the
lily and the anchor on a Seleucid coin series minted either by or in the name
of Antiochus VII Sidetes (138–129 BCE) in the years 131/130 and 130/129 BCE,
clearly display the reciprocal interaction between the Jewish and the Seleucid
world (fig. 11.1).7 The motif of the lily was here used as an official sign of Judaea

3 Arie Kindler, “The Hellenistic Influence on the Hasmonaean Coins,” in XII. Internationaler
Numismatischer Kongress Berlin 1997, eds. Bernd Kluge and Bernhard Weisser (Berlin:
Münzkabinett Berlin, 2000), 316–23 (317–18).
4 Such as the rock-cut tombs in the Kidron Valley in Jerusalem: Jason’s Tomb, the Tomb of Bene
Ḥezir, the Tomb of Queen Helene of Adiabene, where the Hellenised Jewish elite of the time
found public ways of expression. Andrea Berlin, “Power and Its Afterlife, Tombs in Hellenistic
Palestine,” NEA 65 (2002): 138–148; Jodi Magness, Stone and Dung, Oil and Spit. Jewish Daily
Life in the Time of Jesus (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2011), 147–50.
5 Anne Lykke, “The Use of Languages and Scripts in Ancient Jewish Coinage: An Aid in
Defining the Role of the Jewish Temple until its Destruction in 70 CE,” in Judaea and Rome in
Coins, 65 BCE–135 CE: Papers Presented at the International Conference Hosted by Spink, 13th–
14th September 2010, eds. David Jacobson and Nikos Kokkinos (London: Spink, 2012), 27–50
(36–40).
6 Kindler, “The Hellenistic Influence,” 317–22.
7 Oliver D. Hoover, “The Seleucid Coinage of John Hyrcanus I: The Transformation of a Dynastic
Symbol in Hellenistic Judaea,” AJN 15 (2003): 29–39 (32–33).
182 Lykke

Figure 11.1
Jerusalem, 132/131 BCE, Antiochus VII Sidetes (138–129 BCE).
AE prutah (15.0mm/2.33g).
Obv.: Anchor; Greek inscription BAΣIΛEΩΣ ANTIOXOΥ ΕΥΕΡΓΕΤΟΥ,
date below AΠP (181 = 132/131 BCE).
Rev.: Lily.
©Classical Numismatic Group, eAuction 264 (21.09.2011),
Lot 189 (www.cngcoins.com).

respectively Jerusalem, where the image of the anchor was used in recognition
of the Seleucid sovereign.8
The image of the lily is found on a number of Hasmonaean coins. The
use of this image can be traced to the Persian period Yehud coinage of the
fourth century BCE, where it had become the sign of Judaea or Jerusalem.
Already on early Persian period imitations of the Athenian coins, displaying
Athena on the obverse and the owl with an olive branch on the reverse, the
image of the lily was used as a replacement of the olive branch and with it,
the mark of the mint of Jerusalem was introduced (figs. 11.2–11.3).9 Next to the
use of the palaeo-Hebrew script of the Yehud inscription the lily accentuated
the intended geographic circulation area and with this the cultural-religious
context of these coins. On the later Yehud coins, the lily developed from a sec-
ondary element to a central image and as such remained an important element
within Jewish coin iconography until the first century CE. Thus, the image is
one of the oldest Jewish coin images.
Contrarily, the image of the anchor held several functions within ancient
coinage. The image was used as a royal mark from the beginning of the
Seleucid coinage, starting with Seleucus I Nicator (311–281 BCE; fig. 11.4).
The image functioned widely as an iconographic mean of monetary authorisa-
tion within the Seleucid Empire, judging from its appearance as a countermark.
Foreign coins of the appropriate metal and of a weight suitable with the uni-
formity of the Seleucid monetary weight system, as well as on Seleucid coins,
were legitimised through the use of the anchor as a countermark. The anchor

8 Ya’akov Meshorer, A Treasury of Jewish Coins: From the Persian Period to Bar Kokhba (Jerusalem:
Yad Ben-Zvi Press, 2001), 37; David M. Jacobson, “The Anchor on the Coins of Judaea,” BASOR
18 (2000): 73–81 (74–80); Kindler, “The Hellenistic Influence, 316–323; Hoover, “The Seleucid
Coinage,” 32–37; Achim Lichtenberger, “Anker, Füllhorn, Palmzweig. Motivbeziehungen
zwischen “jüdischen” und “paganen” Münzen,” in Macht des Geldes: Macht der Bilder, ed.
Anne Lykke, ADPV 42 (Tübingen: Harrassowitz, 2013), 69–91 (72–73).
9 Lykke, Reign and Religion, 13.
Reflections on the Cultural Encounter 183

Figure 11.2
Judah, fourth century BCE. AR Gerah (7.9mm/0.53g).
Obv.: Stylised head of Athena.
2:1 Rev.: Owl, olive sprig in l. field; palaeo-Hebrew inscription
YHD.
©Israel Museum Inv. No. 2013.039.34620, repro-
duced by permission.

Figure 11.3
Judah, fourth century BCE. AR Half-gerah (7.3mm/0.31g).
Obv.: Stylised head of Athena.
2:1 Rev.: Owl, lily in l. field.
©Israel Museum Inv. No. 2013.039.34620, repro-
duced by permission.

Figure 11.4
Seleukeia, c. 296/5–281 b.c.e., Seleukos I Nikator
(312–281 BCE). AR Obol (9.0mm/0.66g).
Obv.: Tripod.
Rev.: Anchor; flanking monograms.
2:1 ©Classical Numismatic Group, eAuction 313
(23.10.2013), Lot 81 (www.cngcoins.com).

is also found as a reverse type in different locally minted minor Seleucid coin
series attributed to different eastern mints, where the image functioned as an
iconographic recognition of the Seleucid sovereignty.10
The lily/anchor coin type issued under Antiochus VII in the years 131/130
and 130/129 BCE clearly intended to connect the two worlds. However, what
may have been the reason or the occasion to issue this otherwise uncharacter-
istic coin type?
When comparing the date of the coins with the historic data, one specific
occasion comes to mind, which may have immediately preceded and formed
the basis for the minting of the coin type. In 135 BCE, Simon the Maccabee was
perfidiously killed by his son-in-law Ptolemy in the fortress of Dok (Dagon) near
Jericho (1 Macc 16:11–16; Josephus, A.J. 13.228 Subsequently, a power-struggle
broke out between his son and heir John Hyrcanus I and Ptolemy, which gave
the Seleucid ruler Antiochus VII the opportunity to actively involve himself
in the politically unstable Judaea. Ultimately, this lead to his successful siege of
Jerusalem in 135/134 BCE, which was not terminated until a peaceful agreement

10 Ibid., 46.
184 Lykke

was reached between him and John Hyrcanus.11 The coin type featuring the lily
and the anchor may be a reflection of the outcome of this development, as the
coin type may have been issued shortly afterwards, as the relationship between
the rulers and the agreement of 134 BCE needed reinforcement.
A possible occasion that comes to mind is as John Hyrcanus I was com-
pelled to participate in Antiochus’ VII campaign against the Parthians in 131
BCE, a campaign that eventually lead to the death of the Hellenistic ruler in
129 BCE (Josephus, Ant., 13.250).12 Even if the historic explanation for the issu-
ing of the coin type is mainly hypothetical, the coin iconography in a clear
language displays the merger of two different iconographic traditions from the
Hellenistic Greek and Jewish worlds in the Seleucid coin type. That the transfer
of specific images between the Seleucid and the Hasmonaean coinage was also
actively pursued by John Hyrcanus I at the beginning, is evidenced by the use
of another coin image. The use of the motif of the helmet in his coinage, which
finds an immediate parallel in the coinage of Antiochus VII from Ascalon.
Only during the later years of his rule was a greater uniformity reached in the
coinage of John Hyrcanus I, which was then pursued in the coinages of his
successors.
In Hasmonaean coinage, the Hasmonaean king Alexander Jannaeus (103–76
BCE) was the only ruler to pick up the use of the image of the anchor (fig. 11.5).
The explanation for the evident transfer of this dynastic image into his coin-
age could have been his wish to demonstrate royal rank and to publicly legiti-
mise his rule using the most likely well-known Seleucid pictorial language. The
image was later also used by a number of the Herodian rulers either as a sign
of their own dynastic position or that of members of their families. Alexander
Jannaeus most likely implemented the image in the same manner, i.e. primar-
ily as a sign of his inherited dynastic position.13
Through the continued use of Seleucid images and Greek legends in coin-
age, the local autonomous states, rising in the wake of the increasing disinte-
gration of the Seleucid Empire, displayed a tendency to follow the example set
by the Seleucid coinage.14 This development is also very much noticeable in
the Hasmonaean coinage. The depiction of the anchor illustrates this well, as
it in Judaea and other places was used continuously well into the late Herodian

11 Kay Ehling, Untersuchungen zur Geschichte der späten Seleukiden (164–63 v. Chr.): Vom
Tode des Antiochos IV. bis zur Einrichtung der Provinz Syria unter Pompeius, Historia,
Einzelschriften 196 (Stuttgart: Steiner, 2008), 194–99.
12 Ehling, Geschichte der späten Seleukiden, 201–2.
13 Hoover, “The Seleucid Coinage,” 32–35.
14 Jacobson, “The Anchor on the Coins of Judaea,” 77.
Reflections on the Cultural Encounter 185

Figure 11.5
Jerusalem, Alexander Jannaeus (103–76 BCE).
AE Prutah (15mm/3.32g).
Obv.: Anchor; Greek inscription ΒΑΣΙΛΕΟΣ ΑΛΕΞΑΝΔΡΟΥ.
Rev.: Star in diadem, palaeo-Hebrew inscription YHWNTN HMLK
(Yehonathan the King) between rays.
©Classical Numismatic Group, eAuction 265 (05.10.2011),
Lot 205 (www.cngcoins.com).

coinage, long after the termination of the Seleucid rule and the regular distri-
bution and use of the Seleucid coinage. The continuous use of the image does
indicate, that not only were the Seleucid coins themselves imitated, but that
the actual significance of the image as an old royal insignia dating back to the
beginning of the royal Seleucid coinage was of importance. The conscious tie
to the Seleucid background did apparently serve as an aid in the construction
of the own Hellenistic-Jewish royal identity at the time of the Hasmonaean
rule.15 The use of the anchor is indeed an iconographic reflection not only of
the cultural encounter between the Seleucid and Jewish sovereign at the begin-
ning of Jewish coinage, but also the specific relationship between the rulers.16

4 Herod Agrippa I

As Herod Agrippa I, the first Jewish king to rule after Herod the Great, began
minting coins during the first century CE, the Jewish world had changed in
many ways. Accordingly, in his coinage, we find a completely new amalgam of
consciously used older Hellenistic, local, and contemporary Roman traditions,
which allow a direct insight into the thoughts behind and intentions with the
use of the iconography.
The most noticeable aspect of Agrippa’s I coinage is the ostentatious demon-
stration of closeness to the Roman rulers, especially with the emperor Caligula,
most likely caused by their common history in Rome. A few iconographic traits
betray his Hellenistic inheritance, whereas no iconographic elements can be
associated with any specific Jewish traditions in his coin iconography.

15 Christopher Howgego, “Coinage and Identity in the Roman Provinces,” in Coinage and
Identity in the Roman Provinces, eds. Christopher Howgego, Volker Heuchert and Andrew
Burnett (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), 1–17 (7).
16 Lykke, Reign and Religion, 45–47.
186 Lykke

Figure 11.6
Jerusalem, 41/42 CE, Agrippa I (38–44 c.e.). AE (18.0mm/2.62g).
Obv.: Canopy with fringes; Greek inscription BACIΛΕWC
ΑΓΡΙΠA.
Rev.: Three corn ears; date LϚ (year 6).
©Classical Numismatic Group, eAuction 257
(8.6.2011), Lot 154 (www.cngcoins.com).

The only coin type issued by Agrippa I in Jerusalem (fig. 11.6), displaying the
canopy and the three grain ears, evidently observed the religious sensitivity
regarding iconographic displays found here, but this appears to have been a
strictly local phenomenon. In addition, neither of these two images can be
stated to be of specific Jewish origin. The bundled grains ears were also com-
mon in Roman coin iconography found both in Asia Minor and Alexandria and
the use of the canopy rested on a much older Eastern tradition, the remnants
of which still visible in the coinage of Indian Kushan during the first and early
second century CE.17
A few iconographic elements known from Hellenistic Greek coinage found
room in Agrippa’s coinage. At least a reminiscence of older Hellenistic tradi-
tions can be credited to a coin type featuring an anchor and the date “Year 7”
(42/43 CE) on its reverse and on the obverse the portrait of the young Agrippa
II, the son and successor of Agrippa I, with the inscription ΑΓΡIΠΠΟΥ ΥΙΟΥ
ΒΑCIΛΕΩC (fig. 11.7).18 The image of the anchor on this coin type upheld its
original meaning as a mark of the sovereign originating in the coinage of the
Seleucid rulers and imitated in the coinage of the Hasmonaean Alexander
Jannaeus. This was also imitated in the Roman Imperial coinage minted and
issued in Palestine during this time, as shown by coins issued by the Roman
emperor Claudius in Caesarea Maritima displaying an anchor on the reverse.19
In this case, Herod Agrippa I used his coinage to officially present and position
his son and heir with a portrait of the still very young Agrippa II, who would
have been 15–16 years old at the time, thereby legitimating his future inheri-
tance of the throne with the anchor appearing as the sign of succession.

17 E.g., Osmund Bopearachchi, Monnaies gréco-bactriennes et indo-grecques, Série VII (Paris:

Bibliothèque Nationale, 1991), 10–11; Lykke, Reign and Religion in Palestine, 100.
18 Andrew Burnett, From the Death of Caesar to the Death of Vitellius (44 B.C.-A.D. 69), vol. 1
of Roman Provincial Coinage, ed. Andrew Burnet (Paris: British Museum Press, 1992),
no. 4987 (henceforth cited as RPC I); Meshorer, A Treasury of Jewish Coins, no. 123.
19 Herbert Hamburger, “The Coin Issues of the Roman Administration from the Mint of
Caesarea Maritima,” IEJ 20 (1970): 81–91 (81–82).
Reflections on the Cultural Encounter 187

Figure 11.7
Caesarea Maritima, 42/43 CE, Agrippa I (38–44 CE).
AE (17.1mm/4.29g).
Obv.: Bust of young Agrippa II l.; Greek inscription ΑΓΡΙΠΠΟΥ
ΥΙΟΥ ΒΑCΙΛΕΩC.
Rev.: Anchor; in field date LZ (year 7).
©Israel Museum Inv. No. 92.005.14245, reproduced by
permission.

Figure 11.8
Caesarea Philippi, 40/41 CE, Agrippa I (38–44 CE).
AE (23.0mm/11.53g).
Obv.: Wreathed head of Gaius Caligula l.; Greek
inscription ΓΑΙΩ ΚΑΙCΑΡΙ ΣΕΒΑΣΤΩ
ΓΕΡΜΑΝΙΚΩ.
Rev.: Germanicus holding sceptre, standing in quad-
riga; Greek inscription ΝΟΜΙΣΜΑ ΒΑΣΙΛΕΩΣ
ΑΓΡΙΠΠΑ; date LE (year 5).
©Classical Numismatic Group, Triton XI
(7.1.2008), Lot 519 (www.cngcoins.com).

Another coin type features the laureate portrait of Caligula on the obverse
and on the reverse a figure holding a sceptre standing in a quadriga decorated
with the figure of Nike, the inscription reading: ΝΟΜΙΣ ΒΑΣΙΛΕΩΣ ΑΓΡΙΠΠΑ,
and the date LE “year 5” (40/41 CE) (fig. 11.8).20 The latter figure has been iden-
tified as Nero Claudius Germanicus, the father of Caligula, standing in the
quadriga in imitation of a type issued by Caligula in Rome at this time.21 This
and other cases show that Herod Agrippa I not only generally imitated Roman
iconographic traditions, but intentionally copied and displayed specific images
as part of his iconographic program. As the coin type shows, only the original
inscription had been adapted to fit the new context of use, specifying the coin
type as Herod Agrippa’s.
To underline his close relationship with the Roman emperor Agrippa I in
some coin legends went a step further, by professing himself ΦΙΛΟΚΑΙΣΑΡ,
and used partly otherwise unknown images of the Imperial family. Among
these are the example of Caesonia, the wife of emperor Caligula, displayed on
the obverse and the young Drusilla, the sister of the emperor, on the reverse

20 R PC I, no. 4976; Meshorer, A Treasury of Jewish Coins, no. 116 (230–31).

21 Meshorer, A Treasury of Jewish Coins, no. 116 (94, 230).
188 Lykke

Figure 11.9
Paneas, 38 CE, Agrippa I (38–44 CE). AE (21.0mm/10.25g).
Obv.: Diademed head of Agrippa I r.; Greek inscription
ΒΑCIΛΕVC AΓΡΙΠΠΑC.
Rev.: Young Agrippa II on horse; below date LB (year 2),
Greek inscription AΓΡΙΠΠΑ ΥΙΟΥ ΒΑCΙΛΕΥC.
©Israel Museum Inv. No. 2012.039.33130,
reproduced by permission.

of a coin type issued in Paneas in his 5th year as king,22 or the imitation of
the imperial coin type displaying Caligula and his three sisters on the “year
2” coin type from Paneas. At the same time, Agrippa I also applied Roman
iconographic conventions to display members of his own family, his son and
heir Agrippa II and his wife Kypros.23 This is amongst others exemplified by
the presentation of Agrippa II as a youth in the Roman Imperial tradition of
displaying heirs as principes iuventutis (fig. 11.9). This tradition was first estab-
lished by Augustus in his display of his originally designated successors Gaius
and Lucius Caesar,24 and imitated by later emperors, such as the display of
the young Nero in a contemporary coin series of Caligula. Again, Agrippa I
consciously applied a distinct part of the contemporary Roman imperial icon-
ographic language. There can be no other way to understand this display of
iconographic traditions.
Altogether, there can be no doubt that the traditions displayed in the coin-
age of Agrippa I for the most part relied on Roman imperial coin traditions, to
some extent on Hellenistic traditions and that the representations found no
parallels in the Jewish world.25 The coinage of Agrippa I was primarily held
in line with the Roman imperial coinage, evidenced by the close typologi-

22 Alla Kushnir-Stein, “Coins of the Herodian Dynasty. The State of Research,” in The World
of the Herods, ed. Nikos Kokkinos, Oriens et Occidens 14 (Stuttgart: Steiner, 2007), 55–60
(57); Andrew Burnett, “The Coinage of King Agrippa I of Judaea and a New Coin of King
Herod of Chalcis,” in Mélanges de numismatique: Offerts à Pierre Bastien à l’occasion de
son 75. Anniversaire, eds. Hélène Huvelin, Michel Christol and Georges Gautier (Wetteren:
Editions NR, 1987): 25–38 (29–30); Meshorer, A Treasury of Jewish Coins, Pl. 52 no. 117
(94–95); RPC I, no. 4977.
23 Anne Lykke, “Die Münzikonographie vom Herodes Agrippa I. und ihre Beziehung
zur römischen Bildsprache,” in Macht des Geldes: Macht der Bilder, ed. idem, ADPV 42
(Tübingen: Harrassowitz, 2013), 151–69 (155–59).
24 R PC I, no. 4974; Paul Zanker, Augustus und die Macht der Bilder (Munich: Beck, 2003),
220–21.
25 Andrew Burnett, Coinage in the Roman World (London: Seaby, 1987), 27–31; Lykke, “Die
Münzikonographie,” 151–69.
Reflections on the Cultural Encounter 189

cal parallels found between Roman imperial iconography and the coin types
emitted Agrippa I chronologically were close. Only few iconographic ele-
ments can be directly associated with the traditions found in Hellenistic Greek
coin iconography, whereas no elements can be associated with any specific
Jewish traditions or contexts. The coins issued in Jerusalem heeding the reli-
gious sensitivity regarding iconographic displays, represented a strictly local
phenomenon. Agrippa’s I piety towards Judaism, praised by Josephus (Ant.,
19.331), was clearly restricted to the Jewish core area, thereby keeping these
restrictions at an absolute minimum and clearly steered by political consider-
ations. Otherwise, Agrippa I displays himself as a Hellenized and in effect truly
Romanized Jewish ruler, who relied heavily on Roman iconographic traditions
as a reference to the Roman sovereign and the imperial ruler cult, but also
positioning himself and his family firmly within these.26

5 Cultural Encounters in Jewish Coin Iconography

The few examples shown here illustrate the differences between the Jewish
coinage of the second and first century BCE and Jewish coinage of the first
century CE, which corresponds to the changes, which had taken place over
the course of the years. Where the iconography of the Hasmonaean kings was
dictated by a high amount of conservatism regarding the use of images, the
coin iconography of the Roman client-king Herod Agrippa I was largely not
affected by such considerations and freely applied images according to his
desired political statements.
Simultaneously, the use of iconographic traditions illustrates the cultural
encounter between the Jewish and the Greco-Roman world quite clearly. At
the time of the beginning of Hasmonaean coinage, a conscious reciprocal use
of images was implemented by both the Seleucid and the Jewish ruler, and
later Hasmonaean coin iconography was created according to the Hellenistic
traditions generally applied in the coinages of this time. Contrary to this, the
iconography of the coinage of Agrippa I used a very varied iconographic rep-
ertoire, which to a great extend was aligned with the contemporary impe-
rial Roman coinage, although remains of the Hellenistic heritage still can be
found, which ultimately also reflect the permanence of the cultural encounter
between the Hellenistic and Jewish worlds.

26 Daniel R. Schwartz, Agrippa I: The Last King of Judaea, TSAJ 23 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck,
1990), 1–2, 172–74; Peter Schäfer, The History of the Jews in Antiquity (Luxembourg:
Harwood, 1995), 112–13.
 CHAPTER 12

Philo’s Greek Scriptures and Cultural Symbiosis

Hindy Najman*

1 Introduction

This paper explores what is distinctive about Philo’s account of the authori-
tative translation of the Greek Scriptures. I want to consider Philo’s descrip-
tion of the process of that translation, the product of the translation itself in
all of its perfection and achievement and, finally, Philo’s prophetic hope for the
impact of the translation. The differences between different versions of this
story (Aristobulos; Aristeas; and Josephus, along with the later rabbinic dis-
cussions, reflect both conflicting and confirming versions of the translation)
have been addressed extensively and recently.1 This essay is my attempt to offer
an integrative account of Philo’s account in his own terms.2 How does Philo’s

* I dedicate this paper to my friend, Mladen Popović, whose ambition, energy, and com-
mitment to making the study of Ancient Judaism vital is inspiring and efficacious. I thank
Mladen Popović for his generosity as a colleague and for creating this opportunity for me to
develop further my work on Philo of Alexandria. Special thanks to Myles Schoonover for his
editorial assistance and insightful comments.
1 Benjamin G. Wright III, The Letter of Aristeas: ‘Aristeas to Philocrates’ or ‘On the Translation
of the Law of the Jews’ (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2015); Ekaterina Matusova, The Meaning of the
Letter of Aristeas: In Light of Biblical Interpretation and Grammatical Tradition, and with
Reference to Its Historical Context (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2015); Moshe Simon-
Shoshan, “The Tasks of the Translators: The Rabbis, The Septuagint, and the Cultural Politics
of Translation,” Prooftexts 27 (2007): 1–39; Abraham and David Wasserstein, The Legend of
the Septuagint: From Classical Antiquity to Today (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
2006); Sylvie Honigman, The Septuagint and Homeric Scholarship in Alexandria: A Study in
the Narrative of the Letter of Aristeas (London: Routledge, 2003); Giuseppe Veltri, Libraries,
Translations, and ‘Canonic’ Texts: The Septuagint, Aquila and Ben Sira in the Jewish and
Christian Traditions (Leiden: Brill, 2006).
2 After the story of the Septuagint’s origins in the Letter of Aristeas, that told by Philo is one of
the more well-known versions. Scholars debate whether Philo knew the story from Aristeas
or from “Alexandrian tradition,” particularly since Philo’s version differs from Aristeas at sev-
eral key points, but Philo’s dependence or independence from Aristeas is not my primary
question in this paper. See most recently Francis Borchardt, “Philo’s Use of Aristeas and the
Question of Authority,” paper presented at the Annual Meeting of the SBL, November 2013,
Baltimore, MD.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���7 | doi ��.��63/9789004336919_013

Philo ’ s Greek Scriptures and Cultural Symbiosis 191

theory of the status and origin of the Law of Moses help to shape his distinctive
version of the story of translation? What are the implications of this account
for cultural symbiosis?
Central to ancient Judaism is the idea that the revelation to Moses at Sinai
is at once both unique, hence uniquely authoritative, and repeatable, hence
renewable. In my 2003 book, Seconding Sinai, I explored a set of strategies for
repeating the unique Mosaic event.3 These strategies collectively constituted
what I called Mosaic discourse:

1. The reworking and expanding of older traditions, producing a new text

that could claim the authority attached to an old text.
2. The ascription to the new text of the status of Torah.
3. The re-presentation of the revelation at Sinai.
4. The ascription of the new text to Moses.4

Although I have written that Philo “does not rewrite the bible in Deuteronomistic
fashion,”5 nor engage in pseudepigraphy. I remained convinced that, in some
sense, Philo still participates in the practice of seconding Sinai. Now I want
to clarify that conviction: for Philo, the “mishneh Torah” is the Septuagint.
More than an ordinary translation, the Greek rendition is an equivalent of the
Hebrew. While it is in a way a new text, the Greek Scriptures (1) has the author-
ity of the Hebrew; (2) is identical with the law, not merely a secondary account
of it; (3) re-presents the revelation at Sinai; and (4) is truly ascribed to Moses.
What is Philo’s philosophical justification and authorization for this remark-
able claim about the Greek Scriptures, a claim that distinguishes his account
from that of, e.g., Aristeas? My argument will be divided into five parts:

1. The translators of the Septuagint worked in conditions that reproduced

the primordial conditions of the created world.
2. The translators were therefore able to do what Moses had done: to pro-
duce in human language a perfect copy of the law of nature itself, the law
prescribed by the creator.
3. They were possessed by an external, divine spirit that produced utter-
ances through them, and they were thus akin both to hierophants and to
scriptural prophets, including Moses.

3 Najman, Seconding Sinai: The Development of Mosaic Discourse in Second Temple Judaism,
JSJSupp 77 (Leiden: Brill, 2003).
4 Ibid., 16–17.
5 Ibid., 109.
192 Najman

4. Consequently, the Greek translation is not a mere imitation, inferior to

the original, but rather a “sister” text to the Hebrew. Both Hebrew and
Greek versions of the law of Moses are, paradoxically, perfect images of
the law of nature, and thus share the same parent.
5. The promulgation of the law of Moses in Greek is an important step
on the way towards the eventual universalization that this law, as a copy
of the law of nature, deserves.

2 Conditions for the Perfect Translation

Philo writes the following about the context in which the translation of the
Hebrew into the Greek was carried out:

The island of Pharos lies in front of Alexandria, the neck of which runs
out like a sort of tongue towards the city, being surrounded with water (τὰ
δὲ πολλὰ τεναγώδει θαλάττῃ) of no great depth, but chiefly with shoals and
shallow water, so that the great noise and roaring from the beating of the
waves is kept at a considerable distance, and so mitigated. They judged
this place to be the most suitable of all the spots in the neighbourhood
for them to enjoy quiet and tranquility in, so that they might associate
with the laws alone in their souls (καὶ μόνῃ τῇ ψυχῇ πρὸς μόνους ὁμιλῆσαι
τοὺς νόμους), and there they remained, and having taken the sacred scrip-
tures, they lifted up them and their hands also to heaven, entreating of
God that they might not fail in their object. And he assented to their
prayers, that the greater part, or indeed the universal race of mankind
might be benefited, by using these philosophical and entirely beautiful
commandments (παγκάλοις διατάγμασι) for the correction of their lives.
Sitting here in seclusion with none present save the elements of nature—
earth, water, air, heaven—the genesis of which was to be the first theme
of their sacred revelation, for the laws begin with the story of the world’s
creation, they became as it were possessed . . . (Moses 2.35–36).

The perfect conditions in which the Septuagint was produced have both a
negative and a positive aspect. Negatively, the translators were removed from
the distractions and corruptions of the city.6 In this respect, they resembled

6 Here the following texts from Philo are most relevant: Decalogue, 10–11; Contempl. Life, 13; 90.
Philo ’ s Greek Scriptures and Cultural Symbiosis 193

the Therapeutai and, indeed, the children of Israel in the wilderness, where—
according to Philo—the law had to be given.7
Positively, conditions on the island of Pharos resembled the primor-
dial state of nature—that is, the state that is closest to God’s creative activ-
ity. Thus the translators are alone, except for the four elements of earth, water,
air and the heavenly element: fire. Now, in On the Creation of the World, Philo
emphasizes at considerable length the importance of “the perfect num-
ber four” (Creation 47). It is on the fourth day that God orders the heavens;
the number four contains the basic ratios of music and reveals the nature
of the solid; four is the first square and indeed it is uniquely producible from
the same factors by both addition and multiplication. In addition, and most
importantly for my purpose, the number four is “a principle for the genesis of
the entire heaven and cosmos. The four elements, out of which this universe
was constructed, flowed forth, as from a source, from the four in the realm of
numbers” (Creation 52). While the human being is made after the image of God
insofar as its mind is intimately related to the Logos, it also bears a special rela-
tion to the cosmos insofar as their bodies exemplify the four elements:

Every human being, as far as his mind is concerned, is akin to the divine
Logos and has come into being as a casting or fragment or effulgence of
the blessed nature, but in the structure of his body he is related to the
entire cosmos. For it is a compound made from the same things, earth
and water and air and fire, each of the elements making the required
contribution for the completion of an entirely sufficient material, which
the creator had to take to hand in order to fabricate this visible image
(Creation 146).

When humans die, they dissolve into their basic components: the soul plus the
four elements.

Just as nouns and the ‘elements’ in the grammatical sense are finally
resolved into the same, so too each of us is composed of the four mun-
dane elements, borrowing small fragments from the substance of each,
and this debt he repays when the appointed time-cycles are completed,
rendering the dry in him to earth, the wet to water, the cold to air, and the

7 As Ross Kraemer has argued, Philo’s interpretation of the Exodus narrative shapes Philo’s
characterization of the perfection of the Therapeutai in song and in their splendid isola-
tion from the polis. Ross Kraemer, Unreliable Witness: Religion, Gender, and History in
Mediterranean (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), ch. 3.
194 Najman

warm to fire. These all belong to the body, but the soul whose nature is
intellectual and celestial will depart to find a father in ether, the purest of
the substances (Heir 282–283).

Thus, in their proximity to the elements, the translators on the island of Pharos
were as close as human beings can be, while still alive, to their components,
the four elements that comprise the body of the cosmos, just as they comprise
human bodies, which are microcosms. On Pharos, the translators work in con-
ditions that reproduce the primordial conditions of the created world and so
are optimally poised to grasp the law of nature itself.

3 Possessed Translators

When Philo turns to the character of the translators and their work it is para-
mount that nothing in the translation can be changed or manipulated. Thus
when he ponders the task of the translators he writes, “Reflecting how great an
undertaking it was to make a full version of the laws given by the Voice of God,
where they could not add or take away or transfer anything, but (they) must
keep their original form and shape (ἀλλὰ τὴν ἐξ ἀρχῆς ἰδέαν καὶ τὸν τύπον αὐτῶν
διαφυλάττοντας), they proceeded to look for the most open and unoccupied
spot in the neighborhood outside the city” (Moses 2.34).8 Leaving the city for
more natural surroundings, however, is hardly sufficient. If the translators were
to do their job as Philo envisions it, they would need to serve as nothing other
than mouthpieces for the law of nature, or rather for the divine Logos where by
God created nature. Thus Philo writes:

Sitting here in seclusion with none present save the elements of nature,
earth, water, air, heaven, the genesis of which was to be the first theme of
their sacred revelation, for the laws begin with the story of the world’s cre-
ation, they became as it were possessed (ἐνθουσιῶντες), and, under inspi-
ration (προεφήτευον), wrote, not each several scribe something different,
but the same word for word, as though dictated to each by an invisible

8 Although Philo shares a similar idea with Aristeas that nothing in the translation can be
changed or manipulated, Philo changes it totally and relocates it. See Benjamin G. Wright III,
“Translation as Scripture: The Septuagint in Aristeas and Philo,” in Praise Israel for Wisdom
and Instruction: Essays on Ben Sira and Wisdom, the Letter of Aristeas and the Septuagint
(Leiden: Brill, 2008), 297–314 (310).
Philo ’ s Greek Scriptures and Cultural Symbiosis 195

prompter (τὰ δ’ αὐτὰ πάντες ὀνόματα καὶ ῥήματα, ὥσπερ ὑποβολέως ἑκάστοις
ἀοράτως ἐνηχοῦντ; Moses 2.37).

That is, God assured that whatever they translated, they consistently used
identical words and expressions to render their text. Like Balaam, described
by Philo earlier in the text, the translators were possessed and inspired, able
to speak only words dictated from outside, “In this solitude, he was suddenly
possessed, and, understanding nothing, his reason as it were roaming, uttered
these prophetic (προφητεύων) words which were put into his mouth” (Moses
1.283). So, from the moment that the translators hold up the books and pray, to
the end of the process, God responds by, in effect, taking the matter out of their
hands. Yet, whereas Balaam utters prophetic words, Philo portrays the transla-
tors as something close to God’s writing instruments.
Consequently, those who know both Hebrew and Greek are surely right to
speak of those involved in producing the Greek Scriptures:

Not as translators but as prophets and priests of the mysteries, whose

sincerity and singleness of thought has enabled them to go hand in hand
with the purest of spirits, the spirit of Moses (Moses 2.40).

Here Philo draws on the language of the Greek mysteries and on the Platonic
account of prophetic inspiration as a kind of mania:

In reality the greatest of blessings come to us through madness, when it

is sent as a gift of the gods. For the prophetess at Delphi and the priest-
esses at Dodona when they have been mad have conferred many splen-
did benefits upon Greece both in private and in public affairs, but few or
none when they have been in their right minds; and if we should speak
of the Sibyl and all the others who by prophetic inspiration have fore-
told many things to many persons and thereby made them fortunate
afterwards, anyone can see that we should speak a long time (Plato,
Phaedrus, 244a–b).

Unlike Balaam, however, not to mention the priestesses of Delphi and Dodona,
the elders involved in producing the Septuagint have dedicated their lives to
practicing and studying the law of Moses. They are therefore able to repeat,
under perfect conditions, the achievement of Moses himself:

Happy are those who imprint, or strive to imprint, that image [of Moses]
in their souls. For it were best that the mind should carry the form of
196 Najman

virtue in perfection, but, failing this, let it at least have the unflinching
desire to possess that form (Moses 1.158–159).

For Moses exemplified in his life the ultimate perfection of the human who
was created after the divine image, which is to say, as the image of the Logos,
capable of grasping the creative and legislative power of God. It is in this sense
that the elders who produced the Septuagint operated in “the spirit of Moses.”
Furthermore, Philo connects an exact correlation of both “matter and words”
with the activity of the translators. More than pious and talented tradents
who could render Hebrew into Greek, these men were “prophets and priests
of the mysteries” (2.41), two offices that Philo will go on to claim for Moses.
In this passage, Philo also employs the language of prophecy and oracle that
he applies elsewhere to Moses himself (cf. 2.246, 258). Moreover, he expressly
denies to these men the title of “translator.” The claim that the translators were
“possessed,” “inspired” and in effect channeling “the purest of spirits, the spirit
of Moses” reinforces that the Septuagint is as inspired and authoritative as the
original, since God worked through the translators as he had through Moses.
They do not translate—i.e., interpret—the Hebrew original, but they repro-
duce Moses’s law in Greek through divine agency. Here Philo walks the thin
line that he also walks when he calls Moses the “best of all lawgivers in all
countries” (2.12). The law came from the “voice of God,” as Philo notes in 2.34,
but it comes from Moses as well, since the source of Moses’s legislation is God,
even as the written law is “an expression of the life of Moses,” who lives in
accordance with nature.9 Philo’s description of the translators makes them
inspired legislators as well, and their law shares the same two-fold origin as
Moses’s—God and the “spirit of Moses.”

4 Sisters

I turn now to my third point, namely that the Greek rendition is a perfect
expression of the law of Moses. The claim that Philo makes is not that the
translation is perfect and thus that the Greek is exemplary as is the Hebrew.
Nor is the point that the Greek language has a special beauty that is uniquely
appropriate for the divine word, as R. Yohanan and R. Hiyya bar Abba maintain

9 Hindy Najman, “A Written Copy of the Law of Nature: An Unthinkable Paradox?” SPhiloA 15
(2003): 54–63 (59–60).
Philo ’ s Greek Scriptures and Cultural Symbiosis 197

in b. Meg. 9a, explaining R. Shimon ben Gamaliel’s rule (m. Meg. 1.8) that Greek
is the only language other than Hebrew in which scriptures may be written.
Rather, Philo’s point is that the Greek is not really a translation from the Hebrew
at all. If it is a translation at all, then it is—just like the Hebrew—a translation
of the law of nature:

for if Chaldaeans were to learn the Greek language, and if Greeks were to
learn Chaldaean, and if each were to meet with those scriptures in both
languages, namely, the Chaldaic and the translated version, they would
admire and reverence them both as sisters, or rather as one and the same
both in their facts and in their language; considering these translators
not mere interpreters but hierophants and prophets to whom it had been
granted it their honest and guileless minds to go along with the most pure
spirit of Moses (Moses 2.40).

What is created is another or a second law of Moses. It is second chronologi-

cally but equal in status. The Greek is not the child of the Hebrew, but rather
its sister. For both share the same parent.

5 Copy of the Law of Nature

This parent is, of course, none other than the law of nature that is embodied,
in the first place, in the cosmos itself. As Philo says elsewhere in On the Life
of Moses, the prophetic legislator chose to begin his law with an account of
creation because:

he considered that to begin his writings with the foundation of a man-

made city was below the dignity of the laws, and, surveying the great-
ness and beauty of the whole code with the accurate discernment of his
mind’s eye, and thinking it too good and godlike to be confined within
any earthly walls, he inserted the story of the genesis of the ‘Great City,’
holding that the laws were the most faithful copy of the world-polity
(Moses 2.51–52).

The laws of Moses possess authority for Philo because they are the written
embodiment of the unwritten law of nature. Philo makes his case “in opposi-
tion to Greek thought on the topic,” since Greeks thought that the law of nature
found expression in the life of a sage, and written laws, because they represent
198 Najman

the particular laws of a particular people, could not adequately encompass

that unwritten law.10
I have written elsewhere about this paradox. From the viewpoint of Greek
philosophy, it is impossible for the unwritten law of nature to have a written
copy, and it is impossible for any original to have a perfect copy.11 Yet Philo
maintains that, in the law of Moses, the law of nature has a perfect, written
copy. I would now add to what I said before that the law of nature has two
perfect, written copies: the law of Moses in Hebrew and the law of Moses in
Greek. It may help to think anachronistically in terms of digital rather than of
analog reproduction. An analog copy, such as a photocopy, is always inferior
to the original, and an analog copy of an analog copy always involves further
losses. However, the proliferation of digital copies, such as the copying of word-
processor documents, involves no loss of information, since each involves the
same information as any other. Indeed, the distinction between original and
copy has no application here, except in a chronological sense. One could say
that all the copies are sisters, (καθάπερ ἀδελφἁς μᾶλλον). Similarly, both the
Hebrew and the Greek are digital copies expressing exactly the same informa-
tion: namely, the law of nature, translated into a law fit for the human city.

6 Universalization

But here is where I turn to my fifth point. A law expressing the law of nature
itself is not fit for only one human city. It is fit for all. Philo celebrates the Greek
translation because it is an important step towards the eventual universality of
the law of Moses:

On which account, even to this very day, there is every year a solemn
assembly held and a festival celebrated in the island of Pharos, to which
not only the Jews but a great number of persons of other nations sail
across, reverencing the place in which the first light of interpretation
shone forth, and thanking God for that ancient piece of beneficence
which was always young and fresh. And after the prayers and the giving
of thanks some of them pitched their tents on the shore, and some of
them lay down without any tents in the open air on the sand of the shore,
and feasted with their relations and friends, thinking the shore at that
time a more beautiful abode than the furniture of the king’s palace. In

10 For the Greek idea of the law of nature and the unwritten law, see Najman, “Written Copy”;
eadem, “The Law of Nature and the Authority of Mosaic Law,” SPhiloA 11 (1999): 55–73.
11 Najman, “Written Copy,” 55–56.
Philo ’ s Greek Scriptures and Cultural Symbiosis 199

this way those admirable, and incomparable, and most desirable laws
were made known to all people, whether private individuals or kings, and
this too at a period when the nation had not been prosperous for a long
time. And it is generally the case that a cloud is thrown over the affairs
of those who are not flourishing, so that but little is known of them; and
then, if they make any fresh start and begin to improve, how great is the
increase of their renown and glory? I think that in that case every nation,
abandoning all their own individual customs, and utterly disregarding
their national laws, would change and come over to the honour of such
a people only; for their laws shining in connection with, and simultane-
ously with, the prosperity of the nation, will obscure all others, just as the
rising sun obscures the stars (Moses 2.41–44).

It is clear that Philo did not see in the Greek translation any threat to the sur-
vival of Judaism. He did not anticipate the possibility that the Greek text would
play a role in a Christian supersessionism which, within two centuries,
would even represent him as Philo Christianus. It was surely the development
of this unanticipated tendency that would lead to the rabbinic commemora-
tion of the Greek translation, not in an annual festival, but in the annual fast
of the tenth of Tevet. Thus in Masekhet Soferim, 1:7, the day of the translation
is said to have been as hard for Israel as the day on which the golden calf was
made, “for the Torah could not be translated in the way that would have been
required” (‫)להתרגם כל צורכה‬.

7 Conclusion

Philo’s celebration of the Greek rendition of the law of Moses is certainly one
of the most intense identifications of a Jewish thinker with a general culture. It
anticipates Hermann Cohen’s insistence in 1915 on the kindred spirits—indeed,
the symbiosis—of “Germanness and Jewishness.” Sadly, both Philo and Cohen
stood unwittingly on the brink of destruction. Yet it is important to note that
Philo does not claim, in his account of the Greek rendition, that there is some-
thing special about Greek language, thought or culture that created the poten-
tial for an affinity with Judaism. Nor does he claim that the perfection of the
Greek rendition was possible because Greek culture had already been shaped
by Judaism. That was the claim made, according to Eusebius, by Aristobulus,
and Hermann Cohen also argued, with more plausibility, that German culture
had been shaped by Jewish messianism. Philo’s claim, however, is that the act
whereby Moses produced the law of Moses, because of its special relation to
the natural law of the cosmos, is inherently repeatable. In principle, then,
200 Najman

although Philo does not say so, there is no reason why the conditions for the
production of the Septuagint could not be recreated so as to give to an equally
authoritative rendition of the law in any other language, whether it be Arabic,
German or English.
To this extent, Philo’s position has affinities, not with that of Hermann
Cohen, but rather with that of Walter Benjamin. For Benjamin also thought
that certain works—those we call classics—are inherently translatable, that
such works were in principle translatable into any language, and that this
translatability inhered in classics not because of the possibility of copying the
original text with more or less fidelity, but because classics exhibit a vitality
that intends beyond any particular language towards a messianic “pure lan-
guage.” For Philo, similarly, Hebrew scripture is inherently translatable, not
because of the possibility of faithfully copying in Greek a Hebrew form of
words, but because Hebrew scripture is grounded in the law of the cosmos
itself and thus ultimately in the divine Logos, and because it points beyond
any one language or community towards the universal acceptance of the law
of Moses. However, each of these views must be understood in its specific-
ity. Benjamin’s view is grounded in Goethe’s morphological conception of life,
transferred from nature to history.

The notion of the life and continuing life of works of art should be con-
sidered with completely unmetaphorical objectivity . . . it is only when
life is attributed to everything that has a history, and not to that which
is only a stage setting for history, that this concept comes into its own.
For the range of the living must ultimately be delimited on the basis of
history and not of nature, without mentioning such unstable notions as
sensitivity and soul. From this arises the philosopher’s task, which is to
understand all natural life on the basis of the more comprehensive life
of history.12

In contrast, Philo’s view, which I have sketched here, is based on his under-
standing of the role of the Logos in creation; on his conception of the special
character of human beings as images of the Logos and hence as microcosms;
on his vision of the possibility of an individual human such as Moses grasping
the law of the divine city and articulating it as a law of a human city; and—last
but not least—on Philo’s commitment to the ancient Jewish idea of the Mosaic
accomplishment as at once both unique and repeatable.

12 Steven Rendall, “The Translator’s Task, Walter Benjamin (Translation),” TTR: Traduction,
terminologie, rédaction 10 (1997): 151–65.
 CHAPTER 13

“I Wish Those Who Unsettle You Would Mutilate

Themselves!” (Gal 5:12): Circumcision and
Emasculation in the Letter to the Galatians
J. Cornelis de Vos

1 Introduction

In the letter to the Galatians, Paul comes out strongly against opponents who
try to persuade his Galatian male addressees to become circumcised. The ques-
tion is why the Galatians found circumcision so attractive. Fitting the theme of
this book I will ask what role circumcision plays in the encounter between the
“cultures” of Paul, his opponents, and the Galatians in Anatolia.
This contribution is presented in three parts: first I will focus on the parties
involved in the letter to the Galatians together with their cultural setting; then
I will zoom in on the issue of circumcision in the letter against a Jewish and
Anatolian background; and finally I will deal with the subject of Jewish cultural
encounters in Anatolia.
In this, I am reluctant to draw on other letters of Paul. This is due firstly
to my conviction that Paul adapts his letters to the situation of the addressees to
such a high degree that we cannot compare similar topics in different letters
unbiasedly. Secondly, the chronology of Paul’s letters is not ascertained.1 Thus,
even if we could speak of a systematic progression in Paul’s theology, we can-
not be sure about how to trace it.

1 See especially Stefan Schreiber, “Die Chronologie der paulinischen Briefe,” in Paulus-
Handbuch ed. Friedrich W. Horn, HdTH (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2013), 158–65 (162–64).
The letter to the Galatians was probably written after the second letter to the Corinthians
and before the letter to the Romans. If “Galatia” refers to the so-called landscape of Galatia in
the north (better: middle Anatolia) and not to the so-called province with that name which
makes a location in southern Anatolia possible, then the date of the letter is most prob-
ably 55/56 CE (ibid., 163–64). A different solution is offered by Dietrich-Alex Koch who posits
that there had been a province Galatia in the north for a short time that coincided approxi-
mately with the Galatian heartland; Geschichte des Urchristentums: Ein Lehrbuch (Göttingen:
Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2013), 573–79. This makes the common opposition of landscape
theory and province theory with regard to the Galatian addressees fuzzy.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���7 | doi ��.��63/9789004336919_014

202 de Vos

2 The Parties Involved in the Letter to the Galatians

The following parties are involved in the letter to the Galatians: Paul as the
author of the letter;2 the Galatians as the addressees; the so-called pillars
(Gal 2:9) James, John, and Peter from the Jerusalemite community; Barnabas
and Titus, Paul’s companions; and Paul’s unnamed opponents. In this contri-
bution, I will focus on Paul, his opponents, and the addressees.
It is needless to say that we know the parties involved only by the presen-
tation of Paul in his letter. It is also needless to say that a letter is only half of
the dialogue. However, this implies that it is not enough to only scrutinise the
text of the letter at face value. We need more than that to understand Paul’s
message and strategy. We should not only read between and behind the sen-
tences, we should also know the cultural settings of the groups involved. This
will always be a speculative endeavour, but it is better than adhering solely
to the letter of the text.

2.1 The Opponents

I will start trying to characterise the opponents.3 We do not know the identity
of the opponents, nor how many groups of opponents there were. But it is
clear from the letter that they promoted circumcision of non-Jewish Christian
male believers. It would be only speculative to answer the question whether
the opponents were Christian Jews or Jewish Christians; in other words, if they
were circumcised Jews who turned towards Christ, or if they were uncircum-
cised Gentiles who entered a Christian branch of Judaism and became circum-
cised on that occasion.4 Most probably the opponents defended a Jewish form
of Christianity implying that non-Jewish Christians had to enter Judaism.
What did they teach and how did they behave? There have been many
efforts to trace the identity of the opponents, mostly by a so-called “mirror”

2 Probably Paul was also the writer of the letter. Cf. “See what large letters I make when I am
writing in my own hand!” (Gal 6:11 NRSV)—although this could also refer to the last part of
the letter only.
3 See for a fuller record of the opponents J. Louis Martyn, Galatians: A New Translation with
Introduction and Commentary AB 33A (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1997), 117–26.
Martyn prefers to use the term ‘teachers’ instead of ‘opponents.’ I, however, will adhere to
‘opponents’ because we know them by the letter to the Galatians as such.
4 The content of the letter in general as well as Gal 6:13 show that the opponents were
circumcised.
“ I Wish Those Who Unsettle You Would Mutilate Themselves ! ” 203

reading or “tendency-critical” reading.5 Against what does Paul write? What

does he presuppose? How does he differentiate himself from his opponents?
In his letter to the Galatians, Paul defends his gospel as the only and true
gospel. We can draw from this that his opponents were also furthering a gospel,
and maybe they were disclaiming the authority of Paul’s gospel. To Paul, it is
self-evident that his gospel was unique and true. He is “an apostle, not from
man, nor through a man, but through Jesus Christ and God the father” (Gal 1:1).
Consequently, there cannot be another gospel. With this argument Paul fun-
damentally rules out all “gospels” that deviate from the one he preaches. Other
gospels simply cannot be the Gospel. The “gospel” the opponents were preach-
ing was, in Paul’s view, a “non-gospel” (Gal 1:6–7).
In the first part of the letter Paul’s arguments are of a biographic nature
(1:10–2:21 or 1:13–2:21). He describes that it was God himself who revealed
the Gospel to him personally—thus shielding himself from potential allega-
tions of his opponents that he was not a real apostle, given that he had never
seen Jesus.6
It is well known that Paul preaches the possibility of being justified by God
through faith without doing works of the law (ἔργα νόμου), that is, the Jewish
law.7 He does not discredit the Jewish law (see 3:21, 24; 5:23);8 he only stresses
its being insufficient as a means for reaching salvation. More could be said
here, but enough has been written about the meaning of the Jewish law for
Paul and the idea of justification by faith. For this contribution it is important
that Paul, first, argues very fervently for justification by faith; and, second, that
he seems to flatly oppose Jewish identity markers such as Torah observance,
especially in terms of circumcision, meal practice, and religious affiliation
to Jerusalem. He himself was a Jew, was circumcised (Phil 3:5) and positively

5 For example, John M. G. Barclay, “Mirror-Reading a Polemical Letter: Galatians as a Test Case,”
JSNT 10 (1987): 73–93. “In most cases we have no independent witness to the arguments of
those under attack in the New Testament; our only access to their thoughts and identities is
via the very documents which oppose them. Hence the necessity for one of the most difficult
and delicate of all New Testament critical methods: we must use the text which answers the
opponents as a mirror in which we can see reflected the people and the arguments under
attack” (73–74).
6 Although it appears to me that Paul had a problem with authority, I am not a psychologist, so
this line of argument is not pursued here.
7 See especially Barry F. Parker, “ ‘Works of the Law’ and the Jewish Settlement in Asia Minor,”
Journal of Greco-Roman Christianity and Judaism 9 (2013): 42–96.
8 In the letter to the Romans, Paul is more positive about the Jewish law (Rom 7:12). This has
surely to do with the fact that Jews belonged to the Christian community in Rome, not only
with the fact that Paul did not know the community personally.
204 de Vos

acknowledged Jewish law and the Jewish ethnos (2:15). So what is Paul’s point?
Why is he so agitated?

2.2 The Addressees

As Paul warns his addressees against being circumcised, they seem to be being
persuaded by his opponents. This is an imminent and—literally—existential
problem for Paul; a case of life and death. This might be the reason that he is so
impolite and even rude to his Galatian addressees,9 blaming them for “being
confused” (ταράσσω; 1:7; 5:10) and “unsettled” (ἀναστατόω; 5:12) by the defend-
ers of the other gospel. The addressees were clearly susceptible to the message
coming from his opponents, and there is a temptation to try to learn even more
about his addressees, through a kind of double mirror-reading (see above). The
danger of this enterprise, however, is that we merely duplicate the mirror-read-
ing of his opponents.
Susan Elliott has developed a useful tool for understanding the addressees
and thereby the letter to the Galatians. In her monograph Cutting too Close for
Comfort she presents a triple analogy—as she calls it.10 Paul opposes elements
of his and his opponents’ gospel. According to Elliott, thereby he implicitly asso-
ciates the elements of the opponents’ gospel with elements from the Anatolian
cultic context, namely the cult of the Anatolian mother goddess. The dualism
between Paul’s system and the opponents’ system remains, but the negative
part of this dualism consists of two elements, that of the opponents and that of
the Anatolian cultic setting. For Paul, however, there is only one way, and that
is the one he preaches. Thus he sweepingly equates the opponents’ way with
the pagan Anatolian cult of the mother goddess.
Elliott stresses the association intended by Paul and understood by the
Galatians with the Anatolian cultic setting, not only in Gal 5:12 but as the
background for a better understanding of the whole letter to the Galatians.11

9 The prooemium is lacking. Instead Paul accuses his addressees directly and harshly
(Gal 1:6–9; cf. 3:1).
10 Susan Elliott, Cutting Too Close for Comfort: Paul’s Letter to the Galatians in Its Anatolian
Cultic Context, JSNTSup 248 (London: T & T Clark, 2003).
11 Most commentaries have pointed to the galli in dealing with Gal 5:12. See, among
others, Hans D. Betz, Galatians: A Commentary on Paul’s Letter to the Churches in Galatia,
Hermeneia (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1984), 270; Hermann W. Beyer and Paul Althaus,
“Der Brief an die Galater,” in Die kleineren Briefe des Apostels Paulus, ed. Hermann W.
Beyer et al., 13th ed., NTD 8 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1972), 1–55 (43); Udo
Borse, Der Brief an die Galater: Übersetzt und erklärt, RNT (Regensburg: Pustet, 1984),
188; James D. G. Dunn, The Epistle to the Galatians, BNTC (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker
Academic, 2011), 283; Dieter Lührmann, Der Brief an die Galater, 3rd ed., ZBK 7 (Zürich:
“ I Wish Those Who Unsettle You Would Mutilate Themselves ! ” 205

The Galatians, just like all the Anatolians were acquainted with the cult
of Cybele, the mother goddess, the mother of the gods, the Roman Magna
Mater, the guardian and fertility goddess.12 And they knew Attis, the servant
of Cybele, the young god who castrated himself and died but also survived.
Paul very probably alludes to the galli, the priests of Attis and the servants of
the Anatolian mother goddess.13 Those galli used to emasculate themselves
in ecstasy just as Attis had done.14 In Pessinus in Galatia, there was a famous
sanctuary for the mother goddess. In the Roman period there were ten priests
besides the high priest.15 Five of those were of Galatian origin.16 Besides, the
galli wandered in colourful, loud and ecstatic processions through the coun-
tryside. The Galatian addressees were, thus, acquainted with the phenomenon
of a ritual emasculation. Paul implies to this audience that his opponents
might devote them to pagan gods instead of the biblical God when they preach

Theologischer Verlag, 2001), 83; Martyn, Galatians, 478; Franz Mußner, Der Galaterbrief:
Auslegung, 5th ed., HTKNT 9 (Freiburg: Herder, 1988), 363; Albrecht Oepke, Der Brief des
Paulus an die Galater, 5th ed., THKNT 9 (Berlin: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 1984), 163–
65; Joachim Rohde, Der Brief des Paulus an die Galater, THKNT 9 (Berlin: Evangelische
Verlagsanstalt, 1989), 224; Heinrich Schlier, Der Brief an die Galater: Übersetzt und erklärt,
15th ed., KEK 7 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1989), 240; François Vouga, An die
Galater, HNT 10 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1998), 126; Theodor Zahn, Der Brief des Paulus
an die Galater: Ausgelegt, Kommentar zum Neuen Testament 9 (Leipzig: A. Deichertsche
Verlagsbuchhandlung Dr. Werner Scholl, 1922), 260–61.
12 On the Anatolian mother goddess and Attis see besides Elliott, Cutting, 58–229, among
others Sarolta A. Takacs, “Kybele,” DNP 6:950–55; Lynn E. Roller, In Search of God the
Mother: The Cult of Anatolian Cybele (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1999);
Giulia Sfameni Gasparro, “Sotériologie et aspects mystiques dans le culte de Cybèle et
d’Attis,” in La soteriologia dei culti orientali nell’Imperio Romano; atti del colloquio inter-
nazionale, ed. Ugo Bianchi and Maarten J. Vermaseren, EPRO 92 (Leiden: Brill, 1982), 472–
84; idem, Soteriology and Mystic Aspects in the Cult of Cybele and Attis, EPRO 103 (Leiden:
Brill, 1985); Maarten J. Vermaseren, Cybele and Attis: The Myth and the Cult (London:
Thames and Hudson, 1977); and the impressive collection of epigraphic and iconographic
material relating to the cult of Cybele and Attis: idem, Corpus cultus cybelae attidisque:
(CCCA), EPRO 50 (Leiden: Brill, 1987).
13 Maybe Paul refers by “dogs” who are mutilated = emasculated (κατατομή; Phil 3:2) also to
the galli.
14 Probably the priest performed ritual self-castration which was ex post founded in the
myth of Attis, not the other way around; cf. Gerhard Baudy, “Attis,” DNP 2:247–48.
15 Karl Strobel, “Pessinus,” DNP 9:658–60.
16 Ibid. The priests were even called γάλλοι which probably means “Galatians” or “Celts.”
206 de Vos

circumcision of non-Jews.17 The implication is that for Paul the cult of circum-
cision and the cult of castration are of the same category: both are pagan.
“The basic Triple Analogy upon which Paul bases his rhetorical strategy in
Galatians” is, according to Elliott:18

Castration = Circumcision vs. Baptism and

reception
of the Holy Spirit
| | |
Enslavement = Enslavement vs. Sonship
to/with to/with of
Mother of the = the Law vs. Father-Master God
Gods and Abraham19

This leads us to the next issue, circumcision and emasculation in the letter to
the Galatians.

3 Circumcision and Emasculation

3.1 “Cutting” and “Foreskin”: Gal 5:2–12

Emasculation only occurs once in the letter to the Galatians, namely in
Gal 5:12.20 Here we find Paul’s most confronting polemic. He writes about his
opponents who promote circumcision: “I wish those who unsettle you [that
is, by demanding circumcision] would mutilate themselves!” Ὄφελον καὶ
ἀποκόψονται οἱ ἀναστατοῦντες ὑμᾶς.21
The pericope to which this verse belongs is Gal 5:1–12 or 5:2–12. There is
much debate about the question, whether 5:1 forms the conclusion of 4:21–
5:1 or the introduction of 5:1–12. The best solution, however, is to state with
Thomas R. Schreiner that it is a “transitional verse.”22 In 5:1 we encounter the

17 Whether or not Paul also echoes the orgiastic feature of the Cybele and Attis cult cannot
be said.
18 Elliott, Cutting, 279.
19 Ibid.
20 Based on the aforementioned monograph of Susanne Elliott, James R. Edwards, “Galatians
5:12: Circumcision, the Mother Goddess, and the Scandal of the Cross,” NovT 53 (2011):
319–37, focuses his argument on Gal 5:12.
21 Ἀποκόπτειν has the technical meaning “to emasculate,” or “to castrate;” see below.
22 Thomas R. Schreiner, Galatians, Zondervan Exegetical Commentary on the New
Testament (Grand Rapids, MI: Zondervan, 2010), 310.
“ I Wish Those Who Unsettle You Would Mutilate Themselves ! ” 207

connection of freedom by Christ and the yoke of slavery—two main themes of

the letter to the Galatians and, indeed, two themes that closely connect 4:21–31
and 5:2–12.
In Galatians 5:2–12 Paul urges his addressees to choose between two alter-
natives: slavery or freedom. Circumcision belongs to the first, negative realm.
It occurs four times in this short pericope.23 The text is clearly structured in
two parts by two direct addresses of Paul: vv. 2–6 and 7–12. In the first part,
Paul warns the Galatians of circumcision; in the second part, he accuses the
opponents who proclaim circumcision. In the first part, three references to cir-
cumcision occur, two at the beginning (vv. 2, 3) and one at the end (v. 6), thus
forming an inclusion. In the second part, there is one reference almost at the
end (v. 11), and verses 11–12, form an inclusion with the beginning.24
If we scrutinise the metonyms in the pericope, the inner structure as well as
the connection with the adjacent texts becomes even denser. Two metonyms
of circumcision, “cutting” and “foreskin,” occur in Gal 5:2–12 itself. “Flesh,”
another metonym, appears in the adjacent pericopes.
Paul uses “foreskin” (ἀκροβυστία), as antonym for circumcision in 5:6 (see
also 2:7; 6:15).25 Both Jews on the one hand and Greeks and Romans on the
other hand used “circumcision” and “non-circumcision” to classify Jews and
non-Jews.26 To denote the same Paul also uses the classification “Jew-Greek”
(2:3; 3:28).
Two compounds of the verb κόπτειν occur in 5:2–12: ἐγκόπτειν (5:7), liter-
ally “cutting in,” and ἀποκόπτειν (5:12), “cutting off.”27 In 5:7 Paul addresses the
Galatians directly by writing that they were running so well and continues
“who cut in to block (ἐνέκοψεν) you from obeying the truth?”28 With this
agon metaphor Paul relates to the “way to salvation” on which the Galatian

23 Περιτέμνω: 5:2, 3; περιτομή: 5:6, 11.

24 Both in v. 2 and v. 11 the emphatic ἐγώ [= Paul] occurs. Verse 11, however, does not intro-
duce a third part of Gal 5:2–12. Instead, it forms together with v. 12 an inclusion with vv.
2–3 and a conclusion of the pericope.
25 Most translations render hence “uncircumcision/uncircumcised.”
26 See the extensive accounts in Andreas Blaschke, Beschneidung: Zeugnisse der Bibel und
verwandter Texte, Texte und Arbeiten zum neutestamentlichen Zeitalter 28 (Tübingen:
Francke, 1998), 108–360.
27 See Carl E. DeVries, “Paul’s ‘Cutting’ Remarks about a Race: Galatians 5:1–12,” in Current
Issues in Biblical and Patristic Interpretation: Studies in Honor of Merrill C. Tenney Presented
by His Former Students, ed. Gerald F. Hawthorne (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1975),
115–20.
28 N RSV plays the coarse connotation of ἐμκόπτειν down by translating “who prevented
you . . .?”
208 de Vos

addressees “were running.”29 The way to salvation is the “truth” (Gal 5:7) which
is “the Gospel of truth” (2:5, 14) that Paul preaches and that comes directly
from God (ἐκ τοῦ καλοῦντος ὑμᾶς; 5:8).30 “Cutting in” means that people were
hindering the Galatians from reaching the end of the way to salvation (see
5:2–4). Within the context, this clearly alludes to the message of his opponents,
especially their advocation of circumcision.
After verse 6 in which Paul uses the words “circumcision” and “foreskin,” the
verb “cutting in” can easily be associated with the act of circumcision. If we
combine the imagery of verses 6 and 7, the Galatian addressees are running
along a way to salvation which is “cut off” by circumcision.
The verb ἀποκόπτειν (5:12), literarily “to cut off,” is a technical terminus for
“to emasculate.”31 Paul is clearly sarcastic here and bluntly insults his oppo-
nents. The Bible forbids emasculation: “No one whose testicles are crushed or
whose penis is cut off shall be admitted to the assembly of the LORD” (Deut
23:2 NRSV 23:1). In the Septuagint of this verse the same verb ἀποκόπτειν is used
for “being cut off from the assembly of the Lord.” The opponents, however,
regarded themselves to be members of the assembly of the Lord—there can
be no doubt about that. According to the Bible males can only be members of
the assembly if they are circumcised. Exactly that is the issue at stake and the
opponents would surely have instructed the Galatians thus.

3.2 “Flesh”
We do not find the word “flesh” (σάρξ), in 5:2–12. Instead, it precedes (Gal
4:29) and follows (5:13) our text in the immediate context. The questions are,
whether σάρξ in both verses can be associated with circumcision, and whether
the other occurrences in the letter to the Galatians can be connected with cir-
cumcision. To begin with the last question: in some instances, especially in the

29 ἐτρέχετε is in the indicative imperfect form pointing to a continuous state.

30 The verb καλεῖν in Galatians always refers to God as author of the speech (Gal 1:6, 15; 5:8, 13).
31 Thus Oepke, Brief, 163–65. See also Gustav Stählin, “ἀποκόπτω,” in TWNT 3:851–55. Paul’s
statement here should not be taken metaphorically as it weakens his argument. Paul sar-
castically exaggerates the issue of non-metaphorical circumcision. See for an historical
overview of interpretations of this verse Edwards, “Galatians,” 320–23. What exactly is cut
off is not clear. For penis, see Sam K. Williams, Galatians, ANTC (Nashville, tn: Abingdon
Press, 1997), 142–43, and indirectly Dunn, Epistle, 282–84; while testicles is implicitly
assumed by most commentators who speak indiscriminately of “castration”; and for both
see Borse, Brief, 188. For the argument it is unimportant see Stählin, “ἀποκόπτω,” 854–55.
“ I Wish Those Who Unsettle You Would Mutilate Themselves ! ” 209

autobiographic sections, σάρξ can simply be equated with “a human being” or

“a human’s body.”32
Paul’s use of the opposition of σάρξ and πνεῦμα whereby σάρξ is the negative
and πνεῦμα the positive counterpart in his letters is well known.33 In the words
of Jörg Frey, σάρξ in the letters of Paul is to be conceived as

nicht nur in dem aus dem AT geläufigen Sinn der leiblich-geschöpflichen

Existenz des Menschen, seiner Schwäche und Hinfälligkeit, sondern da­
rüber hinaus im Sinne einer Sphäre des aktiv Bösen, einer den Menschen
bestimmenden sündigen Macht.34

The dualism between “flesh” and “spirit” is, according to Frey, not ontological
but ethical and eschatological.35 People acting with or in the spirit, are con-
ducting themselves well and are oriented towards the eschaton. Paul hardly
ever mentions a judgment in the letter to the Galatians.36 However, his very
speaking about being justified and his extreme focus on the alleged and real
means of salvation can only imply that judgment is an important background
of his argumentation. Although Paul’s addressees have the spirit (Gal 3:2, 3,
5 etc.), they can fall back to the “flesh” (3:3 etc.). In Gal 5:16–26, Paul sums up
extensively the realms of “flesh” (vv. 16–21) and of “spirit” (22–26) as a warning
against doing the works of “flesh.” With Christ, the passions and the desires
have been “crucified” (v. 24). Paul’s addressees should stay on the path paved
by the Christ event that leads to a state of justice in the eschaton. Therefore,
they have to be justified and remain living “in the spirit” (Gal 5:25); in the same
spirit, they should adhere to hope (ἔλπις; 5:5).
In Gal 6:12–13 Paul ties flesh and circumcision explicitly:

12 It is those who want to make a good showing in the flesh (ἐν σαρκί)
that try to compel you to be circumcised (περιτέμνεσθαι)—only that
they may not be persecuted for the cross of Christ. 13 Even the circum-
cised (οἱ περιτεμνόμενοι) do not themselves obey the law, but they want

32 Gal 1:16: σάρξ καὶ αἵμα = “a human being”; 2:16: οὐ [. . .] πᾶσα σάρξ = “no one”; 2:20: ἐν σαρκί =
in paraphrase: “in this bodily life”; 4:13: ἀσθενεία τῆς σαρκός = “infirmity of the body”; 4:14:
ἐν τῇ σαρκὶ μοῦ = “in my [Paul’s] body.”
33 Jörg Frey, “Die paulinische Antithese von »Fleisch« und »Geist« und die palästinisch-
jüdische Weisheitstradition,” ZNW 90 (1999): 45–77.
34 Ibid., 45.
35 Ibid.
36 Only in Gal 5:10 in regard to the opponents.
210 de Vos

you to be circumcised (περιτέμνεσθαι) so that they may boast about your

flesh (σαρκὶ).

These verses substantiate the presumption that Paul associates flesh and cir-
cumcision also in other parts of Galatians including Gal 5:2–12.

3.2.1 “Flesh” in Gal 4:21–31

The so-called Hagar-Sarah allegory (Gal 4:21–31 or 4:21–5:1),37 the text that
precedes 5:2–12, can also be seen against the background of the Anatolian
cult of the mother goddess.38 When Paul writes that the “Jerusalem above”
is our mother (4:25), he implies that it is not the mother goddess who is the
true mother of the Galatians. Also the “above” has a concrete background.
The Anatolian mother goddess used to reside on an elevated point overlook-
ing the city that belonged to her and that she guarded. The inhabitants of this
area belonged to this mother goddess whom they could see from below. In
Gal 4:21–31 “Hagar,” the slave wife of Abraham, is connected with a mountain
(Sinai); the Galatians would have made the association with the mountain of
their mother goddess. For Paul, however, this goddess of Mount Sinai is unfree.
For the Galatians this must have been offensive, or at least strange, as it was not
the mother goddess but her attendants, the inhabitants of the concomitant
towns, and even more the galli who emasculated themselves for her, who were
seen as slaves.
Back to “flesh.” We can find an indirect association to circumcision and
emasculation in the word “flesh.” “Flesh” occurs twice:

One, the child of the slave, was born according to the flesh (κατὰ σάρκα
γεγέννηται); the other, the child of the free woman, through39 the promise
(δι᾽ ἐπαγγελίας). (Gal 4:23)

But just as at that time the child who was born according to the flesh
(κατὰ σάρκα γεννηθεὶς) persecuted the one40 according to the Spirit (τὸν
κατὰ πνεῦμα), so it is now also. (Gal 4:29)

37 See above for the function of Gal 5:1.

38 Elliott, Cutting, 258–86; see also idem, “Choose Your Mother, Choose Your Master:
Galatians 4:21–5:1 in the Shadow of the Anatolian Mother of the Gods,” JBL 118 (1999):
661–83.
39 through] was born through (nrsv).
40 the one] the child who was born (nrsv).
“ I Wish Those Who Unsettle You Would Mutilate Themselves ! ” 211

In either case “flesh” appears together with “to beget” (γεννᾶν). Because of the
negative connotations of “the child of the slave” in the pericope, and because in
neither case “to beget” (γεννᾶν) collocates with the positively connoted words
“promise” and “spirit,” the connection of “flesh” and “to beget” seems to imply
that the body and the sexual are negative per se for Paul. This supposition is
corroborated by Gal 5:16 where Paul associates “flesh” with “desire” (ἐπιθυμία;
cf. 5:17, 24) and the works of the flesh with many vices (5:19–21).41
Is there also a connection with circumcision in 4:21–31? Nothing in the
text itself points to that, and the last time Paul had written about circumci-
sion was in chapter 2 in a different context.42 Nevertheless “flesh” in 4:21–31
alludes to circumcision. “To beget according to the flesh” directs the mind of
the addressees to the instrument by which a man begets, that is, his penis;
and from there to the foreskin. The allusion to circumcision is reinforced by
the intratextual references to the law in Galatians. Paul connects the law with
compulsion before this pericope, in this pericope, and thereafter.43 He had
already contrasted the law with the heritage of Abraham, and the promise
using the imagery of two testaments just as in 4:21–31 (3:17–18). In chapters
3–4 Paul never uses the word “circumcision,” but it is the reason for his using
the figure of Abraham.44 Abraham believed the promise of God “and it was
reckoned to him as righteousness” (Gal 3:6; Gen 15:6; Hab 2:4). This happened
before Abraham was circumcised (Gen 17). Now the quotation of Isa 54:1 in
Gal 4:27 is used to elucidate Gen 16:1 about the barrenness of Sarah; and Gen
16:1 also occurs before the circumcision of Abraham in the narrative. Although
this is, admittedly, only an indirect argument, it should be considered in light
of the fact that Paul very often uses inference to raise matters left unsaid in the
letter to the Galatians. In Gal 4:21–31 itself, the figure of Sarah is only implied
but not mentioned (Gal 4:24); the same applies to the “then-Jerusalem” and the
“earthly Jerusalem” (Gal 4:25b–26).45
“Flesh” in Gal 4:21–31 is set as the opposite of “promise” (4:23) and of “spirit”
(4:29). This connects the text with Gal 5:2–12 in which both “promise” and

41 Cf. Frey, “Die paulinische Antithese,” 45.

42 In the pericopes Gal 2:1–10 (vv. 3, 7, 8, 9) and 2:11–21 (v. 12).
43 Gal 3:24 as well as ὑπὸ νόμου in 3:23; 4:4, 5, 21; 5:18; cf. on the origin of this phrase Joel
Marcus, “ ‘Under the Law’: The Background of a Pauline Expression,” CBQ 63 (2001): 72–83.
44 See Rom 4:9–12 where Paul explicitly writes that Abraham was not circumcised as he was
justified.
45 See for further details J. Cornelis de Vos, “Jerusalem: Why on Earth Is It in Heaven?
A Comparison between Galatians 4:21–31 and 2 Baruch 4:1–7;” in Exploring the Narrative:
Jerusalem and Jordan in the Bronze and Iron Ages, ed. Eveline van der Steen et al., LHB/OTS
583 (London: Bloomsbury, 2014), 326–37.
212 de Vos

“spirit” appear as antonyms of circumcision. By means of a syllogism “flesh”

could be associated with “circumcision”: (flesh vs. (promise AND spirit)) AND
((circumcision vs. (promise AND spirit)) → flesh // circumcision. Let us have a
closer look at “promise” and “spirit” in Gal 4:21–31 and 5:2–12.
The word “spirit” also occurs in 5:2–12. Verse 5 says “For through the Spirit,
by faith, we eagerly wait for the hope, which is righteousness.” Admittedly, this
verse is complicated, both syntactically and theologically.46 For the details I
refer to the commentaries. For now it is of interest that “spirit” is connected
with “eagerly waiting for the hope.” This is the same as the “promise” of Gal 4:23
without using the word “promise.” “Eagerly waiting” (ἀπεκδέχεσθαι) is a termi-
nus technicus for “waiting for the eschaton.”47 Now the content of the promise
Paul and the Galatians are eagerly waiting for is righteousness (δικαιοσύνη).
It is not clear whether δικαιοσύνη implies that Paul and the Galatians are not
justified yet,48 or that there is no state of righteousness yet. As the text does not
say “we eagerly wait for the hope to be justified (ἵνα δικαιωθήσωμην*),” the text
speaks most likely about a state of righteousness. However, for a state of righ-
teousness in the eschaton, Paul and his addressees need to have been justified
by God. As the Galatians are, according to Paul, in danger of giving in to having
themselves circumcised, the proleptic justification (see 2:16) is no guarantee
for salvation at the end. Deliberately submitting themselves to circumcision
even obstructs the benefit of Christ (5:2) for the Galatians since they are “gen-
tile sinners” (2:15). In clear text, circumcision obstructs the promise and the
work of the Spirit.

3.2.2 “Flesh” and “Love” in Gal 5:13–15

A brief glance at Gal 5:13–15 reveals that these verses are transitional like
5:1 and connect 5:2–12 with 5:16–24. The freedom to which the addressees
are called should not be misused for “the flesh” (5:13). The works of the flesh are
specified in 5:19–21 as already stated. When Paul states that the addressees
should serve (δουλεύετε) each other through love (ibid.), he hints at the galli
who served the mother goddess. For Paul, the only positive way of serving is

46 With respect to syntax: 1) Is ἡμεῖς [. . .] ἐλπίδα [. . .] ἀπεκδεχόμεθα tautological? 2) How

should the genitive construction ἐλπίδα δικαιοσύνης be understood? 3) How is the dative
πνεύματι to be understood? 4) How is ἐκ in ἐκ πίστεως to be understood? With respect to
theology: Have the Galatians already been justified in Christ by faith (cf. Gal 2:16), or is
this something which is still to be hoped for?
47 See Walter Grundmann, “δέχομαι κτλ.,” TWNT 2:49–59 “bei Paulus der Ausdruck der das
Ende erwartenden Haltung” (55).
48 See n. 46.
“ I Wish Those Who Unsettle You Would Mutilate Themselves ! ” 213

serving Christ (1:10) and each other (5:13), all the other references of δουλ- in
Galatians are negatively connoted.
Gal 5:13–15 refers with the quotation from Lev 19:18 to the central state-
ment in 5:2–12, namely 5:6 in which Paul sets circumcision squarely at odds
with “faith, working through love.” Faith and love belong to the realm of the
spirit (5:16, 22–23), the opposite of “flesh.” Whether “flesh” can be connected
with “circumcision//emasculation” here is less clear, but it remains possible
because of the catchword connections with 5:2–12 and 4:21–31.

3.2.3 No “Flesh” in Gal 3:28

“Flesh,” “circumcision,” and “emasculation” could also be the imaginative back-
ground of the well-known verse Gal 3:28: “There is no longer Jew or Greek,
there is no longer slave or free, there is no longer male and female; for all of you
are one in Christ Jesus.”49 We cannot prove whether Paul had the galli in mind
not only in Gal 5:12 but also here. However, the galli were neither male nor
female since they had cut off their flesh.50 In the spirit, the opposite of flesh,
there is no sexual differentiation either. This is not achieved by the cutting of
flesh, but by “clothing oneself with Christ” by baptism (3:27), the opposition
of circumcision, and by being one in Christ (v. 28). The galli, by the way, also
clothed themselves with new coloured clothes after their emasculation.51 As
already stated, Paul sees only two options and applying Elliot’s triple analogy
to Gal 3:28 results in galli // male–female vs. one in Christ.
We have two similar expressions in Galatians which in my view corrobo-
rate the assumption that Gal 3:28 can be associated with emasculation and
with galli:

There is no longer Jew For in Christ Jesus For neither circumcision

or Greek, there is no neither circumcision nor uncircumcision is
longer slave or free, nor uncircumcision anything; but a new
there is no longer male counts for anything; creation is everything!
and female; for all of the only thing that (Gal 6:15).52
you are one in Christ counts is faith working
Jesus (Gal 3:28). through love (Gal 5:6).

49 There is an abundance of literature on this verse. I refer to the commentaries as listing

individual titles would require a publication of its own.
50 Elliott (Cutting) hardly deals with this verse.
51 Ibid., 163–66.
52 See also 1Cor 12:13; cf. Col 3:11.
214 de Vos

In both parallel passages “circumcision” and “uncircumcision” appear. In the

language of Paul this means “Jew” and “Greek” as well as “slavery” and “free-
dom.” By means of the metonyms circumcision/uncircumcision → flesh/male
genitals we approximate the supposed galli background of “there is no longer
male and female” in 3:28.

4 Jewish Cultural Encounters in Galatia?

4.1 Circumcision and Emasculation as Cultural Symbols

Was there a Jewish cultural encounter in Galatia?53 We do not know whether
the opponents were born Jews but they were Jewish and, being circumcised,
they ethnically belonged to the Jewish people. Paul was also circumcised and
ethnically a Jew, but was he Jewish? The Galatian addressees were non-Jews
who had the opportunity to become Jews and Jewish by circumcision.
In the recent past an abundance of literature has been produced about the
question of Jewish identity in Antiquity. In Galatians itself Paul uses words
from the stem ἰουδ-: ἰουδαῖος (2:13–15; 3:28), ἰουδαΐζειν (2:14), ἰουδαϊσμός (1:13–14),
and living ἰουδαϊκῶς (2:14). A large and separate debate is already raging about
the meaning of those words, and the arguments shall not be repeated here. The
questions at stake are: do they refer to a religious system, a cultic system, a
belief system, the area of Judah, or to an ethnos? The context in Galatians
makes it likely that the words ἰουδαΐζειν, ἰουδαϊσμός, and living ἰουδαϊκῶς have to
do with Jewish customs, respectively promoting the Jewish way of living, the
Jewish life itself, and living according to Jewish customs—most significantly,
males being circumcised and both males and females living according to the
Jewish law.
As both circumcision and emasculation are clearly distinguishable elements
of the Jewish and Anatolian culture, I take those as a means of comparing the
cultures of the parties involved. Circumcision was a clear sign of the covenant
of God with Israel, a symbol to be proud of (cf. Gal 6:13–14), despite it being
mocked by the Greeks and the Romans.54 Emasculation for its part, was a sign
of the Anatolian mother goddess cult but it was divisive. For the Anatolians the

53 Sociology usually defines culture broadly as the ensemble of symbolic codes used by a
society. This is my guiding definition, but I will not define “culture” too exactly as this is
not heuristic for the encounters at stake. The cultural encounter I am writing about is, for
example, not an encounter between societies.
54 See for a concise account of the views on circumcision Elliott, Cutting, 233–48. A much
longer account can be found in Blaschke, Beschneidung, 108–360.
“ I Wish Those Who Unsettle You Would Mutilate Themselves ! ” 215

ritual emasculation was both fascinating and abhorrent. It led the galli into a
persistent liminal or interstitional (Elliott) position, making them intermedi-
ates of two worlds. Although the galli also had political tasks as intermediar-
ies between Anatolia and Rome,55 their being emasculated was mocked and
abhorred by the Romans.56
Paul does not oppose circumcision per se—he himself was also circumcised—
and if we may believe Acts 16:3, he also had his companion Timothy circum-
cised. However, since the death and resurrection of Christ, Paul holds that
the circumcision of non-Jews was no longer necessary, and may in fact even
contradict the salvatory significance of the Christ event. Circumcised people
were bound to observe the whole Jewish law (Gal 3:10; 5:3). Christ freed people
from “the curse of the law” (Deut 27:26; Gal 3:10, 13 etc.)57 and enabled them to
strive for salvation through belief. Circumcision nullifies this. To use Paul’s own
words: “If justification were through the law, then Christ died to no purpose”
(Gal 2:21).

4.2 The Attraction of Circumcision

Why should the addressees of Paul’s letter to the Galatians choose to be cir-
cumcised? How does it benefit them? Why do they not accept Paul’s Gospel
without circumcision? Is this not a far easier way to safeguard the possibility
of salvation?
There are four possible explanations for the Galatians being willing to
become Jewish believers in Christ: 1) ethnical; 2) ethical; 3) psychological; and
4) performative.

1) An Ethnical Explanation
Paul defended some sort of Jewish belief in the eyes of the addressees, but
without Jewish customs, which may have been met with suspicion or mistrust
by Galatian addressees. Adoption of Paul’s system could have made them void
of ethnicity.

2) An Ethical Explanation
We know that Judaism in the first century CE was attractive to non-Jews.
Jewish moral standards were held in high esteem. The Anatolian culture for its
part is well-known for its curses and confessions. There seems to have been a

55 Elliott, Curse, 208–10.

56 See n. 54.
57 See Timothy G. Gombis, “The ‘Transgressor’ and the ‘Curse of the Law’: The Logic of Paul’s
Argument in Galatians 2–3,” NTS 53 (2007): 81–93.
216 de Vos

constant uncertainty about being guilty and if guilty, about the resultant wrath
of the mother goddess. If the Galatians became circumcised, then they had to
observe the whole Jewish law. Living according to the Jewish law could give
them the feeling that this safeguarded a morally flawless life.58 Paul’s expound-
ing that nobody can be justified by works of the law to his Galatian addressees,
suggests that his opponents were probably advocating just that.

3) A Psychological Explanation
Paul’s gospel “lite” might have been regarded as a bit too light. Often people like
clear moral instructions rather than, in my words, some indication of grace,
freedom, and neighbourly love. Besides, the heavy entrance condition of cir-
cumcision of males could very well just have strengthened the adherence to
the new identity.

4) A Performative Explanation
Doing things for God in the form of customs and rites gives people the feeling
they can apply to God’s mercy and thus steer their own fate in some way.
Taking these explanations together, becoming circumcised is a rite de pas-
sage that is painful and irreversible. This act and sign of adherence to the
Jewish ethnos and Jewish God might therefore be attractive to the Galatian
non-Jews. It gave them a certainty that they obviously did not have before in
their pagan state.

5 Conclusion

Every culture is hybrid. However, if we take this too literally, culture ceases to
be a distinguishable entity. Does Paul shape a third cultural system in addition
to that of his opponents and that of the Galatians?
Paul opposes the cultural symbols of Anatolians and Jews and substitutes
the concrete symbols of circumcision and emasculation by baptism. However,
he goes far beyond these concrete symbols in that he spiritualizes contempo-
rary Jerusalem as the Jerusalem above (Gal 5:24), i.e., the eschaton; and equates
baptism with a life “clothed in Christ” (3:27) and by the spirit in faith and hope.
He substitutes the tangible signs of affiliation, and therewith of a certain secu-
rity, by a spiritual life that is oriented toward the eschaton. The certainty lies
in hope.

58 Todd A. Wilson, The Curse of the Law and the Crisis in Galatia: Reassessing the Purpose of
Galatians, WUNT 225 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007), 69–94.
“ I Wish Those Who Unsettle You Would Mutilate Themselves ! ” 217

Maybe Paul was promoting a liberal form of obedience to Jewish law? Does
he thereby remain within the realm of Judaism or not? On the one hand, Jewish
law was still a leading principle for Paul, and he used it for his argument, even if
his addressees were probably unfamiliar with its contents. On the other hand,
he relativizes the stipulations of the Jewish law and rejects the Jewish way of
life for his Galatian addressees.
Maybe his opponents were Jewish in a hybrid Jewish-Anatolian form, of
which we hardly know anything. Nevertheless, from their perspective—which,
again, we only know through the lens of Paul—Paul must have separated from
the Jewish ethnos. Why else should they have promoted a gospel with circum-
cision and works of the law? The believers in Christ had to become part of the
Jewish ethnos, also the Galatian Christ believers.
Paul explicitly and implicitly uses Jewish and Anatolian cultural elements
for his argument. However, Paul being a Jew departs from being Jewish in
re-evaluating, attacking, insulting and partly substituting Jewish identity
markers. The path that Paul presents and defends in his letter to the Galatians
is a third way, neither truly earthly, nor of specific ethnicity; in short, neither
Jewish nor Anatolian.
 CHAPTER 14

Rabbis and Romanization: A Review Essay

Ishay Rosen-Zvi

In the past few decades the abundance of comparative studies on “Romaniza-

tion” in the provinces, both eastern and western, has stimulated historians of
Roman Palestine. The place formerly reserved in scholarship for “Helleniza-
tion” has been increasingly occupied by searches for specific manifestations
of Roman-ness.1 Examinations of the extent and character of Roman influ-
ence on the Jewish population in Judea and the Galilee, and on the rabbinic
movement in particular, are now required to measure it in light of other prov-
inces and populations; deciding not only the character of their reaction to the
Roman presence but also its “normality” in comparative context. Recently
Hayim Lapin went further than any of his predecessors in claiming that the
Rabbis themselves should be read as typical provincial sub-elite.2 This new
and thought-provoking study is an apt opportunity to rethink the entire sub-
ject of rabbis and Romanization.
Lapin’s basic thesis is tantalizingly simple: Since Palestinian rabbinic lit-
erature was created in a provincial context, it must be understood as, well,
provincial: “a local provincial cultural movement within its Roman imperial
setting” (11). The sages were provincial not only in that they were controlled
by the Roman “system,” but in that they functioned within this system, derived
profit from it, and internalized it. They occupied a place inside it that was
far more complicated than simply being oppositional and countercultural.
In arguing this Lapin is fighting on several fronts at once. He agrees with the
“minimalists”3 as to the depth of the Hellenization of the Jewish population (5),

1 Natalia B. Dohrmann and Annette Y. Reed, “Introduction,” in Jews, Christians and the
Roman Empire: The Poetics of Power in Late Antiquity, ed. eadem (Philadelphia: University of
Pennsylvania Press, 2012), 1–21 (7–9, esp. the list of scholars on p. 8). On Hellenization, see
n. 25 below.
2 Hayim Lapin, Rabbis as Romans: The Rabbinic Movement in Palestine, 100–400 CE (Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 2012).
3 The following two reviews of the minimalistic (“revisionist”) trend—beginning with Erwin
Goodenough and Morton Smith, continuing with Jacob Neusner and Peter Schäfer, and cul-
minating with Catherine Hezser and Seth Schwartz—are instructive. See Moshe D. Herr,
“The identity of the Jewish People Before and After the Destruction of the Second Temple:
Continuity or Change,” in Jewish Identities in Antiquity: Studies in Memory of Menahem Stern,

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���7 | doi ��.��63/9789004336919_015

Rabbis and Romanization: A Review Essay 219

but takes issue with their claim that the rabbis were a closed, marginal group
on the edges of the cities;4 that “cannot readily be ‘normalized’ ”;5 instead read-
ing them as a characteristic local sub-elite within urban Jewish society. Against
students of subaltern and postcolonial theories, who emphasize the counter-
cultural contexts of rabbinic literature,6 Lapin presents the world of the sages
as growing with the empire; reframing them as “one manifestation of provincial
culture in the context of Romanization” (6).
Three major questions are thus up for discussion here: (i) in what measure
did the rabbis fit into the provincial world they inhabited? (ii) what status did
they occupy in this world? And (iii) how did they relate to it? While students
of the rabbis usually discuss the first and second questions, I would like to con-
centrate on the third and inquire into the rabbinic reflections on and concep-
tualization of their own status.
To this end I would like to utilize a valuable categorization which Lapin pro-
poses in his introduction. He points out that the scholarly term “Romanization”7
can mean at least three different things: (a) “embeddedness of subjects of

ed. Lee I. Levine and Daniel R. Schwartz (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2009), 211–36 (215–18);
Michael L. Satlow, “A History of the Jews or Judaism? On Seth Schwartz’s Imperialism and
Jewish Society,” JQR 95 (2005): 151–62 (155–57). For a fresh perspective on this matter see Adiel
Schremer, “The Religious Orientation of Non-rabbis in Second-century Palestine: a Rabbinic
perspective,” in Follow the Wise: Studies in Jewish History and Culture in Honor of Lee I. Levine,
ed. Zeev Weiss et al. (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2010), 319–41; cf. Hillel Newman, “The
normativity of Rabbinic Judaism: Obstacles on the Path to a New Consensus,” in Jewish
Identities in Antiquity, ed. Lee Levine and Daniel Schwartz (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck), 165–71.
4 See e.g., Seth Schwartz, Imperialism and Jewish Society (Princeton: Princeton University
Press, 2001), 103–76. Here are a few typical quotes: “the rabbis . . . were characterized by prac-
tically sectarian involution” (113); “The rabbis did not control anything in rural Palestine: not
synagogues, not charity collection or distribution, nor anything else” (124); “the rabbis were
emphatically not normal elites or subelites of the eastern part of the Roman Empire” (163).
5 Schwartz, Imperialism and Jewish Society, 163.
6 See e.g., Daniel Boyarin, Dying for God: Martyrdom and the Making of Christianity and
Judaism (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1999). For a recent typology of rabbinic reac-
tions to martyrdom see Daniel R. Schwartz, “Martyrdom, the Middle Way and Mediocrity,” in
Follow the Wise: Studies in Jewish History and Culture in Honor of Lee I. Levine, ed. Zeev Weiss
et al. (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2010), 343–53.
7 There has been sustained objection to this term as manifesting simplistic and colonial views
for the last fifteen years or so. For example, Greg Woolf, “Beyond Romans and Natives,” World
Archaeology 28 (1997): 339–50. I agree with Lapin that this does not render it useless, but its
employment must be more nuanced and reflective. See Jane Webster, “Creolizing the Roman
Provinces,” American Journal of Archeology 105 (2001): 209–25; David J. Mattingly, “Vulgar and
Weak ‘Romanization’ or Time for a Paradigm Shift?” JRA 15 (2002): 536–40; idem, Imperialism,
220 Rosen-Zvi

the empire within an asymmetric fabric . . . largely not their own making,” or:
becoming, willy nilly, part of the provincial tapestry; (b) the subjects’ partic-
ipation in the dominant culture and adoption of various chunks of it, large
or small;8 and lastly (c) the measure of identifying yourself with the system.
The latter is the most slippery and confusing sense, which refers to, in Lapin’s
words, “identification of one’s social or legal persona with one’s place within
the dominant political system.” Things could be cut differently of course,
and the first and second definitions partially overlap,9 but the distinction itself
is of great importance, at least heuristically. Lapin commendably avoided a
common scholarly practice of bandying terms around without distinguishing
between their various possible usages and meanings.10
Such attentiveness becomes even more crucial when discussing the eastern
provinces. Part of the “western” bias of scholarship is the emphasis on cultural
processes and “self Romanization.”11 “The impact of Rome” however includes
imperial power no less than “Italian” habitus.12 Different kinds of combinations

Power, and Identity, 38–41; Andrew Merryweather and Jonathan Prag, “ ‘Romanization’?
Or, why flog a dead horse?” Digressus 2 (2002): 8–10; and the sound discussion (and use-
ful bibliography) of Leonard A. Curchin, The Romanization of Central Spain: Complexity,
Diversity, and Change in a Provincial Hinterland (New York: Routledge, 2003), 8–14. In this
specific sense, our case is less problematic since “Roman” is not opposed in scholarship
to “native,” but rather to a different–Hellenistic, Mediterranean, Jewish–civilization. It is
perhaps no less reified, but at least it is less judgmental.
8 Acculturation is the traditional, and still most popular, meaning of Romanization. See
Greg Woolf, Becoming Roman: The Origin of Provincial Civilization in Gaul (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1998), 6.
9 If the term is used to describe processes of integration into the Empire, then the cul-
tural and the political cannot be fully separated. See however Ramsay MacMullen,
Romanization in the Time of Augustus (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2000), 136; see
nn. 80 and 81 below. In this paper I attempt to highlight some of the complicated relation-
ships between culture and politics in the local context of the Palestinian rabbis.
10 See for example the following definition: “the process by which the inhabitants come to
be, and to think of themselves as, Romans.” William V. Harris, Rome in Etruria and Umbria
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1971), 147.
11 On the Roman inclusive ethos in the west see Alexander Jakobson, “Us and Them: Empire,
Memory and Identity in Claudius’ Speech on Bringing Gauls into the Roman Senate,” in
On memory: An Interdisciplinary Approach, ed. Doron Mendels (Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 2007), 19–36.
12 See David Kennedy, review of Romanization in the Time of Augustus, by Ramsey
MacMullen, Bryn Mawr Classical Review (2002.06.37): 15. Cf. Curchin, The Romanization of
Central Spain, 11. On the application of modern colonial studies on Roman imperium see
Jane Webster and Nicholas J. Cooper, eds., Roman Imperialism: Post-Colonial Perspectives
Rabbis and Romanization: A Review Essay 221

between resistance and mimicry existed in the Roman Empire, and no cultural
analysis can ignore the political sides of those intricate negotiations between
rulers and ruled.13
So what kind of Romanization can we assume for the rabbis? Palestinian
rabbis were an integral part of the provincial urban life. They were affected by
imperial processes and population (soldiers, officials and citizens); they used
the roads and witnessed the exercise of the imperial cult, as rabbinic literature
well attests. After the edict of Caracalla in 212 they too became Roman citizens.
Like other sub-elites they “simultaneously subverted, absorbed, and manipu-
lated Roman norms.”14 They were, therefore, Romans according to both the
first and, to some extent, second meanings discussed above.
In a certain sense this is trivial. No movement, countercultural as it may
be, can escape its larger, political and cultural context. It is in this sense that
the Maccabees are part of Palestinian Hellenization, and nineteenth-century
Jewish Orthodoxy is a modern movement, a facet of European nationalism and
secularization. But here we are dealing with the delicate business of minute
measuring; “the cumulative effect of a multitude of tiny shifts which . . . pro-
duced significant differences”:15 the calendar, the landscape, the legal system,16

(Leicester: School of Archaeological Studies, University of Leicester, 1996); Mattingly,

Imperialism, Power, and Identity, 3–42.
13 Cf. Satlow, “Jews or Judaism,” 160. For the need to combine together studies of resistance
with those of mimicry see Chris Frilingos, “Early Christianity and the Discourse of Empire
in the First Three Centuries CE,” Religion Compass 4 (2010): 144–56 (145). For a brilliant
combination of the two in the case of the Mishnahic laws of capital punishment see
Beth A. Berkowitz, Execution and invention: Death Penalty Discourse in Early Rabbinic and
Christian Cultures (Oxford: Oxford University Press 2006), 153–79.
14 Dohrmann and Reed, “Introduction,” 2.
15 Kennedy, review of Romanization in the Time of Augustus, 11. Cf. David Kennedy, “Greek,
Roman and Native Cultures in the Roman Near East,” in The Roman and Byzantine Near
East, 2 vols., ed. J. H. Humphrey, Journal of Roman Archaeology Supplementary Series 31
(Portsmouth, RI: Journal of Roman Archaeology, 1999), 2.77–106: “by mechanisms largely
unknown to us, merely being part of the Roman Empire exposed people to things that
would alter their culture” (91).
16 On the conflict of jurisdiction between Roman and local courts see Martin Goodman,
State and Society in Roman Galilee (Totowa, NJ: Rowman & Allanhead, 1983), 155–71.
Goodman claims that while the conflict between rabbinic and Roman jurisdiction
was, at least in the Tannaitic period, imagery—for de facto they were at best voluntary
arbitrators—the conflict with the local (Jewish but non-rabbinic) village and city courts
was real.
222 Rosen-Zvi

religious rituals,17 imperial cult,18 leisure culture,19 and, of course, the

military;20 searching for the ways all these penetrated everyday life as well as
the consciousness of individuals. To be sure, one should not expect any sim-
ple consensus here. Other scholars are much more minimalistic than Lapin
in their assessment of the measure of political and cultural Romanization in
Roman Palestine.21
But were the rabbis Romanized also in the third meaning of his scheme?
Did they adopt Roman hierarchies and relations to the world? Did they see
themselves as Romans? Before discussing this, we should note two things:
First, we are dealing specifically with the rabbis; the one group that did not dis-
integrated or assimilated, even according to those who believe that all the rest
of Jewish society did.22 Evidently, other segments of Jewish society adopted

17 Nicole Belayche, Iudaea-Palaestina: the Pagan Cults in Roman Palestine (Tübingen: Mohr
Siebeck, 2001).
18 For participation in the roman imperial cult as a sign of Romanization see Simon R. F.
Price, Rituals and Power: The Roman Imperial Cult in Asia Minor (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 1984), 78–100.
19 Zeev Weiss, “The Jews in the Land of Israel and Roman Leisure Culture,” Zion 66 (2001):
427–450 [Hebrew].
20 “By far the most substantial of all non-local influences on the Near East.” Fergus Millar,
The Roman Near East 31 BC–AD 337 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1993), 527.
On the Roman army in the Galilee see Goodman, State and Society, 141–44; for Judea
in general see Werner Eck, Rom und Judaea: Fünf Vorträge zur römischen Herrschaft in
Palaestina (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007), 105–55.
21 Fergus Millar presented Judea as a glaring exception to his Hellenization-as-erasure-
of-local-traditions thesis. Miller, The Roman Near East, 337–86. Similarly, MacMullen,
admittedly pays little attention to Roman Palestine in his chapter on Romanization in
the east. Romanization in the Time of Augustus, 1–29. He concluded that, culturally speak-
ing, not much changed in this area under Rome. For a critique see Kennedy, review
of Romanization in the Time of Augustus. A similar assessment was reached by Martin
Goodman with regard to the Galilee: “Rome left Galilee to develop her economy and cul-
ture in peace.” Goodman, State and Society, 154 (cf. 175–76). Also note that in the preface
to the second edition Goodman restated this as a matter of rabbinic perception rather
than reality (xiv). Cf. Stephen G. Wilson, Related Strangers: Jews and Christians 70–170 C.E.
(Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 1995), 19. On the other hand, Seth Schwartz believes
everything changed when the Romans applied their “more energetic imperialism” after
the destruction of the Temple and the failure of the Jewish revolts. Schwartz, Imperialism,
107. For Schwartz’s vague use of the term “Imperialism” see Stuart S. Miller, “Roman
Imperialism, Jewish Self Definition and Rabbinic Society,” AJS Review 31 (2007): 329–62
(346, 349).
22 Schwartz, Imperialism, 163. Thus the continuing debate regarding the centrality of the
rabbis in the larger Jewish society in not relevant to this inquiry (see n. 3 above).
Rabbis and Romanization: A Review Essay 223

Roman models quite willingly, as shown for example by inscriptions and

coins from Jewish-majority towns like Tiberias and Sepphoris,23 as well as the
Judaean Desert Documents and other findings.24 Second, that the discussion
is limited to the question of Romanization—the influence of Roman politi-
cal structure and the ideologies associated with it—and not Hellenization,
which is a much wider, and older, phenomenon.25 We should always keep in
mind that in the area we are discussing, Hellenization and Romanization are
anything but identical. This is true for the east in general,26 and particularly for
the near east.27
Lapin demonstrates beyond any doubt that the social conditions allowed for
more than an imposed Romanization. The rabbinic movement took root dur-
ing a period of rapid urbanization, which entailed a wide exposure to all facets
of the Roman world. At least from the beginning of the third century most
rabbis lived in cities and were tied to the urban “wealthy and literate stratum”
(72–73). This stratum was the main source of rabbinic acolytes and also, no
less important, the economic superstructure which supported them. The sages
used the urban institutions, from markets to bathhouses, and were in general
embedded in their cities. Rabbinic urban setting, contested among scholars,28

23 See Lapin, Rabbis as Romans, 29, 32, 65. See also the vast bibliography collected in Naftali
Cohn, The Memory of the Temple and the Making of the Rabbis (Philadelphia: University of
Pennsylvania Press, 2013), 150–53 nn. 57–63.
24 See n. 88 below.
25 For Hellenization and the rabbis see Lee I. Levine, Judaism and Hellenism in Antiquity:
Conflict or Confluence (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1998), 96–138; Schwartz,
Imperialism, 162–76; Fergus Millar, “Transformations in Judaism under Graeco-Roman
Rule: Responses to Seth Schwartz’s ‘Imperialism and Jewish Society,’ ” JJS 57 (2006): 139–58
(150–54).
26 Even if “It was Rome which first helped ‘Hellenism’ to its real victory in the East.” Martin
Hengel, Jews, Greeks, and Barbarians: Aspects of the Hellenization of Judaism in the Pre-
Christian Period (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1980), 53. Compare Hannah M. Cotton,
“Change and Continuity in Late Legal Papyri from Palaestina Tertia,” in Jews, Christians
and the Roman Empire: The Poetics of Power in Late Antiquity, ed. Natalia B. Dohrmann
and Annette Y. Reed (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2012), 209–21 (210).
On Hellenization vs. Romanization see Kennedy, review of Romanization in the Time of
Augustus, 9; Woolf, “Formation,” 13–16.
27 Millar, The Roman Near East, 234–35.
28 See Stuart S. Miller, Sages and Commoners in Late Antique ʼErez Israel (Tübingen: Mohr
Siebeck, 2005); Catharine Hezser, The Social Structure of the Rabbinic Movement in Roman
Palestine (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1997); also her critique of Lapin’s view in Theologishe
Literaturzeitung 138 (2013): 428–30. For a different attempt to integrate the rabbis into the
224 Rosen-Zvi

is argues forcefully by Lapin, and its implications are carefully examined.29 All
this is very convincing, but it does not amount to very much. Were the sages
“Roman” in the same sense that Belzer Hassidim in Jerusalem are “Israeli” and
those in Boro Park are “American”? Both live in cities, adapt and manipulate
urban practices, and are intimately connected to local moneyed elites.
In order to move further we have to go beyond rabbinic habitus and ask
about their self-perception and consciousness. This demands us to move from
social history and examine the rabbis’ literary legacy. Does rabbinic literature,
or some parts of it, betray a provincial consciousness? Does it reflect an aware-
ness of being part of the roman tapestry?
A comparison with another known provincial movement or trend, the
Second Sophistic, can serve as a litmus test. A combination of native designa-
tion and a scholarly construct,30 the Second Sophistic is a collective appellation
given to orators who operated in the Greek East, under Rome,31 at around the
same time and place as the Tannaim. The speeches made by these late antique
Sophists were neither forensic nor political, and are classified by Philostratus as
“epideictic” oratory—a kind of entertainment. Those performances famously
share one main characteristic: “classicism.” The orators return time and again
to the great days of classical Athens, both in topic (meletê, speaking for or
with characters from Attic mythology, philosophy or politics),32 and language
(using the Attic dialect). This context is so central to their occupation that in
his Lives of the Sophists, Philostratus calls these practitioners simply “Greeks.”

urban elite see Aleksei Sivertsev, Private Households and Public Politics in 3rd–5th Century
Jewish Palestine (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck 2002). For early Christianity as an urban phe-
nomenon see Wilson, Related Strangers, 26.
29 Cf. Haim Lapin, “Rabbis and Cities: The Literary Evidence,” JJS 50 (1999): 187–207; idem,
“Rabbis and Cities: Some Aspects of the Rabbinic Movement in its Graeco-Roman
Environment,” The Talmud Yerushalmi and Graeco-Roman Culture, ed. Peter Schäfer and
Catherine Hezser, 3 vols. (Tübingen, Mohr Siebeck, 2000), 2.51–80.
30 The term is found in Philostratus, Lives of the Sophists, 48, where it denotes however a sec-
ond type of Sophistic practice, different from the philosopher-Sophists, not a renaissance
of sophistry under Rome. See Graham Anderson, “The Pepaideumenos in Action: Sophists
and their Outlook in the Early Empire,” ANRW II.33.1 (1989): 79–208 (82–83).
31 For Greek conceptions of superiority over Rome see Bettie Forte, Rome and Romans as the
Greeks Saw Them (Rome: American Academy in Rome, 1972).
32 On the historical themes discussed in these works see Simon Swain, Hellenism and Empire
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996), 92–96; Tim Withmarsh, The Second Sophistic
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), 14 n. 35.
Rabbis and Romanization: A Review Essay 225

Evan Bowie,33 Simon Swain,34 and others, uncovered the variegated manner in
which these works preserve, promote and examine Greek identity.
The Tannaim too used their textual creativity to preserve a distinct identity.
Like their Hellenic counterparts, they discuss in their works an idyllic past—
the world of the Temple and its rituals.35 Literature and politics are intertwined
in both groups. Like the Sophists, the rabbis imagine themselves as a local aris-
tocracy (though this is not to be taken at face value).36 Like the Sophists, they
functioned as emissaries, representing their people abroad (if we are to accept
any of the many stories of rabbis travelling to Rome),37 and operated politically
under Roman aegis.38 And just as the rabbis use biblical imagery and nomen-
clature (Esau, Edom, the Fourth Kingdom of Daniel) to describe their own
political world, the Sophists use the Persian wars to an anti-imperialist end.39

33 Ewen L. Bowie, “Greeks and their Past in the Second Sophistic,” Past and Present (1970):
3–41.
34 Swain dedicates the first half of his Hellenism and Empire to the Sophists’ attitude towards
Classical Greece, and the second half to their relations with Rome.
35 See Ishay Rosen-Zvi, The Mishnaic Sotah Ritual: Temple, Gender and Midrash (Leiden:
Brill, 2012); Cohn, The memory of the Temple.
36 Graham Anderson, The Second Sophistic: A Cultural Phenomenon in the Roman Empire
(London: Routledge, 1993), 27.
37 See Shmuel Safrai, “Journeys of the Sages to Rome,” in Sefer zikkaron li-shelomo umberto
nakhon (Jerusalem, 1978), 151–67 [Hebrew]. On Sophists as ambassadors see Naphthali
Lewis, “Literati in the Service of Roman Emperors: Politics before Culture,” in Coins:
Culture and History in the Ancient World: Numismatic and Other Studies in Honor of
Bluma L. Trell, ed. Lionel Carson and Martin Price, (Detroit, MI: Wayne State University
Press, 1981), 149–66. Among others, see Glen W. Bowersock, Greek Sophists in the Roman
Empire (Oxford: Oxford Universtiy Press, 1969), who places a special emphasis to their
role as intermediaries. He acknowledges, for example, that Philostratus is interested in
the Sophists’ role as local political elite no less than as orators.
38 “You rule as a subject” (archomenos archeis) says Plutarch (Moralia 813E) to a Greek politi-
cian he is advising.
39 “That Rome could be imagined, however fleetingly or subtly, as a new Persia gives an inter-
esting new inflection to historical declamations. . . . Sophistry allowed audiences to enjoy
stirring militarist rhetoric in the safe setting of the classical world—with the occasional
fleeting thrill of approximation between that distant world and the present.” Withmarsh,
The Second Sophistic, 67–70. Cf. Plutarch’s advice to a politician friend not to mention
the Persian Wars at all. See Christopher P. Jones, Plutarch and Rome (Oxford: Oxford
University Press 1971), 113–14. Amram Tropper writes that the classicism of the period
“is probably best understood as accommodation to life under Rome.” Tropper, Wisdom,
Politics, and Historiography: Tractate Avot in the Context of the Graeco-Roman Near East
226 Rosen-Zvi

Both corpora are occupied in the tortured labor of developing a “national”

culture after the loss of any remnant of political power. While classical Sophists
and rhetors were training statesmen, the “second” Sophists, like their contem-
poraneous rabbinic mythmakers, focused on historical and literary oratory.
Both phenomena are also inherently oral (though the Sophists, unlike the
Tannaim, took care to write their performances down).40 Lastly, it is worth
noting that there were Sophists also in Roman Palestine, in close proximity to
the rabbis.41 It is thus clear why scholars saw in this phenomenon “a fruitful,
if still-understudied parallel for the provincial culture of the rabbis.”42 Amram
Tropper suggested that the rabbis be seen as part of this larger trend: “The
development of rabbinic Judaism may be seen in a broad sense as the replace-
ment of political nationalism with cultural self-expression and a more accom-
modating stance to Rome.”43
And yet I would claim that the comparison is misleading and that the rabbis
cannot be included in this phenomenon, no matter how broadly we label it.
I wish to substantiate this claim with the aid of the Mishnah. As Fergus Millar
emphasizes in his critique of Seth Schwartz’s Imperialism and Jewish Society,
the Mishnah is a historical document of the highest degree. Not, granted, due
to the historical reliability of its statements, but to the testimony of the enter-
prise itself. “The fact” he writes “that a work in Hebrew of the scale and nature
of the Mishnah could be compiled . . . in an area largely covered by Greek
cities and their territories, is in itself of enormous significance.”44 It is this
evidence that I wish to disclose below; not so much because what it says about

(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), 145.This is only part of the picture, unless we read
“accommodation” in a manner complex and multifaceted enough to include resistance.
40 On the performativity of Mishnah see Martin S. Jaffee, Torah in the Mouth: Writing and
Oral Tradition in Palestinian Judaism 200 BCE–400 CE (Oxford: Oxford University Press,
2001); Elisabeth Shanks Alexander, Transmitting Mishnah: The Shaping Influence of Oral
Tradition (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006).
41 Joseph Geiger, The Tents of Jefet: Greek Intellectuals in Ancient Palestine (Jerusalem: Yad
Ben-Zvi, 2012), 45–65 [Hebrew].
42 Natalie B. Dohrmann, “Law and Imperial Idioms: Rabbinic Legalism in a Roman World,”
in Jews, Christians and the Roman Empire: The Poetics of Power in Late Antiquity, ed. Natalia
B. Dohrmann and Annette Y. Reed (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2012),
63–78 (74).
43 Tropper, Wisdom, 153. Other parts of his comparisons, such as succession lists and classi-
cism, are relevant to Tractate Avot only. Tropper’s choice to focus on Avot prevents him
from noticing the main point of comparison: the dwelling on the greatness of the past—
the Greek poleis and the Jerusalem Temple.
44 Millar, “Transformations,” 150. Cf. idem, “Roman Imperialism,” 337.
Rabbis and Romanization: A Review Essay 227

the rabbis’ external conditions, as per Millar, but due to its testimony of rab-
binic self-consciousness.45
The Mishnah has an imperial consciousness. Unlike the Sophists (or, for
that matter, the voluntary associations),46 it does not accept the Roman divi-
sion of labor that, to borrow Tim Whitmarsh’s phrase, “rigorously apportioned
culture to the Greeks and power to the Romans,”47 but offers a complete alter-
native to Rome. The comparison is not totally fair: unlike Sophists who speak
in public, in the language of the empire,48 the Mishnah is an internal text,
and thus is able to offer an explicit narrative about Rome without resorting to
subaltern devices and “hidden transcripts.”49 But the difference goes deeper

45 On the application of “self” and “self consciousness” to anonymous, collective rabbinic
compositions see Dina Stein, Textual Mirrors: Reflexivity, Midrash, and the Rabbinic Self
(Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2012).
46 Lapin follows Catharine Hezser in seeing the rabbis as a kind of Hellenistic “voluntary
association,” Lapin, Rabbis as Romans, 90–97. This, however, requires him to explain
the coercive elements of the rabbinic world, including the courts and the patriarchy,
as pure fantasy (92). Cf. idem, “The Origins and Development of the Rabbinic Movement
in the Land of Israel,” in The Cambridge History of Judaism. Volume 4: The Late Roman-
Rabbinic Period, ed. Stevan Katz; (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 206–29
(216–17). On the non-fictive nature of the Tannaitic courts, see Ishay Rosen-Zvi, “The
Protocol of the Court at Yavneh? A Reading of Tosefta Sanhedrin 7,” Tarbiz 78 (2009):
447–77 [Hebrew]. More fruitful usages of “voluntary association” were made in the con-
texts of rabbinic havurot and diasporic synagogues. For havurot, see Yair Furstenberg, “Am
Ha-Aretz in Tannaitic Literature and Its Social Contexts,” Zion 78 (2013): 278–320 [Hebrew];
for synagogues, see Philip Harland, Associations, Synagogues and Congregations: Claiming
a Place in Ancient Mediterranean Society (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 2003); Peter
Richardson, Building Jewish in the Roman East (Waco, TX: Baylor University Press, 2004),
207–23, 337, 341. For a critique, see Albert Baumgarten, “Graeco-Roman Voluntary
Associations and Ancient Jewish Sects,” in Jews in a Graeco-Roman World, ed. Martin
Goodman (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998), 93–111.
47 Whitmarsh, Second Sophistic, 13–14.
48 Tim Whitmarsh, Greek Literature and the Roman Empire: The Politics of Imitation (Oxford:
Oxford University Press 2001), 59–63, 186–88, 325–27. To avoid problems, Greek writers
simply skipped over Rome, and devoted themselves solely to the Greek past. See Gerhard
van den Heever, “Novel and Mystery,” in Ancient Fiction: The Matrix of Early Christian and
Jewish Narrative, ed. Jo-Ann Brant, Charles Hedrick, and Chris Shea (Atlanta, GA: Society
of Biblical Literature, 2005), 107 n. 70.
49 James C. Scott, Domination and the Arts of Resistance: Hidden Transcripts (New Haven,
CT: Yale University Press, 1990). On the application of Scott’s “hidden transcripts” to rab-
binic literature, see Daniel Boyarin, “Tricksters, Martyrs, and Collaborators,” in Powers of
Diaspora: Two Essays on the Relevance of Jewish Culture, ed. Jonathan Boyarin and Daniel
Boyarian (Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press, 2002), 35–102.
228 Rosen-Zvi

than that. Rabbinic literature, and particularly the Mishnah, does not make do
with the spaces the empire leaves for the provincials, but purports to create an
alternative space, which offers an entire world to inhabit. It is a profound alter-
native to the Roman world which encompasses metaphysics, religion, culture
and politics.50
Unlike the Sophists, the Mishnah does not seem to “recognize” its political
limitations. There is no space it does not occupy. It legislates an autonomous
kingdom into being, including laws of war and capital punishment (the two
spheres reserved for the Emperor and his legates), king, Sanhedrion (senate)
and temple. While the Mishnah has famously little space for metaphysics, its
cosmos is centered in Jerusalem, the Temple and the Holy of Holies (Kelim
1:6–9). Israel is nominally ruled by a king, priests and beit din (court) but actu-
ally by the rabbis, who populate the Sanhedrin, and to whom king and priests
are effectively subordinated.51
Nothing is beyond Mishnaic jurisdiction.52 All authorities—king, court,
priests—are discussed in the Mishnah and subjected both to the rabbinic

50 Jacob Neusner famously offered to read the Mishnah as a pure fantasy. For him, however,
the Mishnah stands in opposition not only to the political realm, but to any realm. It is but
a virtual reality “alien to the world of the people who made the Mishnah itself.” Neusner,
Ancient Israel After Catastrophe: The Religious World View of the Mishnah (Charlottesville:
University Press of Virginia, 1983), 2. On Neusner’s thesis and its critics, see Rosen-Zvi, The
Mishnaic Sotah Ritual, 247–48.
51 For rabbinic restrictions on the King see m. San. 2:2–5 and Yair Lorberbaum, Poor King:
Kingship in Early Rabbinic Literature and Its Biblical Background (Ramat Gan: Bar Ilan
University Press, 2009) [Hebrew]. On rabbinic supervision of the high priest see m. Sanh.
2:1; Yoma. 1:3–6. On rabbinic control of priestly pedigree see m. Mid. 5:4 and Ishay Rosen-
Zvi, “Temple and Body: The List of Priestly Blemishes in the Mishnah and the Place of the
Temple in the Tannaitic House of Study,” Jewish Studies 43 (2006): 49–87 [Hebrew].
52 Pace Cohn, The Memory of the Temple, 24: “In asserting jurisprudential authority over
Judaean ritual law, the rabbis (or at least the Mishnah, in its depiction of the rabbis) were
laying claim to the only area of law left available by the Romans and thus that they could
have controlled.” Following the work of Goodman, Cohen, Hezser, and Lapin; Cohn relies
on the Mishnaic case stories, but ignores the much stronger and all-encompassing claim
of authority manifested in the Mishnah as a whole. This claim is fantastic, to be sure,
but so is, according to Cohn, the more limited claim of authority over “Judaean ritual
practice” (Cohn, The Memory of the Temple 35). Moshe Simon-Shoshan avoids this pit-
fall in his Stories of the Law: Narrative Discourse and the Construction of Authority in the
Mishnah (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012). Cf. the pointed presentation of Hezser,
“Roman Law,” 151. On the question of rabbinic jurisdiction in practice see Lee I. Levine,
The Rabbinic Class of Roman Palestine in Late Antiquity (Jerusalem: Yad Ben Zvi, 1989)
[Hebrew]; Shaye J. D. Cohen, “The Place of the Rabbi in Jewish Society of the Second
Rabbis and Romanization: A Review Essay 229

laws and to the sages. The Mishnah includes discussions of the most severe
sins, and all possible penalties, including capital punishment. It discusses laws
which pertains only abroad, in places both closer (“Syria”) and remote (huts
la-arets; see e.g. Hal 4:8–11).53 It discusses cases related to the richest and the
poorest. One cannot possibly assume that all these cases are directed at their
own students.
Other systems of law are rarely acknowledged in the Mishnah (see Giṭ 1:5),
which usually recognizes no regulation but its own. Thus we never find the
rabbis “declining to resolve a certain question on the grounds that it is none of
their business, or that other authorities were more capable of handling it than
they. Such a response would have constituted an admission that the Torah had
nothing to teach on the question at hand, and such an admission was simply
inconceivable.”54 It is therefore hard to accept Shaye Cohen’s blanket assertion
that “in the second century the rabbinate neither was, nor had any interest in
being, the leaders of Jewry.”55 While the first half is certainly right, the second
is contradicted by almost every page of the Mishnah.

Century,” in The Galilee in Late Antiquity, ed. Lee I. Levine (New York: Jewish Theological
Seminary of America, 1992), 157–73; Haim Lapin, “The Rabbinic Class Revisited: Rabbis as
Judges in Later Roman Palestine,” in Follow the Wise: Studies in Jewish History and Culture
in Honor of Lee I. Levine, ed. Zeev Weiss et al. (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2010), 255–73;
idem, Rabbis as Romans, 98–125. On rabbis as arbitrators see Hannah M. Cotton, “Jewish
Jurisdiction under Roman Rule: Prolegomena,” in Zwischen den Reichen: Neues Testament
und römische Herrschaft, ed. Michael Labahn and Jürgen Zangenberg (Tübingen: Mohr
Siebeck, 2002), 13–28; Jill Harries, “Creating Legal Space: Settling Disputes in the Roman
Empire,” in Rabbinic Law in its Roman and Near Eastern Context, ed. Catherine Heszer
(Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2003), 63–81.
53 On rabbinic geography see Eyal Ben-Eliyahu, Between Borders: The Limitts of Eretz-Israel
in Jewish Consciousness in the Second Temple and Talmudic Eras (Jerusalem: Yad Ben Zvi,
2013) [Hebrew].
54 Robert Goldenberg, “Commandment and Consciousness in Talmudic Thought,” HTR 68
(1975): 261–71 (262).
55 Cohen, “The Place of the Rabbi,” 157 (emphasis mine). Similarly, but more radically, Seth
Schwartz writes “they were unconcerned with and of no concern to Jews outside their
own pietistic circles.” Schwartz, Imperialism, 113. Compare, however, his more recent
claim that “the rabbis had a vested interest . . . in viewing their version of the law of the
Torah as the only legal system under which Jews could legitimately live.” Schwartz, Were
the Jews a Mediterranean Society? Reciprocity and Solidarity in Ancient Judaism (Princeton:
Princeton University Press, 2010), 118. Since the term “Jews” does not seem to be confined
to the rabbis’ “own pietistic circles,” I do not see how these two statements could possibly
both be true.
230 Rosen-Zvi

Gentiles are not subject to the Mishnaic law,56 and are not part of its “accul-
turation” project. While they too, as everything else, are objects of legal dis-
cussion, they are not its subjects.57 Unlike the Roman concept of jurisdiction,
based on citizenship rather than ethnos,58 rabbinic halakah is directed at Jews
alone. But, critically, it is not confined to the politeuma, a communitarian
autonomy that the central government allocates. Rather, it legislates and regu-
lates a Jewish “empire” which rules all Jews wherever they may be.59

56 Even the famous Noahide laws are not discussed in the Mishnah, but only in an adden-
dum to Tosefta Avoda Zara.
57 In the Mishnah, Gentiles are discussed mostly in their interactions with Jews (impurity,
eruv, idolatry, on the Sabbath etc.). See e.g., m. Neg. 3:1 (houses of gentiles not subject to
house-leprosy); m. ʾOhal 18:7 (all houses of gentiles are impure); m. ʿAbod. Zar. 4:8 (once
the grape juice is collected, gentiles render it forbidden by touching it). Only rarely their
own piety is discussed, especially in relation to the Temple (m. ʿArak.. 1:2 and m. Šeqal.
1:5, 7:9), and, of course, conversion. For a list of laws of gentiles in Mishnah see Gary G.
Porton, Goyim: Gentiles and Israelites in Mishnah-Tosefta (Providence, RI: Scholars Press,
1988), 158–68. See further Ishay Rosen Zvi and Adi Ophir, “Goy: Toward a Genealogy,” Diné
Israel 28 (2011): 69–122.
58 On the institutionalization of relationship between citizens and foreigners in Roman
law see Clifford Ando, Law, Language, and Empire in the Roman Tradition (Philadelphia:
University of Pennsylvania Press, 2011). Ando emphasizes the legal pluralism which this
system created. Cf. idem, “The Administration of the Provinces,” in A Companion to the
Roman Empire, ed. David S. Potter (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006), 177–92; idem,
Imperial Rome AD 193 To 284: The Critical Century (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 2012), 78–85.
Compare R. Ishmael’s manner of applying diverse legal systems in order to make sure
that a Jew will always win a case against a gentile (Sifre Deut 16). In his State and Society
Goodman cites this as a parallel phenomenon to Roman legal pluralism, but it is more of
a caricature (160). Cf. t. B. Qam. 4:2 (two gentiles judged before a Jew according to “their”
laws), and the very liberal (in both senses) interpretation offered in Bernard Jackson,
“On the Problem of Roman Influence on the Halakha and Normative Self Definition in
Judaism,” in Jewish and Christian Self-Definition, 3 vols., ed. Ben F. Meyers and E. P. Sanders
(London: SCM, 1981), II:157–203 (168–89). Cf. Rabbi Elazar b. Azariah’s statement in Mek.
RI, Neziqin 1 and its analysis in Natalie B. Dohrman, “The Boundaries of the Law and the
Problem of Jurisdiction in an Early Palestinian Midrash” in Rabbinic Law in its Roman and
Near Eastern Context, ed. Catherine Heszer (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2003), 83–103.
59 True, “locations in the western diaspora were apparently not on the halakhic radar
screen of the author of the Mishnah.” Aryeh Edrei and Doron Mendels, “The Split Jewish
Diaspora: Its Dramatic Consequences,” Journal for the Study of the Pseudepigrapha 16
(2007): 91–137 (107). Thus, the new month is announced with bonfires to the east (m. Roš
Haš. 2:4); tithing is discussed for the Transjordan and Egypt (m. Yad. 4:3), and assumed for
Syria, but not for the west. The Mishnaic mental map covered the East first, until Babylon,
then North, up to Syria (and a bit more) and South, down to Egypt—but not the West.
Rabbis and Romanization: A Review Essay 231

Several scholars attempted to locate this total legalistic discourse itself,

together with the compositional acts it facilitated, in a Roman context.60 While
there is certainly some truth to it, and no doubt that mimicry and competition
both play a role in this story, it does not tell us much about the meaning the
rabbis attached to this alternative legal world, and the constrains it created on
their ability to imagine themselves as Romans.61

Cf. t. Šabb. 2:3 in which R. Johanan b. Nuri lists the oils used by Jews of Babylon and Media
(East), Alexandria (South) and Cappadocia (North). However, even if de facto the West
falls off the rabbis’ mental map, de jure they see themselves responsible for the entire
world, including the “Sea Country” to the West.
60 Yaakov Elman, “Order, Sequence and Selection: The Mishnah’s Anthological Choices,”
in The Anthology in Jewish Literature, ed. David Stern (Oxford: Oxford University Press,
2004), 53–80; Simon-Shoshan, Stories of the Law, 81–82. Cf. Catharine Hezser, “The
Codification of Legal Knowledge in Late Antiquity: The Talmud Yerushalmi and Roman
Law Codes,” in The Talmud Yerushalmi and Graeco-Roman Culture I, ed. Peter Schäfer
(Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1998), 581–641. On rabbis as similar to Roman jurists see Hezser,
“Roman Law,” 147–51; Tropper, Wisdom, Politics, and Historiography, 192–94; Cohn, The
Memory of the Temple, 17–37. For a broader attempt to analyze rabbinic legalism as a
case of Romanization see Dohrmann, “Law and Imperial Idioms.” See also the dissent
of Jacob Neusner, “The Mishnah in Roman and Christian Contexts,” in The Mishnah in
Contemporary Perspective, ed. Alan J. Avery-Peck and Jacob Neusner (Leiden: Brill, 2002),
121–48 (esp. 121–34). Compare Averil Cameron’s reading of early Christian “systematiza-
tion of knowledge” in imperial context. There, however, the medium was not law (the
language of the empire, as Dohrmann justly emphasizes) but narrative. Averil Cameron,
Christianity and the Rhetoric of Empire: the Development of Christian Discourse (Berkeley:
University of California Press, 1991), 89–119.
61 Judith Perkins voiced similar concerns with Philip Harland’s study of early Christian
communities in Asia Minor. Thus she writes about the (non-attested) participation of
Christian communities in civic festivals. “But even if Christian honorific inscriptions
should appear, I would argue that Harland’s position that Christians used these to insert
themselves into the hegemonic nexus of the city, province, and empire would still need
explanation concerning how this practice functions within the Christian worldview. . . . It
seems unlikely, on the basis of their repeated emphasis on their estrangement from their
communities, that Christian groups would erect honorific inscriptions and monuments,
so they might . . . confirm their relationship with the polis, identifying with its interest.”
Judith Perkins, Roman Imperial Identities in the Early Christian Era (New York: Routledge,
2009), 38–39. Perkins goes on to connect the Christian alienation from Rome with her
thesis that Christians formed an alternative social structure. “Two cosmopolitan cultural
identities that were evolving in the early imperial periods: the Romans, an alliance of
cosmopolitan elites who managed the empire, and the Christians, a coalition of people
anticipating a different life” (Perkins, Roman Imperial Identities, 41). I make a similar claim
below regarding the rabbis.
232 Rosen-Zvi

This consciousness is reflected not only in halakah but also in haggadah:

Israel and the Empire (malkhut) are cast as binary opposites, as are God and
Caesar, Jerusalem and Rome (or Caesarea, where the provincial government
had its seat) and Jacob and Esau. Such homilies point out not only the antago-
nism Jews harbored towards Rome, but—and more importantly—that Jewry
and the empire are equal adversaries. The rabbis could not place themselves
within the Roman civilization exactly because they belonged to an alternative,
better, one; which, even if impoverished now, would have its day in the future.
Thus, in b. Meg. 6a we read:

and Ekron will be uprooted (teʿaker; Zeph 2:4)—this is Caesarea,62 the

daughter of Edom, which was a metropolis of kings . . . Caesarea and
Jerusalem, if a man tells you that they are both destroyed, do not believe
him; that they are both inhabited, do not believe him. That Caesarea is
destroyed and Jerusalem is inhabited, believe him, as it says I will fill the
destroyed one (Ezek 26:2). If one is filled, one is destroyed. R. Nahman b.
Isaac says from here: and one people shall be stronger than the other people
(Gen 25:23).

This source, and others like it,63 does much more then articulate rabbinic frus-
tration with Rome, discussed in scholarship ad infinitum.64 It reveals the basic
symmetry assumed in rabbinic discourse between Rome and Jerusalem. This
is the basis of the midrashic linkage between the fall of Rome and the rise of
the eschatological Davidic kingdom.65 This eschatological inversion of power

62 See Vered Noam, Megilat Taanit (Jerusalem: Yad Ben Zvi, 2004), 368–69 [Hebrew].
63 Cf. e.g. Gen. Rab 78:14; Lev. Rab 29:2; b. Pes 54b and the sources cited in Mirelle Hadas-
Lebel, Jerusalem against Rome (Leuven: Peeters, 2006), 496–521.
64 See e.g. Samuel Krauss, Persia and Rome in the Talmud and the Midrashim (Jerusalem:
Mossad Harav Kook, 1948) [Hebrew]; Saul Lieberman, “Roman Legal Institutions in Early
Rabbinics and in the Acta Martyrum,” JQR 35 (1944/45): 1–57; Geza Vermes, Post Biblical
Jewish Studies (Leiden, Brill: 1975), 215–24; Nicholas R. M. de Lange, “Jewish Attitudes
to the Roman Empire,” in Imperialism in the Ancient World, ed. Peter Garnsey and
C. R. Whittaker (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1978), 255–81; Louis Feldman,
“Some Observations on Rabbinic Reaction to Roman Rule in Third Century Palestine,”
Hebrew Union College Annual 63 (1992): 39–81; and Hadas-Lebel, Jerusalem against
Rome, passim.
65 Adiel Schremer, “ ‘The Lord has Forsaken the Land’: Radical Explanations of the Military
and Political Defeat of the Jews in Tannaitic literature,” JJS 59 (1998): 183–200; idem,
Brothers Estranged: Heresy, Christianity and Jewish Identity in Late Antiquity (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 2010), 25–48. Schremer shows how Tannaitic homilies conceptualized
Rabbis and Romanization: A Review Essay 233

is conceivable only because the sources assume a fundamental parity between

the two world supremacies, Jacob and Esau, all along.66
Lapin’s presentation of the rabbis as living between the world of the dom-
inant and that of the dominated is modeled after the experience of Greeks
living under Rome.67 Dio Chrisostom, Plutarch, Lucian, Philostratus and their
compatriots in the first centuries CE did indeed live in the constraints of such
dialectic; feeling, at one and the same time, both comfortable in the Roman
world and estranged from it.68 Not so the rabbis. For them Rome is not such

the fall of Jerusalem as an undermining of God’s power, and thus the future defeat of
Rome as a recovery of His sovereignty. Compare Rev 13:7; 19:1–6; 4 Ezra 12:32–34; 2 Baruch
37; 39:7–40:2. See also Leonard L. Thompson, The Book of Revelation: Apocalypse and
Empire (Oxford: Oxford Universeity Press, 1990), 174–75; Steven J. Friesen, Imperial Cults
and the Apocalypse of John (Oxford: Oxford Universeity Press, 2001), 145–51; Philip F. Esler,
“God’s Honour and Rome’s Triumph: Responses to the Fall of Jerusalem in 70 CE in Three
Jewish Apocalypses,” in Modeling Early Christianity: Social-Scientific Studies of the New
Testament in Context, ed. Philip Esler (London: Routledge 1995), 239–58; Matthias Henze,
Jewish Apocalypticism in Late First Century Israel (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2011), 299–300.
In an intriguing reading, Anathea Portier-Young reads Jewish apoclypses as espousing a
principled anti-Imperial agenda, Portier-Young, Apocalypse against Empire: Theologies of
Resistance in Early Judaism (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2011).
66 On the symmetry inherent in using Jacob and Esau, the twins, as a metaphor for Rome and
Israel see Gen. Rab. 63:7 (ad Gen 25:23) and Feldman, “Observations,” 46–47; Hadas-Lebel,
Jerusalem against Rome, 498–500. This megalomania may have seem less groundless for
those who experienced (or remembered) the disproportionate, and long-lasting, Roman
reaction to the first Jewish revolt, with the numerous iudaea capta coins and the host of
victory monuments (including one inscription in the Circus Maximus praising Titus who
“subdued the race of the Jews and destroyed the city of Jerusalem which had either been
attacked in vain by all leaders, kings and people before him or had not been attempted
at all).” See Martin Goodman, Rome and Jerusalem: A Clash of Ancient Civilizations (New
York: Random House, 2007), 432–33. The transformation of the Jewish Temple tax into
the fiscus iudaicus could have further substantiated this consciousness of symmetry, as
indicated in Mek. RI Bahodesh 1. If we add to this that “glorification of the destruction
of the Jerusalem Temple remained integral to the public persona of each emperor in the
following decades” (443), and the great difficulty Rome had in crushing the Bar Kochba
revolt we can conclude that it was not wholly farfetched for the rabbis to assume that only
a world power could enslave Israel, as the Mekhilta does (see n. 95 below). For the Roman
side of the Bar Kochba revolt see Werner Eck, “The Bar Kokhba Revolt: The Roman Point
of View,” JRS 89 (1999): 76–89.
67 For Christian Greeks see Laura Nasrallah, “Mapping the World: Justin, Tatian, Lucian, and
the Second Sophistic,” HTR 98 (2005): 283–314.
68 This dialectic is most vividly presented in the papers collected in Simon Goldhill, Being
Greek Under Rome: Cultural Identity, the Second Sophistic and the Development of Empire
234 Rosen-Zvi

a dialectic symbol, to be both identified with and distinguished from; it is the

ultimate Other.
In this regard the rabbis are most similar to another Jew operating in the
Eastern reaches of the empire, Paul. His biography also befits a local pro-
vincial grandee: a Hellenistic Jew from Tarsus (and Jerusalem) who turns to
the provincial fringes and peddles his wares in Synagogues (if Acts is to be
believed), private houses and voluntary associations. He did not come from
the metropolitan centers of the empire, and he uses popular charisma rather
than any formal authority. He is, in short, a classic provincial figure. And yet,
as Pauline scholarship has shown time and again in recent years, Paul sees the
ekklesia of believers not as an integral part of the empire but as a complete
alternative to it.69 “Paul too,” write Crossan and Reed, “proclaimed one who
was Lord, Savior, Redeemer, and Liberator. He announced one who was Divine,
Son of God, God, and God from God. But Paul’s new Divinity was Christ, not
Caesar. His was a radically divergent but equally global theology.”70 Similarly,
Neil Elliot: “Paul declared that he was charged by God with securing ‘faithful
obedience among the nations’ . . . the obedience of nations was the preroga-
tive claimed by the Roman emperor”; “His vision of the nations united under
a single ruler echoed, and was probably shaped in response to, the imperial

(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001). Cf. Greg Woolf, “Becoming Roman,
Staying Greek: Culture, Identity and the Civilizing Process in the Roman East,” Proceedings
of the Cambridge Philological Society 40 (1994): 116–43.
69 For the anti-Imperial trend, which N. T. Wright calls “the most exciting developments
today in the study of Paul” Wright, “Paul’s Gospel and Caesar’s Empire,” in Paul and
Politics: Ekklesia, Israel, Imperium, Interpretation, ed. Richard A. Horsley (Harrisburg, PA:
Bloomsbury, 2000), 160, see: Klaus Wengst, Pax Romana and the Peace of Jesus Christ, trans.
J. Bowden (London: SCM, 1987); Neil Elliott, Liberating Paul: the Justice of God and the
Politics of the Apostle (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis, 1994); and the many essays in the three vol-
umes edited by Richard A. Horsley, Paul and Empire: Religion and Power in Roman Imperial
Society; Paul and Politics; Paul and the Roman Imperial Order (Harrisburg, PA: Bloomsbury,
1997–2004). Cf. Jeremy Punt, “Postcolonial Approaches: Negotiating Empires, Then and
Now,” in Studying Paul’s Letters: Contemporary Perspectives and Methods, ed. Joseph A.
Marchal (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress, 2012), 191–208 (see also the bibliography 206–207).
For postcolonial studies of early Christianity at large see Frilingos, “Early Christianity.”
70 John Dominic Crossan and Jonathan L. Reed, In Search of Paul:How Jesus’s Apostle Opposed
Rome’s Empire with God’s Kingdom (New York: HarperOne, 2004), 10. Cf. Sung-Chul Hong
who emphasizes the metaphysical, cosmic nature of the struggle against Rome’s divine
powers in, “The Imperial Ideology of Rome and the Principalities and Powers in Romans
8:31–39,” Scripture & Interpretation 1 (2008): 85–101.
Rabbis and Romanization: A Review Essay 235

ideology of universal rule.”71 “These two ritual strategies” he adds “did not
coexist peacefully. That is, they did not keep to neatly segregated ‘political’
and ‘religious,’ or public and private spheres. Instead, Paul’s apostolic perfor-
mance constituted a rival representation of power.”72 And William Arnal con-
cludes, in a passage that could be copied and pasted to describe the Mishnah:
“the politeuma to which Paul refers is not subordinated to that of the city or the
imperial order, is not constructed as familial or otherwise as a constituent of
this larger order, but is presented as itself the larger order to which all other
identities are subordinated.”73
True, those who do not preach the end of days to all peoples, exhorting
them to abandon their Gods—due to an aversion to missionizing or a more
minimalist eschatology—have smaller chances of achieving martyrdom in
Rome. But Roman sensitivities are a poor indicator of Jewish self-conscious-
ness. The rabbis were being realistic when they chose not to rebel against
Rome. They understood the limits of their power, at least after it was tested in
three large-scale revolts. From the third century on, the Patriarch—a member
of the rabbinic movement for the most part—became a part of the Roman sys-
tem, and did not challenge it. But realpolitik—of the kind we find also in both
m. ʾAbot 3:274 and Romans 13:1–775—is not to be confused with acceptance
Roman mores.76 And so while Lapin is surely right to note that “Patriarchs were

71 Neil Elliott, The Arrogance of Nations: Reading Romans in the Shadow of Empire
(Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 2008), 25, 46.
72 Neil Elliott, “The Apostle Paul’s Self-Representation as Anti-Imperial Performance,” Paul
and the Roman Imperial Order, ed. Richard A. Horsley (Harrisburg, PA: Bloomsbury, 2004),
67–68. Compare the symbolic significance of Spain in Roman propaganda—“by conquer-
ing the very shores of the Atlantic, the Romans could claim that their empire extended
to the edge of the world” (Curchin, Roman Spain, 61–62)—with Paul’s own wish to reach
Spain (Rom 16:28), and spread his gospel to the end of the world.
73 William E. Arnal, “Doxa, Heresy, and Self-Construction: The Pauline Ekklesiai and the
Boundaries of Urban Identities,” in Heresy and Identity in Late Antiquity, ed. Eduard
Irinschi and Holger M. Zellentin (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2008), 50–101 (88–89 n. 109).
Cf. Hippolytus’s claim that the Roman Empire learned cosmopolitanism from Christ.
Perkins, Roman Imperial Identities, 17.
74 Does “praying for the wellbeing of the kingdom” refer to the annual prayer for the health
of the reigning emperor?
75 “Advocating judicious restraint in certain volatile circumstances did not in any way lessen
the general opposition to the Roman imperial regime.” Horsley, Paul and Empire, 146–47.
76 For rabbinic modus vivendi with Rome see Hadas-Lebel, Jerusalem against Rome, 265–99.
This “mild opposition” was analyzed in Martin Goodman, “Opponents of Rome: Jews and
Others,” in Images of Empire, ed. Loveday Alexander (Sheffield: Bloomsbury, 1991), 222–38.
236 Rosen-Zvi

not, as Jesus reputedly was, crucified for claiming to be kings of the Jews” (23)
and that the sages were “politically conformist” (36), it teaches us close to noth-
ing about whether or not the rabbis accepted Roman hierarchies willingly. As
Martin Goodman justly notes “passive acceptance of a Roman administration,
consisting largely of tax collection, was a different matter from active partici-
pation in the Empire.”77 Indeed, when Ramsay MacMullen writes “In the East
the Emperor’s enemies fought chiefly with words” he refers first and foremost
to Jews and Christians.78
In his monograph, Imperial Ideology and Provincial Loyalty in the Roman
Empire, Clifford Ando reopened the debate about provincial collaboration.79
How did so many conquered peoples, from Greece to Egypt and from Gaul
to Asia Minor, accept Roman-ness with open arms? Ando reiterates Gibbon’s
claim that it was this, rather than sheer violence, that allowed the empire to
survive for as long as it did. Greg Woolf and others further complicated the
matter by showing that just as direct Roman force cannot be a satisfactory

This attitude allowed the rabbis to thrive under the Roman rule, and not perish as other,
more militant groups. Cultural resistance could be fatal, not only in Judaea: “the druids
represent a religious elite whose interests were incompatible with those of Rome. As a
result, their post-conquest trajectory differs considerably from that of other sectors of the
indigenous elite of Gaul and Britain. Their history, in a sense, is a discrepant one,” Jane
Webster, “At the End of the World: Druidic and Other Revitalization Movements in Post-
Conquest Gaul and Britain,” Britannia 30 (1999): 1–20 (16).
77 Goodman, State and Society, 148; cf. Goodman, Rome and Jerusalem, 480.
78 MacMullen, Enemies of the Roman Order, 223. In one respect the early rabbis were more
pretentious than Paul and his followers. The letters bridged the gap between church and
empire by differentiating between this world and the predicted end time, advocating a
doctrine of maintaining the status quo ante for the time being (1 Cor 7). Cf. Elliott’s analy-
sis of the link between Paul’s conservative politics in Romans 13 vs.1–7 and his imminent
eschatology in vv. 11–14. Neil Elliott, “Roman 13:1–7 in the Context of Imperial Propaganda,”
184–204. Cf. John Marshall, “Hybridity and Reading Romans 13,” JSNT 31 (2008): 157–78. On
the legacy of Paul’s collaborative attitude toward Rome see Heikki Räisänen, The Rise of
Christian Beliefs: the Thought World of Early Christians (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press,
2010), 295–96. In contrast, the early rabbis did not go further than tactical realpolitik.
Only the Babylonian rabbi Samuel developed a more strategic mechanism of legitima-
tion, teaching that “the law of the kingdom is valid” (b. Bab. Bat 54b–55a, Bab. Kam. 113a–
b, Giṭ. 10b, San. 25b). See Schwartz, Were the Jews a Mediterranean Society, 114 n. 12, 119–121;
Hadas-Lebel, Jerusalem against Rome, 285.
79 Clifford Ando, Imperial Ideology and Provincial Loyalty in the Roman Empire (Berkeley, CA:
University of California Press, 2000).
Rabbis and Romanization: A Review Essay 237

explanation for Romanization, so too the local elites’ self-interest is not, in and
of itself, a sufficient answer.80
The main key, claims Ando, is imperial ideology. Rome’s energy was directed
not just to conquer the provinces and hold them, but to integrate them into
the Orbis Romanus; to create a universal consensus. Paraphrasing Gramsci he
writes: “the rulers of the empire perpetually sought to found their actions on
the consensus of their subjects, making them active participants in their own
subjugation by urging them to iterate the principles of the ruling order” (338).
Compliance with Roman ruling came not just out of fear or opportunism, but
from “faith in the system” (374) and in the emperor who personified it (362–73).
The ruled did not simply replicate Rome,81 they became integral part of it. That
imperialism, ideology and rhetoric cannot be separated is clear enough,82 but
Ando, meticulously analyzing both Roman propaganda and provincial compli-
ance, shows how successful this effort was and by what means it was achieved.83
While one can debate the centeredness of the subjects’ identification and

80 Martin Millett, The Romanization of Britain: An Essay in Archeological Interpretation

(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990). Woolf’s criticizes the “local elites” model
for its inability to account for the synchronic processes of Romanization in various prov-
inces: “If self-romanization did originate independently and locally, then why did the
changes occur at a broadly similar pace all over the west?” Greg Woolf, “The Formation
of Roman Provincial Cultures,” in Integration in the Early Roman West: he Role of Culture
and Ideology, ed. Jeannot Metzler et al. (Luxembourg: Musée National d’Histoire et d’Art,
1995), 9–18 (11). We have to consider extension of imperial power not as a direct initiator
of Romanization, but rather as what makes it possible, meaningful, and worthwhile.
81 Compare MacMullen’s account of Romanization (published at the same year as Ando’s),
as a simple, straightforward process of replication (both metaphoric and physical): “once
its essential content has been more or less decided on, early in Augustus’ time, the impos-
ing of it on a fresh population was as easy as putting up work-forms for a wall: pouring the
population into it was as quickly done; and the hardening of their habits of at least partial
conformity could be expected to yield durable set of institutions” Romanization, 126. For
him, the process was entirely bottom-up motivated. It was “the pull of that rich class,” not
the “push” of the empire (134–137). No ideological energy was needed on the side of the
conquerors; none was invested. On the limitations of “imitation” as a (sole) explanatory
tool see Woolf, Becoming Roman, 15–16, and passim.
82 Edward Said, Orientalism: Western Conceptions of the Orient (New York: Random House,
1979).
83 Ando insists that provincial goodwill was not just a result of imperial propaganda, but of
a rational calculation: “Roman policy embraced both its citizen and all noncitizens, who
could aspire to achieve a higher status because Rome granted that opportunity to all. As a
consequence . . . Rome was the communis patria of the world” (68–69; emphasis mine).
238 Rosen-Zvi

consent,84 Ando’s analysis of mechanisms of legitimations—the manners in

which Roman ideology was actualized and internalized—is salutary.
But as Ando himself acknowledges (but avoids developing),85 despite
Roman universalizing ambitions, provinces and subgroups are different from
each other. This remains true even when we concentrate on the east alone.
Judea is not Syria, and the Jews themselves were not united in their reactions.86
Some (maybe many)87 accepted Roman-ness quite openly, as is shown from the
Judaean Desert papyri.88 There is thus no need to view Judea as an exception

84 For a critique of Ando’s ‘political naïveté’ see Mattingly, Imperialism, Power, and Identity,
14, 18; Elliott, Arrogance, 27–28.
85 See the critique in Perkins, Roman Imperial Identities, 8–10.
86 For archeological evidence see Andrea Berlin, “Romanization and anti-Romanization in
pre-Revolt Galilee,” in The First Jewish Revolt: Archeology, History, and Ideology, ed. Andrea
Berlin and J. A. Overman (London: Routledge, 2002), 57–73 (68).
87 The rabbis were obviously not the only to espouse anti-Roman sentiments, as evidenced
by three revolts. For anti-Roman sentiments before the first revolts (“overt resistance”) see
the provocative thesis of Berlin, “Romanization and anti-Romanization;” idem, “Jewish
Life before the Revolt: The Archaeological Evidence,” JSJ 36 (2005): 417–70; idem, “Identity
politics in early Roman Galilee,” in The Jewish Revolt against Rome: Interdisciplinary
Perspectives, ed. Mladen Popović (Leiden: Brill, 2011), 69–106. Cf. Jody Magness, Stone and
Dung, Oil and Spit: Jewish Daily Life in the Time of Jesus (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans,
2011), 59–62.
88 Lapin, Rabbis as Romans, 134. Cf. The words of Hannah Cotton, “Without coercion
or attempts to impose uniformity, the simple presence of the Romans as the supreme
authority in the province invited appeals to their authority, to their courts as well as to
their laws . . . the documents from the Judaean Desert reveal to us a facet of the Roman-
Jewish relationship not often in evidence . . . a day-to-day routine of good working rela-
tions” Cotton, “The Impact of the Documentary Papyri from the Judaean Desert on the
Study of Jewish History from 70 to 135 CE,” in Judische Geschichte in hellenistisch-romischer
Zeit: Wege der Forschung: vom alten zum neuen Schurer, ed. E. Müller-Luckner (München:
Oldenburg, 1999), 221–36 (233); see also idem, “The Rabbis and the Documents,” in in Jews
in a Graeco-Roman World, ed. Martin Goodman (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998),
167–79. Cf. Ando, who writes “the mechanisms available to a governor for achieving qui-
etude were rudimentary at best. The astonishing popularity of Roman means for settling
disputes is, therefore, an historical problem of the first rank.” Ando, “The Administration
of the Provinces,” 189. Others are more skeptical with regard to the significance of the
Judaean Desert findings to Jewish-Roman relations. Zeev Safrai argues that “Since there
was no nearby Jewish court . . . If a Jew wanted a document between him and his fellow
to have legal validity, he was forced to write the document in Greek, and in a manner
that would meet the requirements of the court in Petra or in Rabbah.” Safrai, “Halakhic
Observance in the Judaean Desert,” in Law in the Documents of the Judaean Desert, ed.
Ranon Katzoff and David Schaps (Leiden: Brill, 2005), 205–36 (225). For Roman legal
Rabbis and Romanization: A Review Essay 239

(as per Fergus Millar),89 and it may well be that Babatha and her peers are
to be judged as “representative of provincials in general” as Hannah Cotton
holds.90 But we are dealing with the Rabbis! And they, we may safely say, never
perceived themselves as Romans (and never mentioned the fact that they are,
after 212, Cives Romani).91
The rabbis were not part of a “culture of loyalism” celebrated by Ando;92
they did not compete for “esteem within the Roman order”;93 and nothing
could describe them less than Gibbon’s assertion (quoted favorably by Ando,
4, 9) that the provincials “scarcely considered their own existence as distinct
from the existence of Rome.” They definitely did not, to quote Ando again,
“view the ideals and aims of their government as their own” (337).94 After all,

authorities and the documents see Jackson, “Roman Influence,” 164–66; Hannah M.
Cotton and Werner Eck, “Roman Officials in Judaea and Arabia and Civil Jurisdiction,”
in idem, 23–44.
89 Millar, The Roman Near East, 337–41; cf. Kennedy, “Greek, Roman and Native Cultures,” 86.
90 Cotton, “The Impact of the Documentary Papyri,” 233; Goodman, “Jews, Greeks and
Romans,” 4. Note, however, that even if Roman Palestine did become an ordinary Roman
province in the second and third centuries, this does not tell us much if we assume a
Laissez-faire policy. This could be motivated by ideological pluralism, as per Ando, “Rome
governed through the cultivation and management of difference and not through a
universalization of some national culture.” Ando, Imperial Rome, 81. It might, however,
simply be the result of administrative cynicism: “the fabric of Roman civilization was
never ripped apart by such methodical hatred, in part because the purpose of the rulers
was more limited. They wanted taxes.” Ramsay MacMullen, Enemies of the Roman Order
(Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1966), 218.
91 Goodman, Rome and Jerusalem, 483. This total silence caused some scholars to suggest
that the Jews were excluded altogether from the constitutio Atoniniana (e.g., Jackson,
“Roman Influence,” 166, and the references there in n. 82). Paul too makes no mention in
his letters of his supposed Roman citizenship (Acts 16:37; 22:25, 28), since for him “our citi-
zenship is in heaven” (Phil 3:20). Later Christians “could speak of themselves as Romans”
Jeremy M. Schott, Christianity, Empire and the Making of Religion in Late Antiquity
(Philadelphia, Fortress Press, 2008), 1, but always in a dialectical and conflicted manner.
See Perkins, Roman Imperial Identities, 28–41; n. 110 below. Compare Ando’s discussion
of “citizenship’s inability to engender loyalty” especially when it ceased reflecting loyalty
rewarded (10–11).
92 Pace Feldman, “Observations,” 46, who reads Rabbinic “ambivalence” (or “love-hate rela-
tionship,” 59) toward Rome as characterizing many contemporary writers, both Christians
and Pagans.
93 Ando, “The Administration of the Provinces,” 182.
94 Ando continues, “many victims of Roman aggression agreed with the Romans themselves
that success in war was proof of divine favor toward Rome.” On the active polemic against
such claims in rabbinic literature see Schremer, “The Lord Has Forsaken the Land.” Even
240 Rosen-Zvi

the imperial propaganda of labeling Rome as, plainly, “the world” (327) could
not easily work for a group whose closest associates—the Babylonian rabbis—
lived outside the limits of the empire.95
The most basic sign of loyalty in the East, the Imperial cult, was intolerable
for the rabbis. E. E. Urbach has noticed already two generations ago that this
was the one form of idolatry the rabbis were not willing to accommodate with.
This is, he observes, what lies behind the ruling of the sages in m. Av. Zar 3:1
that: “[statues] are not forbidden except those that hold a stick or a ball or a
bird.”96 The same antagonism holds true for other elements marked by Ando
as interpellating provincials as subjects (362), by bringing “the existence of both
the emperor and empire” before their minds (408): the imperial calendar, the
emperor’s images;97 annual oaths of loyalty; tax collections, birth registrations,

in the single source in which such a claim appears in the name of a rabbi—“this nation
was crowned by heaven” (b. Av. Zar. 18a)–it serves nothing more than a negation of an
open rebellion. Contrast the much more far reaching function of this claim in Agrippa’s
speech in Josephus, BJ 2:390 as well as in Josephus’s own speech in BJ 5:367, and Paul in
Rom 13:4. Cf. Boyarin, Dying For God, 42–66. Note also that this statement appears only
in the Babylonian Talmud, as is also the case with another famous statement–attributed
to a Palestinian sage in b. Šabb. 33b, but not in the Palestinian parallels (y. Šeb. 9:1, 38d;
Gen. Rab. 79:6)—“How praiseworthy are the deeds of this nation.” Cf. Lapin, Rabbis as
Romans, 127; Jeffrey Rubenstein, Talmudic Stories: Narrative Art, Composition, and Culture
(Baltimore: Johns Hopkins Press, 1999), 125.
95 See b. Pes 87b; Isaiah Gafni, Land, Center and Diaspora: Jewish Constructs in Late Antiquity
(Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1997), 31–32. The Midrashic assertion that Rome
ruled “from one end of the world to the other” (Mek. RI, Beshalach 1) simply means that
they are a world power, as is proven from the fact that this designation applies there for all
past empires too. Only a world power is entitled by God to enslave the Jews “for the sake
of the honor of Israel.”
96 Ephraim E. Urbach, “The Laws of Idolatry and the Archaeological and Historical Reality
of the Second and Third Centuries,” in From the World of the Sages, ed. Ephraim Ubrbach
(Jerusalem: Magnes, 1987), 125–78 [Hebrew]. See the doubts regarding the precise type
of statues referred to in this Mishnah (emperors, Gods, or both) in Gerald J. Blidstein,
“Rabbinic Legislation on Idolatry–Tractate Abodah Zarah, Chapter I” (PhD Diss., Yeshiva
University, New York 1962), 336–37; and the sound reply of Yair Furstenberg, “The
Rabbinic View of Idolatry and the Roman Political Conception of Divinity,” Journal of
Religion 90 (2010): 335–66 (347–48 n. 25). For comparison with Christian attitudes see
Glen W. Bowersock, “The Imperial Cult: Perspective and Persistence,” in Jewish and
Christian Self Definition. Vol. 3: Self-Definition in the Graeco-Roman World, ed. Ben Meyer
and E. P. Sanders (London: SCM Press, 1982), 171–82 (174–76).
97 See Paul Zanker, The Power of Images in the Age of Augustus (Ann Arbor, MI: University of
Michigan Press, 1990).
Rabbis and Romanization: A Review Essay 241

census;98 and, above all, Roman law, with its judicial proceedings, edicts, deci-
sions, appeals, etc.99
Two clear examples, both taken from the first chapter of m. ʿAbod. Zar., are
imperial calendar and justice: The emperor’s anniversaries (days of crowning,
birth and death), which Ando marks as a central element in the formation of
the imperial consensus (407), stand at the center of the list of forbidden holi-
days in m. ʿAbod. Zar. 1:3; forbidden, we may recall, not only to participate in,
which is obvious enough, but also to engage in business with its participants.100
Ando similarly emphasizes the importance (and high visibility) of the gov-
ernors’ assize and trials, functioning as legal rituals through which the idea
of Roman law and justice was realized in the provinces (373–78; 408–10).101
Mishna Avodah Zara 1:7 can indeed meticulously enumerate the places of
Roman trials and executions—the Basilica, the bema and the gradus—and yet
refuses to distinguish between these and the stadium, in which death was part
of popular amusement.102 All four monuments are equally considered by this
Mishna as places of bloodshed, and one is thus forbidden from participating

98 See A. H. M. Jones, The Roman Economy: Studies in Ancient Economic and Administrative
History (Oxford: Blackwell, 1974), 151–85; Fabian E. Udoh, To Caesar what is Caesar’s: Tribute
and Taxes in Early Roman Palestine (63 B.C.E.–70 C.E.), (Providence, RI: Brown University
Pres 2005); Goodman, State and Society, 146–48; Hadas-Lebel, Jerusalem against Rome,
246–57.
99 Ando, Ideology, dedicates the fourth chapter of his book to prove that the provincial
archives were popular and frequently used by locals. This, claims John Rives, may well be
his “most important insight: that the mass of documents that has come down to us is not
merely bureaucratic bric-à-brac, but the very stuff through which Roman imperial ideol-
ogy was actualized and provincial identification with Rome achieved.” Rives, review of
Imperial Ideology and Provincial Locality in the Roman Empire, by Clifford Ando, Electronic
Antiquity 6 (2001), 2.
100 See Fritz Graf, “Roman Festivals in Syria Palaestina,” in The Talmud Yerushalmi and Graeco-
Roman Culture, ed. Peter Schäfer and Catherine Hezser, 3 vols. (Tübingen, Mohr Siebeck,
2000), 3.435–51; Giuseppe Veltri, “Römische Religion an der Peripherie des Reiches. Ein
Kapitel rabbinischer Rhetorik,” in idem, 2.104–32.
101 Cf. Ando, Law, Language and Empire, 19–36.
102 On rabbinic attitude toward the Stadium see Rosen-Zvi, The Mishnaic Sotah Ritual, 219–
22. Lapin downplays the severity of the Mishnaic statement when saying “The authors of
these passages are able to selectively disaggregate what is neutral and permissible from
the tainted local workings of the Roman state, which could be construed as implicat-
ing the participant in murder” (131). This Mishnah attacks the most basic features of the
Roman Empire, not just “local workings.”
242 Rosen-Zvi

in their construction, even though no law of idolatry is involved.103 It seems

that the Mishnah, for one, did not buy into the Roman propaganda of univer-
sal justice.
Other cases of halakic anti-imperialism in the Mishnah could be
cited here as well:104 the permission to swear a false vow in order to avoid
taxes (m. Ned. 3:4); the prohibition to hand over women to be “defiled” by gen-
tiles (m. Ter. 8:12);105 the invalidity of a bill of divorce forced by a gentile court
(m. Giṭ. 9:8); or the illegitimacy of buying land confiscated by Roman authori-
ties (m. Giṭ. 5:6).106 I have elaborated on these two specific examples because
it is exactly these spheres—the figure of the emperor and the claim for rational
and just governance—that facilitate, according to Ando, the provincial consen-
sus (338; 392; 397).
It was not simply monotheism and the prohibitions of idols which estranged
them from the empire.107 Nor should we look for the reasons in memories
of rebellion cruelly stomped out or conditions specific to Roman Palestine.108
The roots of estrangement go much deeper. While scholars highlight resis-
tance (always mixed with adaptation) to the religious/cultural/political order,109
there is another factor to note: the formation of an alternative to it. The rabbis,
as at least some early Christians,110 could not see themselves as integral parts of

103 See the beginning of this Mishna-unit: “It is forbidden to sell them bears and lions and
anything that can harm the public.”
104 But not too many! The Mishnah, as seen above, forms its own empire, only rarely discuss-
ing (and thus acknowledging) foreign ones. The Mishnaic sovereign is the Davidic king,
and gentiles are discussed, for the most part, as individuals, rather than as powerful rulers.
105 See David Daube, Collaboration with Tyranny in Rabbinic Law (Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 1965), 69–84.
106 For the latter case see Schwartz, Were the Jews a Mediterranean Society, 115 n. 15.
107 The rabbis knew how to mitigate idolatry when they so wished. See Ishay Rosen-Zvi
“Rereading Herem: Destruction of Avoda Zara in Tannaitic Literature,” in The Gift of the
Land and the Fate of the Canaanites in the History of Jewish Thought, ed. Katell Bartlett,
Joseph David and Marc Hirshman (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014), 50–65. Special
accommodations were found when the Roman authorities were involved. See e.g., t.
ʿAbod. Zar. 6:1.
108 Schwartz, Were the Jews a Mediterranean Society, 120.
109 Urbach, “Laws of Idolatry”; Moshe Halbertal, “Coexisting with the Enemy: Jews and
Pagans in the Mishnah,” in Tolerance and Intolerance in Early Judaism and Christianity,
ed. Graham Stanton and Guy Stroumsa (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1988),
158–72; Noam Zohar, “Idolatry and Its Nullification,” Sidra 17 (2001/02): 63–77 [Hebrew].
110 Ando presents the attitudes of pre-Constantine Christians toward the empire in a one-
sided account which totally ignores the place of the martyrs as cultural heroes and the
resistance to the imperial cult (343–347). Contrast MacMullen’s Gibbonian judgment:
Rabbis and Romanization: A Review Essay 243

a Roman whole because they offered a complete alternative to the Empire; a sys-
tem, indeed a universe, of their own making. True, this alternative—in which
the Jewish God is pictured as a super-emperor—can itself be read as a clear
sign of cultural mimicry,111 but this is hardly the kind of conscious Roman-ness
we are looking for.
The world of the Mishnah is an alternative empire encapsulated in a text.
Despite the fact that most of this empire (the laws of the Temple and its cult,
and most of the civil and criminal code) has no application in reality,112 the

“The Church is the supreme proof of what could develop among people who were in but
not of the empire, that is little Romanized or sunk in those classes from which nothing
was expected or wanted beyond obedience” MacMullen, Enemies of the Roman Order,
217. Cf. the more balanced presentation in idem, Christianizing the Roman Empire, 40.
Compare John Rives’ paraphrasing the beginning of 1 Clement: “this Christian group saw
itself as being in Rome but not a part of Rome” John B. Rives, Religion in the Roman Empire
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), 130, cf. 198. Based on similar texts Judith Perkins
concludes: “In their own cities, Christians live as strangers” Perkins, Roman Imperial
Identities, 31. Cf. John H. Elliot, A Home for the Homeless: A Social Scientific Criticism of
1 Peter, Its Situation and Strategy (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 1990). For a differ-
ent evaluation see Harland, Associations, Synagogues and Congregations, 239–264. For
the variety of attitudes toward the Empire in early Christianity see Donald L. Jones,
“Christianity and the Roman imperial Cult,” ANRW II 23.2 (1980): 1023–54; Price, Rituals of
Power, 122–26; Robert L. Wilken, The Christians as the Romans Saw Them (New Haven: Yale
University Press, 1984), 48–67; Robin L. Fox, Pagans and Christians (New York: Penguin
1987), 419–34; Goodman, Rome and Jerusalem, 488–522; Räisänen, The Rise of Christian
Beliefs, 283–96.
111 For mimicry of Empire’s hierarchy in rabbinic literature see Alan Appelbaum, The
Rabbis’ King-Parables (Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias, 2013). For similar phenomena in the later
Byzantine period see Alexei M. Sivertzev, Judaism and Imperial Ideology in Late Antiquity
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011). Even when the homilists attempt to cre-
ate an opposition between God and the emperor they might find themselves imitat-
ing Roman propaganda. Regarding the expectation that the emperor provide for all his
subjects and rule them justly compare Mek. RI Shirata 4 (Horowitz-Rabin, 130–131) with
Ando, Ideology, 362–73, 386–90. This mimicry penetrates rabbinic legal discourse itself as
is shown for example from the addition of the idiom “king of the universe” to the regu-
lar benediction formula by early Amoraim (y. Ber. 9:1, 12d, b. Ber. 40a). For the imperial
context of this formula see Reuven Kimelman, “Blessing formulae and divine sovereignty
in rabbinic liturgy,” in Liturgy in the Life of The Synagogue: Studies in the History of Jewish
Prayer, ed. Ruth Langer and Steven Fine (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2005), 1–39.
I am skeptical whether such imitations necessarily testify to “knowledge of and respect for
those institutions” as Ando insists (382; emphasis mine).
112 See Shaye J. D. Cohen, “The Rabbi in Second Century Jewish Society,” in The Cambridge
History of Judaism Volume 3: The Early Roman Period, ed. William Horbury, W. D. Davies,
244 Rosen-Zvi

mishnaic utopia is set in everyday life, not in some imaginary “Sophistopolis”

beyond time and place.113 It is this mundane nature of the mishnaic law that
forms it as an alternative, textual and yet real, to Rome. Thus when “[Gedalyahu]
Alon and his followers regarded post-70 Palestinian Jews not primarily as
Roman subjects, and after 212 as citizens, but fundamentally as members of a
separate nation, one that possessed fully functioning national institutions . . .,”
as Seth Schwartz critically (and correctly) notes,114 they severely distorted his-
torical reality, but captured quite accurately (and were reflecting) rabbinic
self-conception.
Imagination is an inseparable part of any political system.115 While mod-
ern political imaginations concentrate on the ruled as forming a unified
community,116 the Roman one focused on the political system as the generator
of this community. A lion share of Rome’s ideological work was dedicated to
cause the ruled to imagine the empire as a (the) whole, to learn to identify this
whole in each of its local, multiple and (necessarily) partial manifestations—
from tax collectors to the governor’s statutes; from local rituals to provincial
monuments—and to imagine themselves as integral part of this whole.117
This is where Imperial cult is so fundamental. To carry the statues of Trajan
and Artemis together in a procession, as the Ephesians did regularly at the
beginning of the second century,118 is not just to deify the emperor or acknowl-
edge his ultimate power, but to understand their own myth and tradition as

John Sturdy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 922–90; Rosen-Zvi, The
Mishnaic Sotah Ritual, 239–54.
113 For this term see Donald A. Russell, Greek Declamation (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 1983), 21–39.
114 Seth Schwartz, “The Political Geography of Rabbinic Texts,” in The Cambridge Companion
to the Talmud and Rabbinic Literature, ed. Charlotte Elisheva Fonrobert and Martin S.
Jaffee (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 75–96, 84–85.
115 Yaron Ezrahi, Imagined Democracies: Necessary Political Fictions (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 2012), 37–59.
116 Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and spread of
Nationalism (London: Verso, 1983).
117 Ando, Ideology, 11, 408, passim. Even when Caracalla granted universal citizenship he did
so since he assumed that “only citizens properly belonged within that ‘universal and har-
monious body’ of the state” (395). Cf. idem, Imperial Rome, 76–99. Others, like Cassius Dio
(78.9.5), suggested Caracalla was motivated mostly by taxation and similar mundane mat-
ters. Some ascribe the ethos of unified consciousness specifically to post Constantinian
era. See Garth Fowden, Empire to Commonwealth: Consequences of Monotheism in Late
Antiquity (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993).
118 Price, Rituals of Power, 130–31.
Rabbis and Romanization: A Review Essay 245

part of the Roman cosmos.119 It is exactly this imaginer that rabbinic literature
disables, by creating an alternative, competing and no less exclusive, cosmos.
By rejecting the Roman claim of being the whole in which all parts find their
place, and refusing the division of labor it entails, they rejected a major part of
roman-ness itself.
I would thus like to suggest a middle-way between the Scylla of exceptional-
ism and Charybdis of Paralellomania. We do not have to assume that the cen-
trality of the Bible made the Jews fundamentally different in their reactions,
as per Fergus Millar.120 But certain Jewish groups, along with their followers
(whether many or few) were indeed different, not just because they resented
Roman imperium (although they surely did) but because they offered a com-
plete alternative to it.
As studies of “Romanization” still suffer from an insufficient and inade-
quate vocabulary for and conceptualization of refusing Roman-ness (or parts
thereof),121 the rabbinic case can enrich the picture,122 presenting a sophisti-
cated stubborn (latent) antagonistic movement, developing a creative alterna-
tive order, in the midst of the Roman east.

119 Cf. Elliot, “The Apostle Paul’s Self-Presentation,” 69–70.

120 Millar, The Roman Near East, 337. In other publications Millar adds the Samaritans as
another group which survived due to its holy-scripture. See idem, “Ethnic Identity in
the Roman Near East, A.D. 325–450: Language, Religion, and Culture,” Mediterranean
Archeology 11 (1998): 159–76.
121 Though dealing with another material culture in Britain, Jane Webster’s critique is worth
citing at length. “Unfortunately, the point where the trickle-down effect tapered off is
never examined in terms of localized choices. . . . The only alternatives to wholesale
Romanization suggested to date are negative ones. . . . All models of Romanization thus
lead us to the same place: a polarized provincial world of Romans (or Romanized natives)
and natives, with no gray areas between. . . . This polarized view of Roman and native
material culture can be traced back to Haverfield, who explicitly ruled out the possibility
that provincials, as they became acculturated, could regard Roman material culture with
any degree of ambiguity.” Webster, “Creolizing,” 216–17.
122 Since, in most cases, we lack the other side of the story, we are hard pressed to “acknowl-
edge the alternative histories of dissent against Rome which lie below the surface of
Rome’s own narratives of the pax Romana.” Webster, “Druidic,” 17.
 CHAPTER 15

Subversion and Subculture: Jewish Time-Keeping

in the Roman Empire

Sacha Stern

1 Introduction

For Jews in the Roman Empire, time-keeping was a marker of difference. The
calendars of the Jews, with which they determined the dates of biblical and
Jewish festivals, fasts, and other significant annual events, were almost all
lunar (with the only isolated exception of Qumran, which will not be subject
of this paper). In the lunar calendar, months began at the new moon, and the
year consisted of 12 months, totalling about 354 days (occasionally increased or
“intercalated” with a thirteenth month). In contrast, most people in the Roman
Empire used the Julian calendar, or calendars modelled on the Julian, solar
year of 365 days (with an extra day every four years—the leap year).1
This contrast between Jews and others was a new phenomenon, and it was
specific to the Roman Empire. Earlier in Antiquity, the vast majority of peoples
of the Mediterranean and the Near East had used a lunar calendar. The calen-
dar of the Jews had hardly differed from their neighbours’, and indeed, in the
period of the Achaemenid and Seleucid empires, the Jews simply followed
the same calendar as everyone else, i.e., the standard Babylonian calendar—a
calendar which was used for official purposes in the great empires, and which
was strictly lunar.
This all changed, however, with the arrival of the Romans in the Near East,
and particularly after the institution of the Julian calendar in 46 BCE. The insti-
tution of the Julian calendar coincided, perhaps not by chance, with the rapid
expansion of the Roman Empire in the Mediterranean basin in the decades
that preceded and that followed. The dissemination of the Julian calendar in

1 See in general Sacha Stern, Calendar and Community: A History of the Jewish Calendar,
2nd Century BCE–10th Century CE (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001); and on the calen-
dars of Qumran, see e.g., idem, “Qumran Calendars and Sectarianism,” in Oxford Handbook
of the Dead Sea Scrolls, ed. Timothy H. Lim and John J. Collins (Oxford: Oxford University
Press), 232–53. This article was written as part of an ERC Advanced Grant project at UCL on
“Calendars in Antiquity and the Middle Ages: Standardization and Fixation,” https://www
.ucl.ac.uk/hebrew-jewish/research/research-pro/calendars-antiquity-middle-ages.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���7 | doi ��.��63/9789004336919_016

Subversion and Subculture 247

the Roman Empire, mainly in the reign of Augustus, was a sudden and highly
significant aspect of Romanization which is not always sufficiently appreci-
ated. In the Latin West, the Julian calendar displaced local provincial calen-
dars and became the official structure of time reckoning. In the Greek East, the
adoption of the Julian calendar was more subtle and less explicit, but nonethe-
less a radical cultural change: the provinces and cities of Asia Minor and the
Near East adapted their local lunar calendars to the Julian calendar, by extend-
ing the calendar year to 365 days, and abandoning any synchronism with the
new moon. During the Roman imperial period, the spread of the Julian calen-
dar was conterminous with the expansion of the Roman Empire further into
the Near East: thus in 106 CE, when the kingdom of Nabataea was annexed
by the Roman Empire and became the province of Arabia, its local lunar cal-
endar was immediately transformed into a solar calendar based on the Julian
year. In contrast to all this, the Jews, together with the Samaritans, ignored this
general trend of the Roman Near East and stood fast with their lunar calendar.
The Jews’ adherence to a lunar calendar, which is well documented in
Roman Palestine as well as in the Jewish diaspora, can be interpreted in a
variety of ways. It may have been motivated by religious conservatism, ethnic
identification, and/or political resistance to the Roman Empire and the Julian
calendar which embodied it. The use of a lunar calendar in a society that was
predominantly regulated by a solar calendar may have had structural, possi-
bly fundamental implications with regard to Jewish relations with the broader
society in which they lived. In this paper, however, I wish to demonstrate that
although ancient literary sources present Jewish and Roman (or solar) time
reckoning in diametrical opposition to one another, the relationship between
them was actually far from simple. The Jewish lunar calendar did not simply
function as an act of “resistance to Romanization,” but was engaged in a com-
plex manner with Julian and other solar calendars, involving, on the one hand,
a rhetoric of rejection and opposition and, on the other hand, a subtle process
of subversion, imitation, mimicry, and appropriation—all terms and concepts
that have been made familiar to us through postcolonial theory.
I also wish to argue that the Jews were not alone in this process. As we shall
see, other groups within the Roman Empire—and not only Samaritans and
Christians, who were anyway related to the Jews—made similar uses of lunar
reckoning. This brought the Jews to participate in a wider sub-culture of the
Roman Empire, which in some cases could be regarded as subversive and cul-
turally dissident.2

2 Lunar reckoning in the Roman Empire is a complex subject that cannot be investigated sys-
tematically in this paper; but it should be noted that not all lunar reckoning in the Roman
Empire was necessarily subversive or dissident. The other notable users of a lunar calendar in
248 Stern

2 Philo and the Egyptian Calendar

The political significance of retaining a lunar calendar is already sensed in

a passage of Philo (early–mid first century CE), who stresses at least the dis-
tinctiveness of the Jewish lunar calendar and the social importance of this
distinctiveness:

But not all (peoples) treat the months and years alike, but some in
one way and some in another. Some reckon by the sun, others by the
moon . . . Wherefore (Scripture) has added, “This month (shall be) to you
the beginning” [Exod 12:2], making clear a determined and distinct num-
ber of seasons, lest they follow the Egyptians, with whom they are mixed,
and be seduced by the customs of the land in which they dwell (QE, 1.1).

Philo is referring no doubt to the Egyptians of his own day, as much as to those
of the biblical narrative. The Egyptian calendar had always differed from the
Jewish one, with a fixed year of 365 days; but in Philo’s period, the Egyptians
had adapted their calendar to the Julian year by adding an extra day every four
years, thus bringing it even more closely in line with the solar year. The Jewish
calendar, in contrast, was lunar, as Philo describes in some detail elsewhere.3
In this passage, Philo suggests not only that Jewish and Egyptian calendars
differ from one another, by being lunar and solar respectively, but also that
the Jews are somehow forbidden by Scripture from changing their calendar
and imitating or adopting the Egyptian customs. This passage expresses, if
only implicitly, the significance that a lunar calendar must have had for the
identity of the Jewish Alexandrian community.

this period, besides the Jews and Samaritans, were the city of Athens, together perhaps with
the whole of the Greek peninsula, Macedonia, and up to the regions of the lower Danube,
where the switch to the Julian calendar occurred only much later, in the early Byzantine
period. In this region, however, the lunar calendars served officially as civic and provincial
calendars, and in this respect cannot be categorized straightforwardly as subversive or dis-
sident. It is only where the lunar calendar was unofficial or sub-cultural, as in the typical case
of diaspora Jews, that I would interpret it as subversive and dissident. My argument, however,
is that there were other people in the Roman Empire that made use of the lunar calendar in
a similar way (see further below; there is also the Gallic lunar calendar from Coligny, which
will not be discussed in this article). For a more detailed study of lunar and solar calendars
in the Roman Empire, see Sacha Stern, Calendars in Antiquity. Empires, States, and Societies
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), 231–354.
3 Philo, Spec. Laws, 2.10–36 (cf. 1.35); Moses 2.41.
Subversion and Subculture 249

The simple dichotomy and opposition between lunar and solar, Jewish and
Egyptian calendars, which Philo seems to take for granted, may have been a
peculiar feature of Egypt, where unlike all other ancient societies, the domi-
nant calendar had always been non-lunar and hence different from the Jewish
calendar. However, Philo is conveniently ignoring that lunar reckoning had
also been used by the Egyptians, from very early times. Although the Egyptian
so-called civil calendar was dominant in all aspects of Egyptian society, even
determining the dates of religious festivals, lunar reckoning was widely used
in the administrative and liturgical schedules of temples; and there is good
papyrological evidence that these lunar calendars were still used in Egypt
in the Roman period (most famously papyrus Carlsberg 9, a document dat-
ing from the mid-second century CE or later).4 It should also be noted that
although the Jews of Egypt presumably used a lunar calendar to determine the
dates of biblical and Jewish festivals, in their daily life they universally used
the Egyptian civil calendar: Jewish papyri, inscriptions, and ostraca from Egypt
are all dated according to the Egyptian civil calendar.5 Thus in a certain way, it
could be argued that Egyptians and the Jews of Egypt had much in common,
both using lunar calendars in cultic contexts and the same, Egyptian civil cal-
endar in everyday life.
Philo’s ascription of a solar calendar to the Egyptians and a lunar one to
the Israelites or Jews is therefore a gross and misleading simplification, which
must be read, above all, as a rhetorical ploy. It has probably much to say on how
Jews in Alexandria perceived Jewish time-reckoning and how they used this
perception to structure their engagement with the wider world.

3 Jews and Romans: Palestinian Perspectives

A similarly simplistic, oppositional model appears later in Palestinian rabbinic

sources, although there also some cracks are visible. The earliest relevant pas-
sage is probably the following, from the Tosefta (ca. third century):

4 For a general summary, see Stern, Calendars in Antiquity, 142–61.

5 The evidence, which is overwhelming, can be found in Victor A. Tcherikover and Alexander
Fuks, Corpus Papyrorum Judaicarum, 3 vols. (Jerusalem: Magnes Press; Cambridge, MA:
Harvard University Press, 1957–64); William Horbury and David Noy, Jewish Inscriptions of
Graeco-Roman Egypt (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992).
250 Stern

When the sun is eclipsed, it is a bad sign for the nations of the world; when
the moon is eclipsed, it is a bad omen for the enemies of Israel; because the
nations reckon by the sun, and Israel reckon by the moon.6

“Enemies of Israel” is a common euphemism, in this context, for Israel itself.

The solar calendar is ascribed in this passage to “the nations” in general, rather
than to Rome or to users of the Julian calendar; this is either because of a ten-
dency in rabbinic literature to lump together all non-Jews into a single, general
category,7 or a reflection of the fact that by the time the Tosefta was redacted,
nearly all nations in the Roman Empire (and certainly in the Roman Near East)
were using a solar, Julian-type calendar. But in other rabbinic sources, the solar
calendar is ascribed more specifically to Rome. Thus Genesis Rabbah, a work
usually dated to the fifth century, although the rabbis cited in this passage are
of the third century, comments on Gen 1:16, the creation of the sun and moon,
as follows:8

Rabbi Levi (said) in the name of Rabbi Yossi son of Lai:

It is the way of the world that the big should reckon by the big, and the
small by the small. Esau reckons by the sun which is big, and Jacob by
the moon which is small.
Rav Naḥman said:
That is a good sign. Esau reckons by the sun which is big: just as the
sun rules by day9 and does not rule by night, so Esau has a share in this
world, but does not have a share in the world-to-come. Jacob reckons by
the moon which is small: just as the moon rules by night and by day, so
Jacob has a share in this world and in the world-to-come.
Rav Naḥman said another saying: Rav Naḥman said:10
As long as the light of the big (luminary) is there, the light of the small
one is not known; but when the light of the big one sets, the light of the

6 T. Sukkah 2:6 (ed. Zuckermandel, 194); my translation is based on MS Vienna Heb. 20
fol. 88v; the editio princeps and MS London British Library Add. 27296 have similar read-
ings. In MS Erfurt (now MS Berlin, Staatsbibliothek Or. Fol. 1220), 171, the euphemism
“enemies of Israel” is expanded further, as follows: “when the moon is eclipsed, it is a bad
omen for the nations of the world, and a good sign for Israel.” Parallels to this passage are
in Mek. de-R. Yishmael, Pisḥa 1 (ed. Horowitz-Rabin, 7) and in later sources.
7 See for example Sacha Stern, Jewish Identity in Early Rabbinic Writings (Leiden: Brill, 1994),
13–21.
8 Gen. Rab. 6:3, (ed. Theodor-Albeck, 42–43), my translation.
9 Alternatively: “over the day.”
10 This duplication is possibly a textual error.
Subversion and Subculture 251

small one becomes known. So, as long as the light of Esau is there, the
light of Jacob is not known; but when the light of Esau sets, the light
of Jacob becomes known. As it is written: “Arise, shine, for your light is
coming . . . for behold, darkness shall cover the earth. . . .” (Isa 60:1–2)

As everywhere else in Genesis Rabbah, Esau is symbolic of Rome, whereas

Jacob is Israel. This passage not only draws the contrast between Rome, whose
calendar is solar, and Israel, whose calendar is lunar (the saying of Rabbi Levi),
but also relates this contrast of calendars to a political, eschatological claim
(the saying of Rav Naḥman, in its two alternative versions). According to Rav
Naḥman, the lunar calendar embodies Israel’s ultimate triumph over Rome:
just as the moon shines in the night after the sun has set, so Israel will rise
after the Roman Empire will have set. This makes observance of a lunar cal-
endar, for the Jews in the Roman Empire, not only the marker of a distinct
identity, but also—through the medium of an eschatological promise—the
embodiment of a politically dissident, even oppositional stance towards to
the Roman Empire.
In the Palestinian context of the Tosefta and Genesis Rabbah, the neat con-
trast between Rome’s solar calendar and Israel’s lunar calendar, which these
sources take completely for granted, reflected perhaps more of a historical
reality than in the case of Philo and first-century Egypt. In Palestine, indeed,
the Jews used a lunar calendar not only for cultic purposes (the dates of Jewish
festivals) but also for other, more general purposes: this calendar is attested in
the early Roman period, for example, in a commercial context in Palestinian
Jewish Aramaic ostraca,11 and in the later Roman period, in the funerary con-
text of the Jewish Aramaic tombstones of Zoar.12 If the lunar calendar was used
by Palestinian Jews in all areas of life, it would have stood more evidently in
contrast to the Julian or Julian-like, solar calendars that were widely used by
others throughout the Roman Near East. In this respect, Jews and others would
have been clearly distinguished in their time-reckoning practices.

11 Ada Yardeni, “New Jewish Aramaic Ostraca,” IEJ 40 (1990): 130–52. These ostraca are
records of deliveries. Yardeni dates them paleographically to the first half of the first cen-
tury CE. The frequent mention of weekdays and more specifically of the Sabbath con-
firms, in the context of this early period, their Jewish identity. It is unlikely, in this context,
that the Aramaic month names represent the months of some non-Jewish Julian-type
calendar.
12 See references in the next note. The frequent references to intercalation (or to a first or
second month of Adar) in these inscriptions indicate beyond doubt that the calendar is
Jewish and lunar.
252 Stern

The late Roman (fourth through sixth centuries) cemetery of Zoar is, indeed,
an excellent case in point. This cemetery, in a small city near the southern shore
of the Dead Sea which originally belonged to the province of Arabia, but in the
later Roman period to the province of Palaestina Tertia, provides a particularly
remarkable example of dichotomous identities. All its Christian tombstones
are written in Greek, and employ the Julian-type calendar of the province of
Arabia, with the years numbered according to the era of the province; whereas
all Jewish tombstones are written in Aramaic, and employ the Jewish lunar
calendar, with years numbered from the destruction of the Temple. It is most
likely that the population of Zoar, both Christian and Jewish, was largely and
equally bilingual in Greek and Aramaic (although the Aramaic scripts are likely
to have been distinct: the script used in the Jewish Aramaic inscriptions is
Jewish, and not Christian Palestinian). The use of Greek or Aramaic languages,
in these funerary inscriptions, was thus not a reflection of language knowledge
or language use. The choice of language in these tombstones was deliberately
intended, as was the choice of calendars and eras, to represent very public,
distinctive markers of Christian and Jewish religious identities.13
Yet in spite of asserting religious distinctions through language and different
time reckoning methods, these Christian and Jewish tombstones share some
elements of time reckoning in common. Most distinctive is their common use
of week-days, i.e., days of the seven-day week, in both the Greek and Aramaic

13 Only a few Jewish tombstones transgress the religious boundary and use Greek language
and dating systems (with or without Hebrew text). For the Greek tombstones, which
are clearly identifiable as Christian through their use of Christian symbols and termi-
nology, see Yiannis E. Meimaris and Kalliope I. Kritikakou-Nikolaropoulou, Inscriptions
from Palaestina Tertia, Ia: The Greek Inscriptions from Ghor Es-Safi (Byzantine Zoora),
Meletemata 41 (Athens: National Hellenic Research Foundation, 2005), with analysis
of the dating systems at 46–54; idem, Inscriptions from Palaestina Tertia, Ib: The Greek
Inscriptions from Ghor Es-Safi (Byzantine Zoora) (Supplement), Khirbet Qazone and Feinan,
Meletemata 57 (Athens: National Hellenic Research Foundation, 2008), with analysis at
41–44. The Aramaic tombstones have only been sporadically published; the currently
unpublished corpus assembled by Yiannis Meimaris and Konstantinos Politisis is referred
to and described in Stern, Calendar and Community, 87–98, 146–53. For Aramaic tomb-
stones published until 2001, see Calendar and Community. More recent publications
include Sach Stern and Haggai Misgav, “Four additional tombstones from Zoar,” Tarbiz
74 (2005): 137–51 [Hebrew]; Jacob Bitton, Nathan Dweck, and Steven Fine, “Yet Another
Jewish Tombstone from Late Antique Zoar/Zoora: The Funerary Marker of Hannah
Daughter of Levi,” in Puzzling Out the Past: Studies in Northwest Semitic Languages and
Literatures in Honor of Bruce Zuckerman, ed. Marilyn J. Lundberg, Steven Fine, and Wayne
T. Pitard (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2012), 7–12, with references to all other publications.
Subversion and Subculture 253

datings.14 By the fourth century CE, when the earliest Zoar tombstones were
erected, the seven-day week was widely used throughout the Roman Empire,
by Christians but also pagans, and is well attested in inscriptions and in liter-
ary sources. This usage stood in contrast to the early Roman or Latin tradi-
tion of the nundinae, an 8-day week which was still widely reckoned in Italy in
the early imperial period. The origins of the 7-day week in the Roman Empire
may have been Jewish, although the widespread use of planetary week-day
names—which are not attested in Jewish sources—suggests perhaps alter-
native, independent origins. Indeed, week-days do not appear in the Hebrew
Bible (except for the Sabbath), but in the earliest Hebrew sources where they
do appear, i.e., the Qumran calendar rosters, week-days are only identified by
number (in relation to the Sabbath); and this usage prevails later in rabbinic
sources, as well as in documentary sources such as the ostraca above men-
tioned and the Jewish tombstones from Zoar. Numbered week-days (with the
seventh day as “Sabbath”) also became the norm in Greek, as is widely attested
in the Roman East, and particularly among Christians; so that the weekdays in
the Jewish and Christian inscriptions at Zoar, for example, generally share the
same or a similar nomenclature.15 Planetary week-day names, in contrast, are
common in the late Roman Latin West, but also appear in a minority of Greek
inscriptions in the East including Zoar; this nomenclature, which has survived
in western European languages until today, suggests perhaps a seven-day week
that was rooted in astrology rather than in the biblical Sabbath. How the Jewish
seven-day week, focused on the Sabbath, became identified with the planetary
week, and how the seven-day week spread in the Roman Empire—even before
the Christianization of the Roman Empire—needs further investigation.16
However, it is a fact that by the late Roman period, Jews and non-Jews—the

14 See discussion in Meimaris and Kritikakou-Nikolaropoulou, Inscriptions from Palaestina

Tertia, Ia, 48–51 and Inscriptions from Palaestina Tertia, Ib, 41–44. Another, more gen-
eral point in common between the Christian and Jewish tombstones is that they both
include the full dates of death, which is otherwise unusual for ancient Jewish funerary
inscriptions (with the only exception of Egypt, where dates of death are commonly
given, and also of the Catania inscription to be discussed below; see Stern, Calendar and
Community, 135 n. 108). This may reflect, in this particular case, local Christian influence
(see below, n. 28).
15 “Similar” because in Greek, Friday is designated as “preparation” (i.e., of Sabbath), whereas
in Aramaic it is called “eve”; and in Christian inscriptions, Sunday is usually designated as
the “Lord’s day.”
16 The seven day week in the Roman Empire is currently being researched by Dr. Ilaria
Bultrighini as part of my ERC Calendars project at UCL (see above, n. 1). For an initial probe
of the epigraphic evidence, see Klaas A. Worp, “Remarks on Weekdays in Late Antiquity
254 Stern

latter, in this period, increasingly Christian—appear to have shared the same

seven-day week, and to have reckoned it conterminously in the same way.
Another system of time reckoning that Jews shared in common with others,
in Palestine as well as in the rest of the Roman Empire and beyond, was the
division of the day in 12 hours, and the night in either 12 hours or larger units
such as watches. Although hours are only sporadically attested in Palestinian
inscriptions,17 sundials and literary sources provide ample evidence of their
widespread use in the Roman period.18 The division of the day into 12 hours,
which seems to have originated in Egypt and Mesopotamia in early Antiquity
and is attested in Greece from the Classical period,19 took some time before
penetrating Hebrew and Aramaic-language Jewish literary sources; indeed, it
is absent from the Hebrew Bible and Qumran literature.20 But in rabbinic lit-
erature, starting from the Mishnah in the early third century CE, the 12-hour
division is known and completely taken for granted.21 The division of the night
and day period into 24 hours is also attested in rabbinic literature, although
slightly later. The 24-hour division formed the basis of an astrological theory of

Occurring in Documentary Sources,” Tyche 6 (1991): 221–30; Sacha Stern, “A ‘Jewish’ birth
record, sambat-, and the calendar of Salamis,” ZPE 172 (2010): 105–14.
17 There is only one such inscription from Zoar, out of several hundred: Meimaris and
Kritikakou-Nikolaropoulou, Inscriptions from Palaestina Tertia, Ia, 222–24, no. 128, a
Christian tombstone dating from 425 CE. Elsewhere in Palestine, only three inscriptions
with an hour have been found, all from the late sixth-century Negev (and none in Arabia),
see Yiannis E. Meimaris, Chronological Systems in Roman-Byzantine Palestine and Arabia:
The Evidence of Dated Greek Inscriptions, with K. Kritikakou and P. Bougia, Meletemata,
17 (Athens: Diffusion de Boccard, 1992), 254 (ch. 9), no. 352; 258–59, no. 368 and 312
(ch. 10), no. 9.
18 On sundials, see in general Sharon Gibbs, Greek and Roman Sundials (London and New
Haven: Yale University Press, 1976), although this work is now outdated. For Palestine, see
more recently Jonathan Ben-Dov, Head of All Years: Astronomy and Calendars at Qumran
in their Ancient Context, STDJ 78 (Leiden: Brill, 2008), 258–59 and Oran Tal, “A Portable
Sundial from Byzantine Apollonia-Arsuf /Sozousa?” Semitica et Classica 2 (2009): 91–96.
All Roman and Byzantine-period sundials, in Palestine and elsewhere, are constructed on
the assumption of a 12-hour division.
19 Herodotus (2.109.3) refers to the Greeks as having learnt the twelve parts of the day from
the Babylonians, whilst the term ὥρα is first attested in fourth-century BCE Hippocratic
sources: Robert Hannah, Time in Antiquity: Sciences of Antiquity (London and New York:
Routledge, 2009), 73–75.
20 It is attested, however, in Greek-language Jewish sources, not least in the books of the New
Testament (e.g., Mark 15:25, 33–34; Acts 3:1; etc.); also Josephus, Jewish War 6.290, 293, etc.
21 E.g., m. Sanh. 5:3. The division of the night into watches, which was also widespread in the
Roman Empire, is attested for example in m. Ber. 1:1 and t. Ber. 1:1.
Subversion and Subculture 255

planetary hours which is first described, in full detail, by Vettius Valens (mid-
second century CE), and which is later referred to in several passages of the
Babylonian Talmud.22
Thus by the time our passage from Genesis Rabbah was composed, in the late
Roman period, Jews and others in the Roman Empire shared important ele-
ments of time reckoning in common: the seven-day week, and the 12- (or 24-)
hour division of the day. Although they were divided in their use of lunar and
solar calendars, as is well exemplified in the Zoar cemetery, the dichotomy
and opposition between Jewish and Roman time-reckoning was not as pro-
nounced as a text like Genesis Rabbah may give to understand.
Even the Jewish lunar and the Julian (or Julian-type) solar calendars were
not as contrastively separated, in reality, as rabbinic sources make out. At
least one element of the Julian calendar, its traditional dates of equinoxes and
solstices, is known to have been incorporated in the rabbinic lunar calendar.
The equinoxes and solstices, referred to in rabbinic language as tequfot, were
necessary according to some rabbinic opinions for establishing the begin-
ning of the rain season (and hence of the beginning of prayers for rain),23 and
more importantly, for the decision of whether to intercalate the year of the
lunar calendar.24 Rabbinic sources suggest that the dates they assumed for
equinoxes and solstices were drawn directly from the Julian calendar.25 To this

22 Vettius Valens, Anthologiarum Libri 9.1.10; Babylonian Talmud: b. Ber. 59b, b. Šabb.156a,
b. ʿErub. 56a; and in fuller detail, Pirqe Rabbi Eliezer chs. 6–7 (this work is later, from ca.
eighth century CE).
23 y. Taʿan. 1:1 (63d) and b. Taʿan. 10a.
24 t. Sanhedrin 2:2 and 2:7 (ed. Zuckermandel, 416) and parallels; see also y. Peʾah 5:1 (18d) =
y. Šeqal. 1:2 (46a) and b. Roš Haš. 21a, and Stern, Calendar and Community, 167–70.
25 The cycle of tequfot that is provided in b. ʿErub. 56a is based on the Julian year of 365
¼ days; and more tellingly, a date identified in the Palestinian Talmud as tequfah cor-
responds to the Julian calendar’s traditional date of the winter equinox, i.e., 25 December
(y. ʿAbod. Zar. 1:2, 39c, as rightly amended by Zvi M. Pineles, Darkah shel Torah [Vienna,
1863], 147–50, and Hayyim Y. Bornstein, “Hatequfot wehitpatḥutan,” in Sefer Zikaron le-
Poznanski [Warsaw, 1927], 46 n. 1; see also parallel in b. ʿAbod. Zar. 8a). The passage states
that the tequfah occurs eight days after the Saturnalia (17 December) and eight days before
the Kalends of January. It is also pertinent to note that to this day, the tequfah (or, in medi-
eval terminology, tequfat Shemuel) in the Jewish calendar coincides with Julian equinoxes
and solstices. See further Sacha Stern, “Fictitious Calendars: Early Rabbinic Notions of
Time, Astronomy, and Reality,” JQR 87 (1996): 103–29, (esp. 105–6). This date of the winter
equinox was not an astronomical fact that the rabbis could have established indepen-
dently: the true winter equinox, in the Talmudic period (fourth century CE), occurred on
20/21 December. It is evident, therefore, that the date of 25 December was directly taken
from the Julian calendar (the Roman tradition was to date all equinoxes and solstices
256 Stern

extent, the Julian calendar played a determinative role in the organization

of the rabbinic lunar calendar.
Conversely, elements of lunar reckoning were incorporated or adopted in
various forms by non-Jewish, Julian-calendar users in the Roman Empire, and
particularly in the late Roman period as a result of the Christianization of the
Empire. As we shall soon see an example of, the most important festival in
Christianity—Easter, with the entire set of Christian events and festivals that
are dated in relation to it, such as Lent and Pentecost—was based on a lunar,
originally Jewish calendar, which had to be reckoned in relation to the rest of
the Christian calendar that was Julian. All this brought the Jewish lunar calen-
dar into a complex relationship with other, “Roman” time-reckoning methods
of the later Roman Empire, which rabbinic sources such as Genesis Rabbah
conveniently ignore.

4 The Serdica Council of 343 CE: Passover and Easter

The source which will now be examined not only illustrates the significance of
lunar reckoning for fourth-century Christians, but also reveals that in a dias-
pora context (but not necessarily to the exclusion of Palestine), the Julian cal-
endar could play a significant part in the lunar time reckoning of the Jews.
This document was drafted by a dissident faction of Eastern or Syrian bish-
ops at the Council of Serdica in 343 CE, and included a proposal for the date
of Easter. The correct way of establishing the date of Easter had been a mat-
ter of controversy among Christians since the late second century, but it gained
momentum after the Council of Nicaea in 325, where Constantine decreed
that all Christians should celebrate Easter on the same date—without specify-
ing, however, how this date was to be determined. In this period, the Christians
had become accustomed to calculate the date of Easter on the basis of fixed
lunar cycles, but there was considerable disagreement about how these cycles
should be constructed.
The faction that drafted the cycle in this document took as a premise
that the date of Easter should be based on the Jewish Passover, in recognition
of the Jewish origins of the Christian Easter (although the dates would never
coincide exactly, since Easter was always celebrated a few days later, on the
following Sunday). For this purpose, the document includes, rather uniquely,
a list of dates of the Jewish Passover for a period of 16 years (from 328 to 343),

on the eighth day before the calends, thus for the winter equinox, 25 December: Pliny,
Natural History 18.221, 246, 256, 264; Columella, On Agriculture, 9.14.11–12).
Subversion and Subculture 257

followed by a list of the corresponding dates of Easter (see Table 15.1). The
Syrian origin of the bishops who composed this document has led scholars
to assume that the Passover dates in this document were those observed in
Antioch by the local Jewish community.26

Table 15.1 Jewish and Christian dates in the Serdica document ( first 16 years)a

Year Jewish Christian

328 11 March 10 April

329 30 March 30 March
330 19 March 18 April
331 8 March 7 April
332 27 March 27 March
333 16 March 15 April
334 5 March 4 April
335 24 March 24 March
336 13 March 12 April
337 2 March 1 April
338 21 March 21 March
339 10 March 9 April
340 29 March 29 March
341 18 March 17 April
342 7 March 6 April
343 26 March 26 March
a 
The dates in this table are not exactly as they appear in the manuscript,
but rather based on Schwartz’s emendations, in his first and only edition
of this document. Eduard Schwartz, Christliche und jüdische Ostertafeln,
Abhandlungen der Königlichen Gesellschaft der Wissenschaften zu
Göttingen, vol. 8:6 (Berlin: Weidmann, 1905), 122–26. On the plausibility of
these emendations, see references above, n. 26. The dates identified in the
manuscript as “Jewish” are of Passover, i.e., 14th Nisan; “Christian” dates are
of the full moon, or luna XIV, which corresponds nominally to 14th Nisan
and which is used to determine the date of Easter on the following Sunday.
In this table, Christian dates are either the same as the Jewish ones, or thirty
days later.

26 The document has survived in a single, early medieval copy in Latin translation: Verona
Chapter Library Codex LX (58), fols. 79v–80v, dating from about 700 CE. For a more
detailed account, text, and full references, see Stern, Calendar and Community, 127–29
and idem, Calendars in Antiquity, 337–39.
258 Stern

I shall not analyze this list of dates in too much detail, but only draw out some
of its more general features. It is immediately apparent, first of all, that accord-
ing to this list, Passover only occurred in the month of March, whereas Easter
could occur in March or in April. The Christian dates were clearly governed
by the rule of the equinox, whereby Easter could not occur before the spring
equinox on 21 March (a rule that was well established by then in the churches
of the Roman East). The Jewish dates, in contrast, seem to be governed here
by what I have called the ‘rule of March’: Passover was set to occur always and
only in the month of March. This clearly distinguished the Jewish Passover
from the Christian Easter; but what I wish to emphasize is that the use of the
Julian month of March as the criterion for determining the date of Passover,
and thus for determining which years should be intercalated with a thirteenth
month, made the organization of the Jewish calendar closely dependent on the
Julian calendar.
The dependence of the Jewish Passover, in this document, on the Julian cal-
endar is further exemplified by the scheme that seems to have been employed
for the calculation of its dates. This scheme, which could be called –11/+19, con-
sists in subtracting every year 11 days from the Julian date of last year’s Passover,
except in an intercalated year when 19 days are added to it (and Passover is
thus prevented from falling back into February). So in year 328, Passover was
on 11 March; in year 329, it was 19 days later on 30 March; in year 330, 11 days
earlier on 19 March; in 331, 11 days earlier on 8 March; and so on (see Table 15.1).
This very convenient scheme not only depended entirely on the Julian calen-
dar, with reference to which all dates were calculated, but it was also borrowed
from Christian Easter cycles, where a –11/+19 scheme had similarly been used
for at least several decades before the Council of Serdica.
Some caution should be exercised, however, with regard to the reliability
of the Passover dates in this document. The eastern bishops who authored it
were probably relying on what they knew as actual Jewish practice, and they
are probably right that Jews always observed Passover in March; but it is ques-
tionable whether they would have kept a precise record of the Jewish Passover
dates. If they did not, the dates in this document could have been reconstructed
with the help of a –11/+19 scheme which the bishops would have taken from
their own Easter computational tradition, as a convenient method of approxi-
mation. This makes it difficult, therefor, to prove that the –11/+19 scheme was
actually used by the Jews in Antioch, although their use of the rule of March
appears to be reasonably established.
Whatever we make of it, the calendar attributed to the Jews in this docu-
ment was fundamentally hybrid, as it was basically Jewish (because lunar and
providing the dates of Passover), but dependent on the Julian calendar (with
Subversion and Subculture 259

a “rule of March,” and lunar dates calculated with reference to the Julian cal-
endar), and possibly modelled on a scheme that was used in Christian Easter
cycles (the –11/+19 scheme). To the extent that it is historically reliable—as I
would argue it is, at least, with regard to the “rule of March”—this document
reveals that the Jewish lunar calendar was not in a simple, polar opposition
with the Roman solar calendar, but in a complex engagement with it.
This hybrid calendar must have been politically significant, even if it also
served the needs of practical convenience. The adoption of elements from the
Julian and Christian calendars would have raised the respectability and social
profile of the Jewish calendar in a society where, in the mid fourth century,
Christianity was becoming increasingly dominant. The rule of March and the
–11/+19 scheme would have given the Jewish calendar stability and regularity
not only in terms of its structure, but also in terms of its position and inte-
gration in the culture of the Roman, Christian Empire. This was not an act
of surrender to the dominant culture; quite on the contrary, laying claim on
elements of the dominant calendars, such as the rule of March and the –11/+19
scheme, was a subtle act of cultural subversion, putting into question the hege-
mony of the Julian and Christian calendars and affirming, in a certain way, the
Jews’ social status and dissident identity.

5 The Catania inscription of 383 CE: Julian and Lunar Calendars

My next and final illustration of the complex relationship between Jewish

and Roman time reckoning comes from a funerary inscription from Catania
(Sicily), erected in 383 CE by a Jew, Aurelius Samuel, in memory of his wife.
The date of her death is given as follows (starting from line 3 of the Latin text):27

[F]atum complebit XII Kal(endas) Novebr/es, diae Veneris, luna octaba,

Mero/baudes iterum et Satornino con/sulibus. . . .

[She] completed her allotted life on the 12th [before] the Kalends of
November, Friday, lunar day 8, when Merobaudes for the second time
and Saturninus were consuls. . . .

27 Ursino Museum, Catania, no. 540; published in CIJ i. 650, AE 1984: 439, JIWE i 145, and
elsewhere. For a more detailed account and full references, see Stern, Calendar and
Community, 132–36; idem, Calendars in Antiquity, 340–41.
260 Stern

The lunar day, which is included within the dating, refers most likely to the
corresponding date in the Jewish calendar (this would have been the 8th of
Marheshwan). Its inclusion may be interpreted, at first sight, as a statement
of Jewish identity, which would tie in with the other, conspicuously Jewish ele-
ments of this inscription: the line of Hebrew at the top of the inscription, the
biblical name (Samuel) of the dedicator, the reference to “the law which the Lord
gave the Jews” (licem quem Dominus dedit Iudeis—ll.10–11 of Latin text), and
finally, the Jewish symbol of menorot in the two bottom corners. Yet in other
ways, this inscription must be viewed as belonged very firmly to the Graeco-
Roman epigraphic tradition. The practice of writing funerary inscriptions with
the full date of death, sometimes in great detail, was a Latin epigraphic tradi-
tion that had roots in the early Roman Empire or earlier.28 The date in this
inscription—if we ignore temporarily the lunar element—conforms to a thor-
oughly Roman dating formula, with the day of the month back-counted from
the kalends, the Julian month, and the consular year; the weekday was also not
uncommon in funerary and other Roman datings of the late Roman period, as
has been discussed above. These conflicting, Jewish and Graeco-Roman ele-
ments bring out the distinctly hybrid identity of this inscription.
Even the lunar date, which I have categorized as “Jewish” inasmuch as it
refers, most likely, to Aurelius Samuel’s Jewish calendar (i.e., the calendar that
he must have used to establish the dates of the Jewish festivals), is also, on fur-
ther examination, inherently hybrid. Indeed, the practice of lunar dating and
the formula employed for it in this inscription (luna in the ablative, followed
by the ordinal number) were not at all uniquely Jewish. A good number of Latin

28 It was not, however, a particularly Jewish tradition (see above, n. 14). On the early impe-
rial, Latin origins of this epigraphic tradition, see Carlo Carletti, “Dies mortis-depositio:
un modulo ‘profano’ nell’ epigrafia tardoantica,” Vetera Christianorum 41 (2004): 21–48,
correcting a widely held view that this practice was late Roman and specifically Christian,
and related to specific Christian beliefs in death, re-birth, and after-life (e.g. Brent D.
Shaw, “Seasons of death: aspects of mortality in Imperial Rome,” JRS 86 [1996]: 100–38
[esp. 103–5], which I followed in Calendar and Community, 134–35). The attested pagan
use of fully dated funerary inscriptions indicates, according to Carletti, that the practice
was not exclusively Christian (in his words, it was rather “neutral” or “profane”). Carletti’s
further indication that the practice spread to the Greek East by the late Roman period has
taken on a new dimension with the publication of the Greek funerary inscriptions from
Zoar, see Meimaris and Kritikakou-Nikolaropoulou, Inscriptions from Palaestina Tertia,
Ia. In this light, the notion that this practice was specifically Latin needs perhaps to be
revised, although in the context of Catania, our dated funerary inscription firmly belongs
to the Latin tradition that Carletti describes. I am grateful to Ilaria Bultrighini for directing
me to Carletti’s article.
Subversion and Subculture 261

inscriptions from the third century and later include a lunar date together with
the Julian date, and they all employ this same formula; most of these are from
Italy, many are Christian, and some are also pagan.29 This lunar formula can be
traced back to an inscription from Pompeii from 60 CE, and earlier still, to an
inscription from Etruria from 67 BCE, still in the Republican period.30 Lunar
dating, with this specific formula, was clearly an ancient Italian tradition,
going back to a period when Italian calendars—including even the calendar
of the city of Rome—were lunar, before the Roman hegemony over the Italian
peninsula led to the diffusion and adoption of the Republican Roman calen-
dar, and eventually, in the late first century BCE, of the Julian calendar. The late
survival of lunar dating practices, albeit in conjunction with Julian datings, is
evident not only from late antique lunar dates, but also from lunar parapeg-
mata, counting devices which enabled the continuous count of lunar month
days—many lunar parapegmata are attested from late Antiquity, and have
been discussed at length elsewhere. The codex calendar of Philocalus (dating
from 354 CE) also includes a lunar column, which is unlikely, in this period, to
have only served the purpose of calculating the date of Easter.31
It is significant to note that Latin lunar dates only appear in private inscrip-
tions, and are not known to have ever been used for official purposes in the
Roman imperial period. The survival of lunar calendar reckoning, and more
specifically of lunar dating (with the luna formula) in Latin inscriptions, long
after the diffusion of the Julian calendar in the Italian peninsula and the Latin
West, may thus be interpreted as an expression of popular, covert resistance
to the imposition of the solar, Julian calendar in the Roman Empire. Perhaps
this usage expressed no more than a conservative disposition, among people

29 For example, a pagan inscription from Rome dated 20 November 202 CE (AE 1941: 77, 1946:
85, 1980: 60): . . . duobus Augg(ustis) co(n)s(ulibus) / Severo et Anton(ino) / XII K(alendas)
Decem(embres) / dies Saturni / luna XVIII (when both Augusti, Severus and Antoninus,
were consuls, 12th from the Kalends of December, Saturday, 18th of the moon); and a
Christian inscription from Rome dated 8 May 364 CE (Diehl 4377, ICUR 6: 15587): VIII Idus
Madias die Saturnis luna vigesima sicno apiorno (8th from the Ides of May, Saturday, 20th
of the moon, sign of Capricorn).
30 Pompeii 60 CE: CIL iv. 4182, AE 1897: 24. Etruria 67 BCE: A. Emiliozzi, ‘Sull’ epitaffio del
67 a.c. nel sepulcro dei Salvii a Ferento’, Mélanges de l’Ecole Française de Rome: Antiquité
95, 1985, pp. 701–17: . . . a(nte) d(iem) XV K(alendas) Octob(res) C(aio) Ca[lpurn]io Pisone
M(anio) Acilio co(n)s(ulibus) mens(e) Gigne . . . luna III (15th from the Kalends of October,
when C. Calpurnius Piso and Manius Acilius were consuls, in the month Gigne (?) . . . 3rd
of the moon). See Stern, Calendars in Antiquity, 313–14.
31 On all these sources, and more generally on the survival of lunar dating practices in Latin
sources of the later Roman Empire, see Stern, Calendars in Antiquity, 313–30.
262 Stern

in Rome and elsewhere in the Latin West, to preserve their local, ancient
calendrical traditions that had been lunar. But even if not intended as politi-
cally subversive, this deviation from the dominant Julian calendar should be
regarded at the very least as the expression of an unofficial subculture in the
Roman world.
In this light, the lunar date in the Catania inscription was not simply a state-
ment of Aurelius Samuel’s Jewish identity, even if it was primarily intended as
a date in his Jewish calendar. This lunar date, with its standard formula luna
octaba, was directly borrowed from dating practices in other Latin inscrip-
tions, where the formulaic date was always similarly embedded within the
Julian date and consular year. The point is, however, that for non-Jews also,
lunar dates were only a popular, unofficial, and somewhat subversive practice.
Aurelius Samuel’s use of this Latin style of lunar dating was thus a way of par-
ticipating in a broader subculture, by merging in a single formula the Jewish,
somewhat dissident use of a lunar calendar with a similar subcultural practice
of the Latin West. In this inscription, Jewish and Latin traditions of lunar dat-
ing converged because they shared common, if subtle, subversive objectives.
The hybridity of the date in this inscription—which, I am arguing, conveys
a sense of cultural confidence together with subtle subversiveness, as does the
inscription as a whole—is structurally more complex than if it were the result
of a simple, binary relationship between the hegemony and the subaltern.
It was not simply the product of “vertical” relations between dominant and
subordinate cultures, as may have been the case, for example, in the Serdica
document where the Jewish lunar calendar is arguably appropriating elements
of the dominant, Julian and Christian calendars, perhaps in a bid to affirm or
better its own social and cultural status. In the Catania inscription, hybridity is
as much the product of an unequal, vertical relationship between the Jewish
and the Julian imperial calendars, as of an equal, “horizontal” relationship
between various lunar subcultures of the later Roman Empire, Jewish as well
as pagan and Christian, which reinforce each other by sharing a common ter-
minology and somewhat similar goals.

6 Conclusion

A common tendency is to expect cultural insularity and hostility to Rome

among the Jews of Palestine, and hybrid identities in the diaspora; but in
the context of this study on time reckoning, the distinction between Palestine
and diaspora turns out to be irrelevant and unhelpful (as, one must suspect,
is often also the case in other contexts). In this article, indeed, we have found
Subversion and Subculture 263

that Philo of Alexandria—normally regarded as a typical “diaspora Jew”—

presents the calendars of Jews and Egyptians in a similarly dichotomous and
contrastive way as is assumed, in rabbinic sources, between the calendars of
Israel and “the nations” or Rome.32 This simple oppositional model stands in
contrast to the last two sources we have considered, the Serdica document and
the Catania inscription, which present a far more complex and hybrid view
of the Jews’ engagement with surrounding cultures. This complexity was not
confined to the diaspora: as we have seen, in the tombstones of Zoar, a city that
was considered part of Palestine at least in late Antiquity, the time reckoning
practices of Jews and Christians are clearly distinguished but still share some
important features in common. Even rabbinic sources employed some ele-
ments of the Julian calendar, such as the Julian dates of equinoxes and solstices
as a criterion for the intercalation of the year; in this respect, the rabbinic lunar
calendar was also dependent, to a certain extent, on the Julian calendar. The
distinction that needs to be made, I would therefore suggest, is not between
Palestine and the diaspora, but rather between the implicit, often unintended
statements of hybridity that can be typically conveyed in documentary and
epigraphic evidence, and the rhetorical, highly deliberate constructs that can
be deployed in ancient literary sources.
The documentary and epigraphic evidence that we have considered, in
particular the Serdica document and the Catania inscription, reveal that
in historical reality Jewish identities were hybrid and hybridizing, in vertical
and in horizontal ways, and that the distinction between Jewish and Roman
time-reckoning, or Jewish lunar calendars and Julian solar calendars, was not
entirely clear-cut. Jews appropriated several elements of the Julian calendar,
and so Romans appropriated Jewish time reckoning practices, most notably
the seven-day week. In this article I have argued, following postcolonial theory,
that hybridity in the context of the Serdica cyclical calendar or the Catania
lunar date was not the natural result of cultural osmosis or “assimilation,” but
in fact a deliberate, subversive cultural strategy.
Yet, if we turn to literary sources, we find that this subtle, subcultural strat-
egy seems not to have been explicitly acknowledged. This raises the question
of whether this strategy was ever explicitly conceptualized or, indeed, deliber-
ately conceived. In the explicit, deliberate statements on time-reckoning that
we find in Jewish literary sources, authors such as Philo and the rabbis present
Jewish and Roman time-reckoning in purely contrastive terms. This was not

32 The contrast between Jews and Egyptians (as opposed to Greeks) is actually not unchar-
acteristic of Philo. See Sarah Pearce, The Land of the Body: Studies in Philo’s Representation
of Egypt (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007).
264 Stern

just a matter of how they saw it: it was also a matter of choice. For Philo and
the rabbis, a simple, contrastive model of this kind had the distinct advan-
tage of achieving greater rhetorical and political effect. The dichotomous,
oppositional conception of solar and lunar calendars may thus be regarded,
in the rhetorical context of these literary sources, as a cultural strategy in its
own right.33

33 This conclusion may be read as a corrective to my own tendency, in Calendar and

Community, ch. 1, to employ a similar rhetorical strategy and draw what is probably, with
hindsight, an exaggerated contrast between solar and lunar calendars in the Roman Near
East. In that case, the strategy was mainly used for didactic (rather than political) reasons,
but it did have the secondary effect, perhaps unintentional, of unduly reinforcing the
narratives presented by Philo and rabbinic sources (though not, interestingly, Josephus)
which I cited there and which have been criticized in this present article.
 CHAPTER 16

Elijah’s Cave in Haifa: Whose Holy Site is

this Anyway?

Tal Ilan*

In this paper I wish to present to the reader a fresh look at Elijah’s Cave, a holy
shrine and tourist attraction on Mount Carmel in Haifa, Israel. Today it seems
like a rather traditional devotional site for Jews, mostly of oriental background,
where celebrations of Bar Mitzvah, and the first haircut of boys at the age of
three (halaqah) take place. The walls of the cavity are decorated with inexpen-
sive pictures, and one section is hung with women’s headwear and other bits
of clothing, both sorts of objects obviously being gifts presented to the site
by persons who had previously prayed on location for a match, for a child or
for other worldly blessings, and had found the experience rewarding. It also
displays the characteristics of an orthodox synagogue, as signified especially
through a division between a men and a women section. I wish to argue in this
paper that these very imposing characteristics should not mislead the visitor,
who should be able to discern through all this color and pomp, the remains of
an ancient devotional shrine from late antiquity, which was probably the site
of conflict among several religious denominations, each vying for possession
over it, and each leaving its traces on its walls. Because the external sources
mentioning the site are meager, I will attempt in this paper to primarily show
what one can learn about its history from the information readily available to
the scholar on the walls of the cave themselves.

* This paper is based on the investigation of the inscriptions of Elijah’s Cave initiated by myself
and my students (Olaf Pinkpank, Thomas Ziem, Jeschua Hipp, Kerstin Hünefeld, Marcel
Gaida) as part of the project of the Lexicon of Jewish Names on Late Antiquity, and was pub-
lished as an appendix to Volume II (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck 2012), 499–586 (henceforth
Ilan and Pinkpank, LJNLA II). After our publication of the inscriptions a second publication
came out of some of the same inscriptions by Asher Ovadiah and Rosario Pierri (“Elijah’s
Cave on Mount Carmel and its Inscriptions, Parts I and II” in: Christ is here! Studies in Biblical
and Christian Archaeology in Memory of Michele Piccirillo [ed. D. Chrpucala; Milano: Edizioni
Terra Santa, 2012], 29–76 [henceforth Christi is Here!]; “Part III,” Liber Annus 62 [2012]: 203–82
[henceforth LA 62 (2012)]). Proof that our publication preceded theirs is provided by the
countless references to our publication found in these articles. Where relevant, I refer to their
publication and different interpretations or readings throughout.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���7 | doi ��.��63/9789004336919_017

266 Ilan

Elijah’s Cave is hewn into the northern slope of the Carmel, overlooking the
Bay of Haifa, half way between the sea and the top of the mountain, on which
the Carmelite convent, Stella Maris, is located. It is an artificial cave, almost
completely quadrangle, with remnants of a natural extension to the east, cut-
ting into the wall and dividing it into two. An apsis is located in its southern
wall (certainly, and perhaps also intentionally facing Jerusalem), which had
once been decorated with ornate columns in relief. Only their remains are still
visible. The cave’s impressive dimensions are 7.1×13×4 m3. It has in the past
been the subject of some investigation and before I propose my interpretation
of the finds I would like to present a short overview of previous research.

1 The Cave and the Inscriptions: History of Research

I begin by listing the scholars who paid attention to the numerous inscriptions
found on the walls of the cave. These inscriptions were noted and partially
read and published by the French epigraphist J. Germer-Durand, at the end
of the 19th century (1898).1 In his publication, he was obviously influenced by
Christian Carmelite traditions and consequently refers to the cave as “l’École
des prophètes” (School of the Prophets), as the place is designated elsewhere
in late medieval and early-modern travelogues. Although in the article itself
Germer-Durand made no judgment about who the people who inscribed the
inscriptions were, he did title his publication “Épigraphie Chrétienne” and
further noted that in his day the site was holy to all three religions. We can
imagine that the epigraphist had labored to read the inscriptions under very
strenuous conditions with no proper lighting available. Yet it should be noted
that all eight inscriptions that Germer-Durand read are still visible and legible
today, and are only a fraction of the inscriptions left on the walls, which the
visitor may read.
The next scholar to take the inscriptions of the Elijah Cave into account
was the archaeologist Asher Ovadiah. It seems that sometime after the estab-
lishment of the British Mandate in 1917, the walls of the cave, with the inscrip-
tions, were plastered over, because in 1969 he wrote: “In 1949 persons from
the Antiquities Department and citizens of Haifa observed the inscriptions
in the cave covered with a thick layer of plaster . . . the Antiquities Department
initiated the clean-up of the inscriptions and the Ministry of Religion helped

1 J. Germer-Durand, “Épigraphie Chrétienne: Inscriptions Grecques du Mont Carmel,” Échos

d’Orient 1 (1897–8): 272–4.
Elijah ’ s Cave in Haifa: Whose Holy Site is this Anyway ? 267

finance it.” Ovadiah himself surveyed the cave and published a short report
(both in Hebrew2 and French3) in which he claimed that there are more than
150 Greek, two Latin and one Hebrew inscriptions on the walls. His publication
also included a general plan and a very provisional sketch of the walls with the
inscriptions on them. Ovadiah also published a list of 14 names that he read in
the inscriptions, the vast majority of them in Greek but at least one in Jewish
characters. Some but not all of these names had already been published by
Germer-Durand.
Next, I note scholars who took interest in the cave itself, mostly ignoring the
inscriptions and what they may have to disclose. The literature on the cave from
antiquity to the 19th century was studied by Abraham Yaari. In the 1930s–50s
Yaari established himself as one of the greatest experts on the literary output of
Jews who resided in, or visited Palestine at these times. In 1957 he published a
comprehensive account of the history of Elijah’s cave. He opened this account
with the words: “During the entire Mishnaic and Talmud period and through
the days of the Gaonim, we find no mention of a cave in the Carmel, which was
related to the life of Elijah the Prophet.4 Likewise, no mention of such a cave
was found in the many letters from the Land of Israel discovered in the Cairo
Genizah, where Haifa is mentioned several times.”5 Thus, his detailed study
began with the travels of Benjamin of Tudela in the 1160s.6
The archaeology of the site and its wider context was studied by Elias
Friedman, South-African-Jew-turned-Carmelite Monk and archaeologist. In
1979 Elias Friedman published a comprehensive study of Christian presence
on the Carmel and made some important valued judgments about Elijah’s
Cave. He took account of the inscriptions in it and concluded that “Kopp and
Augustinović7 had already surmised that the Cave of Elijah had been originally
a place of pagan cult . . . the entire absence of Christian and Jewish onomastic

2 A. Ovadiah, “Inscriptions in the Cave of Elijah,” Qadmoniot 2 (1969): 99–101 [Hebrew].
3 A. Ovadiah, “Chronique archéologique: Mont Carmel, Grotte d’Élie,” RB 75 (1968): 417–8.
4 As we shall see presently, this is not entirely correct.
5 A. Yaari, “Elijah’s Cave in the Carmel,” Carmelit 3 (1956–7): 138 [Hebrew, my translation T.I.].
6 The same can be said for Doron Bar, Sanctifying a Land: The Jewish Holy Places in the State of
Israel 1948–1968 (Jerusalem: Yad Ben Zvi, 2007), 149–58 [Hebrew], who studied the institu-
tionalized “establishment” of holy sites by the State of Israel.
7 The former is Agostino Augustinović, El-khadr and the Prophet Elijah, (first published in
Jerusalem in 1917 by the Franciscan Printing Press and translated into English in 1972 by the
same press); the latter is Clemens Kopp, Elias und Christentum auf dem Karmel (Paderborn:
F. Schöningh 1929).
268 Ilan

and symbols in the cave strikes one with force.”8 Yet to declare it pagan for
all antiquity was for him impossible. Friedman investigated the remains of
Byzantine churches on the Carmel, among them the remains of a basilica
found on an abutting platform just beyond the Carmelite monastery, which
his predecessors, at the beginning of the 20th century, had identified as “frag-
ments of a basilica erected by St. Helena.” He claimed, however, that “[i]f the
empress Helena had built a monastery in honor of Elijah on Mount Carmel,
surely it would have been the one that stood at the Cave of Elijah below the
light-house and not the one on the terrace above.”9 This claim is unfounded
both textually and archaeologically, but shows the scholar’s deep conviction.
With Jewish scholarship claiming a Jewish interest in the cave only as of
the Crusader period, and Christians claiming that a Christian monastery was
erected on the site in the fourth century, a new interpretation, claiming a likely
early Jewish presence at the site and a Jewish origin for many of the inscrip-
tions in the cave requires some arguing. This is exactly what I intend to do in
the next lines.

2 A New Interpretation: The Inscriptions and the Cave

In this study, my starting point is the inscriptions themselves. I will present the
inscriptions not like as in a publication of texts, where their order on the wall
dictates their order in the publication, but rather I will attempt to reconstruct
a chronological order in which the inscriptions may have been inscribed on
the wall.
My conviction is that after someone had decided to undertake the mammoth
construction work of carving out this artificial space within Mount Carmel, the
site was dedicated. Who undertook the construction is hard to say because,
as stated previously, it is mentioned in no ancient source. In the cave itself
though, on the western wall, three magnificent, well-executed tabula ansata
had been carved close to the apse, and it appears that these were the founda-
tion inscriptions of the holy site located here. One of the three inscriptions—
the middle one—has been very well preserved.

8 Elias Friedman, The Latin Hermits of Mount Carmel (Rome: Teresianum, 1979), 145.
9 Ibid., 85.
Elijah ’ s Cave in Haifa: Whose Holy Site is this Anyway ? 269

Figure 16.1
The three monumental dedication
inscriptions.

Let us begin by taking a look at this dedication inscription. It reads:

Μνησθῇ Ελι | ος Μ̣έγ̣ιστος | δεκουρ̣ίων Remembered Elios the Greatest, decurion

Κολ(ονίας) | Πτο(λεμαίδος) ἅμα (of the) Col(onia) Pto(lemais), with
Κυρ<ί>λλω | ὑιώ ΕΙΛΕ[. . .]ΣΤΩΜΗ | his son Cyr<i>llus . . .
ΛΙΕΝΟΝΤΙ ὁ τόπος . . . the place.11

I wish to analyze this inscription in detail in order to understand what it is

telling us.
Elios the Greatest: This is the name and self-imposed title of the dedicator
of the “place” (topos). Because of this name, it would have been tempting to
identify him as the prophet Elijah, except, of course that this prophet, unless

10 See on this inscription Ilan and Pinkpank, LJNLA II, 548–9, no. 17. Germer-Durand,
“Épigraphie Chrétienne,” 272, read rather more into the inscription, claiming that it
warned the visitor from desecrating the site, and Ovadiah and Pierri, Christ is Here!, 53,
no. 18, followed his reading, without altering it, but we could no longer see what he had
claimed was there.
270 Ilan

he returned to dwell among mortals, assumed a civic position in the City of

Akko/Ptolemais and sired a son, gracing him with the Greek name Cyrillus,
cannot be intended here. Instead, we should inquire why a decurion in the
Colonia Ptolemais designates himself Elios the Greatest and founds a holy
shrine which is destined to become the veneration site of Elijah the Prophet.
So let us begin by looking at the name. Within a non-Jewish context, it may
be noted that Ἕλιος (with a spiritus asper) is recorded for a Greek mythologi-
cal figure (Strabo, Geography, 8:363).11 Thus, there is no reason to automati-
cally assume that we are looking at a Jewish-biblical name, which was not very
popular among Jews at the time anyway.12 On the other hand, it is noteworthy
that this particular name appears, according to our reading, all in all in three
inscriptions in the cave, in Greek, in two orthographic forms: Ελιος see also
Elios Julius)13 and Ηλιος (see Beth Elios),14 making it the most popular name
in the cave. The connection between the name Elios, and its namesake—the
biblical hero who lends his name to this cave—cannot, as we shall presently
see, be entirely dismissed.
Decurion: The decurion was a member of the Roman colonia’s city council—
the curia. He was a low-ranking Roman official, and the position brought with
it more responsibility than gain. Many wished to avoid serving in the curia
and it was often necessary to compel wealthy burgers to accept it.15 It is perhaps
for this reason that when in 398 and again in 418 and 438, a Roman-Christian
law banned Jews from serving in many civil positions, it made an exception in
the case of the decurion.16 This proves, in my opinion, that Jews had served
in this position both before and after these dates, all through antiquity, regard-
less of when the inscriptions in Elijah’s Cave were engraved. I emphasize this
because it could suggest that the founder of the site was a Jew, or at any rate,
this position and title would not rule this out.

11 Wilhelm Pape (Gustav E. Benseler), Wörterbuch der griechischen Eigennamen

(Braunschweig: F. Vieweg, 1911), 349 (=henceforth WGE).
12 See Ilan, LJNLA I, 5–6.
13 See Ilan and Pinkpank, LJNLA II, 564, no. 27.
14 See Ilan and Pinkpank, LJNLA II, 535–6, no. 8; and the form Ἥλιος (also with a spiritus
asper) is actually the form in which the name of the sun-god Helios is recorded, see WGE,
456–8. Ovadiah and Pierri, LA 62 (2012), 250 (no. 136) read Ἡλιό[δω]ρος (=Heliodoros), and
though we were not able to see these letters, I concede that they may be right.
15 Amnon Linder, The Jews in Roman Imperial Legislation (Jerusalem: Israel Academy of
Sciences and Humanities, 1987), 75–6 (=Linder, JRIL).
16 See Linder, JRIL, nos. 29 (pp. 212–3), 31 (218–9), 45 (pp. 280–3), 64 (pp. 393–8).
Elijah ’ s Cave in Haifa: Whose Holy Site is this Anyway ? 271

Col(onia) Pto(lemais): That is the city of Akko, which was declared a Roman
colonia by the emperor Claudius in 54 CE.17 This year is, thus, a terminus ante-
quem for the dedication of the cave. This inscription cannot date to before
54 CE. We may note, that Akko is located north of Elijah’s cave just across the
bay and if this was a new holy site (as its location in a prominent position
overlooking the Mediterranean Sea and the Bay of Haifa indicates), Ptolemais
was its natural hinterland. This seems to be confirmed of other inscriptions,
or perhaps (better described) graffiti, evident on the walls of this caves, which
also mention Ptolemais. For example, on the eastern wall we read:

Figure 16.2 Inscription mentioning friends of the city of Ptolemais.

Πᾶς φίλων Πτoλεμα<ί>ς Αll the friends of Ptolema<i>s18

This inscription seems to express the local patriotism of the worshipers at

the site. An inscription with this exact formula is found in the pre-Christian
Nabatean city of Obada (Avdat): Πᾶς φίλων Ὄβαδα (all the friends of Avdat).19
Another less precise, but no less illuminating parallel may be suggested from
an inscription of a Samaritan synagogue in Thessalonica, which includes at
the very end the formula: Αὔξι Νεάπολις μετὰ τῶν φιλούντων (Prosper Neapolis
with those who love you).20 Since this inscription was inscribed by Samaritans
in the Diaspora, their patriotism toward, and longings for their sacred city—
Sichem/Neapolis, is expressed in these words.
In a similar formula, Ptolemais appears to be mentioned in an inscription
on the western wall, located not far removed from Elios’ dedication inscription.

17 Pliny, Natural History, 5:17.

18 See Ilan and Pinkpank, LJNLA II, 537–8, no. 9. Ovadiah and Pierri, LA 62 (2012): 252
(no. 141) read here Πτολεμα[ίου] and think it refers to a name of a person, but see my argu-
ments in the body of the article.
19 Avraham Negev, The Greek Inscriptions from the Negev (Jerusalem: Franciscan Printing
Press, 1981), 14. Negev thought Obada was a name, but in the location it was found this is
not likely.
20 David Noy, Alexander Panayotov and Hanswulf Bloedhorn, Inscriptiones Judaicae Orientis
I: Eastern Europe (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2004), 100–1 (inscription Mac17).
272 Ilan

Figure 16.3 Inscription mentioning Lucillus of Ptolemais.

Μν<ησ>θῇ ΛΚΝΙ [. . .] Υ [. . .] | ΝΑ Rem<emb>ered [. . .] Lucillus and

Λουκίλλις κα[ὶ . . .] | ΤΕΣ οἱ φίλοι [. . .] the friends of Pto(lemais)22
Π̣ τ̣ο(λεμαίδος)

Finally, Ptolemais is also mentioned in another inscription on the western wall,

slightly further to the north, apparently together with another city, located not
far from the Elijah Cave:

Figure 16.4 Inscription mentioning Ptolemais and Dor.

Μνησθῇ | Πτολεμα[ίς . . . |]O Δῶρας Remembered Ptolema[is . . .] Doras22

Doras is the biblical town of Dor, situated some 30 km south of Haifa, and
would also have been within the range of religious influence of the site. It is
mentioned in literary sources throughout the first centuries CE, and although

21 Ilan and Pinkpank, LJNLA II, 552, no. 20. Oviadiah and Pierri, LA 62 (2014): 212 (no. 22)
failed to read this part of the inscription.
22 Ilan and Pinkpank, LJNLA II, 578–9, no. 42. Ovadiah and Pierri (Christ is Here!, 61 [no. 96])
argued again for these being names of persons: Πτολεμα[ῖος]; [Θε]όδορος.
Elijah ’ s Cave in Haifa: Whose Holy Site is this Anyway ? 273

Eusebius (3rd century) claims that in his days it stood in ruins,23 church lists
record bishops from Doras between the 4th and the 6th centuries.24
The place (ho topos): This terminus, used to describe the location in
which the inscription is etched, is employed to describe holy sites in general,
and according to some scholars, specifically synagogues.25 Thus, it seems that
Elijah’s cave was founded by a member of the city council of the Roman Colonia
Ptolemais and served as a place of devotion for worshipers in the region. We,
therefore, need to inquire what the denomination of these worshipers was.
The options are actually three—Jewish, Christian or pagan. I shall dispense
with Christianity first, because it seems to me that it is relatively simple to
show that the site in late antiquity was never revered by Christians.

2.1 Christianity
There are in fact two ways in which a Christian identity for the site would be
expected. One is iconographic and the other is based on external historical
records. Both test in this case negative:

Iconography: Elijah’s Cave is devoid of crosses or other Christian symbols and

formulae. In this it is unlike other sites, some of them located in caves, which
were venerated by Christians in Palestine in the Byzantine period. This is pri-
marily true for a cave in Bethany, by Jerusalem, which was believed to have
been the house of Lazarus, where Jesus had stayed and raised its resident from
the dead. At that site, the walls are covered with inscriptions that in many ways
resemble those of Elijah’s Cave, but also include crosses, inscriptions with a
clear Christian context, and at least one inscription which celebrates the site
as that of Lazarus’ resurrection (“Lord God who raised Lazarus from the dead,
remember your servant Ascalepius and Chionia, your servant”).26 The absence
of such symbols and texts clearly marks Elijah’s Cave as non-Christian.

23 See Eusebius, Onomasticon, 76: νῦν ἐρῆμος.

24 Ephraim Stern, Excavations at Dor, Final Report IA (Qedem Reports 1, Jerusalem: The
Hebrew University, 1995), 4.
25 See Walter Ameling, Inscriptiones Judaicae Orientis II: Kleinasien (Tübingen: Mohr
Siebeck, 2004), 137–8.
26 See Pierre Benoit, Marie-Emille Boismard, “Un ancien sanctuaire Chrétien a Béthanie,”
RB 58 (1951): 200–51. On this inscription see p. 216. For other Christian inscriptions see
pp. 226, 232, 235, 236, 240. On this cave see a thorough discussion by Joan E. Taylor,
Christians and the Holy Places: The Myth of Jewish-Christian Origins (Oxford: Clarendon
Press, 1993), 180–92.
274 Ilan

External historical records: Literary Christian sources also ignore this site.
In her pilgrimage itinerary (from the early fifth century),27 the Spanish pil-
grim Egeria fails to mention any Elijah shrine on the Carmel. She herself only
visited an Elijah’s cave on the slopes of Mount Sinai.28 No other contemporary
Christian source mentions the cave either. In fact, Christians and Muslims over
the years have identified several other caves with the Prophet Elijah.29 The
only author from antiquity who mentions the Carmel as a site of Christian
piety is the anonymous Pilgrim from Piacenza around the year 570. He wrote:
“Opposite Ptolemais, six miles off, is a city named Sykaminos,30 under Mount
Carmel . . . a mile and a half away is the monastery of Heliseus the prophet, at
the place where the woman met him, whose child he raised from the dead . . .”31
This is neither a mention of Elijah (but rather of his heir Elisha) nor of the loca-
tion in Haifa in which we are interested. Since Elijah is mentioned in the Bible
in direct association with Mount Carmel (1 Kings 18:19–20) whereas Elisha is
not, we may be justified in inquiring why this pilgrim makes the identifica-
tion (and even whether he is mistaken), but this is not the topic of this paper.32

27 See Johannes Quasten, Walter J. Burghardt and Thomas C. Lawler, Egeria: Diary of a
Pilgrimage (Mahwah NJ: Newman Press, 1970), 12–5.
28 M. L. McClure (ed.), The Pilgrimage of Etheria (London: Society for Promoting Christian
Knowledge, 1919), 6.
29 For a list of Muslim and Christian caves and sites identified with him see Taufik Canaan,
Mohammedan Saints and Sanctuaries in Palestine (London: Luzac, 1927), 120–2. Note
that this list mentions places honored by Muslims and others honored by Muslims and
Christians but only with relation to the Carmel does he write: “honoured by all denomina-
tions” obviously including Jews.
30 This is the site of Shiqmona, mentioned also in rabbinic literature. On this site see Joseph
Elgavish, Shiqmona: On the Southcoast of Mount Carmel (Tel Aviv: Hekibbutz Hameuchad
Punliishing House, 1994) [Hebrew]. On the Roman and Byzantine periods see pp. 105–
58. It is situated several miles south of Haifa and Elijah’s cave, near Elisha’s monastery,
according to Friedman Latin Hermits, 60–73.
31 Translation in Friedman, Latin Hermits, 46.
32 Note, however, that an almost identical tradition about the presence of Elisha on the
Carmel, is found in the late Jewish midrash Pirqe de-Rabbi Eliezer, in which we read that,
after her child died, the woman from Shunem “went to Mount Carmel and fell with her
face on the floor before Elisha” (PdRE 33). This brief exposition of the story of Elisha and
the woman of Shunem begins with an interesting description of Elisha’s deeds: “He used
to wander from mountain to mountain and from cave to cave” (‫והיה מהלך מהר אל הר‬
‫)וממערה אל מערה‬. We encounter here in a Jewish source Elisha, the Carmel and a cave,
parallel to a Christian pilgrim, who relates the foundation of an Elisha monastery on the
Carmel. PdRE is one of the only midrashim which can easily be dated to after the advent
of Islam, see recently Dina Stein, Maxims, Magic, Myth: A Folkloristic Perspective of Pirkei
deRabbi Eliezer (Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 2004), 2–3 [Hebrew].
Elijah ’ s Cave in Haifa: Whose Holy Site is this Anyway ? 275

Suffice is to say that we have no comparable Christian source that identifies

Elijah with a Christian pilgrimage site.33

2.2 A Pagan Shrine

Support for the existence of some sort of cult on the Carmel patronized by the
Romans can be provided by the writings of the Roman historian Tacitus. In
his report on the maneuvers of the general (soon to be Emperor) Vespasian
in Judaea, while quenching the rebellion of the Jews in 67 CE, he includes a
description of his visit to the God at Carmel. I bring the translation of this text
as it is found in M. Stern’s Greek and Latin Authors on Jews and Judaism:

Between Judea and Samaria lies Carmel: this is the name given to both
the mountain and the divinity. The god has no image or temple—such
is the rule handed down by the fathers; there is only an altar and a wor-
ship of the god. When Vespasian was sacrificing there and thinking over
his secret hopes in his heart, the Priest Basilides, after repeated inspection
of the victim’s vitals, said to him: “Whatever you are planning Vespasian,
whether to build a house, or to enlarge your holdings, or to increase the
number of slaves, the god grants you a mighty home, limitless bounds
and a multitude of men (Tacitus, Histories, II 78:3).34

33 Ovadiah and Pierri, Christ is Here!, 30, argued that a monumental cross is visible on the
wall of the cave. However, the picture they bring to argue this is a clearly of a prehistoric
ammonite formation, as a picture I took just outside the cave of a similar natural phe-
nomenon demonstrates. I paste both Ovadiah’s and my pictures below. In my recent visit
to the cave I discovered that Ovadiah’s “cross” has been defaced, probably by Jewish fanat-
ics, who got hold of his article.


Ovadiah’s “cross” My ammonite.
34 Menahem Stern, Greek and Latin Authors on Jews and Judaism, vol. 2 (Jerusalem: Israel
Academy of Sciences and Humanities, 1980), 13. A similar tradition is found in Seutenius,
Divus Vespasianus 6.5: “When he consulted the oracle of the god of Carmel in Judaea, the
lots were highly encouraging, promising that whatever he planned or wished, however
great, would come to pass . . .” (Divus Vespasianus 5:6), see ibid. 122.
276 Ilan

The location of the cult described here is not very precise and there are some
problems with its identification. First, we should note that the god worshiped
on the Carmel has “no image or temple—such is the rule handed down by
the fathers.” Although it is not stated, this comes very near to some of the
descriptions of the God of Israel, which are found in the writings of Greek and
Roman authors.35 Yet, we know of no Jewish cult in the area of the Carmel
at the time of the 66–70 rebellion against Rome. And why would Vespasian
seek a prophecy from a shrine patronized by Jews? The name of the priest in
this report, Basilides, is of course Greek. This does not completely rule out
Jewishness, but neither does it support it.
Precisely because one could understand Tacitus’ report as referring to
a Jewish shrine, the archaeological discovery on Mount Carmel of the foot of a
giant human-like statue, perhaps of the same God of Carmel, as the inscrip-
tion inscribed at the foot of this fragment suggests, is of great importance. In
this inscription we read: Διὶ Ἡλιοπολείτη Καρμηλῶ Γ(αίος) Ἰούλ(ιος) Εὐτυχᾶς
Κολ(όνια) Καισάρευς (“For the God of Heliopolis on the Carmel. [Dedicated by]
Gaius Julius Eutychius of the Colonia Caesarea.”36 This inscription suggests
various connections with Elijah’s Cave. First, although its exact find spot is
unknown, the fact that it is kept in the antiquities collection of the Stella Maris
Convent, just above Elijah’s Cave on the Carmel, may suggest that it was found
geographically not very far removed from the cave itself. Secondly, the inscrip-
tion refers to the person who dedicated the inscription with a Latin name
and the local designation Colonia Caesarea. This brings to mind the inscrip-
tion of Elios the Greatest, which we analyzed above, whose provenance is the
Colonia Ptolemais which is located 23 kilometers north of Elijah’s Cave. This
inscription, on the base of the statue, mentions the provenance of Gaius Julius
Eutychius in the Colonia Caesarea, located 40 kilometers south of Elijah’s
Cave, and declared a Roman colonia in 79 CE.37 One can imagine Elijah’s Cave

35 For example, Hecataeus of Abdera: “But he had no images whatsoever of the gods made
for them, being of the opinion that God is not in human form,” (Stern, Greek and Latin
Authors I, vol. 1 [1974], 28); Varro: “. . . more than one hundred and seventy years the ancient
Romans worshiped the gods without an image. If this usage would have continued to
our day, our worship of gods would be more devout. In support [I bring] the testimony
of the Jewish race” (Stern, Greek and Latin Authors I, 209); Strabo: “For (Moses) said and
taught that the Egyptians were mistaken representing the Divine Being by images of beasts
and cattle, as were also the Lybians; and the Greeks were also wrong in modeling gods in
human form; for according to him God is the one thing alone that encompasses us all and
encompasses land and sea . . . What man then can be bold enough to fabricate an image of
God resembling any creature among us?” (Stern, Greek and Latin Authors I, 299–300), etc.
36 In Michael Avi-Yonah, “Mount Carmel and the God of Baalbek,” IEJ 2 (1952): 118.
37 Pliny, Natural History, 5.14.
Elijah ’ s Cave in Haifa: Whose Holy Site is this Anyway ? 277

as a cultic center for Romans of the Provincia Judaea/Palestina in a radius of

40 kilometers in all directions.38
This is the occasion to inquire who the persons who venerated a pagan god
at Elijah’s cave were. Most of the inscriptions in Elijah’s cave mention and bless
people. Some of the inscriptions are orderly and official, but a vast majority
of them are graffiti. We may assume that the people who had their names
inscribed on the walls are the worshipers we are looking for. It should first of all
be noted that most of the persons mentioned on the walls have Greek and Latin
names. This of course is no indication in itself that they were not Jews, but the
concentration of Latin names at the site is striking and unusual in Palestine (20
out of 79 = 25.3%). Although in late antiquity Latin names were gaining popu-
larity among Jews, they were still very rare compared to biblical, Greek and
Semitic names, and constitute a much smaller percentage than 25.39 This may
suggest that the site was initially venerated by members of the Roman admin-
istration in Palestine. This suggestion is supported not just by the foundational
inscription we already analyzed but from another well preserved inscription,
located also on the western wall, also in a tabula ansata, some distance to the
north. This inscription reads as follows:

38 Ovadiah and Pierri, Christ is Here!, 35–6, found further indications of the pagan character
of the cave. Just right of the Elios Megistos inscription they identified “three aediculae
topped with a pediment[. These] are carved one above the other. A relief of a defaced
human figure (19 cm high), wearing a toga and standing on a pedestal, is discernable in
the middle of the aedicula. The toga covers the figure’s legs almost to the ankles, and the
feet are clearly visible. The figure stands firmly on both legs and is flanked by an obscure
form (a priest kneeling before the cult statue of the god?) on its left and a libation vessel
with a high stem on its right.” The authors attached a photograph to prove this (p. 42,
fig. 15). The figures, as far as I can tell, were defaced so well that I could see their images
neither in the photograph nor in the indicated location in the cave itself. In LA 62 (2012):
260 (fig. 1) Ovadiah and Pierri claim that the photograph presented, with inscriptions
1–3, is a “Temple of Artemis” and substantiate their argument by citing Browning 1982,
fig. 97. Nowhere in their publication is this Browning cited in full. If they are referring
to I. Browning, Petra (London 1982) fig. 97, the reference is, in my opinion completely
irrelevant. The picture Ovaidiah and Peiri provide also discloses no clues as to why a
temple to this goddess should be identified here. On p. 213 they discuss inscription no. 24,
and argue that it reads [Θ]εο[ῦ] ἰκασία, which they translate “The image of the God” but
the word “god” ([Θ]εο[ῦ]) is completely reconstructed and I doubt if ἰκασία means image.
In any case, we were not able to read this inscription at all. On p. 263 Ovadiah and Pierri
claim to present a photograph of the inscription (fig. 7) but it is completely illegible. That
is not to say that I disagree with them that the site was pagan. Unfortunately I cannot cor-
roborate the evidence they present.
39 See Ilan, LJNLA II, 45.
278 Ilan

Figure 16.5 Inscription of Germanus the Soldier.

Μνησθῇ | Γερμανὸς | στρατιώτης | Remembered Germanus, soldier,

καὶ ἡ σύ{ν}<μ>βιος | αὐτοῦ and his wife,
Σωσιπάτρα Sosipatra,
καὶ | τὰ | τέ{χ}<κ>να and the children.41

The person who inscribed this inscription was a soldier with a Latin name
(Germanus). Can we know anything else about him, except his name, his pro-
fession, the name of his wife and the fact that they had children? I think so.
If we look at the top right hand corner of the inscription we see an unusual
symbol—something that looks like a swastika with three legs. This is a triskele.
The symbol is known from antiquity, all the way to the late archaic period.41

40 Ilan and Pinkpank, LJNLA II, 575–6 (no. 39).

41 The earliest example I found was a vase (hydra) of the attic black figure, dated to the end
of the 6th century BCE found in Etruriah Italy and now on display in the British Museum
(London B323). Note that it was found in Italy.
Elijah ’ s Cave in Haifa: Whose Holy Site is this Anyway ? 279

Round about that period, it was employed as legends on coins from Lycia in
Asia Minor.42 It was also found occasionally on other archaic Asia Minor coins,
but not so often. All this evidence, however, is much too early to interest us.
What is more relevant for this study is the use of the mark as the symbol of
Sicily, as is occasionally evident in Roman times, and still used to this day. In
his book, Sicily under the Roman Empire: The Archaeology of a Roman Province
36 BC–AD 535, R. J. A. Wilson presents the triskele as the ultimate symbol of
Sicily. Although Wilson does not attempt to place it in some sort of chronologi-
cal framework, a study of the appearances of this symbol in his book, including
the title and back pages, on which it is depicted, indicates that none of them
date to after 250 CE.43 Also, in Hill’s exhaustive study of Sicilian coins, only two
display the triskele.44 I thus conclude that, as an active symbol it went out of
circulation in Sicily sometime in the third century. Aside from a similar, but by
no means identical symbol, used by the ancient Celts in Ireland,45 the symbol
shows up nowhere else in Late Antiquity.
The triskele was observed among the inscriptions of Elijah’s Cave at least
twice: In this inscription, and in Inscription 22, which is very badly preserved
and only the name Papas and this symbol are visible on it.46 Obviously, for
some people who visited Elijah’s Cave this symbol was meaningful. Since the
persons whose inscription we are looking at is a soldier, perhaps the symbol
is in some way associated with the Roman Army? Perhaps Elijah’s Cave was

42 On the triskele on the coins of Lycia see e.g. Charles Fellows, Coins of Ancient Lycia before
the Reign of Alexander (London: J. Murray, 1855), plates III–VI, IX–XVI.
43 Roger J. A. Wilson, Sicily under the Roman Empire: The Archaeology of a Roman Province 36
BC-AD 535 (Warminster UK: Aris and Phillips, 1990): 1. The Tindari Bath-house, p. 2 which
he dates to “after 2nd half of second century” p. 91; 2. Coin of Augustus—36–21 BCE,
p. 44; 3. Coin of Tiberus—15–16 CE, p. 44; 4. Coin of Hadrian—126 CE, p. 179; 5. Coin of
L. Clodius Macer—68 CE, p. 189; 6. Ostia mosaic—40/50 CE, p. 190; 7. Ostia mosaic—120/30
CE, p. 190; 8. Coin of Augustus—29–7 CE, p. 290; 9. Coin of Hadrian—117–35 CE, half title
page; 10. Roman gem—undated, title page.
44 See George F. Hill, Coins of Ancient Sicily (London: Constable and Co., 1903), Plate XI,
no. 10; XV no. 4, the first undated, the second of the Republican period. I did not see the
book, only the plates, at http://www.snible.org/coins/library/hill_sicily/index.html. In a
later publication, Kenneth Jenkins, Coins of Greek Sicily (London: British Museum, 1966)
no triskele coins are found at all.
45 See e.g. Sabine Heinz, Celtic Symbols (New York: Sterling, 1999), 235–6.
46 Ilan and Pinkpank, LJNLA II, 557–9. In the original publication (p. 542) we had argued
that it can also be seen elsewhere on the western wall, but a closer look at the walls of the
caves themselves indicates that we were probably over-zealous or simply mistaken.
280 Ilan

frequented by members of a unit from Sicily, who found it necessary to associ-

ate themselves with their native country? I suggest that these two inscriptions
be associated with the earlier, pagan phase of the cave. If we imagine the west-
ern wall of Elijah’s Cave, with the three foundation inscriptions and the two
inscriptions displaying the triskele, both also inscribed within tabula ansatas,
we get a pretty good idea about how it looked at the beginning. People who
venerated the site came and transcribed their names in tabulas, not all well
executed, north of the three foundation inscriptions. Since the triskele is the
symbol of Sicily, it is my contention that, the cave was patronized by a Sicilian
military unit, which left its imprint on many parts of the western wall. Whether
it was stationed in Akko/Ptolemais, which is, as we noted, commemorated in
the cave four times, is impossible to tell. None of the triskeles are associated
with the Ptolemais inscriptions.

2.3 A Jewish Synagogue?

Despite the observations of previous scholars, the cave walls yield a great deal
of information on the Jewishness of the site. I could begin by discussing the
ultimate Jewish symbols on the eastern wall—the two menorot, but I will
begin, as promised, with an inscription.
The foundation inscriptions of the site, preserved as three monumental
tabula ansatas, were described in detail above. If we move further north along
the wall we find a similar alignment of three tabula ansatas, slightly smaller
and not as well crafted, but which can, nevertheless, be perceived as an imita-
tion of the first three. In other words, they seem poised to replace the original
first three in intent and importance:

Figure 16.6
The three Jewish dedication inscriptions.
Elijah ’ s Cave in Haifa: Whose Holy Site is this Anyway ? 281

Unfortunately the first of the three is illegible47 and the second is only half
preserved. The half that is preserved, however, is of major importance. Let us
read it as we did its pagan counterpart:

Figure 16.7 Judas’ [pros]euche dedication.

Μνη[σθῇ . . .] | Ἰούδα[ς . . .] | Remem[bered . . .] Juda[s . . .]

Κλα[υδία . . .] | εὐχή [. . .] Cla[udia’s . . .] vow [. . .]49

Juda[s . . .]: The name Judah is without doubt Jewish. Not only was it perceived
as such by pagans, because it became intimately identified with the name
they gave to the Jewish people (Ioudaioi), but it was also never adopted by
Christians, because of the infamous Judas of the Gospel tradition. Thus, this
monumental inscription was undoubtedly inscribed by a Jew.
Vow: A vow is a religious obligation, taken by people of faith, and is a term
that often appears in inscriptions associated with religious sites. In Elijah’s
cave it appears again, in the only Latin inscription we deciphered, as votum.49
Note, however, that the word εὐχή (vow) is inscribed at the beginning of a line,
and the end of the previous line is completely destroyed. Perhaps εὐχή is only
the end of a longer word that could be reconstructed as προσευχή. This is a term
used extensively in antiquity for a synagogue.50 If this reconstruction is correct,

47 Although Ovadiah and Pierri argued that it can be partially deciphered, see Christ is Here!,
57, no. 39: “Remembered be Ouales and Esklepiades.” They may be correct. We were not
able to read it.
48 Ilan and Pinkpank, LJNLA II, 559–61, no. 23. For the reading of the bottom one see p. 561–2,
no. 24.
49 Based on Ilan and Pinkpank, LJNLA II, 553–4, no. 20a. Ovadiah and Pierri, LA 62 (2012): 212
(no. 28) read here something completely different.
50 This term (proseuche) was very common in Ptolemaic and Roman Egypt. However, we do
find it functioning as a synagogue in writings of a much later date, see in Josephus, e.g.
Vita 277 (in Tiberias); and in other authors, e.g. Juvenal (Stern, Greek and Latin Authors II,
99 [no. 298]), Cleodemos (Ibid., 157 [no. 333]) and Artemidorus (Ibid., 330 [no. 395]) all
282 Ilan

we have here a specific mention of a synagogue at the site and may suggest that
Elijah’s cave was seen as such by its new owners. In light of this suggestion,
the similarity of this inscription to the Elios-the-Greatest inscription is even
more pronounced, since in the latter too, “the place” (ho topos, i.e. the cave) is
mentioned as the object of dedication. The term ὁ τόπος (the place), used to
designate holy sites, is also occasionally employed to describe a synagogue.51
In light of this inscription, further evidence for the presence of a Jewish holy
site from antiquity in the location may be presented. Unlike Christian sym-
bols, which are for all intents and purposes absent from this cave, the ultimate
Jewish symbol from antiquity—the menorah—is clearly represented on the
walls of the cave. On the eastern wall it features prominently:

Figure 16.8 The menorot on the eastern wall.

Having become aware of these, suddenly other features, which we had found
hard to interpret, also lent themselves to the suggestion that they represent
menorot. Note for example this inscription, preserved very high on the middle
of the western wall:

Figure 16.9 Schematic menorot on the western wall.

from the 1st and 2nd centuries CE. For proseuche in the region of the Black Sea at the same
time see Leigh Gibson, The Jewish Manumission Inscriptions from the Bosporus Kingdom
(Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1999) throughout. For a proseuche in 4th century Spain see
David Noy, Jewish Inscriptions from Western Europe, (Excluding the City of Rome), Spain
and Gaul (Cambridge: University Press, 1993), 241–4, no. 180.
51 See above, n. 25.
Elijah ’ s Cave in Haifa: Whose Holy Site is this Anyway ? 283

This graffito, documenting a corrupt form of the biblical name Abiathar, pre-
serves the incisions of at least three and perhaps even four schematic menorot
flanking the name.52 In light of this, also the Ψ-like symbols flanking another
inscription, this time from the eastern wall, should probably also be inter-
preted as schematic menorot.53

Figure 16.10 Schematic menorot on the eastern wall.

The presence of a menorah in a structure or on a stone anywhere in the ancient

world is the best indicator we have of its Jewishness.54 In arguing for the late-
antique date of the Jewishness of the site, it should be noted that menorot
would not have been scratched on the walls much later than the Byzantine
period.55
Aside from these objects, biblical names scratched on the walls of the cave
also carry over the message that we are dealing with a Jewish site. I first con-
centrate on the Greek inscriptions in which biblical names appear, and then
move on to the Hebrew and Aramaic ones. Since it was not a Christian site,
biblical names indicate Jewishness. Aside from Judah, mentioned above, we
read four undoubtedly biblical names recorded in Greek (Abiathar; Yonah;
Phineas; Samuel56). The orthography of the names is not standard Septuagint.

52 Ilan and Pinkpank, LJNLA II, 566–7, no. 30.

53 Ilan and Pinkpank, LJNLA II, 529–30, no. 3. On schematization of artistic themes see
Yosef Garfinkel, Dancing at the Dawn of Agriculture (Austin TX: University of Texas Press,
2003), 125–32; idem, Sha’ar Hagolan 3: Symbolic Dimension of the Yarmukian Culture:
Canonization in Neolithic Art (Jerusalem: Hebrew University, 2010), 342–3.
54 Ilan, LJNA III, Introduction 6.3.1, p. 35.
55 See the definitive study of the topic by Rachel Hachlili, The Menorah: The Ancient Seven-
Armed Candelabrum (Leiden: Brill, 2001). On p. 518 she records an Elijah Cave menorah in
her catalogue, though she presents no picture of it.
56 See Ilan and Pinkpank, LJNLA II, nos. 30 (pp. 566–7), 48 (pp. 583–4), 34 (p. 572), 5
(pp. 530–1) respectively.
284 Ilan

The name Ἀβιάτρ is spelt defectively, as though the scribe had only a sketchy
idea of vowels. A Semitic notion is concealed behind this phenomenon. The
transliteration of the name Phineas (Πυνχας) is otherwise completely unat-
tested; and the spelling of Jonas (Ἠώνας) is also unique and smacks strongly of
iotacism, typical of the Greek of Late Antiquity.
Finally, Jewishness is indicated by the presence of inscriptions in the
Hebrew script. There are two (or three) inscriptions in Hebrew, which can
perhaps be identified as relatively early, of ‫( יעקב‬Jacob) and ‫]י]שראל בן ראובן‬
(Israel son of Reuven) on the eastern wall57 and an Aramaic inscription of
‫( יצחק בר כומה‬Isaac son of Komah) on the western wall.58 Both these clusters
seem well integrated into the Greek-inscription texture of their surroundings.
The inscriptions on the eastern wall are inordinately small, but so is the Greek
inscription mentioning the friends of Ptolemais (see above), just above them.59
The inscription on the western wall is located in the middle of a large number
of Greek inscriptions and well integrated into its surrounding. Yet these hardly
constitute hard evidence for Jewish veneration of the site in antiquity, since
while we know that Greek went out of use as a common language in Palestine
shortly after the advent of Islam, Hebrew letters continued to be in use, and
underwent little change throughout the entire Middle Ages.60
Having summarized the evidence for a Jewish presence at the site, I wish
to propose a reconstruction of the relationship between the older pagan site
and the newer Jewish one. I had described the pagan dedication inscription of
Elios Megistos as being flanked above it and below it by tabulas just as impres-
sive and well executed as the one described above. Unfortunately, they could
not be read,61 since they were systematically hammered-out so as not to leave
any trace of their contents. Who would have wished to destroy two of the three
foundation inscriptions at the site? We could imagine a fight for prestige among
its founders, but we can just as likely imagine that this was done by the Jewish
heirs of the site, who wished to destroy any evidence of pagan worship that
had once been practiced here, and set up their own dedicatory inscriptions

57 Ilan and Pinkpank, LJNLA II, 538–40, nos. 10–11.

58 Ilan and Pinkpank, LJNLA II, 574, no. 37.
59 Ovadiah and Pierri, Christ is Here!, 46–47 list these names together with others also etched
on the walls which he assigns to “Jews from Acre/Akko who visited the site in the 18th–
19th centuries.” I agree that this is indeed the case with other inscriptions I do not list
here, but the ones I do have an appearance of being older.
60 This observation is based first and foremost on the evidence of the important epigraphist
Ada Yardeni, delivered to me at the site of Elijah’s Cave.
61 But see Ovadiah and Pierri, LA 62 (2012): 210 (no. 16), who claim that the upper tabela
can be read, though not in any meaningful way.
Elijah ’ s Cave in Haifa: Whose Holy Site is this Anyway ? 285

just a little way removed from the original ones. If this is the case, we may well
inquire why they did not destroy the dedication inscription in the middle. It
seems to me that the name and title of this founder saved it. When the Jews
dedicated this site, obviously they identified it with the prophet Elijah, who,
as is well known, fought with the Baal priests on Mount Carmel (1 Kings 18
especially, verses 20 and 42).62 When they read the name Elios Megistos here
(which they understood to refer to Elijah the Greatest) they incorporated it
into their new shrine, and saw no reason to erase it, like they did to its two
pagan counterparts. If this reconstruction is correct, we have to assume that
the destruction was performed by Jews who sanctified the site, and that they
could still read and understand Greek, i.e. before the Arab conquest set in.

2.4 Islam
Islam was, of course, a late-comer in the region, but we have also found traces
of Islam’s interest in the cave, and of its representatives acting toward the
Jewish shrine, from a phenomenological point of view, in exactly the same
manner as the Jews had acted toward the remains left by their pagan predeces-
sors. As stated above, there are two menorot incised on the northern corner of
the eastern wall. One of them, however, is more difficult to make out than the
other one, because at some point someone incised an Arabic inscription on
top of it, which erased part of the menorah itself.63

Figure 16.11 The Arabic inscription defacing the menorot.

The Arabic inscription was superimposed on one menorah and the inscription
continued above the other one. This was probably done intentionally, since
the menorot are the sine qua non identity marker of Judaism, and the Arabic
inscription bears the strongest identity marker of Islam. It contains the text

62 Interestingly, Ovadiah and Pierri, Christ is Here!, 36 actually identify the pagan site with
the Canaanite Baal.
63 Ilan and Pinkpank, LJNLA II, 525–6, no. 1a.
286 Ilan

“Bi’sm Allah al-Rahman” (64�‫ )] ب�]���س� ا �ل�لى ا �لر��ح��م� ن‬which is the opening formula
‫م‬
of all the suras in the Quran. It is also a most common Arabic phrase, used often
to praise God. In this respect this inscription is of a completely different nature
from all the other inscriptions in the cave, which obviously preceded it and
innocently carved the names of the visitors at the site. This inscription is theo-
logical and intentional. It was carved by a member of the dominant religion in
the land, perhaps at a time when the ownership of the cave was disputed, right
across the two menorot on the wall, which he obviously understood as repre-
senting a (much?) earlier Jewish declaration of ownership of the site.

3 A New Suggestion for the History of Elijah’s Cave in Late Antiquity

When the natural cave that is Elijah’s Cave was reworked so thoroughly that
its cavity became an elongated very precise cubicle, with smoothed, perpen-
dicular walls and right angles, the walls were completely smooth and the relief
pillars that flanked its apsis at the south end were perfect. Aside from these, it
looked much the same as what may be seen today if one removes the modern
religious paraphernalia which decorate it. Sometime after the foundation of a
Roman colonia in Akko/Ptolemais in 56 CE the first inscriptions were inscribed
on the wall. They were official inscriptions, executed professionally, by the civic
authorities (the curia) of the colonia. This raises the possibility that it was the
colonia that authorized and perhaps even financed the erection of the shrine.
It was founded on the mountain-head that juts into the Mediterranean at the
southern tip of the Bay of Haifa, facing north, facing Ptolemais at the other
side of the bay and facing the sea itself. Perhaps it was a shrine for Poseidon,
or some other sea god who graced these shores (such as the Phoenician Yam).
If the dedication inscription of Elios, the Decurion of Ptolemais, post-dates
the foundation of the Colonia Ptolemais, it cannot post-date it by much. In 67
CE the shrine of the God of the Carmel was visited, according to Tacitus and
Seutonius, by the soon-to-be-Emperor Vespasian. This is a strong chronologi-
cal anchor for events at the site.
Imagining the empty walls of Elijah’s cave, we observe that the first persons,
who inscribed their names on it, usually moving further north, revered the
tabula ansatas and attempted to imitate them.

64 I thank my student, Dr. Mohammad al-Qara of Yarmouk University in Irbid, Jordan for
deciphering this inscription for me.
Elijah ’ s Cave in Haifa: Whose Holy Site is this Anyway ? 287

Figure 16.12 Southern section of the western wall.

Such is the inscription of Germanus, a Roman soldier and of Papas (both per-
haps from a Sicilian regiment posted nearby).
Not everyone was a skilled stonemason and some of the tabulas are rather
poorly carved. It is important to note that, as we move further north on the
western wall, the tabulas become less professional until at the end they disap-
pear altogether, being replaced by every form of graffiti.
We may be able to date some of the inscriptions based on the shape of
the letter Ξ evident in the names, Alexander (no. 18) Maximus (no. 28) and
Zeuxios (no. 44). The letter ξ in these inscription is written halfway between
the majuscule Ξ and the minuscule ξ. The leading epigraphist on Greek
dated inscriptions, Leah Di Segni identified this form only in one inscription,
288 Ilan

Figure 16.13 Central section of the western wall. Papas inscription is no. 22.

dated to 187 CE.65 Thus, it allows us to date most sections of the western wall to
the second-third centuries.
When exactly the site became Jewish is not clear. On the western wall the
apparent Jewish evidence is not great. There are the three dedication inscrip-
tions in the middle section, with Judah and the possible mention of the syna-
gogue in the middle (no. 23), and there is the inscription of Abiathar and his
several menorot further north (no. 30). Phineas, with his unusual spelling is
located in a makeshift tabula ansata (no. 34) and Ionas is a well-executed

65 Leah Di Segni, Dated Greek Inscriptions from Palestine from the Roman and Byzantine
Periods (PhD Thesis; Hebrew University Jerusalem, 1997), 894.
Elijah ’ s Cave in Haifa: Whose Holy Site is this Anyway ? 289

Figure 16.14 The northern section of the western wall.

graffiti at the northern extreme (no. 48). The Aramaic graffito of Isaac bar
Komah is located in the middle of many Greek graffiti in the untidy northern
section (no. 37).
It seems that it was during its Jewish phase that the eastern wall became
the object of engravers and graffiti inscribers. On the northern section of the
eastern wall, near the entrance, the two large menorot were inscribed.
The inscriptions on the southern part of the eastern wall imitate the tabulas
of the western wall but are much smaller and less carefully executed, with no
perceivable order.
Indications of Jewishness are also evident in this section. Both the Hebrew
graffiti (nos. 10–11) and the schematic menorot (no. 3) can be found. The name
290 Ilan

Figure 16.15 The northern section of the eastern wall.

Samuel is recorded here too (no. 5). The shape of a letter in his name is an indi-
cation of the lateness of this section of the wall. The diphthong ου is abbrevi-
ated twice in this inscription with the monogram ɤ. In her paleographic study
of Greek inscriptions from Palestine Leah Di Segni remarks that only in the 6th
century this monogram makes its appearance.66 Jews were therefore in posses-
sion of this site until late antiquity.
Finally, one last piece of evidence may be enlisted here in order to com-
plete the record of what we know of Elijah’s cave from late antiquity. As is
well known, in this period Christianity reigned supreme in the Holy Land.
And indeed, there is little doubt that even as no Christian evidence is found

66 See Di Segni, Dated Greek Inscriptions, 893.

Elijah ’ s Cave in Haifa: Whose Holy Site is this Anyway ? 291

Figure 16.16 The southern section of the eastern wall.

292 Ilan

in Elijah’s cave, the remains of a Byzantine monastery were excavated on the

promontory “between the Cave of Elijah below and the lighthouse above.”67
This church certainly existed, while Jews worshiped in Elijah’s cave. Evidence
for the sort of strained coexistence between the two sites comes to us from
an unexpected angle—the treatise—“The life of Jesus” (‫)תולדות ישו‬. This com-
position is the major Jewish polemical treatise against Christianity from late
antiquity. It is evidently post-talmudic, and has been preserved in various ver-
sions. Those which were known in his day were published by Samuel Kraus in
1902.68 The main thrust of the book describes Jesus as a bastard (‫ )ממזר‬and a
magician, who engages in a magical contest with the great sages of his day.69
In one of the fragments Kraus published, the text concentrates on a contest
between Jesus and the sages Joshua ben Perahiah70 and a certain Judah the gar-
dener. The text is rather fragmentary, but further manuscripts relating this part
of the story were identified from the Cairo Genizah and in other manuscript
collections.71 The versions of this story from the Genizah are both in Hebrew
and in Aramaic, and since Hebrew remained a literary language for Jews
throughout the Middle Ages, while Aramaic quickly died out with the advent
of Islam, these Cairo Genizah texts indicate that the popular and early
Aramaic story was translated into Hebrew in order to preserve it, thus dating
the Aramaic versions to among the earliest in the Genizah (ca. the 9th cen-
tury). Samuel Krauss had dated the composition itself to as early as the 6th

67 Friedman, Latin Hermits, 83. For the excavations at the site see p. 84.
68 Samuel Krauss, Das Leben Jesu nach jüdischen Quellen (Berlin: S. Calvary, 1902).
69 A new edition to this multi-faceted work is now being produced by Peter Schäfer and a
group of scholars in Princeton. We will be able to say much more meaningful things about
this text once it appears in print.
70 Joshua ben Perahiah is one of the most enigmatic figures in the literature and archaeol-
ogy of late antiquity. Aside from appearing once in Tractate Avot of the Mishnah (1:6),
he features prominently on the Magic Bowls from Babylonia and once, as Jesus’ teacher
in the Babylonian Talmud (bSanh 107b). Further on these finds and their relationship to
the Talmud see Tal Ilan, “Jesus and Joshua ben Perahiah: A Jewish-Christian Dialogue
on Magic in Babylonia,” in: Envisioning Judaism: Studies in Honor of Peter Schäfer on the
Occasion of his Seventieth Birthday (eds. R. Boustan et al.; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2013),
985–96. It seems that Joshua ben Perahiah was re-imported to Palestine in the Toldot
Yeshu, as a powerful magician, after his great success in the Babylonian magic bowls.
71 Yaakov Deutsch, “New Evidence of Early versions of Toldot Yeshu,” Tarbiz 69 (2000): 177–
97 [Hebrew].
Elijah ’ s Cave in Haifa: Whose Holy Site is this Anyway ? 293

century,72 and William Horbury, after him, even to as early as the 4th century.73
I am interested in the following section of the story:

And they led him to Tiberias . . . They brought Jesus and wished to crucify
him. He said a magician’s charm and flew from their hands in the air of
the sky like a bird. Judah the Gardener said to Joshua ben Perahiah: Go
after him . . . At that moment he used the infallible name and flew after
him. Since the wicked Jesus saw this he went and hid himself in the Cave
of Elijah. He said a magician’s charm and closed the mouth of the cave.
Judah the gardener came to the entrance of the cave and said to it: Open,
for I am the messenger of the Great God. Once it heard this, the cave
mouth opened and the wicked Jesus . . . himself as a chicken bird and
went and sat on Mount Carmel, till Judah the Gardener came and caught
him in the wrists of his hands and brought him to Joshua ben Perahiah
and he was taken and crucified.74

In this text we are informed that, once Joshua ben Perahiah and Judah the
Gardener showed their greater magical proficiency, Jesus escaped and con-
cealed himself inside Elijah’s Cave. The cave, however, proved tricky for him
and he was locked inside, unable to escape, until Judah the Gardener came and
uttered the correct magical formula, and the cave opened. At this point Jesus
flew like a chicken atop Mount Carmel.
In this polemical anti-Christian text we have a cave designated “Elijah’s
Cave” and we have a location—Mount Carmel. The cave is further described as
unfriendly toward Jesus, probably indicating the Jewish rather than Christian
character of the site. It is thus very instructive to note what Jesus does once he
leaves the cave—he flies up and sits on top of the mountain, probably believ-
ing he will find refuge there. A certain geography is evident—in the moun-
tain is the Jewish cave, which rejects Jesus, while the top of the mountain
seems to him to secure safety. If this text reflects late antiquity, it may hint at
Christian presence on top of the mountain while affirming the Jewishness of
the cave. The Toldoth Yeshu may be reflecting a competition between Jews and
Christians about who possess the real Elijah site.

72 Krauss, Leben Jesu, 246–7.

73 Horbury suggested this in his PhD which was not published, and which I have not seen.
I base myself on Deutsch, Tarbiz 69 (2000): 177, n. 2.
74 Based on the Aramaic version T-S Misc. 35.87, 88, see Deutsch, Tarbiz 69 (2000): 178, n. 3
on the manuscript. The text is presented on pp. 193–4 [Hebrew].
294 Ilan

4 Conclusion

So, whose holy site was Elijah’s cave anyway? One approach would be to
argue that it was this nice place venerated by all—pagans, Jews, Christians,
Muslims. Other sites like this have been identified in Palestine. Take Mamre for
example, which was described by the church historian Sozomen as “visited by
Jews, because of the Patriarch Abraham, by pagans because of the angels and
by Christians because of Christ.” (Sozomen, Hist. Eccles ii, 4).75 I think, how-
ever, that this approach about the benign character of religion has had its day.
Even as Sozomen describes this neigh-idyllic picture of religious co-existence,
the decrees of Constantine, to requisition the site and turn it Christian, were
already underway.76
Our cave too shows that violence was the order of the day, rather than a
peaceful co-existence. The Jews erased the works of their pagan predeces-
sors. The Muslims triumphantly displayed their article of faith across the
Jewish holy symbol. Even the most virulent anti-Christian polemical Jewish
composition—Toledot Yeshu—describes Elijah’s cave as a site of religious
contention.77
This study follows closely on the observations made by Steven Fine on an
art object he recently discovered from ancient Laodicea (Turkey of today). The
object is a pillar with a menorah carved on it, above which a cross was incised
triumphantly and in stronger relief. Fine states that scholars in general, during
the second half of the 20th century (and he in the past among them), tended
to identify such symbols a sort of symbiosis, a peaceful co-existence that had
reigned between Jews and Christians in late antiquity. Yet the tide has turned.
Fine now thinks that the superimposed cross indicates that a Jewish site was
destroyed to make way for the new religion. He writes:

We cannot know whether the Laodicea menorah remained visible under

the cross—in which case it would have made a clear statement of era-
sure and supersession—or whether it might have been plastered over.
We shall never know what happened in Laodicea that led to the column
of a Jewish building—or at least, a building used by Jews—to be resigned
in Christian terms. My own instinct, however, is to suspect the worst

75 Cited in Taylor, Christians and Holy Places, 88.

76 See Taylor, Christians and Holy Places, 86–95.
77 And Doron Bar, of the Hebrew University, has shown that in the 1950s and 60s Elijah’s cave
was a site of legal dispute between the Vatican and the State of Israel, see: Bar, Sanctifying
a Land.
Elijah ’ s Cave in Haifa: Whose Holy Site is this Anyway ? 295

and to suggest that the kind of social distancing given expression by the
Council of Laodicea adversely affected the local late-antique Jewish com-
munity, of which our column is the only archaeological evidence.78

In the same vain, I think we must understand the religious character of Elijah’s
Cave in terms of an on-going struggle, among the various religions and reli-
gious denominations in the region to possess, disinherit and repossess the site.
This is a very different story from the ones told previously by scholars of the
relationship between the different religions of Palestine.

78 Steven Fine, “The Menorah and the Cross: Historiographical Reflections on a Recent
Discovery from Laodicea on the Lycus,” in New Perspectives on Jewish-Christian Relations,
in Honor of David Berger (eds. E. Carlebach and J. J. Schacter; Leiden: Brill, 2012), 49–50.
Index of Modern Authors

Abe, Takuji 37 Barrick, W. Boyd 9

Abusch, Tzvi 34 Barstad, Hans M. 57
Achenbach, Reinhard 17 Barton, John 58
Ackerman, Susan 75 Baudy, Gerhard 205
Ahn, John J. 51 Bauks, Michaela 14
Aitken, James K. 129 Baumgarten, Albert 227
Albeck, Chanoch 81, 250 Baur, Ferdinand Christian 101‒3, 115‒17
Albertz, Rainer 15‒16, 39 Bauspiess, Martin 101
Alexander, Elisabeth Shanks 226 Beal, Richard H. 45, 56, 60
Alexander, Loveday 235 Beal, Timothy 160
Alexander, Philip S. 115, 126 Beaulieu, Paul-Alain 69‒71, 74
Allen, Leslie C. 10 Becker, Uwe 16
Al-Rawi, Farouk N. H. 90 Becking, Bob 4, 32, 42
Altheus, Paul 204 Bedford, Peter R. 70
Álvarez-Mon Javier 70 Beentjes, Pancratius C. 138, 158‒59
Ameling, Walter 273 Beicken, Jochen 101
Amenta, Alessia 162 Belayche, Nicole 222
Amit, Yairah 36, 49 Bellia, Giuseppe 158‒59
Anderson, Benedict 141, 144, 244 Ben-Dov, Jonathan 11, 44, 46, 68, 94, 254
Anderson, Graham 224 Ben-Eliyahu, Eyal 229
Ando, Clifford 230, 235‒39, 241‒44 Benoit, Pierre 273
Appelbaum, Alan 243 Benseler, Gustav E. 270
Al-Qara, Mohammad 286 Benz, Frank L. 33
Argall, Randal A. 148 Ben Zvi, Ehud 52, 62, 65
Arnal, William E. 235 Bergman, Jan 164
Arnet, Martin 17 Berkowitz, Beth A. 221
Ast, Rodney 122 Berlin, Andrea M. 3, 181, 238
Aster, Shawn Z. 10 Berman, Joshua 44, 46
Athanassiadi, Polymnia 168 Berner, Christoph 15, 21
Augustinović, Agostino 267 Bernstein, Moshe J. 112
Avery-Peck, Alan J. 231 Berquist, Jon L. 51
Avishur, Yitshak 81 Betz, Hans D. 101, 204
Avi-Yonah, Michael 276 Beyer, Hermann W. 204
Bhabha, Homi 156
Baasten, Martin F. J. 126 Bianchi, Ugo 205
Bacher, Wilhelm 80 Bichler, Reinhold 100‒1
Badawi, Ahmad Mohamad 33 Bickerman, Elias 105, 113
Baden, Joel S. 14‒16 Biggs, Robert D. 87
Bagnall, Roger S. 120, 123 Binder, Donald D. 170
Baillet, Maurice 131 Blaschke, Andreas 207, 214
Baily, Lisa 2 Blau, Joshua 81
Bakhos, Carol 134 Blenkinsopp, Joseph 15
Baltensweiler, Heinrich 107 Block, Daniel I. 61
Bar, Doron 267, 294 Blidstein, Gerald J. 240
Barclay, John M. G. 138, 167‒68, 203 Bloedhorn, Hanswulf 271
298 Index Of Modern Authors

Boardman, John 69 Cataldo, Jeremiah W. 50‒51

Bodi, Daniel 10, 53, 58 Cavigneaux, Antoine 72‒75, 93
Böhlig, Hans 102 Chalcraft, David 119
Boman, Torleif 103 Chameaux, François 136
Bonneau, Danielle 163 Çaykent, Özlem 2
Borchardt, Francis 190 Chaniotis, Angelos 143
Borger, Rykle 55 Chankowski, Andrzej S. 163
Bornstein, Hayyim Y. 255 Charvát, Petr 69
Borse, Udo 204, 208 Chatterjee, Partha 141‒43, 145‒46, 148, 153
Botta, Alejandro F. 40, 42 Chen, Yiyi 71
Bougia, P. 254 Chester, Andrew 108
Bousset, Wilhelm 99, 102, 117 Christol, Michel 188
Boustan, Raʾanan S. 292 Chrupcala, L. Daniel 265
Bowden, John 97‒98, 105, 155, 234 Civil, Miguel 89
Bowen, Nancy R. 9, 11‒12 Clancier, Philippe 70
Bowersock, Glen W. 225, 240 Claußen, Carsten 111
Bowie, Ewen L. 225 Coblentz Bautsch, Kelley 102
Bowman, R. A. 90 Cohen, Mark E. 73
Boyarin, Daniel 89, 219, 227, 240 Cohen, Shaye J. D. 228‒29, 243
Boyarin, Jonathan 227 Cohn, Naftali 223, 225, 228, 231
Boyi, Tom 37 Collins, John J. 64‒68, 99, 113, 141, 171, 246
Brady, Monica 125 Conklin, Blane 40‒41
Brant, Jo-Ann 227 Cooper, Nicholas J. 220
Brenner, Athalya 49 Conzelmann, Hans 171‒72
Breuer, Yahanan 83 Corley, Jeremy 159
Breytenbach, Cilliers 101‒2, 104 Cotton, Hannah M. 223, 229, 238‒39
Briant, Pierre 16, 19 Cribiore, Raffaella 122, 172
Bricault, Laurent 164 Cross, Frank Moore 37, 68
Bronstick, Nachum M. 81 Crossan, John Dominic 234
Brooke, George J. 5, 129 Crouch, Carly L. 45, 47, 52, 57‒60, 62‒63
Browning, Ian 277 Cruz-Uribe, Eugene 26
Bulman, Bill 136 Cullmann, Oscar 103
Bülow-Jacobsen, Adam 120‒22 Curchin, Leonard A. 220, 235
Bultmann, Rudolf 97, 99, 103‒4, 107, 117 Curtis, John 69‒70
Bultrighini, Ilaria 253
Burghardt, Walter J. 273 Dalman, Gerhard 104
Burnett, Andrew 185‒86, 188 Daniels, Peter T. 16
Burstein, Stanley M. 71 Daube, David 242
Davies, Graham I. 28
Calduch-Benages, Núria 140 Davies, Philip R. 137
Cameron, Averil 231 Davies, William David 105, 243
Camp, Claudia V. 145‒46 Day, John 59
Canaan, Taufik 274 De Breucker, Geert 70‒71
Cancik-Kirschbau, Eva 65 De Pury, Albert 15, 24
Cankara, Murat 2 De Lange, Nicholas R. M. 232
Carlebach, Elisheva 295 Deines, Roland 99
Carletti, Carlo 260 Dej Ellis, Maria 90
Carson, Lionel 225 DeJong Ellis, Maria 60
Carstens, Pernille 52 Delcor, Mathias 105
Index Of Modern Authors 299

Delitzsch, Friedrich 13 Fine, Steven 243, 252, 294‒95

Dell, Katherine J. 129 Finkel, Irving L. 77‒78, 90, 93
Deutsch, Robert 37 Finkelstein, Louis 106
Deutsch, Yaakov 292‒93 Fischer, Georg 14
Dever, William G. 35, 75 Fischer, Irmtraud 52
DeVries, Carl E. 207 Flint, Peter W. 66
Di Lella, Alexander A. 155, 158, 173‒74 Flowerdew, John 41
Di Segni, Leah 288, 290 Folmer, Margaretha 33
Diggelman, Lindsay 2 Fonrobert, Charlotte Elisheva 244
Dinkler, Erich 171 Forte, Bettie 224
Dohrmann, Natalie B. 218, 221, 223, 226, Fossum, Jarl 99
230‒31 Foster, Benjamin R. 52
Doran, Robert 140 Fowden, Garth 244
Doty, L. Timothy 90 Fox, Robin L. 243
Dozemann, Thomas B. 14‒15, 29 Fraade, Steven 89
Droysen, Johann Gustav 100‒1, 116 Frahm, Eckart 50, 57‒58, 63, 76‒77, 79, 87,
Dunn, James D. G. 204, 208 89‒91
Dupont-Sommer, André 37 Frede, Michael 168
Freedman, Sally 93
Eck, Werner 222, 233, 239 Frei, Peter 26
Edelman, Diana 62, 65 Frevel, Christian 15
Edrei, Aryeh 230 Freyne, Sean 179
Edwards, James R. 206, 208 Frey, Jörg 4, 101‒2, 105, 108, 111‒12, 115, 117,
Ehling, Kay 184 209, 211
Elgavish, Joseph 274 Friedman, Elias 268, 274, 292
Elliger, Karl 14 Friedman, Richard Elliot 24
Elliot, Susan 204‒6, 210, 213‒14 Friesen, Steven J. 233
Elliott, John H. 243 Frillingos, Chris 221
Elliott, Neil 234‒36, 238, 245 Fuchs, Andreas 56
Elman, Yaakov 231 Fuks, Alexander 249
Emerton, John A. 14‒15, 17, 28 Funck, Bernd 100, 106
Engberg-Pedersen, Troels 101, 114‒15 Furstenberg, Yair 227, 240
Epping, Jos 45
Epstein, Jaacov 83 Gabbay, Uri 5, 8, 46, 76‒77, 79, 85, 91‒92, 94
Erskine, Andrew 150 Gafni, Isaiah 240
Esler, Philip F. 233 Gaida, Marcel 265
Evans, Craig A. 66 Gallagher, William 71
Ezrahi, Yaron 244 García Martínez, Florentino 66, 112
Garfinkel, Stephen 9‒11
Falk, Daniel K. 128 Garfinkel, Yosef 283
Falkenstein, Adam 90 Garnsey, Peter 232
Farber, Walter 54, 85 Garrison, Mark B. 70
Fassberg, Ellis 32 Gasparro, Giulia Sfameni 205
Fassberg, Steven 83 Gautier, Georges 188
Feldman, Louis H. 113‒14, 232‒33, 239 Gehrke, Hans-Joachim 101
Feldman, Marian H. 69 Geiger, Joseph 226
Fellows, Charles 278 Geller, Mark J. 92‒93
Ferrier, Ronald W. 39 George, Andrew, R. 53, 77‒78, 84‒85, 90
Filson, Floyd V. 104 Gerardi, Pamela 90
300 Index Of Modern Authors

Gerdmar, Anders 101‒2, 104, 114‒17 Hamburger, Herbert 186

Germer-Durand, Joseph 266‒67 Hämeen-Anttila, Jaakko 87
Gertz, Jan Christian 14‒15, 17, 20‒21 Handmann, George M. A. 37
Gibbon, Edward 239 Hannah, Robert 254
Gibbs, Sharon 254 Harland, Philip 227, 231, 243
Gibson, Leigh 281 Harnack, Adolf von 107
Gilat, Yitzhak 89 Harries, Jill 229
Gilbert, Maurice 158‒59 Harris, William V. 220
Gillihan, Yonder M. 111‒12 Hartog, Pieter B. 130
Ginsberg, Harold L. 32 Haubold, Johannes 71
Gitin, Seymour 35 Hawthorne, Gerald F. 207
Glassner, Jean-Jacques 52, 69 Hayward, C. T. Robert 154, 173
Glotz, Gustave 123 Hecker, Karl 55
Goldberg, Abraham 83, 89 Hedrick, Charles 227
Goldenberg, Robert 229 Heever, Gerhard van der 227
Goldhill, Simon 233 Heine, Thomas T. 13
Gombis, Timothy G. 215 Heintz, Jean-Jacques 58
Gong, Yushu 71 Heinz, Marlies 69
Goodenough, Erwin 218 Heinz, Sabine 279
Goodman, Martin 221‒22, 228, 230, 233, Heitmüller, Wilhelm 102, 117
235‒36, 238‒39, 243 Helzer, Michael 37
Gordley, Matthew E. 165 Hengel, Martin 4, 96‒118, 155, 179, 223
Gordon, Richard L. 162, 165 Henkelman, Wouter F. M. 72
Gordon, Robert P. 57 Henze, Matthias 64, 233
Gosse, Bernhard 20 Herr, Moshe D. 218
Gösta, Gabriel 45 Herrmann, Randolf 111‒12
Gould, William 150 Heuchert, Volker 185
Graf, Fritz 241 Hezser, Catherine 218, 223‒24, 227, 229‒31,
Grandjean, Yves 165 241
Granerød, Gard 34 Hickey, Raymond 94
Grayson, A. Kirk 54‒57, 69, 72 Hill, George F. 279
Green, Margaret W. 89 Himmelfarb, Martha 134‒35, 148‒49
Greenberg, Moshe 10, 61 Hipp, Jeschua 265
Grelot, Pierre 32 Hommel, Fritz 64
Griffiths, J. Gwen 162 Hong, Sung-Chul 234
Gripentrog, Stephanie 111, 117 Honigman, Sylvie 161, 190
Gröndahl, Frauke 32 Hoover, Oliver D. 181‒82, 184
Grundmann, Walter 212 Hoppe, Rudolf 104
Guillaume, Philippe 15 Horbury, William 108, 243, 249
Gunkel, Hermann 50 Horn, Friedrich W. 201
Gurney, Oliver R. 55, 86 Hornblower, Simon 162
Horowitz, H. Saul 81
Haacker, Klaus 104 Horowitz, Wayne 9‒10
Hachlili, Rachel 283 Horsley, Richard A. 136‒37, 146‒47, 234‒35
Hadas-Lebel, Mireille 232‒33, 235‒36 Horst, Pieter van der 168
Halbertal, Moshe 242 Howgego, Christopher 185
Hallem, Elizabeth 2 Huebner, Anna 2
Hallett, Timothy J. 61 Hulin, Peter 55
Halligan, John M. 137 Humphrey, John H. 221
Index Of Modern Authors 301

Hünefeld, Kerstin 265 Koch, Dietrich-Alex 201

Hunger, Hermann 78, 90 Koch, Heidemarie 69
Hurtado, Larry W. 99, 102, 108 Koch, Klaus 25‒26
Hurvitz, Avi 24, 32 Koch, Ulla Susanne 87‒88, 90
Hussain, Khurram 136, 144 Köckert, Matthias 15
Huvelin, Hélène 188 Kokkinos, Nikos 181, 188
Konradt, Matthias 138
Ilan, Tal 8, 265, 269‒72, 277‒79, 281‒85, 292 Kopp, Clemens 267
Iossif, Panagiotis P. 163 Kottek, Samuel 93
Irinschi, Eduard 235 Kottsieper, Ingo 38
Kraemer, Ross 193
Jackson, Bernard 230, 239 Kratz, Reinhard G. 14, 17, 30, 65‒66, 69
Jacobs, Bruno 9 Krauss, Samuel 232, 292
Jacobsen, David M. 181‒82, 184 Kritikakou, K. 254
Jaffee, Martin S. 226, 244 Kritikakou-Nikolaropoulou, Kalliope I.
Jakobson, Alexander 220 252‒54, 260
Jenkins, Kenneth 279 Krüger, Thomas 27‒28
Jeremias, Joachim 104 Kugel, James L. 160, 172
Jeremias, Jörg 20 Kugler, Robert A. 99
Joannès, Francis 70 Kühne, Hartmut 91
Jobs, Sebastian 2 Kuhrt, Amélie 34‒35, 39, 69, 72, 136, 143
Johnson, Janet H. 43 Kushnir-Stein, Alla 188
Jokiranta, Jutta 119
Jones, Arnold H. M. 241 Labahn, Michael 229
Jones, Christopher P. 225 Lacoste, Nathalie 157
Jones, Donald L. 243 Lambert, Wilfred G. 44, 52, 54‒55, 61, 72,
Joosten, Jan 160 85‒87, 89‒90
Jördens, Andrea 165 Landsberger, Benno 10
Langer, Ruth 243
Kaan, Iren 37 Lapin, Hayim 218‒20, 222‒24, 227‒29, 233,
Kahana, Menahem I. 80, 83 238, 240
Kaiser, Otto 24 Larson, John A. 43
Kämmerer, Thomas R. 44, 53‒54 Lawler, Thomas C. 273
Kampen, John 112 Leclant, Jean 164
Katz, Stevan 227 Lee, Thomas R. 139
Katzoff, Ranon 238 Lehmann, Reinhard G. 13
Keel, Othmar 9, 20, 61 Lehmkühler, Karsten 96
Kennedy, David 220‒21, 223, 239 Leichty, Erle 55, 57, 74, 90, 93
Kennedy, Hugh 53 Lemaire, André 32, 66
Kessler, Karlheinz 38 Lemche, Niels Peter 52
Kessler, Nadine 111 Lemos, Tracy M. 51
Kimelman, Reuven 243 Lenzi, Alan 45, 60
Kindler, Arie 181‒82 Leonhard, Clemens 128
Kingsley, Peter 9 Levin, Christoph 23
Kittel, Gerhard 104 Levine, Haim 89
Kluge, Bernd 181 Levine, Lee I. 114, 161, 219, 223, 228‒29
Klutz, Todd E. 21 Levinson, Bernard M. 44‒46
Knauf, Ernst Axel 15, 17, 25, 30 Lewis, Naphtali 121, 225
Knoppers, Gary N. 19 Lichtenberger, Achim 182
302 Index Of Modern Authors

Lieberman, Saul 232 Mastin, Brian A. 129

Lieberman, Stephen J. 91 Matras, Yaron 94
Liesen, Jan 140 Matthiae, Paolo 37
Lim, Timothy H. 246 Mattingly, David J. 219, 221
Lindberger, James M. 38 Matusova, Ekaterine 190
Linder, Amnon 270 McClure, M. L. 274
Lindner, Helgo 104 Metzler, Jeannot 237
Linssen, Marc J. H. 37 Maul, Stefan M. 47, 55, 57, 91, 93
Lipiński, Edward 34, 38 Meeks, Wayne A. 101‒2, 104, 115
Lipschits, Oded 19 Meimaris, Yiannis E. 252‒54, 260
Livingstone, Alasdair 34 Meir Rabinowitz, Zvi 89
Lohfink, Norbert 14‒15, 17 Mendels, Doron 220, 230
Löhr, Helmut 128 Merryweather, Andrew 220
Longenecker, Richard N. 108 Meshel, Zeʾev 33
Lorber, Catharine C. 163 Meshorer, Yaʾakov 182, 186‒88
Lorberbaum, Yair 228 Metso, Sarianna 11, 65, 126
Lozachmeur, Hélène 31, 42 Metzler, Kai A. 44, 54
Lubetski, Edith 38 Meyer, Marvin W. 166
Lubetski, Meir 38 Meyer, Rudolf 66
Lüdemann, Gerd 13, 96, 103 Meyers, Ben F. 230, 240
Lührmann, Dieter 204 Michaud, Jean-Marc 59
Luiselli, Maria M. 162 Michel, Otto 103‒4
Lundberg, Marilyn J. 252 Middendorp, Theophil 138
Lykke, Anne 6, 177, 181‒83, 185‒86, 188 Middlemas, Jill A. 50
Milik, Józef T. 65, 108, 131
Ma, John 150 Millar, Fergus 114, 222‒23, 226‒27, 239, 245
Macchi, Jean-Daniel 14 Millard, Alan 34
Maccoby, Hyam 103 Miller, James E. 8
MacDonald, Alasdair A. 70 Miller, Stuart S. 222‒23
Machinist, Peter 35, 73 Millett, Martin 237
Mack, Burton L. 139‒40, 147‒48 Misgav, Haggai 252
Mackenthun, Gesa 2 Mitchell, Stephen 168
Mackenzie, David N. 69 Mokhtar, Gamal 33
MacMullen, Ramsay 220, 222, 236‒37, 239, Momigliano, Arnaldo 113
242‒43 Mondriaan, Marlene Elizabeth 42
Magness, Jodi 181, 238 Morgan, Robert 101
Malbran-Labat, Florence 56 Morgenstern, Matthew 38
Malul, Meir 45‒46 Most, Glen W. 91
Maman, Aharon 83 Moyer, Ian 175
Marböck, Johannes 159 Muffs, Yochanan 42
Marchal, Joseph A. 234 Müller, Dieter 165
Marcus, Joel 211 Müller-Kessler, Christa 38
Maříkova Vlčková, Petra 69 Müller-Luckner, Elisabeth 238
Marshall, John 236 Müller Truffaut, Susanne 9‒10
Martin, Dale B. 115 Mußner, Franz 205
Marttila, Marko 137, 149, 151
Martyn, J. Louis 202, 205 Naeh, Shlomo 88
Marzahn, Joachim 65 Najman, Hindy 6‒7, 11, 65, 126, 152, 191, 196,
Mason, Steve N. 117 198
Index Of Modern Authors 303

Nasrallah, Laura 233 Pietersma, Albert 140, 171

Negev, Abraham 271 Pineles, Zvi M. 255
Neudorfer, Heinz-Werner 107 Pingree, David 88
Neujahr, Matthew 72 Pinkpank, Olaf 265, 269‒72, 278‒79, 281‒85
Neusner, Jacob 80‒81, 218, 228, 231 Pitard, Wayne T. 252
Newman, Hillel 219 Pitts, Martin 4
Newman, Judith 6 Plantzos, Dmitris 163
Newsom, Carol 65‒67 Pohlmann, Karl-Friedrich 8, 20
Nickelsburg, George W. E. 159 Pola, Thomas 14
Niebuhr, Karl-Wilhelm 115 Polak, Frank H. 49
Niehr, Herbert 38‒39 Politis, Konstantinos 252
Nihan, Christophe 14‒15, 25 Pongratz-Leisten, Beate 17
Noam, Vered 232 Popović, Mladen 3, 4, 8, 11, 12, 30, 46, 68, 94,
Novotny, Jamie 56‒57 129‒31, 157, 190, 238
Noy, David 249, 271, 281 Porten, Bezalel 30, 32‒33
Portier-Young, Anathea 137‒38, 142‒44,
Oelsner, Joachim 93 150‒51, 233
Oeming, Manfred 19 Porton, Gary G. 230
Oepke, Albrecht 205, 208 Postgate, J. Nicholas 12
Olsson, Birger 170 Potter, David S. 230
Olyan, Saul M. 51 Potts, Daniel T. 70
Oorschot, Jürgen van 16 Prag, Jonathan 220
Ophir, Adi 230 Price, Martin 225
Oppenheim, A. Leo 12, 86 Price, Simon R. F. 222, 243‒44
Oshima, Takayoshi 54 Pritchard, James B. 32
Ossendrijver, Mathieu 74 Propp, William H. C. 24, 28
Otto, Eckart 14 Punt, Jeremy 234
Ovadiah, Asher 265‒67, 269‒72, 274, 277,
280‒81, 284‒85 Quasten, Johannes 273
Overman, J. Andrew 3
Özen, Alf 13 Rabin, Israel Abraham 81
Radner, Karen 12
Panaino, Antonio 66 Räisänen, Heikki 236, 243
Panayotov, Alexander 271 Rajak, Tessa 148
Pape, Wilhelm 270 Raposa, Michael 136
Parker, Barry F. 203 Reade, Julian E. 74
Parpola, Simo 10, 53, 87 Redford, Donald B. 162
Passaro, Angelo 158‒59 Reed, Annette Y. 218, 221, 223, 226
Pearce, Sarah 263 Reed, Jonathan L. 234
Perkins, Judith 231, 235, 238, 243 Regev, Eyal 119
Perlitt, Lothar 20 Reicke, Bo 107
Petry, Sven 35 Reiner, Erica 86, 88, 90, 93
Pettinato, Giovanni 66 Reisner, George Andrew 37
Peursen, Wido Th. van 126 Rendall, Steven 200
Pfann, Stephen J. 125, 132 Rey, Jean-Sébastien 160
Pfoh, Emanuel 50 Richardson, Peter 227
Phillips, Kim M. 2 Rives, John B. 241, 243
Pierri, Rosario 265, 269‒72, 274, 277, 280‒81, Roberts, C. H. 131
284‒85 Roberts, Jimmy Jack M. 61
304 Index Of Modern Authors

Robinson, James M. 171 Schwartz, Daniel R. 111, 117, 161, 189, 219
Robson, Eleanor 12 Schwartz, Eduard 257
Rochberg-Halton, Francesca 88 Schwartz, Seth 218‒19, 222‒23, 226, 229, 236,
Rohde, Joachim 205 242, 244
Rohrmoser, Angela 30, 32‒33, 42 Schwemer, Daniel 85
Roller, Lynn A. 205 Schwiderski, Dirk 33, 53
Rollinger, Robert 9 Scott, James C. 4‒5, 47‒52, 143‒44, 146, 153,
Rom-Shiloni, Dalit 49 168, 227
Römer, Thomas C. 14‒16, 21, 24‒25 Scullion John J. 50
Rosen-Zvi, Ishay 7, 80‒82, 225, 227‒28, 230, Scurlock, Jo-Ann 45, 56, 60
241, 244 Secunda, Shai 8, 46, 76‒77, 92, 94
Runesson, Anders 102, 170 Seelig, Gerald 96
Russell, Donald A. 244 Sefati, Yitzhak 72
Rüterswörden, Udo 21 Seidl, Ursula 36
Shaw, Brent D. 260
Safrai, Shmuel 80, 225, 238 Shea, Chris 227
Sagi, Avi 88 Shectman, Sarah 16
Sagiv, Yonatan 80 Sherwin-White, Susan 136, 143
Said, Edward 237 Silverman, Jason M. 61, 70
Sanders, Ed P. 230, 240 Simon-Shoshan, Moshe 190, 228, 231
Sanders, Jack T. 138 Simpson, St. John 69
Sanders, Seth L. 11, 46, 68, 94 Sivertzev, Alexei M. 243
Sassmannshausen, Leonhard 93 Ska, Jean-Louis 15
Satlow, Michael L. 219, 221 Skehan, Patrick W. 155, 158, 173‒74
Satran, David 106 Smend, Rudolf 20, 161
Schacter, Jacob J. 295 Smith, David W. 97
Schäfer, Peter 189, 217, 224, 241 Smith, Morton 218
Schaps, David 238 Smith, Sidney 64
Schaudig, Hanspeter 35, 66, 71‒72 Snell, Daniel C. 73
Schiffman, Lawrence H. 120 Soden, Wolfram von 55, 64, 69
Schipper, Bernd U. 154 Sommer, Benjamin D. 29
Schipper, Friedrich 177 Sommerfield, Walter 55
Schlatter, Adolf 104 Sonik, Karen 55
Schlegel, Juliane 102 Sordi, Maria N. 162
Schlier, Heinrich 205 Southwood, Katherine 51
Schmid, Konrad 4, 14‒15, 17, 19, 21, 24, 28 Spanu, Nicola 167
Schmidt Goering, Greg 152 Spar, Ira 86, 90
Schmidt, Ludwig 15 Spawforth, Anthony 162
Schmitt, Rüdiger 25 Spek, Robartus J. van der 70‒72
Schniedewind, William M. 145, 150‒52 Spiegelberg. Wilhelm 31
Schoonover, Myles 190 Spivak, Gayatri Chakravorty 136, 141‒44,
Schott, Jeremy M. 239 153‒54
Schreiber, Stefan 201 Stackert, Jeffrey 44‒46
Schreiner, Thomas R. 206 Stählin, Gustav 208
Schremer, Adiel 219, 232, 239 Stanton, Graham 242
Schröder, Martin 96 Stavrianopoulou, Eftychia 165, 175
Schuller, Eileen 11, 65, 126 Steen, Eveline van der 211
Schuster-Brandis, Anaia 86 Stein, Dina 227, 274
Schwartz, Baruch J. 14 Steinert, Ulrike 138
Index Of Modern Authors 305

Sterling, Gregory E. 99, 141 Udoh, Fabian E. 241

Stern, David 231 Uehlinger, Christoph 9, 10
Stern, Ephraim 272 Urbach, Ephraim E. 240, 242
Stern, Menahem 275‒76, 281
Stern, Sacha 7, 83, 246, 248‒50, 252‒55, 257, Vanderhooft, David S. 50, 58
259, 261 VanderKam, James 125
Stewert, Sarah 70 Vanderlip, Vera F. 166, 169, 172
Stökl, Jonathan 4‒5, 8, 10, 12, 45, 60, Van Ess, Margarete 65
62‒63, 70 Van Seters, John 21
Stökl Ben Ezra, Daniel 66, 125 Vaux, Roland de 131
Stone, Michael E. 106 Veltri, Giuseppe 190, 241
Strassmaier, Johann N. 55 Venard, Oliver-Thomas 91
Street, Brian V. 2 Vermaseren, Maarten J. 205
Strine, Casey A. 45, 47, 52‒53, 58‒61 Vermes, Geza 232
Strobel, Karl 205 Vermeylen, Jacques 25, 140
Stroumsa, Guy 242 Versluys, Miguel John 4
Struppe, Ursula 26, 28 Vink, Jacobus G. 25
Sturdy, John 244 Vittmann, Günter 31
Swain, Simon 224‒25 Vlassopoulos, Kostas 4
Swyngedouw, Erik 4 Vos, J. Cornelis de 7, 211
Sykes, Stephen W. 154 Vouga, François 205

Tadmor, Hayim 55‒56, 73 Waerzeggers, Caroline 5, 8, 46, 63, 70‒71,

Takacs, Sarolta A. 205 73, 92
Tal, Oran 254 Wagner, Thomas 26
Talon, Philippe 54 Waldman, Nahum M. 9
Tavernier, Jan 39 Wassen, Cecilia 119
Taylor, Joan E. 273, 294 Wasserstein, Abraham 190
Tcherikover, Victor A. 249 Wasserstein, David 190
Teeter, D. Andrew 154 Watanabe, Kazubo 47
Teeter, Emily 43 Waters, Matt 69‒70
Theodor, J. 81, 250 Wazana, Nili 58
Thompson, Dorothy J. 162 Webster, Jane 219‒20, 236, 245
Thompson, Leonard L. 233 Weigl, Michael 38
Thomson, Stuart 71 Weiher, Egbert von 77
Thornton, Claus-Jürgen 97, 104‒5, 108 Weimar, Peter 15‒16
Tigchelaar, Eibert J. C. 126 Weinfeld, Moshe 111
Tiller, Patrick 137, 146‒47 Weinreich, Uriel 94
Tomorad, Mladen 162 Weisberg, David B. 73
Toorn, Karel van der 41‒42 Weiss, Judy 80
Toutain, Jules 120 Weiss, Zeev 219, 222, 229
Tov, Emanuel 119‒22, 124‒30 Weisser, Bernhard 181
Tropper, Amram 225‒26, 231 Wellhausen, Julius 24, 97
Tsukimoto, Akio 50 Wengst, Klaus 234
Tsumura, David Toshio 59 Wette, Wilhelm M. L. 101
Turri, John 41 Westenholz, Aage 92‒93
Tur-Sinai, Naphtali 60 Westermann, Claus 50
Tuval, Michael 117 Whiting, Robert M. 53
306 Index Of Modern Authors

Whitmarsh, Tim 71 Yaari, Abraham 267

Whittaker, C. R. 232 Yamada, Shigeo 55‒56
Wild, Robert A. 162‒64 Yardeni, Ada 32, 251, 284
Wilson, John A. 41 Yon, Marguerite 56
Wilson, Roger J. A. 279
Wilson, Stephen G. 222 Zadadzki, Stefan 69
Wilson, Todd A. 216 Zadok, Ran 35
Winitzer, Abraham 8, 10, 12, 58, 90, 92 Zahn, Theodor 205
Wise, Michael O. 128 Zangenberg, Jürgen K. 229
Withmarsh, Tim 224‒25, 227 Zanker, Paul 188, 240
Witt, Reginald E. 162 Zavagno, Luca 2
Wöhrle, Jakob 15 Zellentin, Holger M. 235
Woolf, Greg 219‒20, 223, 234, 236‒37 Zenger, Erich 15, 20
Worp, Klaas A. 253 Ziegler, Joseph 159
Wright, Benjamin G. 6, 137, 140, 146‒49, 151, Ziem, Thomas 265
154, 157, 159, 171‒73, 190, 194 Zimmerli, Walther 9, 61‒62
Wright, David P. 21 Zohar, Noam 242
Wright, J. Edward 75 Zohar, Zvi 88
Wright, N. Tom 234 Zuckermandel, Moses Samuel 255
Zvi Kaddari, Menachem 81
Xella, Paolo 91
Index of Ancient Sources

Hebrew Bible/Old Testament 7:21b 17

7:22 17
Genesis 8:1‒3 17, 21
1 19, 49, 59n59 8:11 17
1‒9 19n16 8:12‒14a 17
1:9 18 8:12‒15 21
1:16 250 8:14 22
6 19‒20 8:15 17
6:13 20 9:8‒12 17, 21
6‒9 19 9:11a 22
7:19‒20 18 11:10 17
9 19‒21 12:1 17
9:1 19n16 12:2 248
10 25 12:3‒8 17
10:2 25 12:12 28
10:5 25 12:12‒13 23
10:20 25 12:18‒20 17
10:26 33 12:40‒41 17
10:31 25 14 17, 23, 26‒27
14:2 28n40
11‒Exodus 1 19n16 14:1‒4 17
12‒50 15n6, 23 14:4a 27
15:6 211 14:8a 17
16:1 211 14:10 17
17 19, 211 14:15 17
17:1 19n16 14:16‒18a 17
25:23 232, 233n66 14:17‒18 27
14:19 172n45
Exodus 4, 14, 16‒18 14:21‒23 17
1‒40 19n16 14:22 18
1:7 17 14:25 27n36
1:13‒14 17 14:26‒29 17
2:22 81 14:28a 18
2:23‒25 17 15 157
6:2 19n16 23:4 82n24
6:2‒12 17 29 14n6
7‒11 21 40 14n6
7:1‒2 17 16:7 28
7:1‒7 21 16:10 28
7:4‒7 17 40:34‒38 80
7:8‒10a 17
7:8‒22 21 Leviticus
7:11‒13 17 9 14n6
7:19‒20 17 11:39 82n24
7:19‒22 22 16 14n6
308 Index Of Ancient Sources

Leviticus (cont.) 60:1‒2 251

19:18 213
23:43 80 Jeremiah
26:38 82 32:12 39
51:59
Numbers
14:14 80 Ezekiel 1, 3, 5, 8‒12,
27 14n6 46, 51, 51n27,
58‒63, 92n62
Deuteronomy 45 1 11
13 45 7 20n18, 21
23:2 208 7:2‒3 20
27:26 215 12 60‒61
34 15n6 12:1‒16 60
12:13 60
1 Kings 13 63
18:19‒20 274 17 5, 45n4, 60‒61,
63
1 Chronicles 17:11‒24 60
1:26 33 17:20 60
26‒28 59
Ezra 26:2 232
5:1 32n8 27 60
6:14 32n8 27‒31 62
29‒32 59
Nehemiah 29 60
9:19‒20 172n45 31 60
32 47, 50, 59‒63
Job 32:3 59
8:11 120 32:10 59

Psalms Daniel 64‒69, 72

8 59n59 2 109
18 59n59 4 5, 66
33:6 172 5 66
89 59n59 7 109
99:7 172n45
Amos
Proverbs 7:10 58
2:6 172 8 21
8:4‒21 171n43 8:2 20
8:22‒31 171n43
Habakkuk
Isaiah 2:4 211
4:5‒6 80
35:7 120 Zephaniah
46:1 35 2:4 232
54:1 211
Index Of Ancient Sources 309

Haggai 2:12 211n42

1‒2 32n8 2:13‒15 214
2:14 208, 214
New Testament 2:15 204, 212
2:16 209n32, 212,
Matthew 212n46
28:18‒20 116 2:20 209n32
2:21 215
Mark 3‒4 211
15:25 254n20 3:1 204n9
15:33‒34 254n20 3:2 209
3:3 209
Acts 3:5 209
3:1 254n20 3:6 211
6 107 3:10 215
16:3 215 3:13 215
16:37 239n91 3:17‒18 211
22:25 239n91 3:21 203
22:28 239n91 3:24 203, 211n43
3:27 213, 216
Romans 3:28 207, 213‒14
7:12 203n8 4:4 116
13:1‒7 235, 236n78 4:13 209n32
13:11‒14 236n78 4:14 209n32
4:21‒31 210‒13, 211n45
1 Corinthians 4:21‒5:1 210, 210n38
7 236n78 4:23 210‒12
12:13 213n52 4:24 211
4:25 210
Galatians 7, 201‒17 4:25b‒26 211
1:1 203 4:27 211
1:6 208n30 4:29 210‒11
1:6‒7 203 4:29 2–8
1:6‒9 204n9 5:1 210n37, 212
1:7 204 5:1‒12 206
1:10 213 5:2 207, 207n23, 212
1:10‒2:21 203 5:2‒4 208
1:13‒14 214 5:2‒6 206
1:13‒2:21 203 5:2‒12 206‒8, 207n24,
1:15 208n30 210, 212‒13
1:16 209n32 5:3 207, 215
2:1‒10 211n42 5:5 209, 212
2:3 207, 211n42 5:6 207‒8, 207n23,
2:5 208 213
2:7 207, 211n42 5:7 207‒8
2:8 211n42 5:7‒12 207
2:9 202, 211n42 5:8 208, 208n30
2:11‒21 211n42 5:10 204, 209n32
310 Index Of Ancient Sources

Galatians (cont.) 2 Maccabees

5:11 207, 207n23 2:21 100
5:11‒12 207
5:12 204, 204n11, 1 Enoch
206‒8, 206n20, 6‒8 109
213 22 109
5:13 208, 208n30,
212‒13 Ben Sira 6, 112, 136‒56
5:13‒15 212‒13 3:1 153n58
5:16 211, 213 4:1‒10 146
5:16‒24 212 4:24 153n58
5:16‒26 209 6:5‒17 138
5:16‒21 209 6:10 139, 139n12
5:17 211 6:11–12 139, 139n12
5:19‒21 211‒12 6:14–15 159
5:22‒23 213 6:20–31 159
5:22‒26 209 7:6 147
5:23 203 8:1‒2 147
5:24 209, 211, 216 10:4‒5 149
5:25 209 13:4‒7 147
6:11 202n2 16:24‒25 153n58
6:12‒13 209 17:17 149
6:13 202n4 24 6, 157‒76
6:13‒14 214 24:1‒7 171
6:15 207, 213 24:1‒22 167‒73
24:3‒7 171
Colossians 24:23 173
3:11 213n52 24:23‒24 170
24:23‒29 152
Philemon 24:24‒34 174
3:20 239n91 24:25‒27 152
24:27 174
2 Peter 114, 115n75 24:30‒34 152
31:9‒11 147
Jude 114 34:10‒12 140
36:3 149
Revelation 36:3‒7 149
13:7 233n65 36:12 149
19:1‒6 233n65 36:20 150
39:4 140
39:27‒44:17 159
Apocrypha and Pseudepigrapha 42:15 148
43:5 148
1 Maccabees 43:10 148
2:42 108 43:13 148
16:11‒16 183 44‒50 139, 147
45:17 147n39
Index Of Ancient Sources 311

49:16 147 4Q273 126, 128

50 137 4Q324b 126, 128
50:1 147 4Q342 126, 128
50:1‒4 151 4Q347 125
50:15 148 4Q359 125
51:23 150 4Q371 127
4Q372 127
Jubilees 152 4Q373 127
12:25‒27 151‒52 4Q384 126, 127n26
4Q391 126, 127n26
2 Baruch 4Q398 126, 128
4:1‒7 211n45 4Q433a 126, 128‒29
37 233n65 4Q496 122n13, 127, 129
39:7‒40:2 233n65 4Q497 122n13, 126‒28
4Q499 122n13, 126, 128
4 Ezra 4Q503 122n13, 127, 128
12:32‒34 4Q505 122n13, 127, 128
4Q506 122n13, 127, 129
Letter of Aristeas 190, 190n3, 4Q509 122n13, 128
194n9 4Q512 122n13, 127,
128
4Q543–549 112
Dead Sea Scrolls and Related Texts 4Qpap Tobita (4Q196) 122n14
4QpapHf (4Q432) 122n14
1QHa 4QpapSc (4Q257) 122n14
16 5 (= 8 4) 109n55 6Q4 130
1QM 110 6Q8 130
1QS 126, 129, 133 6Q26 130
3 13‒4 26 110, 112 11Q5 159
3 15 110
1Q26 112 Cairo Damascus Document
1Q27 110, 112 14 8 110
1Q32 111
2Q18 159
3Q15 5 5ff. 109n56 Philo and Josephus
4Q163 126, 128‒29, 130,
133 Philo 6‒7
4Q186 110 Contempl. Life
4Q196 126, 128 13 192n7
4Q217 126, 128 90 192n7
4Q223 126, 128 Creation
4Q224 126, 128 47 193
4Q242 64‒75, 64n1 52 193
4Q249 125, 125n20 146 193
4Q250 125, 125n20 Decalogue
4Q255 126, 126n25 10‒11 192n7
4Q257 126, 128‒29, Heir
132‒33 282‒83 194
312 Index Of Ancient Sources

Philo (cont.) Dio Chrysostom 233

Moses
1.158‒159 196 Hecateus of Abdera 276n36
1.283 195
2.12 196 Herodotus
2.34 194, 196 1.134 19n16
2.35‒36 192 2.6 28n40
2.37 195 2.42 162n18
2.40 195, 197 2.109.3 254n19
2.41 196, 248n3 2.156 162n18
2.41‒44 199 2.158 28n40
2.51‒52 197 3.5 28n40
2.246 196
2.258 196 Isidorus
On the Special Laws Hymn
2.10‒36 248n3 1 169, 169n38
Questions and Answers on Exodus 1.9‒13 166n32
1.1 248
Juvenal 281n51
Josephus
Jewish War 117 Lucian 233
2:390 240n94
5:367 240n94 Philostratus 233
Jewish Antiquities 117, 117n84 Vit. Soph. 224
12.138‒44 137n5
12.145‒46 137n5 Plato
13.228 183 Phaedrus
13.250 184 244a‒b
19.331 189
Life Pliny the Elder
277 281n51 Nat. 123‒124
5.14 276n38
5.17 271n18
Greek and Roman Authors and Writings 13.72‒73 120n6
13.74 123, 132
Apuleius 13.74‒82 121n10
Metam. 18.221 256n25
11.5 162n20 18.246 256n25
18.256 256n25
Artemidorus 281n51 18.264 256n25

Cassius Dio Plutarch 233

78.9.5 244n117 Is. Os.
3.2 162n19
Cleodemus 281n51 12‒19 162n20

Columella Strabo 276n36

On Agriculture
9.14.11‒12 256n25
Index Of Ancient Sources 313

Suetonius Megillah
Vesp. 1:8 197
6.5 275 2:2 130

Tacitus Nedarim
Hist. 3:4 242
2.78.3 275
Giṭṭin
Theognis 139, 140n18 1:5 229
115‒16 139, 139n12 5:6 242
643‒44 139, 139n12 9:8 242
697‒98 139, 139n12
Sanhedrin
Varro 276n36 2:1 228n51
5:3 254n21

Early Christian Writings ʿAvodah Zarah

1:3 241
Eusebius 1:7 241
Onomasticon 3:1 240
76 272n24 4:8 230n57

Sozomen ʾAbot
Hist. Eccles. 1:6 292n71
ii 4 294 3:2 235

ʿArakin
Rabbinic Works and Midrash 1:2 230n57

Mishnah 7 Kelim
Berakot 1:6‒9 228
1:1 254n21
ʾOhalot
Terumot 18:7 230
8:12 242
Negaʿim
Ḥallah 3:1 230n57
4:8‒11 229
Yadayim
Šeqalim 4:3 230n59
1:5 230n57
7:9 230n57 Tosefta
Berakot
Yoma 1:1 254n21
1:3‒6 228n51
Sukkah
Roš Haššanah 2:6 250n6
2:4 230n59
314 Index Of Ancient Sources

Baba Qamma Yerushalmi 83

4:2 230n58 Peʾah
18d 255n24
Sanhedrin
2:2 255n24 Šeqalim
2:7 255n24 46a 255n24

ʿAvodah Zarah 230 Taʿanit

6:1 242n107 63d 255n23

Bavli Šebuʿot
Berakot 9:1 240n94
59b 255n22 3bd 240n94

Šabbat ʿAvodah Zarah

156a 255n22 39c 255n25

ʿErubin Massekhet Soferim

56a 255n22 1:7 199

Pesaḥim Mekhilta Rabbi Ismael 81

87b 240n95 Beshalach 1 240n95
Shirata 4 243n111
Roš Haššanah
21a 255n24 Mekhilta Shimon bar Yohai 82n24

Taʿanit Sipre Deuteronomy

10a 16 230

Megillah Sipra 82‒84

6a 232 Emor
9a 197 12:4 80, 80n17

Giṭṭin Rabbah Genesis

19b 236n78 6:3 250n7
63:7 233n66
Baba Qamma 78:14 232n63
113a‒b 236n78 79:6 240n94
93:20 81
Baba Batra
54b‒55a 236n78 Rabbah Leviticus
29:2 232n63
Sanhedrin
25b 236n78 Toledot Yeshu 292‒94
107b 292n71

ʿAvodah Zarah
8a 255n25
18a 240n94
Index Of Ancient Sources 315

Ancient Near Eastern and Mediterranean CTA 2.4 59

Sources
CTH 133 45
AE
1897:24 261n31 Cyrus Cylinder 35‒36
1941:77 261n30 20‒22 35
1946:85 261n30 33‒35 36
1980:60 261n30
1984:439 259n28 DB:6 39

ARAB DB I 61‒67 26
2.32 56n47
2.39 56n47 DCH III 159‒60 32n9
2.68 56n47
2.151 56n47 DNa 30‒38 25
2.183 56n47
2.341 56n47 DNSWI 31 33n16
2.348 56n47
DSf:10 39
Arad 17:3 37n34
Dynastic Prophecy 72‒73
ARM
26.197 53 Enūma Eliš 44‒47, 44n2,
26.209:9‒10 53n35 45n3, 50, 52‒58,
61
Babylonian Chronicle 52‒53 IV 44 54n39
IV 95 54n39
Babylon Stele 71 V 64 54n39
V 71 54n39
BAM V VI 83 54n39
430 iii 34’ 85n32
431 iii’38 85n32 Erra 53n36
Iii 33 53
Berossus 70‒71 Iv 18‒19 53
Babyloniaca 70‒72
Etana II 53
BM 27797 36
Harran Stele 66‒68, 66n6, 71,
Chronicle about Shulgi 72‒73, 72n28, 74, 74n34
74‒75
ICUR
CIJ 6:15587
650 (Catania Inscription) 259‒63,
259n28 Ištar and Dumuzi
1440 169n39 131 70 54
1532a 169n39
JRIL
CIL 29 270n17
iv. 4182 261 31 270n17
316 Index Of Ancient Sources

JRIL (cont.) 3/2 A.0.102.2:i 41b‒51a 56n47

45 270n17 3/2 A.0.102.2:i 47b‒56a 56n47
64 270n17 3/2 A.0.102.2:i 86b‒89a 56n47
3/2 A.0.102.4:l.e. 1‒9 56n47
KAR 3/2 A.0.102.6:i 24‒27 56n47
32 9 53 3/2 A.0.102.6:i 42‒48 56n47
94 88n48 3/2 A.0.102.6:i 57‒ii 2 56n47
307 11 3/2 A.0.102.6:iv 26‒36 56n47
3/2 A.0.102.8:20‒24a 56n47
LJNLA 3/2 A.0.102.8:24b‒40 56n47
II 1a 285n64 3/2 A.0.102.8:1’‒5’a 56n47
II 3 283n54, 288 3/2 A.0.102.10:i 10‒18 56n47
II 5 283n57, 288 3/2 A.0.102.12:9‒20 56n47
II 8 270n15 3/2 A.0.102.14:15‒21
II 9 271n19 3/2 A.0.102.14:156b‒159a 56n47
II 10‒11 284n58, 288 3/2 A.0.102.16:1‒5 56n47
II 17 269n11 3/2 A.0.102.16:286’b‒290’ 56n47
II 18 287 3/2 A.0.102.28:29‒34a 56n47
II 20 272n22 3/2 A.0.102.29:34b‒39a 56n47
II 20a 281n49 3/2 A.0.102.31:9b‒17a 56n47
II 23 281n49, 288 3/2 A.0.102.32:4b‒9a 56n47
II 24 281n49 3/2 A.0.102.33:6b‒13 56n47
II 27 270n14 3/2 A.0.102.38:1’‒4’a 56 n47
II 28 287 3/2 A.0.103.1:i 53b‒16a 55n44
II 30 282n53, 283n57, 3/2 A.0.104.a:9b‒27 56n57
288
II 34 283n57, 288 RINAP
II 37 284n37 1.7:6‒7 55n42, 57n49
II 39 278n41 1.20:14‒16 56n47
II 42 272n23 1.39:8‒11 56n47
II 44 287 1.47:1‒4 56n47
II 48 283n57, 288 1.47:13‒15 55n42
1.47:18‒19 56n47
Lugale iii 32 53 1.47:22‒23 56n47
1.47:24‒25 56n47
Myth of Anzu 53 3.1.19 ii 13’ 57n47
3.1.25 vi 7’‒16’ 57n47
Nabonidus Chronicle 66, 68‒69, 3.1.26 i 14’‒17’ 57n47
71‒75, 74n34 3.1.34:6b‒11 56n47
3.1.34:16‒17 56n47
Prism A iv 61‒62 55 4.1:17‒19 55n43
4.94 rev. 7‒15 57n47
Religious Chronicle 72 4.104 i 34‒ii 22 57n47
4.104 i 37‒ii 22 57n47
RIM A.0.87.1 iii 32‒34 54n37 4.114 i 19‒ii 11 57n47
1.116 i 13’‒17’ 57n47
RIMA
3/2 A.0.102.1: 53’‒64’a 56n47 Royal Chronicle/
3/2 A.0.102.2:i 11‒12a 56n47 Nabonidus Epic 72
Index Of Ancient Sources 317

Sayings of Aḥiqar 38 B8.9:3‒4 42n63

C3.15 32n12
Serdica Document 257‒59, 263 D1.22 34n25
D3.39b:3 39n47
TADAE D7.16:1‒9 41n52
A3.7 33n20 D7.21 33n17
B2.2 40n48 D7.29 32n11
B2.2:11‒12 40n49 D7.30:1‒3 31n5
B2.3:5‒6 40n50 D18.1 34n26
B2.8 41n58
B2.8:13 31n5 Verse Account of Nabonidus 66, 74, 74n34
B7.1:6 42n63
B7.3 42 XPh 28‒35 25